Chapter 15 A Prophet in the Hand

The scream echoed around the room and Crowley shifted the angel sword in his hand, yanking it out with reluctance.

"You lied, Samandiriel. I always thought that angels couldn't – lie, that is," he said, leaning close to the angel's face.

"I didn't lie."

"No? No," Crowley smiled, leaning back a little. "No, you just omitted certain facts, right?"

"You didn't ask."

"I'm asking now," Crowley snarled, lifting the tip of the blade to the angel's eye.

Samandiriel wondered what would happen to him, if the demon pushed the blade through. Was it enough of a fatal wound to release him? Would he fragment into a million pieces, become another wave of light in the universe? Or would he be snuffed out, cast into darkness and extinguished forever? He wasn't sure that either option wasn't preferable to what he was feeling right now.

"The prophets you kidnapped are future prophets," he said, staring at the foreshortened point of the sword. "Kevin is the current prophet. There can only be one at a time."

Crowley's mouth stretched out in a slow smile. "One at a time, I see."

He straightened up, turning away. "So while Kevin is alive, those other imbeciles have no idea who or what they are?"

"That's right. They're innocent."

Crowley glanced back over his shoulder. "No one is innocent, Samandiriel, not even you, not any more."

The angel closed his eyes. The demon was right. He should have remained silent.

Crowley tossed the sword back on the table. "You've been very helpful. Get to keep your wings for another day."

He nodded to the demon standing by the door. "Put him back in the freezer."

Salina, Kansas

The Impala didn't smell quite the same anymore, Dean thought, sitting in the car outside the liquor store. Something had gone from the interior, something from his past. He couldn't work out what it was.

On the seat beside him, a brown paper bag lay next to a six-pack of beer. He didn't look at it but he could feel it there. Waiting for him. He closed his eyes, reliving the memories again, searching for the truth. There'd been nothing he could do. Nothing at all. He sure of that. Almost sure of it.

He opened his eyes and twisted the key, the low rumble failing to bring the usual feeling of satisfaction and freedom to him. Twisting around, he reversed out of the slot and drove out of the almost-empty parking lot, ignoring the acceleration of his heartbeat, ignoring the tightness in his chest. Cas was back and he should let it go. Just let it all go and focus on what was happening here and now.

He opened the room door, and walked in, glancing at the angel who was sitting less than three feet from the television set, apparently riveted to the screen, the remote in his hand clicking steadily as he flicked through the channels.

"What's the latest?" he said brusquely to Sam as he passed him, tossing the keys down and setting the six-pack on the counter. The brown paper bag had remained in the car.

Sam was staring at the laptop, leaning on his hand. He sat up a little at the question, his attention still on the screen.

"The latest is ... nothing," he said, exhaling noisily. "It's like it all stopped. No freak disappearances linked to any freak natural events."

Dean pulled two cans from the plastic rings and set one down beside his brother, leaning over Sam's shoulder as he looked at the screen. It was filled with frames, front pages of dozens of newspapers from all over the country, around the world. His eyes skimmed over them, seeing the usual round of crappy events, but nothing that could be considered freakish.

"So, how many have we got, seven?" His gaze remained on the screen, his thoughts going back to the reports they'd found. Sam turned, looking down at the notebook on the table.

"Yeah, uh, Luigi, Justin, Aaron, Maria –"

"Maria, Dennis, Krista, Sven," Castiel intoned in a low voice. Dean and Sam both turned to look at him, Sam glancing back at his notes, confirming that the names Cas had just spoken were correct.

"I missed television." Castiel shook his head wistfully, staring at the screen.

"Wait, Cas. How did you know those are the names?" Sam asked, brow furrowed as he looked at the angel.

"Well, they're prophets," Cas said mildly, glancing at him and back to the screen.

"Prophets?" Dean asked. Prophet-prophets … like Chuck? The memory of the writer ghosted through his mind. Like Kevin?

"Yes, angels instinctively know the names of every prophet – past, present, and future," Cas explained shortly, his attention still on the television.

Dean gestured at the table as he walked closer to the angel. "So this list is the name of every one of 'em that exists?"

"Yes, until the next generation is born," Cas said.

"Plus Kevin Tran, of course," he added, looking over at them. "The other seven are future prophets, since, uh, only one can exist at a time."

Sam's face scrunched up. "Uh, so how is Kevin a prophet if Chuck is a prophet?"

The angel looked down briefly. "I'm not sure what happened to Chuck, but …" he hesitated as he turned to Sam. "He must be dead."

Sam felt a small stab at the angel's prosaic statement. The scrawny writer had screwed up their lives in countless ways, but he'd helped too … had helped a lot. And as with everyone else they'd cared about, his reward had been death. Was that the way destiny was playing it out, he wondered? Everyone who helped them, doomed to die? That wasn't what he'd signed up for.

Dean leaned against the kitchen divider, a frown deepening as he looked at Cas. "So if Kevin, and all these people, are prophets … Cas, what happened to the archangels joined to 'em? Why wasn't Crowley turned into a pile of smokin' spit?"

Cas sighed deeply as he watched the advertisement playing over the screen. "It seems that the archangels are all dead."

Dean looked at Sam. "And what? No order of promotion up there? No one else around to take over their work?"

One side of the angel's mouth turned down slightly. "No. That's not how it works."

The brothers exchanged another glance, and Sam shrugged. Dean turned back to Castiel. "So, the next one comes off the bench if Kevin goes down?"

"Exactly," the angel said, turning to look at him. "And they have no idea who they are, of course."

"Crowley." Sam smiled humourlessly as he realised what the demon was doing, what he was after. He looked up at his brother.

"Insurance," Dean agreed, following Sam's thoughts. "Boy, he's getting desperate."

Sam nodded. "Explains all the weird phenomena." He looked back at the screen. "Lower-level demons nabbing heavy-duty cargo. The vessels of God's Word –" he exhaled softly. "Boom."

Castiel got up from the chair and walked to Dean's side. "I get the feeling something's going on."

Dean glanced sideways at him, repressing the acid comment that rose automatically. Cas still wasn't back. Not all the way, he thought bemusedly. He wasn't surprised, exactly. The angel had taken some hits that just weren't that easy to recover from. Not quickly.

Sam's phone trilled and he picked it up. "Hello."

His expression changed at the voice on the other end, he straightened abruptly in the chair. "Mrs. Tran? Well, where the hell have you –"

He listened and Dean watched him, feeling the prickle of the nerves on the back of his neck.

"What?"

Sam stood up and looked at Dean. "Crowley's got Kevin."

Atlantic, Iowa

Kevin sat at the under-lit table, staring down at the stone tablet in front of him. He was in so much trouble, he thought, his eyes wandering over the familiar characters absently. Such a lot of goddamned trouble.

Crowley leaned on the table. "So, Kevin, as you can see, our relationship is much simpler now." He glanced around the table at the silent, staring faces of the people sitting around the edge. "You either help me, or you die and one of these fine specimens takes your place."

He looked at the young man's face consideringly as Kevin remained silent. "I don't quite understand your hesitation."

Kevin glanced sideways at him. "You just killed my mother."

Crowley straightened up and walked around the table. "Very unfortunate. But to be fair, she was plotting to kill me and my kind." He stopped beside Kevin. "Kevin. Kev. I can do a great deal for a plucky lad like you."

"You'll just kill me as soon as I read the tablet."

Crowley sighed softly. It was true. Hardly a great insight. He shook his head.

"Are all young people so horribly cynical?" He straightened up, walking behind Kevin and sitting on the table. "It depresses me, Kevin."

"Here's the thing," he continued quietly, looking down at the prophet. "I really want you to read the tablet because, frankly, this lot fail to inspire." Crowley looked briefly around at the faces again. "However, better a stupid prophet than a stubborn prophet, as the saying goes. So what's it going to be?"

Kevin remained silent, staring at the table. The one thing the demon couldn't do was force him to read it.

Crowley felt the resistance and smiled inwardly. Time for a little show-and-tell. Emphasis on the show at this stage. "Perhaps you doubt that I'm serious?"

He stood up and walked behind Kevin's chair, looking across the table and lifting his hand. On the opposite side of the table, Krista rose into the air, feeling her chest crushed, her airways blocked as she floated eight feet above the floor. Kevin watched her, his heart accelerating as she shook and gasped above them. Do something! His mind was screaming but there was nothing he could do. He wasn't a hunter, wasn't a Winchester and the demon beside him held every card.

Crowley snapped his fingers and Krista's body exploded, blood and tissue and pulverised bone sprayed across the room, the table, those watching, coating everything in a sticky, coppery-sweet liquid. Everything except for the King of Hell. Crowley looked down at Kevin.

"So ... read any good tablets lately?"

US-50, Kansas

"Here," Sam said quietly as Dean drove slowly along the dark road. "Park here."

Dean pulled the Impala off the road and killed the engine. The car was silent. There wasn't much to say about the situation. When Mrs Tran arrived, they would know more, be able to figure something out, he thought. He was acutely aware of the angel, sitting in the back seat behind him. On the edges of conscious thought, questions were jittering, demanding his attention, demanding to be asked. He didn't want to think about them. He wasn't sure how long he could keep them blocked out, held back. Cas was right here, and he desperately needed answers.

He looked down the empty road, frustration building. "Where the hell is she?"

Sam glanced at him. "She'll be here. Uh, mile marker 96 was kind of the halfway point."

He could see the tension building in his brother and he looked away. Cas or Kevin, he wondered briefly. Didn't make much difference. Dean was humming, fingers tightening around and releasing the wheel, his face tight with whatever it was he was holding back. The signs were familiar, his brother's tells that something was eating at him, refusing to be buried, refusing to be ignored. He hoped that whatever it was, Dean would be able to control it for long enough to do their jobs and get Kevin back.

Memories crowded thickly and Dean could feel his pulse quicken in response to them. Flat pewter-coloured light and the angel's despairing cry. So much at stake and his thoughts thumping in his mind. Not yet. Not now. Trust me, goddammit, Cas. Trust me. Leviathan. And the ache of seeing him go, knowing he couldn't save him. I couldn't do any more. I did everything I could. I did fucking everything I could!

"Cas, can I talk to you outside?" Dean said abruptly, opening the door and getting out.

Castiel looked at Sam and opened the door. Behind him, Sam watched him go. Cas, then, he thought. He turned back to the windshield.

"What?" Cas asked, taking a few steps away from the car toward Dean.

Dean turned around to face him. "Exactly. What? What the hell happened? Back there. Purgatory. I told you I would get you out. We were there! It was like you just gave up." He stared at the angel, the memories unreeling chaotically in his mind. "It's like you didn't believe we could do it. I mean, you kept saying that you didn't think it would work. Did you not trust me?"

The words came out like a fusillade, driven by desperation, by the emotions that were threatening to break through. He needed an answer, he needed to know. Castiel's expression was regretful.

"Dean," he said quietly, looking at the man standing next to him, seeing beyond the walls and fortifications to the agony that lay behind them.

Dean stared at him. "I did everything I could to get you out – everything!" He stopped for a moment, looking at the angel, his eyes filled with the fear that permeated him, the fear that he could've done more.

Castiel saw it, his eyes narrowing slightly as he felt the change in the man standing in front of him.

And it came out, finally. "I did not leave you."

"You think this was your fault?" Castiel asked gently, disbelievingly.

Dean looked at him. Wasn't it? Hadn't he left? Hadn't he given up and gone, saving his own hide instead of turning back, trying harder, leaving no one behind. He didn't want to believe that, but how could he fight it? The angel had needed him. His responsibility had been to get them all out, all safe. Nobody left behind.

Headlights splashed through the vegetation and the sound of the engine broke through his thoughts. He turned with Cas to look at the car that drove around the corner, pulling up beside the Impala. Castiel watched it and turned back to Dean and for a moment they looked at each other. Dean felt as if his chance was slipping away and he swallowed, struggling against the feelings that were rampaging against the walls in his mind. Forget it, he told himself, forcing his gaze past the angel to the silver sedan. Just forget it for now.

Sam glanced at the headlights, getting out of the car as the sedan stopped beside him. He glanced at Dean and Cas then looked back to the car as Mrs Tran turned off the engine and got out. She walked around to the trunk, her gaze flicking between him and the angel and his brother.

"You can do this, can't you? You can get him back?" she asked quickly. Driving for the last two hours, she'd wondered at her belief in them, her confidence in them. She wanted something … something to tell her that it was going to be okay, that she hadn't lost her life's work through her own stupidity.

Dean walked slowly toward her. "How did Crowley find you?"

Linda looked down. "Oh, I hired a witch, and she ratted us out."

Sam flicked a disbelieving glance at his brother and looked back to her. "A witch? Why'd you hire a witch?"

"To get the ingredients to make demon bombs, of course!" Linda said irritably. Sam's face scrunched up as he looked at his brother. Dean rolled his eyes tiredly.

"These are Kevin's notes." She passed the spiral-bound notebook to Sam and he grabbed it, opening it and skimming over the contents.

"You have any idea where Crowley took him?" Dean asked. He'd forgotten how annoying Mrs Tran could be and how easy it was to get off track in a conversation with her.

Linda shook her head. "No."

She looked down at the trunk, a thread of satisfaction slipping into her voice as she continued. "But, uh ... this guy might."

The trunk opened and Dean looked into it, seeing the demon trussed up in lengths of rope, held immobile by the devil's trap painted on the inside of the trunk's lid. The woman had the capacity to surprise him every single time, he thought vaguely as he looked down. How the hell had she gotten this guy into the trunk?

"Huh." He reached for the long, thick blade sheathed against the back of his hip and drew out, holding it up as the demon's gaze shifted from him to the knife. "Let's talk."

Sam moved back to the hood, glancing at Mrs Tran as he walked. "Where're the ingredients you did get?"

She pulled her gaze from what Dean was doing to the demon, and nodded. "In the backseat."

Atlantic, Iowa

Kevin looked at the table next to him. He didn't recognise most of the gore-covered instruments on it, but he had no problem guessing what they were used for. He bit back a hysterical laugh at the memory of entering the Winchester's basement the first time. Now, he knew what a torture chamber looked like. Crowley pulled up a chair in front of him and he looked at the floor. It didn't help much. It was also covered in sprays of blood.

"I thought privacy might make it easier to chat," Crowley said softly. "Decision time, Kevin. How's this going to go?" He looked at the boy's tense face and felt impatience rising. "Don't be recalcitrant, Kevin. You know it brings out the worst in me."

Kevin's gaze flickered up to the demon's face then dropped again. Can't make me read it, he told himself firmly, can't make me.

Crowley looked at him, noting the tightness of his jaw with an inward sigh. More show and tell, he thought, snatching up a short knife. He held down Kevin's hand and cut off the little finger, the blade slicing easily through flesh and bone.

The scream rang around and around the room. A little higher pitched than the angel's, Crowley thought, listening to the variations in tone until it ended in a deep, gurgling indrawn breath.

"All right!" Kevin cried out, his chest heaving. "Enough! I'll do it."

Crowley glanced knowingly down at his hand, a small smile curving up his lips. Showing was always so much more effective – and satisfying – than telling. He wasn't sure why he didn't start with it first every time.

"Wise decision," he said, getting to his feet. He looked down at the blood running freely from the stump. "I suppose we'd better do something about that. Don't want you bleeding out in the middle, do we?"

He jerked his head to the demon at the door and the man left the room, the door clanging slightly behind him.

"Probably a good lesson to learn now, Kev, while you're still young," he said cheerfully, his gaze drifting around the dark room. "The only thing you'll ever get trying to be heroic is going to be missing body parts."

Kevin closed his eyes, struggling against the white-hot pain in his hand. It felt as if it was still there, his finger, throbbing and aching deeply. The demon returned with a small first aid kit and Kevin watched him undo the strap holding his wrist to the flat arm of the chair distantly, felt his hand lifted, the dressing pad going over the stump and a long bandage wound around his hand. The pain didn't lessen. It throbbed in time with his heart, pounding in his hand and his head, the syncopation making his stomach roil and knot.

"There we go," Crowley said as the demon undid the remaining straps. "Time to get to work."

Kevin though he might faint when he got to his feet. There was a moment when the room spun lazily around him and grey mists started to close in to either side of him. He felt Crowley's hand grip his arm above the elbow tightly and he forced his eyes open. The mists drew away again and he pulled in a deep breath.

"No sleeping on the job, Kevin," Crowley said softly next to his ear. "You get a bit of leeway for the shock. But if you even look like fainting, you'll be finding out how an acid bath feels, do you understand me?"

He nodded and followed the demon out of the room, forcing his eyes to open more widely when he stumbled into a wall, forcing his feet to keep moving, one in front of the other.

Crowley steered him into a small room along the hall, and he slumped into a chair gratefully, barely taking in the few pieces of steel-framed furniture that were scattered through it. He sat at a glass-topped table, Crowley dropping into a steel-backed chair on the other side of it. On the table, the tablet was waiting for him and Kevin reached for it carefully, his fingers slipping over the engraved markings, feeling the warmth that seemed to spread from the stone to him. He felt the familiar jitter as his brain shifted, and started to read.

An hour later, he was still reading, hearing Crowley's deep sighs and restless movements remotely. The stone was very warm in his hands now, and he couldn't feel the pain of the wound anymore, a soft and pleasant numbness infusing him.

"The next is ... 'The demonic influence on the collective tapestry of the soul.'"

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Blah, blah, blah. Doesn't anyone ever edit this stuff?" He exhaled loudly, closing his eyes. "So far, as a writer, God's a snooze. No fun at parties, I hear."

Kevin slid his finger down to the next section. "Um, 'Demonic transport to the regions of Hell'."

"Tell me something I don't know!" Crowley snapped. "Think macro. This is stupefyingly micro."

"How macro?" He looked over at the demon.

"Game changing," Crowley said, his voice dropping slightly. "Something to take advantage of the shattered remains of Heaven."

"This isn't a linear progression," Kevin said bluntly. "There's no table of contents. I have to read through it all to find out what each section is."

"Then read faster, Kev," Crowley said softly, his voice rasping in a thinly veiled threat. "Because I'm not a patient demon."

He lifted his hand and looked at it, a bright green and silver foil pinwheel appeared.

"Yes?" He looked at the pinwheel and blew gently, making it spin.

"Well ..." Kevin looked down at the tablet, his fingertips resting against the stone as he read the section warily.

Crowley's head snapped around. "Don't provoke me, Kevin. You still have nine fingers." He looked back at the pinwheel and blew a little harder.

"This section has to do with building defensive weapons against demons," Kevin said reluctantly.

Crowley glanced over at him sourly. "Mm-hmm. You're familiar with that one, I believe."

"And this one ..." Kevin continued unwillingly. "It describes ... sealing the gates of Hell."

The demon straightened up and stared at him. "So it's true. It's there." He watched as Kevin nodded slowly.

"Clearly, humans cannot possess this thing. What was God thinking?" Crowley muttered to himself. "We'll get back to that."

He tossed the pinwheel aside and looked at Kevin, excitement lighting the dark eyes. "Keep going. We're just getting to the sexy part."

US-71, Iowa

Dean stared at the road, the headlights lighting up the asphalt, reflecting from the white lines that divided up the line ahead symmetrically. The headlights of the silver sedan stayed behind him at a steady distance, Sam driving with Mrs Tran. Beside him, the angel was riding shotgun, his gaze on the road ahead as well, the silence between them almost tangible, filled with a vague sense of pitfalls and traps, swamps and marshes and jungle, places to get lost in if he raised the questions that were harrying him now.

You think this was your fault? He couldn't get the words out of his head, couldn't make sense of the tone of the angel's voice or the expression that had been on Cas' face when he'd said it. I was the only one there, he thought. Who else could he blame?

He wanted to ask. The question that burned in him wanted to come out. But he couldn't get it past his throat. He'd tried to convince himself that it hadn't been on him, tried to remember if he could've done more. That had been an exercise in futility as the memories had come and gone, and at each recall they'd seemed a little different, a little more angled this way or that. He'd finally realised that every time he looked at them again they would change, and now he wasn't sure what he remembered. Only that, deep inside, he wasn't sure if he'd done the best he could. If he could've done more, been stronger, faster … braver.

Not a good idea to get into this right before a job, he told himself angrily, fingers tightening around the leather grip of the wheel. No matter what had happened, what the angel knew or didn't know or remembered or didn't, it wasn't a conversation he could afford to have before he had to face Crowley. It would screw him up. Take the edge. And he needed that edge. He wasn't sure if the knife would kill the demon. He was itching to find out.

The black car turned off the gravel access road, kicking up dust in the early morning sunshine, and drove under the high loading dock shed, the heavy tarps dragging over the hood and roof as they passed beneath them. Dean flicked a look in the rearview mirror, seeing his brother following them exactly, Mrs Tran's silver sedan coated in their dust.

He pulled up alongside a tall fence, weeds growing through the razor wire that topped the chainlink, grass flourishing in the cracks in the concrete drive. The factory hadn't been operational in years, another one of Crowley's acquisitions for his above-ground endeavours.

Sam pulled in behind him, stopping and turning off the engine, his right hand closing the cuffs around Mrs Tran's wrist and the steering wheel as he pulled out the keys.

"Sorry, Mrs. Tran," he said, clicking the lock home.

"Wait! What?!" Linda looked down at the steel handcuff around her wrist in astonishment. "My son is in there!"

Sam nodded, looking at her steadily. "Which means Crowley already has leverage. He doesn't need another hostage."

He watched Dean walk past the car and popped the trunk.

Standing behind the trunk, Dean looked down at the demon lying there. "This it?"

The demon raised his head slightly, looking around. "Yes."

It stared up at him as he reversed the knife his hand, looking at the long blade for a moment, then plunging it into the demon's chest. Red-gold light boiled from the demon's eyes and mouth as it burned up inside the vessel. Dean watched the light begin to die and slammed the trunk lid shut.

"Oh, come on!" Sam heard Mrs Tran's cry of fury as he closed the car door behind him.

Dean took point as they walked through the disused factory, Sam on his heels, the angel following them. Crowley liked a big entourage, and there would a few guards to get past before they could get in, he thought, moving down the steel staircase silently. He heard the scrape of the boot sole over the grasses in the concrete slabs and lifted an arm, fading back behind the iron girders supporting the building above them as the first of the demon's guards appeared at the end of the open passage. The meatsuit was tall and heavily built, lank black hair drawn into a pony-tail, sensing something was wrong but pinpointing it too late. Dean moved soundlessly behind him, gripping one shoulder as he drove the knife into the demon's back. He pulled the blade clear and let the body drop, looking up and down the junction.

"All right. I'll check that way," Sam said softly, heading right. Dean glanced back at the angel and nodded, heading left.

"Hold on," Kevin stared down at the tablet as it oscillated fast in his hands. The last section shimmered for a moment and slowly clarified. "This is different. It's – it's not text. It's like a personal note?"

"A personal note from God?" Crowley asked, brows rising.

Kevin shook his head, his eyes narrowing. "From ... the archangel ... Metatron."

"The Scribe ..." Crowley said thoughtfully. "And suck-up. Took down God's word, picked up his cleaning," he added, shaking off the shiver that had run down his spine at the thought of the archangel.

Kevin looked over at him. "It's like a – a farewell note."

"Go on."

"Upon completion of this task, I take my leave of my master in this world. So ends the transcription of the sacred word for the defence of mankind. Into the hands of God's children thus passes the compendium of tablets," Kevin read slowly. A compendium. For everything, he wondered? What else what out there?

"Compendium?" Crowley asked, brow creased.

Kevin looked at him tiredly. "It's a collection of things, espec –"

"I know what a 'compendium' is, Kevin," the demon overrode him impatiently, resisting the urge to crush the boy into very, very small pieces. "What does Metatron mean?"

Sam moved fast along the narrow walkway between the caged-off pipework and the drop on the other side. He followed the stairs down, and saw them as he came along the catwalk. Four, blocking the door that led into the factory. He looked at the confined space for a moment and then continued down.

When he reached the bottom, he walked out into the open loading area fast, looking around exaggeratedly, stopping suddenly as he turned his head toward them. All four looked at him, eyes shifting to flat black.

"Winchester," the closest said, a curl of satisfaction filling his voice as he took a step forward.

Sam looked from one to the other. "Looks like you guys got me."

He watched as they advanced on him, his fingers curled around the body of the bottle in his inside pocket. When they were no more than a couple of yards away he yanked out the bottle and threw it to the ground in front of them, the small impact detonator exploding as it hit the ground, igniting the contents. The fire that flashed upward and out wasn't even close to ordinary fire, Sam thought, throwing his arm over his face. It spread sideways and pulsed as it hit the demons, and beneath the shadow of his arm he saw them disappear, leaving only the burned-in images of their meatsuits' shadows on the wall behind them.

Wow, he thought, as the fire and light faded away and he lowered his arm. Dean was gonna love these. He grinned a little at the thought and kept moving, picking the lock on the door and slipping through, listening in the semi-darkness for the next threat.

Castiel followed Dean along the hall, following the hunter exactly. He slowed a little as a new sensation trickled along the nerve endings of his vessel.

"We're very near Kevin," he told the hunter softly, lengthening his stride. Dean glanced at him and moved aside, letting the angel walk in front, matching Cas' increase in speed as the angel strode away purposefully.

Cas walked up the short flight of steps and Dean slowed at the top, feeling something, a change in the air movement behind him, a hint of sulphur in the air. He stopped and turned around, the demon nine or ten feet behind him, raising its hand slowly.

The knife spun in his hand as he went for it and he'd barely made a single stride before he felt its power, a monstrous invisible hand closing around him and squeezing tightly, compressing his ribs and lungs, lifting him off the ground and launching him into the hanging chains and shackles and hooks that covered the far wall. For a moment, he was caught there, the long curved point of a hook snagging one side of his jacket, missing his side by less than an inch. He tore it free, dropping to the ground and turning.

Castiel stood above the demon, his hand pressed over the demon's head, his face lit up with the white light that poured from the eyes and open mouth. The empty meatsuit dropped and Dean watched the angel stagger to one side of the hall, doubled over as he tried to keep his footing, chest heaving, the rasp of his breathing echoing in the hard, narrow space.

Taking the stairs in a long leap, Dean's hand gripped the angel's shoulder, keeping him upright as he glanced behind at the body on the floor.

"What the hell's going on?" he asked, looked at Cas' face, hearing the angel suck in deep lungfuls of air. "You're not all the way back, are you?"

"No," the angel admitted, straightening up and pulling in another deep breath. "Not yet."

"Then stay behind me," Dean looked back down the hall. "How far are we?"

"Not far." Castiel gestured weakly to the hall ahead of the them. Dean nodded and released him, walking fast up the hall, hearing the angel's slower footfalls behind him. They reached the end of the hall and Cas nodded to the left, his face still pale. Dean moved lightly, glancing back past the angel every few moments, every sense hyper-alert.

"Stop," Castiel murmured, standing still. Dean stopped, following the angel's gaze to the doorway on his right. The ornate metal lock didn't look much like a factory standard, he thought acerbically. He dropped to one knee and felt in his pocket for the picks, pulling them out and choosing the wrench and pick he wanted.

Seconds ticked by as he felt the heavy pins inside the lock, resisting him, refusing to move. He grimaced.

"It's not working," he muttered, trying to force the pin he could feel up. It refused to move.

"It's spelled," Castiel said slowly. "Only the key will open it." He looked down, eyes half-closed. "Dean, I'm going in."

Dean spun around as he got to his feet, brows drawing together as he looked at the angel. "Cas, don't. You're not strong enough."

"There's no choice, not at this point," Castiel said, his gaze moving past him to the door. "He's in there, with Crowley."

"What good will it do him if Crowley roasts you on a spit?" Dean bit out furiously.

Cas smiled slightly. "There's another door to this room, I think." He gestured up the corridor and to the right. "Try that."

Sam looked at the shut door and kicked, pivoting on one leg, his full weight hitting the door just above the lock. The lock broke free and the door slammed open. He walked in fast, slowing when he saw the table, the pools and sprays of blood lit to ruby by the lighting underneath, blood covering the walls and pylons and floor.

"Oh, no," he said softly. Not these people too. Not everyone.

A head lifted above the edge of the table, looking at him fearfully. Then another. And another. Sam looked around the silent room at the spattered and shocked faces that emerged, recognising the small boy who peered around a pylon with a sudden lift of his heart.

"Hey," he said quietly, looking from one to the other, around the room, and raising his hands pacifically. "Uh ... I'm here to help."

Kevin watched the demon as he looked away, his face filled with a rising excitement.

"There are more tablets," Crowley murmured softly, considering the ramifications of that. God's compendium for the defence of humankind. It had to mean …

"More than 'Leviathan' and 'Demon'."

Eve's children …? What else? What else had God given his special creations? Defence against angels? Against the forces of Heaven?

Behind him, the sound of beating wings filled the room and he turned, letting his speculations go as he faced the angel standing there.

"Castiel. Fresh from Purgatory. I wish you'd called first," he said, not even surprised that the angel was here. It seemed, somehow, inevitable. It meant that the Winchesters were here somewhere as well. That was inevitable as well. Annoyingly so.

"Crowley," Castiel acknowledged stonily.

Crowley watched him. "Which Castiel is it this time? I'm never sure. Madman or megalomaniac?"

"Kevin is coming with me," Castiel said, ignoring the comment, walking toward the prophet and the glass table that stood between them.

"I think not," Crowley snapped, his voice rising as he moved to the other side of the table.

"The Prophet's playing on my team now," he added, facing the angel over the table, the stone tablet and the boy-prophet between them.

From the sleeve of the trenchcoat, the angel sword dropped smoothly into Castiel's hand, Crowley's eyes going to it. The angel lifted it, holding it upright, engarde.

Crowley lifted his hand and glanced at it, and an angel sword appeared, the light glancing off the angles of the blade. Kevin looked at them, and slid from the chair, moving backwards to the wall of the room.

"So this is how it's going to be?" Castiel looked at the demon.

Crowley smiled wryly. "It's all very West Side Story, but let's be logical. You look like hell, and I should know. You're not up for this."

The angel began to glow, a pure white light filling his vessel, lighting the dark blue eyes to cerulean. Crowley felt his heart stumble in his chest as he watched the transformation. It was bullshit, he told himself firmly, smoke and mirrors and good fucking lighting effects. The angel didn't have it in him to go all the way.

"Maybe you can get it up, but you can't keep it up," he said, eyes narrowing a little as the light brightened.

He felt panic, somewhere deep inside, stretching out and fluttering a little as Castiel brightened, Heaven's power, the power of the souls that existed there, filling and overflowing the body of Jimmy Novak, once father and husband and devout believer. As the light grew, Crowley saw shadows behind the angel, one to either side.

Kevin's eyes widened as he watched the massive wings unfold and spread slowly out across the width of the room behind the angel.

Crowley stared at him, fury and fear warring in his face as his eyes narrowed against the brilliance of the light. "You're bluffing!"

Barely human in form or feature, Castiel looked steadily back at the King of Hell. "Do you want to take that chance?"

The seraph lifted his hand, light glowing from the palm as he stretched out to the demon. Crowley shuddered, and grabbed for the stone tablet lying on the glass. The angel's hand dropped, smashing the tablet and the table.

Crowley disappeared the second his fingers had curled around the stone and Castiel fell to the floor, the light dying instantly. Kevin jumped as the door beside him flew open, Dean standing in the doorway looking from him to the still figure on the floor next to the remains of the table's frame.

The hunter ignored the shattered mess of metal and glass as he strode to the angel's side. He dropped to his knees next to Castiel, and Kevin followed, kneeling warily on the floor to pick up the remaining half of the stone. Better than nothing, he thought tiredly. Dean helped Castiel to sit up, both man and angel turning to look at Kevin, and the tablet he held.

"Might want to get what's on that thing down so we got a copy?" Dean said, looking at the piece of stone.

Kevin snorted. "This isn't – this half of the tablet would take me a year and few hundred thousand pages to transcribe, Dean. I don't know what happens to the brain of a prophet, but each one of these symbols, these characters," he said, holding up the stone and pointing to a single marking. "They represent a bookload of knowledge. I can take notes of the spells and the incantations and the rituals, but to write it all out? I don't have that much time."

Dean raised a questioning brow at Cas who nodded wearily. "It's true, unfortunately."

"Well, notes then," Dean growled, getting to his feet and pulling the angel up as well. "Anything so we're not so fucking dependent on the actual chunks of stone."

Kevin shrugged and nodded as he stood up. "I'll try."

Dean watched Castiel walk slowly out of the room. "And Kevin," he said quietly as the angel went out the door. "About Crowley … and uh, your mother –"

"No." Kevin shook his head, holding his bandaged hand against his chest. "I'm sorry that I said … what I said to you … in the note. I was wrong." He looked down at his hand, blood still seeping through the bandage. "My mom told me that she would have done it, to protect me, if Crowley had been in anyone else. I should've listened to you. And Sam. About playing for keeps."

Dean looked uncomfortably at the doorway, waving a hand toward it. "Uh, yeah. Sometimes it takes a while for that to sink in."

Sam put the notebook back into his duffle and closed the Impala's back door, turning and walking to the silver sedan. Mrs Tran stood next to Kevin, wiping the blood from his face and neck.

"Cops are on their way. They're gonna pick up the prophets," Sam told them as he walked up, stopping in front of them. "Um, they'll all be heading home."

"What about us?" Linda looked up at him.

"I called a friend of ours, Garth. He does what we do," he said, hesitating and smiling a little. "Well ... in his own way. He'll keep an eye on you guys. No more going off on your own." He saw Mrs Tran stiffen slightly, turning back to Kevin and renewing her cleaning efforts. "You get that it was hiring that witch that got you into all this, right?"

"Yes." She nodded, not looking at him. He studied her for a moment, then looked at Kevin.

"How you holding up, Kev?"

Kevin's eyes were dark with anger when he looked up. "You kidding? I want to seal those bastards up forever." He lifted his hand and stared at Sam. "Took my finger."

Sam nodded, knowing where that anger would lead Kevin if the kid didn't think first and act second. "Cas thinks he might be able to fix that. In the meantime, just lay low till we get back to you, okay?"

Kevin nodded stiffly, looking away, and Sam sighed inwardly. Crowley had the important half of the stone, of course. He still wasn't sure leaving them with Garth was the best solution, but they needed to be able to move around and they were already carrying Cas along with them, another two would have been more like a National Lampoon's roadtrip than a serious attempt to hunt down the King of Hell.

Dean checked the guns and cleaned the knife automatically as he packed the gear away, his thoughts still circling furiously around the risks Cas had taken. He zipped up the bag and settled it into the trunk of the car. The angel might've made it work but it could've gone either way, he thought bitterly. He looked down at the sheathed knives, picking them and checking them, tensing further as the object of his anger approached the car.

"That was a bonehead move back there. You could have gotten yourself killed," he growled, his expression hardening as he threw the set into the trunk without looking up.

"Why didn't you wait for me?" he added, slamming the trunk lid and turning to look accusingly at the angel standing beside him.

Castiel looked away, his gaze on the Trans. "Well, I didn't get killed." He glanced at the man beside him. "And it worked."

"And if it didn't?"

The angel's expression was calm. "It would have been my problem."

Dean's gaze cut away. "Well, that's not the way I see it."

"Everything isn't your responsibility," Cas said carefully, turning to him as he began to see what the problem was. It was, in some ways, the same thing – things – he'd seen the very first time he'd met Dean Winchester, face to face. "Getting me out of Purgatory wasn't your responsibility."

"You didn't get out. So whose fault was it?" Dean's jaw clenched as he felt the load drop onto him. He could've tried harder. He shouldn't have left anyone behind.

Castiel frowned. "It's not about fault. It's about will."

And what the hell did that mean, Dean wondered, looking back at him. That he hadn't had the strength of will to find a way?

The angel looked at Dean closely, his expression slightly puzzled. "Dean, do you really not remember?"

What the fuck did that mean? He'd been there, right there in the blood and the pain. He remembered everything. He couldn't forget anything. "I lived it, Cas. Okay? I know what happened."

"No," Cas said with a quiet conviction. "No, you think you know. You remembered it the way you needed to."

Inside his mind, the walls bulged and stretched. Dean stepped closer to the angel, disbelief on his face as he stared at him fixedly. "Look, I don't need to feel like hell for failing you, okay?"

Faces and moments, words and death and tears wove together and his chest was held by bands of iron, as the memories that had been covered over pulled free. "For failing you like I've failed every other godforsaken thing that I care about! I don't need it!"

"Dean. Just look at it," Castiel said, reaching out to touch his forehead. Dean flinched but didn't move away. "Really look at it."

It won't be that easy. No. Not easy to forget. Impossible to forgive.

Cas' face, in the forest, the uneasiness in his eyes as he'd looked at him.

The blazing white light blotted out by the darkness.

What I did, Dean. What I did.

Dean, you have to go – now. Not don't leave me.

He shook his head. No. I'm not leaving. I'm coming back.

Leave – now!

NO!

The angel lifted his hand away and Dean opened his eyes, blinking as he registered the cracked concrete he stood on. He looked at Castiel.

"Nothing you could have done would have saved me, because I didn't want to be saved," Castiel said.

The two memories, the distortion he'd … made up? … and the real event overlaid each other in Dean's mind. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"It's where I belonged. I needed to do penance," Cas said, swallowing. Shame. Pain. Guilt. Fear. Emotion … it filled his vessel and he suddenly couldn't breathe properly. He heard the tremble in his voice, swallowing again at how hard it was to get the words out and drawing in a deep breath. "After the things I did on Earth and in Heaven, I didn't deserve to be out. And I saw that clearly when I was there."

He looked away. "I ... I planned to stay all along. I just didn't know how to tell you," he admitted regretfully. He could see now that he should've told Dean. He'd known that his friend would carry the weight of the world if he could. "You can't save everyone, my friend ... though, you try."

Dean felt the load rise and his armour thinned out to nothing–

"Hey."

He turned, ducking his head and blinking as he tried to force down everything that wanted to break free. He didn't know what to think of the angel's confession. Didn't know what to think about any of it. He felt. That was all.

"Everything okay?" Sam asked, looking from his brother to the angel.

Castiel glanced at him, looking back at Dean. "Yeah. Just, uh ... setting a few things straight."

"Good. Garth is gonna lay low with the Tra –"

Castiel stood in a pale, modern office, the surfaces polished metal and smoothed stone, neutral shades, beige and silver, white and grey, glass everywhere, reflecting, reflections.

"Hello, Castiel," the woman said, her voice low and soothing.

He turned around slowly and saw a woman sitting behind a glass-topped desk, immaculate, sterile. Not a hair out of place. No emotion in sight. He felt … he felt.

"Where am I?" Cas asked, looking at the frosted glass windows that covered one wall.

"You don't know?" she seemed surprised. Subdued surprise, he thought. "You're home, Castiel."

"Heaven? I've never been here before." He looked around the office, searching for anything that might feel familiar, known. There was nothing.

"Not many have. My name is Naomi. We rescued you."

Ah, he thought. "Purgatory."

"An incursion of angels, which cost us many lives," Naomi agreed, her voice cooling. "Lives that could be ill be spared. Consider these discussions your repayment of that debt."

His eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at her. "I don't understand."

"Tell me about Sam and Dean."

"The Prophet is being kept safe. The tablet has split in two and the Winchesters are trying to recover the missing piece." He felt the words spilling from him without volition, without thought. The woman was listening intently to him, the faintest hint of a crease in her skin suggesting that her concentration was absolute.

"Why am I telling you any of this?"

She looked up at him. "It's not your concern. Help the Winchesters, come when they call. You will report in to me regularly, and you will never remember having done so."

"No," Cas said slowly. "I won't do that."

He didn't know what was going on, but memory tampering had always been a crime in Heaven. The seraphim lived on infinitely and memory was history, of Heaven, of the worlds in their care.

Naomi smiled. "Now, as you were," she said softly. "They won't even notice you were gone."

"...track down the other piece," Sam turned to look at the angel. "You're with us on this one, right, Cas?"

Castiel looked down. He felt as if he'd just dropped out for several seconds. Or minutes. There was a distinct hole where there should have been memory.

"Cas, you okay?" Sam looked at him worriedly.

"I'm – I'm fine," he said. It was what Dean always said. Whether he was or not. It was appropriate right now. He looked up at Sam. "And, yes, I'm with you –"

He looked at Dean, remembering suddenly what they'd just been speaking of. "If that's all right?"

Dean nodded slowly. He needed time, he thought. A lot of time. Without anyone else around. Time to understand.

Castiel walked between them, going to the rear door of the car. He didn't understand how he could've missed what seemed like … how long? He wasn't sure. Not long enough for either man to have really noticed. What had happened? In his mind, he could see reflections. But that was all. Reflections and light.

"It is, right?" Sam looked at his brother. "You two are good?"

Dean looked at the ground. Were they? He supposed they were. He wasn't but he didn't hold that against the angel. "Yeah."

He pulled in a breath and looked at his brother, digging the keys from his pocket. "Yeah, it's okay. Where're we going?"

"To be on the safe side, probably the opposite direction from the Trans," Sam said diffidently, as they split up and took either side of the car, heading for the doors. "Crowley's going to be pissed and we're easier to track than they are."

"We need more hex bags," Dean leaned on the roof and looked at his brother.

"Yeah, and a few other things," Sam agreed, raising a brow at him. "We're only a few hours from Pine Bluff."

Dean considered it. A night or two of peace and quiet, restock their supplies. Hannah's cooking. He could deal with that. He nodded and opened his door, sliding in behind the wheel. Sam smiled and opened his door, manoeuvring himself into the other side.

US-63, Iowa

It's not about fault. Nothing you could have done could have saved me. You can't save everyone.

The angel's words kept looping through his mind, and every time he heard them again, the weight lifted.

Was he – had he been – so screwed up that he'd taken the blame for something and changed his memories to make that fit? That thought scared him more than anything else. What else? What else had he done that with? Everything? Everyone else? Were the memories of his whole life cock-eyed the same way?

He shook his head slightly, staring at the rain-slicked road, visible in snapshots between the silvery gleam of the water streaming down and the steady motion of the wipers as they cleared it. Next to him, Sam's soft snores were in time with the beat of the wipers.

Even if he had … done that. Even if he was carrying loads he shouldn't be … it was too big. Too big to handle looking at. How could he sort through the memories of a lifetime now?

Have you got that low of an opinion of yourself? Are you that screwed in the head? It wasn't your fault. You should forgive yourself. You all lie to yourselves, Dean, 'cause like you said, deep down, you're all scared. Stop lying to yourself, Dean. It's not blame that falls on you, Dean, it's fate. Apocalypse or no apocalypse ... monsters or no monsters, that's a crushing weight to have on your shoulders. To feel like six billion lives depend on you ... God ... how do you get up in the morning? You're white-knuckling it living like this. Like what you are is some bad, awful thing. But you're not. You carry all kinds of crap you don't have to, Dean …

He moaned very softly, rubbing his hand over his face as memories poured through him, unchecked, a flood that he couldn't control, couldn't face. He couldn't work out if they were important or not. Would it change anything? Really? Would he feel free? It couldn't change what he'd done. Those things he couldn't look at it.

His gaze flicked to the rear view mirror, the angel sitting straight in the back seat, his eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the windows.

Cas had needed penance. Maybe he needed it too. Some way to atone for what he'd done. To pay for it. So that he could let the things that he wasn't responsible for go.