Chapter 44 By Hell's Command
Lebanon, Kansas
The library was still and peaceful, stacks of files littering the table, interleaved with open books, the printouts from Kevin's files, notepads filled with the occasional thoughts he'd had on the possibilities that might include the curing of a demon.
Sam looked around as he heard footsteps in the hall, recognising the heavy boots. Dean hadn't said a word since they'd manhandled Cas into the Impala's back seat and driven back here. He'd helped get the angel upstairs and into a bedroom, and had turned around and left. Sam had spent an hour cutting the angel's shirt away from the wound, drawing the edges together as much as possible and smearing the healing paste from the apothecary over both the holes in Castiel's abdomen as thickly as possible, covering them with a thin layer of gauze and binding it until he was reasonably sure that no movement would dislodge the dressing.
His brother walked into the library, holding an armful of the order's files, the lowest ones yellowing and cracked along the edges.
"Please tell me that's everything," he said tiredly, sneaking a glance at his watch. Seven. In the morning, presumably.
"Yeah," Dean snorted. "No, not even close. Two more rooms, Sam. These guys kept files on every demonic possession in this country for the last three hundred years, so far as I can tell. We got Borden, Lizzie … all the way back to … Crane, Ichabod."
He smiled and handed over the stack, the smile disappearing and his expression flattening out when Sam dropped the pile on the table and sucked in a deep breath, eyes screwing shut as the burning flared along his veins, feeling as if it were lapping at his brain.
"How are you feeling?"
"Honestly?" Sam opened his eyes slowly, letting out the breath he'd been holding, the heat dissipating. He drew in a deeper breath as he reached for the top file. "My whole body hurts. Someone could've transferred my blood and exchanged it for hydrochloric acid for all I can tell. My eyeballs don't feel like they're right size anymore. It hurts to take a deep breath. I feel nauseous and like I'm starving – both at the same time. And … everything smells like rotting meat."
"Maybe you should take a break, get some air?" Dean winced inwardly at the inadequacy of the remark. He couldn't think of anything else to suggest.
"Man, the only thing that's going to make me feel better is finishing this," Sam said, looking up at his brother. "You heard anything from Kevin?"
"No, but Metatron said that hotel is something like here – signal gets scrambled coming and going," Dean said, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "I can't find anyone who's seen or heard from Garth, or Kevin's mom either."
From the line of printers in the war room, there was a whirring sound then the sudden chatter of printing. Sam looked around, frowning slightly as he got up and walked down the steps, going to the bins and pulling out the pages that had printed. They were newspapers reports, one from the Denver Post, story filed for today's edition, the second from the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, story filed two days ago. He skimmed over them, brow creasing up as he took in the details.
"What?" Dean looked down at him.
"Uh … not sure," Sam said slowly. "One of the bots has been searching on weird deaths, nationwide. In Milwaukee, an Andrea Barr and her teenage son were found in their home, cause of death drowning – and a Tommy Collins was murdered – somehow – in a cabin outside of Denver."
"Lucas …" Dean turned around and walked down the steps. "Lucas and … Andrea – wasn't that the kid and his mom, the ones that were being targeted by the vengeful spirit at … some lake up north?"
"I know the other name too," Sam said, staring at the pages. "The wendigo attack – his sister went in after him?"
"How'd he die?" Dean asked, pushing aside the stab of his memories of them. Andrea and Lucas had both almost drowned – Lucas in the lake and Andrea in her bathtub. There weren't any coincidences in their life.
"His girlfriend said that he started to bleed from the ears, nose and eyes … and then his head exploded." Sam stared at his brother. "No one else was there at the time."
"Crap," Dean said, rubbing a hand over his face. "You think they somehow got involved with something else?"
"Or something was attracted to them, maybe because of what happened to them before?"
"We don't have time for this right now."
Sam looked down at the reports. They didn't. They were on the clock to find the way to complete the third trial. His life was depending on that. "I'll keep an open file on this, maybe if Cas can find Garth –?"
"Be the only useful thing he's done in months," Dean said sourly, turning away and walking back up to the library.
"Dean, you know he was –"
"So, with the whole nausea thing, you think you can keep something down?" he cut Sam off abruptly.
"Yeah," Sam said, nodding as he walked back to the table, putting the printouts down. "Sure."
Dean headed for the hall, veering pointedly to one side as Cas walked through the doorway.
"Morning." He watched Dean walk out of the room, listened to him go down the hall.
"Cas, how're your holes?" Sam looked at the pristine, new white shirt the angel was wearing. "Where'd you get the shirt?"
"Reconstituted it from the old one," Castiel said absently, looking around. "And they're closing up. Slowly."
He sat down at the end of the table, looking at Sam carefully. "And you're getting worse."
"Well, two trials down, one to go," Sam said, looking down at the file in front of him.
"And the final trial – do you know what it is?"
"I have to cure a demon," Sam said disparagingly.
"Cure –? You mean undo the distortion and torment of the soul?" Castiel leaned forward, looking at him sharply.
"Is that possible?" Sam asked, brows lifting. "Turn a demon back into a human soul?"
"Theoretically," Cas said. "Any soul will be granted the kingdom of God if it repents freely and sincerely. And almost every demon is, at its core, a human soul."
Dean walked back down the hall, holding a plate and a bottle of beer. He ignored the angel, putting the plate in front of his brother and taking a fast swig of the beer.
"Still good," he said, putting the beer on the table next to the plate.
Sam looked at the plate. "A half-drunk beer, jerky and three peanut butter cups?"
"Haven't, uh, had time to –" Dean looked down at the plate. "We're running real low."
Sam lifted a brow quizzically. "And this'll get my strength back?"
"Yeah, I'll make a run," Dean said, turning away.
Castiel got to his feet slowly. "Dean, I can go with you."
Sam watched his brother walk past the angel without speaking, picking up his jacket from the chair and pulling it on, his back to the table.
"Dean – I'm sorry," Cas tried again.
Turning, Dean looked at him. "For what?"
"For everything."
"Everything?" Dean said consideringly. "That's … that's a lot of stuff. You got a for-instance? Like, uh … ignoring us?"
"Yes." Cas dropped his gaze.
Sam watched as his brother's expression hardened.
"Like lying to us? Again."
"Yes."
"Like bolting off with the angel tablet … and then losing it?" he asked, anger and pain and frustration circling in a rising spiral as he continued. "'Cause you didn't trust me? You didn't trust me."
"Yes," Cas said unwillingly.
"Yeah." He looked coldly at the angel. "Nah, that's not going to cut it. Not this time."
"Dean, I thought I was doing the right thing."
"Yeah, you always do."
The angel's face twitched and Sam thought that had hit deep. It was true, and only the truth hurt that much. He cleared his throat, looking at Dean.
"You remember seeing a Room 7B on the archive levels?"
Dean turned to look at him. "Fourth level."
"We should check it out before you go," Sam said, getting to his feet and glancing apologetically at Cas as he followed his brother out of the library and down the hall to the stairs.
The room was on the fourth level, one of a row of separate rooms built into the floor space and holding the order's files, some of which dated back to the Dark Ages.
"Dean, go easy on Cas, okay?" Sam said as Dean flicked on the light. "He's one of the good guys."
"Sam, if anybody else – and I mean anybody – pulled that kind of crap, I'd've stabbed them in neck, on principle!" Dean bit out. "Why should I give him a free pass?"
"Because you've done it for me," Sam said, looking at him. "And I've done a lot worse."
Dean stared irritably at him. "You're my brother."
"He's your friend."
"What are we supposed to be looking for down here?" Dean turned sharply away, gaze scanning over the shelving that filled the room.
And that would be the end of that conversation, Sam thought with a sigh. "Um, anything on Case 1138," he said, turning to look in the other direction. "It was a Class Five Infernal Event, Wentzville, Missouri, March 8th 1957."
"Class Five Infernal Event?" Dean said derisively. "That any relation to a Class Five free-roaming vapour?"
"What?" Sam stopped and looked at him.
"Ghostbusters. Nothing," Dean said, shrugging. "Whatever. So what makes this puppy chow so special?"
"It was weird," Sam said, crouching to look at the lower shelves.
"Weird how?"
"No clue." Sam shuffled along. "The file on Beverly Towland's possession just had a note in the margin about Room 7B and the word 'weird' … with three exclamation points."
"Three?" Dean said dryly. "Helpful."
"Yeah."
Dean looked along the lowest shelf, his gaze dropping to the floor as he saw the painted arc beneath the shelving. "Hmmm."
"Got it," Sam said, opening a box from the opposite side. It held a large envelope.
"Sammy, check this out," Dean said, pushing against the shelf. It moved easily, despite the weight on it, and he realised the shelf had been balanced and fitted with hidden wheels for the purpose of moving it out of the way.
He pulled it out and felt the shelf stop, the centre giving way as he tugged a little harder, the two halves of the shelves opening out toward him like doors.
Behind the shelves, another room was in darkness. Pulling out his flashlight, Dean swung the beam around, brows rising as he saw the shackles, embedded in the concrete floor, and in the walls, the dull gleam of the smooth grey metal broken up by the engravings on each. He glanced to the side of the room and the flashlight picked out a lightswitch. Walking into the room, he flipped it on and four bright overhead lights came on.
Bare brick walls. Bare concrete floor. And the manacles. Enough to hold several people, he thought, walking closer to a set hanging from the ceiling. Several possessed people, he reconsidered, as he looked at the engravings.
Uneasiness filled him as he recognised the sigils. "Sam, these are binding sigils."
His brother stepped close, looking at the symbols on the shackles. "To bind a demon?"
"Not just the meatsuit," Dean said slowly, memory trickling back. "These are binding hoodoo for souls. I saw –" He cut himself off abruptly, eyes squeezing shut as he forced the memory back. "They can trap the soul, whether it's in a meatsuit or not."
Sam glanced at him, hearing the bright edge in his voice. "What were they doing here?"
"Interrogating demons," Dean said, turning away from Sam and looking around the room again. "I guess."
"Thorough."
"Yeah." Dean felt a shiver pass through him, ice up his spine. Somewhere around here there would be a cupboard filled with tools. Specialised tools. Specialised equipment. His stomach rose and fell a little at the thought.
"What do you got there?" he asked, turning back to his brother and looking at the plain brown envelope Sam held. He couldn't get close to it right now. But sometime he was going to have to go through all of this, and figure out what the hell they'd been doing in here.
Sam opened the envelope and reached in, pulling out a film spindle. He looked at the label at the centre which was unhelpfully blank. "Uh … movie night?"
Wichita, Kansas
Frank Bellings looked down at the building site as his foreman unlocked the high chain-link gates with relief. Six months they'd been stuck, injunctions on the damned site from the local county on safety issues, his machinery and materials stuck here, rusting slowly. This morning the last of them had been cleared up and they could get back to work.
He walked down to the foundations, his gaze flicking between the roughed out plan in his notebook and the laid concrete and steel piers, checking off where they'd left everything before they'd been shut down. Goddamned county officials needing a bribe for every goddamned decision they'd made, he thought angrily. Beside him, Harry walked silently, looking over the equipment carefully, aware that Frank was ready to blow a gasket between the delays and the inordinate amounts of money that had already been poured into the development, unwilling to be the one to set that off.
"What the –" Frank stopped at the lip of the deep concrete pit, staring down. "We finished with section twenty two, didn't we?"
Harry glanced at the sketch in the book, and down to the floor of the pit. The concrete slabs had been laid in a grid pattern, each numbered to save on time with installation of essential services. Section twenty two was about half of the open cavity finished, at least on the sketch. In the hole in front of them, another strip had been laid. Twenty three, he thought worriedly, the churned up muddy ground next to it showing the depth of the slab.
"Yeah, twenty two," he confirmed. "No one laid that when we locked up the gates."
"Well, someone has!" Frank bellowed, striding down into the hole. He crouched down beside the thick slab. "No reinforcement in this. And the pipes weren't laid first." He turned to look at Harry. "What the fuck!?"
"I'll get the hoe," Harry said quickly, turning around and heading for the standing machines.
"No!" Frank shouted, stopping him in his tracks. "No, wait a sec –"
He looked down at the smooth slab, its joins matching the others precisely. He'd grown up in Chicago, moved to the mid-west after his father had gotten out of the construction business in the Windy City. Gotten out for one reason.
More delays, he thought, shoulders slumping. Was there no one who would give an honest working stiff a break? "Call the cops, Harry."
"You think someone's buried under that?" Harry's eyes widened dramatically.
Frank shrugged resignedly. "Whoever poured it knew what they doing," he explained. "Yeah, I don't think they were helping us out."
Lebanon, Kansas
Sam threaded the leader through and onto the empty reel, adjusting the tension carefully and flicking the switch. The projector stuttered to itself loudly, and the film began to play on the smooth white wall.
Another four reports had chattered off the printer lines while they were exploring the fourth level. Salvation, Iowa. Greenwood, Mississippi. Bloomington, Illinois and Joliet, Illinois. The names had leapt out at him this time. Monica and Rose Holt. Evan Hudson. Susan Thompson and her daughter, Tyler. Carolyn Smyth. He was beginning to dread the sound of the printers in the other room.
"Simon? We're filming," the woman's voice was high, an underlying thread of excitement filling it as the camera approached a priest, sitting on a set of steps, cigarette smoke curling lazily upwards.
"Oh … uh, hello world," the young priest said uncertainly, staring into the lens.
"So this new ritual you're going to do; it's a type of exorcism? How does it work?" the woman's voice asked offscreen.
The priest looked down at the floor. Even through the medium of the old and scratched black and white film, Dean could see the nervousness in him, the tremble in his hands given away by the smoke's jittery spiral. Not really one of God's frontline soldiers, he thought.
"Simon, it's time." A man's voice, older and also offscreen.
Simon smiled awkwardly at the camera as he stubbed out the cigarette. "I don't know. This is my – first time."
He got up and walked around the staircase, and the camera followed him, the footage catching the reflection of the woman holding the camera in a mirror as they walked past.
"Wait a minute – was that Abaddon?" Sam asked.
Dean nodded. "Henry said she was a hunter," he said, dragging back the memories of his grandfather's explanations of what had happened in '58. "Sands. Abaddon possessed her to get to the order."
Behind the stairs, the space opened out and the camera jerked as the woman walked out behind the priest. Dozens of candles burned brightly, flaring slightly on the film. In the centre of the room, an elderly woman had been chained to the floor, the flowered cotton housedress torn and flapping around her thin body as she stared up at the priest standing by a table, her voice raw and harsh, her eyes black, from corner to corner.
"Hurry, we must do it now," the older priest said to the younger as the camera focussed on him.
Dean's eyes narrowed as he looked at the scene, taking in the details. The normal exorcism essentials covered the table, flasks and the Book of Prayer and the priest's sacramental sashes. A long, thick-bladed knife lay in the midst of them, the edge catching a gleam from the candlelight as the camera panned over it.
Simon picked up a bottle of water, uncorking it and throwing the contents over the elderly woman. Steam rose as her flesh blackened where the water hit, her shrieks rising as she thrashed against the shackles that held her. The camera zoomed in a little, focussing on her face and the wrist and neck collars, then panned to see the two priests approach the demon, Father Simon trembling from head to foot as he held out his rosary, the older priest beside him incanting in Latin.
"Ego præcipio tibi ut dimittam vos, et cogere ténuit innocentis. Abluti estis in animo mundabo sanguinem Agni, et facta est super magnitudine mali dolori tibi!"
Father Simon's lighter voice wavered against the older priest's certain delivery. The priest drew the knife over his palm, his blood spilling out along the cut and strode forward to the demon-possessed woman, slapping his hand over her mouth.
Castiel leaned forward as light spilled from the woman's eyes and nose, leaking out from around the priest's hand as she arched back against the chains. An explosion of light burst from the woman and both priests were knocked backward, the camera swinging down to the floor as the hunter leapt back.
"Where's the demon?" Sands said, lifting the camera and focussing on the old woman's body, lying on the floor. There was a hole in her chest, the rib cage bent outwards, the lungs and heart cooked and ribbons of steam rising from the cavity.
"Stop filming," the older priest told her, waving his hand.
"What happened?" Sands pressed him as he got to his feet.
"Just stop –"
The footage went to white and the film strip flapped as the reel emptied.
"Well, that was weird," Dean said thoughtfully. "With three exclamation points."
"That wasn't a normal exorcism," Sam said, looking at his brother. "They changed the words."
Dean glanced over his shoulder. "Yeah, kind of the least of it, don't you think?"
"I believe that abluti estis is Latin for wash – cleanse," Castiel said, looking at Sam.
"Ever seen an exorcist use his own blood? Or a demon who can't get out any other way take a short cut through the ribs?" Dean ignored the angel, looking at his brother.
Sam shook his head, looking through the file beside him. "We got a current address for Father Simon," he said. "The older priest died in 1958 but Simon is still living in Wentzville, Missouri."
"You think it's worth a drive?"
"Dean, everything in these files – possessions, demons, we've seen it before." He turned to look at the projector, stabbing a finger at it for emphasis. "But that, that was all new. Yeah, I think it's worth a drive!"
"Alright, let's roll," Dean said, getting up and hooking his jacket from the back of the chair. "Not you," he added to the angel without looking at him.
"Sam is more damaged than I am," Cas pointed out.
"Yep, well, you know, even banged-up, Sammy comes through," Dean said tersely.
Sam looked at him in surprise. That wasn't strictly speaking the truth, especially over the last year, he thought uncertainly.
"Dean, I just want to help –"
"We don't need your help!" Dean snapped at him. "Just stay here, and …" He looked away, gesturing dismissively. "… get better."
Cas looked at Sam as Dean turned and headed for the stairs. Sam shook his head slightly.
"He'll get over it, Cas," he said in a low voice to the angel. "Just takes time."
Grabbing his jacket, he hurried after his brother. He wasn't a hundred percent that what he'd just told the angel was true.
I-70 E, Kansas
"How long?" Sam asked, shuffling the files on his lap.
"Six hours, give or take," Dean said, his gaze fixed on the road. "Get some sleep."
Sam looked at him in frustration. He couldn't sleep. Could barely sleep in a bed, with nothing but the burning in his veins to keep him awake.
"You know, Cas has been pretty much broken and put back together –" he said tentatively.
Dean exhaled heavily. "Sam, I know what happened. I was there, a lot of the time."
"I'm just saying –"
"Yeah, well, don't," Dean cut him off. "You think that trusting a broken angel is any better than trusting a lying one?"
"He didn't mean to –"
"What? Didn't mean to keep us in the dark over what was going on upstairs? Didn't mean to lie to us about the angel tablet and what he was doing to get it?" Dean shook his head. "He did mean to do those things, Sam."
"Dean, no matter how much he's hurt y –"
"I'm not – this is preventative, okay?" Dean said, his voice rising slightly. "This is making sure that the only people we trust are the ones that've proved themselves."
Sam blinked at that statement. Did that mean that his brother was prepared to trust him again? Dean's shifting allegiances didn't necessary reflect that, he realised slowly. It was entirely possible that his brother was just running out of people he could put his back against.
"Everyone makes mistakes, Dean," he said softly. "Even angels."
He saw Dean's hands tighten around the wheel. "He had a chance, Sam. And he blew it. And he's not getting another one. End of story," he added, flicking a sideways look at his brother. "End of conversation."
"Cas asked if curing the demon meant returning it to a human soul," Sam said after a moment.
"Is that possible?"
"I don't know," Sam said, looking down at the pile on his lap. "He didn't know either."
"Is that what that priest was trying to do?"
"It wasn't an exorcism."
"No, but it sure as hell didn't do anything for the demon – or the old lady," Dean muttered.
They passed into Missouri at midday, the traffic flowing steadily and moving through it easy for a change.
He wasn't looking at events that had surrounded finding the angel tablet and losing it. He was trying not to look at them, letting his anger keep them away, keep them buried under its righteous heat.
He'd never given Cas any reason to doubt him. Any reason to believe that he wasn't rock-solid behind him. Well, the small voice in his mind considered slowly, except for trying to take him before he opened Purgatory. And … uh … summoning Death to destroy him.
That was different, he argued hotly. That was Cas out of control and not himself. And the angel had rejected his offer of help, the first time. Hadn't trusted him then either.
Done was done, he thought. And he wasn't signing up for round three. They didn't need Cas' help. Didn't need the doubt and risk of it. Didn't need to get hammered again for wanting … he pushed that thought aside, jaw setting as he shifted lanes to get out from alongside the driver of the silver Buick who was persisting in sitting in his blind spot.
He had one person left. Just one. Sam had broken just about every single foundation of the relationship they'd had in the last five years. All the things he'd counted on, had trusted and relied on. But he always came back. Eventually. And there was no one else. He didn't think there ever would be. He'd seen the offers – from Garth, from Charlie, even. Telling him it was okay to trust them. It was okay to lean on them. He shook his head impatiently. It wasn't. They weren't.
There was so goddamned much he couldn't talk about, or think about, or go near now, it made an empty wasteland, howling with the screams of those who'd filled it once, lost now and gone for good. He couldn't fill it. Couldn't imagine trying to. No more deaths on him. No more deaths because of him.
The thought brought another and he remembered the printouts. Just what the fuck was going on there?
St Benedict's Church, Wentzville, Missouri
"Father Thompson had some … unorthodox ideas," he said, looking at the two men who sat in front of him. "That was why the Litteris Hominae was interested."
"Unorthodox … how?" Sam questioned.
"He believed demons could be saved," the priest said abruptly, not missing the glance the men exchanged.
"What exactly do you mean by 'saved'?"
"A demon is a human soul, twisted and corrupted by its time in Hell," Father Simon explained. "Father Thompson believed that you could … wash that taint away. And restore their humanity."
Dean frowned. "So what? They just stay in whatever mea-schmuck they're possessing and get a ticket upstairs?"
"I wish I knew."
"Okay, with this ritual – it can cure a demon?" Sam asked, leaning forward toward the priest.
"I suppose … if it worked," Father Simon said slowly. "But that night, something went terribly wrong." He looked back at the memory, feeling the terror that had filled him that night rising like a tempest again. "The demon escaped into the world and that … poor old woman … it was … I have never been as frightened as I was then."
He drew in a breath, forcing the memory down, unable to look at the faces of the men. "I know Father Thompson kept trying," he continued. "There were other possessions, experiments, but I couldn't face that – not again."
Dean watched the expressions pass over his face, saw his hands close hard around each other to stifle the tremble in the fingers. The priest had been frightened, he thought. But more than that, the attempts had shaken his faith in everything, in what he'd believed and what he'd counted on. He wondered if the man still had nightmares about what he'd seen.
"And then … a few months later, he was dead," Father Simon said. "He brought the possessed here, to consecrated ground, performing the rituals in the tombs that lie under the church. Sister Francis found him one morning." The priest looked down at his hands, the knuckles whitening. "The police said it was a cult, or a serial killer. They never found anything. It wasn't, of course, nothing human could have done what had been done to him. He was torn apart, limb from limb and his blood coated the walls of the vault and the floor and ceiling."
"Did he keep any –" Sam started to ask, his chest contracting sharply. "Any … uh … records –"
Watching as Sam coughed harshly, Dean caught his little brother's fleeting glance into his hand.
"Do you have a bathroom, maybe?" Sam asked, looking back at the priest. Father Simon nodded, gesturing to the vestibule. Getting up, Sam hurried down the aisle, hand over his mouth as the cough grew stronger, a wrenching convulsion that made him stagger a little to one side.
"Is he alright?"
Dean looked back at the priest and stood up. "Ah … no, padre. He's pretty damned far from alright. That's why we're here."
Father Simon's brow creased worriedly. "I don't understand?"
Dean looked past the priest to the altar and the stained glass windows that towered up behind it. "There's a way to close the gates of Hell, Father. A way to seal up every demon for good, forever." He glanced back down the aisle. "My brother is going to do it. It's … taking its toll on him. God likes to test his favourites to death, right?"
Father Simon nodded slowly. "Yes, He does."
"He needs help. We need your help," Dean said quietly. "Whatever you have – whatever you know –"
"I'll get Father Thompson's things for you," the priest said, turning away.
"Thank you."
The late afternoon sunlight slipped in through the glass of the tall windows, illuminating the priest and he stopped after a step and turned back. "You thought it should've been you?"
There was something different about him, Dean thought uneasily, looking into the dark eyes. Something not altogether just Father Simon. The shaft of sunshine haloed the old man's silver hair.
"Yeah, it should've been me," he allowed warily.
"Because you are stronger?"
Dean frowned. "No."
"Expendable?"
Dean looked away, one shoulder lifting in a slight shrug.
"And if you are not? If you are assigned something else that has not yet come to fruition?"
He looked back at the priest. "Who are you?"
"None of us labour entirely alone," Father Simon said, his voice deepening. "None of us can do our jobs in isolation. We all need help, son. We need to trust. We need to feel the strength of others."
Dean stared at him. Father Simon blinked rapidly as the beam of light shifting incrementally from him, lighting up the polished wooden floor at his feet.
"I'll be right back."
Now what the fuck was that, Dean wondered, watching him hurry toward the offices behind the sanctuary.
Lebanon, Kansas
The order's retreat was massive, the angel thought, wandering down the halls and looking into each of the rooms. And well-equipped. It might be that the brothers had found a place from which they could fight evil in relative safety.
He stopped in the big kitchen and looked through the cupboards. There was barely anything there. He could do something, he thought suddenly. He could reprovision them while they were gone.
Taking careful note of the surroundings as he left the building, both the real landmarks and the illusory ones, he walked down the road toward the town.
Perhaps Dean was right to keep him at a distance, to not allow him any further chances to betray them, he considered, following the main road in through houses and a small industrial section, looking around for what had to be there – somewhere – stores that people used to resupply themselves.
Perhaps the fleeting friendship he'd experienced had been an object lesson only. A way to learn to understand humanity better, not a series of memories to hold close on their own. It had taken him a long time to get past the prickly exterior of the eldest Winchester, for Dean to accept him and to trust him. And twice now, he'd shattered that trust and the friendship that had come with it. You didn't trust me. Dean had said. He hadn't trusted anyone, his mind reeling from the knowledge of what had been done to him, his only comfort the smooth stone he'd held in his hand. And he'd felt Dean's lack of trust in him as well. Justified, of course, but still there.
He didn't understand human relationships. Didn't understand how Dean could forgive Sam for all he'd done, overlook the errors in judgement, understand the reasons behind the choices his brother had made. Everything he knew about the man told him that Dean did not give many chances to people. Sam was perhaps, the exception that proved the rule. But there was something else, something more.
In Purgatory, he'd watched Dean with the vampire, clinically almost. Benny was like no monster he'd encountered – except possibly one. The one he'd sent on her way. Lenore? She and the hard vampire with the liquid, drawling accent had been similar, in some ways. Dean had watched Benny like a hawk, but each time the vampire had wordlessly done his job, had put himself between Dean and an attack, had listened, and offered his own opinion of this or that, he'd seen the man's mistrust crumble a little more, the walls he habitually surrounded himself with, fracture a little deeper.
Benny had earned the trust that had been given to him. Had earned it with his blood and his courage and his honour. And he had not. He'd felt Dean's uneasiness when he'd returned from Purgatory, had sensed the questions that seethed in his friend's mind and the uncertainties, the agonising self-doubts that had filled his heart. He hadn't really known how to assuage them, how to convince the man that he'd done nothing wrong. He must've … somehow … he thought, because Dean had begun to trust him again. Had reached out again when his pain over the slaughter he'd left on Heaven and Earth had been eating at him day and night, the memories static and relentless and horrifying.
The small store was empty and he walked inside. Television had taught him about shopping and he felt confident he could get what they needed. He walked to the row of carts and pulled one free, heading for the far aisle, reviewing everything he knew about human biological and physical needs and the odd things he'd picked up of the brothers' preferences over the years.
He looked at the shelves, taking several items from the row beside him then hesitating for a moment, as he felt a slight interest manifest from close by. Was someone watching him? The knobbled cicatrices he'd carved over himself were still there, softening a little with the paste that Sam had given him, but deeply cut into his vessel's flesh and assuredly protecting him from view.
The sensation vanished and he turned back to the shelves, pushing the cart further along, looking down at what he'd put in … shampoo, soap, tissue, some product claiming to be able to remove ninety-eight percent of dangerous bacteria from bathroom surfaces with a single wipe … he nodded to himself and stopped in front of a display of hair-care products. He'd never observed either brother do anything to their hair. But the thick, translucent jelly looked interesting. And they occasionally scraped the facial hair back with some kind of sharp implement. Shrugging, he threw another few items into the cart and headed toward the fresh produce section.
The variety was astonishing, he thought, looking at the brightly-coloured and variously-shaped offerings. Tomatoes, lettuce, carrots, potatoes, corn, broccoli, cauliflower, aubergines, avocado, celery, peppers, mushrooms, yams, pumpkin, swedes, turnips, cabbage … he wasn't sure what to get. Perhaps a few of each would satisfy the requirements for most of their dietary mineral and vitamin needs? The cart was becoming more difficult to push as the weight in it increased.
He added a number of items of fruit and continued toward the cold section. Standing beside the selection of cheeses, the sensation of being watched returned. Looking obliquely through the reflection along the glass-fronted doors, he could see no one else in the store other than the young man standing behind the cash register.
Grabbing a couple of different types of cheese, he hurried along the refrigerated section, adding milk, butter, yoghurt and cream to the cart. The next fridge held beverages and he recognised the brand that he'd seen both brothers drinking straight away, opening the door and dropping two six packs of the beer on top of the items in the cart.
The next aisle held an assortment of things that he wasn't sure about. Condiments, the sign proclaimed. Soups, sauces, jams, jellies, syrups. A bright red bottle seemed familiar and Cas whipped it off the shelf, adding it to the pile that was overflowing the confines of the cart. One wheel had developed a severe wobble, threatening to crash him into the shelving. He moved partly around the side of the cart and pushed harder, dragging the nose of the cart back from the shelves as it veered unsteadily from side to side.
Beside the long counter, he snagged loaves of bread, bags of rolls and stopped in dismay when he saw the pie case. It was empty. Pie, he knew about. Pie was possibly the one thing that might change Dean's current view of him.
"Do you have any pie?" he asked the youth behind the counter.
"If ain't there, we ain't got it," the boy said disinterestedly.
"But … I need pie," Cas muttered. "It's important."
"Not really my problem," the boy said, looking at the cart. "You gonna unload or what?"
"What?"
"Your stuff?"
"Castiel, allow the young man to do his job."
The voice was behind him, and the angel spun around. The man was short, round and smiling slightly at him.
"Have we met?"
"No, but I know who you are," the man said, smiling reassuringly at him.
"Complete your business," he added, gesturing to the cart. "We have many things to discuss."
"But I need pie," Cas said plaintively.
"There's a bakery on the corner." The man looked at the cart. "We'll stop on the way."
The aroma from the freshly-baked blueberry pie wafted back over him as he balanced it on one hand, several bags of shopping swinging into him.
"You're Metatron?" he asked, looking at the man beside him. "The Metatron?"
"First time I've seen a seraphim engaged in domestic duties," Metatron said, looking at the bags the angel carried. "And yes, although I prefer Marv when I'm … visible."
"Marv," Cas repeated. "I thought you were protecting the prophet?"
"I am," Metatron said. "He's locked up tight right now. He told me a lot about you."
"He did?"
"Thinks we have a lot in common."
"He does?"
The scribe looked sideways at him. "I can't say that your conversation impresses me."
"What could we possibly have in common?" Castiel said, shifting the weight of the bags in his hands. Something sharp in one of them was stabbing into his leg with every stride.
"We've rebelled against our brothers and we're both on Heaven's Most Wanted list," Metatron told him acerbically, taking three of the bags from the angel as he slowed down again.
"Lucifer tried to convince me we were both on the same side for much the same reasons," Cas said, his expression hardening as he recalled that occasion.
"I suppose in a sense, you were."
"Didn't convince me."
"No," Metatron agreed. "I've been here for a long time, Castiel. A sabbatical, one might say. And I've ignored what has happened here for a long time. I'm playing catch up so far as the events of this plane are concerned, but I need to talk to someone who can tell me what's happening at home."
"I would like to know what's going on at 'home' myself," Cas said, turning up the narrow laneway.
"I've been looking around," Metatron continued. "Crawling through a few divine nooks and crannies, but from what I can see … without the archangels, it's a mess. Open warfare."
"I thought … Naomi was running things now?" Cas slowed down and looked down at the man beside him.
"Is that what she told you?" Metatron asked him. "Naomi is leading one of many factions, Castiel. And she is not interested in putting things in order. It's only a matter of time before that warfare begins to leak out, and spread here. They are fighting, betraying each other, killing each other … it's all broken."
"I know, I'm the one who broke it," Cas said bluntly. "There was a time when I thought I could lead them, teach them to think for themselves, to become – I was mistaken."
"Angels are not built for free will, Castiel."
"No," Cas acknowledged. "I have tried to atone, I have done penance, I have looked for a way to repair what I have done in pride and ignorance. I have betrayed my friends to keep our secrets, but I've … just failed … and it has all been for nothing."
The scribe looked at him. "Not for nothing, Castiel. I've never heard of an angel doing penance for their sins."
"Usually they do not sin," Cas reminded him.
"Lucifer did," Metatron countered mildly. "And he never repented. You are, I think, the right one."
"The right one for what?"
"To prevent the possibility of the situation getting any worse."
Cas stopped as he recognised the small utility hut. "And how are we supposed to do that?"
"Close the gates of Heaven," Metatron said, handing him the bags. "Lock them in and keep them contained."
"What?"
"Eugenie's, in Avon Lake," the scribe told him clearly. "Great crepes."
The beating of wings was loud in the narrow, mist-filled valley and Cas looked around in frustration. "Metatron! Marv!"
Dean looked at the grocery bags surrounding the table in the library. "Think he had this home-delivered?"
"He got you pie," Sam said, glancing down at the table and the pie that sat there.
Dean scowled. "Anyone can get pie," he said shortly, then reconsidered. "Except you."
"He's not here now, think he blew town?"
"Sounds like him," Dean said, feeling his mouth fill with saliva at the smell. He looked down at the rest of the bags. "What the hell did he buy?"
Sam glanced down. "One of everything, I think."
"Well, I'm eating this before it gets cold," Dean said, picking up the pie and the bags he could see were food-related and heading for the kitchen. "We need to go through that stuff of Father Thompson's."
"No argument," Sam said, gathering up the rest of the bags.
"Fridge is full," Dean said, balancing two plates in his hands as he came back into the library ten minutes later. "Mostly stuff we'll never eat, but it's full."
"You need to look at this," Sam said, pushing a soft-cover notebook across the table to his brother as he took the plate from him. "I don't know if I can eat this."
"Try," Dean said, around a mouthful. He set the plate down and flipped open the cover, skimming over the contents as the pie disappeared steadily.
"Says here he recorded all of the demon cure tests," Dean said, looking up at his brother. "We got the film in there?"
Sam nodded, lifting out the reel. "This is the last one," he said. "Date's two days before he died. Audio only."
"Thread it up," Dean said, passing the notebook back to his brother.
"The date is August 3rd, 1958," Father Thompson's voice was clear on the tape. "This is trial nineteen, hour one. My subject is Peter Kent. Mr Kent is the father of two young sons, and three weeks ago, he was possessed by a demon."
The volume changed slightly as Father Thompson moved away from the microphone, and Sam adjusted it up.
"I'm going to ask you a question now," the priest said. "When you crawled into Mr Kent, and ate his children … how did it feel?"
"Orgasmic!" The demon snarled back at him, then screamed, the speakers of the eight-track crackling in protest.
"The first dose has been administered," Father Thompson said, his voice raised over the demon's.
Dean looked up. "Do we know what the padre was dosing the demon with?"
"Uh, yeah," Sam said, reading through the notebook. "His own purified blood."
"Purified – how?" Dean asked.
"Before he started, Father Thompson fasted – forty days and forty nights," Sam read, his brow creasing a little. "He didn't sleep for the same length of time, at least, no more than … one hour a night," he continued more slowly. "He went to his bishop and confessed his sins, receiving absolution …"
"He didn't eat or sleep for forty days?" Dean leaned on the table. He couldn't remember how long it been since Sam had eaten a full meal or slept a full night.
"The confession and the penance he was required to do took two days. In that time he didn't eat or sleep at all," Sam said, chewing on the edge of his lip.
"This is trial nineteen, hour two," the priest's voice said over the speakers. "When you ate his children, how did it feel?"
"Freeing!" The demon shrieked as the needle went into its neck, and through the hiss of the tape, Sam and Dean heard it cursing the priest.
"The second dose has been administered," Father Thompson said.
"Hour four."
"How did it feel?"
"Kiss my ass!"
"The sixth dose has been administered."
"Stop! Please!"
Sam looked across at his brother. Dean's eyes were closed as he listened.
"How –"
Shrieking, bubbling screams poured from the speakers.
"Did it –"
"The eighth dose has been administered."
"No, stop, no!"
"Feel?"
"Stop! No – no, no," the demon's voice dissolved into sobs, the harsh indrawn breaths clearly audible on the tape.
Dean leaned across the table, staring at the machine. There was no mistaking the agonised torment in that voice. No mistaking the bone-deep pain he could hear.
"On hour eight, the subject is prepped," Father Thompson said.
There was a crash on the tape, and both men leaned closer to the speakers, eyes half-shut as they tried to visualise what was happening.
"Ego præcipio tibi ut dimittam vos, et cogere ténuit innocentis. Abluti estis –"
"Purgatio!"
The slap of the priest's hand over the face of the demon could be heard under the final shout. "PURGATE!"
The demon screamed, its voice rising higher and higher. And then everything fell silent.
"When you ate his children, how did it feel?"
"They were screaming …" the voice was no longer the deep, harsh growl they'd heard before. Peter Kent's voice, Sam thought, his real voice.
"And I laughed –" the voice hitched, breath seizing in the throat. "I don't know why I – I don't – I wasn't happy – it wasn't – it was relief – relief from the pain …"
Sam's gaze flicked up to his brother's face, catching the tail end of a twitch as Dean turned away, his eyes closing.
"Oh god, oh my god, I was a monster, a monster –"
"But now you are a man again." The priest's voice was strong, firm. "You have been saved."
"No, I – he's in here, with me, he hates me so much – I don't –"
Sam's hand slid across the controls of the machine and turned off the tape. "Did he just – cure a demon?"
Dean looked at the tape, feeling memory pushing against his walls. He didn't have the time for a one-on-one with himself. "Maybe," he said slowly. "Can we take this hoodoo on a test drive?"
"Uh … yeah," Sam said, flipping through the pages of the notebook. "I have the exorcism here, all we need is the blood, consecrated ground and a demon." He looked at his brother, brow furrowing a little as he saw his stillness. "So we summon a demon, trap it –"
"Or we use one we've already tagged," Dean said, turning to look at him. "Do we still have Dad's old Army Field Surgeon's kit?"
"In the trunk," Sam said, the furrows deepening. "Why?"
"I think it's time we put Humpty back together again."
"Abaddon?"
"Who else?"
"We can't cure Abaddon," Sam said. "Henry told us, remember? She was one of the first-fallen – a Fallen angel. No soul."
"Crap!"
"We need to find another one."
"Ya think?" Dean snapped, starting as the printer behind them whirred into life, another few pages falling into the bins.
Avon Lake, Ohio
Cas looked across the quiet street at the row of stores that fronted the other side. Behind him, Lake Huron stretched out, a cool breeze from the water ruffling the awning edges and forcing the customers into weighting their napkins with their water glasses.
"Picturesque," he remarked to the angel sitting across from him. "But I don't suppose you wanted a change of scenery. Why are we here?"
"All in good time," Metatron said, looking up as a waitress brought a plate to the table. "Thank you."
"Can I get you anything?"
Castiel looked up at her. "Coffee, thank you."
"On the way," she said, turning and leaving them.
"You eat?"
"Like the best of them," Metatron admitted, glancing down at his portly figure. "You think I got this just looking at food?" He looked up at Cas. "You should integrate a little more. Some of it's not all that bad."
"I've done that," Cas said shortly. "It was a mistake."
"But coffee's okay?"
"What did you mean – close the gates of Heaven?"
"The tablets were meant for humanity," Metatron said, tucking a mouthful into his cheek. "Safeguards to keep greater powers from disturbing their evolution when they were ready."
"They're not ready now."
"No, but the Winchesters have set themselves the task of closing Hell and are succeeding," Metatron pointed out. "And there is nothing to prevent us from using the angel tablet to lock Heaven down and keep the war from spilling out down here, as it did before, as I'm sure you'll remember."
Cas looked away. He remembered. "What do we have to do?"
"The tablet details three trials, that the contender must finish before being able to close the gates." He looked up, catching the angel's expression. "I transcribed those tablets, Castiel. They were not something I could forget."
"You're going to complete these trials?"
"No," Metatron said. "I can't. I am not a warrior. I am – I was – the scribe only." He looked across the lake behind the angel. "But you can. You are Castiel; you served under Gabriel and Michael. You rescued the soul of Dean Winchester from the seventh level of Hell. You've fought archdemons and you've smote the ungodly. You can do it."
"You think this a true atonement, Metatron?" Cas looked down at the table top. "I am the one who caused these problems. Am I also the one to fix them?"
"I think that there are no coincidences in this universe, Castiel." The scribe picked up another forkful of crepe and apple. "You understand that this is not going to be easy?"
"What is the first trial?"
"To cut out the heart of a nephilim," Metatron said casually, cutting through his crepe.
Cas was silent, staring at him. He looked up and shrugged as he saw the expression on the angel's face.
"They're an abomination, Castiel," he said quietly. "Even the Qaddiysh offspring."
"They were allowed to teach, to join humanity," Cas argued weakly. "And without those bloodlines, we would not have had the vessels at all."
"He sent the Flood to wipe them out."
"But they were not," Cas said, leaning across the table. "And if that was not His Will, then are you suggesting something else was involved?"
"No," Metatron said, shaking his head. "Free will was extended to the Qaddiysh, as to mankind. Souls or no souls."
"Then you are talking of murder." Cas looked away. "Another murder."
"He designed the trials, Castiel."
"Where would I even find one?" The angel gestured around vaguely. "There are thousands, but they have hidden themselves well."
"Across the street, in the bookstore," Metatron said prosaically, sweeping the last mouthful from his plate. "You see her?"
Through the plate glass window, several figures were visible and Cas focussed on them. At the centre of the small group, one woman was taller than the others, slender and graceful in a way that humans were really not.
"She doesn't appear to be doing harm," the angel muttered.
"She's not," the scribe agreed. "Making a living, minding her own business."
"Then it is murder."
"Oh, yes," Metatron said. "Her life is balanced against the fate of humanity, that Heaven be closed before their anger reaches this plane." He looked at Castiel, his expression considering. "I told you it wasn't going to be easy."
Lebanon, Kansas
"Any signs close by?" Dean walked into the library, another armful of files thumping onto the table as he looked at Sam.
"Nothing so far," Sam said, peering at the files. "What are they?"
"'57 and '58, background checks," Dean said, pushing a pile across to him. "I'm starving, can you eat?"
"Maybe," Sam hedged, opening the top file. "Something."
"Something comin' up."
Sam heard his footsteps leave the room, tracking him by the sound down the hallway vaguely as he read the opening summaries. At least they didn't have to wade through the entire file, the scholars had been organised and efficient, and all the pertinent facts were stated briefly at the front of each case.
He stopped skimming when he reached the write-up of Father Thompson's case. Someone had gone to talk to the police, to the coroner and mortician about the priest's body. Father Simon hadn't been kidding when he'd described the death, he thought, looking at the crime scene photographs and reading between the lines of the coroner's report. No one in the town had ever seen anything like it before, and he could feel their fear coming off the pages in waves under the formal, terse language of the report.
One eyewitness had seen a tall, dark-haired, dark-skinned woman enter the church the night before the body was found. There was no follow up to the account, and he reached for the laptop, swivelling it toward it him and calling up the federal crime database.
On August 6th in 1958, a tall, dark-haired, dark-skinned woman had been found dead in St Louis. There hadn't been a mark on her externally. But not one organ or length of tissue had been intact when the local medical examiner had done the autopsy. Just a soup of blood and pulverised flesh which had spilled out with the 'Y' incision.
Abaddon had changed vessels, he thought. The timing was too close to the massacre of the scholars in Iola. When she'd killed them, she'd been wearing the body of the hunter, Josie Sands, a hunter known to the order, trusted by them. And Sands had been doing the filming for the priest until he'd gone solo. It seemed likely enough that he'd talked about the hunter – or that the demon had seen her in his mind. How had she gotten around an experienced – elite was the term Henry had used – hunter? She was more powerful than an ordinary demon, but still …
He got up and walked down the hall and the stairs to the archives level, moving along the row of old-fashioned timber filing cabinets until he came to the one holding the files for all the people the Lebanon order had dealt with. Josie's file was there. Pulling it out, he walked back to the library.
Born in 1930, orphaned at the age of sixteen. Her past was chequered, and even the order hadn't filled in all the holes. He skimmed through the cases that the order had for her, brows rising slightly as he realised the extent of her experience. But Hell hadn't been as active in the previous century as it had become in this one, he thought. And demons had not been the primary targets of the order's hunters.
He looked up as his brother walked back in, carrying a couple of plates, the mouth-watering scent of burgers filling the room. He wanted to eat, he was dying to eat. But as Dean put the plate down in front of him, the smell began to change and he felt his stomach clench tightly as a whiff of decomposition hit him from the direction of the burger.
Dean was looking at him quizzically.
"I might be able to eat a bit when it's cold," Sam said, pushing the plate away from him. "When I can't smell it."
"What's this?" Dean set his own plate on the table and dragged a thick file toward him.
"Those are the news reports that have been coming in the last three days," Sam said, looking back at the file.
Opening it as he took a bite, Dean flicked the pages over, one by one. He swallowed after skimming five of the articles and put the burger back on the plate. "This right?"
Sam looked at the file and nodded. "Seventeen now."
"Is this the order they came in?"
"They're in date order – date the reports were filed, not the dates we saved them."
"What the fuck is going on here?"
"Got me," Sam said, shaking his head. "There's nothing to connect them except for us. They're being hit randomly as well. But …"
"But?"
"Not." Sam frowned at the reports. "There's only one thing that could do this kind of damage."
Dean looked at him and the name came to him. "Crowley."
"Crowley." Sam nodded, looking back at him. "But how?"
"Well, we gotta figure out who might be next," Dean said. "We gotta remember some of these people, at least – warn them, give them hex bags, something!"
"Alright," Sam said. "Alright. What about the psych hospital? The wraith?"
"Who'd we save there?" Dean frowned as he tried to retrieve the distinctly blurred and chaotic memories of the place.
"All of them, the wraith would've gone through every patient," Sam said, his fingers rubbing his temples gently.
"Where was that?"
"Oklahoma."
The memory of the hospital's drive suddenly came bright and clear to Dean. "Glenwood Springs."
"Right."
"Okay, I know it, it was Ketchum," Dean said, getting up. "Let's go."
"What are we gonna do there, Dean?" Sam asked, following him up the stairs.
"I don't know yet," Dean said, opening the door. "I'm making this up as I go."