Chapter 45 Trial and Suffering

Ketchum, Oklahoma

"Sonofabitch," Dean said softly as they drove around the corner and saw the barricades.

"It might not be that bad," Sam countered, peering up the road. He was kidding himself as well as his brother, he thought, looking at the sea of flashing lights that ran along the road bordering the hospital grounds as far as he could see.

"Right." Dean pulled off close to the Road Closed trestles, killing the engine. "Ten cop cars, six ambulances, fire department …" He looked down the road, catching sight of the square, black truck halfway down. "SWAT."

"Come on," Sam said, opening his door and getting out, leaning back in to grab the federal identification from the glove box. "We can find out what happened."

Dean sighed and reached over to snag a badge. What had happened was that Crowley had gotten here first, he thought sourly, sliding out of the car and shutting the door. What had happened was that somehow the demon had known about this place, known what they'd done here and had decided to undo it all. What had happened was that they were too goddamned late. Again.

He followed Sam past the barricade, opening the wallet and flashing his tin at the flatfoot standing there. The buildings looked intact and he wondered exactly how the demon had manipulated this scene, the delusions and draining of the brain-fluid had been the hallmarks of the wraith.

"What happened here?" Sam asked the detective, flicking a glance back to Dean.

"One of the patients went nuts," the detective said with a shrug. "Got hold of an axe, got out of the locked room and started hacking into the other patients, the staff, everyone."

"Have you got him?"

"Her, actually," the detective corrected, turning to look at Dean's badge. "No, holed up in there, shrieking to blazes about Hell and demons and a bunch of other crap." He turned to look at the black truck up the street. "SWAT's going in, probably in five minutes."

"Have you got a body count?"

"Not really," the detective said, gesturing vaguely at a white comms truck parked on the other side of the road. "We plugged into their security cameras okay, but there's a lot of interference in there, for some reason."

Dean looked at Sam, the same thought in both of their minds. Demons.

"Thanks, detective," Sam said hurriedly, turning and walking fast back toward the car.

Dean lengthened his stride to match his brother's. "Think we can grab one?"

"If they stay in the meatsuits and don't just smoke out," Sam said. He felt in his pocket for his phone, slowing as his fingers came up empty. "Where the hell is my phone?"

Dean glanced back at him. "No clue, come on, we've got what we need in the trunk, and we've got less than five minutes to get around the back and grab one before that team goes in and takes everyone out."

They were almost to the car when the first explosion took out the front of the building, the warm, expanding air pushed outward from it knocking both to the ground and setting the vehicles closer to the building on fire.

"What the fuck?" Dean rolled over, shaking his head as a ringing noise persisted in his ears.

"That wasn't the SWAT team," Sam said, crawling over to him.

"No way."

The second explosion blew out the southern wing and they ran doubled over for the car as flaming debris whistled by and arced overhead. Over the ringing in his ears, Dean could hear screams, shouting, gunfire and the random cracks of ammunition heating up in a fire and going off on its own.

Leaning around the front tyre, Dean looked along the ground at the hospital. Two men staggered out from the side of the building, both burning. The front was gone, exposing the interior warren of rooms, broken gas pipes burning like monstrous blue torches, water mains pipes shooting fountains into the air. The side of the building furthest from them was a pile on the ground, brick and tile and metal and plastic and timber smashed so thoroughly that he couldn't recognise what anything had once been. Four of the police cars and one ambulance were burning ferociously. The SWAT truck and the communications van were both lying on their sides.

"He knew we were here!" Sam said loudly beside him. He looked at his brother, sitting up as he saw the blood trickling from Sam's ear.

"Christ, can you hear me?" he asked Sam, lifting a hand and turning Sam's head to one side.

"Just." Sam nodded, then winced. "Was this for us, Dean?"

"I don't know."

"Because we came here?"

"Sam, I don't know," Dean said, rolling to his feet and going around to the trunk to get the first aid kit. He watched the building but the pyrotechnics seemed to be over. Whoever had been still alive in the building was almost certainly not now. And the demon had taken a number of the civilians along with them.

Taking the kit, he crouched beside Sam, sluicing the blood away from the side of his face.

Sam looked at him tiredly. Had Crowley known or had it been an unlucky coincidence? He saw Dean start slightly as a phone rang shrilly, somewhere close by. His phone.

"Where is it?"

"Must be in the car," Dean said, looking at the door behind his brother. "Move over."

Sam moved and Dean opened the door, looking along the seat. The ringing kept on and he saw the phone on the floor of the passenger well, stretching out along the seat to pick it up. He glanced at the window as he slithered back out. It was open a little. He couldn't remember if it'd been open before or not. Handing the phone to his brother, he closed the door and leaned back against it.

Sam frowned slightly as he saw the caller ID, accepting the call and switching to speaker, turning it so that Dean could see it.

"Hello, Moose."

"Crowley," Sam said tightly.

"Just a social call, see what we've all been up to," the demon's voice drawled loudly. "Have you noticed the news lately?"

Dean looked at Sam.

"How'd you find them, Crowley?"

"Oh, so you have been keeping up," Crowley said, his voice rising slightly. "So many people. A shame that your efforts didn't really last the distance, isn't it?"

"Is there a point you're trying to make?" Sam grated.

"Oh yes, there is," Crowley said, the whisper of his clothes clear over the line as he straightened in his chair. "Isn't it obvious, even to you two? I'm killing everyone you've ever saved. The damsels in distress, the innocent whippersnappers, the would-be vampire chow. And in answer to your earlier question, Mutt, I have my sources, and a cracking research team."

"Why?"

"Ah … here it is, at last," Crowley said slowly. "Why … because I can, of course. I'm going to gut one person every twelve hours until you bring me the demon tablet and stop this whole … trials … nonsense."

"Got a head start, didn't you?" Dean snapped.

"That was just to get your attention," Crowley said calmly. "We're running to a schedule now."

"We don't have the tablet," Sam said curtly. "Kevin took it and we –"

"I had Kevin," Crowley reminded them sharply. "And someone took him back. The word from the Cloud is that it wasn't Heaven, so either he's with you two lugs, or you'd better fucking find him, tout bloody suite! You've got one day to get that tablet."

Dean stared at Sam. Word from the cloud? Sam shook his head.

"A day? That's not enough –" Sam said.

"It's all you'll get, time's a wasting, Moose," Crowley said coolly. "I'll be watching, and I'll be in touch if you don't seem to be following the game plan."

Sam looked at the phone as the call cut out.

"Word from Heaven?" Dean closed his eyes. Crowley had an informant in Heaven?

"We can take him the tablet," Sam said, putting the phone in his pocket. "But it'll take time."

"We need to get ahead of him, Sam."

"We can't'," Sam countered frustratedly. "Do you remember the names of the people we've saved in the last eight years? Where they lived? What if they've moved? A lot did anyway, as soon as we left … however it is he's finding these people, he's had time to think it all out, and to make sure we can't get in front."

"We gonna leave these people in the wind?" Dean asked furiously. "Cut 'em loose and pretend they don't matter?"

"No, of course not," Sam said, running a hand impatiently through his hair. "We'll stall, a bit longer. Tell him we've found Kevin but it's gonna take a bit longer, hope he puts some demons on our asses."

Wichita, Kansas

Sylvia Freeman pushed her glasses higher up her nose as she looked at the body parts lying on the stainless steel table in front of her.

"Whaddya think?"

She glanced at the sheriff dismissively. "About the cause of death?"

"No, that much I got," Sheriff Henderson said sourly. "About the perps."

Perps, she thought tiredly. "I've got a lotta questions about this body, Sheriff, a lot more than just who did it." She walked around the table, gesturing at the head. "The victim was alive when the head was decapitated."

"Alright," the Sheriff allowed warily. Doc Freeman had a mean tongue and no hesitation in using it.

"A single blow, and the tool that did it was a long blade, razor-sharp," she continued, staring at the edges of the cut.

"So, maybe some psycho's got a sword?"

"No," Dr Freeman snapped. "Most swords are fine-bladed, this blade was thick, with a single edge. And it was long enough to cut through all the tendons, cartilage and bone of the neck, but not very long." She chewed on her bottom lip. "The blood did not flow out of this victim, Sheriff," she added after a moment. "There is no lividity, no decomposition, no sign at all that this woman wasn't alive and breathing up to a few hours ago."

"Okay."

"But the owner of the building site, and the forensics team who tested the concrete, agree that the concrete has been in place at least four months, more likely five."

"Maybe … uh … airtight …?"

"No," she snapped again, gesturing at the tray beside the Sheriff. "In addition to the decapitation, I found that in her upper palate."

He turned and looked into the small kidney-shaped stainless dish on the tray. The slug had been washed and it gleamed against the satin sheen of the brushed steel. Picking it up with a pair of tweezers, he stared at the design that had been carved into the soft end.

"Satanists, maybe?"

"There are no defensive wounds, no hair or fibres, no evidence of any kind," Dr Freeman said, walking around the table again. "I'll bag what I find, Sheriff, but it will be at least two days before I'm ready to release this body."

Photographs, chem tests, biopsies, blood and all sorts of tissue tests, she thought frantically. This victim was an impossibility.

"No one is to have access to the morgue until I'm done, you understand?" She looked at the Sheriff who looked up guiltily. "And you'd better call Quantico, as soon as you're back in the office. I've already called in the CDC."

"The feds? Why?"

"Because this is not a simple case, Henderson, and we are not going to treat it as if it is."

Nodding, he turned away, hurrying out of the cold, sterile-chemical-smelling room. Feds would take the collar as sure as sure, he thought. But maybe that would be a relief this time. He couldn't think where to start looking.

Dr Freeman turned away from the table and settled herself at the long counter on the other side of the room. The blood was already on the slide and she bent over the microscope, adjusting the focus.

On the table behind her, the eyes of the head popped open, a bright green, cat-shaped and glinting with amusement. They looked down, able to see the length of the body lying separated by only an inch or two. Closing her eyes again, she focussed her attention on drawing the energy she needed, pulling it through the gaps and cracks and fissures between the planes, feeding it into the cells and blood vessels and nerves of the meatsuit. All back together again. Finally.

Rubbing her neck, Dr Freeman sat back and made another note on the pad beside her. The blood cells were healthy, undamaged, fully viable, yet not living. And not decomposing. It was too incredible for her take in properly.

The slur of a footstep behind her caught her attention, and she turned on the stool, eyes widening in disbelief as she saw the woman standing there.

"It's the discovery of a lifetime, isn't it?" Abaddon said gently to her, a small smile playing around her mouth.

"How?"

"The better question is always 'why'," the demon said, stepping forward, her hand closing around the doctor's neck and flicking sideways. The snap of the vertebrae was loud in the silent room, and Dr Freeman's eyes glazed over as the demon lowered her to the floor. "Why is so much more interesting."

She could smell them, distantly. Couldn't see them. Not yet, perhaps not at all. They had marks on them, some deep inside, some on the surface, all designed through the centuries to deflect the eyes of her kind, both her kinds. But she could smell them. They had been close and afraid and she never forgot a scent. It was a different time and a different world, and she could feel the changes in the planes above and below, changes that would dictate her next move. But first, she would follow them and find them and devour them at her leisure.

Avon Lake, Ohio

In the semi-gloom of the twilit streets, Castiel watched the woman lock the store and turn to walk along the lakeshore path, her stride long and loose and unhurried. It had been simple enough to find her home, and look along the possible routes she might take to reach it.

He wondered how the humans who saw her reacted to the symmetry of her face, the luminescence of her skin, the vividness of her eyes. To his eyes, she did not look human. But humanity had a huge variation within its gene pool, and he supposed that people had become used to improbable images, particularly in the last couple of decades when appearance had assumed a far greater importance than ever before in the history of the species.

The nephilim had been hated and feared for more than two thousand years, both by humanity and angels. Humanity called them giants and sorcerers and monsters. Many writers had used the legends as the basis of their works of fiction, races of long-lived, powerful humans, with abilities and strengths beyond the ken of normal folk. The angels simply hated them, a loathing for what was considered in the Eighth Choir to be an unnatural and distasteful union between God's sons and the daughters of Adam.

Like this plane, Heaven had lost the origins of many things. When Metatron had disappeared, much history had been misunderstood. Sometimes deliberately. Sometimes not. The scribe loathed the nephilim as much as any of the higher ranked seraphim, without knowing why, without being able to search for the reasons that the angels who'd chosen to Fall, to teach and guide, had done so with their Father's blessing.

Abomination. Only the cambion was regarded as being worse. Perhaps rightly so, since until they reached adulthood, their power was extraordinary, capable of wiping out everything in Creation.

The woman stopped in the path, looking directly at the tree behind which he stood.

"I can see you," she called out. "I know what you are."

"And we you," Metatron said, stepping onto the path. "Abomination."

Cas watched her face smooth out. "I am the child of God's creations. There is no shame in me."

"There should be!"

"Metatron," Cas said warningly. He looked at her. "The Flood was to have to wiped you all out."

"Then it is odd that we were warned, isn't it?"

He frowned at that information. "Warned?"

She looked at him carefully. "You do not have all the knowledge, angel. Nor you, scribe. I have done nothing wrong. I have broken no law, of Heaven or Earth. I'm just trying to live my life … teaching … sharing the knowledge of my kind."

"We know," Cas said slowly. "And I am sorry."

He stepped closer to her and the hilt of the sword dropped into his hand.

"You will be," she promised him softly.

He didn't see the blow coming, her fist, smaller than his but steel against his vessel's ribcage. The bone flexed sickeningly and he stumbled back, one arm drawn up to protect the still-healing injuries in his abdomen. He saw her eyes flicker to the arm and cursed himself for showing her his weakness, lifting the sword in his hand.

Metatron stared. She was faster than a striking snake, he thought in astonishment, the attack blurred against his retinas. And strong, much stronger than either angel had possibly conceived. He saw Castiel stagger backward as her blows rained down on him, saw her grip the edges of his coat and lift him, pivoting on her heel to swing the angel into the trees.

He saw Castiel's sword fall from his hand at the same time as the nephilim did, and both ran for it.

Cas shook his head, levering himself onto an elbow as Metatron launched himself at the woman's back, knocking her to the ground. He rolled onto his knees as she sprang upright, picking up the scribe and throwing him across the path and into the fence that paralleled the lake, his fingers closing tightly around the sword when she ran for the scribe.

The nephilim hoisted Metatron easily up the fence with her right hand, her fingers closed tightly around his vessel's throat. He heard his bones creaking under the increasing pressure, the cartilage bending as she pushed harder against his windpipe with her thumb.

"I will show you why we are called 'abomination', angel," she whispered to him, her face inches from his. "Why we are called 'evil'."

She lifted her left hand, the fingers tight together, forming a point, angled upward toward his heart.

"We have the heart of an angel, scribe, and the soul of man," she said. "You have no idea of the power that gives us."

The forward thrust stopped as her fingers touched his diaphragm, her hand falling limply away and the hand holding him springing open as Castiel's sword tip prised the gap between the ribs wider and he reached into her chest from the back.

"I'm afraid that merely having a soul does not guarantee entrance to Heaven," he said, his hand closing around the beating organ and yanking it free of the blood vessels. "One must repent, truly, for that."

He let her fall, opening his hand and dropping the heavy muscle onto her body.

Against the fence, Metatron rubbed his throat gingerly, his breath rasping in and out of his lungs.

"The spell, Castiel," he croaked, handing the angel the paper on which it was written.

I-44 E

The black car sped across the concrete seams, the steady beat matching his pulse, matching his breathing. Dean glanced down at the dash. Another couple of hours and they would have to stop. The car needed gas and he was running on empty too.

The living room had been lit by a single lamp and the glow of the laptop's screen. He'd looked through the news reports, seeing event after event. Flight 401, crashed. No survivors. Andrea Barr and her son, drowned in suspicious circumstances. Tommy Collins, his sister Haley and their little brother, along with the guide who'd led them into Blackwater Ridge, all dead, bodies never recovered. And before that, before he'd gone to see Sam, all the people he'd saved with his father, all the people John Winchester had saved on his own. All dead. Because he'd wanted to have a normal life. To have his family.

It hadn't been like that, not in the dream, not in the reality. For a long time, he'd seen what he did, what he'd grown up doing, as a heroic life. A worthy life. He'd pushed himself to the limits and come out alive, time after time. And at twenty-two and twenty-five and twenty-seven, that had all seemed fine. The good of the many outweighed the good of the few, after all. And he'd told Metatron that the responsibility came with the job. It wasn't something that you could quit, or retire from. It was for life. However long that life was.

Crowley had no idea of what those people actually meant to him. Not just a means of justifying what he did, or what he felt. Not just a way to get up and face himself in the mirror every single morning. Not just lives saved randomly, given the luck of having a hunter in the area when something truly evil came out of the dark. What he'd done, what his father had done, what Sam had done, had been to make a difference in the balance of power. And Crowley couldn't wipe that away, no matter how many he killed, how many lives he cut short. Every single one of those people had been living on borrowed time when they'd got there. And a lot they hadn't been able to save. One man had lost his life unknowingly, the reaper snatching it to give to him. He couldn't change that. Couldn't undo it or make it right. And a pretty, innocent girl had died because they'd put a stop to the binding spell controlling that reaper.

A sacrifice is only meaningful if it is freely made.

The townsfolk of Burkittsville hadn't realised that. He wondered vaguely if the couple he'd intercepted were still alive. He didn't remember catching their names. Couldn't think how Crowley would be able to find them. They'd only been passing through.

There was guilt. There would always be guilt. These people had lived because of him, because of them. And they were dying because of him, because of them. The guilt was something that lived with him and slept with him and breathed with him twenty-four-seven anyway. I'm not strong enough. I'm not the man either of our dads wanted me to be. Find someone else. It's not me. The guilt was the price he paid for their suffering. It was the cost of doing business. It was what reminded him that he was a hunter. Not a normal man. Not entitled to anything.

He couldn't turn away from the grand prize now. Closing the gates of Hell, keeping the demons locked down and away, that would alter the balance of power forever, change the lives of millions. Would save families. He thought of Metatron's warning. He would give anything to do that, no matter what it cost him. No matter how the world was changed forever after.

Sam watched the reflections of the headlights light up and pass over the wet road, splintering into shards of gold, smearing over the puddles on the concrete. His veins burned fiercely and he could feel the liquid pooling in his lungs, getting deeper. Everything they'd done, everything he'd done, gone and wasted and nothing left. He remembered Haley's face, when they'd found her brother, how frightened she'd been and how lit up with relief that at least, if they were going to die, it would be all together. He remembered Amanda Walker and the soul-deep thanks in the look she'd sent him, when they'd been safe on the ground again. He still had the sense memory in his hands and arms of Andrea's body, slick and wet from the tub from which he'd dragged her, a tug of war with a vengeful spirit. The patients at Glenwood. The prisoners at Green River. The way Dean had looked, cutting Carolyn Smyth down and carrying her to the car, his brother determined that she would live.

He had been driven by revenge. First Jessica. His father. Dean. Bobby. Compelled into a life that had no comfort, no safety, no peace or place to rest. Swallowed by self-loathing for the thing that he was becoming. The thing that he had become. Afraid. Alone. All for the people who they knew were getting on with their lives, getting over the nightmares, finding a way to forget. He wanted to kill Crowley so badly his blood was boiling inside him.

There was no way to get ahead of the demon. However it was that Crowley had found these people, it was one they couldn't circumvent. There were too many. They were everywhere. And Crowley had the power to cut short their lives in any number of ways. He rubbed a hand over his face, pushing his hair back, letting out his breath.

"Gonna stop at the next motel," Dean muttered beside him.

He nodded. He couldn't sleep but he was so tired. Just being still would be a help. He could feel something, buzzing against the boundary of his mind.

Heaven

The auburn-haired angel leapt to her feet, the chair crashing over onto the hard, smooth floor behind her. On the other side of the desk, the two angels backed away from the fury in her face, glancing at each other nervously.

"Did you feel that!?" she demanded, striding around the desk, staring at the glass wall fixedly. "Did you!?"

"There was a death," one ventured. "On the material plane."

"Not just any death!" she snarled, sweeping past them and yanking open the heavy glass door. "An angel performing an execution."

The two exchanged another nervous glance and followed her down the long, white hall. They had no idea what she was talking about – or where she was going – but the constructs built in their minds demanded complete obedience.

Lonely Pine Motel, St Clair, Missouri

Dean looked around the plain room, holding the bottle in his hand, his gaze searching out all points of entry. The back of his neck was prickling slightly.

"What do we know about Crowley?" Sam asked, brushing his teeth in the bathroom, the door open.

"We know he's an underhanded, slimy, double-crossing sonofabitch demon," Dean said distractedly.

"Right, okay, but what else?" Sam spat out the toothpaste and rinsed his mouth. "We know he was human."

"If you could call it that," Dean muttered, walking around the perimeter of the room again. The prickling was getting stronger.

"He made a deal and was taken to Hell in 1690," Sam said as he came out of the bathroom. "Crossroad demon from then on."

"Sam –"

"Bear with me, just a sec," Sam told him. "He's an ordinary human-souled demon."

"You want to cure him?" Dean turned to look at him, screwing the lid back onto the bottle and tucking it back into his duffle.

"Can't summon him, and for some reason, the pendulum spell doesn't work on him now either," Sam said, shaking his head. "He found a way to break through the wards around Kevin in Missouri. Still don't know how he did that. But he can't see us."

"Not all the time," Dean agreed cautiously.

"Not in Kansas," Sam stated certainly.

"Alright, where's this getting us?"

"We can't beat him on this round, Dean." Sam looked at the floor. "He's the King of Hell. And we don't even know what that means, not really. We don't know what power he has."

"He's scared, Sam. He's scared we're gonna succeed. He's run on a couple of occasions I can recall," Dean said. "Has to be reason. Why not just kill us if it was that easy?"

"Maybe. But we can't find him, can't figure out who he's gonna kill next. We got one option and that's to do what he asks." He looked up at his brother. "Or know that everyone he's killing, that's all on us."

Outside the room, the night was warm and still. The leaves of one of the shrubs that lined the path rustled softly. Crowley? The crossroads demon? the salesman? King of Hell? That was … impossible. A joke. A bad joke.

Abaddon edged closer to the open window, closing her eyes.

"Maybe," Dean said. "But all we need is one demon and we can stop this for good, Sammy."

"And we can't find a demon," Sam retorted. "And for all we know, that's Crowley's doing too."

"He wants the demon tablet, he doesn't know that we already know the last trial."

"Not one demon sign or omen or portent since he started killing, Dean," Sam said bitterly. "Not one."

"We're not giving up."

Oh, but you are, the archdemon thought mockingly. Just don't know it yet.

She rose to her feet and walked to the door, lifting her hands abruptly and striding through as the thin wood exploded into the room, the force of the entry knocking one hunter to the floor and sending the other flying backwards into the wall.

Dean rolled to his feet, looking at the woman standing in the doorway.

"I told you I was a getting a feeling about being followed," he said casually to his brother.

Sam sat up, brushing the splinters of veneer and plywood from his hair. "Yeah, okay, you were right."

Abaddon looked down at the floor. The trap encompassed the entire doorway, painted in blood. Too strong for her to break without a lot of effort. She lifted her gaze and glared at Dean.

"I'm going to pull your flesh from your bones –"

"Yeah, we got the gist the first time," he said dismissively. "You look remarkably intact, all things considered."

He turned to the duffle, pulling out a leather sheath, hand closing around the dark sharkskin hilt and drawing the machete free.

Sam's phone rang. He looked at Dean as he pulled it out.

"Yeah?"

"You seem to be wasting the little time you have," Crowley said. "Perhaps you're not taking this seriously enough."

"It takes time to get places for us humans," Dean said loudly, looking at the phone.

"You'd better get the lead out," Crowley agreed. "Indianapolis. Ivy Motel. Room 116. You have six hours."

The call cut out and Sam grabbed his bag, Dean putting the machete back in the sheath and replacing it in his bag. He paused to look at Abaddon as he tossed the bag through the open window and broken screen to his brother.

"You just sit tight, sweetheart; we'll be back as soon as we can."

Abaddon screamed at him as he climbed through the window, the rumble of the black car's engine drowning her out as it reversed out of the lot. She heard the acceleration of the car as it hit the road.

Closing her eyes, she focussed on the structure of the building, ignoring the dampening effect of the blood trap. She could still reach through it. The effort was enormous but she could still reach down through the earth under her feet and to the power she needed.

Indianapolis, Indiana

Sam looked nervously at the smooth white door, flicking a glance at his watch. Eleven-forty. There was still time. He knocked and it opened and the woman who looked at him didn't look any different from the one he remembered, memories crashing back to him as he realised that this choice had been deliberate.

"Sarah?"

"Sam?" Her brows rose as she looked at him disbelievingly. He watched her surprise dissolve into unease. "What's going on?"

He dropped his gaze. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah, sure," she said, stepping back and aside to let him pass. Closing the door behind him, she turned to watch him stop, his back to her.

"Sam? Just … tell me."

Sam turned around, pushing down the rage and the burning, fighting to find the words that would explain without terrifying.

"I don't know where to start," he said, gesturing hopelessly.

"Whatever it is," she said, walking to him and looking into his face. "I'd rather know it all, than a bunch of half-truths and reassurances. I know what you do."

He knew that, knew that about her. She'd listened to them, to what they'd said and had jumped on board with both feet when she'd realised the danger her father's business brought to people.

Marry that girl, Dean'd said. He wished suddenly, vehemently, that had been a possibility back then.

"Things have gotten a lot more … complicated … since then," he said, looking around and sitting on the edge of the long, white sofa in the living area of the suite. "A lot more complicated."

He wondered for a moment if he would be able to tell her everything, if she was the one person he could confess it all to. As she sat next to him, he caught sight of her hands, folded together in her lap. The diamond in the top ring fractured the light and he realised that chance had gone, a long time ago.

He took a breath and looked back at her face. "There's a demon who's trying to stop us from closing the gates of Hell."

Aside from the fractional widening of her eyes, she didn't change her expression. He let out his breath, and kept going, picking and choosing the parts of the story he told, filling in the background she needed but nothing else.

"So a demon, named Crowley, is going to kill me in –" she said slowly, peering around him at the digital clock on the end table. "– sixteen minutes?"

"No," Sam said firmly. "No, he's not."

Sarah looked at him. Under the worn and exhausted-looking face that didn't really bear much resemblance to the young man she'd known, there was the same forthright assuredness she remembered. As if he could stop anything, she thought a little dazedly.

Ghosts had been bad enough. Knowing that they were real, that they could kill, that they could appear in the most ordinary of lives and wreak havoc at will. It had scared the daylights out of her, listening to this man and his brother in the small, crappy motel room. But they had clearly not been delusional or hysterical or anything other than completely professional, and that had steadied her.

The rapping on the door broke through the memories and she got up, watching as Sam walked toward it.

Demons.

Demons, on the other hand, were a lot different to the restless spirits who'd refused to move on. Demons opened up a whole new perspective on the world that she wasn't at all sure she wanted to know about.

Sam opened the door and Dean walked in, carrying several cases. "Sarah," he said, smiling at her. "Long time. What you doing in Indy?"

He put the cases down near the low table. She looked down at him, unable to think of an ordinary answer to the ordinary question with the thoughts of demons and Hell and her death churning through her mind.

"I was … uh … scouting an estate sale for my dad," she said, stumbling over the words.

"Oh." Dean knelt beside the bags, unzipping the first. "Good."

Sam walked to stand beside his brother as Dean pulled out cans of spray paint from the bag he was rummaging through.

"Look, we're going to put devil's traps everywhere," he explained to her. "The windows, the door. We've got holy water, the exorcism –" He held up his phone and set it down on the low table. "– ready to play in a loop, and anything that comes through that door –"

Dean passed him a pump action shotgun as he knelt beside the bags, and Sam racked the slide, the noise loud in the room. "Is meat."

He stood up and looked at her. She was watching Dean pull another gun out of the bag, her brow crinkled up.

"Look," he said, more gently. "I know this is … insane. But insane is what we do. We'll keep you safe."

Sarah licked her lips nervously. She couldn't get her head around what Sam'd told her. Not entirely. But the one thing she did know, through and through, was that she trusted him. Had always trusted him, for some reason she didn't want to know, didn't want to look at.

"Okay."

Dean looked up, half surprised, half amused by her ready acceptance. "Okay? That's it?"

Sarah looked at Sam. "You've done it before."

Avon Lake, Ohio

"NOAN BALTOH SBISI QADAH"

The pain was not physical and he felt nothing.

He saw.

Betrayed. Beaten. The tip of the sword emerging from the dark skin of Uriel's throat. Abomination. Rebellion. The rooms of Heaven in which no part of him had been left untouched. Betrayer. Liar. Outcast. Confusion and fear and helplessness. Unclean. Kryptonite. Green eyes that had been filled with despair. Blood and pain and disappearing, unbecoming. Back in the world again. No knowledge of why or how. A grey landscape and a flat, pewter light. Despair and shame and sorrow.

Metatron watched the angel standing rigidly in front of him. Probably should have told him about the side-effects, he thought pityingly. But Castiel had wanted atonement. Wanted penance and redemption. And this was the only way now he would ever get them.

An angel doing penance for his sins. It was still a remarkable concept to him. Remarkable on too many levels to examine at once. Two angels knew a little of the mind of their Father, their Creator. Only two. He was one of them. He knew that the seraphim had been created to serve. Obedient weapons. Obedient shepherds. Obedient slaves. Their purpose was not to share in the love of creation, that most powerful force that could … not defeat exactly … but overcome all others. It was merely to serve those who could partake of that force.

He'd wondered, as he'd done his work in the shining towers, how long it would take the archs to realise their ultimate purpose. Had worried slightly about the reaction they would have when they did. Obedience was ingrained, inbred into them, but with Lucifer's rebellion it had been obvious to all that it was not strong enough to overcome will.

The war had fractured the ranks. Michael had known it, even as he'd declared victory, his brother cast down into the cage. Gabriel and Raphael had known it as well. The schism had been opened and all manner of possibilities existed where none had before. Perhaps being forced to remain on the single plane, to have no ability to meddle with others would cure the malaise that jealousy and greed and malice had begun. Perhaps not. He thought, for the most part, that the larger percentage of the angels simply wanted to do what they had always done, content in their obedience, content with the laws that had governed their existence. Like humanity, he thought. Just wanting things to go on predictably, not too painful, not too filled with ideal visions of a future utopia. Unchanging. It was a futile hope. Everything changed and grew, lived and died, learned or perished.

Michael was locked in the cage, with his brother and the half-brother vessel of the Winchesters. He wondered if Dean or Sam had thought of that, when they hurried to try and lock the accursed plane forever. He had the feeling that they might not have. Gabriel was dead. Raphael also. And the factions that had believed each had the right and the ability to rule the kingdom in their place were all children. Nothing more.

Castiel would be purified of his sins. Would face them and accept them and atone for them whether he wanted that or not. Only the truly righteous could close the pearly gates.

Indianapolis, Indiana

Dean moved the spray can down in a long sweep across the glass. The wards were Enochian. Cas had showed them the strongest sigils the angels had to keep demons from being able to enter or even see into a place. He shunted the unwelcome thought of the angel aside as he finished it and looked around the room, moving to the next unprotected pane of glass and starting the next.

Sarah sat in the chair by the bed, her fingers twisting the rings on her hand restlessly. She wasn't sure if calling home was a good idea. It would worry Ian to no real purpose, if everything went the way Sam was so certain it would. And it felt … disloyal, somehow, to speak to Ian while Sam was here. She wasn't sure what that meant.

He'd been the most interesting man she'd ever met, back then, filled with unexpected depths and an idealism that had surprised and intrigued her. The little time they'd had together had haunted her for years afterwards and she'd spent a lot of time unconsciously searching crowds when she was in them, or when she saw them on television, looking for a tall young man with a fall of chestnut hair and hazel-green eyes and an expression of painful honesty. She hadn't even realised she was doing it until Ian had asked, one day, who it was she was looking for, catching her in the act.

She looked down at the rings. She'd waited a long time but had finally given up. She wondered if she'd known, for sure, that he would turn up again, if she would've. Pushing the thought aside impatiently, she told herself it didn't matter. She had made her choice and it had been the right choice. The only choice. Life had to be lived, had to be felt and breathed to be of any use. And she had learned that dreaming of the impossible was a waste of the time she had.

"Well, that's new," Sam said quietly, sitting on the bed and looking at the rings.

She looked up at him and followed his gaze. "Yeah … I … his name is Ian. He works Search and Rescue," she said, smiling a little as she heard the words. "Guess I have a type."

Sam swallowed, the small smile flicking over his face and disappearing. Nothing remained the same forever and there was no point in wondering what if.

"Our daughter, Beth, she'll be one in a month," Sarah said, smiling a little as an image of the little girl slipped into her mind. She was more like Ian, she thought sometimes, blonde-haired and blue-eyed and filled with a relentless energy.

Sam watched the expressions on her face change, her features softening, and looked away.

"That's really … great," he got out, turning to look at her. "I mean it … I'm really happy for you."

Smiling gently at him, Sarah heard the thickness in his voice. Was it selfish to be glad that he had regrets too? "Thanks, Sam."

Sam felt his heart turn over with that smile. He was really happy for her, happy that she'd found someone, that her life hadn't been blown apart by what she'd seen. Or by his leaving and never looking back. He'd never called. Never looked her up, all the times criss-crossing New York state, he'd never told his brother to stop, go back. He'd believed that she was better off without him and he'd been right.

It hurt like hell.

Dean heard the thickness in Sam's voice as well, turning to watch them. Missed opportunities. Missed … everything, he thought. It was too easy to feel his brother's pain.

"What about you?" Sarah asked.

"Me?" Sam swallowed the laugh that wanted to come out, as bitter as gall and filled with the acid burn of his blood. "Pretty much the same, I guess."

She looked at him and shook her head. "No. You're not. You're not the same."

His brow creased up a little. Had she seen it in him? Seen what he'd done, what'd happened? He felt his pulse accelerate a little at the idea.

"It's been years," she continued, glancing at him, feeling for the words. "I know you left out a lot, Sam, in the story you told me. A hell of a lot."

He looked down, opening his mouth to explain that. She held up her hand. "It's okay, that wasn't – maybe for everyone there are some things that are just better left unsaid. But … I don't know … you seem focussed." She wrinkled up her nose at the inadequacy of the word. "More confident. Like you know what you want."

"You thought I didn't? Back then?" he asked curiously. He'd been – he'd felt – a lot more focussed then. Focussed on revenge. On finding his father and killing the demon and letting nothing get in the way, at least.

"In one way, yes," she said, her mouth curving slightly. "In others, not really."

"Not knowing how to leave, you mean?" he asked, remembering.

"That was a part of it," she admitted. "I was sure you would stay. Took me by surprise."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," she said quickly. "I knew you had to, that wasn't it. I just … at the time, I had the strongest feeling that you didn't want to."

"I didn't," Sam said bluntly, looking into her eyes.

Sarah looked away. That was one question answered, after all this time, she thought unhappily.

Sam looked down at the floor. It'd probably the only time he'd really wanted something, something strong enough to make him question what he'd been doing. And he'd taken his brother's path, and let it go, refused to think of it or give it any room in his head or his heart, to keep going on the job. And he'd never let himself think of her in the years that had gone by.

"Do you know what you want, Sam?"

He looked back at her, feeling Dean's stared boring into his back, knowing his brother had heard that.

"I know what I have to do," he said carefully. "I know what I need."

"That wasn't really the question," she said, just as carefully.

He smiled at her then, a humourless one-sided grin. "I know, but it's all I've got right now."

She nodded, drawing in a breath and looked back at him, eyes narrowing a little critically. "I do miss the haircut though."

It surprised a real smile from him, and a muffled snort from the window.

The phone rang and Dean turned, picking it up and hitting speaker as Sam and Sarah got up, Sarah pulling the automatic from the waistband at her back and Sam grabbing the shotgun from the bed.

"Crowley?" he growled.

"Five. Four. Trois. Zwei. Uno."

Sarah felt the air rush out of her lungs and her airways thickening. The gun fell to the floor as she reached up to her throat, fingers scrabbling on the smooth skin of her neck as she desperately tried to suck down air through the narrowing channels.

By the side window, Sam heard the clunk and swung around as she fell to the floor, the muscles of her chest twitching and spasming, her hands fluttering on her neck, eyes and mouth wide open.

"Sarah! Hey! Hey, hey, hey," he stuttered helplessly, dropping the shotgun and sliding to her, his hands closing around her shoulders as she stared up at him. "Can you hear me? Sarah!"

"She's dying," Crowley said on speaker. "And there's nothing you can do about it."

"Sonofabitch!"

"Watch your blood pressure, Dean," Crowley said, the smile audible in his voice. "Nothing down here but witches, witches, witches, from one end of Hell to the other."

"It's a spell!" Sam shouted at Dean. "Find the hex bag!"

He lurched to his feet, hands moving over the contents of the desk frantically, ears straining to hear the strangled sounds from Sarah behind him.

Dean moved to the sofa, flinging cushions off as he searched feverishly for the small bag that had to be there, somewhere.

"I thought of sending in a few of my bruisers, letting them go to town …" Crowley said, listening to the sounds transmitted across the airwaves. "But then … well, Trial One was killing a hellhound. Trial Two was rescue a soul from the Pit, so from here on I'm going to keep everything Hell-related away from you boys."

Sam couldn't hear the demon's voice over the pounding of the blood in his ears. He finished with the desk and strode to the bed, throwing off the covers, tipping up the mattress, the same thought repeating over and over again in his head.

"And it seemed fitting," Crowley continued expansively. "From what I understand, Sammy took that bird's breath away."

Sarah felt her vision going, not enough oxygen in her bloodstream, not enough getting into her lungs. Each indrawn struggle was agony, knives against the lining of her throat and nasal passages as they narrowed tighter and tighter, her diaphragm felt depressed as if the muscles had simply ceased to function. She looked up and blackness crowded out the white and blue room, gathering closer and closer around her. Dying. The thought flew across her mind and panic rose.

Sam yanked out the nightstand drawers, turning them over, looking in the cavity behind them. Where the FUCK was it? It had to be here, had to be here, she was dying.

On the other side of the room, Dean could hear Crowley going on and on, but he wasn't taking in what the demon was saying, hands flying over the contents of the closet, squeezing and shoving aside the clothing, feeling through the lining and pockets of the luggage on the floor, probing and prising against the skirting boards and lining of the space, looking for a looseness, a weakness, a hiding place.

Sam turned as he heard the thumping, Sarah's hands beating furiously to either side of her on the floor as her body struggled to get air, convulsing in its need to survive, her face pale and her lips blue. He ran to her, dropping to his knees.

"Sarah! Sarah, listen to me, you're going to be alright –"

"Not going to be alright, Moose," Crowley said comfortably. "None of them will be alright."

Sarah's hands stopped moving, and silence filled the room. Sam stared down into her eyes, still open but no longer seeing him, no longer seeing anything.

"And what will you have left," Crowley continued softly. "When they're all gone?"

"No, no, please no," Sam muttered, his hands slipping to the sides of her face. "Sarah, please!"

"You want to keep those people alive and I want complete and utter surrender," Crowley's voice filled the room as Dean picked up the phone. "The tablet. The trials. You'll give them up. Or we'll keep doing this dance. Your choice."

Sam pressed his ear against her chest. There wasn't a sound. Thrusting himself backward, he hit the side of the bed, unable to feel his body, staring at her. Accept it, he told himself furiously. Accept it.

Dean looked at the woman lying in front of his brother, his fingers flexing around the phone in his hand. The throw was involuntarily, full force into the wall, with every bit of weight and power he could summon. The phone burst into pieces as it bounced from the wall to the floor and he saw the bag then, lying between the screen and the circuitry board.

Too big, a part of his mind thought confusedly. Too big to fit into that slim case. But it was witchcraft and there were no rules that applied to the physical universe if the spell – and the spell-maker – was strong enough.

Sam stared at the small leather bag. They'd brought it with them, right to her. He hadn't dropped his phone in the car, he realised slowly. It had been taken and left there, with its deadly addition, waiting for them. Crowley had taken time and effort with this. How had he known about Glendale? How had he'd known about Sarah? How had he known that he'd never forgotten her, never let her go, had kept the faintest sliver of hope alive in his heart that one day he would see her again? How?

"HOW!?" he screamed at the room.

I-70 W

"How long till we get back?" Sam asked, leaning against the glass of the window.

"Another ten hours or so," Dean answered. They'd been going for the past thirty hours non-stop. Exhaustion lay at the edge of his consciousness, waiting for him to relax, to give it an opening. He wasn't going to. Not until they got back home, at least.

"I need your phone."

Dean reached into his jacket, pulling it out and handing it to him. "Who're you calling?"

"Charlie," Sam said, searching through the numbers.

"And why?"

"She's smart," Sam mumbled vaguely. "Maybe she can think of something I can't." The phone rang in his ear and he heard the pick up. "Charlie? It's Sam."

"Sam – what's wrong?"

"Crowley – I need – uh – I need your help," he said disjointedly. "Need to you to search for any information on us, over the last ten years, that might be available on the internet – or anywhere else you can think of."

There was a moment of silence on the end of the line and he pulled the phone away from his ear to look at it suspiciously. "Charlie?"

"Well, you know, the best source is the books, Sam," she said. "They're online, they're searchable. They cover everything except the last three years?"

He closed his eyes. Of course it was the fucking books. Of course. What'd Dean said? Everything is in here. I mean everything. From the racist truck to – to me having sex. I'm full-frontal in here, dude.

"The books," he said aloud.

"Yeah, that's the primo source," Charlie said. "Do you want me to check for anything else?"

"No," Sam said. "Listen, you got the hex bags, all the protection, right?"

"Yeah, of course."

"Stay put for awhile," he told her. "Don't be anywhere where you're not protected and don't let anyone into your digs – at all, you understand?"

"Yeah, but –"

"No buts, Charlie, I'll explain in a while, okay?"

"Okay."

He cut the call and handed the phone back to his brother.

"They're online and they've got everything," Dean said, taking it from him and tucking it back into his pocket. "She going to stay put?"

"She said she would." Sam stared through the windshield. "How's he finding the people that have moved or changed their names or …"

"Most private dicks could do that, Sam," Dean said quietly. "They're not trying to hide. Just live normal lives."

Sam nodded, turning back to the window. There were hundreds of them. They were all vulnerable. And their families. And Crowley was keeping the demons locked up and away from them.

"She had a daughter," he said, a moment later.

Dean felt his chest constrict. "I know, I heard her."

"She had a life with someone she loved and a little girl, a family," Sam continued, as if he hadn't heard.

"Sammy –"

"I didn't love Amelia."

Dean turned and looked at him.

"I told myself I did, but I didn't. Not like Jess. Not even the promise of it," Sam said, his eyes closed. "And I didn't let myself recognise that until I saw Sarah and she told me about her family."

Dean watched the taillights in front of him. He'd felt the regret in that room, coming off his brother in waves of misery. Realistically, knowing what they knew, Sarah would have been killed years ago if Sam had tried to stay, his path laid down clearly and no angel or demon would've let a girl get in the way of it. There just wasn't any time that Sam could've been safe and chosen a different life, a different road.

He couldn't do this alone. And he could feel Sam's determination slipping away, under the load of his grief, of his pain. There would be a way, there always was, they just had to find it.

Lebanon, Kansas

Sam walked across the war room, hearing the heavy clunks of his brother's boots on the stairs behind him.

"You okay?" Dean asked cautiously.

"What do you think?" Sam turned around, his face bleak and hard.

"Look, I know it's bad right now, okay? But we stick to the plan," Dean told him, feeling a flutter of anxiety as he saw the desolation in Sam's eyes. "We shut down Hell."

"How? Exactly?" Sam asked.

"We get a demon –"

"You heard Crowley! He's not going to let a demon anywhere near us," Sam said, his voice raw and filled with frustration. "And without a demon, all we can do is sit back and watch people we know – people we saved – die."

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying …" Sam's shoulders slumped as his voice quietened. "I'm saying, maybe this isn't one we can win." He looked at Dean. "Maybe we should just take the deal."

"We'll figure this out, Sam, we will," Dean said, the muscle at the point of his jaw jumping as he tried to ignore the uneasiness that was rising in the face of his brother's hopelessness. "We have to, Sam. You're dying."

"I don't care."

"I CARE!" Dean roared at him, his face screwing up in anger. "I care enough for both of us!"

"Dean –" Sam flinched back at the rage in the dark eyes watching him.

"No!" Dean stared at him. "We'll figure this out and we'll kick it in the ass – like we always do!"

Sam's gaze dropped, moving restlessly around the library. He didn't feel that – that whatever it was that kept his brother going, through fire and pain and Hell and everything.

"Are you with me?" Dean demanded, his eyes locked on Sam's.

Lifting his eyes to Dean's, Sam wondered where that determination had come from. Their father? Their mother? It wasn't something that seemed to exist for him. He couldn't keep putting one foot in front of the other, no matter what was going on around him. He'd once thought of Dean as being broken. Being weak. He couldn't imagine now how he'd ever thought that. His brother had never run from a fight. Never tried to hide or back down or give up. He'd done all of those things.

He was dying, he thought tiredly. Dying of trying to be something he couldn't? Dying of wanting to be free of the curse that had dogged him his whole life? He didn't know … not really … not now … if he was strong enough to do this.

The thought brought an ocean surge of misery, filling him.