Chapter 46 Let's Make A Deal

Lebanon, Kansas

The fire in the hearth of the library was dying away and Dean looked at it, getting up slowly and going to the metal basket beside it to throw on a few more logs. He hadn't split so much wood since he and Sam had spent time at Bobby's, back when they were kids, but it'd been soothing work, simple and physical and satisfying as the splitter slammed into the grain and the logs had fallen into pieces. Better than going out looking for a fight, he'd realised later when he'd finished filling the bay in the garage and had felt the good ache of heavy exercise right through his body. Every log had been Crowley's head.

He was aware that he was straining to hear something from the second floor, a futile and unnecessarily tiring exercise given the sound-proofing of the building in general. Sam had turned away and gone to his room twenty hours ago, and he hadn't heard anything since.

If anything could've taken his brother's will, it was Sarah, he thought now, watching the coals jump as the second log landed on the first and bright yellow flames began to lick around the edges. It'd been too soon, he knew, but at the same time it'd been exactly what Sam had needed to at least partially bury Jessica's memory, to begin to live again instead of wanting to die. The anger – that raging anger that sometimes seemed to consume Sam – had been sublimated in the short-lived relationship, her pragmatic nature and understanding of Sam's loss somehow getting through where he'd failed.

At the time, there hadn't really been a choice. They'd both thought that. And looking back, looking for loopholes and possibilities, there hadn't been a choice either. But he wished there could've been, because seeing Sam's regret, seeing the anguish when he'd finally accepted that she was gone, that had been pretty damned close to the limits of what he could take.

He pushed at the logs and straightened up, heading for the sideboard and pouring a couple of inches of whiskey into a glass. A thump on the stairs at the end of the hall dragged his attention around to the door.

"You know, I was thinking –" he said, as Sam walked unsteadily into the room.

"I think you're right," Sam said, his words running over the top.

"I was? About what?"

"About not giving up," Sam said, shaking his head at the tacit offer of whiskey and dropping into a chair at the table. "I got an idea."

"Yeah? Me too," Dean said, sitting opposite him. "I've called everyone I could find, but it's not going to make a difference, they can't run from Crowley."

"No, did you get hold of Garth?"

"No."

"I think Crowley's working on the people who helped us first," Sam said, his brow furrowing as he thought through that list of people.

"They're already mostly dead," Dean said uncertainly.

"Not hunters, but – like Sarah, she wasn't a target of the ghost until she started helping," Sam said. "And Mike –"

"Mike?" Dean interrupted. "As in the kid, Mike?"

Sam glanced up at him guiltily. He hadn't meant to mention that name.

"He got hit?"

"The family did," Sam admitted reluctantly. "Some kind of disease, they died in hospital."

"Goddamn sonofabitch!"

"Yeah."

"Alright, what are we doing about it," Dean turned back to his brother, eyes dark and face stony.

"We'll call Crowley, tell him to call it off, tell him we'll make a deal," Sam told him. "And –" he added quickly, seeing his brother's mouth open to argue. "We'll trap him when we meet to sign the contract, and 'cure' him."

"Sam …" Dean turned around and sat down again. "Do we have everything we need? Where the hell are we getting purified blood?"

Sam held up his right arm. "From me."

"It's still burning, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but it's getting less painful now," Sam said, dropping his arm back to the table. "I think the demon blood is almost gone."

"Almost isn't pure."

"I think there's something I need to do before it is."

"What?"

"We have everything else, Dean," Sam ignored the question. "We have the exorcism, we can find consecrated ground."

"And how the hell are we going to trap Crowley?" Dean looked at him. "He walked right through the sigils and protection around the boat, took Kevin without even noticing them. Those were Enochian, most of them; they were the strongest ones we knew."

"Were." Sam gestured vaguely at the hall. "I went through the oldest texts, last night – tonight –" He frowned and shook his head. "I found this."

He pushed the bundled and sealed packet of skins over toward his brother. "They pre-date the Key of Solomon by a thousand years, and they're specific."

"And you think I can read them?" Dean looked down at the pack. "How'd you read them?"

"I photographed them and sent them to the language department in Istanbul," Sam said, shrugging. "Promised them I'd send them the originals if they could do the translations."

"Istanbul?"

"They have the right researchers there," Sam said, waving his hand impatiently. "Those are binding spells for the archdemons, Dean – Abaddon and the others like her – the first-fallen."

"But Crowley –"

"Crowley's King of Hell, but he's still just a human soul twisted into a demon," Sam said, pointing at the packet. "Those sigils were designed to bind Lucifer. The text said something about the Cage – not the locks or seals, but the actual structure." He looked at his brother. "They'll hold Crowley, there's no question."

Dean reached out and opened the pack, easing back the flap and gently drawing the brittle skins free of the wrapping. Each sheet held a number of designs, the penmanship fine and the ink a dark rusty brown in colour. He was reasonably sure it wasn't actually ink.

"I found some things in that torture room," he said distractedly to Sam. "As well as the shackles they used in the room, they had a few portable sets."

"Good," Sam said. "We'll let him choose the meeting place, and get comfortable, and then we'll be able to grab him."

Dean thought of the power the demon had shown over the last year. "He's been getting stronger, you know."

"Yeah, but I don't think he's gotten to Lucifer's level yet," Sam said, running a hand through his hair. "But he'll be looking for a trap and I'm not sure we can just act cowed enough to convince him."

"I was thinking about that too," Dean said, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

Sioux Falls, South Dakota

Why do you put yourself through this? The thought was a familiar one, brought up every single time she sat alone in a restaurant, sipping a by-the-glass red and feeling her stockings developing a run just because she thought of it.

The answer was also familiar, if less well-articulated. Sex with something that didn't require batteries. Loneliness. Comfort. Conversation. Sex. Cuddles. Laughing out loud with someone occasionally. The ever-present and not pleasant thought of acquiring a cat or five. Sex. She missed sex. Missed the warmth and thrill and the vague power she felt in herself.

So … America's most popular online dating site and here she was.

"On the house, Sheriff," Nancy Yeats appeared beside her, setting a Manhattan onto the table with a smile.

"Oh, thanks, Nance," Jodie said, looking up at the waitress quickly. "But I didn't order –"

"So …" the male voice was behind Nancy and the blonde raised her brows and turned away as Jodie caught sight of him.

Dark … everything, she thought. Hair, eyes, clothes … a crimson tie enlivened the darkness startlingly.

"What are we drinking?" he finished, sliding into the booth opposite her.

"Roderick?" she asked uncertainly. The accent was English, she thought, not the plum-in-the-mouth BBC or upper class, but something more raw, tempered by the rough, deep timbre of the voice.

"Jodie," he said, smiling a little as if that were a surprise. "Words cannot begin to describe the injustice that that picture does to you."

She looked at him for a long moment, replaying what he'd said in her mind. She hadn't had a date like this since … well, hell, never, actually. Picking up the glass he'd sent, a concoction that was an unlikely shade of pink, she felt the warmth of the same colour rising up her neck.

"Come on."

He'd always been good at this part, Crowley thought, without a trace of modesty. Seeing what they needed, giving it to them, it was … a gift, one he'd never have discovered if he'd lived out his life trying to eke out a miserable living as a small-time tailor in a succession of small, dung-filled, peasant-infested towns.

The woman sitting opposite him had helped the Winchesters and from time to time, Bobby Singer. It was like a bouquet of revenge, wrapped prettily in a straightforward, small-town woman with a trusting heart and a need for company. Too easy altogether.

He led her skilfully through topics of conversations that he knew would fascinate her, always deferring to her opinions, throwing in small nuggets of priceless information about himself – well, about the publisher his body had used to belong to, anyway – through the meandering, gentle discourse, and he watched her interest grow as her initial wariness retreated.

His memories of life, real, human life were gone, but he imagined that he'd never liked people. He'd always loved manipulation though, the art and craft of it, drawing people into a set of lies that were unverifiable and therefore undeniable. It was a game he'd played in life, this life at least, rising through the ranks through it, even manipulating the more ancient demons down in the flames and screams.

"What?" he asked gently, seeing the wariness returning.

"Look at you," she said to him. "Your fancy career, the suit …" She shrugged, chin dropping into her palm as she looked at him. "I'm pretty much what I am. Small-town girl."

The predictability of it would've been boring if the end game wasn't going to be so satisfying. Predictable as well. But satisfying. But for now, he pushed those thoughts aside and looked at her, knowing that it would only take one thing to get her to forget those doubts.

"We do share something, you and I," he said quietly.

"What?"

"Loss."

For a moment, Jodie thought she'd misheard. Thought he'd said something else, perhaps. But the moment passed and the word sank in and she dropped her gaze, her enjoyment and her caution and her sensibilities forgotten.

"I've lost someone too," he said, reaching out for her hand.

"How did you know?"

"I don't know," he said, his fingers curving around hers. "I've learned to see the shadows in the eyes, I suppose. The people who used to be there and aren't now. That's what it feels like to me."

It wasn't the understanding in his voice or the disarming sympathy in his face or even the resonance of what he'd said, echoing in the vast emptiness inside of her. It was the care, she thought, feeling her throat close and her eyes fill. She'd gotten so used to brushing it off, pretending not to feel, pretending that she was too tough to feel … it broke through the walls as if they hadn't been there at all. She laughed uncomfortably, withdrawing her hand and running the edge of her finger below her eyes, hoping she wasn't smearing her carefully-applied eyeliner further.

"It's not a date till I've cried," she told him lightly, her gaze cutting away.

"So, now you've cried," he answered, his tone equally light, the invitation underlying made more potent by that.

She looked back at him, hearing it but not sure it was what he meant.

Crowley smiled, one side of his mouth lifting crookedly higher than the other, a charmingly boyish smile.

"The night's young?"

Jodie put her hand over his and looked down at their hands. She had a choice, of course. She could go wherever he led and count it as living. Or she could go back to the small house, with its empty rooms and deep silence and tell herself that she'd do better next time. If there was a next time.

She drew in a deep breath and withdrew her hands, pushing back her chair and picking up her bag. "I need a few moments in the powder room, is that okay?"

"Of course," Crowley smiled at her. "I don't have a schedule; I'm completely at your service."

Her smile wavered a little as he rose as she did, and her heart fluttered in consternation. But he returned to his seat as she turned away and she realised with a slight shock that it was only manners she wasn't used to, it'd been quite a while since a man had risen from a table when she had.

Pushing open the bathroom door, she glanced around, wiping under her eyes again as a few more tears spilled out, not sure if she was reacting to what he'd said, what'd he done or just the whole evening of pleasant company gift-wrapped in the promise of something more.

"This is crazy," she muttered to herself as she walked to the mirror above the sinks. "This is crazy."

She set her bag on the counter next to her and rummaged through it. "I'm crazy!"

She found her lipstick, reapplying it carelessly as she stared at herself in the mirror. "He's attractive though, right?"

At the table, Crowley pulled a supple skin sheet from his coat pocket and smoothed it out on the table. The bright red design was flamboyant against the pale hide and the dark wood of the table beneath. In the centre, a bone gleamed dully in the candlelight. He placed a small photograph of Sheriff Jodie Mills against the candle-holder at the edge of the skin. Over her face, another symbol had been drawn in red.

"Manu mortis a jus o," he intoned softly over the impromptu shrine. "Spiritus vitae a re sua adit."

In the bathroom, Jodie's fingers curled around an unfamiliar small leather pouch in her bag. She lifted it out and stared at it, and her fingers clenched around it as a thousand knives sliced into her at once.

Not happening, she thought frantically, her hand welded to the leather, blood rising in her throat as she leaned over the sink and let it spill out, bright red against the smooth, white porcelain. Not happening. No. Not to me.

The pain increased and she couldn't scream, couldn't get her breath, couldn't do anything but feel the gnawing, ravaging teeth ripping through her organs, every muscle locked in shock and overload.

The phone rang and Crowley picked it up, smiling a little. "You have less than one minute before a very dear, attractive and slightly tipsy friend of yours snuffs it."

"Call it off, Crowley!" Dean's voice blasted from the speaker.

"Because?"

"Because it's over, you son of a bitch!" Crowley smiled at the bitterness in the eldest Winchester's tone. "We want a deal."

"Thirty seconds," Crowley reminded him, half-closing his eyes as he envisaged the slender brunette fall to the tiled floor in the bathroom, the contents of her purse scattering in every direction.

"We stop the trials, you stop the killing," Dean snapped.

"I want the demon tablet," Crowley reminded him. "The whole demon tablet."

"Fine," Dean agreed readily. "But then the angel tablet comes to us."

Crowley looked at the phone incredulously. "On what grounds?"

"On the grounds that we have the prophet and it's of no fucking use to you whatsoever!" Dean growled from the speaker. "Deal or not?"

Crowley looked at the candle sitting in front of him. He reached out, fingers on either side of the flame. A deal was a deal, but Dean would pay for this one.

"First, I need to hear two little words," he said slowly. "I. Surrender."

The silence on the other end of the line was more telling than he'd hoped for. He could almost see Dean's expression flatten out to the serial-killer stare he used when he was so angry he could no longer speak.

"Tick-tock," Crowley said, unable to keep the note of delight from his voice.

"I surrender!" Sam's voice leapt out of the speaker.

Crowley laughed. "Oh, sorry, Moose, this one is actually on your brother. Come on, Dean, I know you can do it for poor Sheriff Mills."

"I."

"Didn't quite catch that, I'm sorry."

"I!" Dean's voice thundered out of the phone. The next word was so soft Crowley had to press the phone tightly against his ear to hear it. It was enough. He could put them both through some more hoops when they signed the contract. He closed his fingers around the flame and the candle was extinguished.

Jodie flung the leather pouch from her hand as it burst into blue flame. The pain had gone. Not diminished. Not eased. Just gone. She wiped her hand over her mouth, and looked at her fingers. No blood. Not even a trace.

Rolling to her knees, she hurriedly shoved the contents of her purse back inside it and reached up for the edge of the sink. The porcelain bowl was a gleaming white and utterly unstained.

No coincidences in this life, Bobby had told her once. And luck always ran out. It hadn't this time, she thought unsteadily. Didn't mean it wouldn't in the future. She pushed open the bathroom door and walked straight to the lobby of the restaurant, not even seeing Nancy's questioning face as she pushed through the heavy glass door to the street, dragging in deep breaths and feeling her throat widen to take them in, her tongue questing around the inside of her mouth in search of any trace of the coppery taste of her blood.

There was none. She half-ran down the block to her car. At home, she had Sam's number. She needed to know what protection she needed to keep herself safe from this ever happening again.

As she slid into the driver's seat and slotted the key in the ignition, she wondered how many cats it would take to keep her warm on winter nights.

Outskirts of Warsaw, Missouri

Dean looked along the long dam as he drove north, following Kevin's hastily given instructions.

"What are we looking for?"

"Billboard, about a mile from the turnoff," Sam said, rubbing his eyes. "There's the car."

Pulling off the behind the silver sedan, Dean looked around. It wasn't all that far from Garth's boat, just far enough to be out of most people's immediate vicinity search patterns. Kid had some sense, anyway.

They got out and crossed the road, climbing the small bank to the billboard. Dean looked at it. Dave and Paul's Chili Pot Restaurant. A lurid and lopsided devil grinned at him from the centre. Underneath the sign, Kevin pulled out a half-rotted hessian and canvas bag, digging one hand into its folds.

"Buried the demon tablet underneath the devil?" he asked Kevin. "Seriously?"

"What? I was delirious," Kevin muttered, pulling out both pieces. He brought them together and the stone sealed itself, the writing lighting up with gold as the edges fused.

"Sure this is going to work?" he asked Sam as he handed the tablet to him.

"What other choice do we have?" Sam shrugged, slipping the tablet into the wide pocket in the inside of his coat.

Dean pulled out the key to the order's safe hold. Kevin had told them Metatron had taken off for a few days now, and there was no way he was letting Kevin get lost in the world again.

"This is a secret lair, you understand me?" he told the boy, handing him the key. "No keggers."

"I don't have any friends," Kevin countered prosaically. "Neither do you."

"Yeah," Dean ignored the comment. "Well, just lay low. Who knows, maybe you'll be a Mathlete again before you know it."

Sam flicked a glance at him and he ignored that too, watching Kevin stash the key. It wasn't the exact truth, but so long as Hell was shut up tight, he thought that Kevin would be a lot safer and a lot more likely to get some kind of life in the end. Turning away, he followed Sam to the edge of the bank.

"Hey guys?" Kevin called. "You're doing the right thing."

Sam looked back at him and nodded. Maybe they were, maybe they weren't. He'd already said it. There weren't a whole range of options left.

I-29 N, Iowa

"This sucks," Dean said, apropos of nothing.

Sam glanced at him. "Yeah."

"What'd Jodie say?"

"Said she was fine, wanted to know how she could protect herself."

"You sent the protection bags?"

"Yeah, told her put them in the walls of her house, in her clothes, in her car."

"Will that work?" Dean slid a curious sideways look at his brother.

"Maybe."

They'd gone over everything they could go over, and he thought that the plan would work. It hinged on Sam's blood and he wasn't sure about Sam's confidence that would do the job. But Sam wasn't talking about that right now, his face closing up stonily the three times Dean had mentioned it.

"Why Bobby's?" he asked aggrievedly.

"Crowley's twisted sense of humour?" Sam suggested. He didn't care. The pain had diminished in some ways. Less blood to burn, he thought sourly. Where it still existed in him, it was far deeper, returning memories and feelings he'd thought were buried, concreted over, that he wouldn't have to look at again.

He'd spent the past two days and nights reliving those memories and he was exhausted, mentally and physically. Some had been old, so old he thought he couldn't've been more than four or five years when the events had occurred. Others were more recent and so vivid and intense that he'd gone down to the lowest levels of the safe hold, as far from Dean as he could find, spending half the night crunched into a corner, his fist jammed against his mouth to stop himself from making any sound.

In his mind, he heard the warm rounded tones of Ralph Edward's voice – Sam Winchester, this is your life!

"I still think we should kill the sonofabitch," Dean said, staring through the windshield and jerking Sam's attention back to the car.

"This'll be worse," Sam said, straightening a little in the seat. "This'll last forever."

"The guy was a dick in life, Sammy. He went downstairs for a reason," Dean argued, the same argument he'd fielded a dozen times so far. "Why exactly do we give him a second shot?"

"He made a deal, Dean," Sam countered, as he had the last dozen times his brother had made the same point. "Not a smart one, but it wasn't like he axe-murdered his family."

Scowling at the road, Dean gave it up unwillingly. Kevin had been certain Crowley had killed his mother. For that alone, there shouldn't have been anything other than death waiting for the demon. Not a second chance. Not … redemption.

He flicked a look at the sign they passed. Sixty miles to Sioux Falls. He felt his stomach do a slow roll at the thought of seeing the yard again, the charred and broken remains of the house. Crowley liked to inflict whatever collateral damage he could, he knew. The choice of the meeting place had just reflected the demon's knowledge that it would hurt to see it again.

Sioux Falls, South Dakota

Dean pulled slowly into the drive, the Impala idling down the row of junkers. He stopped past the sheds, and they got out, looking around, every single direction filled with memory.

Grass and weeds grew up between, around and through the rusted chassis, the broken windows and twisted frames, dust skirled along the alley between the piles of neglected and forgotten vehicles as the breeze slid through their bones.

The house was skeletal as well, what remained of the frame crumbling little by little under the pressure of the weather and the vegetation fighting to reclaim the ground. Half had fallen into the basement; the other half teetered on the brink, drunkenly leaning inward.

Dean stopped beside the Nova and felt his throat close up. Rust had made it through the various coats of primer that Bobby had kept applying, always meaning to get it into the paint shed for a good top coat but never quite making it there. The driver's window was smashed, the seat inside littered with fragments of glass and weeds grew enthusiastically around and up through the engine bay and over the rear end, thickly entwined and waving new tendrils in the air.

Their whole lives looked like this, he thought, a deep rill of bitterness bringing the taste of bile to the back of his throat.

"Hello, boys."

He turned around, hearing the grating of Sam's boots on the road behind him. Crowley stood in the middle of the alley, smiling at them.

"What's the old expression?" the demon mused happily. "Success has many fathers … failure is a …Winchester?"

Walking slowly toward the King of Hell, Dean struggled to remember that once the cuffs were on, he still couldn't kill the smarmy asshole.

"Where's the stone?"

"That was my question," Dean replied, glad to hear his voice was even.

"The stone," Crowley repeated. Sam moved forward, pulling the edge of his jacket aside as he reached into the inside pocket.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Crowley said, taking a half-step back involuntarily. "Slowly."

Sam'd been right, Dean thought, watching the demon. Crowley was expecting a trap.

"There she is," Crowley said as Sam pulled the tablet out slowly. He dragged the side of his overcoat aside, showing the top edge of the angel tablet in the inside pocket.

"And the contract?" Dean asked.

Crowley drew the scroll from his coat and flipped it, three yards of tightly written paper unrolling to their feet. Dean and Sam looked down at it incredulously.

"Yeah, I'm sure there's no hidden agenda in there," Dean said, his lip curling up sardonically.

"The highlights? We swap tablets," Crowley said, waving in the direction of the scroll. "You stand down from the trials – forever."

"You stop killing everyone we've ever saved," Sam said, staring at him.

"Agreed."

Glancing at his brother, Dean reached for the pen in his jacket, looking down at the scroll. He pulled it out and uncapped it.

"Ah-ah-ah," Crowley said, dragging the contract away. "Nice try, Squirrel." He looked at Sam. "Moose is doing these trials. Moose signs."

"No, no," Dean said, shaking his head. "He's not signing anything until I read the fine print."

"I can read it," Sam snapped, grabbing the pen from his hand.

Crowley's brows rose slightly at the irritation in his voice.

"Hey, you wanted me here – I'm here," Dean said to his brother, his voice low and tight. "But I'll be damned if I'm going to let him screw us even more!"

"This is my job, Dean!" Sam said, scowling. "You agreed to trust me!"

"I didn't agree to you –"

"What's this?" Crowley interrupted, looking from one to the other speculatively. "A rift? Between family?"

They looked at him, expressions smoothing out instantly. Dean muttered something under his breath as he bent to pick up the end of the scroll.

"Didn't quite catch that, Dean?"

The brothers ignored him and Crowley smiled inwardly. It was an unexpected bonus, being able to split them, he thought with a delighted satisfaction. Working together they could be formidable, even when the odds were against them. But apart … apart they were much easier to manipulate into doubt and uncertainty. He felt himself relax slightly.

Houston, Texas

Castiel sat on the bench of the bus shelter and stared at a man across the street. He was carrying a sign, written on a ripped-off section of cardboard. May GOD bless U. Donations welcome. The man was unkempt, his clothing dirty and tattered as he held up the sign toward the oncoming traffic, shifting restlessly from foot to foot. Lice, the angel thought absently.

It did raise the question though. About his Father.

"What was He like?" he asked Metatron, who sat beside him reading yet another book.

"Who?" The scribe turned and looked at him, glancing skyward for a moment. "God?"

Castiel's need flickered in his eyes for a moment, and Metatron sighed. "We call Him He … for lack of a more accurate pronoun, I suppose. He is not a He. Not … an entity, not the way we can perceive. A supernova is God. The spinning of the galaxies – those are God. He – even his most contracted and communicable persona – is not – like anything else." He flicked a glance at the angel beside him. "As we are not really material, but beings of a different nature, neither is He a being at all."

"He spoke to you," Cas said uncertainly.

Metatron nodded. "And to Michael and to Joshua, and to Lucifer," he agreed. "I would call Him a force, really. Of Creation. Of something that we know too little about. He manifested from time to time, drew energy together, formed a construct of mind and frame and thought." The angel smiled a little at the memory. "I don't know that I could've taken it all down otherwise."

"In that form, He was like a Father," he continued slowly. "Careful to explain. Careful to ensure that I understood. He even had a sense of humour. But when I was finished, He disappeared and it was like –" Metatron fell silent and Castiel looked at him curiously.

"Like what?"

"Like having the reason for your existence vanish," the scribe said, an edge of bitterness along his words. He shook his head and looked back at Castiel. "In any case, He'd left His instructions and we followed them."

"Did He … care about his creations, Metatron?"

"I don't know," Metatron said, his voice riddled with a thin thread of doubt. He belatedly realised what the angel was asking. "The nephilim was a monster, Castiel."

Cas remembered the grace and beauty of the woman he'd slain and pushed the memory away. His doubts were perhaps understandable, but they served no purpose to him now. He'd done it. It was over. "And the next trial?"

"Across the street," Metatron said, turning to look at the bar and the man who was sweeping the steps in front of it. "His name is Dwight Charles. He is the next on the Cupid list."

Cas looked from the man to the angel. "On their list?"

"A Cupid is scheduled to bring this man love," Metraton expanded, looking down at his watch. "Sometime in the next twenty-four hours."

"I don't understand."

"The second trial is retrieving Cupid's bow," the scribe said, watching Dwight Charles walk down the steps and begin to sweep the leaf fall from the street outside the bar.

Cas felt a brief surge of hope. "No killing?"

"No killing," Metatron confirmed.

Sioux Falls, South Dakota

The contract was in the densest legalese Crowley had been able to manage and Dean moved slowly along it, reading his way toward the demon, re-reading the paragraphs that seemed to say one thing, while actually saying something else. Tucked away, his annoyance grew proportionally to the numbers of hitertos, hereins, notwithstandings and thereuntos.

"You're gonna move your lips the whole way up here, aren't you?" Crowley asked as Dean approached at a snail's pace.

The eldest Winchester glared at him for a moment then returned his gaze back to the paragraph he'd been deconstructing. In the case of the party of the third part, undersigned as the co-signee of the above paragraphs Fourteen (14) through Twenty-Four (24), it is deemed acceptable if not to the contrary of the expectations of the party of the first part hereby declaring all and every item in this contract to be of absolute accuracy and therefore, and hereunto, not applicable to the usual rigours of discovery nor of the investigations that have not, in fact, been authorised, allocated and assigned by the party of the second part, who in this case shall be seen to be the final adjudicator in the matter of the paragraphs Eighteen (18) through Thirty-Six (36) in terms of …

"You know why I always defeat you?" Crowley asked him casually.

Dean's gaze flickered upward. "Because you drown us in the sort of writing usually reserved for bad television series?"

Crowley smiled. "It's your humanity, Dean. It's a built-in handicap. You always put emotion ahead of good, old-fashioned, common-sense."

Dean's gaze shifted from the paper in his hands to the demon, eyes narrowed slightly.

"Let's have the big galoot sign it now, shall we?" Crowley asked, his grin widening as he looked past Dean to Sam.

Dean turned and looked at Sam, who walked toward them, the pen in his hand. Dean let go of the contract with his right hand, feeling the weight in his sleeve, aware that Crowley's attention was completely on his brother and the pen he was carrying. Must've seemed like nothing could go wrong, he thought absently as he flicked his hand out, catching the loose cuff and snapping it around the demon's wrist, the chains and the loud click of the cuff's locking mechanism breaking the silence in the yard.

Crowley lifted his hand, looking at the shackle around his arm and the chain that linked him to the hunter. The other cuff was locked around Dean's wrist.

"Is this a joke?" Crowley looked up at the man in front of him, feeling a faint tremor of unease at the cold satisfaction in Dean's face. "You realise that all I have to do is –"

He snapped his fingers.

Nothing happened.

"Ah-ah-ah." Dean smiled humourlessly. "Demonic handcuffs. With the giant, economy-sized, price-saver binding hoodoo this time. No clicking, no teleporting, no smoking out. Oh, and … no deal."

Crowley looked down at them. The engraving was something he hadn't seen. But it short-circuited his connection to Hell and the power held there completely. He looked more closely at one of the symbols on the edge of the sigil.

"These were to hold Lucifer?"

"Yahtzee," Sam said. "We figured you probably weren't quite as strong as the devil."

Dean stared down at him. "And that pretty much means … you're our bitch."

Crowley felt the stab of fury at the smugness clearly visible in the man's eyes. "Fine! You wanna play chain-gang? Let's!"

He swung a fist, knuckles cracking as they connected with the side of Dean's face, the sudden and unexpected pain sublimated in seeing the gleeful smirk wiped from the man's face as he stumbled backwards.

"You shackled yourself to the wrong bull, mate!"

Dean straightened and turned, and Crowley had less than a second to glimpse the expression in his eyes before the blow hit him, mashing lips and nose against the bones. He was actually seeing stars, he thought dazedly, feeling Dean open his jacket, the abrupt removal of the weight of the tablet and the hands tightening on the lapels of his coat, dragging his attention back from the sparkling field in front of his eyes to the man just beyond them.

"I could do this all day," Dean told him. The same expression was still in his eyes and Crowley recognised it belatedly. Relief. "'Cause you know what? Damn, it feels good! But sooner or later, you're gonna have to face it – you're ours."

Crowley stared at him and the trickle of unease increased steadily, pushing at his confidence, becoming a rivulet, then a river.

"Which means your demon ass is going to be a mortal ass, pretty damned quick," Dean added. There was no mistaking the depth of complacency in him, Crowley thought uncomfortably as he registered the words. He looked at Sam.

"What's he mouthin' on about?"

Sam smiled slightly. "You're the third trial, Crowley."

Heaven

The angel walked into the glass and stone office briskly, slowing as he realised that the auburn-haired woman sitting at the desk was not going to look up from the file she was reading.

"What is it, Nathaniel?"

He swallowed against a sudden dryness in his throat and gathered his thoughts. "One of the Irin has reached out to us," he said, looking at her. "He's found Castiel."

Naomi looked up, one brow rising questioningly. "Where?"

"A drinking establishment, in Houston," Nathaniel said, dragging in a nervous breath. "And …"

Naomi sighed inwardly, setting the file down on the desk and folding her hands as she looked at him patiently.

"What?"

"He says that Castiel is not alone."

"Who was he with?"

"By the description, it is difficult to be sure, the Irin haven't seen him for thousands of years, not since –"

"Nathaniel," Naomi snapped. "Who?"

"I think it is him," Nathaniel said, a little dazedly. "The Scribe."

"Thank you, that is all," Naomi said abruptly, staring down sightlessly at the file on her desk.

"I could –"

"That is all!"

Nathaniel turned away and left the office and Naomi stood up, walking around the desk restlessly. The Scribe. He had disappeared more than three thousand years ago, taking the Word and its power with him. The archangels had spent more than a thousand years in an all-encompassing and concerted search for Metatron, only to fail.

Castiel was no longer of use, she thought, pacing up and down the long room. And neither was the angel tablet. With the Scribe in their possession, they would have access to the power of the Word without them. She would have the power she needed to overcome the factions and unite everyone again, at first in fear, it was true, but slowly, in obedience once more.

Stopping suddenly in the centre of the room, she closed her eyes. She needed her most obedient subjects for this. Her summoning went out and she found their frequencies as they reported in. Succinctly, she told them what they had to do.

Houston, Texas

"What can I get you?" Dwight Charles stood by the table and looked down at the two men.

"Uh … coffee, thanks," Cas said glancing at the bar. "If you have it?"

"Always got joe," Dwight said, looking at the other man.

"A draught, thanks," Metatron said. "Whatever's on tap."

"Coming right up."

They watched him walk back around the long counter.

"How long do we have to wait?"

"As long as it takes –"

The angels appeared in the room and hands seized the scribe's jacket, hauling him out of the chair. Cas found himself standing, the sword hilt in his hand with no real recollection of the movement in between.

"Kill him," Naomi said coldly, staring at Castiel.

Arissiel moved forward, long hair swinging forward over her shoulder as she lifted her sword, her movement cautious as she felt for her footing on the smooth wooden floor.

Cas looked at her sorrowfully, seeing doubt behind the obedience. Naomi had turned them all into monsters, he thought tiredly.

The gunshot rang out and Iophiel clutched a hand to his shoulder. Behind the bar, Dwight stood with the gun raised to his shoulder, his face hard.

"The next one won't wing you," he said warningly. "Take it someplace else."

The angel disappeared and reappeared behind him in the space of an eyeblink, grabbing the man's shoulders and pitching him headfirst into the small countertop glass-fronted fridge. Dwight smelled the sickly scents of wine coolers and alcopops surrounding him as his vision dwindled and he slid to the floor.

"Let him go," Cas said.

"Haven't you caused enough harm already, Castiel?" Naomi snapped at him.

Cas walked toward Arissiel, watched her back away. He'd heard some things of what the angels called him, thought of him, in Heaven … Amma, the Cursed One, in Enochian. And Teloch … spirit of Death. And Iaidon … the all-powerful, but the connotation had always been ascribed to the Lightbringer. All powerful destructor.

"Stop!" Metatron called out, looking at him. "Please, Castiel, don't make this any worse." The scribe stared up at him, his expression beseeching. "Please!"

Cas stood there as they disappeared, the flutter of wings echoing from the walls and floor, leaving him alone.

Jackson, Minnesota

"Where is it?" Dean looked at the Good Shepherd Cemetery as he drove past, the narrow asphalt road petering out into a rutted and muddy gravel road as they followed it along the river.

"In between the marsh and the river," Sam said, gesturing vaguely ahead. "Hasn't been used for twenty years, but it was in continuous use for the previous hundred years."

The Impala bounced over the potholes and splashed through the sheets of water that lay over the mixture of mud and gravel and as they came around the bend they saw it, dilapidated and rundown, paint peeling from the siding but the structure intact, the bell tower still straight, the large gothic arch at the front overpowering the church's otherwise modest frame.

Driving straight to the steps in front of the doors, Dean stopped the car, looking over his shoulder at Crowley.

"Ready to be cleansed?" he asked the demon with a one-sided grin.

Crowley glared at him and hunched against the seat.

"That's too bad, 'cause it's the only thing we've got left on our To Do list," Dean told him, getting out of the car and opening the rear door, his hand hooking in the long chain between the two shackles that now encircled both Crowley's wrists and dragging the demon out.

Looking down at the puddle of muddy water he was standing in, Crowley exhaled in disgust. Six-hundred dollar Italian leather shoes. Ruined. Dean followed his gaze and the grin lifted a little higher.

"But the expression on your face? Priceless," he said, reading the demon's thoughts all too easily.

Crowley scowled and stumbled forward as Dean shoved him toward the church. He didn't know what the third trial entailed and the Winchesters had been vague, as usual, about the details. That they needed consecrated ground to do whatever it was they were going to do him seemed ominous.

The interior of the church was a little drier than the exterior. Missing roof tiles let in the soft drizzle and the floor was slick with moisture, Dean's devil trap remaining obstinately wet as the paint sat on the soaked timber floor.

Crowley leaned forward in the chair, the rattle of the chain behind him bouncing off the empty walls. It'd taken Dean five minutes to install the anchor plate in the church floor. Crowley wondered if the wood was rotten. The collar around his neck was marked with the same binding sigils as the steel cuffs, the pure iron blistering the skin under it.

"You really think this is going to hold me?" he asked Dean coolly. "That you're going to cure me or whatever it is?"

Dean tossed the can onto the pew at the end of the room and walked out. If they'd had a bit more time, it would've been better to use a couple of anchor points for the collar and blood for the trap but when did they ever have the time for those kinds of niceties?

He walked down the steps and around the car, finding Sam by the open trunk, decanting holy oil into a screw-top jar.

"He's primed," he said, walking around him. "How're you feeling?"

Sam looked at him and back at the jar. "Honestly? For the first time in a long time … it feels like we're gonna win." He put the ceramic ewer back in the trunk and looked at his brother. "I'm good."

"Yeah, well, no dancing in the end zone until we're finished," Dean said dryly. "What does the Father's playbook say now?"

Sam screwed the lid on the jar and tossed it into his duffle. "Well, now that we've got the consecrated ground, I just give Crowley one dose of blood, every hour for eight hours, and seal the deal with a bloody fist sandwich. That should do it."

"Your blood's supposed to be purified, isn't it?"

Sam looked down at the roll of syringes in his hand. "The burning stopped. When we crossed into Minnesota. Aside from the damp here, I haven't coughed since we hit Bobby's."

"Is that enough?"

"I think it means the demon blood has gone, but no," Sam said, shaking his head and putting the roll into the duffle. "It's not enough for this."

Dean looked at him. "You, uh, ever done the forgive-me-Father before?"

"Once," Sam said, his gaze cutting away over the car. "When we were kids."

He looked back at his brother and saw Dean's eyes widen slightly.

"Which is why I have no clue what to say now."

"Well," Dean said diffidently. "I could give you a few suggestions, if you want?"

"Yeah, uh, okay," Sam said. "Yeah, sure."

"Alright, just spitballin' here, but if I were you … uh … Ruby?"

Sam straightened a little, looking away as Dean continued, the list of sins coming out fast and easily.

"Killing Lilith, letting Lucifer out. Losing your soul? Giving up on looking for me when I went to Purgatory –"

"Uh, yeah, thanks," Sam muttered into the trunk as he bent to pull out the duffle.

"For starters," Dean said, shrugging as Sam wrapped his arms around the bag and walked away, hunched up. He watched Sam stop at the foot of the stairs, his back still to him.

"What?"

"Will He forgive me, for – for all of it?" Sam said, his voice almost too low for Dean to hear him.

Dean sighed and walked around the car. "That's the deal, isn't it? Say you're sorry, mean it and it's all gone?"

"Sounds easy, huh?"

Dean ducked his head. It had always sounded too easy for him. No guilt. No pain to pay.

"I don't know," he said to his brother. "Maybe the hard bit is admitting to it in the first place? Taking responsibility?"

"You do, all the time," Sam said, lifting his head and looking at him. "Why don't you feel like it's all gone?"

"I don't know, Sam," Dean said softly, looking at the dull reflection of the sky in the puddle at his feet. "I don't know."

Sam turned away, climbing the steps and walking into the church.

Behind him, Dean leaned against the hood. He'd never pretended that he hadn't done the things he'd done. Not once. No matter how tempting it'd been to try and put the blame elsewhere. But he'd never felt as if knowing his choices and his mistakes had made a difference either. The load was the load and he'd just kept piling it on, no longer wondering how long he could carry it, or when it would get so heavy he just collapsed under it all.

He'd never asked for forgiveness either. The thought slid into his mind and he looked at it for a long moment. Did he need the forgiveness of God? Or just himself?

He rubbed a hand along his jaw, the stubble pricking his fingers, and straightened up, going back to the trunk to pack away what they didn't need.

The confessional was on the left hand side of the front doors, a small cupboard, divided in half and screened between. Sam opened the door, looking in at the tiny space, hearing the demon's breathing behind him.

He stepped in and closed the door behind him, kneeling on the floor awkwardly in the darkness.

"Okay," he said, glancing up nervously as he cleared his throat. "If anybody's listening … here goes."

At first, nothing came to him and the silence seemed to ring with accusations, half-heard or felt, prickling along his nerves. Just start anywhere, he told himself. Start with Jess and a desire to kill so strong it had shaken what he'd known of himself.

He talked about how he'd felt and he talked about what he'd done. After a while, he realised that he was still trying to rationalise it, to justify it. And he knew, without a shred of doubt, that he could not ask for forgiveness if he didn't really believe he needed it. He started again.

Like Lucifer, his sin had been pride. Pride and the arrogance that came with it. Pride and the carelessness that always accompanied it. With that blood rushing through his veins, he'd felt invincible and he'd looked at others as at lesser men, lesser beings. There was no untangling of the times he'd been driven or possessed or poisoned from the times he had not. He admitted to it all, his head bowed and the words pouring from him, his voice low and cracked and hoarse, his sense of himself, of who he was, bleeding and aching.

At the back of his mind was his brother's face, every emotion always showing, every thought clear, every argument and accusation and pain-filled apology as bright in his memories as when they'd occurred, and as agonising. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I have killed. I have tortured. I have broken faith and trust. I have betrayed. I have never, ever, been able to live up to what he wanted from me, what he needed.

Dean leaned over the trunk, reloading the magazine with the modified hollow points. He'd gotten the idea from Jaws originally, drilling out the heads of the slugs and filling them with blessed saline solution, the demon's version of … well, not cyanide but a nasty surprise anyway, resealing them with wax. Worked a treat and hurt the hellspawn a hell of a lot more effectively than anything else he'd been able to figure – except Henry's binding sigil. But that really was a pain in the ass to carve into every bullet.

"Dean, I need your help."

The rush of wings filled the air beside him and he started, fingers scrabbling on the smooth brass casing as he looked around at the angel.

"Little busy, Cas, take a number." He forced the bullet into the magazine, and picked up the next.

"I'm afraid this can't wait," Castiel said, his voice hardening. "Naomi has taken Metatron."

Dean frowned at the clip and put it on top of the box of ammunition, straightening to look at the angel. "And you know Metatron – how?"

"I've been working with him on the angel trials," Cas said shortly.

"The what?" Dean blinked.

"We can shut it all down," Cas told him. "Heaven, Hell – all of it!"

"Slow down," Dean said, sitting on the edge of the trunk as he thought about the implications of that. "How'd you two hook up anyway?"

"He came to Lebanon, while you and Sam were looking for a demon," Cas said tightly. "He told me what's been happening up there, what it's come to – and he told me that we could shut the gates of Heaven, lock everyone in and prevent the war from spilling over down here. He doesn't need the tablets, he knows the trials."

Dean looked at him narrowly. "We're talking about the same angel, aren't we? The one who hid for three thousand years and let everything get this way?" he asked Cas. "The one who said he'd be forced into using the power of the Word of God if Heaven found him? He suddenly wants to go back there and what? Save the mooks who are hunting him?"

"Yes," Cas said, frowning slightly. "He wants to. But I'm the only one who can."

"You're the only one? Why?"

"Because I am – I was – a warrior," Cas said uncomfortably, looking away. "The trials are not easy."

"Huh," Dean said, getting back to his feet.

"I can't fail, Dean," Cas said vehemently, staring at him. "Not again. Not this time. I need your help."

"Uh, Cas, that's all well and good, but you're asking me to leave Sam, and we've got Crowley in there, tied and tressed," Dean said, jerking a thumb toward the church behind him. "Now if anybody needs a chaperone while doing the heavy lifting, it's Sam –"

He saw the angel's eyes shift past him at the same time as he heard the squelch of footsteps in the mud behind him. Goddamn it! Turning around, he saw his brother's face twitch slightly, heard the half-hidden pain in his voice as he looked at Dean.

"You should go. Seriously."

"Oh, what? Leave you here with the King of Hell? Come on!"

Sam glanced back at the church, forcing the words past the thickness in his throat. "I got this."

He drew in a deep breath, looking back at his brother, mouth twisting up a little to one side. "And if you guys can lock the angels up too? That's a good day."

Dean's face was expressionless as he stared at Sam. If he stayed, if he told Cas to handle it on his own, he would be undermining his brother further, he knew. If he left, and anything happened to Sam, he wouldn't be able to live with it. It was the same choice as always, faced a thousand times, a million times. You either trust him or you don't, he told himself. He didn't wait for the answer on that.

"Look, I – I'm down with locking the angels in Heaven – just 'cause they're dicks," he said, looking at Sam. "But the demons? This is on us. It's always been on us."

Sam nodded, knowing what he meant. Everything that had gone on in their lives had been due to Hell's machinations. And Heaven's help, he thought caustically.

"Start the injections now," Dean said, thinking about how long he might need to get Cas through the next trial. There were too many variables, too many things he had no idea about. "If I'm not back in six hours? Finish it. No questions, Sam. No hesitations."

"Yeah," Sam said quickly, his face pinched-looking and pale. He hadn't considered doing this trial completely alone. But perhaps that was how it was supposed to be. Was always meant to be. He watched Dean turn to the trunk and pick up the angel tablet, still wrapped in its cloth. Behind his brother, Castiel reached out, and the two vanished amidst the sound of beating wings and the faint scent of flowers and feathers.

Sam looked at the open trunk. This was it, he told himself firmly. One last throw of the dice, winner takes all. He would see Dean look at him differently this time. He would see that or he would die trying.

He stepped toward the trunk and closed it, and turned to go back into the church.

Heaven

Like the human mind, holding onto the memory, to the details, of the body after the soul has passed beyond the flesh, the angels held onto the details of their vessels or constructs even in the plane of Heaven where thought was more powerful than muscle, and memory more painful than nerves.

Metatron didn't have to open his eyes to know where he was. The cool touch of the binders on what he remembered of his vessel's body. The lifeless sterility of the room which had never know the scent of sweat or blood, the perfume of a flower or the stench of sewerage, these things were enough. He opened his eyes.

A few feet away a figure wavered in and out of focus, like, he thought irrelevantly, a person behind old glass. He narrowed his eyes and the figure came into focus, his mind seeing her as she saw herself, in the immaculate construct of an auburn-haired woman with smooth, creamy skin and storm-wrack eyes.

"I know you," he said.

"I don't believe we ever officially met," she said, her voice light and echoing slightly in the pitilessly hard room.

"Naomi," he said, with a half-disbelieving smile. He turned his head to look at the wheeled tray beside the chair he was held in. "Your reputation precedes you." He turned back to her. "The archangels –"

"Wanted me to talk to you after God left," she cut him off, nodding.

"Talk? Is that what you call it?"

"That's all we start with, Metatron," she said reprovingly. "You left before you found out."

The scribe looked at her, his face becoming impassive.

"There's one question I'd like to ask, before we begin – officially," she said, stretching and standing as she moved from the desk to the tray. "We have searched for you for the last three thousand years, and we have failed to find you."

"That wasn't a question."

"Why did you come out of hiding?" she asked sharply, turning to look at him. "Why did you risk being found?"

"You didn't want the secrets of God, Naomi," he said to her coldly. "You wanted the power of God. Michael certainly did. And Raphael and Gabriel."

"Why did you step out into the open, Metatron?" she asked again, picking up the simple tool on the tray and looking back at him. "And what were you doing with Castiel?"

"Of the blessings set before you, make your choice – and be content," he quoted in reply.

She looked at him, playing the words against her memories.

"Not a big reader, are we?" he sneered at her. "Life is experience and even ours are too short to experience everything. The lives of others set down and absorbed add to our experience daily, weekly, monthly. Experience is knowledge. And knowledge is power."

The woman bent toward him, the high-pitched frequency of the tool matching its resonations to the waves of energy cycling within him and his mind translated the resonance as pain.

Jackson, Minnesota

The altar was as clean as he could make it, and the syringes lay on a sterilised stainless steel tray, neatly set between the holy water, sterilised knife, plain saline solution and holy oil containers.

Sam tapped his forearm lightly and slid the needle into the vein when it rose, drawing two ccs into the syringe and pulling it out. He turned and walked back to Crowley.

"You really think injecting me with human blood is going to make me human? What, d'you read that on the back of a cereal box?" the demon asked mockingly as Sam got close to the chair.

Sam ignored him, slapping a hand against the side of Crowley's head and shoving it to one side to expose the carotid artery. He jammed the needle in where the artery ran over the long tendon and depressed the plunger, watching the blood go in. He stepped back, looking at Crowley.

Nothing had changed, he thought, the demon's face bland, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. It will work, he told himself. The blood is normal, human blood, sanctified, purified, redeemed. It'll work.

Crowley's eyes narrowed as he watched Sam's expressions. "You're miles out of your league, Moose."

Sam turned away and Crowley called out. "See you in an hour?"

It should've worked a little, he thought worried as he walked to the altar. Father Thompson's had taken hours before the demon had been subdued, he reminded himself, a small voice of complete rationality somewhere at the back of his mind. Glancing at his watch, Sam lifted his hand to replace the syringe on the tray. Father Thompson was just a man! The thought was in his head and he hunched forward as light rippled through his forearms, his fists balling up involuntarily as the power that seemed to control them fluxed through his nerves.

NO! The shouted denial seemed to boom around in his head and he closed his eyes and set his jaw to keep it from leaking out.

That was the old way of thinking, that you're different, better, stronger, that pragmatic voice shouted back at him. You are nothing special, Sam Winchester. Your soul is clean. Your blood is human. You … you need faith, he whispered to himself. Faith in what's happened. Faith in the power that's filling you. Faith in yourself.

He watched the light die out of his skin, aware that he was panting as if he'd run a race and that Crowley, behind him, must have seen or heard a lot of that. The blood will work, give it time, he repeated to himself. You're just a man too. But this trial is given to you to complete. To succeed. And you are going to do that.

"Are you alright there, Moose?" Crowley said behind him. "Not having a wee moment of self-doubt, are we?"

Sam looked down at the altar for a long moment, then turned and walked out of the church, striding past the demon without looking at him. The cold, damp air hit him in the face and he dragged in a deep lungful, letting his eyes close and feeling the tension run out of him.

He remembered the expression on Dean's face, when he'd first admitted to the visions, remembered wishing that Dean wasn't there, with the fear and the worry in the green eyes that always seemed to be watching him. They hadn't known about the blood back then, only the fire, and nothing had made any sense, not the disjointed and frightening glimpses he'd kept getting, of the other 'children', not the powerful feelings that had risen, pushing him this way or that, and not the anger that he'd thought was at Jess' murder but had been a part of him long before that.

He hadn't realised – hadn't recognised – that the anger had never surfaced when he'd been with her until after she'd gone. Like Sarah, he thought, and the thought brought a sharp stab of grief. He still didn't know why. Only that it'd been a time of peace and he'd let it in the evil that had destroyed it.

Not true, he told himself. Evil had been there, but if he looked at those events realistically, objectively, he knew he couldn't've prevented her death. Couldn't have stopped Brady from re-enacting the nightmarish scene. But ol' yellow eyes didn't send me back to be your friend. No, we could tell we were starting to lose you. You were becoming a mild-mannered, worthless sack of piss. Now, come on. We couldn't have that. You were our favourite. Her death. Her very specific death.

It's just when people are around me. I don't know, they get hurt. He dragged in another deep breath. She hadn't then … or he didn't know if she had, he hadn't stayed around or checked back in to make sure. But she'd died anyway.

It's not just about being forgiven, Sam. The voice was in his mind, but it didn't sound like anyone he knew. You must, in the end, forgive yourself. He opened his eyes and looked across the grey and brown marsh, the water of the river and canal fish-scaled in dull light now as the light wind ruffled the surface. Clouds scudded across the sky, thin and twisting and blown into streamers and Sam shivered.

It's over now. I'm finishing it, he thought, his father's words echoing in his mind. Whether or not I'm strong enough or good enough or … whatever. Dean was right. No one else had a claim on locking the gates as much as they did. So many wrongs to make right. So many deaths to avenge. The thought held no anger at all. He was done with the black rage and the insatiable cravings and being different.