Chapter 6
-o0o-
Everything you are is everything I'm not
Night and day, light and dark
Everything I need is everything you've got
"Hate and Love," Jack Savoretti featuring Sienna Miller
The battle with Pestilence turns out to be pretty anticlimactic, Sam thinks. At least as far as their experience dealing with the Horsemen has gone. On his personal scale he rates it third out of seeing Cas gorge himself on raw meat and watching Jo's eyes turn black. And Jo…that's not a topic he wants to visit at the moment, so he turns his attention back to the car and its occupants.
Dean's not talking much, but his hands are loose on the wheel and he has the music—some 80s and 90s mix station, the only thing they were picking up—playing at an acceptable volume. Sam's pretty sure Cas's quiet presence in the back seat can be thanked for that. If it were just Sam and Dean, there would be more white-knuckling of the steering wheel and music loud enough that Sam would be forced to roll down a window to let the bass out into the night air, as they rehashed parts of their earlier argument, standing in Bobby's kitchen.
"I'm telling you, he's alive. How else do you explain the angel food soap?"
"I don't, okay?" says Dean, filling a mug with coffee and pouring a liberal dose of whiskey into it. "Any more than I can explain that DVD."
The DVD in question is currently at the bottom of Sam's duffel bag, buried beneath a pair of socks. He'd considered throwing it out, but could never quite bring himself to do so. Maybe because it gave him something to hang on to. Some hope that things would—inexorably—turn out all right.
He's been quiet too long. Dean's studying his face with the expression normally reserved for examining reports of supernatural weirdness. "Why are you so stuck on this?"
And Sam, as he's been doing too much lately, doesn't think. "Because maybe…maybe it means there's still a chance. Maybe I won't have to say 'yes' to Lucifer. Or maybe, if I do—"
"What? Say 'yes' to Lucifer?"
The floorboards in the library creak, along with the leather of Bobby's wheelchair. If he could, Sam was sure Bobby would've slipped away as fast as his legs could move.
"It was just an idea, Dean. When… Bobby took back control of his body when that demon possessed him. Why couldn't I do the same?"
"Why?" Dean says. "Why? Because it's freaking Lucifer, man! Not some punk ass demon. I—" He slams his mug on the table, rises to round on Bobby through the door of the library. "Did you know about this?"
Bobby's expression is carefully blank, which must tell Dean what he wants to know because he turns back to Sam, aggrieved and opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
"I know. But, Dean, how else are we going to get him back in the box?"
It was the question no one wanted to ask because no one wanted to answer it. And Sam was saved by the proverbial bell after he let it out, with Cas phoning in from a hospital in Louisiana.
And the angel-cum-human is looking pretty good for someone who survived the effects of a banishing sigil, travel by plane then Greyhound bus, and a brush with typhoid fever (and God knew what else).
"Sure you're okay, Cas?" Sam says, handing an unopened bottle of water over his shoulder.
"Yes, Sam." He takes the bottle, finger tips touching Sam's, and he cocks his head. His eyes don't narrow the way they do when he's trying to understand some strange human custom, but the gaze is analytical all the same. "And you, Sam?"
"Yeah. I'm fine."
Dean huffs softly. Cas continues to stare at him with intense blue eyes and Sam faces front, certain the angel can see every thought and impulse he's had in the last two weeks, etched across his face.
-o0o-
The reprieve they were expecting on returning to Bobby's with Pestilence's ring (cleaned heavily after its removal from his person) is short lived, made so by a few more revelations than Sam would like to have had in such a short time.
The news that Chicago's about to be wiped off the map by the remnants of Hurricane Jacob, with Death following close behind to do the cleanup, is nearly overshadowed by the news that Bobby's given up his soul for the information. Sam thinks the vein in Dean's forehead might actually rupture when Crowley shows up to crow about the contract, in addition to providing some additional intel on the Croatoan virus, which is about to hit the market and make Zombieland look like a documentary on Paradise.
It doesn't take long to decide it'll have to be divide and conquer, with Sam, Bobby and Cas tackling the zombie threat while Dean…kills Death. Sam doesn't like the idea of leaving his brother alone, with only Crowley as back up, to face down the ultimate bogeyman. But with Sam's track record of late, he feels better going after something he knows he can fight. Dean's always been better at managing the hopeless cases.
The group breaks up shortly after, with Crowley popping off with vague mention of finding a "weapon appropriate to kill something of Death's caliber," and Dean heading for Baby, muttering something about an oil change. Cas stays with Bobby, silently watching the man wheeling around the library, placing books on shelves, papers where they belong. A frown lingers on the angel's face, maybe guilt, or maybe concern, Sam's not sure.
He leaves Bobby to his straightening, Cas to his staring, and retreats to the guest bedroom to sort through the clothes in his duffle. They've been on the road more than off lately and things are starting to stink. He might as well take advantage of Bobby's washer and dryer. If he dies over the next few days, at least he'll go smelling like Tide Coldwater Clean instead of someone who could give a gym locker a run for its money.
A pair of underwear passes the sniff test, goes back in the bag, tucked in a corner. A pair of socks does not and gets tossed over his shoulder into the growing pile. From the depths of his duffle, brown eyes gaze up at him from the cover of Casa Erotica 13. Sam stares at the clashing gold-on-red cover art, the flat, trying-to-be-sultry gaze of the actress, the plate of bratwurst she's holding up. He remembers the sticky sweet cake falling apart on him in the shower and then he's up and moving, laundry in his arms, a particular book title in his mind.
After dropping the laundry in the basement, he heads to Bobby's old bedroom, scours the lone bookshelf, examining the titles lying beneath a healthy layer of dust. This room, being on the second floor, hasn't seen a lot of use lately. And neither have the books. They're mostly old grimoires handed off from other hunters or picked up at suspect, moldering shops. Books on spell craft, raising the dead, summoning gods.
It's the last that Sam's interested in. Gabriel's as much god as archangel, at least from what Sam's gleaned of his history with Kali and the others. And, okay, he's not sure exactly how that works…but it's worth a shot. And he's fairly certain he saw a spell in the book, years before, about summoning trickster gods in particular. At this point, he'll try anything.
But anything will have to wait until later. From downstairs, he hears Dean clomping through the hall, the sound of Bobby's chair wheels rolling, the slide of magazines being checked, the clink of weapons in a duffle. He drops the book in his room, in the backpack he's been keeping stashed here for the last little while and tucks the DVD in with it before heading downstairs to gear up for preventing the zombie apocalypse.
-o0o-
"Something on your mind, Cas?" Sam asks when he catches the angel peering at him for the third time in the last hour. In the driver's seat, Bobby glances in the rearview mirror, then at Sam, before shifting gears and slipping through a traffic light just before it turns red, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he taps the brake to slow to the speed limit. It makes Sam want to laugh. He knows there's probably a reason Crowley gave Bobby back his legs – other than helping to defeat Lucifer and save Crowley's own ass – but at the moment, he's happy to ignore that pendulum hanging over their heads.
"You seem resigned," Cas says, tone questioning with a touch of concern perhaps, but mostly observant, unjudging.
Sam laughs. It comes out more as a choked cough. "I think," he says, "maybe I am. Maybe I have to be." And then he's telling Cas the plan that had hatched in his mind several nights ago after too much of Crowley's scotch and too much remembering.
He's not sure what he expects. For Cas to get upset like Dean or hit him with hard truths like Bobby. When the angel commends him on the plan, Sam stares out at the darkened road, gobsmacked.
Then Cas goes and ruins the moment.
"Of course, it will take a lot of demon blood to see it accomplished," he says. "Finding him will be the easiest part, with your link."
"It'll happen in Detroit," Sam murmurs, then pauses. "Wait. You know about the link?"
"Yes." Cas squints. "Angels have links to humans in their charge, including vessels," Cas says as if they were discussing the fact that the sky was blue. He cocks his head at Sam's flustered look. "That's why the sigils I burned into your ribs were so important. I knew it wouldn't stop the dreams, might not even keep Lucifer or Michael at bay forever, but it would help." He pauses. "Your link is particularly strong."
"Strong enough to let me sense demons…"
Cas nods.
"Cas, in the future," Bobby says, obviously having been hanging on every word, "file that kind of information under 'need to know' and fill us in, okay?" His voice is light, but his fingers tap on the wheel in agitation.
"Of course," Cas says.
Sam snorts softly.
Cas shifts in the backseat. "I suppose now would be the time to tell you that Michael has taken his vessel."
"What?" Bobby says.
"Your brother," he says to Sam. "Adam. He may not be strong enough to withstand the onslaught of Lucifer, especially in a secondary vessel, but Michael's willing to take that chance."
The car falls into silence, save for the rev of the engine, the low drone of the radio. They don't speak much more until they reach Niveus, just as the sun's coming over the horizon and then it's only to go over their plan of attack one last time.
-o0o-
At the warehouse, it feels good to finally be doing something familiar, Sam thinks as he leads people to safety, as he takes out more than his fair share of Croatoan infected warehouse workers. Only one other time had Sam felt at such loose ends, back when John had him attend a summer camp in order to get intel on the werewolf that was working there. Three days of camp activities had nothing on a near week of sitting on his ass, doing research that wasn't leading anywhere.
And maybe that's why it's so important to save as many people as he can.
And maybe...because this might be his last chance to save anyone.
-o0o-
They beat Dean back to Bobby's, but he calls them from the road, gives them a rundown on Death, the Cage, the key. No one says anything about Sam's plan, but it hangs in the air, the ubiquitous sword of Damocles.
After Dean hangs up, the three of them seek their own space: Bobby retreats to the library, Cas wanders outside, disappears among the decaying remains of cars, and Sam slips away to the kitchen before retreating to his room, taking with him a small cast iron pot and several sachets of herbs.
The instructions in the book are strangely straightforward and in no time, the dimly lit room is filled with the sound of crackling herbs, the scent of burning blood and pungent mugwort, and the sharp green odor of mistletoe that makes the entire room smell like a forest glade.
There are no words in the summoning. It's based entirely on intent and Sam clears everything from his mind, focusing on the tacky DVD cover. It's like making a wish.
There's a sudden flare of light, bright as the sun, that leaves him blinking at the dark figure taking shape in its center. It's human-shaped but for the strange shadows arcing over it, filling the room.
The light flares brighter, hotter, the room filling with the presence of magic, of something teeth-achingly old. Sam half expects a voice to boom out of that light, God speaking to Moses on top of Mount Sinai. Instead, a familiar, nasal, and overwhelmingly welcome voice says "I'm surprised, Sammy. That invocation's usually used by maidens ready to doff their virginity."
When the light fades, Gabriel's standing before him, looking much like he did the last time Sam saw him. But maybe there's a little fatigue around the eyes, the corners of his mouth turned up in that near ever present smirk.
"I knew it," Sam says.
"I hoped you'd catch on quicker than your knucklehead brother."
"Maybe if he'd seen the soap," Sam deadpans. "What was with the angel food cake anyway?"
"I was having a moment."
"And, uh, during that moment did you happen to have any brilliant ideas to the problem of the Apocalypse?"
Gabriel grins and, for a split second, it's all teeth and ageless eyes and Sam remembers that the creature in front of him, crammed into this short and slight human body, is older than he can reckon, larger than anything he's ever seen.
"With a little help from one of my grumpy brothers who, I'm convinced, Cas is trying to live up to. Sammy... How do you feel about having a little angel inside you?"
Sam blinks, opens his mouth and lets out a breath, blinks again. "You told me not to say yes to Lucifer."
"That might have been a little premature."
"What the fuck?"
Sam turns at the voice. Gabriel remains where he is, perched on the edge of the bed, watching Sam. Dean stands in the doorway, looking like he doesn't know whether to snap at Sam or throw something sharp at the archangel.
"How the hell are you here? What are you doing here?" Dean says, shooting Sam a look.
"Hello to you, too, Deano. Let's just say I have connections. As to the other question…are you not interested in stopping the Apocalypse?"
An hour later, they're all downstairs, Gabriel having only wanted to explain his plan once. It had gone over about as well as he expected. Somber acceptance from Sam, a skeptical but intrigued response from Bobby; and from Dean, a rather subtle outrage at the method, tempered by disbelief that it would lead anywhere good, followed by a statement of needing a drink in which he stalked off to the kitchen, returning with three glasses and a bottle of whiskey.
But it's Sam's acceptance that he's interested in. Sam, who stands, leaning against the bookshelf, staring into his empty glass, as much on the outskirts of the conversation as he can be. He's rolling the idea through his head once more, examining it. A sliver of Gabriel's grace inside him. Something to lean on when he faces Lucifer, to draw strength from because he, despite his bravado, is convinced that he doesn't have enough. He pictures it, Gabriel realizes, like celestial spackle. Something to patch up the tears and tatters he imagines he's put in his soul these last few years, fighting with Dean, putting his trust in the tainted blood of a demon.
He's not sure such a thing will work for him. He's not sure he deserves it.
Gabriel straightens on his perch, resists the urge to shake his head to cast off Sam's low thoughts like rain water. Instead, he turns to Dean, who's making a constipated face. Gabriel thinks he must be spending too much time with Cas.
"So," Dean says, "there's going to be some kind of angelic orgy going on inside my brother?"
Sam makes a garbled noise that Gabriel ignores, in favor of fixing Dean with a very, he's been told, unnerving stare.
"Not even close, Deano. If I wanted an orgy with your brother, it would involve a lot less metaphysical touch and a lot more hands, fingers, tongues and other parts." He waggles his eyebrows. "Also, Luci wouldn't be invited."
Dean looks vaguely sick.
Bobby breaks the silence. "Why can't you shank Lucifer?"
"'Cause that worked out so well last time. And I'm not back up to full power yet."
"You, ah... When do we do this?" Sam says, voice steady, but Gabriel can hear the underlying nerves.
"No time like the present." Gabriel stands, stretches and turns his head toward the kitchen as the presence of a familiar demon skitters across his senses and the space in the kitchen doorway is suddenly filled with a figure dressed in black.
"Word on the street is that Lucifer's holed up in an abandoned hotel in Detroit," Crowley says, strolling into the library, a glass of scotch in one hand. He stops dead when he spies Gabriel.
"It's getting crowded in here," Dean grumbles.
"Hiya, Crowley. Turning over a new leaf? Azi sends his regards, by the way."
"H-how is the old chap? Still silent and surly?"
"As ever." Gabriel turns to the group. "So, Detroit." He looks at Sam. "You ready?"
Sam nods and turns, heading up the stairs.
Gabriel follows, calling over his shoulder, "And Crowley, we'll be having a chat later about Bobby Singer's soul."
There's a clink of glass and Crowley's gone in a rush of sulphur scented wind. Bobby huffs out a laugh.
Before he reaches the bottom of the stairs, Cas is in his face. "Gabriel, I—" He looks like he's rethinking what he wants to say, finally settles. "I'm glad you're alive."
"You're making me tear up." Gabriel pats his brother on the cheek and jerks his head toward the library. "Now, go keep Dean distracted while I debauch his baby brother."
"Gabriel." Cas's voice is admonishing, but there's a hint of amusement in it. Spending time on Earth seems to have done him some good.
Back in the upstairs bedroom, Gabriel finds Sam sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his thighs, hands clasped between his knees, staring at the wall, looking for answers in the chips on the wood paneling.
"You ready, kiddo?"
"Not really," he says. "But time's running out."
"You don't have to do this. Any of this," Gabriel says and is half surprised to find he means it. Somewhere along the lines, it seems he's not come to terms with the end of the world, but accepted that it's very much a possibility. His little stint with nonexistence might be to thank for that.
"Yes," Sam says, "I do."
"Then I need your permission, Sam."
"You have it."
"You might wanna lie down for this," Gabriel says and Sam stares at him for a moment before snorting softly and reclining on the bed.
Gabriel's next to him so fast that Sam blinks, startled. He has a glass vial in one hand, gleaming red inside.
"Is that—" Sam starts.
"The blood Kali stole from you and your brother. Yep. Already got rid of Deano's. So no worries about it being used against him. And yours…" He snaps the vial between his fingers. The glass cuts into his hand. Sam's blood, thick and sticky, mingles with Gabriel's fresh blood.
Gabriel slips the bloody hand beneath the collar of Sam's shirt, above the steady beat of the heart inside its boney cage. The other, he places atop Sam's head. The two seats of the soul, working in tandem, one incomplete without the other.
Sam's body heats languorously, beginning with the space over his heart, and breathes out Gabriel's name and Gabriel slips inside.
Sex, Sam thinks, despite not wanting to. But sex is the nearest and furthest thing he can compare this to. Not the quick, meaningless fucks to work off the horniness that builds up on the road, or the rough one-night tumbles to work off steam after a case goes awry. No. More like what he'd had with Jess, with someone who loved him, who knew him.
And that's where the comparison really ends, because no one else has split him open like this, no one else has traveled the length and breadth of his insides, has been able to see into the dark nooks of his mind. And never has he felt, in his mind, slipping between his bones, into the nuclei in the center of his cells, something so old and endless, so cold and warm, so achingly strange and beautiful.
"Aw, Sam." Gabriel's voice floats around him. "I'm flattered."
And then the world falls out from under Sam. The angel overwhelms his senses, encompasses his entire being and there is nothing but warmth and light, the smell of thunderstorms and wet earth. And beneath the petrichor, the scent of chocolate, rich and dark.
-o0o-
The exchange invigorates Sam and leaves Gabriel feeling like he's come back from being only half-dead this time, much as Azi said it would. He doesn't so much walk down the stairs as ooze down them and out onto the porch. He sits on the stoop, watching as Sam loads empty gallon milk and water jugs into the trunk of the Impala, preparing for the hunting they'll have to do between here and Detroit.
None of them are happy. None of them are particularly hopeful. But they are all, somehow, Gabriel thinks, content. Even here, at the possible end of all things.
"You're not coming," Dean says, appearing on the step above him, bag slung over his shoulder.
"It's not my show," Gabriel says. "It's yours. I can't prevent what's coming. Tried that. Failed spectacularly on account of Mr. Puppy Eyes over there," Gabriel mutters. "But...with this, maybe I can still affect the outcome."
"Yeah," Dean says as he walks away. "Well, we'll see, won't we?"
Gabriel tilts his head, shrugs.
Sam shoves the last jug into the trunk, comes over to the porch. He looks like he wants to say something, thinks better of it. Gabriel waits. Then, low and for their ears only, Sam asks, "Do you think I can do this?"
"There's no one else I'd bet on, kiddo."
Gabriel watches the Impala disappear around the bend, then wings to the top of Bobby's house, settling on the roof, legs splayed out in front of him, face turned toward the setting sun. The horizon is a flame of reds and violets, the brightest shade of orange. He wonders if real flame will mimic the sunset in a few days time.
He wonders what his brothers and sisters are doing, listens through the ever widening cracks in his shields, but can only hear muffled chatter, an undercurrent of worry. For what is. For what's to come. For what might be. It seems Michael doesn't have quite the backing he thinks he does. Not that it'll make a difference. Gabriel loves his siblings, but they are cut from the same cloth. They will obey. Despite their good sense.
He wonders what She is doing.
Looking for a stubborn old ass…
The words are murmured, as if in his ear, filling his head with Her wit and warmth and he laughs. Briefly.
Then he turns his face to the sun again, closes his eyes, breathes out and stills. He lets the warmth wash over his face, flow beneath his skin, sink into the meat of muscle, the marrow of bone, lets it nourish him. When the moon and the stars rise, he takes what they have to give. He sits on the roof through the entire next day, eyes closed, grace exposed to the elements, recharging like a battery, the strangest weather vane the birds in these parts have ever seen.
That second evening, he feels the cosmos shift as Lucifer takes his vessel and he breathes out a shuddering breath as he watches the sun set, red on the horizon.
Gabriel's downstairs when Dean, Bobby and Cas return. He feels the anger flowing off of Dean, the despair, the guilt. He is his brother's keeper.
Dean stalks into the kitchen, grabs Gabriel by the jacket and shoves him against the wall, doesn't stop to think that the angel is allowing this to happen. Allowing Dean's rage to wash over him.
"He took him. That bastard's out there, wearing Sammy like a suit. And you—you just let him walk right into this. You—"
All at once the fight seems to seep out of Dean and he lets go of Gabriel's collar. Gabriel slides down the wall to land on his feet. Dean's still glaring at him, eyes shiny, red at the edges, vein in his temple prominent, mouth open, then shut, then open, unable to form words past the grief.
"Dean," Gabriel says, and he puts into his voice a warmth and inflection, a hallowed timbre that he hasn't used since the beginning of his time on earth, "have faith in your brother."