Previously: After Uriel and Castiel failed to execute Anna, the Council and the Garrison gathered to decide on the strategy to snatch the dissident from the protection of the Winchester brothers. Castiel is opposed to threatening Dean with killing Sam, and gets thrown into solitary confinement and temporarily removed from his post on suspicion of sentiments. Uriel takes over command, but when he brings Castiel back to kill Anna, she manages to get her Grace back and escapes.
This chapter takes place in season 4 episode 15.
oOo
What becomes of fallen angels
Fragile golden gleams are flickering in their glass vessels. The dark red wax melts inside, in the end drowning these fleeting sparkles of light, one by one. As I stand in the sanctuary of the Church of the Holy Rosary, I look up from the burning candles to the painting behind them. I can't help but frown as I gaze upon this portrayal of Jesus crucified, surrounded by Angels as Humans depict them. For all its artistic and lyrical qualities, it is hard for me to enjoy such flawed artwork.
Camael never once displayed such a peaceful expression on his face throughout his long hours of agony. The crosses the Romans used were not so towering and the nails were hammered into the wrists and not into the hands whose bones are too delicate to support the weight of an adult man. Besides, my brother's human body didn't look like that at all. But then again, two thousand years is long enough for mortals to forget how things really happened.
I narrow my eyes as I stare at the so-called Angels with white, red and blue wings, who are collecting blood from the wounds into golden goblets. Now this is offensive. We did ensure our fallen brother's death and watched his agony without interfering - orders are orders - but we would never have harvested his bodily fluids. Why would we even want to do that? Sometimes I am baffled by the way Humans view us.
Never before had orders led me into a church while I am in possession of a vessel. I've always been looking down upon these constructions with the satisfaction of knowing that my Father and my brother's sacrifice were honored, and disappointed to see our message twisted and used for evil purposes. Being down there, so close to the ground among my Father's creations is both exciting and frustrating. There are so many things I could teach them to pull them out of their ignorance, ridiculous fears, and biased beliefs...
Baradiel too looks fascinated by the human artistic creations. Even though we've been spending every day here for almost a month now, he's never lost interest and he keeps staring at every detail, intensely, like he's trying to unravel their mystery. Hands deep in his brown velvet pants pockets, he's looking up at an angel sculpture with outstretched wings that is staring back at him. I don't know how long he's been gazing at the statue, but his lips are pinched and his head tilted as though he's trying to solve a very complex riddle.
All Angels drawn or sculpted by Humans since the last Apocalypse display a white-skinned human appearance with dove-like wings, very different from ours. Is this what Balthazar was aiming for when he picked out the human vessels bloodlines? Are these imaginary Angels good-looking, from a human point of view? I've been watching Humans for my entire life, but I'm still unable to grasp the concept of physical beauty, even though I think symmetry has a lot to do with it.
I walk over to Baradiel, who looks away from the statue to glance at me, his wings folded behind his back.
"No demonic presence anywhere in Baltimore," I say in a low voice. "Sister Abigail is safe."
Baradiel turns his head to the benches facing the altar, where the frail figure of the saint we're assigned to protect is kneeling in prayer.
"We still have to stay by her side and watch over her until further notice, Castiel."
Frustrated, I close my hands into fists as I glance at the old woman who has been whispering prayers for more than an hour. We're acting under Uriel's orders, he's still in command until the commission deems me worthy of resuming my duties. For the almost one month that this situation has been going on, Uriel has been undoing my war strategy and seal safeguarding, he cancelled the arbitrary rotation and seal assignment to the soldiers. I strongly disapprove of his methods, even if they're more conventional and approved by the hierarchy. Neglecting some seals to protect others is not a wise move. Surely the demons know now that Sister Abigail is under our protection, and they won't risk fighting two Warriors of God when there are other seals left undefended, ready for the taking.
"Uriel is an outstanding soldier," I sigh, "but a poor strategist. He has no clue! There are only three living saints in the world at present, and none of them will give in to temptation without sending many prayers to Heaven that will warn us before it's too late. This seal is under no imminent threat. Using so many soldiers to follow saints around day and night is a waste of time and resources."
"You're underestimating Uriel."
"Whatever temptation the demons bring to Sister Abigail, she will never accept it. She will never sell her soul."
"That's not what I meant."
"Then what?"
Baradiel averts his gaze to take in the architecture, the pale pink walls and columns, the murals and statues everywhere depicting Jesus and Angels. I open my mouth to insist so he gives me a straight answer, but I shut it again when the saint ends her prayer by signing herself and then stands up on her trembling knees. Bent in half, the old woman is heading for the exit, so we follow her immediately like we have been doing since Uriel commanded us to do so a month earlier. I have not even been able to check on Dean like I'm supposed to do as a Guardian, or to put some order in my office, or to give management and command advice to Uriel. This is all a gigantic waste of time. How can they expect us to stop the Apocalypse if the Garrison's General keeps changing? Anna, then me, and now Uriel? This is ridiculous.
The concern and compassion I have for the righteous man because of his unique personality, the strength of his soul, and the bond between me and him through my Grace's mark on his soul, none of this hinders me from fulfilling my mission as I have always done. I proved in the past that I know where I stand, and this isn't the first time that I have been affected more than usual by what happens to some Humans. I proved my obedience, and I will do so again.
I am an Angel of the Lord before anything else.
The Holy Rosary Church's artificial light is replaced by daylight when we step out. There is a blue sky striped with white clouds above Baltimore. Sister Abigail is shivering in the winter wind heavy with iodine, and wraps herself in a warm, thick coat. Walking around the cars parked in front of the church's pale stone facade, we cross the empty street to follow her from a good distance. I already know where she is heading. Like every day, she's going for a walk in Patterson Park, then she will attend charity events before going home to drink tea and read psalms.
"We would be better off chasing Alastair," I say flatly. "He could tell us where to find the weapon that killed my soldiers, which should give us back our advantage in the war."
Baradiel gives me a sideways glance, and after a few millennia working with him, I believe I know him well enough to tell there's something on his mind that he doesn't know how to say.
"Alastair won't be so easy to capture," he says cautiously. "He's no ordinary demon."
"I could tell. When we fought, before Anna managed to escape, I tried to exorcise him like I would easily have done to any other demon, and..."
"… and it didn't work," he ends my sentence soberly. "It would take a higher power, almost an Archangel's, to kill Alastair."
"Is Alastair one of the first demons created by Lucifer, like Lilith?"
"Not exactly."
Baradiel's fire and lava eyes are focused on Sister Abigail's hunched figure as she walks in the shade of the trees bare of their leaves. Patterson Park appears in the distance, at the very end of the street, where the saint always walks for an hour or two.
"Alastair was…" I've never seen Baradiel showing any sign of hesitation before. "… an Angel of my former division," he breathes out. "My brother-in-arms. He was one of those who chose to join Lucifer in the last Apocalypse. And... I almost did so myself." He turns his head to smile at me bitterly. "More correctly, I wanted to, but wasn't quick enough to desert. My General caught me, and as a punishment, had me transferred. He had such a bad opinion of the Garrison that he deemed it harsher than rehabilitation or execution to be sent there."
I can feel my feathers puffing up indignantly all over my wings. So the other divisional commanders sent Baradiel and Pmox to us only to punish them? Never before has the Garrison been so insulted.
Is this what happened for Rzionr Nrzfm too?
But more than anything else, the very idea that Baradiel, the wise and dignified Baradiel, made the decision not so long ago to turn his back on Heaven and the Lord, is staggering.
"You wanted to follow Lucifer...?"
"He had strong arguments. Like most Angels of my generation, I used to have a deep respect and admiration for him in the past. Lucifer was God's favorite, you know. Many of my brothers rebelled during the last Apocalypse, and in the heat of the moment, I joined them. The worldwide destruction and slaughter, the Creation on fire... it all had an impact on our minds and triggered a lot of impulsive reactions. The same thing happened when Camael died."
Silence falls again, and only once we're surrounded by the park's vegetation wilted by the winter cold, do I speak again.
"So Alastair was one of us once, just like Azazel was... I understand now. That explains why I was unable to exorcise him."
Baradiel sternly nods.
"The Archangels severed the link between the rebels and Heaven, and their Graces drained out of their essence. But unlike Anna or Camael, they had to live among demons and not Humans - rare are those who survived, I heard over the centuries. For the ones who did, their holy spirit and the echo of their Graces deteriorated so deeply that now, they're nothing but monsters of the worst kind. Abominations."
I narrow my eyes.
"Neutralizing and capturing him will be more difficult than I thought, but we have to do it. He is the only one who knows the answers to my questions."
"Sometimes the answers are right there, Castiel. But there is nothing you can do: have you forgotten that Uriel defended us to leave our position?"
I clench my fists in frustration.
"Uriel is merely supervising me until the Council votes on my ability to handle my role as General and Guardian. Eventually they will come to realize that I am not in a state of emotional turmoil, and they will restore me to my rightful place. I am the General, not Uriel. I would not be wasting my time with his useless orders if I knew how to capture Alastair. But I don't know what to do."
"I can help you with that."
"How?"
"I know an old incantation that can be used to create a trap in the fabric of space. It was used during the Second War against the Thirty Horsemen, and during the Fifth War against the Titans. But there is a catch: it requires several Angels' energy and takes hours to complete, limited to a fixed point in space and time. I know Alastair, he's not stupid. It would take a distraction or a bait to hold him in the right place without him suspecting anything."
A few meters away, Sister Abigail is throwing bread crumbs into the lake with a soft smile, watching the ducks squabble for food. My Grace is simmering with frustration inside my vessel.
"A bait..." I whisper thoughtfully in the cold wind blowing through my hair and waving the fabric of my coat.
Where should I find a bait good enough to keep Alastair's attention distracted for hours?
oOo
"I'm looking for the mission report treatment service."
The Angel I'm talking to is sitting at his desk, his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes glued to a pile of files, and he keeps stamping his signature on the sheets without even sparing me a glance.
"Well, it all depends on which division's jurisdiction we're talking about.," he mutters distractedly. "And if it's an executive or operating mission, the initial credit assigned for..."
"Mission of seals protection for the Garrison."
The Angel doesn't bat an eyelid at my harsh tone, and points a direction with a vague gesture.
"Room 9274G, 453rd row, aisle R-16."
I turn my head and look at the direction he is indicating. There is no end to the Administration's department. Or at least I don't think there is. I've never seen it. As far as I can see, there are rows and columns of desks framed by translucent walls, all bearing a number. Each box contains an Angel in a black suit and a well-adjusted tie, each one sorting and filing paperwork in stern silence with their head down. There is a constant rustling of paper sheets in this perfectly uniform space. As far as I know, except for investing their human vessel recently with Balthazar, none of the Administration Angels have ever left this place since Heaven was created.
They changed the location of the office again. No one - not even the division commanders - understands all the Administration's rules, they keep evolving every other day, sometimes literally from one minute to the next. No need to thank the Angel, he has already forgotten about me and is muttering over his failure to deliver some file, so I just spread my wings and go. With a soft rustle, I make it to the right office, and drop my report on the unsteady pile on the desk of the accountant Angel assigned to the Garrison's operations. She merely casts a weary glance at me.
I have no desire to spend more time than necessary in here. This place is so lifeless and bleak, it makes me uneasy, so I waste not one second to fly out and appear back in the hallway, intent on braving Uriel's absurd commands. I will tell him everything I have to say in his office - which is actually mine. For almost two months since he assumed command of the Garrison, I never got to see Uriel once. If I didn't know better, I would believe he's avoiding me at all costs.
Two months. Two ridiculous months watching over Sister Abigail day and night with Baradiel at my side. Two long months of enduring the humiliation of accusations against me that have still not been lifted. Two months of hearing the voices of my brothers and sisters announcing that new seals have been destroyed - now fifty-two of them. Two months containing my frustration. Two months far away from Dean Winchester.
I reach out to my former office door, but pause when I notice some agitation in the hallway. It looks like the Reapers are panicking. I don't know if they have received the same order we did, but they all have a human appearance, even though they have no wings and the aura they radiate is dull and dim. I let my hand drop to my side as I stare at a group of Reapers sharing heated whispers.
"It's been over a week since Ronald last came to deliver his batch of souls! Something bad happened to him, no doubt about it."
"Maybe he has some difficulty convincing a soul to come with him? It happens to me sometimes, to spend hours or days trying to do so..."
"Tessa, you know Ronald always delivers on time. He would have let us know if he faced any trouble of that nature."
The one called Tessa - a dark-haired woman with - presses her lips together and frowns.
"Well, then let's go down there and find out for ourselves. That's the right thing to do, Luke!"
"And put us at risk?" the one called Luke hisses. "We might fall behind in our deliveries! Destiny relies on us, and the slightest delay can trigger a devastating chain reaction!"
"Then why don't you just call the boss?" asks a third Reaper, crossing his arms.
"Death is busy, Davy! We can't bother him for such unimportant matters!"
"What should we do then?"
Tessa lifts her chin defiantly.
"I will assume control over his area."
"Don't!" says Davy through his clenched teeth. "It's too dangerous, and we're not celestial soldiers! This isn't our job!"
"Tell me what happened," I order, stepping into their group.
They all shut up instantly, sharing astonished looks, as though an Angel addressing them was unprecedented - in fact, perhaps it is.
"A Reaper went missing in the city assigned to him." As she speaks, Tessa stares at me with distrust laced with curiosity. "Greybull, Wyoming. We suspect something bad happened to Ronald..."
"Ronald?"
Are they like Hcnbr who likes to be called by the name of his vessel?
Tessa clenches her jaw in annoyance.
"Yes, Ronald. Reapers have never had names, so for obvious practical purposes, we've assigned ourselves some at our own initiative. I have more than a dozen names myself, even though I like Tessa better. So, are you going to help us or not?"
Let's leave aside the part about the Reapers choosing their own names, that's not what I'm really interested about. A missing Reaper is a sign I've been expecting since the Garrison came back from Hell. One of the 666 seals requires the ritual sacrifice of two Reapers at the winter solstice.
It has to be it. But before I tell Uriel, I have to make sure I'm right and if I can, try to save the seal by myself. This might give the Council a favorable opinion of me.
I immediately spread my wings and the bright corridor disappears to be replaced by a cold morning in an empty street. The snow pushed against the walls is muddied up and dirty, unlike the snow layering the parked cars and the roofs of the houses. Dawn's cold rays are bathing the quiet little town. It's way too quiet.
Billowing steam rises from my mouth as I exhale, and I focus all my senses, allowing my Grace to vibrate with the Earth and the air. Limitations fade as my wings stretch to their widest span behind my back. I can feel the flow power of the Bighorn River, water moving forth and defying the freezing cold. I can feel every life form and the energy they radiate. 1847 souls, and an infinite number of animals and insects numbed by the winter cold.
No Reaper in sight. Absolutely none. But there is a faint stench of sulfur lingering in a small part of the city, and I can sense a place that my Grace is unable to reach. It's like a black hole in my perception. With a flap of wings, I fly there and stop in front of a building - a funeral home, I believe - partly covered in Enochian markings glowing brightly. I have seen this kind of markings before. In Hell.
This building is warded against the Angels, I won't even try to step closer. I can already feel them repelling my Grace, even though I'm standing meters away. If I get any closer, it will inflict me severe pain and most likely harm me as well.
I stiffen when the door opens and two demons step out, their presence suddenly bursting into my range of perception extending miles around. I hastily contain my celestial energy inside my vessel, wrapping it tightly around Jimmy's soul, and trying my best to remain unnoticed.
"We're on it, but the Reapers are too wary, Alastair... We're hunting them down in many different locations, but they're all getting away from us now that they know that one of them disappeared!"
One of the demons is Alastair, the King of Hell, the one who tortured Dean, and the one who will help me stop the Garrison soldiers from being killed and possibly even stop the Apocalypse. He is possessing a large and rather old man with white hair, and there is a grin twisting up the corners of his lips.
"Be patient... I know Reapers. They can't stand the natural order to be broken, they won't let this city cheat Death for much longer. Soon they will deliver us another one on a silver plate."
That's all I needed to hear. There is an idea that has been growing in my holy spirit for a month, ever since I talked with Baradiel about capturing Alastair. And it blows away all my intentions to save the seal and inform Uriel. It's just one seal like the others - like all the seals that Uriel let break since he assumed command. Alastair is the one leading Hell's army, he's killing our brothers and sisters, he has been planning the Apocalypse ever since Dean killed Azazel. His capture is more important than protecting one seal.
Uriel would disagree with me, but he's only commanding until I get my position back. I'm the General, and I'm going to prove the hierarchy that my tactics are more efficient, that I'm worthy of my role and not in any way emotionally compromised.
I have been thinking these last few weeks. I know exactly what could keep Alastair in one spot and keep him distracted long enough so that he won't notice the trap closing in on him.
Dean Winchester will be my bait.
With a wing beat, I fly the distance from Wyoming to Maryland in a fraction of a second. I burst into physical reality in the middle of Baltimore's Church of the Holy Rosary, right in front of Baradiel, who merely raises an eyebrow when he sees me. There is a choked cry behind me, and I turn my head just enough to catch sight of Sister Abigail frantically signing herself and muttering a prayer.
"You took a while to submit our report," Baradiel says flatly. "Sister Abigail noticed that I had been watching her for over an hour so she came to pray with me."
"Oh, sweet Jesus…" the old woman breathes with anguish on her wrinkled face. "You, you appeared out of nowhere... who are you?"
"I guess we should wipe her memory out now," suggests my older brother, staring at her unblinkingly.
"No. We need to let this mission aside. I tracked down Alastair. Do you still wish to help me?"
Baradiel frowns and steps closer, our noses almost touching.
"Are you suggesting an insurrection?"
"This has nothing to do with disobedience," I hiss, closing my fists. "I am still the General of the Garrison, even though the rumors against me made me lose my position. Is your loyalty to Uriel or to me?"
Baradiel takes a few seconds to answer, during which the saint stares at both of us with obvious distress.
"I will help you," he whispers at last, averting his gaze, "If only to bring Alastair back under control. He has fallen far too deeply for me to still call him my brother."
"Will you be able to set the trap before the winter solstice?"
"Only if there are at least three of us joining our Graces. The more we are, the more effective the incantations will be."
"Levanael won't refuse to be a part of this. She has my absolute trust. Time is running out, let's go."
"What about Sister Abigail?"
We both turn our eyes to the Human who just holds her necklace's crucifix pendant tighter in her hand, like she's about to faint. Sister Abigail is a true saint with a pure soul. She will never give in to a demon's temptation. But just to be safe...
"We are Angels of the Lord," I declare in a hoarse voice as I face her. "Your devotion's purity makes your soul valuable to Heaven. If a demon ever offers you anything improper, pray to me, and I will burn the demon to ashes. My name is Castiel."
To add emphasis to my speech, I release my energy to flood the city and rise into the sky, gathering black clouds that hurl down a fierce lightning bolt that lights up the church. The shadow of our unfurling wings seems to make a strong impression on the saint, who fortunately is alone in the church. She falls to her knees with an ecstatic expression of worship that brightens her aged face.
We disappear in a flap of our wings.
For the very first time in my life, I am deserting a mission that was assigned to me. I should be ashamed, but I'm not. This is for the greater good, and Uriel is not my Father or even a hierarchical superior.
oOo
Invisible, I fold my wings in my back and take a look around. The pub where I just landed in and where the Winchester brothers are sitting face to face is almost empty. A waitress is laying a burger on a plate in front of Dean, while his younger brother is frowning at his laptop.
"Still nothing?" asks Dean as he's taking a bite of his burger.
I slowly step closer while Sam shakes his head with a sigh.
"Some home burglaries, a bank robbery, domestic violence charges, and a teenage runaway. Nothing for us, anyway."
I halt just in front of the table, hesitant for a moment. What I am about to do is strictly forbidden without proper authorization from the hierarchy.
Dean heaves a frustrated sigh.
"We haven't had anything to do since that goddamn siren," he mumbles with a full mouth. "I'm getting tired of just sitting around while you browse the net all day long. I need some action."
Sam raises an eyebrow and keeps typing on his keyboard.
"Yeah, 'cause we handled that whole siren thing so brilliantly." Even to me, the sarcasm in Sam's voice is obvious. "If it wasn't for Bobby, you would have slit my throat open without a second thought."
With barely contained anger, Dean swallows his mouthful and drops his burger back on the plate, then points a finger at his brother.
"You were quite eager to waste me off too, if I recall."
What are they talking about? It looks like the last two boring months I spent following an old woman around have been busy for the Winchester brothers.
"Can't we stop bringing it up? Remember what Bobby said before he left! We need a fresh start!"
"You're the one who started," Dean scoffs. "And easy for you to say. You're not the one who's been let down and betrayed once again by your brother. I've never betrayed you. Never."
"Sure," Sam says, narrowing his eyes. "What about your siren being a dude, don't you also want to talk about that?"
"Great." Dean pulls a face, moving his chair to get up from table. "Now I've lost my appetite, thanks a lot."
I choose this moment to reach out and touch both their foreheads with my fingertips, planting an illusion into their minds. I haven't done this since Jesus' apostles. I almost forgot how easy it is.
Sam frowns, genuinely thinking he's hearing his phone ringing, pulls it out of his pocket and checks the number he believes is displayed on the screen.
"It's Bobby," he tells Dean. "Yeah, Bobby? What's up?"
Still looking angry, Dean stands up and steps around the table then walks away. I let my Grace's hold release him, focusing my energy solely on Sam, making him imagine his surrogate father's voice, picking details from his memories to create a convincing illusion of a conversation.
« I got something for you to hunt, boys. »
I don't enjoy hiding this way, manipulating their minds to trick them into doing what I need them to do, but I think I know the Winchesters well enough to know that they're not like Angels, they just don't obey orders. Should I try to engage them willingly in my strategy, they will ask questions, complain, object to being used as bait, and waste precious time I don't have. Dean, especially, will oppose me because it seems to be part of his personality. Which is weird, considering that I saw in his memories that he has always been perfectly obedient to John Winchester and Bobby Singer.
"I'm listening."
« You got your computer around? Take a look at what's goin' on in Greybull, Wyoming. A local got shot right in the heart and he's still kickin'. »
"Wait a second, I'll check."
Sam squeezes his phone between his ear and his shoulder and quickly types on his keyboard.
"Maybe he just got lucky? There's been some medical breakthroughs, you know. You really think it's something supernatural?"
« Lucky? A 9mm shot straight into the heart, lucky? That sounds normal to you? Bullshit! »
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Dean venting his frustration over the broken jukebox.
"No, no, no, you're right, it's definitely weird."
« You go over there and see what's going on, you hear me? »
"Okay, Bobby. Thanks."
Dean comes back to his brother, unknowingly walking through my right wing. I fly away as silently as I can. Their voices fade out and I reappear in Wyoming, high up in the sky, which makes the city look small, expanding along the river.
I'm not used to staying static in the air anymore. Or at least, I had never experienced it before in a human body. I never had the need for this, we fly so fast when we're using a vessel, hovering in the air is pointless when a single flap of wings is enough to take us wherever we want to go. Besides, the instinct ingrained in Jimmy Novak's soul is growing restless, seeking balance, ground contact and gravity pinning him to this planet.
The wind is blowing hard, flapping my coat behind me, gusting under my shirt. My tie flutters and sways briefly and then is tossed over my shoulder. There are dark clouds surrounding us and engulfing me momentarily, hiding the sight of the city from my eyes.
"Are you sure the righteous man will come?"
Baradiel's voice rose in the wind, and I shift one wing to sway my body in his direction. My older brother's arms are crossed and his wings wide open. The mist wrapped around us is coating his clothes and long hair pulled into a bun with ice fractals. A few long locks of dark brown hair are falling out of it and across his sharp, young face.
"I asked him in a way he could not refuse me."
On his true face showing through, his three eyes are glowing like embers.
"The trap is going to take a long time to set, Castiel. We should start now, there isn't much time left before solstice."
I nod sternly, and focus to send a call to Levanael. Out of the entire Garrison, she is the one I can trust for this Improvised mission. I know she won't betray me, she won't tell Uriel or Zachariah. She has, after all, self-confessed her absolute loyalty to me.
Levanael, I need your assistance. Meet me in the clouds above Greybull, and don't tell anyone.
I barely end my sentence before I hear a soft rustling of wings mixes in the wind, and my sister appears in front of us, obviously confused. Her hair is swaying and swirling in the wind around her face, and her white dress is clinging to her body's curves.
"Cas? What's going on?"
She tilts her head to the side, staring intently at me.
"An opportunity to capture the King of Hell has arisen, but I know Uriel won't let me seize it. He might even ask permission to the hierarchy to obliterate Greybull instead of being subtle. I need your strength to capture Alastair. Will you help me?"
A smile grazes her lips, and she nods without the slightest hesitation.
"You know I will always be on your side, little brother."
I share a look with Baradiel who is uncrossing his arms.
"We need to join our hands and combine our Graces while chanting the Enochian incantations I'm going to teach you. We will have to repeat them over and over again until we have gathered enough energy to encircle the city and close the trap on the demon. Let's begin."
We hold hands together, forming a ring with our arms and our wings whose tips graze each other as we hover high above the city. Baradiel utters rough, solid syllables, his human voice echoing with his celestial one. We do the same with our eyes closed. Our radiant Graces unwind into long strands of light merging together, vibrant with power.
oOo
Jimmy's soul is screaming inside of me, along with the souls of Baradiel and Levanael's vessels. Our intertwined fingers are gushing with liquid energy, and a radiant orb is floating in our midst, ready to be used at last. A phantom, three-dimensional replica of Greybull is floating in the orb's center, which is shrinking progressively in volume to target our objective, closing in on the enemy. I had to interrupt our work many times to check on the Winchester brothers and get them back on track by convincing Sam that Bobby had new information... all of which delayed our spell, and I feared that the trap would never be ready in time. But against all odds, not only is it ready, but the Winchester brothers actually saved the seal.
Tightening my hold on my siblings' hands, with my jaw clenched, I look down at the city far below us. I can feel the demon's presence coming out of the structure warded against Angels.
"Alastair is exposed! We must close the trap!"
The radiant globe is slowly shrinking, leaving the river, the cemetery, the streets, to gradually narrow down to the funeral home where Dean's soul is stepping back from Alastair. Too focused on the righteous man, the demon is talking to him as he moves forward, oblivious to the energy aimed at him.
"Now!" I order my soldiers.
The sphere instantly burst like a balloon and hurls out a bright lightning bolt that strikes the city with great precision, trapping and beaming Alastair directly to the interrogation room that I arranged on Earth for him.
I can't hold back a victory grin just knowing him powerless and strapped to the demon trap that I designed especially for him.
"Levanael, you can go back to your initial mission. Baradiel, make sure that Alastair is properly restrained in the trap. Don't say anything to Uriel or to the hierarchy, I want to inform them personally!"
They comply, and in a wingbeat I appear right behind Dean's soul left alone in the empty street. He hasn't seen me yet.
"What the hell?" he whispers with palpable fright.
"Guess again."
I haven't felt so light and cheerful since the day I raised him out of Hell. His exposed soul looks the same as it did when I was holding it in my hand, it's now floating in the air surrounded by the approximate human form it maintains, having recently left the body. Radiant, strong and righteous, it glows with a rare beauty for a Human. This is the soul from a lineage chosen and beloved by God. And there is a bluish glimmer in its center echoing with my essence, so clear and distinct now without the flesh-and- blood body concealing the soul - the sliver of my Grace that I unknowingly imprinted on Dean when I grabbed him in Hell.
Dean merely stares at me, speechless.
"What just happened?" I continue, filled with joy and victory. "You and Sam just saved a seal. We captured Alastair."
Dean doesn't seem to share my excitement, he still hasn't uttered a word.
"Dean, this was a victory," I say insistently.
"Well, no thanks to you," he finally snaps back.
Now that his soul is bared to my eyes, I find his emotions easier to read and understand. There is clearly distrust in the agitation of this delicate orb of glowing energy, along with barely veiled resentment. As though he had thought that Heaven had forsaken him. That I had forsaken him.
Dean Winchester, once again, doesn't realize that what he doesn't see is just as real, sometimes even more so, than what he perceives through his five senses.
"What makes you say that?"
"You were here the whole time?"
I can hear the same indignant tone of reproach in his voice that made me lose my temper when he showed me disrespect in his dream.
"Enough of it," I reply, averting my gaze.
I don't want to ruin this victory against Hell and the hierarchy with another argument with Dean. I haven't been this happy in months, and I would like to enjoy it just for a little while longer, before I have to face Alastair to extract the information from him, and the hierarchy to justify myself for my initiative.
"Well, thanks for your help with the rock salt!" Dean hisses in a harsh voice heavy with sarcasm.
I guess he's referring to something that occurred in the funeral home that we don't know about because of the markings. Even so, I would only have interfered if the Winchester brothers were in real danger, which was not required given the absence of functional Reapers.
I should leave now, but I can't bring myself to do so. I only wanted to praise and thank Dean, to share my joy with him, and now I feel the need to explain myself. So that Dean understands me and someday will even trust me.
"That script on the funeral home… we couldn't penetrate it."
"That was angel-proofing?"
"Why do you think I recruited you and Sam in the first place?"
Dean's soul glows with disbelief while his shadowy figure raises his eyebrows high.
"You recruited us?"
Admitting that I manipulated them doesn't necessarily work in my favor, but I might as well reveal this to him, and hide the real reason why he is here. Using Dean as bait was the only way to distract Alastair and make his capture possible. I think I have Dean Winchester figured out well enough now to know that he wouldn't be pleased to find out about this.
"That wasn't your friend Bobby who called, Dean. It wasn't Bobby who told Sam about the seal."
"That was you?"
I lower my head, uncomfortable under Dean's accusing glare. His bare soul hides none of his anger and disgust. Interrupting the incantations to insert this illusion into Sam's mind to get the Winchester brothers back on track had been risky, but necessary. I was only trying to assist them, to provide them with useful information... but the righteous man judging my actions would almost make me feel... shame.
Which is completely irrational.
"If you want our help, why the hell didn't you just ask?"
Now not only is he insolent, but he is also showing dishonesty. I know exactly what his reaction would have been if I had just walked into that brewery and asked him to do what I said without question.
"Because," I say with a hint of annoyance. "whatever I ask, you seem to do the exact opposite."
Dean merely rolls his eyes.
"So, what now, huh? The people in this town, they just gonna start dying again?"
What's his point?
"Yes."
"These are good people," Dean says vehemently. "What, you think you can make a few exceptions?"
This naive, dualistic conception of reality in the righteous man's soul will never fail to amaze me. Was it the ordeals he went through in Hell and his life as a hunter trained like a soldier that shaped him so? I can only assume that this inclination to compartmentalize good and evil makes it easier for him to comprehend the world and to cope with his past.
What he is asking for makes no sense at all. Why should kindness spare some people from death? A good person should be granted eternity, then, according to this logic? All Humans eventually die to get to Heaven or Hell.
"To everything there is a season."
"You made an exception for me," he insists.
I press my lips together as I look at the melting snow on the wet ground. Dean doesn't realize that Heaven is organized in hierarchical structures, departments and divisions, and that orders always come from above. I broke the rules by taking this initiative that led to Alastair being caught, but under normal circumstances an ordinary Angel has no power of decision. No one can possibly decide to give eternal life to common Humans just because they are good people. Destiny and the natural order would never allow it.
I look back at Dean. I did rescue him from Hell, but I was forty years too late, and not only was he down there because of me, but I raised him out only to put him through even more painful things.
"You're different."
I silently stare at him for a few more seconds before I fly away.
The joy I felt is gone now, chased away by all the work ahead of me. I have to obtain a confession from Alastair and try my best to defeat the prophecy.
To spare the Apocalypse to all Creation. To Humanity.
To Dean.
oOo
In the next chapter
"I really enjoyed chopping Dean up to the bone while I was singing, you know. It warmed my heart and made my work so much more pleasurable."