A Supernatural Musing 1/?
Title: A Supernatural Musing
Topic: Supernatural
Genre: Het, Friendship, Adventure, Horror, Romance
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel, OFC
Pairings: That would be spoilers ;-)
Beta: jooles34
Words: 4247
Summary: The Winchester brothers investigate a few supernatural deaths, and quickly discover that there is more to them than meets the eye. Even their guardian Angel, Castiel, is unable to help them, only point them in the right direction. The boys follow that path, and soon find out that there are things more ancient than Heaven, more evil than the Devil, and that the old saying "Women are complicated" barely scratches the surface.
Spoilers: It's set sometime during Season 6, between episodes "Unforgiven" and "Mannequin 3: The Reckoning." Everything before that is fair game for spoilers.
Author's Note: This is my first attempt at a Supernatural fic, so please be nice. If you want to follow this and be alerted at updates, the tag I'll always use is "Supernatural Musing." Updates patterns will be every Sunday until June 5, which is my first day of freedom from school. After that, it will be every Sunday and Wednesday until it's finished. I'll try and stick to that update schedule as close as possible.
It was an average night; no dark, foreboding clouds, or the threat of a storm hanging over everyone’s head. He didn’t get those chills that run down your spine, and the hairs on the back of his neck never stood up. In fact, if he had lived through the night to tell the tale, there would be nothing to tell. He was smoking a cigarette; one of the twenty he had already smoked that day. He was a chain smoker who was attempting to quit by using alcohol in between lights. It wasn’t working. His pale hands shook as his disease-riddled fingers tried to find the sweet spot on the bic lighter. After a few tries it took, and a small flame lit up his long and drawn face. The fire caused the bags under his eyes to look even darker, almost sinister. He touched the end to a new fag, then clipped the fire in the bud, shutting off his small source of light. Just like that, it was him, the darkness, and his addiction.
He came out every night to do this. The bitch at home didn’t like him smoking; said the kids would get sick from the cancer sticks. She never cared about his habit before he had been diagnosed with the C-word. They never spoke about it in the house, or where the kids could hear. She figured that if they never talked about it, then the hospital bills and bad blood cells would just disappear, like a god when his people no longer had faith. So far, that hypothesis was being proven incorrect.
He had thought about praying, when his doctor first gave him the news. Thought that maybe, if he asked for forgiveness for all the stupid and hurtful things he had done, that God would stop punishing him. He told the bitch about it, and she laughed in his face, getting spittle in his eye. ‘Why would God waste a miracle on someone like you?’ She had said, then yelled at him to move, because he was blocking the television, and Desperate Housewives was on.
He never ending up doing it; her words had made too much sense. Why should he be forgiven, when there were so many more people who deserved it so much more. That one guy had cancer, and started a multi-million dollar charity to help research find a cure. What had he done? Bankrupted his family through too much booze and cigarettes. He was getting close to the end; he could tell. His whole body ached, and he couldn’t breathe fresh air anymore. He hacked up a lung every time he coughed, and his headaches never went away. Soon, he would have to go to the hospital, where bill after bill would wrack up; a final parting gift to his family. He couldn’t care less about his wife, but his children didn’t deserve that. They didn’t deserve any of that. He took another drag.
His thoughts had distracted him from reality, and he felt a burn on the tip of his right middle finger. He let out a small yelp of surprise and dropped the cigarette that had burned too short. He looked down, staring at the small red pulse sitting in the grass. He moved to grind it out, but paused. A feeling came over him, and he closed his eyes, brought his hands together in front of him, and started to pray.
“Dear Lord…or Jesus, or God. I dunno wha’ the kids is a’callin’ ya these days. I ain’t askin’ for a miracle or nuthin’ - nuthin’ for me. I jus’ wan’ mah kids ta be alright…don’ let the bank take their life away…amen.” He finished unsteadily and let out a long, shaky breath that was cut short as a cough wracked his unnaturally skinny frame. His eyes opened slowly at first, not wanting to see the cigarette butt, knowing that he was too weak to stop from going for another one. His hand was already on its way to his lighter when he froze. His eyes hadn’t focused on the burning ash, as he thought he would. Instead, he focused on a black shoe. Startled, he glanced up, falling a few feet back. There was a man in front of him dressed from head to toe in black. A dark jacket, with a black collared shirt and tie. But the color coordination didn’t stop there. His skin was the same shade as his clothes, so much so that it was almost hard to tell where man stopped and jacket began. Even the whites of his eyes were black. The creature just stood there, staring at him, his eyes unblinking, burning holes through him, as if it could sense his sin, and was soaking it in.
“Oh mah God…” he managed to splutter, his knees going weak. His common sense was yelling at him to run as if hell was on his heels, but there was some small part of him that wanted him to just stand there and let this creature do what it wanted. His legs were too far gone to respond to his common sense, so he stood there, his entire body a whisper of what it once was.
“Close.” Its voice resounded in his head. Its mouth didn’t move, but the single syllable was loud and clear. Its hand reached out slowly, and time moved like a slug. He breathed out, and his eyes fluttered shut. Fingers colder than ice - yet somehow comfortingly warm -brushed his forehead. A light brighter than the sun sealed his eyes shut, and for a split second, he felt no aches, no pain. He breathed in; the first real, clear breathe in years.
-
“Agent Rob Harris. This is my partner, Agent Paul McGilicuddy.” They flashed their badges slow enough for the coroner to match their faces with the pictures, but just quick enough for him not to catch the drying super glue in the corners. Dean gave a smile to match the badge, his right hand holding the faux leather, while the other fiddled with the button on his cheap rental suit. He pocketed the ID and slid his hand into his front pocket in what he believed was an intimidating stance. His left fingers moved from the button to smoothing down his blue and black striped tie. His broad shoulders weren’t used to being so restricted by clothing, and his black shiny shoes were already scuffed.
“Thank you for your time. We’re interested in the body from last night.” The second Agent was taller than the first; his fitted suit hid his bulk while still managing to show off his well-built frame. His hands rested lazily in his pockets while his green eyes slowly swept the room before landing again on the short, pudgy man in front of him.
“Damn well time that the FBI got interested in this, I say. Called ‘em last week, I did. Know what they said? ‘Some coke dealers and druggies get whacked, and you want us to stop that?’ I threw the phone across the room, I did.”
“They said that?” Dean spoke up.
“Well, something like that.” the coroner mumbled.
He gestured for them to follow him through to the back room where the autopsies took place. The temperature dropped noticeably as they walked through the doorway, and the two tensed visibly as their breath took on a physical state. In their line of work, cold temperature meant more than just the thermostat turned down low.
“Third one this year. Happens every two months, on the 15. Have the day marked on my calendar, I do. Always interesting.” The squat man pulled on the drawer closest to him, a body following in its wake. It had been brought in the night before; the man looked like he was sleeping, a peaceful smile on his face. It was creepy.
“Third one? Think you’re dealing with a serial killer?” Sam asked. He reached out with his naked hand and gripped the end of the sheet, pulling it down so that he could see the corpse’s chest. Like the online police report had stated, there was a huge symbol carved into the victim’s chest. However, the character wasn’t exactly carved. Sam frowned. “Glove?”
The coroner opened his mouth as if to argue, but a strict glance from Dean made him decide otherwise. Sam was handed a glove, which he swiftly put on. Then, he ran the tips of his fingers over the skin on the body’s chest. “No incision or scars.”
“Hell of a tattoo, if you ask me. The other two had similar ones. I say, it’s a part of some weird-ass cult. You know, getting symbolic tattoos, then killing off their members as part of some sort of sacrifice.”
“The other two were addicts as well, right?” Dean asked, his eyes never leaving the strange marking on the victim’s chest. It looked familiar; like an itch in the back of his mind that he couldn’t quite scratch.
“Their records stated so, yeah. But here’s the thing; their bodies and blood work were clean. This guy was found with tons of cigarette butts at the crime scene. Saw his doctor last week and was told he had maybe a year left; dying of lung cancer. Nothing. No tumors, no cancer cells. I ran tests - no anti-bodies that would indicate a previous history of chicken pox or the common cold, even! His body is so clean, it’s almost like…”
“He’s pure.” Sam finished for the coroner, and the man sheepishly nodded.
“Yeah.”
The two brothers exchanged a look. Then Dean stepped forward and offered his hand. “Thanks for your time Doc. We’ll be by again if we need you.”
“And if I could get a copy of this case, as well as the other two, that would be great.”
The coroner narrowed his eyes, then cautiously nodded. “Sure thing boys. I tell you, let the bureau know that it should’ve sent guys down earlier. I do know what I’m doing.”
-
“So?”
“So what?”
“You think it’s a crazy cult of druggies and alcoholics who are gankin’ each other on the ides of every other month?”
“Two things.” Dean lifted his right hand off the steering wheel of the Impala long enough to hold up two fingers, emphasizing his words. “One, what’s ‘ides?’ Two, wouldn’t bet on it. You see any entrance or exit wounds on that body?”
“Nope. Report has nothing either. Same for the other two bodies as well. Strange symbol carved into their chest, bodies purified of everything. No flaws. Girl from January’s birthmark disappeared.” Sam read from the police file. “These aren’t some cult killing.”
“So we’re dealing with a crazy cult-addicted medical genius, or something spooky.” Hand parted form steering wheel once more as the older of the two reached up to loosen his tie.
“My money’s on something spooky.” Sam said. No way nothing human could cleanse something like this.
“Or a human with supernatural help.” Dean pointed out, and Sam was inclined to agree. “That symbol on our friend back there is bothering me. I swear I’ve seen something like it before.”
“Same here. Drop me off at the motel and I’ll hit the books. You should drop by the missus’ house, see if anything fits the ‘spooky’ profile.” He packed up the reports in time for Dean to pull into the parking lot of the motel they were staying at. It was just another sketchy one-story building with magic fingers and off-white sheets to better hide the stains. Dean gave a sigh, and Sam glanced at him, a little worried, before hopping out of the Impala and hitting the top of the car with his palm to let his brother know that he was out of harm’s way. The car roared then took off, AC/DC already cranking out of the overused speakers.
-
He knocked a third time, and was almost thrown off balance as the door jerked open. It stopped after a few inches, the sound of a chain being yanked to its limit telling Dean the reason. A bloodshot eye glared through the gap, make-up smeared and running, like the woman had been crying. Dean gave a disarming smile and held his badge out so the eye could read it.
“Agent Rob Harris, FBI. I’d like to ask you a few questions involving your husband, Mr. Roth.”
The eye narrowed. “Why does the FBI care ’bout mah husband? Damn po-lice already been by her’ stirrin’ things up. I don’ wanna talk ‘bout it no more.” The door slammed shut.
Dean closed his eyes and let out a long breath. This was the moment that Sam would really come in handy. He would pull out his puppy-dog eyes and say some touching and overall cheesy-as-crap line, and the woman’s hard exterior would crack open like an egg. She might even offer his some coffee or tea - it had happened before. The bottom line was, Dean would be in the house asking questions and playing the bad cop at the moment instead of being stranded on the porch of a god-forsaken home.
He stepped backwards and surveyed the yard and the house that sat upon it. Grass that needed cut; in a day or two it would be considered overgrown. There were children’s toys scattered on the lawn, and Dean felt extremely sorry for however many kids were stuck in that house with that woman. The house itself was falling apart. There were some signs of attempted rebuilding; a new window amidst the old and dirty ones, a few new shingles here are there. Overall, if Dean had just been driving past, he never would have thought that a family would be living there. And he thought he had it bad when it came to living arrangements.
What had Sam told him about the family that would be useful? Dean tried to remember. It wasn’t much. The two had been married for about ten years, had two kids, and were extremely behind on their medical bills…that was it. He plastered on a smile and knocked on the door one last time.
“Go away!” the woman’s nasally voice shouted from inside the house.
Dean cleared his throat. “Ma’am, I thought I should just let you know that the Bureau’s entire investigation is being copied and sent to your insurance company to determine whether or not your family can receive his life insurance check. We thought it would only be fair if you got to give a statement for them to read.”
He turned to walk away, but his feet didn’t even make it to the first step on the porch before the door opened, and he was ushered inside.
Dean could barely hide his smirk. Maybe he didn’t need Sam after all.
The predatory glance that Mrs. Roth was giving him, however, made Dean rethink that last thought.
-
“So your husband was diagnosed with lung cancer two years ago?” Dean asked, sitting back on the couch and watching Mrs. Roth as she took a seat opposite of him. His back hit something plastic and solid and he winced, reaching behind him and pulling out a small toy truck. He smiled before setting the thing on the ground - he had been the proud owner of one of those. He had left it at a motel when their Dad had been on the hot trail of a Demon who was skipping state lines with stolen souls in his briefcase.
“Yes. Damn smoking…” She paused, her brown eyes widening a fraction when she realized that smoking could be a legitimate reason that the insurance company withheld the check. “…I was always tellin’ him ta stop. He nevuh listened. ‘Do it for the kids’ I’d tell him, but didn’t matte’ ta him.”
“Um, yeah. The place he was found, he went there a lot?” Dean asked. The woman in front of him was a little overweight; how most women looked after being comfortably married and not having to worry about keeping in shape. Dean imagined she had been quite a catch, back in her day. The makeup was so heavily caked on her face that he couldn’t find a patch of natural skin, and her hair was teased so hard that it was weeping. Her clothes were those that were in style when Dean was in grade school. He found himself feeling sorry for her. In fact, he found himself feeling sorry for the entire family and their situation.
“How should I know? He’d always jus’ go off an’ disappear. Run through his pain pills too fast. Cigarettes an’ booze all he ate an’ drank. Kids didn’t recognize ‘im anymore. Things used ta be good…” She drifted off.
Dean frowned to himself. The more he saw about this case, the more he was coming to realize that Mr. Roth’s death was probably the best thing that had happened to this family since he had received his death sentence two years ago. “One more thing, Mrs. Roth. The tattoo on your husbands chest…”
She looked up sharply. “Tattoo? Mah husband nevuh had a tattoo in his life! I dunno what kind of questionin’ your doin’, but I don’t like it. Ge’out of mah house!” She stood up and manhandled Dean out the door. Confused, he did as she asked, and didn’t put up a fight. On the way out, his eyes landed on a small Barbie doll lying next to the couch. She had long brown hair and was wearing a white dress with a halo sitting crooked on her head. Her white fluffy wings were stained and missing enough feathers that he could make out the wiring made to hold them together.
As the door was slammed in his face, Dean remembered why that symbol on the victim’s chest looked so familiar.
-
Sam glanced up as the sound of approaching footsteps met his ears. He tensed, and his hand shifted from the keyboard of his laptop to grip the .22 that was sitting on the table, cocked and loaded; safety off. He waited for the footsteps to continue on their way. When they stopped in front of his door Sam abandoned the laptop altogether, moving the gun under the table so that the end of the barrel was pointed at the doorway, right at the height that a persons leg would be. A key was inserted into the lock, and the handle twisted slowly. The door clicked open, and Dean’s figure entered the dark room. Sam breathed out and turned the safety on, swiftly sliding the gun on the table before Dean saw that he had been aiming it at him.
“You’re back early.” Sam spoke up, covering the soft ‘clink’ that the metal made as it came in contact with the wooden table-top.
“Doesn’t take long when you’re this good.” Dean retorted back, shedding his jacket and throwing it on the closest bed - which happened to be Sam’s.
“She wasn’t cooperating, was she?” Sam asked. It was a rhetorical question.
Dean narrowed his eyes, walking over to the mini fridge to look inside. He shut it with a grunt when he was met with empty shelves. He turned around. “Turns out the tattoo wasn’t on the guy before his death. Wife had no idea.”
“Maybe she just didn’t know.” Sam said, grabbing his laptop and balancing it on his knees as he pulled up the pictures of the tattoos that were on all three victims.
“I think she would know. Call it a feeling.” Dean sat on his bed. “I dunno man, but something isn’t right. I mean, Roth’s death was the best thing to happen to his family since he was diagnosed. His body was completely purified, like he was…I dunno, forgiven?” He ran his hand through his hair. “If you ask me, this sounds a little holy-art-thou.”
“I was thinking the same thing.” Sam said, turning his laptop around. “These symbols all have the same strokes as the characters that Cas carved into our ribs. I saved a copy of our x-rays on my laptop and compared them.”
“Seriously? That’s like holding on to a growth after the doctor removes it.” Dean wrinkled his nose.
Sam ignored him. “The other two had similar family backgrounds. Emily - girl from January - was a drug addict. She tried several times to go clean, but wasn’t strong enough. Carlson was the next victim, and he was basically the same story, only with whiskey. Both had families that were suffering from their addictions, and they’re all better off now…”
“Sounds like a rogue Angel who thinks he’s batman.” Dean said, and missed Sam’s confused look at his comparison as he closed his eyes and clasped him hands together in prayer.
“Dear Castiel. How’s that Civil War going? Hope you got our Christmas card…” Sam threw an empty beer can at Dean and hit him in the chest.
Dean cracked his eyes opened and frowned. “Hey man, I’m praying here. Have some respect.” He closed his eyes again, this time being serious. “We think we’ve stumbled upon some Angel mojo here, has your name written all over it…literally. If you could take some time out of your extremely busy schedule to deal with us mortals and our issues, it would be greatly appreciated.” Dean opened his eyes and was met with Sam’s disapproving glare. He liked it better when they were closed.
“One of these days, you’re going to piss him off, and he won’t show.” Sam said.
“I’ll stop trying to piss him off when he adds ‘pissed off’ to his extremely limited bank of emotions.” Dean pointed out. Sam was saved from having to come up with a retort by the soft flutter of wings.
“Let me see the symbols.” Castiel said, all business. His askew appearance was even more sideways that usual, and there were bags under his eyes. Until today, neither of the brothers knew that Angels could even get bags under their eyes.
“Hello to you too.” Dean replied as Sam handed Cas the laptop with the three tattoos pulled up on the screen. The Angel’s eyes scanned the pictures, a frown forming on his face.
“Those aren’t Enokian.” Cas said, handing the laptop back.
“Are you sure? They look pretty damn similar.” Dean shot back, and Cas delicately raised an eyebrow.
“I think I would recognize my own language.” He turned towards the screen, looking at them again. “It’s not Enokian, but it is similar.” His frown grew so deep that lines showed on his forehead. “If I’m correct, then my language was derived from those.”
“Wait - ” Sam held up a hand. “Are you saying that there is a language older than God’s?”
“Heaven’s. Enokian is the language of the Angels, not the language of God. And yes. There were a few tribes around before we were created.”
“You talking about Garden of Eden?” Dean asked hesitantly, and Cas shook his head.
“Older.”
“The bible says there weren’t humans on Earth before Eden.” Sam said, pulling on his knowledge of history and the start of civilization he had absorbed during his school days.
“The bible tells the story of God’s people. These symbols aren’t from his creations. There were other Gods before we were created. Powerful beings, almost able to challenge Him. But their races died out before God became the sole power on Earth.” Something in Cas’s voice wasn’t right, almost as if he had tacked a silent ‘mostly’ on the end of his sentence. “Sorry, wish I could help.”
Cas went to leave, but Dean was a step ahead of him. He lunged forward and grabbed on to the edge of the Angel’s coat, stopping him from evaporating into thin air like he normally did.
“There’s nothing. No book, no written information. No one left from before Eden?” Dean asked, and he caught the hesitant look in Cas’ eyes.
Bingo.
“There was no written documentation. And like I said before, no survivors. They would be hundreds of thousands of years old.”
“Nothing.” Sam said, picking on to what Dean had said. The younger brother stood up and crossed his arms. “Throughout the entirety of Heaven and Earth, nothing?”
“Their souls wouldn’t have gone to Heaven…they had their own paradise after death.” Cas said evasively.
Dean looked at Sam. “Hey, Sammy. Notice how Castiel here isn’t covering the second half of ‘Heaven and Earth’?”
He nodded. “I do, Dean. That’s funny, isn’t it? Because I would have thought that if Castiel had anything to tell us, he would, seeing that he’s so busy with a Civil War and everything.”
“And he knows that we aren’t going to let him go until he talks.” Dean finished.
Cas narrowed his eyes, his voice growing ominous. “I could transport you a hundred miles under the sea then leave you there to drown.”
“Don’t make me get out the holy oil.” Dean threatened in return, and Cas’ shoulders visibly slumped.
“Fine.” Castiel relented. He stepped forward, and all of Dean’s strength wasn’t able to keep the Angel in place. Cas reached both hands out, and touched the brothers’ foreheads simultaneously. They screwed their eyes shut, knowing what was coming next.
A flash of bright white light, and a few seconds of vertigo. They opened their eyes.
“Sammy, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.” Dean remarked.
Cas frowned. “We were never in Kansas.” Next Chapter
Topic: Supernatural
Genre: Het, Friendship, Adventure, Horror, Romance
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel, OFC
Pairings: That would be spoilers ;-)
Beta: jooles34
Words: 4247
Summary: The Winchester brothers investigate a few supernatural deaths, and quickly discover that there is more to them than meets the eye. Even their guardian Angel, Castiel, is unable to help them, only point them in the right direction. The boys follow that path, and soon find out that there are things more ancient than Heaven, more evil than the Devil, and that the old saying "Women are complicated" barely scratches the surface.
Spoilers: It's set sometime during Season 6, between episodes "Unforgiven" and "Mannequin 3: The Reckoning." Everything before that is fair game for spoilers.
Author's Note: This is my first attempt at a Supernatural fic, so please be nice. If you want to follow this and be alerted at updates, the tag I'll always use is "Supernatural Musing." Updates patterns will be every Sunday until June 5, which is my first day of freedom from school. After that, it will be every Sunday and Wednesday until it's finished. I'll try and stick to that update schedule as close as possible.
It was an average night; no dark, foreboding clouds, or the threat of a storm hanging over everyone’s head. He didn’t get those chills that run down your spine, and the hairs on the back of his neck never stood up. In fact, if he had lived through the night to tell the tale, there would be nothing to tell. He was smoking a cigarette; one of the twenty he had already smoked that day. He was a chain smoker who was attempting to quit by using alcohol in between lights. It wasn’t working. His pale hands shook as his disease-riddled fingers tried to find the sweet spot on the bic lighter. After a few tries it took, and a small flame lit up his long and drawn face. The fire caused the bags under his eyes to look even darker, almost sinister. He touched the end to a new fag, then clipped the fire in the bud, shutting off his small source of light. Just like that, it was him, the darkness, and his addiction.
He came out every night to do this. The bitch at home didn’t like him smoking; said the kids would get sick from the cancer sticks. She never cared about his habit before he had been diagnosed with the C-word. They never spoke about it in the house, or where the kids could hear. She figured that if they never talked about it, then the hospital bills and bad blood cells would just disappear, like a god when his people no longer had faith. So far, that hypothesis was being proven incorrect.
He had thought about praying, when his doctor first gave him the news. Thought that maybe, if he asked for forgiveness for all the stupid and hurtful things he had done, that God would stop punishing him. He told the bitch about it, and she laughed in his face, getting spittle in his eye. ‘Why would God waste a miracle on someone like you?’ She had said, then yelled at him to move, because he was blocking the television, and Desperate Housewives was on.
He never ending up doing it; her words had made too much sense. Why should he be forgiven, when there were so many more people who deserved it so much more. That one guy had cancer, and started a multi-million dollar charity to help research find a cure. What had he done? Bankrupted his family through too much booze and cigarettes. He was getting close to the end; he could tell. His whole body ached, and he couldn’t breathe fresh air anymore. He hacked up a lung every time he coughed, and his headaches never went away. Soon, he would have to go to the hospital, where bill after bill would wrack up; a final parting gift to his family. He couldn’t care less about his wife, but his children didn’t deserve that. They didn’t deserve any of that. He took another drag.
His thoughts had distracted him from reality, and he felt a burn on the tip of his right middle finger. He let out a small yelp of surprise and dropped the cigarette that had burned too short. He looked down, staring at the small red pulse sitting in the grass. He moved to grind it out, but paused. A feeling came over him, and he closed his eyes, brought his hands together in front of him, and started to pray.
“Dear Lord…or Jesus, or God. I dunno wha’ the kids is a’callin’ ya these days. I ain’t askin’ for a miracle or nuthin’ - nuthin’ for me. I jus’ wan’ mah kids ta be alright…don’ let the bank take their life away…amen.” He finished unsteadily and let out a long, shaky breath that was cut short as a cough wracked his unnaturally skinny frame. His eyes opened slowly at first, not wanting to see the cigarette butt, knowing that he was too weak to stop from going for another one. His hand was already on its way to his lighter when he froze. His eyes hadn’t focused on the burning ash, as he thought he would. Instead, he focused on a black shoe. Startled, he glanced up, falling a few feet back. There was a man in front of him dressed from head to toe in black. A dark jacket, with a black collared shirt and tie. But the color coordination didn’t stop there. His skin was the same shade as his clothes, so much so that it was almost hard to tell where man stopped and jacket began. Even the whites of his eyes were black. The creature just stood there, staring at him, his eyes unblinking, burning holes through him, as if it could sense his sin, and was soaking it in.
“Oh mah God…” he managed to splutter, his knees going weak. His common sense was yelling at him to run as if hell was on his heels, but there was some small part of him that wanted him to just stand there and let this creature do what it wanted. His legs were too far gone to respond to his common sense, so he stood there, his entire body a whisper of what it once was.
“Close.” Its voice resounded in his head. Its mouth didn’t move, but the single syllable was loud and clear. Its hand reached out slowly, and time moved like a slug. He breathed out, and his eyes fluttered shut. Fingers colder than ice - yet somehow comfortingly warm -brushed his forehead. A light brighter than the sun sealed his eyes shut, and for a split second, he felt no aches, no pain. He breathed in; the first real, clear breathe in years.
-
“Agent Rob Harris. This is my partner, Agent Paul McGilicuddy.” They flashed their badges slow enough for the coroner to match their faces with the pictures, but just quick enough for him not to catch the drying super glue in the corners. Dean gave a smile to match the badge, his right hand holding the faux leather, while the other fiddled with the button on his cheap rental suit. He pocketed the ID and slid his hand into his front pocket in what he believed was an intimidating stance. His left fingers moved from the button to smoothing down his blue and black striped tie. His broad shoulders weren’t used to being so restricted by clothing, and his black shiny shoes were already scuffed.
“Thank you for your time. We’re interested in the body from last night.” The second Agent was taller than the first; his fitted suit hid his bulk while still managing to show off his well-built frame. His hands rested lazily in his pockets while his green eyes slowly swept the room before landing again on the short, pudgy man in front of him.
“Damn well time that the FBI got interested in this, I say. Called ‘em last week, I did. Know what they said? ‘Some coke dealers and druggies get whacked, and you want us to stop that?’ I threw the phone across the room, I did.”
“They said that?” Dean spoke up.
“Well, something like that.” the coroner mumbled.
He gestured for them to follow him through to the back room where the autopsies took place. The temperature dropped noticeably as they walked through the doorway, and the two tensed visibly as their breath took on a physical state. In their line of work, cold temperature meant more than just the thermostat turned down low.
“Third one this year. Happens every two months, on the 15. Have the day marked on my calendar, I do. Always interesting.” The squat man pulled on the drawer closest to him, a body following in its wake. It had been brought in the night before; the man looked like he was sleeping, a peaceful smile on his face. It was creepy.
“Third one? Think you’re dealing with a serial killer?” Sam asked. He reached out with his naked hand and gripped the end of the sheet, pulling it down so that he could see the corpse’s chest. Like the online police report had stated, there was a huge symbol carved into the victim’s chest. However, the character wasn’t exactly carved. Sam frowned. “Glove?”
The coroner opened his mouth as if to argue, but a strict glance from Dean made him decide otherwise. Sam was handed a glove, which he swiftly put on. Then, he ran the tips of his fingers over the skin on the body’s chest. “No incision or scars.”
“Hell of a tattoo, if you ask me. The other two had similar ones. I say, it’s a part of some weird-ass cult. You know, getting symbolic tattoos, then killing off their members as part of some sort of sacrifice.”
“The other two were addicts as well, right?” Dean asked, his eyes never leaving the strange marking on the victim’s chest. It looked familiar; like an itch in the back of his mind that he couldn’t quite scratch.
“Their records stated so, yeah. But here’s the thing; their bodies and blood work were clean. This guy was found with tons of cigarette butts at the crime scene. Saw his doctor last week and was told he had maybe a year left; dying of lung cancer. Nothing. No tumors, no cancer cells. I ran tests - no anti-bodies that would indicate a previous history of chicken pox or the common cold, even! His body is so clean, it’s almost like…”
“He’s pure.” Sam finished for the coroner, and the man sheepishly nodded.
“Yeah.”
The two brothers exchanged a look. Then Dean stepped forward and offered his hand. “Thanks for your time Doc. We’ll be by again if we need you.”
“And if I could get a copy of this case, as well as the other two, that would be great.”
The coroner narrowed his eyes, then cautiously nodded. “Sure thing boys. I tell you, let the bureau know that it should’ve sent guys down earlier. I do know what I’m doing.”
-
“So?”
“So what?”
“You think it’s a crazy cult of druggies and alcoholics who are gankin’ each other on the ides of every other month?”
“Two things.” Dean lifted his right hand off the steering wheel of the Impala long enough to hold up two fingers, emphasizing his words. “One, what’s ‘ides?’ Two, wouldn’t bet on it. You see any entrance or exit wounds on that body?”
“Nope. Report has nothing either. Same for the other two bodies as well. Strange symbol carved into their chest, bodies purified of everything. No flaws. Girl from January’s birthmark disappeared.” Sam read from the police file. “These aren’t some cult killing.”
“So we’re dealing with a crazy cult-addicted medical genius, or something spooky.” Hand parted form steering wheel once more as the older of the two reached up to loosen his tie.
“My money’s on something spooky.” Sam said. No way nothing human could cleanse something like this.
“Or a human with supernatural help.” Dean pointed out, and Sam was inclined to agree. “That symbol on our friend back there is bothering me. I swear I’ve seen something like it before.”
“Same here. Drop me off at the motel and I’ll hit the books. You should drop by the missus’ house, see if anything fits the ‘spooky’ profile.” He packed up the reports in time for Dean to pull into the parking lot of the motel they were staying at. It was just another sketchy one-story building with magic fingers and off-white sheets to better hide the stains. Dean gave a sigh, and Sam glanced at him, a little worried, before hopping out of the Impala and hitting the top of the car with his palm to let his brother know that he was out of harm’s way. The car roared then took off, AC/DC already cranking out of the overused speakers.
-
He knocked a third time, and was almost thrown off balance as the door jerked open. It stopped after a few inches, the sound of a chain being yanked to its limit telling Dean the reason. A bloodshot eye glared through the gap, make-up smeared and running, like the woman had been crying. Dean gave a disarming smile and held his badge out so the eye could read it.
“Agent Rob Harris, FBI. I’d like to ask you a few questions involving your husband, Mr. Roth.”
The eye narrowed. “Why does the FBI care ’bout mah husband? Damn po-lice already been by her’ stirrin’ things up. I don’ wanna talk ‘bout it no more.” The door slammed shut.
Dean closed his eyes and let out a long breath. This was the moment that Sam would really come in handy. He would pull out his puppy-dog eyes and say some touching and overall cheesy-as-crap line, and the woman’s hard exterior would crack open like an egg. She might even offer his some coffee or tea - it had happened before. The bottom line was, Dean would be in the house asking questions and playing the bad cop at the moment instead of being stranded on the porch of a god-forsaken home.
He stepped backwards and surveyed the yard and the house that sat upon it. Grass that needed cut; in a day or two it would be considered overgrown. There were children’s toys scattered on the lawn, and Dean felt extremely sorry for however many kids were stuck in that house with that woman. The house itself was falling apart. There were some signs of attempted rebuilding; a new window amidst the old and dirty ones, a few new shingles here are there. Overall, if Dean had just been driving past, he never would have thought that a family would be living there. And he thought he had it bad when it came to living arrangements.
What had Sam told him about the family that would be useful? Dean tried to remember. It wasn’t much. The two had been married for about ten years, had two kids, and were extremely behind on their medical bills…that was it. He plastered on a smile and knocked on the door one last time.
“Go away!” the woman’s nasally voice shouted from inside the house.
Dean cleared his throat. “Ma’am, I thought I should just let you know that the Bureau’s entire investigation is being copied and sent to your insurance company to determine whether or not your family can receive his life insurance check. We thought it would only be fair if you got to give a statement for them to read.”
He turned to walk away, but his feet didn’t even make it to the first step on the porch before the door opened, and he was ushered inside.
Dean could barely hide his smirk. Maybe he didn’t need Sam after all.
The predatory glance that Mrs. Roth was giving him, however, made Dean rethink that last thought.
-
“So your husband was diagnosed with lung cancer two years ago?” Dean asked, sitting back on the couch and watching Mrs. Roth as she took a seat opposite of him. His back hit something plastic and solid and he winced, reaching behind him and pulling out a small toy truck. He smiled before setting the thing on the ground - he had been the proud owner of one of those. He had left it at a motel when their Dad had been on the hot trail of a Demon who was skipping state lines with stolen souls in his briefcase.
“Yes. Damn smoking…” She paused, her brown eyes widening a fraction when she realized that smoking could be a legitimate reason that the insurance company withheld the check. “…I was always tellin’ him ta stop. He nevuh listened. ‘Do it for the kids’ I’d tell him, but didn’t matte’ ta him.”
“Um, yeah. The place he was found, he went there a lot?” Dean asked. The woman in front of him was a little overweight; how most women looked after being comfortably married and not having to worry about keeping in shape. Dean imagined she had been quite a catch, back in her day. The makeup was so heavily caked on her face that he couldn’t find a patch of natural skin, and her hair was teased so hard that it was weeping. Her clothes were those that were in style when Dean was in grade school. He found himself feeling sorry for her. In fact, he found himself feeling sorry for the entire family and their situation.
“How should I know? He’d always jus’ go off an’ disappear. Run through his pain pills too fast. Cigarettes an’ booze all he ate an’ drank. Kids didn’t recognize ‘im anymore. Things used ta be good…” She drifted off.
Dean frowned to himself. The more he saw about this case, the more he was coming to realize that Mr. Roth’s death was probably the best thing that had happened to this family since he had received his death sentence two years ago. “One more thing, Mrs. Roth. The tattoo on your husbands chest…”
She looked up sharply. “Tattoo? Mah husband nevuh had a tattoo in his life! I dunno what kind of questionin’ your doin’, but I don’t like it. Ge’out of mah house!” She stood up and manhandled Dean out the door. Confused, he did as she asked, and didn’t put up a fight. On the way out, his eyes landed on a small Barbie doll lying next to the couch. She had long brown hair and was wearing a white dress with a halo sitting crooked on her head. Her white fluffy wings were stained and missing enough feathers that he could make out the wiring made to hold them together.
As the door was slammed in his face, Dean remembered why that symbol on the victim’s chest looked so familiar.
-
Sam glanced up as the sound of approaching footsteps met his ears. He tensed, and his hand shifted from the keyboard of his laptop to grip the .22 that was sitting on the table, cocked and loaded; safety off. He waited for the footsteps to continue on their way. When they stopped in front of his door Sam abandoned the laptop altogether, moving the gun under the table so that the end of the barrel was pointed at the doorway, right at the height that a persons leg would be. A key was inserted into the lock, and the handle twisted slowly. The door clicked open, and Dean’s figure entered the dark room. Sam breathed out and turned the safety on, swiftly sliding the gun on the table before Dean saw that he had been aiming it at him.
“You’re back early.” Sam spoke up, covering the soft ‘clink’ that the metal made as it came in contact with the wooden table-top.
“Doesn’t take long when you’re this good.” Dean retorted back, shedding his jacket and throwing it on the closest bed - which happened to be Sam’s.
“She wasn’t cooperating, was she?” Sam asked. It was a rhetorical question.
Dean narrowed his eyes, walking over to the mini fridge to look inside. He shut it with a grunt when he was met with empty shelves. He turned around. “Turns out the tattoo wasn’t on the guy before his death. Wife had no idea.”
“Maybe she just didn’t know.” Sam said, grabbing his laptop and balancing it on his knees as he pulled up the pictures of the tattoos that were on all three victims.
“I think she would know. Call it a feeling.” Dean sat on his bed. “I dunno man, but something isn’t right. I mean, Roth’s death was the best thing to happen to his family since he was diagnosed. His body was completely purified, like he was…I dunno, forgiven?” He ran his hand through his hair. “If you ask me, this sounds a little holy-art-thou.”
“I was thinking the same thing.” Sam said, turning his laptop around. “These symbols all have the same strokes as the characters that Cas carved into our ribs. I saved a copy of our x-rays on my laptop and compared them.”
“Seriously? That’s like holding on to a growth after the doctor removes it.” Dean wrinkled his nose.
Sam ignored him. “The other two had similar family backgrounds. Emily - girl from January - was a drug addict. She tried several times to go clean, but wasn’t strong enough. Carlson was the next victim, and he was basically the same story, only with whiskey. Both had families that were suffering from their addictions, and they’re all better off now…”
“Sounds like a rogue Angel who thinks he’s batman.” Dean said, and missed Sam’s confused look at his comparison as he closed his eyes and clasped him hands together in prayer.
“Dear Castiel. How’s that Civil War going? Hope you got our Christmas card…” Sam threw an empty beer can at Dean and hit him in the chest.
Dean cracked his eyes opened and frowned. “Hey man, I’m praying here. Have some respect.” He closed his eyes again, this time being serious. “We think we’ve stumbled upon some Angel mojo here, has your name written all over it…literally. If you could take some time out of your extremely busy schedule to deal with us mortals and our issues, it would be greatly appreciated.” Dean opened his eyes and was met with Sam’s disapproving glare. He liked it better when they were closed.
“One of these days, you’re going to piss him off, and he won’t show.” Sam said.
“I’ll stop trying to piss him off when he adds ‘pissed off’ to his extremely limited bank of emotions.” Dean pointed out. Sam was saved from having to come up with a retort by the soft flutter of wings.
“Let me see the symbols.” Castiel said, all business. His askew appearance was even more sideways that usual, and there were bags under his eyes. Until today, neither of the brothers knew that Angels could even get bags under their eyes.
“Hello to you too.” Dean replied as Sam handed Cas the laptop with the three tattoos pulled up on the screen. The Angel’s eyes scanned the pictures, a frown forming on his face.
“Those aren’t Enokian.” Cas said, handing the laptop back.
“Are you sure? They look pretty damn similar.” Dean shot back, and Cas delicately raised an eyebrow.
“I think I would recognize my own language.” He turned towards the screen, looking at them again. “It’s not Enokian, but it is similar.” His frown grew so deep that lines showed on his forehead. “If I’m correct, then my language was derived from those.”
“Wait - ” Sam held up a hand. “Are you saying that there is a language older than God’s?”
“Heaven’s. Enokian is the language of the Angels, not the language of God. And yes. There were a few tribes around before we were created.”
“You talking about Garden of Eden?” Dean asked hesitantly, and Cas shook his head.
“Older.”
“The bible says there weren’t humans on Earth before Eden.” Sam said, pulling on his knowledge of history and the start of civilization he had absorbed during his school days.
“The bible tells the story of God’s people. These symbols aren’t from his creations. There were other Gods before we were created. Powerful beings, almost able to challenge Him. But their races died out before God became the sole power on Earth.” Something in Cas’s voice wasn’t right, almost as if he had tacked a silent ‘mostly’ on the end of his sentence. “Sorry, wish I could help.”
Cas went to leave, but Dean was a step ahead of him. He lunged forward and grabbed on to the edge of the Angel’s coat, stopping him from evaporating into thin air like he normally did.
“There’s nothing. No book, no written information. No one left from before Eden?” Dean asked, and he caught the hesitant look in Cas’ eyes.
Bingo.
“There was no written documentation. And like I said before, no survivors. They would be hundreds of thousands of years old.”
“Nothing.” Sam said, picking on to what Dean had said. The younger brother stood up and crossed his arms. “Throughout the entirety of Heaven and Earth, nothing?”
“Their souls wouldn’t have gone to Heaven…they had their own paradise after death.” Cas said evasively.
Dean looked at Sam. “Hey, Sammy. Notice how Castiel here isn’t covering the second half of ‘Heaven and Earth’?”
He nodded. “I do, Dean. That’s funny, isn’t it? Because I would have thought that if Castiel had anything to tell us, he would, seeing that he’s so busy with a Civil War and everything.”
“And he knows that we aren’t going to let him go until he talks.” Dean finished.
Cas narrowed his eyes, his voice growing ominous. “I could transport you a hundred miles under the sea then leave you there to drown.”
“Don’t make me get out the holy oil.” Dean threatened in return, and Cas’ shoulders visibly slumped.
“Fine.” Castiel relented. He stepped forward, and all of Dean’s strength wasn’t able to keep the Angel in place. Cas reached both hands out, and touched the brothers’ foreheads simultaneously. They screwed their eyes shut, knowing what was coming next.
A flash of bright white light, and a few seconds of vertigo. They opened their eyes.
“Sammy, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.” Dean remarked.
Cas frowned. “We were never in Kansas.” Next Chapter