The Devil You Know : Chapter 9
See part 1 for disclaimers.
Chapter 9
They roll into town on the tail end of another heavy cloudburst. The stormdrains aren’t keeping up with the volume of water; the intersections on the main drag are inundated, and Dean creeps through them cautiously, tires throwing out long ripples that wash the curbs. Out past the far edge of town lies a ridge of rounded mountains, their newly green domes barely visible behind the sheets of rain.
By the time they cross the valley and reach the foothills, the darkest clouds have passed on to the west. The street Dean’s following ends at a T-intersection; he pauses there, looking up and down the foothills road in the light of a blinking amber traffic light. Finally, for no other reason than there seem to be fewer houses in that direction, he turns left.
“Do you know where the door opens?” Dean asks. He’s got his window rolled down so the deep growl of the Impala’s engine fills the car. Dripping forested slopes rise sharply above the right side of the road, and he’s not looking forward to thrashing his way up them.
“Not… precisely,” Castiel replies absently, gaze sweeping the hills. “It will be in a rocky area.”
“We’re in the mountains, Cas. It’s all rocky.”
“I’ll know it when I see it.”
The road rises higher into the Smokys. The air is heavy with humidity and Dean leans forward to swipe fog off the windshield. They haven’t passed another car in either direction for miles now, and he’s not sure if that should raise alarm bells or not. It’s early in the season for tourists, and wet for outings in the woods, but surely some locals should be out and about…
“There.” Castiel touches Dean’s shoulder and points. “Pull in there.”
A turn-off leads back into the national park. Thick wooden signs are spaced every few yards along the smoothly paved road, covered in long lists of rules and warnings, while arrows indicate trails and campsites.
It’s quiet. They cruise slowly past a ranger station; an SUV with a Forest Service decal is parked out front and the windows beneath the deep porch are lit, but there’s no other sign of life. A single bird calls shrilly and then is silent.
The road winds deeper into the park, over a rain-swollen creek and past trailheads and entrances to campgrounds. Slowly the roadside and the fields and paths flanking it become less manicured and more overgrown. The road narrows, and then the pavement ends altogether just as the ground’s pitch becomes dramatically steeper.
Dean slows the car. “Crap.”
Castiel points ahead, up the muddy, rutted roadway. “That way.”
“Of course that way. Damn unpaved trails, story of my life…”
The Impala bumps upward at a snail’s pace, gravel spitting from beneath the tires. Dean mumbles apologies beneath his breath, knuckles white on the steering wheel. The road curves around a seeping outcropping of rock and Sam hastily rolls up his window against a sudden cascade of water. Beyond the streaming cliff wall the road widens into a turn-around backed by a padlocked gate.
Dean brakes just shy of it. A sign warns ‘authorized access only’, and he glares at it for a second before lifting his eyes to the mirror. The road on the far side of the gate looks even worse, but Castiel nods.
“Crap,” Dean moans again. He shoves open his door, patting at his pocket for his lock-picks.
It’s more of a trail now than a road. A long section is washboarded by run-off, and Dean’s practically whimpering by the time they jounce over it. “Where am I gonna find struts for a ’67 Chevy out here in the boonies?”
“Is any of this necessary?” Sam’s grim-faced, clinging to the doorframe for dear life. “We should’ve stayed in town and researched more. You’re following directions from an angel who’s lost his powers.”
“He hasn’t lost his powers.” Dean hunches forward, as if that can coax the car along. “Don’t knock Angel Radar.”
If Sam’s words sting, Castiel’s expression doesn’t show it. He touches Dean’s shoulder again. “In there.”
“In where?”
“To the right. Between the birch trees.”
It doesn’t look feasible, but when Dean cranks the wheel to the side, the Impala noses in neatly between the pair of huge, white-barked trees. Mountain laurels ring a space just larger than the car, and dense thickets of them climb the sides of a steep footpath just visible before them.
“No way can I get her up that.”
“Then we’ll have to walk.” Castiel is already out of the car, and Dean joins him. It’s dim and the air is tinged green and moist. With the engine off, the trickle of a creek can be heard nearby. Castiel stares up the pathway, head tilted slightly as if he’s listening intently. When he turns back to Dean, his eyes are pinched with concern. “You must be extremely careful-we’ll be out of range of the cloaking symbol.”
Dean throws open the trunk. “We can be ready for demons, at least. Sam, get your ass back here and weapon up.”
Holy water is portioned out into canteens they sling over their shoulders, salt into leather pouches tied to belts. Dean scoops salt rounds into a pack and shrugs it onto his back before palming a shotgun. “I’ll take point; Sam, watch the rear, and don’t lose the knife.”
The trail isn’t as difficult as it looks. Once past a tumble of loose gravel washed down around the base, it’s almost a staircase cut from the rock. Some of the treads have crumbled over the centuries, but Dean finds he can step easily enough from one solid shelf to the next.
There’s no sign anyone has passed recently, and no telling how many people traveled the path in the past. The trickling creek fades out behind them; the air is still, but Dean swears he can hear whispers. He jams to a halt. Castiel freezes behind him, and Sam thumps into the angel’s back and curses.
“Shh!”
“Why are you stopping?”
“Listening.”
The whispers have ceased. There’s only the drip of rain through the branches, the impatient scrape of Sam’s boot sole, his own heartbeat drumming in his ears. Far away, so far it’s just a low moan carried on the damp air, a train’s horn sounds.
“Listening to what?” Sam prods finally, and Dean shakes himself.
“Nothing, I guess.”
He continues upward, hyper-aware now of the small noises he’s making-boots scuffing on rock, pack creaking with the shift of his shoulders. A pebble breaks loose under his tread and bounces down the path in a series of sharp clicks.
“I hear them,” Sam murmurs a moment later.
Dean doesn’t stop this time. “Who?” he murmurs back.
“Dunno. There’s… a few of them. Alongside us.”
Something breathes through the leaves on Dean’s left-breathes, but doesn’t stir the foliage. He lifts his foot to the next stone step, watching the laurels from the corner of his eye. Nothing moves, but another whisper slips past his cheek, too quietly for him to discern any words.
“Cas?”
“They’re echoes.”
Dean’s stomach lurches. “The wrong kind?”
“No. No doors are opening. They’re just echoes.” The angel stretches out his hand, trailing it through the wet, leathery leaves, and the soft noises dissipate.
“Ghosts?” Sam asks, and Castiel shakes his head.
“Not even that. Echoes of feelings-sorrow, mostly. The anger and fear have faded.”
“I take it we’re on the right track for that settlement that got wiped out,” Dean mutters.
It’s marginally brighter ahead. The trees give way to overcast sky and a wide open meadow. On its far side is a steep, rocky slope, nearly bare of trees, rising the rest of the way to the mountain’s peak. Castiel takes one look, sidesteps Dean, and takes off across the meadow.
“Not so fast!” Dean catches his elbow. He flips the shotgun around to lie comfortably along his arm. “Let me get the lay of the land before you go charging in.”
If anything it’s even quieter than the woods beneath them. Even as high as they are, there isn’t a breath of wind; the drip and patter of raindrops is absent. Mist rises in sheets, blurring the treetops dropping away below them and wreathing the summit of the mountain in smoky swirls.
Sam scrambles up the last few steps of the path. “No birds,” he observes quietly; his knife scrapes softly out of his belt sheath.
“Scared off by something, or it’s always too creepy for ‘em?” Dean wonders, and Sam shrugs.
“Don’t know, but there goes your angel again.”
Castiel has slid around Dean’s other side and is striding through the long grass toward the rocks. Dean has to break into a trot to catch up to him. “Cas, wait.”
“It’s up there somewhere, among the stones.” He twists his arm free. “Stay here, I’ll go look.”
“You are not going alone.” Dean crowds in front of him, hand on his chest above the sling.
“It’s only a sealed door, leading to an empty chamber. I just wish to locate it.”
“I’m pretty sure demons have been keeping an eye on it.”
“All the more reason for you and your brother to wait here.”
“Why?” Dean explodes. “Because of that damn prophecy saying I’m the one to stop Lucifer?”
“Yes.” Castiel draws himself up, leaning nearly into Dean’s face, and drills him with an intense blue gaze. “I am expendable-you are not.”
“Oh, bullshit.” Dean can play ‘Invade your space’ just as well as the angel can, and he shoves close until they’re practically nose to nose. “You’re an angel of the freakin’ Lord-how is that ‘expendable’ when a couple of puny humans are going up against the Devil?”
“Without my powers, I am less useful than a human hunter…”
“Don’t you get it?” Dean sinks back, his sudden flare of temper draining away. “This isn’t about you being ‘useful’ or not. You are not fucking expendable, no matter what your dick brothers tried to tell you.”
Castiel looks at him with that puzzled head-tilt, an unreadable expression in his eyes, and Dean sighs.
“A real smart man once told me ‘Family don’t end with blood’. And family - my family - watches out for each other. If you’re going up on the haunted mountain looking for a cell to lock Lucifer in, I’m going with, got it?”
Castiel blinks, the bewilderment wiping to startled comprehension. He looks… stunned, actually, by the word ‘family’. Then his expression clears and his chin comes up. “I… got it.”
“Okay, then. Lead the way, ‘cuz I got your back.”
Dean turns to locate Sam, slouched awkwardly back by the treeline, and waves him forward. They proceed in a ragged line across the meadow, boots tearing through the grass with soft ripping sounds. Castiel reaches the boundary of the meadow first and lays his hand on the nearest rock.
“Further in.”
His fingers trail along the rough, lichened surface as he rounds the base of the huge boulder. There’s a narrow crevice between it and the adjacent rock, and he raises one foot to step up into the space.
Afterward, Dean’s not sure which catches his attention first-the subtle rustle of wings, or the curtain of mist tearing aside, glimpsed at the edge of his vision. He wrenches around, and in a replay of his nightmare, a dark figure detaches from the shadows lining the high grey rocks.
“Dean, Dean, Dean. You’re a hard man to track down.”
Zachariah steps down onto the grass.
He skirts them slowly, smirking despite the coldly furious glint in his eyes. Dean snatches for Castiel’s shoulder, dragging the angel behind him. He stumbles a little as his boots catch on the tangle of grass, and Zachariah’s smirk deepens.
“Castiel-is that you? I barely recognize you without the wings, kiddo.” He shudders his own shoulders in a fussy little shiver. “I see my sources were right about the demon blood-it’s burned the angel clean out of you, hasn’t it?”
“Shut your filthy trap.” Dean brings the shotgun up with a snap, stepping sideways to cut off Zachariah’s stealthy circling. The other angel raises his eyebrows.
“Or what? You’ll shoot me? With that?” He laughs mockingly.
Dean tosses the shotgun to the ground, reaching at the same time up behind his back. He shrugs, drawing Lucifer’s sword from the pack as it falls. When his arm comes down, the sword is pointed straight at Zachariah.
For a split second his smugness falters and a flash of consternation crosses Zachariah’s face. Then peals of derisive laughter roll out across the meadow. “Suffering delusions of grandeur, are you? You’re no angel, boy; you can’t kill me with that.”
Dean smiles grimly. “No? Well, I can have fun trying.”
Sam sidles out from behind him, Ruby’s knife raised high in his fist. Dean’s eyes widen. “Sam, get back!”
“Take him, Dean, while I flank him!”
His brother lunges, and Dean scrambles after him, skidding in the wet grass. Zachariah spins smoothly, arm flying up to meet Sam’s charge. The heel of his hand connects solidly with Sam’s forehead, snapping his head back and dropping him in his tracks.
Dean lashes out with a vicious backslash, putting all the considerable strength of his back and shoulders into the stroke. The blade rips across Zachariah’s midsection; it slices through clothing and flesh so keenly there’s no resistance against the blade. A broad red band bursts wetly across his center; for an instant, Zachariah looks frightened, his eyes dropping to the gaping wound nearly bisecting him.
Dean grins and brings the sword back up. It gleams golden in the grey, clouded light, poised above Zachariah’s throat… and then Dean rams it forward.
It pierces nothing but empty air. Dean staggers a half dozen steps before he can catch his balance. The angel is standing a mere foot to the left of where he had been an instant earlier. Before Dean can react, he sweeps his arm around and slams his fist into the small of Dean’s back.
Pain explodes up his spine. His legs go numb and his vision goes dark and the next thing Dean knows, he’s face down, sucking dirt. His lungs fight against his drawing a full breath.
The sword’s still clenched in his fist. Dean draws his knees up, spine screaming with the motion, and rolls over.
Castiel is crouched over Sam, hand covering his temple, but his stretched-wide eyes are fastened on Dean. Zachariah stands in front of them, two fingers extended back toward Castiel while he smoothes his other hand across his belly. The deep gash vanishes, leaving an expanse of unmarred suit.
“I told you, but you wouldn’t listen. You’re just like him-always doing things the hard way.” Zachariah flicks a hard glance at Castiel. “You will not move.” The power in his voice rumbles like thunder. He snaps his gaze back to Dean. “Stop with the posturing. Hand over that sword and come quietly. You can have it back when you face Lucifer.”
Dean pushes onto his knees, not even looking at Zachariah. “Cas, is Sam okay?”
“He’s deeply asleep, but otherwise unhurt.”
“Watch him for me, okay?”
He stabs the sword into the rocky ground and uses it to haul himself to his feet. The hot agony in his back nearly steals his breath, but he forces himself not to gasp as he pulls himself straight and faces Zachariah. “No.”
The declaration rocks the angel’s head back an inch. “No? You can’t say no.”
“I just did.”
Dean tugs the blade free and brings it up, shifting one foot back to brace himself for the expected rush of fury. But Zachariah only regards him with bland inquiry. “Do you understand that your refusal dooms every man, woman and child on this earth to agonizing death? How do you square that with your conscience?”
“Like your way is any better. How many millions die while you fight to set up my head-to-head with Lucifer? If that’s even possible.”
“Oh, it’s not only possible, it’s ordained.” Zachariah gives his head a rueful shake. “The prophecy-this one - is genuine. It requires you to complete it. You think I wouldn’t change that if I could? You’re the one necessary to kill Lucifer.”
“Or cage him up again.” Dean risks taking his eyes off the angel for a swift glance back at Sam and Castiel. His brother still hasn’t moved, but Castiel’s hand rests easily on his forehead; he has to assume if Sam were in real distress the angel would be doing something other than monitoring him.
Zachariah looks taken aback. “Cage him up? Why? After we worked so hard to spring him-Oh.” He turns his glare onto Castiel. “Someone’s been reading the archives again and getting bright ideas.” He clucks his tongue. “You spend all that time with the books, Castiel, you must know which circle of Hell traitors are consigned to.”
Castiel spares him only the briefest glance and then returns his steady gaze to Dean, unmoved by the threat.
Zachariah extends his hand to Dean. “We aren’t caging Lucifer, we’re killing him. We’re going to flush the earth clean, and you know it. Your protest has been noted, if that makes you feel any better. Now it’s time to go, Dean.”
“I won’t go anywhere with you.” He whips the sword up and around. The blade clips the angel’s outstretched wrist in a spray of red. As Zachariah automatically bows forward, Dean dodges, poised to toss the sword underhand to Castiel.
“Cas! Catch this and kill him!”
“He’s not an angel any more, you idiot.”
Zachariah’s hand is no longer severed; Zachariah’s hand is swinging at Dean’s head, catching him on the temple with a devastating blow and sending him flying into one of the boulders at the meadow’s edge.
He crashes against its unyielding surface. The crunch of a couple of ribs caving forces the air from his chest in an explosive gust. Fresh agony tears through his back. Dean slides down the rock to land on hands and knees.
Something dark rushes up at his face; a knee cracks his cheekbone and suddenly there’s blood everywhere, filling his sinuses, clogging his throat. He falls back against the boulder. He can barely get his head up, and when he does, a fist crashes across it.
This time he flies sideways, plowing across the ground on one shoulder. Everything sucks down into a sick swirl of red-smeared blackness.
There’s blood in his eyes when he gets them open. Someone’s making a choked wheezing sound and he thinks it’s him. He blinks; a pair of dark, polished shoes and the cuffs of neatly pressed pants appear beneath his weaving, swaying head. Fingers dig cruelly tight against his scalp, wrenching his head back until the blood filling his throat chokes him.
Zachariah’s eyes, blazing with cold fire, fill Dean’s entire field of vision. “I only need you breathing, boy. If you won’t cooperate, my best warrior will use you as a meat puppet.” His fist rises like a battering ram above Dean’s upturned face. “Brain activity is strictly optional.”
A rustling whirlwind suddenly insinuates itself between Dean and his attacker. Zachariah is blown back, flung away from him with a crack of displaced air. Without the hand dragging him up by the hair, Dean slumps to his side, cheek pressed to crushed grass.
His hands are empty; he tries to blink his eyes clear while one hand gropes frantically across the ground. He’s lost the sword. Sickness fills him, because Cas told him to protect it, to keep it out of enemy hands, and now he’s gone and dropped it…
A figure stoops before him, scooping up the golden blade from where it lay hidden, and then planting itself firmly in front of Dean again. Mud-caked boots, damp, faded jeans… Dean half-rolls, hazy eyes lifting higher to a rumpled shirt crossed by the knotted straps of a sling…
There’s a deep whump of unfurling wings. A thunderclap rolls out across the mountain range and Castiel stands over Dean, wings outspread in a huge protective shield.
“You will not touch him again.”
Zachariah pauses in pulling himself to his feet, his expression wary. He straightens slowly, and by the time he’s upright again, his insufferable smirk is back in place. “You think you’ll stop me, you pathetic ruined thing?”
“I will.”
Dean figures he’s seriously concussed, because the sword in Castiel’s hand has acquired some kind of weird corona; it shimmers with motion, either that or his eyesight is completely shot. He blinks, and then jumps as a harsh rippling sound shreds the air.
A broad, colorless silhouette brackets Zachariah’s back-his own wings are outspread, huge and pale. They’re white, Dean realizes with a sick sense of irony, the color of purity, of Heaven.
Castiel steps forward to meet him, his own wings ragged, singed dark from his time served in Hell. Sheer terror at the disparity between the two floods Dean’s chest; he scrambles, spitting out a mouthful of blood. “Cas, don’t!”
He doesn’t acknowledge the cry. Sword ablaze, Castiel flies at Zachariah.
The clash sends thunder booming across the mountainside again. The sharp scent of ozone crackles through the air with the first flash of clean bright light. Dean can’t make sense of what he’s seeing-there’s light, fountains of it, and sparks, swirls of air like invisible tornadoes. Electric current snaps over him and his ears ache under the assault of piercing angel voices.
A monumental flash whites out Dean’s vision and he buries his face in his arms. Footsteps rip through the grass; he raises his head, unable to stop himself from looking, and Castiel is backing toward him, translucent blue flames licking up and down the blade in his hand. He twists it in a complex whirl of blue and gold, the colors of the heavens. A ball of lightning explodes before him.
A second sword is caught on the edge of Castiel’s. It’s flung up and out of the flare of light when he throws his arm up, sparking brightly as one blade slides along the other. Tumbling end over end, Zachariah's sword is thrown to the far end of the meadow.
Castiel moves too fast for Dean to track. Another blinding flash burns outward and a clap of thunder shakes the ground and the sky and the air all in between.
When Dean’s eyes clear, Castiel is standing chest to chest with Zachariah, the Lucifer sword buried in a steep upward angle through his throat.
Disbelief blazes on Zachariah’s face for an endless heartbeat. Then the glitter in his eyes dulls, and his faces slumps to emptiness. Still gripping the sword hilt that braces the slackening weight, Castiel lowers his brother’s body to the ground with surprising gentleness.
When his shoulders touch down, a shockwave races outward, leaving an ashy white shadow of enormous wings burned wide across the meadow.
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To the Epilogue