Chapter 9
AXUM OF EVIL
The streets are empty. A desolate lack of life that comes from far deeper than the absence of people in sight. There are no lights on the windows, no smoke on the rooftops. The street lamps, oddly enough, are lit, even if it is the middle of the day.
A brownish, stray dog walks across the street, shyly, nervously, paws lifting small clouds of red dirt in his wake. He stops near a pile of trash, sniffing the contents of a greasy Tupperware before snorting his disapproval at the nasty smell of the rotten food inside and skittering away into the shadows of the alley.
The houses on either side of the street are mostly two, three story buildings, some of them with zinc roofs that act like grill ovens in the heat. Somewhere, in one of the long string of empty homes, a door keeps banging against its frame, wind-fueled knocks that no one answers. No one cares to stop.
Tied to a post near one of the houses, a brown cow stares at them, mouth moving around imaginary food and flanks so dry and emaciated that she looks like she’s already started to eat herself.
What few cars they pass by are missing most of their tires and rust has taken over their paint. From the look of it, they’ve been left to rot long before the town was emptied. Long enough for weeds to start growing up through their engines.
The whole place spells abandonment.
A rushed one, judging by the things left behind. There are torn clothes, torn furniture, torn toys left behind, scattered in the middle of the street, filling it up with the residual stink of panic.
Their out-of-no-where appearance, in between a doorless blue Pinto and a cracked wooden box with rotten figs that sits in the middle of the street, should’ve set off a new wave of panic. As it is, there is no one around to catch their arrival.
“What happened here?” Sam asks, stomach threatening to rebel against the unsavory form of transportation they’ve just used. The sense of wrongness and danger, however, is stronger than the bile rising up his throat.
“Same thing that always happens. The leader of the military group with most weapons at the time, has decided to show his strength to his opponents by announcing an impending strike on some random village. This village,” Castiel explains, his tone pulling off ‘emotionless’ better than his sad eyes.
“Where is everyone?” the younger Winchester whispers.
“There,” the angel says, finger extended and pointed to the end of the street. There is a dirt road, flanked by bushes and flowers, that ends in a round building.
The short, white painted dome of the concrete and plaster construction with its blue-grayish tiles adorning the stained-glass windows like a frame of silver, calls attention to itself. Not because it is the only structure that looks to have been built in the last ten years, but because it’s the one speck of color in the whole brown and faded place.
Surrounding it, the luxurious treetops are so green that they look painted rather than real. It’s like life itself had chosen that one spot to flourish, instead of spreading evenly through the desert landscape.
Dean hasn’t opened his mouth once since they left Aswan, lips still set in the same frowning line of concern. Willingly, he allows Sam to grab his hand and place it across his arm, the message unspoken but clear as younger brother guides older across the empty street. One will not mention his resignation at being led around and the other doesn’t voice his offer for help. The closer they get to the round structure, the faster Dean walks, head cocked to the side.
Soon after, Sam too can hear what has been drawing his brother forward; the soft buzz of too many people speaking in hushed tones. The sounds rise from the place ahead of them like a heat wave, invisible and just as scorching.
Rounding the white church, they find what has to be the entire population of the little town, sitting outside. They are huddled in various groups, families, friends and neighbors. They all bear the same expressions of fear and despair in their dirt-covered faces.
The children are crying silently, weightless tears running down their dark skinned faces and clearing paths of water through the dust. They don’t make much sound, just the occasional sniff and sob, like they fear they’ll be discovered if they cry too loudly.
Those closest to them turn their heads to look at the new comers. Their eyes, wide open and clouded with panic, travel from their faces down, searching the newcomers’ hands for guns. When they see none, they relax and ignore them.
The ground is covered in fresh grass and crawling weeds, looking almost like a lush carpet of deep and light greens rather than the patio of some building.
“Why are they here? Why not run away while there’s still time?” Sam asks. The expression in these people’s faces is similar to those of the inhabitants of River Pass, Colorado where they'd found Ellen; where she'd taken them to that church basement full of panic stricken souls, cornered like rats. Frightened, uncertain, with the same look of incredulity as to why this is happening to them. The same strength to survive to survive despite the odds and their fear.
The only difference is that these people aren’t afraid of demons. They’re afraid of regular, everyday humans.
“What is the point?” Castiel points out, sounding tired of the whole situation. “I’ve seen this happen millions of times, long before Lucifer walked the Earth. There is no place they’ll be safer, no place they can run to. At least here, they know where their loved ones are… right beside them. It makes it easier to endure.”
It is more compassion and sympathy for humans than a Castiel of one year ago would’ve shown for anyone. Dean smiles bitterly, knowing that, if on one hand, he and his brother have, at least, one small bit of responsibility on Castiel’s ‘corruption’ into being a more humane angel, but on the other the rebel angel was right about the evil and pain in the world that had always, and would always, be around.
“Easier?” Sam says with a gasp. All he can see are human beings waiting to be slaughtered, hugging each other in some delusional idea that that will keep them save when the guys with the machine guns arrive. The lucky ones will be killed right off the bat, downed by the first spray of bullets. The others… the others will be left to marinate in the blood of their loved ones as they wait for their turn. “How can it be easier to wait to be massacred?”
Castiel closes his eyes, his face relaxing like he’s sinking into a warm bath. “Can’t you feel it?”
“The Ark? It’s here?”
“Yes… they can sense its presence and have drifted closer to it. They feel it can protect them.”
“And can it?”
“All the other villages surrounding this one have been decimated countless times. This one prevails,” Castiel says like it’s just some standard statistic. It’s neither a yes nor a no.
Dean grabs on to the fabric of Castiel’s trench coat, the material far different from Sam’s soft cotton shirt. “We can’t take away the only thing protecting these people,” he whispers hurriedly. The whispering is mostly because he can’t bring himself to voice such a horrible thing. He doubts anyone in here understands a word he’s saying.
“Their faith is keeping them safe,” Castiel corrects, making no move to escape Dean’s trapping touch. ”Some of them will survive.”
“Some… sounds a lot less than all,” Dean presses on. “I love Bobby like a father and I would do anything for him, but… I can’t do this, Cas… I can’t put my needs above these people.”
“I’m afraid I’ve led you into error… it is not your needs that are being placed above these humans… it is the needs of the Ark itself. It cannot be allowed to fall into strangers’ hands, evil hands. That is the reason why its location changes every five years, no place used twice. Now it is here, and the chances of a demon riding amongst the soldiers that even now move to attack this place are… too high to ignore. The Ark’s guardian won’t be enough if Lucifer hears that the Ark is here, now.”
“Guardian? He one of you guys?”
“No. He is a… devout man, but a man nonetheless.”
Sam takes a deep breath, realizing that this is happening. They’re really there to take the Ark away and let all those people die because… what? Because the locals aren’t part of some divine plan? How was that righteous? How was that even right? “Think he’ll just let us take it away?” he asks instead.
Castiel frowns, his blue eyes staring at the door of the circular building. His gaze climbs the white dome until it reaches the simple iron cross shining on the top.
“I doubt it.”
Inside, the small church is as packed as outside. There is no electricity and the light coming from the candles and the gasoline lamps, gives it a mixed feeling, part medieval convent and part turn of the century refugee camp.
The simple wooden chairs, which would usually be lining up facing the altar, are now piled against the windows, a meager protection from whatever will surely come flying in from outside. They won’t stop bullets and they won’t stop much else, except the sunlight from breaking the golden effect of the burning light inside.
At the back, where the altar was supposed to be, there is nothing but a two pilled up apple crates covered in a white cloth with a cigarette burn on the left side. On top of the makeshift table sits a molding piece of bread and a chipped glass filled with water.
Sam, Dean and Castiel try to move inconspicuously through the crowd, but it’s hardly possible to not notice the three tall, white men in a room full of people weathered by hunger and pain and whose skin tone varies from rich chocolate to soft cocoa. The people, however, pay them no attention. Their eyes are focused on the single man standing behind the improvised altar.
He looks about the same height as Castiel, dark curly hair and long beard, both peppered with white strands. He’s wrapped in a light-brown shawl, tied around the waist with what looks like a string of braided corn silk. On his head there is a black Kufi hat that almost reaches his eyes.
The man is sweating profusely under his cotton shawl, fat beads of water decorating his forehead like tiny diamonds that reflect the flickering light. Hanging from his neck is a wooden cross, crudely carved and chipped right across the middle.
As soon as he raises his arms, the silence inside the church is immediate and absolute. Even the little children grow quiet.
“What is it?” Dean murmurs. In the dead silence that has taken over the church, his whisper is the only sound in the air. “What just happened?”
“A monk.”
“The guardian will speak.”
Sam and Castiel’s replies are simultaneous, each standing on one side of Dean.
The monk in front of the altar clears his throat and begins speaking. The words roll off his mouth like soft pebbles at the bottom of a river. Sam and Dean are the only ones who can’t understand a word he’s saying.
Castiel moves without sound, going from Dean’s side to stand behind the two brothers. His voice is low and almost not there as he translates what the monk is telling the crowd.
“’Brothers… have no fear. Fear is for those who can be defeated and are frightened of the bitter taste of loss. I look around this room’-- ”
Castiel stops talking and the brothers realize that the monk has grown quiet too. They’re staring at each other, a flicker of recognition in the monk’s dark eyes. The angel is just staring back at him, calmly awaiting the monk’s decision.
Whatever crosses between the two of them is too fast and too discrete for anyone else to catch on.
The monk's eyes glide away from the corner that Castiel and the Winchester's occupy, and he continues, “’… I look around, and I see no one with anything to fear. I look around this room and I see winners; blessed souls who have already won the biggest reward there can ever be. If the next hours find you alive and well, you will go to your homes, love your families, farm your fields and plow the fruits of your labor. And you will thank the Lord, for He is good and provides for you.
If, on the other hand, the next hours prove to be the last you spend in your mortal shells, you will all go home to our Father, to love and be loved by our family, plow the fruits of your labors on earth. And we will still thank the Lord, for He is good and will provide for us for eternity.
We are His chosen children and the Lord has granted us the honor of guarding the most precious thing on this land. And for being His loyal servants, we shall be welcomed in to His arms like a father welcomes his sons and daughters home.
And that, my brothers, my sisters… is the biggest victory any soul can ever achieve.’”
The words seem to hover above the people, slowly sinking down and smoothing their fears as they touch them. The slow murmur of too many private conversations resumes, but the tone is different now. Less panic, more at peace.
Seeing the monk occupied with the various people that have surrounded him, Castiel motions the Winchesters to follow him behind the shadows cast by the large entry pillars. Sam guides Dean and the three manage to move quietly and disappear out a side door at the back. Behind it, they find a set of steps curving downward.
Wordlessly, Castiel leads the way down, while Sam maneuvers Dean so that he can descend the stairs in the middle of them, moving Dean’s hand from his arm to the metal stair-rail that stands at about waist high. The spiral stairway turns to the right, down and down to the right and when they finally reach the last step, Sam can feel his body still turning. To walk straight once again feels like an awkward thing to do.
“We’re here,” Castiel announces.
Sam, finally able to focus on his surroundings, looks around. There are tapestries hanging from every wall but one, paintings made in cotton and wool depicting what, at first gaze, looks like selected passages from the Bible, describing the Ark’s journey through time.
The fourth wall isn’t a wall at all. It’s a red drape that hides the rest of the small room from view. Sam guesses that has to be where the Ark is, because he can’t see it anywhere else.
Dean lets go of the stair rail and reaches out until he touches the nearest tapestry on the wall. It’s almost shy and reverent the way his fingertips travel over the soft raised threads, a man on a camel, ridding through the desert, carrying the Ark on one of his camels. Dean’s digits skim across the picture with such gentleness that Sam wonders if he’s able to tell what is there just from touch.
Castiel whispers a few words, Enochian it sounds like. He looks like he is praying and for the first time, Sam wonders just how sure about all of this the angel is. He has no time to ask.
Castiel reaches out and pulls the curtain gently aside.
Sam holds his breath and realizes that he is waiting for some kind of bright light, or maybe a choir of angels, something to indicate that the simple wooden box on the other side is something more than a wooden box.
The only light comes from a naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. And there is no choir. By now, Sam has met enough angels to know that they’re not usually the singing type.
The small chest is sitting on top of a block of cement and, from all the description and drawings he’s ever seen, only the lid matches what he was expecting. Every thing else is... underwhelming.
Sam searches the faces of the others, trying to see if there is any particular reaction there. Maybe it’s just him who can’t understand or be touched by the awe that something like this is supposed to inspire in others. Maybe all the evil that he has caused has made him impervious to feel touched by something good.
Castiel’s face is devoid of expression as he carefully studies the Ark, not in wonderment but more like an architect, looking for a flaw in the design, eyes traveling from it to the hanging tapestries. He looks like he just understood something, solved some deep mystery that he hasn’t even bothered to mention. He doesn’t touch the Ark, keeping what looks like a respectful distance.
Dean isn’t looking in the direction of the Ark at all. He’s tense and looking back, towards the stairs and Sam leaves him be. There is no point in rubbing in that they’re studying something that Dean can’t see.
The lid in itself is impressive; Sam has to admit that much. The two kneeling angels have a level of detail so fine that Sam half-expects them to raise their heads any minute now and stare at him, demand an explanation as to why he is there.
“What are you doing here?” A male voice asks.
Sam jumps. It takes him a moment to realize the question doesn't come from the sculptured angels, a fact made abundantly clearer with the cocking of a rifle that follows the deep voice.
Slowly, Sam spreads his arms out to the side and turns. Next to him, he can see Cas doing the same. Dean just steps aside, putting more distance between himself and the others.
The voice belongs to the monk, the same one that was talking to the crowd above. He’s changed to English, something that strikes Sam as slightly odd.
“I am an ang-“ Castiel starts, only to be cut short by the monk’s repositioning of the gun’s sight on him.
“I know what you are... I asked, what do you think you are doing here?” the man demands. Even more odd than the language change, Sam notes, is the lack of deference for the angel.
People’s normal reaction to the heavenly beings usually varies from disbelief and drooling astonishment. Sam can easily remember the excitement and wonder he experienced when Dean had first mentioned the possibility of angels being real; his absolute euphoria when Dean introduced the two strangers in their room as angels.
It took a while and a lot of disappointments for Sam to go from his vision of angels as beings of light to agreeing with Dean that most of them were nothing but dicks with wings.
This man, however... this is a man of the cloth. Believing in angels is part of his job description. And yet here he is, contemptuously pointing a gun at one, claiming to be in full knowledge of what he’s pointing a gun at.
Sam has a very, very bad feeling about this.
“I know that voice...” Dean says, shifting in his position but otherwise unmoving. “Is that... is that the monk guy from upstairs?”
“Yes,” Castiel offers. “Hello, Haim.”
“Well, that must be one really awesome monastery you come from,” Dean says with an appreciative whistle. “Monks with guns... what next? Hot nuns? Don’t you guys swear to do no harm or something like that?”
The monk’s finger is poised on the trigger, steady, confident. Sam has no doubts that the man will shoot if they don’t manage to appease him. Or if Dean keeps egging him on.
“Dean,” Sam hisses quietly. Warning. Begging.
“Shut up,” the monk says with a calm authority that sounds anything but reassuring.
The second time the monk speaks is enough for Dean to fine tune the monk’s location. He takes a step closer, all wisecrack and fun dropping from his face.
“If you know what he is, then you know what we’re here for,” Dean says. He keeps his arms down, never bothering to raise them despite knowing the gun is pointed at them. His stand is non-threatening but far from surrender.
The monk shifts his gaze to Dean and the rifle’s muzzle travels with it. Sam really wants Dean to start listening to the pissed off monk and shut up.
Deep down, Sam knows exactly what Dean is doing. They’ve used the same trick too many times for him to not recognize the tactic. It’s not by chance that Dean’s careful steps are leading him farther and farther away from Sam and Castiel. It’s not by chance that he’s keeping an open path between the others and the man with the gun; and it’s definitely not by chance that Dean is drawing the man’s aim towards himself.
Dean knows that Sam has the knife hidden somewhere on him. Sam knows that this is their best chance of overpowering the pissed off monk and get what they are here for.
“Actually... I do know. I just didn’t want to believe it.” The monk’s face looks sad, disappointed. “Didn’t expect another angel to rebel against Heaven... not after Lucifer.”
Sam takes advantage of the fact that the monk’s attention is divided between the other two and ever so slightly lowers his arms an inch.
“You have spoken to Zachariah,” Castiel states. “I am sure he presented you with a vision of reality that you’ll find lacking... once you are made aware of all the facts--”
“Yeah... like the fact that he’s a dick,” Dean mutters.
“He said you might be coming to steal the Ark, use it for your own purposes--” the monk states, the strength of his belief clear and unwavering.
“To make sure the Ark serves its purpose,” Castiel cuts in.
“Its purpose is to saves us all... what would a fallen angel know about that?” the monk yells, his eyes glistening with fervor.
It is easy to see that the man’s wonderment for angels is there, untouched, still gilded in the romantic thread of them being pure and righteous beings. Unfortunately, though, his first acquaintance with an angel was with the wrong one.
Reluctant as Sam is to use the knife to kill yet another human caught in the crossfire of the mess they’ve created, he realizes that he might not have any other choice. Zachariah got to the monk first, convinced him that reason was on his side. He set the religious man on a crusade to stop them from getting the Ark. And if Sam has learned anything, it’s that a man on a crusade is an unstoppable force.
“Zachariah serves no one’s purposes but his own,” Castiel warns him. “To keep the Ark from us is not the task that you were entrusted with.”
Haim shakes his head, face morphing from disappointment to simple anger. “No. You know what the Ark is... you know its power. How can you be so foolish about its use?”
Judging by the set look that comes over Castiel's face, he too has reached the same conclusion as Sam. Reason will get them nowhere.
“We will take the Ark,” the angel says. It’s no longer a mere statement. It sounds like a threat and Sam tenses in preparation to make his move. He’s been around Castiel for long enough to be able to read the few tells he has. So, when he disappears from Sam’s side and reappears in front of the monk, practically within the man’s breathing space, the younger Winchester isn’t actually surprised.
The monk, however, is even less surprised. The sound of the rifle’s discharge in the small space is almost deafening.
Sam’s first instinct is to check Dean even though there is only one person that shot could’ve hit. While Dean recoils as if the sound of the gun going off has physically hit him, he looks otherwise unharmed, eyes turning wildly from side to side, alert and slightly panicked at the danger he cannot see.
Realizing that this is their chance, that Castiel created the necessary distraction they needed, Sam is on the move even before the echoes of the gun’s discharge clears the room.
The sight of Castiel turning around to face them, confusion and pain in his eyes, is unsettling on itself until Sam catches the blooming blood, soaking through the front of the angel’s ever-present white shirt.
Mouth open like a dazzled fish, Sam can’t move as Castiel slumps to the floor, legs folding underneath him like their strings have been suddenly cut.
That shouldn’t... be possible.
“Sam?” Dean asks, fear and frustration competing for supremacy in his voice. “Sam, you okay? What the fuck is happening?”
“I’m fine... Cas- I think he shot Cas,” Sam whispers, bewilderment written all over his face.
He takes one step to get nearer to the angel. Castiel’s face is contorted in pain and Sam is completely at loss as to why an angel was taken down.
“Keep away!” The monk yells. “Or you’re next.”
Sam holds completely still, eyeing the gun, smoke curling from the barrel wavering between Dean and him. A single red, empty casing is lying on the floor near the end of the staircase. Castiel’s blood... or rather, Jimmy’s blood, is a darker shade of red, pooling beneath him and racing to reach the empty shell. The clues are all there, but the end result doesn’t add up.
They’ve seen angels stabbed, shot, slapped and punched before. They hardly even blink. And Cas goes down with one bullet?
“He shot Ca--... Cas? How the hell does he shoot Cas?” Dean lets out in rapid succession, firing all the questions running through Sam’s mind, acting like the person with the rifle pointed at them isn’t even there at all.
Dean is moving even before Sam can answer anything, feet shuffling around until he stumbles on the angel’s body.
The next shot hits the floor, inches from Dean’s knee, but he doesn’t even flinch. Sam does, though.
“Don’t!” Sam and Castiel manage to shout at the same time, double dose of concern for the older Winchester.
“Where were you hit? How were you hurt?” Dean asks, paying no attention to the fact that he has been warned not to interfere. His hands are red already, even though he has yet to find the source of the bleed.
“Zachariah gave me the bullets. They’re dipped in holy oil. He knew you wouldn’t take no for an answer,“ the monk offers, making sure that they realize that he is not a threat to be ignored or disregarded. “I will not allow you to take the Ark... it is my duty to protect it from people like you,” Haim spits out venomously. The fire in his eyes makes them look more red than brown.
Sam watches as Castiel, face paler than he has ever seen him, grabs Dean’s wrist and stops him from fumbling around in search of the entry wound.
“Haim... do you know who these two are?” the angel whispers. His voice hitches and he bits his lower lip to stop himself from crying out when Dean finally finds the bullet hole and applies pressure.
Sam is sure that this is probably the first time that the angel has ever experienced physical pain.
The monk’s gaze lingers on Sam and then on Dean, shrugs unimpressed. “Thieves? Murderers? Demons? Who knows whom an angel will work with once he’s fallen from grace?”
“Is that what Zachariah told you? That I would come here with demons?”
The monk moves around, motioning Sam to get closer to the other two. He stands between them and the stairway, always facing the Ark, taking no risks.
Sam eyes are on the end of the metal staircase. The handrail is behind the monk, restricting the man’s movements. If Sam can manage to get close enough to reach the monk, maybe he can act fast enough, distract the man, make him lose his balance...
“It is the end of days; every where you turn, you hear of bloodshed and violence and the very land beneath our feet rebels against us. Even now, we stand here, awaiting for Ubuku’s men to come and wipe this town from the map... and you want to take away these people’s last shred of hope?”
“Look-“ Castiel starts, trying to get himself up. He pauses to swallow convulsively, face going from white to gray before he manages to control his gag. “Look around you and tell what me you see,” he finally says, questioning even though it sounds more like a command.
The monk stubbornly keeps his eyes on the three men.
“I don’t need to. It was me who put those tapestries on the wall. They used to be golden panels, as you well know, decorating the sides of the Ark. The greed of Men made those tapestries the only thing that remains of the messages that were depicted there. Divine signs that forever should’ve accompanied the Ark and that are now reduced to… that.”
The sadness in the man’s voice is palpable, like a gardener that sees his favorite flower wither away despite his best care.
“Look," Castiel stops and coughs, face wincing in pain. Still, he continues, "... look at the one to your right, the one with the fires… do you know of what it tells?” Castiel goes on. The blood flow on his chest is slowly becoming nothing but a trickle even though Dean is pressuring a spot two inches off the place of the bullet wound. Sam isn’t sure if the angel’s chatter is mean to fool the man into giving him enough time to recover or if he’s actually going somewhere with this.
Reluctant but still curious, the monk’s eyes travel upward to the tapestry the angel is talking about. Sam is sure he knows them all by heart.
The picture is, like all of them, beautiful. The blue background accentuates the deep reds and yellows that surround the burning city set on the horizon. And at the center of that apocalyptic setting, a man, kneeling alone on the ground beside the Ark, his left arm reaching out, palm extending against the side of the wooden chest. Silver beams burst from the top of the sealed ark, shooting out toward the sky. Head bowed, his face is hidden from view but his chest and arms are bare, easy to see. The mark on the man's shoulder is unmistakable.
Sam is the only one gasping when he realizes what he’s looking at, his gaze traveling guiltily from the tapestry to his oblivious brother. “Is that… is that a handprint?” Sam asks, because surely he’s seeing it wrong.
Dean's head snaps up, his brow furrowing above his unseeing eyes. Sam can see the exact moment when realization dawns on his brother. Now they both know where Castiel is going with this and neither is happy with it.
Sam knows the brand embarrasses his brother somewhat. Since returning from Hell, Dean, who has always been proud of his scars and marks, has been reluctant to show as much as his bare arms in the company of strangers. Even when it’s only Sam, Dean is now shyer about his nakedness than he was before. Sam has no illusions that that brand is one of the reasons for that.
It’s not an aesthetic thing. Sam knows better than that. For Dean, it’s more about what that mark implies than the way it looks.
Dean’s scars, the ones he had before, were proof of the hard life he’d lead and the blood he’d shed for the job, for their family; Castiel’s handprint on his shoulder… is proof of something Dean believes he’s been given without deserving it, a reminder of reward granted in spite of his failure.
That tapestry though... it’s a bittersweet pill to swallow. Knowing that Dean’s apparent part to play runs deep enough to be linked to something as old as the Ark, that it just became that much harder to ignore the facts that seem to push them towards their ‘fate’ at every turn, that much harder to avoid the outcome that looks to have been decided for them even before they were born; and yet, realize that that same connection might be the deciding factor in turning the monk from Zachariah’s side to theirs.
“And in the days of Armageddon," Castiel continues, "when the Horsemen run free, the Ark shall make itself known to the guided one, and he shall gather the Lord’s people and lead them to safe haven’,” the angel’s voice echoes through the room with more strength and power than one would expect from a man lying on the floor. “The Horsemen ride the Earth, Haim. Lucifer has managed to raise all but one so far... has Zachariah told you that as well?”
The monk visibly pales, his head shaking in denial. “You are not him. You can’t be him,” Haim whispers, one finger pointing to the tapestry. “That is a man, a mortal... it is not an angel’s task.”
“You are right... angels can’t be that link. Man is. God’s favorite children,” Castiel says. Unlike the contempt and jealousy that they’ve seen in Lucifer’s eyes and voice when saying the same words, both Sam and Dean can recognize the difference in the way Castiel says it. There is no emotion behind it, neither good nor bad. He just states a fact, uncontested and simple as saying the sky is blue.
“So-who?” Haim asks, finally listening.
Castiel’s eyes turn to the Winchester crouching by his side, Sam and Haim’s gazes taking his cue. “Dean… I need you to show Haim your-“
Castiel stops himself because he can see Dean is one step ahead of him. The denim jacket he was wearing is already off and he is rolling up the sleeve of the tee shirt he wears underneath.
Ever since he was told that he was Michael’s vessel, Dean has felt like he’s nothing but a sock puppet, throwing a tantrum because he doesn’t want some dude sticking his hand up his behind and taking control of his life from him. And yet, everyone he meets, every event that occurs in his life, just keeps on reminding him that he is nothing but a sock puppet that needs to stop pretending to be a man. That having a hand up his ass is his destiny.
It sucks on so many levels that Dean has given up counting. So, when he hears the interest in the monk’s voice at what Castiel is saying, when he knows from Sam’s gasp that the damn things on the wall have just given yet more proof of just how very screwed he is, Dean just shrugs off his clothes and shows the mark on his shoulder to Haim.
The words the monk whispers are incomprehensible to him and Sam, but Castiel doesn’t bother to translate. Their meaning is simple to catch either way. The awe feels as intrusive and unwelcome a knife in the back.
He can hear the man moving, nearing him and drooping to his knees. The tip of the rifle’s muzzle touches the bone in Dean’s left knee. He knows what comes next but even so it is impossible not to flinch when the monk’s cold fingers touch his shoulder. Calloused fingertips trace the contours of the hand-shape burn and Dean flashes back to Anna, greedily claiming him by putting her smaller hand over Castiel’s brand.
He jerks away, unable to bear the touch any longer. The monk, fortunately, gets the hint and doesn’t follow.
“Happy now?” Dean mutters. Figuring his purpose in this charade is served, he drops the sleeve of his shirt and reaches for the jacket.
The clatter of the gun hitting the floor is, at least, a heart-warming sound.
“It is true then,” the monk whispers. “You carry the mark of our Lord. You truly are the one we’ve all been waiting for.”
“Actually, that’s not-“ Dean starts.
“Yes. Now..." Castiel cuts Dean’s words off before he can tell who exactly made that brand, “will you allow us to take the Ark?”
The monk is silent except for the rustle of clothes as he rises to his feet. Dean can sense Sam moving closer, tensing. Sam knows just as well as Dean that Cas is lying. The question is, why?
The monk seems like he is buying their story. Hell, even Dean would buy their story if he didn’t know better, and he couldn’t even see the image they’re talking about.
“Yes,” Haim finally says, his words releasing the building pressure and relaxing the very walls of the room. “You can take it... if you can take it.”
Dean frowns. He has seen the Ark in the dreams that Asmodeus invented for him; he has read descriptions of it. No where does it say that thorns surround the Ark, or that it has little legs to run away on its own.
“What does that mean, if we can take it?” Sam asks, mirroring Dean’s doubts.
“The Ark has been known to have an adverse effect on those of impure soul who dare to touch it,” Castiel clarifies.
In Dean’s mind’s eye, he’s picturing the Raiders movie, Nazis turning into skeletons and flesh melting from their bones before blowing up. Or was that in the one with the Holy Grail? “What sort of ‘adverse effect’?”
“Boils, sores..." Haim supplies, his voice solemn and full of warning,"... tumors so malignant that people die within hours. Horrible and painful deaths. I’ve seen it happen... it’s not a pretty sight.”
Suddenly, Dean is not so sure he wants to go ahead with this. He doesn’t want to touch the Ark and find out that his soul is as tarnished as it feels, as damaged as every demon is happy to throw in his face. And he loves Sam, more than anything he loves his brother... but there is no way he’s letting Sam touch something that might see his involvement with Ruby and his actions in the previous months as something ‘boils-worthy’.
They’re not evil, but they’re both far from being innocent.
“I cannot do it,” Castiel says, as if guessing the thoughts running through Dean’s mind. “I’ve fallen from grace. The Ark will see me in the same colors it sees Lucifer. It will erase me from existence without a moments hesitation.”
Dean bites his lip, fingers pressing against the wet floor. He knows what their doubts must look like to the monk and he knows that their window of opportunity is closing. He also knows that there is no way he’s going to let Sam test the adage that ‘it’s the thought that counts’... even when you start the apocalypse. His fingers brush against the discarded gun and Dean straightens up. “Okay then, I’ll do it,” he says.
Before Sam can protest, the rifle is in Dean’s hands, only one second wasted in figuring out which end was which. The index finger of his right hand closes around the familiar hold of the trigger and Dean points the gun in the general direction of where he believes the monk to be. He just hopes that the confusion lasts long enough for his brother to take the weapon from his hands and turn this into a real threat instead of a desperate move. “SAM!”
“It’s okay... I got it,” Sam’s voice comes from inches away, familiar fingers easing Dean’s hold on the gun.
“I knew it,” the monk spits out. “I knew you were not worthy... you will all burn in Hell!”
Dean can’t stop the dry laugh that cracks his lips. “Been there, done that. Now... how do we take this without... you know, turning to dust?”
Sam looks around, one eye keeping track of any sudden movements on the monk’s part. Leaning against the back wall, he spots two long wooden poles, looking thick enough to fit the hoops he can see on each side of the Ark and sturdy enough to hold its weight.
“Those poles... they’re meant to be used in the Ark’s transport, aren’t they?” Sam asks the monk. The other man, however, merely crosses his arms over his chest and stares daggers at him in silence. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Sam mutters. “Go put them in place,” he orders with a wave of the gun.
The monk glares, looking like he’s trying to guess whether Sam will shoot him if he doesn’t obey. Sam chambers a bullet and shoulders the long gun to get his point across.
The gunshots that follow that action are not even close to the sound of a rifle’s discharge. The sound is muffled by the flights of stairs in between, but Sam easily recognizes the multiple reports of several machine guns.
Ubuku’s men have arrived.
“Move!” Sam yells, spurring the monk into action. He tells himself that there is nothing they can do, that this is not their fight. But it’s hard to ignore the screams coming from upstairs. It’s impossible not to picture all those men, women and children being murdered without a chance of defending themselves.
Sam can see in Dean’s face that his thoughts are running through the same paths, even as he helps Castiel up and gets them ready to go. Where or how, Sam has no idea.
“You have no idea what you are doing,” the monk whispers. There are tears running down his dark cheeks and Sam can’t help but wonder how many of those people inside the church were this man’s family and friends. Too many, he supposes.
The poles fit perfectly in the hoops and the monk steps aside, allowing them access. Sam lowers the rifle and extends it to the monk.
The man looks confused even as he grabs the weapon, more out of instinct than intent.
“Go. Help them,” Sam says.
For one moment, it looks like the monk will turn the rifle on him and finish what he started. But the screams upstairs are impossible to ignore and, with a nod, the monk races up the metal stairs.
“That was a risky choice,” Castiel voices.
Sam hangs his head, refusing to look up and meet the look on the angel’s face. “So was telling that man that the Ark was meant for us.”
“You can touch the Ark,” the angel insists. “Trust me.”
Sam meets Castiel’s intense eyes. He believes that the angel believes that is true. But it’s not a truth that he is prepared to believe just yet.
“Aren’t we gonna do anything?” Dean finally speaks. Since the guns started blaring above, he has barely moved from his spot. His hands are thrust deep inside the pockets of his jacket but even so, Sam can tell they’re both closed into fists. “We’re gonna just grab the Ark and run with our tails between our legs?”
If Sam didn’t knew better, he’d say that Dean was one breath away from running up those stairs in the monk’s wake. Sadly, this is the first time Sam is grateful that Dean is blind and can’t do just that.
“This is not our fight, Dean,” Castiel says. He’s slumped against Dean, smearing blood all over the human’s clothes. “There is nothing we can do here but prevent the Ark from falling into the wrong hands.”
Any further arguments that Dean might have are squashed under the sound of booted feet coming down the metal stairs. The gunfire from upstairs has died down to a few bursts of machine gun fire here and there and Sam shudders at the meaning of that. “We have to get out of here. Now,” Castiel says.
Before Sam can ask how, the angel grabs Dean’s hands and guides him to hold one end of the double poles. Dean seems startled at the contact, but otherwise okay.
Sam wants to ask how they’re going to get out of there when there is literally a war taking place above their heads, but as soon as Sam mirrors Dean’s position, the room filled with tapestries fades away in a swirl of shades and bright lights and he finds himself elsewhere.
Master Post
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