Chapter 13

[adrenalineshots]

GOD IS IN THE LITTLE THINGS


They meet Bobby in a half collapsed building just at the edge of town. At some point, there seems to have been some kind of arcades there, probably a market of some kind, if the debris left behind are anything to go by.The older hunter is lying on top of some ripped open beanbags, white stuffing spilled around him like fake snow.

Castiel is with him, eyes quietly following Dean around ever since they’ve come into view, watching his and Sam’s progress around the rubble.
“Your vision... is back," he says quietly when they've come within hearing range. "How did this happen?”

Dean shrugs. His weight is being mostly carried by Sam but his vision, at least, has stopped spotting. He can see the angel’s inquisitive eyes, the red that still stains his clothes. Castiel looks paler than usual, a slight sheen of sweat covering his cheeks.
“Thanks for the help, by the way,” Dean’s hoarse voice whispers sarcastically as soon as the angel meets his eyes. “Get caught in traffic or something?”

Castiel looks lost, trying to figure out the literal meaning of the words for a minute before giving up. “Enochian sigils... the temple was surrounded by them. I could not get inside.”

Sam and Emam help Dean to sit by Bobby’s side. Both Winchesters breathe a sigh of relief at seeing the older hunter in one piece. Bobby looks worse for the wear, arm strapped to his chest with what looks like the scarf that Emam used to wear wrapped around his head. The rest of him looks washed out, colorless even under all the dirt and grime that covers every inch of visible flesh.

“I... there was a presence at the temple,” Castiel starts, looking strangely at a loss for words. He divides his attention between Dean and the Ark. The ancient artifact looks oddly at home in the middle of the remaining boxes and crates that the collapsing building has mashed together. “Did you see Him?”

“Yeah..." Dean begins tiredly. "Asmodeus decided to invite a couple of his buddies to the party. And his buddies brought buddies, who brought buddies,” he trails off, hands rubbing his tired eyes. They’re foggy with exhaustion and he can’t help but worry that the fog will close in on him and take his sight away again. “It turned into a real messy party.”

Sam’s quiet, lowering his tall frame slowly to the floor. He sits on top of a broken piece of clay, but doesn’t even notice it. His eyes are on the now closed Ark. There’s a large, rusty stain on the lid that runs down it’s side, and none of them can tell for sure if that’s Dean’s blood or the kid’s.

“No, not the demon,” Castiel insists, turning his back on the group and leaning against the larger bolder of concrete to look outside. Towards the temple. “This presence wasn’t neither evil nor good... it was- singular.”

Dean forces his eyes open again, not really sure when he’d closed them. Now that he is able to, he doesn’t want to waste time trying to guess what others aren’t saying when he can, once more, read it in their faces.
Along with his independence, this was a skill that Dean had sorely missed, a constant crutch that had been there all of his life without him even realizing it until he lost it.

With a father that kept every single thought close to his chest and a brother who often said what he didn’t meant and was silent about what he truly wanted, Dean would've been screwed long ago had he not learned to read the unspoken words visible only in their faces and eyes.

Castiel was no better; Dean had come to learn that too. The angel is looking the other way, far from them. Far from Earth, it seems. But still, Dean can see his confusion and loss.

The angel’s eyes flicker back to meet Dean’s, blue gazing deeply into green for so long and so intensely that Dean can’t help but shift uncomfortably under the inspection.

“Did you see Him?” Castiel asks again.

The hope written all over his face is, at once, painful and glorious to see. It’s clear now of whom he is asking about.
“See who?” Dean asks, knowing the answer already but reluctant to break the angel’s heart. Shatter what little faith he has left.

“Our Father.”

Dean looks away. It’s too grim, like staring into a kid’s face and flat out telling him that there is no Santa Claus, right before ripping the last candy from the kid’s hands. How can he face Cas and tell him that, despite the Ark, despite the lure, despite the danger, God never showed up? That Raphael is the one who probably had it right all along; that God is truly dead?
“Cas... I’m sorry-“

But Cas is still smiling, shaking his head like Dean is the child in this, the one not comprehending what’s truly happening.
“I was not asking whether or not God was here. I already have the answer to that question,” Cas says with a pointed look in Sam’s direction. “I am asking if you saw Him.”

Dean follows his gaze. Sam looks the same as he did inside the temple. Ruffled hair, dirty face, and ridiculous tunic, stained so badly with gore and blood that it can hardly be called white any longer. His hand, though... his right hand is glowing. “Sam-“

Sam looks down, realizing what they’re all staring at. He opens his hand to reveal the ring. He never put the thing on, afraid that the gesture would somehow change the balance of control and the ring would control him instead.
Solomon’s ring is glowing; a bright golden light that should feel as hot as fire but instead barely warms his palm. Now that Sam thinks about it, the ring has been glowing ever since Dean gave it to him.

“How-how long has it been like that?” Emam whispers, eyes wide as he realizes what it is that Sam is holding up. “What does that mean?”

Sam is staring at his own hand like he’s never seen it before. “It... it’s suppose to... to burn hot in the presence of G-“

Suddenly, like the idea occurs to them both at the same time, Sam and Dean look back, searching the crowd. The gesture is ridiculous, the song ‘What if God was one us’ coming to mind and, after a moment, Dean sinks back into his seat. It’s like searching for a needle in a stack of needles when you don’t even know what a needle looks like.

None of the shell shocked Egyptian men and women strikes them as particularly God-like. Thinking back, no one Dean saw or heard inside that temple came across to him as such a powerful being either. “Maybe it’s broken,” he offers.

“Maybe you just refuse to see,” Castiel points out.

Dean lets his head fall forward, the effort of holding it above his shoulders growing harder and harder. He can’t help but smirk at Cas’ words. After the past couple of days ‘refusing to see’ is not something he can easily be accused of.
“No, Cas... I think we all would’ve noticed if God had popped in to do anything. We were getting creamed in there!” The image of that kid, dying... for nothing. No! Dean refuses to believe that God had just stood by and allow it to happen.

Sam is looking at him like Dean has just sprouted an extra head. “What?” Dean asks, confusion over the strange look. Did Sam see something that he missed? “I can see you now, you know? Quit looking at me like that.”

Dean had every intention of making that sound pissy and sarcastic, his patience for the whole thing more than done with. He knows it just ends up sounding pleading.

Sam remains quiet, averting his eyes to gaze at Emam instead. The guilty look that they both exchange doesn’t escape Dean either.

“What? Did you see something in there?” Dean asks, tone going from pleading to just plain desperate. Everything, since the moment he gave the ring to Sam up until now, is foggy and distant to Dean, like a dream that barely remains at the edge of consciousness after waking up. From the look Sam and Emam share, however, this is something important, something that Dean should be remembering. Something that has them more freaked than seeing half of Hell’s citizens roaming the streets. Something Dean is sure he’d figure out if he wasn’t feeling so damn spent and tired.

“I think we should get you and Bobby home,” Sam says instead.

Dean gives up on staring Sam down. Having dealt with this stare for decades now, Sam's grown immune to it. Emam, on the other hand, actually takes a step back when Dean focuses on him instead. Which does nothing to reassure Dean that he hasn’t, in fact, grown an extra head.

When Dean’s eyes fall on Bobby, however, he can’t help but agree with Sam. The man looks ashy white under the broken day light of the rising sun and whatever this is, Dean can squeeze it out of Sam later.

“What about the Ark,” he asks, turning to Castiel. “Do we take it back to the monk?”

Cas lowers his eyes, the reason clear no matter how much Dean wishes to deny it. “Haim is gone, as is the church,” the angel tells them. “And for now, we can’t trust Heaven to keep the Ark safe either.”

“So,” Sam looks at the innocent looking wooden box. “What... do we take it with us?

“No,” Castiel says with a shake of his head. “It would not be safe to keep it that close to you or Dean. We can not risk something like this happening again.” The angel turns to the silent Egyptian man. “Emam.”

Dean’s not sure if Emam actually knows ‘what’ Cas is, if anyone has bothered to tell him why this strange man is with them or why is he wearing a trench coat even though is over 87 degrees in there. But he can see in the local man’s glazed over eyes when the angel addresses him that he has a pretty good suspicion.

It’s almost funny to watch other peoples’ reaction to Cas. Watch the effect that an angel has on someone not jaded by all the flaws and mistakes that Dean knows Castiel and his kind are capable of.
For the first time in a very long time, Dean wishes he could feel that trust, that faith... that touch of the unknown that actually elicits joy and hope rather than an adrenaline rush and a race to weapons.

That kind of wonderment and unending field of possibilities is now clear in Emam’s eyes when Castiel voices his name.

“Yes?”

“It is hardly my place, but duty falls on those willing, not on those obligated... so, I ask you, Emam-Ali Habib, if you will accept the responsibility of guarding the Ark. Will you keep it safe until the end of your days?”

Emam blinks, torn between looking at the angel and the Ark. From the frown on his face, it’s easy to see that the man is unsure of what to do with himself, completely at a loss for words.

Dean can see in his tanned face the same doubts that plagued Sam about his worthiness to touch the Ark, and, like Sam, he can see that this man is well aware of the consequences of his actions, that he is ashamed of them. And if Dean has learned anything about the Ark, is the fact that true repentance will be enough.
“It’s okay, Emam,” Dean voices. “Not all of us can be certain of making the right choices all the time, but in the end, I think you proved to everyone your true colors.”

Emam does smile then, relief showing in the straightening of his shoulders and the way he finally meets Castiel’s stare head on. “It will be my honor,” he whispers.



Bobby wakes up in his own bed, watching the sun peek out from between the dirt in his stained glass windows.

“How’re you feeling?” Sam’s voice floats from the opposite side of the room.

Bobby turns his head, searching for the tall boy. In the second that it takes his stiff muscles to work their way through the motion, everything that has happened comes rushing back. The plane trip and Dean’s blindness; Emam’s betrayal and redemption; the feeling of being buried alive and the world coming to an end. And yet, somehow... there were actually birds, singing outside.
“Like overcooked dung,” Bobby finally answers, his voice raspy and rough. “What the hell happened? Did we... did we actually win?” he asks, not sure if that’s even a possibility to consider. Sam looks okay. Tanned, even. If it weren’t for the black smudges of tiredness under his eyes, Sam would look like he has just spent a couple of days laying back by the lake, doing nothing but catching some rays and downing a few cold ones. And De-“Where’s Dean? Ya brother okay?”

Sam’s gaze shifts to the freshly filled glass of water that sits by Bobby’s bed and Bobby follows his gaze. There are beads of wetness still clinging to its sides. From the intense way Sam is looking at that chipped glass, Bobby would think that Dean’s inside it.

“Dean’s fine. His eyesight came back,” the younger Winchester says with a forced smile. “Do you want some water?”

Bobby nods, studying the young man’s face. There’s something to be said for knowing someone for long enough that you can tell when he’s hiding something, even if that person doesn’t know it himself. Bobby pushes up against the stack of pillows that someone fluffed against his back, taking a moment to notice the homemade plaster cast covering his arm.
“It’s good to hear that,” Bobby eventually says, referring to Dean’s eyes. In fact, it’s a lot more than good; it’s a frigging ton off his chest, knowing that Dean was no longer blind. Sam, however, doesn’t seem to think it’s good enough news, along with the fact that they’re all still in one piece; at least not good enough to bring his face to this side of happy.

And Bobby knows that this sure as hell isn’t because Sam regrets his brother getting better or the fact that they made it out alive. Which means something else is going on. “Wanna fill me in on the rest?” he asks, going straight for the jugular instead of beating around the bush.

“I got something a lot better to do that filling,” Dean’s voice erupts from the door. In his hands there is a tray with scrambled eggs, strips of bacon, and judging by the aroma, a cup of strong coffee.

An honest to God breakfast in bed.

“Good grief... I died and gone to Hell,” Bobby lets out.

Dean’s eyebrows rise, looking at the soggy eggs and burned bacon. “It’s not that bad,” he huffs.

The silent stare that both Bobby and Sam give him is worth a thousand words about the valor of Dean’s cooking skills, each, on occasion having been exposed to Dean’s dubious idea of eatable food.

“Ingrates,” Dean mumbles, setting the tray on the bedside table.

“So, which one of you is gonna tell me what went on in that place?” Bobby demands again.

The final events in Kom Ombo are like a collage of misshapen images and out of place voices. The last thing Bobby can remember for sure is Emam showing up in that goddamn hole, drag him to his destroyed car, picking up the Colt and going off to help Sam and Dean. For all Bobby knew at that point in time, both boys and the Ark had been in the hands of Obuham and his pet demon.
From the amount of screaming that was going on, Bobby had figured that things hadn’t been going so well. And then he recalls Emam talking to him, saying everything was okay; and Castiel’s voice, murmuring in his ear words that Bobby couldn’t even understand but made him feel safe...

Dean looks a bit paler than usual, and the fact that he’s gotten himself seated as soon as he could did not escape Bobby’s observant eyes. The bandages on his arms didn’t either; white gauze peeks out from under the black long sleeve shirt that he’s wearing.

“Well, I didn’t see much,” Dean points out with a smirk. The joke never seems to get old for him, even if it turns everyone’s stomachs upside down.

Sam clears his throat, picking up the cue from his brother to take the lead in this one. He tells Bobby about the ceremony, and opening the Ark, about using Solomon’s ring to contain the demons and sending them all back.

Bobby doesn’t have to try that hard to figure out that there are parts of that tale being edited out. He just can’t figure if it’s for his, Dean’s or Sam’s benefit.
“So, you were able to use to ring, hum?” Bobby asks with a frown in Sam’s direction. “Just like that?”

Sam looks at his shoes, suddenly very interested in the ragged leather. “I... I think it had something to do with the demon blood,” he finally voices, managing to sound more like a five year old confessing to have broken a window than an overgrown man talking about his past addiction. “I could feel the ring tapping into whatever that blood changed in me and... use it to control the demons.”

Bobby shifts in his bed. It’s never an easy topic, but he’s proud of Sam for coming out and just owning up to it. If the kid’s right, it’s actually a good thing that he was chugging the nasty stuff like it was going out of fashion.

Dean’s silent in his seat, looking at his brother as hard as Sam is avoiding looking at Dean and Bobby wonders if this is what was eating at the boy. Some sort of unspoken fear that his brother has fallen off the wagon.

“So, there was nothing inside the Ark, is that it? All this trouble, all these long term, elaborate-assed schemes... and the thing had nothing but dust bunnies in it?” Bobby asks. “And exactly how does the ring get from Asmodeus to Dean’s hands? Good luck?”

Dean chuckles dryly and for some reason, that seems to set Sam even more on the edge.

“There was this old piece of charcoal inside the Ark," Dean begins, "probably the fossilized remains of someone’s sandwich, hundreds of years ago. And the ring... dude, that was Mile-Oh, this awesome dog that had been following us around.” A fond smile spreads across his lips. “Man... I completely forgot about Mile-Oh when we left. We could’ve brought him back, he would have made a kick ass watchd-” Dean stops himself when he catches Sam’s face. “What?”

Sam looks at his brother like he’s trying to see inside his head, probably looking for something broken, judging from the expression on his face.

“What dog? I didn’t see any dog around you... ever,” Sam points out. “You sure about that?”

Dean frowns, raising one eyebrow. “How could you not see a big, white German Shepherd? Dude, he was right there, when Cas showed up in the middle of the street!”

“There was no one there but us and Cas, Dean. I didn’t see any dog,” Sam points out, certainty in every one of his words.



Dean runs a hand through his hair. “The dog showed at the temple, in Abu Simbel, when I was outside waiting for you and Emam... I named him Mile-Oh, because of that white Shepherd dog Mr. Gusheim had.”
Looking at his brother, he wonders if Sam wasn't just too young to remember that detail. “Come on... don’t you remember Mr. Gusheim’s dog? We used to play all day long with-“ Dean swallows, takes a breath. The more he talks, the more he knows he sounds like a crazy man trying to prove his sanity and utterly failing. “The... the dog,” he stutters, “the dog... picked up the ring... brought it to me.”

Both Sam and Bobby are staring at Dean, but neither can really help it, not when Dean’s saying with a straight face that an imaginary dog helped them turn the battle in their favor.

“Dean, you sure of that? I mean... there was a lot of confusion in there... maybe-“ Sam starts, but it’s not like he can find another explanation for this. Dean was near the Ark, a good five feet from where Asmodeus had thrown the ring away. The only way the ring could’ve reached his hands was if someone brought it to him, a fact that Sam had questioned before. And Gusheim’s dog... Sam actually remembers that dog. Alongside with Bones, it was the only pet he’d ever had.

Dean's grown quiet. He's staring down at the floor, eyes moving like he’s going through his memories, rechecking facts that he was so certain about, and yet, seem so impossible now.

“And Mile-Oh? Mr. Gusheim’s dog was named Run-Over, not Mile-Oh, Dean.”

Dean’s face blanks, mouth opening to say something that he never gets to voice. It’s easy to see that he can’t understand it either.

Sam shifts again and Bobby wonders if this is what has been bothering him, or if whatever’s been eating at him is about to come out.

“And the sword?” Sam asks, not quite meeting Dean’s eyes, his voice small and shy. It’s hard to tell if it’s the question that is hard to ask, or the answer that he’s afraid to hear.

“You found the sword? There actually was one?” Bobby can’t help to cut in. They’d just said that-

“What sword?” Dean asks at the same time.

Sam shifts his gaze from one to the other and looks like he wants to disappear inside the chair he’s sitting on.

Dean’s head keeps bobbing from the hunter on the bed to the brother near the wall. “Sam?”

Sam sighs, apparently realizing that the cloak and dagger routine won’t take him far. “How much do you remember of the fight at the temple? After you gave me the ring,” he asks instead of answering Dean’s pending question.

Dean puffs and snorts, but it’s easy to see he’s uncomfortable with the question and that just piques Bobby’s interest tenfold.
“I... Jesus, Sam!” Dean stumbles, looking at his brother for some sort of reprieve. “I wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders then... how the hell should I know? I gave the ring to you and kind of hoped for the best. The rest is nothing but an acid trip.”

Sam nods, like that was exactly what he was expecting to hear, as he takes something from his pocket. “You remember this?” he asks, showing Dean a black piece of charcoal. It looks about eight inches long and round at the edges, like the handle of a bike.

Recognition floods Dean’s green eyes, but that’s about the only outward reaction that he allows. From the way Sam holds the thing, Bobby had expected something more. Sam, apparently, did too.

“That the thing that the crazy guy pulled out of the Ark, right?” Dean asks, fingers reaching out to touch it, natural curiosity more than anything else.

“This is Michael’s sword,” Sam announces, not moving an inch, his eyes fixed on his brother.

Dean recoils, hand pulling back like proximity to the thing might actually burn him.

“Dean... you used it to kill all the flying beasts that I couldn’t command,” Sam finishes.

Bobby’s eyes grow large in his face, breath trapped in his lungs. He looks at Dean, trying to catch something different about the boy, trying to find an explanation in his face. But Dean only blinks, eyes fixed on Sam.

“That’s bull,” Dean calls out, daring, begging Sam to confess that he’s just pulling his leg. “That’s nothing but a piece of dead wood... there’s no way-“

The final chip falls and Bobby suddenly realizes why Sam was so twisted up about this, why he looked like they’d just lost some important battle. If that sword was meant for Michael alone, and if Dean had been able to use it-
“Damn it, boy!” Bobby blares, eyes cold as he looks at a startled Dean. “What the hell did you go and do?”

Dean just shakes his head, looking in confusion from Sam to Bobby. “I didn’t do anything! I don’t even know what the hell you two are talking about!” he yells, jumping from his seat to pace the room.

Bobby takes a deep breath. He can tell that the kid is being honest. But he also believes in what Sam saw. “Lemme see that,” Bobby asks, extending his hand to Sam.

Dean’s wrong. The thing looks like charcoal, but it feels like metal in his hands. Like burned metal, smooth and compact, long enough to wrap two hands around it. Like a handle. Or like the hilt of a broad sword.

“I tried everything,” Sam goes on, ignoring the fuming glances that Dean throws him. “Nothing happened. But I saw it at the temple. One minute it was that,” he says, pointing at the piece in Bobby’s hands, “and the next it was this long, shinning sword, white blade with inscriptions in it. It... it just vanished the minute Dean dropped it and... I... Bobby, only--”

Sam can’t voice it, but Bobby’s well aware of what his concerns are. Dean keeps silent, hearing his brother’s tale, biting the tip of his nail. They both know that Sam isn’t joking about this.

“Only an archangel can use it,” Bobby finishes for him. “I know. I was there too when that ass told us that.”

“What ass?” Dean asks.

“Obuham. He came by to gloat when me and Bobby were trapped together. Said that the thing inside the Ark would be a gift for Lucifer. For him to kill Michael with the same weapon that Michael had used on him.”

“Well,” Dean starts, relief starting to show in his face, “maybe the guy was lying, maybe he didn’t have his facts right-“

“Maybe you already said yes and we’re not even talking to the real Dean,” Sam finally accuses, the words looking as painful for him to say as they look for Dean to hear.

Dean stops in his tracks, his form against the morning sun coming from the window nothing but a shadow surrounded by the glowing light. He looks so ethereal in that single moment in time that Bobby tenses, knowing for sure that the ruse is up and that Michael is about to reveal himself to them, possibly smite them where they stand.

Instead of the explosion of light that he was bracing himself for, Bobby is met with an explosion of sound.

“COME ON! You guys can’t be serious!” Dean yells, face red and hands clenched into fists. “Do I look like a frigging archangel to you? Do I?”

Anger vented, Dean deflates in front of them, shoulders slopping and head hanging in exhaustion. When he lifts his head again, they can see the raw pain in his eyes, the need to be believed in. To be trusted. “I didn’t say yes to Michael... I would never do that to the two you,” he simply whispers.

The words are so simple and honest that Bobby can’t find in his heart the slightest doubt that this is the same Dean as always, the boy he grew to see as a son. “That’s okay, boy... I believe you.”

The sigh of relief that Dean exhales is a physical thing that lifts some of the tension inside the room.

“Sam?” Dean begs, eyes turning towards his brother.

The constipated look that Sam has been wearing ever since Bobby opened his eyes dissolves, a sly smile slowly replacing it. “I went in to the bathroom this morning after you used it,” he says, nose wrinkling in disgust at the memory. “Trust me... I have little doubt that you are anything but human,” he shamelessly lies.

Dean smirks, hands relaxing and dropping to his side. “Hey, man... I’m just happy that all this angel-airways traveling didn’t cramp me pipes all over again,” he adds with an awful fake Irish accent. “I think I’m getting used to the damn thing.”

“Well, that’s all very nice and informative,” Bobby cuts in, looking like, if anything, someone suffering from over-information. “But the question remains the same: how does a human manage to use a sword designed for archangels? More importantly, how do we use it to kill Lucifer?”

Sam and Dean instantly sober up at that. “Maybe it was just a fluke?” Dean offers, hope filling his words. “I mean, in between the Ark being there, and-“ he stumbles at the words, not yet quite knowing what to call a dog that no one else but him could see, “-and that dog, who could’ve been anything, and- well, I’m just saying... we should test it. See if it even happens again.”

“And if it does?” Bobby questions.

“Then we deal with it,” Sam offers without pause. “Maybe Dean’s right. Maybe Obuham lied to us-“

“Obuham didn’t lie,” Castiel’s voice breaks in. He enters the room coming from the direction of the window. It looks, for all intents and purposes, like he just used a window as a door. From the faint flapping sound of wings that surrounds him, he probably did. “You, on the other hand," Castiel looks from Dean to Sam and back again, face stern and reproachful. "Failed to point out that the Ark had been opened.” The implication that they, on the other hand, had lied to the angel, is painfully evident in Castiel’s disappointed words. “May I see it?”

Bobby exchanges a look with Dean, as if asking for his consent. The young man just shrugs.

Castiel picks up the charred piece with the same reverence that they’ve seen him reserve for the Ark alone, eyes softening as he recognizes it. “In the final battle for Heaven’s defense and our Father’s glory, Michael called out for his flaming sword and with it, pierced the dragon’s side,” Castiel starts, his voice distant and monotone, like he’s reciting some ancient text that he’s read over and over again. “Lucifer, robbed of his strength, was cast into the deepest pits of damnation, never to rise again until the end of times.”

It was impossible to tell if Cas had actually been there to see that happen, or if he was just telling them what he’d been told, but his voice spoke of loss and pain, hope and faith, that no borrowed tale could ever produce on its own.

“The sword became charred as the dragon was conquered and Michael never could bring himself to make it perfect again. He wanted to remember his brother’s demise every time he looked at it.”

“And when he could no longer do that, he put it on Earth, inside the Ark,” Sam finished for him, remembering what Obuham had said.

“Yes,” Castiel says, returning the sword to Bobby’s hands. “It would appear so.”

“So, this thing can really kill any archangel? We can kill Lucifer with it?” Dean asks.

“Michael’s sword is unique, made specifically for the leader of Heaven’s armies. If I hadn’t touched it myself, I never would have believed it actually existed.”

“Is that why Lucifer was after it?” Sam asks. “Because it’s the only thing that can kill Michael?” He’s unable to contain the look of concern he throws Dean. His brother will never say yes, he is sure of that now, but the only thing that Sam liked about the whole ‘being Michael’s vessel’ thing, was that, at least, Dean would be safe.

“This sword could never kill Michael,” Castiel tells them with a frown, like they’ve just suggested something deeply insane. “If Lucifer tried to use it against him, he would soon find out the same thing that you and I know,” he says, looking straight at Sam. “The sword obeys only one being in this creation and Lucifer fears it because it is the only thing that can kill him.”



Dean dry swallows. Suddenly the idea of testing the sword and finding out if it will obey him doesn’t sound as appealing as before. A part of him wants nothing more than to kill Lucifer and hopes that what happened at the temple wasn’t a fluke, that he’ll grab the sword and make it work again; the other part of him, the one that is freaking out at Castiel’s talk, wants to grab that thing and bury it somewhere deep, where no one can ever find it again and just try to find something else to gank the devil.

In between those two thoughts, a small part of Dean wonders if, having being born twice, sent to Hell and pulled out by express orders from Heaven and now being able to do all this... makes him wonder just how human he still is, or if he’s become something else that Dean’s too disgusted to name.

“I think it’s time we stop wondering about the what-ifs and maybes and see what our options really are,” Bobby points out. His working hand extends the black piece in Dean’s direction, urging him to take it.

Dean takes two steps forward with a resolution that he really doesn’t feel inside. Truth is, he doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to find out the answer to this question. He’s terrified of the answer.

All eyes are on him as he reaches for the thing in Bobby’s hand, fingers brushing against the black metal. The fine hairs on Dean’s arms stand to attention, like goosebumps that chill him all over and Dean almost backs away. Reassuring himself that, no matter what happens when he grabs that thing, he’s still Dean Winchester and not something else, Dean pushes his fears and self-doubt aside and just grabs it with his right hand.

He’s pretty sure that no one inside that room is breathing in that moment. Not even him.

His fingers close around the charred metal and Dean looks down slowly, half curious, half fearing what he will find in his hand.

Nothing has changed. The black piece of metal is still nothing more than a black piece of metal and Dean is still Dean.

It should make him feel bad that they can’t use the only weapon that they have against Lucifer, but Dean can’t help but sigh in relief. Whatever it was, isn’t any longer. Whatever made the sword come to life back in the temple is gone.

“I don’t get it,” Sam’s voice breaks the silence. “It worked before. I saw it work before.

Dean just shrugs, happy to drop the thing back on top of Bobby’s bed. “Beats me.”

Castiel, however, is still looking at him, still waiting for something to happen, it seems. Calculating something in his head. When Dean finally meets his gaze, the angel smiles, like he’s just figure something out and is happy with the results.

“I must go,” he simply announces.

Dean grabs his arm before the angel can disappear from the room. “Wait! Don’t you still need this?” he asks, holding the amulet that is back around his neck. “We can’t use the sword, so maybe you should... you know... try and find God.”

Castiel tilts his head, patting Dean’s shoulder in a strange and unfamiliar way. The gentle smile is still on his lips, an expression on his face like Dean has never seen before.

The angel looks... at peace.

“God is all around. There is no longer any need to go looking for Him,” he says, his hand covering Dean’s over the amulet. “You should keep the amulet with you. The sword too. They will both be needed soon enough.”

Before anyone can open their mouth to ask Cas what he meant by that, the angel is gone is a whirlwind of wings and flapping curtains.

“Typical,” Dean mumbles.

“He seemed... happy,” Sam points out, sounding almost frightened at the thought.

“Yeah... scary, innit?”

“More like intriguing,” Bobby chimes in, before throwing his bedcovers aside to uncover pale and thin legs.

“What do you think you’re doing?” both Winchesters jump at the same time.

Bobby raises one eyebrow that would put to shame any of Dean’s. “Research, ya idjits. We got ourselves a golden opportunity with this sword falling in our laps, and I ain’t gonna hang around in my breeches waiting for Michael to drop by and start picking up his possessions.”

The look that Bobby throws his way tells Dean in no uncertain terms that the older man is putting him right alongside with that list of the archangel’s ‘possessions’. It’s not a feeling he welcomes, even if Bobby is right.

“So, you two gonna stay there like two gaping gold fish, or are you gonna help me?”



Their research ends early, not because they find anything of worth, but because Bobby finally gives in and takes some painkillers for his arm. The drugs put him to sleep almost instantly.

Sam, in between celebrating the victory of getting the stubborn older man to do what he’s told and getting comfortable on the couch in Bobby’s study with a large book on his lap, finally succumbs to the exhaustion of the last couple of days.
The books that they’ve been searching through serve as his pillow, and that’s truly the best use they have for them right now, because on the matter of Michael and his famous sword, they’re pretty much worthless.

The references are many and detailed, talking about the last battle and describing the sword almost down to the last detail of its engraved blade. The books all say the same: the sword is Michael and Michael is the sword, and without one the other cannot defeat the devil.

The TV set in the corner, stuck on mute, is airing some old wildlife documentary on lions. Yellow images of dry land show a group of the animals, snoring under the sun. It’s an old program, one that Dean has already seen a thousand times, stuck in motel rooms with only one or two channels.

The last time he watched one of these informative shows it had been- Dean rubs his forehead, trying to remember what it had been about, if for no other reason than to keep his mind from replaying all the events of the past days.

It suddenly clicks, and when Dean realizes what the program had been about, he almost laughs at the absurdity of it all.

It had bugged him incessantly that he could see no good reason for his dreams of fake-Castiel to show him Egypt.

After all, the Ark had been in Ethiopia, and the lame assed ritual that Obuham had performed to open it could have been performed anywhere he wanted to.

Cas had said that Asmodeus had shown him what Dean needed to see in those dreams, that he had used what he could find in Dean’s mind.

And suddenly Dean could recall the last documentary he’d seen and what it had been about. The relocation and restoration of Abu Simbel’s temple in the 1960’s.

Dean shakes his head as he gets up to turn off the TV. It was a good thing that he hadn’t been watching a program about the Moon landing or something.

His eyes fall on the piece of paper that he’d been playing with under the cover of doing research. About Mile-Oh.
Sam and Bobby had dropped the matter of the mysterious dog that no one other than Dean could see, choosing to leave it in some limbo in between the unexplainable and Dean being delirious. Then again, they weren’t the ones who’d touched the animal and fed him and felt how real he truly had been.

Dean knows it hadn’t been a Black Dog, or some other kind of death omen; there had been no glowing eyes and Mile-Oh mostly showed up by daytime, not at night. It certainly wasn’t like any Hellhound that Dean had ever seen. And animal shifters and skin walkers wouldn’t be as helpful and devoted as that dog had been towards him.

No, whatever Mile-Oh was, it was something that they had never encountered before.

So, Dean had grabbed on to the only clue he had. The name.

Anagrams had always been a geeky game that Dean liked to play. It also helped in keeping Sam busy for hours at end when they were stuck in the backseat of the car in between John’s hunts.

There isn’t much Dean can do with the letters in MILE-OH. From the couple of words that he’d been able to scribble down, only one really sounds like a real word to him.



Dean has a faint recollection of having heard the name 'Elohim' before. Pastor Jim had used the word, once or twice in the sermons that Dean and Sam had been forced to sit through when John had left them in the care of the gentle Pastor.
Dean remembers it well, because at the time he’d found the name funny. Jim pronounced it ‘hello him’ and Dean had just giggled.

The Hebrew name for God, Jim had told him. One of His many names. And Dean had given a variation of it to a dog that no one could see. A dog that had helped him when he was blind.

The implications of that fact are too mind-boggling for Dean to dwell too hard on. It could all mean nothing, just a coincidence, a weird fact. It could mean everything.

It could mean that, as far as the big Guy is concerned, He’s helped all He intends to and it’s now up to them to do the rest. But that He cared enough to help them with this.

For a couple of dire moments, watching Sam and Bobby snore their way through the night, Dean entertains the idea of calling Michael and just saying ‘Yes’. Bend over and end all of this even before the sun rises the next day.

But he can’t.

Dean can’t trust Michael to do the right thing, can’t trust him to save as many as possible.

But most of all, Dean can’t bring himself to break the trust that those two snoring beasts, also known as Sam and Bobby, have placed in him. Against all evidence, against all logic, all they had needed was Dean saying that he was still himself for Sam and Bobby to believe. Just like that.

What would be very handy, though, was if they could still use the sword, Michael or no Michael.

Dean can’t really believe it when the thought enters his mind, but he figures that maybe it’s time for him too to believe blindly in things, even though all evidence and logic tell him that it’s impossible.

Sam swears that he saw Dean command that sword once. And above all else, Dean believes in Sam. Even if he failed to repeat the act before.

Dean picks up the black piece of charcoal more out of curiosity than anything else. Even incomplete, this is the weapon that beat the devil all those eons ago. He wonders if some of the power necessary to accomplish something of that magnitude lingers behind, like an imprint, a memory on steel.

The metal feels cold against his fingers, heavier than its size would indicate. Dean’s fingers brush against the engravings, feeling the indentions of every feathery detail, every leaf and vine carved into the grip. They feel soft under his fingers, like velvet instead of steel.

For three days, Dean had nothing but his fingertips to see for him. It was the most frightening experience in his life, and yet, one of most enlightening. People let a lot go by when they’re distracted by what they see around them. These days, they hardly ever take the time to really see things.

It’s the tip of his right index finger that stumbles across the letters. They’re faint, disguised amongst the rest of the hilt’s design, part of the vines, but Dean is sure that there’s something there. A word. Maybe two.

The study is too dark for him too discern any of the fine details and Dean doesn’t really want to wake Sam or Bobby by turning on the light.

It’s bad enough that he can’t sleep. No point in disturbing them too, so Dean just takes the hilt with him and moves outside. Bobby’s front door is in desperate need of maintenance and it’s hinges screech like a wheezing mouse, but his exit goes unnoticed.

The night is cold enough that Dean can see his breath. On top of a green Ford that’s missing all of its doors, there’s a grey cat, leg extended as he licks his privates. The cat stops, looks at Dean, large green eyes that seem to glow in the moonlight, judging him before he quietly resumes his task, marking the human as of no-consequence.

The night falls back into silence and only the distance sound of a train gives away the fact that they’re anywhere near civilization. That out there, the world’s still spinning on its axis.

Under the light of the moon, the hilt of the sword shines with silver flecks and green tones. Dean turns it around in the palm of his hand, the engraved words harder to spot now that he’s looking for them. When he does find it, he’s surprised to see that the inscription is in Latin.

For some reason, he was expecting some language he wouldn’t understand, like the Enochian that the angels seem to favor.

Quis ut Deus?

‘Who is like God?’ Dean translates, lips moving silently.

The answer to that question comes too easily to Dean’s mind and he shakes his head. These days, not even God is like God. So, who was he to know?

Dean tries to picture the sword with a blade. Something long, judging by the length of the hilt. Probably over forty inches.

Dean chuckles to himself. Figures that Michael would want the biggest sword around... then again, when fighting a pissed off, fallen archangel who is often referred to as a ‘dragon’, Dean wouldn’t want a pig sticker either.

The blade itself must’ve weighted tons. Maybe something in iron... or silver. He has no idea what Castiel meant by ‘flaming’ or what materials angels use in their weaponry crafts, but he’s pretty sure ‘fire’ isn’t it.

John taught both him and Sam how to handle a sword; the same way that he’d taught them to use a bow and arrow, throw a knife and hand-to-hand combat. Everything was an added skill; everything might be of use one day.

Those were some of Dean’s favorite lessons, feeling his father’s arms around his, as John guided him through the necessary moves.

This hilt is long enough to fit both of his hands, and Dean does just that, left in front of right, fingers comfortably fitting in place.
He swings it left, right, jabs front, imagines the impossibly long and sharp blade cutting through the air, catching the moon rays and chopping them in half.

Dean’s elbows tingles, like he’s hit his funny bone or something, and he stops moving, hissing at the sensation. It’s been a while since he practiced. Maybe he pulled something, cramped his muscle, which... would be just the perfect ending for the shitty week he’s had.

The tingling, however, spreads from his elbow down, consuming his hand and moving forward, crossing from skin to metal like the two are one and the same.

A blue flame suddenly bursts from the weapon. Startled, Dean nearly drops it but forces himself to hold tight, watching wide-eyed as the flame shoots into the dark, like a giant lighter.




The grey cat scrambles away with a shriek and the sound of claws scrapping against metal before getting lost in the world of junk Bobby has in that place.

Dean just blinks. Shakes his head. Stops short of pitching himself to find out if this is real. Because, where two seconds ago was absolutely nothing, is now a blue, flaming sword.

Michael’s sword.

The one that shouldn’t obey anyone but the archangel himself.

The sword that had defeated Lucifer.

The sword that was meant to defeat him again.

Dean smiles and closes his eyes, allowing his tense muscles to relax. He can sense the heat of the fire diminishing and shaping, cooling down to form a simple and elegant, double edged blade.

He was never one to believe in God. If he’s honest with himself, Dean’s still not sure if he’s ready to believe in the existence of a being so powerful and imposing that it escapes any form of definition.

But Mile-Oh was real to him, even if no one else was able to see him; and Dean knows that, whatever that dog was, his actions were real. It was real when Mile-Oh made him aware that Sam was in trouble inside the temple; it was real when he led them to those Bedouins and it was very real when he took that ring and gave it to Dean.

Someone up there had sent a white German Shepherd to guide him and Dean can’t help but chuckle at the idea.

God, it seems, has a sense of humor. And Dean thinks that now... now he might share in the joke.

The soft pellets of rain that starts falling on Dean make him turn his head up, welcoming the refreshing water.

It’s a liberating feeling, to finally have the means to do something about the apocalypse, something about his and Sam’s destiny.

Dean doesn’t know what this makes of him, or what the sword means, but at least now, he knows that he doesn’t have to say ‘No’ or ‘Yes’ to Michael without bringing the destruction of a whole planet with one word. Now he can say ‘Screw you!’ to all of them without it weighing down his conscience.

The rain keeps on falling down, washing away the weariness of the dusty world. Around his neck, the amulet glows softly, amber and wet, but Dean doesn’t see it. Eyes closed, he enjoys the soft, showering storm. No one else is there to notice it either. No one but the rain.



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