Requiem for Snow
Title: Requiem for Snow
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: None
Warnings: Angst, innuendo,language
Word Count: 7109
Notes:This story follows canon up to Changing Channels - sort of - and borrows chunks of the rest of Season Five completely at random. This story has no beta. - This is the revised chapter 10 - four more chapters are almost finished with the re-edit process and the story can resume.
Trailer 1 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A8LXZM9nRC4
Summary: The January before he went to Hell, Dean and his brother Sam faced the Last Calusa in Key West, Florida. Following the defeat of this ancient curse, the brothers left, barreling straight into their destiny and the inevitable showdown against Lilith and her minions. But what they assumed was just another hunt was actually a key part in the plans of the Apocalypse. A plan not laid by the powers below, but by the ones up above.
Summary This Chapter: Noah plays a game of 'avoid the unsavory subjects' with Wesley and in South Dakota, Sam teaches Heather a few things about hunting. Castiel makes a surprising discovery and Heather has an unexpected visitor. Dean and Melpomene head back to South Dakota and on the way there, both Dean and Cas learn something unwelcome regarding Polyhymnia. When he finally gets back to Bobby's - Dean finds that not much has changed - at least, as far as he can tell.
Noah poured himself a second cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table, watching the morning news and scrolling marquee of closed schools at the bottom, only paying attention the one that said classes were canceled at Georgetown and Our Lady of Mercy. Not that he would have tried to make it to campus today if classes weren't canceled. There was a foot of snow on the ground and getting stuck in a snowbank wasn't on his list of ways to spend the day. After telling Wesley there wasn't any school, the boy had pulled his covers back over his head and muttered something about trying to get more sleep. That was two hours ago and now he could hear his son's footsteps on the stairs. “Morning.”
“Morning dad.” Wesley said grumpily. “Why can't we spend Christmas here?”
The man sighed. “It's part of the arrangement, Wes... your mom and I alternate holidays. We'll spend Christmas here next year.”
“I liked it better when we were all here.” He opened the cupboard and took out a box of Fruit Loops.
“I know you did, son.” Noah took a sip from his mug. “But it's much better for you now that your mom and I not to be living together.”
Wesley rolled his eyes. “I know this lecture, dad. You and mom still love me very much and that's why you divorced so I wouldn't have to see you fighting all the time.” He got down a bowl and worked on making his breakfast.
“Wesley.” He said in reply, a touch of warning in his voice. “That's enough.”
He came over to the table, looking disgruntled. “So that means next year I'll spend Thanksgiving with her, right?”
“Yes.” Noah stood and went to fix himself some toast.
The boy munched on his cereal for a few minutes, watching his father. His parents had been officially divorced sine January, but his mom was gone long before then. He knew that in most cases, the dad left and the mom stayed in the house. But not in the Levin household - because his mom had decided she was in love with someone other that his dad - and had packed her bags one night and gone to live in New York with him. Wesley always thought of Peter Randall as him no matter how many times he told Wesley to call him Peter. Maybe he wouldn't be so on edge if the man wasn't trying to be all - fatherly with him, as if Wes's dad wasn't a part of his life at all. He looked up as his dad came back to the table. “What are you going to do for Christmas then, dad? You're not going to stay here alone, are you?”
“'Course not.” He smiled. “I'm going to go see my sister and her family.”
That kicked the boy into full whine mode. “You're going to South Dakota?” True, it was the middle of nowhere, but his aunt Rachel was the world's best cook - not to mention his cousins had four-wheelers and a backyard the size of the National Mall. A trip to Sioux Falls was about the best possible place to take a vacation that the boy could think of - including Universal Studios.
Noah gave him a tired look. “Don't worry, we're both invited out there for the Fourth of July.”
Still slightly annoyed, Wesley shoved a heaping spoonful of cereal into his mouth and chewed loudly.
Deciding to overlook the bad table manners - Noah didn't blame him for being upset - he finished off his toast and went to get more coffee. “Well, seeing how I'm done with my grading and you did all your homework last night.... what do you say we get the tree out today?”
The boy looked up from his nearly empty bowl. “Okay.” He said, albeit half-heartedly. “Dad?”
“Yes, son?”
“What's the Middleton Institute? The people who keep sending you stuff in the mail? Is it a school?”
Noah gave a him a half smile. “No, it's not a school. It's an organization that helps adopted children find their birth parents.”
Wesley frowned. “Why do you want to find your birth parents?” This somehow seemed like betraying his grandparents. “What's wrong with gran and paw-paw?”
“Nothing. I would just like to know a little bit about them... that's all.” He sighed and reached over to ruffle his son's hair. “Find out where the two of us got this mop of brown hair, for one.”
“Daaaad....” He ducked out from under his father's hand and went to carry his bowl to the sink. “Do you think you can find them?”
“Maybe - I'm not going to devote a lot of time to it...” Noah said, carrying his plate over and turning off the coffee pot as Wesley put both of their dishes in the dishwasher.
“Dad...” the boy suddenly looked solemn. “Are you going to be able to make it alone on a flight all the way to Sioux Falls? You hate flying.”
“I'll be fine.” He steered the boy out of the kitchen and into the family room. “Let's get this room cleaned up a bit - no sense putting up the tree and then having to dust around it.”
“Sure dad.” Wesley started stacking up the newspapers. “Put all these in the recycle bin, right?”
“You got it.” Noah said, getting the vacuum cleaner from the hall closet.
When Wesley came back, he found that his dad had turned the stereo on and it was currently playing some band he couldn't identify - but it sounded old. Rolling his eyes behind his father's back, he went to get a dust cloth - honestly, what kind of song title was Long John Silver anyway? Long John Silvers was a fast-food restaurant, not some weird pirate with a talking parrot. But it was dad's cleaning music - and he'd probably change it to some awful Christmas music when they got the tree down - well, okay, it wasn't all bad. As long as there was plenty of Trans-Siberian Orchestra and no Mannheim Steamroller.
***
Whereas the weather in Ohio was bitterly cold and snowy, Wednesday was proving to be mild by comparison in South Dakota. Sam and Heather had tramped their way to the far side of the salvage yard, opposite from the entrance, where there was a passageway between the tall wooden fence on one side of the yard and a long outbuilding that was badly in need of a coat of paint. Sam remembered it from four years ago - Dean had rebuilt the Impala on the other side of it. Although it was still cold, they were out of the wind. Even the snow here had been scoured away, revealing the frozen earth, where brown grass vied with gravel for space. Sam had painted a target on a metal sign and stuck it into the ground, shoving it into the hard dirt an inch so that it would stand on his own.
Heather rubbed her nose as he loaded the Glock they'd borrowed from Bobby. “Is this one of those things that's easier than it sounds?”
“Pretty much.” He came over and stood next to her. “You know what the sight is, right?”
“Yeah.” She watched him as he narrowed his eyes for the briefest of moments and then he fired the gun - three shots straight into the center of the target. “Wow. That's really... loud.”
“Here.” He handed her the gun and then stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder and he used his other to steady hers. “Now make sure you let your whole arm absorb the recoil, not just your wrist.”
“Okay.” She swallowed. “Count to three?”
“Three heartbeats, that's right.” He stepped back a pace.
Resisting the urge to squeeze her eyes shut, she counted to three and then - the jolt in her arm nearly knocked her back as she fired. Out of the three shots she took, one missed the board completely, another hit just below the edge and the final, just inside the first ring. “Ouch...” She winced as Sam came back over and took the weapon from her.
“Nothing broken?”
“I don't think so...” She rubbed her shoulder. “Just a little...”
He studied the target. “That's actually not bad for a first try...” He gave her an encouraging smile. “It just takes practice.” He handed the gun back to her. “Try again.”
She took a deep breath and aimed again. This time when she fired, she managed to absorb the recoil better and four shots went into the board in a crooked line along the top of the painted target.
“Not bad.” He took the gun back again. “Your arm okay?”
“I think so... I wouldn't count on it not hurting tomorrow morning.”
“Nothing that a few aspirin can't cure.” He ruffled her hair. “And if the weather's bad, there's plenty of stuff to do inside.”
“Like what?”
“Research...” He worked on changing the gun clip. “Things like that.” He looked up. “Guns don't work on everything...” He frowned. “Unfortunately, the more dangerous something is, usually the closer you tend to have to get to it.”
“I don't suppose you can tell me why the demon came out Mr. Babcock when Beth slammed that fishbowl into him, can you?”
“No...” He thought for a moment. “Wait... that shouldn't...was it a salt water fish?”
“Yeah... I don't remember what kind it was though.”
“That might explain it. Salt is pretty much an all purpose deterrent against monsters.” He finished loading the gun. “I don't suppose you know how to pick a lock.”
“Depends on the kind...” Heather grinned and glanced sideways.
“I know that look.” He smiled in response.
“You know those child safety locks they put on doors and baby gates?”
He nodded. “Those are pretty easy to open.”
“Not when you're fourteen months...” She rubbed the back of her head, not sure if she should be embarrassed or proud. “Mom had to put around three locks on gate next to the stairs...but I kept figuring out how to open them.” She started to chuckle. “Or so I was told... she eventually just put a bell on the gate itself.. so she or whoever was watching me could come stop me.”
“That's...” He shook his head. “We'll see if you remember any of those skills.” He handed her the gun. “Have another go.”
*
An hour and thirty rounds later, the metal sign was riddled with bullet holes. It was not until the last five rounds that Heather had gotten any of kind of consistency in where she hit and it was not until the last two that she managed to hit the center of the target. She and Sam gathered all the shell casings and slugs into two separate buckets.
“How's your arm?”
“I'll let you know in the morning.” Heather said in reply. “Though I think I may be fine just as soon as my ears stop ringing.”
“Yeah, that takes getting used to.” Sam shifted the bucket he was carrying. “Might have get some earplugs.” He rubbed his nose. “But for a beginner, you're doing pretty well.”
“Thanks.” She coughed. “What exactly are we doing to do with the slugs? Make more bullets?”
“Exactly.” He replied. “Not for the same gun, of course - but for others - the same is true for the casings.”
“You mean like in that movie, The Monster Squad where the guy makes the silver bullets and wooden stakes in shop class?”
He gave her a surprised look. “You've seen that?”
“Yeah... though I've got a feeling that wooden stakes probably aren't what you need to kill a vampire.”
“No, you have to cut their heads off.” He said flatly. “But thankfully, that can be done with any implement that can do the task - you don't have to worry about carrying around a sword that's half silver, or what have you.”
“Chainsaw.” She shifted the bucket she was holding from one hand to the other.
“Those would work too... though it would be very messy.”
“I don't think there's a neat method of cutting a head off - unless it's a lightsaber.”
“Shame those aren't real...” He shrugged. “Though it's probably best there isn't.... a lot of Star Wars fans would probably be missing a few limbs.” They climbed the ramp up to Bobby's house and let themselves inside.
*
Sam turned Heather's hand over with both of his, holding it palm up and grasping her thumb and pinkie finger. “Now you're going to have to hold still while I do this, okay?”
She nodded in response. “Uh huh.” She found herself unable to look away from the twenty even black stitches some doctor in Jasper had used to seal the wound the demon had given her. She'd assumed that a doctor would be the one to take them out, but with all that happened in the past few weeks, it's not like she should be so damn surprised. “I guess I'm going to have to come up with a story to go with the scar... since I can't really tell people a demon tried to kill me.”
He nodded and held the pair of tweezers to the flame of the candle. “I don't think to many people will notice it - as you can cover it with a watch band.”
“True.” She bit her lip as he started to work the hot metal of the tweezers under the first stitch.
“I'm not hurting you, am I?” He gently tugged the first knot loose.
“The metal's hot.” She finally managed to look away and focused on the floorboards. “I take it you've done this a lot...”
“Yeah.” Sam started on the second stitch. “I've had to sew up my own wounds a few times too...”
“Yikes.”
“It's not so bad, once you know what you're doing.” He tugged the next knot free. “You ever had stitches removed before?”
“Yeah.” She looked up. “I didn't like it the last time either.”
He went to work on the fourth knot. “Is that where the scar here on your arm came from?” He could feel the edge of a jagged patch of skin under his fingers.
“Uh huh.” She managed a weak smile as he pulled out another knot. “Ever had a compound fracture before?”
He looked up. “No, I've managed to avoid that.”
“Good - you don't want one.” She let out a breath as he clipped away the long thread he'd undone and started on another section. “At least it was my arm and not my leg.... and I didn't break it until August... so I at least got to do some swimming.”
Glad to have a subject to keep her occupied, Sam tugged gently at another knot before asking his next question. “You like to swim?”
“I love swimming.” She grinned. “Of all the sport, physical fitness whatever you want to call it that I can do, swimming is by far my favorite.”
“Why?” He worked the ninth suture free.
“You'd probably laugh if I told you...” She looked away, feeling her cheeks turn slightly pink.
“Try me.” He inwardly felt rather bad that he was sitting here getting to know Heather while Dean was stuck in Ohio. Well, it wasn't as if he wouldn't find out eventually... but the concept that the person who should be sitting here wasn't made it seem a little - awkward.
“I love to swim because I think it's the closest mankind will ever get to flying under their own physical power.” She went slightly more red. “I know, that probably sounds silly....”
Sam paused halfway through the eleventh stitch and looked up. “No, no it doesn't. You might actually have a point there.” He went back to work. “So a few days ago you mentioned the Pendragon series. What's that about?” He figured it was better to keep her distracted as he worked.
Heather thought for a moment. “In general, it's about this group of people called the Travelers who are trying to stop Saint Dane from destroying Halla.”
“And Halla is what exactly?”
“All that ever is, was or will be. Basically it's like the entire universe and every alternate reality in the universe too.”
“That's no small task.” He pulled out the twelfth stitch.
**
Castiel still didn't like the arrangement that Polyhymnia had set up with her older sister. True, of all nine Muses, Clio was unquestionably the most trustworthy. She'd been the one to get in the least amount of trouble with the angels, did the best job of staying out of their way - and, if all pagan gods acted like her, there would probably be a lot fewer problems with them. It was the perfection that worried him. Most creatures like her would balk at the idea of helping him - the fact that she was going to be helping him - if he needed it - him, a rogue angel... that was just asking to be punished. He supposed he should have known something like this would happen. The only reason he had asked Polyhymnia in the first place was the fact that she was the only one who didn't seem to fear the wrath of Heaven. Quite stupid of her to be that way.
He leaned against the iron railing of the bridge, staring into the raging river far below him. Something else started to nudge at the back of his mind. The conversation he had overheard while on Olympus - he was assuming that Erato hadn't known about Heather until a few days ago. Hell, Melpomene had admitted that only her most trusted sisters had known - along with her father. But she'd passively mentioned that there were others who had known, but she was forbidden to tell who.
“Castiel?”
The voice was weak, almost inaudible in the back of his mind that he swore he must have imagined it.
“Castiel?”
It was slightly louder, but no stronger. He'd not heard the voice in so long, he swore that he'd never hear it again. Clutching the railing in both hands, he closed his eyes and answer what he heard, scarcely believing it. “Jimmy?” There was a feeling of something deep in his mind stretching, slowly coming back into being. It was not grace, but more of the way life stirs in a tree that had been sleeping all winter and awakens at the first promise of spring.
“Castiel, what's going on? What happened? I remember...a lot of light... and then...oblivion.”
The angel opened his eyes, gazing back down into the river. He couldn't find the words to answer his vessel and for him to not panic - he knew that the man deep inside him could not read his thoughts or emotions. He let out a breath. “Things have changed... James. Things have changed.”
Trapped in his own mind, in some far corner that he'd created when he was six years old, his own little safe haven, the human known as Jimmy Novak found himself standing up, trying to keep calm. “Did you just call me James? No one ever.... no one's called me that in...”
“Years, I know.” Castiel pulled away from the railing and started forward, heading down towards the village whose name he couldn't recall - he just knew he was somewhere in Armenia.
“We didn't make it in time, did we? The Last Seal was broken.” There was despair in his voice.
“No, we didn't. We were lied to, James. The others wanted the Apocalypse.”
“How bad is it?” His voice was starting to get weaker again.
“Very...are you all right?” He swallowed hard as he heard an almost inaudible cough in the back of his mind.
“I'm worried about Ames and Claire.” This was the truth. Jimmy Novak could care less what happened to him or Castiel - since technically, they were one in the same. As long as his wife and daughter were safe, he would be content.
“They are safe. I do not believe what has happened to us will affect them.”
When his vessel spoke again, it was so faint, he had to strain to hear it. “As long as they stay safe...” Jimmy's voice broke off into a fading litany that almost sounded like a plea - the angel recognized the words of the Beatitudes as he came into the town proper. He wished he could give the man more reassurance than he did, but there was no way of knowing how all of this would end. He had truly thought that Jimmy - James - was already in Heaven - sent there when Raphael struck him down.
Now he knew - he wasn't alone in this body - it wasn't his body to begin with... the man who'd consented to be his vessel was still here - and the warm feeling from earlier became a little stronger.
**
It was ten at night when Dean and Melpomene left Columbus. The snow had quit at five and the lot had been plowed two hours later. The highway was mostly clear - but with patches of snow and black ice, what few cars and trucks that were braving the night were moving under fifty miles an hour instead of seventy. Dean didn't care if they had to go thirty - he wanted to get back to South Dakota as soon as possible. He'd spent half the day sleeping and the other half watching television. He'd left a message with Sam that he was on his way back, this time estimating his arrival to hopefully be around noon. He had a feeling that Melpomene had things she wanted to get back to doing. “Can I ask you something?”
“Have I said no to that question yet?” She replied, keeping her gaze directly out in front of her.
He rolled his eyes. “Smart-ass.” He said under his breath before continuing. “You said you're not omnipotent.”
“That's correct.” She blinked and turned her gaze down to her hands.
“But I take it that doesn't mean you don't know plenty about how things are playing out.” He gave her a sideways glance.
She closed her eyes as if she was in pain before she spoke. “More than I wish I did.” She turned her head towards the window. “And I've been in on it for a long time.”
“How long?”
“You really don't want me to answer that. Believe me.”
“I think I can handle it.” He replied as he moved over into the far lane as an eighteen wheeler came barreling onto the roadway.
She rubbed her eyes, her face drawn in pain. “I would estimate it to be around the year two hundred - but my role wasn't very active in it until oh, about a thousand years after that.”
“Shit.” He struggled to keep the car straight. “It's been planned that far back?”
“Dean, this plan is so bloody huge and so complex, that Clio's convincing Columbus to sail west to find the East is a part of it.”
“Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.” She shifted in her seat.
Dean was about to reply when his cell phone rang. Slowing down slightly so he could answer it and still manage to drive, he checked the ID before flipping the phone open. “Cas?”
“We need to talk. Where are you?”
“One second.” He looked over at the Muse. “What's the last mile marker we passed?”
“Two-fifty four.” She said in a flat tone.
“We're just past the two-five-four westbound mile marker in Indiana on...” He stopped as he heard a fluttering sound and then saw Castiel in the backseat. “You okay Cas?”
“I'm fine.” The angel shifted his gaze to the Muse for a second before turning back to Dean. “You have the Colt?”
“It's in my coat pocket.” He glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. “How's your search going?”
“Nowhere.” He replied and then turned towards Melpomene. “Do you know why Polyhymnia would have sent Clio instead of you to help me?”
Slowly, she turned around in her seat to look directly at him. “You asked Polly to help you find God?”
There was something in her tone that immediately raised alarm in the angel. “Why is that a problem?”
“Polly is the last one of the nine you should ask for that kind of help! Or any kind of help if you're outside of our pantheon.” She looked at Dean and saw an equally shocked look on his face. “She doesn't care who wins this final battle... because she's the only one of us who Lucifer wouldn't chain up!” She covered her eyes. “If she sent Clio to help you, that alone should have told you something!”
“What's the deal with Clio?” Dean interjected.
“It means that Polly has been forced to return to her neutrality...either that or...” She cursed under breath and spread her fingers, still staring at Castiel. “My sister is still one of my closest friends... but half of that is because I've been trying to keep her from getting to deep in either side... I'm not so much her sister as I am her minder.” She turned back around. “I can ask her to make the arrangement with Clio permanent... Clio at least cares who wins.”
“Don't you all live regardless of how the Apocalypse turns out?” Dean said, struggling to keep the Impala in their lane, his hands were starting to shake.
“Depends on your definition of living.” She closed her eyes again and cursed softly under her breath.
“So why did you send Polly to South Dakota in the first place?”
“Because I couldn't and I knew Castiel wouldn't listen to Cori.” Her voice was shaky when she spoke.
Castiel looked down for a moment and focused on the road in front of them. “Why can you pagan gods not keep to a standard set of rules?”
“I don't know, why do the majority of you angels have to be self-righteous assholes?” She pulled her hands up to her face as if she was going to sneeze and then, in an instant, vanished.
It was Dean's turn to curse. “She had a point there, Cas.”
The angel said nothing as he slid to sit behind the driver's seat, settling into the well worn leather, looking almost as tired as he felt. “I know she did.” He said softly. “I...” He leaned against the window, staring blankly ahead. “This has been... a very... strange day.”
He glanced in the rear-view at him. “What do you mean?”
The angel swallowed. “Jimmy Novak is still alive...”
“The guy you're possessing? I thought he died when...”
“So did I.” Castiel looked down at his hands, opening and closing them slowly. “I do not think he may remain so... I believe he will die when what is left of my grace vanishes.”
“Why don't you rest for a while...” He gently pushed the cassette that was sitting primed in the player in. “Looks like you could use it.” A moment later, the sounds of Metallica's 'Wherever I May Roam' filled the car. He focused on driving and didn't notice when the angel actually drifted off to sleep shortly afterwards.
**
In the dark family room of the Levin house, the Christmas tree stood out, dominating the bay window on the far side. Even though the lights were not on and the house was still, the untouched snow reflected the moonlight back into the house, giving some of the ornaments an ethereal glow. A figure stood, just in the shadows, watching as the faint stream of air caused by the furnace caused the bright baubles to move slowly from where they hung. Silently the figure moved forward to the tree and a transparent finger reached out and slid through an ornament made of wood sticks, paper and paint - the handiwork of the child sleeping upstairs - back when the child had been half the age he was now. The figure supposed it was meant to be a dragonfly.
The insect swung back and forth at his touch and the figure smiled. He was not in pain, he was not angry, he wasn't even trapped - not entirely. He was the oldest. It was his place to worry - and this place - this land had once been his home. He'd not been back here in nearly seventy years - not since...
He pulled back from the tree and looked over the other glittering ornaments. He meant no harm to the family in the house - maybe, just maybe - one of them would try to talk to him. No one had ever tried.
He didn't like being back here, away from his place in Heaven... his own private Heaven where he hunted rabbits with his father and went fishing with friends in a pond that was long gone - maybe not some people's version of paradise, to be certain - but it was his and he missed it.
The figure faded out as the low drone of a snow plow went down the unseen road, clearing the streets so that tomorrow, life could go on as normal. But the worry remained. It was starting again.
**
“Heather.” The voice was calm but insistent. “Heather Grace, wake up.”
She turned over in bed, pushing the covers off of her head and squinted her eyes, trying to see who was speaking to her. “What time is it?” She sat up, rubbing her face, glad that whoever was talking to her had turned on the light before she opened her eyes. That's when she realized that the light in the room was much brighter than it should be. The lamp on the dresser and ceiling light combined didn't give off half the light that seemed to fill the room. “I'm dreaming.”
“That's right.” The voice said again and then she saw the speaker, leaning against the far side of the dresser, watching her. “You are dreaming.”
She lowered her hands and blinked. Her gaze started at the floor and she slowly raised them, going past where the man's head ended and looking higher and as soon as they nearly reached the ceiling, she bolted backwards toward the corner of the bed, wincing as she felt her back collide with the bedpost and wall. “Who...”
“Don't be afraid.” He stepped away from the dresser, moving to sit on the foot of the bed. “I'm not going to hurt you.”
Heather still didn't back away from the corner she'd wedged herself into. “Uh... uh...” She swallowed. “Okay, I know you're not the guy who plays Charlie Epps on Numb3rs, so who in Halla are you?”
He smiled at her words. “A Winchester who tries not to curse...quite the pleasant change.” He held up his hand as he saw she was about to speak again. “I know, I know - your last name is Kittredge, but you're still a Winchester.” He looked down at his hands as if they were totally foreign to him. “As for why I look like the professor from that television program... well, I felt showing up as that young man who plays Edmund in the Narnia films would be inappropriate.”
Heather went pink with embarrassment and covered her mouth with her hands. “How did you...”
“Shh...” He held a finger to his lips. “That's not important. I just want to talk to you for a moment.”
“You're Michael, aren't you?”
“Yes.” He smiled again. “I know that you're keeping silent... because you're afraid they won't listen to you.”
“I'm a kid.” She slowly uncurled from her position. “I know they're not going to listen to me.”
Michael stood and started to walk the length of the room. “Oh, I know they won't. Not directly.” He stopped and set a hand on the wall above the light switch. “I also know you can think of a way to make them listen without speaking a word.” He bent down and picked up the stuffed bear where it had fallen to the floor. “All I'm asking of you is to not be afraid.”
“I can't promise that...” The fact that she was talking to an archangel alone was scary in its own right.
“Just try not to be afraid.” He handed the bear to her. “Find a way to make them listen.” He brushed his hand over her forehead, sending Heather into deeper sleep. “And no matter what the tell you, don't let them kill your faith.”
**
Dean arrived back in South Dakota shortly after two in the afternoon. The last time he had driven so many hours straight, he'd collapsed into a hotel room in Kansas City and then been subjected to a mind-fuck courtesy of Zachariah. His plan was to sleep for three hours, eat something - and then sleep again for as long as his body and brain would allow. Although he wasn't really counting on being able to go sleep right after dinner. If all else failed, he'd sleep in the passenger seat when he and Sam left. Yawning, he slammed the door of the Impala shut and headed for the trunk to get his bag. He was nearly there when a wet thump echoed through the salvage yard. He turned around quickly, trying to find it's source when the sound was repeated, though not as loud as the first time. “What the hell?” He moved away from the car, heading towards the noise. It didn't sound dangerous, but it was repeating itself enough to warrant an investigation.
He came around the side of a tower of junked cars and found Heather standing several yards away. The sound was snowballs hitting the large piece of sheet metal. Given that her ears were looking red and the face white, he knew she'd been outside for a while. “Aren't you cold?” He also noted that she wasn't wearing gloves.
Heather glanced at him before picking up another handful of snow and molding it into a ball. “Yeah.”
“How long have you been out here?” He stuck his own hands in his pockets, stepping closer to her.
“A while.” She threw the ball. “Long enough to clean off a few cars worth of snow.”
“Does Sam know you're out here?”
“Uh huh.” She picked up another handful of snow. “He asked me to come in and eat something...” She looked at her watch. “Two hours ago.”
“You've been out here, doing that...” He nodded as another ball slammed into the sheet metal. “For two hours?”
“Four, actually.” She sniffled and rubbed her nose. “I took my gloves off when they got to wet.”
“I think you probably should get inside before you get sick.” He replied as another snowball splattered against the makeshift target. “Or freeze...you look to be about halfway there.”
“Sam came out and gave me this exact same speech.” She leaned back against a car that she'd been scrapping snow off of and folded her arms.
“Well, he's right.” He winced as the wind stung his face. “This cold doesn't bother you?”
“Oh, it does.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I'll just be out here a little while longer. I am kind of hungry.”
“I don't mean to pry or anything, but is this a female thing?”
“No, it's not that.” Heather rolled her eyes. “If it was, I probably wouldn't have gotten up today.”
“That's enough on that...” He was silently thankful that certain things were already handled in terms of puberty with her. “So how long...” He was cut off as she smashed a large snowball on the top of his head.
“I'm ready to go in now.” She picked up her sodden gloves and headed towards the house.
Dean brushed the snow off the top of his head and followed her. “Have you been waiting out here in the freezing cold just to do that?”
“Yeah.” She didn't turn around.
“That's a little OCD, isn't it?” He stopped at the Impala to get his bag.
“Well, I knew I'd more likely hit the car instead you if I waited in the window of my room.” She turned around at the foot of the ramp. “I figured I'd be in less trouble for hitting you than the car.” She shrugged her shoulders and headed inside.
He wasn't entirely sure how to respond to that argument (as he knew very well she had a point) as he slammed the trunk lid shut and followed her into Bobby's house.
*
Dean went almost straight to sleep and ended up sleeping to almost eleven. He supposed it was hunger, more than anything that disturbed his rest and sent him downstairs to the kitchen. Sam must have taken up residence in the last bedroom, as the couch in the main room was unoccupied. The overhead light in the kitchen was on, expecting to find Bobby, he was surprised to find Heather. “You're not packing another snowball, are you?”
“No.” She didn't look up from her sketchbook. “I've engaged in enough meteorological warfare for the week.”
He chuckled and went to the fridge and took out container of some kind of leftovers. “How you holding up?”
“About as good as can be expected.” She picked up the gum eraser that was lying next to her and attacked a section of her drawing. “How was your trip?”
“Fine.” He left it at that as he dished out a serving of the casserole onto a plate and stuck it in the microwave. “See Sam took your stitches out.” He took a beer from the fridge as he put the container back in. “When did everyone else go to sleep?”
“Sam went upstairs shortly before ten - because that's when I came down - Uncle Bobby went to bed after the ten o'clock news was over.” She gently brushed the eraser shavings off the paper and picked up her pencil again. “I've come to the conclusion that the only difference between the news here in South Dakota and the news in Indiana is that here the news is full of car wrecks and back there, it's all homicides.”
The microwave dinged and Dean grabbed a fork before removing the plate and having a seat at the other end of the table. “The news is gruesome no matter where you go. Is it snowing again?”
“That's not snow out there, it's freezing rain. Which is worse.” She looked up. “Sam moved the car so it'd be under something for the night - otherwise, you'd have to clean an inch of ice off of it in the morning.”
He took a large bite of food before answering. “Don't know if we're going anywhere tomorrow.”
“Well, I think it was a matter of just in case, or something.” She rubbed at the drawing, working on a patch of shading.
“I'm sorry we have to keep you here at Bobby's... he can wear you out after a while.” He took a swig from the beer bottle.
“Well, it beats being in Palm Beach with crazy Aunt Shelley or having to go stay with Uncle Tobias and Aunt Iris - which wouldn't be bad, but that'd mean I'd have to be around my cousin Alex.” She clenched her teeth. “And Alex drives me nuts.”
He arched an eyebrow at her response. “How's he do that?”
“Because he is the most arrogant, trumped up...augh...” She shuddered. “This isn't a boys having cooties thing...this...” She folded her arms and sat back. “He's just plain mean. I think he spent a little to much time with Grandpa Langley as a toddler and it rubbed off on him.”
“What do you mean by that?” He took another bite of casserole. He figured Langley was Sarah Kittredge's maiden name.
“The trouble is all the cousins on mom's side of the family are really competitive and well, since I'm last in line, I basically have no chance of catching up to anyone but Alex - since we're only six months apart in age. So of course, he doesn't like me anymore than I like him.”
Dean took a sip from his beer. “Somehow I don't see you being competitive.”
She folded her arms and set them on the table. “When you're an only child, you're not used to competition. Like most of the kids like me, I'm a perfectionist - doubly so, since I'm part Virgo... and when you're part Libra as well...” She went back to her sketching. “Feet are on the ground, head is in the clouds... it's driven a few teachers crazy.”
He chuckled in response. “I'll bet.” He went back to eating his dinner. “We'll get you back in school in January.” He chewed thoughtfully. “That will at least get you out of the house a few hours a day.”
“It'll be a change to go to a school where the entire staff doesn't know who your parents are.” She set the pencil down and sat back. “Sometimes I think that's why dad switched to elementary school... being the kid of a principal is one thing... being in the same school where your dad is principal... well, that's just...” She pushed the sketchbook away. “I guess that doesn't matter much anymore.” She set her arms on the table and looked down.
Dean stood, dragged his chair around to the other side of the table and sat down next to her, putting his arm around her shoulder in a one armed hug. He set his chin on the top of her head, knowing all to well that telling her things would work out, things would be fine - would be worthless. He squeezed her again when she sniffled. “You do know that no one expects you to get through this alone.”
She sniffled. “I know. Seems like it sometimes though.”
For lack of words, he reached over and pulled the sketchbook closer to them and started flipping through it. “Sam was right... you are a pretty good artist.”
“Thanks.” She didn't look up and right now, she really didn't want to move.
“Really...” He stopped when he came to the picture of Castiel. Something in his mind faintly clicked -a memory that had been scrubbed clean with his resurrection. He can remember now - screams of the souls of the damned changing in tone - the torturers leaving their victims to race towards something charging forward. He can hear Alistair's voice shouting at him, shouting at other demons - the strange green and red haze of hell starting to recede as the source came closer to him. The razor in his hand fell to a floor so soaked in blood and gore, it could never be clean. It probably had never been clean. In the brilliance, he could just barely make out a single detail of the figure racing towards him. The eyes - the blazing blue eyes alive with holy fire and righteousness. A searing pain that went up his arm and he can remember rising from the blackness, racing out of hell with a speed that would make light seem slow - and then came the blackness of that coffin in Pontiac, Illinois.
Dean remembered the hell hounds attacking him - he can remember what happened in Hell - and now, now he can remember the way he left. Pamela Barnes had merely glimpsed at Cas and gotten her eyes burned out. He'd never wanted to ask the angel exactly what he looked like - but he'd seen his wingspan - and that told him it was nothing to be taken lightly. He didn't want to know how it was that Heather could see him and keep her eyesight - Melpomene had stated only her and two other sisters had children who could do that. How that came about - that wasn't important or even who the other two were. “Say Heather...” He pulled his arm from her and picked up the sketchbook, studying with unabashed interest and he wasn't sure what he was more in awe of - at what Cas looked like or the girl's ability to capture him.
“Yeah?” She pulled away, rubbing at her tear stained cheeks.
“Could I... can I have this picture?” He scanned the image again and throughout, he could see the tiny shades of barely there gray - gray that should be white - parts of Castiel that were darkening from his incredible being as his grace diminished.
“Sure.” She shrugged. “I was thinking of doing another one anyway...”
He turned towards her, giving her an encouraging smile. “You'll let me see that one too, right?”
“Not a problem.” She rubbed the back of her head, looking at the drawing. “I'll tell you this too... Crayola does not have the colors to do that angel justice... or probably any angel..”
Chapter Eleven
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: None
Warnings: Angst, innuendo,language
Word Count: 7109
Notes:This story follows canon up to Changing Channels - sort of - and borrows chunks of the rest of Season Five completely at random. This story has no beta. - This is the revised chapter 10 - four more chapters are almost finished with the re-edit process and the story can resume.
Trailer 1 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A8LXZM9nRC4
Summary: The January before he went to Hell, Dean and his brother Sam faced the Last Calusa in Key West, Florida. Following the defeat of this ancient curse, the brothers left, barreling straight into their destiny and the inevitable showdown against Lilith and her minions. But what they assumed was just another hunt was actually a key part in the plans of the Apocalypse. A plan not laid by the powers below, but by the ones up above.
Summary This Chapter: Noah plays a game of 'avoid the unsavory subjects' with Wesley and in South Dakota, Sam teaches Heather a few things about hunting. Castiel makes a surprising discovery and Heather has an unexpected visitor. Dean and Melpomene head back to South Dakota and on the way there, both Dean and Cas learn something unwelcome regarding Polyhymnia. When he finally gets back to Bobby's - Dean finds that not much has changed - at least, as far as he can tell.
Noah poured himself a second cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table, watching the morning news and scrolling marquee of closed schools at the bottom, only paying attention the one that said classes were canceled at Georgetown and Our Lady of Mercy. Not that he would have tried to make it to campus today if classes weren't canceled. There was a foot of snow on the ground and getting stuck in a snowbank wasn't on his list of ways to spend the day. After telling Wesley there wasn't any school, the boy had pulled his covers back over his head and muttered something about trying to get more sleep. That was two hours ago and now he could hear his son's footsteps on the stairs. “Morning.”
“Morning dad.” Wesley said grumpily. “Why can't we spend Christmas here?”
The man sighed. “It's part of the arrangement, Wes... your mom and I alternate holidays. We'll spend Christmas here next year.”
“I liked it better when we were all here.” He opened the cupboard and took out a box of Fruit Loops.
“I know you did, son.” Noah took a sip from his mug. “But it's much better for you now that your mom and I not to be living together.”
Wesley rolled his eyes. “I know this lecture, dad. You and mom still love me very much and that's why you divorced so I wouldn't have to see you fighting all the time.” He got down a bowl and worked on making his breakfast.
“Wesley.” He said in reply, a touch of warning in his voice. “That's enough.”
He came over to the table, looking disgruntled. “So that means next year I'll spend Thanksgiving with her, right?”
“Yes.” Noah stood and went to fix himself some toast.
The boy munched on his cereal for a few minutes, watching his father. His parents had been officially divorced sine January, but his mom was gone long before then. He knew that in most cases, the dad left and the mom stayed in the house. But not in the Levin household - because his mom had decided she was in love with someone other that his dad - and had packed her bags one night and gone to live in New York with him. Wesley always thought of Peter Randall as him no matter how many times he told Wesley to call him Peter. Maybe he wouldn't be so on edge if the man wasn't trying to be all - fatherly with him, as if Wes's dad wasn't a part of his life at all. He looked up as his dad came back to the table. “What are you going to do for Christmas then, dad? You're not going to stay here alone, are you?”
“'Course not.” He smiled. “I'm going to go see my sister and her family.”
That kicked the boy into full whine mode. “You're going to South Dakota?” True, it was the middle of nowhere, but his aunt Rachel was the world's best cook - not to mention his cousins had four-wheelers and a backyard the size of the National Mall. A trip to Sioux Falls was about the best possible place to take a vacation that the boy could think of - including Universal Studios.
Noah gave him a tired look. “Don't worry, we're both invited out there for the Fourth of July.”
Still slightly annoyed, Wesley shoved a heaping spoonful of cereal into his mouth and chewed loudly.
Deciding to overlook the bad table manners - Noah didn't blame him for being upset - he finished off his toast and went to get more coffee. “Well, seeing how I'm done with my grading and you did all your homework last night.... what do you say we get the tree out today?”
The boy looked up from his nearly empty bowl. “Okay.” He said, albeit half-heartedly. “Dad?”
“Yes, son?”
“What's the Middleton Institute? The people who keep sending you stuff in the mail? Is it a school?”
Noah gave a him a half smile. “No, it's not a school. It's an organization that helps adopted children find their birth parents.”
Wesley frowned. “Why do you want to find your birth parents?” This somehow seemed like betraying his grandparents. “What's wrong with gran and paw-paw?”
“Nothing. I would just like to know a little bit about them... that's all.” He sighed and reached over to ruffle his son's hair. “Find out where the two of us got this mop of brown hair, for one.”
“Daaaad....” He ducked out from under his father's hand and went to carry his bowl to the sink. “Do you think you can find them?”
“Maybe - I'm not going to devote a lot of time to it...” Noah said, carrying his plate over and turning off the coffee pot as Wesley put both of their dishes in the dishwasher.
“Dad...” the boy suddenly looked solemn. “Are you going to be able to make it alone on a flight all the way to Sioux Falls? You hate flying.”
“I'll be fine.” He steered the boy out of the kitchen and into the family room. “Let's get this room cleaned up a bit - no sense putting up the tree and then having to dust around it.”
“Sure dad.” Wesley started stacking up the newspapers. “Put all these in the recycle bin, right?”
“You got it.” Noah said, getting the vacuum cleaner from the hall closet.
When Wesley came back, he found that his dad had turned the stereo on and it was currently playing some band he couldn't identify - but it sounded old. Rolling his eyes behind his father's back, he went to get a dust cloth - honestly, what kind of song title was Long John Silver anyway? Long John Silvers was a fast-food restaurant, not some weird pirate with a talking parrot. But it was dad's cleaning music - and he'd probably change it to some awful Christmas music when they got the tree down - well, okay, it wasn't all bad. As long as there was plenty of Trans-Siberian Orchestra and no Mannheim Steamroller.
***
Whereas the weather in Ohio was bitterly cold and snowy, Wednesday was proving to be mild by comparison in South Dakota. Sam and Heather had tramped their way to the far side of the salvage yard, opposite from the entrance, where there was a passageway between the tall wooden fence on one side of the yard and a long outbuilding that was badly in need of a coat of paint. Sam remembered it from four years ago - Dean had rebuilt the Impala on the other side of it. Although it was still cold, they were out of the wind. Even the snow here had been scoured away, revealing the frozen earth, where brown grass vied with gravel for space. Sam had painted a target on a metal sign and stuck it into the ground, shoving it into the hard dirt an inch so that it would stand on his own.
Heather rubbed her nose as he loaded the Glock they'd borrowed from Bobby. “Is this one of those things that's easier than it sounds?”
“Pretty much.” He came over and stood next to her. “You know what the sight is, right?”
“Yeah.” She watched him as he narrowed his eyes for the briefest of moments and then he fired the gun - three shots straight into the center of the target. “Wow. That's really... loud.”
“Here.” He handed her the gun and then stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder and he used his other to steady hers. “Now make sure you let your whole arm absorb the recoil, not just your wrist.”
“Okay.” She swallowed. “Count to three?”
“Three heartbeats, that's right.” He stepped back a pace.
Resisting the urge to squeeze her eyes shut, she counted to three and then - the jolt in her arm nearly knocked her back as she fired. Out of the three shots she took, one missed the board completely, another hit just below the edge and the final, just inside the first ring. “Ouch...” She winced as Sam came back over and took the weapon from her.
“Nothing broken?”
“I don't think so...” She rubbed her shoulder. “Just a little...”
He studied the target. “That's actually not bad for a first try...” He gave her an encouraging smile. “It just takes practice.” He handed the gun back to her. “Try again.”
She took a deep breath and aimed again. This time when she fired, she managed to absorb the recoil better and four shots went into the board in a crooked line along the top of the painted target.
“Not bad.” He took the gun back again. “Your arm okay?”
“I think so... I wouldn't count on it not hurting tomorrow morning.”
“Nothing that a few aspirin can't cure.” He ruffled her hair. “And if the weather's bad, there's plenty of stuff to do inside.”
“Like what?”
“Research...” He worked on changing the gun clip. “Things like that.” He looked up. “Guns don't work on everything...” He frowned. “Unfortunately, the more dangerous something is, usually the closer you tend to have to get to it.”
“I don't suppose you can tell me why the demon came out Mr. Babcock when Beth slammed that fishbowl into him, can you?”
“No...” He thought for a moment. “Wait... that shouldn't...was it a salt water fish?”
“Yeah... I don't remember what kind it was though.”
“That might explain it. Salt is pretty much an all purpose deterrent against monsters.” He finished loading the gun. “I don't suppose you know how to pick a lock.”
“Depends on the kind...” Heather grinned and glanced sideways.
“I know that look.” He smiled in response.
“You know those child safety locks they put on doors and baby gates?”
He nodded. “Those are pretty easy to open.”
“Not when you're fourteen months...” She rubbed the back of her head, not sure if she should be embarrassed or proud. “Mom had to put around three locks on gate next to the stairs...but I kept figuring out how to open them.” She started to chuckle. “Or so I was told... she eventually just put a bell on the gate itself.. so she or whoever was watching me could come stop me.”
“That's...” He shook his head. “We'll see if you remember any of those skills.” He handed her the gun. “Have another go.”
*
An hour and thirty rounds later, the metal sign was riddled with bullet holes. It was not until the last five rounds that Heather had gotten any of kind of consistency in where she hit and it was not until the last two that she managed to hit the center of the target. She and Sam gathered all the shell casings and slugs into two separate buckets.
“How's your arm?”
“I'll let you know in the morning.” Heather said in reply. “Though I think I may be fine just as soon as my ears stop ringing.”
“Yeah, that takes getting used to.” Sam shifted the bucket he was carrying. “Might have get some earplugs.” He rubbed his nose. “But for a beginner, you're doing pretty well.”
“Thanks.” She coughed. “What exactly are we doing to do with the slugs? Make more bullets?”
“Exactly.” He replied. “Not for the same gun, of course - but for others - the same is true for the casings.”
“You mean like in that movie, The Monster Squad where the guy makes the silver bullets and wooden stakes in shop class?”
He gave her a surprised look. “You've seen that?”
“Yeah... though I've got a feeling that wooden stakes probably aren't what you need to kill a vampire.”
“No, you have to cut their heads off.” He said flatly. “But thankfully, that can be done with any implement that can do the task - you don't have to worry about carrying around a sword that's half silver, or what have you.”
“Chainsaw.” She shifted the bucket she was holding from one hand to the other.
“Those would work too... though it would be very messy.”
“I don't think there's a neat method of cutting a head off - unless it's a lightsaber.”
“Shame those aren't real...” He shrugged. “Though it's probably best there isn't.... a lot of Star Wars fans would probably be missing a few limbs.” They climbed the ramp up to Bobby's house and let themselves inside.
*
Sam turned Heather's hand over with both of his, holding it palm up and grasping her thumb and pinkie finger. “Now you're going to have to hold still while I do this, okay?”
She nodded in response. “Uh huh.” She found herself unable to look away from the twenty even black stitches some doctor in Jasper had used to seal the wound the demon had given her. She'd assumed that a doctor would be the one to take them out, but with all that happened in the past few weeks, it's not like she should be so damn surprised. “I guess I'm going to have to come up with a story to go with the scar... since I can't really tell people a demon tried to kill me.”
He nodded and held the pair of tweezers to the flame of the candle. “I don't think to many people will notice it - as you can cover it with a watch band.”
“True.” She bit her lip as he started to work the hot metal of the tweezers under the first stitch.
“I'm not hurting you, am I?” He gently tugged the first knot loose.
“The metal's hot.” She finally managed to look away and focused on the floorboards. “I take it you've done this a lot...”
“Yeah.” Sam started on the second stitch. “I've had to sew up my own wounds a few times too...”
“Yikes.”
“It's not so bad, once you know what you're doing.” He tugged the next knot free. “You ever had stitches removed before?”
“Yeah.” She looked up. “I didn't like it the last time either.”
He went to work on the fourth knot. “Is that where the scar here on your arm came from?” He could feel the edge of a jagged patch of skin under his fingers.
“Uh huh.” She managed a weak smile as he pulled out another knot. “Ever had a compound fracture before?”
He looked up. “No, I've managed to avoid that.”
“Good - you don't want one.” She let out a breath as he clipped away the long thread he'd undone and started on another section. “At least it was my arm and not my leg.... and I didn't break it until August... so I at least got to do some swimming.”
Glad to have a subject to keep her occupied, Sam tugged gently at another knot before asking his next question. “You like to swim?”
“I love swimming.” She grinned. “Of all the sport, physical fitness whatever you want to call it that I can do, swimming is by far my favorite.”
“Why?” He worked the ninth suture free.
“You'd probably laugh if I told you...” She looked away, feeling her cheeks turn slightly pink.
“Try me.” He inwardly felt rather bad that he was sitting here getting to know Heather while Dean was stuck in Ohio. Well, it wasn't as if he wouldn't find out eventually... but the concept that the person who should be sitting here wasn't made it seem a little - awkward.
“I love to swim because I think it's the closest mankind will ever get to flying under their own physical power.” She went slightly more red. “I know, that probably sounds silly....”
Sam paused halfway through the eleventh stitch and looked up. “No, no it doesn't. You might actually have a point there.” He went back to work. “So a few days ago you mentioned the Pendragon series. What's that about?” He figured it was better to keep her distracted as he worked.
Heather thought for a moment. “In general, it's about this group of people called the Travelers who are trying to stop Saint Dane from destroying Halla.”
“And Halla is what exactly?”
“All that ever is, was or will be. Basically it's like the entire universe and every alternate reality in the universe too.”
“That's no small task.” He pulled out the twelfth stitch.
**
Castiel still didn't like the arrangement that Polyhymnia had set up with her older sister. True, of all nine Muses, Clio was unquestionably the most trustworthy. She'd been the one to get in the least amount of trouble with the angels, did the best job of staying out of their way - and, if all pagan gods acted like her, there would probably be a lot fewer problems with them. It was the perfection that worried him. Most creatures like her would balk at the idea of helping him - the fact that she was going to be helping him - if he needed it - him, a rogue angel... that was just asking to be punished. He supposed he should have known something like this would happen. The only reason he had asked Polyhymnia in the first place was the fact that she was the only one who didn't seem to fear the wrath of Heaven. Quite stupid of her to be that way.
He leaned against the iron railing of the bridge, staring into the raging river far below him. Something else started to nudge at the back of his mind. The conversation he had overheard while on Olympus - he was assuming that Erato hadn't known about Heather until a few days ago. Hell, Melpomene had admitted that only her most trusted sisters had known - along with her father. But she'd passively mentioned that there were others who had known, but she was forbidden to tell who.
“Castiel?”
The voice was weak, almost inaudible in the back of his mind that he swore he must have imagined it.
“Castiel?”
It was slightly louder, but no stronger. He'd not heard the voice in so long, he swore that he'd never hear it again. Clutching the railing in both hands, he closed his eyes and answer what he heard, scarcely believing it. “Jimmy?” There was a feeling of something deep in his mind stretching, slowly coming back into being. It was not grace, but more of the way life stirs in a tree that had been sleeping all winter and awakens at the first promise of spring.
“Castiel, what's going on? What happened? I remember...a lot of light... and then...oblivion.”
The angel opened his eyes, gazing back down into the river. He couldn't find the words to answer his vessel and for him to not panic - he knew that the man deep inside him could not read his thoughts or emotions. He let out a breath. “Things have changed... James. Things have changed.”
Trapped in his own mind, in some far corner that he'd created when he was six years old, his own little safe haven, the human known as Jimmy Novak found himself standing up, trying to keep calm. “Did you just call me James? No one ever.... no one's called me that in...”
“Years, I know.” Castiel pulled away from the railing and started forward, heading down towards the village whose name he couldn't recall - he just knew he was somewhere in Armenia.
“We didn't make it in time, did we? The Last Seal was broken.” There was despair in his voice.
“No, we didn't. We were lied to, James. The others wanted the Apocalypse.”
“How bad is it?” His voice was starting to get weaker again.
“Very...are you all right?” He swallowed hard as he heard an almost inaudible cough in the back of his mind.
“I'm worried about Ames and Claire.” This was the truth. Jimmy Novak could care less what happened to him or Castiel - since technically, they were one in the same. As long as his wife and daughter were safe, he would be content.
“They are safe. I do not believe what has happened to us will affect them.”
When his vessel spoke again, it was so faint, he had to strain to hear it. “As long as they stay safe...” Jimmy's voice broke off into a fading litany that almost sounded like a plea - the angel recognized the words of the Beatitudes as he came into the town proper. He wished he could give the man more reassurance than he did, but there was no way of knowing how all of this would end. He had truly thought that Jimmy - James - was already in Heaven - sent there when Raphael struck him down.
Now he knew - he wasn't alone in this body - it wasn't his body to begin with... the man who'd consented to be his vessel was still here - and the warm feeling from earlier became a little stronger.
**
It was ten at night when Dean and Melpomene left Columbus. The snow had quit at five and the lot had been plowed two hours later. The highway was mostly clear - but with patches of snow and black ice, what few cars and trucks that were braving the night were moving under fifty miles an hour instead of seventy. Dean didn't care if they had to go thirty - he wanted to get back to South Dakota as soon as possible. He'd spent half the day sleeping and the other half watching television. He'd left a message with Sam that he was on his way back, this time estimating his arrival to hopefully be around noon. He had a feeling that Melpomene had things she wanted to get back to doing. “Can I ask you something?”
“Have I said no to that question yet?” She replied, keeping her gaze directly out in front of her.
He rolled his eyes. “Smart-ass.” He said under his breath before continuing. “You said you're not omnipotent.”
“That's correct.” She blinked and turned her gaze down to her hands.
“But I take it that doesn't mean you don't know plenty about how things are playing out.” He gave her a sideways glance.
She closed her eyes as if she was in pain before she spoke. “More than I wish I did.” She turned her head towards the window. “And I've been in on it for a long time.”
“How long?”
“You really don't want me to answer that. Believe me.”
“I think I can handle it.” He replied as he moved over into the far lane as an eighteen wheeler came barreling onto the roadway.
She rubbed her eyes, her face drawn in pain. “I would estimate it to be around the year two hundred - but my role wasn't very active in it until oh, about a thousand years after that.”
“Shit.” He struggled to keep the car straight. “It's been planned that far back?”
“Dean, this plan is so bloody huge and so complex, that Clio's convincing Columbus to sail west to find the East is a part of it.”
“Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.” She shifted in her seat.
Dean was about to reply when his cell phone rang. Slowing down slightly so he could answer it and still manage to drive, he checked the ID before flipping the phone open. “Cas?”
“We need to talk. Where are you?”
“One second.” He looked over at the Muse. “What's the last mile marker we passed?”
“Two-fifty four.” She said in a flat tone.
“We're just past the two-five-four westbound mile marker in Indiana on...” He stopped as he heard a fluttering sound and then saw Castiel in the backseat. “You okay Cas?”
“I'm fine.” The angel shifted his gaze to the Muse for a second before turning back to Dean. “You have the Colt?”
“It's in my coat pocket.” He glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. “How's your search going?”
“Nowhere.” He replied and then turned towards Melpomene. “Do you know why Polyhymnia would have sent Clio instead of you to help me?”
Slowly, she turned around in her seat to look directly at him. “You asked Polly to help you find God?”
There was something in her tone that immediately raised alarm in the angel. “Why is that a problem?”
“Polly is the last one of the nine you should ask for that kind of help! Or any kind of help if you're outside of our pantheon.” She looked at Dean and saw an equally shocked look on his face. “She doesn't care who wins this final battle... because she's the only one of us who Lucifer wouldn't chain up!” She covered her eyes. “If she sent Clio to help you, that alone should have told you something!”
“What's the deal with Clio?” Dean interjected.
“It means that Polly has been forced to return to her neutrality...either that or...” She cursed under breath and spread her fingers, still staring at Castiel. “My sister is still one of my closest friends... but half of that is because I've been trying to keep her from getting to deep in either side... I'm not so much her sister as I am her minder.” She turned back around. “I can ask her to make the arrangement with Clio permanent... Clio at least cares who wins.”
“Don't you all live regardless of how the Apocalypse turns out?” Dean said, struggling to keep the Impala in their lane, his hands were starting to shake.
“Depends on your definition of living.” She closed her eyes again and cursed softly under her breath.
“So why did you send Polly to South Dakota in the first place?”
“Because I couldn't and I knew Castiel wouldn't listen to Cori.” Her voice was shaky when she spoke.
Castiel looked down for a moment and focused on the road in front of them. “Why can you pagan gods not keep to a standard set of rules?”
“I don't know, why do the majority of you angels have to be self-righteous assholes?” She pulled her hands up to her face as if she was going to sneeze and then, in an instant, vanished.
It was Dean's turn to curse. “She had a point there, Cas.”
The angel said nothing as he slid to sit behind the driver's seat, settling into the well worn leather, looking almost as tired as he felt. “I know she did.” He said softly. “I...” He leaned against the window, staring blankly ahead. “This has been... a very... strange day.”
He glanced in the rear-view at him. “What do you mean?”
The angel swallowed. “Jimmy Novak is still alive...”
“The guy you're possessing? I thought he died when...”
“So did I.” Castiel looked down at his hands, opening and closing them slowly. “I do not think he may remain so... I believe he will die when what is left of my grace vanishes.”
“Why don't you rest for a while...” He gently pushed the cassette that was sitting primed in the player in. “Looks like you could use it.” A moment later, the sounds of Metallica's 'Wherever I May Roam' filled the car. He focused on driving and didn't notice when the angel actually drifted off to sleep shortly afterwards.
**
In the dark family room of the Levin house, the Christmas tree stood out, dominating the bay window on the far side. Even though the lights were not on and the house was still, the untouched snow reflected the moonlight back into the house, giving some of the ornaments an ethereal glow. A figure stood, just in the shadows, watching as the faint stream of air caused by the furnace caused the bright baubles to move slowly from where they hung. Silently the figure moved forward to the tree and a transparent finger reached out and slid through an ornament made of wood sticks, paper and paint - the handiwork of the child sleeping upstairs - back when the child had been half the age he was now. The figure supposed it was meant to be a dragonfly.
The insect swung back and forth at his touch and the figure smiled. He was not in pain, he was not angry, he wasn't even trapped - not entirely. He was the oldest. It was his place to worry - and this place - this land had once been his home. He'd not been back here in nearly seventy years - not since...
He pulled back from the tree and looked over the other glittering ornaments. He meant no harm to the family in the house - maybe, just maybe - one of them would try to talk to him. No one had ever tried.
He didn't like being back here, away from his place in Heaven... his own private Heaven where he hunted rabbits with his father and went fishing with friends in a pond that was long gone - maybe not some people's version of paradise, to be certain - but it was his and he missed it.
The figure faded out as the low drone of a snow plow went down the unseen road, clearing the streets so that tomorrow, life could go on as normal. But the worry remained. It was starting again.
**
“Heather.” The voice was calm but insistent. “Heather Grace, wake up.”
She turned over in bed, pushing the covers off of her head and squinted her eyes, trying to see who was speaking to her. “What time is it?” She sat up, rubbing her face, glad that whoever was talking to her had turned on the light before she opened her eyes. That's when she realized that the light in the room was much brighter than it should be. The lamp on the dresser and ceiling light combined didn't give off half the light that seemed to fill the room. “I'm dreaming.”
“That's right.” The voice said again and then she saw the speaker, leaning against the far side of the dresser, watching her. “You are dreaming.”
She lowered her hands and blinked. Her gaze started at the floor and she slowly raised them, going past where the man's head ended and looking higher and as soon as they nearly reached the ceiling, she bolted backwards toward the corner of the bed, wincing as she felt her back collide with the bedpost and wall. “Who...”
“Don't be afraid.” He stepped away from the dresser, moving to sit on the foot of the bed. “I'm not going to hurt you.”
Heather still didn't back away from the corner she'd wedged herself into. “Uh... uh...” She swallowed. “Okay, I know you're not the guy who plays Charlie Epps on Numb3rs, so who in Halla are you?”
He smiled at her words. “A Winchester who tries not to curse...quite the pleasant change.” He held up his hand as he saw she was about to speak again. “I know, I know - your last name is Kittredge, but you're still a Winchester.” He looked down at his hands as if they were totally foreign to him. “As for why I look like the professor from that television program... well, I felt showing up as that young man who plays Edmund in the Narnia films would be inappropriate.”
Heather went pink with embarrassment and covered her mouth with her hands. “How did you...”
“Shh...” He held a finger to his lips. “That's not important. I just want to talk to you for a moment.”
“You're Michael, aren't you?”
“Yes.” He smiled again. “I know that you're keeping silent... because you're afraid they won't listen to you.”
“I'm a kid.” She slowly uncurled from her position. “I know they're not going to listen to me.”
Michael stood and started to walk the length of the room. “Oh, I know they won't. Not directly.” He stopped and set a hand on the wall above the light switch. “I also know you can think of a way to make them listen without speaking a word.” He bent down and picked up the stuffed bear where it had fallen to the floor. “All I'm asking of you is to not be afraid.”
“I can't promise that...” The fact that she was talking to an archangel alone was scary in its own right.
“Just try not to be afraid.” He handed the bear to her. “Find a way to make them listen.” He brushed his hand over her forehead, sending Heather into deeper sleep. “And no matter what the tell you, don't let them kill your faith.”
**
Dean arrived back in South Dakota shortly after two in the afternoon. The last time he had driven so many hours straight, he'd collapsed into a hotel room in Kansas City and then been subjected to a mind-fuck courtesy of Zachariah. His plan was to sleep for three hours, eat something - and then sleep again for as long as his body and brain would allow. Although he wasn't really counting on being able to go sleep right after dinner. If all else failed, he'd sleep in the passenger seat when he and Sam left. Yawning, he slammed the door of the Impala shut and headed for the trunk to get his bag. He was nearly there when a wet thump echoed through the salvage yard. He turned around quickly, trying to find it's source when the sound was repeated, though not as loud as the first time. “What the hell?” He moved away from the car, heading towards the noise. It didn't sound dangerous, but it was repeating itself enough to warrant an investigation.
He came around the side of a tower of junked cars and found Heather standing several yards away. The sound was snowballs hitting the large piece of sheet metal. Given that her ears were looking red and the face white, he knew she'd been outside for a while. “Aren't you cold?” He also noted that she wasn't wearing gloves.
Heather glanced at him before picking up another handful of snow and molding it into a ball. “Yeah.”
“How long have you been out here?” He stuck his own hands in his pockets, stepping closer to her.
“A while.” She threw the ball. “Long enough to clean off a few cars worth of snow.”
“Does Sam know you're out here?”
“Uh huh.” She picked up another handful of snow. “He asked me to come in and eat something...” She looked at her watch. “Two hours ago.”
“You've been out here, doing that...” He nodded as another ball slammed into the sheet metal. “For two hours?”
“Four, actually.” She sniffled and rubbed her nose. “I took my gloves off when they got to wet.”
“I think you probably should get inside before you get sick.” He replied as another snowball splattered against the makeshift target. “Or freeze...you look to be about halfway there.”
“Sam came out and gave me this exact same speech.” She leaned back against a car that she'd been scrapping snow off of and folded her arms.
“Well, he's right.” He winced as the wind stung his face. “This cold doesn't bother you?”
“Oh, it does.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I'll just be out here a little while longer. I am kind of hungry.”
“I don't mean to pry or anything, but is this a female thing?”
“No, it's not that.” Heather rolled her eyes. “If it was, I probably wouldn't have gotten up today.”
“That's enough on that...” He was silently thankful that certain things were already handled in terms of puberty with her. “So how long...” He was cut off as she smashed a large snowball on the top of his head.
“I'm ready to go in now.” She picked up her sodden gloves and headed towards the house.
Dean brushed the snow off the top of his head and followed her. “Have you been waiting out here in the freezing cold just to do that?”
“Yeah.” She didn't turn around.
“That's a little OCD, isn't it?” He stopped at the Impala to get his bag.
“Well, I knew I'd more likely hit the car instead you if I waited in the window of my room.” She turned around at the foot of the ramp. “I figured I'd be in less trouble for hitting you than the car.” She shrugged her shoulders and headed inside.
He wasn't entirely sure how to respond to that argument (as he knew very well she had a point) as he slammed the trunk lid shut and followed her into Bobby's house.
*
Dean went almost straight to sleep and ended up sleeping to almost eleven. He supposed it was hunger, more than anything that disturbed his rest and sent him downstairs to the kitchen. Sam must have taken up residence in the last bedroom, as the couch in the main room was unoccupied. The overhead light in the kitchen was on, expecting to find Bobby, he was surprised to find Heather. “You're not packing another snowball, are you?”
“No.” She didn't look up from her sketchbook. “I've engaged in enough meteorological warfare for the week.”
He chuckled and went to the fridge and took out container of some kind of leftovers. “How you holding up?”
“About as good as can be expected.” She picked up the gum eraser that was lying next to her and attacked a section of her drawing. “How was your trip?”
“Fine.” He left it at that as he dished out a serving of the casserole onto a plate and stuck it in the microwave. “See Sam took your stitches out.” He took a beer from the fridge as he put the container back in. “When did everyone else go to sleep?”
“Sam went upstairs shortly before ten - because that's when I came down - Uncle Bobby went to bed after the ten o'clock news was over.” She gently brushed the eraser shavings off the paper and picked up her pencil again. “I've come to the conclusion that the only difference between the news here in South Dakota and the news in Indiana is that here the news is full of car wrecks and back there, it's all homicides.”
The microwave dinged and Dean grabbed a fork before removing the plate and having a seat at the other end of the table. “The news is gruesome no matter where you go. Is it snowing again?”
“That's not snow out there, it's freezing rain. Which is worse.” She looked up. “Sam moved the car so it'd be under something for the night - otherwise, you'd have to clean an inch of ice off of it in the morning.”
He took a large bite of food before answering. “Don't know if we're going anywhere tomorrow.”
“Well, I think it was a matter of just in case, or something.” She rubbed at the drawing, working on a patch of shading.
“I'm sorry we have to keep you here at Bobby's... he can wear you out after a while.” He took a swig from the beer bottle.
“Well, it beats being in Palm Beach with crazy Aunt Shelley or having to go stay with Uncle Tobias and Aunt Iris - which wouldn't be bad, but that'd mean I'd have to be around my cousin Alex.” She clenched her teeth. “And Alex drives me nuts.”
He arched an eyebrow at her response. “How's he do that?”
“Because he is the most arrogant, trumped up...augh...” She shuddered. “This isn't a boys having cooties thing...this...” She folded her arms and sat back. “He's just plain mean. I think he spent a little to much time with Grandpa Langley as a toddler and it rubbed off on him.”
“What do you mean by that?” He took another bite of casserole. He figured Langley was Sarah Kittredge's maiden name.
“The trouble is all the cousins on mom's side of the family are really competitive and well, since I'm last in line, I basically have no chance of catching up to anyone but Alex - since we're only six months apart in age. So of course, he doesn't like me anymore than I like him.”
Dean took a sip from his beer. “Somehow I don't see you being competitive.”
She folded her arms and set them on the table. “When you're an only child, you're not used to competition. Like most of the kids like me, I'm a perfectionist - doubly so, since I'm part Virgo... and when you're part Libra as well...” She went back to her sketching. “Feet are on the ground, head is in the clouds... it's driven a few teachers crazy.”
He chuckled in response. “I'll bet.” He went back to eating his dinner. “We'll get you back in school in January.” He chewed thoughtfully. “That will at least get you out of the house a few hours a day.”
“It'll be a change to go to a school where the entire staff doesn't know who your parents are.” She set the pencil down and sat back. “Sometimes I think that's why dad switched to elementary school... being the kid of a principal is one thing... being in the same school where your dad is principal... well, that's just...” She pushed the sketchbook away. “I guess that doesn't matter much anymore.” She set her arms on the table and looked down.
Dean stood, dragged his chair around to the other side of the table and sat down next to her, putting his arm around her shoulder in a one armed hug. He set his chin on the top of her head, knowing all to well that telling her things would work out, things would be fine - would be worthless. He squeezed her again when she sniffled. “You do know that no one expects you to get through this alone.”
She sniffled. “I know. Seems like it sometimes though.”
For lack of words, he reached over and pulled the sketchbook closer to them and started flipping through it. “Sam was right... you are a pretty good artist.”
“Thanks.” She didn't look up and right now, she really didn't want to move.
“Really...” He stopped when he came to the picture of Castiel. Something in his mind faintly clicked -a memory that had been scrubbed clean with his resurrection. He can remember now - screams of the souls of the damned changing in tone - the torturers leaving their victims to race towards something charging forward. He can hear Alistair's voice shouting at him, shouting at other demons - the strange green and red haze of hell starting to recede as the source came closer to him. The razor in his hand fell to a floor so soaked in blood and gore, it could never be clean. It probably had never been clean. In the brilliance, he could just barely make out a single detail of the figure racing towards him. The eyes - the blazing blue eyes alive with holy fire and righteousness. A searing pain that went up his arm and he can remember rising from the blackness, racing out of hell with a speed that would make light seem slow - and then came the blackness of that coffin in Pontiac, Illinois.
Dean remembered the hell hounds attacking him - he can remember what happened in Hell - and now, now he can remember the way he left. Pamela Barnes had merely glimpsed at Cas and gotten her eyes burned out. He'd never wanted to ask the angel exactly what he looked like - but he'd seen his wingspan - and that told him it was nothing to be taken lightly. He didn't want to know how it was that Heather could see him and keep her eyesight - Melpomene had stated only her and two other sisters had children who could do that. How that came about - that wasn't important or even who the other two were. “Say Heather...” He pulled his arm from her and picked up the sketchbook, studying with unabashed interest and he wasn't sure what he was more in awe of - at what Cas looked like or the girl's ability to capture him.
“Yeah?” She pulled away, rubbing at her tear stained cheeks.
“Could I... can I have this picture?” He scanned the image again and throughout, he could see the tiny shades of barely there gray - gray that should be white - parts of Castiel that were darkening from his incredible being as his grace diminished.
“Sure.” She shrugged. “I was thinking of doing another one anyway...”
He turned towards her, giving her an encouraging smile. “You'll let me see that one too, right?”
“Not a problem.” She rubbed the back of her head, looking at the drawing. “I'll tell you this too... Crayola does not have the colors to do that angel justice... or probably any angel..”
Chapter Eleven