Gwaith i Innas Lain: Quenta Ando Rauco 3/4
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Chapter 3
The Devil’s Gate
When Andy woke around 8 the next morning, feeling oddly refreshed, he discovered that Maglor and Mr. Singer had been outside since daybreak warding and loading vehicles for the trip to Wyoming. Dean and Mrs. Harvelle had split breakfast-making duties, and Sam and Ash were in the study tracking a sudden surge in demonic omens everywhere in Wyoming except the area where Ash had drawn the star in the circle.
“Guess that means the trap still works,” Sam stated.
Andy frowned. “Trap? What trap?”
Ash tapped the map. “This. Railroad lines that make a big ol’ devil’s trap. Demons are tryin’ to get to the Devil’s Gate”-here he pointed to the middle of the star-“but they can’t get across those iron lines.”
And suddenly Sam’s comment from the night before made sense. “But a human can. And since Yellow-Eyes can’t find Sam....”
“He’s gonna tell you to open it,” Sam nodded. “And he’ll give you a gun. You need to either shoot him with it or bring it to me and Dean, let one of us shoot him.”
Andy frowned. “Can you kill a demon that way?”
“With this gun, you can. But you’ll only get one shot.”
“No pressure,” Dean remarked from the kitchen.
Andy snorted. “Thanks, Dean. I think I’ll let you shoot the bad guy this time.”
Dean chuckled. “Fair enough. C’mon, let’s eat. Bobby wants to be on the road by 9.”
Andy, Ash, and Sam filed into the kitchen and sat down at the table, which Dean was loading with plates of bacon and sausage and eggs and waffles... and as soon as Andy sat down, Mrs. Harvelle set a bowl of oatmeal in front of him. Puzzled, Andy frowned and reached for the bacon, only to have Mrs. Harvelle smack his hand with a wooden spoon.
“You just had a heart attack,” she stated. “You need to watch your cholesterol.”
“Cholesterol wasn’t what caused it,” Andy objected.
“Oatmeal.” Mrs. Harvelle had that look that moms get sometimes.
You’re not my real mother, Andy thought, but what he said was, “Can I have some bacon after I eat the oatmeal?”
“It’s ‘may I,’ and we’ll see.”
Much as he wanted to use his mind-control power to get her to agree, he really didn’t want to be a bad guest, and Dean was shooting him a warning look, so he settled for pouring maple syrup into the oatmeal. Mrs. Harvelle looked appeased; Dean gave him a single nod, while Sam gave him a thumbs-up; and Ash just said, “You’re makin’ me hungry for grits and molasses, dude.”
Sam blinked. “Is that how you eat grits? I always wondered.”
Dean looked disgusted. “Sam.”
“What? Just because it doesn’t have meat in it doesn’t make it any less of a valid breakfast food.”
“Stuff tastes like wallpaper paste.”
“Well, you would know, Dean. I never ate glue as a child.”
“Dude, shut up.”
And the conversation for the rest of the meal continued in the same vein, dealing largely with culinary questions of zero interest to anyone raised north of the Mason-Dixon Line. Even Maglor and Mr. Singer contributed when they came inside. Andy did finish his oatmeal, but he also sneaked several pieces of bacon and a few bites of egg while Mrs. Harvelle wasn’t looking.
By the time everyone had eaten and Dean had finished packing coolers with enough food for both dinner and supper, it was ten minutes to 9. Ash claimed he’d be more useful monitoring omens from Bobby’s house, so he stayed behind, but everyone else headed out to the vehicles. The Impala was pulled up to the porch so Sam didn’t have to be unwarded for any longer than necessary, and it took Sam all of three seconds to get into the car and slam the door while the others were still walking outside-and Andy suddenly realized that he needed to choose whether to ride with the Winchesters or in the van with Mr. Singer and Mrs. Harvelle and their equipment. Maglor had some other precaution to prepare while they were on the road, so he needed the entire back seat of one vehicle to himself, but he claimed there would be enough room in the back of the Impala for him if Andy preferred the van. But Andy didn’t know what he preferred. He barely knew the older hunters, but although he got along with Sam and Dean okay, he didn’t know if he could handle a day-long road trip with them, especially since they intended to stop as seldom as possible.
“I hate to say this,” said Mr. Singer, “but if there’s any chance Azazel can still track Andy in spite of those wards, he shouldn’t be in the same vehicle as Sam.”
Mrs. Harvelle nodded. “And in case we get separated, we stand a better chance of one group still being able to get the Colt if we’ve got one ‘special child’ apiece.”
“The wards ought to hide Andy as well as they do Sam,” Maglor replied, “and it seems unlikely that Azazel will force another dream-vision, but I know from bitter experience not to underestimate the Enemy. And Ellen does have a point.”
“You sure you don’t mind bein’ crammed in the back seat again?” Dean asked Maglor. “The van would have more legroom.”
Maglor chuckled. “I shall manage, Dean.”
“Okay.” Dean clapped Andy on the shoulder. “We’ll see you in Wyoming, dude.”
Andy nodded. “Thanks, Dean.”
And with that, Maglor and Dean loaded themselves into the Impala while Mr. Singer led Mrs. Harvelle and Andy to the van.
Once they were settled, Mr. Singer turned to Andy. “You might want to go ahead and set your watch back. We’ll be changin’ time zones on the way.”
Andy nodded and started to do so. “How long is this trip supposed to take?”
“’Bout ten hours.”
“And what time does the sun go down?”
“According to the Naval Observatory, sunset’s around 8 local time. Won’t be fully dark for another half hour after that, though, so we’ll figure on Azazel showin’ up sometime between 8:30 and 9.”
“I see.” Andy finished setting his watch and then did the math. “Wait, so we’ll be getting there....”
“Two and a half hours early,” Mr. Singer nodded. “Gives us time to run into trouble and still get everything set up once we get there.”
Andy decided he didn’t want to know what kind of trouble Mr. Singer thought they might run into.
As it turned out, though, most of the drive was uneventful. Ash called every few hours with updates, mostly weather anomalies, but nothing was showing up outside the eastern border of Wyoming. Bobby and Ellen-they insisted that Andy call them by their first names-kept the conversation on pleasant topics, and somehow Andy managed to forget his nerves while they talked. When they weren’t talking, however, his thoughts drifted onto less comfortable topics like what he was going to do after that night. He wondered how much of his lack of ambition was innate and how much was due to the spell Maglor said he was under; he didn’t know if he’d still need the weed to keep the anger and anxiety at bay or if he could even stand to go back to living out of his van without his powers to con people out of things he needed to survive. Life had been so much easier before he met the Winchesters.
“Hey,” said Ellen gently, interrupting his reverie. “You’re thinking too loud.”
“I am? Uh, sorry, I....”
Bobby chuckled. “Not literally.”
“Oh.” Andy felt his cheeks flush.
Ellen chuckled, too. “Let’s all get through this hunt first. You can worry about what comes next once you’ve survived.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The wisdom of that policy, and of having left early and driven straight through, became clear when they crossed the border and ran straight into an electrical storm. Bobby had gotten a warning text from Sam, but the violence of the storm caught Andy off-guard; Ellen explained that it was probably due to the sheer number of demons that were circling the devil’s trap. Bobby was a skilled driver, however, and though the rain slowed them down and the wind tried to blow them off the road several times, they reached the church where they were meeting the Winchesters only half an hour or so behind schedule. The skies began clearing around Laramie, and the sun was shining by the time they got to the church.
Bobby parked on the inside of the curving railroad track that seemed to run through the church’s foundation, and when he got out, Andy saw that Dean had done the same. The church faced toward the center of the circle Andy recalled from Ash’s map; there were two more straight tracks coming out from the foundation at an acute angle, and Andy realized that he was looking at one of the points of the star. Dean and Maglor were sitting on the church steps, and Sam appeared to be dozing in the Impala’s front seat.
“Been waiting long?” Bobby called as Dean and Maglor got up to come help them unload.
“Nah, not too bad,” Dean replied. “Would you believe Sam slept all the way through that storm?”
“No,” Bobby and Ellen both said at the same time.
“... Would you believe since Laramie?”
Everyone laughed.
Andy didn’t know exactly what to expect when they started unloading the van; he hadn’t looked in the back for more than a moment or two on the road. But he was somewhat surprised at the charcoal grill, charcoal, cake pan, water bucket, anvil, fireplace tools, and sledgehammer. Maglor directed the hunters to set everything between the tracks in front of the church steps.
“Are we having burgers when this is over?” Andy asked.
“Mm, cheeseburgers,” said Dean absently.
Maglor laughed. “No, indeed. There is a metal object we will need to reshape, and this fire should suffice to heat it to malleability.”
“Oh. I guess that makes sense.” Andy didn’t know anything about metalworking, but it did explain the anvil.
Once the makeshift forge was set up, the group went back to the Impala for a picnic supper, and then Bobby and Ellen headed off to guard the Devil’s Gate while Maglor produced the final piece of the puzzle from the Impala’s back seat: two cloaks that he handed to the Winchesters. “I cannot guarantee that these will render you completely invisible,” said Maglor, “but they carry the same wards as does the car and will shield you from unfriendly eyes, and once the sun has set, it will be most difficult for anyone to see you. You should be able to watch over Andy from the shadows without danger.”
Sam stared at his cloak in awe. “Y’know, when people talk about cloaking in sci-fi, it’s usually metaphorical.”
“Geek,” muttered Dean, amused. He then handed Maglor a sawed-off shotgun and a cell phone. “You shouldn’t be in any danger here, but if something goes sideways, this’ll hurt the demons more than your sword will; it’s got salt rounds. We’ll call and let the phone ring once when we’re on our way back.”
Maglor nodded. “Excellent. That should give me time enough to prepare the fire.” Then he looked at the guys for a moment and smiled. “It is long indeed since I had cause to name anyone an elf-friend, yet such have you been to me. Go with such blessing as I am able to bestow, and may the Valar protect you.”
Dean shook his head. “Shoot, Maglor, we couldn’t have made it this far without you. Thanks for everything.”
“Dean’s right,” Sam agreed. “‘Thank you’ hardly seems adequate.”
“Can we name you ‘human-friend’?” Andy asked.
Maglor seemed genuinely embarrassed by that. “I hardly deserve that title, Andy-Edennil was what Men called my cousin Finrod, and he did far more for the Edain than I ever have.”
“Well, you’re our friend,” Sam stated. “I hope that means... something.”
“It does, Sam. It does.”
Dean cleared his throat. “Guess we should get goin’. We’re burnin’ daylight.”
“Navaer, nîn vellyn,” Maglor said, and as Andy and Dean got into the car, he went back to the church.
It was a little over thirty miles to the rendezvous point, so Dean drove most of the way and parked well out of sight about half a mile out, just about the time the sun went down. Then he and Sam put on their cloaks and drew the hoods up far enough to hide their faces, and they walked with Andy most of the rest of the way. It was a little disconcerting for Andy, knowing that the Winchesters were there but having trouble actually seeing them in his peripheral vision as the daylight diminished, but he was more nervous about the impending confrontation than he was about anything else.
“Okay, dude,” said Dean as they got to a stand of trees a hundred yards or so from the rendezvous point. “Yellow-Eyes can’t cross iron, and even if he could, he wouldn’t want to cross into this devil’s trap. So to be safe, stand just inside the outside rail of the track. We’ll be right here, and if anything goes wrong, we’ll come help you. Get back here with the gun as fast as you can, and we’ll take it from there.”
Andy nodded. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Good luck,” added Sam’s voice, but Andy could hardly see him now.
“Thanks, man. Same to you.” And he took a deep breath and crossed the remaining distance alone.
The twilight had pretty well faded by 8:30, and Andy was calming his nerves by staring at the rising moon and trying to remember whether one could see Tranquility Base from Earth when he heard Yellow-Eyes-Azazel, he reminded himself-say, “Howdy, Andy. Have a nice trip?”
Andy swallowed hard and did his best not to look the demon in the eye; even with iron on both sides of him, he didn’t feel safe. “I’m here. What do you want?”
Azazel pointed directly behind Andy. “Fifty miles that way, there’s a cemetery. A crypt. You’ve got to open that for me. Think you can manage that, sport?”
“How... how do I open it?”
“You’re gonna need a key.” Azazel pulled out a gun that looked antique.
Andy frowned. “How is a gun a key?”
“Oh, this isn’t just any gun, Andy. This is the only gun in the whole universe that can shoot me dead.” And he held the muzzle up to his head with a mocking grin before holding it out to Andy.
Andy took a deep breath and reached across the rail to take the gun.
Yellow-Eyes released the gun but caught Andy’s wrist. “Hey. Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
Andy forced his eyes closed and tried to pull back. “Just let me go. I’ll do it, I swear, I just... just let me go.”
The grip on his wrist tightened. “Andy. Look at me.”
Andy sensed movement behind him a split second before the gun was pulled out of his hand, and he blindly grabbed Azazel’s shirt with both hands and yanked him across the rail. The demon cried out, and what felt like a strong electric shock ran up Andy’s arms, forcing him to let go just as a sharp, squeezing pain shot through his chest. He opened his eyes again in time to see Dean push back his hood and shoot Azazel squarely between his yellow eyes, snarling something about “That’s for our mother.” And the demon fell, seemingly burning from the inside out.
Something came loose and unraveled in Andy’s head-the spell, he figured. But the pain in his chest didn’t lessen, and it drove him to his knees.
“Hey! Whoa! Andy, you okay?” Dean was at his side almost at once, and Sam was right behind him.
“Heart,” Andy wheezed. “’S bad. Shocked me... when I pulled him... ’cross the rail.”
Dean swore bitterly. “Okay, c’mon, we’ll get you back to Laramie....”
“Don’t think... I’m gonna make it that long.”
“Aw, c’mon, dude, you can’t give up now.”
“’M not. D’ya kill it?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”
Andy looked over at Sam. “So we’re free.”
Sam nodded. “Yeah, dude. We’re free.”
“’S all I... ever wanted.”
And suddenly he was standing outside the railroad tracks, watching as Dean felt vainly for a pulse in what used to be Andy’s body and Sam sadly closed the eyes that Andy didn’t need anymore. A storm had blown up out of nowhere, and Andy could see that it was raining where he was standing, but the raindrops were going straight through him. It was a really strange sensation.
“It’s time, Andy,” said a female voice. “My lord Mandos is waiting for you.”
He turned to see what looked like a dark-haired woman standing beside him. “Who are you?”
“I’m a Reaper. You can call me Tessa.”
Andy looked back at the Winchesters, who were calling the others. “They’ll be okay, right? I mean, the war’s over?”
“The battle is over,” Tessa said gently. “Don’t worry about the war. Just come with me.”
Andy sighed and took her hand.
While Bobby and Ellen took care of the corpses, Sam and Dean trudged back along the railroad track to the car and drove back to the church. Maglor was stirring the coals in the barbeque pit when they got there.
“You have had success?” he asked.
Dean sighed and tossed the Colt onto the anvil. “Yeah. He’s dead. But so is Andy-massive heart attack. Nothing we could do.”
The Elf nodded somberly. “I am sorry. Even one death is too many in so small a band as this. But at least he had a greater role to play than being murdered by one of the others in Cold Oak.”
Dean shrugged. It was true, and Andy had essentially sacrificed his own life to make sure Yellow-Eyes couldn’t escape before Dean shot him, but Dean didn’t have to like the loss any better.
“Dean. You cannot save everyone. But I believe you may have saved more lives than you know.” Maglor picked up the Colt and studied it for a moment before starting to remove the grip. “The virtue in this metal is diminished, but it has not been altogether lost... I shall have to think on it further after we ensure that it cannot be used for the Enemy’s purposes, but it may be that I can reforge it into another form that yet retains the ability to kill the Houseless.” And with that he stuck the gripless gun barrel-first into the hottest part of the fire, pulled out one live coal with his tongs, and closed the lid. The grip he placed in the cake pan and wedged the coal into the notch for the frame, causing the wood to ignite.
Dean frowned. “Why burn that out here?”
“The finish,” Sam replied. “Wouldn’t be wise for shellac fumes to contaminate the metal if he wants to use it again.”
Maglor nodded. “Exactly, Sam.”
Dean shrugged. “Guess that makes sense.” Then he went back to the car and pulled three beers out of the green cooler. “Want a beer, Maglor?”
Maglor considered for a moment. “Yes. Thank you, Dean.”
Dean handed one beer to Maglor and another to Sam, opened his own, and clinked bottles with Sam before taking a long drink. Then he nodded toward the church steps. “C’mon, dude. Let’s sit down.”
“You don’t want to sit in the car?” Sam frowned.
“Better vantage point. We don’t know if Yellow-Eyes had a Plan B. Can’t let our guard down too far.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Sam followed and sat down next to Dean on the top step, which was narrow enough that their shoulders touched. Maglor had brought one of Bobby’s lawn chairs for himself and sat in it to watch the fire. But there wasn’t really anything to say, so they didn’t talk for a while.
The churchyard was oddly quiet, given the demonic temper tantrum that had kicked up once Yellow-Eyes died. Dean suspected it was due to the demons’ not being able to figure out where in the trap he and Sam were. But it gave Dean a chance to really look at Sam now that the spell was broken, study him, try to see inside that shaggy emo head of his. It might be too soon to tell for sure, but Sam did seem... lighter somehow, brighter, cleaner, less shadowed, less likely to go darkside. And Dean had no idea how he could tell that. All he knew was that the things he’d always seen and loved in Sam were more obvious than ever.
After a while-he didn’t know how long, but it was some time after he’d finished his beer-he broke the silence. “Hey, Sam.”
“What?”
“How’s it feel?”
Sam thought for a moment. “You remember that time we got hexed in Virginia?”
Dean grimaced. “I’d rather not.”
“But remember what it felt like when Dad finally killed the witch and destroyed the altar? That kind of... snap of relief?”
“Yeah.” That was the first time Dean remembered being able to feel a spell break.
“It was like that, only... I dunno, bigger, clearer. Like a lot of the anger and frustration broke, too, and... I’ve realized that a lot of things I thought I had reason to be angry about were lies. Things about you. Things about Dad. About hunting and school and ways I was... selfish, self-righteous? I dunno. Wrong.” He sighed. “I wish I could tell Dad I’m sorry.”
This kid. Dean didn’t even know where to begin. “Dad was wrong, too. Especially about you. But he did love you, even when he thought you were in danger of becoming a monster.” He paused. “That danger’s over, though. The spell’s broken. And I think you’ve got a good start on becoming the man I always knew you could be.”
“Dean.”
“I’m serious, dude. You’re the most awesome little brother I could have ever asked for. And I’m proud of you.”
Sam leaned against his shoulder ever so slightly. “Thanks, Dean.”
They sat like that for a moment until Dean cleared his throat and patted Sam on the knee, which he correctly took as his cue to stop leaning. Maglor had, by that point, gotten up to check the fire, so Dean asked, “Hey, Maglor, how soon’s the Colt gonna be hot enough?”
“Now.” Maglor pulled the gun out of the barbeque pit with the tongs and set it on the anvil, then picked up the hammer and brought it down squarely on the glowing barrel.
Clang... clang... clang...
“What are you doing?!”
Maglor didn’t even flinch at the voice, but Sam and Dean instantly had their guns trained on the dark-haired, trenchcoat-wearing man who hadn’t been standing behind Maglor a second ago. They were still inside the perimeter of the trap, so he couldn’t be a demon, but there was no telling what he was.
The stranger ignored them both and continued addressing Maglor’s back. “That gun-”
“Will not be opening any more doors,” said Maglor evenly, continuing to hammer the Colt’s barrel flat.
“But the Devil’s Gate must be opened-if not tonight, then some other time, and sooner than you may think. Those spirits must take part in the Apocalypse. It has been foretold.”
“Foretold by whom?” Maglor glanced over his shoulder then. “My people have heard no such prophecy, and neither, to my knowledge, had Samuel Colt. If the Enemy wants those spirits, he must find some other way to retrieve them.” And he went back to smashing the barrel, which was (to Dean’s untrained eye) starting to look a lot more like a knife than a gun.
The stranger wavered at that but stated, “The Eldar do not know everything, Maglor son of Fëanor.”
Maglor chuckled. “As a fellow wanderer once said, ‘Even the very wisest cannot see all ends.’ He, too, was a Maia.”
Sam stared in disbelief.
Dean frowned. “Wait-you’re sayin’ this guy is....”
The stranger sighed. “Yes, Dean. My name is Castiel. I am an angel of the Lord.”
“By which,” added Maglor, “he means a Maia-of the people of Manwë, is that not so?”
Castiel frowned a little and cocked his head to one side. “How can you know that? I walked unseen among your people in Aman.”
Maglor shrugged. “I have known others of your kindred, both the great Eagles and those who clothe themselves in the forms of the Firstborn and Secondborn. There are certain... family resemblances, shall we say?”
Dean shook his head. “Hold on. You said you ‘walked unseen.’ You got some kind of magic ring that makes you invisible? Woulda thought you’d stick out in Elvenhome looking like that.”
Castiel looked even more puzzled. “Such a device is unnecessary for me. This is not my true visage.”
“Oh, so what visage is it, ‘holy tax accountant’?”
“In order to speak with you, I have clothed myself in the likeness of a devout man named Jimmy Novak. I believe he sells radio advertisements.”
“Wait, you’re possessing-”
“No!” cried Castiel, alarmed. “I don’t need to steal another’s house. I am able to clothe myself in whatever form I choose. This is a likeness, nothing more.”
Sam lowered his gun. “You’ll have to forgive my brother, Castiel. It’s just... we’ve never met an angel before. We’re more used to dealing with monsters and demons.”
Castiel turned his intense blue eyes to Sam. “There is no need to apologize. Caution is a necessity in these times.”
Maglor set down his hammer and placed the Colt in the bucket of water, which hissed and boiled as it drew the heat away from the metal. Then he turned to face Castiel fully. “Tell us. How long have you been in Middle-earth?”
“Since the beginning of the Fifth Age, as have many in my garrison. My superior, Zachariah, has been here longer.”
“And how often do you communicate with Valinor?”
Castiel blinked. “I... don’t. Zachariah does.”
Maglor took a step forward. “Are you certain of that?”
“I... have no direct evidence. But I have seen no reason to doubt his word.”
Dean’s frown deepened. “What are you saying, Maglor?”
“I’m not saying anything,” Maglor replied. “Castiel seems an honest fellow, and surely he knows why we call history ‘the long defeat’ but battle the Enemy on every front nonetheless. But I still wonder whence this prophecy about the Devil’s Gate came. I doubt you need to be reminded that Saruman was once of your order.”
Castiel’s face became troubled. “Zachariah is not Curumo.”
“But you have both been away from Aman far longer than he was, and neither the air nor the earth here are as free of Morgoth’s influence. You, I deem, are not corrupted, but what of Zachariah?”
Castiel looked unhappily at Maglor for a moment, then at the cooling ex-gun. “You have already destroyed the Colt,” he said at last. “Perhaps Zachariah was mistaken.” And he vanished with the sound of huge wings beating.
Maglor nodded slowly. “I thought as much.”
Dean uncocked his gun and tucked it back into his waistband.
“Maglor?” asked Sam.
The Elf sighed. “He could have stopped me, Sam. He could have restored the Colt. He did neither. I think this affair went very differently than what Zachariah had planned and had sent Castiel to oversee, and that confused Castiel. If he loves the truth, as I believe he does, he will learn it, and he may become a valuable ally. But another Maia falling into the error of Saruman... if true, that is ill news indeed.”
Dean didn’t know what to say to that.
Some distance away, beyond even Elven earshot, Castiel appeared in a tree next to a brown-haired figure who was leaning against the trunk and munching casually on a Snickers bar. Said brunet offered a second Snickers to Castiel, who waved it off.
“No, thank you, brother.”
The other ‘man’ shrugged and put the second bar in his jacket pocket. “So. What’d I tell ya?”
Castiel sighed heavily. “Azazel is dead. Ash Buchholz did not die. Sam Winchester did not die. Dean Winchester did not make a deal with a crossroads demon. The Devil’s Gate did not open. The Colt is destroyed. All these things are good. But all but the first were to have been otherwise.” He shook his head. “Did Zachariah lie?”
“Probably. Rumor has it he’s been talking to Alatar, and rumor also has it that Alatar has been trying to summon Lilith.”
“Rumor?”
“A little bird told me.”
“You mean Kali.”
“No names, no pack drill. But for the record, I haven’t seen Kali in a couple of Ages. She does hate the Blues Brothers, though.”
“What should I do, Rincaro? I have no proof, but....”
Rincaro the Trickster, a Maia of Lórien, made the empty candy wrapper vanish and leaned forward. “Look. You know I’m all for getting the Dagor Dagorath over with as soon as possible. But from what I hear, Zach’s acting like Dad’s on vacation and left us to do whatever we want to do with His toys. Yeah, Manwë’s in charge, always has been, but he talks to Dad all. the. time. And yeah, sometimes he gets things wrong, but he wouldn’t be wrong about this. If it’s time, it’s time, and it’s about time. But if Zach really has gone off the deep end, those two muttonheads are gonna need all the help they can get, ’cause we all know Túrin’s not coming back.”
Castiel studied Rincaro’s face. “You have a plan?”
Rincaro shrugged and opened the second Snickers. “Not as such-yet. Looks like the Winchesters bought us some time, thanks to Maglor. So we scout the opposition before the opening kickoff.”
Castiel huffed. “I really wish you would speak normally.”
Rincaro snorted and bit into his candy bar.
When the team of hunters returned to Sioux Falls, Maglor immediately got to work doing... something in Bobby’s workshop with the hunk of metal that used to be the Colt. Dean’s knowledge of metallurgy went no further than kinds of steel used in cars, and Sam’s didn’t even go that far, so they didn’t understand Maglor’s explanation and decided it wasn’t important enough to try. All that really mattered was that he was doing something with it. And Ash and Sam were doing something to research what, if anything, was coming next, and Dean and Bobby were busy helping Ellen recover what she could from the Roadhouse and move to Sioux Falls, so Maglor was pretty well left to his own devices for several days.
Once they were all together again, though, Maglor announced that he had a gift for each of the Winchesters. To Sam he handed a Bowie knife with a stag-horn handle that fit Sam’s hand perfectly; the eight-inch blade was engraved with runes, and Maglor explained that it was called Dagnir-en-Raughoth-Demons’ Bane.
Sam carefully tested the edge and smiled up at the Elf. “Le hannon,” he said carefully.
Maglor smiled back, clearly both surprised and pleased that Sam knew any Sindarin at all. “I ’ell nîn.”
To Dean Maglor presented the tiniest five-shot .45 revolver either brother had ever seen, also engraved with runes along the top of the barrel and on the sides and cylinder, along with a shoulder holster. “With iron rounds, it will kill demons as easily as did the Colt,” Maglor stated. “Its name is Maeglach, Piercing Flame.”
Dean studied the gun for a moment before running his fingers along the runes on the barrel. “What does this say?”
“Ú-gostathon ulunn-I will fear no monster.”
Dean grinned; it wasn’t an exact translation of Non timebo mala, but it was close enough. “Awesome. Thanks, Maglor.”
As Dean slipped off his overshirt to try on the shoulder holster, Sam marveled at the change that had come over his brother in the past several days. Ever since Dean’s confession in River Grove that he was tired of hunting, Sam had become acutely aware of how world-weary Dean was despite the front he normally presented, how survivor guilt and grief over their father’s death weighed on him, and Sam knew the incident with the djinn had really done a number on Dean’s morale. He really didn’t want to think about what Dean would have done if Maglor hadn’t been able to stop the demons from taking him to Cold Oak and especially if Sam had died there. The fact that they’d killed Azazel and finally had some closure on the quest that had dominated both of their lives didn’t seem to have diminished Dean’s weariness, though he did seem less stressed. But somehow, being around Maglor, being protected by Elven magic, and even being named elf-friend had kindled something in Dean, something that Sam thought he might have seen flashes of before but had never seen as clearly as he could now. There was a light in his eyes that was more than happiness, an authority to his bearing that was more than experience. He was larger than life, heroic... lordly, even, if one could apply such an adjective to someone so determinedly blue-collar. It almost took Sam’s breath away.
And the funny thing was, Sam felt sure that Dean would never see those things in himself unless someone else mentioned them. Yeah, he could be arrogant, but their dad had effectively destroyed Dean’s sense of self-worth, and Sam had to confess that he’d done his share of underestimating Dean and cutting him down without meaning to. Now he wondered whether Dean would ever be able to see past his own faults to realize that deep down, he really was more awesome than Batman.
Maybe some time away from hunting to just be brothers for a while would help.
Dean caught him staring and frowned. “What?”
Sam cleared his throat. “Nothing. Just... makes you look like a real Fed.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “You’re such a girl, Sam.”
Next | Glossary
Chapter 3
The Devil’s Gate
When Andy woke around 8 the next morning, feeling oddly refreshed, he discovered that Maglor and Mr. Singer had been outside since daybreak warding and loading vehicles for the trip to Wyoming. Dean and Mrs. Harvelle had split breakfast-making duties, and Sam and Ash were in the study tracking a sudden surge in demonic omens everywhere in Wyoming except the area where Ash had drawn the star in the circle.
“Guess that means the trap still works,” Sam stated.
Andy frowned. “Trap? What trap?”
Ash tapped the map. “This. Railroad lines that make a big ol’ devil’s trap. Demons are tryin’ to get to the Devil’s Gate”-here he pointed to the middle of the star-“but they can’t get across those iron lines.”
And suddenly Sam’s comment from the night before made sense. “But a human can. And since Yellow-Eyes can’t find Sam....”
“He’s gonna tell you to open it,” Sam nodded. “And he’ll give you a gun. You need to either shoot him with it or bring it to me and Dean, let one of us shoot him.”
Andy frowned. “Can you kill a demon that way?”
“With this gun, you can. But you’ll only get one shot.”
“No pressure,” Dean remarked from the kitchen.
Andy snorted. “Thanks, Dean. I think I’ll let you shoot the bad guy this time.”
Dean chuckled. “Fair enough. C’mon, let’s eat. Bobby wants to be on the road by 9.”
Andy, Ash, and Sam filed into the kitchen and sat down at the table, which Dean was loading with plates of bacon and sausage and eggs and waffles... and as soon as Andy sat down, Mrs. Harvelle set a bowl of oatmeal in front of him. Puzzled, Andy frowned and reached for the bacon, only to have Mrs. Harvelle smack his hand with a wooden spoon.
“You just had a heart attack,” she stated. “You need to watch your cholesterol.”
“Cholesterol wasn’t what caused it,” Andy objected.
“Oatmeal.” Mrs. Harvelle had that look that moms get sometimes.
You’re not my real mother, Andy thought, but what he said was, “Can I have some bacon after I eat the oatmeal?”
“It’s ‘may I,’ and we’ll see.”
Much as he wanted to use his mind-control power to get her to agree, he really didn’t want to be a bad guest, and Dean was shooting him a warning look, so he settled for pouring maple syrup into the oatmeal. Mrs. Harvelle looked appeased; Dean gave him a single nod, while Sam gave him a thumbs-up; and Ash just said, “You’re makin’ me hungry for grits and molasses, dude.”
Sam blinked. “Is that how you eat grits? I always wondered.”
Dean looked disgusted. “Sam.”
“What? Just because it doesn’t have meat in it doesn’t make it any less of a valid breakfast food.”
“Stuff tastes like wallpaper paste.”
“Well, you would know, Dean. I never ate glue as a child.”
“Dude, shut up.”
And the conversation for the rest of the meal continued in the same vein, dealing largely with culinary questions of zero interest to anyone raised north of the Mason-Dixon Line. Even Maglor and Mr. Singer contributed when they came inside. Andy did finish his oatmeal, but he also sneaked several pieces of bacon and a few bites of egg while Mrs. Harvelle wasn’t looking.
By the time everyone had eaten and Dean had finished packing coolers with enough food for both dinner and supper, it was ten minutes to 9. Ash claimed he’d be more useful monitoring omens from Bobby’s house, so he stayed behind, but everyone else headed out to the vehicles. The Impala was pulled up to the porch so Sam didn’t have to be unwarded for any longer than necessary, and it took Sam all of three seconds to get into the car and slam the door while the others were still walking outside-and Andy suddenly realized that he needed to choose whether to ride with the Winchesters or in the van with Mr. Singer and Mrs. Harvelle and their equipment. Maglor had some other precaution to prepare while they were on the road, so he needed the entire back seat of one vehicle to himself, but he claimed there would be enough room in the back of the Impala for him if Andy preferred the van. But Andy didn’t know what he preferred. He barely knew the older hunters, but although he got along with Sam and Dean okay, he didn’t know if he could handle a day-long road trip with them, especially since they intended to stop as seldom as possible.
“I hate to say this,” said Mr. Singer, “but if there’s any chance Azazel can still track Andy in spite of those wards, he shouldn’t be in the same vehicle as Sam.”
Mrs. Harvelle nodded. “And in case we get separated, we stand a better chance of one group still being able to get the Colt if we’ve got one ‘special child’ apiece.”
“The wards ought to hide Andy as well as they do Sam,” Maglor replied, “and it seems unlikely that Azazel will force another dream-vision, but I know from bitter experience not to underestimate the Enemy. And Ellen does have a point.”
“You sure you don’t mind bein’ crammed in the back seat again?” Dean asked Maglor. “The van would have more legroom.”
Maglor chuckled. “I shall manage, Dean.”
“Okay.” Dean clapped Andy on the shoulder. “We’ll see you in Wyoming, dude.”
Andy nodded. “Thanks, Dean.”
And with that, Maglor and Dean loaded themselves into the Impala while Mr. Singer led Mrs. Harvelle and Andy to the van.
Once they were settled, Mr. Singer turned to Andy. “You might want to go ahead and set your watch back. We’ll be changin’ time zones on the way.”
Andy nodded and started to do so. “How long is this trip supposed to take?”
“’Bout ten hours.”
“And what time does the sun go down?”
“According to the Naval Observatory, sunset’s around 8 local time. Won’t be fully dark for another half hour after that, though, so we’ll figure on Azazel showin’ up sometime between 8:30 and 9.”
“I see.” Andy finished setting his watch and then did the math. “Wait, so we’ll be getting there....”
“Two and a half hours early,” Mr. Singer nodded. “Gives us time to run into trouble and still get everything set up once we get there.”
Andy decided he didn’t want to know what kind of trouble Mr. Singer thought they might run into.
As it turned out, though, most of the drive was uneventful. Ash called every few hours with updates, mostly weather anomalies, but nothing was showing up outside the eastern border of Wyoming. Bobby and Ellen-they insisted that Andy call them by their first names-kept the conversation on pleasant topics, and somehow Andy managed to forget his nerves while they talked. When they weren’t talking, however, his thoughts drifted onto less comfortable topics like what he was going to do after that night. He wondered how much of his lack of ambition was innate and how much was due to the spell Maglor said he was under; he didn’t know if he’d still need the weed to keep the anger and anxiety at bay or if he could even stand to go back to living out of his van without his powers to con people out of things he needed to survive. Life had been so much easier before he met the Winchesters.
“Hey,” said Ellen gently, interrupting his reverie. “You’re thinking too loud.”
“I am? Uh, sorry, I....”
Bobby chuckled. “Not literally.”
“Oh.” Andy felt his cheeks flush.
Ellen chuckled, too. “Let’s all get through this hunt first. You can worry about what comes next once you’ve survived.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The wisdom of that policy, and of having left early and driven straight through, became clear when they crossed the border and ran straight into an electrical storm. Bobby had gotten a warning text from Sam, but the violence of the storm caught Andy off-guard; Ellen explained that it was probably due to the sheer number of demons that were circling the devil’s trap. Bobby was a skilled driver, however, and though the rain slowed them down and the wind tried to blow them off the road several times, they reached the church where they were meeting the Winchesters only half an hour or so behind schedule. The skies began clearing around Laramie, and the sun was shining by the time they got to the church.
Bobby parked on the inside of the curving railroad track that seemed to run through the church’s foundation, and when he got out, Andy saw that Dean had done the same. The church faced toward the center of the circle Andy recalled from Ash’s map; there were two more straight tracks coming out from the foundation at an acute angle, and Andy realized that he was looking at one of the points of the star. Dean and Maglor were sitting on the church steps, and Sam appeared to be dozing in the Impala’s front seat.
“Been waiting long?” Bobby called as Dean and Maglor got up to come help them unload.
“Nah, not too bad,” Dean replied. “Would you believe Sam slept all the way through that storm?”
“No,” Bobby and Ellen both said at the same time.
“... Would you believe since Laramie?”
Everyone laughed.
Andy didn’t know exactly what to expect when they started unloading the van; he hadn’t looked in the back for more than a moment or two on the road. But he was somewhat surprised at the charcoal grill, charcoal, cake pan, water bucket, anvil, fireplace tools, and sledgehammer. Maglor directed the hunters to set everything between the tracks in front of the church steps.
“Are we having burgers when this is over?” Andy asked.
“Mm, cheeseburgers,” said Dean absently.
Maglor laughed. “No, indeed. There is a metal object we will need to reshape, and this fire should suffice to heat it to malleability.”
“Oh. I guess that makes sense.” Andy didn’t know anything about metalworking, but it did explain the anvil.
Once the makeshift forge was set up, the group went back to the Impala for a picnic supper, and then Bobby and Ellen headed off to guard the Devil’s Gate while Maglor produced the final piece of the puzzle from the Impala’s back seat: two cloaks that he handed to the Winchesters. “I cannot guarantee that these will render you completely invisible,” said Maglor, “but they carry the same wards as does the car and will shield you from unfriendly eyes, and once the sun has set, it will be most difficult for anyone to see you. You should be able to watch over Andy from the shadows without danger.”
Sam stared at his cloak in awe. “Y’know, when people talk about cloaking in sci-fi, it’s usually metaphorical.”
“Geek,” muttered Dean, amused. He then handed Maglor a sawed-off shotgun and a cell phone. “You shouldn’t be in any danger here, but if something goes sideways, this’ll hurt the demons more than your sword will; it’s got salt rounds. We’ll call and let the phone ring once when we’re on our way back.”
Maglor nodded. “Excellent. That should give me time enough to prepare the fire.” Then he looked at the guys for a moment and smiled. “It is long indeed since I had cause to name anyone an elf-friend, yet such have you been to me. Go with such blessing as I am able to bestow, and may the Valar protect you.”
Dean shook his head. “Shoot, Maglor, we couldn’t have made it this far without you. Thanks for everything.”
“Dean’s right,” Sam agreed. “‘Thank you’ hardly seems adequate.”
“Can we name you ‘human-friend’?” Andy asked.
Maglor seemed genuinely embarrassed by that. “I hardly deserve that title, Andy-Edennil was what Men called my cousin Finrod, and he did far more for the Edain than I ever have.”
“Well, you’re our friend,” Sam stated. “I hope that means... something.”
“It does, Sam. It does.”
Dean cleared his throat. “Guess we should get goin’. We’re burnin’ daylight.”
“Navaer, nîn vellyn,” Maglor said, and as Andy and Dean got into the car, he went back to the church.
It was a little over thirty miles to the rendezvous point, so Dean drove most of the way and parked well out of sight about half a mile out, just about the time the sun went down. Then he and Sam put on their cloaks and drew the hoods up far enough to hide their faces, and they walked with Andy most of the rest of the way. It was a little disconcerting for Andy, knowing that the Winchesters were there but having trouble actually seeing them in his peripheral vision as the daylight diminished, but he was more nervous about the impending confrontation than he was about anything else.
“Okay, dude,” said Dean as they got to a stand of trees a hundred yards or so from the rendezvous point. “Yellow-Eyes can’t cross iron, and even if he could, he wouldn’t want to cross into this devil’s trap. So to be safe, stand just inside the outside rail of the track. We’ll be right here, and if anything goes wrong, we’ll come help you. Get back here with the gun as fast as you can, and we’ll take it from there.”
Andy nodded. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Good luck,” added Sam’s voice, but Andy could hardly see him now.
“Thanks, man. Same to you.” And he took a deep breath and crossed the remaining distance alone.
The twilight had pretty well faded by 8:30, and Andy was calming his nerves by staring at the rising moon and trying to remember whether one could see Tranquility Base from Earth when he heard Yellow-Eyes-Azazel, he reminded himself-say, “Howdy, Andy. Have a nice trip?”
Andy swallowed hard and did his best not to look the demon in the eye; even with iron on both sides of him, he didn’t feel safe. “I’m here. What do you want?”
Azazel pointed directly behind Andy. “Fifty miles that way, there’s a cemetery. A crypt. You’ve got to open that for me. Think you can manage that, sport?”
“How... how do I open it?”
“You’re gonna need a key.” Azazel pulled out a gun that looked antique.
Andy frowned. “How is a gun a key?”
“Oh, this isn’t just any gun, Andy. This is the only gun in the whole universe that can shoot me dead.” And he held the muzzle up to his head with a mocking grin before holding it out to Andy.
Andy took a deep breath and reached across the rail to take the gun.
Yellow-Eyes released the gun but caught Andy’s wrist. “Hey. Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
Andy forced his eyes closed and tried to pull back. “Just let me go. I’ll do it, I swear, I just... just let me go.”
The grip on his wrist tightened. “Andy. Look at me.”
Andy sensed movement behind him a split second before the gun was pulled out of his hand, and he blindly grabbed Azazel’s shirt with both hands and yanked him across the rail. The demon cried out, and what felt like a strong electric shock ran up Andy’s arms, forcing him to let go just as a sharp, squeezing pain shot through his chest. He opened his eyes again in time to see Dean push back his hood and shoot Azazel squarely between his yellow eyes, snarling something about “That’s for our mother.” And the demon fell, seemingly burning from the inside out.
Something came loose and unraveled in Andy’s head-the spell, he figured. But the pain in his chest didn’t lessen, and it drove him to his knees.
“Hey! Whoa! Andy, you okay?” Dean was at his side almost at once, and Sam was right behind him.
“Heart,” Andy wheezed. “’S bad. Shocked me... when I pulled him... ’cross the rail.”
Dean swore bitterly. “Okay, c’mon, we’ll get you back to Laramie....”
“Don’t think... I’m gonna make it that long.”
“Aw, c’mon, dude, you can’t give up now.”
“’M not. D’ya kill it?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”
Andy looked over at Sam. “So we’re free.”
Sam nodded. “Yeah, dude. We’re free.”
“’S all I... ever wanted.”
And suddenly he was standing outside the railroad tracks, watching as Dean felt vainly for a pulse in what used to be Andy’s body and Sam sadly closed the eyes that Andy didn’t need anymore. A storm had blown up out of nowhere, and Andy could see that it was raining where he was standing, but the raindrops were going straight through him. It was a really strange sensation.
“It’s time, Andy,” said a female voice. “My lord Mandos is waiting for you.”
He turned to see what looked like a dark-haired woman standing beside him. “Who are you?”
“I’m a Reaper. You can call me Tessa.”
Andy looked back at the Winchesters, who were calling the others. “They’ll be okay, right? I mean, the war’s over?”
“The battle is over,” Tessa said gently. “Don’t worry about the war. Just come with me.”
Andy sighed and took her hand.
While Bobby and Ellen took care of the corpses, Sam and Dean trudged back along the railroad track to the car and drove back to the church. Maglor was stirring the coals in the barbeque pit when they got there.
“You have had success?” he asked.
Dean sighed and tossed the Colt onto the anvil. “Yeah. He’s dead. But so is Andy-massive heart attack. Nothing we could do.”
The Elf nodded somberly. “I am sorry. Even one death is too many in so small a band as this. But at least he had a greater role to play than being murdered by one of the others in Cold Oak.”
Dean shrugged. It was true, and Andy had essentially sacrificed his own life to make sure Yellow-Eyes couldn’t escape before Dean shot him, but Dean didn’t have to like the loss any better.
“Dean. You cannot save everyone. But I believe you may have saved more lives than you know.” Maglor picked up the Colt and studied it for a moment before starting to remove the grip. “The virtue in this metal is diminished, but it has not been altogether lost... I shall have to think on it further after we ensure that it cannot be used for the Enemy’s purposes, but it may be that I can reforge it into another form that yet retains the ability to kill the Houseless.” And with that he stuck the gripless gun barrel-first into the hottest part of the fire, pulled out one live coal with his tongs, and closed the lid. The grip he placed in the cake pan and wedged the coal into the notch for the frame, causing the wood to ignite.
Dean frowned. “Why burn that out here?”
“The finish,” Sam replied. “Wouldn’t be wise for shellac fumes to contaminate the metal if he wants to use it again.”
Maglor nodded. “Exactly, Sam.”
Dean shrugged. “Guess that makes sense.” Then he went back to the car and pulled three beers out of the green cooler. “Want a beer, Maglor?”
Maglor considered for a moment. “Yes. Thank you, Dean.”
Dean handed one beer to Maglor and another to Sam, opened his own, and clinked bottles with Sam before taking a long drink. Then he nodded toward the church steps. “C’mon, dude. Let’s sit down.”
“You don’t want to sit in the car?” Sam frowned.
“Better vantage point. We don’t know if Yellow-Eyes had a Plan B. Can’t let our guard down too far.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Sam followed and sat down next to Dean on the top step, which was narrow enough that their shoulders touched. Maglor had brought one of Bobby’s lawn chairs for himself and sat in it to watch the fire. But there wasn’t really anything to say, so they didn’t talk for a while.
The churchyard was oddly quiet, given the demonic temper tantrum that had kicked up once Yellow-Eyes died. Dean suspected it was due to the demons’ not being able to figure out where in the trap he and Sam were. But it gave Dean a chance to really look at Sam now that the spell was broken, study him, try to see inside that shaggy emo head of his. It might be too soon to tell for sure, but Sam did seem... lighter somehow, brighter, cleaner, less shadowed, less likely to go darkside. And Dean had no idea how he could tell that. All he knew was that the things he’d always seen and loved in Sam were more obvious than ever.
After a while-he didn’t know how long, but it was some time after he’d finished his beer-he broke the silence. “Hey, Sam.”
“What?”
“How’s it feel?”
Sam thought for a moment. “You remember that time we got hexed in Virginia?”
Dean grimaced. “I’d rather not.”
“But remember what it felt like when Dad finally killed the witch and destroyed the altar? That kind of... snap of relief?”
“Yeah.” That was the first time Dean remembered being able to feel a spell break.
“It was like that, only... I dunno, bigger, clearer. Like a lot of the anger and frustration broke, too, and... I’ve realized that a lot of things I thought I had reason to be angry about were lies. Things about you. Things about Dad. About hunting and school and ways I was... selfish, self-righteous? I dunno. Wrong.” He sighed. “I wish I could tell Dad I’m sorry.”
This kid. Dean didn’t even know where to begin. “Dad was wrong, too. Especially about you. But he did love you, even when he thought you were in danger of becoming a monster.” He paused. “That danger’s over, though. The spell’s broken. And I think you’ve got a good start on becoming the man I always knew you could be.”
“Dean.”
“I’m serious, dude. You’re the most awesome little brother I could have ever asked for. And I’m proud of you.”
Sam leaned against his shoulder ever so slightly. “Thanks, Dean.”
They sat like that for a moment until Dean cleared his throat and patted Sam on the knee, which he correctly took as his cue to stop leaning. Maglor had, by that point, gotten up to check the fire, so Dean asked, “Hey, Maglor, how soon’s the Colt gonna be hot enough?”
“Now.” Maglor pulled the gun out of the barbeque pit with the tongs and set it on the anvil, then picked up the hammer and brought it down squarely on the glowing barrel.
Clang... clang... clang...
“What are you doing?!”
Maglor didn’t even flinch at the voice, but Sam and Dean instantly had their guns trained on the dark-haired, trenchcoat-wearing man who hadn’t been standing behind Maglor a second ago. They were still inside the perimeter of the trap, so he couldn’t be a demon, but there was no telling what he was.
The stranger ignored them both and continued addressing Maglor’s back. “That gun-”
“Will not be opening any more doors,” said Maglor evenly, continuing to hammer the Colt’s barrel flat.
“But the Devil’s Gate must be opened-if not tonight, then some other time, and sooner than you may think. Those spirits must take part in the Apocalypse. It has been foretold.”
“Foretold by whom?” Maglor glanced over his shoulder then. “My people have heard no such prophecy, and neither, to my knowledge, had Samuel Colt. If the Enemy wants those spirits, he must find some other way to retrieve them.” And he went back to smashing the barrel, which was (to Dean’s untrained eye) starting to look a lot more like a knife than a gun.
The stranger wavered at that but stated, “The Eldar do not know everything, Maglor son of Fëanor.”
Maglor chuckled. “As a fellow wanderer once said, ‘Even the very wisest cannot see all ends.’ He, too, was a Maia.”
Sam stared in disbelief.
Dean frowned. “Wait-you’re sayin’ this guy is....”
The stranger sighed. “Yes, Dean. My name is Castiel. I am an angel of the Lord.”
“By which,” added Maglor, “he means a Maia-of the people of Manwë, is that not so?”
Castiel frowned a little and cocked his head to one side. “How can you know that? I walked unseen among your people in Aman.”
Maglor shrugged. “I have known others of your kindred, both the great Eagles and those who clothe themselves in the forms of the Firstborn and Secondborn. There are certain... family resemblances, shall we say?”
Dean shook his head. “Hold on. You said you ‘walked unseen.’ You got some kind of magic ring that makes you invisible? Woulda thought you’d stick out in Elvenhome looking like that.”
Castiel looked even more puzzled. “Such a device is unnecessary for me. This is not my true visage.”
“Oh, so what visage is it, ‘holy tax accountant’?”
“In order to speak with you, I have clothed myself in the likeness of a devout man named Jimmy Novak. I believe he sells radio advertisements.”
“Wait, you’re possessing-”
“No!” cried Castiel, alarmed. “I don’t need to steal another’s house. I am able to clothe myself in whatever form I choose. This is a likeness, nothing more.”
Sam lowered his gun. “You’ll have to forgive my brother, Castiel. It’s just... we’ve never met an angel before. We’re more used to dealing with monsters and demons.”
Castiel turned his intense blue eyes to Sam. “There is no need to apologize. Caution is a necessity in these times.”
Maglor set down his hammer and placed the Colt in the bucket of water, which hissed and boiled as it drew the heat away from the metal. Then he turned to face Castiel fully. “Tell us. How long have you been in Middle-earth?”
“Since the beginning of the Fifth Age, as have many in my garrison. My superior, Zachariah, has been here longer.”
“And how often do you communicate with Valinor?”
Castiel blinked. “I... don’t. Zachariah does.”
Maglor took a step forward. “Are you certain of that?”
“I... have no direct evidence. But I have seen no reason to doubt his word.”
Dean’s frown deepened. “What are you saying, Maglor?”
“I’m not saying anything,” Maglor replied. “Castiel seems an honest fellow, and surely he knows why we call history ‘the long defeat’ but battle the Enemy on every front nonetheless. But I still wonder whence this prophecy about the Devil’s Gate came. I doubt you need to be reminded that Saruman was once of your order.”
Castiel’s face became troubled. “Zachariah is not Curumo.”
“But you have both been away from Aman far longer than he was, and neither the air nor the earth here are as free of Morgoth’s influence. You, I deem, are not corrupted, but what of Zachariah?”
Castiel looked unhappily at Maglor for a moment, then at the cooling ex-gun. “You have already destroyed the Colt,” he said at last. “Perhaps Zachariah was mistaken.” And he vanished with the sound of huge wings beating.
Maglor nodded slowly. “I thought as much.”
Dean uncocked his gun and tucked it back into his waistband.
“Maglor?” asked Sam.
The Elf sighed. “He could have stopped me, Sam. He could have restored the Colt. He did neither. I think this affair went very differently than what Zachariah had planned and had sent Castiel to oversee, and that confused Castiel. If he loves the truth, as I believe he does, he will learn it, and he may become a valuable ally. But another Maia falling into the error of Saruman... if true, that is ill news indeed.”
Dean didn’t know what to say to that.
Some distance away, beyond even Elven earshot, Castiel appeared in a tree next to a brown-haired figure who was leaning against the trunk and munching casually on a Snickers bar. Said brunet offered a second Snickers to Castiel, who waved it off.
“No, thank you, brother.”
The other ‘man’ shrugged and put the second bar in his jacket pocket. “So. What’d I tell ya?”
Castiel sighed heavily. “Azazel is dead. Ash Buchholz did not die. Sam Winchester did not die. Dean Winchester did not make a deal with a crossroads demon. The Devil’s Gate did not open. The Colt is destroyed. All these things are good. But all but the first were to have been otherwise.” He shook his head. “Did Zachariah lie?”
“Probably. Rumor has it he’s been talking to Alatar, and rumor also has it that Alatar has been trying to summon Lilith.”
“Rumor?”
“A little bird told me.”
“You mean Kali.”
“No names, no pack drill. But for the record, I haven’t seen Kali in a couple of Ages. She does hate the Blues Brothers, though.”
“What should I do, Rincaro? I have no proof, but....”
Rincaro the Trickster, a Maia of Lórien, made the empty candy wrapper vanish and leaned forward. “Look. You know I’m all for getting the Dagor Dagorath over with as soon as possible. But from what I hear, Zach’s acting like Dad’s on vacation and left us to do whatever we want to do with His toys. Yeah, Manwë’s in charge, always has been, but he talks to Dad all. the. time. And yeah, sometimes he gets things wrong, but he wouldn’t be wrong about this. If it’s time, it’s time, and it’s about time. But if Zach really has gone off the deep end, those two muttonheads are gonna need all the help they can get, ’cause we all know Túrin’s not coming back.”
Castiel studied Rincaro’s face. “You have a plan?”
Rincaro shrugged and opened the second Snickers. “Not as such-yet. Looks like the Winchesters bought us some time, thanks to Maglor. So we scout the opposition before the opening kickoff.”
Castiel huffed. “I really wish you would speak normally.”
Rincaro snorted and bit into his candy bar.
When the team of hunters returned to Sioux Falls, Maglor immediately got to work doing... something in Bobby’s workshop with the hunk of metal that used to be the Colt. Dean’s knowledge of metallurgy went no further than kinds of steel used in cars, and Sam’s didn’t even go that far, so they didn’t understand Maglor’s explanation and decided it wasn’t important enough to try. All that really mattered was that he was doing something with it. And Ash and Sam were doing something to research what, if anything, was coming next, and Dean and Bobby were busy helping Ellen recover what she could from the Roadhouse and move to Sioux Falls, so Maglor was pretty well left to his own devices for several days.
Once they were all together again, though, Maglor announced that he had a gift for each of the Winchesters. To Sam he handed a Bowie knife with a stag-horn handle that fit Sam’s hand perfectly; the eight-inch blade was engraved with runes, and Maglor explained that it was called Dagnir-en-Raughoth-Demons’ Bane.
Sam carefully tested the edge and smiled up at the Elf. “Le hannon,” he said carefully.
Maglor smiled back, clearly both surprised and pleased that Sam knew any Sindarin at all. “I ’ell nîn.”
To Dean Maglor presented the tiniest five-shot .45 revolver either brother had ever seen, also engraved with runes along the top of the barrel and on the sides and cylinder, along with a shoulder holster. “With iron rounds, it will kill demons as easily as did the Colt,” Maglor stated. “Its name is Maeglach, Piercing Flame.”
Dean studied the gun for a moment before running his fingers along the runes on the barrel. “What does this say?”
“Ú-gostathon ulunn-I will fear no monster.”
Dean grinned; it wasn’t an exact translation of Non timebo mala, but it was close enough. “Awesome. Thanks, Maglor.”
As Dean slipped off his overshirt to try on the shoulder holster, Sam marveled at the change that had come over his brother in the past several days. Ever since Dean’s confession in River Grove that he was tired of hunting, Sam had become acutely aware of how world-weary Dean was despite the front he normally presented, how survivor guilt and grief over their father’s death weighed on him, and Sam knew the incident with the djinn had really done a number on Dean’s morale. He really didn’t want to think about what Dean would have done if Maglor hadn’t been able to stop the demons from taking him to Cold Oak and especially if Sam had died there. The fact that they’d killed Azazel and finally had some closure on the quest that had dominated both of their lives didn’t seem to have diminished Dean’s weariness, though he did seem less stressed. But somehow, being around Maglor, being protected by Elven magic, and even being named elf-friend had kindled something in Dean, something that Sam thought he might have seen flashes of before but had never seen as clearly as he could now. There was a light in his eyes that was more than happiness, an authority to his bearing that was more than experience. He was larger than life, heroic... lordly, even, if one could apply such an adjective to someone so determinedly blue-collar. It almost took Sam’s breath away.
And the funny thing was, Sam felt sure that Dean would never see those things in himself unless someone else mentioned them. Yeah, he could be arrogant, but their dad had effectively destroyed Dean’s sense of self-worth, and Sam had to confess that he’d done his share of underestimating Dean and cutting him down without meaning to. Now he wondered whether Dean would ever be able to see past his own faults to realize that deep down, he really was more awesome than Batman.
Maybe some time away from hunting to just be brothers for a while would help.
Dean caught him staring and frowned. “What?”
Sam cleared his throat. “Nothing. Just... makes you look like a real Fed.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “You’re such a girl, Sam.”
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