Nihil Inherit, Chapter 7: Vulnerant Omnia, Ultima Necat (Part A)
Chapter 6
Master Post
Aaaand LJ tells me this chapter is too long. I guess I'll be splitting it. Feh.
Chapter 7: Vulnerant Omnia, Ultima Necat (Part A)
*
“I've seen the end,” Sam tells Dean, his nose and mouth filled with the stench of burning rubber. He's desperate to tell him before it all shatters into a million tiny pieces and gets away from him. “I've seen it, Dean, and it's bloody and terrible.”
“Shut up, Sam,” Dean is trying to get him to lie down, but he resists, his struggles pathetically weak now. It's important he get through to Dean, he thinks. They've run out of time.
“No, please. You have to listen to me. It has to do with the vessels. Are you listening?”
“I'm listening. Please just lie down while you talk, okay?” Dean's tone is desperate, a little panicky. “Vessels. See? Totally listening.”
His mouth is filling with saliva at the unpleasant taste, and he swallows, makes a face. “We're the vessels. Did Bobby tell you? That's why it―”
“Sam, please! Just shut up.”
“It's important. Ruby never said ―maybe she never even knew― but it was supposed to be me. It wasn't you, the first time... she kept telling me you weren't strong enough, kept feeding me lies. I was so angry I couldn't see straight, and I was ―it wasn't me who saved you, it was Castiel, and I was angry and alone and I let her...” he has to stop, can feel his thoughts fraying around the edges.
“Sam, you can tell me afterward. Just lie back, okay”
“Shit,” he murmurs. “Can't even get this right.” He digs his fingers into Dean's arm in a useless attempt to keep the seizure at bay. “It was me. I started it, do you understand? The last time. That's why I came back. We were the vessels, and it was my fault. It needs to be different this time, except I can't remember how it's supposed to go.”
“Okay, okay. Just... God. We'll handle that in a few minutes, okay?”
“I can't―” the world flashes white, and he feels his mind shatter, the pieces scattered to the wind.
*
“Just... take it easy, okay? Put the knife down,” Sam says, trying to keep his voice from shaking.
Reggie is holding onto Lindsey, all rough edges and scalding hatred, but he puts his Bowie knife down on the bar. Lindsey is staring at him, eyes wide and scared behind Reggie's arm. They've all lost sight of what's important, he thinks, looking at the terror in her eyes. Hunters are supposed to protect people like her, and now he's put her in danger twice over.
“It's true,” he says, locking eyes with Reggie, keeping the hunter's attention on him. “What the demon said, it's all true.”
“Keep going.”
“Why? You gonna hate me any less? Am I gonna hate myself any less? What do you want?”
“I want to hear you say it.” Anger is radiating from Reggie, hatred seeping from his pores.
Sam nods once. It's an affirmation, as much to himself as to Reggie.
“I did it. I started the apocalypse.”
*
“It's all unravelling,” he says, once he's awake again, back in the familiar bed in Bobby's spare room. Someone is coaxing water into him, and he's not sure where Bobby is, but he can hear the older hunter's voice, talking to someone far away ―telephone, he figures out after a moment. He opens his eyes, expecting to see Dean, is surprised to find Castiel there, holding a glass to his lips. Sam grins.
“Florence, long time no see.”
The angel frowns. “That's not my name.”
“Never mind. Where's Dean?”
“Not here.”
“You're really frustrating to talk to.”
Castiel tilts his head to the side. “It's not my intention, but I have other matters to attend to.”
“We're losing, aren't we? It hasn't changed.”
“We are losing,” the angel confirms. “Most of the Seals have broken. Our numbers are dwindling faster than ever.”
“Did you find the traitor?”
“Traitor?”
Sam reaches up with a shaky hand to take the glass of water away from Castiel, drains the contents. “You're different from... you're more like when I first met you. Do you remember what happened the last time around?”
Castiel tilts his head. “It's complicated. I don't see things the way you do ―it's not in my nature. I don't experience time in a linear fashion.”
“So you do remember? I remember, and it's turning my brain to mush.”
“Yes.”
“Uriel was killing the angels, the last time.”
“Uriel is long gone. He and Anna no longer exist the way you think of them.”
Sam sits up slowly, and to his surprise, Castiel puts a hand under his elbow to help him. “Did... do you remember pulling Dean out of hell? Even though it never happened now?”
“I remember. It's not something easily forgotten.”
“So you're still...”
“Yes.”
He leans back against the headboard, lets his eyes close for a moment as his whole body sags with relief. “Good. I can't do this on my own, and Dean thinks I've lost my mind. Sometimes I think he's right.”
“You haven't lost your mind. Not yet. But you are losing your grip on this reality. It's not as real to you as the other one, and that is dangerous.”
He nods tiredly. “I get it. The other one lasted longer, you know.”
“I know. It was also more ―emotionally fraught. I understand that it is difficult for you, and... I wish there were more that I could do to help.”
Sam blinks, forces his eyes open again. “Are you still, uh, fallen?”
“I'm not sure I ever was. I am still mostly cut off from Heaven, if that's what you mean.”
“What if I can't stop Lilith?”
“You can. That's not the issue.”
Everything Azazel did, and Lilith did. Just to get you here. And you were the only one who could do it.
“I'm missing something. What am I missing?”
“I can't tell you.”
“Fuck!” he slams a palm on the bed in frustration. “Why not? What was the point of bringing me back if you can't help me? Nothing makes sense, and every time I try to figure it out I end up bleeding or puking or having a seizure.”
Castiel surprises him by reaching out and smoothing a hand against his cheek. “I am sorry. It's not that I don't want to ―he means as much to me as he does to you, I promise. I told you why it is important that you remember on your own. I'm still bound by many of the same rules as I was. I will intervene where and when I can, as I did before, but the more I change my own behaviour, the worse it will be for you. Your mind is not withstanding the stresses of the process well.”
“You, uh. You didn't bring me back. Not the same way as Dean. I remember the end. I was... I don't know, exactly, but I didn't die, did I?”
“You died, but not then. You were dying. I simply transferred your consciousness back into your body.
“Do you remember the final Seal?”
Sam shakes his head. “Only parts of it. Ruby, and the blood... she brought me to the edge and I jumped off, and I was happy to do it. She's been using Dean to feed it to me.”
“I know. The hex bag kept me away. I am sorry I could not stop it.”
“Not your fault. I don't understand why I'm not... detoxing, or whatever.”
Castiel tilts his head. “You don't remember the end.” It's a statement, not a question.
“I remember Dean died...”
“I cannot tell you, then. But you do not need to fear 'detoxing,' as you call it. You are beyond that now.”
He lets his eyes close in something that feels like defeat. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I was so convinced, but I caused the end of the world.”
“Yes.”
Sam sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Whoever fights monsters should see to it in the process that he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”
“I don't understand that reference.”
“It's a quote. I turned myself into a monster in order to fight the monsters.”
“You're not a monster, Sam.”
There's a gust of wind, and when Sam looks up again, Castiel is gone. Somehow, though, this time he doesn't feel quite so alone.
*
I know it's hard to see it now... but this is a miracle. So long coming. Everything Azazel did, and Lilith did. Just to get you here. And you were the only one who could do it.
Because it had to be you, Sammy. It always had to be you.
*
June 6th dawns overcast and muggy in New York City, and it's on that morning that Jethro Bridges turns sixty-six years old. He drags himself out of bed and into the bathroom, where one of the two light bulbs above the grimy sink sizzles and shorts out as he drags his razor blade over his chin and mentally reviews today's lesson plan. He curses under his breath and taps the bulb with a fingernail. Nothing. He's going to have to replace that later. He brushes his teeth, gets dressed ―right leg first, same as always― and wonders whether he ever consciously made the decision to have a wardrobe that consists almost entirely of tweed, or whether it's something that just happens to all teachers over time, kind of like erosion.
He picks up the briefcase he packed last night in one hand, and his guitar in the other, takes the bus to work, because parking near the school is a bitch, and despite being a year past retirement he's got nothing to show for it except a head full of grey hair, roomfuls of ungrateful teenagers, and not even so much as a parking spot on the school grounds. It's his birthday, he thinks morosely as a very large, very sweaty man invades his personal space and shoves his armpit in Jethro's face as he hangs onto the high bar. It's his birthday and all he has to look forward to is to try and instil the basic principles of the English language, and then accompany some lacklustre flautists on the guitar so that their parents will believe they're getting a well-rounded education.
Jethro is so plunged in his thoughts that he doesn't notice the difference in heft in his guitar case until he gets to school. He sets it down on his desk, flips it open, and his feels his eyelids flicker in surprise when he finds a sturdy-looking semi-automatic twenty-two rifle with a well-oiled wooden stock in the place of his customary guitar. He stares at it for a moment, then trails a finger wonderingly over the barrel, along the stock.
This is it.
Somewhere further down the hallways the sound of a couple hundred kids singing the national anthem off-key and without much enthusiasm wafts toward him, and he knows that, finally, today is the day that's going to change everything. He picks up the rifle, enjoying the heft, and slips the clip into place with an audible “snick.” He brings it up, checks the sights, and he smiles when it nestles sweetly against his shoulder.
Jethro whistles cheerfully through his teeth as he takes the rifle in a ready carry down the hall. He steps into the gymnasium where the kids and teachers are gathered, makes sure to lock the door behind him. He takes a deep breath, brings the gun to bear, and recites Walt Whitman in his head as screams erupt all around him.
*
Sam comes awake with a muffled yell, and pulls back just in time to prevent himself from accidentally hitting his brother in the face. Dean is sitting half-sprawled on the bed and has him by both shoulders, has obviously been trying to shake him awake. When he's sure Sam is coherent enough not to lash out at him again, he pulls him upright and lets him cling, shaking.
“Just a nightmare, Sammy. You're okay.”
He shakes his head, buries his face in Dean's chest, not caring that he's acting like a six-year-old with night terrors. “Kids. They were just kids, and he killed them all.”
“Who?”
“I don't know. A teacher. God... he just killed them, like they were nothing. He was reciting poetry, Dean.”
He feels Dean shake his head. “People,” he says softly, then brings up a hand to brush Sam's hair away from his forehead. “You okay?”
“It's a Seal. Rufus said it was a Seal.”
“Rufus hasn't called in weeks, Sam,” Dean keeps running his fingers through Sam's hair, the movement soothing. “Bobby has him looking out for omens and all that, but we haven't heard from him lately. You think you can get back to sleep?”
“Lilith's broken nearly all the Seals,” he says, listening to the steady beating of Dean's heart. “It was all supposed to change, but I keep getting it wrong. I don't know if I can change it. I wanted to change it... make up for all the things I did. I never even apologized to you, not properly. 'Sorry' is such a stupid, inadequate word. Use it too much, but I can't think of a better one. I didn't mean to betray you. You know that, right? I was just trying to do the right thing. I just screwed it all up, and then you died anyway. I just want to make it right.”
Dean huffs out a small sigh, lets his hand go still and rest on Sam's head. “Let's just concentrate on getting you better. Then we'll find that bitch and end her. I promise.”
Sam doesn't move, keeps leaning on Dean's chest. This probably makes him a girl forever in Dean's books, but he doesn't care anymore. Right here, right now, it's safe, and he hasn't felt safe in a very long time. “You know I'm not crazy, right?”
“Sure, Sammy.”
*
A dying nun lies draped, bleeding, over the altar of her church. Her priest's eyes glow briefly, a flash of yellow.
“Lilith,” the voice that dribbles from her lips is anything but human. “Lilith can break the seals.”
*
“We need to go after Lilith,” Sam says finally, on a day when the world is being kind enough to stay still and not split up into nausea-inducing double-visions of what is and what was supposed to be and what might have been. He can't tell how much time has gone by anymore, days and hours and years blurring together. “The Seals are breaking faster and faster. The angels are losing.”
He's curled up on Bobby's sofa, in jeans and his favourite t-shirt, bare feet tucked under him, coffee cup cradled in his hands. The coffee is the one point on which he's refused to budge. Giving up alcohol is one thing, but the coffee is the only thing that keeps him functional on a good day, and neither Dean nor Bobby are really wishing to push it.
“I thought your angel was supposed to be on top of that,” Dean says, not bothering to mask his sarcasm.
“He's not my angel,” Sam mutters.
“What?”
“Nothing. Anyway, he hasn't shown up in weeks. I thought it might have been the hex bags, but I haven't seen him since then. I don't know what's going on, except that we're losing. We should be trying to find her.”
“And how do you propose we do that? How are we supposed to know where she is? She's been five steps ahead of us the whole time, Sam!” Dean is pacing, frustrated. He looks up at Sam. “Shit. Sammy...” he looks around until his eyes land on the roll of toilet paper Sam has taken to keeping with him, then tosses it to Sam. “Your nose is bleeding. Again.”
Sam doesn't even bother swearing. Just sighs, rolls his eyes a bit, and pinches his nose shut with a wad of the paper. “Bobby, did you ever look up that thing about the vessels?” he asks through the paper, sounding as though he's got the world's worst head cold.
Bobby doesn't look up from where he's seated at his desk, taking notes. “Not much that's useful, as usual. Two thousand years of the telephone game, and a whole metric ton of people who've read way too much Milton. Mostly it's a ton of pseudo-religious crap about bloodlines and Cain and Abel and crap like that. The only remotely interesting thing is this one really obscure passage that's reportedly from one of the unpublished gospels, and relates the war between Heaven and Hell. It ain't as pretty as Paradise Lost, but prophecy don't have to be written in iambic pentameter to be accurate.”
Sam smirks. “Iambic pentameter?”
Bobby just rolls his eyes. “What? You think you're the only one who can be educated?”
He ducks his head with a smile. “Sorry. It's just, first I find out Dean reads Vonnegut, then you suddenly know how to speak Japanese and know words like 'iambic pentameter.' Forgive me if it takes me a while to get over my preconceptions.”
“How'd you know I read Vonnegut?”
“You told― uh,” he stutters, pulls more toilet paper off the roll as blood seeps onto his fingers. “I remember, but it didn't happen. Please don't make me explain more, I think I'm going into hypovolemic shock, here. Bobby? Prophecy?” he gets up, moves to look over Bobby's shoulder at what looks like the reproduction of a thirteenth-century depiction of the battle between Heaven and Hell, Lucifer on the ground beneath Michael's sword, his blood seeping into the earth in a circle around his body.
“Right. Well, it ain't exactly a prophecy. More like a fable. A passage about when the archangel Michael puts Lucifer away in Hell. Something about using the bonds of brotherhood to seal the final lock on the cage. Damned if I can make heads or tails of it. If I had any say in this, I'd hire technical writers to write down these things. At least then we'd get a user-friendly manual.”
Dean snorts. “Where would be the fun in that? Now we have all the added fun of trying to make sense of allegory on top of all our other problems. At this rate I'm going to start bleeding from the nose.”
“Funny,” Sam mutters. “Easy for you to say. You're not Lucifer's meat suit if he gets out.” He traces a finger over the illustration in Bobby's book. “I've seen that circle of blood before, somewhere.”
“What do you mean, meat suit?”
“Bonds of brotherhood... the angels need vessels before they can fight it out,” Sam taps a finger on the page. “I think the true vessels always have to be brothers. It's why it was you and me. Has to do with bloodlines, although I never did buy the whole Cain and Abel thing. Cain and Abel never had any descendants. Abel died right off, and Cain did the whole East of Eden thing and all the descendants came from Seth.”
Dean gives him a flat look. “Could you be a bigger geek? I'd smack your head, but I might dislodge what little is left of that giant geek brain of yours. Also, I'm not entirely sure what you said.”
“Vessels. It's how we stopped it the first time. You have to give consent before they can possess you, but it was the only way to make it work,” blood drips past the hand Sam has clamped over his nose. “Shit,” he mutters, feeling the floor tilt beneath him. He shuffles away from the desk, drops into a chair. “Michael lied. Said he'd leave you intact when you said yes. Fucking angels.”
“I thought they were supposed to be on our side? That's what you said.”
He lets out a huff of laughter. “Just Castiel. The rest are all a bunch of lying dicks with wings. Lucifer included. Should never've fallen for it. Being a vessel sucks.”
“I'm not even going to pretend I understood that. Anyway, we'll all be better off if Lucifer never pops free at all. So we find Lilith, ice the bitch, and Satan can keep rotting in his cage. I don't suppose there's any leads on where she is?”
“None,” Bobby growls, clearly frustrated. “I've been scouring all the sources I have, and nothing can tell me what Seals she's aiming for, let alone where she's gonna head next. Some of the Seals ain't in specific locations, anyway. You ought to know that better'n anyone. It ain't possible to track an event which doesn't have a specific location.”
“Like the Witnesses. Or the teacher in New York.”
“The fishing boat,” Dean nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sam, did you, uh...”
“Have a vision about the final Seal? No. Other Seals, but I don't exactly have control over the rest, and that stuff Ruby made screwed with the visions for weeks.”
“I'm sorry.”
He shakes his head. “Don't. I don't want an apology. I don't. That's not what this is about. Whatever she made you do, it was nothing compared to what I did for her, okay?”
“Keep your head back. That bleeding doesn't stop in another couple of minutes, I'm taking you in,” Dean squats near his chair, chucks him under the chin to force his head back. Blood trickles into Sam's mouth, and he grimaces as he swallows.
“It's fine. You're not listening.”
“I am listening. You're not making sense. Again. Ruby hasn't even talked to you more than twice.”
“Not in this lifetime. You didn't see what I became. It could still happen. I still want it, you know. The blood. I can smell it on them, and it terrifies me.”
“Dean, what's he talkin' about?”
“No idea. Sam?”
He feels himself slipping again. “Demon blood. I don't want to go back there. Fucking terrible. Can't go back, I swore to myself I wouldn't.”
“Where, Sam?”
Burning rubber. “Sorry, I can't... happening again.”
The world falls apart.
*
In the middle of the Nevada desert, a man who calls himself Gideon even though he was born Thomas Neville Jr. lines up three women and a man before him. All the same age, all with black hair and brown eyes. They stand compliant in the light of the moon, naked and unashamed, the blindfolds white against their hair. The thin rope binding their hands behind their backs is unnecessary, but he doesn't want to take any chances. He calls the four corners, puts the man to the North, the three women in the other corners.
He starts with the man, works widdershins, and spills their blood into the sand. By the time the police catch up with him, it's too late.
Gideon goes down in a hail of bullets, Lilith's name spilling from bloodied lips.
*
Chapter 7 (Part B)
Master Post
Aaaand LJ tells me this chapter is too long. I guess I'll be splitting it. Feh.
Chapter 7: Vulnerant Omnia, Ultima Necat (Part A)
*
“I've seen the end,” Sam tells Dean, his nose and mouth filled with the stench of burning rubber. He's desperate to tell him before it all shatters into a million tiny pieces and gets away from him. “I've seen it, Dean, and it's bloody and terrible.”
“Shut up, Sam,” Dean is trying to get him to lie down, but he resists, his struggles pathetically weak now. It's important he get through to Dean, he thinks. They've run out of time.
“No, please. You have to listen to me. It has to do with the vessels. Are you listening?”
“I'm listening. Please just lie down while you talk, okay?” Dean's tone is desperate, a little panicky. “Vessels. See? Totally listening.”
His mouth is filling with saliva at the unpleasant taste, and he swallows, makes a face. “We're the vessels. Did Bobby tell you? That's why it―”
“Sam, please! Just shut up.”
“It's important. Ruby never said ―maybe she never even knew― but it was supposed to be me. It wasn't you, the first time... she kept telling me you weren't strong enough, kept feeding me lies. I was so angry I couldn't see straight, and I was ―it wasn't me who saved you, it was Castiel, and I was angry and alone and I let her...” he has to stop, can feel his thoughts fraying around the edges.
“Sam, you can tell me afterward. Just lie back, okay”
“Shit,” he murmurs. “Can't even get this right.” He digs his fingers into Dean's arm in a useless attempt to keep the seizure at bay. “It was me. I started it, do you understand? The last time. That's why I came back. We were the vessels, and it was my fault. It needs to be different this time, except I can't remember how it's supposed to go.”
“Okay, okay. Just... God. We'll handle that in a few minutes, okay?”
“I can't―” the world flashes white, and he feels his mind shatter, the pieces scattered to the wind.
*
“Just... take it easy, okay? Put the knife down,” Sam says, trying to keep his voice from shaking.
Reggie is holding onto Lindsey, all rough edges and scalding hatred, but he puts his Bowie knife down on the bar. Lindsey is staring at him, eyes wide and scared behind Reggie's arm. They've all lost sight of what's important, he thinks, looking at the terror in her eyes. Hunters are supposed to protect people like her, and now he's put her in danger twice over.
“It's true,” he says, locking eyes with Reggie, keeping the hunter's attention on him. “What the demon said, it's all true.”
“Keep going.”
“Why? You gonna hate me any less? Am I gonna hate myself any less? What do you want?”
“I want to hear you say it.” Anger is radiating from Reggie, hatred seeping from his pores.
Sam nods once. It's an affirmation, as much to himself as to Reggie.
“I did it. I started the apocalypse.”
*
“It's all unravelling,” he says, once he's awake again, back in the familiar bed in Bobby's spare room. Someone is coaxing water into him, and he's not sure where Bobby is, but he can hear the older hunter's voice, talking to someone far away ―telephone, he figures out after a moment. He opens his eyes, expecting to see Dean, is surprised to find Castiel there, holding a glass to his lips. Sam grins.
“Florence, long time no see.”
The angel frowns. “That's not my name.”
“Never mind. Where's Dean?”
“Not here.”
“You're really frustrating to talk to.”
Castiel tilts his head to the side. “It's not my intention, but I have other matters to attend to.”
“We're losing, aren't we? It hasn't changed.”
“We are losing,” the angel confirms. “Most of the Seals have broken. Our numbers are dwindling faster than ever.”
“Did you find the traitor?”
“Traitor?”
Sam reaches up with a shaky hand to take the glass of water away from Castiel, drains the contents. “You're different from... you're more like when I first met you. Do you remember what happened the last time around?”
Castiel tilts his head. “It's complicated. I don't see things the way you do ―it's not in my nature. I don't experience time in a linear fashion.”
“So you do remember? I remember, and it's turning my brain to mush.”
“Yes.”
“Uriel was killing the angels, the last time.”
“Uriel is long gone. He and Anna no longer exist the way you think of them.”
Sam sits up slowly, and to his surprise, Castiel puts a hand under his elbow to help him. “Did... do you remember pulling Dean out of hell? Even though it never happened now?”
“I remember. It's not something easily forgotten.”
“So you're still...”
“Yes.”
He leans back against the headboard, lets his eyes close for a moment as his whole body sags with relief. “Good. I can't do this on my own, and Dean thinks I've lost my mind. Sometimes I think he's right.”
“You haven't lost your mind. Not yet. But you are losing your grip on this reality. It's not as real to you as the other one, and that is dangerous.”
He nods tiredly. “I get it. The other one lasted longer, you know.”
“I know. It was also more ―emotionally fraught. I understand that it is difficult for you, and... I wish there were more that I could do to help.”
Sam blinks, forces his eyes open again. “Are you still, uh, fallen?”
“I'm not sure I ever was. I am still mostly cut off from Heaven, if that's what you mean.”
“What if I can't stop Lilith?”
“You can. That's not the issue.”
Everything Azazel did, and Lilith did. Just to get you here. And you were the only one who could do it.
“I'm missing something. What am I missing?”
“I can't tell you.”
“Fuck!” he slams a palm on the bed in frustration. “Why not? What was the point of bringing me back if you can't help me? Nothing makes sense, and every time I try to figure it out I end up bleeding or puking or having a seizure.”
Castiel surprises him by reaching out and smoothing a hand against his cheek. “I am sorry. It's not that I don't want to ―he means as much to me as he does to you, I promise. I told you why it is important that you remember on your own. I'm still bound by many of the same rules as I was. I will intervene where and when I can, as I did before, but the more I change my own behaviour, the worse it will be for you. Your mind is not withstanding the stresses of the process well.”
“You, uh. You didn't bring me back. Not the same way as Dean. I remember the end. I was... I don't know, exactly, but I didn't die, did I?”
“You died, but not then. You were dying. I simply transferred your consciousness back into your body.
“Do you remember the final Seal?”
Sam shakes his head. “Only parts of it. Ruby, and the blood... she brought me to the edge and I jumped off, and I was happy to do it. She's been using Dean to feed it to me.”
“I know. The hex bag kept me away. I am sorry I could not stop it.”
“Not your fault. I don't understand why I'm not... detoxing, or whatever.”
Castiel tilts his head. “You don't remember the end.” It's a statement, not a question.
“I remember Dean died...”
“I cannot tell you, then. But you do not need to fear 'detoxing,' as you call it. You are beyond that now.”
He lets his eyes close in something that feels like defeat. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I was so convinced, but I caused the end of the world.”
“Yes.”
Sam sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Whoever fights monsters should see to it in the process that he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”
“I don't understand that reference.”
“It's a quote. I turned myself into a monster in order to fight the monsters.”
“You're not a monster, Sam.”
There's a gust of wind, and when Sam looks up again, Castiel is gone. Somehow, though, this time he doesn't feel quite so alone.
*
I know it's hard to see it now... but this is a miracle. So long coming. Everything Azazel did, and Lilith did. Just to get you here. And you were the only one who could do it.
Because it had to be you, Sammy. It always had to be you.
*
June 6th dawns overcast and muggy in New York City, and it's on that morning that Jethro Bridges turns sixty-six years old. He drags himself out of bed and into the bathroom, where one of the two light bulbs above the grimy sink sizzles and shorts out as he drags his razor blade over his chin and mentally reviews today's lesson plan. He curses under his breath and taps the bulb with a fingernail. Nothing. He's going to have to replace that later. He brushes his teeth, gets dressed ―right leg first, same as always― and wonders whether he ever consciously made the decision to have a wardrobe that consists almost entirely of tweed, or whether it's something that just happens to all teachers over time, kind of like erosion.
He picks up the briefcase he packed last night in one hand, and his guitar in the other, takes the bus to work, because parking near the school is a bitch, and despite being a year past retirement he's got nothing to show for it except a head full of grey hair, roomfuls of ungrateful teenagers, and not even so much as a parking spot on the school grounds. It's his birthday, he thinks morosely as a very large, very sweaty man invades his personal space and shoves his armpit in Jethro's face as he hangs onto the high bar. It's his birthday and all he has to look forward to is to try and instil the basic principles of the English language, and then accompany some lacklustre flautists on the guitar so that their parents will believe they're getting a well-rounded education.
Jethro is so plunged in his thoughts that he doesn't notice the difference in heft in his guitar case until he gets to school. He sets it down on his desk, flips it open, and his feels his eyelids flicker in surprise when he finds a sturdy-looking semi-automatic twenty-two rifle with a well-oiled wooden stock in the place of his customary guitar. He stares at it for a moment, then trails a finger wonderingly over the barrel, along the stock.
This is it.
Somewhere further down the hallways the sound of a couple hundred kids singing the national anthem off-key and without much enthusiasm wafts toward him, and he knows that, finally, today is the day that's going to change everything. He picks up the rifle, enjoying the heft, and slips the clip into place with an audible “snick.” He brings it up, checks the sights, and he smiles when it nestles sweetly against his shoulder.
Jethro whistles cheerfully through his teeth as he takes the rifle in a ready carry down the hall. He steps into the gymnasium where the kids and teachers are gathered, makes sure to lock the door behind him. He takes a deep breath, brings the gun to bear, and recites Walt Whitman in his head as screams erupt all around him.
*
Sam comes awake with a muffled yell, and pulls back just in time to prevent himself from accidentally hitting his brother in the face. Dean is sitting half-sprawled on the bed and has him by both shoulders, has obviously been trying to shake him awake. When he's sure Sam is coherent enough not to lash out at him again, he pulls him upright and lets him cling, shaking.
“Just a nightmare, Sammy. You're okay.”
He shakes his head, buries his face in Dean's chest, not caring that he's acting like a six-year-old with night terrors. “Kids. They were just kids, and he killed them all.”
“Who?”
“I don't know. A teacher. God... he just killed them, like they were nothing. He was reciting poetry, Dean.”
He feels Dean shake his head. “People,” he says softly, then brings up a hand to brush Sam's hair away from his forehead. “You okay?”
“It's a Seal. Rufus said it was a Seal.”
“Rufus hasn't called in weeks, Sam,” Dean keeps running his fingers through Sam's hair, the movement soothing. “Bobby has him looking out for omens and all that, but we haven't heard from him lately. You think you can get back to sleep?”
“Lilith's broken nearly all the Seals,” he says, listening to the steady beating of Dean's heart. “It was all supposed to change, but I keep getting it wrong. I don't know if I can change it. I wanted to change it... make up for all the things I did. I never even apologized to you, not properly. 'Sorry' is such a stupid, inadequate word. Use it too much, but I can't think of a better one. I didn't mean to betray you. You know that, right? I was just trying to do the right thing. I just screwed it all up, and then you died anyway. I just want to make it right.”
Dean huffs out a small sigh, lets his hand go still and rest on Sam's head. “Let's just concentrate on getting you better. Then we'll find that bitch and end her. I promise.”
Sam doesn't move, keeps leaning on Dean's chest. This probably makes him a girl forever in Dean's books, but he doesn't care anymore. Right here, right now, it's safe, and he hasn't felt safe in a very long time. “You know I'm not crazy, right?”
“Sure, Sammy.”
*
A dying nun lies draped, bleeding, over the altar of her church. Her priest's eyes glow briefly, a flash of yellow.
“Lilith,” the voice that dribbles from her lips is anything but human. “Lilith can break the seals.”
*
“We need to go after Lilith,” Sam says finally, on a day when the world is being kind enough to stay still and not split up into nausea-inducing double-visions of what is and what was supposed to be and what might have been. He can't tell how much time has gone by anymore, days and hours and years blurring together. “The Seals are breaking faster and faster. The angels are losing.”
He's curled up on Bobby's sofa, in jeans and his favourite t-shirt, bare feet tucked under him, coffee cup cradled in his hands. The coffee is the one point on which he's refused to budge. Giving up alcohol is one thing, but the coffee is the only thing that keeps him functional on a good day, and neither Dean nor Bobby are really wishing to push it.
“I thought your angel was supposed to be on top of that,” Dean says, not bothering to mask his sarcasm.
“He's not my angel,” Sam mutters.
“What?”
“Nothing. Anyway, he hasn't shown up in weeks. I thought it might have been the hex bags, but I haven't seen him since then. I don't know what's going on, except that we're losing. We should be trying to find her.”
“And how do you propose we do that? How are we supposed to know where she is? She's been five steps ahead of us the whole time, Sam!” Dean is pacing, frustrated. He looks up at Sam. “Shit. Sammy...” he looks around until his eyes land on the roll of toilet paper Sam has taken to keeping with him, then tosses it to Sam. “Your nose is bleeding. Again.”
Sam doesn't even bother swearing. Just sighs, rolls his eyes a bit, and pinches his nose shut with a wad of the paper. “Bobby, did you ever look up that thing about the vessels?” he asks through the paper, sounding as though he's got the world's worst head cold.
Bobby doesn't look up from where he's seated at his desk, taking notes. “Not much that's useful, as usual. Two thousand years of the telephone game, and a whole metric ton of people who've read way too much Milton. Mostly it's a ton of pseudo-religious crap about bloodlines and Cain and Abel and crap like that. The only remotely interesting thing is this one really obscure passage that's reportedly from one of the unpublished gospels, and relates the war between Heaven and Hell. It ain't as pretty as Paradise Lost, but prophecy don't have to be written in iambic pentameter to be accurate.”
Sam smirks. “Iambic pentameter?”
Bobby just rolls his eyes. “What? You think you're the only one who can be educated?”
He ducks his head with a smile. “Sorry. It's just, first I find out Dean reads Vonnegut, then you suddenly know how to speak Japanese and know words like 'iambic pentameter.' Forgive me if it takes me a while to get over my preconceptions.”
“How'd you know I read Vonnegut?”
“You told― uh,” he stutters, pulls more toilet paper off the roll as blood seeps onto his fingers. “I remember, but it didn't happen. Please don't make me explain more, I think I'm going into hypovolemic shock, here. Bobby? Prophecy?” he gets up, moves to look over Bobby's shoulder at what looks like the reproduction of a thirteenth-century depiction of the battle between Heaven and Hell, Lucifer on the ground beneath Michael's sword, his blood seeping into the earth in a circle around his body.
“Right. Well, it ain't exactly a prophecy. More like a fable. A passage about when the archangel Michael puts Lucifer away in Hell. Something about using the bonds of brotherhood to seal the final lock on the cage. Damned if I can make heads or tails of it. If I had any say in this, I'd hire technical writers to write down these things. At least then we'd get a user-friendly manual.”
Dean snorts. “Where would be the fun in that? Now we have all the added fun of trying to make sense of allegory on top of all our other problems. At this rate I'm going to start bleeding from the nose.”
“Funny,” Sam mutters. “Easy for you to say. You're not Lucifer's meat suit if he gets out.” He traces a finger over the illustration in Bobby's book. “I've seen that circle of blood before, somewhere.”
“What do you mean, meat suit?”
“Bonds of brotherhood... the angels need vessels before they can fight it out,” Sam taps a finger on the page. “I think the true vessels always have to be brothers. It's why it was you and me. Has to do with bloodlines, although I never did buy the whole Cain and Abel thing. Cain and Abel never had any descendants. Abel died right off, and Cain did the whole East of Eden thing and all the descendants came from Seth.”
Dean gives him a flat look. “Could you be a bigger geek? I'd smack your head, but I might dislodge what little is left of that giant geek brain of yours. Also, I'm not entirely sure what you said.”
“Vessels. It's how we stopped it the first time. You have to give consent before they can possess you, but it was the only way to make it work,” blood drips past the hand Sam has clamped over his nose. “Shit,” he mutters, feeling the floor tilt beneath him. He shuffles away from the desk, drops into a chair. “Michael lied. Said he'd leave you intact when you said yes. Fucking angels.”
“I thought they were supposed to be on our side? That's what you said.”
He lets out a huff of laughter. “Just Castiel. The rest are all a bunch of lying dicks with wings. Lucifer included. Should never've fallen for it. Being a vessel sucks.”
“I'm not even going to pretend I understood that. Anyway, we'll all be better off if Lucifer never pops free at all. So we find Lilith, ice the bitch, and Satan can keep rotting in his cage. I don't suppose there's any leads on where she is?”
“None,” Bobby growls, clearly frustrated. “I've been scouring all the sources I have, and nothing can tell me what Seals she's aiming for, let alone where she's gonna head next. Some of the Seals ain't in specific locations, anyway. You ought to know that better'n anyone. It ain't possible to track an event which doesn't have a specific location.”
“Like the Witnesses. Or the teacher in New York.”
“The fishing boat,” Dean nods, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sam, did you, uh...”
“Have a vision about the final Seal? No. Other Seals, but I don't exactly have control over the rest, and that stuff Ruby made screwed with the visions for weeks.”
“I'm sorry.”
He shakes his head. “Don't. I don't want an apology. I don't. That's not what this is about. Whatever she made you do, it was nothing compared to what I did for her, okay?”
“Keep your head back. That bleeding doesn't stop in another couple of minutes, I'm taking you in,” Dean squats near his chair, chucks him under the chin to force his head back. Blood trickles into Sam's mouth, and he grimaces as he swallows.
“It's fine. You're not listening.”
“I am listening. You're not making sense. Again. Ruby hasn't even talked to you more than twice.”
“Not in this lifetime. You didn't see what I became. It could still happen. I still want it, you know. The blood. I can smell it on them, and it terrifies me.”
“Dean, what's he talkin' about?”
“No idea. Sam?”
He feels himself slipping again. “Demon blood. I don't want to go back there. Fucking terrible. Can't go back, I swore to myself I wouldn't.”
“Where, Sam?”
Burning rubber. “Sorry, I can't... happening again.”
The world falls apart.
*
In the middle of the Nevada desert, a man who calls himself Gideon even though he was born Thomas Neville Jr. lines up three women and a man before him. All the same age, all with black hair and brown eyes. They stand compliant in the light of the moon, naked and unashamed, the blindfolds white against their hair. The thin rope binding their hands behind their backs is unnecessary, but he doesn't want to take any chances. He calls the four corners, puts the man to the North, the three women in the other corners.
He starts with the man, works widdershins, and spills their blood into the sand. By the time the police catch up with him, it's too late.
Gideon goes down in a hail of bullets, Lilith's name spilling from bloodied lips.
*
Chapter 7 (Part B)