Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

April 10, 2009.

Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

"Dean!”

Bobby heard Sam’s scream all the way from the library. His voice was distant, an echo from deep within a pool of dark water. He opened his eyes to find himself sitting at his desk, a pile of books resting underneath him. As he lifted his head, a yellowed page stuck to his face.

“Bobby!” Sam screamed again. It cut through the fog, loud and panicked.

Bobby jumped to his feet, knocking the chair over as he rose. He darted up the stairs. When he pushed the bathroom door open; the sickeningly sweet aroma of roses he had come to associate with fear flooded his nose.

His gaze locked on the sight in front of him. Sam was crouched on the bathroom floor, holding Dean’s limp and bloody body in his hands by his shoulders, the front of his plaid button down and jeans stained with blood.

Sam glanced at him. “Bobby,” Sam’s voice was shaking. “ Is—Is he—”

Thick, oily blood mixed with water ran down Dean’s side, pooling on the sleeping bag beneath his body. He was quiet and still. Motionless. Breathless. His head slumped against his chest.

Gently, so gently, grief flashing cold through his entire body, Bobby placed two fingers to Dean’s neck. There was no pulse.

“He’s gone, son.”  Slowly, he pried Dean’s shoulders from Sam’s blistered hands and laid his body back down on the sleeping bag.  “Come on.”  Bobby picked Sam up and walked him out of the bathroom.

Bobby helped Sam lean against the wall.

Sam slumped against it, his eyes vacant and fixed on the bathroom door opposite him. “He just passed out and then there was all this blood—”

A lump grew in Bobby’s throat. He put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay, son.”

Sam looked down at his hands before looking back at Bobby. He glared, his eyes glossed with tears. “No. It's not gonna be okay.”   

Bobby didn't say anything. He squeezed Sam’s shoulder before he turned and walked back into the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a deep breath.

Leaning against the door, Bobby stared at the task in front of him. He had to wash the blood off of Dean’s body. With the sheer amount of blood on him the easier thing to do would have been to put Dean in the bathtub and bathe him. Dean weighed a good fifty pounds lighter than he normally did and it would be far from Bobby’s first time moving a corpse, but a dry corpse was different from a water-soaked corpse and too much moisture would only speed up decay.

Rubbing his eyes, Bobby grabbed a bucket and a sponge brought into the base of the bathtub. and turned the faucet on. Once the bucket was full he shut the water off and walked over to Dean’s body. Kneeling on the floor, he began to wash Dean’s forehead, still warm with body heat and flushed with color, wiping away the blood.

To Bobby's shock, the gashes had turned into scars. They were no longer open wounds, jagged crevasses of torn and punctured skin, but raised purple bumps. The same was true of the wounds on Dean's wrists, ankles, and back. Even the gash on Dean's side had scarred over.

The scars were a sign to Bobby of something he and Dean had already known. That the wounds were a part of him. They always had been. Tears streamed down Bobby’s face, and he wiped them away gruffly with the sleeve of his forearm.

When he was done, Bobby dumped the red tinted water down the bathtub drain, throwing the bucket and sponge into the base as sat down on the edge, wiping his brow. He glanced around the bathroom. The grout was caked with drying with blood. Strips of pink gauze hung from the bathtub curtain rod like cobwebs. A half-drunk bottle of consecrated wine lay tipped over in the corner, the wine dripping on to the floor.

The whole room reeked with the smell of roses. Bobby wondered how long it would take to get the smell and the blood out. Another part of him wondered if the smell even could be scrubbed away. Another part of him didn’t want to think about it.

Slowly, Bobby turned his gaze back over to Dean, staring at him.  Were it not for the scars and the stillness of his body, he almost looked as though he was sleeping.  

This corpse was a far cry from the one Bobby had cleaned a year earlier when Dean had gone to Hell. That corpse had been a mauled mess of eviscerated organs and vicious hellhound bites. Bobby had to suture his torso back together to get him ready for burial. The smell had been awful.

And yet, somehow, this was worse.

Bobby turned away, wiping his eyes again. He reached into his back pocket and pulled his flask, taking a deep pull. Bobby stood up and put the flask back in his pocket and walked over to the door, he opened it slowly.

“Sam,” Bobby cleared his throat. “Can you...help me move him?”

Sam didn’t look up at Bobby. “Where are you gonna.....put him?” Sam asked, ice in the edge of his voice.

“The panic room,” Bobby said.

Sam nodded. With Sam holding his torso and Bobby holding his feet, they carried Dean down into the basement. They dressed him in some old clothes Bobby had laying around and placed him on top of the cot.

“What do we do now?” Sam asked, crossing Dean’s hands over his lap.

“We wait.”

“For what?”

Bobby put his hand against Sam’s back, walking him out of the panic room. He closed the door behind them. At the stairs, he stopped at the house’s old thermostat and turned the temperature down as low as it would go.

He shrugged, taking a deep breath. “For whatever happens Easter morning.”

 April 12, 2009.

 Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

The sun hadn’t even risen when Bobby made his way down into the basement and over to the panic room. He opened the slot on the door, peering into it.

Dean’s body was on the cot. Lifeless and still.

Sighing, Bobby closed the slot and walked back upstairs. He went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee, adding a healthy dash of Bailey's.

He only got to his second sip when Sam walked into the kitchen, heavy bags under his eyes and his hair a rats nest of grease. He was wearing a slept-in pair of wrinkled jeans and a gray hoodie. The same clothes he had worn for the last two days.  

“Did you check on Dean?”

“I did.” Bobby nodded.

“And?”  Sam asked leadingly.

Bobby shook his head.

Sam bit his lip. “Maybe,” his chest heaved, “we gotta wait until tomorrow afternoon. When it’s exactly three days.”

“Maybe,” Bobby said. “The Bible got everything else wrong about him, it’s probably wrong about the resurrection too.”

Part of Bobby was sure there wouldn't be a resurrection.  After all, there was no resurrection for Jesus.  Dean was the resurrection. Jesus’ soul reborn. Dean had told Bobby that much during their fishing trip. The same was likely true of Dean.

Another part of Bobby needed to hope for a resurrection anyway, if not for Sam's sake, then for his own. He knew how far off the reservation Sam had gone the last time Dean had died. He knew well Sam wouldn't be able to deal with it again.

But despite his hope, Bobby knew the truth: Dean either wasn’t coming back at all or, if he was, he would be coming back as something else. Someone else.

Bobby took another sip of his coffee.

April 13, 2009.

Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

“What time did Dean—?” Bobby asked, walking down the basement stairs.

Sam followed behind him. “About Three-Fifteen,” he said.

Bobby glanced at his watch. 3:22.

They made their way over to the panic room. When they reach it, Sam stopped.

Bobby nodded. He walked over to the door and once again opened the slot.

Dean lay on the cot. Still and lifeless.

Bobby closed the slot. He didn’t say anything.

Then he heard the sound of a table screeching across the concrete followed by the breaking of glass. He turned quickly to find Sam standing next to an upended table, broken mason jars and old paint cans were strewn around it and him, his puffy eyes fixed on the ceiling.

 “What was the Goddamn point of this!?” Sam yelled, spit spewing from his mouth. “How the fuck is he supposed to fight Lucifer as a fucking corpse you winged assholes?!”

Bobby walked over to Sam slowly, putting his hand out to his shoulder. “Sam…”

Sam jerked his body away from him. He shook his head, sobbing while he sank on to the table. “I can’t do this again, Bobby! I can’t!”

Bobby paused, he took a deep breath.  “I know you can’t. I can’t either.” He blinked tears away from his eyes.  “So maybe don’t bury him this time. We build a pyre, give Dean a proper send off. Like we shoulda done before. Like he woulda wanted.”

“No.”  Sam shook his head. “I can’t do that either, Bobby.”

“We gotta, Sam. We gotta do something with his body,” Bobby pleaded “It’s been three days. "If—" Bobby paused. "If Dean's not coming back we can’t wait any longer.”

Sam didn't say anything. After a long while his chest heaved.

"Fine.” Sam nodded, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I’ll build the pyre. You wrap him.”

Bobby walked over to the panic room door. He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before he opened the door.

 The first thing Bobby noticed was the smell. The lack of a smell. There was no stench of decay, only the lingering smell of roses.

Bobby paused for a second, staring at the body. There was no bloat in the stomach, no bruising or discoloration where the body met the cot. There was no blood dripping from Dean’s mouth or nose as there should have been. In fact, the body hadn’t even paled.

 “What the hell?”

 Bobby walked over to the body.  Gently, he picked up one of Dean’s hands, finding it warm. He jerked it back and forth, moving it at the wrist.  

 The hand wasn’t stiff or cold. The body wasn’t stiff or cold.

 Dean was as fresh as the moment he died.

“Balls,” Bobby whispered. “Sam!” This time he yelled.

“What’s wrong?”  Sam asked, running over to the door.

“Dean. He’s not-” Bobby took a deep breath. “He’s not decomposing.”

 Sam scrunched his eyebrows. “What do you mean ‘he’s not decomposing?’”

“I mean the boy’s skin should be black and blue and his stomach should look like a damn water balloon and he’s not even cold,” Bobby's words were blunt.

Slowly Sam stepped into the room. He stared at Dean for a moment before turning his gaze to Bobby. “But...how?”

 Bobby thought for a moment, focusing on the smell of roses that still lingered in the room.  “Maybe.” He took a deep breath. “Maybe Dean’s an Incorruptible.”

 Sam blinked.  "A what?”

“It’s a thing in Roman Catholic lore. Sometimes saints when they die their bodies don’t decompose. It’s a sign of their sainthood and it’s used to canonize them, like miracles or apparitions. There’s a ton of examples: Bernadette of Lourdes, Clare of Assisi, Padre Pio. ”

 Instantly Sam scoffed. “Dean’s a saint now?”

 “He already was one, Sam.” Bobby deadpanned. “ In case you forgot who he is.”

 “So what...You're saying we should leave Dean in here? And do what? Turn this into a chapel? A shrine?” Sam glared. “Dean would hate that!”

“What I’m saying is the last thing we should do right now is burn him.”

“No.” Sam shook his head. “Either Dean burns or we find a way to bring him back. Old Dean.”

 “Sam...we can’t bring ‘old’ Dean back.”

 “Yeah? How do you know?”

“Because there is no ‘old Dean’. He was born that way, Sam,” Bobby said bluntly. “I mean, come on, he’s the fucking messiah for Christ’s sake. That’s not something Heaven hands out like ice cream after a little league win. The stigmata— this whole fuckin’ thing—is way beyond our pay grade. How many damn times do you gotta be told this!?”

Sam grew quiet, narrowing his eyes. “I need some air.” He turned and walked out of the panic room.

Bobby stood there and listened while Sam trudged up the basement stairs and out of the house, the front door slamming behind him.

A few moments later Bobby followed him out to the front porch. A few yards away,  he could see Sam walking down the driveway of the salvage yard, with a flask in hand, picking up hubcaps and throwing them as he went.  

Taking a deep breath, Bobby made his way down the steps and over to Sam.

“Sam.”

Sam stopped dead in his tracks. He shoved the flask quickly into his pocket.

“Sam I know this ain’t easy for you, but this is just how it is.  There’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Maybe you can’t. ” Sam’s grip tightened on the hubcap. “But I can.”

In an instant, Sam raised his hand holding the hubcap, whacking it against Bobby’s temple. The sound of metal and cracking plastic filled Bobby’s ears.  His vision quickly blurred as he fell, striking the pavement with a thud.

Everything went black.

Bobby awoke to a throbbing head and water dripping on his face. He opened his eyes to a twilight sky covered in black clouds, thunder booming in the distance.

“Sam?” He rasped out. There was no answer.

Slowly he stood up, his dizzy eyes glancing around the salvage hard. The Impala was still parked in the driveway, but Sam was nowhere to be found.

“Sam!” he called out again.

Again, there was no answer.

Groaning, Bobby limped his way back into the house and into the kitchen, grabbing an ice pack from the freezer and putting it to his head. He took out his cell phone and dialed Sam’s number.  

The phone had been disconnected.

April 19, 2009.

Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

After the fourth day of searching, it became clear to Bobby that Sam didn’t want to be found, so he went back home.

He went back down into the basement and went over to the panic room, once again opening the slot, his eyes locking on Dean’s body. It was the exact same way he had left it.  No discoloration. No bloat. Nothing. Dean could almost be sleeping.

Bobby stared at the body for a long time before he narrowed his eyes at it. “Fuck it,” he rasped. He made his way over to the basement door, grabbing an axe as he made his way upstairs.

He stacked a few wooden pallets and grabbed some scrap wood, and took it to a clearing in the salvage yard. Bobby began building a pyre, building it up with the remainder of the dead leaves from the previous fall.

 Half an hour later, Bobby poured gasoline on to the pyre. Tears filled his eyes.

Tossing the empty gas canister down on the ground with a groan, Bobby made his way back down into the basement.

As soon as his feet hit the cement floor, he saw it. The door to the panic room was open.

He ran over, tripping over the threshold.

The cot was empty.

The smell of roses had dissipated.

Dean’s body was gone.

“Balls.” 

Chapter Text

Air flooded into Dean’s lungs, filling his chest so fast it burned with pain. He gasped, his eyes snapping open. He sat up with a jolt. The first thing he noticed was the smell, or rather, the lack of smell. For the first time in months, the air around him didn't reek of roses. Instead, he could smell iron, salt, and old cardboard boxes. 

Dean was in Bobby’s panic room.  The dark walls and dim light were a far cry from the blinding light of the bathroom he had been lying in what seemed to him just a few moments before. The last thing he remembered was a sharp pain in his side, slicing metal, the sudden cease of his heartbeat. The warm gush of liquid falling down his side, and finally, still darkness.

Instinctively, Dean placed his hand under the old T-shirt and flannel he was wearing and ran his fingers against the left side of his ribcage, expecting there to be gash, but there was none. Only a thick line of raised tissue.

He looked down at his hands, his gaze locking on his wrists. There were no wounds, no bruises with little drops of blood rising up from them. Only scars. Purple raised scars in rough circles marking the front and back of his wrists. Angry and fresh. The same was true of his ankles. 

It was then that Dean remembered. He and Jesus were vessels- Michael’s vessels, Sam and James were Lucifer’s. They were destined to fight and kill each other. And they would, if Dean didn’t find and stop Sam before he could kill Lilith. The last of the Seals. 

“Shit.” Dean jumped from the cot, all but stumbling out of it and ran to the door of the panic room, finding it closed, but not locked. He pushed the iron door open and ran out, climbing the basement stairs faster than he had run in months.  “Bobby!” he yelled. 

There was no answer.  

“Son of a Bitch!” He grit his teeth as he entered Bobby’s study, darting to the overfilled, leaning, bookshelf, rummaging through antique books and illuminated manuscripts. Most were in Latin, a few in Hebrew and Aramaic. 

Dean was looking through a half-worn out parchment scroll of old Hebrew when he heard footsteps behind him.

He turned around to find Bobby standing a few feet behind him, holding a shotgun in his hand. 

"Dean? Is that-” Bobby’s voice cracked as he lowered the gun. “Is that...you?”

“Yes, it is, okay?” Dean said quickly. “I know what you’re thinking but I’m not a revenant or a demon or an angel or anything else, alright?”

“How do I know that?” Bobby asked.

“Bobby, We don’t -”

“How do I know that?” Bobby asked again, louder and forceful.

“Halloween, 1991.” Dean sighed putting the scroll down. “Me and Sam were Batman and Superman. I dared him to try to fly off one of your storage sheds. He broke his arm and I took him to the hospital on the bars of this old lime green schwinn stingray you-”

Before Dean could finish, Bobby ran over to him and hugged him, squeezing him tight. “You gotta stop dying on me son!” he cried.

“I know, I know,” Dean hugged him back. He held for a long moment before pulling away from Bobby.  “How- how long was I out?”

“A week.” 

“A week ?!” Dean blinked. “And you didn’t bury me or burn me?”

“No. You -” Bobby wiped his eyes. “You weren’t decaying. ”

“ I what ?” Dean squinted.

“It’s a Saint thing,” Bobby explained. “Sam wasn’t too happy about it. That and the fact that you stayed dead passed Easter. After that, Sam flipped out. He went on a demon blood trip and whacked me in the gourde with a hubcap. When I came to, he was gone.” 

“Well did you go looking for him?”

“Of course I did.” Bobby shot him a look. “Tracked him to Saint Cloud, but after that, the trail went dry. He’s covering his tracks.  Wouldn’t shock me if Ruby’s got some kind of hexbag cloaking him or something.” 

Dean dragged his hand down his face as he ran out of the study. “Fuck,” he hissed. “We gotta find him. Now. And stop him.” 

He marched into the foyer, quickly putting on his boots, socks and jacket before running into the kitchen, where, to his relief, he found the Impala’s keys lying haphazardly on the counter.

“Stop him from what ?” Bobby asked following him into the kitchen.

“Killing Lilith and breaking the final Seal.” Dean said bluntly, grabbing the keys. “ If he does, the world is gonna get fried and it will have me and him to thank for it.”

“The hell are you talking about?”

“I’ll explain in the car.” Dean padded Bobby quickly on the shoulder before making his way to the front door.  “Right now, we gotta haul ass.”

Dean’s hands gripped around the steering wheel of the Impala, his eyes moving from mirrors to windshield and back again, in a timed, rhythmic motion.  He only broke the pattern to play with the radio and to gaze quickly at the ‘Minnesota Welcomes You’ sign along the side of I-90.

It was the first time in three months he had even been in the car and the first time in six months he had driven her. The smell of the leather, the hum of the engine, the grip of his hands on the steering wheel brought him such peace. The pressure of his foot against the gas pedal grounded Dean and made him feel like himself. His old self. Before the stigmata, before Castiel, before- even - he went to Hell. 

He didn’t want to stop driving. Partly because he didn’t want the feeling to end, partly because he knew that when he stopped, he’d have to go looking for Sam. A Sam that, Dean hoped, wasn’t gone. 

Reaching down to the seat, Dean pulled a large paper cup out from a to-go tray and raised the straw to his lips, milk and chocolate rushing under his tongue.

Before turning onto the highway, they stopped at a Burger King where Dean ordered two double whoppers, large fries, onion rings and a shake. Within ten minutes, the food was gone. Only the shake and a few fries at the bottom of the grease-stained bag remained. It was more than Dean had eaten in months, so much so that he almost got nauseous from it, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. It was real food. 

“So, let me get this straight...” Bobby shifted in the passenger seat. “You’re the vessel of Michael?”

“The Michael Sword.” Dean took another sip from the shake. “Yeah.”

“And Sam’s the vessel of Lucifer?”

"Yup." Dean nodded, popping a couple of the dregs of fries into the mouth."Also known as The Dragon."

“And you’re supposed to fight each other? To the death? And take the planet along with you? Finish what Michael and Lucifer started when Michael chucked his baby brother Lucifer into the Pit?”

“Pretty much. It’s an ‘As Above, so Below’ kinda thing.” Dean gestured with his hand, pointing up to the sky and down to the ground.

Bobby cocked an eyebrow.  “And you’re sure of this?”

Dean nodded. “It was the same thing before with...Old Me and Old Sam.” Dean took a deep breath, putting the cup down in his lap. “Jesus was the last Sword. His little brother James was The Dragon. It just never happened because it was stopped," Dean paused. “They s-stopped with...you know...crucifixion.” 

“So why is it happening now ?” Bobby asked. “I mean, you boys have had other lives besides those two, right? Why didn't the angels start it sooner?"

"Because they couldn't ."  Dean was blunt. “See, best I can figure is that it’s not only a soul thing but also a bloodline thing.”  Dean paused. “Me and Sam need to be born into the same family and have the exact same blood relationship. Most of the time, when we reincarnated- or whatever- something would be off. Like...we’d be brothers but I’d be younger and he’d be older or we’d be cousins. At least once we were sisters which- apparently- wasn’t close enough.  But a lotta times we weren’t even related.”

“Explains why it’s taken two millennia.” Bobby nodded “So, you remember your other lives then?”

“Sorta?” Dean shrugged, “It’s like...remembering scenes from a movie you’ve never seen.” 

Bobby paused. “But how do you know it’s a bloodline thing?”

Dean was quiet for a moment. “Well, I-Jesus had like...six other siblings and plus-” He cleared his throat. “-he had a kid.”

Bobby’s eyes went wide. “Jesus had a kid?” 

Dean finished off his milkshake and awkwardly tossed it into the Burger King bag. “I was gonna have a kid. My wife was pregnant when I got crucified.”

“You had a wife?” Bobby blinked. He paused and chuckled. “Let me guess, it was Mary Magdalene and her sarcophagus is buried underneath the Louvre.”

Dean shook his head and signed, annoyed. “The Da Vinci Code’s a bunch of crap, but they did get a couple things right, yeah. She was my wife,” Dean paused. “And her name was Miriamne, by the way. She had eyes the color of honey and black hair… She always smelled like jasmine.” Dean grew quiet. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He took a deep breath. "You know, before I died, I asked Sam- James- to watch over them. I trusted him enough to take care of my wife and kid," Dean smiled sadly. "Now I can barely trust Sam to take care of my car." Dean pursed his lips. "Actually, I know for a fact that I can't trust him." 

Bobby signed. "Well Dean, the whole point of reincarnation is to live different lives so you can learn from them. Maybe the fact that you can't trust Sam now is the point.”

"Maybe." Dean didn't say anything else.

April 20, 2009.

St. Cloud, Minnesota. 

“Now, you’re sure you don’t want me to go in alone?” Bobby asked, straightening his tie. “It’s been a while since you’ve done this.”

“I’ll be fine,” Dean said flatly, looking at his reflection in the Impala’s rearview mirror. “My FBI schtick ain’t that rusty. Besides, if Barney Fife sees me sitting out here they’ll get suspicious.”

Dean brushed his short bangs over his forehead with his fingers, trying to cover the purple-tinted scars that marked it to no avail. For months he had always worn some sort of beanie to cover them, but he couldn’t wear one into a police station while posing as a FBI officer. Without it, Dean felt almost naked.

Dean sighed, repositioning the mirror. Without another word he climbed out of the Impala’s driver’s seat, closing the door behind him. 

Bobby followed him anyway.

They made their way across the parking lot and up a flight of low, sprawling stairs that lead to a large, rectangular-shaped building that was nothing but brick and windows with Saint Cloud Police Department emblazoned on the side of it.

They walked into the police station, made their way to the front desk, and pulled out their badges.

“I’m Agent Kietel,” Bobby gestured to himself and then over to Dean. “This is my partner Agent DaFoe. We’d like to speak to Detective Connolly about the Holly Thompson disappearance.”

They were led into the detective's office. Detective Connolly, a tall man in his forties with balding auburn hair, rose from his seat and greeted them. 

Shaking hands, Dean asked, “So what can you tell us about the disappearance?”

Detective Connolly scoffed. “Honestly? Not much. According to her coworkers, she left her dayshift on the neonatal unit at the hospital around 6 PM Saturday night. Her husband called the hospital when she didn’t arrive home. Hospital security found her car, abandoned in the top level of the parking garage around midnight.

“Was there any sign of a struggle?” Bobby asked.

“No.”

Dean cocked his eyebrow. “ And the camera’s didn’t catch anything?”

“The cameras shorted out . There’s a ten-minute skip on the tape.”

“What about when the baby disappeared the week before?” Dean asked.

Detective Connolly shot him a look. “You think those two incidences are related ?”

“Well, you can’t rule it out, can you?” Bobby shifted his gaze over to Dean before turning it to Detective Connolly.

“Same thing. The tape skipped.” Detective Connolly shrugged. “But that aside, we have no reason to believe the two incidences are linked. A serial killer or a serial kidnapper wouldn’t switch between two different MO’s.”

“Right,” Dean nodded. “Was there anything odd going on in her life lately?”

“Odd?” Detective Connolly cocked an eyebrow.

“Ya know...” Dean cleaned his throat. “...Like did her husband mention anything strange going on in their house?  Strange smells? Lights flickering?”

Detective Connolly crossed his arms. “No, but he did say she hadn’t been to church in a couple weeks.”

“And that was unusual for her?”  Bobby asked.

“Oh yeah,” Detective Connolly replied, nodding, pulling out his notes. “According to her husband she was at Saint Anthony’s every Sunday at 9:00 AM sharp. She was there every Thursday after work for adoration too. And she was a member of the choir, and had practice every other Wednesday.”

“Well,” Dean sighed. “That’s all we need for now. If we need any more information we’ll call you.”

With that, Bobby and Dean turned to leave. They took a couple paces before Detective Connolly called out.

“Agent Dafoe.”

Dean stopped. “Yeah?”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but how did you cut up your forehead? Those look like pretty nasty scars.”

“I was...”Dean licked his lips, thinking fast. “I was in Missouri chasing a meth head through a warehouse. When I grabbed him, the son of bitch threw me head first through a window.”

“Yikes, Detective Connolly winced.

“Tell me about it. But the fifty stitches and the tetanus shot in the ass hurt a helluva lot more.”

“Well, that’s brave of you. Keep up the good work.”

“Thanks.” Dean turned and awkwardly left the office.

“Nice cover story, Don Johnson.”  Bobby scoffed.

“Whatever.”  Dean rolled his eyes as they made their way out of the building and down the steps. “At least we got a confirmation of demons and where there’s demons, there’s Sam. ” As Dean was making his way across the parking lot, a pain began in the back of his head, but quickly moved to his temples. It was dull at first, but then turned throbbing and sharp like a knife. His head spun and his stomach turned.

Then came a voice. But it was not one Dean had heard before. It was feminine and it wept, shaken and scared. 

"….et ne nos indúcas in tentatiónem ….”

The words stopped and the pain receded.  When Dean came to, he found himself lying on the pavement, Bobby hovering over him.

“ Am I bleeding?” Dean looked down at his wrists. “Please tell me I’m not bleeding.” To Dean’s relief, he wasn’t.

“No, you’re fine.” Bobby groaned, picking him up. “The hell just happened?”

“I don’t know.” Dean paused, pulling his keys out of his pocket and handing them out to Bobby. “Maybe you should drive back to the motel.”

“Ya think?” Bobby took the keys. He quickly opened the passenger side door, letting Dean in before he ran over to the driver’s side. Jumping into the car, he quickly pulled out of the parking space and out of the parking lot, barreling down the road.

“So you heard a voice?” Bobby asked, handing Dean an ice pack.

Dean was laying on his bed in the motel room, a washcloth over his eyes. He took the ice pack and placed it inside the washcloth, pressing it against his throbbing temple. “Yeah, it was a woman I think. She was saying, ‘sed líbera nos a malo.’ Some other stuff in Latin." 

Bobby froze.

“...What?” Dean scrunched his brow.

“It’s a prayer,” Bobby said bluntly, looking at Dean. “The Lord's Prayer.” He paused for a second, clearing his throat. "Ya know, 'Our Father Which Art in Heaven-"

“Great,” Dean interrupted, taking a deep breath took a deep breath. “So I can add ‘hearing prayers’ to my resume.” Dean paused for a long moment. “You think it was Holly?”

“Possibly,” Bobby sighed. “Why?”

Dean swallowed. “Because wherever she is, it’s not good.”

April 20, 2009.

Corvuso, Minnesota.

Sam shuffled out the side door of an abandoned barn, the gravel kicking up under his boots. In one of his hands was a gallon milk jug. In his other hand was a makeshift funnel made out of the top of a Pepsi bottle. 

It reeked of sulfur and blood.

As Sam walked further, he turned his eyes to a coffin-sized pit a few feet away.  It was smoking with the stench of gasoline and burning flesh. He turned and walked over to it, staring down at the flames for a moment before he tossed the funnel into the pit, watching as it melted into the flames.

Ruby walked over to him, a quart of charcoal lighter fluid in her arm. “You know, Sam.” She glanced down at the pit, tossing the bottle into the pit. “She was human when we-”

“I know,” Sam said bluntly.

“And you’re okay with that?” 

“I have to be,” Sam paused. “You’re sure this is gonna be enough?” he asked, holding up the container.

Ruby grinned.  “It will be More than enough. You’ll be good and roided out for Lilith.” 

“Good.” 

With that, Sam and Ruby made their way over to her Mustang. Before Sam climbed in, he opened the trunk, placing the jug inside.

Just before he closed the trunk, Sam caught sight of a gold and purple rosary beads laying haphazardly on the floor of the trunk. The chain was broken and one of the beads was missing. 

Sam squinted at it before picking it up,

As soon as the beads touched Sam’s fingers, pain ran through his skin. Searing and throbbing through his hand. 

“Shit!” he hissed, dropping the beads into the dirt and cupping his hand in his other.

Angry, bright red welts appeared in his palm. They quickly turned into raised yellow pockets of fluid. 

Sam looked down at the beads and glared at them.

He kicked them with the sole of his boot

April 24, 2009.
Patmos, Ohio. 

An odor Dean never could forget filled his nostrils, one that choked him with fear. The stench of pitch-black smoke and sulfur. The stench of bile, excrement, rot and decay. Pungent, vile and suffocating.

The scent of Hell.

Dean snapped his eyes open, expecting to find himself laying on a rack, bound and chained. His organs ripped and splayed around him. But he wasn’t lying on a rack.  He was laying on ice. An endless expanse of frozen water and fog that disappeared into pitch blackness. Frigid, dark and burning with cold.

Breathing frantically, he pulled himself up from the ice and looked around. Before Dean could call out, a figure appeared out of the fog and darkness. It had six pairs of wings, weighed down and encased in thick ice.  Even though the figure was covered in ice, there was a dull glow of blue light that emanated from it. Light that no doubt would have been otherwise brilliant and blinding.

Though Dean had never met the figure before, he knew exactly who he was.

Lucifer.

“What is this?” Dean’s voice shook, his eyes not moving from Lucifer.

“This?” Lucifer’s voice echoed through the fog, measured and calm, as he gestured to the area around him. “The Ninth layer of Hell. Better known as The Cage. You’re not really here of course. The Cage isn’t open. Yet.  But I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.” He walked slowly over to Dean, stopping a few inches away from him. “It’s nice to finally meet you.” Lucifer reached out, trying to put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus.”

Dean dodged it, moving his torso away. “Wrong sword, Old Scratch.”

Lucifer frowned.

"I’m Dean. ” Dean swallowed, glaring.

“Are you sure ?” Lucifer asked. “After all, you have his wounds , his memories , his very soul . Tell me, at this point, where does Jesus end and Dean begin?”

Dean furrowed his brow. “Does this question have a point or-”

“What I’m getting at is that you- more than anyone- know the pain of being forsaken by God. You remember your dying words, don’t you?” Lucifer cleared his throat. “‘Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?!”

Dean remembered the pain. The nails. The splitters in his back. The ache in his chest as he screamed toward the sky with no answer and the hot sting of tears in his eyes.

Dean clenched his fists. “You wanna hurry this up?” He glared. “I don’t have enough bile left.”

Lucifer grinned. “My point - brother - is that you and I are very much alike.”

“We’re nothing alike!” Dean bellowed.

“Oh, but we are ! Two second-best sons who felt the pain of Father’s abandonment and the sting of Michael’s sword. And why? Because we loved Him too much,” Lucifer paused, mournful and sad. “My heart breaks for you.”

There was pain and sorrow in Lucifer's frost-covered eyes. Dean could see it plain as day. But behind it was something else. Something sinister. Rage. Hatred. Malice.

Dean took a deep breath, “You can stuff it with that ‘Sympathy for The Devil’ bullshit. I know what you are.”

“And what’s that?”

“The same thing I’ve been fighting my whole life. A vile, evil piece of supernatural shit. The only difference between them and you is you got the bigger ego.” 

Lucifer grinned. In an instant he grabbed Dean by the neck, lifting him up into the air. “I can feel Him. The power of my Father coursing through your veins.” His grip tightened. 

Dean choked, grabbing at Lucifer’s arm.

“It’s the closest I’ve been to Him in aeons and it’s pained me.” Lucifer gritted. “But what pains me more is seeing that power inside you , a little hairless ape!” 

He let go, sending Dean crashing into the ice. Dean gasped for breath, the ice scraping against him, sharp and cold. Before he could get up, Lucifer appeared in front of him, reaching down and grabbing him by the collar.

“You know, Nazarene, it’s a shame The Cage was locked when you were in Hell because I would have enjoyed disemboweling you.” Lucifer hissed, his voice slithering like a snake. “But I’ll get my chance soon enough. Until then, here’s a taste of what I’m going to do to you.” 

Lucifer’s fist thrust into Dean’s chest.

As soon as Lucifer’s hand cracked his sternum, the cold faded and the smell of sulfur disappeared. Dean’s eyes snapped open. He sat up with a start, his body sweating profusely despite the chill in his limbs he still felt, even as the nightmare drifted away and reality set back in. He found himself lying on one of the lumpy beds in his and Bobby’s motel room. Bobby snored on in the other bed, oblivious to the nightmare Dean had endured. 

Breathing heavily, Dean stood and made his way into the bathroom where he quickly splashed his face with hot water.  Pressing his hands against his eyes, he mumbled to himself. “I fear no evil, for you are with me. You are my rod. You are my staff...” 

Dean’s words weren’t in English, but Hebrew. 

He stopped and ran his wet hands down his face before gripping them around the side of the sink, his gaze fixed on his reflection. “Your name is Dean Winchester . You were born January 24th, 1979. You’re an Aquarius and a Goat. Your father’s name is John and your mother’s name is-” Dean paused. “Mary.” Dean pursed his lips, sighing as he dipped his head. “Son of a bitch .”

A moment later, Dean heard the sound of flapping wings, followed promptly by a gruff voice.

“You need to stop that. It will alert the other angels to you.”

Dean turned around with a start. “Jesus!”

Half a foot behind him was Castiel.

“Fucking-A, Cas.” Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. “How many times do I gotta tell you? Personal Space.”  Dean squinted at him. “More importantly, where the hell have you been? I -”

“I’m being hunted, Dean. I don’t have much time, ” Castiel said quickly , walking out of the bathroom. “ More importantly, you don’t have much time. Sam is going to break the final Seal.”

“I don’t even know where Sam is!”

“I do.”

Chapter Text

April 24, 2009.

Ilchester, Maryland

The blood rushed over Sam’s lips, the bite of iron and sulfur coated his tongue, easing the pain of withdrawal. Bliss. Ecstasy. He threw the empty jug into the back of the trunk. He wiped his lips, sucking the remaining blood from the edge of his thumb. 

“How do you feel, Sam?”  Rudy asked, walking over to him, her feet kicking up dirt and gravel.  Sam could barely even see her in the shadow cast by the train bridge underpass the car was parked under, sitting in a large section of road shoulder, her body only visible by the headlights of the lone car that passed by them.

They were in a large town of sixty-thousand. Half an hour outside of Baltimore, but for a few miles in either direction there was nothing but campgrounds and hiking trails. 

Sam flexed his fingers, glazing up at the night sky. Aside from the stars, it was pitch black. No moonlight shone, making it all the more dark. “Powerful.”

“Good.” Ruby grinned, closing the trunk. The sound echoed through the underpass. “ Let’s go get Lilith.” With that, Ruby made her way through the grave, passing by the brick bridge foundation and over a metal gate that she jumped over. 

Sam did the same, finding himself on a small, dirt access road long since forgotten about. overgrown with brush and trees, the sound river water echoing through his ears.

Soon the narrow access road disappeared, turning into a forest trail made of crushed leaves and footprints. The only real source of direction being a series of upside-down crosses carved into tree trunks. 

After what felt like hours, Sam and Ruby found a metal chain link fence with a rusty ‘No Trespassing’ sign posted on top of it. A hole was cut into the fence at the bottom of it. Ruby slipped through effortlessly.

Sam stopped. He looked at it and scoffed. “I’m not getting through that hole. I’m too big.”

Ruby smirked through the other side of the fence. “Damn right you are.”

Sam shot her a look.

“Relax, Sam. It’s a joke.”

Sam didn’t say anything. He climbed over the fence, vaulting over the top and on to the ground with a thud.

They walked about one hundred feet away from the fence when Sam saw it.  A three-story, sprawling, red-brick building with rows of small arched windows. Many of the window panes were cracked or broken and the brick was covered in layers of graffiti.

It looked like the kind of place Sam would have hunted ghosts in. A sanitorium or a tuberculosis hospital, perhaps.  The only clues to the building's real identity was a crumbling, half-missing cross on top of the tower that marked the entranceway.

Sam and Ruby walked inside, making their way through the musty, spray paint and beer bottle strewn hallways until they came upon a set of tall french doors with a rose window of stained glass just above it.

Flanked on either side of the door were four demons.

“Fancy seeing you and your bitch here, Sammy-Boy,” one of the demons sneered.

Sam just glared and closed his eyes.

Immediately, the demons’ heads glowed and they all collapsed to the floor in unison  with a thud.

Sam raised his hand. The wooden doors swung open, revealing an empty chapel. The only thing left inside was a marble altar.

Standing in front of the altar was a woman with curly blond hair, wearing a white, blood-spattered satin gown. In her hands was a large metal chalice.The woman turned at the sound of the doors slamming open.

It was Lilith. 

Seeing Sam, Lilith’s eyes turned white.

Before she could do anything, Sam waved his hand.

Lilith went flying backward, crashing into the altar with a thud.

With another wave of his hand, Sam pinned Lilith to the front side of the altar. She tried to pull herself away, she couldn’t. Her vessel was pinned against it. 

Sam grinned at her as he walked slowly into the chapel, stopping a few yards in front of Lilith.

“I’ve been dreaming about this moment for a long, long time,” Sam said slowly, filled with rage.

He could feel the blood thumping through his veins. Slow and rhythmic.

“So what are you waiting for? Get the show on the road,” Lilith said, glaring at Sam.

Sam raised his hand up, holding it out.

Lilith screamed. Golden light began to radiate from her vessel. It lasted for a few seconds before stopping. Lilith’s vessel breathed heavily. 

Sam’s fingers began to tremble.

“Is that all you’ve got? Lilith laughed pained and breathless. “Freak.”

Gritting his teeth, Sam clenched his hand shut, his knuckles turning white and his nails digging into his palm. His heartbeat grew louder, faster. Chaotic. Pain throbbed at the base of his spine.  A single drop of blood fell from his nose.

Smoke bubbled up within Sam. Dark, thick and suffocating. Like bog water. 

The golden light coming from Lilith grew brighter, almost blinding, showing the shadow of her vessel's skeleton. After a few seconds, Lilith let out a loud scream. Then the light flickered out. The body she was possessing collapsed onto the floor next to the altar with a thub. Motionless. Lifeless. 

Sam lowered his hand. The thumping slowed. It was over. Lilith was gone. He took in a deep breath of relief. But the relief didn’t last long. The smoke that had crept itself through his body didn’t fade. It lingered on him, like the stench of death. Putrid and rotting.

Then Sam noticed the blood dripping from Lilith’s mouth, running down her chin.  As soon as the first drop hit the floor, it turned into a thick, twisted, line. Slowly creeping and curling around the floor like a snake.

“....The fuck?” 

Ruby walked over to the body, staring down at it in elation. “You did it. I can’t believe it.” She looked back up to Sam, grinning. “You actually did it.”

Sam shot her a look. “Did what ?” 

Ruby’s grin grew bigger. “You set Him free,” she whispered, her voice filled with wonder.

“Set who…?” Sam’s eyes grew wide. He froze. “...What?! No! I stopped it!  I killed Lilith-”

Ruby laughed maliciously, “-It is written,‘The blood of the first demon shall break the final seal.’”

“You lied to me?” 

“Of course I did. I had too! You were the only one who could do it. It had to be you, Sam.” Ruby walked back over to him. “You’re Chosen. You’re The One .”

Sam paused for a moment. “It’s fine Ruby,” he nodded, his expression softening. He walked over to Ruby, cupping her face in his hand. “I understand. This is my purpose.” 

Ruby’s face relaxed, and she reached up to pull him in for a kiss. “No one thought I could turn you. No one had the faith I had, ” she whispered. “We’ll be revered . He will show His appreciation in ways you can’t even imagine, Sam.” 

Sam’s expression hardened and he grabbed Ruby by her hair, exposing her neck.“Maybe. But he won’t think very highly of me after I kill him.” He pulled out his knife. In one quick movement, he stabbed Ruby in the neck, piercing her carotid artery.

He quickly removed the knife and pressed his mouth to the wound, drinking the gushing blood as fast he could. By the time Sam was done, Ruby was limp and his face was covered in blood. Sam’s eyes locked on the thick line of crimson that curved itself into a circle.

Then Sam heard his name. It was being shouted- loud and desperate, panicked- by a voice he almost didn’t recognize. Rough and raspy, like a shot of whiskey. A voice he thought he’d never hear again. 

Dean.

April 24, 2009.

Patmos, Ohio.

“‘Saint Mary’s’ ?” Dean squinted, tying his boots. “What the hell is Lilith doing at a convent?”

“It’s not just a convent,” Castiel said. “It’s a hellgate. The Hellgate. The place where The Cage can be opened.” 

Bobby put his shotgun down on his bed, rubbing his eyes. “Saint Mary’s in Ilchester, Maryland? I’ve heard of that place. A priest went postal in ‘72. Butchered a chapel full of nuns and blamed it on a demon.”

“Sure fits the bill.” Dean stood up from his bed and grabbed his jacket off the kitchenette table, throwing it on.“How much time we got?”

“None,” Castiel said bluntly. “Sam is on his way there now. I’ll have to send you there.” Castiel walked over to Dean, holding two fingers out.

“Wait- wait !”  Dean quickly dug into the pocket of his jacket and tossed the keys of the Impala to Bobby. 

Bobby nodded, catching them. ‘Good luck, son.” 

“Thanks.”

With that, Castiel placed fingers to Dean’s forehead. 

In an instant, the musty smell of old carpet and stale cigarette smoke changed into decay and sulfur. Dean found himself in the middle of a dark hallway covered in graffiti. 

Grounding himself, he glanced around the hallway.

Then he heard the sound of a woman screaming. It echoed off in the distance, down one of the dark corridors.  

“Shit,” he hissed. 

Dean ran past broken stained glass windows and crumbling saint statues until he reached the chapel corridor.  

The first thing Dean saw when he rounded the corner were the bodies of the demons that stood in the entrance.

Seeing them. Dean’s heart sank.

Then, through the open chapel doors he saw Sam.

“Sam!” he yelled, his voice cracking as he ran through the doors. After taking a couple steps across the threshold of the chapel, Dean froze.

In Sam’s arms was an unconscious Ruby, a thick stream of blood running down her neck. Lilith lay motionless on the floor in a crumpled heap.

He was too late.

“Sam,” Dean swallowed. “Please, tell me you didn’t do what I think you did.”  Reluctantly, He looked down at Lilith. The trail of blood dripping from her mouth had curled around the floor of the chapel, forming a circle. The line continued to move, spreading inward like a spiderweb.

Sam dropped Ruby to the floor with a thud.

“You’ve got some nerve,” Sam hissed. “You sanctimonious asshole.”

Dean squinted.

“Coming here wearing my brother’s corpse.” Sam turned slowly, facing Dean. his face was covered in blood. The thick mess of crimson ran down his chin and neck, collecting in the collar of his gray T-shirt like a sinister ink blot.

Where Sam’s hazel eyes were supposed to be there was nothing but black pools. Dark as pitch and smoke.

The sight of it made Dean’s stomach churn.

“Sam. No.” Dean pursed his lips to hold back the bile that had risen to his mouth, hot and sour. “Sam, It’s me . Dean.”

“No. You’re not Dean. I can tell just by looking at you.” Sam glared. He raised his hand up.

Dean’s body jerked violently up into the air, clawing at his neck. “Sammy! Stop!” He wheezed gasping. “Stop it!”

“My brother is dead! ” Sam squeezed tighter. “He’s been dead for a year! Whatever crawled out of that grave six months ago wasn’t him and you sure as fuck aren’t him either!” Sam thrust his hand forward.

Dean went flying out of the entrance of the chapel and back into the hallway, skidding across the floor, sucking in air, and coughing as the chapel doors slammed shut.

“Sam!” Dean rasped. He stumbled to his feet and ran to the chapel doors, pulling on the handles and pounding his hands against the wood.

The doors wouldn’t budge.

A bright light began seeping through the cracks in the wood planks and through the bottom. A high pitched buzzing filled the air.

A hand wrapped around Dean’s upper right arm, pulling him away from the doors. “Dean we have to go!” Castiel’s gruff voice echoed through Dean’s ears. Panicked.

“No!” Dean pulled himself free from Castiel’s grip. “I can’t leave him, Cas! I can’t! ”

“You have to ! You don’t want to be here when Lucifer-”

The light grew brighter. The buzzing grew louder.

Castiel grabbed both of Dean’s shoulders.

The sound of flapping wings filled Dean’s ears. With it, the bright light disappeared. The Convent became a forest. Dark and cold. Cloaked in night.

Dean found himself standing on a well kept but rocky hiking trail. As soon as Dean’s feet touched the ground, he collapsed to his knees, retching and gagging.

Wiping the bile away from his mouth, Dean looked at Castiel through the tears prickling his eyes. He stood up and walked over to him. Dean tried to shove him, but the angel didn’t move. “The fuck did you do that for?!” he yelled. “I could’ve gotten Sam out of there! Saved him!” Dean walked away from the angel, digging his fingers anxiously into his hair, pulling at his scalp. “ God damn it! If I was two fuckin’ minutes sooner I could’ve stopped it I-”  

“-There was nothing you could do, Dean,” Castiel said, sighing. He walked over to Dean, placing his hand on his shoulder. “This is not your fault.”

“Of course it is! I’m responsible for him, ” Dean yelled “I started this whole fuckin’ thing. I-”

“Dean.” Castiel raised his voice. “What Sam has done is not your fault.” He took a deep breath. “Sam made a choice.”

Dean grew quiet. He let go of his hair, dropping his hands to his side. A moment passed before he spoke again. “I could barely even recognize him.”

“I know.” 

The ground began to rumble and shake. A column of bright white light shot up passed the tree line and into the night sky, reaching into the clouds followed by the high pitched buzzing. With a high pitched whine, the white light exploded, casting the night away for the briefest of seconds as the trees curved and buckled against it.

Then the light faded. Disappearing into nothingness. As soon as the light faded, the moon, absent from the night sky only a moment before, reappeared. Large and glowing a deep bright scarlet.

Then Dean’s head started to throb. The pain was nauseating. He leaned against a trunk of one the trees, his hands pressed over his temples.

Voices flooded his head. A cacophony of voices. Multitudes. Not in English. Not in Latin or even Aramaic. 

Enochian.

“...The Morningstar has been released. Lucifer has risen...”

As soon as the voices appeared, they were gone.

“The fuck was that?” Dean asked, pulling his hands down from his temples.

“The angels.” Castiel glanced up at the sky. “You could hear it?”

“Yeah.” Dean squinted at Castiel. “Hold up. I thought you said I couldn’t hear that. That’s why you nearly blew my eardrums out at the gas station after you yanked me outta Hell. ” 

“ You couldn’t,” Castiel said bluntly. He looked at Dean. “But Jesus could. ” 

Dean licked his lips. He nodded. “So now I can too.” 

“Apparently. Yes.”  

“So does this mean-”

“That Lucifer is free? Yes.” Without saying another word, Castiel walked over to him. He pressed his hand on to Dean’s chest. Light radiated through from his palm, soaking through Dean’s clothes and down to his skin.

Heat seared through Dean’s sternum and ribs, like a lightning striking a tree, carving into the bone.

Wincing, Dean pressed his hand reflectively to his chest, staring down at it.  “Enochian sigils.” He took a deep breath. “To hide me from Lucifer. Right?”

“Yes.” Castiel squinted at him. “How did you know-?”

“Because I remember,”  Dean replied. “You did it...before.”

Castiel looked at him and nodded. “Yes. I did.”

Then the sound of flapping wings filled the air. 

A few feet away down the path stood Zachariah and two soldier angels. 

Zachariah raised his hand, gesturing to Dean as he swaggered closer. “Hosanna in the highest- Here he is.” He grinned, smarmy and fawning.”The Root of David.”

“Choke on a fat one. Bartleby.” Dean glared.

“Okay, you’re upset. I get it.” Zachariah shrugged. “Our previous encounter wasn’t very conductive but-”

“-You had me executed. ” Dean spat.

“That was centuries ago,” Zachariah scoffed. “We’re different people now. In your case. Literally. It’s time we moved past that. After all, we have the same goal now.” 

“Which is?”

“Stopping Lucifer. He has your brother. You don’t want that. We don’t want that. It’s a...symbiotic alliance. ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend’ as they say.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Like I said before, you can stuff it and so can Michael.”

“You’re gonna let your pride get in the way of saving the world?” Zachariah cocked an eyebrow. “That’s not very Christ-like of you Dean.”

“Neither is killing half the world!” 

“Only their mortal life. Most of them will go on to paradise. Heaven. You know how many Lucifer will kill with your brother’s help? All of them. And he’ll drag them into The Pit on top of it.” Zachariah paused. “Michael needs his vessel. He needs you .” 

“I’m not gonna say yes. I didn’t before and I’m not gonna now.” Dean clenched his fists. “I don’t give a shit what you do to me. You wanna nail me back up? Go right ahead . I’ll give you all the nails you need, pal.”

Zachariah laughed. “You would say that. Blubbering sack of self-loathing, savior complexes and daddy issues that you are. But I have a feeling you're going to care when that alcoholic surrogate father of yours...” Zachariah thought for a second, straightening his tie. “...Crashes your car into the Ohio River.”

As Zachariah started to lift his hand up, one of the soldiers began to glow. Light poured out of her mouth and eyes as she fell to the ground. Castiel was behind her. Angel sword in hand. 

“Dean! Run!” Castiel yelled, dodging a swing from the other soldier angel. 

Just as he had plunged the angel sword into the other soldier, Zachariah grabbed Castiel, knocking the blade out of his hand.

“Cas!” Dean yelled.

Zachariah waved his hand, sending Dean flying off the trail and into the trees where he rolled down a shallow ravine lined with fallen trees and brush.

As Dean lay there, disorientated and covered in scratches and dirt, he could hear Zachariah yelling at Castiel about rebellions and this being his last time. 

Then he heard Castiel yell. Throaty and deep.

Bright light began to shine through the trees followed by a high pitched buzzing sound.

“No!” Dean rasped, pulling himself out of the brush. Before the light faded, he could see the shadow of Castiel’s frame- limp and motionless- slump to the ground.

Dean froze at the sight. He slowly sank back into the brush. “Cas, why'd you do that? You stupid sonfofbitch.” He hissed, tears filling his eyes.

After a few moments, Dean could hear Zachariah calling out to him, moving haphazardly through the brush, looking for him to no avail.

“Where are you Dean?! I know you’re around here somewhere! I can smell that rosey eau de toilette of yours! If you come out now and let me hand you over to Michael, I’ll forget about this little...faux pas and not turn you into a pillar of salt! How does that sound?”

Then Dean remembered.

It was a foggy, ancient memory. Cas-darker skinned, brown-eyed and dressed in a long wool tunic-drawing a sigil in the sand, making a slashing motion with his palm before placing it on top of the sigil.

Dean, as quickly and as silently as he could, moved over to a nearby tree trunk. He pulled out his pocket knife, flicking it open, dragging the blade across his palm. Blood bubbled up from the wound, forming a thick river of crimson in his palm.

Dipping his fingers in the blood, Dean drew the sigil on to the trunk.

“Hey Zach!” Dean yelled, standing up. He could see Zachariah standing a few yards away from him, at the edge of the ravine.

Zachariah turned around, looking at him. He squinted at Dean for a second before panic filled his face.

“Shalom, Bitch!” Dean slammed his palm down on the trunk, over the sigil.

Zachariah’s body lit up in beams of blinding white light and high pitched noise. In an instant, the light faded and he was gone. Vanished.

“Cas taught me that! Dickwad!” Dean shouted, still wincing at the light as he ripped off a piece of his flannel shirt, tying it around his hand. 

Dean climbed his way out of the ravine. As he was brushing himself off, he heard soft groans coming from the area of where Castiel's body was.

“Cas?” He blinked.

Then there was rustling of leaves and dirt.

“Cas!” Dean darted through the trees and overgrown brush, following the groans over to the tree Casitel’s body was resting against. He crouched down next to the body, placing his hands on it’s shoulders. “Cas! Are you okay?”

He groaned again.

“It’s Jimmy.” his voice was softer, less gruff.

“...What?”  Dean asked.

He opened his blue eyes and sat up, pressing a hand to his forehead. 

“My name is Jimmy. Jimmy Novak.”

Chapter Text

April 25, 2009.

Ellicott City, Maryland.

Dean entered the diner, his feet sore from an hour of walking. Behind him was Castiel’s vessel, former vessel, Jimmy Novak.

He walked over to the counter, eyeing the display case of pies and cakes in front of it as he greeted the waitress. Her white hair was tied up in a haphazard bun and there was a grease stain on her apron. She glanced up from wiping the counter with a dingy dishrag.

“Good evening. Or should I say good morning?”

Dean cleared his throat. “Two please.”

She nodded. “Sit wherever you want. I’ll be over in a minute to get your drink orders.”

“Okay.”  Before moving, Dean did a scan of the dining room. It was unpopulated aside from a group of drunk college kids. Dean turned to Jimmy and cocked his head in the direction he wanted to go before making his way over to the booth: far away from the college kids, the bathroom, and the counter. 

Both sank into their respective seats. Jimmy immediately grabbed the menu, flipping through it.

Dean just sat there.

They had no sooner got settled in the booth when the waitress walked over to them, a notepad and pen in her hands.

“Do you guys know what you want?”

“Just a coffee for me. Black,” Dean said.

Jimmy scanned the menu. “I’ll have a double cheeseburger and a large chocolate milkshake. And can I get an extra order of fries with that? Oh, and chicken fingers.”

“Sure thing, honey.” The waitress scratched some writing in her notepad before she left. 

Dean watched her leave. When she was far enough away he cleared his throat. “That’s a lotta food, dude.”

“Yeah, well,” Jimmy scoffed. “I’m starving. I can’t remember the last time I ate something.” 

Dean just nodded. Silence filled the booth for the long moment before Dean cleared his throat. “So you’re from Illinois?” 

“Pontiac, Illinois. Yeah,” Jimmy said.

Dean nodded, taking a deep breath as he drummed his hands on the booth table. ”It’ll take us a few days to bring you home. We’ll leave as soon as Bobby gets here with my car.”

“Good,”  Jimmy let out a relieved sigh. “I want to see my family again. Especially my daughter Claire. It’s been so long since I’ve seen her.”

The waitress came back with Jimmy’s milkshake and Dean’s coffee, setting them in front of each of them. “How long has it been since you’ve seen them?”

Jimmy grabbed a straw and stuck it into the milkshake, taking a long gulp.“Six months? Maybe longer. I’m not sure.” 

“Do you remember anything?”

“Bits and pieces. Being possessed by an angel is kinda like...riding the tail of a comet.” 

“Sounds lovely .” Dean took a sip from his coffee, watching Jimmy he couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that the man sitting in front of him, sucking down this milkshake like it was manna from heaven, wasn’t Cas anymore. And yet everything about Jimmy was different. From the way he smiled at the simple pleasure of his milkshake, to the tone of his voice. 

Sadness grew like a pit in Dean’s stomach. 

“Well, you know what it’s like….sorta,” Jimmy paused for a long moment.. “You….have them. Right?” 

“Have what?” Dean cocked a brow.

Jimmy glanced down to Dean’s wrists pointedly. 

Dean was silent. Without saying a word, he pushed the sleeves of his jacket up and placed his arms on the table, his wrists facing upwards.

At the sight of the scars, Jimmy froze. Slowly he reached over and grabbed Dean’s hands, pulling his wrists closer to him. 

Dean froze at the touch, holding his breath. Rigid and tense.

Jimmy stared at them for a moment until he spoke again, lifting his gaze towards Dean. “Castiel told me about you. Who you are. That’s why I said ‘yes.’”

Dean nodded. “Cas said you were a ‘Jesus is my co-pilot’ kinda guy.”

“I was.”

“ Was ?”

"Not anymore. After everything I’ve been through, I can’t be,” Jimmy shook his head. “I’m sure you understand.”

“Dude, I don’t care,” Dean scoffed. “I’m not a saint. Even if I am one.”

Jimmy frowned. “I had a feeling you’d say that.”

The waitress walked back over with a tray of food. “Here we are.”  She was about to put the plate of fries down in front of Jimmy when she stopped, her gaze locked squarely on their hands. 

Jimmy quickly jerked his hands away from Dean’s. 

Dean pulled his hands back slowly, shoving them under the table. 

The waitress awkwardly placed Jimmy’s food on the table. She left without saying a word. 

Dean and Jimmy exchanged awkward glances.

After she was gone, Dean let out a deep sigh, pulling his sleeves back down before taking a sip of his coffee. “So I’m guessing I’m not what you were expecting.”

“Not at all. But I also wasn’t expecting to have to rescue Jesus from Hell either.” Jimmy lowered his gaze back down to Dean’s wrists. “I’m not in awe of you. In fact, looking at you..the only thing I feel is remorse.”

“Thanks?” Dean furrowed his brow, watching Jimmy dig into his burger. A long moment passed before he spoke again.  “Do you know what happened to Cas?”

Jimmy shook his head. “No. All I remember is being suppressed. I could only hear him and then suddenly, I wasn’t and I couldn’t.”

“You don’t know if Cas is…” Dean pursed his lips. “...Dead or not?”

“No. All I know is that he’s gone and I’m out.”

Dean shrugged. He didn’t say anything.

“I know this is hard for you. Given the bond the two of you had. He didn’t want to leave you. Again.” Jimmy paused. “In fact, his last thoughts were of you and how much he loved you.”

Dean spit his coffee out. “.... What ?”

“He never told you?” Jimmy blinked. 

“No.” Dean froze in his seat. 

Jimmy sighed. “I thought he would have by now. I mean he’s felt that way about you for...centuries.”

Thoughts buzzed through Dean’s head. Fast and chaotic. Castiel loved Dean. He had always loved him. Even as years turned to decades. Even as Decades turned into centuries. Even as centuries turned into millennia. Somehow, some way, his love for Dean never faltered. Even now. But he had never spoken it. Maybe it was because angels weren’t supposed to love humans. 

Dean remembered Cas telling him about the Watchers falling in love with humans and how the beings that came from that love- the nephilim- had brought about the Great Flood. Such a love was an abomination. 

Maybe it was because he thought Dean didn’t love him back. 

But Dean-Jesus- did love him. He just couldn’t acknowledge it. Part of him and always felt that he wasn’t supposed to find love. He had a different purpose. But had found love with Mariamne- Mary Magdalene. Maybe he wanted to feel normal. Human. Have the one thing he had denied himself. Maybe it was the work of the angels to ensure that his bloodline lived on. After all, Dean and Sam needed to exist. Dean wasn’t sure.

What he did know was that he- Dean - loved Castiel. Maybe that love was his own. Maybe that love was a vestige-a memory. Dean didn’t care. All he knew was that he never said it. He never could. Love wasn’t a word that fell easily from Dean’s lips. It was something he could never attain and if it was attained he could never keep it. Whether it was with Cassie, Lisa, or anyone else.

This was a kind of love Dean had always denied. A twinge in his heart that made him fake bravado and machismo. It was a muttered slur John would speak at men seemingly weaker than him. It was never spoken at Dean but that didn’t matter because it had the same effect.

Dean loved Castiel and he never said it. Now he couldn’t say it. Castiel was gone. Dead maybe. And if somehow he wasn’t, the chances were good that the love was ripped out of him by what Heaven had done to him. 

Castiel was gone because he was protecting Dean. Because he loved Dean. Dean had killed him. He was a poison that bleached earth and foiled soil, like lye tossed on a dead body.

Dean stood up from the booth. “I uh...need a smoke. I’ll be back.”  He rose from the booth, making his way quickly out of the diner, going back behind the building.

He pressed his forehead against the building, whacking it hard. “Cas you fucking idiot! Fuck !” Dean gritted, punching the wall with his fists until his knuckles sting and bleed. He glanced down at the blood- a dark crimson and that didn’t reek of flowers and dried into his fingers. 

Dean sank down onto the pavement, pressing his palms to his tear filled eyes as his chest swayed back and forth slowly.

His phone began to vibrate in his pocket. Dean pulled his phone out of his pocket, his hands trembling. It was Bobby. Dean just let it ring. The ringing ended and his phone flashed with a missed call. 

After a few seconds, Bobby called again.
Dean shoved the phone back into his jacket.

He didn’t answer it.

April 25, 2009.

Breezewood, Pennsylvania. 

Dean pushed the motel room door open. Bobby and Jimmy followed behind him.

“Thank God they have a laundromat. I’ve been rotating the same pair of skivvies for the last week.” 

“I didn’t need to know that Bobby,” Dean grumbled, tossing his duffle bag on one of the motel room beds.

“Can it. You’re not the one that’s been driving for the last seven hours,”  Bobby said, sinking into the armchair with a groan, closing his eyes. “After my nap, I’m gonna do some laundry. Then we can do some lore digging. Figure out where Sam and Lucifer are.”

“And what if we can’t find them?” Dean said, playing absent-mindedly with the zipper of his duffle bag. 

“We’ll find ‘em, son.”

“Yeah.” Dean bit his lip. He heard feet shuffling on the motel carpet. He looked up, watching Jimmy walk into the motel room.

“Is this what you guys do?” Jimmy asked. “Crappy hotels and research?”

“Basically. Yeah.”

Jimmy cleared his throat. “Well, I’m going to take a shower.” He undid his tie, tossing it onto one of the motel beds. “ I haven’t showered in six months. Or changed clothes.” He ripped the trench coat and blazer off, throwing them in a pile with the tie.

Dean nodded. He unzipped his duffle bag and grabbed a pair of jeans, boxers, socks, a T-shirt and flannel. “You can borrow these for now. We’ll take a trip to Wally-world later to get you some new threads.”

“Sounds good.” Jimmy walked quickly into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. There was rustling and the clanking of belt buckles on tiles followed by the rattling of shower curtains and the water running. A deep groan of relief echoed from the bathroom.

Slowly, Dean’s gaze drifted over to the pile of clothes on the bed next to him. Staring at the pile for a second, Dean picked up the haphazardly thrown trench coat, shaking the wrinkles out before he laid it out on the bed and folded it. Meticulously and with great precision like a veteran flag. Once it was folded, he grabbed the tie from the pile, straightening and folding it before laying it on top of the trench coat. He picked them both up into his hands, staring at them for a long moment before he took a deep breath.

“Hey, Bobby.” 

“Yeah son?” Bobby said half asleep.

“I’m gonna go out for a while,” Dean said, making his way to the motel room door, the bundle of trench coat and tie under his arm.

“It’s 8 AM .”

“Yeah well, It’s five o’clock somewhere and it’s the damn Apocalypse. All bets are off.”

Bobby scoffed, falling back asleep.

Dean took a deep breath as he walked out of the motel, closing the door behind him. He walked over to the Impala, opening the trunk and placing the tie and trench coat inside it. 

He pulled out of the parking lot, barreling down the road.

Dean stopped at the first open bar he found, parking the Impala and going inside. Dean shuffled himself over to the bar counter.

“Rough day?” The bartender, a young woman with choppy black hair and arm tattoos asked, looking up from a sink filled with dirty glasses.

“Yeah. I’ll take a Jim Beam. Double. Neat.”

The bartender nodded, grabbing the bottle. “Here you go, Faulkner,” she said, putting a low ball glass in front of Dean and pouring the alcohol into it. The bartender had barely pulled the bottle away when Dean picked the glass up, knocking back half of it. 

She leaned over the counter. “You wanna talk about it?” she asked.

“Not really.” Dean stared at the glass for a moment, running his finger over the rim before knocking the other half back, clanking the glass on the counter. 

It didn’t make him feel better.

“You want another one?”

He paused, pursing his lips. “No. I’m good.” Dean pulled a twenty from his wallet, placing it on the counter. He climbed down from the stool. “Keep the change okay?” 

He made his way out of the bar and back to the Impala. Climbing into the driver seat, he placed his hands on the steering wheel. He flipped the radio on. The Rolling Stone’s Angie- slow and mournful and nostalgic- bellowed through the speakers.

Dean pulled out of the bar parking lot. He made his way aimlessly through empty roads lined by fields of corn and farmhouses for what felt like hours until he came across a long stretch of an empty field. On the side of the road was a white cross made out of plywood and stuck in the ground with a wooden spike. Inside the cross in the shape of it were words in big red letters. 

'Jesus is coming soon’.  

Dean narrowed his eyes as he pulled over and stopped the Impala, barely remembering to take the keys out before he slammed the door and marched over to the cross. He ripped it out from the ground and, holding the spike, whacked the cross into the ground, hitting it against the dirt and grass until it broke in half. Breathing heavily, He threw the pieces into the field.

He lifted his eyes, setting them on an abandoned barn a few hundred yards away. Taking a deep breath, he made his way through the field and over to the barn, walking inside of it. 

Dean stood there for a long moment until he spoke. “Cas, I don’t know if you can hear me. I don’t know if you’re… .gone or if those dicks took you to Bible Camp...but...I need you. I can’t do this without you. I...” Dean paused. He placed his hand over his handprint scar, squeezing it, tears filling his eyes. “This isn’t easy for me to say, okay? I’m not good at this kind of stuff- I never have been- and I’ve never... felt like this before.” Dean took a deep breath. “I love you, Cas,” he whispered. “Come back. Please .”

He waited, hoping he’d hear the familiar flap of wings and the gruff voice that accompanied it, but nothing happened.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered, wiping his eyes. He left the barn, making his way back to the Impala.

April 28, 2009.

Pontiac, Illinois.

“Thanks for everything,” Jimmy said, climbing out of the backseat of the Impala. He closed the door, walking to the driver’s side. “I really appreciate  it.” 

Dean shrugged. “It’s not a problem.” He dug into his jean pocket, taking out a piece of paper holding it out of the rolled-down window. “This is my number and Bobby’s. If anything happens, make sure you call one of us, okay?”

Jimmy nodded. “I will. Thanks.” He waved before he turned and started making his way up the sidewalk of the house. Dean watched him as he climbed up the steps and walked up to the front door, ringing the bell. 

A young girl with blonde hair wearing a pink and black Fall Out Boy hoodie and jeans opened the door. She froze for a second before hugging him. 

“You gonna sit here all day?” Bobby asked. “We’ve got shit to do.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighed, he put the car in drive, heading off down the street.

Before leaving Pontiac, Dean and Bobby stopped at the Pontiac Family Kitchen- a mom and pop diner Bobby insisted on stopping at because he had eaten there whenever he took a trip on Route 66.  

Dean ordered a steak sandwich but didn’t eat any of his food. He just sat there, staring at it.

“You gonna eat or are you gonna sit there and pick at your food like a stubborn toddler?” Bobby said through a bite of BLT.

Dean shrugged. “I’m not hungry.”

“I thought that stopped,” Bobby cocked an eyebrow at him. “They have wine here. You wanna order some Pinot Grigio? You could bless it-”

“No Bobby. I’m fine.” Dean shook his head.

“What’s wrong then?”

"I’m just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About Cas.”

Bobby sighed. “Jimmy said he doesn’t know what happened to him. There ain’t much we can do, son.” 

“Yeah. I guess.”

Dean’s phone started to ring. He pulled it out of his jacket, answering it. “Hello.”

“Dean? It’s Jimmy.”  His voice was hushed and quiet.

“What happened? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” Jimmy paused. “Our priest is coming over to speak to Claire with Bishop Tamsen from the Peoria diocese. Apparently, Claire’s been having...visions.”

“Visions?”

“Of the Virgin Mary. It started a few days ago.”

“We’ll be over in a few.”

“Thank you.”

Dean hung up the phone, shoving it back into his pocket.

“What was that about?” Bobby asked. 

Dean took a deep breath. “Apparently Jimmy’s daughter has some Fatima shit going on.”

“Virgin Mary is talking to her? Is that even possible?” He stared at Dean.

“Don’t look at me. I don’t fucking know.”

Bobby scoffed. “You don’t know what your mom is up to?”

Dean glared at him. “Bobby, I’m not above hitting an old man.” 

“I’m sorry, that was a bad joke.” 

“Whatever. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.” 

Dean and Bobby left the restaurant, heading back over to Jimmy’s house. They knocked on the door. A few seconds later, Jimmy answered the door.

“Perfect timing. Bishop Tamsen and Father DeMatteo just go here.” Jimmy whispered.  He opened the door, letting Dean and Bobby into the house. 

Walking into the living room, he saw Claire, and a beautiful woman, Ameila, Dean assumed, sitting on one couch. Sitting on the other loveseat across from them were two priests. Father DeMatteo- a younger man with curly brown hair wearing a standard clerical collar and blazer-and Bishop Tamsen- an older man with gray balding gray and glasses- wore a large gilded crucifix around his neck and a ring on his finger. 

Something felt off about them, but Dean couldn’t put his finger on it.

They were speaking intently to Claire, and barely glanced up when the men entered the room. 

“Well Claire, if the Blessed Mother is telling you that then we’ll have to call an exorcist and have them come to the house. That’s blasphemy and the work of sinister forces.” Bishop Tamsen said.

“Please. You don’t have to do that!” Amelia pleaded.

“An exorcism seems a little extreme, your Excellency. Maybe Claire is confused.” Father DeMatteo said.

“I’m not confused!” Claire snapped. “She said Jesus is here and that I have to help him. That I’m the only one that can!”

When Jimmy, Bobby, and Dean stepped into the living room. They stopped talking. 

“Jimmy. Who is this?” Amelia said, standing up from the couch. 

Claire’s eyes locked on Dean, going wide. She stood up from the couch. “It’s Him! I told you!”

Dean sighed. Rolling his eyes. “Fucking shit,” he mumbled.

“Claire! Stop this!” Amelia grabbed her arm. “I’m not going through this again.”

“No Mom! I told you I wasn’t lying. The Blessed Mother said He’d come here and He did!” She jumped off the couch and ran over to Dean, looking up at him. “I’m here, Lord. I can help you.”

“Kid now isn’t-”

“Claire! Get back here!” Amelia ran over, grabbing Claire. She looked at Dean and Jimmy and glared. “You need to leave. Now. Before I call the cops. I don’t know what kind of Jim Jones crap you're pulling with my husband but you’re not going to pull that with our daughter.”

“Mom stop!” Claire ripped herself away from Amelia. “You don’t understand.”

Father DeMatteo stood up from the couch, walking slowly over them. “Claire I can assure you that this man isn’t Jesus.” He paused. His gaze locking on Dean. He smirked. “He’s not even the shit and piss the Nazarene soiled himself with on the cross.” 

His eyes flickered black.

“Fuck,”  Dean uttered. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus-”

Father DeMatteo waved his hand, pinning Dean, Bobby, Jimmy and Amelia to one of the walls in the living room. “That’s not gonna work. We came here prepared. Hexbags and binding sigils so you can’t see us or smoke us out.”

Claire screamed.

The demon wearing Bishop Tamsen appeared behind Claire, his eyes black pools. He grabbed her, holding a knife to the throat. 

Claire screamed again.

“You keep screaming like that, Bernadette, and I’ll rip your throat out.”  The demon wearing Bishop Tamsen rasped, muffling her with his hand. He turned to the demon wearing Father DeMatteo. “Gut the empty vessel, the bitch, and Clampus over there.” He looked squarely at Dean. “Him though? We’re gonna have fun with him.” 

The demon wearing Father DeMatteo nodded. He walked over to Dean, pulling a knife out of his blazer. “How’d you like to be crucified upside down? By the balls.”

“Seems a little redundant. And impractical. Don’t you think?” Dean gritted.

“Fine. Then we’ll impale you and rip your organs out. Hang them off of you like ornaments on a Christmas tree.” The demon smirked. “But first, you’re gonna watch us have a little fun.” He walked over to Jimmy, slamming the knife into his stomach, twisting it.”

Jimmy groaned in pain.

Amelia screamed. “No!”

“You wanna be next?” He walked over to Amelia. “I’ll start by cutting your tongue out.”

The demon wearing Bishop Tamsen screamed. He collapsed to the floor. 

The demon wearing DeMatteo turned around. Claire was standing next to the body of the Bishop. Her eyes glowed and a shadow of wings appeared behind her. 

The wings were ones Dean recognized, black wings with multi-colored tips on the feathers.

Castiel.

“Shit.” The demon wearing Father DeMatteo swung the knife at Claire-Castiel. 

Castiel grabbed his arm, twisting it backward. the demon screamed, collapsing to the floor. She placed her hand on top of his head. He let out a scream as a bright light came out of his mouth and eyes. His body collapsed to the floor.

With that, Bobby, Dean, Amelia slid down the living room wall, their feet hitting the floor.

Jimmy collapsed on the floor holding his stomach.

Amelia and Dean ran over to him.

“Jimmy!” Amelia cried. She looked at Dean. “Can you save him? Please.”

Dean nodded. He went to put his hand on Jimmy’s head, but Jimmy grabbed it. “No! I don’t care about that!”  He turned his gaze over to Castiel. “Castiel! Leave Claire! Please!”

“I asked for her consent. I was the one speaking to her. She misunderstood who I was, but she made a choice.”

Jimmy shook his head.“No! You can’t take her! Not my Claire!”

Castiel walked over to Jimmy, staring at him. “I need her, Jimmy. She’s my vessel. It’s in her blood. The same as it is in you.”

“Then take me ,” Jimmy pleaded.

“ Are you sure this is what you want?”

“ Yes. Just leave my daughter. Please .”

Castiel nodded. “As you wish.” She crouched down on the floor,  cupping his face in her hands. Light enveloped them. When the light faded, Jimmy- Castiel- stood up. Claire collapsed to the floor, crying.

Amelia moved over to her and hugged her. “It’s okay honey.” She picked Claire up off the floor.

Castiel looked at them. “I’m sorry. But I needed a vessel.” 

Amelia shook her head. “No. It’s-it’s fine.” Her voice shook. “Just-just tell Jimmy I’m sorry.”

Castiel nodded. 

Amelia walked Claire made their way into the kitchen, staring at Dean as she walked away.

Castiel walked over to Dean. “You need to be more careful.”

Dean sighed deeply. He closed the space between him and Castiel, hugging him. “It’s good to see you, man.” Dean held on to him for a long moment before pulling himself away. “What happened?” 

“Zachariah ripped me out of Jimmy and smote me.” Castiel paused. “But I was brought back.”

“By who?” Dean scrunched his brow. “God?”

“I’m not sure, but I think so.”

“I don’t mean to interrupt the reunion, but the padres’ eyes are burned out!” Bobby yelled, staring down at the lifeless bodies on the floor.

“Shit!”  Dean ran over to them. He placed each of his hands on their foreheads. Heat spread through his hands.

Father DeMatteo and Bishop Tamsen sat up with a gasp. They stared at Dean, slacked jawed.

“You guys okay?”  Dean asked.

They didn’t say anything.

“You gotta answer me here guys.” Dean chuckled nervously.

“Who...who are you?” Bishop Tamsen shuddered, pushing himself away from Dean.

Dean paused. “Well, I’m-”

“He is the Lamb of God,” Castiel said bluntly. 

“Oh Jesus,” Bobby grumbled. He followed Amelia and Claire into the kitchen.

Dean rolled his eyes, running his hand down his face.

“What?” Bishop Tamsen blinked. He shot Castiel a look. “Who are you ?”

“I’m an Angel of Lord,” Castiel said evenly.

Bishop Tamsen shifted his eyes between Dean and Castiel. Then he shook his head. “No. You can’t be. Christ is not supposed to return yet.”

“I hate to break it to you but...I did.”

“That’s blasphemy! This is a deception! A trick of the Adversary!” Bishop Tamsen scrambled to his feet. “If you claim to be Christ, then you must be The Beast. The Son of Perdition.”

“I’m not the Antichrist okay? What do you need me to do? Walk across a swimming pool?”

“Actually, you never did that,” Castiel chimed in.

“Not helping, Cas.”

Father DeMatteo stood up. He stared at Dean. “He’s telling the truth, Your Excellency. When I opened my eyes, the light of Heaven shone around him. He was joined by choirs of angels and saints.” 

Bishop Tamsen froze. He looked at Dean’s hands. He shot Dean a look.”If you are Christ...then you should have the marks of His Passion.”

“Oh. I do,” Dean glared. “You wanna see ‘em?” 

“Dean you don’t have to-”

“Yes, I do Cas.” Dean pulled his beanie, jacket, and flannel off, tossing them to the floor. He held his wrists out.

Father DeMatteo fell to knees, crossing himself.

Bishop Tamsen didn’t say anything. He stared blankly at Dean’s wrists.

“You wanna see my side?” Dean cocked an eyebrow. “I’ve got that too.” He pulled his T-shirt up over his head, taking it off. He held it tightly in his hand, lifting his arms up slightly. “Now are you gonna stop with this Doubting Thomas bullshit or what?

Bishop Tamsen froze.

Dean blinked. “What?”

“Righteous Judge! I’m sorry for doubting you. I pray that you can forgive my transgressions! Even though I deserve all suffering and hellfire!”

Dean sighed, throwing his T-shirt back on. “For the love-Just stop. Okay?”

“Please. Let me amend my transgressions. I will go out into the world and proclaim your Second Coming.”

Dean shifted his eyes. “Ya know...I’d rather that you didn’t do that.”

“It is my job to proclaim the Gospel. I must do this.” 

“Right.” Dean pursed his lips. He cleared this throat. “So...I gave Peter-the first pope- the keys to Heaven, right? Rocks. Foundations. Gates of Hell.  All that stuff. He acts as my ambassador on Earth, right? Well...I’m on Earth so... I’m your boss now.” Dean took a deep breath. “And as your boss I’m asking- demanding- that you don’t say anything.”

Bishop Tamsen nodded. “The Messianic secret.”

“Exactly.” Dean cleared his throat. “When my time comes I’ll let myself be known.”

“Yes Lord.” Bishop Tamsen nodded again. He and Father DeMatteo stood back up, making their way to the front door. 

As they closed the door behind them, Dean let out a loud sigh, running his hands down his face. “Fucking shit.”

Castiel walked over to him. “You never said that to Peter. In fact, you left your ministry to-”

“James. My brother. Yeah, Cas. I remember.” Dean shook his head, grabbing his flannel from the floor, throwing it back on. He shuffled himself over to the couch, sinking into it. “Fuck.” He pressed his hands into his eyes before running them through his hair. “This is only gonna get harder, isn’t it?” 

“Yes. Unfortunately.” 

Dean didn’t say anything. He just laughed wearily. 

Dean was in the woods behind the Novak’s backyard with an ax in his hand, surveying the trees, an endless sea of sugar maple and oak. Finally, he found a pine tree, he walked over to it and grabbed one of the lower branches chopping at the base of the branch with the ax. 

He heard leaves crunching on the ground from the direction of the house. He turned his gaze, finding Castiel advancing towards him, dressed in a black suit and the familiar tan trenchcoat. The blue tie hung untied around his neck.

“Here.” Dean put the ax down, resting it against the trunk, and walked over to Castiel, grabbing the tie. He threw it over his shoulders, tying it before he pulled it off of himself, throwing it over Castiel’s neck. “There ya go.” He cleared his throat.

“Thank you,” Castiel said simply.

“No problem,” Dean said, adjusting the tie. He walked back over to the tree, picking the axe back up.

“What are you doing?” Castiel asked.

“I’m gonna make Amelia and Claire amulets of the anti possession symbol I’ve got on my chest.”

Castiel nodded. “Smart.”

“Thanks.” Dean chopped at the branch, it broke off. He didn’t say anything as he crouched down, chopping the twigs from the branch. When he started shaving the bark off, he cleared his throat. “Is-Is Jimmy still in there?” 

Castiel shook his head. “No. He’s in Heaven. The wound was such that if I wasn’t possessing him he would die. He asked me to send him there. He...thought that I would appreciate it if I was alone in this body.”

Dean blinked. “What? Why?”

Castiel paused. “I heard your prayer. Your confession, Dean. Jimmy could remember it when I took control of his body.”

Dean’s eyes grew wide. He stopped mid-stroke. “Cas- I-”

“It’s alright, Dean.” Castiel walked over to him. He crouched down and placed his hand on top of Dean’s hand that was holding the ax. “I know it was hard for you to say that. And I understand that it’s something you can’t...act on. Just knowing that you said it, gives me peace and happiness.” 

Dean licked his lips “Cas. It’s-” He paused, taking a deep breath. “Well I’m glad you’re okay with it. At least.”

Castiel nodded. He let go of Dean’s hand and started to make his way back to the house.

Dean squinted at him. “You going somewhere?”

“I have to pay the priests a visit. I’ll be back later.”

The sound of wings flapping wrung out. With it, Castiel was gone.

Dean put the ax back down. He stood up, leaning his body against the tree as he lifted his eyes up to the sky briefly before lowering them, running his hand down his face.

Dean was sitting in the Novak's garage, hunched over Jimmy’s old work table, a pile of wood chiseling tools and shavings strewn around him. With a thin, sharp chisel in hand, he carved a key of Solomon sigil in a round disk wood. When he was done, he held it up, squinting at it before blowing the loose wood dust off of it, brushing it with his fingers. 

His concentration was broken by the side garage door opening followed by Bobby’s gruff voice.

“You almost done?”

“You can’t rush perfection Bobby. But yeah. Almost.”

Bobby walked over to him, picking one of the amulets up. “I still can’t believe that you made two anti-possession amulets out of a random branch from the back yard in what? A few hours?”

“It’s pine which is soft as hell- real good for carving. It was a cake-walk.” He paused. “You got the cords?”

Bobby nodded, tossing a pack of black waxed thread onto the table. 

Dean grabbed it, unraveling the cord and cutting it with scissors before threading it through the amulets. He stood up from the workbench, brushing himself off before picking the amulets up. He followed Bobby into the dining room where Amelia and Claire were sitting at the table. 

“I made these for you.” Dean held the amulets out to Amelia. “They’ll keep you safe. So will the devil’s trap we painted under the rug in the entranceway.”

Amelia took them. “Thank you.”

“My Daddy is in Heaven now? Right?” Claire asked.

Dean paused, glancing over at Cas, who nodded. “Yeah, sweetheart, he is.”

Tears filled Claire's eyes.

“Hey.” Dean walked over to her, crouching down in front of her chair. He grabbed her hand. “It’s okay.” He paused. “Listen to me. What your Dad did was very brave and selfless. He did it because he loves you. Okay? Remember that.” 

Claire nodded. She let out a tiny sob. Dean reached over and hugged her, pulling her against his chest. “It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

After a moment, Claire pulled away from him, wiping her eyes.

“You're a brave kid. You know that?” Dean said. “And your dad would want to be brave, right?”

Claire nodded. “Yeah. He would.”

Dean patted her hand. He looked at Amelia. “If you guys need anything. Let me know. Please.”

Amelia nodded. “We will.”

“Good.”  Dean and Bobby made their way to the front door. Before walking through it, Dean lifted the carpet up, checking the devil’s trap under it. He threw the carpet back over it and walked out the front door, closing the door behind him. He took a deep breath as he walked down the steps, walking across the driveway. “This sucks Bobby. It sucks a huge one. The kid just got her Dad back and I took him away again.” 

“It’s not your fault Dean.”

“I mean it is. He’s gone because of me.”

“Jimmy didn’t want to be stuck riding shotgun to an angel for the rest of eternity. You were just another reason to leave.” 

“Yeah. I guess.” Dean drummed his hand on the top of the Impala for a moment before climbing into the driver's seat. 

“Speaking of which where the hell is Cas? He’s been gone for a while.” Bobby asked.

“He said he went to Saint Mary’s Church to pay Father DeMatteo and Bishop Tamsen a visit. Whatever that means.”  Dean sighed as he started the Impala, backing it out of the driveway.

“Think we should check on Columbo? See what he’s up to?” Bobby asked.

“Yeah.” Dean nodded. He paused for a second. “But I’ll go by myself. Just in case. Besides, you got research to do.” 

Bobby scoffed. “Sure. Leave me with the heavy lifting.”

“Someone’s gotta do it.” 

Dean dropped Bobby off at the Motel before making his way to the church.  He walked inside, finding Castiel standing behind the altar, his gaze locked on the crucifix. 

Dean paused, watching Castiel. His gaze going between the angel and the pale, cross-hanging effigy. 

Memories flooded Dean’s mind.

"You should go.” Jesus, broken and slumped over, half-blind from the blood running down his forehead.  “You’re in enough trouble as it is.”

"I can’t do that. I won’t leave you here!” Tears filled Castiel’s eyes. “I can’t say farewell to you. Not like this.”

"We’ll see each other again. You know that.”

Dean’s wounds began to ache. A dull ache.

He pulled the sleeve of his jacket up slightly exposing his right wrist. The scar had become a wound again. Shallow. A small pool of bright fragrant blood bubbling up from it.

Dean closed his eyes. Grounding himself.

The ache disappeared. 

He looked back down at his wrist, wiping the blood with his thumb.

The wound had become a scar again.  Purple and fresh.

“Hey Cas,” Dean said, clearing his throat, calling out to him. He walked slowly down the aisle. when he reached the front pew, he stopped, leaning his back against the front of it.

Castiel turned around, looking at him. “Hello, Dean.” He watched him for a second. “You were bleeding. I can smell it. Are you alright?” He made his way quickly around the altar and down the steps.

“It’s nothing.” Dean took a breath. 

Castiel watched him for a second, then nodded.

“ So, what did you do to the Padres?”

“I wiped their memories. Just in case. I figured you would have appreciated it.”

“Yeah, well I don’t exactly need the Bishop going all Saint Paul on me,” Dean replied.

Castiel didn’t say anything, he just stared at him.

Dean squinted at him “What wrong?”

Castiel didn’t say anything.

“Cas?”
Castiel walked closer to him. “You are such a brilliant soul. Not just because of who you are. But because of what you are. You are...the most beautiful human I have ever known.” He paused. “I’m glad that God-fate- has brought us together again. Even though I know you’re something I can’t have.

“What?” Dean blinked.

“Before...you loved Miriamne. And even if you hadn’t, you knew that a relationship between us was forbidden. You may have had feelings for me but you never acted on them.” Castiel nodded. “I know you won’t act on them now.”

“Cas I-” Dean took a deep breath. “I’m not him.” Dean gestured to the crucifix. “Even if I am him. Okay? I don’t care.” Dean paused, walking over to Castiel. Carefully, he reached up, ghosting his fingertips over the stubble of his cheek. “It doesn’t matter to me that you're an angel or that you’re wearing a guy for that matter.”

“Dean you don’t have to-”

Dean took a deep breath. He put his hands around Castiel’s neck, closing his eyes. “ ‘Love is strong as Death. Passion is fierce as the grave. Its flashes are flashes of fire,” he whispered. Leaning closer, he pressed his lips gently against Castiel’s.

Castiel kissed him back. Harder and deeper. He grabbed Dean’s jacket, turning him and pushing him against the front of the front pew, He slid Dean’s beanie off of his head, letting it fall to the floor as he dug his hands into Dean’s hair.

Dean winced, pulling his mouth away. “Easy tiger,” he breathed.

“You were quoting scripture at me,”  Castiel rasped, planting soft kisses onto Dean’s scarred forehead. “You’re filled with fire. Like a Prophet. Sanctified and Holy.” He pulled his lips away, staring into Dean’s eyes, his lips coated in a light smear of bright red blood. 

“But I could also hear your longing. What you want me to do to you. To your body. You are a dichotomy of Flesh and Spirit, Dean. A Sacred Mystery. Being in your presence is like...Ecstasy.” 

“Cas...” Dean brushed his thumb against Castiel’s lips, wiping the blood. Castiel pulled the tip of Dean’s thumb into his mouth, biting down gently. 

Dean shuddered.

“You are my communion and I am your supplicant.” 

Castiel planted rough kisses into Dean’s neck, working his way down from his ears to the top of his shoulders. He stopped briefly, lowering himself down into a squat. He picked up each of Dean’s wrists, kissing the scars. When he was done, he rolled Dean’s shirt up to his chest, kissing the scar on his side before moving over to his nipples.

Dean let out a soft groan. Pressure began to build at the base of his spine. Heat and blood rushed to his groin, radiating through his hips and stomach. 

A smile spread across Castiel’s face. He lowered himself down to his knees and slid his hand onto Dean’s inner thigh, moving it upwards until he hit the fly of Dean’s jeans. He squeezed his hand around the hard bulge just under the denim of Dean’s jeans. 

“Cas.” Dean let out a soft groan, his eyes slamming shut. “Fuck.” He shuddered, opened mouthed and breathless, running his hands through hair on the top of Castiel’s head. 

Then he heard the sound of the zipper on his jeans getting unzipped.

Castiel’s hand slipped into his fly. His palm pressed against the fabric of  Dean’s boxers, his fingers curling around his length.

Dean bit lip, muffling himself, pulling at the roots of Castiel’s hair.

Castiel’s hand slipped into the slit of his boxers. The touch and heat of his palm and fingers wrapping around him.

Dean’s eyes snapped open. Quickly, he shoved his hand into his fly, slamming it on top of Castiel’s, lacing their fingers together.“Cas.” he painted, looking down at him. “As hot as this is. I don’t feel like going to Hell. Again. We’ll finish this later. Okay?” he whispered, removing his hand from Castiel’s.

Castiel pulled his hand out of Dean’s boxers, rising back to his feet. “You swear to me?” He breathed, planting an airy kiss on Dean’s mouth. The taste of blood and wine rushing over his lips.

“Yes. I swear,” Dean hissed. “Fuck.” 

“Good.” Castiel wrapped his hands around Dean’s neck, kissing him deeply before he pushed himself away, detaching himself from Dean.

As soon as Dean was let go, his body collapsed against the pew. Limp and dizzy. He lifted himself back up, standing upright as he zipped his fly. Dean shook his head, laughing. “Jesus Christ, Cas.”  

“Blasphemy, Dean.” Castiel shot him a look.

Dean cocked his eyebrow as he picked his beanie back up, running his hand through his hair, fixing it. “Hey, I’m not the one giving third base in a church."

He made his way back down the aisle, Castiel following behind him. They were just leaving the sanctuary and walking into the vestibule when Dean’s phone started buzzing.

He dug into his pocket, grabbing his phone, answering it. “Hello?”

“Would it kill you to answer your damn phone?! This is the third time I tried calling you!” Bobby was on the other end. His voice was frustrated and nervous.

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Just get back to the motel. I found something you need to see. Now.”  Bobby hung up the phone.

“Who was that?” Castiel asked.

“Bobby.” Dean shoved his phone back into his pocket. “Come on, we gotta go.” 

They made their way out of the church and back to the Impala.

“So what’s so important you had to bitch at me for?”  Dean asked, folding his arms.

“Pretty damn important. Bobby opened the web browser on Sam’s computer, pulling up the front page of Youtube.

“Bobby if you Rick Roll me, I swear.”  Dean sighed.

Castiel squinted at him. “Why would Bobby roll a man named Richard?”

Dean rolled his eyes.

“Will the two of you shut it?” Bobby snapped.

Bobby searched ‘Moore Tornado 2009’ . When the page loaded, the top video had a screencap of a collapsed house that looked like a bomb had gone off inside of it. A flattened pile of rubble and angry, skeleton trees. The video had been uploaded only six hours previously and it already had fifty thousand views.

“Huh.” Dean cocked an eyebrow.

“Just wait.”

The video started with an image of a teenage boy in a hoodie, the camera pointed at himself.

Okay. So this is Moore Oklahoma. April 25th, 2009. The tornado was an F-5. It just...ripped through town. As you can see, shit’s been completely leveled.”

The boy turned the camera around so it was facing away from him, he scanned through the destruction as he walked down the street. Then he stopped. Shouts echoed off in the distance. 

The video turned to a house, completely demolished some one hundred feet away. There was a shadow of a person climbing out of the rubble, holding something in their arms.

The video started to shake and was filled with the sound of the boy running closer to the house, breathing heavily.

As the video got closer, the figure became clearer. It was a man-tall and lanky- wearing a brown hoodie. The hood was covering their head, casting a shadow over their face. In their arms was a small girl. The side of her head was coated in blood. She was still. Motionless.

“Jesus Christ! Someone call an ambulance!”  The boy shouted. The video stopped a few feet in front of the man.

The man spoke. “Don’t worry. She’ll be fine.”

Hearing the man’s voice, Dean’s heart plummeted. 

Sam put the girl on the ground. Placing his hand on the top of her head. 

The girl sat up gasping. The blood on her forehead was gone.

“Holy fuck! Dude! What the fuck?!” 

Sam stood up quickly and began walking away.

The video followed Sam, jumping in front of him.

“Dude...who are you?”

Sam didn’t answer him. 

Dean quickly paused the video. Staring at it.

On the back of Sam’s hands were wounds.

Circular wounds. Coated in brown-red scabs. The skin around them inflamed and irritated.

Dean’s eyes focused on them.

The wounds burned cold. As cold as ice.  

Chapter Text

The sound of cracking metal reverberated throughout the dim motel room. Sam’s laptop lay on the floor across the room from where it had sat; its screen now a spiderweb of cracks and its hinges half broken. 

Bobby sat in his chair, having slid halfway across the floor at the force of the blast. “Dean, calm down now, son.”

“You are not my father and I am not your son!” Dean snarled.

John had been Dean’s dad. But lately, another name had crept into the edges of Dean’s consciousness when he thought of his father: Abba. Dean flinched away from the thought, suddenly flooded with memories.

One was relatively new. A few years old at best, but it was curling at the edges and yellowing, like an antique photograph. For Dean it might as well have happened decades ago, and in a way, it had. After all, Dean had spent forty years in Hell. 

The other was older. Far older. Ancient. A fresco painting on the side of a catacomb. It should have been chipped away and faded with age and smoke ash. But the paint was bright and vibrant. Almost still wet. Almost.

They filled Dean’s mind, one following the other in a never-ending loop.

Dean paced outside of a motel room, his phone pressed up against his ear. His other hand pressed over his other ear. Some kids having a motel party two motel rooms down were sitting in their Ford Tempo smoking pot and blaring some Emenim song with some late 1980’s pop song sample. Dean was one verse away from pulling his fake cop badge out and giving them one hell of a bad evening. 

He glanced at the closed door of his own motel room, terrified of it opening as he did he best to listen to Dad rant about Special Children and Yellow-Eyed Demons on the other end of the line.

Then John’s voice turned serious, calm. 

“Dean…you gotta promise me, if Sam goes off the reservation. Even once…you have to take him out.”

“No,” Dean replied, narrowing his eyes. His grip tightened around the phone. 

“I know that’s a hard thing to ask, Dean. Sam’s my son and I love him too but-”

“Then why the fuck are you asking me in the first place?”

“Because it has to be done.” John choked out.

“Do it yourself, then.” Dean snapped. “I’m not gonna drink the Kool-Aid on this Antichrist Superstar shit.”

“What did you say, boy?” John’s voice turned dark.

Dean froze. He swallowed thickly, his hands shaking. “Dad, please,” he pleaded.

Silence. Just the sound of John breathing quickly, his frustration palpable.

Words spilled from Dean’s mouth. “You’re asking too much of me, okay?  I can’t do that. I won’t do that.” More silence. “Dad?...Dad?!”

The call ended. 

Dean called John back. The phone rang and rang. It kept ringing.

Then it stopped. There was a beat of silence.

“Dad, come on don’t do this, ple-”

A voicemail message started playing. “-This is John Winchester. I’m not here. If you need help call my son Dean at-”

Dean chucked his cell phone. It crashed to the pavement, breaking in half. 

Dean sat against an ancient olive tree. He was wide awake, studying the way the pitted roots intersected into a wild jumble of bark jutting up from the sandy soil. He ran a finger over the rough bark, his calloused thumbs tracing the ancient gnarled wood. Sam snored on the other side of the tree next to him. Then the snoring changed to mumbling. Then to whispered shouts, like a ghost had taken hold of his brother and would not let go. 

Dean didn’t pay much attention to it. It had become a normal thing, these dreams, over the last fortnight.

“Get away from me, Satan!” Sam croaked. He turned his body away from Dean, curling tighter into himself. “...You are my rock…you are my shield… you my rock...you are my shield…”

Sam resisted Satan. Fighting him. Dean didn’t want to think about what Lucifer would do if he got a hold of him. What he would have to do to get Sam to say just one simple word: yes. Angels could heal humans. As many times and often as they needed to.

“Peace, little brother.” Slowly, Dean reached over and placed the tips of his fingers ever so gently against Sam’s forehead, brushing the thick dark brown curls from his face. Heat crackled through his fingers, warming Sam’s skin. 

Slowly, the whispering stopped and he calmed. Dean pulled himself up from the ground, throwing his satchel over his shoulders. He walked slowly through the trees until he couldn’t anymore. Dean took in a series of rapid shallow ragged breaths. He dug into his satchel and pulled out his prayer shawl, wrapping it around his head so it was covering his face. His arms wrapped around his shoulders, he breathed in the scent of Lebanon cedar.

He wanted to go home. 

Slowly, he pulled it back so it was just covering the top of his head. “Please, Abba. You opened the Red Sea for Moses, saved Noah, and took Elijah to heaven in a fiery chariot. Please,”

Off in the distance, he could hear Sam calling his name.

“He never asked for this. We never asked for this.” Dean swallowed hard. “I never-” tears swelled his eyes. His knees buckled, and he fell to the ground. “Please Abba. You're offering me a cup, but I don't want to drink what's in it. Take it away, please.” 

As a tiny bead of bloody sweat dripped down his brow, Dean heard the flutter of wings behind him. 

“Abba. Dad. Please.”

Dean couldn’t tell which one of him was speaking. The voice sounded the same. 

The ache that had come down on him at the church earlier returned. A pinching. Stinging crackling ache. Blood dripped down Dean’s forehead. The scent of roses flooded his nose, heavy,  covering the sharp metallic odor of blood soaking into the back and the cuffs of his shirt.

“No! no! no!”

Dean pulled at the sleeves of his shirt,the scars on both of his wrists had split open. Like matching pools of blood. The blood started to bubble, slowly, dripping down his forearms like twisted rose stems. The splitting moved deeper into his wrists, down through layers of skin. Fraying tendons and cracking bone.

“Cas!” Dean yelped, his legs collapsing under him. 

. “Dean…please. Not now,” Castiel’s voice shook.

“You think I can control this, Cas?” Dean spat. “Fuck...I never wanted this. I never asked for this. Any of this.”

The ache spread to Dean’s ribcage. His shirt began to cling to the side of his chest, damp and warm.  

  “Fuck!”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Cas!” Bobby shouted, grabbing Dean from the floor. “ Do something !”

The last thing Dean saw before blacking out was Castiel’s blue eyes and cool fingers brushing against his temple.

April 29, 2009.

Pontiac, Illinois . 

Dean had slept most of the day. He woke up only once, in the morning, thanks to Castiel changing his bandages and Bobby wanting to check if his feet and hands still worked.

Dean was sitting on the side of the bed, his body leaning against the headboard, while Bobby and Castiel poked and prodded at him.

“Yeah, no bueno , Bobby.” Dean rasped, trying to make fists with his hands. His fingers just twitched.

“Balls,” Bobby sighed. “Well, how did they get fixed the last time?”

Dean just shrugged. “I’m not-”

Without saying a word, Castiel grabbed Dean’s wrists. White light flashed over them for the briefest of seconds. Dean winced reflexively before turning his gaze to Castiel and then down his wrists.

He flexed his fingers, closing them into a tight fist, and smiled sadly. “Thanks Cas.”

Castiel didn’t say anything as he crouched down, wrapping his hands around Dean’s ankles. Light flashed again. Dean wiggled his feet as Castiel helped him lay back down.

Bobby watched them for a second before making his way to the motel room door. “Well, since we don’t have a laptop at the moment, I’m gonna head to the library and see if I can dig up anything more on these Sam sightings.” When he reached the door, Bobby stopped. He looked at Castiel. “You got him?”

Castiel stood up. He didn’t say anything. He just nodded, sitting on the end of Dean’s bed.

With that, Bobby left. 

Silence filled the room.

Dean watched for a long moment as the gauze around his wrists was slowly stained a bright crimson red. He let out a soft breath. Half sigh, half laugh. “I’m sorry Cas. Not even a day in and I’m already breaking promises to you.”

Castiel didn’t say anything. The weight on the bed shifted. It was followed by the sound of the motel mattress creaking under body weight and the rustling of sheets. Arms wrapped tight around Dean’s torso. Protective, but tender.

It was followed by the gentle tickle of wings brushing against his body. Black feathers with multicolored tips. The wings settled themselves around Dean, covering him like a blanket. Even though the feathers were large, they were incredibly soft, tickling his skin where they rested.

“Shoes, Cas.” Dean sighed, grabbing Castiel’s hand into his own, and pulling them closer. 

Castiel didn’t say anything. His shoes hit the floor with a thud.

“It’s not your fault. Dean.” Castiel paused. “But... you need to learn how to control your memories. These episodes will keep happening and we can’t afford that. Especially right now. Thanks to those demons attacking the Novaks, the angels know you're somewhere in the area. Even with the cloaking sigils carved into your ribs.”

“I know.” Dean took a deep breath, closing his eyes. “I’m trying. it’s just…It’s hard carrying around a whole other person in your head. Even if that person is you…technically.” 

Castiel was quiet for a long moment. “You are Yehoshua ben Mariam , but you are also Dean Winchester. Both are equally true."

“He was called, ‘ Bar Yosef, ’ Cas. Remember?”

Castiel paused again. “Yes. I remember.”

Dean awoke to a buzzing echoing through his ears. Loud and piercing. His head spinning and throbbing.

“…A beast rose out of the earth. It performs great signs and by the signs, it deceives the inhabitants of the earth…”

Opening his eyes, He found Castiel and Bobby sitting at the motel room table. Castiel was reading from the Bible.

Dean reached up and pulled the pillow up over his ears. “Cas, can you quit it with Sunday School? It’s giving me a migraine.”

“I’m sorry, Dean.” Castiel put the bible down, making his way over to the side of Dean’s bed. “I forgot about that.” 

“Forgot about what?” Bobby cocked an eyebrow.

“-Reading the Bible let’s me tune into angel radio crap…or whatever.” Dean groaned, letting go of the pillow. He sat up, scratching absentmindedly at the wrappings on his wrists until Castiel took his right hand, inspecting it. 

Bobby glanced at Castiel. “That’s a thing?”

Castiel nodded. “Jesus barely managed to get through his bar mitzvah. Stubbornness was the only thing that got him through his Torah portion.” He started to unwind the gauze over the wrist he was holding.

" Mazel Tov .” Dean deadpanned.

"But you said the New Testament was complete crap. Both of you. Multiple times.”

Castiel shook his head. “Their factual truth is irrelevant. Once a Prophet is Chosen, their words become the Word of God.”

“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “Or as Michael told me once,” Dean paused, thinking for a second. “‘ Quid est veritas? ’”

Castiel shook his head. “That’s wrong, Dean.” 

“What do you mean?” Dean blinked. “That’s literally what he said.”

“No, I mean, you’re pronouncing it wrong,” Castiel explained evenly. “‘V’ in Classical Latin is pronounced as a ‘W.'” 

Dean scoffed. “Yeah, well, New Me doesn’t have Latin Hooked on Phonics and Old Me just didn’t know Latin. At all-”

“-And you had to walk to Jerusalem with one sandal between the thirteen of you. Uphill. Both ways. Through a snowstorm," Bobby sighed. "Will the two of you can it? You're worse than Bingo Night at an Old Folks' home."

“It doesn’t typically snow in The Levant, Bobby. It’s far too arid of a climate.”

Dean ran his hand down his face. “Jesus Christ.”

Bobby and Castiel shot him a look. 

“…What?”

“Dean, how about you take a shower,” Bobby cleared his throat. “Before the whole motel starts smelling like the Yankee Candle Flagship store.”

“That’s assuming that I can stand.” Dean slid his feet down off the bed and onto the floor, wincing as his feet touched the carpet. Tentatively, he stood.

When he didn’t collapse, he sighed. “Thank God.” Dean groaned, walking into the bathroom, grabbing his duffle bag along the way. He left the door slightly ajar as he turned the water on, letting the water heat up.

Stripping his bloodstained shirt off and the rest of the gauze wrappings, Dean sucked in a deep breath, watching himself in the mirror. Skin clung tight around his ribcage, the outline of it visible under his skin. He winced, not from any pain, but at the sight, making a hissing noise as he lifted his left arm up behind his head, running his index and middle finger over the thick scar on his ribcage.

Putting his hands on the sink, Dean leaned closer into the mirror, looking at his face. In some ways, Dean’s face was the best it had ever looked. Courtesy of Castiel healing him during his resurrection, all his teenage acne and childhood chickenpox scars were gone. His nose, once slightly crooked from countless breakings, was fixed again. Any scars he had from hunting since were few and far between.

But in many more ways, it looked far worse. Dean’s skin had become pale, making the purple scars that dotted his forehead and the bags under his eyes even more obvious. Like his ribcage, the skin over his face had tightened around his cheekbones. Dean was thankful for the beard. Without it, his face would have looked even more hollow.

He lightly smacked the side of his face with his palm, rubbing the hairs. “I look like shit,” Dean scoffed, pulling out a pair of clippers and hair scissors from his duffle bag. He trimmed the split ends and wild, uneven outgrowth from his beard and hair, but didn’t cut them. Both the hair growth and the beard remained.

After washing the hair clippings from his face,  Dean went to take his jeans off. As soon as he loosened his belt, his jeans slipped down his legs, crumpling into a pile. 

He looked at himself for a second before he started making faces in the mirror and ghoulish moaning noises. “He’s coming to get you, Barbara! Zombie Jesus is coming to get you!” Dean let out a deep chuckle. “He’s worse than Raptor Jesus because he’s got opposable thumbs-Oh wait! No, he doesn’t! Because his thumbs don’t work!”

A knock came on the bathroom door. “Dean, stop fucking around and take a shower!” Bobby shouted.

Dean rolled his eyes, walking over to the shower. “Zombie Jesus can’t take the wheel either.”

Bobby groaned followed by the sound of his footsteps moving away.

Dean stepped under the shower faucet. A gush of bright red ran down his body, staining the white tub pink. Specks of red water hit the shower curtain. The sound of the shower wasn’t loud enough to drown out Bobby and Castiel’s conversation in the motel room.

“So as I was saying, Lucifer will use Sam to damn as many souls as possible into Perdition before he takes hold of him. You saw the wounds on Sam's hands?" 

"Yeah. Nasty-looking things. Sure as hell didn't look Dean's wounds."

"That's because they're not from Heaven. They're what’s known as diabolical stigmata.”

“...Diabolical stigmata?” Bobby asked.  

The first thing Dean noticed about Sam’s wounds was how different from his own they were. Dean’s wounds always bled freely. They never scabbed. Despite never closing, they never festered. Not once. And the color of the blood never faded. It always stayed a bright red crimson. Even after constant washing, whatever blood remained on his clothes was still a bright red. Most importantly, Sam’s wounds were in the wrong spot. Sam’s were in the palms. Dean’s were in his wrists. 

“It’s rare. Very rare." Castiel paused. "Outside of Lucifer, the only beings powerful enough to make them are The Princes of Hell. Demons like Cain, Lilith or Alastair.”

Dean’s eyes went wide. He froze. A voice started to echo through his mind.

“.....Say what I want to hear, Dean, and I’ll take those pesky nails out of your palms, lickity-split…..”

Dean closed his eyes. Ducking his head under the showerhead, he tried to block out the sound of Alistair’s cloying persuasion. It could have been the first time he asked or the thousandth. The years in Hell ran together, and every day ended in the same question.

He focused on the smell. The scent of roses flooding the shower, puffing out through the steam like fragrant clouds.

It was the only time it did not annoy Dean. It gave him something else to focus on other than Alastair’s nasally voice.

“…That’s where Sam is getting his power from. A small bit of Lucifer’s grace. Just enough so that he can do things like what he did in that video. ”

Dean tensed.

“Then there's the Whore. She will make false prophecies in Sam’s name.”

"And what are the angels gonna do about this?

“Nothing.”

”They're just gonna let Sam go full-Damien Thorn? I know this is the Apocalypse and all, but that seems a little counterintuitive.”

Shutting the water off, Dean climbed out of the shower and got dressed. 

“'The Beast' is part of the Final Judgment. A last test for the faithful. And some, not many, but some of my siblings have sided with Lucifer. Even if none of this was the case. Hell will make sure that Sam and The Whore are well hidden from the eyes of Heaven, especially Dean.”

“What about that whole ‘666’ thing?” Bobby asked.

“It’s a political joke. Greek gematria. The letters that correspond to each number spell out ‘Nero Caesar.’ The early Christians didn’t like him very much, considering he blamed the burning of Rome on them.” Castiel took a deep breath. “In any case, the only thing that can kill the Whore is a blade made from the branch of a Babylonian Cyprus tree. A True Servant of Heaven must be the one to wield it.” 

Bobby scoffed. “You’re saying that like we don’t have The Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch over there.”

Just before grabbing the door handle, Dean froze.

“The Whore can only be killed by a True Servant of Heaven,” Castiel said. “Dean won’t be able to. Not now.”  Without skipping a beat he added, “I won’t be able too either.”

“So Jesus Christ and a seraph can’t kill a demon because they want to save the world?” Bobby sighed. “Sounds like a George Carlin skit.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, pushing open the bathroom door. “Then we resurrect Steve Irwin or Mr. Rogers. Nab the Pope. Shit, I’ll fly to Rome right now if I have to and I fucking hate airplanes,” he quipped. Bobby and Castiel quickly turned to meet his gaze. Dean sat down at the edge of his bed, grabbed his boots and socks, and quickly put them on.

“...Dean.”

“I don’t give a shit. We shank the lot lizard whore. And then we save Sam.”

He left, slamming the door behind him. He took a flask out of his jacket pocket and took a long pull from it.

Moments later, Castiel came outside, he walked over to him slowly. “I know you want to save Sam, but you have to understand… the Sam Winchester you knew. Your brother- is gone.”

Dean didn’t say anything. He screwed the cap back to the flask, shoving it into his pocket as he walked away from Castiel, making his way down the motel sidewalk.

Castiel followed him. “You saw him in that chapel. He stank of sulfur. Of abomination–.”

"And he had black eyes!” Dean stopped, turning around. His voice cracked. “I noticed. It was hard not to.” He walked over to the brick wall, drumming on it.

Memories flooded him. A cacophony of the past.

Dean paused for a long moment.  “When Sam was James, he had a nickname. Like how I was called ‘The Nazarene.”

Castiel sighed knowingly, shaking his head.

“What was it?”

Castiel took a deep breath. He paused. “...Dean.”

“James The Just. He was a saint, Cas. Like literally.” Dean said bluntly. There’s some part of Sam left that’s still good, that’s still Sam , even if it’s just a goddamn atom, that’s still enough. I’m not gonna give up on that.”

"Dean. Please.”

"He's my brother Cas. He’s always been-” 

Castiel grabbed Dean by the shoulders, slamming him against the wall of the motel. Angry hot tears swelled in his eyes.

“I can still see your mother washing the blood from your body by lamplight. How she would pause and gag when the light shifted,” he rasped, digging into Dean’s jacket. “I remember your wife sobbing while she cradled her belly like a vase because it was the only thing left of you. The sound of your brother struggling to recite the mourner's kaddish haunts me to this day.”

Castiel’s grip tightened. His eyes glowed with a subtle blue light. “I won’t watch you die. Not again. Not now . Do you understand me?”

“Cas, stop. Please.” Dean whispered.

Castiel froze. He let go of Dean and backed away from him, his expression like that of someone who had seen a ghost.

“...Cas?”

Castiel didn’t respond.

Wings fluttered. The angel disappeared.

“Fucking hell! Cas!” Dean called out. “Cas!”

Nothing happened.

“Son of a bitch.”  

“ Hello…Castiel.” Dean swallowed, rising to his feet, and wiping his brow. A smear of blood stained the rough spun wool. 

Without saying a word, Castiel walked over to him and placed his fingers on Dean’s temple. With it, the bloody sweat was gone. 

“ Thank you.” He sighed, relieved, but shaken. “Do you know the worst part of this, Castiel? Out of the Apostles, the only one who didn’t flee is the one I want here the least.” 

  “Simon The Zealot and Peter are still here. I’m still here.” Castiel said.

“And I’m not going anywhere.” Sam walked over to them.

Dean shook his head.

“The Romans are coming!” Simon The Zealot came running into the grove. He grabbed two angel blades from his satchel and tossed one to Peter. 

“We’ll fight for you Rabbi. You have my word,” Peter said, catching it.

Dean just chuckled, bitterly. “Peter, by the time the sun rises, you will have told at least three different people that you don’t even know me.”

Silence.

Castiel turned his head back in the direction of the city. “Please, I beg you to run,” Castiel pleaded.

Dean paused. He turned his gaze over to Peter and Simon and then Sam. Before finally turning to Castiel again. “No.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes. Sharply. “I rebelled for this?!” grabbed Dean by the shoulders, shoving him against one of the olive trees. “Just so you can give in to them!?”

“Castiel. Stop--.” Dean tried to push Castiel away, but the angel didn’t budge. 

“I gave up…everything for you…and this is what you give to me!?” Castiel hissed.

“If you’re going to smite me, just do it!” Dean’s voice cracked, his hands going limp.

Castiel loosened his grip. But he didn’t let go. His expression softened slightly.

“Do it, damn it!” Dean's breath shook. “If not...just stop. Please.” 

Castiel paused. Silence filled the space between them. Castiel took a deep breath. He embraced Dean, leaning their foreheads together. “We’ve been through so much together. You and I. I can’t stop. I won’t stop.” 

Slowly, Castiel pressed his lips against Dean's. Gentle but lingering.

Castiel was Jonathan to his David. But Dean hoped that Castiel was saying farewell to him. Kissing was used as a greeting and a goodbye. Even among men. 

Dean placed his palm on Castiel's chest, pushing the angel away from him and slipping his eyes closed. "Please Castiel." He whispered.

Silence fell between them. The only sound was Castiel's sandals scuffing against the dirt. 

 “Shalom, Rabbi.” Castiel's voice whispered.

Flapping wings. And with that, Castiel was gone. 

Dean made his way down the sidewalk, his eyes scanning the cemetery that was just beyond the fence.

‘Yahtzee.” He sighed, catching sight of Castiel. He was standing in the center of the cemetery looking at a reproduction of Michelangelo’s Pieta.

Dean walked through the gate and down the path leading to the center.

As he moved closer, Castiel turned his head. “You found me quickly.”

“I can sense angels, Cas. Remember?”

Castiel nodded, he turned around “Dean. I'm sorry."

"It's fine, Cas." Dean sighed, folding his arms. He cleared his throat before walking over to Castiel. “You feeling nostalgic?” He gestured to the statue. 

"No," Castiel said bluntly, grief edging his words. "You didn't look like that. You were much shorter…at least by comparison. The top of your head would have landed about here." Castiel gestured to the bottom of Dean's chin. Castiel paused, studying Dean. "Your hair was darker. Almost black. It wasn't long either. Well, It was still longer than you would ever have worn it but it didn't go past your chin… at least I don't think it did… It was very curly.”

"Yeah, I kinda gathered I looked less… My-Sweet-Lord-Era George Harrison, and more...Serpico Pacino with a year-round tan." Dean paused. "My eyes were green, right?”

Castiel nodded. “They were the same shade of green. The exact same shade….but I suspect you knew that already.”

Dean nodded. He turned back to the statue for a second. “Hair’s wrong. Wounds are wrong.” He took a deep breath. “Also, It’s missing a couple of people.”

 “That it is.” Castiel paused, he started walking away from the statue, heading back towards the exit.

Dean followed behind him.

“They got married, you know.”

Dean cocked an eyebrow. 

“James and Mariamne.”

Dean squinted at Cas for a second, then nodded. “Right. If a man died before he could have children, his next oldest brother was supposed to marry his widow. I guess being pregnant with one didn’t count.”

“No. It didn't. It was…a macabre affair to say the least.” Castiel paused again. “She had a girl. Sarah, named for your first sister. I never met her, but…She had your eyes. Sarah, in turn, had twins. A boy and a girl. One named for your second sister, Dinah. The other for James but- it was Dinah who had his eyes."

“So James died what… twenty…thirty years after me?”

Castiel nodded slowly. "Yes."

“But he also led the Apostles after I died, right?"

"Not only that, he presided over the Council of Jerusalem."

Dean stopped. "Then how come I’ve never heard of him?” I mean shit, he has like…two references by Origen and Eusebius and that’s basically it.” 

Castiel didn’t say anything.

“... Cas?”

“James managed to convince one of your brothers and his family-Judah- that you had Risen. I suspect whatever angel had manipulated his dreams did the same to the rest of your family.”

“Makes sense. The angels needed to make sure people believed it. If his family said it was him, then it had to be him, right?.” Dean shrugged.

Castiel nodded. “Judah became one of James’ Apostles. The letters of James and Jude were written by them. Then a few years later, Saul of Tarsus had his…’ vision.” Castiel paused. “From Zachariah.”

“Figures.” Dean scoffed. “And he was picked because he never met me.”

“And he had Roman citizenship. It was given to his great uncle in 43 BC by Mark Antony in exchange for control over Judea. His great uncle being Herod the Great.”

Dean scoffed.

“He and James fought quite viciously over…circumcision. Torah observance, kosher laws. Good Works. Everything.  Paul was Jewish, of course, but the Herodians were never very… observant to begin with. And Paul grew up among Greeks in what today is Turkey. He had great success getting Gentiles to believe that Jesus was the Messiah, far better than James did among his Jewish brethren. And the angels still needed to take the Earth back from the Pagans.”

“And I’m sure James being the vessel of Satan didn’t exactly endear to him to heaven either.”

“No. Paul couldn’t have that. Neither could the angels.” Castiel paused. “It was a few years before the Jewish-Roman War. James and Paul were at The Temple, having an argument.” Castiel paused again. “Zachariah was possessing Paul. He pushed James off the side of the Temple."

 Dean clenched his fists.

“I managed to slow his fall but…” Castiel just shook his head. “I got exorcized from my vessel. He was stoned to death by some of Zachariah's angels.” 

Dean started walking again, turning a corner out of the cemetery and back on to the sidewalk. “Great. I can add ‘Killing James’ to my list of reasons why I’m going to give Zachariah a lobotomy with an angel blade.”

 “But…no one in your family was ever named after you. Not a nephew, not a son, a grandson, a grandnephew, a great-grandson. Not a single one.”

Dean knew why. Half of his family couldn’t bring themselves to do it. The other half didn’t believe he was actually dead; naming children after the living was bad luck.

“After the Jewish-Roman Wars, they were scattered into the winds with the rest of the Jewish diaspora from Judea,” Castiel paused. “Around this time, the gospel writers came up with the virgin birth. A century or so later, A church father came up with the doctrine of Mary’s perpetual virginity. Meaning that she never knew a man, ever. A few centuries after that, another church father conflated Mariamne with another woman and after that, she became known as a prostitute.”

“So my family got Terminatored because of ecumenical politics.”

“Essentially, yes.”

It was strange to think about. Dean had been someone known by billions of people. Someone the very calendar was based around. And yet, there were exactly two people on the planet who actually knew him. Remembered him. Dean was one. Castiel was the other.

Dean pulled up the right sleeve on his jacket, exposing the scars on his wrist. “They say a person dies twice. Once when you actually die. Again, when people forget about you."

He began to think about himself-Dean Winchester- in a few hundred years, getting turned into some sexless effigy clothed in white, almost completely devoid of humanity. A ghost.

Dean paused for a moment as he and Castiel crossed the street and walked back over to the motel parking lot.  A thought crept into his mind. One he had thought about periodically for the last couple of years. Since he learned about the Michael and Lucifer bloodline, it was always in the back of his mind.

As they reached the Impala,  Dean took a deep breath. "Is Ben Braden my son?”

Castiel paused. Only briefly.  “Yes.”

Silence fell between them.

“If…if you want to be with Lisa, I’ll understand-”

“No, it’s fine.” Dean shook his head. "Lisa said she had a DNA test done but the next time I saw her after that weekend was Ben’s birthday party and the dates added up so…” Dean shrugged. “I had a feeling she was lying. Can't say I blame her.” Dean paused. "I don't know how I wasn't careful. I'm always careful." 

"Lisa has Davidic blood,” Castiel said bluntly. “I'm sure whatever cupid matched you up made sure you weren't careful."

Dean groaned, rolling his eyes. “Thanks, Cas. Now I’ve got an image of a baby in a diaper going through my pockets and poking holes in all of my condoms.”

When the nausea dissipated, a light went off in Dean's head. 

“Cas!” Dean shouted. “You said the angels haven't been on Earth since… I died… essentially, right?”

“Because of the angelic war that broke out after, yes. Partly.” Castiel nodded. “But it was mostly because The Temple got destroyed and desecrated.”

“Either way, you guys haven’t been down here in millennia, but me and Sam are part of a bloodline . An important bloodline. The angels had to make sure our ancestors made babies with the right people at the right time.”

" As I said, that's the work of Cherubs. Not Seraphim.”

“That’s just what Angel Resources tells you. If you can change who someone has or doesn’t have kids with, you can change other things. Who knows what else they did? ” Dean said. “We'll go to Pamela’s. Have her do one of those hippie dippy past-life regression things on me. One of me had to have learned something at some point. Shit, I was probably even a Campbell at least once or twice. I’ve been a hunter before, Cas.”

  “What if it doesn’t work?”

“We try plan B.”

“And if plan B doesn’t work?”

“Plan C. Failing that, we try Plan ‘ Alph ’, ‘ Bet ’, and ‘ Gimmel ’. And if those don’t work, we try plans “Alif’ ‘Bah’, and ‘Jim’. And if that doesn’t work- I don’t know- we try fucking…kanji.” He paused. "We'll figure it out Cas. Somehow." 

Dean leaned in and kissed him. Slowly and lingering. A kiss of love. He pulled back, pressing his forehead to Castiel’s, his fingers tracing the folds of his tie. Suddenly, the motel door closed in tandem with Bobby clearing his throat.

Dean froze for a second before he pushed back, tucking the tie against Cas’s shirt, pretending to straighten it out. “Cas you gotta stop spilling shit on your tie,” he said.

Castiel looked at him confused “I didn’t spill anything?”

Bobby looked at them for a second. He just laughed. “So if you two are done with your…Divine Telenovela…. Somebody’s gotta go to Best Buy and get a new laptop. He leaned against the Impala, looking pointedly at Dean. “And I gotta get some sorta wheels to get back home.”

Bobby chucked the Impala’s keys at him.

Dean caught them, jumping into the driver’s seat.  “What about one of those iPhones? It’s small. I can’t break it.”

“Apparently the ‘touch screen’ on those things break if you even look at them wrong.” Bobby scoffed, climbing into Impala’s backseat.

Dean dropped Bobby off at a car rental while he and Castiel drove over to a local mall.

He parked in a shaded section far away from the hustle and bustle of the main entrance. Dean opened the trunk, digging through his duffle bag until he found a plaid shirt of his that wasn’t blood-stained.  He handed it and a jacket to Castiel.

“Take the Columbo jacket off and put these on.”

Castiel blinked at him. “What’s wrong with my vessel’s clothes?

“Well…Generally, you don’t see people standing in line at Orange Julius dressed like Robert Stack in Unsolved Mysteries.”

“Dean,” Castiel blinked again. “I have no idea what any of that means.”

“Just put the clothes on Cas.” Dean sighed, leaning against the side of the car. A moment later, Castiel climbed out of the Impala dressed in the shirt and jacket. The blue tie still around his neck.

Dean rolled his eyes and grabbed it, pulling it off of Castiel, tossing it unceremoniously into the front seat before shutting the door.

The pair made their way inside of the mall, heading straight into Best Buy where Dean quickly got the first decent computer he could find.

As they made their way towards the exit, Dean caught sight of two sets of teenage couples in band hoodies and t-shirts with dyed hair as they passed by him. The boys with their floppy side parts. One girl with pink hair, the other with blue. Dean stopped, watching as the boys joked around with the girls before handing them a stack of what looked to be CD cases and departing as the girls entered the store. “Some things never change.”

“Is this some sort of rite of passage? Dying your hair in bright unnatural colors and wearing dark clothing?”

“If you’re not a dweeb it is.” Dean scoffed.

Castiel blinked. “And you know this from experience?”

Dean nodded, smiling, he walked a short distance over to a bench, and sitting down on it. Castiel followed behind him.

“Summer 1994. Back in May, Dad had left me and Sam with Bobby while he worked this case up in Winnipeg. He ended up staying for a couple of months working cases with some Canadian hunters. Me and Sam actually finished a grade for once. I think that’s the only high school yearbook I’ve got. Anyway, it was the year Dookie came out…”

Castiel blinked.

“…It’s one of the cassettes I've got in the Impala." Dean cleared his throat. “...‘It all keeps adding up. I think I’m cracking up. Am I just paranoid? Am I just stoned?’...”

Castiel nodded. “...‘I’m the son of Rage and Love, The Jesus of Suburbia’…”

Dean rolled his eyes. Of course, Cas would know that one. “‘No one ever died for my sins in Hell. Far as I can tell, at least ones I got away with’ .” Dean paused, taking a deep breath.  “Wrong album Cas, but yes.”

“You know,” Castiel paused for a second, thinking. “One of Green Day’s inspirations for that cassette was Jesus Christ Superstar…which was inspired by the Gospels,” Castiel smirked. “...And that cassette came out when you were actively hunting by yourself so if you wanted to make it holy scripture-”

“-Yeah.” Dean laughed. “Not happening, Cas.”

There was a beat of silence.

Dean cleared his throat again. “Anyway. Woodstock ‘94. Billie Joe’s got this bitchin' bright blue hair, and he’s standing on stage covered in brown sludge throwing chunks of mud at people and screaming. It was awesome. Me and this girl I was dating at the time went into the Hot Topic at The Empire Mall and got a five-finger discount on blue manic panic hair dye. I spent that entire summer with bright blue hair.” Dean paused. “I shaved it off right before Dad came to pick us up. I didn’t want him calling me a fruitcake.” Dean paused. “Or worse.”

Castiel grabbed his Dean’s hand. “That’s in the past now, Dean.” 

Dean squeezed it briefly before letting go.

“Not completely,” Dean laughed “I mean shit if we ever wanted to get married, our options would be…..New England basically. And Baby doesn’t do well with road salt.” Dean scoffed. "Thanks Prop-8."

“Are you asking me to-”

Dean's face reddened. “Let's burn that bridge when we get there, okay Cas?” 

Castiel squinted at him.

Just then, the girls with pink and blue hair came out of the store, one of the employees following behind them.

“But you always let us chill in here!”

“Dude, not if you’re gonna do that .”

“But we’re not being dicks about it though. We just wanna talk-”

“I don’t care. You can’t proselytize in here.” 

Some Christian hardcore kids were causing issues at the mall. At the exact same time Dean happened to be shopping there.

“Son of a bitch.” Dean hissed knowingly, rising from the bench.

Castiel blinked. ‘What wrong-?”

“Nothing I can’t handle by myself. Just,” Dean sighed. He pointed at the bench. “Sit. Stay.”

Castiel glared at him. “I’m not a dog needing obedience training, Dean.”

Dean paused for a second, shifting his eyes before he darted over in the direction of the Hot Topic.

He felt a body slam into his chest in a blur of pink and black hair. The stack of cardboard cd cases went flying.

Standing in front of him were the girls from the store. The one that Dean walked into, the pink-haired one, had been caught by the blue-haired one who was steadying her.

“Sorry.” Dean cleared his throat, bending down and grabbing the stack CDs.  “You okay?”

They both nodded, grabbing the rest of the stack.

Dean glanced at it. It was a DIY album by a band from Minnesota called, "Matt and The Joyland Parousia ." 

On the back was a picture of the band. A group of four people. The Bassist was someone Dean recognized.  

It was the boy Dean had met, and healed, in Wichita a few months previously.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean whispered under his breath. He cleared his throat, as he stood back up. “This is pretty cool. What are you guys selling this for?”

The pink-haired girl's eyes locked on Dean and widened. "Oh. My. God."

Dean’s jaw tensed as he pulled his hands deeper into his jacket sleeves so just his fingertips were visible.

“You want one?” The pink-haired girl chirped.

Dean blinked, shifting his eyes. 

"Me and my boyfriend are friends with the bassist on Myspace. He gave us an entire box of them," she said, handing Dean a CD.

Dean blinked at her, taking the CD. “...Oh really?

"They sound like a cross between My Chemical Romance and Devil Wears Prada."  

Dean blinked  “...Devil Wears what now ?"

“Dude, he’s like… thirty ." The blue-haired one laughed, linking her arm around the pink-haired one’s arm.

Dean made an offended face. "Excuse you–"

The girls started to walk away.

“You guys don't have anything else to say to me?”

The pink-haired girl stopped for a second, looking at Dean. “I like your cologne. It's nice. A little strong. But nice.” 

She waved at him as they disappeared into the crowd.

Dean stood there, furrowing his brow as he opened up the lyrics booklet.  

His ears started buzzing. 

Dean closed it and slid the booklet about into the case.

Castiel walked over to him. “Well…that’s not good.”

Dean scoffed. “So what was…that?”

“A worst-case scenario.”

“Meaning?”

“Like I said, some of my siblings, not many but a few, have sided with Lucifer. Uriel was one of them. Of course, they can’t do so directly–”

“--But they can just … neglect to mention meeting Jesus when they task some kids with literally handing out a ... Gospel?” Dean paused. Blinking. He looked at Castiel. “This is a gospel, isn’t it?"

Castiel nodded.

Dean rolled his eyes. "That quick?" 

“It’s the Apocalypse, Dean. There's a reason for expediency. And this will become part of the Winchester Gospel. Eventually. Yes."

Just then, Dean’s phone went off with a phone call. “Hello?”

“Dean.”

“Claire…?” Dean said. He ducked into a corner behind a vending Machine. Castiel followed behind him. “What's wrong?”

“Castiel isn’t speaking to me anymore, right?” Dean looked over at Castiel

 He shook his head.

“No,” Dean said bluntly. “What happened?”

Claire paused. “Then it was her this time. I knew it. Mom said it must have been Cas –”

“What are you talking about?”

“Mary. She visited me last night.”

Dean sighed “Claire. Listen, I know for a fact that the Virgin Mary isn’t visiting people’s dreams.”

“No, Dean.” Claire paused. “It was your Mom. At least I think that’s who it was. She had on this white dress that kind of looked like a nightgown. But there was a bloody rip in the belly. And she was blonde.”

Dean froze. “What happened?”

“Nothing. She said you needed to go to ‘The storage room in New York’. But not the one in Buffalo. The other one. She said that you’d find what you are looking for there.” Claire paused. “She also said to tell you, ‘Don't carry the world upon your shoulders’.”

Dean’s heart sank. “Thanks, Claire.”

“You’re welcome.”

“What was that? Castiel asked.

“We’re going to New York.” 

May 01, 2009.

Goshen, New York .

The bright early morning sun reflected off the tips of the rolling tree-topped Catskill Mountains while Dean drove down Interstate 84. This was the first time Dean had driven on that highway in six months. In fact, this had been the same stretch of highway Dean and Sam had taken to reach that ghost hunt in Connecticut. 

Sam had been in the passenger seat, and the only mark Dean had on his body was a handprint on his left shoulder. Now Cas was sitting in the passenger seat and Dean had more scars on his body than he could count. 

The radio station they were listening to had turned into static, but Dean was too lost in thought to notice. 

Leaning one arm in the window, Dean glanced over to the mountains, crooning to himself. " ‘Life is old there, older than the trees. Younger than the mountains, growin' like a breeze’… " Dean paused, switching the hand on the steering wheel so he could take a sip of his iced coffee. “I never understood that line."

"What you Americans call The Appalachian Mountains were part of what you humans call the Central Pangean Mountain Range. Technically, these are the same mountains as the Scottish Highlands." Castiel paused. "These mountains are older than trees. Quite literally." 

" Pangea , huh?" Dean paused. "Sometimes I forget how old you are. You're like… older than space dust."

"I'm not that old." Castiel folded his arms."And you're pretty old yourself. Your soul is anyway."

"How old?" 

"Well, as I said before, you were Adam. Of course, I don't mean that literally . All members of the Homo genus had an ‘Adam’. But you-Homo Sapiens- you took fruit from the Tree of Knowledge and ate it. Then you started making cave art and using bows and arrows for hunting…which you also used on… Neanderthals.” 

Dean took a breath. "I'm the first mammal to wear pants. Got it." 

“You also… gave your table scraps of mammoth meat to orphaned wolf puppies, bred them, and incidentally, created... dogs.”

“So you’re saying we’re not all bad?”

“Humans are capable of great mercy and kindness.” Castiel took a deep breath. “ But they are also capable of great savagery. Your body bears an example of it. And Jesus wasn’t even the only one.”

“I know.” Dean cleared his throat. The word came out slowly. Awkwardly. “I...I remember Sepphoris burning. The Romans crucified anybody they could get their hands on. And I mean anybody . The smell…” His fingers tensed around the steering wheel. “It’s not a smell you forget.” 

“No.” Castiel paused. 

There was a beat of silence between them.

“Anyway.” Dean cleared his throat. “New State. New radio stations.” He fiddled with the radio stations. 

“...That you were Romeo, you were throwin' pebbles. And my daddy said, "Stay away from Juliet…"

Dean’s cheeks flushed. He twisted the dial. 

“ ....A second rash of tornado outbreaks has broken out in the Midwest. This time going through Minnesota…"

Dean turned the dial again.

“…It's the end of the world as we know it- And I feel fine…”

‘Nope.” Dean changed the dial again.

“...Runnin' with the Devil…”

“Damn it, Eddie.” Dean grumbled. Not pulling his eyes from the road, Dean dug into his box of tapes. He grabbed a tape and glanced at it. AC/DC. Highway to Hell . 

Dean rolled his eyes. He dropped the tape back into the box. Still, without taking his eyes off the road, Dean grabbed another tape at random, popping into the tape deck. 

“...There's no stoppin' the cretins from hoppin'..You gotta keep it beatin' for all the hoppin' cretins...”

 “Whatever.” Dean shrugged. “That works.”

Music blared through the cabin.

They didn’t speak for the rest of the drive.

The Impala pulled into the parking lot of a storage facility tucked behind a Stop and Shop and Dunkin Donuts. An old building made of brown brick with burnt orange garage doors and wood paneling.

Dean and Castiel walked through the dark halls. Occasionally passing old soda machines until they reached the door of the locker.

Dean opened door, turning the light on. Revealing a small eight-foot-by-ten-foot room stacked with boxes.

“So what are we looking for exactly?” Castiel asked.

“How to gank Lucifer with a Care Bear stare?" Dean sighed, closing the door. "I don't know. But it’s gotta be something that’s in here. Anything." Dean grumbled "You check that side. I'll take this side. I’ll take this side and we’ll meet in the middle.

Castiel nodded. 

Dean made his way through his section of the storage locker. Stepping over stacks of boxes.

He was digging through a stack of books when something caught Dean's eye. Sitting under Dean’s old Ewok stuffed animal and sitting shoved inside Sam’s bassinet was a wood box about the size of large shoe box with silver inlay. It was a box Dean had seen in his mother’s closet a few times as a young boy. A foggy, distant memory. 

The last time he had seen it at all, in fact, was when Dad had gotten the storage locker to begin with. 

"That was in Mom and Dad's closet. How the…” Dean's eyes went wide. It had been in his parent’s bedroom. The room is right next to Sam's bedroom.  The box should have been ash, but it appeared as though it hadn't even been touched. 

"Son of a bitch. " Dean hissed. He grabbed the box and opened it. The smell of acacia wood wafted over him. Memories began to creep into Dean's mind. Slowly, like cleaning dust from a mirror. 

It was then that Dean noticed it. Sitting on top of an old cloth-bound journal with Beatles stickers on it were two cylinder-shaped objects about the size of a fountain pen. Confused. He picked one of them up and turned it over. Squinting at them.

They were old. Very old. They were both made of silver but had long since turned gray with age. Carved into the bottom was a hamsa hand and carved into the top was the Hebrew letter ‘shin’ 

A mezuzah. Dean knew instantly what it was. He remembered what it was. But the memory wasn’t from Jesus. From his previous life. It was his own. Dean Winchester. It was an old memory. One of his very first, in fact. Head trauma and decades had turned the memory to dust and the dirt of the grave had buried it. 

Mary. His Mary. Mary Campbell. Mom. Picking him up under his arms, his tiny feet brushing against her swollen belly, and having him kiss it before they went inside the house.

They had been on the front and back door in the house in Lawrance.

Dean froze. Placing the mezuzah backs in the box, he reached for the journal, opening it.

‘Happy Bat Mitzvah ‘Miriam’
December 23, 1967
Love, Ima.  

Dean flipped over the first page.

December 26th, 1967

Mom and Dad got into a fight again. Mom wanted to visit Saba Moishe in Illinois for Hanukkah. I just made my Bat Mitzvah and we haven't seen him since Safta Rivka’s funeral, but Dad wanted to visit his cousins for Christmas.

Mom and me ended up going to Illinois by ourselves. I gotta say, it was really nice not having to wake up early for church on Christmas!

Dean chuckled. He flipped over a few more pages until his father’s name caught his eye.

March 23, 1972.

I saw Slaughter-House Five today and I was the only person in the theater. It wasn’t as good as the book but it was still really good.

When I was leaving the theater, I bumped into this guy John. Marine Corps. Fresh from Vietnam. He’s a big Zeppelin fan. He’s pretty cute. 

Dean flipped a couple of pages until he found a date Dad had mentioned a few times, but never really talked about.

June 23, 1972.

John and I are on our way back home from Denver. Led Zeppelin was amazing. We left Tuesday. (Thank God Carlos got us a motel room.) Right now we're parked along US Route 40 outside of Oakley, Kansas. John's sleeping in the front seat of my car. I'm sitting in the backseat, drawing pictures in the fogged up windows wearing nothing but John's flannel shirt. It smells like cigarettes and motor oil. Not herbs or rock salt like my own clothes. It's nice. 

 I don’t know what’s going to be harder, telling Dad that John’s not a hunter or Mom that he’s not Jewish.

Dean closed the journal for a second, scrunching his brow as he scoffed. Opening it again, he skipped through a few pages until he started seeing 1973 dates. When hit he hit late April. He froze. 

Taking a deep breath, he turned the page. 

May 3, 1973.

I’m sitting Shiva for Mom by myself. Well, John is here. 

I got into a fight on the phone with some of Dad’s cousins about…everything. Mom getting buried in a cemetery instead of getting a hunter’s funeral like Dad. Mom is having a separate funeral before the Campbells could get here. The Campbells just…took over Dad’s funeral. I didn't go.  

August 20th , 1975

We eloped. Reno City Hall. Now Millie can stop asking if we’re going to get married in a church or a temple. She isn’t a bad mother-in-law, but sometimes she can be pushy. 

February 1st 1979

Me and John took Dean to a Conservative Temple in Kansas City for his brit Milah. He was a such a good baby. Which was good, because it was more than a little awkward. John couldn’t be involved, so I was in the room with the rabbi and mohel by myself. I called Saba Moishe after. Luckily, he was having a good day. Well…sort of. He said I should have named Dean after him anyway. That the angel of death must have forgotten about him and I’d be doing him a favor if I named Dean after him.    

December 10th 1982.

I Lit a menorah with Dean tonight for the first time. It was Shabbat too so we got to light candles for that too. I got him a kippah with Batman on it. It’s a little big for him, but he’ll grow into it.

I think he thought it was his birthday because he blew the candles out. I felt bad yelling at him. He loved the potato pancakes, though.

 May 10, 1983

Sammy had his Brit Milah today. John didn’t go with me this time.

In happier news. Dean’s gonna start Hebrew school at the Jewish Community Center in the fall. Since his birthday is early in the year, they’ll just count him as five.

Dean flipped a few pages going to where November would be.

Nothing.

What was there, however of sheets of notebook paper. Paper Dean knew well. Paper from Dad’s journal.

November 5th 1983

Dean’s not talking. I think it has something to do with last night. I came back to Leah and Aaron's house smashed and he wouldn't stop talking about Sabbath candles so I yelled at him. 

There was no date, but Dean assumed it was from 1985 or 1986. 

Jim’s not watching the boys ever again. The son of a bitch baptized my kids. I can’t raise them the way Mary woulda wanted, it hurts too much, but their circumcision certificates didn’t go up in flames. For fuck’s sake.

Dean’s eyes darted as he put the journal back in the box, closing the lid. He shoved the box under his arm and turned, making his way to the door. 

Castiel walked over to him. “You descend from the Tribes of Judah and Levi through her. ” He said plainly. “And David. Your mother was one of the last direct lines but I assume you figured that out already. John is where your most direct desposyni blood comes from. Samuel as well. Through the English via French, I believe.”

Dean scoffed. “Thanks Dan Brown."

“I healed every wound on your body when I raised you from Hell, Dean. Why do you think I didn’t heal your-”

“No, Cas. I get it. I just-" Dean stopped, his hand gripping on the door handle. He narrowed his eyes. “He spent twenty-two fucking years trying to get revenge for her but he couldn't be bothered to keep her memory alive? In a way she would have wanted.”

"Your father was a Gentile, Dean. Mary’s father as well. And if I had to guess, the idea of raising you and your brother as your mother would have wanted was too painful for him.”

With the smell of the wood wafting around him, memories started to swirl in Dean’s head. Not his old memories, not Jesus’ but Dean’s own.

They were old memories. Some older than Sam. Slowly, the sand that had buried them started shift.

November 4, 1983.

Lawrence, Kansas.

Dean was sitting at a kitchen table. His eyes were glued to the large bay window in the living room where he could see the driveway. He hoped that at any second, his dad’s car would pull into the driveway. 

Daddy came home from work when the small clock hand was on the five and big hand was on the six. Everyday. Now the small hand was almost on the seven.

The kitchen table wasn't Dean’s, and neither was the kitchen that he sat in. The house wasn't Dean's house. His house was across the street. The driveway and the front door had strips of bright yellow tape across it. The second-floor windows were black and boarded up.

Ima. Mommy. She was gone too. Missing. Dean hadn't seen her since the night of the fire. Daddy was really upset about it.

Sitting next to Dean was his friend Nate. They went to preschool together. Recently, they even started going to Sunday school together. But it wasn’t on Sundays. It was on Saturdays and the church they went to didn’t have any crosses.

Across the table were Nate’s two sisters, Becca, Dean’s babysitter, and Sara. Sammy was downstairs in the finished basement sleeping in a playpen. The basement had been Dean’s home for the last two days. Since the fire.

Nate’s Daddy Aaron was sitting at the table with them, reading from a bible with strange letters. Nate, his daddy, and Dean had to wear these tiny hats. Nate had lent Dean his Spiderman one, but Dean wanted his own. Mommy had gotten Dean for Hannukah the year before. It had Batman on it.

“...and Hashem granted his prayer, and his wife Rebekah conceived. The children struggled together within her..”

Soon, Dean’s eyes started to get heavy and Nate’s mom got them ready for bed.

After Dean was done brushing his teeth, he ran over to the bay window in the living room. Climbing on top of the couch so he could look better, he looked out the window again.

Daddy’s car still wasn’t there.

Dean glanced at the house again. Tears started to prickle his eyes. 

Maybe Daddy was missing too.

“Dean?”  Nate’s Mommy Leah walked over to him.

Dean just looked at her. He didn’t respond for a long moment. “Where’s Abba?”

“He’ll be back.”

She took Dean’s hand and walked him down into their finished basement, tucking him into a makeshift bed made out of an old flower-printed loveseat.

As soon she went back up stairs, Dean climbed off the couch and climbed into the playpen Sammy was sleeping in, throwing his blanket around the both of them. Soon he fell asleep.

Sometime later, Dean was awoken by the sound of heavy booted feet stumbling down the stairs.

Half a sleep, he sat up to find John hanging over the banister.  He watched as his father bolted into the bathroom, barely shutting the door before gagging noises echoed from it. 

Dean climbed out of the playpen and walked over to the bathroom door, knocking on it.

As soon as his hand hit the door, a crashing noise echoed through the bathroom followed by Daddy yelling.

“Abba.  Are you okay? You’re acting funny.”

Daddy sighed. “I”m fine Dean. Go back to bed.”

“Abba, did the firefighters find Ima? Is that why you came home late?”

The door flung open. When it opened, the smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol washed over Dean.

“It’s Dad, Dean. Call me Dad. And Mom is...Mom...was Mom. Okay? I know she said you could call us those names but-”

“What does ‘was’ mean, Abba?” 

“Dad.” Daddy repeated, “And it means she’s in Heaven, Dean. And she’s not coming back.”

Ima-Mommy. Mom. She was ‘gone’- whatever that meant- and she wasn’t coming back. 

Tears had started to coat Dean’s eyes. “But me and Sammy gotta light candles with her. She said we have to because Grandma Deanna did it with her.”

“You’re not doing that anymore, understand?! Jesus fucking Christ. Just shut up about it, okay?”

Dean instantly started sobbing. His body shaking.

Dad sighed. “Dean I didn’t mean it like that.”

Dean just kept crying. Then he heard the sound of Sammy crying. Wiping his eyes, Dean bolted back over to Sam’s playpen and climbed inside of it, covering both of them with a blanket.

He heard the sound of Dad’s feet shuffling towards the playpen. They stopped for a second before they moved away again, followed by the sound of Dad falling onto the couch.

Eventually, he fell asleep. 

The next morning, Dad packed Dean and Sam up and got a motel instead. Dean didn’t speak again for three months after that. By the time he started to again, Dean had forgotten the names. 

Maybe it was a combination of Dean being a little older than a toddler with not much memory to start with and Dad only reminding him about things like Tomato Rice Soup and ‘Hey Jude’ lullabies. Maybe through years of concussions and head trauma, Dean had just forgotten it. Maybe Dean had made himself forget.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me dude?” Dean unlocked the Impala, climbing into the driver's seat. He put the box down next to him.

“With everything else going on with you, I figured you had enough personal revelations to deal with.”  Castiel said, climbing into the passenger seat. 

“This is definitely something you should have told me about, Cas.” Dean said, digging through the box. 

He pulled out an envelope with what appeared to be circumcision certificates, two sheets of thick cardstock paper with a blend of Hebrew and English text. He grabbed the certificate with the 1979 date first.  

Dean cleared this throat, reading the document out loud. “In accordance with this Sacred Jewish Right, Dean, son of Miriam.. .” Dean paused, cocking an eyebrow. “...Was entered into the Covenant of Abraham and Sarah on February 1st 1979-4th Shevat, 5739- and given the Hebrew name of-" Dean paused for a long moment before turning to Castiel, cocking an eyebrow. “ That's what you meant?" 

Castiel nodded. 

Dean rolled his eyes. " Seriously ?" 

“You were named after Moses’ Scout , Dean.” Castiel deadpanned.

“Walls of Jericho.” Dean nodded and shrugged. “Yeah, I gathered that Cas, but… Yehoshua ? Really?… Really ?"

"You were also named after your great-great-grandfather." 

Dean didn’t say anything. He just chuckled.

Dean pulled the other certificate out. After reading it, he froze. “...and you got one guess what Sam’s Hebrew name was.”

“Yaakov. After your other great-great-grandfather. And because he was second born.”

“Yeah.” Dean paused. “And what do both of those names translate into , Cas?

“Jacob and Joshua”. Castiel deadpanned. 

“Into Greek , Cas.”

Castiel took a deep breath. He didn't respond. 

After a moment, Dean shook his head, “Not a fan of subtlety, huh?” He lifted his eyes up to the ceiling. “I’ve already got a beard since I haven’t bothered shaving in like three months. You want me to grow my hair out while I’m at it?” Dean scoffed. Briefly, he pointed and winked at Castiel, giving him a thumbs up.

Castiel paused. “Actually, that might not be a terrible idea. You were put under a Nazarite oath when your mother was carrying you.”

“... What ?”

“Nevermind.”

Dean shook his head. “Well, at least Michael won’t need a new sign to hang on whatever tree he strings me up on, right?  The Hebrew name’s the same at least. Maybe he did it on purpose.”

“Like I said before Dean, that was your mother’s choice. Heaven had no control over that.” 

Maybe Heaven did. Maybe they didn’t. Maybe it was one random choice that was caused by a million other random choices that, in turn, had been caused by a million more choices. Maybe everything was nudged and pulled by Heaven until it was where they wanted it, like hanging a picture frame on a wall. 

Maybe this went even beyond God. Maybe this was a cycle that had repeated, over and over again, since the universe itself burst into existence in a blast of light and energy.  Maybe that wasn't the first time that had happened either. 

 Maybe there had been countless other universes, countless other Earths, countless other Jesuses-Countless other Deans- who lived and died only to live and die again in an unending ouroboros of mortality.

“Well…I guess this is it then.” Dean took a deep breath, putting the certificates back in the envelope and placing them back into the box. 

 “This is what?”

“Team Free Will.” Dean nodded. “A Jewish former carpenter who wants to fight God in a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot. His angel boyfriend with two-thousand-year-old blue balls and a grumpy old drunk.” Dean took a deep breath and laughed wearily. “Deyanu.”

“This is hardly the time for jokes, Dean.” 

“I’m not laughing. I’m in a world of shit.” Dean took a deep breath. “But I’m alive. We are alive.” He paused. “And we’re gonna fight Lucifer. Wherever he is. In Monsters, demons, the sick. bougie bastards. Even in the church. We’re gonna take the ax and cut Lucifer’s throat with it.” Dean paused. “ And Michael’s.”

May 1st. 2009.

Bethel, New York. 

The late afternoon sun reflected off the waters of the lake in bright shades of orange and red. The air hung around Dean like a steaming washcloth. Humid and hot. It had been an oppressive 90 degrees for most of the day, even though it was early May in the Catskills, a place that could get snow in April on a very rare occasion. 

The water would be cold, but bearable…or at least that was what Dean hoped it would be.

Dean took his boxers and jeans off, throwing them into the backseat of the Impala with the rest of his clothes and replaced them with an old pair of swim trunks. Shutting the door, he walked around to the trunk of the Impala and leaned against it, gazing out at the dark blue lake water as it sparkled in the late afternoon sun. 

Wings flapped. Castiel walked over to him. “You know, Dean, you don’t actually need a mikvah. At all. Jewishness is inherited maternally .”  

“Yeah, I know. But I wanna make it official and I gotta scrub that Lutheran mojo off of me. And plus.” Dean paused. “Tomorrow is Sam’s birthday. It’s been exactly a year since I went to Hell, Cas. If I’m gonna do this, I’m gonna do it today.”

Castiel nodded.

“Did you get them fixed?”

Castiel nodded, taking the mezuzahs out of the pocket of his trench coat and handing them to Dean.

“Thanks, man,” Dean said, opening the Impala and putting the mezuzahs back in the box. “What took you so long?”

“I had to find an appropriate scribe and my Yiddish is a little… ‘rusty’”

The pair walked out of the camping site the Impala was parked at and down a path that led into the fine, dusty sand of the beach on the banks of the lake. They made their way down to the water’s edge, stopping just before the sand turned wet. 

“Are you ready?” Castiel asked, turning his gaze away from Dean.

“About as ready as I’ll ever be,” Dean said, pulling his swim trunks off and handing them to Castiel. 

Dean made his way down to the water, stopping just as the cold light waves touched his feet. He paused briefly, trying to ready himself as he stepped deep into the water, chill washing around his calves and thighs.

He waded further and further out into in the water of the lake until it reached his waist. Then he turned around. “This isn’t gonna like…activate angel radio or anything…right?”

“No. Because this already happened.” Castiel turned his head back, looking at him. “The day you were born.”  Castiel nodded at him reassuringly.

“Right.” Taking a deep breath, Dean lowered his head into the water. The cold water soaking into his hair. 

After a few seconds, Dean rose again, spitting water.

“Did I do it right?” Dean called out, wiping his eyes.

“Fully submerged.” Castiel smiled. “And it’s the Mikvah blessing first.”

Dean stood there for a long moment, watching the water drip down from his hair. He took a deep breath. “Baruch Ata Adonai Eloheinu Melech haolam,asher kidshanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu al hatevilah."

Dean dipped his body down into the water and back out of the water again, panting.

 He ran a hand through his water-soaked hair. “Man, this is weird.” Dean chuckled. “I didn’t accidentally order a pizza, did I?” Dean called out to Castiel. 

“You’re doing great Dean.” Castiel nodded. “Day reaching blessing next.”

Dean nodded. He paused for a second before he cleared his throat.   "Baruch Ata Adonai Eloheinu Melech ha-olam, shehecheyanu, vekiy’manu, vehigiyanu laz’man hazeh." 

Before Dean could sink down into the water, Castiel called out. “Remember, no conversion blessing.” 

Dean nodded. “Just the Shema.”

Castiel had helped Dean practice the blessings during the ride over. Those were blessings Dean didn’t have memories of from Jesus. He had rarely if ever gone into a mikvah.

The Shema was a prayer Jesus had said every day. As Dean had now remembered, it was a prayer he–Dean– had said with his Mom every night just before bed. It was the second to last thing Mom had ever said to him. 

The very last thing, she said, however, was a phrase that haunted him: ‘Angels are watching over you.”

A year ago, Dean had laughed at it. Six months ago, Dean had raged at it. Three weeks ago, it filled him with dread. Now, at least in one particular case, it made his heart swell. 

A third time, Dean sunk into the water. He rose up again quickly, spitting water. Once again, he looked at Castiel.

He smiled.

Pausing for a moment. Dean took a deep breath and covered his eyes with his hand. 

“Shema yisrael, adonai eloheinu, adonai echad.”

The words echoing through Dean's ears brought up a memory. One of his oldest. One of his first. 

Dean wasn't sure exactly when it happened, or if it even did happen. He remembered being in bed at the time and it seemed more like a memory from a dream than actual memory. But then again, most of his memories from before the fire were like. Memories from dreams.

Despite that, he got the feeling that it was around the same time as the mezuzah memory, likely even older.

Mom helping him say the Shema and tucking him into bed while quietly humming Hey Jude to him as he drifted off to sleep.  When she was done, she got up from the end of his bed and congratulated him on saying the prayer so well.

Dean remembered waking up, looking at her through still half-closed eyes and telling her that her that ‘Ima’ had taught him that prayer too. Mom had asked him what her name was. He said, ‘Mariam’. Mom had squinted at him for the briefest of seconds Before she laughed, saying that was her name. That was what ‘Grandpa Moses’ had called her when they visited him at the hospital that day.  That she wasn’t just named ‘Mom’ as she shut his door.

Dean. Jesus. He was both. He always had been. Dean hadn’t lost himself. If anything, he had found more of himself. He was still Dean Winchester, but he could be Yehoshua too, when he needed to be. When he wanted to be.

Dean lowered his hand from his eyes. After a second, he back flopped back into the water, sinking deep enough that his body disturbed the sand and dirt below.

The water was silent. Not the silence of absence or impending metaphysical doom. This was a different silence. A silence of peace. 

Dean lingered under the water for as long as he could before pulling himself back up. Taking in a deep breath, he swished his head around, shaking the water from his hair as he waded back over to the beach.

Castiel met him at the edge of the water with a towel and his swim trunks. He tossed both of them at Dean. "Yasher Koach. "

“Thanks, Cas. ” Dean said, pulling his swim trunks on while throwing the tower over his shoulders. He rubbed the towel over his head before wrapping back around his shoulders like a blanket.

“You’re welcome, Dean.”

“No seriously.” Dean walked over to Castiel and embraced him. “Thank you.”

Castiel nodded.

They kissed briefly before making their way back across the beach.

The pair made their way back over to the campsite.  Dean walked over to the Impala, pulling his duffle bag from the trunk before going over to the side facing away from Castiel and putting clean clothes on. “On the plus side, apparently you’re supposed to take a mikvah after you bleed and God knows I’ve been doing a lot of that.”

“That’s for menstruation , Dean.”

“Well, it’s kinda like a period,” Dean smirked. He opened the back passenger door and sat down on the Impala’s bench seat as he put on his boots and socks. “A stigmata period. I bleed at specific times on the calendar. In my case, on Fridays.”

“Not this last time you didn’t.”

Dean blinked as he pulled a t-shirt over his head. “What?”

“That happened on Tuesday , Dean. My guess is with your wall collapsing and…everything that’s happened in the last two weeks..it just..happened.”

Dean paused, thinking for a second. “Shit. It was Tuesday.” Dean paused again. “I guess that’s what happens when you’re dead for a week. You lose track of time.” 

“Which means today is Friday.”

Dean froze. He was quiet for a long moment as he turned his gaze over to the wooden box, staring at the mezuzahs.

Today was Friday. The day Dean usually spent bleeding. In suffering and pain. A day he spent dying. Now, it was a day that could mean something different.  Now it could be a day of rediscovery. A day of rebirth.

And, as Dean now remembered, Friday night was the start of the Sabbath.

 Dean’s foggy old childhood memories filled his head. Memories of Mom and baby Sammy and the soft glow of flickering tea lights. It made him smile as much as it brought tears to his eyes.  

Now, instead of changing bandages, he could light candles. Instead of having to drink communion wine and eat wafers, he could have challah bread and normal wine. Actual food. 

Now he could do something else on Friday nights. Something that could bring him closer to his mom. To his family. To himself. It didn’t really matter if he didn’t believe in God. His reasoning for doing it would be the same as the mikvah. To reclaim something that was stolen from him.

“I’m gonna run to the store.” 

Dean could smell the fire as he drove back to the campsite.  As the Impala drew closer, he could see Castiel turning the logs in a roaring fire. Next to the fire pit were a few stacks of pre-cut wood wrapped in plastic netting.

As Dean walked over to the picnic table, a grocery bag in his hand, he cocked an eyebrow at Castiel. “When did you-?” 

 “While you were at the store.” Castiel gestured to the sun, just cresting over the mountains. “By the time you got everything we needed, started the fire and lit the candles, it would have been past sunset. 

“So…what? You flew to a gas station and bought wood bundles?”

“Well, not exactly.”

Dean squinted.

“There was a woman at the counter who wanted to speak to the owner of the store, but didn’t understand the clerk was the owner. When I realized their exchange was going nowhere, I left one of those cards from Jimmy’s wallet on the counter.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Cas, you can’t do that.”

“Why? It said ‘Costco Savings Card’ on the front. I assumed that it was one of those cards that act as currency.”

Dean laughed, placing the grocery bag on the wooden picnic bench as he pulled out a bottle of wine and a loaf of challah bread wrapped in plastic.  “You're a weird one, aren't you?”

 “So I’ve been told.” Castiel paused. “That’s not the only place I went while you were gone.” Castiel reached down from the seat of the picnic table and pulled out a cardboard box. “I went back into the storage shed. I got the sense that the box was missing some things.”

Dean cocked an eyebrow as he opened the box. Inside was a menorah. Also Silver. It was less trashed than the mezuzahs were, but it was still tarnished.

“I suspect your father went through these things and didn’t pack them back together the right way.”

Dean nodded. “Probably when he started looking for Yellow Eyes.”

Wedged between the menorah and the side of the box was a bit of round black fabric. Dean’s eyes went wide as he grabbed it out of the box. It was a kippah with a Batman symbol it. Dean’s old kippah.

“It kept falling off my head because it was too big. No wonder, she got an adult-sized one. ” He laughed, putting it on the table. 

At the bottom of the box was a small square-shaped present wrapped in baby blue wrapping paper with a tag that said ‘to Dean’ on it.  

Dean took it out of the box and took the wrapping paper off. It was a square-shaped cloth bag embroidered with Hebrew. Dean unzipped it. Pulling out a tightly folded wool tallit with white and sage green stripes.

“ It was a gift from your Great-Grandfather. From the day of your circumcision.” Castiel explained. “Your mother put it away with the intention of giving it to you on your Bar Mitzvah."

Dean let out a sad chuckle as he unfolded it. 

Folded inside the middle of it was a small cardboard box.

Dean blinked, opening it.

Inside the box was a knife. Its blade was made of silver and etched in proto-Hebrew.

Dean froze at the sight of it. He had seen the knife before. Many centuries earlier. It had been shared between two hunters. A pair of cousins. Simon The Zealot and Judas.

“Cas, is this–?”

“It is.” Castiel took it from Dean’s hands, studying it. “This is the Knife of Solomon. King Solomon forged this blade himself. It was rumored to have been plundered in the Jewish-Roman War.”

“...and my family got a hold of this, how ?”

“Simon the Zealot took it after Judas died. He gave it to Sarah as a wedding gift. She married one of his nephews.” Castiel thought for a second. “Her son went to France after Jerusalem fell. Some of the Apostles who were still living snuck him out.” Castiel paused. “But she had given the knife to her daughter. She went to Antioch with her husband and some of the grandchildren of Jesus’ other siblings.”

“The ones that knew he stayed dead.” Dean paused. “So her kids became hunters. And this became a family heirloom.”

Castiel nodded. He was quiet for a second. “It’s a demon-killing blade. Like the one Sam now has. But this knife has the power to kill any demon, so long as the blood of David wields it.” He glanced at Dean.

Dean smirked, shoving the knife back into its sheath as he walked over to the Impala and opened the trunk, lifting up its false bottom and putting the knife inside it.  “Looks like we jumped right to Plan Aleph.”

Castiel turned his head in the direction of the sun. “We don’t have much time left Dean.”

Dean shut the trunk. “Yeah, I know.” Dean said, darting back over to the table.

Dean pulled out a package of tea lights, took two out, and put them on the picnic table.

His eyes turned over to kippah sitting on the table.  Slowly, he grabbed it. Dean stared at it for a long moment, feeling the fabric with his fingers. 

After a long moment, Dean pulled the beanie off from his head, shoving into the pocket of his jacket, as he placed the kippah on his head.

He paused, taking a deep breath before he pulled the pack of matches from his jeans and lit and lit them. Saying the blessings for the candles and the bread. 

When Dean was done he sat down at the table, taking a sip from his solo cup of wine as took the kippah off, putting it his pocket of his jacket. 

"Just don't think this changes anything. About me believing in God or whatever.” 

Castiel paused for a moment. “Do you,” Castiel cleared his throat. “Do you remember what ‘Israel’ means?”

 Dean nodded. “He who wrestles with God.”

 “Exactly.” Castiel paused. “To even have faith, you must wrestle with it.”

Dean sighed. “Cas, come on, dude. Don’t quote me….to me.” He rolled his eyes. “Jesus.”

“Dean. Blas-”

 Dean sighed deeply, rolling his eyes. “That wasn’t my name, Cas. It’s a translation of a translation, of a translation, of a trans-literation that only exists because Greek doesn’t have a ‘sh’ sound. You know that as well as I do. Better, actually.”

Castiel was quite for a moment.  “That’s true,” Castiel replied. “I guess some of Naomi’s reprogramming is harder to shake than I thought.”

Dean paused, then chuckled taking another sip. “Jesus Camp,” Dean sighed, shaking his head. “It’s like Hotel California, huh?”

 Castiel blinked.

 “Nevermind.” Dean waved dismissively. “Speaking of Jesus Camp, if I run into any… ‘Christian soldiers’ again, I can say, ‘Jesus, who?’ and really mean it.” he laughed, folding his arms. “Maybe I should pay Rufus a visit. I don’t know if Current Me being a member of the Tribe makes things more or less awkward–"

 “To be fair, you haven’t actually fulfilled any of the messianic prophecies yet. You certainly haven’t rebuilt the Temple.”

“Yeah.”  Dean scoffed, tossing a twig into the fire. “Not touching that one with a ten-foot pole." Dean paused for a moment. "On the plus side, I’ve got a new fake ID now: Joshua Campbell."

“Reznik,”  Castiel said. “That was Deanna's maiden name.”

“Josh Reznik.” Dean shrugged and smirked. “Not bad.”

April 24, 2009.

Ilchester, Maryland.

Sam was surrounded by white light. Brilliant. Radiant. Like standing in the center of a supernova. But there was no heat within it. Despite the light, the air around him was frigid. A stagnant cold that enveloped him like fog.

Everything was silent. Devoid of any sound aside from his own breathing. 

Then the sound of flapping wings filled his ears. It was followed by a sound Sam thought he would never hear again. A voice that almost made his heart stop.

“Hi Sam. I’ve missed you.” Jess.

He turned around with a start, finding Jess standing behind him, wearing a long white dress. He smiled at her, lovingly. His heart swelled at the sight of her. Until he noticed an engagement ring on her finger.

A ring Sam had bought for her, but had never given to her. It had burned up with the rest of his normal life in the fire at his apartment in Palo Alto.

Then he looked into her eyes. There was something in them that Sam knew he had seen before, but couldn’t remember where or how or why, like a half-forgotten dream.

“Who are you?” Sam rasped, pulling away from her.

“I see no point in deceiving you.” ‘Jess’ took a deep breath, stepping away from Sam. 

In an instant, the visage of Jess shifted and morphed into something else. A figure with only the slightest suggestion of form and face, like a shadow. A figure with six wings encased in a layer of ice.  

Sam’s eyes grew wide. He backed away from the figure. 

"I'm not going to hurt you, Sam."

“Maybe not.” Sam smirked “But I’m sure as fuck gonna hurt you.” Sam lifted his hand up squeezing it.

Nothing happened.

"That won't work on me.” Lucifer sighed. “I’m an Archangel …remember?"

Slowly Sam lowered his hand.

"You Humans. You call me 'Satan' and 'Devil’ but that’s not who I am. Do you know what ‘Lucifer’ means? ‘Star of the Morning’. ‘Venus’. 'Light-bringer'. I’m a bringer of light.”

“Maybe you were once. But now your sins are Legion. Literally.”

“You know what my greatest sin was? Loving God more than Michael. More than the humans he commanded us to bow down to.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “You’re lying.”

“I don’t lie Sam.” Lucifer’s words were blunt. “I don’t need to.”

Slowly Sam lowered his hand.

"You want the truth? Michael hated being the firstborn. He hated that Father left Heaven and Earth in his charge. He always said it was a burden he didn't want. I could never understand it. I would have given anything to be where Michael stood. To have our Father love me like he did Michael. But my love for Father and Michael's contempt for Him still didn't stop Michael from tossing me out of Heaven."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because Dean was the same. He hated being the Messiah, didn't he?"  Lucifer sighed. “Ironic, really. Considering the soul of The Nazarene dwelled within him.”

“...What?”

“Castiel never told him? Wow." Lucifer chuckled. "Out of all the angels, I figured Castiel would have mentioned it. After all, The Nazarene and Castiel had such a… profound bond."

Everything clicked.

That was why Dean had stigmata. That was why Dean had been the Messiah. That was why he wanted to go to churches. That was why he flipped out at the mega-church. Dean was Jesus. Or rather he had been Jesus in a previous life.

Briefly Sam thought back to the day that damned angel had told Dean he was supposed to be the Second Coming. How Dean had said that he had ‘visions’ of the crucifixion. The way he talked about them-even at the very beginning- had been the same way he spoke of hell. 

Dean had always known who he really was and still he didn’t change. More importantly, he never told Sam.

Sam's hands clenched.

"How many times did Dean give a pastor the finger? How many times did he throw a Bible back at someone?" 

All Dean ever did was complain. If Dean wasn't going on a blasphemous tirade that would make a nun faint, he was lying on a motel bed drinking whiskey and grumbling about his wrists or ankles hurting. Dean always used that as an excuse. His wrists were why his shooting aim was off. His ankles were why he couldn't spend all night trying to find a grave. 

Lucifer paused. “You wouldn’t do that, would you Sam?”

Sam shook his head. “I’m not-”

“The Messiah?” Lucifer laughed. “ Dean’s a descendant of King David, right? Well, you're Dean's brother. You’re also descended from David. You’re Anointed, Sam. Holy. More importantly, unlike Dean, you’re not a corpse.” Lucifer said. “You can bring peace to the world. Paradise.”

If Sam had woken up with holes in his hands he would have gotten on his knees and cried with joy. But Sam was tainted. Sam was the son of Perdition. The Antichrist.

“That doesn’t matter. I’m-”

"The Antichrist?  How could you be?" Lucifer blinked and chuckled. “When you have the soul of The Nazarene’s brother."

“....What?”

“James, the Lord's brother, succeeds to the government of the Church. Called The Righteous, from the days of the Lord down to the present time. For many bore the name of James; but this one was holy from his mother's womb.’ Eusebius.” Lucifer paused. “Guess when his feast day is. I’ll give you a hint: It's a little over a week away.” he said leadingly. “You're a saint Sam. Literally .”

Sam knew Lucifer wasn’t lying. That made it hurt more. 

Castiel had mentioned more than once that Dean’s stigmata was cleansing him of his time in Hell. Heaven had a way of washing the stain Hell away from Dean. That meant they probably had a way of washing Hell from Sam too,they just didn’t want to.

But Dean was gone. He never resurrected. Sam knew that. What was standing in that chapel with him a moment before was not Dean. Sam could sense it. Someone. Something . Had taken possession of Dean’s body. 

Sam knew that was the case. After all, Dean’s very existence in the first place meant Jesus never resurrected. But Dean had. At least once . Maybe Heaven had tried to fix Dean with the stigmata, but he was too far gone. Good Friday was the last attempt and it had failed .

For the first time in over a year, the thought of Dean dying didn't upset Sam. In fact, he was almost relieved at the thought. 

“I can help you, Sam. All you need to do is give me your hands.”

Lucifer was an Archangel. Powerful. Holy. It didn’t matter how long he was in Hell for. He was still an angel. 

Sam paused for a long moment. He held his hands out.

Lucifer grabbed them. He pressed his thumbs into Sam’s palms. Hard. Digging into Sam’s skin. 

Pain spread through Sam’s hands. Searing pain that spilt tissue, bone and tendon. The pain was accompanied by a white light. Dim and hazy with a red tint, like the sky after a blizzard. Buzzing made Sam’s ears throb. He slammed his eyes shut with a guttural groan.

As quickly as the pain came, it was gone. Then Sam opened his eyes. He glanced down, unclenching his fists. Jagged, deep wounds marred the calloused skin of his palms. But they didn’t hurt. They oozed and gushed with blood. Blood the color of pomegranate juice. A dark and bitter nectar. 

Sam smiled and closed his eyes, tears flooding them. 

Lucifer moved closer to him. “Tell me Sam, what do you want most?”

Sam looked down at his hands again.

The wounds had stopped bleeding. The holes were coated in thick reddish-brown scabs.

Sam scratched at the scab, digging his thumbnail until dark maroon blood started to bubble from it. The blood didn’t smell like anything. Just a slight hint of evening primrose, ragwort and creeping buttercups. The scent of yellow weeds found on the shoulder of crossroads. Sam didn’t care.

Slowly, he lifted his eyes towards Lucifer. A smile spread across his lips. “I want what I deserve to have."

"You will  have all that and more, Sam." Lucifer grinned “You are my beloved son and you shall live deliciously ." 

May 2, 2009.

Owatonna, Minnesota.

Sam was already in town when the Tornado hit. The Pentecostal church on the west side of town was one of a handful of larger buildings that weren’t damaged. 

Originally, Sam had walked into the gymnasium section of the church that was being used as a storm shelter and started healing people, but he quickly got overwhelmed. The pastor brought him into the sanctuary instead and had people line up single file.

Sam stood at the front of the sanctuary. A little girl, about six, approached with her parents. She had a huge gash in her shin. The final person in a line of people that had lasted two hours.

“How did you get this?” he murmured.

The child shrugged, “I tripped on some glass.”

He reached out, placing his fingertips at the edge of the jagged wound. The girl gasped at the cold heat coursing through her leg, stitching up the wound leaving only a small scar.

“It’s better,” the girl chirped, kicking out her now healed shin.

Sam smiled as he rose to his feet.

Her parents stepped closer. “Are you--”

“--I am,” Sam said quickly. “Tell everyone…the time has come.” 

The parents nodded.

The pastor walked over to Sam. “The angels said that Christ walks the Earth. Are you saying that’s you?”

Sam paused, then nodded. The lie almost hurt. Almost. 

The pastor glanced down and Sam’s gauze-wrapped hands. “I may I see them?”

Sam shoved his hands into his jacket. “Blessed are those who have not seen, and have believed...Right?”

The pastor nodded. “Yes, of course.”

Sam turned and left the sanctuary, moving quickly until he found a solo stall bathroom. Going inside, he locked the door.

Sam quickly undid the bandages around his hands, exposing the wounds. Round crevasses coated in scabs.

Staring at them, Sam pulled a box cutter out of his jacket.

He took his belt off, clamping it between his teeth before flicking the blade open.

Sam’s hands felt like they were on fire. A pulsing throbbing pain. He sat on the floor of the bathroom, slumped next to the sink. His hands were hastily wrapped with gauze.

For as many times as Sam had wrapped Dean’s wounds, wrapping his own by himself was no easy task. Blood splattered the gauze in streaks and stains where Sam had to readjust the bandage.

The box cutter lay in the base of the sink, a dark red ring around its drain.

Fresh blood stained the center of the bandages. Sam rose to his feet. He rinsed the sink out before taking a huge gulp of water from it, grabbing the box cutter and shoving back into his jacket.

Taking a deep breath, Sam shut the water off left the bathroom.

It was then that Sam noticed something. Roses. A scent he was hoping he'd never smell again.

Sam followed it to a small side room. Peering inside, Sam found a small group of elementary school and high school kids sitting on the floor, in the darkened room lit only by a camping lamp. A teenage boy with a short floppy mohawk dressed in a red plaid flannel over a Vans T-shirt was speaking. On his hands were a pair of black fingerless gloves with skeleton hands on them. Based on the way he was holding his left arm, Sam could tell the gloves were hiding a brace over his left arm. 

The boy reeked of roses. Nausea roiled in Sam’s gut at the smell. 

“...He ruffled my hair and…I felt fire. But it didn’t burn. It was just… heat. It was the power of the Holy Spirit.”

The kids started whispering.

“And what did he say when you told him you were gay?”

Sam’s eyes went wide.

The boy grew quiet for a moment. Sam could hear him sniffling. “He hugged me. Really tight and said, 'There’s nothing wrong with you. This is who you are’.” The boy paused. “It was…really good to hear that. Especially where I was back then. I think he knew what I needed to hear.” The boy paused. “He told me, ‘Any pastor or anybody else who says otherwise is a dickhead who doesn’t know shit about me’.”

The kids laughed . 

Sam rolled his eyes. Of course, Dean would have said that.

"And the next thing I knew, I was healed."

“But you’re sure it was Him?”

“He had a halo and…” the boy paused. “...And wounds on his wrists. Nail wounds. He tried to hide them at first, but I could see the blood-stains on the bottom of his sleeves. He smelled like roses."

The kids grew quiet.

“Well, what else did he say?”

“Not much…he was kinda quiet. But he did say he didn’t care if I loved God. That it was between me and the ‘Big Guy Upstairs.’” The boy paused. “He said we should love one another. That caring about other people is what keeps us… human .”

“Isn’t that blasphemy?”

“No…I mean…that’s just the Sermon on the Mount when you get right down to it, right? Keep God to yourself and love one another."

“…That’s true." 

"And that’s not all. When I was sleeping on the bus, an angel appeared to me in a dream. Her name was Anna. She said I've been chosen. That I'm to be one of the prophets of a new gospel." 

"...You're an Apostle?"  

"That's not what she said."

"I mean, that's what that means–"  

Sam cleared his throat, walking into the room. “Hello.” The kids stopped talking. Sam locked his eyes on the boy. 

“Hi,” the boy said quickly, narrowing his eyes at Sam. 

The boy’s aunt walked into the room. "Kids, what are you doing-?" she locked her eyes on Sam. "Oh, good! He's in here with my kids, Pastor Dave.” She called down the hall before she turned to Sam. “Matt’s arm is sprained, can you fix it?”

“I’m fine ," Matt snapped. He stood up, grabbing his backpack.

“Matthew Steven.” Matt’s aunt glared at him. "You have a baseball scholarship and you need that arm to pitch! This man is-" 

"That’s not Him. I’ve seen Him.” Matt glared at Sam as he made his way across the room. “And His eyes are green, not hazel.”

Sam’s hands clenched. He narrowed his eyes. “From the mouths of babes… come lies and deceptions. The spirit of rebelliousness that leads them to Abomination. And you would know all about that, wouldn’t you, Matt?” 

Matt froze at the door.

The aunt shifted her eyes. “What is he talking about?”

Sam continued. “Last weekend. At the VFW show. In the van. With your guitarist.”

The aunt gasped. “Matt, is that true?”

Matt paused. He nodded. “It is.”

The aunt shook her head. "I told you I didn't care as long as you didn't act on it.”

"You know that’s a serious sin Matt." Pastor Dave said as walked into the doorway, his voice dark. “We’ve already had a discussion about where you would have to go if you couldn’t change your lifestyle.” 

"That's not what Jesus said. The real Jesus.” Matt shouted. “He said what I’ve known all along. That this is how God created me. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Matt’s aunt put her hand over her mouth. "Any man who tells you homosexual fornication is not a sin can’t be Jesus. You've been lied to honey. Satan knows scripture and will twist it.”

Matt pointed at Sam. “That’s literally what he just-”

Pastor Dave put his hand on Matt’s shoulder. “You need help, Mathew. We can arrange for you to spend some time in a home for similarly afflicted youth.” 

Pastor Dave and the Aunt walked Matt down the hallway and into an office, closing the door behind them.

Sam turned and made his way out of the church. 

Chapter Text

May 1st. 2009.

Bethel, New York. 

Music echoed through the dark of the campsite, gentle but melodic. The surrounding campsites were dark. Devoid of people and life, aside from the chirping of crickets and hoots of owls. Camping season didn’t start for a few more weeks. The whole campground was cast in darkness, aside from one campsite near the edge of the lake.

That one had a fire roaring in its metal fire pit and Chevy Impala parked inside of it.

Sitting on the picnic table were Dean and Castiel. They both sat on the table bench side closest to the firepit

Sitting on the table was an empty bottle of wine, a six-pack of beer and a third of a loaf of challah bread, and two burned-out tea lights. 

Dean and Castiel had spent the last few hours drinking beer and watching the fire burn.

Dean stood up from the picnic table, still holding his beer, and picked up a log, tossing it into the fire. Walking back over to the table, he reached over and turned the volume up on a small radio cassette player resting on it. 

“‘...‘ T’was in the darkest depths of Mordor, I met a girl so fair’.. .” Dean crooned, his voice echoing through the campsite.

Castiel watched Dean from the bench. The song Dean sang was one of his favorites. At least that was what Castiel assumed. All music is prayer, and this song was one of Dean’s most frequent prayers. More often than not, that song was in the background of Dean’s other prayers. Something that was almost always playing in some corner of Dean’s head.

Around early March, the song disappeared from Dean’s prayers completely. Since Dean’s mikvah, it began to play again.

Castiel smiled, “You naturally have a very pleasant singing voice, Dean. Why do always mask it when you’re singing in the Impala?”

Dean turned to Castiel and grinned. “I don’t wanna hurt Sam’s feelings.” He shrugged.

Dean looked up at the night sky. A dark gray blanket pocked with random stars. In the southeast, off in the distance, the sky was almost white. The lights of New York City. 

The only thing close to a black sky Dean could find was in the Northwest. Among the small pockets of light that populated the valleys of the Catskills. In the center of that section of the night sky, Dean could see the rough outline of the Milky Way. A swirling shadow of light and gas and space dust was just visible against the gray.

“Holy shit.” Dean lowered the beer in his from his lip. “That’s not something you see every day, huh?” Dean gestured to the sky.

“Not anymore.” Castiel glanced upwards. “Before you humans invited things like…light bulbs, then you could see…everything.” 

“Yeah.” Dean pursed his lips, closing his eyes.

Briefly, the hot muggy night turned dry and cold. The forest became a desert-or at least that was what Dean assumed it was- he could only see within a few dozen feet away from the fire he and Castiel were sitting around. Everything else was pitch black. Dean lifted his eyes up to the night sky. Though it was black as pitch, every nook and cranny of the sky was dotted with stars. An endless expanse of pinpricks of light with swirls of colors cutting through the middle of it.

Dean blinked, and the night sky turned back into a dark gray with only random pinpricks of light.

 “Funny…before… I woulda looked up at The Milky Way every night and had no idea what I was even looking at. Meanwhile, I know that I’m looking back out at the galaxy that I’m spinning at the edge of and I can barely even see it most nights.” Dean paused for a second, taking another sip of his beer. “Not to get all ‘Pale Blue Dot’ on you.”

“No” Castiel shook his head. “From the time humans first settled in farming villages until about 130 years ago, the lives of most humans were practically indistinguishable from one another. It is remarkable to see how far you humans have advanced in only a few generations.” Castiel paused. “Even if you have misstepped, in some cases quite gravely, along the way.”

“Good thing it’s my job to fix it.” Dean nodded. “If not me, who is gonna save the whales?”

Castiel squinted. “I’m fairly sure that Hillel did not speak of marine mammals when he said that.”

Dean laughed and shook his head. 

Silence fell between the two of them.

Castiel turned, watching Dean in the firelight. Castiel could see, of course, the halo around Dean’s head. Many could see Dean’s halo. But in the light of the fire, Castiel could see Dean’s actual halo. The one that spun around Dean’s soul, a bright swirling circle of white flame rotating around Dean’s head like an Atlas-centric solar system. 

He could also see the light from the flames flickering across Dean’s irises, flashing them with a bright green light.

After a long moment, Castiel cleared his throat. “You know Dean, it’s a mitzvah to have intercourse on the Sabbath.”

Dean let out a laugh. “Can angels even have sex? I mean, you can make a nephil – something that's at least half-human- so I know you can do it when you’re wearing a vessel. But what about when you’re just…floating around or whatever?”

"When I'm possessing a body, yes. I can conceive a child, but not in my True form." Castiel paused. “I'm a celestial wavelength. I have no gender or sexual organs.”

“Have you ever…had sex? You sure seem like you knew what you were doing back in that church. 

That was all Dean could think about over the last few days. Castiel kneeling- genuflecting- in front of him- and kissing his scars like they were hickeys. Bruises of Castiel's own making. Whispering that Dean was his communion. His host. His Eucharist. 

There was no doubt in Dean's mind then what Castiel had intended to do had Dean not stopped him. 

Like the rest of his siblings, Castiel had spent epochs observing humanity. One of those observations, occasionally, had been couplings. Castiel listened to humans talk about mating all the time. Apart from food, it was the thing humans discussed the most.

“No.” Castiel cleared his throat. “I haven’t had much desire for human mating.” He paused. Slowly, he locked his eyes on Dean. “The few times when I have wanted it, I couldn’t have it. "

"Well, about angel sex? You've had that at least?"

"Angels don't 'have sex', Dean." Castiel paused. “We…share graces.”

"Share graces?" Dean cocked an eyebrow.

“I shouldn’t be discussing this. Least of all with a Human.” Before Dean could retort, he added. “Current status notwithstanding.” Castiel pursed his lips. "And It's…difficult to explain. At least in a way that you might understand."

"Try me." 

 "Well… It’s.” Castiel paused, thinking. “An enraptured union of angelic essences. Where the unified beings become one and transcend the bounds of metaphysical reality." 

"So it's grace sex."  

"It's not procreation, Dean."

"Sounds like sex to me.” Dean shrugged. “Sex that smells like patchouli and bong water, but sex nonetheless." He paused. “What does it even feel like?

Castiel didn’t say anything.

“Cas?”

Castiel shrugged. "I wouldn't know. Actually."

Dean spit his beer out. “You’re a virgin ?” 

Castiel nodded sheepishly. “In human parlance. Technically. Yes.

Dean chuckled. “Well, it’s the End of the World. There’s a decent chance that we might not make it out of this and I’m telling you something right now.” Dean drank down the rest of his beer, putting in down on the table with a slight clank. “I am not gonna let you die a virgin.”

Dean froze. Shifting his eyes at the thought of him- and all that implied- deflowering an angel. For someone as holy as Dean was, he was a walking blasphemy. 

This thought gave Dean an idea. “We should try the grace thing first.”

Castiel blinked. “What?”

“it’s something neither of us have done. It’s a good place to start.”

Castiel didn’t say anything.

“I don’t have grace, but I got a soul… which is kinda like grace, right?”

“Yes. In a way.” Castiel paused. “And we do have a very….profound bond. It would be interesting to see what happens.”

Dean and Castiel were sitting on a pair of sleeping bags from the Impala’s trunk, resting on the ground a few yards away from the fire. Their legs were crossed, and they faced each other.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Castiel asked, pulling his trench coat, tie, and dress shirt off.

Dean nodded, pulling his jacket and flannel off. He grabbed Castiel’s pile of clothes and put them together on the side of the sleeping bag. "You?"

 Castiel wrapped his hands around Dean’s thighs, pulling him closer to him. He leaned his face in, pressing their lips together. “I’ve waited twenty centuries for this,” he whispered. “Thinking. Fantasizing about this moment…and more.”

 “I’m gonna take that as a ‘yes.’” 

 Dean paused for a second. Placing his hands on the sleeping bag, he lifted himself up, slowly lowering himself into Castiel's lap, wrapping his legs around Castiel's hips. 

They grabbed each other's hands. When they pressed their foreheads together, Dean closed his eyes.

For the briefest of seconds, there was nothing. No Impala. Chirping crickets, no lingering smell of fire smoke and embers.

Nothing. There was silence. Dean was not Dean. Not really. He was still 'Dean', but his body had vanished. In its place was a light. A bright green light. There was fire around him. A fire so bright it flickered white hot.

Buzzing echoed in his ears.

“... Dean..”

Dean turned toward the buzzing. There was light. A swirling mass of blue light. A mass of heat. It was warm and inviting. Like the sun peaking through the clouds on a cold winter morning.

“Cas.”

The swirling light grabbed onto Dean. Pressing itself against the fire. It stung. Hot and painful. But it was a good pain. The kind of pain that made Dean’s body ache with longing. Dean could hear himself. Groaning. Moaning. He could feel himself, his body, pressing tighter into Castiel, biting his lip.

Then Castiel pushed himself through the fire.

Sweat dampened the top of Dean's head. Searing white heat and blinding light washed over him. There was pain. He could feel, hear himself screaming and Castiel’s hand covering his mouth.

Then, in an instant, the heat disappeared.

The blue light washed over Dean, flowing like water. He wanted to submerge himself in the light. He wanted to drown himself within it. And so he did. Dean opened his mouth. The light rushed to the back of his throat so fast and with such force, it almost made Dean gag. Almost.

The light rushed down into Dean’s stomach. He could feel it settling in his gut. Hot a swirling mass. Dean could feel the grace sliding into him. Pressing into the nook and cranny of him. Every atom. Every molecule. Filling him. 

Castiel was inside of him. Deep inside of him. And he was deep inside Castiel. They were one. Dean could sense that he was moaning. Castiel was moaning too. Loudly.

Dean had done his fair share of mind alternating substances. Mushrooms, and cannabis exclusively. (The acid dipped cigarette he bought off some guy named Don at Woodstock ‘99 was the first and last time he messed with anything synthetic). This was better. 

At that moment, Dean was everywhere and nowhere. He was everyone and no one and everything and nothing at all. Aeons of time and space flickered through his eyes. The birth and death of stars. The formation of mountains, the rise and fall of countries, dynasties, empires, and species. It was Elation. Euphoria. Ecstasy. In all senses of the word. 

Buzzing filled Dean’s ears, but it quickly changed into words. Words that echoed in Castiel's voice. 

“…Yehoshua…”  

There was weight and reverence in the word. Divinity. But also fear. And love and Lust. Humanity. Flesh and Spirit. The Sacred and the Profane. Both at the same time.  

It was a tone and reflection Dean had heard time and time again. A tone that was faded and blurred. Ancient. As much as it was brilliant and vibrant. New. it was the same way Castiel said 'Dean’ The same way he said ‘Jesus’.

Castiel loved him. Whatever form he took, whatever name he bore. He loved him. It wasn’t Dean’s flesh that Castiel loved. It was his soul. His essence. The part of Dean was unchanging. Constant.

  "...Son of Miriam. Holy Pisces and Holy Aquarius. ‘Salvation’ and ‘Judge’. The water bearer and the fish. The Righteous Man. Din. Dean. Dean Henry Winchester. Wash away my transgressions, for I have sinned against you…”

 Castiel pressed deeper inside of him. Slow and loving. Gentle.

Dean could hear himself moaning. Hear himself breathing. Heavy and fast. His heart pounding against his chest. He could feel an ache deep within himself. A need. A longing.

Words echoed from deep within Dean. 

“... Castiel, son of God. Do you love me?...”

“... Yes…”

Castiel slipped deeper, pushing against him.

 “... Castiel. Son of God. Do you love me?...”

“... Yes…” 

Castiel pushed again. Harder. He kept pushing in a pulsing rhythm.

“...Castiel. Son of God. Do. You. Love. Me?..."

The rhythm grew harder. Faster. Dean could feel himself tensing, squeezing against the light. An ache flowed from his pelvis into his stomach and down his thighs. Building and building until he almost wanted to cry in pain.

"... I loved you when you were stardust and I will love you when you become stardust again…” 

Then Dean felt it. A surge, a rush. A release. It flashed back into a single pinpoint. A singularity before it exploded like a supernova. Light and heat and pressure and atoms and ozone. 

 As it faded, Dean found himself lying on the sleeping bag. Castiel’s body-his vessel- pressed on top of him. His head, covered in sweat, resting on Dean’s shoulder.

 Dean could still feel the grace within him. Brief flashes of light that sparked, sending flashes of warmth through him. Part of Castiel was inside of him. Not just seared into his flesh, but inside of him.

That thought buzzing around his head sent the heat rushing back to his pelvis. Instinctively, Dean reached down to his boxers, touching where the fly was. 

It was dry. Bone dry. In fact. He was still hard. 

“Damn it.” Dean rasped, slipping his body out from under Castiel and sitting up. 

Castiel cocked an eyebrow as he sat back up. “You're still not sated, even after your soul reached pleasure?”

“Apparently not.” Dean laughed.

 “So my grace was not sufficient,” Castiel stated, half offended, half disappointed as he turned his head away from Dean.

“No. It was. Trust me.” Dean chuckled, scooting next to Castiel. “It’s just…ya know…” Dean cleared his throat. He paused for a second before smirking, leaning his face into Castiel’s. “The spirit is strong, but the flesh is weak.”

Castiel put his hand onto Dean’s chest, shooting him a look. "Now, that's definitely blasphemy."  

"How?” Dean scoffed. “I'm literally quoting myself ."

 "From Gethsemane." Castiel deadpanned.  

Dean shrugged, indignant. "Peter woulda thought it was funny."

Castiel, to Dean’s shock, scoffed. 

Dean blinked for a second. Then chuckled. "Seriously. I know the dude was a fisherman, but holy shit- I didn't realize there were that many derogatory terms for centurions." 

Castiel smiled slightly. "That's true. During that storm on the lake when you fell asleep, I did have to tell him not to blaspheme more than once." 

“Yeah! The sail got ripped to shit. Spent the whole day on the beach in…. Tiberias fixing it."

"At least they caught a lot of fish."

"The net almost ripped, too. We caught so much. We were able to feed the whole village with it.  And it was amazing too. Tilapia with cracked pepper and citron.” Dean paused, thinking. “The pepper belonged to-" Dean squinted. "Loaded Apostle? Tax collector dude?" 

"Mathew." 

"Fucking Mathew." Dean scoffed, shaking his head. "He had a coin purse full of peppercorns. He didn’t want to use it. Ever. Can’t say I really blame him because pepper was expensive. But don’t waste it dude. I told him it would be easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to see the world to come. Worked like a charm.” Dean paused. He smiled slightly. “Then again, a bunch of Galilean peasants dining on the food of nobles. He saw it anyway.” 

Dean sat quietly for a moment, staring at Castiel.

“What are you thinking about?”

“I never notice how blue your eyes are. They like ocean waves. They’re…” Dean trailed off, pressing his mouth against Castiel’s, kissing him.

Dean kissed Castiel again before pulling his lips away, placing them just behind Castiel’s ear. “‘ Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away, for now the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth; the time of singing has come ’.”

A fire ran through Castiel’s ears. A fire and burned and ached and sweated through his grace. It seeped into his vessel. Making pressure build in his pelvis. He pressed his hand against Dean’s chest, pushing him back on to the sleeping bag.

Before Dean could protest, Castiel kissed him. He kept kissing him. Making his way down Dean’s torso until his torso was in between Dean’s thighs. The fabric of Dean’s jeans rubbing against his shoulders.  

When Castiel reached the waistband of his jeans, Dean closed his eyes.

He listened to the sound of his zipper and belt coming undone. The buckle whacking against the cloth of the sleeping bag. He could feel Castiel’s hand going into the waistband of his boxers, feel himself getting released into the chilled night air.

Dean opened his eyes, looking down at his waist. He was swollen and hard. Twitching. His tip already glistening with himself.

Slowly, Castiel wrapped one of his hands around the base of his length, lowering his head down. He lifted his eyes up to Dean’s, locking on them. “I’m not worthy of this. Of receiving you in such a way.” He shuddered.

“Touch me,, Cas.” Dean placed his hand on the side of Castiel’s head, splaying his fingers out briefs before digging his hands into his hair. “Just take me, Cas. Fuck.”

Castiel smirked. Dean was such a sacred dichotomy. Every atom. Every single drop of him.
Leaning his mouth down, Castiel took Dean’s length into his mouth. 

 “Cas, fuck.” Dean rasped, slamming his eyes shut again, digging his hands tight into Castiel’s hair. He could feel Castiel’s lips wrapping around him, the sweet, hot wetness of his mouth washing over him. His tongue flicking. Slowly, sending waves of aching pleasure through the whole of Dean’s pelvis. 

 “You’re so warm. Dean bit down on his lip, hooding his eyelids.” He chuckled with a heavy sigh, smirking. “ Goddamn it. I don’t think I’m gonna last-”

Castiel pulled his mouth off of Dean.

“ What -?”

Castiel reached up, placing his hand over Dean’s mouth. “You actually blasphemed that time, Dean.” He whispered.

Dean rolled his eyes, groaning in desperate annoyance. “Really, come on.” He shouted through Castiel’s hand. Pleading. It made him shudder. How desperate he sounded around the fingers covering his mouth.

Four days had passed since the church and while Dean and Castiel had shared a bed since, nothing had happened between them. They had been too busy and Dean had been too tired from a combination of driving and having his wounds open. 

For four days Dean had lingered with an ache he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in months. An ache that usually, by now, would have been released. Now the ache radiated through his pelvis and stomach. Throbbing so much it almost hurt.

Water began to prickle on the side of Dean’s eyes. “Please,” Dean mumbled.

Castiel watched as Dean patted at the sleeping bag, bucking his hips up in a desperate need to feel something against him.

Castiel smirked as he pulled his hand off Dean’s mouth. 

Quickly, Castiel pressed his torso down, placing his lips against Dean’s as he slowly pressed two of his fingers inside of him.

Dean jerked his head back, gasping as he grabbed at the sleeping bag.

As his fingers worked themselves, Castiel’s lips moved lower, down to Dean’s thighs until they once again found themselves around Dean’s length. Moving his tongue around in a slow, steady rhythm. When his tongue ran over Dean’s tip, he let out a moan that was both coy and ravenous.

Dean glanced down at Castiel through hooded eyes. The look on his face was that of rapture, of ecstasy. His blue eyes half rolled upward, glazed over and locked on in Dean like he was a saint kneeling before an altar. But Castiel wasn’t just a saint. If no one else ever spoke Dean’s name with reverence, it didn’t matter as long as Castiel did. Dean would let Castiel anoint his hair and feet with frankincense from an alabaster jar.  

It didn’t take long for Dean to feel pressure building within him, spreading from his pelvis and into his stomach and thighs. He could feel his body tensing.

As he did, Castiel pressed his hands into Dean’s hips, pulling his mouth deeper around him.

And then. A rush of euphoria and release.

Dean moaned loud as he came, his body stiff and rigid as he spilled himself. When he was done, His body went limp, tired, and breathless, he slipped out of Castiel's mouth as his body dropped down to the sleeping bag. His head spinning and his heart pounding, he glanced up at Castiel, watching as he quickly wiped his mouth and chin with his fingertips, sticking them in his mouth before pulling them out again. “Fuck, Cas.” Dean laughed. Closing his eyes in refractory bliss.

Castiel smirked as he grabbed his trench coat and draped it over himself and Dean like a blanket. He could still taste Dean in his mouth. Bitter as the taste had been at first, it lingered in Castiel’s mouth, warm and sweet like honey. Figs. Wine.

Dean opened his eyes again. Castiel's arms were still wrapped around him. The smell of ozone and grace and sweat-the smell of sex- still lingering on them.

“Man.” Dean chuckled, rolling over on the sleeping bag. “I missed this. A lot.”

 “How long has it been?”

 “Not counting Anna? Last time was at… at that dive bar in Connecticut. The Thursday night, I got the scourge wounds.”

 “You’ve been celibate this whole time? Why didn't you-”

“It wasn’t an asceticism thing or whatever, Cas. I just figured sex was an extra complication I could live without.” Dean paused as he shifted again on the sleeping bag.. “Also, I kinda look like something out of Hellraiser naked, so-”

Gently, Castiel pressed his lips into one of the scars along the back of Dean’s shoulder blade. “I think you’re beautiful.”

Dean’s body tensed slightly. He sat himself up, pulling away from Castiel slightly. “Thanks.”

 “What's wrong, Dean?” Castiel blinked. 

Silence filled the campsite.

"I heard you and Bobby talking about Sam’s...” Dean paused. “wounds.” You said Alastair could make diabolical stigmata. Well, he…he crucified me in hell. What if…”

"No. Dean, you don't have it.” Castiel said bluntly. He took a breath. “Not anymore.”

Dean didn’t say anything.

“Your soul bore them in the Pit. It's true. That was how Hell tried to corrupt you. But I healed them away when I resurrected you.” Castiel placed his hand over the scar on Dean’s left shoulder. It disappeared under his hand for the briefest of seconds before he removed it. “Also, diabolical stigmata must be inflicted upon the flesh and the soul.”

Dean grew quiet for a second. Then he nodded. “Hence me turning into Saint Francis.” 

Castiel took hold of Dean’s hands. He rubbed the raised dark purple scars in the center of his wrists with his thumbs. “Heaven knew it was a risk to awaken the stigmata marking your soul. That if the wounds were reopened, the wall holding back Yehoshua’s memories could break, but it was a risk they had to take.”

Letting go of Dean’s hands, He dragged his index and middle finger along the length of the scar on Dean's side. “I’m glad that they took it.” 

Castiel started to pull his hand away.

 Dean grabbed Castiel's hand, pressing it over the scar. Holding it there. “Ditto.”

Chapter Text

February, 1985 .

Newbury, Massachusetts.

Dean sat in the Impala's backseat, doodling on the frosted window, his pointer finger stinging against the cold glass. 

He stared at the snow gently falling against the icy ground, reveling in the silence. Dad had left them in the car what felt like ages ago. His damp hair had begun clump together, half-frozen. He ran a hand through the clumps, trying to loosen them up. 

Uncle Jim had washed his and Sammy’s hair with some special water that morning, even though Dean had told Jim that he had gotten himself and Sammy cleaned up the night before. Dean didn’t know what the water was for, but he assumed it had something to do with that lady Dean had seen when he left Sam with Uncle Jim so he could go down to the vending machine to get him and Sammy some pop tarts for breakfast.

She looked like one of those pilgrims from the coloring pages his kindergarten teacher had given the class back in November, and she had a mean look on her face. Dean could still feel the chill on his shoulder from where her hand touched him. 

When Dean came back to the motel room, he told Uncle Jim about it and his face went white. He asked Dean if she had done anything to him. But she hadn’t. As soon as she touched Dean, she backed away and disappeared. 

When dad came back to the motel room, Dean had told him about it. That the Lady he and Uncle Jim were looking for had appeared to him, but not to worry because Jim had washed his and Sam’s hair with special water. 

John wasn’t happy about it. Both men had gotten quiet, and then John put he and his brother in the car before going back into the motel room. Dean had tried not to notice the sawed-off shotgun holstered at his dad’s side, and the iron poker Uncle Jim sported as they walked away.

Too long. Its been too long.

Panic welled up in the pit of Dean’s stomach as he searched desperately for a sign of his dad and uncle in the parking lot. None came. 

Tired of waiting, Dean exited the car and walked back over to the motel room. He pulled out the key his dad had given him when they checked in and clicked the lock. Pushing gently, Dean cracked the door and peered in.

Through the crack in the door, Dean could see Uncle Jim holding a beer can to his face and John rubbing the back of his hand.

“Thomasin Goodenow was wrongly executed for witchcraft. The Puritans believed that witches kidnapped unbaptized babies and mashed their bodies into a grease they would spread on their broomsticks called ‘flying ointments’. She’s being petty and targeting unbaptized children. Specifically. I only did it to protect them.” Uncle Jim took the beer can down from his face, exposing the purple bruise forming over his eye.

“Except she didn’t go after them,” John said bluntly.” Almost like what they did have protected them.” John grabbed Dean’s backpack. He dug through it until he pulled out a small card with a lady on the front of it. “I found this in Dean’s backpack.”

Dad tossed the card on to the table, like he was angry at it. Dean didn’t know why. Uncle Jim had given it to him back in November when Dean told him he missed his mom. He’d said the lady on the card was a mom too and she even named Mary. Some people liked to talk to her when they got sad. The weird thing was, when Dean asked him if he did, he chuckled and shook his head no.  

Uncle Jim looked down at the card, his voice almost sheepish. “There were some ideas in Catholic lore that I thought might help him with —”

“Please, you’re a fucking Lutheran Pastor .” John scoffed. “Your whole thing is not being Catholic.”

Jim rose from his chair. “And you just celebrated Christmas with them.” Uncle Jim shouted.

“Dean wanted a Christmas tree like the other kids in his class.” Dad said bluntly. “And I celebrated it with Boston Market and The Grinch. I didn’t try to jam Jesus into it.”

“It’s called ‘ Christ-Mass’ , John,” Jim deadpanned. “He’s the whole point of the holiday.” 

Dad paused for a long moment. “How I choose to spend my time with my kids is my fucking business.”

“Come on, John,” Jim sighed. “You clearly have no intention of raising the boys --”

Dad grabbed Uncle Jim by the shirt collar. “Mary always stressed that because she and her mother were, it meant that our kids are, too.” John shoved Jim back into the chair. “I don’t have much from the house left, but one of the few I do have is their fucking bris certificates and I’ll be goddamned if they go up in flames too because of you.”  

John turned towards the door, setting his eyes on Dean. He froze for a second before he walked over and grabbed him by the arm, walking him back out to the car.

“What’s a bris?” Dean asked, putting his seatbelt on.

Dad froze for a second before slamming the driver’s side door. “It’s nothing Dean. Don’t worry about it.”

“But… you told Jim that me and Sammy have certificates for it.” 

John took a deep breath, looking at Dean through the review mirror. “So you know how when we use the bathroom my… thing looks different from yours and Sam’s?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah?” 

“Well...” Dad paused again, taking a pack of cigarettes out, whacking the box against his palm “When you were born, the doctor cut that part off.” He said, around the unlight cigarette.

“Why?” Dean cocked an eyebrow.

“Because…it’s supposed to keep you cleaner.” Dad shrugged. “Most Americans have it.”

Dean nodded. He paused for a long moment. “Then why don’t you have it?”

“I just don’t, Dean.” Dad lit the cigarette, taking a deep drag from it as he rolled the window down. “Now stop asking about it. Better yet, I want you to forget you ever heard that word.”

The next time Dad went on a trip, he left Dean and Sam with Uncle Bobby instead. Dean wasn’t sure why, but it had something to do with Bobby helping his friend Rufus during their trips together. Which was strange because Dad didn’t seem to like Rufus. At least was what Dean assumed. Uncle Bobby had tried giving Dad Rufus’ phone number, but Dad refused to take it.

May 4, 1998.

Memphis, Tennessee.

Dean was sitting in a desk in his Modern World History Class. One of those half-year upperclassmen social studies classes. The room was cast in shadow, save for the black CRT television and VCR resting on a wheeled cart sitting in the front of the classroom.  The teacher, Couch Stewart, the high school’s basketball coach, sat leaned back on his desk chair, his eyes closed.  

The class had spent the last week going over World War II and the next few days would be dedicated to the Holocaust and couch Stewart was having them watch Schindler’s List . That previous Friday, he had handed out permission slips for everyone’s parents to sign so they could watch it. 

John was two counties over, working a ghost dog case. So Dean forged John’s signature.

Sitting in the two desks in front of Dean sat Jesse Lapin and Ryan Callahan, the class salutatorian and the captain of the basketball team.

As soon as Couch Stewart started snoring, Ryan dug into the pocket of his letterman jacket. He‌ pulled out his brand new teal Gameboy Color and started playing what sounded like Pokemon. 

Jesse leaned forward, nudging his shoulder. “Hey, can you at least pretend to care? Some of us had grandparents that went through this.” He said before turning his attention back to the movie.

Ryan just ignored him. “Looks like they missed a couple.” He whispered quietly to himself.

Jesse squinted at him. “ The fuck did you say?” He hissed.

Ryan turned around, glaring at Jesse. "Why don't you mind your own business?” As he turned back around, he scoffed, mumbling to himself. “Fucking kike.” 

Jesse narrowed his eyes sharply. " The fuck did you call me Callahan?”

Ryan ignored him, chuckling to himself as he went back to his Gameboy.

“What did you call me?” Jesse repeated, balling his fists as he rose from his desk.

Dean quickly reached forward and grabbed Jesse by the shoulder. He narrowed his eyes as he rose quickly from his desk and walked over to Ryan’s, standing in front of it. “Hey Ryan,” he hissed. 

Ryan lifted his head up. “What do you want, Winchester?” 

As soon as Ryan lifted his head, Dean grabbed the hair at the back of his scalp, slamming his face into the desk with one fluid motion. The sound of bone and cartilage cracking rung out as his face hit against the particle board. 

Ryan fell out of his chair and onto the tile floor with a thud. “ The fuck is wrong with you?” he screeched, holding his nose as it gushed with blood.
The classroom lights turned on. “What’s going — Oh, my God!” Couch Stewart hurried over to Ryan, picking him up off the floor. He walked him over to a desk by the door and sat him down while he grabbed a wad of tissues, putting it up to his nose.  

Ryan whispered something to him. Then he turned to Dean and glared. “Winchester. Principal’s office, now,” He shouted.

“Oh Come on!” Dean rolled his eyes. “He called—”

“Now.”

Dean didn’t say anything. He grabbed his backpack and made his way out of the classroom and into the hallway, roaming hallways until he grabbed dug into his backpack, grabbing John’s old Nokia cellphone from it. He paced back and forth between the lockers for a few minutes before he called John.

“Hello?”

“Dad, it’s Dean. Uh…I got a problem.”

“...What happened? Is Sam okay?”

“Yeah, Sam’s fine. I uh..” Dean took a deep breath. “I…hit a kid.”

“...You what ?” John’s voice raised over the phone.

“Dad, listen. Okay.” Dean’s body stiffened as words started pouring from his mouth. “This kid Ryan called this other kid Jesse a kike. I got pissed and slammed his face into a desk. The school is probably gonna can my ass.”

John didn’t say anything.

“I know it was stupid what I did and I’m sorry but—”

"I’m coming over there.”

“Dad please—”

“I’ll see you soon.”

Then there was nothing but a dial tone on the other end.

Dean hung the phone up and slammed his back into a locker, running his hand through hair.

“Fuck.”

Dean made his through the school library. He found Sam sitting at a table taking notes on Julius Ceasar.

“Sam, come on. We’re leaving.”

“What? Why? Dad’s not coming back for another —”

“Just move it. Okay?” Dean snapped “Fucking Christ.”

Sam shifted his eyes as he put his notebook and text book away.

“What happened?” Sam whispered as they made their way out of the library. “Is Dad okay?”

“Dad’s fine.” Dean took a deep breath. “But I’m not.”

“What does that mean?” Sam asked as they made their way through the halls. “You didn’t get a girl pregnant, did you?”

“What? No .” Dean scoffed nervously. He took a deep breath. “I got expelled. Dad’s in the principle's office talking to him.”

“Seriously ? There’s barely a month left of school.” Sam sighed deeply. “We were gonna stay here until you graduated.”

“Don’t remind me.” Dean sighed.

The two made their way to the school’s main entrance, walking outside. They both sat under the large metal canopy, resting against a steel pillar.

Dean turned his gaze back into the building, his eyes locked on the school administration office.

Swallowing hard, Dean rose to his feet as he dug into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lighting one. 

“Really?” Sam cocked an eyebrow, pulling a Walkman and cassette tape out of his backpack.

“I’m not a student anymore, so fuck it.” Dean shrugged as he took a deep drag. He glanced down at the cassette Sam had in his hand. The cover art featured a renaissance painting of a woman with sketched angel wings and a hyper-realistic heart superimposed on her back and chest. 

Rolling his eyes, Dean grabbed the Walkman out of Sam’s hand.

“What the fuck, dude?” Sam glared. “Dad said we’re supposed to share that.”

“That’s my  Walkman, Sam.” Dean glared back at him, smoke pouring from his mouth. “I bought it.”

“You stole it from a RadioShack.” Sam deadpanned.

“Either way, it’s still mine and I’m not gonna let you douche it up with.” Dean grimaced. “K-Mart Chris Cornell and his merry band of posers.”

“Ladyheart is a great band. And Vince Vincente is an awesome song-writer,” Sam argued, defensive.

“Awesomely bad. They sound like the bastard child of Soundgarden and Pearl Jam. And Vince-Whats-his-nuts couldn’t write his way out of a paper bag.” Dean scoffed. “I mean come on Sam, they released an album called ‘Bloody Messiah’ the same day Nirvana’s ‘ Unplugged’ came out. Like seriously ?” Dean took another drag. “What a schmuck.” 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Why are you being such a dick right now?”

“Because Dad’s gonna murder me.”

Sam groaned.

“Seriously. Sam. He was two counties over. Mid-hunt. He barely said anything the whole time I was on the phone with him. And he just hauled ass over here. He’s pissed. He wouldn’t have come here if he wasn’t.” 

The metal and glass doors leading to the school flung open, followed by the sound of feet walking towards them. 

Panicking, Dean snuffed the cigarette out on the pillar and tossed it. He froze, expecting to hear John’s voice, but it wasn’t John. It was Jesse.

“Ryan had to go to the E.R. by the way.” Jesse said, walking over to where Dean and Sam were sitting.

Dean sighed, relieved, and handed the Walkman back to Sam as he took a couple of steps closer to Jesse. “He did?” Dean scoffed.

Jesse nodded. “Yeah. You broke his nose.” 

“Good. Serves him right, the fucking prick.”

“You know.” Jesse sighed. “That’s not the first time someone has called me the K-word.”

Dean blinked. “.... Really?”

Jesse nodded. 

“Yeah, well.” Dean cleared his throat. “That’s the first time someone said it in my presence and the dude does not abide that shit.”

Jesse smirked at him. “You got real‌ chutzpah, Winchester.” 

Dean nodded. “Thanks.” 

Jesse blinked. He looked at Dean for a second. “You sure you’re not Jewish?” 

“Nah man, one of my friends in Pre-K invited me over for Hanukkah one time and I blew out the candles because I thought it worked like birthday cake candles.”

Jesse let out a deep laugh. “You blew the candles out?”

“Hey, I was like, four, man. Cut me some slack.”  

“Well, at least you didn’t do it on purpose.” Jesse patted Dean on the shoulder before making his way back into the school. 

“Did you tell Dad that was why you got expelled?” Sam cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah, of course. I led with that.”

“And?”
 “Dad didn’t say much. He said he’d be here in a couple of hours and that was it.”

The school door slammed open. John came walking out of the school, anger plastered on his face.

“Get in the car.” John looked at Sam, pointing to the Impala.

Sam didn’t say a thing. He rose to his feet and made his way into the parking lot.

John looked at Dean, narrowing his eyes. “And you —”

Dean flinched. “Dad, please. I —” 

“We’re signing you up for the GED test.” John pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket, lighting one.

“....What?” Dean blinked.

“You’re getting your GED Dean,” John said bluntly, taking a drag as he walked into the parking lot, making his way over to the Impala. “I’m not gonna let some racist douchebag steal your high school diploma from you barely a month before you graduate.”

“You’re not mad at me?” Dean followed John into the parking lot.

“No. Someone should have done that to that kid a while ago if he’s going around saying shit like that. I woulda punched him myself if I heard him.”

Dean scoffed. ‘You know he didn’t say it to me , right?”

John froze. “My dad helped liberate Buchenwald Concentration Camp.” He didn’t look at Dean as he unlocked the Impala. “He had nightmares about it. He didn’t tolerate that shit and I don’t either.” He shot Dean a look. “Now can it before I change my mind and ship your ass off to Parris Island.” 

“Yes Sir.” Dean replied.

They didn’t speak for the rest of the car ride.

May 2, 2009.
Bethel, New York.

Dean and Castiel had spent all day at the campsite. The sunrise had brought with it red clouds and rain, causing them to seek shelter in the Impala. They spent the rest of their morning in the backseat, listening to the rain hitting the roof and each other’s heavy breaths and deep moans. By the time the rain stopped, they were a tangled mess of bodies, the windows coated in a thick layer fog. Dean fell asleep soon after, listening to the steady heartbeat of Castiel against his ear. 

When Dean woke up again, it was almost noon. Castiel had disappeared, but the fire of billowing smoke, red-hot coals and a small stack of random fallen tree branches and sticks told Dean that Castiel had gone off to find more firewood.

In the absence of company, Dean sat down at the picnic table with a beer and his mother’s journal, flipping idly through the pages as the smell of wood smoke and damp spring air soothed his nerves.

There was one passage in particular Dean read repeatedly. While reading it, he drank down the rest of his beers and when those were gone, he switched over to his trusted whiskey. 

By the time Castiel came back to the campsite with a stack of wood, Dean was on his third glass. 

“Hey, Cas.” Dean said, his voice eerily neutral. 

Castiel watched him as he placed the sticks down next to the fire pit. “Something’s bothering you.”

Dean didn’t say anything. He just scoffed and took another sip of his whiskey.

“Dean?” Castiel sat down on the bench across from him.

Dean cleared his throat, taking a deep breath as he opened the journal. Going to a place a few pages from the start, he started reading it out loud.

“April 22, 1970.

Mom and I are visiting Saba Moishe for Passover. Last night, I tried to get him to tell me about how he came to America, since I needed information for a project in U.S. History. The only thing he would tell me was that he was from Poland (Mom always said he was from Russia, but I looked it up and it’s in Ukraine). He and his younger brother Daniel came here in 1906. But he wouldn’t tell me why or how.”

Dean turned the page over.

“I woke up in the middle of the night and found him sitting in the living room listening to old klezmer records and drinking plum schnapps. He told me he was from a town he called ‘Ravne’ where he lived with his father Joshua, his mother Meira and younger brother Daniel. In April 1906, just before Easter, a pogrom broke out in the village. Saba Moishe said pogroms happened a lot around Christmas and Easter, but the ones during Easter were always the worst since Christians tended to blame the death of Jesus on Jews.”

Dean paused, shooting Castiel a look.

“In the middle of sabbath dinner two hunters — a priest from the local Orthodox church and his son- broke into their home demanding that Joshua give him the demon knife‌ he had. A few months earlier, they had hunted a blednica together, and he wanted it. Joshua refused. It had belonged to his family for generations, and he had gifted it to Moishe as a bar mitzvah present. The hunters beat him to death. 

Daniel tried to stop them so they dragged him into the family’s cow pen and hanged him from the rafters with a rope. Saba Moishe managed to cut him down before he died. He ended up killing the priest and his son with the knife, getting his left eye cut in the scuffle. He didn't say what happened to his mother and I don’t think I want to know.” 

Dean paused for a long moment, then cleared his throat.

“Knowing Okhrana would be looking for them, Moishe and Daniel escaped to “Tarnepol” in Galicia where their older sister Chava lived with her husband and newborn. When they were both well enough to travel, Chava got Moishe and Daniel passage on a ship to New York and arranged for them to live with another hunter, Yaakov Kaplansky, and his family in Chicago. Moishe had begged her to go with them, but Chava refused. Saba Moishe doesn’t know what became of his sister. After World War I started, he lost all contact with her.”

Dean closed the journal, slamming it shut as he finished his drink off.

“I killed my family before ever being born.” Dean chuckled bitterly. “Man. If I had a nickel —” 

Castiel took a deep breath. “Dean, that is not your fault.”

“They got murdered by a priest on Good Friday. How is that not my fault?”

“Dean —”

“That wasn’t the first time that bullshit happened. It happened all the time over the centuries. And it certainly wasn’t the last time either.” Dean grew quiet. “Moishe’s sister Chava and her kids. What happened to them?”

Castiel didn’t say anything.

“What happened to them, Cas?”

Castiel took a deep breath. “The Einsatzgruppen . During Operation Barbarossa.”

Dean shifted his eyes. His jaw clenching. “So… they're buried in the woods somewhere in western Ukraine, in a mass grave.” 

“They are.”

Dean ran his hands down his face.

“Dean…. Daniel was one of your former lives —.” 

“I kinda figured that, Cas.”

“But.” Castiel paused. “But even if you — specifically — had been there, the same thing would have befallen you.”  

“Because I ‘killed Jesus’, right?” Dean scoffed bitterly. “Funny. Considering the guys that scourged and crucified ‘Old Me’ spoke Latin, wore Roman uniforms, and were…ya know… Roman .” 

“The gospel writers placed the blame on the Sanhedrin and the Pharisees. They didn’t understand that any conflicts you may have had were arguments among your peers.” Castiel paused. “And they needed to absolve Rome of its guilt if they were going to spread their faith among the empire. Blame for that led to blame for other things. Plagues. Murders. Governments collapsing. Wars being lost.” Castiel took a deep breath. “It’s easier to blame the minority for your problems than it is to blame yourself.”

Dean didn’t say anything. He grabbed a water bottle out of the cooler, poking the plastic lid with holes with his knife before he got up and walked over to the fire pit, squeezing the bottle. A spray of water came out, hitting the coals with a cloud of smoke and ash. By the time the coals had turned black, the dregs of the water that were left in the bottle had turned a dark red. 

Dean glared at it, chucking the bottle unceremoniously into the firepit before he turned and grabbed the cooler and journal, tossing them into the trunk of the Impala.

Castiel got up and followed him. “Where are you going?”

“I got four more hours of driving to do and I hate rush hour in the Northeast,” Dean said, climbing into the driver’s seat. “It’s nothing but traffic and everyone drives like a dick here. And I gotta find a hardware store.”

Castiel just nodded and climbed into the passenger seat.

May 2, 2009.
Newtown, Connecticut. 

The Impala was parked in front of a diner, the roar of traffic from Interstate 84 echoing a few dozen yards away. Dean was squatting on the pavement with the front passenger door open, a piece from a roll of industrial strength double-sided tape and mezuzah in hand. His cell phone sat on the dashboard. 

“So you knew,” Dean stated. He cocked an eyebrow at his cell phone as he pressed the tape against the mezuzah.

Bobby’s voice scoffed through the speaker. “Of course I knew, Dean. I’ve been Rufus’ unofficial Shabbos hunter since before you were born–”

Dean blinked, pressing the mezuzah to the door. “Rufus doesn’t do salt and burns on Shabbat?”

“No.” Bobby deadpanned as though it should be obvious. “He's real observant when it comes to the Sabbath . It’s kinda funny since he’s a…‘High Holy Days Only’ kinda guy when it comes to pretty much everything else —”

“Really?” Dean smirked, shaking his head as he grabbed the phone from the dashboard. Dean knew — or rather, remembered — that doing life-saving work on the Sabbath was not a violation. In fact, it was a requirement to do so. Somehow, in all his years of knowing Rufus and despite being well-versed in all kinds of lore, Bobby hadn’t figured that out. 

Dean turned the speaker off, pressing the phone to his ear. He let out a deep chuckle. “That’s awesome .” 

"It’s not that funny,” Bobby paused for a long second. “What is so funny about that, anyway?” 

“Nothing,” Dean said as he shut the door, leaning against the hood of the Impala.

"So, anyway,” Bobby sighed. “Because of that, your dad knew I wasn’t gonna pull the same shit Jim did.”

Dean scoffed. “Even though he didn’t bother raising us Jewish?”

“Dean, listen,” Bobby took a deep breath. “Your mom wasn’t very observant. Apparently, your bris was the first time she had even stepped into a synagogue since her mom’s funeral.” Bobby paused. “Your Dad was raised some kinda Mainline Protestant, but he had been an atheist before and after he came out of his foxhole in Da Nang so your mom never asked him to take conversion or Judaism classes. She just did her thing and your dad did his thing. Hence why John’s name is missing from your circumcision certificates.”

“Okay?” Dean cocked an eyebrow. “So what’s your point?”

“My point is John didn’t know the first thing about raising you boys Jewish.” 

“Because he didn’t try .”

“Dean.”

“Hebrew schools are a thing. He could have thrown me and Sam bar mitzvahs if he wanted.”

“You can't ‘throw’ someone a bar mitzvah Dean.” Bobby deadpanned. “You and Sam would have had to go to Hebrew School. For years. You guys spent most of your childhood on the back roads of flyover states. Where whole counties don’t have much — if any — Jewish population. John had issues keeping you boys enrolled in public school. How the hell was he gonna manage to keep you in Hebrew school? And even if John could find a synagogue, he didn’t have your circumcision certificates on him and he’s not listed on them to begin with.”

Dean sighed deeply. 

“Your dad figured it would be easier for you boys if you didn’t know. You that you couldn’t miss what you didn’t remember.” 

“Why didn't you say anything? Ever? Even after Dad died?” 

"It wasn't my place, Dean. And by the time John died, you were a walking Christopher Hitchens' book and Sam had started CCD classes.”

“Yeah, well, that wasn’t your choice to make. Either of you.”

“I know Dean.” Bobby took a deep breath . “Rufus chewed me out and he almost broke a bottle of scotch over my head when I told him what Pastor Jim did.”

“When did you tell Rufus?”

“A few months ago. While you were hitchhiking, we worked a job together.”

“So did you tell Rufus about…” Dean cleared his throat. “Ya know ?”

“Yeah. He said ‘Jewishness aside, until Dean brings world peace, this is your problem.’” Bobby paused. “But as far as that or anything else is concerned, that’s a conversation you gotta have with him yourself.”

“Yeah,” Dean cleared his throat. “I’m headed up there now.” 

“Make sure you grab a bottle of Johnny Blue label before you head up there. Probably two. All things considered.” 

“I don’t think two’s gonna cut it, Bobby. Shit. I owe him a whole distillery just for the Middle Ages.”  

There was awkward pause between them until Bobby spoke again.

“So” Bobby cleared his throat. “What else are you up to this evening?”

“Well, I just installed my mom’s mezuzahs onto the doors of the Impala and now I'm gonna eat a BLT sub from the Blue Colony diner.”

Bobby’s voice scoffed. “So you're gonna rip me a new asshole, but not even bother keeping kosher, huh?”

“Well, first off Bobby, I think I’m more of a ‘High Holy Days Only’ kinda guy. Second, I kinda can’t keep kosher. I don’t have my own kitchen. Third: Jewish or not, bacon's still fucking delicious.”

“So I take it you're not gonna be casting any demons into pigs anytime soon.” Bobby paused for a second. “Assuming Old You even did that–—”

“Oh, I one hundred percent did that.” Dean nodded and smirked. “The demons insisted on calling themselves Legion, so it…felt appropriate.”

Bobby chuckled. “Old You was a regular Abbie Hoffman, huh?”

“Well, yeah .” Dean deadpanned. “Those who worked Roman forces were the same that made crosses. They were the enforcers of an imperial state––.” 

“Okay, Che Guevara.” Bobby scoffed.

Just then, Dean saw Castiel making his way across the parking lot, holding a flyer in his hand. “I’ll talk to you later, Bobby.” 

“Bye, son.”

Dean hung up the phone and stepped away from the Impala, walking over to Castiel. “You find something?” he asked Castiel. 

Castiel nodded, handing him the flyer. “It looks like the owner of the motel where you got the scourge wounds has been busy.” 

“‘Second Advent Believers Fellowship. Revival Meeting. Bethlehem Fair Grounds. Sundays at 9’” Dean looked up from the flyer. “So this is a ‘ me’ thing, then.” 

“It is,” Castiel nodded. “After you and Sam left the motel, his wife, who does all the housekeeping for the rooms, found the sheets with your blood on them. They were going to call the authorities until she discovered that you healed her recurrent breast cancer.” 

“So I saved a lady's boobs,” Dean nodded. “Awesome. Sam might be Damien, but he’s sure as fuck not gonna try to claim that one .”

Dean’s phone rang. It was Bobby calling him back. 

“What’s up Bobby?”

“Which way you headed up to Rufus?” 

“I-91.” Dean paused. “Why?”

“Because Springfield Mass got hit by an F3 tornado outbreak this morning.” 

Dean lifted his eyes up to the sky. The clouds were a dark gray. In the north, they took on an ominous green hue.

“Since when does New England even get tornadoes?”

“Since the world is ending.” Bobby took a deep breath. “But until now, not very often. They get an F-1 once a year. Maybe.”

With Tornados being rare in New England and outbreaks even rarer, people didn’t have storm shelters, and the towns didn’t have storm sirens.   

Tornado outbreaks were devastating on their own. In a place utterly unprepared for one, they’d be catastrophic. 

“There’s gonna be a lot of opportunities for Sam to do his anti-Christ parlor tricks.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.” Bobby paused. “ And Dean. Be careful .”

“I will.”

May 2, 2009.

Springfield, Massachusetts. 

By the time Dean and Castiel made it into Springfield, the sun was ‌setting, and Dean was exhausted. What should have been a two-hour car ride had taken four. It had been nothing but stop-and go traffic from the moment they hit Hartford, Connecticut. Even Route 5 that ran parallel to the interstate was at a standstill. It took Dean forever just to reach one of the gas stations along it. 

When they reached the city, Dean could see why. A path of destruction had cut across the river. Brick buildings with roofs ripped off and skyscrapers with hundreds of broken windows as far as the eye could see. Across both lanes of highway, there was a mess of toppled highway signs and streetlamps.

When he reached the first off ramp leading into the city, Dean got off the highway and found the first open Dunkin Donuts with working electricity to get himself a much-needed coffee. Dean parked the Impala, then and he and Castiel made their way inside, walking up to the counter. 

“Hey.” Dean cleared his throat. “One coffee, black.”

“Okay.” the clerk said, nodding. They looked at Castiel. “You?”

Castiel squinted. “Me, what—?” 

“He’s fine,” Dean said quickly, handing them some a few dollars.

The clerk shot them a look as he went to make Dean’s coffee order.

“So, we’re looking for someone.”

“Yeah?” The clerk cocked an eyebrow as they placed the coffee on the counter. “Who's asking?”

Dean pulled his FBI badge out, glancing at Castiel. “Agent Gillan and this is my—”

Castiel had taken his badge out, but the ID was upside down.

Dean quickly grabbed it and flipped it around before handing it back to Castiel. 

“This is my partner Agent Roger.” Dean put his I.D. back in his jeans, nudging Castiel’s arm so he would do the same. He cleared his throat. “We’re looking for a missing person.” Dean pulled out a photo of Sam, putting it on the counter. “6’4 190 pounds. You seen him around here?” 

The clerk glanced at the photo, shaking his head. “Can’t say I have. No.” 

Despite their short quips, Dean didn’t get the impression that they were lying.

“Thanks.” Dean grabbed his coffee, made his way to a small table in the corner. “Where is Sam? I thought he'd be here by now.” He whispered, taking a seat in a chair.

“The Northeast doesn’t have many fundamentalists, Dean.” Castiel whispered back as he sat down across from Dean. “Most of the churches are either Mainline Protestant or Catholic. A good portion of the population is secular or ascribe to different religions. Sam will go where he will have the easiest time convincing people.” 

Dean scoffed, taking a sip of his coffee. “I don’t know about that. Disasters have a funny way of radicalizing people, Cas.”

Dean caught sight of a large TV hanging on the wall. There was a pastor being interviewed on CNN. 

“We have Pastor Jeremiah Graham of Enduring Truth Baptist Ministries in Biloxi, Mississippi, here to shed some light on the controversial tweet he posted earlier today. You said this tornado outbreak was the wrath of God?”

“Absolutely. The Massachusetts state government has done all that they can to curtail our American Christian values. Now they’re paying for it.” 

“Well, what about the tornados that hit Oklahoma? There was an even worse outbreak in Minnesota today as well —”

“—Massachusetts was the first state to legalize gay marriage. It's a den of iniquity and God has punished it for its transgressions against Him. Just like He did Sodom and Gomorrah.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Sure, he did.” 

“I know for a fact that the sins of Sodom and Gomorrah were uncharitableness and wealth inequality,” Castiel said bluntly. “It had absolutely nothing to do with sexual orientation.”

“How?” Dean smirked. “Did you light the fires personally?”

“My garrison did, yes.” Castiel paused. “And we did not ‘light fires’, we rained down sulfur.”

“Same difference.” Dean shrugged.

“I can assure you, the difference is quite distinct.” 

Dean shook his head, turning his attention back to the television. 

“So you think this is a sign of the Apocalypse?” 

“Yes. Jesus is returning. He’s sorting out the sheep from the goats. The godly and the ungodly. Those on his right will go to paradise and those on his left will be cast into a lake of fire.”

Dean sighed deeply, drumming his fingers on the table.

“Well, you have a private jet and two large mansions. Let me ask you, where do you think you’re going?” The reporter said, smirking gently.  

Without saying a word, Dean got up and headed to the door. He leaned against the Impala, waiting for Cas to catch up before unlocking the doors. 

“Where are you going?” Castiel asked, following behind him.

“Nearest hospital,” Dean said.

"Dean.” Castiel grabbed his arm. “You need to be careful.”

“Cas, relax.” Dean sighed. 

“If the wrong person sees you working miracles —”

“Caesar only makes pizza now, Cas.” Dean scoffed. “I’ll be fine.”

Castiel squinted at him. He exhaled. “Dean, please.”

Dean chuckled, twirling the keys around his finger. “Ya know, I seem to remember you being a lot less worried about this kinda thing the first time around.”

“That’s because I had less to be worried about … before.” Castiel shot him a pleading look.

“Don’t worry your pretty little tree-topper head.” Dean walked back over Castiel. Gently, Dean grabbed on to his tie, pulling Castiel closer to him. “I got this,” Dean pressed their lips together, brushing his hand against the back of Castiel’s neck.

After a few seconds, Dean pulled away from Castiel. ”They’re probably using the Mass Mutual Center as a storm shelter. Head over there and keep an eye out for Sam. You still got that burner phone I gave you?”

Castiel nodded. 

“Good.” Dean walked back over to the Impala. “Call me if you see anything.” 

Dean made his way down the hall of the hospital, heading into the ICU. He looked over at the waiting area just outside the doors. The couches and chairs were filled with people. Some were sleeping. Some were reading books. All keeping vigil for the family members and friends inside. 

Taking a deep breath, Dean made his way through the ICU doors. He glanced briefly at the nurse's station. All of them were busy updating files on the computers or taking phone calls. 

He wouldn’t have much time. At least it was after dark. Most of the patients would be sleeping.

Dean moved in and out of the rooms as quickly as he could, brushing his fingers against the heads of the injured and dying.

Finally, he entered the last room belonging to a woman named Alana Lamora. She was unconscious and had a breathing tube in her nose. A large gash went down the side of her head, held together by stitches.

Dean made his way over to the hospital bed. He placed his hand on her head, heat coursing through his veins. With a blink, the gash was gone. After a few seconds, her eyes opened slowly, darting around the room before they settled on Dean, widening. “You’re —”

“I am,” Dean said, hushed. “But don’t worry about that.”

She started speaking in Spanish, her words fast and frantic as she began her lift her torso up, tears filling her eyes.

Dean grabbed her by her shoulders, lowering back down into the hospital bed. “You’re okay now. That’s all that matters.” Dean brushed his hand against her head, gently stroking her hair.

“I’m sorry…for so much —”

Dean grabbed her hand. “Listen. None of that matters. Okay?” He took a deep breath. “You have kids, right?”

She nodded. “A daughter.”

“Take care of her. Watch her grow up. Just live your life, okay? That’s all I care about.”

Alana nodded again. “Thank you.”

Dean turned and left the room, making his way quickly back over to the doors. He found a little girl standing in front of them. Waiting.

Dean stopped. “Hey kiddo —”

“You healed my mommy,” she whispered.

“I did,” Dean replied, clearing his throat.

The girl ran up to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Thank you, Jesus.”

“No problem, Sweetheart.” Dean patted her on her head.

The girl looked up at him. “Are you gonna come to mass tomorrow?”

Dean froze. He paused for a second before crouching down in front of her. “Uh, no, I’m not.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Dean paused again. “I don’t go to church.”

The girl blinked. “You don’t?”

“No.”

“Why not?” the girl cocked an eyebrow. “ Everybody does.”

Dean grew quiet. He rose back to his feet. “I gotta go,” he turned and made his way out of the ICU and back through the way he came until he was out of the hospital. 

Dean strolled through parking lot when he heard a voice echoing off in the distance.

“I looked down into the abyss and Lo! Within the center of the fiery pit, I saw the Righteous Man. His eyes were that of emeralds and around his head was a crown of fire. For thirty years, He had been whipped and branded by the Beasts within the Earth, and for thirty years he opened not his mouth. Then The Beasts within the Earth gave The Righteous Man a scroll with a large seal, for only he was worthy to open it.”

Dean froze for a moment, listening to the voice before turning and leaving the parking lot, and making his way over to the sidewalk, following the voice.

“Then there was a great cry in Heaven. The Angel of the Lord said, “Behold! Salvation returns not on the clouds of Heaven, but conquering Death. He comes to bring judgment upon the wicked, carrying a flaming sword within his mouth.”

Dean narrowed his eyes as he made his way closer to the voice until he reached an intersection. He found a man standing on the street corner opposite of him, holding what looked like a journal in one hand, a megaphone in the other. 

It was a man Dean recognized. The owner of the motel in Bethlehem. Taking a deep breath, Dean crossed the street, locking his gaze on the man.

“The angels have spoken to me. The Lord has returned. Reborn in the flesh. Because of the sins and inequities of this world, he’s seen fit to humble himself and walk among us. He has a face and name known only to him, but all those who learn it will be given paradise.” 

Dean walked up to him. “My name is Dean Winchester. Do you know who I am?” 

The man froze. “Dear God.”

“That’s a yes then, good —”

“--Lord Jesus Christ.”

Dean winced slightly. “That doesn’t ring a bell. Sorry.” 

The man blinked. “.... Excuse me?”

“You know that wasn’t my name… right?” Dean scoffed.

“What do you mean by —?” 

“—Yehoshua. That was the name given to me at my circumcision and the name that was said when my family said kaddish for me.”

The preacher blinked again. “...You’re a Jew ?” 

“Yeah. I was. And I still am .” Dean narrowed his eyes. “And that’s still my name, too. My Hebrew name anyway. I was named after my great-great-grandfather. Mostly, because there’s no one else who could be. His only kid to survive the 20th century long enough to have kids and grandkids was my great-grandfather. It’s sheer dumb luck that I’m even standing here.”

The man shifted his eyes. “But that has nothing to do with —”

Dean stepped closer. “Scores of my family- My People - got murdered over the last two millennia. Mostly by people who claim to follow me. People like you .”

“You..you need to leave.”

“You and those like you might think you’re going upstairs, but you’re going the other way and let me tell ya… that sauna gets hot.” 

Dean turned and made his way back down the sidewalk, in the direction back to the hospital, his gate fast and his body stiff and numb and mind foggy. When he reached the parking lot, he moved faster, almost running until he reached the impala. In one quick motion, he unlocked the driver-side door and opened it, slamming the door as he climbed inside. He sat there in silence as tears prickled his eyes. Soon his cheeks became stained with tears. He quickly wiped his eyes, running his hands down his face as he sniffled, breath shaking, before taking the keys out of his pocket and putting them in the ignition, turning the car on. 

Pulling out of the parking spot, he drove out of the parking lot in complete silence, making his way over to the next nearest hospital. 

A block away, he caught sight of a small dive bar. He turned down into an adjacent side street and parked the car before climbing out and making his way over to the bar, making a beeline to the bar counter. 

“Whiskey. Neat. Double.”

“Shelf or Well?”

“Whatever.” Dean shrugged.

“Well it is.” The bartender sighed, pouring the alcohol. 

Dean quickly knocked it back. Placing the glass back on the counter and knocking on the bar top. 

He sequestered himself into a small booth where he nursed his second drink in silence.

Then he heard a familiar voice.

“Dean Winchester.” 

Dean looked up from his glass. 

It was Rufus.

“What are you doing down here?” 

“Keeping an eye out for Sam. Bobby called me,” Rufus said, sitting down in the chair across from Dean. “He also told me you were headed up my way. I guess you got distracted.” Rufus paused. “Huh, Josh?”

“Yeah.” Dean cleared his throat. “Ya know this …. Ain’t the first name I had that name.” 

Rufus paused for a long moment. He shrugged, taking a sip of his beer. “Okay. And?” 

Dean shifted his eyes. “Well, I mean that's gotta be kinda awkward—”

Rufus rolled his eyes. “And? Old You died. And he stayed dead, right?”

Dean nodded. “Uh. Yeah. Clearly .”

“Then we don’t got a problem.” Rufus scoffed. “You wanna rustle some feathers? Go pay old Benny boy in Rome a visit. If you bring the menorah back with you, then we might have something to talk about. Maybe.” 

Dean nodded. “Uh…What menorah?" He squinted.

“From the Temple." Rufus deadpanned. “General Titus took it. The Roman government had it and ya know what became the Roman government after the western half of the empire collapsed?" 

Dean cocked an eyebrow. “A guy in a white pointy hat?” 

“Bingo." Rufus paused. “Of course, that’s assuming they didn't melt it down into a reliquary or one of those Jesus-bread boxes.”

“Ya know, the Eucharist isn’t a thing. At least not the body and blood thing. Old Me never said that. Or the pope thing.”

“Again. And?” 

Dean nodded. “Right,” he chuckled. “Thanks Rufus.”

“For what?” Rufus cocked an eyebrow.

“Not looking at me like I got three heads.” Dean smiled slightly. “It’s been happening a lot lately.”

Rufus looked down at his watch. He knocked the rest of his drink back.

“You going somewhere?” Dean asked.

Rufus nodded. “ Maariv .”

Dean cocked an eyebrow. “Isn’t it kinda late for evening prayer ?”

“Technically, I got until sunrise.” Rufus paused. “You should come.” 

“I’m not the ‘praying’ type.”

“I’m not either. Most of the time. But desperate times,” Rufus scoffed and shrugged. “It might not be a quorum for a minyan, but two’s better than one.”

“I don’t think I deserve to be part of it. All things considered.”

“You’re a victim too, Dean. Just because you weren’t dipped in a baptismal font at the tip of a sword doesn’t make it any less true.” Rufus paused. “What happened to you happened to a lotta Jewish kids over the centuries. A kid gets sick, some Christian servant gets nervous and sprinkles some water on ‘em. Next thing ya know, the Pope is coming to take the kid away.” Rufus cleared his throat, standing up from his chair. “Anyway. You coming or not?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah.”

“Good.” Rufus said standing up from his chair. “I’m shacked up at the motel on Route-5, across from movie theatre.”

Dean stood from his chair and made his way out Impala, he took his cellphone out and called Castiel.

The phone rang once. “Hello, Dean.”

“Hey… I ran into Rufus. I’m heading over to his motel for a while. You want the address?”

“I won’t need it.” Castiel paused. “I can still hear your prayers, Dean. Even with the sigils on your ribs. Remember?” 

“Yeah, I do.” Dean smiled slightly.

“You face the east, by the way. Not the south.” Castiel said. “You’re in the diaspora now.”

“Right. Thanks Cas.” 

Dean made his way over to Rufus’ motel. When he pulled into the parking lot, he saw Rufus standing outside his motel room door.

Parking the Impala in front of the motel room, Dean climbed out and walked over to the trunk, digging through the box for the batman kippah.

“Cute,” Rufus looked at it and chuckled. “Ya know, you can get a new one, right?”

Dean shot him a look. “My mom got me this. This is the one I’m wearing.”  

Rufus nodded and shrugged. “That yours too?” Rufus asked, pointing to the tallit bag. 

“Yeah,” Dean cleared his throat. “My great-grandpa gave it to me. It was supposed to be a bar mitzvah gift. I found it in my dad's storage locker with my mom's mezuzahs. "

“Then you should use it.”

Dean chuckled. “Ya know I didn’t have a bar mitzvah, right? —”

“Clearly,” Rufus scoffed. “But you don’t need a bar mitzvah ceremony . It’s the age that matters.” he paused. “Of course, you can still have one if you want one.”

“I can?” Dean blinked.

“Absolutely. I’ll help ya study.” Rufus said. “But even if you did need a ceremony, you should still wear it. Your great-grandpa would rather you wear it now than not wear it all. Trust me.” 

Dean paused for a second before he grabbed the tallit bag, shoving it and the kippah into the pocket of his jacket as he shut the trunk of the Impala.

Dean and Castiel made their way into the motel room. When Dean opened the door, he found a woman standing there. A blonde woman with wings.

“Fuck.” Dean sighed.

Castiel stepped in front of Dean, taking his angel blade out. He squinted at her. “Hester?”

Dean shifted his eyes. “She a buddy of yours?” 

“Yes,” Castiel nodded, putting his blade away. “She’s a member of my garrison.” 

“Hello, Dean.” Hester said. She paused, turning her gaze to Dean. “I saw what you did in that hospital earlier. The miracles you worked brought many a lost sheep back into the fold.” She stepped closer, her gaze serious. 

Dean squinted at her. “There’s a ‘but’ coming, isn’t there?” 

“The pastor that you berated. His faith has been shaken.” 

“Good.” Dean smirked. “I’m glad.” 

“‘Good?’” Hester cocked an eyebrow at him.

“That guy was a dick. He might put a statue of Old Me on his dashboard, but he wouldn't invite either of us over for a beer. Me especially. Maybe now he’ll get the stick dislodged outta someplace that doesn’t see the sunshine.”

“Dean.” Castiel shot him a look.

“What? He was.” Dean shrugged. 

“That ‘guy’ is a prophet of the Lord.” Hester said. “And you're the messiah.”

“I know that,” Dean bluntly. “Healing people — saving people — is one thing. But helping you guys fill your pews and offering baskets? That’s not my style.”

“Well, it should be.” Hester paused. “Your brother is growing an army. Sam inspires faith in those he’s corrupted. You do nothing but sew chaos and doubt.” She paused. “Even though he’s a false one, he’s doing a far better job of being a messiah than you.” 

“Easy Hester,” Castiel stepped forward. “That's dangerously close to blasphemy.”

“Dean is the blasphemy.” Hester glared. “He would rather see Heaven and Earth crumble and burn than forsake his own pride and stubbornness and yet, you still defend him. Your blind loyalty to him has caused you to stumble, Castiel.”

Dean’s breath hitched in his throat.

Castiel glanced briefly over to Dean. He turned his gaze back to Hester, shaking his head. “You haven’t lost me, sister.”

“But we have. When you laid a hand on him in Perdition, you were already lost.” she paused. “We lost you the moment you pulled The Nazarene out of the desert.” She fixed her gaze on Dean, leering at him. “The very touch of him corrupts. It always has.”

With that, Hester and disappeared.

May 3, 2009.

Blue Earth, Minnesota.

Sam sat in the first pew on the left side of the church sanctuary, playing with the frayed cut-off ends of his black fingerless gloves. Even with dark fabric, he could still see the slight shadow of bloodstains on the palms and back of his hands. Dark red droplets bubbled up from the fabric, like sinister stars in a night sky.

His hands radiated a hot pain, but the wounds themselves felt cold. Icy. 

The church he was sitting in was Lutheran Sacrament church. It was a small building. Its walls and pews were made of antique dark oak wood. The church had no decoration except for the stained-glass window with the image of Jesus behind the pulpit. The early morning sun shone through it, casting beams of red and yellow across the pews. There was the smell of salt and gunpowder in the church emanating from the various rifles and shotguns the parishioners had held in their hands.

There was another smell in the church, one that Sam knew the parishioners couldn’t smell. The smell of sulfur.

Sam hadn’t come here to heal anyone. The tornado outbreak spared this town. Sam was here for another reason. That reason stood on the steps of the sanctuary: Leah Gideon. The daughter of the church's pastor, David. Or, as Sam knew her, his prophet. The Whore of Babylon.

The demon had taken possession of her a week ago, and with it came visions from what she called angels. At the same time, came a small army of demons that had begun to terrorize the town. Leah had taught the parishioners Incantations in Enochian to exorcize them. Sam didn’t know if those were real or not. Just like he wasn’t sure if Leah was still in the body. He didn’t care. He needed her and he needed the parishioners to believe her.

The church was dead quiet. Even though congregants filled pews, not a single person made a sound. The only voice Sam could hear was Leah.

“The angels have spoken to me again. And they brought with them glorious news.” Leah’s voice boomed through the church. Joyous and excited. “Amid all this destruction, our salvation is at hand. Christ has returned to Earth. And he has chosen us to be those who will witness it.”

The church erupted shouts and applause.

“In fact,” Leah smiled as she turned her gaze to Sam. “He’s sitting amongst us.”

Sam rose to his feet, smiling magnanimously. “Thank you, Leah.” 

The congregation froze. Their eyes all locked on Sam.

Sam made his way up the sanctuary steps. Turning, he saw the look on their faces: wonder and awe.

“The world is a corrupt and vile place. It’s standing at the edge of a great dark abyss.” Sam’s voice echoed. “But there is also a glorious light. A light that will shine around all those who let it in. But to do that, you must have an open heart.”

Applause filled the church. 

Then a voice rang out from the back of the church. It was the local bartender, Paul. Sam had seen him when he scoped out the town the night before. “It’s been a long time since I went to church, but I’m pretty sure Jesus was from the Middle East two-thousand years ago. Shouldn’t you be a lot shorter?” Paul paused. “And have more UV light protection?” 

Someone in another pew spoke up. “The angels say he was reborn . They said we wouldn’t recognize him —”

“Really? Well, ain’t that convenient ?” Paul scoffed. 

“You must have faith.” Sam said bluntly. “And trust in my father.”

Pastor David stepped forward. “Jesus died on the cross. His resurrected body still bore the wounds. Where are your wounds?”

Sam pulled his gloves off, revealing the wounds on his hands. Freshly re-cut and angry. “Right here.” 

Gasps filled the church.

Pastor David didn’t say anything. He just stared at Sam with a look of unease.

Sam cleared his throat. “There are those who doubt. All those who doubt are agents of The Adversary. You must resist them and strike them from your mists if you want to be given paradise.”

A small group of parishioners got up and grabbed Paul. 

Sam didn’t move. He just watched it.

The rest of the congregation did the same.

“Come on! You can’t seriously believe this bullshit.” Paul shouted.

“You’re an unbeliever!” A young woman shouted. “And we’re not going to let you stop us from going to Heaven.” 

Pastor David ran into the back of the church. He pulled the parishioners who were holding Paul off of him. “This needs to stop. I can assure you this is not the path to heaven.”

Some others from the group of parishioners grabbed David. “If you doubt Him and His word, then you’re a false shepherd.” An older man declared.

Then there were shouts and swinging fists. The end of a shotgun was whacked against Paul and David’s temples. The group of parishioners dragged David and Paul out of the church.

A moment later, the sound of two gunshots echoed from outside. Another moment passed before the parishioners walked back inside and returned to their seats like nothing had happened. 

Sam cleared his throat. “Those who believe. Those who want paradise. Do you accept the light?” 

“We do.” A choir of voices rung out.

Sam smirked, closing his eyes. A light filled the church. When it faded, the parishioners lay strewn across the aisles and slack in the pews. Leah lay on the floor next to Sam. Her body was motionless and pale.

After a moment, the parishioners' eyes opened, and they stood up. 

Black pools filled the space where their eyes were. 

May, 5. 2009.

Aberdeen, Washington.

It took Sam a few days to get there and by the end of the drive, his eyes were heavy.

During the night after he went to the church in Blue Earth, he had dreamed of that house. In the dream, he heard a voice telling him to come to this house. But Sam didn’t know who or what would be waiting for him there. 

Still, Sam walked up the driveway of the small white bungalow. Walking up the steps, Sam knocked on the door. After about a minute, the door opened, revealing a man. 

It was a man Sam had never met, but he knew him anyway. He had seen it in magazines, in the booklet to cassettes and in music videos. He had heard the voice first in cassette tapes and then in compact discs. Occasionally, he had listened to on his laptop and on MP3 players.

Vince Vincente. He wore a muted color plaid flannel, a dark denim jacket and blue jeans and converse sneakers, his long brown hair pulled back by a pair of white oval-shaped sunglasses resting on the top of his head. 

“Hello Sam,” Vince grinned. For the briefest of seconds, his eyes flashed with a bright light, like the sun reflecting off snow drifts.

Lucifer.

Sam paused. “What are you ––”

“He's my vessel.” Lucifer said plainly. “I’m an angel. I still need one.” 

Sam nodded.

He knew angels needed vessels. Dean had mentioned that Castiel was wearing one after he that met him and that the man he was wearing was devout. As far as Sam could remember, Vince Vincente was not a man of faith. Sam had read magazine articles about wild parties Vince threw in his Southern California mansion after selling the rights to Ladyheart’s first album to a television commercial producer.

“How did you get consent from him?” Sam asked, walking into the house.

“Well, the band's second album undersold. Which he blamed music tastes changing after Kurt Cobain died. He had to sell his mansion. He got…morose. He spent the next few years doing hard drugs until he almost overdosed in a Motel 6. He spent a few months after that in a rehab center and started going to A.A. Then he… ‘Found the Lord’, as you humans say.”Lucifer said, closing the door. “Then a few years ago, he started making and producing Christian rock albums. He’s been on the straight and narrow ever since.” Lucifer paused. “Speaking of which, I have someone else I’d like you to meet.”

Sam followed Lucifer down into the basement. In one corner of the basement was a small room with a large plexiglass window looking into it. Through the window, Sam could see inside the room, lined with soundproof foam and a studio microphone hanging down from the ceiling. A recording booth.

Sitting inside the booth of the recording studio was a young woman. She was screaming into the microphone over a backing track of chugging, heavy bass and guitar.

“She’s the lead vocalist of SoundandFury. One of the bands Vince produces.” Lucifer explained. He smirked. “But you would know her better as the Whore of Babylon.”

When the backing tracks ended, the woman removed her headphones. She got off the bench and made her way over to the door, opening it. “Hello, Sam.” she grinned, walking out of the room. “It’s good to see you again.” 

Lucifer went over to the woman and threw his arm around her shoulder. “You’re doing a great job Sam, but you need something a little more…. Modern. You need a production. Music. Concerts. I’m told. They’re the new churches. She can reach more people with a single album than you can with a bible and they don’t even realize they’re being preached to.”

Sam grinned. “Good.”