Fanfiction: Supernatural

Disclaimer:  These stories are written for fun, not profit.  No copyright infringement is intended.

Afraid of the Dark

“Sammy...Sammy, look at me.”

Nine year old Sam Winchester glanced up furtively from his slippers, into his father’s dark, intense eyes.

“You heard noises, Sammy?” John Winchester confirmed. “Coming from you closet?”

Sammy nodded jerkily, afraid to speak, afraid that the noises he had heard would suddenly become a monster. His father had his back to the closet door, so if the monster heard them talking about it and it got mad, Sammy’s dad would be its first target.

“Alright, Sammy,” John Winchester said. “I want you to go stand by the door with Dean. If anything happens, both of you run to the neighbors and get them to call 911. Say there’s a burglar here, got it?”

Dean steered Sammy to the door by his shoulder, his eyes serious as he replied, “Yes, sir.”

John Winchester took the silver-plated handgun from where it what holstered in the waistband at the small of his back. If the thing in Sammy’s closet was a demon, he should probably have holy water, but John was banking on the fact that most supernatural creatures that hid in children’s bedroom closets were not demons, and that they were easily frightened; much like their prey.

In a smooth series of motions, John threw the closet door open and cleared the tiny space with his gun, finding nothing more threatening than a pile of clothes in one corner and swaying and jingling metal hangers on a steel rod. John Winchester closed the door before relaxing. He could tell Dean was struggling not to laugh. He shot a warning look at the older boy, not wanting Sammy to feel slighted.

Of course, John had to admit that the incident was funny. In this world, the world after his wife died, danger was everywhere. John Winchester’s was not the only family that might actually have a monster in the closet, but his was most likely to.

Humor aside, Sammy still looked afraid, and John intended to rectify that. “Stay here,” he ordered, brushing past the boys in the doorway and heading for his arsenal. He returned minutes later with the object he wanted. John sat Sammy on the bed and presented his selection to his youngest son.

“Do you remember when we went to the shooting range?” He asked, receiving that same, quick nod as an answer. “You know how dangerous this is, then,” he held the matte black .45 in both hands.

“Only if it’s loaded,” came Sammy’s squeaky reply.

John smirked, and decided now was not the time to educate Sammy on the finer points of pistol-whipping. “Right. Well, this one will be loaded, so I never want you to aim it anywhere but at the closet, and only do that if you hear something or see something that shouldn’t be there, understand? Okay, show me.”

Sammy took the gun, pointed it at the closed closet door and stared in concentration at the potentially offending portal. “Like that?”

John shook his head. “Almost, Sammy.” He reached over and made a minor adjustment to the weapon, and Sammy blushed.

“How could I forget? The safety. Maybe it’s better if Dean sleeps in here with me; he knows how to shoot and throw knives and everything.”

John Winchester frowned. Nine year old boys should be proud of their older brothers, but for normal things, like being a good basketball player or making the best spitballs, not for having extensive firearm, hand-to-hand, and bladed weapons training. This was simply one more jolting reminder that his world had shifted terribly when it jumped the tracks from mundane but safe to supernatural and deadly.

“No, Sammy. You have to learn to look after yourself,” John said, hating himself for coming down hard on the young boy. “What if Dean isn’t here when the monster comes back?”

Sammy’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Dean’s always here,” he said confidently.

John sighed, but tried to hide it from his youngest child. “Trust me on this, Sammy. It’s best if you can do this on your own.”

Now Sammy frowned. “Is that an order?” He might have been four years younger than Dean, but that had not prevented Sammy from quickly learning that he did not like following orders.

“No,” John said calmly. “It a precaution. If Dean or I can’t get to you in time, I want to know you can defend yourself.” John Winchester heard Dean shift from one foot to the other in the doorway, and silently apologized. John knew that each of his sons had to be handled differently, and he hoped Dean was not resentful of the less military manner in which he addressed Sam.

Sammy thought about the proposal for a few moments, and then he gave a tentative smile. Putting the gun gently in his nightstand drawer, Sammy turned and, quite unexpectedly, hugged John. “Thanks, Dad,” Sammy whispered. “You’re the best!”

John Winchester kept the smile on his face as he tucked Sammy in and returned to his research on exorcism rites. He shouldn’t have to arm and train his children. What ever happened to the days when checking under the bed would have sufficed? He knew the answer, and that knowledge made him even more determined to continue the hunt.

A Few Good Souls

Despite his best efforts, he went to Heaven.

There, he saw the final battle, awesome forces so violent and evenly matched that the confidence heaven’s generals had in victory was not a certainty he shared. His brother was not there, a man who, in his darkest hour should still have made the guest list.

Looking out over the incessantly wavering line of charge and retreat, he caught sight of his brother. His brother, bound to fight on Hell’s side by a deal that should never have been made. His brother, Hunter’s skills in full use, more than held his own against Heaven’s angels. The reluctantly saved man smiled in twisted pride, glad that their father’s training had been good for something. His smile faltered as he saw a demon thrust a spear through his brother’s back.

He screamed in protest and reached out for his brother, but unlike last time, he could not reach Sammy.

Dean cried as Sammy’s body was lost, trampled underfoot as the heavenly troops advanced. The tears dried, and Dean shook with a different emotion. He began searching, resolving to find the all-powerful asshole, the great and mighty moron, the savior who had not deigned it necessary to save Sammy. God had a lot to answer for.

Before he had gone three steps, Dean had to shield his eyes because a bright, shining figure appeared in front of him. Figuring the all-knowing had come to confront him, Dean muttered, “Took you long enough, you son-of-a-bitch.”

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

“We should really bury him, Sam,” Bobby said gently.

After Dean’s deal had come due and the timer on the improved holy water sprinkler system had run out, Bobby had been expecting that the remaining two dozen demons would rush the house and kill Sam. However, just the opposite had happened. A dark, slithering shadow had escaped via the roof, joining the rest of the demons outside. It had forced one of the demons from a body to take the vessel for itself, and as soon as the demon began talking, Bobby had realized that the demon was Lilith, and that Sam had scared the hell out of her. (Well, not literally, but one could always hope, right?)

She ordered the demons to disperse, claiming that she would call for them later, and Bobby waited until he was reasonably sure it was not a ploy. Then he let himself into the house, knowing full well what he would find, but still praying it wasn’t true. He found Sam hunched over Dean’s body, and it was clear that Dean’s soul had left. After several minutes of gentle persuasion, Bobby had convinced Sam to return to the Impala. They brought Dean’s body along. Sam had asserted that he was alright to drive, but Bobby still watched in the rearview mirror. He could see the brothers in his rearview mirror and through the Impala’s windshield. Sam was driving, with an expression of complete betrayal and self-loathing on his face and a lost look in his eyes. Dean’s body sat in the front passenger seat, his head lolling to one side as though merely asleep.

When they had reached Bobby Singer’s salvage yard, Sam carried Dean’s remains inside by himself, refusing the older Hunter’s help with a very un-Sam-like glare and a few harsh words. By the time Bobby gathered the courage to follow Sam into his house; Sam had already laid Dean out on a bed in one of the guest bedrooms, and pulled a sheet up over the body. Then, he sat, keeping silent vigil over a body that would never move again, a face that would not smirk, and a voice that would not give sarcastic comments and brotherly teasing.

“We should put his body to rest, Sam,” Bobby repeated when Sam did not react to his first statement.

“I don’t see why,” Sam replied listlessly. “His soul isn’t at rest. It never will be, because of me.”

Bobby became angry. These Winchesters were all alike, and sometimes their self-sacrificing, narrow-mindedness made him incensed. He crossed the room, jerked Sammy to his feet and slammed the distraught young man into the nearest wall, Bobby’s hand clutching Sam’s shirt for leverage. “None of this is your fault, Sam, you hear me?” Bobby pointed to Dean’s body to drive his argument home. “He traded his soul so that you could live, and you will not dishonor his memory by pitying him and yourself.”

The sorrow in Sam’s eyes faded quickly, replaced by determination. “You’re right. Would you mind letting go of me? I need some air.”

Bobby sighed and released his grip on Sam’s shirt, backing away and giving the youngest Winchester room to leave.

“Thanks, Bobby,” Sam said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes; I just need to be alone for a while.”

Bobby nodded his understanding. What the Winchesters had been through…John’s wife, Sammy’s fiancée, and then John and Dean…it was more than anyone deserved, and certainly Sam had done nothing to warrant such a cruel fate. Besides, if Bobby knew the Winchesters—and after this long, he was sure he did—Sam had probably already tried to cut a deal with Lilith. For some reason she had turned him down, and therefore Sam was in no danger of repeating Dean’s sacrifice.

By the time he realized the flaw in his argument about Winchesters and deals, it was too late.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Sam walked to the nearest crossroads, burying the box of necessary materials and then waiting. Lilith hadn’t wanted his soul, even after realizing that he was somehow immune to her destructive powers, but he knew someone who should be open to negotiation.

“Sammy Winchester,” the creature said slowly. There was a barely perceptible flinch as he stepped under a streetlight, so brief Sam thought he might have imagined it. “You’ve caused me no end of trouble your entire life, but this past year, I’ve been grateful for your hunting efforts.”

Sam was confused by the admission, but his resolve did not waver. “It’s Sam, only my brother can call me Sammy. And why would you be happy that I’ve taken out a few demons? Aren’t they supposed to be your army?”

Satan chuckled and then sighed, but his expression was one of malice. “You didn’t pay attention in Sunday School, Hunter. Just because it is written that we will fight the forces of Heaven together does not mean that all the denizens of Hell actually care about each other’s fate.”

“At least not unless another demon’s death threatens their own existence,” Sam concluded. “Fine, you’re glad I took out some of the competition. Now, let’s talk about what that means for my brother.”

The devil frowned, but seemed confused, rather than angry. “Sammy,” he continued, disregarding Sam’s assertion about nicknames, “I know you have heard this from the crossroads demon…Dean knew exactly what he was doing when he made that deal. Nothing you say or do can get him out of hell.” He smiled. “I have to say, I appreciate the irony that one of the best souls this world has produced since he walked among the flock will be tortured forever in my domain.”

Sam’s entire frame vibrated in anger, but he shoved it down, trying to look at the conversation—and its critical outcome—logically. “If that is true, then why did you come here? It can’t just be to watch me squirm; I bet you’ve seen plenty of that in your time.”

Satan smiled. “Yes, but your anguish is so much more…potent than others’ I have witnessed.”

Sam knew that if he could not succeed here, it would mean that his brother was damned for all eternity; condemned to the same hell he had dispatched so many evil sons-of-bitches to during the course of his all-too-short and pain-filled life. “There must be something you want,” Sam reasoned, “aside from my emotional turmoil. I’d do anything. Dean doesn’t deserve Hell.”

Instead of a chuckle, the devil gave a deep-throated, full-bellied laugh, almost causing tears to fall from his eyes, but the water turned to smoke and evaporated before they could fall. “In my opinion, very few humans do,” he muttered, and then continued in a louder voice, “This is what I appreciate most about humans. The chutzpah, the guts, the pure nerve they have to assume they possess any control whatsoever when dealing with beings far beyond their meager abilities.”

Sam’s gave a Dean-esqe smirk. “So, you’re overcompensating. Still upset about Man being valued by the Almighty than angels?”

Satan glared. Evidently, Sam had hit a sore spot. He redirected the conversation away from the argument about who the most-favored race was. “You were correct in your earlier assumption,” the devil replied. “I do want something from you, and it just might be enough to rescind your brother’s obligation to the Pit.”

Sam sighed in relief. “Fine, whatever it is…I agree. Just bring Dean back.”

Satan studied Sam carefully, seeming to come to a decision. “I require a loyal servant,” he mused. “In Hell, there are those who do not wish for my return. They have the same ambitions I did when I…fell from grace. If you agreed to do my bidding, I would release your brother from Hell, and return him to his body. You and he will both live full, long lives, and you will serve me in the final battle, as my personal guard. Do we have an understanding?”

Sam hesitated, but not at the prospect of what would be required from him in the distant future. He was more concerned about how this deal would affect his behavior in this life. “I will not harm any humans. Dean would kill me if I saved him only to become like the things we hunt.”

Satan rolled his eyes. “Very well. That is not what I was asking, regardless.”

Slowly, Sam relented. “If I agree to this,” Sam stipulated, “it is on my terms. You must allow me to protect you the best way I see fit, and neither question nor punish my methods, is that understood?”

The Devil smiled. “Perhaps your soul is darker than I gave it credit for. Very well, you may sate your appetite for killing the supernatural wherever you deem it necessary.”

Sam frowned, but extended his hand. The Devil shook it, and Sam winced as he felt something burning his palm. When he drew back his hand, there was a cross on it…one that would be upside-down when raised against someone in greeting or anger. Sam looked to where the Devil had stood moments before and saw only empty air.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Bobby had left Dean’s body in the guest bedroom and gone to the kitchen, intending to fix himself a meal, but instead reaching for a bottle of beer. He did not normally drink, but some circumstances—such as the death and damnation of a man he thought of like a son—called for alcohol.

“Sam?” an impossible voice called out.

Bobby set the beer silently down on the table and grabbed his emergency supply of holy water from under the sink, next to the bottle of generic-brand basin, tub, and tile cleaner. In the hall, en route to the bedroom, he snatched a rock-salt-loaded shotgun from a closet. He approached the guest bedroom cautiously, shotgun in one hand and spray-bottle full of holy water in the other. He prepared to kick the door open, but it was already open wide, and Dean was staring at Bobby as though he was possessed.

“What happened?” Dean asked in confusion. “Bobby, can’t you point that cannon somewhere else? Even if it’s only rock salt, it’ll still hurt like hell. Believe me,” Dean concluded, smirking, “I know.”

Against his instincts, Bobby felt the shotgun barrel slowly lowering to aim at the floor. He had heard about the time Sam had shot Dean with rock salt while under the influence of a rage-inducing ghost. Bobby’s voice nearly broke as he dropped the holy water-filled spray bottle and gasped, “Dean? How…”

The tender moment was broken as both men realized exactly how such a resurrection would have been made possible. As one, they hurried outside and piled into Bobby’s old truck to find Sam and discover what sort of deal he had made.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Dean ground his teeth in frustration as they finished checking the crossroads in the immediate area. “What if it was like Dad’s deal?” Dean finally allowed the thought that had been haunting him to voice itself, but Bobby shook his head.

“If that were the case, we would have found a body,” Bobby replied certainly. “No, I think Sam made the deal, and then went somewhere to think about it. Where would he go, if he wasn’t ready to see you alive yet?”

Dean thought for a moment and then grimaced. There was only one time when Sam’s faith in Dean had been undermined and— ironically enough—that had been when Dean discovered Sam’s quiet version of religion. “He went to church,” Dean realized aloud. When Bobby gave Dean a confused look, Dean explained, “It’s just how he is. He prays for protection, even though I’ve never seen evidence of some greater power…at least not a benevolent one. He believes in angels…” Dean was momentarily overcome with emotion, but quickly controlled himself. “We need to search the nearby churches.” Dean chuckled morosely, “We’ll probably find him in a pew, delivering opening arguments to the big guy as to why he betrayed Him.” Dean rolled his eyes at the absurdity of it all.

Bobby led the way back to his vehicle and began canvassing the churches closest to the salvage yard. Even though he did not share Dean’s view, he understood it. Considering what Dean had been through, what with the loss of his mother at such a tender age and the violent introduction to a bizarre and dangerous world behind this one, it was remarkable that Dean was merely devoutly atheist rather than ethically bankrupt. He would probably see Sam’s fear of offending God as a bad joke after everything that God had permitted to happen to that family.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Sam knelt in a pew near the front of a small church. The padding was all but worn through, but that was alright; he hadn’t come here for physical comfort. He did not know exactly why he needed to be in a church at a time like this—deals of his sort generally precluded any further involvement with the religious and holy—but for some reason, he felt drawn to the one-room chapel.

“Are you lost?”

Sam jumped at the sound, surprised that someone had been able to sneak up on him. When he saw a middle-aged man wearing black clothing and a white collar, Sam relaxed.

“I did not mean to scare you,” the priest continued in a subdued tone. “I am Father Nick Trevail. Do you seek guidance?”

Sam chuckled, and had to struggle with himself to keep it from becoming a full-blown, raucous guffaw. The strangeness of the question at a time like this was simply too much to avoid a little hilarity. Then, Sam calmed down and considered the priest’s question. “What happens when we lose faith in him?”

Father Trevail frowned in thought and sat down in the pew next to the one Sam occupied. “Crises of faith are a natural occurrence, my son,” he explained. “What defines us…and determines our future relationship with God…is how we cope with those moments of doubt.”

Sam sighed. He could not figure out how to ask the question he needed to voice without giving away what he had just done. The inverted cross on his right palm itched slightly. “If God took someone away from me…someone who had been selfless and good his entire life and I knew that that person’s soul was not at rest…how am I supposed to cope with that?” Without his noticing it, Sam’s tone became bitter. “Am I just supposed to say a few ‘Our Father’s and go to mass more often? If He couldn’t or wouldn’t help my—this person, then why should I still believe?”

Father Trevail was mildly concerned about the personal way this young man was discussing his particular crisis, and he had noted the slip in the man’s speech. This theoretical situation clearly had its roots in an actual incident. Then, he smiled. “You do believe, don’t you? Whatever has happened to you…you want to abandon and blame God, but you still believe. Your continued belief is not a betrayal of the one you lost.”

Sam snorted derisively. “I’m not the one that needs comforting, Father Trevail. He’ll never forgive me…” Sam muttered, almost too low for the priest to hear.

“He has great capacity for forgiveness,” Father Trevail reminded the young man.

Sam shook his head. “Wrong ‘he’, Father,” Sam explained. “No, I can’t ask the forgiveness of one, in case it nullifies my deal; and the other…I have no right to ask for his forgiveness.”

Father Trevail considered the young man’s choice of words. A great loss, anguish, forgiveness, fear of a deal being revoked by heavenly intervention…Father Trevail’s stomach tightened as he recognized the vocabulary of one who had just sold his soul. Then, he remembered something about the young man’s confession. “This person you have lost,” Father Trevail inquired, “you value his forgiveness more than God’s?”

Sam grinned mirthlessly. “Let’s just say that I’ve seen evidence of this dude’s work, whereas God…” Sam shrugged.

Father Trevail nodded. “It is good to believe so strongly in something. Many people spend a lifetime searching for that sort of faith.” Father Trevail stood and moved toward the front of the church. “Perhaps you should have some faith in Him as well,” Father Trevail said, indicating the crucifix behind the altar with a tilt of his head. “Things will work out for the best…somehow, they always do. In the meantime,” Father Trevail concluded with a kind, but bemused smile, “I will keep you in my prayers.”

Sam breathed easier. He glanced up to thank the priest, but the figure, which had moments before seemed so solid, now was flickering randomly. Smile still in place, the apparition of Father Nick Trevail disappeared. Sam blinked, realizing slowly that he had just confessed to a ghost, and then he stood and left the church, leaning against the fence at the front of the property until Bobby pulled up in his old truck.

Even before Bobby had put the vehicle in ‘park’, Dean jumped out. Dean was upon Sam in three strides, and his fist shot out, catching Sam across the jaw. Even though Sam had been expecting it, he was still knocked back a few steps. The older Winchester caught Sam before he could fall, but then began assailing him with questions. “Who did you make a deal with? How long do you have? I swear to God, I’ll hunt the bastard down myself—”

Sam rubbed his jaw where Dean had hit it and began laughing hysterically. It was so typical of Dean…less than an hour back from damnation, and he was ready to take on hell all over again, just to protect his little brother. “I wouldn’t advise that, Dean,” Sam cautioned, reveling at being able to use his brother’s name as more than a remembrance. “The only one who could bring you back was Lucifer.”

Dean’s eyes went wide for a moment before he controlled his expression, and even then, his voice was angry. “You sold your soul to the devil?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “So did you,” he argued.

Dean released his grip on Sam, spun on his heel and began pacing, running his hand through his hair as he thought. “That was different. I made a deal with the crossroads demon. Dad did with old Yellow-Eyes, but you…” Dean paused in his pacing to glare at Sam for a moment, “you had to go and cut a deal with Old Scratch himself! We’ll have to do some serious research for this one. How long do I have?” The question he meant was not so much how long Dean had in order to save Sam, but how long it would be before he lost Sam yet again, and this time irrevocably.

Sam shook his head. “It wasn’t that kind of deal, Dean.” Bobby exited the truck and stood nearby as Sam gave a full accounting his deal with Lucifer.

There were several seconds of absolute silence when Sam finished his tale. Finally, Bobby commented, “Well, it could’ve been worse.”

Dean transferred his glare to Bobby. “Yeah…how? So, Sam has his whole life before him, great, but what about eternity?”

Sam suppressed the urge to roll his eyes again. “For someone who doesn’t believe in God, you sure put a lot of stock in Heaven and Hell.”

Dean’s look became more guarded. “Only Hell. I believe what I see, and you don’t deserve that.”

Now Sam glared. How could he make his brother understand? “Neither did you, Dean,” he asserted, his voice even. Then he added, “Besides, Father Trevail said I ought to have faith that things would turn out okay.”

“Sam,” Bobby stated as though calming a nervous horse, “you do know that Father Trevail died twenty years ago, right? I mean, look at the state of this chapel. That’s why it took us so long to find you…we were searching churches that hadn’t been abandoned for over a decade.”

“Yes,” Sam replied, “I know he’s dead, but that hasn’t stopped us from talking to people before…”

Bobby frowned. “I never heard about his ghost haunting this place.” He couldn’t decide whether to be baffled or embarrassed that a potential Hunt had gone unnoticed this near to his home for so long.

Shrugging, Sam assured Bobby, “That’s because he’s not a vengeful spirit. He just wanted to make sure I was alright.”

“Yeah, you’re completely fine,” Dean remarked scathingly, “except for your immortal soul—”

“Dean, stop it,” Sam demanded. He shared a furtively amused glance with Bobby. “I did this for you, and you will not taint that sacrifice by moping for the rest of your life.”

Dean recognized the tone their father had used on occasion. Though Dean had never complained about having to stay at the motel, cabin, or campsite to watch Sammy, sometimes, Dad had issued orders in that voice. Dean had to remind himself that it was Sam telling him to drop the issue rather than Dad issuing instructions, because his first instinct was to reply with an immediate ‘yes, sir.’ Instead, Dean dragged his ashamed gaze up from the ground to meet Sam’s earnest, hopeful one. He could see that Sammy was completely resigned to the deal he had made.

Smirking, Dean asked sarcastically, “You’ve got to let me mope for a little while, at least. How does a year sound?”

Sam shook his head in disbelief. He was relieved that Dean was accepting Sam’s gift, even if the older Winchester believed the price was too steep. “Six months, and not a day more,” Sam bargained, and added, “jerk,” under his breath.

Dean smiled, but his throat was too tight with emotion to reply with the usual rejoinder. Instead, he merely nodded at Sam and then looked toward where the Impala was parked in the cracked church lot. The road leading up to the church was largely gravel, and knowing Sam’s probable state of mind upon arriving at the chapel, Dean jokingly threatened, “My car better not be scratched…”

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Over half a century later, Sam’s deal came due.

After a night full of too much drinking and swapping stories about their Hunting days, Dean’s granddaughter put both men to bed in the remote cabin they had insisted on living in, rather than moving to a nursing home.

Both passed away in their sleep, and the surviving Winchesters reflected that it seemed right, somehow. The two brothers had rarely been apart in life, and it appeared that even death could not separate them.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Despite his best efforts, he went to Heaven.

There, he saw the final battle, awesome forces so violent and evenly matched that the confidence heaven’s generals had in victory was not a certainty he shared. His brother was not there, a man who, in his darkest hour should still have made the guest list.

Looking out over the incessantly wavering line of charge and retreat, he caught sight of his brother. His brother, bound to fight on Hell’s side by a deal that should never have been made. His brother, Hunter’s skills in full use, more than held his own against Heaven’s angels. The reluctantly saved man smiled in twisted pride, glad that their father’s training had been good for something. His smile faltered as he saw a demon thrust a spear through his brother’s back.

He screamed in protest and reached out for his brother, but unlike last time, he could not reach Sammy.

Dean cried as Sammy’s body was lost, trampled underfoot as the heavenly troops advanced. The tears dried, and Dean shook with a different emotion. He began searching, resolving to find the all-powerful asshole, the great and mighty moron, the savior who had not deigned to save Sammy. God had a lot to answer for.

Before he had gone three steps, Dean had to shield his eyes because a bright, shining figure appeared in front of him. Figuring the all-knowing had come to confront him, Dean muttered, “Took you long enough, you son-of-a-bitch.”

The blinding halo of light faded from around the figure, which replied, “Didn’t I tell you to have faith?”

Dean gaped for a moment before running toward the figure and enfolding it in a tight, brief embrace. He uttered a single word, half question, half prayer. “Sammy?”

Sam grumbled, “It’s Sam,” good-naturedly, and then Dean was holding him at arm’s length, inspecting for the spear wound, which had miraculously disappeared. He frantically asked if Sam was alright. Sam smiled gently. “Always. Let’s go inside.”

Dean swallowed, blinked his eyes a few times to stop the tears of joy that now threatened to put in an appearance. Then he gave his best smirk. “Yeah, I hear the streets are paved with gold, so we’ll never need to hustle a game of pool again…unless we want to.”

Sam laughed. “If anyone could find trouble in paradise, it would be you.”

The smile became genuine as Dean repeated Sam’s earlier sentiment. “Always. Let’s go raise a little hell.”

“Dean!” Sam admonished.

“You know what I mean,” Dean replied easily.

As the brothers crossed the threshold of the pearly gates, the tide of the battle shifted permanently…in Heaven’s favor.

The Gospel According to Winchester

Summary: 200 years in the future, an archeologist discovers the real circumstances and outcome of the battle between Lucifer and Michael.

Author’s Notes: In this story, I suggest that an angel can be killed by crossing the flames of the oil from Jerusalem. Since we haven’t actually seen how an angel dies by that means, there is no canon on what happens to the vessel.

Also, the crystalline disc that the brothers’ story is recorded on is a type of technology which currently exists only as prototypes. However, it is more durable than the DVDs of today. Chuck probably received a prototype as a gift from a Supernatural fan.

Spoilers: for all of Season four, a mention of Anna Milton, and detailed discussion of vessels and the final battle.

Detroit

Delphine Lafayette marveled at the antiquated, crystalline disc that a wealthy patron of archeology had just handed to her.

“Can you make it work?” the benefactor, a Simon Granger who had come by his fortune in ways that guaranteed most people didn’t look into his business, asked. “I tried to put it in my disc player, but fortunately one of my employees had read your book, and stopped me before I pressed ‘play’.”

Delphine cringed. The disc had already been scratched by being forced into an incompatible player, but was probably not damaged significantly. “It’s a good thing your employee spoke up, sir,” she confirmed. “I theorized that a few of these existed…just prototypes, of course…before the great famine in Detroit. Where did you find it? Please, the more accurate information I have, the more thoroughly I can examine this artifact for you.”

Simon grimaced. He did not like the implication that he was being less than completely honest, but considering his business practices—and the fact that this artifact had not been obtained on a dig that was precisely legal—he permitted her more liberty than one of his employees would have enjoyed. Namely, he allowed her to stay and continue working on the artifact, rather than having her thrown out of his mansion and calling every decent college to get her blacklisted. “Detroit; in a bank on the eastern edge of the city. Government reports claimed that the strange, blinding lights have no scientific explanation, so people still steer clear of that part of the state. I sent a team in, and none of them went blind.”

Delphine sighed. She would have preferred to make the find herself. The manner in which an artifact was uncovered could reveal a great deal of information about its original purpose. However, since the dig site was in an unofficially restricted area, and she had no intention of exposing herself to the dangers of that area, regardless of what monetary reimbursement he offered, Delphine only asked, “Are there pictures or notes of the dig site? If so, I need to see them. If not, I’ll need to talk to the person who made the find.”

“Notes and photographs I can give you,” Simon Granger revealed, handing over a folder that held the requested documents, “but the person who made the find…when he broke open the safe deposit box’s door, flame filled the opening and burned his hand terribly. I sent for a doctor to treat the wound, and he’s fine now, but doesn’t remember a thing. The others, who were just behind him, all swear that there was a bright light and an unearthly scream. The light, I attribute to overactive imaginations and being in Detroit, whereas the scream is perfectly understandable, given the flames.”

Delphine stared at Simon Granger, first in disbelief and then in anger at the story he was weaving for her. Very delicately, she placed the crystalline disc back on its velvet holder before accosting the man. “Did Johnson put you up to this?” When the wealthy man, unaccustomed to such harsh treatment, reeled and denied any involvement with anyone named Johnson, Delphine calmed slightly. “I apologize for my outburst, Mr. Granger,” she explained. “It’s just…the Winchester brothers’ legend is a hobby of mine, and many of my colleagues believe it to be a foolish one.”

“Who are the Winchesters?” Simon Granger inquired, too shocked by the archeologist’s anger to react with scorn or impatience.

“They are American legends,” Delphine stated, enjoying any discussion involving the Winchesters. “At first, I thought it was just a combination of Arthurian legends and Robin Hood, with a few references and parallels to twentieth-century films thrown in to make it more palatable to the American audience. But the more I studied, the more coincidences I found. Originally, the stories spread, not in the oral tradition of many Native American cultures, but through a series of paperback novels. These novels told of two brothers who fought ghosts, demons, and all manner of evil creatures. They travelled from town to town, helping people, and always moving on before their money ran out or the law caught up with them.”

Simon Granger shook his head. “Those books sound pretty fantastical, and you know that paperbacks aren’t being printed anymore. It was a waste of resources. I seriously doubt that there are any copies left of this series. Even if there were…demons aren’t real.”

Delphine chuckled quietly. Until a few moments ago, she had agreed with Mr. Granger’s assessment, but the explanation he gave of the burned man’s injury sounded similar to the threat of destruction made against both Raphael and Castiel at different points in the series. If angels really existed and could be killed, why not demons, ghosts, and all the other horror stories she had read in the online copies of the Supernatural book series.

“Fine, ignore that aspect of it for a minute,” Delphine urged. “Do not forget that a lot of lore, whether it is Ancient Greek or modern-day wives’ tales, was meant to teach practical lessons. Maybe the demons they were fighting were human vices or simply humans whose sins have been exaggerated so much with time that we perceive them as demons. However, whether demons exist or not I did find historical records of the main characters of this series. In the books, the brothers are called Sam and Dean. No last name is given, but their alleged actions in those books—digging up graves to put spirits to rest, killing monsters who took on human form, and running credit card scams to put food on the table and gas in their tank—match the warrants for a Sam and Dean Winchester from Lawrence Kansas, born in the late twentieth century. Of course, the crimes are listed as grave desecration, murder, and identity theft, but the similarities are too many to ignore.”

“This all sounds like tall tales,” Simon Granger hedged. “What proof can you give me?”

Delphine smirked. “None, until you let me examine this recording in a private viewing room.” Simon Granger led her to such a room, and she took a modified disc player out of her bag to compensate for two centuries of advances in technology. She began copying the data into a recorder of her own, hoping to at least keep a copy since Granger would likely not let her have the original. After the copying procedure completed, she stuffed the data key into the compartment hidden by the false bottom in her bag, and began reading the data on the adaptor’s screen.

In Lawrence, Kansas, on that fateful night, the Winchester family was secure in the knowledge that they were safe. Little did they know that a supernatural danger stalked them, and for one of them, that ignorance would prove fatal. Mary and John Winchester put their youngest son, Sammy, to bed in his crib. John joked with their four-year-old son, Dean, about whether Sammy was big enough to throw a football yet. The family went to sleep, and for a while, all was still in the house.

Then, the mobile above Sammy’s bed began turning without any visible cause. Mary was woken by Sammy’s cries and went to check on him, but found that her husband was already standing in the nursery, his dark outline suggested he was wearing a bathrobe, and his elbows stuck out at his sides, as though he was cradling their child. Mary smiled and headed back to bed, but heard a sound from downstairs. She descended the steps and saw that her husband was asleep in front of the television. Panicking, she ran back upstairs to confront the unknown intruder.

John awoke when he heard his wife cry out, and hurried to the nursery to check on Sammy. His youngest son was fine, but as John stood over the crib, something dark, warm, and wet dripped onto the back of his hand. In horror, John turned to find the source of the leak and saw his wife, pinned to the ceiling, with a gaping wound in her abdomen…

Delphine tore her eyes away from the screen. If she hadn’t thought Simon Granger was pulling a prank on her before, she had every reason to believe so now. This was, verbatim, the beginning excerpt from the first Supernatural book, the one that presented the Winchesters’ driving motivation to find and kill evil creatures.

However, Mr. Granger’s reaction when she mentioned the series had been one of disdain. Delphine couldn’t see him going to the trouble of copying down her favorite series onto an ancient, rare form of digital recording, only to annoy her. There was also the matter of how this artifact had been booby-trapped. Like the pharaohs’ tombs in Egypt, anyone trying to access the box improperly would set off that trap. She combed through the pictures to examine the triggering device, and confirmed for herself that opening the box with its assigned key would not have tripped the lighting of that accelerant.

Delphine scrolled more quickly through the data, noting that every book from the series was here, but the file was larger than it should be. After the ninety-second installment, a chapter called ‘Abandon All Hope’, an author’s note had been added.

For all you avid readers of Supernatural, the following is my alternative vision for Sam and Dean. The end that will reach the shelves of bookstores will be preferred by my benefactors, but I have to hope, for the sake of the human race, that this version is what actually occurs. Good luck, Sam and Dean, and I hope this convinces you two not to track me down again.

Delphine smiled. She recalled the installment in question, when the characters had met and confronted their writer. In fact, that section of the old novels had been what convinced her there might be more reality than fiction to the demon-hunting brothers from Lawrence. The section was too self-important, and did not match the previous writings.

Delphine read quickly through the remaining chapters, skimming more than anything else, because—despite the author’s note—a lot of the plot points were the same. A tiny detail was changed here or there. Chance meetings and snippets of knowledge were available to the brothers sooner in this ‘alternative vision’ than in the series she had read originally. Just enough information, in fact, that Delphine suspected the brothers stood a better chance in this version than in the printed one. It would be nice, Delphine mused silently, because the Winchesters never deserved all the ill fortune they encountered, and the ending, while heroic, had been a tragic one.

That was probably why the stories had persisted so long after their deaths, Delphine suspected. Everyone loved a noble, romantic, adventurous story, but the ones with tragic heroes always seemed to endure longer. Eagerly, Delphine scrolled to the final installment—which was entitled ‘The Michael Sword’—to see if her hunch was correct, and resumed reading.

SNSNSNSN

When the cell phone rang, Dean snatched it up hurriedly and answered. “Sammy? Where the hell have you been? Sure, I’ve got pen and paper…I’ve been stranded at the motel this whole week. There was no sign of you anywhere—yeah, I have the coordinates. What’s going on? Where are you? Sam?” Dean blinked in annoyance as he realized his younger brother had hung up on him. Dean tried calling Sam back, as he had done dozens of times in the past six days, but rather than going straight to voicemail, the phone call didn’t even connect. “That’s never a good sign,” Dean muttered, and then quickly packed his few belongings and took off in the Impala toward the coordinates Sam had given him. He didn’t need to check a map. It was six months after that fateful night in Carthage, when Lucifer had revealed that the Colt was useless, and Dean recognized the coordinates as a point just south of Detroit.

Dean made a brief call after he pulled onto the interstate to inform Bobby of Sam’s whereabouts. While Dean was relieved and annoyed, Bobby was suspicious.

“He wouldn’t tell you why he was missing all this time?” Bobby asked. “And he gave you just enough information to find him, but not enough to know what kind of trouble you’ll be facing?”

Dean shrugged, even though Bobby couldn’t see it. “He gave his location the same way Dad used to send us on Hunting trips…coordinates. If this was a trap, he would’ve used a code word, not Dad’s Marine habits.”

“I still think you should have some backup,” Bobby suggested. “Why don’t you call Cas or Jo and Ell—I mean—”

“I know what you mean, Bobby,” Dean replied, noting the slip. Ellen and Jo were both dead, killed while Hunting the devil with Sam and Dean, which was far too similar to the way Jo’s father had been killed for comfort. The Winchesters had more than their share of bad luck…it seemed to infect their friends as well. Gordon had been killed by the Winchesters—not that he’d exactly been on the side of the angels, but he was a Hunter.

Dean grimaced, recalling some of the angels he and Sam had met in this past year. Steve had lost a friend to demons who wouldn’t have been released if not for the Winchester brothers. Ellen and Jo were gone. Bobby had lost the use of his legs. “I won’t risk anyone else on this,” Dean insisted, failing to hide the guilt in his voice. “I can’t. I’ll go find Sam, and deal with whatever’s happening when I get there.”

Dean barely heard Bobby’s gruff wish for good luck and heartfelt warning to look after himself as he dumped the phone on the passenger side seat. That action only served to remind him that the seat was empty, and that its normal occupant was playing games way too close to D-day, so Dean drove faster.

SNSNSNSN

Sam double-checked the wards on the small, abandoned house south of Detroit, Michigan. The place was condemned, but what with the recession, it wasn’t profitable to send anyone out and tear it down. He had confirmed that the building was structurally sound, and then began outfitting it almost a week ago. Thanks to the curt, cryptic phone call to his brother, Dean would be arriving soon, and Sam wanted the place to be completely ready. His fingers traced over unseen symbols on the house’s exterior, a little extra insurance against interference by certain righteous parties.

He stepped through the open doorway at the house’s front, not worrying about breaking the salt and goofer dust lines, because he had put tape over the lines to prevent wind, elements, or pure chance from breaking them. If he had planned to wait out Detroit with Dean, the tape would have been unnecessary, but Sam refused to put his brother at risk if the lines broke.

The windows were covered with pure iron bars, he had mixed iron into the paint he used on the siding, there were hex bags in every wall (just in case he’d missed something in the history of this house)—in short, Sam had taken every precaution he could think of, and now all that remained was to lure Dean into the safe house.

Sam opened the highest kitchen cabinet, shoved a can of condensed milk out of the way, and checked that his cell phone jammer was still functioning. He nodded, satisfied that it was, before taking a complete inventory of all the non-Hunting supplies. There was sufficient food, water, and amenities for Dean to remain here indefinitely, and if this plan failed, Dean might have to do exactly that. Sam sat down heavily in one of the two kitchen chairs and sighed, wondering for the umpteenth time if his plan would work. He hadn’t been able to make certain, because warning the entity he intended to call might ruin everything. Then, Sam laughed, realizing what he had forgotten.

Dean would have everything he needed to survive, except for female companionship. He considered driving out to the nearest convenience store to pick up a few skin mags, but decided against it in the end. Dean could arrive at any minute, and if Sam wasn’t there to distract him, Dean would probably notice how heavily this house was fortified against supernatural threats. Given a few minutes alone to decipher the implications, Dean would guess Sam’s plan, and would never let him go through with it.

Sam was pulled from his reverie by the sound of the Impala’s tires crunching on the loose gravel of the driveway. He stood, approached the front door, and schooled his features into a neutral expression as Dean threw the Impala into park and bolted out of the car.

“Dude, what the hell were you thinking?” Dean reprimanded Sam angrily. “You go missing for a week, Lucifer’s timeline claims that you say the big Yes any day now, and you’re hiding out just a few miles away from where it’s all supposed to go down? We should be heading to China, or getting off this rock altogether, not taunting him by staying so close to Detroit!” Dean paused, noticing that Sam was smiling despite Dean’s harsh words. Exasperated, he asked, “What?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “It’s good to see you too, Dean,” Sam joked. “Come inside and have a beer. I’ve got to show you around the place. There are salt and goofer dust lines at every door and window, in case you were worried about my behavior,” he added.

Dean watched Sam cautiously. It honestly hadn’t occurred to him that Sam might be possessed, but that would certainly explain why his brother had come running to ground zero of the devil’s proposed five-year plan. Sam crossed the threshold of the house without difficulty, and Dean followed. He noticed that there was clear, packing tape covering the lines, and commented, “How come we never thought of that before? Have you been talking to those Supernatural convention people again?”

Sam huffed. “No, it just seemed like a good idea.” He closed the front door while Dean observed the living room area. “I’ve got hex bags in the walls, and the whole house is coated in iron-laced paint. There are dream catchers in the windows and skylight, Anasazi symbols etched into the ground outside, and cat’s eye shells in the bedrooms. We’ve got the arsenal in the Impala’s trunk, but I stocked up on extra rock salt and ammunition, especially silver bullets and consecrated iron rounds.”

Dean chuckled. “Bobby has a free weekend, and he builds a panic room. You take off for a week and build an entire safe house. I’m impressed.”

Sam shrugged. “The house was already here…I just warded it.”

Dean nodded, his gaze still sweeping suspiciously around the house’s interior. Sam noticed the muscles in Dean’s back tense just before he turned around and pinned Sam with a hostile stare and asked, “Why?”

“If the angels track us down somehow while we’re on the road, we won’t be able to stop them from taking us to Lucifer and Michael,” Sam reasoned. “I put Old Enochian symbols on the outside of this house. That, along with the other precautions, will keep just about anything we’ve ever heard of at bay.”

Dean snorted. “It’s the stuff we haven’t heard of that makes me nervous.” Then, he smirked. “You call all of this a precaution, huh?”

Sam grinned. “It seems like overkill, I know,” he admitted, “but somehow, I doubted sleeping with a knife under my pillow would be enough of a deterrent for Heaven, Hell, and whoever else comes to the party.”

Dean paced and frowned, ignoring Sam’s joke. “We have a responsibility to the people out there. I wouldn’t feel right just crawling in here and abandoning them.”

Sam shook his head. “We aren’t the only Hunters left, Dean. The best thing we can do is steer clear of Michael and Lucifer. We won’t be doing the world any favors if either or both of them gets to us. Look, just think about it. In the meantime, let’s have a beer and talk about what I’ve missed this past week.”

Dean agreed, albeit reluctantly. He wasn’t sure what to make of a cautious, careful Sam. Even when he’d convinced Sam to leave Stanford and search for Dad, Sam hadn’t been this fearful. Heck, he had been living in a completely unwarded apartment, trusting that the supernatural would not intrude on his attempt at normalcy. This whole thing reminded him of the hotel room they had found in Jericho, California.

Dean observed Sam as his younger brother stood, facing away, and opened the beer bottles. Sam was tense, though he was trying to hide it. Sam turned around, deposited a bottle in front of Dean, and took a substantial gulp from his own. Dean picked up the proffered bottle and drank deeply. Alcohol didn’t affect him the same way as it did Sam, and if this was how Sam intended to cope with Detroit, Dean looked forward to reciting hangover cures sometime tomorrow morning. “You’re worried,” Dean commented, but the words felt disconnected and slow. The room seemed to shift slightly, and he grabbed the seat of his chair, steadying himself.

Sam gave a sad, apologetic smile. “I was, but now I’m not. Everything’s going to be okay, Dean.”

Dean’s brow creased in confusion as he realized that his drink had been drugged somehow. Before he could accuse Sam, his vision darkened, and he toppled off his chair, knocking the beer bottle over as he fell.

Sam ignored the bottle, instead hurrying to catch his older brother before Dean hit the floor. With a grunt of exertion, Sam lifted Dean and carried him out of the kitchen area. Gently, he laid Dean on the couch, snagged the keys to the Impala out of Dean’s jacket pocket, and left the house, locking a door that made the one from the Merchant painting Hunt look flimsy in comparison.

Dean might forgive Sam for what he was about to do, or he might not, Sam thought, but at least his brother would live and remain human. The angels wanted Sam and Dean to play out their destinies, assume their roles as Lucifer and Michael. As a best-case scenario, that would mean either or both of them dying, and as a worst, half the world would be torched in the fight or Lucifer might emerge victorious. Sam backed the Impala out of the driveway, checking both ways for oncoming traffic. He intended to frustrate all of their plans for the Winchesters.

SNSNSNSN

“Have you discovered anything yet?” Simon Granger demanded, thrusting the door open without knocking.

Delphine started to glare, but remembered just in time that this was his house, his investigation, and his artifact…even if all three had either been obtained with or were being pursued using ill-gotten money. “Yes, sir. It appears the legend of the Winchesters as it currently exists is inaccurate. This artifact has a different ending from the traditionally-accepted account.”

“Really,” Simon Granger mused, “and what ending is that?”

Delphine hesitated, thinking that it was strange for Mr. Granger to suddenly have an interest in the story which he had so recently dismissed as ‘fantastical’. “I don’t know yet, sir; I haven’t reached the end of the document.”

Simon Granger nodded slightly. “Inform the guard I have posted outside this door when you have finished. He will escort you back to my study for a full report.”

Delphine thought she saw Mr. Granger’s pupils dilate unnaturally, as though both of his eyes turned completely black for just a moment, but it could have been a trick of the shadows. She hid her fear and replied that he would have a report as soon as she finished. When he departed, Delphine took a few slow, deep breaths to calm herself. Demons don’t exist, Delphine reminded herself silently, but with wavering conviction. They are hyperbole and metaphor…tall tales meant to persuade people to lead moral lives, nothing more. But if that were true, how could she explain Mr. Granger’s abrupt change in personality or his black eyes?

On a hunch, just in case the legends were more than amusing fiction, Delphine scrolled back through the document to one of the illustrations. She took a pen out of her bag and copied a diagram, marking up the hardwood floor. If he wasn’t a demon, she would apologize and request that he take the damages out of her fee. If he was a demon, she doubted he intended to pay her, but at least she could escape with her life. She repositioned an area rug to cover the diagram.

Delphine let out a soft, shaky laugh at her sudden adherence to centuries-old legends and millennia-old diagrams, and then returned to reading about Sam and Dean.

SNSNSNSN

Sam stopped the Impala at the edge of Detroit. There was a roadblock, with black-eyed people checking incoming vehicles and destroying outgoing ones. Whenever the demons encountered a car whose driver was attempting to smuggle food into the city, the food was destroyed and passengers either killed or possessed.

There was no sense in letting the demons search and possibly damage the Impala, so Sam parked it, grabbed the supplies he needed from the trunk, and bypassed the roadblock on foot. He entered the first church he came to, not caring what denomination it was. Mostly, he was hoping that demons would avoid the place for what it symbolized.

He crossed the length of the church, thinking that the last time he had attempted a summoning, it had been using a placemat with a certain, yellow, square cartoon character. This time, he intended to use an actual altar so that the subject of his summoning would realize how serious he was.

Sam drew the correct diagrams and performed the summoning. Rather than the white, all-encompassing light he had expected, though, Sam was simply interrupted by the church’s priest.

“What are you doing?”

Sam spun around, noticing the priest approaching. “Uh…Father, I can explain this…” he stammered.

The elderly priest regarded Sam with a fierce, unforgiving look. “Where is Dean?”

Sam blinked and then swallowed as he realized that the angel he had intended to summon was, indeed, standing right in front of him, using the priest as a vessel. Recovering, Sam huffed and then gave a smirk that would have made Dean proud. “He couldn’t make it. I’ve protected him, hidden him where you’ll never find him, so here’s the deal—”

The sound of wings flapping announced the arrival of another angel. Sam refused to break eye contact with the priest, so he could only identify which one it was when he spoke. “Sam, you should just accept that we know what is best for this world. We manipulated you and your brother into starting the Apocalypse…why not trust us to finish it as well?”

Sam huffed in annoyance. “I didn’t call you, Zachariah. This is the only opportunity you will have to defeat Lucifer, and it has to be on my terms. Dean has suffered enough already, and I can’t ask him to fight this battle. This way, at least one of us survives. I’ll be Michael’s vessel on two conditions.”

“You’ll be his vessel without any conditions,” Zachariah interrupted, sneering. “You will beg me to become his vessel, or have you forgotten the time we met in your father’s storage compartment?”

This time, Sam’s gaze did cut to Zachariah, but it was hateful and cold rather than fearful. “My deal is with Michael. I suggest you leave.”

Zachariah gaped for a moment, shocked that a human—aside from Dean—would dare to speak to him in such a disrespectful manner.

Before Zachariah could retort, though, a strange sound emanated from the priest. It was a deep, full-bellied laughter, completely out of character for a man so old and wiry of frame. Then again, Sam mused, it wasn’t the priest laughing…it was Michael.

Eventually, Michael’s laughter subsided, leaving both Zachariah and Sam confused and at a loss for words. Then, Michael spoke. “Zachariah, you have tried to persuade these two to follow our plan—without success.” It was a mark of the difference in their relative ranks that proud Zachariah merely stared at the church floor rather than defending his tactics. “Showing Dean the future if he disobeyed has only brought us to the same crossroads. I would hear Sam’s conditions. The brothers are stubborn and smart enough to continue defying us.”

Sam was amazed. This was the general of the heavenly host…admitting that he had been outmaneuvered by a couple of humans, and accepting Sam’s terms. Although, if he really was a general and the goal of his campaign was to defeat Lucifer, then compromise among allies might be seen as a necessary evil. Sam decided to state his conditions before Zachariah interfered or Michael changed his mind. “Okay, I agree to be your vessel if you keep as many humans out of the fight as you can…especially Dean, and don’t destroy half the world while fighting Lucifer.”

Zachariah scoffed when he heard Sam’s terms. “Do you realize how difficult it will be for us to win with such limitations?”

Michael raised one wrinkled, withered hand in a commanding gesture, and Zachariah ceased his protestations. Studying Sam with a puzzled look, Michael asked, “Once an archangel leaves a vessel, there is little left of the human, both in mind and spirit. The longer I am with you, the worse the damage will be to you upon my departure. Only archangels have the power to restore a man, once he has reached that state. Are you certain that you have not forgotten one condition?”

Sam ignored Zachariah and answered Michael. “Yes, I’m sure. Please, wait until Lucifer finds me.” Sam walked past Michael and Zachariah without so much as a backward glance.

“And to think Uriel wanted to kill that one,” Zachariah remarked, amusement showing in his voice. “He’s been even more useful than his brother…killing Lilith for us and now this—”

“He is a warrior, not a bureaucrat,” Michael interjected, casting a harsh look toward Zachariah that insinuated the less powerful angel ranked among the latter category. “He is impulsive, but he means well.”

“You mean, he is easily manipulated,” Zachariah argued, “Look at all we accomplished through him for the past eighteen months!”

“No,” Michael contradicted heatedly, “observe the mistakes you have wrought. Combating evil is my purpose, but this fight should have taken place far in the future. I will fight it now, because this is my duty, but I will neither entertain your bloodlust, nor satisfy you with the sight of the conclusion of your intrigues.” Michael murmured a few words, and then touched Zachariah’s vessel on the shoulder. A wide beam of pure, white light leapt heavenward, escaping through a stained-glass window, and the man Zachariah had been using looked around, completely lost. Too busy to give an explanation, Michael touched the former vessel’s forehead and instantly transported him two states south. Hopefully, that would be far enough.

As for Zachariah…that particular brother had many opinions, and no compunction against voicing or enforcing them, but at his core Zachariah was only marginally better than Lucifer. He had not refused to bow down before Man, but neither had he ever held mankind in high regard. Instead, he viewed humans as chess pieces, effortlessly manipulated and readily sacrificed for the greater good. Zachariah was a pessimist who wanted to survive. That was why he had sided with God rather than Lucifer—he believed that God was the more powerful choice. Therefore, given half a chance to consider his position, Zachariah would likely remain in Heaven until the fight between Michael and Lucifer was concluded…if only to avoid harm to his celestial existence and the political fallout from a negative result.

Michael drifted out of the priest and floated, invisible, silent, and undetected by Lucifer. He followed Sam Winchester’s progress through the city.

SNSNSNSN

Dean woke slowly. His thoughts were groggy and clouded, but as soon as his eyes opened, he sat bolt upright and ran for the door of Sam’s safe house. Finding it locked and impermeable—even with a battering ram—he frantically searched the rest of the house, cursing Sam under his breath the entire time.

During his search of the small residence, Dean discovered that Sam had lied to him. All the wards were as Sam had described them, but in the basement there were guns, knives, and stakes in addition to the ammunition Sam had promised. Dean found and disabled the signal-jamming device in the kitchen and scowled at the too-healthy food stores Sam had compiled for him.

After he had surveyed the exits and determined that he could not break out of this safe house without help, Dean used his cell phone to call Castiel. “Cas, we need to talk, right now. You’ll never believe what Sam did.”

“Where are you?” Castiel inquired. Dean gave him the precise coordinates, but when Castiel attempted to transport himself to them, his final destination was obstructed. Castiel touched down next to the residence, and noted that the impediment had been caused by Old Enochian symbols drawn on the exterior of the house. He informed Dean of the obstruction, and Dean swore.

Inside the house, Dean sighed, promised to break the symbols, and then hung up the phone. “Let’s just hope Sammy didn’t have time to reinforce the walls, too,” he muttered. Then, he grabbed a sturdy floor lamp and swung it at the nearest wall, leaving a sizeable dent in the drywall. A few minutes later, Dean had cleared out a one-foot area between two studs and was pounding on the back of the siding. He realized he must have broken through at least one of the symbols when he heard a flap of wings and turned around, nearly bumping into Castiel. Dean considered reminding Cas about the value of personal space, but instead ordered his friend, “Angel Express, Detroit, now.”

Castiel frowned. “I thought you disliked that method of travel,” Castiel wondered out loud.

Dean practically growled. “Sam is trying to protect me, to keep me away from Detroit while he says ‘yes’ to Lucifer. Maybe he hopes I can come up with a better plan in the next five years, or maybe he’s really gone Dark-Side this time—I don’t know. But we need to get there as quickly as possible, so let’s go.”

Castiel nodded, touched Dean’s forehead, and then the broken sanctuary was immediately empty.

Armageddon

Sam did not need to find Lucifer…his eager servant located Sam instead, much as he had expected.

“Have you learned anything new, Sammy?”

Sam’s jaw clenched in anger as he recognized the tone of voice, despite the new body. “Only Dean gets to call me that, Meg. And what are you talking about?”

The short, thin, red-haired woman pouted. “Is that any way to treat an old playmate, Sam? A few years ago, we had such a fun time together—”

“What should I know, Meg?” Sam demanded, only restraining his urge to use Ruby’s knife because he needed the information quickly. If he killed Meg, he would have to wait for another demon to find him. The safe house should hold Dean until this was over, but they’d broken out of less secure places while injured or while being chased by supernatural predators, so Sam wasn’t taking any chances. “Where is your master?”

“The last time I saw you,” Meg complained, “the town was filled to bursting with Reapers, and my master raised Death himself…and you two only escaped because of that impotent angel. He’s the reason I needed to trade in for a new model.”

“Get to the point,” Sam ordered, glancing cautiously around the empty street for signs of hellhounds and other demons besides Meg.

“Well, it’s just…here you are at another raising,” Meg obliged Sam’s request in her own good time, “and your brother and that weakling are nowhere in sight. Either you’ve learned another way to defend yourself, or you’ve given up. Which is it?”

Sam opened his mouth to tell Meg to go to hell, but the sound of wings alerted Sam to an angel’s presence. He turned to face the newcomer, and winced at the sight that met him.

“Sam!” Lucifer greeted him warmly. His lip split and cracked as he smiled, but that was the least horrific of his vessel’s injuries. Six months ago, a few angry welts had plagued Nick’s face, but now his face and hands were nearly covered in sores. “When I mentioned that saying yes would save me a lot of trouble, I forgot to tell you that Nick’s suffering would be over, too.” Lucifer concentrated for a moment, and just as the bullet wound from the Colt had healed earlier, the sores and welts diminished and retreated until the body was again recognizable as a human being. “It’s usually not worth the effort, but today…”

Sam disregarded the joke. “Meg mentioned a raising. What are you planning?”

Lucifer continued to grin. “You can find out easily enough—just say ‘yes’.”

“Humor me,” Sam demanded. He knew speaking to Lucifer in such an impolite tone might be pressing his luck, but considering that Lucifer believed it was Sam’s destiny to accept his role as the devil’s vessel, Sam doubted he was in danger of receiving any permanent damage at Lucifer’s hands.

“You’re touchier than normal,” Lucifer commented, intrigued. “What’s wrong; did Dean finally accept Michael?” Sam’s shoulders slumped, and he stared forlornly at the road, pretending to be ashamed and betrayed by his brother’s supposed abandonment.

Lucifer crossed the remaining distance between them, and cupped Sam’s right shoulder with his left hand. “I’m so sorry, Sammy,” Lucifer said, quietly and earnestly. “I told you before…I am not evil. I’m different, like you. We both had fathers who disowned us and brothers who betrayed us. I don’t have to be your enemy, Sam. We can work together to make this world better, and to punish Dean for his unjust treatment of you. What is your answer?”

Sam’s eyes glistened, and it was a display of pity for both himself and for Lucifer. He regretted that he would die as a result of this fight, but took comfort in the knowledge that Dean would not be among the casualties. He also pitied Lucifer, because for the sins of pride and wrath, he had been cast out and was now dependent on demons like Meg for help.

Sam closed his eyes for a moment to let the potential tears recede, and then asked conversationally. “This raising…I know it can’t be War or Death, because those two were already released. Pestilence is probably later, maybe that’s why the Croatoan virus spreads so quickly. I saw demons destroying food and preventing people from escaping. Are you raising Famine?” Sam was disgusted at the cowardice and cruelty of such a cold-hearted, calculated sacrifice, but he let his voice sound eager, to keep Lucifer guessing about his motivations for hesitating in giving his acceptance.

Lucifer smiled in approval, as though pleased that a promising student had predicted the professor’s strategy. “I knew I chose well,” Lucifer crooned. “Your intellect matches my determination…but you are stalling. It is time Sammy, time to accept your destiny.”

Sam remembered the silent, desperate panic in Dean’s expression when he had realized that Sam intended to leave for Detroit alone, and knew it was fear that Sam would either be killed by or say yes to Lucifer. Since Dean couldn’t be here in person, Sam decided to make sure he was there in spirit. Chuckling, Sam replied to Lucifer’s praise. “Dean never believed in my destiny, and I finally understand why.” Sam took one step back from Lucifer and ordered, “Michael!”

The archangel’s presence plummeted to street level at Sam’s invitation, driving Sam to his knees and sending out a shockwave of light, sound, and energy that batted Lucifer and Meg to back by twenty feet. Had Michael entered the earthly plane from Heaven rather from the in-between region that angels on patrol used, the blast would have killed Meg, but after a few seconds, both fallen angel and demon were on their feet, one showing far more dread than the other. And while descending from Heaven would have made for a shorter and easier fight, Michael had promised Sam that no human would be harmed if he could prevent it, and both Meg and Lucifer were possessing humans.

Meg yelled in anger at Sam’s trickery and charged forward, intending to tackle Sam from behind and give Lucifer the edge he needed in this fight against a very powerful archangel. Instead of reaching her intended target, though, she was stopped four feet away from Sam’s body. Sam’s right hand was outstretched, much in the same manner as when he had used demonic powers. The red-haired woman halted in her tracks and screamed as black smoke gushed from her mouth and was driven into the ground, with hints of flame suggesting the location to which the demon had been returned.

Lucifer had been stunned by Sam’s denial and stubbornness, but the shockwave and Meg’s attack gave him enough time to recover his wits and draw the short, angled spike that Solomon had used against angels. No one had ever tried to kill an archangel with it, but it was the most powerful weapon Lucifer had been able to obtain since being cast from grace. He prepared to deliver a killing stroke with the blade, and was surprised when Michael continued in his ministrations to Meg’s vessel, rather than defending himself immediately.

Michael rose and walked sedately away from Lucifer, ignoring the beginning of the fallen angel’s attack. He expended some energy to heal Meg’s host—a waitress from Miami named Alexa—and to send her back there. Then, with his left hand, Michael snatched Ruby’s knife from it sheath at the small of Sam’s back, and whirled to face Lucifer, catching the rapidly descending sword and stopping it less than an inch from Sam’s head. Expression sober and muscles straining, Michael moved the blade back toward Lucifer incrementally.

Lucifer studied Sam’s face and knew beyond any doubt that Michael had been accepted by Sam. If the shockwave announcing an archangel’s arrival hadn’t been enough of a hint, then Sam’s serious, determined features were. Only Michael—Heaven’s greatest warrior and smartest general—could enter battle with such calm. Where Lucifer lusted after the destruction of humanity because it was the reason for his fall from Heaven, Michael protected humanity at God’s command even if—as the rumors had begun to circulate—God wasn’t around to give any orders to that effect. Castiel was similar to Michael in that way, Lucifer supposed, loyal to an absent, uncaring father despite overwhelming odds.

Lucifer grinned and broke away from the struggle, taking his weapon with him. He spun and put several feet between himself and the human he had hoped to control. “Michael…it’s nice of you to drop in, but I was trying to conclude some business with Sammy when you so abruptly interrupted.”

“I was invited,” Michael intoned, slight confusion showing on Sam’s face at the assumption of impropriety.

Lucifer sighed. “Yes, I guess you were, at that. What say you, brother, can’t we reach some kind of compromise? Even the angels who acknowledged humans the way He wanted us to have never really liked them. They’re barely better than animals in intelligence, and they negate that advantage with their malicious natures. Leave humanity to me; you, along with the rest of your simpering ilk can have Heaven.”

Sam’s eyes smoldered with righteous anger, and Michael replied, “My role is not to trade His creation for the privilege to cower elsewhere. You should not have delivered such a slight to my duty.”

Shrugging, Lucifer retorted, “I could always just kill you. That way, I get everything.”

For a moment, Michael seemed unsure. “There are neither any prophecies nor any Commands that explain the eventuality you suggest. The only certainty is that when I cast you into Perdition, Paradise will follow.”

Lucifer snickered. “And everyone lives happily ever after? Is that what you’ve been told?” He circled slowly, watching Michael’s every move for a sign of weakness. “Nothing is set in stone. I should have remained imprisoned for far longer…only the interference of Zachariah and the Winchesters’ dedication to each other allowed me to be raised. Already, War and Death have walked this earth, and when I have finished fighting you, Famine will be next. You should have had longer to prepare for this battle, and are not as strong as you need to be. Why else would you take the easier transition to this plane? And since when do you talk instead of simply fighting? I think you’re weak, unprepared, and our Father isn’t around to help His favorite son.”

Michael breathed heavily, and his gaze faltered, falling away from Lucifer for a second. In that tiny space of time, Lucifer would have attacked, but both angels were startled by the arrival of two more people. Though one was an angel, they appeared by mundane means, merely walking around the corner of one building and finding Michael and Lucifer standing with weapons drawn.

“Sam?” Dean’s eyes widened as he noticed the stances of both men and recognized a different bearing in his brother. “Wait…Michael, you bastard—you forced him into this!” Dean tried to launch himself at Michael, completely unaware of any way to evict Michael from Sam, but Cas quickly intercepted and restrained him. “Damn it Cas, get out of my way. This is all my fault. I should have said yes ages ago. Maybe that way I’d be fighting this guy instead of Sam.”

“You cannot interfere,” Cas informed Dean stiffly. During his time with Dean and Sam, Castiel had learned to appreciate emotions, but he also knew the rules of angelic combat. “Only an archangel has the power to cast Lucifer down. You would just be killed if you obstructed the fight. When Michael leaves Sam, your brother will probably die. Do you want his last memory to be of you, dead on this street? Why do you think he trapped you in that warded house? He loves you, and wanted to give you a chance to live through this…even if he couldn’t.”

As Castiel’s speech progressed, Dean had gradually stopped struggling against the angel’s unrelenting grip. By the end of the speech he understood, with heartbreaking clarity, what Sam had tried to do for him. Sam had not only intended to save Dean’s life…he had also wanted to spare Dean’s sanity by absolving him of any guilt over Sam’s death. Dean swallowed and shock showed on his face as he realized that Sam had proven with actions what Dean had refused to hear in words. Sam was no longer just Dean’s younger brother; he was an equal. He had taken on the responsibility that Dean had denied.

Dean’s jaw clenched as he reached a difficult, but necessary decision. He glared at Michael and issued a challenge. “We haven’t figured out how to gank angels yet, but if you get my brother killed, nothing will stop me from kicking your ass, you hear me?”

Lucifer smirked at Dean’s smart-alecky retort, and Michael inclined Sam’s head in acknowledgment. “If I get him killed, I just might let you,” Michael replied sincerely, and then Lucifer surged forward, lunging with the sword toward Sam’s unprotected back.

Dean called out a warning, but Michael did not notice—he was already turning and parrying the blow with the substantially shorter knife. After diverting the sneak attack, Michael landed a glancing slash to Lucifer’s abdomen and clipped Lucifer on the side of the head with his free hand.

Dean watched the fight with mounting nervousness until he saw the playful tap Michael had delivered to Lucifer’s head. It was the same gesture Dean had done to Sam when his younger brother undermined their assumed authority as federal marshals while investigating the woman in white in Jericho, California. It could have been Michael, but Dean doubted that—though Michael was more powerful than his angelic brother Lucifer, Michael was also old school, more Old Testament than Precious Moments. Michael wouldn’t waste the energy on a maneuver that failed to inflict damage on his opponent.

Dean let out a breath he hadn’t even been aware he was holding. To hear Jimmy Novak talk about it, humans didn’t have any say in an angel’s actions after they said ‘yes’. That was probably because an angel couldn’t afford either the delay to consult its vessel, or the danger if a vessel overrode the angel’s decision. For Michael to allow Sam to influence both his thoughts and his actions during what was—arguably—the most important battle in the history of the world, meant that Michael trusted Sam implicitly. Dean was glad; he might have been the better fighter, but Sammy was definitely the better strategist, and judging by Lucifer’s dirty tactics, Michael would need all the help he could get.

Lucifer growled at the light slap because he believed it meant Michael was not taking this fight seriously. He had rebelled against God and was currently trying to bring on the Apocalypse, but Michael did not believe him worthy of his best effort. When he beat Michael—not if—Lucifer did not wish for it to be said that he had won only because Michael had permitted it. Lucifer saw Michael drop his guard for a split second, and thrust his weapon deep into Sam’s abdomen, piercing through organs, tissue, and nearly emerging from the other side.

Sam wanted to gasp and cry out in pain, but Michael only grunted and shoved himself away from Lucifer, dragging this borrowed form off of the weapon swiftly. He stumbled backward and used a small portion of his angelic powers to hurl a maelstrom of debris from the street at Lucifer while he healed Sam’s body.

Lucifer stood unperturbedly at the center of the whirlwind, observing the care with which Michael repaired his vessel. It occurred to him that Michael had exorcised, healed, and evacuated Meg’s host. Michael had paused to reassure his vessel’s older brother, and even now expended more energy than was necessary, not merely patching the body enough to fight, but mending it so thoroughly that previous injuries were no longer even scarred. Michael cared far too much for humans, and Lucifer worked out a way to use that to defeat him.

Smiling, Lucifer reached his power out through the cyclone of debris and focused it on Castiel and Dean. Slowly, the evidence of his attack became apparent. Castiel fell to the ground, grasping at his throat because it had swelled too much for his vessel to receive air. Though Castiel could survive without many of this body’s needs being met, Jimmy Novak could not. Without another vessel nearby, Castiel would be sent back to Heaven, and unable to help Michael. Dean stumbled forward a step before collapsing to his knees as his heart raced and stuttered unevenly.

Michael let the hurricane of force and objects die down as he realized what Lucifer was doing. It was his duty to fight evil, not to commit it. Continuing to fight Lucifer would result in the death of a vessel and his own vessel’s brother, thereby breaking one of the conditions Sam had set for him. Michael met Lucifer’s victorious gaze and lowered Ruby’s knife, dropping it in the same motion.

With barely a thought, Lucifer permitted Castiel’s vessel to breath shallowly, but applied invisible force to immobilize the meddling angel. Dean continued to gasp in pain, but when he saw what Michael intended to do, he shouted despite his agony. “Michael, don’t!”

Michael smiled sadly and spread his arms wide in defeat. “It was one of the conditions, Dean.” Then, to Lucifer, Michael concluded, “Brother, I am prepared.”

Lucifer hurriedly thrust his weapon into Sam’s chest, worried that Michael’s easy surrender might be a trick. As a result, he missed Sam’s heart and needed to twist the blade to correct his aim.

While he was trying to do so, his concentration slipped, and the portion of his power affecting Castiel was released. Knowing he might have only seconds, Castiel took the Colt from where Dean had holstered it, and tossed the weapon to Michael.

Michael snatched the Colt out of the air and hugged Lucifer close, shooting Lucifer’s vessel in the heart even as Lucifer’s weapon nicked the same organ in his own vessel. With the last of his strength Michael removed Lucifer’s weapon and healed what he could internally, but was uncertain whether his diminished power had been sufficient. Then, Sam’s body convulsed and his eyes and mouth shone with blinding, white light.

Dean had to cover his eyes to avoid the light of Michael’s return to Heaven, and was amazed to realize that the pain in his chest was gone. He looked back as soon as the light dissipated, and then ran to Sam’s side when he saw blood liberally coating Sam’s torso. He was so worried about Sam, that Lucifer’s next statement nearly went unnoticed.

Sparks flew out from the second wound inflicted by the Colt, and Lucifer looked to Castiel for an explanation. “This can’t be…Dean shot me before and it didn’t—” Lucifer sighed and crumpled, and light exploded from his body in a horizontal wave, lifting two cars off the ground and breaking every store window within a hundred feet. Dean covered Sam’s body with his own, his leather jacket protecting both of them from most of the flying glass.

“The only thing that can kill an angel—is another angel,” Castiel revealed, too late for Lucifer to know how he had been vanquished. Moving toward the Winchesters, Castiel put a hand on each and whisked them away to the best-equipped hospital.

SNSNSNSN

The world could have ended, and Dean wouldn’t have noticed it. He wouldn’t have cared, either, as long as he was allowed to remain by Sam’s bedside. Dean had been camped out in this room for almost two weeks while Sam drifted in a coma, neither dead nor truly alive. Dean knew about coma patients, that sometimes they were aware despite low brain activity, but he sensed that this time was different. He had seen what Raphael’s vessel was like after that particularly arrogant archangel had departed, and Cas had warned him that Michael would be significantly more powerful than Raphael, so the effect would be worse. That fact, combined with the injury Lucifer had inflicted just prior to his death, meant that Sam was lucky to be alive, even if ‘alive’ wasn’t precisely the word Dean would use to describe Sam’s current state.

Dean had barely slept, ate whenever Cas brought him food, and made frantic dashes to the half-bath attached to Sam’s room. He feared that whatever moment he looked away from his younger brother would be the moment Sam let go entirely and died. Dean called Bobby, but ordered him to stay away, knowing that the trip would be difficult in Bobby’s condition and that their old friend did not need to see Sam if there wasn’t any hope of recovery. Bobby had already lost enough people in his life, and many of those were because of the Winchesters.

On the fourteenth day, Dean heard the distinctive swish of wings that signaled an angel’s arrival. Since Michael and Zachariah had thus far not visited to show their interest in Sam’s stable but unimproved health, Dean assumed it must be Castiel. Smirking, Dean said in a pale imitation of his usual sarcasm, “Cas, you could’ve brought lunch without using the Angel Express; I’m not that hungry.”

“Lunch will have to wait—I’m not your errand boy,” an unexpected voice jeered. “I never understood Castiel’s need to follow you two so closely.”

Dean grabbed his hunting knife from the night stand where he had stashed it and whirled to attack Gabriel.

The archangel—who until the brothers unmasked him, had been posing as a Trickster—simply smiled and appeared on the opposite side of Sam’s bed, meaning that Dean’s desperate lunge attacked only empty air. Gabriel chuckled. “Dean, Dean…where’s your gratitude?” He asked, wagging a finger at the older Winchester brother when Dean reluctantly returned the knife to its hiding place and faced the archangel with his arms crossed but no other sign of overt aggression. “I warned you about this. You both needed to play your roles. Sam tried to take on yours and spare you the pain of killing him, and look what happened!” Gabriel gestured to the many tubes and machines that were keeping Sam alive.

“What do you want?” Dean stated flatly, scowling at the too-cheerful archangel. Sammy was on his deathbed, and this jerk was cracking jokes.

“Think about it, Dean. I’m sure Sam would have guessed my reason for visiting by now,” Gabriel chided him.

“Tell me quickly or get out,” Dean growled. “I’ve learned some interesting blood spells in the past few years. I can’t fight you, but I can send you away.”

Gabriel flashed a brief grimace. “Yes, Anna Milton didn’t know she was giving away trade secrets at the time, but this world has been far more inconvenient ever since. Alright, calm down,” Gabriel acquiesced as Dean reached again for the knife. “These past two weeks, I’ve been hearing some strange rumors. The other angels are claiming that Lucifer is dead, Michael barely survived the fight, Castiel aided Michael in some way, and you were there. Castiel has been with you since the fight and refuses to make a report. He’s already been rejected by his brethren, so he feels more loyalty to you than to us at the moment. Michael is still recovering, and not making much sense…something about conditions and cheating. With Michael so severely injured, some of the others tracked me down and begged me to return until he has healed, so that Hell doesn’t believe we’re weak.”

Dean ran a hand through his hair as he considered his options. For once, Gabriel knew less than Dean did, and the archangel was humble enough to admit it. Giving him credit for swallowing his pride, Dean obliged, telling about the parts of the fight that he had witnessed, and concluding with, “If you want to know anything else, you’ll have to ask Sammy.”

“It’s all true?” Gabriel asked. Since the question seemed rhetorical, Dean didn’t bother to answer. “Some of the tactics were Sam’s, and Michael was duty-bound to protect Castiel’s vessel and you?” Gabriel shook his head in amazement, and then grinned at Dean. “Like I said before…I like you. I’ll come back when Sam is feeling better.”

With a swish of wings, Gabriel was gone and Dean’s protests fell on an empty room. Dean sighed and looked back at Sam’s bed when he saw movement. The measurements for brain activity, heart rate, and breathing all returned to normal levels, and Sam began coughing, fighting the breathing tube that was down his throat.

Dean yelled for a doctor and hovered at the edge of the crowd of technicians, nurses, and doctors who all poured into the room to detach the machines and extract tubes and needles from his brother. It was a good half hour before the room cleared and Sam was fully awake.

When they were finally alone again, Dean sat down heavily next to the bed. “Sammy?” he asked quietly, not daring to hope that this was real. When Sam’s eyes opened and he smiled weakly, Dean’s jaw clenched and he had to suppress his relief. “Sam, do you remember what happened?”

Sam nodded slightly and tried to speak, but his throat was too dry. Dean gave him a drink of water and then Sam continued. “I said ‘yes’ to Michael on two conditions. He couldn’t roast half the planet during the fight, and he needed to protect as many humans as he could, starting with you. When Lucifer attacked you and Cas…Michael had no choice. He couldn’t fight anymore. We’re lucky Cas was there and knew what to do.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Dean corrected. “That was your awesome warding skills at work. I couldn’t get out of that place without Cas’ help, and he was the fastest ticket to Detroit, once I managed to break through the walls and crack one of the Old Enochian symbols.”

“How is Michael?” Sam asked worriedly. “He seemed much weaker when he left…”

“Don’t worry about him,” Dean ordered, “that bastard almost got you killed. If it hadn’t been for Gabriel, I don’t think you would have ever woken up.”

“Michael saved me, Dean,” Sam argued. “That angelic weapon had punctured part of my heart. If he hadn’t stayed long enough to partially heal that wound, I wouldn’t have survived!”

“Yeah, well…whatever.” Dean conceded reluctantly. “I still say it’s his fault for getting you into that mess in the first place.”

“Wait,” Sam realized belatedly, “did you say Gabriel was the one to heal me?”

Dean grinned. “Yeah. Even now that I know he’s an angel, I still like his style.”

Sam chuckled. “That’s only because he helped me. I bet you had a few choice words for him when he first showed up. What did he want in return?”

Shrugging, Dean replied, “Oh, just a report on what actually happened. Michael’s too weak, Cas isn’t playing well with others, and I arrived at intermission. Dude, I’ve got to call Bobby and tell him about this.”

When Dean hesitated at the prospect of needing to leave the building—and in particular, Sam’s side—to use his cell phone, Sam laughed. “I’m healed, Dean, but not recovered. Don’t worry, I won’t be running marathons any time soon. Go, Bobby’s probably worried sick.”

After a few more seconds’ indecision, Dean left the room and Sam asked of the seemingly empty room, “If you don’t explain yourself, I’ll be forced to make a Wizard of Oz reference…and that’s Dean’s thing, not mine. How long have you been eavesdropping, Gabriel?”

The archangel stepped out from behind the painfully colorful window curtain and said, “I arrived without the usual sound. It’s a trick only archangels have mastered. How did you know I was here?”

Sam’s eyebrows rose in surprise that Gabriel had not already guessed the answer to his own question. “Due to the conditions I set, Michael learned what he needed to know from me, and I picked up a few details about archangels. Maybe this happens to every archangel’s vessel…I wouldn’t know.”

“All have died soon after they were used,” Gabriel confirmed. “And I’ve been listening long enough that you don’t need to repeat your account of the conditions or the battle. Why didn’t you tell Dean that I was here?”

Sam huffed and joked, “He’s worried enough without realizing that some angels have a stealth mode.” Becoming serious again, Sam asked, “So…now what?”

Gabriel laughed out loud at the absurdity of Sam’s question. “You just killed the devil—didn’t banish him to Hell, mind you, but killed him even beyond the possibility of an afterlife—and you already want to know what’s next?”

Sam gave a half-hearted glare. “Maybe if we’d been better informed by your brothers about what they had planned, we could have dealt with Lucifer more quickly and with fewer deaths. You wouldn’t listen to me if I told you that my brother and I have had enough of angels to last a lifetime, so instead I’ll just ask when you next expect to manipulate us.”

“I’d like to know that, too,” Dean spoke up from where he leaned in the doorway. From the easy, relaxed way he stood, it was impossible to tell how long he had been listening, but a hard look in his eyes hinted that he had heard more than he wanted to. “We were useful to angels, hated by demons, and despised by most Hunters for opening the Devil’s Gate and raising Lucifer. You may have sat on the sidelines until the fourth quarter, but your family has screwed with mine way too much.”

“Boys, I’m not trying to avoid the question!” Gabriel said defensively. “It’s just…we don’t even know what comes next. Lucifer was supposed to be sent to Hell. If that had happened, there are prophecies that claim this world would have ended and Paradise would have begun. But with Lucifer dead and God still out of contact, there’s no precedence for this.” Gabriel looked to Sam for help, recalling that the younger brother should understand—after all, he had gone to Stanford for prelaw.

Sam chuckled morosely. “In other words, you have no plans for us, but even if you did…we would be the last to hear about them.” Gabriel tried to protest, but Sam raised a hand dismissively. “I guess it would be too much to expect angels to change their natures overnight.”

“Look, if you have to call us, send Cas,” Dean instructed. “I don’t want to deal with angels like Uriel or Zachariah anymore—they’re half the reason this nearly ended in disaster.” Dean did not voice it, but Sam knew he thought that the Winchesters were responsible for the other half a reason.

“I’ll try,” Gabriel promised. “This promotion is only temporary; as soon as Michael has recovered, the rest will follow him again. Uriel is dead, and Zachariah is a disgrace for the way he bungled this…”

“Apocalypse?” Dean interjected wryly, and Gabriel avoided the laughing gazes of both human brothers.

“I trust your judgment,” Sam replied after a moment, “and Michael’s. He did not want this fight—he was just following prophecy. Now that there are no more prophecies, and Lucifer is dead, he will probably not try to interfere with humankind. Thanks for helping me, and for listening to us, Gabriel.”

Gabriel tilted his head sideways as though he had heard his name called from a long way off. Then he excused himself and disappeared in the blink of an eye.

“Thank, God…if that had gone on for much longer, I was expecting Dr. Phil to walk through the door,” Dean retorted sarcastically. Sobering, Dean asked Sam, “Seriously, if the Apocalypse has really been cancelled, what are we supposed to do?”

Sam rolled his eyes. Less than a month ago, they had been cursing their circumstances, and now the lack of those very events was giving them grief. He considered his answer, and then replied, “Azazel had been planning for Lucifer’s return since before I was even born. We started Hunting as a way to avenge Mom’s death. As far as I can tell, our every action was shaped by this conspiracy, even though we were unaware of it until recently.”

“What are you saying?” Dean scoffed. “We should just give up Hunting because it wasn’t really our own decision? I don’t care if our career choice played into the angels’ plans…there are lots of people who would be dead if we weren’t Hunters.”

“You’re right,” Sam agreed quickly. “Hunting is noble, good, and necessary. We shouldn’t let beings like Zachariah and Uriel convince us otherwise. What I was going to say is—from now on, we’re Hunting not for vengeance or to avoid Michael and Lucifer, but purely for ourselves…and for the families we can save along the way.”

Dean nodded curtly and replied, “Fine. I heard a nurse mention an unusual number of sleep disorders being reported to this hospital.” His face split into a leering grin. “D’you think it’s a succubus? I haven’t Hunted one of those in years.”

Sam laughed, somewhat hysterically, at Dean’s abrupt switch to talking shop, rather than feelings. It was to be expected, though. Dean would inevitably prefer taking on Rawheads to confessing his emotions. Over the course of the next week, Sam healed completely and Dean grew restless, so when Sam was strong enough, James Hetfield checked his half-brother Kirk Hammet out of the hospital, and they left in the Impala.

SNSNSNSN

Delphine Lafayette had to remind herself that the strange names at the end were probably references to some 1980’s rock band. After all, the brothers were notorious for using pseudonyms, and Dean’s preference for so-called ‘mullet rock’ was mentioned in the series’ first installment.

She wondered why the story stopped abruptly. Was that truly the end of the account, or had something happened to the author before he was able to conclude it? Delphine had to admit that she had preferred the first two dozen installments over the more complicated stories that came later, but it seemed hollow to end with a return to such simplicity. If the two characters truly were based on real people, though, Delphine considered the possibility that the author had ended the series of stories to respect their privacy. She resolved to upload the copy she had made to the restricted online archeological archives at her home institution, but then remembered the possessed patron of archeology waiting down the hall and sighed.

If she intended to leave this place alive, Delphine needed a plan to bring the demon to her quickly, so that it did not suspect a trap. The only plan she could come up with was distasteful and a reprehensible waste of a rare, early twenty-first century artifact, but the greater loss would be if the Winchesters’ true story was never told. Her jaw clenched, Delphine picked up the crystal disc and smashed it against the hardwood floor, just beyond the runner that hid the Devil’s Trap. Then, she stood, smirking and confident, as Simon Granger’s guard opened the door, noted her vandalism, and ran to report it.

Barely a minute later, Simon Granger burst into the room and strode angrily onto the carpet, pausing only as his eyes fell on the scattered shards of the antique disc. His face turned slightly red in anger, but his eyes became completely black. In a way, Delphine was relieved to discover that she had not imagined the change in eye color the first time she witnessed it…because the loss of such an artifact would be terrible if it had been for nothing. Then, her relief turned to dread at the demon’s next statement.

“What have you done?” The demon demanded of the archeologist.

Delphine studied Simon Granger coolly, as though merely assessing a new find, despite the fact that her heart was beating far faster than normal and her stomach felt ready to mutiny. “Which one are you,” she asked, “and why do you care about the Winchester fable?”

“It’s no fable,” a black-eyed Simon Granger sneered. “Those brats killed my father, and then they fought Lucifer. Angels visit that city too often…it’s practically a memorial for them; I couldn’t get near it without being killed. But I needed to know what really happened, so I possessed Simon and had him put together a team. An angel tried to join, can you believe that? Fortunately, the Winchester’s prophet was paranoid, and he left a trap for any celestial stupid enough to take the bait. I hear it was Zachariah who received that particular surprise.”

“Sam and Dean killed your father?” Delphine wondered out loud, searching her memory for the hierarchy and familial ties of the various demons the Winchesters had allegedly fought, and combining that knowledge with the demon who had some awareness of the fight between Lucifer and Michael. “Are you Meg?”

Simon Granger smiled, almost hungrily. “I’m Simon now, though I wouldn’t mind being Delphine instead.” Meg tried to take a step forward and found her progress impeded by an invisible force.

Delphine shrugged. “Sorry, I’m superstitious. Too many of the scenes from that fable lined up with historical events for me to take chances. I can’t exorcise you, because the noise would draw the attention of your guards. I’m sure you’ll find a way out of that Devil’s Trap sooner or later, but remember…I’ve read all of the Supernatural books, so I know their tricks and I know your tactics. Don’t try to follow me.” Before her shaking knees gave her away, Delphine hurried out of the room with her bag tucked under her right arm. She left the house at a run and sped out of Simon Granger’s estate as fast as possible.

SNSNSNSN

Back in the business tycoon’s house, Simon Granger shouted for his guards to come and clean up this graffiti. If any of them noticed his eyes, they kept their thoughts to themselves, because Mr. Granger was known for his black moods.

As soon as first line on the Devil’s Trap was broken, Simon Granger left the small viewing room and paced to the bay window overlooking the front of his estate. Meg watched the taillights of the archeologist’s car recede into the darkness of the night and frowned. The archeologist had been more resourceful than expected; it had been centuries since she walked into a Devil’s Trap. At least Delphine had not exorcised Meg. That would have been embarrassing and inconvenient. Meg sighed and decided that she would have to find some other way of discovering Lucifer’s fate.