FIC: "Thou Art Not Alone" (4/6) (SPN, Nephilim'verse)
IV. Kith and Kin
Anna Milton died the first Wednesday of December. Rain fell and the sky was gray.
There was no time for final words, no goodbyes or sorries, parking the car and being overwhelmed by the sensation of equal parts angels and demons and voices beyond human hearing, full of urgency and frantic worry. Dean ignored it all, focusing step by step - and wouldn’t Michael be proud? - on what it would take to jump into the fray. He climbed out of the car like there was already something on his tail and opened the trunk in a second, grabbing, checking, loading, asking Anna, “Know anything about guns?” and handing her a .38 when she nodded, a nine-mil and a long knife, often blessed, for himself, and at last slammed the lid.
He went in first, squinting at the angelic light and searching out the darkness, slashing and shooting when he found it. His ears rang and his nose filled with the smell of gun powder and blood. The room seemed impossibly large, stretched beyond comprehension, filled with demons great and small, angels wielding unknown weapons against them. It was another world and he felt like another creature in it. Time slowed and sped; he was slashing with his knife and elbowing something and kicking something else all in the same instant, and then he was shooting something new and the bullet traveled the space of a year. Sam was in the distance, Ruby’s knife in hand and blood drying on his upper lip, staggering after he’d been hit by a demon; the flat side of Uriel’s sword knocked it to the side and the sharp edge dispatched it forever. Ruby herself was closer and for half a second her eyes, black as coal, met Dean’s before turning away with the same look she’d worn with Castiel, a realization that threw him off his concentration for another half second and was readily forgotten as a demon tried to knock him off his feet. Gabriel and Castiel were there, too, and if nothing else the younger angel knew a little something about fighting demons, moving with preternatural grace and a core of pure light. And Michael - Michael was in the thick of it, swinging a sword of his own in one hand and carrying a round shield like the brightest morning sun on the other arm, his whole form edged in flame that licked its way down his arms and made the golden, unnatural metal glow.
He heard shots behind him and somehow knew that Anna was in trouble; he turned and found himself blocked. He called Anna’s name, shouted as something menaced her. Gabriel surprised him, coming up from his right, slashing left and right with his own sword, a tall, silvery figure with wrath and vengeance in his eyes. Gabriel slew the demon that threatened her and the five that came after; the gun fired and a lifetime of counting bullets told him it was empty. Somehow, over the din of the fray, he heard Gabriel speak - “Now, child - please!” - and through the crowd he saw Anna give her agreement. His eyes met Gabriel’s and the angel did not hesitate; he threw the sword. Dean dropped his gun.
The sword landed in his hand the same moment Anna’s body felt to the floor and Gabriel disappeared.
It had been silver in Gabriel’s hand but now seemed golden in Dean’s, his palms warming with that feeling of unnatural heat, and he stared at it, his fingers tightening on the hilt. He had expected to feel clumsy, expected the metal to be an unwieldy medieval weight like he’d always imagined, but it was strangely light and when a demon hissed at him he turned, bringing his arm up and slicing the demon like he’d carried the weapon all his life. It was a good combination - he stabbed with the knife and finished it with the sword, twisting and turning, or blocked an attack with the flat of the sword and gutted with the knife, again and again and again, but the battle had turned. The angels were outnumbering the demons, the cabin filling with the light of a thousand stars. With three strokes Michael felled the demon that had attacked them at the church the day before, the demon Dean still didn’t recognize, the leader of the hellish battalion. One by one they all fell, black smoke falling through the floor when there was any at all, and the angels stood over them, victorious.
And Dean stood among them, panting, sore, his arm feeling sunburned.
The cabin was silent, save for the sound of breathing.
Sam and Ruby were off to the side, leaning on each other, their clothes ripped and bloodstained. He watched Sam wipe the sweat and blood out of his eyes and he could see that drop of Azazel’s evil in the smear across his brother’s cheek. It was a swirl of poison, fighting to get back inside him -
“Ediniel.” He knew that name - his name? There was a hand on his shoulder. “Dean, give me the sword.”
Dean blinked and realized he’d stepped forward, the sword raised in the air. Sam and Ruby were staring at him, confusion and fear under the grime and dust and blood on their faces. A host of angels watched silently. Michael was beside him. “Dean,” he whispered, saying his name a third time and now Dean recognized the voice that had spoken before. Michael had sheathed his own sword - he could see the flames across his back, between the golden wings that flitted in and out of existence. “The sword, please.”
Without thinking any further on it, Dean gave him the sword.
And promptly collapsed.
Staring at Michael from the ground before he lost consciousness, he managed six words with all the rapture of a six year old: “Dude, you really do have wings.”
He woke only once that he would ever really remember: he was stretched across the back seat of the Impala, too confused from the flashback that that gave him to be outraged when he realized that Ruby was driving. Sam was asleep in the passenger’s seat, leaning against the window, his face protected from the cool of the glass by a wad of T-shirt. “I hope you’re coherent this time,” Ruby said, looking at him through the rear-view mirror.
“What?” he said. He felt drugged. He probably was drugged. Something told him he should have been in more pain.
“Figures,” she said, looking down the road again.
He frowned, feeling lost but not really sure if he should care, and then stared at his arm like it wasn’t attached to him. It didn’t feel sunburned anymore. Huh. He looked forward again.
Ruby’s eyes flicked towards him in the mirror. “With my luck you’re not going to remember me saying this, again,” she said softly, “but I’m telling you now and I’ll tell you again: there’s nothing human in the world that can wield an angel’s sword, nothing that can touch one and come away whole. Not a thing in the world, human or otherwise. Nothing, but another angel.”
“Oh,” Dean said, not really understanding what she was saying, and promptly lost consciousness again.
He woke up at Bobby’s, recognizing the ceiling and the books piled here and there, the blankets draped over him and the fireplace glowing. Sunset - or sunrise - was streaming through the bay window. He groaned as he sat up, drawing up his knees and bending over them, almost hugging his legs to his chest as he tried to straighten his back. He was exhausted, his mouth dry but relatively clean tasting - he hadn’t been sick - and his stomach hurt with hunger. A hard wooden chair stood beside the couch and the tall glass of water on it called to him. He drank it eagerly, trying his best to go slowly, knowing all too well the aftereffects of going too fast, and the stale, lukewarm taste of it forced the issue. He noticed crackers, too, a handful of them on a plate and he reached out to put the glass back, to try a cracker and see if he could handle it -
His arm looked completely normal. It had felt burned, turning pink and red and freckled like he’d been too long in the sun, as he had -
As he had given Michael the sword. Gabriel’s sword. An angel’s sword. Fuck. This was making his head hurt. He managed three crackers before his mouth went dry again. His legs ached as swung them out and put weight on them; it took a minute but finally he managed to stand with reasonable confidence of staying that way. He shuffled his way through the room in stocking feet - Bobby’s house could get kind of chilly and someone had had the foresight to dig out his warmest pair of socks - and grabbed a hold of the door frame to rest. He caught his breath quicker than expected and moved onward into the narrow old hallway and steered himself towards the bathroom.
There was a demon in his way.
“Need some help, dragon slayer?” Ruby teased, flattening herself against the wall with a little smirk. He wondered what it had taken to convince Bobby to let her and then got a flash of memory from the road: Ruby driving, Sam slouched over, asleep. Her being the only one conscious might’ve been enough.
“I’m okay,” he lied, pushing against the wall, the old wallpaper feeling rough against his palm. “Where’s Sam?” he asked, having managed another five feet or so. “And Bobby?”
“The old man’s holed up in that fortress of his in the basement,” Ruby said. “Told Sam he was an idiot for bringing me here and he wasn’t about to sleep out in the open as long as I was loose. I may have called him a racist.”
“Hm.” He shut the bathroom door behind him. The house was almost silent, only the occasional creak and groan of the old wood.
Ruby didn’t let the door stop her from finishing: “But he has enough frozen French fries to feed an army and an oven that actually works, so I forgive him. I finally convinced Sam to get some sleep in the middle of the night; took one of the rooms upstairs. Made noises like he was having a heart attack and claimed he’d never seen any of them clean enough to be habitable.”
Dean washed his hands, resting his weight on his forearms on the edges of the old porcelain pedestal sink, and scrubbed old blood and grime from under his fingernails. They needed to be clipped, too, some simply a little too long and others ragged and broken from the fight, but there were other things to be done first. He stared at himself in the mirror, expecting a wan, tired face and seeing one that was surprisingly rested, eyes unexpectedly clear and bright. His hair was pointing in every possible direction, but it wasn’t as if anyone important was going to see him. He shook his head and opened the door. Ruby was still there, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed over her chest. “You’re still here because…why?”
“Promised Sam I’d keep an eye on you while he slept,” she said seriously. “So I’m keeping an eye on you. Be glad I didn’t take the order more literally. I could’ve followed you in there.”
He snorted and started his way back through the hall. His legs felt steadier now and he didn’t have to put as much weight on his hands against the walls.
“So,” Ruby continued, “since I’m playing nursemaid, is there anything you need? You know, so I don’t piss off the grumpy old man or your brother.” Her tone was long-suffering, but when he stopped and looked at her, he could see something approaching real concern on her face in the moment before she switched it to a look of disdain. His stomach reminded him that he’d only had the three crackers and he still didn’t know how long he’d been out. It had taken him and Sam most of three days to get to that Connor Beverley place, stopping for a full nights’ sleep each evening. They could have done it in two with time to spare if she and Sam had taken turns. There was still the question of how long they’d been at Bobby’s besides. “I, uh,” he started.
“Just spit it out.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve got any of those fries ready right now?”
Ruby had never struck him as the domestic kind of demon, but she could bake frozen food with the best of them and he was hungry. She forced a tall glass of milk on him - “Be glad you live in this day and age. It’s pasteurized, refrigerated, and not likely to kill you even when it’s a little off.” - and he drank it up under her strangely watchful eyes, though the low temperature hurt his stomach a little at first. She sipped at a Coke herself, having apparently deemed everything in the fridge available on a first come, first served basis, and dipped her finger in a circle of ketchup on her plate and licked it off. “And tomatoes and potatoes - I love the New World. Eat up,” she ordered. “And then back to bed, or that Singer guy will kill me.”
He ate slowly, not wanting anything to bounce inside like the milk had tried to do. It was a repeat of that lunch with Sam and Bobby - the fries had fishy friends - and he was hungry enough to stomach it. “Your friend could use some more variety in his pantry,” Ruby continued. “Someone must’ve told him fish was healthy and forgot to mention the problems with the bread crumbs and the grease. Even I know that and I don’t have to worry about it. Ugh, not to mention the tartar sauce you guys like to slather all over it. Where’s the red meat?”
Dean swallowed and washed it down with some water. She’d refused him a beer on his empty stomach. “Maybe you didn’t dig deep enough.”
“You know what would be really great right now?” she mused, almost like she’d forgotten he was there. “Stew. Great big chunks of beef, onion, turnips-”
“Turnips? What about your deep and abiding love for potatoes?”
“Not in a stew. Too mushy. Too modern - I mean, the last couple of centuries have been great. Indoor plumbing is awesome. But the food - sometimes you just have to get back to the basics. I miss turnips; your generation just doesn’t get it. A good stew is easier than you think: beef, onions, turnips. And carrots - real ones, with some crunch still in ‘em, not those overcooked spongy ones you get in those bags of frozen veggies. Or a slab of roast lamb - that would be nice. Some red wine, garlic, olive oil and a day on a spit over a real fire. Really rich, almost falling apart. There was this Greek restaurant with lamb steaks-”
He let her run with it, eating his food slowly. She was providing some quality entertainment, her hands and face wild with honest expression as she criticized humanity’s victual woes. Maybe that was what she and Sam had in common - a fascination with the details of food. Sam would drive Dad crazy, complaining that the food at the diner three weeks before was better and he didn’t want to eat what he had now. It had been a phase - the complaining part, at least - but it didn’t stop him from remembering his favorites with obsessive detail, able to recite them at a drop of a hat. Dean, on the other hand - just plunk it down in front of him and he was usually happy. Dean didn’t know if he had ever been picky about food, except maybe pie; if he had, he didn’t remember it and Dad had never brought it up as a reminder of what a good soldier didn’t do.
Not so bad when she’s like this. The thought snuck up on him and he choked on a fry drenched in ketchup.
Ruby gave him a look. “Chew. You’ve got teeth for a reason, glowy. Jeez.”
He didn’t waste his energy on responding.
When he woke up again, it was at least the middle of the day from the sunlight coming through the windows. Sam was sitting nearby, a book in his hands, but he wasn’t really reading it, his eyes staring off into the non-existent distance beyond Bobby’s study. “Hey,” Dean said when his eyes had adjusted to daylight and Sam hadn’t shown any signs of noticing he was awake.
“Oh, hey,” Sam said, not quite jumping but still surprised out of his daydreaming. It had looked pretty intense; Dean just hoped they were rated PG and didn’t involve Ruby. “How are you feeling?”
He took a moment, giving himself an honest evaluation before answering. “Not bad, actually,” he finally said. He sat up, contemplating the strength of his legs, and realized he really felt just fine. “Kind of hungry.”
“I’m not surprised,” Sam replied, closing his book with a finger still stuck inside, marking the page. “You’ve slept most of four days away. We couldn’t get you to wake up most of the time. If you hadn’t’ve woken up this morning…” Sam shook his head. “Do you need some help up? Bobby’s been talking about making eggs again.”
“’Mokay,” Dean told him and stood up on his own to prove it. He surprised himself with how steady he was and grinned. He walked towards Sam - towards the hallway and the bathroom again - pausing in front of his brother. “Whatcha reading?”
Sam hesitated and then opened the book before handing it to him. “Genesis, chapter six. Not our only resource, but it’s a start. I don’t know what it’s going to take to convince you, Dean, but like I said before we went to North Carolina: we’ve exhausted every other possibility.”
Dean looked at it. Nephilim. That’s what Sam was on about: the nephilim. The version in his hand referred to the half-angels as giants. “I’m not exactly sure I qualify as a ‘giant’,” he said, only half joking. Him, an angel. Right. God must’ve been on something when he thought that up. The idea made him queasy.
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t expect them to get everything right,” Sam said sarcastically. “Where would the fun be in that?”
Dean made it to the bathroom before his stomach completely rebelled on him.
Half an hour later, his gut was sore but empty and he felt like he could walk again. He managed to deliver himself to the kitchen and the eggs Bobby was scrambling - plain, no meat or vegetables, no pepper, just a splash of milk, the way he liked them - smelled enticing. Ruby sat at the far corner of the table, as far from Bobby as possible, sipping at another can of soda. Sam was manning the toaster, scraping a light layer of grape jelly on the bread that had just popped up.
The perverse domesticity of the scene made Dean want to laugh, but he didn’t.
He slid into a seat at the table. Ruby poured him a few ounces of ginger ale without a word and he sipped at it slowly as Sam brought him a piece of toast. By the time Bobby scraped the eggs onto a plate and got him a fork, he’d managed half the slice of toast and a refill of the ginger ale.
“How you feeling, boy?” Bobby asked.
Dean stabbed a piece of egg and chewed it carefully. Just the right level of bland. “I’m all right.”
Bobby snorted. “Yeah, that’s what your daddy said the first time we met. Didn’t believe him either,” he said and dumped the pan in the sink before leaving the room.
“Dean-” That was Sam, looming over the table with a plate of fresh toast. Dean looked at him and then realized that his brother wasn’t looking at him, but at Ruby and he turned his head in her direction. She hadn’t really moved but seemed to be pulling away, pushing herself into the back of the chair. “Dean,” Sam tried again.
“What?” Ruby had seemed cautious, sort of, when he’d been up before, but she almost seemed scared of something now.
“Dean, you’re glowing.”
He blinked and realized that Sam was right. It was faint, but definitely there, strongest on his hands. Angel fire, he thought to himself, not sure where the words came from, but they seemed apt. He stared at his hands, turning them over, brushing his thumbs over the palm-side of the first two fingers, spreading his fingers and popping the knuckles. It was an exploration and he lost himself in it for a moment. He blinked again and the glow receded slowly until even he saw nothing but normal flesh, ragged nails and healing scrapes and the pale, barely-there hairs that kept his post-Hell hands from looking too girly. He looked up, remembering suddenly that he wasn’t alone, and Sam’s expression was strange and almost fearful. Ruby leapt out of her chair like a kicked dog and high-tailed it out of the kitchen, whispering, “Fucking angels,” under her breath.
He finished off the rest of the ginger ale before his stomach calmed down. The eggs and the toast were cold by then but he forced himself to eat anyway. “Dean…” Sam murmured, sitting down finally, looking like he expected the end of the world any second now, guarded and twitchy.
“So,” Dean started and then cleared his throat in what he hoped was a very manly manner. He sniffed, brief and masculine, his face tensing, his back straightening, squaring his shoulders and all that shit. “What do we know about nephilim?”
“Look, I’m just saying - all the angels we’ve met so far have needed vessels. If you - if you need one down the road-”
“Sam, I am not possessing you.”
“Dean, I owe you so much. Even if you hadn’t gone - I mean, you’re my brother - I’d still - besides, you’ve always wanted to be taller. I’m just saying.”
“Christ, Sammy.”
“I mean it. I’ll even pray for it, if that’s required.”
“Fucking Jesus on a pogo stick.”
“Oh. Crap.”
“What?”
“What if - the demon blood. Maybe - maybe it wouldn’t work. I mean, angels are holy.”
“Dude: four months in Hell. Women in every state in the lower forty-eight. And DC, now that I think about it. Drinking. Bar fights. Speeding. Ignoring opportunities to recycle. Choose one.”
“But-”
“Don’t look at me, Samuel Winchester. This body hasn’t always been mine. I’m not leaving it after all the trouble I went through just to meet your noble requirements. Besides, Dean as a woman? I don’t think so.”
“Hey! I’d make an awesome chick.”
“No, you’re right, Dean. I get it. You’re not the holiest guy on the block. That look on your face right now? Your porn-reality filter is broken again.”
“I’m too damn old for this shit. Always knew you Winchesters would be the death of me. Which is not an invitation to reanimate my corpse, boy.”
“Like I’d want to be wearing you.”
“Bah. I need a drink. Demon, you better not have taken all my liquor, or so help me-”
“Relax. It was one shot to steady my nerves. Not every day you end up under the same roof as some creature you didn’t think even existed.”
“Welcome to our world, Ruby.”
“Shove it, Dean.”
Bobby forced the issue and basically ordered them to stay put for the time being. Dean was strangely fine with this. He felt lost and staying in one place, day after day, regardless of how strange that was, seemed to help. Ruby came and went. Bobby slept in his panic room when she was around. It was Sam who said they needed something to do, if for nothing else than to earn their keep, and within a week the remaining uninhabitable upstairs rooms were pristine and for the first time in their lives, living together, they didn’t have to share a room. By the end of the next week, the walls were painted, what windows could be readily replaced, were, and the furniture was largely repaired. They were debating the merits of the basement versus the attic to attack next when Bobby told them they’d done enough. They organized his bookcases in the study instead and called it an early Christmas present.
Dean found himself staring at the ceiling at night, alone in his room, listening. It didn’t hurt to hear the voices anymore and some nights they were hard to avoid. There were battles everywhere, on Earth and on planes that he could barely tap into, and he learned to recognize some of the voices. Gabriel was sad, ever hopeful for a more peaceful solution. Uriel was stern, kind of an ass at times, but not afraid of giving credit where credit was due. Castiel’s voice popped in from time to time, innocent but learning. He hadn’t yet met Raphael but knew his voice: warm, strong, not afraid of injecting a little humor. Other angels, too, became familiar, though he didn’t always discover a name; some names he learned only after that angel had been lost in battle and Sam would find him stretched out on the couch, facing its back, tears welling up. He always lied about that last part.
And Michael - Michael was as he’d learned to know him in a vessel on Earth. Michael was familiar to him in ways the others couldn’t be, an older brother and almost parent to all the rest like he’d been with Sam, always in charge and only rarely letting it be known that he was afraid things weren’t going to work out. Michael was always everywhere, watching over the others, giving orders, fixing problems, trying not to seem desperate. And behind his back, the younger ones sometimes complained - He worries too much about that child. He should focus more on the war. The half-breed is of little importance now; why does he bother with him himself? He should send someone else. But Dean hadn’t seen Michael since the battle in North Carolina, since he’d handed back Gabriel’s sword, and he hadn’t felt the presence of any other angel since then, either. He dreamed that Michael showed up, explained how Mom had let it happen, explained how Dad had been okay with it. He didn’t remember the explanations and tried imagining Michael as his father, which just didn’t fit, and then spent a minute or two wondering who Miriamel was, remembering Gabriel’s mention of the name, and why he’d chosen this family to screw up. It made a change from fragmented dreams of what could only be Hell.
That morning, he showered and wrapped the towel around his waist only to bend over and twist and arch his back in pain the moment his feet hit the little bath rug. He gabbed at the sink, saw the muscles in his shoulders ripple unnaturally under his skin in the mirror, finally let himself cry out in excruciating pain. His skin glowed, the heat that accompanied it ebbing and flowing, and he seemed to see at once things that were and weren’t there. He fell to the floor with a yell and almost didn’t recognize Sam when he burst in. There was a flare of light that forced Sam back and when it faded, Dean could breathe again. He lay curled on the floor of the bathroom for several minutes, panting and trying desperately to calm down. Sam sat in the doorway, looking like he was afraid.
“I’m okay,” Dean finally managed to say, forcing himself to sit up, not caring that he was completely naked, the towel lost at the first shiver of pain. “I’m okay.”
“I’ve heard that one before,” Sam replied. “What the hell happened?”
Dean closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing. He opened them again after a moment and forced himself now to stand up, bolstering his weight against the sink. “I don’t know,” he admitted and stared at himself in the mirror. He looked normal, he looked like himself. His back and shoulders looked normal. Hell, nothing had changed. What had the point of all that pain been?
In the mirror, he saw Sam walk into the bathroom and crouch down beside the shower, picking something up. He turned to see what Sam had found. “What is it?” he asked.
Sam frowned and held it out. “A feather,” he said. And it was. A small, downy feather - from a nestling, a chick, not the grown bird. The color was familiar, too, golden brown, the same as what they’d found in Lawrence at Mom’s grave. He stared at the floor. There were little feathers everywhere. He had to look in the mirror to be sure, but his earlier evaluation was still correct: he was still normal.
Sam flinched when their eyes met.
They didn’t tell Bobby, Sam volunteering to clean up the mess while Dean dressed. The rest of the day, Dean kept checking the mirror, but he never did have wings in his reflection. Part of him was relieved, but there was another part that was a little disappointed - and a third that was freaking the hell out.
That was Christmas Eve.
Dean woke up in the wee hours of the morning and couldn’t fall back asleep. He climbed out of bed, padding across the creaky floor as quietly as he could, thinking he’d snag some eggnog - Bobby’s only real concession to the holiday, well-tempered with alcohol - out of the fridge. But he felt the presence of a familiar angel as he crept out into the hallway and down the stairs and detoured to the front room. A figure stood in front of the fireplace but instead of a Santa Claus he hadn’t really believed in since he was four years old, it was an angel he hadn’t known existed until four months ago.
“Michael,” he said softly, knowing how easily sound could travel in the old house. “You don’t call, you don’t write. Starting to feel neglected down here, you know what I mean?”
He had tried to sound teasing, but it came out a little too accusatory and Michael looked guilty. “I am very sorry,” Michael said. “I have meant to visit-”
A lifetime of a father saying ‘I’m sorry, Dean, I meant to do this and that and some other thing, but this was more important’ prepared him for this. The fact that it was Christmas morning made no difference. “No problem,” he said. “I’m okay. You’ve got a lot going on.” He tapped his ear. “Been listening.”
Michael sighed. “Never think you are unimportant, Dean,” he said solemnly. “It is far from the truth.” He sighed again. “Come, sit. There are things I should have told you long ago.” He gestured towards the couch and began to step in its direction.
Dean balked at the invitation, suddenly nervous. He’d been okay so far, in the dark; no need to shine a light on the truth. He was okay. He was sure he could be.
Michael sat down and gestured again. “Dean. Please.”
It took serious effort to force himself to go and sit down next to Mike. But this was Michael the Archangel, the angel, and if he wanted something, who was Dean Winchester to refuse? He was like one of those multimillionaires who charged by the minute: every second was precious, every second was taken. You didn’t waste time without serious consequences. So Dean stepped forward and each step was easier and finally he found himself in front of the couch and sat down mechanically into the far corner. He could feel the power rolling off of Michael and he squished himself against the upholstered arm, his legs closer together than usual. It was a kind of animal response: make yourself small and maybe you won’t get noticed and eaten. It wasn’t his usual response, though, all swagger and hogging space. Why was he scared of Michael all of a sudden? No, it wasn’t Michael himself.
He was scared of the truth.
So he did what he usually did and just blurted it out: “So, I guess I’m one of those nephilim or whatever.”
Michael blinked. “Yes. Yes, you are a nephil.”
Nephil. Okay. Sam hadn’t been sure about that part, and Ruby hadn’t known, and Bobby had just shaken his head and thrown another one of his colorful South Dakotan insults at them, but Dean had wondered. He liked knowing what something was, having a good, solid name for things, and all the more so now that it was him that it described. Nephil, singular of nephilim. Okay.
Nephil. Dean the nephil. Yeah, that sounded like crap.
“And what exactly does that mean? Technically, I mean. I’m a big boy; I can handle a lecture on the birds and the bees. I’m guessing that Miriamel guy Gabriel mentioned was the angel. I just want to know what he did to Mom.” But not if it was something horrible; he’d grown up on Lifetime channel movies and talk shows with the volume turned down while Sammy did his homework. Between that and Dad’s lectures, he’d tried to develop a reverence for human women. Considering his relationships rarely lasted more than one night, he wasn’t always sure if that reverence was what it should be. All he really knew was that they consented and seemed to enjoy themselves, and he tried not to get mixed up with anyone who had angry significant other. If Mom hadn’t consented -
“What Miriamel did to your mother?” Michael repeated, sounding confused
“If he, you know, raped her or mind-whammied her or did something like that, I hope he got punished for it. That’s got to qualify for time in the pit at the very least-”
“Dean, no,” Michael said urgently. “Oh, no, child. This is what you have been thinking?” He shook his head. “I have failed you, Miriamel. I have well and truly failed you and your line.”
Dean frowned.
“Dean, listen to me,” Michael said earnestly. “Yes, a nephil is the child of a human and an angel. But the human in your case was not your mother; it was your father, John Winchester.”
“So, what? You’re saying Dad had a fling with some angel and Mom just, I don’t know, adopted me?” His voice was strident and a little too loud; he was having trouble controlling his anger and it showed in the glow of his skin. It was like a bad joke: he didn’t sweat anymore, he glowed, only literally.
“No.” Michael said the word forcefully, rising from his seat and crouching in front of him, putting his hands on his shoulders. “You are the child of Mary Campbell and John Winchester. Mary Campbell began her existence as an angel of my line, an angel named Miriamel.”
The weight of Michael’s hands on his shoulders had calmed Dean a little, but that calm faded now with confusion and anger. “Wait a minute,” Dean said. “Wait just a minute. You sent me back in time, the whole Back to the Future gig, you showed me Mom when she was young. She was a hunter. Her folks were hunters. She wasn’t an angel.”
“Dean,” Michael said patiently, that paternal tone of voice he’d used on previous visits. Now he knew where the paternal part came from. “Miriamel fell.”
Miriamel fell. Mom was an angel and she fell. They’d run into stories of fallen angels in the lore - Lucifer was a fallen angel, and Azazel might’ve been one too, and Lilith. His mother was a fallen angel. “Red, black or yellow eyes?” he whispered. “What color was she?” Yellow, probably, considering Azazel’s interest. High-level, not a run of the mill demon like Ruby.
Michael looked away. “How have I come to fail you so completely, Miriamel?”
Dean stood up. “Ruby’s knife - where is it? Is that the right kind of tool, or do we need to find something else? And - oh, fuck. That’s why Azazel wanted Sam.”
“Dean-”
“If Mom was a fallen angel when I was conceived or born or whatever, then she definitely was when Sam came around, too. No wonder he liked her so much in 1973.”
“Dean-”
“Don’t worry - Sam and I - we’ve got a pact. Just tell us what to do and we’ll take care of ourselves. You won’t have to do it-”
“Ediniel!”
He finally heard Michael’s voice then on two levels: the voice of the vessel he wore, the strong, forty-something human man not much taller than Dean; and the voice of the archangel, almost burning his ears, the voice he occasionally heard late at night when everyone was asleep. And the name - Ediniel - he had only heard Michael say it once, in the cabin in North Carolina. He’d nearly forgotten that Michael had said it; Anna had said it was the name of some unknown angel they were waiting for.
Michael had used it that day as if it were Dean’s name.
And now he was using it again, the exact same way.
He - Dean Winchester, nobody hunter with the demon-infected brother - was the angel they were waiting for.
He stopped searching the room and stared at Michael.
“I have failed you as Gabriel failed Anna,” Michael finally said. “A regrettable misunderstanding. Dean, your mother was not a rebel angel, a turncoat. She fell to Earth.” He took a breath. “Miriamel so loved John Winchester that she gave up everything and became mortal. You and Samuel are children of that love.”
Dean leaned against the bookcase and tried to calm down. “What?”
“Miriamel was a - a good angel. She was not evil. You are not evil. Samuel - may it come to pass - will not be evil.”
He stood there a moment, leaning against the books. He heard a noise in the kitchen but couldn’t bring himself to look. Michael appeared at his side. “Here,” he said. “Drink.”
It wasn’t the eggnog he’d come downstairs for, but the water tasted good. He focused on drinking it and that more than Michael’s reassurances calmed him down. He let Michael guide him back to the couch and this time he let himself sit down naturally. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”
“Are you all right?” Michael asked, crouching down in front of him, and Dean really looked at him - at the vessel - for once. Michael’s vessel was the same one he’d had the first time he’d showed up months ago in Bobby’s kitchen, the same vessel he’d always seen the angel in, but this was the first time Dean noticed that Michael had chosen a man who could’ve been his mom’s brother.
“Yeah. Just - just give me a minute, ‘kay?”
“Okay.”
He sat there a few minutes, feeling like a kid called into the principal’s office. He could hear angelic voices whispering in the distance - Finally told the child. How much longer until Ediniel is among us? Will Samuriel truly be saved? We need all the help we can get. They saved a seal. They may have turned a demon. Miriamel would be proud. He sniffed, hoping it didn’t sound too childish. “So, Mom was one of the good guys. That’s good to know.”
“Indeed.”
“But the Campbells - you said she became human. They thought she was their daughter.”
“Dean,” Michael said patiently, “think on it. What do you suppose happens to an angel who chooses to become mortal, as Miriamel did when she became Mary Campbell? Do you think they simply appear on the mortal plane in a mortal body without a mortal history?”
He shrugged. Demons popped up on Earth and took mortal bodies all the time. And Castiel had said - Maybe the real Mary Campbell had prayed for something, and in exchange Miriamel - He shrugged again.
“No,” Michael continued, sitting down finally beside him. “They do not. It is a tricky business, to let an angel become mortal. The threads of time are rewoven. Parents are chosen, their consent gained; Samuel and Deanna Campbell were childless originally. Deanna in particular welcomed the opportunity to have a child. They did not remember that this had happened when you visited them in 1973; this was a parallel line of events. All angels turned mortal are hunters, Dean, slipped as seamlessly as possible into a hunter family, for who else could comprehend a slip of memory or power making itself known - a touch of precognition, or perhaps a moment of telekinesis? As far as I know, such a thing never happened to the Campbells, but it has happened to others.”
“She didn’t want to be a hunter,” Dean whispered, looking at him sideways. “She told me. She loved that Dad was normal.”
Michael gave him a sad smile. “That is the unfortunate sadness of Miriamel’s circumstances. You are familiar with the deals humans make with demons; angels make deals, too, covenants with their brethren and with the force of good in the universe, the essence mistaken by mortals for something called god. Miriamel knew she would be a mortal hunter, but Mary Campbell did not remember the promises Miriamel had made. The loss of an angel from our ranks is a very great loss indeed and something must be given in return. The mortal must pay for what the immortal bought. Part of that is being a hunter.”
“And the rest of it?”
“That any children of their line will be nephilim, will be angels themselves when they mature.”
Dean laughed. It was a little strained, but it was a laugh. “Man, I’ve been mature a while now. Where’ve you guys been?”
Michael met the laugh with a sad smile. “You are still rather young, and your body and soul know it. You have only been displaying signs of manifestation for the last five months, child, and it is a natural process that cannot be sped up because we wish for more angels among our ranks. You are still mortal.”
He swallowed nervously. “And when, exactly, does that change?”
“One month,” Michael said. The warm hand of his vessel cupped Dean’s cheek like he was a child. “May I be the first to congratulate you on your thirtieth birthday?”
Dean choked on the panicked laugh that forced itself out. Yeah, happy birthday, Dean, and here’s a pair of wings for your troubles. Keep fighting the good fight - oh, and by the way, it just might last forever now. There had been too many times in his life when he didn’t think he’d make it to thirty. It all felt unreal - both the angel thing and the birthday coming up. But this was no dream, like the last time Mike had visited here. This was real.
He supposed this was something like a panic attack. The whole last month, and probably longer, had been one long, extended panic attack. His eyes teared up and he closed them, his shoulders sagging, his head crashing into his hands in defeat, and he hadn’t cried like that since Sammy ran off to California. But he cried nonetheless and Michael sat beside him, a warm, heavy arm on his shoulders, and it kind of felt like his dad was there instead.
“You need your rest,” Michael said softly when his tears slowed and finally stopped, and Dean just nodded. Michael helped him up, and helped him up the stairs, and helped him into bed, pulling the blankets tight like he was a child.
“I promise you, I will be back soon,” Michael whispered. Dean could not hold out any longer: he fell asleep.
Continue to Chapter Five