Chapter Text
Quality of Mercy
The quality of mercy is not strain’d,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
- The Merchant of Venice IV.I
Chapter One:
Burkitsville, Indiana
2005
Burkitsville Indiana was a lovely place to live, if you were into the kind of place where nothing interesting ever happened. Mercy-Elizabeth, though she preferred just Mercy, was not such a person. It wasn’t that she disliked the quaint, quiet town. She enjoyed chasing the fog that settled over the streets in the early morning. She loved the smell of the apple trees baking in the summer heat. The people were nice enough, she supposed, but they were also all on the older side, and they liked to treat her like she was five. But she was ten years of age, and that’s double digits, and that’s practically an adult.
Mercy reckoned if she ran away to live in the orchards, no one would notice. Well, maybe Emily. Emily was kind to her. She was Harley and Stacey’s other niece, and she worked at the gas station. Sometimes, she slipped Mercy a package of M&Ms just because and she’d smile and give Mercy a secret wink. Mercy liked secrets. Well, she liked to have one. Sometimes it felt like everyone in the town had some secret, and she was the only one not in on it, and she didn’t like that. She supposed they thought she was too young. But she wasn’t! Because Mercy was ten, ten, the big one-zero, but nobody seemed to recognize that.
People drove into town on occasion. Burkitsville wasn’t exactly a tourist hotspot though. People came and simply passed through on their way to bigger and better places. She liked to ask them to tell her stories of where they’d been, where they were going. Once, there’d been a man with a funny tattoo, about a year ago she thought, and he’d told her that he’d gotten it because he’d lost a bet. She’d asked what the bet had been, but he’d clammed up and smiled at her all sheepishly. She hadn’t been old enough to hear it, apparently. She understood. After all, she had only been nine at the time. But now she was ten and she’d bet anything that ten was old enough that she could hear all sorts of stories- if only there was anyone interesting in town to talk to.
It was a crisp, late fall day, and Mercy walked back from the orchard where she’d spent the better part of the morning with a book eating ripe apples from the trees. She’d found a really neat looking stone, sitting right there on an especially orange leaf, and she thought she might show it to Emily. She knew the adults in town wouldn’t care about her rock (which she was convinced had magical powers), but Emily would listen to her tale about how a witch must have dropped it passing through. Or maybe it once belonged to the scarecrow?
But Emily was talking to someone, filling up this big black car, and Mercy realized with a pang of excitement that this person was a stranger! Forget the witch and the enchanted scarecrow, this man looked like he knew a lot of good stories. He was tall, really tall- like a mountain!- and he had freckles. Her mom used to tell her that freckles were angel kisses. Mercy herself had one right on the side of her nose. But this man had them painted all across his face. He must have a guardian angel that really loved him.
“Have you been out to that orchard? You seen that scarecrow?” the man was asking.
Oh! Mercy knew all about the scarecrow. She ran over before Emily could answer and said, “The scarecrow’s magical!”
The man glanced over at her in surprise. “What’s your name?”
“This is my cousin, Mercy-Elizabeth,” Emily answered for her. “She’s ten, and she’s got quite the imagination, don’t you?”
Mercy scowled because the way Emily said ‘ten’ was patronizing, like she was a child. But ten was very old, thank you very much! “It is too magical! It eats people!”
Emily sighed and ran her fingers through Mercy’s dark, ashy brown locks. “Mercy, we talked about this. The scarecrow doesn’t eat people.”
“It does!” she insisted.
The man smiled, and Mercy immediately noticed it was a nice smile. He wasn’t indulging her like other adults did- this was genuine. “I’m Dean,” he said. “How do you know the scarecrow eats people, Mercy-Elizabeth?”
She rolled her eyes, but secretly liked that Dean was paying her attention. “It’s just Mercy. And I know because the scarecrow is magical. It moves!”
“You ever seen it move?” Dean asked.
“No.” Mercy pursed her lips, wondering if he would still believe her even if she didn’t have physical proof. Grownups were annoying like that sometimes. “But I’ve seen it change position. It looks a bit different sometimes.”
Emily laughed, but nothing was funny. “Mercy, we’ve told you a thousand times that the wind and animals move the scarecrow. It isn’t moving on its own. That’s impossible.”
“But it does! And it does too eat people! I’m not making it up. I haven’t seen it move, but it eats people and steals their body parts,” Mercy explained earnestly.
Dean’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “Woah, there. Steals their body parts?”
“Yeah. There was this guy that came through town like a year ago! And he had this tattoo, and then they left town and the next day when I went to the orchard, the scarecrow had the same tattoo. But it wasn’t there before, I swear!” Mercy said in a rush.
“Mercy, that’s enough!” Emily suddenly snapped. “I’m sorry, Dean, she’s just ten. Mercy, why don’t you go back home now? It’s getting late.”
Mercy crossed her arms and stuck out her chin. “It’s barely past noon!”
“Mercy-Elizabeth,” Emily started, but Mercy had had enough of being treated like she was a child, and turned on her heel and ran away.
Omaha, Nebraska
2008
Mercy lazily tossed a ball into the air from where she lay, sprawled out on a tartan blanket in the old milking barn. It was about midday, and the sun was at its zenith, spilling in through the holes in the roof and warming her face. In her hand was a crumpled letter.
Dean is dead.
Just the three words. It was Sam Winchester’s handwriting, but it had none of Sam Winchester’s love. She’d kept in contact with the boys who had saved her life three years ago. Okay, so she had made Dean pinky-promise to tell her about all the places his travels took him, and, surprisingly, the eldest Winchester had obliged. Sometimes, Sam would write her, and sometimes, Dean would call her, but not often, and as of late, less and less. It had been about four months since she’d received this short missive from Sam, and it had been two months since before that when she had last heard from Dean.
The small rubber ball she’d been playing with bounced off an exposed shingle, and it flew across the loft of the barn. Mercy sighed, and resigned herself to just basking in the sun for the rest of the afternoon. She was so not getting up to retrieve that.
“Have faith, Mercy-Elizabeth.”
Mercy’s eyes flickered shut. Having faith was a lot easier said by an Angel of the Lord then done by one of the flawed creations of God. Granted, the words spoken softly in enochian were a comfort she didn’t realize she’d needed.
“Castiel?”
She hadn’t heard from her angel since she’d received Sam’s letter, and he’d told her the exact same thing.
“I have returned. It’s time.”
Mercy didn’t bother asking where exactly it was Castiel had returned from. She figured that being obnoxiously mysterious just came with the job description of “God Squad”.
“Time for what?” she asked lazily, since that could mean anything.
“The Righteous Man has returned.”
Mercy bolted upright. “Dean.”
Sioux Falls, South Dakota
4 days later…
Dean Winchester groaned as he clawed his way into Bobby’s living room. Meg followed him at a leisurely pace, watching his struggle with such a sadistic glint in her eye, he wasn’t sure she was fully human and not still possessed by a demon. She leaned in the doorway, close, but not close enough. Still, he pulled out his pistol and trained the iron sites on the college-aged girl.
“Come on, Dean,” Meg sing-songed, taking a few more precious steps into the room to hover over him like a cat stalking its prey. “Did your brain get French-fried in hell? You can’t shoot me with bullets.”
“He’s not aiming for you,” a familiar voice said from behind Meg, followed by the unmistakable bang! of a handgun being fired.
The chain suspending the chandelier above Meg snapped and the metal light fixture dropped with a heavy clatter to the floor, passing right through Meg who dissipated like a wisp of smoke.
“Eat iron!” Mercy said smugly.
Dean quickly lowered his weapon in favor of gaping at the thirteen-year-old who he hadn’t seen in three years. Her dark brown locks had been defiantly chopped off to be about chin-length, and she was dressed in a pair of tan cargo pants, a simple grey t-shirt, and a pair of surprisingly practical black leather boots. Her Glock 17 was pointed at the ceiling for only a moment longer, before she tucked it back into the holster at her hip.
“That was my line,” Dean croaked.
Mercy laughed, cobalt eyes sparkling. “Then get to the punchline faster, Winchester, and I won’t have to intervene on your behalf next time.”
She offered her hand, and helped Dean get to his feet. “Mercy? What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded after recovering his wits.
“Saving your sorry butt, what else? I took a bus.”
“Dean!” Sam called, running into the room, only to come to an abrupt halt. “What the- Mercy? What are you doing here?”
She grinned. “An angel sent me.”
-M-
They set up base in the living room.
Dean had dropped onto the couch like his legs were made of lead. Mercy suspected he had a few bruised ribs by the way he held himself so stiffly, but Sam was standing agitatedly next to Bobby as they poured over some open books. The grizzled hunter, for his part, barely blinked at Mercy, just asked if she knew how to handle a shotgun. Mercy did, and gladly accepted the weapon which was more appropriate for ghost hunting than her handgun.
“So, they’re all people we know?” Sam rehashed as they ran over potential candidates for the spirits they’d just kicked off Bobby’s property.
“Not just know. People we couldn’t save,” Dean observed as he loaded salt rounds into his shotgun. “Hey, I saw something on Meg. Did she have a tattoo when she was alive?”
Sam frowned. “I don’t think so.”
“It was like a- a mark on her hand. Almost like a brand,” Dean said.
Sam’s eyes lit up in recognition. “I saw a mark on Henriksen too!”
Mercy hummed in thought and asked, “Could you could draw it?”
“Uh, paper?”
Bobby handed Sam a few scrap sheets, along with a pencil. He furrowed his brow in concentration and, to the best of his ability, drew up a rough sketch. He held it out to Dean for confirmation, before passing it along to Bobby. Mercy peered over his shoulder.
It was a circle, with a shape that looked roughly like a rhombus in it, but its sides were concave and the points were met with arced lines and capped with smaller circles.
“I may have seen this before,” Bobby said.
Mercy snatched up the paper. “I have seen this before. I know this mark, boys, its-”
She was cut off by a hiss of static as Bobby’s radio turned itself on. The lights started to flicker above their heads and Mercy went cross-eyed to stare at her own breath as it puffed out of her mouth in curls of steam.
“We got to move,” Bobby commanded. “Follow me.”
“Where are we going?” Sam asked.
The older hunter paused in the middle of gathering up a stack of books to give the youngest Winchester a wholly insulted and bemused look. “Some place safe, you idjit.”
Mercy grabbed her borrowed shotgun and a couple of books and followed the aged hunter without question. Bobby led them into the basement, straight to a large metal door with a handle and lock system that was clearly intended to keep something in. Only, when he opened the door to reveal a circular room with a devil trap on the floor, shelves stocked with rations and weapons, and a metal bed and desk, Mercy realized it was more intended to keep things out.
Once they were all inside, Bobby heaved the door shut and locked it. Mercy dropped onto the bed, which wasn’t all that comfortable but would do in a pinch, and watched as the Winchesters walked around the room like cats exploring a new box.
Sam’s fingers grazed the wall, and he turned back to face Bobby with an incredulous look on his features. “Bobby, is this-?”
“Solid iron,” Bobby confirmed, trying not to look smug. “Completely coated in salt. Hundred percent ghost proof.”
Sam smiled, amazed. “You built a panic room.”
“Had a weekend off,” Bobby replied with a small shrug.
“Bobby,” Dean said.
“What?”
The younger hunter grinned. “You’re awesome!”
Bobby’s bearded face twitched, probably withholding a smile, and Mercy scuffed her foot on the floor. “Hey, Dean?” she called.
“What’s up, Merce?”
She held the sheet of paper with Sam’s sketch up. “This mark? I know what it is. It’s called the Mark of the Witness.”
“Witness?” Sam repeated slowly. “Witness to what?”
“The supernatural,” Mercy explained. “The common thread wasn’t that these were people you failed to save… well, that’s one aspect I suppose but, correlation isn’t causation- Anyway, they all died because of supernatural reasons. And their souls were at peace, but not anymore. Someone forcibly rose these spirits, and they’re like wounded animals. They’re a sign of…”
“A sign of what?” Dean pressed when she drifted off uncertainly. “Who’s rising them?”
Mercy sighed. “I don’t know who, I’m not a prophet. I just know why. It’s, um, prophecy. Ancient prophecy, from the Book of Revelations. It’s a sign of the apocalypse.”
And like she’d expected, Dean scoffed incredulously. “The apocalypse? The apocalypse, apocalypse? Four horsemen, pestilence, five-dollar-a-gallon-gas apocalypse? No offense, Mercy, but how would you know that?”
She crossed her arms, jutting her chin out in defiance. “I paid attention in theology.”
“What bible thumping priests have you been hanging out with? That ain’t what they teach the kiddies in Sunday School,” he countered.
“Yeah, well, I had a special teacher, okay?”
“What’s that supposed to-”
“Hey, quit your bickering!” Bobby snapped and he dropped a thick tomb on the desk that landed with a loud bang. “She’s right, Dean. Check it out.”
Sam blew out a sharp breath after skimming the selected passage. “Okay so what do we do now?”
“Road trip. Grand Canyon. Star Trek experience. Bunny ranch,” Dean listed.
Bobby rolled his eyes. “First things first. How about we survive our friends out there?” he suggested sarcastically.
“Great,” Dean said. “Any ideas aside from staying in here until Judgement Day?”
“No,” Bobby admitted, and Mercy shrugged when he glanced in her direction. “But I’ll look through the lore. Now, why don’t you two make yourself useful and pack some salt rounds so we actually stand a chance getting through the door. And you, Miss Revelations, you can help me look.”
-M-
They worked in relative silence for about an hour. No one spoke, so the only noise was the crisp crunching of salt and the flickering of pages being turned with too much force.
“See this is why I can’t get behind God,” Dean finally said.
“What are you talking about?” Sam asked.
He’d barely finished that sentence when Dean answered, clearly having been stewing in the oldest theological quandary for the past hour. “If he doesn’t exist, fine. Bad crap happens to good people. That’s how it is. There’s no rhyme or reason, just random, horrible, evil… I get it, okay? I can roll with that. But if he is out there, what’s wrong with him? Where the hell is he while all these decent people get torn to shreds? How does he live with himself? Why doesn’t he help?”
There was a long pause, and Sam raised an eyebrow at Bobby that asked, ‘Well, aren’t you going to answer him?’
Bobby looked back at Sam skeptically. “I ain’t touching that with a ten-foot-pole.”
Mercy flicked another page in her book. “Free will,” she answered, glancing up very briefly, and quickly looking away again when she saw she’d clearly poked a bear. Mercy liked debating, and she loved playing Devil’s Advocate as well, but she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to be on the receiving end of Dean Winchester’s ire right now. Not in such an enclosed space.
“Free will?” Dean muttered darkly.
She sighed and set the book aside. “Yes, free will. That means man is free to harm man, if he so chooses, and God can’t step in because that would impinge on his greatest gift to humanity.”
“Yeah? Well, that’s crap. What about all the people who die from disease? Or from natural disasters. Where’s humanity’s free will in that?” Dean shot back.
Mercy shrugged.
“What? No goody-two-shoes, catholic-school-girl come back?”
“I’m not even catholic. I was raised protestant.”
His green eyes bore into her with a fierceness she could practically feel searing her skin, but she didn’t look away. Dean didn’t scare her. Okay, that wasn’t strictly true. Dean was a professional killer, but he was a good man, and he didn’t scare her like demons scared her.
“If you two are done, I found the spell,” Bobby cut in. “Should work.”
“Should,” Sam groaned. “That’s great.”
“If I translated it correctly, I think I’ve got everything we need here at the house. Mercy, you know Latin? Check that over,” Bobby told her when she nodded.
Dean sighed. “Any chance you got everything we need right here in this room?”
“You thought our luck was going to start now? Spell needs to be cast over an open fire.”
“The fireplace in the library,” Sam realized.
“Bingo.”
The eldest Winchester’s face contorted into a grimace. “That’s just not as appealing as a ghost-proof panic room, you know?”
“Tough tomatoes- beggars can’t be choosers,” Mercy said loftily as she stood and handed the spell back to Bobby. “Looks good to me, sir.”
Dean snatched the shotgun off the bed when she reached for it. “Good work, kiddo.”
“Hey!” Mercy bit out. “Come on, Dean!”
“Yeah, you’re staying down here,” he said, holding up a hand when she went to protest. “No, Mercy, I know you hate being treated like a kid, but this is serious.”
“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” she fired back. “Dean, I think I understand the gravity of the situation. What do you think I’ve been doing for the past three years? Sitting around and twiddling my fingers? No, I’ve been training.”
Dean pulled a face. “Training? Listen kid, I know for a fact when I dropped your ass off at grandma’s I said leave the supernatural alone! Where is Grandma Abbot, anyway? Does she know you skipped out to South Dakota?”
Bobby cleared his throat and Mercy’s mouth snapped obediently shut around a scathing retort. “If you kids are done, we’ve got a bit of an apocalypse on our hands. Dean, now, I don’t like it either, but this is an all hands-on deck situation. You can have your little domestic when we aren’t trapped in my damn basement.”
Dean looked like he’d swallowed a whole lemon, but he held the shotgun out to Mercy anyway. She cocked it and smirked and the scowl lines on Dean’s face grew deeper. “I know what I’m doing, okay?” she said reassuringly.
“Cover each other. And aim careful. Don’t run out of ammo until I’m done, or they’ll shred you. Ready?”
-M-
Dean took slow drags from a beer later that night when all the drama was over and done with, just watching as Mercy methodically stripped her Glock and cleaned it. She’d brought her own kit with her, apparently, in a military grade pack, along with a second gun- a Glock 26- a serrated iron blade, a smaller silver knife, some rations (including a crap ton of salt), a bottle of holy water, some neatly packed clothes, and a bible of all things. Dean had only ever seen one other person pack with such meticulousness and reserve, and that was his marine trained father. It didn’t suit Mercy.
Or maybe it did. Dean took another sip of beer. “So,” he said. “You gonna tell me what the hell happened in Omaha?”
Mercy looked up with a cock-sure grin and what he was sure was a wisecrack remark on the tip of her tongue, but when she saw how serious he was, she faltered. She kept her hands busy, racking the slide of her gun a few times to lock it in place, before turning her attention to the shotgun she’d borrowed. “Nothing, at least, the first few weeks,” she said slowly. “My gran took me in, no question. I went to school, got settled in. I liked it on the farm. I liked the routine of it.”
“So, what happened?” he asked shortly.
She shrugged, pausing a moment to force a bronze-bristled brush through the eye of the barrel. “Then the angels came.”
“Okay, you mentioned that. What does that mean?” he pressed.
“It means what I said. He told me I have the gift of tongues, or whatever. Only some people can hear the true voice of an angel and I was one of them. I don’t know, he said that he received an order and that he had to come prepare me for something,” she clarified. Absently, she wet a patch with some Hoppe’s cleaning solution, and poked it onto her cleaning rod.
Dean rolled his eyes. He was going to have to wheedle the whole story from her, was that it? She’d offer nothing unless he explicitly asked for it? Fine. “Prepare you how? For what?”
She looked up. “He taught me Enochian- that’s the language of angels- and scripture and the bible. I studied Latin and Greek. I learned to shoot a gun, wield a blade. I’m okay with a bow. Basic stuff I guess. He never said what for, not explicitly, but, it wasn't hard to guess. Now with how focused on revelations he was.”
“What happened to actual school? Your friends?” he asked.
Mercy sighed. “School was fine, Dad, I got good grades, okay? And there wasn’t any time for friends with all that was on my plate. Anything else you want to know?”
“Does your Grandma know where you are?” Dean inquired after a moment.
“No. She doesn’t know much of anything anymore. She’s got Alzheimer’s. Pretty much doesn’t know who I am most of the time. It’s fine, she’s just old, but she’s not exactly missing me,” Mercy explained brusquely. “Look, it’s late. I’m gonna go see if Bobby’s got anymore pizza. And then I’m gonna hit the hay.”
Dean didn’t try to stop her as she got up, put away her cleaning kit, and dropped the shotgun on the coffee table. She came to stand in front of him. “For what it’s worth, it’s really good to see you again, Dean. I missed you.”
Then she kissed him lightly on the cheek, and carried on into the kitchen. He watched her go, unsure about how to feel. He’d always liked Mercy, that’s why he’d kept in touch with her. It helped, somehow, speaking to her every once in a while. When it got to be too hard, when he thought it wasn’t worth it anymore, he’d call her just to remind himself that there was good, that there were people he was saving. But now it seemed like Mercy was all tangled up in the supernatural, again, and had been the whole time.
Dean was left with a sick feeling in his stomach that he hadn’t actually saved her at all.
Burkitsville, Indiana
2005
Dean’s back felt raw where it pressed against the tree trunk. His arms, which were tied awkwardly above his head to a branch, were beginning to tingle in a super un-fun way from the too-tight restraints. Plus, the ground was damp, which meant his ass was damp, and Dean was all around not having a good stay in Burkitsville. He’d struggled against the rope for what felt like forever, but aside from giving himself a nasty burn, it hadn’t done him much good. Damn cop actually knew how to tie a decent knot.
They, meaning he and Emily and not Sam because Sam was gone, sat in silence as the sun dropped lower and lower on the horizon. Soon, there were crickets chirping all around them and the sky had darkened enough for him to know it was early evening.
They were running out of time.
“You don’t have a plan, do you?” Emily asked quietly when it became too dark to properly see each other.
“I’m working on it,” Dean answered.
He wondered if he could pull off one of those movie stunts when the time came, and just summon the strength through adrenaline to break the ropes. He gave them another experimental tug and sighed. Damn cop.
“Dean? Emily?”
He jerked his head up. “Mercy?” he asked incredulously.
The ten-year-old girl shined a flashlight at them and knit her brow. She was dressed in an oversized camo jacket that went down to her knees and dropped over her hands. A polaroid camera dangled around her neck. Her eyes widened when she saw that they were bound. “What in the name of the Lord? What happened to you guys? Was it the scarecrow? A witch?” she asked rapid-fire.
“No, it was Uncle Harley and the Sheriff!” Emily said. “What the hell are you doing out here, Mercy? What time is it, anyway?”
She shrugged helplessly. “I left the house at seven. Wanted to catch the scarecrow moving so maybe you would believe me,” she explained.
Dean winced, but he could appreciate her nerve. “Hey, Mercy. C’mere,” he called. She knelt next to him, eyes wide, and Dean realized she must be pretty scared. She did, after all, believe the scarecrow ate people. “I’ve got a knife stashed in my boot. Think you could grab it and cut me free?” he asked.
Mercy nodded vigorously. “Uh-huh.”
“Great, thank you.”
She retrieved the knife, but looked uncertain with it in her hands. He met her eyes and smiled. “You’re doing great, Mercy, really. I promise you aren’t going to cut me, you’ll be careful, right? You can do it.”
After taking a deep breath, she began to saw at the rope. It was slow going, because she was clearly nervous to have such a sharp object in her hands, but eventually she got his right hand free, and he was able to take over from there. He was in the middle of freeing Emily when Mercy squeaked.
“What is it?”
“The scarecrow! It- it isn’t there! I told you it moved, Emily, I told you!” she cried out.
Dean severed the last of the rope and pulled Emily to her feet. “Okay, let’s get out of here. Come here, Mercy.”
She went to his side and automatically grabbed his hand. Dean was surprised, but only for a moment. He squeezed her fingers tight in his. “We’re going to be okay.”
Sioux Falls, South Dakota
2008
Out of a habit ingrained in him in his early childhood, Dean slept lightly on the best of nights, but it was even harder to fall into a deep sleep when lying on hardwood floor like he currently was. Earlier that night, Bobby had offered Mercy the spare bedroom, and Sam, the annoying little brother he was, immediately jumped onto the couch and refused to budge.
“It’s the gentleman thing to do,” Bobby had said unconvincingly after tossing a few blankets at Dean like that would compensate for the floorboards that were giving him a crick in his neck just from looking at them. They were mighty words coming from the hunter who had a king-sized bed with a memory foam mattress all to himself. Bobby was a simple man, but he did allow himself some indulgences.
So, at the gentle fluttering of what Dean had learned was the wings of an angel, he was sitting upright and squinting around the darkened room. Sam was still passed out on the couch, long legs dangling over the side of the arm rest, but there was Castiel, leaning against the counter in Bobby’s kitchen. The lighting wasn’t great, but the angel’s blue eyes almost glowed in the dark, and in any case, Dean would recognize that messy dark hair, which stood up every which way, even in silhouette.
He pushed himself out of his nest of blankets and padded across the living area cautiously, wondering what an angel of the Lord was doing in Bobby Singer’s kitchen at ass o’clock in the morning.
“Excellent job with the Witnesses,” Castiel said gruffly.
“You were hip to all this?” Dean demanded.
The angel’s brow furrowed slightly, as if he didn’t quite understand what Dean meant, but then his features smoothed out into their usual cool, blank state when he answered, “I was made aware, yes.”
His casual tone angered Dean even more. “Well, thanks a lot for the angelic assistance. You know, I almost got my heart ripped out of my chest,” he hissed.
“But you didn’t,” Cas said, looking slightly exasperated. “And I did send assistance. I sent Mercy-Elizabeth to you.”
Dean took a moment. Mercy had said an angel sent her, he just hadn’t thought it was this angel. “Yeah,” he shot back. “One thirteen-year-old, the cavalry has arrived! Man, what were you thinking, sending a kid? I thought angels were supposed to be guardians. Fluffy wings, halos. You know, Michael Landon, not child-endangering dicks.”
“Read the bible. Angels are warriors of God. I’m a soldier.”
“Yeah?” Dean said. “Then why didn’t you fight?”
“I’m not here to perch on your shoulder,” Cas retorted, looking for the most part, unaffected. “We had larger concerns.”
“Concerns?” Dean repeated heatedly. “There were people getting torn to shreds down here! And, by the way, while all this is going on, where the hell is your boss, huh? If there is a God.”
Castiel’s voice was slightly sharper when he said, “There is a God.”
“I’m not convinced. Cause if there is a God, what the hell is he waiting for, huh? Genocide? Monsters roaming the earth? The freakin’ apocalypse? At what point does he lift a damn finger and help out the poor bastards that are stuck down here?”
“The Lord works-”
“If you say ‘mysterious ways’ so help me I’ll kick your ass!” Dean cut in.
Cas raised his hands, one of the most human gestures Dean has seen him make. There was a pause, and the angel looked at Dean, head quirked to the side, as if asking him what it was he wanted to hear. At that point, Dean wasn’t even sure himself.
“So, Mercy was right,” Dean said eventually, the ire leaving his body for the moment and being replaced with the heavy kind of tired that couldn’t be cured with sleep or coffee. “About the Witnesses? This is some kind of a sign for the apocalypse?”
“Yes, Mercy-Elizabeth is well versed in biblical scripture. That’s why we’re here. Big things a foot.”
“Do I want to know what kind of things?”
“I sincerely doubt it,” Cas said truthfully. “But you need to know. The rising of the Witnesses is one of the 66 Seals.”
“Okay, I’m guessing that’s not a show at SeaWorld.”
Cas continued as if Dean hadn’t even said anything. “Those Seals are being broken by Lilith.” He looked at Dean meaningfully.
A pit as deep and dark as his old stomping grounds in hell opened in his stomach just from hearing that name. “She did the spell. She rose the Witnesses,” he realized.
“And not just here. Twenty other hunters are dead.”
“Of course,” Dean muttered, “She picked victims hunters couldn’t save so that they would barrel right after us.”
“Lilith has a certain sense of humor.”
Dean frowned. “Well, we put those spirits back to rest.”
“Doesn’t matter. The seal was still broken.”
“Why break the seal, anyway?” he asked.
“The seals are like locks on a door,” a new voice said from the doorway, and Dean jumped to see Mercy leaning against the frame. How the hell had she heard them from all the way upstairs when Sam’s oblivious ass was still completely passed out on the couch?
“Okay, last one opens and…?” Dean pressed.
“Lucifer walks free.”
“Lucifer? But I thought that was just a story they told at demon Sunday school,” Dean said hopefully. “There’s no such thing.”
Mercy walked further into the room and hopped up on the counter. “Dean, three days ago you would have said the same thing about angels,” she pointed out.
“Why do you think we’re here, walking among you now, for the first time in two thousand years?”
Dean wet his lips. “To stop Lucifer,” he practically whispered.
“That’s why we’ve arrived. That’s why I was ordered to train Mercy-Elizabeth, and sent her to aid you.”
He glanced to the thirteen-year-old in question. Even sitting on the counter her posture was straight, like there was a yard stick taped to her back, and she was completely still, not even kicking her legs or tapping her fingers. She certainly played the part of soldier well.
“Well, bang up job so far. Stellar work with the Witnesses. That’s nice,” Dean muttered sarcastically.
“We tried,” Cas said, tone curt. “There are other battles. Other seals. Some we’ll win, some we’ll lose. This one we lost.”
Dean scoffed.
“Our numbers are not unlimited,” Cas said quietly, but firmly. He took three steps towards Dean, and despite being a couple inches shorter, managed to look down on the hunter. “Six of my brothers died in the field this week. You think the armies of heaven should just follow you around? There’s a bigger picture here.”
Dean tried not to be too obvious as he drew back from Cas. There was an air of danger about him, there always had been, but Dean had obviously pinched a nerve.
“You should show me some respect. I dragged you out of hell. I can throw you back in.”
“Cassie.”
Mercy had put a hand on Castiel’s elbow, and the angel withdrew maybe a bare centimeter. Then Dean blinked, and he was gone altogether.
He woke with a start and twisted on his back to face the kitchen, which was empty save for his barefoot brother, who was walking back into the living room with a mug of coffee. Had Castiel been in his dream? Had Mercy?
The thirteen-year-old, speak of the devil, came shooting down the stairs, fully clothed, hair damp from a shower. Today, she was dressed much more relaxed, much more normal, in a pair of well-worn jeans, a faded black hoodie that had ‘Wanted Dead or Alive, Schrödinger’s Cat’ written on it, and a pair of mismatched pink and orange socks.
“Morning, Sammy! Morning, Dean!” she called, rushing into the kitchen.
Sam settled onto the couch. “Hey, Mercy,” he called as he tied his shoes.
Dean pinched his nose between his thumb and forefinger. God, why did he feel like he was hungover?
“You all right?” he heard Sam ask. “What’s wrong, Dean?”
He cleared his throat. “So… You got no problem believing in God and angels?”
Sam frowned and finished buttoning his plaid flannel. “No, not really,” he answered.
“So, I guess that means you believe in the devil.”
The younger hunter furrowed his brow, and stopped dressing to look searchingly at his brother. “Why are you asking me all this?”
-M-
After Dean explained all he knew, Sam abruptly stood up. “I’m just going to go and… I’m just going to go,” he said.
Dean couldn’t blame the kid for wanting to take a walk. By the time the conversation was over though, there was a delicious smell coming from the kitchen, and Dean followed his nose. Apparently, Mercy hadn’t been idle, she’d gotten into the refrigerator, and was in the middle of whipping up breakfast.
“Hey, Merce,” he said as he sat down at the table.
She turned to smile at him, and he felt some ache inside him settle. This was the girl he remembered. Mercy set the spatula flat against what looked to him like some kind of omelet. “Hi, Dean,” she said softly.
He didn’t know what to say for a moment, just watched as Mercy retrieved a mug, poured some coffee into it, and left it black. She set it in front of him without a word. “You have questions,” she said after returning to the stove.
“Was… were you in that dream last night? With Cas?” he asked.
She sighed, and put the omelet on a plate that already had some wheat toast with margarine on it. “Yeah, that was real.” She set it in front of him with a fork. “It’s a Spanish omelet. It’s got potatoes, green pepper, onion, and bacon. Lots of bacon”
He frowned, but cut into it with the side of his fork. Hesitantly, slightly untrusting of the teenager’s ability to cook, he popped the piece into his mouth and then groaned. “This is good,” he said, attacking it with more vigor.
A grin lit up her face and she poured herself a glass of OJ before sitting down across from him. “Thanks, it tastes even better when the potatoes weren’t frozen in a bag and the eggs are fresh from the chicken coop,” she told him.
Dean’s mouth watered at the prospect. Normally, he didn’t like omelets, but this one had a lot of bacon and potatoes in it, and that he did enjoy. He swallowed another bite, and then scowled at her. “Hey, don’t go changing the subject,” he accused.
“If I was really looking to avoid the topic, Dean, I’d have left the room while you made out with your fork,” Mercy replied in jest.
He supposed that was true. “So, you make a habit of hopping in to other people’s dreams? Kinda creepy, Merce.”
Rolling her eyes, she responded, “I can’t dream walk on my own volition. But I felt Cas’ grace in the house, and he let me enter.”
“Yeah, you seemed pretty cozy with Cassie,” he observed
Mercy shrugged. “He was my mentor for three years.”
“I don’t like it.”
The teenager looked away and down at her hands which were folded politely in her lap. “It’s not like I planned it,” she defended. “He just showed up one day.”
“I said…” he took a breath and set down the fork. “The day I dropped you there I said not to get involved. Come on, Mercy. You’re too young to be dealing with all this crap. You’re caught up in the friggin’ apocalypse right now.”
“I know,” she said softly. “I get it, Dean. I know better than to glamourize what you and Sam do. But it seems stupid to ignore it. It’s not like I’m hunting, anyway.”
He looked at her, assessing. “I don’t know. You seemed plenty experienced with the Witnesses,” he said in a measured tone.
“That was my first time shooting something that wasn’t a can on the fence, or a clay pigeon. I promise. Cross my heart,” Mercy said sincerely.
Dean prided himself on his ability to tell if someone was lying to him, and right then, his bullshit-meter wasn’t setting off any warning bells, so he leaned back and said, “Okay.”
She breathed out through her nose.
“But the second I’m done eating we’re taking your ass back to Nebraska.”
“Dean!” she exclaimed.
“No way you’re tagging along with Sam and I, and no way I’m just going to let you wander around the country on your own.”
“I already told the girl she could stay with me,” Bobby said as he walked into the kitchen and sat down next to Dean at the table.
Mercy jumped up. “I’ll get you something, Bobby. You just sit there and you can deal with Dean.”
Dean sighed. “Bobby, you really don’t have to-”
“Zip it and listen, idjit. Look, from what Mercy said, her grandma is old as dirt, and has Swiss cheese memory. It’s shocking, frankly, that CPS hasn’t twigged it yet,” Bobby explained.
“And I’d prefer it to remain that way, if at all possible,” Mercy called over.
“Right,” Bobby said. “I got no problem having another set of hands around here to help with research. ‘Sides-” he paused as Mercy set a plate of bacon, eggs and sausage in front of him, along with a cup of coffee. “She can cook.”
Burkitsville, Indiana
2005
The apple-scented air was cool enough Dean could see his breath, but his right hand was surrounded in warmth. Mercy had a strong grip on him as they ran, which was just fine because Dean really didn’t need her falling over a stray root.
Mercy showing up had been a surprise. Kids, he knew from experience, tended to be more keyed into the supernatural, so he hadn’t been shocked when the ten-year-old knew there was some bad mojo going on with the scarecrow. He just hadn’t expected that she’d have the grit to actually take a little midnight stroll in the woods to find some proof. Was it stupid? Maybe, but kids would be kids. The important thing was that he got her out, then he could worry about scolding her for her curiosity. Maybe after he thanked her for saving their asses.
“Dean?” Mercy tried to steady herself after tripping. This hadn’t been the first time. Her legs were short and Dean was probably pulling her along too quickly.
“Sorry, Mercy. But we need to get out of here.”
He paused for a moment and squatted down. Mercy took the hint and climbed up onto his back. Dean couldn’t help his small smile, recalling all the times he’d given Sam piggyback rides when he was young enough to think it was still cool, and short enough that it was feasible. Mercy wrapped her legs and arms around him and flattened herself against his back.
He stood up and she giggled despite the situation. “You’re like a mountain.”
“You should meet my little brother. He’s even taller than me.”
Only minutes into their getaway later, there was a rustling, and Dean was momentarily blinded. Through the black dots dancing across his vision he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun, which meant Mercy was too. She gasped and he felt her fingers tighten in his jacket.
“This way,” Dean murmured trying to lead Emily away, but he ended up walking into the sites of another rifle, this one belonging to the sheriff. They were surrounded. Gently, he coaxed Mercy off his back and pulled the ten-year-old flush against his side, all while glaring murderously at Harley.
“Please, let us go!” Emily begged.
“It will be over quick, I promise,” Harley replied, not lowering the gun. His eyes shined with regret that was belied by the steadiness of his trigger finger. “You have to let it take you.”
Mercy screamed, and Dean barely had time to process what had happened. A bloodied blade was sticking out of Harley’s chest. Apparently, the god didn’t care who he took as his sacrifice, not even if it was the hand that fed him.
The blade withdrew, and Harley crumpled. The scarecrow grabbed Stacey in a chokehold, thrust his scythe into Harley’s leg, and began dragging his two victims back. Dean turned Mercy into his chest, trying to shield her from the gruesome image. She was crying now, loudly, and burrowed into him like she was trying to climb into his ribcage.
“We need to go, now!”
Dean didn’t even bother trying to get the sobbing ten-year-old to move. She was small enough that he could scoop her up and perch her on his hip. He held Mercy close, and ran without looking back.