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The little creature scurried through the forest as fast as its tiny paws could move, gliding from one tree to the next whenever it was able. It was a rare thing to see this little creature outside in broad daylight, as the Southern Flying Squirrel was a nocturnal creature. But this was a strange day. The little rodent’s home, inside an old woodpecker hole, had been knocked over by a strange blast of energy. Scared and bruised, but otherwise unharmed, it had ventured out of its shelter when the coast seemed clear in search of a new, safer area to nest in. It paid no mind to the clearing it was leaving behind. The clearing that was as unnatural as the blast that had threatened its home. It only cared about finding a new home, a new nest, before the cold began to set in.
Back in the clearing, in the center of a large circle of felled trees, the ground shifted. It bulged upwards and settled, like a creature taking large, heaving breaths. Had the squirrel remained, it would have witnessed the most peculiar thing: a pale, furless appendage emerging up from the soil. The ground bulged again, and the appendage—an arm—was followed by a head. Little by little, the dirty body of a well-built man crawled up out of the earth. He gasped and coughed, desperate for air. When he finally was able to pull himself to his feet, he stood at least six feet tall. The man surveyed the clearing with suspicious scrutiny, warily eyeing the unnaturally felled trees.
Barely pausing long enough to properly catch his breath, sparing a glance at the cross that marked the hole he’d just come out of, he displayed the same instincts as the squirrel and fled the clearing. Something… not natural had occurred here. And, unlike the squirrel, he was determined to find out what.
“Whoa! Hey, Bobby, it’s me!” Dean holds up his hands to fend off the attack from the man he viewed as a parent.
“My Ass!” Bobby shouts back.
After trying to enter the house Dean ends up being backed into Bobby’s kitchen. He grabs a chair and thrusts it between them in an effort to stall the old hunter long enough to get him to stop attacking. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait!” He shouts, holding his hands up in a placating manner, attempting to will the man into listening. A part of him acknowledges that he knew, long before he’d made it here, it would be difficult. “Your name is Robert Steven Singer,” he begins, reciting information he knew about the man as quickly as he can, trying to find something that would prove he was himself. “You became a hunter after your wife got possessed, and…” He pauses, thinking of something he knew would finally get the man to listen. “You’re the closest thing I have to a father.” He looks imploringly at him, begging him with his eyes. “Bobby, it’s me.”
Bobby lowers the knife and approaches him cautiously, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Looking at Dean like he can’t believe his eyes… and slashes at him.
That, he really should have expected… Fortunately, this time Dean manages to disarm him. “I am not a shapeshifter!” He insists.
“Then you’re a Revenant!”
Dean is frustrated, but ultimately not surprised at any of this. A hunter didn’t live as long as Bobby had by being stupid. Though couldn’t he be just a little less paranoid? “Alright.” Dean regroups and holds the confiscated knife out in front of him. “If I was either, could I do this with a silver knife?” He rolls up his left sleeve and cuts into the flesh above his elbow, drawing blood.
“Dean?” Bobby, finally, looks like he believes him.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” He grunts as the gruff older man squeezes him in a tight hug, which he returns with just as much enthusiasm.
“It’s…” Bobby clears his throat. “It’s good to see you boy,” he claps Dean on the back when they pull apart.
“Yeah, you too,” Dean nods.
Bobby frowns at him. “But how did you bust out?”
“I don’t know,” Dean exhales with a shrug. He rubs the back of his neck, shaking his head. “I just, uh, I just woke up in a pine box—” Dean spits out the face full of holy water Bobby has just doused him with, completely unimpressed. “I’m not a demon either, you know,” he deadpans.
At least Bobby has the grace to look sheepish. “Sorry. Can’t be too careful.” He thrusts at towel at him. “But that don’t make a lick of sense,” he says as they walk towards the man’s den.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re preachin’ to the choir,” Dean responds, wiping the rest of the holy water from his face, neck, and hair.
“Dean. Your chest was ribbons,” he reasons as he rearranges a few books on his desk. “Your insides were slop. And you’ve been buried four months.” He scoffs, “even if you could slip out of hell and back into your meat suit—”
“I know,” Dean interrupts, tossing the towel onto a nearby chair. “I should look like a Thriller video reject.” Suddenly, an alien sound reaches his ears. A sound he would never have expected to hear in this house in a million years: a child crying. A young child, by the sound of it. He turns his head to the stairs leading up to the second floor where the sound is coming from. “What the hell?”
Bobby sighs and shrugs. “A lot has happened since we buried you.”
“Are you sure I was only gone four months? Why did you bury me, anyway?” Dean asks, walking towards the stairs.
“I wanted you salted and burned,” Bobby replies, following. “Usual drill. But,” he sighs. “Sam wouldn’t have it.”
“Well, I’m glad he won that one,” Dean grins. He starts up the stairs.
“He said you’d need a body when he got you back somehow.”
Dean pauses halfway up. “Oh, dammit, Sammy…”
“What?”
He half-turns back. “Oh, he got me home okay,” he huffs. “But whatever he did, it is bad mojo.”
Bobby looks like he believes otherwise. “What makes you so sure?”
“You should have seen the grave site. It was like a nuke went off,” Dean explains. “And then there was this… this force, this presence. I don’t know, but it… it blew past me at a fill-up joint.” He turns fully and removes his jacket, lifting up his t-shirt sleeve. On his left upper arm is an angry red brand of a handprint.
“What in the hell?” Bobby gapes at it.
“It was like a demon just yanked me out.” He reconsiders. “Or rode me out.”
“But, why?”
Dean covers the mark again, shrugging. “To hold up their end of the bargain.”
“You think Sam made a deal?” Again, Bobby looks unconvinced.
“It’s what I would have done.” The crying, which is getting a little heart-wrenching, is getting closer. Dean turns back and continues up the stairs. He pauses once more as Sam comes into view on the top landing, a very small child held in his arms.
“Dean?” Sam stops in his tracks as his eyes fall on Dean, eyes wide. He angles himself so the child is slightly behind him and looks ready to run.
Dean holds up his hands. “Heya, Sammy. It’s okay, it’s me.”
Like Bobby, Sam is suspicious. He’s awkwardly holding the crying child close to him, ready to bolt at the first opportunity.
“I’ve been through the whole testing him phase,” Bobby says from behind Dean. “It’s really him.” Sam shifts his eyes, having just seen Bobby. He stares between them for a few moments before relaxing.
“Dean,” he sighs, shoulders sagging. Dean closes the remaining distance between them and pulls his brother into a hug.
“I know. I look fantastic, huh?” He ignores the sniffling he can hear in his ear as his brother cries a little. His own eyes are stinging more than a little. The child gives another loud wail, and he pulls back with a sigh. “Give it to me,” he says as he takes the child, who looks to be a little over a year, maybe a year and a half, out of his brother’s awkward hold. He cradles the small body to his chest and rubs his back, rocking a little and making shushing noises next to its ear. The child’s screams quiet to whimpers as it looks up at him with watery green eyes, black hair sticking up all over the place like the kid has just woken up. “Sammy, I think you’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”
“So, let me get this straight,” Dean starts as he sits with the child—a boy named Harrison—on his knee, feeding him some weird looking green mush that claims to be peas. He seems to like it okay. “Less than two weeks after I became hellhound chow, this woman shows up with a baby who she claims is a long-lost cousin.”
“Yes,” Sam nods. Bobby is in his study already researching brands. “She had all the legal documents to prove that she and Harry’s mother are our dad’s second cousins. Our grandmother, Millie, had a twin brother named Aster Walker. He had a daughter named Azalea who married a Robert Evans and they had two daughters, Petunia and Lily.”
“And Lily, along with her husband…” Dean looks up with an eyebrow quirked.
“James Potter,” Sam fills in.
“Right, they bit the big one on Halloween,” Dean sums up as he finishes feeding Harry. “Leaving this little guy an orphan.”
“Yes.” Sam chews his lip. “He was then placed in the custody of Petunia and her husband, who, as his aunt and uncle, are his closest living relatives.”
“What’s with all the flower names?” Dean scoffs. “Petunia, Lily, Azalea…”
“You know, our grandmother’s full name is actually Amaryllis,” Sam quips. “And Aster is also a flower.”
“See, that’s just weird.” Dean stands and gets a damp cloth to wipe Harry’s face. At least he hadn’t gotten any of the mush on his little red and white plaid flannel shirt and jeans. He’s even wearing tiny little work boots. Dean grins as the little boy giggles up at him from his seat on the counter directly in front of him.
“You think that’s weird? Petunia named her son Dudley,” Sam remarks, a smile on his face at the sound of the little boy’s laughter.
“As in Do-Right?” Dean makes a face as he picks up the kid again, holding him with his right arm.
Sam snorts. “Anyway, so apparently, she and Lily didn’t get along for some reason. Like, really didn’t get along.”
“Enough that she didn’t even want anything to do with her own nephew.” Dean huffs, irritated.
“She swore he’d go straight to a random orphanage if I didn’t take him,” Sam explains. “Wouldn’t even wait to get back to Britain to do it either.”
“That’s just cold.” Harry rubs his face on Dean’s shoulder, a little fist clinging to his t-shirt.
“How do you do that?” Sam looks at Dean in awe. “It usually takes me hours to get him to settle down, let alone eat something without getting more of it on me than in his mouth.”
“I guess that explains why he’s so skinny,” Dean comments, looking down at the little boy fondly. Despite how young he’d been at the time, he still remembered Sammy being this small. He’d been just as cute and cuddly as Harry. “He reminds me of you when you were this age. You were a fussy kid too, y’know. How old you say he was?”
“He turned two the end of July,” Sam replies with a dark, troubled look on his face. “He’s actually gained a lot of weight since we’ve had him.”
Dean’s eyes snap up. “What?” He asks sharply. Harry starts to fuss at his tone, and he rubs his back soothingly, rocking him again. “Sorry, Buddy.”
“His aunt must’ve really hated her sister,” Sam growls. “I may have no experience with kids, but even I could tell he was malnourished when she handed him over.” He looks at Harry sadly. “You know, she didn’t even leave much in the way of supplies when she handed him over? Just a shopping bag with a single change of clothes, a couple diapers, and a bottle.” Dean has to force himself not to growl. “His blanket was probably from his parents,” Sam continues. “It’s monogrammed with his initials. Looks pretty high-end.”
Dean switches him to his other arm, opening the fridge to reach for a beer. He’s looking around, trying to decide how the hell he’s going to get the cap off when Harry’s little fist tugs on his t-shirt sleeve, his little arm brushing up against the brand. He starts cooing, rubbing his cheek against Dean’s arm and the brothers hear a sound like bird’s wings.
Harry looks towards the doorway and gives an excited shriek.
“Whoa! Who the hell are you?” Dean shouts. Sam bolts up from the table after unstrapping a gun from the underside and moves to stand near Dean. In the other room, they hear Bobby moving around. A man in a suit and tan trench coat is standing in the entryway. Given that there was no sound of the door opening, he’s obviously simply appeared inside the house. The dude looks like a tax accountant… and Dean doesn’t like how he’s staring at Harry. Distantly, he can hear Bobby’s shotgun cocking.
“A-gel!” Harry squeals, clapping. “A-gel! A-gel!”
“The child is correct,” the weird dude says in the gravelliest voice Dean has ever heard. “I am an Angel of the Lord.”
Dean glares at him. “Bullshit.”
They’d done the whole song and dance, testing him every way they knew how. So far, all they knew was that he wasn’t any monster they’d ever come across before. But he was something. He hadn’t even flinched when he’d been stabbed with the demon-killing knife. Dean’s at least willing to hear him out after he’d healed the cut on Dean’s arm with just a touch of his fingertips.
As soon as Harry is set down on the couch by the last person to hold him, and before any of the three men can stop him, he’s squirming off onto the floor and runs towards the strange man, raising his arms in the universal gesture of ‘pick me up’. “A-gel!”
The three men freeze as the supposed ‘angel’ picks the small boy up by his armpits, holding the little body close. Sam, Dean, and Bobby watched as the two just… stare at each other. The… man… looks confused, head cocked, and eyes squinting. After a long silence, the boy starts babbling. The man reaches up and touches Harry’s forehead. Right where the weird looking scar sits.
“Hey,” Dean protests, finally moving towards the two. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“There is a darkness hiding inside the child, leeching off him,” the dorky looking weirdo with the voice that sounds like he’s permanently gargling rocks replies.
“What?” Sam asks, brows knitted together.
“I can remove it,” the man replies, his focus completely on the point where his fingertips touch the scar. His eyes begin to glow with an electric sort of light. Dean’s hands twitch, ready to rip Harry out of the man’s loose hold. When his hand begins to move away from Harry’s forehead, a smoky black whisp follows it. It grows in size, the farther away the man’s had moves. Suddenly, there’s an ear-splitting screech and then a black, smoky mass swirling floats above the dude’s hand. Dean fumbles a bit as Harry is deposited into his arms. They all watch as the man puts his other hand over top of the mass. “Avert your eyes.” Dean turns his back, shielding Harry as a bright light, similar to the glow that had been in the man’s eyes, erupts between his hands. There’s another screech and the bright light goes out.
Dean turns back, cradling the little boy to him. There is nothing left in the strange man’s hands. “What the hell did you just do?” he asks, sitting Harry on the couch and looking over him. Nothing looks amiss, and he doesn’t look injured. In fact, the weird scar on his forehead is gone as though it’d never been there in the first place. He just stares up at Dean, eyes filled with curiosity. He yawns and Dean wonders if what just happened has drained his energy, or if he just sleeps a lot since his body is still undernourished. Dean stands again with Harry back in his arms and turns back to the man. Angel. Whatever.
“Who the hell are you?”
“My name is Castiel,” he replies. “I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.” The declaration is delivered with such a straightforward seriousness that Dean can almost believe it.
“Say I actually believed you,” Dean says, handing Harry to Sam. “Why the hell would angels want to save me from hell?”
“Because Our Father has written it so,” this Castiel replies, staring at Dean with a greater intensity than he’d stared at Harry.
“Oh, so now I’m supposed to believe that God actually cares?” Dean snaps derisively.
Castiel’s eyes narrow. Dean swallows thickly but doesn’t back down. “You are getting dangerously close to blasphemy.” His voice has lowered, if that was at all possible. Dangerously so.
“You left me to dig myself out of my own grave,” Dean retorts and crosses his arms. “I think I’ve earned a pass.”
Castiel at least has the grace to look uncomfortable. He heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Uriel.” He presses his lips into a firm line, glaring at the wall.
“What?”
“Once I was finished rebuilding you and reuniting your body and soul, I was called away to speak with a superior.” He looks awkwardly around the room. “I left Uriel the task of returning you to Earth. I can assure you I would not have left you inside your grave.” His gaze returns to Dean. Dean’s brow furrows but he just stares right back.
“This is all well and good,” Bobby interrupts their staring. “But do you mind telling us why you’re here?”
“I felt the child’s magic connect to my grace and came to investigate,” Castiel explains, but his explanation just begs more questions. “He should not be here—”
“What?” Sam yelps at the same time Dean yells “Magic? He’s a witch?” Dean’s hand twitches towards where his gun usually sits in his waistband. An ingrained reaction to things like witches.
“Are you actually suggesting that a two-year-old boy made a deal with a demon?” Bobby says, tilting his head in a manner as mocking as his tone.
Castiel tilts his own head, squinting again. “Not at all.” He looks at Harry. “And technically he’s what’s known as a wizard. Though they do call their females witches, they are a completely different breed.” He frowns, looking at Dean again. “Why do humans display the need to assign genders to things that have none?”
Dean blinks at that. “Wait, what? I… What?”
“Words have no inherent gender,” Castiel elaborates. “And yet so many of your species place—”
“Not that!” Dean grumbles, waving a hand dismissively.
Castiel sighs in exasperation. “Witches, as you know them, utilize the dark energies of the world. However, there exists a collection of individuals who are naturally capable of channelling the light energies. Unlike their counterparts who sell their souls for the power, these individuals are born with the ability. Merlin is one of their more notable ancestors.”
Sam’s eyes widen. “Merlin was real?” he asks, taken aback.
“He was born this way?” Dean’s brows furrow. He turns to stare at the little boy for a moment, frowning.
“How come no one’s ever heard of them before?” Bobby asks, crossing his arms.
“They separated their society around the time of the witch hunts to keep themselves safe from persecution.” Castiel again looks at Harry. When Harry sees this, he grins, giggles, and waves. “But I don’t understand why he is here.” The angel mimics the hand gesture, face remaining mostly stoic. Dean thinks he looks a little bemused by the small child. He rolls his eyes, looking between the two.
“His aunt—our cousin—didn’t want him,” Sam explains, carefully tightening his grip. “Said she’d ship him off to an orphanage if I didn’t take him.”
“Why is that important?” Bobby frowns at Castiel.
“This child has a great destiny. As do you two.” He gestures to Sam and Dean.
Dean scoffs. “Destiny?”
Sam’s brow furrows as he looks down at the tiny child in his arms. Harry yawns, rubbing his eyes with his little fists, whining. “What’s he supposed to do? He’s a toddler.”
“His kind may be born able to channel the light energies, but they can still be tempted by the dark forces.” Castiel says as Dean takes the boy back, rocking him. “Recently, one particular wizard did so in one of the worst ways. He attempted to target this child last year. He was thwarted and his physical body was destroyed. At least for now.”
Bobby frowns, moving around the angel and taking a seat at his desk. “What do you mean ‘for now’?”
Castiel sighs irritably, crossing his arms and glancing upward—Heavenward. “I really shouldn’t be telling you all of this, and he really shouldn’t be here. Not now.”
“Well, he’s not going anywhere,” Dean states, leaving no room for argument. “Not if I have anything to say about it.” He sits on the couch, with Harry cuddling into his chest. Sam also takes a seat on the couch.
Castiel purses his lips and sighs. Again. His arms return to his sides. “This dark wizard, a ‘Lord Voldemort’, is fated to return to power in a little over a decade or so. This child will be one of his main targets.”
“Are you telling me that some d-bag gone dark-side is going to try and kill my baby cousin, and Heaven is just… I don’t know, okay with that?” Dean asks derisively.
“His chances are high,” Castiel responds in a weak sounding attempt at being reasonable. Dean doesn’t buy it. He doesn’t think Castiel does either. “The Evil One failed to kill him once already. It’s likely he’ll fail again.”
“Damn right it is.” Dean nods. Then what Castiel just said fully registers. “Wait, what?”
“What do you mean, he’s already failed?” Sam frowns.
The angel looks uncomfortable again. “I do not believe you’ll like the answer.”
“I don’t care. Tell us anyway,” Dean demands.
Castiel is silent for a long moment. “If you are determined to keep him, I suppose you’ll need to know…” he finally relents.
“Of course, we’re keeping him. He’s family,” Dean declares as if that explains it all. And in a way it does.
“There is a prophecy regarding the Evil One and the Marked One,” Castiel starts, hands behind his back and feet shoulder width apart. Parade rest, Dean thinks. “Effectively, it states that the two are destined to face each other in a battle between light and dark. In order for the prophecy to be fulfilled, either one must kill the other. This child was marked by the Evil One as his equal. As such, he is the only one with the capability of defeating the Evil One. Or, at least, he will be.”
Dean looks at Harry. The boy has fallen asleep, Dean’s shirt clutched in his tiny fist. “So, what, is he immortal or something?”
“No.” Castiel shakes his head. “Unfortunately, certain wording regarding the birth of the Marked One allows for an alternate should he fail to reach the ultimate battle. There is, so far, at least one other child who could fit the description of the Marked One if something happens to this one.”
“So far?” Sam asks, quirking an eyebrow. All this talked about being marked and alternates is ringing with familiarity.
“The prerequisites for anyone to fit the description in this particular prophecy are simply being born as the seventh month dies to parents who have thrice defied the Evil One. Prophecies are not exact. With free will, humanity has many opportunities to influence the outcome of any prophecy. Including forcing one into completion.”
“Self-fulfilling prophecy,” Bobby mutters. “I’m guessing there is someone keen on seeing this one through.”
“You would be correct.” Castiel moves, glancing at the books strewn about the room. “There are several interested parties in his world.” He opens the cover of a particularly old book, eyes roving over the page as he leans closer.
“Well, we’re just going to have to make sure he has the best chance of surviving when Emperor Palpatine finally comes after him,” Dean says with more confidence than he feels.
Castiel squints at him. “His name is Lord Volde—”
“He knows, he just thinks he’s funny,” Sam interrupts.
Dean huffs. “Bitch, I’m hilarious.”
Sam rolls his eyes, murmuring “Jerk.”
“There is also the matter of the sixty-six seals to consider,” Castiel states, ignoring them both and picking up another book, turning it over in his hands.
“The what now?” Dean turns to him, eyebrow raised. A part of him is distracted by the way this… angel… appears fascinated by the physical form of the book as opposed to its contents.
“When Lucifer was locked away in the Cage, there were hundreds of seals placed on it, hidden all over the planet. Lucifer’s followers in hell have been attempting to break them in order to release Lucifer and usher in the Apocalypse. They only need to break sixty-six in order to accomplish this. We need your help to prevent it.”
“Well, that’s just friggin awesome…” Dean responds, his words dripping in sarcasm.
“Why us?” Sam frowned, eyes darting around as thoughts swirled in his head.
“It is your destiny,” Castiel replies. Dean scoffs. He’s ignored again. Castiel set the book down where he found it. “And should Lucifer escape his cage, he will immediately search out his True Vessel.” Castiel looks meaningfully at Sam.
“No. No way.” Dean shakes his head furiously. “Not gonna happen.”
Dean is watching Harry play on the floor, babbling to his stuffed bear. They really need to get him more toys. Dean remembers when Sammy was little, and they couldn’t afford many toys or books. He usually stole some from charity shops, but they weren’t always able to keep them for long. He looks up at where Bobby and Sam are flipping through books, researching information on the sixty-six seals. He looks back down at Harry, thinking.
“We should call him Henry.”
—30—