Chapter Text
Booth
Booth sat at the edge of a dock and everything was serene. His body felt warm and the aches and hurts of the years had somehow melted off. He blinked. The lake before him seemed endless, it went on, and on, and on under an electric-pink sky. The sun illuminated the clouds in front of it and Booth stretched back in his chair, felt a fishing pole in his hand, and for the first time in decades felt well and truly relaxed.
It wasn’t a clap of thunder or a parting of the clouds, but suddenly the voice was around him and the sky shone brighter with every syllable.
SEELEY BOOTH.
Booth knew then it was a dream. In the real world, the beauty of that voice would have rent his heart, he’d have had no choice but to throw himself to his knees, forehead prostrate to the ground. But instead the ever-glowing peace of this dream embraced him. Booth fell deeper into it, and into the voice.
MY NAME IS CASTIEL.
An angel, Booth whispered.
YES, I AM AN ANGEL OF THE LORD.
Even in the dream, Booth brought his hands together, clasped in the motion of prayer. Why–what–w–?
YOUR PATH WILL BE REVEALED IN TIME, SEELEY BOOTH.
UNTIL THEN YOU MUST DECIDE: WILL YOU ACCEPT YOUR ROLE AS A WARRIOR FOR GOD AND HIS KINGDOM?
WILL YOU SERVE THE LAWS OF HEAVEN, ABOVE THE LAWS OF MEN?
WILL YOU BEAR WITNESS TO GOD’S MIRACLES? ALL IS NOT AS IT SEEMS.
LOOK FOR THE FIRST MIRACLE.
Booth sat upright in his bed. He was covered in sweat and freezing. It wasn’t a particularly cold night but the contrast of sitting in the warm sunlight at the lake and waking in his apartment made the air feel colder, and emptier, somehow. Booth shivered. It felt real, so unbelievably real.
Booth started to pull himself from bed to check on Parker before he remembered his son had gone back to his mother’s just that morning. Instead Booth held his face in his hands. He remembered the feeling of the voice. He’d never experienced anything like it. It was inhuman in the most profound way. It truly felt of God. Booth shook himself, he wanted a beer. That would help to calm him, help him to untangle this dream, or vision, or whatever. Booth pushed off the bed and stood, bracing for the pain that always came in the morning. The old injuries on his feet were deep and before the muscles had warmed up it was agony for a few minutes. But there was no pain.
Booth took his foot in his hand. There was no scarring. Booth checked his torso, no bullet wounds. Booth checked his stomach–no appendectomy scar. Booth fell to his knees and prayed, and prayed, and prayed until the sunlight had joined him and the tears had stopped falling, not from lack of faith and gratitude, but simply because he ran out.
“Whose X-rays are these?” Brennan asked, she held them up to the light, and Booth stooped a little bit to try to see them from her vantage point. Booth didn’t want to lie to her, but couldn’t share this, not now. Not with her. But he needed her to tell him what the radiologist said, and what he already felt in his own body.
“I just need your eyes on this, but it’s probably nothing. Not related to a case, anyway. Tell me - there’s no injuries or remodeling, or anything, right? The arm never had a break? The ribs were never cracked? And the feet, especially the feet–no injuries?”
Brennan shook her head, “No, none that I can see. Perfectly healthy, unbroken bones. Hard to tell the age from images, but, not old, maybe in his 30s.”
“Thanks, Bones,” Booth took the images back and tucked them safely into the envelope.
“Does this have anything to do with our John Doe?”
“John Doe?”
Cam came around the corner, “Just came in this morning–a favor to an old colleague, the ME in Livingston, IL. Some surveyor came across a grave. That county had a pretty average amount of missing persons until about four months ago when dozens of people–all ages–went missing. A few have been found dead, some haven’t been seen. The remains were degraded enough that it was hard to make a positive ID, and with tempers flaring in the community–he asked for a favor.”
“Hmm,” Booth said, “No, this is nothing, just wanted Bones to tell me what the report already said.” He tucked the X-rays away, “Tell me about John Doe.”
Bones walked up the platform and stood at the table and looking down at the grisly remains, “Well, not much to tell yet. I can tell you the remains are male, Caucasian, late 20s to early 30s, approximately 1.85 meters. There was exposed bone in the chest cavity and the legs, and I saw significant remodeling. There was also stripped flesh at the shoulder that looked like a bullet wound,” Bones bent closer, “maybe 15 months old at the time of death. And that nick on the 8th rib looks like he was stabbed approximately 7 years ago.”
She bent at the waist and moved her face close to his hand, where flesh had rotted off leaving more pieces of bone exposed. “All exposed phalanges have signs of significant remodeling as well, I’ll confirm when I can see the X-rays, but I’d guess each has been broken multiple times.”
“Hmm, tough guy, tough life,” Booth commented, vaguely aware he should be more interested than he was.
“There is pronounced bowing of the legs, too. And you know I don’t like to speculate, but these marks here,” Brennen traced her gloved hands along indents in the ribs, “and here,” and again along the tibia, “are almost certainly cause of death. Likely some kind of animal attack.”
“Seriously?” Booth was now more interested, “I mean, the guy looks pretty tore up, but I’d have guessed like, a combine harvester or something.”
“Mmm, definitely teeth and claws. These are deep, strong, ripping motions from very sharp teeth. I’d guess bear but will need to take some measurements and confirm the bite radius. Time of death was approximately four months ago and he was buried in a pine box so insect activity was minimized. Cam is running the DNA and we’re about to x-ray for skeletal images.”
“You’re not stripping the flesh?” Booth asked, surprised.
“Not yet,” said Cam, “waiting and see if we can get a hit off DNA first and Hodgins isn't done with particulates work yet.”
Booth looked at the platform again. The body was gross. It definitely wasn’t the electric-pink sky of the voice of an angel, it was smelly, and dirty, and physical. “Okay,” said Booth, “tell you what, forward me all the missing persons reports and any notes from the scene. I have an appointment but I’ll be back in a few hours and we can dive into this.”
“An appointment?” Brennan asked, “Doing what?”
“I, uh, I gotta speak with an old friend,” Booth said, walking away and brushing her off.
Booth looked at his watch, he just made it to his car as his cell phone rang. Booth answered on the first ring and immediately began to ramble,“Fr. Antollei, how are you? How’s the old parish? I think the Steelers are going all the way this year, really, to the finish line!”
“Slow down, Seeley, I’m, I’m well. It was nice to hear your message this morning but it had me a little, well, concerned. Is everything okay?”
“Well, I think so, Father. And, uh, I’m sorry about the frantic message. I, um, I have a parish here in DC, but I, well, I–something, something happened. And I wanted to speak with you.”
“I see. So, what happened?”
“A miracle. The FIRST miracle, actually.”
“Tell me about this miracle,” the father continued.
“I, I had this dream, or, I dunno a vision maybe. It was, it was a message from an angel. The angel told me that, uh, that my path was to be revealed, and I had to choose to be a warrior for God and, um, and bear witness to his works and miracles. And, and then the angel told me to watch for the first miracle, and, well, when I woke up, it–I was healed.”
“You experienced a healing?” Father Antollei asked.
“Yes! My, well everything! Every scar, every injury, it’s, it’s all been washed away. I got X-rays first thing this morning and there’s no evidence of any old injuries. I’ve been fully healed!” Booth heard the joy and wonder in his own voice and laughed, "it’s–I mean, a blessing!”
Father said, “Miracles do happen, Seeley. I don’t know I’d have suggested you run right out to prove it, but–”
“I know, I know, it’s just, the angel–”
“Yes, tell me about this angel.”
“I, I don’t know. I didn’t see him, I just heard his voice; or felt it, really. What, what do you think this all means?”
Father was quiet for a moment, “Well, Seeley. I think you know better than most that there truly is evil in this world, and God calls upon us all to be a champion for good. But Satan exists too. He knows our hearts, our desires and our weaknesses. Did this angel tell you to do anything? Ask anything of you?"
"Not yet, he, he asked me to prepare myself. To decide if I was a warrior for God's kingdom. He asked if I was ready to put the laws of God above the laws of man."
"I see. Well, I think you should go receive the Sacrament of Confession, you should receive the Eucharist, and you should seek revelation. Perhaps the Lord has sent his emissary to you, but you need to see the situation with clear eyes. It is very, very easy to do evil in the pursuit of good.”
“Okay, thank you, father, I'll meet with my local priest tonight.”
“Okay Seeley, God bless.”
Booth sat in his car, gripping the steering wheel. Confession. He hadn’t been to confession in several years. He’d taken lives since then; committed a number of other sins. Booth was a sinner, but he wanted to be a good man. He wanted to be the useful warrior for God that the angel, Catiel, saw in him. “Castiel,” Booth breathed it out. He had scarcely dared to think of the name since it came to him in the dream. It felt irreverent, somehow. Angels, visions, missions from God were things of a higher existence and Seeley Booth was a man of dirt, and sweat, and blood, and toil.
“Seeley,” Cam tapped on his window, “I know you have an appointment but I wanted to catch you. We got a hit on the DNA; our John Doe? It’s Dean Winchester. Name ring a bell to you?”
“Dean Winchester? The Dean Winchester that died in an explosion back in February? Along with three federal agents and half the local PD?”
“Yes, that Dean Winchester,” Cam smiled.
“Okay, Cam, I think my calendar just opened up.”
Booth had Bones review the original remains from Colorado; she said there was no way the remains included the Winchester brothers and whoever signed off on that report was either completely incompetent or possibly corrupt. She did confirm the other remains were consistent with agents Henrikson, Groves, and Riedy, and the local police officers.
Booth shook his head in disgust, “How’s a guy able to fake his death for the second time, only to die for real a few months later? You know, there were 4 murder charges hanging for this guy, but Henrikson always thought there were more. Possibly dozens more.”
Bones looked at Booth with concern, “I’m sorry, Booth. Did you know the agents well?”
“Not really. I knew Victor to say hello, but he was a good man, he was obsessive and meticulous and hot-headed, but he was a good man and he was one of us. Riedy was a snake, but he didn’t deserve that. I never really knew Groves. I didn’t know Sheriff Dodd or Nancy the secretary either, but that doesn’t make their deaths mean anything less than Henrikson’s.”
“I understand. You want to find out what happened.”
“No, I know what happened. Dean Winchester and his psycho little brother Sam killed everyone in that building, staged their own deaths, and continued on their cross country murder spree until Dean somehow was attacked by a bear. Maybe an act of God. But if he was laid to rest that means his brother is still out there, and that means we have work to do.”
“I’ll strip the flesh and examine the bones. Hodgins already swabbed everything for particulates. We’ll find out exactly how he died, hopefully where and when. That should give you something to go off.”
“I’m gonna study up. Henrikson had mountains of paperwork on these guys. I’ll have Sweets look it over too.”
Bones took Booth’s hand and squeezed, “We’ll figure this out, Booth. We always do.”
Hours later, Booth sat in his office, surrounded by paperwork. Henrikson had done his homework, there was very bit of documentation on the Winchesters that could possibly exist. And none of it made sense. Sweets was buried just as deep, reading and rereading every report and notation that Henrikson had.
“It doesn’t make any sense, Sweets,” Booth said without looking up.
“Henrikson noted extensive contradictions in the Winchester files; the way that his surviving victims perceive him vs how he presents himself vs the apparent reality. He thought Dean was, like, a savant manipulator. Possibly utilizing hypnosis or even drugs, definitely using sex, whatever he could to control people, get them to see him as the hero. ”
“And you buy that?”
“I think it’s interesting,” Sweets sat forward. “A lot of the time we build up villains, serial killers especially. We want them to be hyper competent, hyper intelligent. We want to believe it’s a rare and special individual who can do all those bad things without getting caught. Especially if that person is charming, we want to think they have an almost other worldly ability to seduce us, we don’t want to blame our ourselves and our own weakness. Elevating Dean, and killers like him, it masks our own feelings of incompetence, of impotence. The Winchesters were certainly experts in weapons and hand to hand combat. Sam Winchester is academically gifted, but Dean just barely got his GED. Without speaking with him or any of his victims, I can’t say much other than, it’s certainly interesting.”
“Uh-huh, great stuff, Sweets, thanks,” Booth said without looking up.
“Well," Sweets continued, "we know for sure the brothers were almost compulsive about helping each other.”
“Yeah, zero doubt that Sam Winchester laid his brother to rest.”
“And I think he’d be distressed to find out his brother’s grave had been disturbed.”
“You do know that was Dean’s way of getting his jollies? Desecrating graves.”
“Which is exactly why it would rattle Sam so much to learn it might happen to his brother.”
Booth watched Sweets. The kid did have a good instinct. “You’re thinking we leak it to the media? Let his brother know we've found him and that Bones has got his bones?”
“I think we make it national news. Sam Winchester won’t be able to help himself. If Henrikson’s notes and speculations count for anything, he’ll be impersonating a law enforcement officer within 24 hours, trying to track his brother's remains. And I'd guess that sooner or later, he’d try to get them back.”
“You think this guy is going to waltz into the Jeffersonian and take his brother’s remains back?! Because if that's even a remote, outside possibility I can't put the squints in danger like that. This guy is serious.”
“I think Sam is the patient brother. He doesn't have the same history of violence that Dean did. So no, I don't think he'd endanger Dr. Brennan or the team, I think he will wait for the right opportunity, and then, yes, he’ll make sure his brother is properly laid to rest.”
Bones had Winchester’s remains spread out on the table. She started at his skull and worked her way down from there, explaining every injury to Booth. Head trauma from beatings, dislocated shoulders, broken clavicles, broken hands, broken fingers, broken arms, bullet wounds, knife wounds, broken toes, strain on his bones that indicated a life of hard and heavy work. Despite whatever else Henrikson, or anyone else thought of the man, Dean Winchester took a lot of pain in his life. Maybe that’s why he handed it out so freely, Booth mused.
“Remodeling from breaks started as early as ten, maybe twelve years old,” she said, looking down at his forearm.
“You think he was abused?” Booth asked.
“I can’t speculate on that. But he had some injuries when he was younger, and more frequent and severe injuries as he aged.”
“Okay, tell me more about cause of death.”
“Definitely an animal attack. The teeth and claw marks go straight to the bone, and Cam has a detailed report about what she was able to ascertain from the flesh. He would have bled out quickly.”
“Are you still thinking bear?” Booth asked as Hodgins came into the room.
“You two talking cause of death on Winchester?” he asked.
“I was just about to explain your findings, perhaps you can–” Brennan began.
“Yeah, yeah, so, look at this - these, here are the teeth marks at the shoulder and then down here by the knee, and up here at the ribs and the femur are the claw marks. The animals; because there are two different bite radiuses, bit into his leg and pulled him down, clawed at his leg, bit at his shoulder and spun him around, then ripped up his chest. That’s what Dr. Brennan and Saroyan found,” Hodgins said.
“Okay, so what, two young bear cubs or something?” Booth asked.
Hodgins laughed, “No. Bears have a rounder jaw, even the adolescents, and their claws are splayed. Plus, bears ALWAYS go for the face or neck. You might get claw marks or bite marks on the midsection or shoulder when they drag their victim, but a bear attack without any bites to the neck, and no evidence of shaking and ripping? No way, man.” “
So, a wolf, maybe?”
“Not like any wolves we’ve ever seen. Wolves’ jaws are longer and narrow, and their claws can’t rip to the bone like this.”
“Okay, so what was it?”
“Hell if I know! Based on bite pattern alone, I’d say maybe some kind of mutant freak pit bull, but add in the ripping claws? My guess is werewolf.”
“Werewolf.” Booth stared at Hodgins.
“Well, that’s my working theory,” Hodgins tipped his head to the side, “could be a chupacabra.”
“You’re listening to this?” Booth asked Brennan.
“Of course not, but Hodgins is right that it doesn’t match the profile of any animal we can think of, so he’s allowed to entertain some alternate theories–even though he’s wrong.”
“Hey, all I’m saying is that Dean Winchester claimed to fight and kill monsters, maybe one of them killed him.” Hodgins shrugged and said, “you know, stranger things have happened,” as he left the room.
Booth kneeled in the pew. He had spent over forty minutes confessing his sins to the priest. They spoke at length of Booth’s vices, his sins, his weaknesses. The priest had absolved Booth, but the penance was to take new actions in his life. For one, Booth was to pray, daily. He was to attend Sunday Mass and at least one other Mass a week. Booth was to pray, not just for guidance or grace, but to pray for faith.
Booth kneeled as the church darkened around him while the sun set. He prayed as other parishioners filed out of the church. After another hour, the priest touched him lightly on the shoulder. “I’m going to the rectory and I’ve already locked the main door, but please, stay as long as you’d like,” he said kindly. Booth nodded, and continued his prayers.
I believe, Lord, help my unbelief.
I believe, Lord, help my unbelief.
I wish only to do good works in this world, Lord, help guide me to it.
I wish only to—
The air changed. It was vibrating, and warm, and Booth could feel it. Everything, all of reality was sharper, focused, and electrified.
SEELEY BOOTH.
The voice came from everywhere, from within him, even. It was his angel, Castiel.
YOU HAVE SEEN THE FIRST MIRACLE.
Booth blessed himself and spoke aloud in response, “Yes–my, I’ve been healed. All my injuries, everything, healed.”
TO DEMONSTRATE HOW THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN CARES FOR ITS WARRIORS.
Booth held his breath for half a heartbeat, the warning of Fr. Antollei in his mind.
YOU HAVE QUESTIONS.
"No, I, it's just, Dean Winchester, his remains…the chance to find justice for the agents who died, is that, is that what–”
THE SECOND MIRACLE IS COMING, SEELEY.
BUT THE FORCES OF HELL WILL FIGHT AGAINST IT.
THEY DESIRE NOTHING MORE THAN STOP THE SECOND MIRACLE.
BE READY, SEELEY.
STEEL YOUR FAITH, AND BE READY.
And with that, everything faded. Reality was back to its usual form. Nothing was razor-sharp or illuminated anymore. Booth was shaking, sweating, and in euphoria. Heaven needed Seeley Booth, and he would serve it as he had served God and country before.