Chapter Text
May 20th, 2012
Travelodge, Leeds, Utah
Dean Winchester was running for his life.
It was mostly downhill from here; he’d left the Impala parked on the road somewhere above and behind him, one dark smudge in a whole world of dark smudges, before he’d taken off into the forest. Now he was practically sliding on his ass downhill, bending over backwards to keep himself from faceplanting in old dead leaves and deer crap. His pulse was racing in the side of his neck, the base of his skull and inside his wrists and he could barely see in the murky gray-green-purple of a stormy forest at sunset.
This sucked out loud; and he had to keep running.
Dean plunged to the bottom of the hill and upped his pace; behind him, he could hear full-sized tree branches snapping like twigs. A smaller elm crashed past him and Dean jumped wild to avoid running smack into it. He hit the ground and his ankle twisted, buckling under him. With a groan of pain, Dean flipped himself over, feeling that unnatural coldness creeping up his spine.
The thing’s face was half in shadow, towering above him, but he could see rotting, ropy flesh and one eye that was a muddy yellow color, cat-like pupil and bloodshot all the way through.
The Mohera closed its teeth around his head.
Dean sat straight up in the motel bed, sucking down air, curling one arm around his stomach. Watery gray light edged its way around the drapes, and Dean slammed his eyes shut, trying to shove out the last few traces of the nightmare.
After a few seconds, his overworked brain registered the clicking of laptop keys from the table beside the door. “Morning.”
Dean cracked one eye open to peer at Sam, and his throat rumbled with a halfhearted reply. He flopped back onto the pillows.
Sam chuckled under his breath. “Sleep well?”
“Like friggin’ Snow White.” Dean arched his eyebrows, adjusting his eyes to the brightness behind his eyelids.
He’d been fighting nightmares ever since they’d gotten back from Japan. They weren’t as clear or as painful as the ones he’d had after Castiel had dragged him back from Hell, but they were still pretty vivid. And a little too realistic. Probably a gratuitous sideaffect of having his soul almost munched out by the Mohera.
Not that living outside of his nightmares was that much easier. They hadn’t caught one lead on finding John since they’d seen him getting shoved into the back of a fishing boat, heading out into the ocean. They’d split up with Gwen Campbell in Chicago, let her head south while they went back to Bobby’s to pick up the Impala.
The information she’d given them on Kaila’s group had been solid, and everything had checked out: old safehouses, names of a lot of the hunters on her side. A couple of them had been old friends of Bobby’s, but not anymore. Not if they were working with the girl who’d slit Rufus’s throat and bought John off by threatening Sam and Dean’s lives.
The only problem: nothing Gwen had told them had given them anything to go off of on Kaila’s next move. She hadn’t reared her head Stateside yet, and it’d been two weeks. So either her ship had wrecked in the middle of the Pacific; she just wasn’t back yet; or she was covering her tracks.
Dean sat up again, propping his shoulders against the headboard, and he blinked at Sam. “You find anything?”
Sam clicked through another webpage, then held up one hand in resignation before thumping it down on the tabletop. “Nothing. There is, no lore, at all, about the Mohera on the internet.”
Dean stretched and got up to lean over Sam’s shoulder, one hand on the back of the chair and one on the table. “What about the books we found in John’s car?”
Sam shut the laptop and hauled a stack of books closer, tapping his fingertips on the top one. “Other than the Coptic chronicle from Egypt, it’s a dead end. And it’s not telling us much more than what we already know.” He cocked his head slightly, then got to his feet. “There was one thing, though.”
“Yeah?” Dean picked up a Styrofoam cup of coffee from the windowsill and gave it a sniff; smelled like a dead fish. Dean snorted and tossed it in the trashcan, watching Sam as he riffled through the drawer on the bedside table and pulled out a Bible.
“Something occurred to me,” Sam plunked down his bed. “It’s possible someone did know about the Mohera. Just not by that name.” He flipped through the pages and Dean flopped across the opposite bed, waiting for Sam to share his idea. “Here we go. Uh, ‘In that day, the LORD will punish with his sword— his fierce, great and powerful sword— Leviathan the gliding serpent, Leviathan the coiling serpent; he will slay the monster of the sea.’”
“Okay.” Dean studied the cracks in the plaster ceiling. “What’s a Leviathan?”
“Well, Scripture’s pretty vague about the details, but it shows up in a couple places. Like that passage, from Isaiah; uh, Psalms, the Book of Job, they all reference this,” Sam shrugged, lifting one hand. “Monster of the sea.”
Dean cocked his head up, frowning. “What, like the Loch Ness monster?”
“Maybe.” Sam’s tone hinted at something bigger. “Some people think it’s referring to Lucifer. But I think it might be the Mohera.”
“I thought the thing couldn’t swim.” Dean pointed out.
“Right, yeah. That’s what we assumed because the hunters took a boat. But this thing got to Japan somehow, Dean. Chances are, it didn’t fly there.”
Dean sat up, rubbing his hands together. “All right. So, let’s say you’re right, and this thing’s a, uh, Leviathan. S’that tell us how to kill it?”
Sam blew out a breath and clapped the Bible closed. “No. Other than a few lines about crushing its head and feeding it to the creatures of the desert, there is no lore in the Bible about how to kill the thing.”
“Oh, great.” Dean flashed an irritated smile. “So we’re back at square one.”
“Not exactly.” Sam had that shifty expression he always got when he was about to suggest doing something he knew from the get-go, Dean wouldn’t exactly approve of. “I think we should call Cass.”
“Aw, Sam, c’mon!” Dean swung onto his feet and turned his back on Sam, rubbing his jaw.
“I’m serious!” Sam scrambled up behind him. “We’ve been trying to track down Kaila for two weeks, Dean. And so far, nothing. On her, on the Mohera—we don’t even know how John was tracking this thing. We need more help than someone like Bobby can give us.”
Dean dug his heels in; not that he hated Castiel, and he wasn’t pissed at the guy. But Castiel had his war upstairs and Sam and Dean had theirs on earth and for some reason Dean didn’t really like the idea of getting their lines crossed. Gave him a bad feeling. “You really think this is the right time? It’s like you said yourself, dude’s up to his neck in rogue angels.”
“Yeah, and even if he wins, there won’t be a world worth protecting anymore if we don’t get some help.” Sam pointed out. Dean scoffed and shook his head. “Dean. You know how bad it is out there. You saw the reports.”
Dean glanced at the trashcan, stuffed over the top with crumbled newspapers from half a dozen states. Murders cropping up so fast and so randomly, it didn’t fit a serial killer mold or anything the FBI, CIA or PD cops could figure out. Dean and Sam knew—Mohera. It was killing like crazy, too hungry to contain itself. And more powerful than they could take down, at this point.
Dean scruffed a hand back through his hair. “Fine. Call him. Just don’t come cryin’ to me when he doesn’t show.”
Sam shot him a look that was right in between puppy-dog-eyes and bitchface, and then he sank back down on the foot of the bed. Dean grabbed a beer from the minifridge while Sam got his prayer knees in shape.
“Castiel?” Sam squinted his eyes shut, Dean kept his open. He didn’t think it mattered one way or another. “It’s Sam. Listen, we know you’re busy, with the…war in Heaven, and everything. But if you’ve got a minute, we could really use some help.” He paused, cracked one eye open for a quick sweep, then shut it again. “So, yeah. Thanks.”
Dean raised an eyebrow and took a swig of beer, washed out his mouth and spit it into the trashcan. “Told ya he wasn’t on call.”
“Sam and Dean?”
Dean groaned and looked over at the door.
The guy looked like an uptight CEO. Or an uptight CEO’s uptight assistant. Pale skin, dark hair, dark eyes that looked pretty intense.
Sam rose, slowly; Dean could see how tense he was. “Did Castiel send you?”
The guy ignored him. “Are you Sam and Dean Winchester?”
He had that flippant, holier-than-thou tone that Dean usually associated with dicks like Zachariah. His least-favorite angel.
“Who’s asking?” Dean growled.
The angel flipped his hand and Dean launched backwards through the air, slamming up against the coffee-colored wall hard enough to crunch his lungs. Sam took an involuntary step toward him and the angel curled his other hand into a fist. Sam grabbed for his throat, his eyes rolling up into his head.
Dean twisted, trying to wrench himself free, but they were outmatched, like they usually were when they went up against angels. And this guy definitely wasn’t looking for drinks and a good time.
“Sorry, boys.” The angel hissed. “Orders.”
Dean yanked his head off the wall and the angel twitched his fingers, throwing Dean flat again, hard enough to jar him through the spot on his forehead where he’d gotten concussed during a fight in Japan.
Dean was starting to slip his hold on his senses, his line of sight swarming dark and light in bursts; Sam slumped to his knees, down onto his side, and didn’t move, his hair shadowing his face. Dean couldn’t tell if he was breathing anymore.
“C’ss…” Dean’s voice stuck in his throat, he swallowed a couple times, desperately, choking down air. “Cass, a little help, here?”
“Close your eyes!”
Dean obeyed, knee-jerk reaction, and behind his eyelids a red-hot volcanic glow sizzled through the room. The crushing force released Dean and he tumbled onto the floor, bracing himself with one arm tucked under his chest, sucking in breaths hard and fast while the dizziness colored his worldview.
A hand landed on his back. “Did he touch you?”
Dean swiveled his head-up with a frigid glare. “You coulda dropped in a couple minutes earlier, Cass!”
Crouched on one knee beside Dean, Castiel didn’t look like he was in the mood to argue. “Dean! Did his hand touch you?”
“What? No.” Dean sat up, scouting the room. “Sam?”
“He’s just fine.” Dean recognized that high-pitched voice; recognized the vessel, too, who was touching two fingers to Sam’s throat.
“Ciel?”
“Hey, there, Dean.”
Dean sniffed, looked at Castiel. “You get Sam’s message?”
Castiel nodded. “I came as quickly as I could. There was some—difficulty.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
Castiel’s mouth flattened into a hard time and he looked away. “Not here.”
“Cass—”
“Dean,” Castiel cut him off firmly. “Not here.”
Dean glared at him for a second, then pushed himself up when Ciel let go of Sam. Dean couldn’t fight the relief that spilled over him when Sam’s eyes blinked open; he tossed his hair out of his eyes and sat up, staring at Ciel like he was trying to remember who she was.
When Sam saw Castiel, Dean knew it clicked in.
“Castiel. Hey.” Sam raked a hand back through his hair. “Great timing. Thanks.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.” Castiel rose and offered a hand to Dean; Dean let the angel drag him to his feet, since everything was still tilting fuzzy at the edges around him. Castiel crossed the room and pulled Sam up, too. “Things have been chaotic.”
“I can believe that.” Dean rolled an ache out of his shoulder and joined them. “Who was that guy?”
“An outspoken supporter of Raphael.” Castiel scanned the room like he was looking for someone lurking in the corner.
“You’re still chasing them, huh?” Sam asked sympathetically.
“It’s like digging out a tick.” Ciel complained. “Or a swarm of ticks.”
Castiel nodded. “They’re excellent at cloaking themselves. And the battles oftentimes last for days after they begin.”
Dean whistled. “Man, you need another vacation.”
Castiel looked at him cock-eyed. “We are not going to Las Vegas again, if that is what you are suggesting.”
Ciel and Sam stared at them, confused. Dean smirked dryly.
“No thanks.”
“Castiel.” Ciel picked up her head, looking toward the bathroom. “They’re here.”
Dean had his hackles up for a fight before he realized Castiel and Ciel didn’t really look bothered.
Two guys—angels, he guessed—walked out of the bathroom. One of them had a bush-sized goatee and dreadlocks; the other one looked a lot like Dean and Sam’s little brother Adam.
Dean shoved down the guilt that flared up in his chest.
“Sam. Dean.” Castiel motioned them forward, then nodded to the two angels. “These are my associates, Gaiaphage and Sabreael. The weapons’ master of Heaven, and the Keeper of the Keys to the Abyss. Respectively.”
“Keeper to the Keys of the Abyss?” Dean echoed skeptically. “What’s the job description for that one?”
Castiel almost smiled. “Who do you think possesses the keys to Lucifer’s cage, now that the Horsemen are fallen?”
Sam pulled a sturgeon-face, then got serious. “Cass, what was that angel doing here? Why was he after us?”
“Yeah, and what’s with the Ninja Turtle squad?” Dean nodded to Gaiaphage, Sabreael and Ciel. “Thought you were kind of a lone-wolf in the whole Heavenly Host.”
“It’s complicated.” Castiel said. “And this is not a safe place to discuss it.” He turned to Ciel. “We must move, quickly. He’ll be back before long, and I would prefer if this did not turn into a battle, with so many humans nearby.”
He strode to the bed, grabbed Sam’s duffle bag and started cramming the laptop, motel Bible and Sam’s huge dark jeans inside. Sam shot Dean a confused look; Dean rolled his eyes.
“Cass, would you just hold on for a second?”
Castiel ignored them, finishing with Sam’s duffle and moving onto Dean’s.
All right, that settled it.
“Cass! Hey!” Dean crossed the room in two steps and grabbed Castiel’s arm, spinning him around. “You wanna tell us what the hell is going on?”
“Dean. I told you. It is not safe here.”
“Well, you’re an angel. Make it safe.”
“I can’t. It’s too late. They already know where you are. They’ll wait outside until you try to leave, and then they will ambush you. They will kill you.”
“Who? Raphael’s supporters?” Sam joined them, forehead wrinkling into a frown. “What do they want with us?”
“Dude,” Dean closed his eyes. “Tell me this is not some ‘chosen vessel’ crap.”
“Castiel,” Gaiaphage rumbled. “We must go.”
“I know that.” Castiel grabbed Dean’s shoulder and Dean’s eyes snapped open. “Dean. I need you to trust me.”
“We do trust you, Cass.” Sam said, all honesty and all, typical, Sam. “We just want to know what we’re up against.”
“He’s back.” Ciel crossed the room in a blur—Dean still hated when they did that—and twitched the drapes out of the way. “Oh, boy. He brought company.”
“How many of them?” Castiel asked tensely.
“Uh, all of them, looks like.”
Castiel muttered something in Enochian that was either a really bad curse or a prayer for help. Dean wasn’t sure which option boded worse for them, at this point.
“Gaia, Ciel, Rale. I want you to distract them. Meet me at the location we discussed.” He threw the Winchesters their duffle bags. “Bring the car.”
It sank in right then what was about to happen, and Dean took a step back. “Dude, no—!”
Castiel grabbed him and Sam by their shoulders, and Dean’s feet kicked out from under him. He saw a silvery blur, the door bursting open and people swarming the room.
And then they were gone.