Supernatural 1. Chapter 1

**This is the prompt from Carol C.**

Gabriel materialized in the indicated location. It was a cheap motel room of course, perhaps a little shabbier than average. The ambient rattling roar of the air conditioner covered the rustle of his arrival.

His quarry sat at the scarred dinette table, broad back to him, head bobbing slightly in rhythm to whatever was pumping through ear buds as he read and made notes on a pad.

Gabriel cleared his throat.

His quarry didn't stir.

"Behold?"

Nothing.

The archangel vanished and reappeared on the other side of the table. "BEHOLD!" he bellowed, flinging his arms wide.

Sam Winchester achieved levitation, at least six inches of altitude straight up. Paper, ear buds, pens, books went flying when his over-sized knees lifted the table as he scrabbled away and to his feet. Sam's eyes were huge and he'd faded to an interesting shade of pale beige under his tan.

That's better.

Sam had his pistol trained on his chest. It wavered a little, but all in all, remarkable aim.

"Oh please. A gun? Really?" Gabriel rolled his eyes.

"You're dead!" Sam tucked the pistol back behind his belt.

"So I've heard, and yet—" Gabriel spread his arms again and cocked his head with a smirk. "Am I alive or am I previously recorded?"

He allowed his form to pixilate and then chuckled, stuck his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels. "For you, it doesn't matter. I've come to deliver… well, glad tidings is the traditional phrase, if I recall correctly. It's been a while."

"Huh?" Sam gaped like a landed trout.

"I've got news, Bullwinkle," Gabriel informed him flatly. "Listen up."

Gabriel could see suspicion and malice sliding across Sam's shocked features like rain sheeting over a windowpane. So, all recovered and back to normal then. Mustn't have that. "You're going to have a son."

There we go. Sam blindly reached for his abandoned chair and dropped onto it so abruptly that Gabriel expected its spindly chrome legs to buckle.

"I'm _pregnant?_" Sam wheezed. His complexion drained from tan to beige to parchment in four seconds flat. Must mark that down. Quite likely a personal best.

Gabriel drew the moment out, inscrutable as a mannequin.

"No, you moron," he snapped then and almost lost his own aplomb at the ridiculous relief that washed over Sam Winchester's face. "You're going to have a son in the natural order of such things. So I assume. I'm not one to pry."

He felt his lips try to quirk into a small smile of malicious glee and let them. "But that would have been funny, huh!"

**The challenge was to finish the story. The next chapter is the beginning of my continuation.**


	2. Chapter 2

**This part's mine.**

**Only Begotten Son**

**I will weep when you are weeping**

**When you laugh I'll laugh with you**

**I will share your joy and sorrow**

**'Til we've seen this journey through**

**-Servant Song**

**Spoilers up to end of season 7**

Sam Winchester hadn't given much thought to Gabriel's visit in several years. Quite frankly, he'd had a few other things on his mind. Like Dean being lost in Purgatory, the angel brigade suddenly running on silent, and every single damn person on the face of the planet who'd ever come into contact with him brutally dying. Even Jodie was gone.

It wasn't like the last time Dean had died, when Sam had gone into Robocop mode and taken down demons by the dozen. It was as though he'd lost his headlights. He could only briefly glimpse purpose, a job or a girl, but it was gone before it could fully register. He still hunted, of course, but with far less efficiency and accuracy. God damned, he nearly lost his head to a freaking shape shifter. _One _shape shifter. He was losing his touch and he couldn't get it back for the life of him.

The first thing he'd done, after praying until his lungs were raw to every angel and deity and variations thereupon, was call Crowley. Well, trap him. He kept him locked up for almost three weeks, throwing every torture he knew at him, trying in agonizing vain to get him to cough up where Purgatory was. But Crowley wouldn't say a word. Sam didn't let him go, either. He fully intended to keep the demon locked up for as long as it took for him to spill the beans. No, the damn demon escaped in his usual clever manner, leaving nothing but a pink lips imprint on the cuff of the chains with which he had been bound.

After that, Sam had begun his aimless wandering, searching for what exactly, he didn't know.

He'd started out in the Impala, but discovered after only a few painful days that it was too chock full of memories to drive. He bought a new car, a black Prius. He drove and drove, stopping randomly, still occasionally seeking out faith healers or Hoodoo men when he had the mental fortitude, which wasn't often. He spent two months with Bobby's staggeringly vast library on the supernatural, reading every page of what felt like hundreds of books, until one day he drove out for dinner and found himself on an airplane with no account of how he'd gotten there, nor any idea of where he was going.

The plane landed several hours later at Dublin airport. He felt like he should have been at least mildly alarmed by this, but he just wasn't. He had no pressing reason to be anywhere else, after all. Maybe he was being guided there for a reason. It would be no harder to believe than anything else in his life.

Almost immediately, his theory was proven correct, although he wouldn't know it for many years. It was the classic movie moment where the guy bumps into the girl and knocks her bag to the ground, and they both reach for it at the same time, and their hands magically touch. The magic ended there, though.

"Goddammit, asshole, watch where you're goin', would you?" snapped a strong Irish accent.

Sam straightened up to find himself looking down at a young woman with hair the color of a fresh carrot, glaring at him with the greenest eyes he'd ever seen, with such intensity that he actually took a step back.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't see you."

"Course you didn't!" the woman replied. "You're as tall as the Cliffs, how d'you see anything on the ground?"

Sam stared at her. "…what?"

"Never mind, just get out of my way!" The woman shook her head and pushed past him, but he was able to follow her bright orange head all the way to the end of the corridor. _Weird._

Sam wandered around the airport like a zombie, unsure of what to do or where to go. He didn't know anyone he could call, he didn't know anything about Dublin. He was pretty much screwed, but he found that he didn't care all that much. He stepped outside and was met with brisk, salty air of a kind he'd never experienced back home. He sucked in a deep breath.

"Goddammit!" The word was immediately followed by a shove that felt like it had come from a linebacker. Sam stumbled away, and found himself looking once more at the red headed woman, who was still scowling.

"What'd I do this time?" said Sam in exasperation.

"Nothing!" cried the woman. "My ride's done a runner and I've got no cash. And I have to be home in thirty minutes or I'm screwed."

Sam shoved his hands unconsciously into his coat pockets in a helpless gesture, and found himself in possession of a thick wad of bills. Not knowing what else to do, he offered them to the woman. She raised her eyebrows at him, and Sam fully expected another verbal beating, but then she smiled.

"Thanks."

The progression of things from there felt rather like that which had led him to the plane. In other words, he remembered very little of it. The woman's name was Mealla, Gaelic for lightning, Sam learned later, and she was from a small town just outside of Dublin. Which somehow became Sam's home for the next two years. That however, was the least of the miracles.

Somehow, Sam wound up with a job at a local bar, and a bunch of Irish friends who could have drunk even Castiel under the table. Sam enjoyed his life there. For the first time since Jessica, on the other side of the world, he was wholly and completely happy.

Mealla was amazing, a miracle unto herself. She was beautiful and kind (when she wasn't snapping impatiently at everyone and everything), and most of all, she trusted Sam, and accepted that he had to keep his secrets. Once, only a week after they'd met, she'd asked Sam what a Midwestern American was doing in Dublin, and he'd answered truthfully that he hadn't intended to go there, which she accepted at face value and didn't pry. She also didn't challenge his unshakeable refusal to talk about his family or his past. He had a lurking suspicion that she may have had slight psychic tendencies, and knew more than she let on, but he didn't care very much.

On a night split by blinding lightning, like his wife's namesake, Mealla told Sam she was pregnant. They weren't married, and she told him her family would be scandalized by such news. They agreed then to move to the U.S. to have the baby, and to be legally married. Mealla had never been off the Island before, anyways, and she wanted to have an adventure. So, a month and half later found them packing up and loading onto a plane to J.F.K. airport in New York.

From there, they drove to a small motel in northern Pennsylvania, at which point the memories began flooding back at a staggering rate. Sam tried to hide his preoccupation from Mealla, and tactfully she did not raise any questions.

Over the next few months, Mealla's belly grew, Sam began working a steady job, they got an apartment, and everything fell into a comfortable, if starkly unfamiliar, rhythm.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam glanced at his watch. It was 2:30 a.m. He let out an exhausted sigh and dropped into a hard plastic chair pushed against the wall of the hallway outside the maternity ward. Only minutes ago, he had held a tiny person in his arm as he sat beside his wife. His tiny person, a little boy they called Aeden, Gaelic for "born of fire". Mealla was sleeping now, and Sam was wishing he could get some sleep himself, but-

"I told ya so. Didn't I tell you so?"

Sam jumped and looked up. His eyelids flickered and his blurred vision sharpened. "Wh-what?"

A cheerful laugh. "I said so, didn't I. I told you you were gonna have a baby."

"Gabriel." The word came out exhausted and impatient. Sam was just too damn tired to express the utter incredulity he felt that the angel was alive, and making contact after so many years of silence.

"Heya, Sammy boy." The archangel dropped into the plastic seat next to Sam and patted him on the shoulder. "Long night?"

Sam rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, you could say that."

Gabriel laughed again. "Just the first of many, buddy boy. Welcome to fatherhood. And you've got even more on your plate."

"What's that supposed to mean."

Gabriel shrugged. "Oh, I don't know. I mean I didn't come to tell you a child of God would be born to you or anything."

"Wait," said Sam, invigorated by indignance. "That's _my _son, not any child of God. You stay the hell away from my family."

"Hey, hey, hey," Gabriel held his hands up, "I'm not touching them, I'm just saying, this child was meant to be born. He's got a greater purpose in this world, Sam." He punched Sam lightly on the arm. "Kinda like you and Dean. Maybe metaphysical purpose runs in the family. Whaddya think?"

"No." Sam stood up. "He's not going to be like me. You leave him alone."

"I told you," said Gabriel. "It has nothing to do with me. And listen, this kid's destiny is quite a bit different from yours and Dean's. He's not so much destroying the world as…mmm, saving it."

"Saving it?" repeated Sam. "Saving it from what? The angels are gone, the demons have been quiet…"

Gabriel wiggled his eyebrows at Sam. "There's always something the save you stupid humans from. Your son is the next Savior. You should have called him Jesus 2.0."

Sam ran his hands over his face as though trying to iron it flat. "Is it too much to ask for a normal life? I just want them to be safe and happy."

"They will be," Gabriel assured him, in a tone more earnest than Sam had ever heard. "For ten long years, you guys will be just fine. Then he'll have some work to do."

"What work, what are you talking about?"

"This is the child of a Winchester and an O'Leary," said Gabriel. "He's freakin' special, dude. We've got a lot of use for a kid like that."

"What does Mealla's family have to do with any of it."

Gabriel raised his eyebrows. "You think your bloodline was the only one engineered as a catalyst? We had contingency plans, we're not stupid. I mean you and your brother weren't exactly the poster children for accountability. But that doesn't matter anymore. All that matters is that your son is ready in ten years."

"Ready for what!" Sam cried, but the seat beside him was empty.


	4. Chapter 4

**Aeden's Fifth Birthday**

His time was half up. Sam had been pursuing flimsier and flimsier leads for five years, and had learned nothing in the smallest way relating to preventing an angel's prophecy. The situation was beginning to look hopeless, but, being a Winchester, Sam was prepared to follow every trail far beyond the cold, bitter end.

The day following the party, he received a call from a hunter he'd met only once before, but whom he had consulted for help in lieu of Gabriel's message. The guy told him about a Jack Christiansen who lived in Washington, who reportedly had experience with angels. It was a long shot, Sam knew, but still he made an excuse to Mealla, kissed Aeden goodbye, and boarded a plane to SeaTac airport in Seattle.

Jack Christiansen's address led him to a house in Seattle's residential district, right near the lake. The place had so many hills, Sam felt as though he was mountaineering as he drove the rental car over yet another hill and back down, and turned right onto a curving street until he reached a tan-painted brick house at the very end of the road. He parked and walked beneath a towering oak up to the dark red front door.

It opened before he had a chance to knock, revealing a girl who couldn't have been more than fifteen, wearing an old, threadbare Batman t-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans. She peered skeptically up at him through turquoise-framed glasses, and pursed her lips.

"Sam Winchester." It wasn't a question. "Well, come on in, I guess."

Befuddled, Sam followed her into a modest but clean entry, and looked left and right to see a small living room with a fire place, and a kitchen which overlooked a dry, brown backyard. The girl led him into the kitchen and seated herself on a stool at a glass counter, upon which sat a half finished glass of water. She took a sip.

"Well," she said, "you gonna ask or should I just answer for you?"

"I - what?" said Sam.

"Fine," the girl sighed. "You heard an angel's prophecy, obviously it didn't agree with you, and you're desperately searching for any way to stop it coming true. Oh, it would just be so horrible if the prophecy came true." Here she adopted a wavery, dramatic voice and raised her eyes to the ceiling.

"It wasn't…a _prophecy_, exactly," said Sam, still staring at the strange girl. "He just kinda…told me what was gonna happen."

"That's a prophecy, dear. Okay, I need specifics. Who was the angel, what did he tell you. Go." She snapped her fingers.

"Uh, he said that in ten years, well five years now, Heaven would have work for my son. He didn't say what."

"Uh-huh." The girl nodded. "And who was the angel?"

"Shouldn't I be telling all this to Jack?" asked Sam, looking around the apparently deserted house.

"Why would Jack want to hear you moan about your problems?" said the girl, with the air of one speaking to a moron. "Who was the angel?"

"It was Gabriel, the archangel."

The girl's eyes narrowed. "Whew," she breathed. "He is one stubborn son-of-a-bitch. Damn. Nope, sorry. You don't have a chance in hell of averting that prophecy." She downed the rest of her water in one and stood up.

"Why? Why not?" asked Sam, swiveling to keep her in view as she crossed the kitchen to the sink.

"Listen." The girl set the glass on the counter beside the sink and turned to face him. "Sometimes you can block angels off, or wall them out. Like with possession. Some bitch called Hester wanted to possess my mom, but she told Hester to go screw herself, and she was forced to find another vessel. This angel inside our mailman, Bob, told her that her daughter would destroy her family. So we moved out away from everyone, and nothing's happened so far. See, they can be prevented. But Gabriel?" she laughed grimly. "He won't let you have a moment's peace until you've done as he wants."

The girl practically shoved him out of the house after that, while he continued to say, "But there must be something. Isn't there _anything _you have?"

"Nope," was all the girl would reply.

"I came all the way here," Sam scoffed, "for nothing?"

The girl offered him a blue-wrapped square from her back pocket. "I have some German chocolate." She paused and sighed. "Look, I know about…whatever's going on. And honestly, if it was _any _other angel, I could help you. But Gabriel…" She shook her head.

"Why? What is it about Gabriel?"

"Have you _met _Gabriel?" asked the girl with a bitter scoff.

"Yeah, once or twice."

"Then you know."

"Know what?"

The girl raised an eyebrow. "Any other angel you can bribe, or push away if you last out long enough. But Gabriel? He's loyal. Too loyal for his own good. He'll do anything for his Father. You can't stop him 'cause he's not working for himself. It's always the orders, what's 'best for the world', or whatever B.S. he's spewing these days. So I'm sorry. The best you can do is get him to tell you what God wants with your son, and pray he can do it."

Sam stepped out onto the little porch and the girl started to close the door.

"Wait," said Sam. "I came for Jack. Who are you?"

The girl snorted. "I'm Jack, dumbass." She swung the door shut.


	5. Chapter 5

**Four Years and 364 Days later**

Sam stuck the last piece of tape on the small package he was wrapping in paper decorated with dinosaurs, and passed it up to Mealla, who stood on tiptoes to place it on the highest shelf in their closet. Then she sat down cross-legged beside him and kissed him tenderly on the mouth.

"We should get some sleep," she whispered. "Big day tomorrow."

"Yeah," Sam replied. His smiled to cover the squirming nest of wormy guilt twisting inside his guts. He hadn't ever told Mealla about Gabriel's message. Secretly, he'd hoped the day would never come. But now it was almost upon him, and he still hadn't figured out what the angels wanted with his son, who had grown up as red-haired and spirited as his mother, and as intelligent and tall as his father. Unlike Sam, the kid had hit his growth spurt early, and was easily taller than everyone in his grade. Some kids made fun of him for it, but that didn't phase Aeden in the slightest, for which Sam was very proud.

Sam stifled a yawn, and watched Mealla climb into bed, knowing he wouldn't get a wink of sleep while he worried the night away, sitting upright outside Aeden's door, gun cradled in his lap, praying Gabriel would not return. At half past eleven, however, he did drop off, and did not wake until exactly midnight, when he heard a soft creak in the hallway, and hauled himself hastily to his feet.

Gabriel stood before him, looking exactly the same as ever, and grinned. "Hey, Sam!"

"Leave," said Sam firmly. "Now."

"I told you the sitch, Sam," said Gabriel apologetically. "You knew this day was coming. It's Jesus 2.0's time to shine."

"His name is _Aeden_," Sam corrected through clenched teeth. "And you're not touching him." He planted himself directly between Gabriel and the door.

"Ten years, man." Gabriel held out his hands in a placatory gesture. "That's better than your dad or brother ever got. And you'll get him back afterwards."

"After _what!_" cried Sam. "After you send my son to Hell?"

"No," said Gabriel incredulously. "Heavens no, we wouldn't do that. Trust me, he'll be just fine."

"What do you want from him?"

"Nothing he can't handle. Trust me, Sam." Gabriel flashed him a smile. "He'll be fine." He tried to push past Sam into Aeden's room, but Sam shoved him back. "Stay the hell away from my son," he snarled.

Gabriel sighed, "You ought to be more cooperative." And he vanished.

Sam whirled around and threw the door. Aeden's bed was empty. "NO!" he bellowed. "GABRIEL!"

**oOo**

_Gabriel, you seem troubled._

_Yes, Father. I don't think this is the right course of action._

_Oh?_

_We've just rolled up a snowball and thrown it into a place hotter than Hell._

_Aeden Winchester is no mere snowball._

_He is a child, father. _

_He is __**the**_ _child. It is not your place to question destiny._

_It's still wrong._

_Would you prefer that the martyrs languished in Purgatory for eternity?_

_Oh, martyrs, is that what they are now?_

_They suffer for all mankind. But their sentence is at an end. Do not interfere with the course destiny has laid for them._

…_Yes, Father._

**oOo**

Sharp branches whipped at Dean's face and arms as he ran, cutting them, but he paid the injuries no mind. The vicious growling from behind was getting closer. He could hear the monsters crashing through the foliage toward him. He was never going to make it.

"Dean." From out of nowhere a pair of strong hands gripped his arms and the dark trees vanished, replaced by a barren cliff overlooking an inky black ocean of angry frothing waves. Dean staggered and had to seize onto his savior to keep from falling to the sharp rocks below. As he steadied himself, he got a good look at the other's face.

"Cas," he breathed, barely audible over the howling wind. "I thought you'd gone." He worked to keep the horrible sinking betrayal out of his voice, which had plagued him all through the night even as he ran for his life.

"Never," said Cas. "I've been searching for you all night." Cas' sapphire eyes ran over Dean's battered body, and he pressed his hand to Dean's face, instantly healing the superficial wounds. Others, however, ran deeper. He could sense the piercing fear in his human, which was rapidly sapping away at his strength even as Dean suppressed it with more casual sarcasm.

"Awesome. So how the hell do we get out of here?"

"We can't," said Cas dejectedly.

"What do you mean,_ can't_?" asked Dean.

"I mean the Leviathan were here for millennia, tearing at the edges with a billion times more strength than you or I possess, and were unable to escape. What hope do a human and an angel possibly have?"

"So, what," said Dean angrily, "we're stuck here struggling to survive? Forever? We barely made it through the _night_. Eternity?"

Cas pursed his lips, but was unable to give a response.

That night, they took refuge in a cramped, dank stone cave, curled close to each other against the biting chill, social norms forgotten. They didn't speak; even the rocks were listening, Cas had cautioned.

Cas' warmth against him was comforting. Despite everything, Dean felt safe for the first time in a long time. The feeling would not last…

Dean wasn't sure if he'd fallen asleep or passed out from exhaustion, but far too early he was being shaken awake and Cas was whispering urgently, "Dean! Dean, they're coming. We have to go now. Come on."

Dean allowed himself to be dragged to his feet, and together he and Cas vanished, and reappeared in a dying cornfield, all dry brown and crushed stalks. Even for the winks of sleep he'd gotten, Dean felt inexplicably exhausted, as though a giant gloved hand was pressing down upon his shoulders. All of a sudden his knees buckled, and he and Cas collapsed together onto the dry, cracked dirt. The corn around them rippled evilly. Cas didn't even notice the tendril wrapping itself stealthily around his ankle until Dean slapped feebly at it. He was fading fast.

"Run!"

Once more they were off, stumbling and stomping new divides in the dead corn, our from which snaked more stalks, all intent upon snatching and binding them. Cas clenched Dean's shoulder as they ran, and in a flash they were running down a cracked pavement road. They came to a halt, panting.

As the adrenaline drained away, Dean felt his legs begin to tremble once more. He wouldn't be able to continue like this for much longer.

Seeming to sense without words, Cas wrapped a firm arm around Dean, and the human leaned gratefully into him, closing his hand around a fistful of the bloody material of Cas' coat.

"What are we gonna do, Cas?" he mumbled.

"We're going to survive."

Dean blinked. It was the first time he'd heard the angel tell an all out lie.

Dean had very scattered and fragmented memories of the next few days, or maybe it was weeks, all tinged with uniform fatigued desperation. Cas zapped them from place to place, with increasing regularity as more and more monsters were alerted to their presence.

He had always been strong. He had always been the unshakable Dean Winchester, scourge of nightmares and things that go bump in the night. He could not bear being so helpless. But he figured, in the privacy of his own mind, that if he had to be dependent upon anyone, he was glad it was Cas.

Still, the nights became colder, the respites became shorter, the escape zaps became less frequent. Cas' grace was running out, and Dean had been hovering on the edge of death for days.


	6. Chapter 6

Mealla, roused by Sam's shouts, padded hurriedly into the hallway and halted at Aeden's door, seeing immediately that the bed was empty.

"Aeden?" she called. "Aeden!"

Sam turned to her. "I'm sorry. Oh God, I'm so, so sorry."

"What are you talking about?"

With a pained look, Sam began to explain Gabriel's message, and Mealla didn't even stop to question the outrageous assumption that angels actually existed. The whole story took only minutes to tell, ending at Gabriel's intrusion into their home, and Aeden's disappearance.

"So," said Mealla in a shaking voice when Sam had finished. "So, you knew this Gabriel was coming for _ten whole years,_ and you didn't do a thing about it?"

Sam blinked at the accusation. "I _did._ I searched and searched. I called in every favor I had. I prayed until I was blue in the face. There was nothing I could do."

Mealla pressed a hand over her mouth and closed her eyes. "Aeden's gone," she said in a choked voice. "Our son is gone."

"Mia-"

"Don't." Mealla shook her head. She wouldn't meet Sam's gaze. "Just…don't talk to me right now." She turned on her heel and retreated into their bedroom, and locked the door behind her.

For the next several days, Mealla wouldn't talk to Sam, not even look at him. They hadn't gone to the police; Sam told her it was useless. The house felt like an abandoned estate after the only occupant has died. And all the while, the same mantra was running through Sam's head: _Gabriel, please, just bring my son back. Gabriel, please. GABRIEL! __**GABRIEL, YOU SON OF A BITCH, BRING HIM BACK! **_But nothing ever happened. Days became a week. Weeks became a month. A month and a half. Two.

A neighbor came over, a very sweet woman named Mrs. Reynolds who babysat Aeden sometimes. She asked why she hadn't seen him out playing.

"Aeden's really sick right now, Mrs. Reynolds," said Sam in a hoarse voice, leaning against the doorframe.

"Oh, the poor thing. Well, tell him to feel better from me." Mrs. Reynolds' doughy face crumpled with concern.

"Yeah, I'll tell him." Sam shut the door before she could say another word. He still went into work occasionally, but most days found him at his computer or buried in the remnants of Bobby's library, searching for any kind of lore or legend on a second Messiah, or any other biblical purpose Gabriel could possibly be using Aeden for.

Unbidden in his mind rose the image of Aeden, scared and alone, locked in some angel's rat cage. Or worse, an angel's vessel, with glowing white eyes, pressing his hand against some demon's forehead.

They couldn't just take him. Not like this. Not ever. In a sudden flash of rage, Sam screamed and threw the heavy leather-bound tome he was holding across the office, where it smashed into the liquor cabinet, sending amber liquid and shard of glass flying in every direction, and soaking the pages of the ancient book.

A moment later, Mealla appeared and looked through the door, expressionless, and then left without even looking at Sam.


	7. Chapter 7

At the same time as Dean and Castiel lay shivering, finally overcome by the hopelessness which saturated the very atmosphere, a young boy with fire-red hair trekked, unnoticed, through a poison forest, alone and confused and determined.

_Who are you?_

_I am Gabriel the archangel. I have work for you._

_What do I have to do?_

_You need to find two people, a human and an angel, and bring them back here._

_How will I know them?_

_You'll know._

_How will I find them?_

_You'll find them._

…_It's my birthday._

_You'll be home in time for cake and ice cream…Good luck._

_Wait!_

Aeden wrapped his arms tighter around himself as the temperature dropped to what surely had to below freezing. He was cold and scared and all he wanted was to wake up from whatever nightmare this was and see his dad and have him say that everything was okay. That it wasn't real.

Except he knew he wouldn't wake up until he'd done as Gabriel had said. But how was he supposed to find two tiny people, or a person and an angel, in this pitch dark forest?

Tears stung Aeden's eyes. He just wanted to go home. All around him he could hear feral snarling, see glinting red eyes moving among the rotting trees, but nothing approached him. It was like he was invisible.

He stumbled and tripped through what felt like miles of dying forest, crying and gasping, terrified out of his mind. He had no idea what he was looking for, or where to look. He just ran and ran, until a fallen branch caught his foot and he went sprawling over sharp rocks and mud.

For a moment, Aeden just lay there miserably. The angel had said he'd know where to go, but he just didn't. Slow and laborious, he pushed himself up onto his knees. His pajama pants were torn and they were bleeding badly, as were his palms and forearms. He wiped them off as best he could on his Jurassic Park t-shirt, and got to his bare feet. He hadn't even noticed how scratched up they were until now, and realized that his soles had been completely cut to ribbons. _Some angel. Dick, _he thought, repeating a bad word he'd once heard Daddy say when he thought Aeden wasn't listening.

There came the sharp snaps of branches from the brambles behind him, and Aeden whipped around, and froze solid. He couldn't move, he couldn't even blink. Every fiber of his body screamed at him to run for his life, but his limbs wouldn't respond. Standing only feet from him was a massive black wolf. Aeden's head barely reached its shoulder. The thing was covered in filthy, matted fur, and its mouth hung open, revealing three rows of crooked, yellowing teeth spotted with dark red.

The smell made Aeden's eyes water, a nauseating combination of month old garbage and something cloying and sweet, but tangy like rust. He gagged and shoved his fist into his mouth, biting down so hard on his knuckles he drew blood, and held as still as he could. The wolf, or whatever it was, sniffed loudly, turning left and right. It tromped forward through the thorns, straight toward Aeden. He couldn't help himself.

Aeden stumbled backwards, overbalanced, and fell with horrible _crack!_ right into a bed of thorns. They pierced through the thin Jurassic Park t-shirt easily and stabbed into his back, and he yelped. The wolf snapped its head around. It was only feet away. Its snout lowered, right over Aeden. He closed his eyes and waited. He was going to die, here in this horrible forest. He'd never see Mommy or Daddy again. He-

All of a sudden, he heard swift, rhythmic crunches, and cracked one eye open. The wolf was gone. Aeden pushed himself to his feet and caught a glimpse of it bounding away through the blackened trees. Impossibly, he was still alive, although bleeding and in pain and still terrified out of his wits.

He continued timidly onward, edging around evil-looking plants and poisonous vines as though afraid he would break them. He chose every step carefully, always turning his head left and right, on the lookout for more monsters. He had no delusions about where he was, or who had sent him. He knew he now hiked through the Place of Evil. Perpetrator, it was called. No, something else that started with a P. When the angel had spoken to him, he had caught a glimpse inside his mind. He saw this place through the angel's eyes, felt the fear it incited. Even God himself could not enter here. But he could. He, Aeden Winchester, could.

Perhaps he should have been vivified so much as terrified by this notion, but the knowledge rekindled his fortitude and he pressed forward with new vigor, stepping easily over roots and snakes and all over manner of sickening creatures, none of which seemed to pay him the slightest of mind. His confidence bubbled, warming him in this coldest and dampest of places. He held his head high and looked forward, gaining in speed, and did not see the wide black hole until he stepped right into it and tumbled to its depths.

**oOo**

It was sort of ironic, Dean thought with a mental dry laugh, that he should willingly put his life in the hands of the man who had not only betrayed him twice over, but who had let all the damned Leviathans out in the first place, thereby making him the main reason for his being there.

Castiel on occasion still had the strength to stand. He wouldn't go anywhere, just stand sentinel at the mouth of the cave in which they had taken refuge, and watch the ever mutating monstrosity that surrounded them. Neither said a word. There was no more need for them. Conversation was obsolete, confession unnecessary. There was nothing to confess in a place so evil.

Perhaps they didn't notice, or perhaps their eyes were too blind now to see, but in a place such as Purgatory, where the very ground has malice, the soul of a decent man will become visible, a thing of light and hope. It cannot be directly harmed by any of the forces which dwell there, for it draws light directly from its host. Not from the host's hope or life force, for it either were so, the souls of Castiel and Dean would be very dim indeed, but from their goodness.

Everyone has a measure of it, an undulating amount that shifts with every thought, every feeling, every action. Good intentions are there, good deeds brighten the glow considerably. Selflessness and giving, love. But the thing which shines brightest, so much that those who see it directly are often blinded, is forgiveness, the greatest act of love a person can commit. And for this reason, Cas and Dean shone like supernovas.


	8. Chapter 75

When Sam first heard Mealla's voice from his office, he thought it was his imagination. She hadn't spoken to him in weeks, why start now?

"Sam, get in here," she called again.

Cautiously, Sam pushed open the door and received a shock.

The first thing he registered was the fire. The floor was on fire. Then he saw who stood within the flames, but still didn't understand. He'd prayed and screamed and threatened for months to no avail, so how the _hell _was Gabriel now standing in his office, having a stare-down with his wife.

"How did you…?" Sam began, looking from Mealla to Gabriel and back again.

"I found a ritual for summoning angels in one of your books," replied Mealla without taking her eyes off Gabriel.

Sam decided not to remark that he had been searching for the exact same thing for 17 years and been unsuccessful.

"So this holy oil," Mealla said as though continuing a conversation which Sam had interrupted, "you can't get out of it."

"Right," Gabriel agreed.

"Which makes you my bitch." There was something incredibly sexy about those words when they came out quirked by Mealla's strong Irish accent.

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. "Huh. That's an interesting way to put it."

"So how about this: Bring Aeden back _right now_, or we'll leave you here. Forever."

"Sweetheart, your forever is nothing to me," said Gabriel with his familiar smirk. He raised his eyes to Sam. "You haven't taught her very well, Sammy boy."

"Okay…" Mealla leaned casually on the desk, her voice as light as though they were discussing the weather over coffee. "I soak you in this magic oil and deep-fry you until you bring him back." She reached for the silver flask on the desk next to her. "Does that sound fun?"

"Whoa, whoa, okay," Gabriel held up his hand and laughed nervously. "Hey, let's not be hasty here. I wish I could help you, really, I do." Mealla unscrewed the cap off the flask. "Hey! Just listen." Gabriel was eyeing the holy oil with something that might have been fear, and Sam knew there was not a doubt in the angel's mind that Mealla was not bluffing.

"I would _love _to help you. If it makes you feel better, I was against using the kid in the first place. If it was up to me, I would scoop your son up right now and plop him right back here."

"So why don't you!" cried Sam.

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Because I _can't_, muttonhead. He's in a place now not even angels can enter."

"Where? Where did you send him?"

"If I tell you, will you let me go?" The question was directed not at Sam, but at Mealla.

She folded her arms. "I'll let you go when you bring our son back."

"Then we'll all be staring at each other for quite awhile," sighed Gabriel. He sat down cross-legged, carefully avoiding the flames. "Anyone got a deck of cards?"

Sam and Mealla waited.

"Look," said Gabriel, standing up again, "I said you'd get him back , you're both blowing this _way _out of proportion."

"Fine. See you next week." Mealla stalked out of the room and Sam followed without a second glance at the angel.

They kept the door shut and locked, but aside from the new off-limits agreement, nothing seemed to have changed between Sam and his wife.

A week later, they went together back into the office, but all that was left was a singed circle on the carpet.

"I thought you said holy oil burned forever," said Mealla.

"It does."

"So who let him out?"


	9. Chapter 8

The fingers of Aeden's left hand scrabbled blindly over the slimy rock walls of his new prison, desperately searching for any purchase or break, but there was none. Looking up, eyes opened as wide as they would go, he could just barely glimpse a dim navy circle contrasted against the pitch black. But perhaps it was just his imagination.

When he fell, he had landed hard on his right shoulder, and his arm now hung uselessly at his side. He was sure it was aching something fierce, but in the pool of all the other bruises and cuts that blanketed his body, he couldn't pick it out.

His feet stumbled and slipped over stones. Stones that crunched and gave way when he stepped on them. Not stones. Aeden was grateful he couldn't see, but the blindness gave no comfort to the nausea building in his stomach. He'd seen Lord of the Rings. He knew what crunched like that. Fear rose like bile in his throat, and he doubled over and retched.

He dropped to his knees, trembling and crying.

_Help,_ Aeden whispered to whoever could hear. He was sure no one could, and even if they did hear, who would come to help? _Help._

_Hello, Aeden._ The melodic voice seemed to come from the very air around him, and it was accompanied by a teasing, sweet smell, like a nice perfume. Aeden blinked and looked around for the source of the voice.

From out of the darkness to his right came a woman, also barefoot, also in pajamas, although hers were a flowing white night gown. She had long blonde hair which seemed to float around her face like a halo, and she smiled warmly at Aeden, the way he imagined a grandmother would. Her light washed over him in pleasant sort of way, and brushed the fear back to the crevices of his mind.

"Who are you?"

_My name is Mary. Sweetheart, you need to be strong. _

"I'm scared," he told her honestly. "I just want to go home."

_And you will,_ came the sweet voice. _But first you must find them._

"Find who?" Aeden asked. "Gabriel wouldn't tell me."

The woman only continued to smile as she approached him. When they stood only a foot apart, she held out her pale, luminescent hand, and Aeden took it and immediately felt warm strength flood through his veins like hot chocolate, and together they began to climb the sheer sides of the pit.

Lightning flashed overhead, followed by a deafening crash of thunder as Aeden crawled on his hands and knees onto flat ground. He raised his eyes, and up ahead was illuminated a massive craggy mountain, rising straight out of the trees only a few hundred yards ahead. Aeden turned to Mary, but she had vanished.

And then- _Go to the mountain,_ her voice urged him.

Aeden sprinted for it, all injury forgotten, sure that if he could only reach the top he would be able to spot his quarries. He ran and ran, losing track of time, and came to the base of the mountain just as a sickly pink tinge began to color the edge of the horizon, illuminating another complication. The mountain was comprised entirely of jagged, razor sharp peaks that jutted out at every bizarre angle. There was no way even the most experienced mountaineer was climbing that thing.

He looked up to the peak, barely visible now, once more feeling the hopelessness begin to press at the barriers of his mind. He'd never climbed anything more challenging than the ropes at the playground. How could he summit this monstrosity? There was another crack of thunder, and rain began to fall thick and fast, icy bucket-fulls of drops hard and sharp as diamonds. Even the rain hurt here.

And yet through his barely open lids, Aeden saw, a few yards above him, Mary again. She stood, alone and unharmed, almost seeming to float over the injurious rocks. She smiled and Aeden, and beckoned. Aeden took a deep breath, seized hold of the nearest outcropping with his good arm, and pulled himself up toward Mary.

Though he clambered over the sharpest edges, nothing cut him. There was not a scratch, not that he would have been able to tell them apart from the motley assortment that already riddled his body. Mary drew him higher and higher, until he stood, sweaty and shivering, at the very summit, balancing on a razor thin peak. He squinted as he surveyed the dead land below him. Behind was the forest, but ahead was an endless wasteland of rolling, rocky hills, scattered with debris and the gruesome corpses of a thousand terrible monsters. He stared and stared, but saw nothing.

_There, _whispered Mary. She pointed with a single delicate finger in the direction of the rising sun, and Aeden saw two jewel bright pinpricks of light, which flickered on and off, like the dying fairy in Peter Pan.

"Is that them?" he asked, turning to Mary.

She nodded slowly, pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead, and vanished. Now all that was left was to get back down the mountain.

Filled with new vigor, Aeden slid and scrambled down the opposite mountainside, oblivious to the numerous scrapes and bruises he sustained.

At long last, he reached the rocky foothills and began the staggering hike west, for in Purgatory, that is the direction the blood red sun rises, when it decides to rise at all.

The lights had seemed so near the base of the mountain when he'd stood at the summit. They couldn't possibly be this far out. Was he lost again? _Please don't let me be lost again._

"_Once I rose above the noise and confusion_…" he sang under his breath, which came in exhausted gasps now. "_Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion_."

His dad didn't have a particularly good voice, nor did he sing particularly on key, but that had never fazed him or Aeden very much. Every night for the first six years of his life, Mom and Dad had tucked Aeden into bed, kissed him goodnight, and then Mom had left and Dad had seated himself at the foot of the bed, making the springs creak in their familiar way, adding accompaniment to his rendition of an old song from the seventies, sung, apparently, by guys who had hair longer than Mom's. They hadn't done that for awhile, at Aeden's protests that he was too grown up, but still, on rare occasions, he could hear Dad singing it under his breath when he thought no one was listening, and it still gave Aeden immeasurable comfort.

"_Carry on my wayward son_," he hummed, "_there'll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest, don't you cry no more_."

Oh God, he just wanted to lie down and rest."

**oOo**

"I'm sorry, Dean." Cas' voice was so soft as to be almost inaudible, but at the sound, Dean raised his weary head a fraction of an inch.

"Why?"

Cas shook his head, eyes fixed on his hands. "I saved you from Hell only to drag you to a place a million times worse. We're going to die here."

They sat slumped, shoulder to shoulder, against the rough wall of a craggy bluff, both completely exhausted. And then over the screeching wind…

"Dude, do you hear Kansas?"

Cas frowned. "I don't understand. Kansas is a state, not a sou-"

"No, no. The band."

"I'm afraid I still don't understand."

Dean sat up a little straighter, listening hard. "_Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man_," he sang along with the unseen voice. "_Though my mind could think I still was a mad man_… Dude, there's definitely someone out there."

In an amazing feat of strength, Dean pulled himself to his feet and peeked around the edge of the bluff, but saw no one.


	10. Chapter 9

**Excessive Mark Pellegrino feels at the moment, started watching Lost with the last episode of Season 5, after only watching the first 1.5 seasons. Jacob is a bamf. **

They were there. The two lights were just below him, only a hundred feet away. Straight down a sheer cliff face, with no visible path to the bottom. How could he reach them?

_Jump,_ whispered a voice, not the woman's. He recognized it vaguely as the one who had sent him here.

"_Jump? _Are you serious? That's got to be a hundred feet."

_Trust me, kid,_ insisted the angel. _You can make it._

"No I can't!"

From out of nowhere, an invisible force collided with the small of his back, and Aeden toppled forward, over the edge, and straight down to the unforgiving ground below, screaming all the way.

**oOo**

They heard a scuffling and screaming from somewhere above. Dean tensed, but already the brief surge of energy was leaking away. He seized onto a shallow outcropping to remain standing, but dodged out of the way just in time to avoid a fiery red ballistic missile crashing into the ground where he had just been standing.

"Nnnn," came a pained groan from the shadowy heap on the ground. It unfolded itself and seemed to inflate into the scrawny figure of a young, albeit tall, boy. His skin was mottled by more cuts and bruises than even Dean bore, and his right arm dangled uselessly at his side.

Cas got to his feet and shoved Dean back behind him. Always the protector.

The young boy, however, did not seem to pose much of a threat. He beamed in all-encompassing relief when he caught sight of Dean and Cas, and tears streamed from his eyes. He moved forward and wrapped one arm around a bewildered Cas' waist.

"I found you." The boy released Cas and looked up at the sorry pair. "I found you."

Through his blurred vision, Dean could make out that the kid had about the reddest damn hair he'd ever seen, and that he was young, despite being well over five feet tall.

"Who the hell are you?"

The kid shook his head in a loose sort of way, letting out an exhausted breath as though he were shaking off the question. "Come with me."

Three words. Three words from a stranger in the place worse than hell, and the angel and the human trusted him with their lives. Some would call it magic. Some would call it intuition. Me? I say it was the sheer relief of running across another human, a speck of innocence in the vast ocean of evil which surrounded them.

He held out his hands to Dean and Cas, who each took one gingerly but without question. The black bluff vanished.

**oOo**

Three months. It might as well have been three years. Each picture of Aeden, grinning proudly next to a fish or a tree, or amongst jersey-clad soccer players, now seemed to leer at Sam, taunting him. A face in a picture takes on a certain quality when you look at it long enough. The upturned corners of the mouth start to turn down, the eyes look away from the camera, at something just out of view. They become distant and unknowable.  
This is the only smile Sam Winchester has known for three months.

It was the first time he'd left the house for any prolonged period of time since Aeden disappeared. He sat hunched on a bar stool with a crooked line of empty shot glasses before him, running his thumb over Aeden's face in the family picture taken the year before at Lake Taho. He'd done this so many times the spot was now becoming blurry and faded.

The bartender, a pretty girl with curly, caramel colored hair sidled up on the other side of the bar.

"Another for ya, sweetie."

Sam shook his head without looking up, making his bangs fall forward, hiding his face.

"That's a pretty picture," the woman said. "Some red hair that kid's got goin' on."

Sam didn't reply.

"Sweetheart, you should go home."

"Nobody's there," Sam whispered. It was close enough to the truth. Mealla had become a sort of ghost, floating from room to room. She was stronger than he was. She hadn't yet started throwing books at walls. But the silence was killing her, and he knew she still blamed him.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," said the bartender. "Get on outta here. Go back home."

He was too out of it to even register the oddness of her comment. He dug into his wallet for some bills, but she held up a hand.

"Don't pay. Just go. You don't have a lot of time."

"A lot of time for what?"

"_Sam!_ Git!"

Obediently he stumbled out of the bar, not pausing to wonder how she knew his name.


	11. Chapter 10

**Just need to point something out first: In "Free to Be You and Me," when Dean promises Cas he's not gonna die a virgin and takes him to a strip club…there was a much quicker fix for that which wouldn't have involved even leaving their little house…**

Mealla was in the kitchen when Sam came home. She could smell the alcohol from the moment the door opened, but said nothing. She never spoke to him anymore. He tromped up the stairs with heavy, uneven steps, and the ceiling creaked above her. He was going into Aeden's room.

The pan she'd been cleaning for the past two hours slipped from her hand and clattered to the tile floor, but she hardly seemed to notice. She eased up the stairs, an unfounded sense of curiosity driving her forward. She heard Sam open the door, and then shout in alarm.

Mealla took the rest of the stairs two at a time and sprinted down the upstairs hall, skidding to a halt outside Aeden's open door. Sam was on his knees, holding something in his arms. His broad shoulders quaked. Moving further into the room, Mealla caught sight of a mop of carrot-orange hair and swooped down upon her son.

For several minutes nobody said anything. They just knelt there, the three of them, holding each other. When at last they stood, Mealla got her first good look at Aeden.

His face was covered in dirt and blood streaked with tear tracks, his pajama's were torn and ragged, and covered in blood and dirt. One of his arms hung limp, like it had been dislocated, but he was beaming broader than he ever had before, and his green eyes shone bright as emeralds.

"Didn't I say so?"

All three jumped and turned around.

Gabriel the archangel stood near the closet, smiling at Aeden in a proud sort of way. "Told ya you could do it," he said, folding his arms. To Sam, he said, "See? Safe and sound."

Sam lunged at him and pressed his forearm against the angel's throat. "You bastard. What did you do?" he asked when he found his voice.

Gabriel narrowed his eyes and pushed Sam easily away. "I followed the path that God laid for me. And now you must follow the path He has laid for you." He approached Aeden.

Mealla's arm curled protectively around his shoulders and she pulled him back.

"Mia," said Sam softly, "it's okay."

Mealla relaxed slightly, enough for Gabriel to briefly touch Aeden's forehead, making all the scrapes and bruises vanish.

"God," said Sam. "As in _God _God. He's back?"

"I never left."

Near Gabriel there now stood a young, unshaven man with curly brown hair and kind brown eyes like melted chocolate. He wore green plaid flannel pants and a rumpled white shirt.

"_Chuck?_" said Sam in utter incredulity.

Chuck sighed. "I'm not Chuck Shurley. I never have been."

Sam raked a hand through his hair. "Oh my God. I mean-" he winced and looked questioningly at the being formerly known as Chuck.

Chuck smiled. "You can still call me Chuck. It's less pretentious, don't you think?"

"Where are the others?" Aeden asked, speaking for the first time. "The ones I saved."

Chuck patted Aeden on the head. "You have a truly remarkable son, Sam. He has done the impossible. Don't worry, Aeden," he added, looking down. "They are safe."

"Wait, what others?" demanded Sam. "What did you make him do?"

Chuck looked straight into Sam with his piercing eyes. "I set him a task he, and _only _he, was capable of accomplishing. For a purpose far greater than one small person. He _is _the second Messiah, Sam. And he has suffered for humanity's sins."

"You mean," said Sam, taking a step forward. God or not, he still towered over Chuck, "that you _tortured _my son to-"

"His suffering is ended," Chuck continued as though he had not heard. "But now I have work for you three."

"Us three?" asked Sam.

Chuck snapped his fingers. If any more people appeared in that room, there wouldn't be room to breathe. Straight and upright, both seeming perfectly healthy, although confused, stood Dean Winchester and the angel Castiel.

"More work?" said Dean with every trace of his indignant cocky swagger. "What needs saving now?"

"_The world_, dumba-" Gabriel broke off and looked sheepishly at Aeden, "_muttonhead._"

**The story officially ends here. Stay tuned for Dean's augmentation of Aeden's parenting.**


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Supernatural, Drama, Family