Supernatural x Fate
Supernatural x Fate
Season 5 Episode 8: c̸̛̺͖͍̝̠̻̤͛̄́̌̄́͋͗͝ḧ̶̢̙̊̈́̿̏̈͘a̵̯̗̪̬͈̳̲̪̔͑͛̈́͜n̶̹͇͕̖̿̆̈̊̈́̇̽̍͝ͅg̷̡̡̱͕̥̜͓͈͑̄̎̌̂͛̓͠ͅͅi̵̱̫̬̤͔̇͊͝n̸̮̺̪̘̰̒̔͂͆̋͐̎̔g̷̘͎̓̂̽́͌̉̚͝ ̸̧̞̩̣̜̺̝̳̘̺̅̒͊c̵̳͎̥̙͂̍h̷̥̿̌͂̉̈̌̌͝a̵̪͒̒͒̑̄́̋̂n̴̟̈̾̈́n̸̯̳͙͉͌̈́̀̐̄̔͊e̴̩̤͙͚̯̿̿̿͑̏̊͒̎ḽ̴̢̼̲͖̃̌̈̽̓̾̕͠͝͝s̴̫̮͖͐̓
1994
The living room was quiet and dimly lit. Warm floor lamps cast just enough light to highlight the old wooden furniture. The few windows were obscured by heavy curtains, letting in only thin slivers of moonlight. Bookshelves were lined across every wall, filled to the brim with strange antiquities, notebooks, or metal chests.
A lone television set sat a few feet away from the couch; piled on both ends were leather-bound notebooks and superhero comics. The squeaky sound of marker on paper was overlaid by the monotonous female voice of a news anchor. Images of burning buildings, a seemingly never-ending flow of cinder, ashes, and smoke dominated the small square screen.
"A fire that had broken out just a few days ago is still ongoing in the small city of Fuyuki, Japan."
Basking under the bright light of the television, a small brunette boy lay his stomach flat on the floor, paying no heed to the late-night CNN news. Scattered haphazardly around him were permanent markers of every color.
"-have baffled scientists across the globe. This tragic event marks another mystery-."
The boy replaced his red sharpie with a black one, slightly re-adjusting his grip on his journal. Under nimble fingertips, intricate runes appeared a brighter scarlet from the glow of the tv.
Only a loud and throaty laugh stopped the young artist in his tracks. The faint sound of a page-turning could be heard from behind him, followed by more obnoxious laughter.
"What's so funny?" the boy asked, head turned to face his older brother. Said brother kicked a leg up onto the coffee table, waving his comic in a mocking fashion. The cover page spelled out The Sandman in big yellow letters. A blurry illustration of an ethereal man lay right under the title.
"Sammy, even if I tell you the joke, your elementary size brain wouldn't get it."
Frowning at his response, Sam held up his impressive sketch work for the other to see.
"Circles."
"No, protection spells Dean."
A low whistle echoed throughout the room. Leaning back, the older sibling let out an amused smirk. "Protection my ass." He pointed to the pile of journals next to the tv. "What good is all that if you can't channel your mana through anything, can't get dad to teach you anything but reinforcement?"
"Estimated that 500 citizens perished. There seem to be no survivors-."
Dean's comment seemed to strike a nerve within the younger Winchester. The boy stood up from his prone position, ready to launch into an argument. However, just then, the lights started flickering.
Lamps dimmed and brightened at an increasingly random pace. The television sported disruptive lines of every color. The anchorwoman's voice cut off at odd syllables, her image deteriorating by the second, until the sole sound of static was all you could hear. The room was abruptly plunged into near darkness. Only the slight outline of the windows was visible due to outside light.
From their position, the brothers could hear loud footsteps resounding in the hallways accompanied by bloodcurdling screams.
When Sam shared a look of fear and uncertainty with Dean, without sparing another second, the older Winchester grabbed the nearest gun and rushed to the kitchen door. He does this before Sam could register his movements, blocking the younger boy from the door. Once he exited the living room, Dean closed and locked the only entrance behind him, ignoring Sam's cries and pounds to let him outside.
Dean cocked the lever of his gun, pointing his weapon towards the intruder, only to falter when a familiar grizzled face frowned at him from the dark. At his feet, the source of the screaming turned out to be a gaunt-looking man in his forties. He slowly bled onto the marble tiles. A trail of red could be seen where his body was dragged.
The dark figure seemed to ignore Dean's presence as he tugged at his captive's collar harsher, ushering the tortured man towards a pair of iron bars. Scarred hands worked swiftly to cuff the man's only hand, and the captive's face scrunched in pain, flailing wildly.
His left hand was missing. A bloody stump from just below the elbow was all that remained. And as he desperately tugged at his constraints to no avail, glowing blue lines littered his skin at uneven intervals.
The man standing over him cut an intimating image. Clad in shades of dark brown and black, the man wiped his dirty hands on his trench coat before finally redirecting his attention to the teen.
"Put down the goddamn gun son. If it was anyone but me, you'd be dead already."
Dean gripped the handle harder, as his lips morphed into a snarl. His teeth gnashed together in frustration and anger. "You fucking asshole. Why, especially now, are you doing this!?" He spared another glance at the beaten bleeding man.
"Don't you care at all about Sammy!"
"Dean. Now's not the time for this. Do what I say and go back into the living room. Stay with your brother until I say it's safe to come out."
"Even after this, you want to still leave me in the da-."
"NOW!"
A sudden chill ran through him. A feeling that their house was trespassed. Swallowing his pride, Dean turned and entered the living room with enough force to knock over a curious Sam. Quickly latching the door behind him, he strode to his sprawled brother and helped him stand. The younger boy looked up at him with wide panic-struck eyes.
"Dean, I felt it. The bounded field, it-it was broken just a few seconds ago."
Tugging at his hair, Dean nodded in consensus, as he paced around the bookshelves in deep thought. Sam scrambled for the house phone, stepping over and ruining his paper sketches.
"We need to do something, don't we!? Call dad or Uncle Bobby?"
"Bobby is in Italy on Church business. Dad, dad is out there in the kitchen. . . Look, Sammy, don't worry about it. I think he's got it under control alright? We just have to stay put." Dean rummaged through each storage container hidden in the shelves before he caught a glimpse of shining silver. He wrestled the object out of the box, brushing off the dust and broken glass to reveal a black leather glove lined with silver etchings.
"You're getting out that!? Are we in danger or not?" Sam shouted in annoyance.
"Sammy please shut up and quiet down. Our walls aren't that thick!" Dean fitted the glove onto his right hand and flexed his fingers before handing his gun to his brother. "This is just a precautio-"
A loud crash froze both brothers in their spot. A horrible nauseating aura filled the room to the brim. A feeling so unnerving and indescribable washed over them. Soon after, the loud sounds of growling permeated the house. Said growls were soon accompanied by strange hisses, barks, and snarls that could have been from any kind of animal.
It was painful to stand or breathe. It took all Sam's willpower to keep his feet planted on the cold floor. To his right, Dean was in no better position. His hands trembled and sweat ran down his entire body.
From the small gap under the door, Sam could barely see anything due to the lack of light, but a beady red eye abruptly emerged from the dark. It stared at him, and he stared back. Prey and predator at a standstill.
They couldn't hear their father, couldn't make out if he was still alive or already killed by whatever monster now resided in their home. Dean quickly held his hand over the smaller boy's mouth, urging both of them to stay quiet.
The room felt suffocating. A long stretch of silence ensued, and Sam didn't dare break eye contact with the cimmerian creature. Then, out of the blue, a high-pitched shriek flooded their ears. It sounded like the pained scream of a dying chainsaw: guttural, metallic, and penetrating. The shrill noise was soon accompanied by bright warm light, generously spilling inside the room from the hallway. Just for a second, the brothers forgot all about the intruder. The radiance washed away their worries and fears. Relieved, Sam realized he could no longer see that terrible eye.
A loud bang alarmed them once more, as someone burst through the door, beelining straight towards them. Their dad, John Winchester, holding a large cross contraption, swept inside the room like a large bat. His coat was tattered and his entire body covered in blood.
"Dean, Sam, get in the car now!"
The man, about to usher the two kids outside, stopped to examine Sam's eyes. A striking shade of gold bled through his irises, causing strain and irritation in his temples. John quickly gave Dean a stern look, relaying to him a silent order, and the teen did not hesitate, pulling sam close to him and forcing his eyes shut.
The younger brother tried to shake off his grasp, wishing to grab as many journals as he could before leaving, but Dean practically carried him to the backdoor, out into the parking lot, and into the black impala. On their way outside, Sam also noted the odd lack of corpses in their hallway.
He shot his father looks of suspicion as they buckled up and shot out into the dark.
Sam fumbled with his seatbelt to stand on his knees, staring out the rear car window just in time to witness the collapse of their house. Few figures in dark cloaks circled the crumbling structure. Their forms grew smaller and smaller as the impala sped to 100 miles.
Street lights shone down on them like a beacon, which only exasperated their anxiety. In this better lit area, Dean could see the harsh frown etched on his father's face. He could even spot the pale hand poking out of his left pocket. A strange red symbol was etched on its palm. The mark had already faded quite a bit, but Dean could still make out the semblance of feathery wings. There were eight of them total, and each conjoined in the middle to form a larger eye; It formed a rather bizarre figure, almost like an alien creature of sorts.
The eye felt like it was beckoning him, no, desperately reaching out to him for a reason he couldn't quite place.
Dean pressed himself further into his seat, trying to back away as much as possible, and remarkably, the feeling gradually stopped. Next to him, Sam still stared out into the back window, eyes no longer gold but their usual hazel color.
On the severed hand, the mysterious mark finally faded away completely, leaving only smooth but bloody skin behind.
***************************************************************
Present Day - 2005
The northwestern skies were especially gray that day. The tall pine trees appeared almost black at certain angles, and the birds seemed to be keeping to themselves. The entire expanse of the road was empty and silent. The lone sound of car engine rumble was the only thing easing the two men's minds.
A black impala sat parked right off the main road, just a few feet from the dense woods. Dean seemed reluctant to part with it, so they stood, still leaning against the car, facing the thick mesh of trees with anticipation and anxiety.
Sam felt the need to make a snarky comment to his older brother, something about whether this atmosphere reminds him of home or not. He glanced out of the corner of his eye to see Dean frowning, his left hand fidgeting with something in his pocket. He seemed nervous.
"This fucking cult," Dean grumbled in annoyance. He stepped closer to the nearest tree, tracing the old but unblemished bark. "We better find something here or else I'm burning this cursed place to the ground."
Sam stepped up next to his brother, adjusting his satchel for comfort. "Hopefully some tomes or vampires. It would match what we found about them."
"Yeah, dead apostle leader and his brainwashed heretic magi. A perfect recipe for disaster, or in this case, the motherfucking Judeo-Christian apocalypse."
"Dean, just because they're pseudo-Satanists doesn't mean they're into that kind of stuff."
The older Winchester gave Sam a look of condescension before finally deciding to venture into the woods. Sam gave him the middle finger, following close behind.
The two travelers continued their trek deeper into the mesh of trees, and neither seemed worried about getting lost. The woods were dense but seemingly absent of any bugs or animals. The whole place gave Sam the creeps, but he knew he had to investigate this place. The leylines running under these sacred grounds were unique, one of the stronger ones in North America.
"Just when did you know so much about cults, huh? Stanford teaching you about religious psychology or something?" Dean slowed his pace to skim the nearest tree, feeling the latent energy hum under his fingertips. From a few feet behind him, Sam looked at him confused and slightly irked.
"Stanford?" The tall man knelt close to a small bush, tearing the small branches until he saw symbols etched on the ground.
"Just what the hell are you talking about?"
"You studied Law-"
"Lore Dean." Sam frowned at his statement. " I studied lore, at the Clock Tower no less. Did you hit your head this morning?"
"I. . ." Rubbing his temples, Dean gave out a deep sigh. "No, no, I didn't. Must be lack of sleep or something, don't know where that came from." When his thoughts cleared, he looked up to spot a deep indent in a nearby tree.
"Well." Sam stepped away from the bush. "Maybe we'll sleep better after today. Just need to catch one of these guys first. Also, the seal's deactiva-."
Suddenly Sam was interrupted by Dean's hand motions. He signaled to keep quiet, pointing at a dented tree. Although faint, small splatters of blood could be found on its branches, and the mark looked to be made by a human hand. Dean wiggled his eyebrows in a joking manner.
"Vampires am I right?" He whispered sarcastically. "Exciting."
Sam rolled his eyes in return before quietly walking in the direction of the blood splatters. It didn't take long before they could hear snarls and yells. Severed limbs were scattered here and there, leading towards a small clearing.
Then, a loud slash of a blade alerted their senses.
"Shit." Dean clenched his fists in annoyance. "Someone's stealing our god damn thunder!"
Quickly putting on a black glove, he activated it in a rather dramatic fashion: "Wolverine style", as he often describes it. The older Winchester wasted no time running into a fray of zombie-looking creatures. They were spread out, rapidly swiveling their heads to find something or someone: their red eyes on high alert.
The monsters, obviously scared and on guard, did not look in their direction whatsoever.
Dean felt slightly offended. These bastards were ignoring them!
Without wasting another second, he easily took the closest one, cleaving its head off in one swing. The kill must have finally caught their attention since the rest immediately charged at Sam. Cursing, the tall man raised his left hand, concentrating on gathering his Od. Bright red flames lit their forms like giant matches, slightly singeing the grass while doing so.
Dean just finished off his fourth victim before he stared in awe.
"You just did magic!"
Sam raised an eyebrow. "Sure did. . . Are you going to make a Gandalf joke now?"
Dean shook his head, confusion setting in once again. "No, I just. . I didn't know you could do that."
"What? Not funny Dean, just what are you-"
The siblings were interrupted by a slew of silver blades, piercing through the remaining creatures like a hot knife through butter. When one of the weapons got embedded in a nearby tree, Sam took a closer look and immediately recognized its design.
A weapon of the Church.
"Well Christ, I should have expected you two idiots to be here as well."
A suave female voice, French in accent, taunted them from the shadows. Another growl from behind Sam erupted just as soon as it died out, a black key now puncturing its skull. Dropping from a tall tree, a slim figure landed gracefully in the midst of the fallen corpses. In her off-brand nun outfit and combat boots, she seemed quite ill-suited to the scene of mass carnage.
Her frosty blue eyes stared at the Winchesters impassively.
Immediately, Dean fixed her his million-dollar smile, elated at her appearance. "Elli," he greeted enthusiastically, quickly switching off his weapon. The woman glared at him as she crushed the skull of a twitching vampire. Fixing her tousled short hair, she eventually let her own blades disappear as well.
"Ciel. . . I go by Ciel now. How many times must I have to remind you?" Her tone was cold but underlaid by warm familiarity.
"Ciel." Sam started. "You're not going to stop us are you?" His feet started to anxiously fidget; for some reason, whenever she was present, he felt like he was in middle school all over again.
"All the burial agency needs is the leader's head on a plate. Whatever you two plan to do before or afterward doesn't concern me." She quickly brought out a small leather notebook, scribbling something in it before tucking it away.
"That is unless you get in my way."
Coughing into his hand, Sam frantically nodded in understanding. "Right, you won't have to worry about that. Um, anyway, it's nice to see you again? It's been, what, five years? We missed you. . . Dean missed you, like a lot."
"Sammy," Dean growled.
"Cant we work this mission out together at least?" He shot Dean a small smirk. "Have dinner together afterward? Indian maybe?"
"America does not have good curry."
Ignoring Dean's protests, Ciel started moving the corpses all to one side, revealing dried paint hidden underneath the growing weeds. It was hard to discern the shape due to its large size, but it appeared to be a summoning circle. All the usual charakteres and runes were present, but the giant star in the middle was a strange addition.
Entranced, Sam grew closer to the symbol. He knows he recognizes it since he briefly studied up on Witchcraft and Black magic for a research paper. However, something deep inside him tells him this familiarity stems from elsewhere. When he glanced at Dean, Sam could tell his brother felt the same.
"What's it for?" Dean questioned, crouching to get a better look. Ciel brought out her notebook again, checking something off her to-do list before sketching the scene before her. "To summon something," she sarcastically remarked.
Dean's mind flashed to a certain night eleven years ago. The strange mark he saw on the dead man's hand, the destruction of their home, and his dad's strange behavior. Could it be? Was this cult connected somehow? Was this why dad was so interested in this case? "Well, I'm not stupid. Obviously, I know its function. But what are these fuckers trying to summon?" Dean reached out with his hand to skim the flaky black paint, mind going overdrive.
"Maybe. . ." Sam whispered. "Another war?"
Ciel approached closer. "Sam, do you hear yourself right now? It just ended a year ago. That's simply impossible-"
The woman stopped in her tracks when she felt tremors underneath her feet. The ground started shaking, despite there being no record of earthquakes in the area. Paint started to chip off in tiny flakes, rising high into the air. Bright searing light poured out from within the summoning circle.
They all covered their eyes, not wanting to go blind. Dean tried to block his ears as well. A shrill, guttural, and metallic noise overrode all his senses until it just stopped. . .
When he opened his eyes, he was greeted with the most peculiar sight. A man in a beige trench coat stood smack dab in the middle of the clearing. He stared at his surroundings like a lost child. When the individual finally noticed them, he was startled yet also relieved? He stared at Sam and Dean with concern, as if he knew who they were personally.
Ciel already had her black keys in hand, her stance ready for battle.
Dean was usually never the one to be taken by surprise, but for some odd reason, he was shocked to his core. Fumbling for his own weapon, he hardened his mind. In one burst of his step, he closed the distance, unsheathed his weapon, and trapped the stranger from behind: his blades only an inch away from his throat.
Meanwhile, Sam was trying his best to make sense of their current situation. He had a strong suspicion that the strange symbol on the back of Dean's hand was the key.
"Dean no! Stop! He's not, he's not. . ."
"Not what, a fucking demon you mean? Elesia, help me out here! What else would the Satan club try to summon?"
He received no response.
The newcomer's expression was that of a kicked child. He appeared conflicted about something, fidgeting under the close proximity of Dean's ash lock.
"Dean, your hand," Ciel remarked. She pointed a sword to his left hand, the same hand he used to skim the dry paint. Dean looked down and saw . . . an eye, surrounded by eight feathery wings.
The stranger finally spoke in a gravelly and hoarse voice.
"Servant Caster has answered your call."
The trees shivered and swayed despite the complete lack of wind.
"May I ask you."
'Shit, shit, shit,' Dean cursed in his mind.
"Are you my Master?"
"What the absolute fuck!"