Season Two

Episode Fourteen: Harbingers

By Thru Terry's Eyes

Part Two

The sound of soft weeping could be heard now as Cross moved back through his congregation to the stage. He turned and stretched out his arms, imploring.

"Turn from the evil ways and be pure among them! Separate thyself and be above them! This I say to you!" He let his arms fall to the podium, gripping the edges as he leaned forward and spoke with emotion thickening his voice.

"Be ever-watchful for the harbingers of our doom lest we fall into the traps that Satan has scattered in our path—false omens we have virtuously destroyed in our brief time over these many long years as a sign of our faith and devotion."

Voices began to murmur in the small crowd as the dullness faded from the glistening faces before him and the light of hope began to shine in their eyes. It was truly going to end at last.

"Long have we waited for the reward promised us," Cross continued, stretching his arms out once again in a gesture of embrace. "Let us not grow careless in our vigilance as our time of penance draws to an end and the glory of renewal will at last be ours!"

* * * *

Dean stared in disbelief as he passed several buggies and horses tethered next to the wooden sidewalks. The few stores along the side of the road had "closed" signs posted on the doors and there appeared to be no one around. The whole place made his skin tingle and he couldn't help falling into a stealth mode, his body shifting, shoulders tightening, his hands open and ready at his sides. As he moved through the small group of buildings, he didn't draw his gun, but he kept his hand on it and nothing about it made him feel foolish.

This place is freakin' weird.

Taking a few shallow breaths, he stared at the ground, sweat burning his eyes as he tried to identify Sam's boot print among the many on the dusty ground. He went down on one knee and squinted against the reflected glare, finally identifying Sam's print by the star-shaped cut out in the heel. Sam had never noticed, but Dean had carved it there the morning after Sam had gotten the new footgear.

He looked up, frowning at the chapel at the end of the street, wavering in the heat. At least he hoped it was the heat making it move. The few footprints he could identify led straight to the boxy building.

He wiped his hand over his face, rubbing his eyes. Getting to his feet shouldn't have been such a struggle. The heat bore down on him like a physical weight. He could feel the sear of it on his exposed skin, the pound of it against his temples as he was assaulted by wave after wave.

Fighting off the lightheadedness, he pushed himself toward the innocent-looking white building.

Sam had gone that way so Dean had no choice but to follow.

* * * *

Cross moved around the podium to the front of the stage, arms still out in invitation.

"Step forward into the light, forsake the darkness and let God welcome the righteous and smite those who would follow the dark path! Do not forsake the words of God that he has seen fit to speak through me, his obedient servant!"

There was a flurry of people rising to their feet and rushing the stage, kneeling at Cross's feet in supplication, weeping and crying out for forgiveness for their doubts and faltering faith, gathering around him as he stretched out hands to brush over their heads.

Lifting his eyes, Cross saw the young girl he had singled out standing at the fringe of the group. Humiliated tears streaked her face, but there was no remorse in her eyes or in the defiant lift of her chin.

Cross gazed at her for a moment, the faintest of frowns creasing his forehead. Slowly, he moved through the people surrounding him, his hand outstretched. His flock parted to make way for him, shuffling and turning to watch him offer solace to this lost lamb.

"Come forward, my child," he requested as he approached her. "God has forgiveness for those who are truly contrite. It's not too late to change your path. Only the unrighteous need fear, only those who would take from us our one chance at the salvation promised us."

She drew back as he came nearer, sudden fear in her eyes, her hands crossing over her chest as if to protect herself.

His voice dropped to a soft murmur, a verbal caress. "Welcome him into your heart, my child…" He stretched out his hand, pressing his moist, warm palm against her cheek, holding it there even as she tried to pull away. "Accept his plans for you…" he whispered, his eyes lidded. "He has plans for us all…"

She stiffened under his touch, eyes widening. An inarticulate noise bubbled up from her throat and her body began to jerk spastically.

Cross stumbled back from her with a look of horror, the back of his hand against his mouth.

NO! He thought desperately. Not when we’re so close!!

His congregation murmured and exclaimed behind him, rising to their feet. The girl's parents rushed forward, but Cross caught them in a grip of iron.

"Stay back!"

The shaking girl clutched her head, her eyes rolling back, her body convulsing as she dropped to her knees on the dusty floorboards.

A loud creak drew all eyes to the doors as one side was pushed open.

* * * *

Dean paused to wipe the sweat away again, leaning against one of the double doors. He was braced, but he still felt the door shift slightly, opening a crack, the voices from inside becoming clearer as he put his ear near the door.

There was a sudden chorus of gasps and startled cries. A voice that was spouting garbled gibberish.

Over them all, another voice that thundered, "Stay back!"

He shoved the door open and stepped inside.

* * * *

As the door opened, the garbled sounds the girl was making became shrieks, orange flames suddenly erupting from her body engulfing her from head to toe. Her clothing burned away in an instant, the flesh beneath charring black and peeling away from the bones in clumps.

Screams erupted from the watching congregation.

The crackling blaze shot upwards to scorch the ceiling, blackening the boards, long flames licking greedily at the beams. The heat was made even more appalling as it blasted from the flaming woman.

Shocked, Dean yelled, jerking sideways. The door slammed shut behind him. He threw an arm over his face as the screaming, living pyre, stumbled forward, bringing with it a blast furnace of heat, collapsing in a writhing mass of fire at his feet. One charred arm stretched toward him, blackened fingers clawing against the floor, actually scorching the toes of the boot her fingers brushed against.

Her screams choked off abruptly and she lay still.

Dumbstruck, the congregation and Dean stared at the blackened corpse as the fire burned out, over almost as quickly as it had begun. All that was left was the sickening smell of burning flesh, wafting gray smoke and a twisted husk lying in a shallow drift of ash. The wood floor beneath the girl's body showed only the slightest sign of the conflagration that had just raged upon it.

Dean hesitantly lowered his arms and raised his eyes, looking up at the group of people that were eyeing him with decidedly unfriendly faces.

Cross, standing at the forefront of his followers, stepped forward and leveled a finger at the disheveled young man swaying before him. "I am Reverend Leviticus Cross, leader and protector of the church of Rapture's Climb and I say unto you, avaunt, spawn of Satan and be gone to the pit from which you crawled!" Cross bellowed.

Dean looked around, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, if he didn't count the smoldering body at his feet, which surprisingly didn't seem to be commanding the attention he would have thought. His eyes widened as he realized the black clad old man was talking to him!

"What the …" Dean finally choked. He shook his head. This had to be some kind of heat-induced hallucination..."What the hell are you people doing?"

The girl's parents fell to their knees at their daughter's side, clutching each other, weeping, as the other members gathered around in awestruck horror.

"Behold the sign we have long feared! The harbinger of what is to come!" Cross lifted his arms and face skyward. "Prepare yourselves for the Lord's retribution!" he cried. "And the hand of God will make from among you an example… an innocent perishes in the flames of hell brought to us by Lucifer's minion!"

"Hey," Dean barked, fumbling behind him for the door handle, feeling the gun tucked in the waistband of his sweat-soaked jeans. "I'm just looking for my brother. Whatever you got goin' on here-" His fingers closed on the grip of the gun.

What the hell had he and Sam stumbled into? And where the hell was Sam?

"God's will be done unto us, his servants…" Cross continued, advancing slowly toward Dean. Amid the muffled sobs, sounds of hoarse "amens" chorused around him.

As the other men in the group began to gather around Cross, his voice rose, his extended hand clenching into a fist. "And God's will be done unto the servant of evil for whom we have waited, he who will suffer and be witness to the triumph of righteousness that God has promised us, the blessed of Rapture's Climb!"

Dean pulled the gun and brandished it before him. "Are you freakin' nuts? Back off!" He ordered, his back pressed to the door.

It had to be heat stroke! That, or he'd stumbled onto the film set for a sequel to House of Wax …

His eyes met those of the white-maned preacher. "I don't know what kinda looney bin you got here, but anyone so much as touches me, I swear to God, I'll kill 'em. I'm just looking for my brother!"

Cross laughed. "How dare you speak the name of God with your demon tongue? We have naught to fear from you... any you strike down will be enfolded in God's arms and reside with him forever in glory." Cross's eyes narrowed and he tilted his head back to peer at Dean through the slits. "It is you who should fear, demon-spawn, for the promise of our salvation lies within you!!"

Lost in confusion, slowed by heat and pain, Dean's finger tightened on the trigger, but not fast enough.

Three men hit him at once, slamming him solidly against the door, joined by at least half a dozen more who all seemed intent on getting in at least one good blow apiece.

The gun was torn from his grasp; his arms and legs held fast as he was dragged, yelling and swearing, to the ground by the sheer mass of people.

Just before a boot connected with the side of his head, he caught a look at Cross, standing back from the crowd as they struggled to hold Dean's thrashing body down.

On his face was triumph.

But in his eyes was fear.

Lightning struck then and Dean was blown into oblivion by it.

* * * *

"Be still! He's coming around."

Sam heard a soft flurry of movement around him along with the whispered words but it was still on the periphery of his senses and his eyes refused to obey his command to open.

His breath deepened as he crawled unwillingly back to consciousness. The part of his skull just behind his right ear had to be caved in, it couldn't possibly hurt like that and still be intact.

He didn't even try to smother the groan as his mind finally broke the surface and he blinked.

Turning his head slightly, he took in a weakly glowing oil lamp and a goodly number of intense faces. At least ten. Men and a few women, all gathered in what appeared to be a rather small room. He was lying on some sort of a cot.

"What… what's going… going on?" He lifted a hand to the back of his head, grimacing. "Where's Dean?" He grunted as he rolled awkwardly to the side in a shaky attempt to sit up.

A gentle hand caught him by the shoulder, pressing him back.

"Lie still a bit longer. Amos was a little… over-exuberant… in his efforts to subdue you." The soft, contrite voice belonged to a young woman with chestnut hair and doe-brown eyes. She dropped her gaze as he looked at her.

"Subdue me?" Sam grimaced and pushed himself upright, closing his eyes as the floor shifted. He rubbed his head. A cup of water was pushed into his hands, which he drank gratefully, realizing belatedly that it was actually cool here. That was almost more startling than anything. Air conditioning meant electricity so why were these people using oil lamps?

"Where am I?" He snapped, louder than he meant to, seeing everyone flinch as he spoke.

One man, older than the others, eyes still down, stepped forward. "Forgive us. We forget ourselves," he gestured around him. "You are in –"

"Wait--Rapture's Climb," Sam completed for him. "Yeah, I saw the sign."

The man nodded. "More specifically, the caverns beneath the town, but yes, this is Rapture's Climb. Such as it is." He gave a small, sad smile, fingers twisting the brim of the hat he held.

"Are you he that was promised us? One of the wanderers that will deliver us?"

This voice came from the crowd before him, timidly spoken words that caused each face to turn from him.

"Am I what?" Sam rasped, bewildered.

As Sam's eyes adjusted to the low light he began to notice how old fashioned the attire of everyone around him was. Several of the women wore poke bonnets, their clothing plain and lacking in any style, and the men in work clothes and brimmed hats, many wore beards. They reminded him of a western movie.

"Are you Amish or something?" Sam asked, feeling slightly surreal.

The faces before him stiffened. "We are the followers of William Cross, leader of our journey to righteousness and the gift of God's salvation." This time a younger man spoke, voice so strong with conviction and purpose that Sam felt a quick flash of envy.

"Who's William Cross? And what did you mean a minute ago? The wanderer?" Sam pushed himself to his feet, instantly towering over everyone present. He caught himself against one of the stone walls until his balance steadied, hand to his temple.

"What's going on here? Why the hell did Amos hit me? Who are you people?" Sam's voice rose equal to his frustration level. He squinted at his watch.

Holy crap, he'd been gone over three hours. Dean would be insane with worry and spitting blood from anger.

"I don't know what's happening, but I gotta get back to my brother, I know he's looking for me--" He looked around trying to figure which way was out.

He didn't miss the soft gasp at the mention of his brother.

He turned and cast them all with an accusatory glare which none of them would meet. "What?" he snapped, in exasperation.

* * * *

"Do you believe in destiny?" Sam asked, looking over at Dean, who, up to that moment had been staring blankly at the TV while his younger brother finished his homework. English, or Dean would have been helping him.

"Do I what?" Dean asked, turning to stare at the eleven year old.

Sam's features were still soft with childhood, while Dean's had already taken on the harder planes of an adult. Childhood had not been kind and it showed in Dean's eyes if anyone bothered to look.

Sam's long hair spilled into his eyes in soft brown curls, Dean's dark-blond hair was already hacked off short and rubbed into messy spikes.

When Dean looked at Sam he still saw the little child, not the burgeoning young man who all too often asked questions that flat put Dean on the spot.

Sam's cheeks reddened slightly. He shrugged, "I was listening to some kids at lunch. They started having an argument about whether we controlled our own actions or if it was destiny."

Dean turned to face him now. "What the hell happened to talking about girls? What kinda kids are you hanging out with?" He demanded, slightly outraged.

"They were just talking," Sam replied. "Never mind." He went back to his papers.

"No," Dean said after a long thoughtful moment, "I don't believe in destiny." He waited for Sam to look up at him. "I'm in control of what I do, and so are you. Anyone who says different is trying to find somewhere to put blame."

Dean couldn't for the life of him imagine why that particular moment flashed into his mind. Why couldn't it have been that night with the stripper in Phoenix?

His eyelids fluttered open and he realized he was not, in fact, lying on the most uncomfortable bed he had ever encountered in a long, horrible history with uncomfortable beds.

It was actually much, much worse.

Blearily he tried to focus on his surroundings, all three of them, as they slid back and forth across his line of vision. It was very bright, blindingly so, and "hot" was quickly taking on a new meaning.

Another moment and he realized that what he had thought was a million-watt globe hung from the ceiling was, in point of fact, a heavily-barred roof that opened to the sky and hanging right in the middle was the biggest, brightest, hottest sun Dean could remember seeing, shining right down on him.

Turning his head to the sides revealed that his upper body was apparently arched across a barrel or some such thing. It kept his shoulders off the floor about a foot but tapered downwards below his lower back and thighs, supporting them. His wrists were shackled to the ground as far as his arms would stretch, as were his ankles. There also appeared to be some sort of collar around his neck that was tethered in such a way that he could only lift his head a few inches before it choked him.

His body was pulled so tightly to each anchor point, he could only shift a few inches with his feet. It was just enough to cause stress at the joints, but not actual pain.

Yet.

His shirt was gone and he could feel the rough wood of whatever he was tied to dig into the skin of his back. The sweat rolled down his neck into his hair. Likewise, his arms and back. It tickled and itched and was more distracting that the heat itself.

He finally allowed his muscles to relax and let his head fall back, which was only slightly more comfortable and it put his face directly in line with the sun, forcing him to close his eyes.

Coupled with the beating he had just received, his headache had morphed into throbbing flashes of hurt so bad it was no longer pain, but something new and for which he had no words.

His mouth and throat were sticky-feeling and running his tongue over his lips was like caressing cardboard. He didn't need to be told he was seriously dehydrated.

He felt like he was being baked alive on a spit.

Struggling to concentrate enough to try and grasp what the hell could possibly be going on, he would have jerked when a voice suddenly spoke, startling him, but the tightness of his tethers precluded such a reaction.

"Struggling will not avail you," the voice said. "We have dealt with such as you before."

Dean twisted his head in a vain attempt to see the speaker. "Let me go you crazy son of a bitch!" He growled hoarsely, pulling against the bonds despite himself. "I don't know what in hell-" He broke off, coughing as both his dry throat and his collar choked him.

A familiar black-clad figure swam into view, white hair pulled back into a long ponytail. Two men flanked him, their eyes determined. They each carried a wooden crate that clanked ominously as they set them down on the floor.

Cross reached down and traced the tips of his fingers over Dean's cheek. Dean tried to pull away from the touch of the moist skin but only succeeded in choking himself again.

"Get away… from me!" he gasped.

"I understand you're in pain," Cross murmured. "Even the servants of Satan suffer at his hands."

"What the hell are talking about?" Dean cried, "I'm not a demon or a servant of Satan! You gotta be outta your-" He broke off as Cross slapped him with the speed of a striking snake.

"Deny not your evil nature!" Cross roared, straightening. "We understand the meaning of your arrival among us on these, the last days of our trials. Satan sends you as a last test of our faith, witness the burning of one of our own as a sign of your coming, foul creature of the pit! This is a test we shall not fail!" Sweat rolled down Cross's face and locks of white hair started to pull loose from their moorings.

He turned to his two assistants. "Ready the implements of purification!" His voice shook as he spoke and he began to pull his jacket off, rolling up his sleeves. "Tonight we will offer up to God the gift of our final step toward the righteous glory that he has promised me. The salvation and release of Rapture's Climb which will be ours to rejoice come the dawn!!!"

Still reeling from the blow, Dean rolled his eyes helplessly. "You're insane!" He snapped.

All eyes went to the door as a sudden flurry drew their attention. A young man hurried into the room, looking startled as his eyes fell on Dean.

"What is it?' Cross barked.

The boy looked away. "We found the…vehicle… we believe to be theirs, another type of carriage. The others are pulling it into the square by the store."

Cross nodded, looking pleased. "Good! We can burn it too. Leave it there for the moment."

Dean floundered wildly against his restraints.They were gonna burn the Impala? Holy shit!"No! That's my car!" He gagged as the collar throttled him, struggling fruitlessly. "You can't burn my car!"

One of the other men grabbed Dean's hair and pulled his head back as far as he could, cramming a leather ball into Dean's open mouth and tying it in place with the attached straps.

Dean tried to push it out but the man was too fast and once in place, it was all Dean could do to breathe through his nose.

"We need to talk," Cross said conversationally. "About this so-called brother of yours."

If Cross thought Dean's reaction to his vehicle was frantic the mention of his brother made the younger man go completely berserk. Cross waited until Dean exhausted his body even though the younger man's eyes still boiled with fury.

He gazed down at Dean, a sad, almost reluctant look on his face that could only have been described as "This is gonna hurt me more than it will hurt you."

Looking his situation over, somehow Dean had to doubt that.

* * * *

"What exactly is going on here? I gotta get back to my brother. He's gonna go crazy!" Sam demanded.

"Please," the man who had first addressed Sam as the promised wanderer spoke. "You don't understand. What we did was necessary—"

"You're damned right I don't understand!" Sam replied.

There was a general shift backwards by his audience. Sam topped most of them by almost a foot and even though it was his nature to be polite, he was getting pissed.

"Please, if you'll only allow me to explain—" the man began.

"Who are you?" Sam snapped.

"Thomas Gable," the man supplied quickly, destroying the brim of his hat. "The other man, your brother? We know where he is."

Sam cut him off again. "Where? Take me to him! He better be alright—"

"I'm sure he is not," Thomas replied, daring to meet Sam's angry gaze head on. "Cross and the others took him. Even now the black vehicle that was left on the road is being pulled into the square."

"The Impala?" Sam yelped. What the hell was going on?

Thomas looked blank.

Sam's hand shot out and gathered a formidable amount of Thomas's shirtfront in his sizeable fist, dragging the smaller man to him. There were cries of alarm from the watchers but no one moved to interfere.

"You said you followed a William Cross? Is he responsible for this? Is that who took my brother?'" Sam was not aware he had pulled his gun until he saw the barrel pressed into Thomas's neck.

"No!" Thomas exclaimed, feeling the barrel dig into his neck. "No, please! You need to understand—"

Sam suddenly realized what he was doing and released Thomas who stumbled back. Sam did not, however, lower the gun. "You tell me what the hell is happening here, right now. I want to know where my brother is and who the hell this Cross is!"

Totally nonplussed, Thomas fought to regain his composure as he stared up at the angry young giant. He swallowed nervously. "William Cross is not responsible for what is happening here, what has happened here. It is his son, Leviticus." The name came out with such contempt it might have been a swear word. "Leviticus is the cause of all our sorrows, all our pain, this our curse!"

Sam lowered the gun this time, frowning.

The Thomas facing Sam now, anger in his eyes, was not the same one who had begged for Sam's attention a moment earlier. This was a man with a mission, a purpose. The faces of the others around him had taken on the same steely look of shared pain, shared sorrow and shared anger.

"Your brother is in dire circumstances, at the mercy of a madman, as are we are all. If you are not the promised ones, the wanderers who hold the key to setting us free, then we are truly lost because time has run out for us come the setting of tomorrow's sun."

Thomas implored Sam with a look of fierce determination.

"We have witnessed the signs, the omens foretelling the arrival. The very fires of hell consume us as the sun burns the life from us, our innocent are consumed in the flames of Satan's arms. I have seen this today, as Heloise Crane burned alive at your brother's very feet. As Cross and his followers fell upon him and carried him away." Thomas's voice rose in anguish. "We struck you down to bring you here to a place of relative safety lest the same fate befall you. As has befallen all the others before you. We did not know of your brother's presence until afterwards. I'm sorry." He added, "We had thought you alone."

Thomas straightened, holding out his hands, approaching Sam and clasping his arms in a vise-like grip of terrible need. "I beg of you, tell me truly, are you and your brother the promised? The wanderer's sent here by God to release us from our damnation?"

Sam shook his head slowly, "I don't know what you're talking about."

His words triggered weeping among the women, and sounds of despair from many of the men.

Thomas' head dropped and he sighed. "Then this hell goes on forever."

Sam swallowed and rubbed his forehead. "I'm sorry, I don't know who you think we are, or what it means to you, but our car just broke down outside of your town. That's all." He looked around at the broken faces staring at him in desolation.

"I've got to find my brother. Please, can you tell me where he is? What this Cross wants with him?"

"He wants to purify him." A gravelly voice behind Sam stated.

Sam whirled to look behind him, startled to find his eyes resting on a very old man, seated in an old-fashioned wheelchair, moving himself out of the shadows toward Sam.

He had white hair and tiny wire-rimmed glasses. His face was deeply lined, his hands twisted together in his lap, fingers deformed by arthritis. His eyes, as he gazed at Sam, were a brilliant blue and burned with a strange combination of fury and sadness.

"I am to blame for this, despite what Thomas tells you, by my own foolish negligence, I and no one else. For in my hands lay the power to stop it and I was too weak." He stopped just short of rolling into Sam and gazed up at the towering figure before him.

"Who are you?" Sam whispered.

"I am William Cross, shamed that I am the father of the evil that exists among us, masquerading as the leader that would take the people of Rapture's Climb toward the righteous path and has instead led them to hell." His blazing eyes locked onto Sam's.

"Your brother will be 'purified' in the misguided belief that by revealing his evil, his soul will be set free. His husk will then be burned so that his soul can find its rightful place in heaven. This is the final gift that ends it all. The key that my son has feared and sought in his quest for power. And he will find it at the cost of your brother's life."

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The Winchester Chronicles