Season Two

Episode Twelve: Valhalla

By Irismay42 & Kittsbud

Part Four

Parking lot outside St. James Hospital

Dean swung the Impala in a squealing arc of burning rubber, narrowly avoiding mounting the curb and taking out a trashcan as he brought the big Chevy to an abrupt halt across two parking spaces just outside the entrance to St. James Hospital’s ER.

Slamming the car into park and hurriedly twisting off the ignition, he barely noticed his uncomfortably damp clothes as he bounded out of the Impala, sparing her only the briefest of backward glances and a mumbled apology. “Sorry baby. Gotta get to Sam. When I get back, I’ll treat you to a nice oil change and some new tires and clean up all that nasty sea water I got on your upholstery, how about that?”

Glancing behind him as the blood red sky began to turn pale gold with the arrival of morning, he heard rather than saw the big black sedan jerk violently to a halt right in front of him, his attention snapping back in the direction he’d been running as he skidded to a stop, almost falling face first across the vehicle’s impeccably-waxed hood.

Backing up a couple of paces, he immediately recognized one of four muscle-bound heavies exiting the vehicle as Stefan, Ferinacci’s goon who had been following him and Sam around earlier that morning. He grimaced, vividly recalling their last encounter inches from Ferinacci’s acidic hot tub, cursing himself mentally for not noticing he’d picked up a tail on the way back from his encounter with Haris.

He didn’t have time for this. Sam could be dying in there…

“Sorry, fellas,” he said, raising his hands in a gesture of mock surrender, “or should that be goodfellas?” he added, with a nervous laugh. When none of the four goons even cracked a smile, Dean turned his attention to Stefan. “Hey, man,” he blustered on. “I’m flattered you enjoyed feeling me up enough to chase me halfway across New Jersey, but really, flowers would have been enough.”

Stefan growled at him, literally baring his teeth, and Dean forced another nervous laugh. “Okay, I get it, it’s early and you guys probably haven’t had your mochachinos yet, right? Sooo, I’ll just leave you to find the nearest Starbucks, and I’ll be on my way –”

Spinning hurriedly back the way he’d come, he stopped short as two behemoths in expensive black Italian suits exited another identical sedan which had pulled up behind him, effectively blocking any chance he had of escaping back to the Impala.

“Hey, nice of you to join us,” he greeted them, backing up a step, one hand still held aloft as the other slowly reached for the .45 tucked into his waistband at the small of his back. “But really, I so don’t have time to party with you guys right now, so if you’ll just –”

The next thing he knew, he was face down on the hood of the first sedan, Stefan having grabbed his wrist from behind and spun him back in his direction before slamming him bodily against the car, twisting his arm up his back as his other hand pressed down on the back of his neck.

Wind knocked out of him by the sudden assault, Dean sucked in a breath as the goon bent down towards him menacingly. “Go on, kid,” he hissed in his ear, yanking Dean’s handgun from its hiding place and tossing it carelessly into nearby shrubbery. “Gimme an excuse to break you into bite-size pieces…”

Dean grimaced as he followed the trajectory of his .45 before shrugging as much as he was able with a two hundred pound wiseguy shoved against his shoulder blades. “Hey, it’s your paint job, see if I care,” he muttered, air shoved out of him with a whoosh as Stefan rammed an elbow into his back.

“Where is it?” Stefan demanded, twisting Dean’s arm so hard he almost expected it to pop out of its socket.

Dean took a breath, trying to blink away the stars flickering at the periphery of his vision. “Where’s what?” he asked innocently, attempting to turn his head enough to flash the goon his sunniest smile.

A kick to the back of his left knee was the thanks he got, but instead of letting him fall to the ground, Stefan yanked him back onto the hood roughly. “Don’t play innocent with me, kid,” he snarled, releasing his hold on the back of Dean’s neck in order to begin searching his pockets.

“If you’re hoping to get to third base this time,” Dean managed to gasp out, “it’s gonna take a helluva lot more than flowers, honey –” The rest of his sentence was choked off as Stefan suddenly grabbed his still-damp hair, yanked back his head and slammed his cheekbone hard against the warm hood.

“Where. Is. It?” the wiseguy demanded, gesturing for one of his henchman to come help with the search.

“Not that I’m opposed to threesomes,” Dean spat, head spinning and eyes refusing to focus as the second goon began helping Stefan rifle through his pockets. “And it’s nothing personal, but you guys just ain’t my type –”

“Shut your yap or I rip out your tongue,” Stefan snapped, mouth suddenly inches from Dean’s ear. “Now gimme the goddamn Seal or –”

“I’ll be sleeping with the fishes?” Dean suggested helpfully, trying not to think about how close he’d come to doing just that.

“No, you’ll be in a concrete block at the bottom of Newark Bay with your brains splattered halfway to Jersey City,” Stefan corrected him.

“You say the nicest things,” Dean commented, earning a kick to the back of the other knee. “Jeez, can’t a guy make a little conversation?”

“Here.” The second goon withdrew his fingers from the front pocket of Dean’s jeans, pulling out the innocuous-looking brass ring that not so long ago Dean had been wielding against Haris in the bowels of the Last Hope.

Dean grimaced as Stefan snatched the Seal from the second mobster’s fingers, raising it in front of his eyes like an expert jeweler examining a priceless diamond. “This is it?” he demanded, roughly shoving his elbow once again into Dean’s back.

Dean grunted. “Found it in a box of Lucky Charms,” he insisted. “I swear.”

“Lucky for you,” Stefan told him, “my boss is a forgiving man.” Dean snorted and Stefan flipped him onto his back before driving a fist into his stomach with a sickening thud, Dean doubling over as the goon released his death grip on him, allowing him to slump to his knees.

Before Dean even had the time to suck in a breath, Stefan had grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back, face only inches from his captive’s. “All Mr. Ferinacci wanted was his ring back. We could have been civilized about this, but you just had to be a wise-ass, didn’t you?”

“It’s genetic,” Dean mumbled. “Only happens whenever I get within three feet of an asshole like you.”

He knew he was asking for it, so when Stefan’s fist connected with his already purpling cheekbone he really shouldn’t have been surprised.

He wasn’t expecting the kick the mobster aimed at his stomach, however, or the rabbit punch to the kidneys thrown his way by the second goon.

Crumpling slightly, Dean folded in on himself, trying to force air into his lungs as he waited for the next assault, the coppery taste of blood mixing with the bile in the back of his throat as Stefan again grabbed him by the hair and snapped back his head.

“Mr. Ferinacci doesn’t like you, kid,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “I’d keep out of his way in future. He catches you within a hundred miles of New Jersey and you’re gonna be on the express elevator to Hell before you can even say ‘sorry.’”

“Yeah, like I’d apologize to him,” Dean returned. “I met scarier things than your boss before I was outta kindergarten.”

Stefan punched him in the face again, allowing him to collapse back onto the asphalt. “Kid, you really gotta learn when to keep your mouth shut,” he admonished him, shaking his head before aiming one more kick at Dean’s back and motioning for his cronies to return to their vehicles. “Now you get out of Jersey before Mr. Ferinacci changes his mind. I wouldn’t want to have to come back here and –” he laughed hollowly at his own joke, “– hurt you.”

Dean didn’t look up at him, just rested his forehead against the asphalt as he listened to the sounds of heavy car doors slamming and the two big sedans squealing away.

“Believe me,” he muttered to himself, “if I never see New Jersey again as long as I live it’ll be too soon…”

St. James Hospital
Newark, NJ

Dean padded down the brightly lit corridor, his face smarting as he squinted his swollen eye, shielding it from the overhead fluorescent tubes. He was hurting everywhere, but mostly in a place no doctor or hospital could heal.

He was hurting for Sammy.

For not being here when his brother needed him.

Dean felt the metal of his favorite .45 press against his stomach and he moved it slightly under his jacket. He could have left it in the shrubbery where the goon had tossed it, but then, if anything had happened to Sammy, he might be needing it soon enough.

Turning the last corridor to the ICU room where he’d last seen Sam, Dean paused. The door was open and the bed his lanky brother had lain on was empty.

It took a moment to sink in.

Sam was gone.

Still, the reality didn’t register. Dean turned in confusion, suddenly uncertain if he’d gotten the right corridor. That was it. He must have taken a wrong turn. His vision was blurry from the scuffle with Ferinacci’s men. He’d gotten the wrong room.

Dean stepped forward uncertainly, pausing again in the ICU’s doorway.

The bed had recently been stripped clean, but a watch still lay on the side table, waiting to be placed in a bag with the missing patient’s other personal items.

It was Sam’s watch, and it had stopped – at the exact time the sun had dared to peak over the horizon.

“No, Sammy…no…”

Dean’s hand instantly reached back under his jacket, his rough fingers caressing his Desert Eagle with a new kind of respect. He’d let Sam down. He’d let John down.

He wouldn’t let anyone else down.

Ignoring the ache in his back where he’d been punched, Dean’s gait picked up speed until he was tearing down the hospital passageways fast enough to draw attention to himself.

Dean wasn’t concerned by the onlookers.

Patients and staff began to turn and look as he pushed rudely through a crowd waiting at the nearby nurse’s station. He was angry, on the edge, ready to give in – and most of all, he didn’t give a rat’s ass what anyone else thought of him.

A small brown door presented itself to him and he headed for it, hoping it was some small, private storage area where he could end it all.

Dean elbowed the stained wood with a grunt, only realizing at the last minute that this was no stock room, but the medical center chapel. It was a small chamber, dark, and yet somehow still inviting.

Its shadows were the perfect place to hide from his shame - the perfect place to use his .45 so that he never hurt anyone again.

Dean took a seat on the last pew and huddled into the corner, making sure the gloom enveloped him, hid him from all but the shrewdest visitor. In the end, this was what it all came down to.

Dean had found himself in a place of religion, a place of faith, when he himself held no such illusions. If there truly was a God, why had he taken Sam? Sam deserved better.

“Why didn’t you take me? Why?” Dean looked up to the crucifix on the wall and his hands began to shake. He was coming apart, and he didn’t even care anymore. He fumbled with the Desert Eagle, pulling it from his waistband as a slew of tears began to ebb down his face.

Dean wiped the moisture away with the back of his forearm, eyes glistening as he opened his heart to something, someone he didn’t believe in. “Why can’t you look after people like Sammy? Why did you let this happen?”

Realizing all he could do was pose questions that would never be answered, Dean let his gaze shift back to the silver automatic in his lap. He was alone, and there was an almost serene silence.

Peace.

He didn’t need to check the chamber or clip. He knew the gun was ready, safety latch off and simply awaiting his forefinger’s command.

Dean felt a lump form in his throat and he swallowed, licking his lips as he suddenly recalled Sam praying for him in a small Dakota church not unlike this one. The church had been Kyle’s home, and Sammy had been praying for Dean’s release from Haris’ bastard child.

Even then, God hadn’t answered, had he? Or why had Sam been forced into making the deal that had cost him his life?

Dean choked back a sob. Eyes reddening, he refused to go out crying like a girl. It wasn’t respectful of his brother’s memory, and above all else it was not the Winchester way.

Even though he hadn’t been there at the end, Dean knew Sam had shed no tears over his own demise. Sammy was selfless to the end.

The end.

Dean closed his eyes. He just couldn’t think of what his brother had gone through. How alone he must have felt.

The coolness of the .45 abruptly became inviting again in his palm, begging him to lift it and place the muzzle against his temple.

“Can I help you, son?”

Dean hadn’t heard any footsteps, but then, his mind had been elsewhere. Stifling the urge to still pull the trigger, he stealthily slipped the pistol back into its hiding place and placed an arm over the back of the pew.

As he turned slightly, the owner of the soft, mellow voice came into view.

The priest was a short man – middle aged – but without the usual midriff pouch to prove it. His hair was already graying, and he sported a short-cropped beard and glasses that instantly reminded Dean of an older version of Kyle Williams.

“No one can help me,” Dean answered honestly. “I …I shouldn’t really have come here.” He moved to push up from the tiny wooden bench, shame making him want to run from the chapel. It was one thing not to believe or pray, but another to actually consider suicide inside the confines of a house of God.

The priest ignored Dean’s move and perched himself down beside the hunter. “Anyone is welcome here. Even those who have…misgivings...”

“Padre, no disrespect, but your God? He couldn’t cure my brother, no one could.”

The holy man smiled meekly, nodding his head as if he already knew the answer to his next question – like some palmist rather than a priest. “I suspect that although you came here, young man, you don’t exactly believe?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. It really was like talking to Kyle. Maybe “Old Moses” was a distant relative? Still, even Kyle could have no words of comfort today. No one could.

“You’ll have to forgive me, but all I ever see in life are bad things –” Dean’s eyes seemed to go vacant, as if he was staring into some vast void where all his past memories were regurgitated for him to see, to feel, to live through again. “There are no miracles, Padre…no angels…”

The priest took down a long breath and shifted his gaze to the crucifix on the wall. He smiled again, rubbing at the wispy grey whiskers on his face before continuing. “Son, just remember that sometimes good things come in unlikely packages. You don’t need my kind of faith to trust in that.”

“There’s nothing out there in the dark. No one to protect those that need it.”

“Then what about you?” The priest raised a brow knowingly. “What about your brother?”

Dean looked away. Even the stark wooden floor was better than snapping back at the holy man. And that was what he wanted to do. He wanted, needed, to tell the priest that, yeah, they were out there in the dark. And, hell, they saved as many as they could.

But who was there to save them? Where were the angels when Sammy had been in need of salvation? Where was good to balance against the evil?

Dean opened his mouth, finally finding the words to tell the priest that faith would never be his thing, but as he lifted his gaze he realized he was alone.

Just as he had entered, the little holy man had exited the chapel without a single squeak from his shoe, or rustle of his jacket.

“What the..?” Dean clipped his sentence short, somehow having respect on sacred ground, even if he wasn’t sure who or what that respect was for.

Embarrassment once again washed over him. He had considered taking his own life in this hallowed place. Sam wouldn’t have wanted that, because, heck, Sam did believe.

Rising from his seat, Dean squeezed out of the narrow pew and headed back through the wooden door. There would be arrangements to be made. John would need telling.

Would there even be a funeral? Or would their father insist on the usual funeral pyre that kept the unearthly spirit from returning?

Dean clutched at his forehead as the spiraling storm of fears began to make his head spin.

He was alone.

The only person he’d ever cared about was gone.

“Mr. Wilkinson?”

Dean pulled his hands away from his head, hiding his momentary lapse into weakness. He turned, recognizing the voice of Dr. Hoffe even before he saw her.

“Mr. Wilkinson? I’ve been looking for you.” Hoffe walked closer, a smile washing over her features as she gestured with her hand towards a private room at the end of the corridor. “I have good news.”

Good news?

Dean wasn’t even sure his ears were working correctly anymore. How could it be good news when Sammy was gone? How can she be freakin’ smiling? “Good news?” He drawled, wondering if the doctor had gone insane.

“Sam was quite ill for a while.” Hoffe explained. “It really was touch and go, but then he began to miraculously improve. I’ve really never seen anything like it. Your brother has recovered sufficiently to move him from the ICU and I’ve ordered another tox screen.”

“Tox screen..?” Dean fumbled out the words, but he wasn’t really listening anymore.

Sam was alive!

Hoffe paused outside the closed room door, placing her palm on the handle. “We think the original test results were contaminated somehow. It’s the only explanation for Sam’s recovery.” She realized the details were going over the elder brother’s head. “Mr. Wilkinson?”

“He’s going to be alright, right?” It was all Dean needed to know.

“I see no reason why he shouldn’t make a perfect recovery now. He’s still quite weak from his ordeal, so just a few minutes with him for now, okay?” Hoffe refrained from pushing the door open until she got a quick nod of affirmation from Dean.

Once the hunter agreed, she gently twisted the handle, swinging the door inwards to reveal Sam lying on his side lightly dozing.

The sight of his brother’s chest smoothly rising and falling was almost too much for Dean to take in. Only a few short hours ago, drawing even the smallest breath had been agony for Sam. How..?

“No poison, huh?” Dean raised a brow, thinking of the priest’s encouraging speech. Unless Sam’s gifts had saved him, then maybe miracles did happen. Yeah right, and Paris Hilton’s gonna be a friggin’ nun…

The doctor shook her head, keeping her voice low for fear of waking her resting patient. “As I said, I’ve never seen anything like it.” She reached over, checking the chart at the bottom of Sam’s bed before smiling again. “Maybe it was the visit from your sister that did the trick.”

“Sister?” Dean tried not to look taken aback, but he couldn’t help but notice the look of surprise on Hoffe’s face at his sudden reaction. Then it hit. “Pretty gal, blonde, blue eyes?” He asked, his mind abruptly thinking back to a sewer and one very sassy immortal.

“Yes, that’s her.” The doctor looked puzzled, curious as to why a brother wouldn’t know his own sibling was going to visit. She shrugged, uncertainty replaced by urgency when her pager began to beep. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m needed elsewhere…”

Dean nodded, watching as the white-coated physician hastened from the room.

“D…Dean?”

Dean turned to see Sam looking at him through bleary, unfocused eyes. There were still dark rims beneath them, hanging like two small pouches – the only real tell-tale signs that Sammy had been seriously ill only hours previously.

But he was alive – and smiling somewhat meekly.

“Hey, Sasquatch, how’s the hotel?” Dean crossed the room in two strides, seating himself on the edge of his brother’s bed even though it really was against the rules. He wanted to hug Sam, to pull him tight and know by his warmth that he had defied death, but somehow those kind of moments just never seemed fitting. Tears of joy briefly welled in his eyes, but those too were girlie luxuries he wouldn’t allow now that Sam was safe. Blinking to quell the moisture, he kicked back into joke mode and asked, “Sweet talk any of the nurses while I was gone?”

“Dude, there were so many in here you wouldn’t believe earlier. I couldn’t get their hands off of me.” Sam grimaced as he rolled back onto his pillows, realizing that the statement was all-too true – but not in a good way. He closed his eyelids, briefly seeing Erika in the same shimmering bright light that had enveloped her at his bedside.

“So, banishing Haris…I guess it saved you somehow?” Dean didn’t see how bottling up the vaporous creature could possibly have cancelled out the poison, but what other explanation was there? Something had.

“You did it? He’s gone?” Sam wriggled on the bed, feeling bruises on his body where he hadn’t even realized he could bruise. The convulsions had done more than just leave him fatigued, they’d actually wracked every muscle and tissue fiber until he felt like he’d been stretched on some medieval dungeon rack.

Dean grinned. “Let’s just say that fiery-eyed freak has taken a long cabin cruise straight to Davy Jones’ locker. I might not have had a copper bottle, but dude, I canned his smoky ass.” He looked at his watch, thankful that it hadn’t chosen to stop after being dunked in the ocean. “I’d say he’s talking with the fishes right about now.”

Sam closed his eyes again, not quite believing how things had turned out. Somehow he had lived. Somehow they had defied the odds and banished the one thing they had chased since being kids. It seemed impossible, but it was over.

It was finally over.

“You left this in the other room.” Dean offered up his brother’s watch, even though it had stopped. “Dude,” his tone grew serious, emotional almost. “I’m just glad…glad…”

“Yeah, me too.” Sam rubbed a finger over the tape on his arm, feeling the IV needle beneath like it was some evil reminder of what had transpired in the ICU room. At the time, it had seemed real, but now, now he wasn’t even sure of what he’d seen.

“Sammy, when I was gone? What…what happened?” Dean didn’t like to ask, but he had to know if Erika had really paid his brother a visit, and why.

“I don’t remember much,” Sam thought of the medics swarming around his bedside, but most of all, he thought of the blonde that had visited him. “Dean…I think I saw a Reaper…”

“Man, you were hallucinating. Musta been the meds. You know those suckers never give in.” Dean tried to sound convincing, but the past day had taught him that anything could and did happen. “The doctor said you had a pretty gal in here, not some wrinkly old crone with a bad complexion.”

“Dean, it was Erika. She was the Reaper.” Sam attempted to push up on his elbows enough to manage a sitting position but only made it halfway before Dean had to intervene and prop him up on his pillows. “At least, I think she was a Reaper…”

Dean shrugged, recalling the almost perfect features of the pretty blonde. He really had found her attractive. It was a pity she probably fell into the category of “undead.” “Dude,” he finally offered. “Reapers are usually in the habit of taking lives. This chick gave one back…”
Sam thought about it, fumbling with the edge of his bed linen when he couldn’t come to any sensible conclusion. Erika had been ready to reap his soul and take him to Mom and Jess. Had she changed her mind? Had something else saved him?

The young hunter had no answers, but at least he was alive, and that meant he had the opportunity to find the truth once he recovered.

Super 8 Motel, Stamford, CT
Five days later

Dean stretched out on the motel room bed, one arm thrown behind his head as he absently clicked through the channels on the surprisingly half-decent TV. “Can’t believe we lucked out and got cable,” he muttered, shooting a surreptitious glance Sam’s way.

His brother was sitting crossed-legged on his own bed, hunched over the laptop as his long fingers played a concerto across the keyboard. “Mm-hmm,” he muttered distractedly, squinting at the search results and clicking onto a promising link.

“Not a bad picture for free porn either,” Dean added, grinning as Sam finally looked up, eyes darting from the TV screen to his brother.

“Very funny,” he said, returning his attention to the laptop. “I was listening to you.”

“No you weren’t,” Dean corrected him. “You were in Total Geekboy Hyper-Research Mode.” He shrugged. “But better to be in Total Geekboy Hyper-Research mode in Connecticut than in New Jersey I guess.”

Sam snorted. “I don’t care if I never see New Jersey again as long as I live,” he said, unintentionally echoing Dean’s declaration from five days previously when he had been splattered across the parking lot of St. James Hospital by Ferinacci’s goons.

“I hear that,” Dean agreed, taking in a deep breath. “Which is why I brought us here,” he said, casting his arms about himself expansively. “You can’t beat a little sea air when you’re recuperating from nearly having your soul taken by a demon and then getting shot by a demonically poisoned bullet.”

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” Sam muttered, shaking his head. “Our lives are weird, man.”

“Ah, you wouldn’t have it any other way,” Dean told him with a grin.

Sam just looked at him before smiling slightly. “It may have been a crappy way to spend a birthday,” he said, “but at least I survived it.”

“Which reminds me.” Dean pulled his duffel up off the floor, withdrawing a small box which he shoved in Sam’s direction.

Sam took it reluctantly, warily opening the cardboard lid and laughing softly when he saw the contents.

“Happy belated birthday, Sammy,” Dean said, grin widening. “But I expect you to share.”

Sam withdrew the single blueberry muffin from the box, righting the pink birthday candle stuck in the middle that had skewed to one side. “Thanks, man,” he muttered, eyes misting over unaccountably.

“Don’t expect me to sing Happy Birthday to you though, dude,” Dean told him, attention snapping back to the TV as Ozzy suddenly appeared on some random music channel, screaming out a live rendition of Black Sabbath’s Valhalla so hard it made Sam’s throat ache to listen to it. “Although…” Dean shifted slightly on the bed, crossing his ankles and flicking his eyes briefly to his brother before pretending his entire attention was on the TV. “I’m happy as – I’m happy that – you know – you’re…” He sighed. “I’m happy you’re not dead and everything.”

Sam realized that that was as close to a chick flick moment and a hug from his big brother as he was going to get. “Me too,” he said, trying to diffuse the awkwardness as Dean’s ears turned a definite shade of pink.

Sam looked up thoughtfully, gazing out the motel room window onto the bright blue sky beyond and for a second absolutely convinced he could indeed taste the sea air drifting in from nearby Stamford Harbor. “I’m glad we came here,” he said softly. “We needed some downtime after – after Haris.” He pushed a couple of random buttons on the laptop before adding, “I can’t believe you banished him, Dean. I can’t believe he’s gone.”

“You better believe it,” Dean insisted, failing to hide the smirk making its way across his face. “Big brother saves the day yet again…”

“With some help from our Reaper friend,” Sam added.

Dean sobered somewhat at that. “You really think it was Erika?” he asked uncertainly. “You really think she was a Reaper? I mean – the way the doctor described her – the way you described her… It had to be her, right? You said you knew her.”

Sam nodded. “I thought it was a dream at first. You know – delirium? But I know I saw her. Hovering over me. And at first, yeah, damn right I thought she was a Reaper. Then I thought – I thought she was Mom.”

“You – did?” Dean sounded vaguely unsettled.

“Yeah,” Sam admitted, cheeks coloring. “And then – then I – thought she was an angel.”

Dean shrugged. “Maybe she was,” he said quietly, picking at the dark blue comforter twisted underneath him.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, like you believe in angels,” he scoffed.

Dean’s face remained completely neutral, and Sam shifted uncomfortably. “Whatever she was,” Dean said, pointedly avoiding the subject, “Angel, Reaper – whatever. She saved you Sam. She saved your life when no one else could – when ‘no human doctor’ could save you.” He averted his eyes and shrugged. “That makes her an angel in my book.”

Sam swallowed, unable to think of a suitable reply.

Dean seemed to regain a little of his composure, finally looking back up at his brother. “Whatever she was,” he continued, as if his last outburst had never happened. “I think it’s a safe bet she definitely wasn’t human.”

“No,” Sam agreed readily. “She wasn’t.” He indicated the laptop, and Dean sat forward on the bed, muting the TV absently.

“You found something?”

“Maybe,” Sam replied, nodding slightly. “At first I thought she might have been Morrigan – a Celtic goddess of life and death.” He inclined his head slightly. “But some of the pieces didn’t seem to fit quite right. Then I came across this Norse myth –”

“Norse as in Vikings?” Dean clarified. “Rape and pillage and big-horned hats? Those guys?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, those guys,” he confirmed. “I found a reference to this Norse demi-goddess – a Valkyrie who had the power to choose which heroes lived and which died on the battlefield –”

“Kinda like a Reaper,” Dean offered.

Sam nodded again. “Exactly,” he agreed. “A Norse Reaper, in effect. According to the legend, this demi-goddess left her heavenly home – Valhalla –” Dean snorted slightly as Ozzy continued to noiselessly belt out the song on the TV, and Sam ignored the interruption, “– to walk among mortals after her husband was murdered by a fellow Valkyrie –”

“Never trust a pissed-off chick with sharp objects,” Dean muttered.

Sam frowned. “Anyway,” he continued, trying to ignore the interruption. “After the demi-goddess’s husband was murdered, she decided that taking only the lives of good men, the heroes of her people, wasn’t enough for her, and she began taking the souls of evil men, doling out her own brand of heavenly justice, I guess.”

Dean nodded. “Okay, with you so far,” he said. “So you’re saying if this is what Erika was – this Valkyrie demi-goddess – then that’s why she was hanging around Ferinacci? He was her next target?”

Sam nodded. “It’d make sense, right?”

“I guess,” Dean agreed. “But what makes you so sure Erika is this Norse Reaper chick?”

“Her name,” Sam explained triumphantly. “Erika Gudrun.”

Dean looked at him blankly. “And…?”

“The Valkyrie’s name – she was called Gudrun too.”

Suddenly the penny dropped. “Kinda a big clue there.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “Kinda.”

Dean bit his lip before looking up at Sam again. “Of course, that would also explain why she chose to save your skinny ass.”

Sam’s face twisted into a question mark. “It would?”

Dean grinned. “Sure,” he said. “If she was into saving heroes as well as reaping them.”

Sam colored bright red. “I’m no hero,” he muttered, attention again boring into the laptop.

“Bull,” Dean countered. “You’re exactly the sort of guy our demi-goddess would be looking to save. Think how many lives you’ve saved, Sammy! Just since leaving Stanford, not even counting – before,” he stumbled on the last word, conscious of Sam’s different take on their whacked out childhood. He looked up then, catching Sam’s eye. “And you saved me,” he added earnestly, the most earnest Sam had ever heard him. “You offered your life, death, soul and afterlife to that yellow-eyed creepshow, Sammy. For me. To save my worthless ass –”

“You’re not worthless, Dean,” Sam interrupted. “I’m sure Erika saw that too. After all, if she hadn’t saved me, you might –” he cleared his throat before continuing, “– you might have been lost too.”

Dean didn’t respond to that, but he didn’t contradict his brother either, suddenly reminded of the heavy weight of his .45 in his pocket as he sat in the hospital chapel thinking Sam was dead and considering the unthinkable.

“Maybe it was a reward,” Sam continued, slightly intrigued by the guilty look on his brother’s face but knowing he’d never get Dean to spill whatever it was he was thinking about at that moment.

“For what?” Dean asked, surprised.

“For dealing with Haris,” Sam explained. “Erika was on our side from the get-go – remember, she was the one who told us where to find the Seal in the first place. She must have known what we were up against – the odds we were facing. She wanted to help us. I guess she just didn’t expect us to capture her and tie her to a chair first…”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, if I had it all to do again,” he said, “I don’t think I’d be tying up a Valkyrie demi-goddess with the power of life and death at her fingertips. Well, not unless she wanted me to.” He grinned roguishly.

Sam rolled his eyes before musing, “Maybe she just figured it wouldn’t be fair to let me die after you got rid of Haris. To you or to me. After all, we did her a favor – one less bad guy for her to deal with, right?”

Dean frowned. “So why did you think she was coming to take you?” he asked. “Why did you think she was a Reaper?”

Sam shrugged. “I think she was coming to take me,” he replied. “At least at first. I think maybe she thought taking me would be the kindest thing she could do for me – you know, take me away to my eternal rest? Until I begged her not to.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You begged her not to?”

Sam nodded sheepishly, voice almost breaking. “I had to. I couldn’t leave you.” He laughed awkwardly before adding, “Think how much crap you’d get yourself into without me to watch your back.”

That wasn’t Sam’s real reason, and Dean knew it. “And that’s why she decided to save you instead? Because you asked her to?” Sam shrugged uncertainly, and Dean returned his attention back to the comforter, eventually mumbling, “So I guess she was kind of an angel after all.”

Sam shrugged. “I dunno, Dean,” he said with a sigh, glancing at the website still displayed on the laptop. “She’s still taking people – reaping them before their time.”

“Yeah, mobsters,” Dean pointed out. “Who’s gonna miss those guys?”

“Good or bad,” Sam said, “no one has the right to go around killing people, no matter how evil they are.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Er, Mr. Pot paging Mr. Kettle,” he said ironically. “Sam, what do we do for a living?”

Sam shrugged. “That’s different,” he said defensively. “We don’t kill people, Dean.”

Dean’s mind drifted back to that guy in the alleyway in Jefferson City; to Meg. “For the most part,” he said quietly. “Besides,” he continued, mentally shaking himself. “I don’t see how Erika can be evil. Not after she saved your life. As far as I’m concerned, that makes her a good guy.”

“Maybe,” Sam agreed grudgingly. “Still doesn’t make it right what she’s doing.”

“Maybe it does,” Dean countered. “Look, Sam, I don’t believe in angels and heavenly choirs and some Higher Power looking out for the little guy. If that was true, then why would they have let that happen to Mom? To Jess?”

Sam looked away uncertainly.

“But,” Dean continued, “when – when I first came back to the hospital – when I saw your room was empty? I – I thought…”

Sam’s eyes returned to his brother. “You thought what?”

“I thought – I thought you were dead, Sammy,” Dean admitted. “And this priest – he told me that – that good things happen when you least expect them – and sometimes where you least expect them. Maybe Erika is just – I don’t know – some kind of counterbalance. Maybe she’s just trying to bring a little light into a world full of darkness, a world full of evil.”

Sam considered his brother for a long moment, surprised to hear Dean say something like that. “Maybe,” he agreed a little reluctantly, before shrugging slightly. “Nice to have someone on our side for a change, anyway.”

“With Ferinacci and Haris after us?” Dean said. “Man, I didn’t think either of us was going to make it past your birthday. And without Erika…” He let the sentence hang, and Sam became suddenly very interested in his fingernails. “Anyway,” Dean’s tone brightened considerably. “I may have lost the Seal, but at least it served its purpose. Haris is gone. It’s what we’ve always dreamed about, right?”

Sam’s eyes drifted out the window to the bright blue sky again. “I wonder what’ll happen to him.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass,” Dean said with serious conviction. “As long as he’s gone. He can float around at the bottom of the ocean until Doomsday for all I care.”

Sam grinned. “We really ought to call Dad and tell him.”

Dean faltered. “What, and have him yell at me for losing the Seal?” Dean puffed out his chest and did his best approximation of a John Winchester grimace. “‘So you offed the demon who’s been plaguing our lives for the last twenty years, son. So what? You want a medal? You lost the goddamned Seal of Solomon, boy! Talk about careless!’”

Sam snorted. “He’s not that bad!” he burst out. “I think he’ll be kinda proud of you.”

Dean’s eyes flicked over to Sam’s at that, an almost painfully hopeful look on his face for the briefest of instants. “Yeah well. We should at least let him know you’re alive. I’m sure he’ll be kinda happy about that too.”

Sam’s expression mirrored Dean’s for a second. “I guess,” he said, almost sounding uncertain. He shrugged, not wanting to get into that little emotional minefield right now. “As for losing the Seal,” he continued brightly. “Think how boring our lives would be if we could just control any demon we wanted! If we’re gonna spend our time hunting evil, then the least evil can do is put up a fight, right? Keep us on our toes?”

Another flash of nervous hope lit up Dean’s features, and for a second, Sam wasn’t sure what he’d said to cause it. “You – so you want to carry on hunting?” Dean finally managed to ask. “I mean – now that Haris – now that he’s gone… I thought you might – you know –” He shrugged awkwardly. “You always said you’d want to go back to school.”

“I’ve not really thought about it,” Sam lied a little too smoothly, studiously avoiding Dean’s gaze.

“Uh-huh,” Dean said slowly.

Sam still didn’t look at him. “The future’s an open book now,” he managed at last. “And we got time. Let’s just celebrate while we can huh? Before the next bad thing happens!” He finally looked up, and Dean grinned a little reluctantly.

“Little Sammy Winchester,” he said, swinging his legs off the bed, turning off the TV and getting to his feet. “Ever the optimist. Come on, dude. I think we’ve earned a beer.”

“Or six,” Sam agreed, switching off the laptop and making to follow his brother to the nearest bar.

“One beer only for you, Gloria,” Dean said, holding open the motel room door. “I have to sit through your karaoke version of I Will Survive one more time and you won’t live to see your next birthday…”

Ferinacci Mansion

Luciano Ferinacci leaned back in his expensive leather chair, muted light from the desk lamp falling oddly on the small brass object he had been turning over and over in his hands for the past several minutes.

“You should have let us kill the kid, boss,” Stefan grumbled, standing stiffly to attention on the opposite side of the expansive oak desk, feet slightly apart and hands clutched nervously in front of him. “Him and his kid brother.”

“No,” Ferinacci muttered, continuing his almost obsessive inspection of the Seal of Solomon, the little ring reflecting gold and orange in his hooded eyes. “They fulfilled their purpose.”

“God only knows how that punk survived the bullet Gregorio put in him.” Stefan shook his head. “No one’s ever survived…”

Ferinacci chuckled softly to himself. “I don’t think God had much to do with it,” he said, reverently placing the Seal on the velvet display cushion positioned on the desk in front of him. “Although those boys did get some ‘other-worldly’ help I think.” Fingers still ghosting over the brass ring, he glanced up at Stefan before adding, “That won’t happen again.”

He leaned back in the soft leather chair, his hand reluctantly falling away from the Seal. “As it is,” he continued, sighing contentedly as the chair gave with a slight creak. “Things worked out better this way. The Winchester boys put down that little upstart’s attempted uprising without me even having to lift a finger; he won’t be bothering me again any time soon.”

Steepling his fingers in front of him, Ferinacci pressed his long index fingers to his lips as his gaze lingered on the Seal of Solomon. “As long as those boys are taking out the competition,” he reasoned, “why should I stop them?”

A dark grin stole across his features and his eyes once more flashed with reflected orange light. “At least, not yet anyway.”

The End

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The Winchester Chronicles