TWENTY-FOUR

Sam and Dean left the church the way they had come in. Father and son followed the Winchesters out of the door without comment. Tommy’s pickup was parked behind the rear entrance, Sam climbed into the front seat, sitting in the middle and still holding the noose.

A footstep scraped in the shadows behind them, and Dean turned to see Castiel stepping out of the alleyway.

“Whoa.” Tommy raised his flashlight. “Who the hell are you?”

“Easy,” Dean said. “He’s okay.”

“Where is he?” Castiel’s eyes were locked on the noose in Sam’s hand. His voice was tight with urgency. “Did you see him?”

“The Witness?” Dean shook his head. “Sorry, Cass—he sent his stunt-double. A Collector. Guy didn’t know squat.”

“We’ll see what he tells me,” Castiel said, brushing past them on his way down the stairs, toward the back entrance of the church.

“Ah, Cass...? I don’t think that’s gonna happen either.”

The angel stopped and looked back. “What?”

“Sam kind of... killed him.”

“What?” Castiel glared at him, appalled. “What were you thinking?”

“It was him or me,” Sam said from the cab of the truck.

“I don’t think you realize what this is going to cost us,” Castiel said. “Neither of you do. Your selfishness might have cost us our last chance.”

“His selfishness kept him alive,” Dean countered.

Castiel’s expression of thinly veiled outrage didn’t change. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something—perhaps a great many things. In the end he simply turned and descended the back steps.

Tommy exhaled.

“Should I ask?”

“No,” Dean said. With a shrug that was more tired than resigned, Tommy crossed the alley to where the pickup was parked and opened the passenger door for Dean.

“It’s okay,” Dean said, “let the kid ride up front. It’s the middle of the night.”

“You’re in worse shape than he is,” Tommy said. “Besides, he’s got something back there to keep him occupied.”

“You mean, like a game?”

Tommy gave a distracted nod.

“Something like that.”

They drove away from the church and down the empty, moonlit alleyway. Tommy steered easily through town, glancing at the noose that Sam still held on his lap, carefully protected by the swath of torn fabric. On the radio, the Marshall Tucker Band was playing ‘Can’t You See.’

“It’s funny,” he said thoughtfully, “you hear stories about something for your whole life and when you finally find it, it’s almost a let-down, you know?”

“We need to destroy it,” Sam said. “Sooner rather than later.”

“On the battleground,” Tommy said. “That’s where it’s got to happen.”

“Why there?”

“Because that’s where it was first tied. Aristede Percy put it together in a medical tent. Used the same knots that he used to stitch up the corpse of Jubal Beauchamp.”

Dean’s phone chimed. He pulled it out and looked at the screen.

“Huh, must have recovered from its dunking in the swamp,” he said, and hit TALK. “Hey, Bobby.”

Sam watched his brother peering at the blade in his hands while listening to what Bobby was saying.

“Bobby, what’s happening, man?” Bobby’s voice was a buzz, the words not clear enough to make out. “What? Yeah, we did.” He looked over at the noose on Sam’s lap, and then at the blade again. “We’re getting ready to do it now. Out on the battleground.” He raised an eyebrow at Tommy. “How much further is it?”

“We’re almost there,” Tommy replied. “See?”

Outside the window, the hillside loomed in the moonlight, though the first hints of pre-dawn light were appearing in the east. Sam could just make out the shapes of tents still spread out across it, between the craters. He remembered what Sarah had said about the re-enactors refusing to leave camp until somebody explained what had happened to their compatriots.

“So yeah, we’re...” Dean stopped. “What? Say that again?”

The pickup crunched across the parking lot and came to a halt. Before Sam could ask what was happening, he heard something thumping in the back of the truck. The tarp that had covered him and Dean on the way back from the swamp was shifting around. There was a clatter of commotion underneath it, like kicking feet or thudding fists. Sam peered over his shoulder, but it was too dark to see what was happening.

“Tommy? Is Nate okay back there?”

“Oh yeah,” Tommy said. “He can take care of himself.”

“Are you sure? He’s only what? Eleven? “

“Wait a second,” Dean cut in, his voice sharp with urgency, “Bobby says we’re not supposed to cut up the noose. He says if you do that—”

Something in the back of the truck screamed.