Chapter 6: The Angel's First Kill
The weight of a flask of holy water on his belt felt different now. It wasn't just a tool; it was a reminder. The library session had been all prophecies and portents, talk of fissures in the Empty, whispers of something old stirring in the places where even angels feared to tread. Sam’s research had that particular flavor of impending doom Dean knew too well.
So when the lead came in—three hikers found in a state forest, their eyes scratched out, whispering in Enochian—it felt like movement. Like something to hit.
“He’s coming with us,” Dean said, not looking up from cleaning the Colt. He jerked his chin toward Samandriel, who stood quietly by the map table.
Sam paused, a book in his hand. “Dean. He’s barely handled a practice knife.”
“Exactly. Swimming lessons are great. Sooner or later, you gotta get in the damn water.” Dean snapped the cylinder shut. “Besides, he’s got the best backup in creation.”
God and Jesus were by the doorway. They hadn’t interfered with the planning. They were a presence, a settled silence in the bunker’s hum. Jesus met Dean’s look, a question in his hazel eyes.
Dean answered it with a slight nod. Yeah. I’m sure.
The forest at night was a cathedral of shadows. Their boots crunched on a carpet of pine needles, the air cold and sharp with the scent of resin and decaying leaves. No crickets. No owls. The silence was a held breath.
Sam led, his flashlight beam cutting a shaky path. Dean kept Samandriel in the middle, Jesus and God taking the rear. Their grace wasn’t a light, but a feeling—a warmth at the back of Dean’s neck, a steadiness in the ground underfoot.
They found the clearing. It was wrong.
A ring of massive, twisted oaks surrounded a space where the moss looked burned. In the center, a stone slab, an altar, jutted from the earth at a sick angle. And around a pathetic, sputtering fire of blackened branches, five people stood.
They weren’t chanting. They were vibrating. A low, guttural sound that came from their throats but didn’t sync with their moving lips. Their eyes were pits of reflected firelight.
“Possessed,” Sam murmured, his hand going to the hilt of the angel blade at his belt.
“Five of them,” Dean counted, his voice low. “Sammy, you take the two on the left. I’ve got the right. Samandriel—you watch our backs. You see anything move that isn’t us, you shout. Loud.”
Samandriel’s grace flickered, a brief pulse of gold in his vessel’s eyes. He nodded, gripping the practice knife in one hand, a flask of holy water in the other.
Dean didn’t look back at Jesus or God. They were the safety net. This was the work.
He stepped into the clearing. “Hey, assholes! Party’s over.”
The possessed heads snapped toward him in unison. Their smiles were too wide, splitting their faces.
The fight was chaos. Dean ducked a wild swing from a woman in torn hiking gear, the force of it ruffling his hair. He shoved the barrel of his salt-loaded shotgun under her chin. “Time to go.” The blast was muffled, a wet thump. Black smoke erupted from her mouth, screaming as it dissipated. The vessel slumped.
To his left, Sam was a whirlwind, using his height and strength to drive a male vessel back, his lips moving rapidly in Latin. The exorcism curled the air.
Dean grappled with another, a man with the strength of the damned behind his blows. They crashed into the stone altar, the impact jarring up Dean’s spine. He got an arm locked, fumbling for his holy water.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the fifth one. It had hung back, a younger vessel, a teenager maybe. It didn’t join the others. It watched. Its head cocked, and then it moved—not toward Dean or Sam, but in a blur of unnatural speed toward the tree line where Samandriel stood.
“Samandriel, now!” Dean roared, throwing the possessed man off him. “Use the knife!”
Samandriel froze. The demon-vessel was on him, clawed hands reaching. The young angel’s grace blazed in panic, a brilliant, uncontrolled light that lit the clearing.
He remembered the move. The lunge. The commitment.
With a sound that was part cry, part prayer, he drove the wooden practice knife forward. It sank into the vessel’s chest with a sickening thunk of ribs.
The demon stopped. Looked down at the haft of unpainted wood protruding from its sternum. It began to laugh, a raw, scraping noise.
“A toy?” it sneered, its breath foul. “You bring a toy to a war?”
It backhanded Samandriel with casual, brutal force. The angel went flying, hitting an oak trunk with a crack that wasn’t wood, and slid down into the moss.
The demon wrenched the practice knife out, tossed it aside, and advanced.
Dean was sprinting, but he was too far. Sam was still binding his demon with words.
God sighed.
It was a small sound. A human sound of profound disappointment. He didn’t raise a hand. He didn’t speak a word of power. He simply looked at the charging demon.
The vessel stopped mid-step. Every muscle locked. Its smug expression melted into raw, incomprehensible terror. Its mouth opened in a silent scream as its eyes—the demon’s eyes—collapsed inward into voids of absolute nothing. Then the body crumpled, an empty sack of flesh and bone hitting the ground. No smoke. No sound. Just an erasure.
The sudden silence was louder than the fight.
Jesus was already there, kneeling in the moss beside Samandriel. The young angel was shaking, a fracture in his grace weeping ethereal light from a cut on his forehead. A single, clear tear traced through the dirt on his cheek.
“Shhh,” Jesus murmured, his voice the first soft thing in the clearing. He reached out, his thumb brushing the tear away. His touch left a trace of warmth, a calming glow that sealed the flickering crack in Samandriel’s essence. “You did well. You stood your ground. You protected your heart. That is the first, and hardest, lesson.”
Dean reached them, breathing hard. He dropped to one knee, his hand finding Samandriel’s shoulder. He looked at the discarded practice knife, then at the lifeless vessel a few yards away.
Sam approached, wiping blood from his lip, his gaze scanning the perimeter. “Clear.”
Dean squeezed Samandriel’s shoulder. The angel’s eyes, wide and ashamed, met his.
“You okay?”
Samandriel nodded, a tiny, broken motion.
“Good.” Dean’s voice was rough but not unkind. He nodded toward the holy water flask, still clutched in Samandriel’s white-knuckled hand. “You had the right tool. You just picked the wrong one first.” He stood, offering a hand to pull Jesus up, his fingers lingering a second longer than necessary. A silent thanks.
He looked over at God, who watched them with those ancient, knowing eyes. No judgment there. Only a sad, familiar understanding of the cost of lessons.
Dean scooped up the practice knife from the dirt. He brushed the moss from it, tucking it into his belt. He looked at the cold bonfire, the stone altar, the empty vessels.
“Next time,” he said, his words cutting through the forest’s returning silence, “we use holy oil.”
He turned, leading them back into the dark of the trees. The lesson was over. The work wasn’t. It was waiting for them, in the bunker, in the books, in the next desperate call. But for now, they walked together, the scent of pine slowly replacing the stench of smoke and blood.