Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

All but one of these characters appear in one canon or the other in some form. The rest of my OCs are too minor to warrant listing here.

The Godhead
Eru Ilúvatar – The One, Father of All (Yahweh)
Yésu Hrísto Eruion – Jesus Christ, Son of Eru
The Secret Fire – the Holy Spirit

The Valar (approximate Primary World equivalents given for reference)
Manwë Súlimo – Lord of the Air, rules Arda as Ilúvatar’s regent (= St. Michael)
Varda Elentári (Sindarin Elbereth) – Kindler of the Stars, wife of Manwë (= Our Lady the Queen of Heaven)
Ulmo – Lord of the Waters (= Poseidon)
Aulë – Lord of the Forge, creator of the Dwarves (= Thor, Hephaestus, etc.)
Yavanna Kementári – Giver of Fruits, Queen of the Earth, wife of Aulë (= Demeter)
Námo Mandos – Doomsman of the Valar (= Hades)
Vairë the Weaver – historian of the Valar, wife of Mandos (= Athena)
Irmo Lórien – Lord of Dreams (= Morpheus)
Estë the Gentle – Lady of Healing, wife of Lórien (= St. Brigid)
Nienna – sister of Mandos and Lórien, mourns for the damage Morgoth does to Arda (= Our Lady of Sorrows)
Oromë – Lord of the Hunt, Lord of Forests (= St. George)
Vána Ever-young – bringer of spring, sister of Yavanna, wife of Oromë (= Persephone)
Tulkas – the Wrestler (= Ares)
Nessa – dancer, sister of Oromë, wife of Tulkas (= Terpsichore, Artemis)

The Maiar
Eönwë – Herald of the Valar (= St. Gabriel)
Olórin – Maia of Manwë and Varda, Istar, enemy of Sauron; better known in Middle-earth as Gandalf
Melian – Maia of Vána and Estë, mother of Lúthien and wife of the Elven king Thingol
Ossë – Maia of Ulmo and his chief assistant
Tilion – Maia of Oromë, charged with piloting the Moon
Arien – Maia of Vána, fire spirit charged with piloting the Sun
Castiel – Maia of Manwë; his Valarin/Quenya name is unknown, for he walked unseen among the Children of Ilúvatar until the Seventh Age; invoked in later Ages as an angel of Thursday
Rincaro the Trickster – Maia of Lórien, elder brother of Castiel and all-but-twin brother of Eönwë
Tessa – Maia of Mandos, a Reaper

The Eldar
Maglor Fëanorion – Prince of the Noldor, exiled to Middle-earth because of his pride and rash deeds in the First Age; renowned as a bard
Thranduil Oropherion – Sindarin Elf, formerly king of Mirkwood/Eryn Lasgalen, father of Legolas; now leader of a band of faded (invisible) Elves in the American Midwest
Rúmil of Lothlórien – Silvan Elf, formerly a marchwarden in Lothlórien during the rule of Galadriel and Celeborn, now Thranduil’s second-in-command
Círdan the Shipwright – One of the first generation of Elves, former lord of the port of Lindon and greatest of the Sindarin mariners
Galadriel – One of the greatest and wisest of Elves, born in Valinor but returned to Middle-earth with the Noldor and remained there until the end of the Third Age
Celeborn – One of the greatest Sindarin lords, husband of Galadriel and former ruler of Lothlórien
Haldir – Former marchwarden of Lothlórien, brother of Rúmil
Lindir – Elf of Rivendell, likely a bard
Glorfindel – Golden-haired Elf who died killing a Balrog in the First Age and was rehoused and sent back to Middle-earth to aid Elrond
Erestor – Elrond’s seneschal at Rivendell
Finrod Felagund – Galadriel’s oldest brother, and possibly the best friend to Men of all the Noldor; was killed by a werewolf at Sauron’s command in the First Age and was rehoused in Valinor
Orodreth – Brother of both Galadriel and Finrod and friend of Túrin Turambar; was killed in the First Age in battle with Glaurung and was rehoused in Valinor
Maedhros – Maglor’s oldest brother; committed suicide at the end of the First Age and was rehoused in Valinor after many years in Mandos
Olwë – King of the Teleri
Míriel Serindë – Maglor’s grandmother, renowned for her embroidery
Fingolfin – Maglor’s uncle and former High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth; was killed in combat with Morgoth and was rehoused in Valinor
Fëanor – Maglor’s father, prince of the Noldor, greatest of Noldorin smiths, maker of the Silmarils, and leader of the Noldorin rebellion at the dawn of the First Age; was killed in combat with Morgoth not long after being exiled to Middle-earth and remained in Mandos for many years

The Peredhil (not all appear in this story)
Beren Erchamion – Mortal hero, first Man to marry an Elf
Lúthien Tinúviel – Daughter of Melian and Thingol, married Beren and renounced her immortality to save his life
Tuor – Mortal hero, second Man to marry an Elf, only Man ever granted the life of the Eldar
Idril Celebrindal – Noldorin princess who married Tuor
Eärendil – Son of Tuor and Idril, chose to be numbered with the Eldar; mariner who now sails the skies bearing a Silmaril as Gil-Estel, the Star of High Hope
Elwing – Granddaughter of Beren and Lúthien, chose to be numbered with the Eldar
Elrond Peredhel – Son of Eärendil and Elwing, chose to be numbered with the Eldar
Celebrían – Daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn, wife of Elrond
Elros Tar-Minyatur – Son of Eärendil and Elwing, chose to numbered with the Edain and became first king of Númenor at the beginning of the Second Age
Aragorn II Elessar – 62nd in direct descent from Elros, 39th in the line of Isildur, became king of Gondor and Arnor at the end of the Third Age
Arwen Undómiel – Daughter of Elrond, married Aragorn and chose to be numbered with the Edain at the end of the Third Age
Elladan and Elrohir – Twin sons of Elrond, chose to be numbered with the Eldar
Princes of Dol Amroth – Descendants of a Númenórean Man of noble (Half-elven) lineage who married a Silvan Elf-maiden

The Edain
The Winchesters
John Winchester – Descended from the kings of Rohan and the Princes of Dol Amroth through the line of Sir Bedivere (though he never knew this fact); father of Sam and Dean, became a hunter to avenge Mary’s death
Mary Campbell Winchester – Descended from Aragorn and Arwen in a double line through the Dukes of Argyll and the House of Bruce; mother of Sam and Dean, killed by Azazel
Dean Winchester – Elder son of John and Mary Winchester, raised a hunter after Mary’s death; renowned for his fearlessness and wit
Sam Winchester – Younger son of John and Mary Winchester, placed under a spell by Azazel when he was six months old, raised a hunter after Mary’s death and returned to hunting after his girlfriend was murdered by a demon; renowned for his cunning and gift of foresight

Hunters
Bobby Singer – Elder hunter, foster father to Sam and Dean
Ellen Harvelle – Owner of the Roadhouse, hunter, friend to Sam and Dean
Bill Harvelle – Ellen’s husband, who died during a hunt; friend of John Winchester’s
Jo Harvelle – Daughter of Bill and Ellen Harvelle, eager to prove herself as a hunter
Ash Buchholz – Redneck physicist, kicked out of MIT for fighting, provides research support for the hunters; Ellen’s foster-son
Rufus Turner – Elder hunter, Bobby’s friend and former mentor
David Gideon – Hunter and pastor of Sacrament Lutheran Church in Blue Earth, MN; leader of a hunting militia
Rob – Leader among the Sacrament Lutheran Militia
Pamela Barnes – Psychic and hunter, friend of Bobby’s
Missouri Mosely – Psychic from Lawrence, Kansas; friend of John Winchester’s

Others
Lisa Braeden – Dean’s girlfriend
Ben Braeden – Dean and Lisa’s son
Victor Henricksen – FBI agent who once believed Sam and Dean to be serial killers but becomes an ally after they save his life
Sid – Dean’s boss during his year away from hunting
Brady Andover – Sam’s best friend at Stanford, possessed by a demon in late 2003 and used to kill Jess Moore
Jessica (Jess) Moore – Sam’s girlfriend, murdered in 2005
Karen Singer – Bobby’s wife, whom he killed in self-defense while she was demon-possessed

The Enemy
Melkor Morgoth – brother of Manwë, the original Dark Lord (= Lucifer)
Sauron Gorthaur – Maia of Aulë who became Morgoth’s lieutenant until the end of the First Age and set himself up as the Dark Lord after Morgoth’s eviction from Arda (= Beelzebub)
Saruman – Maia of Aulë who came to Middle-earth as the chief of the Istari but began to desire power in his own right
Alatar and Pallando – the Blue Wizards, Istari and Maiar of Oromë, who fell away from their mission against Sauron and became leaders of Eastern mystery cults
The Unhoused, the Houseless – demons, evil spirits that are incapable of taking physical form on their own and thus possess the unwary; most were once Elves
Lilith – Eldest of the Unhoused
Azazel – Fire demon, akin to the great dragons
Zachariah and Uriel – Maiar of Aulë who have fallen into Saruman’s error
Megora (Meg) – Demon who enjoys tormenting Sam and Dean (Sindarin: megor = sharp)
Crowley – Chief of the crossroads demons, Lilith’s second in command
Ruby – Demon who works for Lilith, attempts to seduce Sam toward Morgoth’s side by pretending to be a friend
Delebfaer – “Abominable Spirit,” the spirit of Antichrist; a fallen Maia
Gordon Walker – Hunter who specializes in killing vampires until he gets a bee in his bonnet about Sam being the Antichrist
Bela Talbot – Art thief who tries to steal artifacts from the Winchesters that she believes can get her out of a crossroads deal

Chapter Text

It started, oddly enough, just a few days after the Devil’s Gate hunt with a snippet of dream about a tsunami, a huge green wave crashing down to drown an island. Over several consecutive nights, the dream got longer, more detailed, and eventually Sam Winchester thought he saw a woman trying to climb to the top of a mountain or mesa or something (Minul-Târik, his mind supplied at one point, and Meneltarma at another) to plead with the gods to stop the calamity. But no such event turned up in the news. Internet research on dream interpretation didn’t help, and Bobby Singer, his mentor and fellow hunter of supernatural evil, didn’t know what it could mean. So Sam talked to their newfound friend Maglor Fëanorion about it.

Once he’d heard all the details, Maglor nodded thoughtfully. “You are not the first to have that dream.”

Sam blinked. “I’m not?”

“No, indeed. From what I hear, certain Men of Númenórean blood have had it ever and anon for many Ages. I have no idea whether it is a vision of the past or some sort of genetic memory, but what you saw was the drowning of Númenor at the Breaking of the World, some ten thousand years ago.”

“You think we’ve got Númenórean blood?”

“I know you have. I have known it since first I saw you. The traits are unmistakable to an Elf.”

“Huh.” Sam pondered that revelation for a moment. “Do... do you think maybe my visions are a result of that, not something created by the spell Azazel put on me the night of the fire?”

Maglor shrugged. “It’s possible. If so, Azazel no doubt made use of such gifts as you already have and twisted them to his own ends.”

“So I could start having visions again, just... not the kind I had under the spell?”

“Indeed so.”

“Huh. Thanks, Maglor.”

So Sam started keeping a journal of the dreams he recognized as significant. Most didn’t seem like visions of the future, but he figured it would be better to have a record of them just in case. But the one where his brother Dean was unhurt but utterly spent after a hunt and Sam wasn’t fit to drive prompted Sam to buy a bag of dark chocolate peanut M&Ms to stash in the glove compartment. It was getting too hot to leave them there during the day, of course, but he promised himself he’d put them there the next time they had a hunt.

And the hunt came sooner than expected when a vision, not heralded by a migraine, hit while Sam was in the middle of talking to Dean about something else:

A pretty lady—tanned, dark-haired, athletic-looking—standing in her living room with a boy who resembled her... “This isn’t funny anymore. I put you to bed three times.”

The boy hugged her. “I don’t want to go to bed. I want to be with you, Mommy.”

He was hungry. She convinced him to eat some mini-pizzas, but they weren’t the sort he usually liked... and then she saw his reflection in the glass of the tabletop.

He wasn’t human.

“Sam?”

Sam took a deep breath and shook his head as he came back to the present. “Yeah. ’M fine. Boy... kinda nice not to have a headache with one of those....”

Dean frowned. “Wait, you just had a vision?”

“Yeah, Maglor thinks it’s something I was born with; Azazel just exploited it. That’s not the point. The point is, I just saw someone who needs help.” He grabbed a pencil and paper and started sketching.

Dean blinked once Sam got the woman’s face drawn. “Dude. I know her.”

Sam stopped. “You do?”

“Yeah. Bendiest weekend of my life. She’s a yoga instructor, Lisa Braeden, lives in Cicero, Indiana.”

“You’re sure?”

“Trust me, Sam. That is not a woman I’d forget in a hurry.”

Sam put down his pencil. “Let’s go, then. I’ll look up news reports on the way.”

“Whoa, dude, wait. We can’t just barge in—I haven’t seen Lisa in close to nine years, and that was one weekend. What are we gonna say?”

Sam shrugged. “You could always tell her we have....”

“... business in Indianapolis,” Dean said casually as they stood on Lisa’s doorstep, “and I couldn’t come through town without stopping by and saying hey.”

Lisa raised an eyebrow, and Dean really hoped she bought the story, at least a little. The newspaper hadn’t revealed anything beyond one freak accident, but Sam’s visions had never led them wrong before. And he really didn’t know how else to explain their visit.

But she didn’t argue about that. Instead, she said, “This is kind of a bad time. I’m on my way to a funeral.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, ex of one of my girlfriends had a freak accident, fell on his table saw.”

“Yeah, I heard about that.”

“It’s weird—there’ve been a lot of fatal accidents in that neighborhood recently.”

Yahtzee. “Really?”

“Yeah, drownings, falls, that kind of thing. Really bizarre.”

Before Dean could ask for more details, though, a boy’s voice came from inside the house. “Do I have to go, Mom?”

Lisa turned, and Dean caught sight of the kid... who looked an awful lot like both Lisa and Dean. “Yes, Ben. Katie’s your friend, isn’t she?”

“She used to be, but she’s been acting really weird lately.”

“Honey, her dad just died.”

“No, I mean before that. She’s just... creepy.”

Dean glanced across the room and saw the kid’s—Ben’s—reflection in the TV. It looked normal.

“And all she wants to do anymore is hang out with her mom,” Ben continued. “She never comes out to play.”

Dean glanced at Sam, who raised an eyebrow. They were both hearing all kinds of alarm bells in the complaint.

Lisa sighed. “Well, you should still come to the funeral with me. Maybe showing her that you’re still her friend will help her to start acting normal again.”

“Mooom....”

“Go get your shoes on.”

Ben trudged back toward what was presumably his room, defeated.

Lisa turned back to Dean. “Sorry about that.”

Dean shrugged. “Hey, no problem. How old is he?”

“He’ll be eight tomorrow.” At Dean’s thoughtful look, she added, “You’re not... asking if he’s yours, are you?”

“What? No.” Dean paused. “Is he?”

“No.”

But somehow Dean knew she was lying. He didn’t quite know what to do with the information, though, so he said, “Well, look, I don’t want to hold you up. But we’ll be around for a couple of days, so if you need anything or just want to get together....” He handed her a piece of paper with his cell phone number on it.

She glanced at it and nodded before putting it in her purse. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Good to see you again, Lisa.”

She smiled a little. “You, too, Dean. Nice to meet you, Sam.”

Sam smiled back. “Bye.”

Once they were in the Impala and on their way toward a motel, Dean sighed. “So.”

“Wasn’t the same boy, Dean. I mean, he looked the same, but he didn’t act like the kid I saw.”

“Coulda told me.”

Sam sighed. “The resemblance didn’t register. I’m sorry. You’re sure he’s yours?”

“Eight years plus nine months? Dates match.”

“Yeah.”

“So what do you think we’re lookin’ at? Something’s up with the kids; something’s killing the grown-ups.”

“We should look into these accidents to be sure, but my guess would be a changeling.”

“Feds?”

“Insurance investigators.”

Dean nodded his agreement.

It took a couple of days of investigation to gather the information the brothers needed, but Sam’s guess turned out to be accurate. Dean tried to get Lisa to leave town with Ben, but he arrived too late; Ben had already been taken and replaced. But the smudge of red dirt on Ben’s windowsill told Dean where they needed to go, and just a few minutes later, Sam and Dean were converging on different entrances to a house under construction in the neighborhood where most of the ‘accidental’ deaths had occurred. Dean found where the exchanged children were being kept and broke them out of their cages, and Ben helped him get the other children to safety. But just as Dean was about to wonder aloud where Sam was, he heard Sam cry out in pain from the front of the house.

Immediately, Dean raced to Sam’s aid and found him on the ground, unconscious and bleeding from a gash in his side, and the mother changeling about to plunge a dagger into his heart. Dean torched her quickly, then glanced at the dagger she’d dropped and saw that a chunk was missing from the blade. Swearing quietly, he checked Sam’s pulse; it was thready and rapid.

“Dean?” Ben said from a few feet away, his eyes huge. “What... is he okay?”

Dean jumped up and draped his jacket around Ben’s shoulders. “My car’s out front. There’s a first aid kit on the back floorboard. Keys are in the pocket. Go!”

Ben took off like a shot.

Ignoring the sudden ringtone sounding from his pocket, Dean forced himself not to panic as he stripped off his overshirt and knelt beside Sam. The wound was already inflamed, and as he pulled Sam’s shirt away from it, Dean couldn’t see into it far enough to be able to see where the shard of dagger was. “C’mon, Sammy,” he muttered as he rolled up his overshirt. “Stay with me. Just hang on. We’ll get you fixed up. Stay with me, dude....”

He pressed the shirt against the wound and let his eyes slip closed... and suddenly he was in a dark, featureless dreamscape, and Sam was standing way off in the distance looking confused.

SAM! he cried, running after his brother.

Sam turned. Dean? What are you doing here?

Hell if I know, dude, but you’ve got to come back with me.

I’m... I’m lost. What happened?

That mother changeling, she cut your side open with some funky-looking dagger. I think maybe it’s cursed or poisoned. Left a piece of it in you.

So I’m dying. Sam suddenly looked even more out of it than before, and the distance between them wasn’t growing any smaller.

No, you’re not, Dean replied firmly. Not on my watch. You gotta come back.

I’m so tired....

That’s part of the curse, Sam! Don’t listen to it! Don’t give in!

Sam sighed wearily. Let me go, Dean. Go back to Lisa, live some normal, apple-pie life for a while.

Not. Without. You. I can’t do this by myself.

Yes, you can. You don’t need me.

Dean laughed bitterly. What am I supposed to do, huh? All I’ve ever done is look after you, dude. I can’t let you die, not like this. You’re all I’ve got left. Don’t... don’t go where I can’t follow.

Sam huffed, and Dean couldn’t tell if it was amusement or annoyance. I love you, too, Dean. I do, truly. But you have to let me go.

Well, Dean was annoyed and not about to take no for an answer, and he felt some kind of power surge forth from somewhere deep within his soul as he growled, Dammit, Sammy—lasto beth nin! Tolo dan na ngalad!

Sam gave a loud gasp, and Dean opened his eyes to see Sam staring at him wildly. “Dean?!”

Dean heaved a sigh of relief. “Hey. Welcome back.”

“The hell’d you do, man?!”

Ben’s rapidly approaching footsteps saved Dean the trouble of covering the fact that he had no clue what he’d done or how he’d done it. Instead, he pulled the shirt away from the wound and saw, to his very great surprise, that the inflammation had gone down and the shard was sitting right at the surface.

Sam frowned. “Dean?”

“Here’s the first aid kit, Dean,” Ben panted as he ran up to the brothers.

Dean looked up at him. “Thanks, dude. Hand me the tweezers first, would ya?”

Ben did so, and Dean fished out the shard and doused it with holy water. And suddenly both the shard and the blade itself dissolved into smoke, leaving behind only the hilt.

Ben’s eyes threatened to pop out of his head. “Was... was that a Morgul blade?! Like the Witch-king stabbed Frodo with?”

That was in fact Dean’s first guess, but since he couldn’t be certain, he replied, “I dunno, buddy. Run back out to the car for me—there’s a wooden box in the trunk with funky carvings on it. I need you to bring me that and a pair of gloves.”

“Okay.” Ben set the first aid kit beside Dean and ran off again.

“Curse box?” Sam asked.

“Yeah.” Dean wiped his hands quickly and snapped a picture of the hilt with his phone. “I’ll send that to Maglor, see if he knows what it is.” He gave Sam a couple of Tylenol to dry-swallow while Dean pulled out his hip flask and poured a generous amount of whisky on both the cut and the suture needle.

Sam hissed at the sting of the alcohol but still found voice enough to say, “Dean....”

“Dude, just shut up and let me get this stitched.”

Sam watched silently as Dean threaded the needle and cut the suture, then murmured, “‘The hands of the king are the hands of a healer’....”

Dean pretended not to hear him. “Need somethin’ to bite on?”

“Nah. I’m good.”

Dean took a deep breath and blew it out again quickly to steady himself, then stitched the wound shut as quickly and neatly as he knew how. He was putting a protective bandage over everything just as Ben returned with the curse box and the gloves.

“Here.” Sam sat up gingerly and motioned for the things Ben held. Ben handed them to him, and Sam carefully pulled on the gloves and put the knife hilt in the curse box while Dean packed up the first aid kit.

Dean nodded once when both tasks were done. “Okay. Ben, take this.” He handed the first aid kit to the boy, who took it. “Sam, you think you can walk?”

Sam thought for a beat. “Probably need some help.”

“Okay. You carry the curse box; I’ll carry you.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Dean.”

Ben giggled.

But Dean was already pulling Sam’s arm across his shoulders and putting his own arm around Sam’s waist in the best position to support without pressing on the injury. “You ready, dude?”

“Yeah.”

They stood together, and Ben led the way back to the Impala. Sam was steadier on his feet by the time they got to the car, so Dean let him rest against the side of the car while Ben got in and Dean put the first aid kit and the curse box in the trunk and sent the picture to Bobby with a text asking for ID.

“Need help getting around to your door?” Dean asked Sam.

Sam shook his head. “Nah. Just give me another moment.”

Dean was just beginning to realize that he felt pretty drained and shaky himself when his phone rang.

“Maglor’s about to have kittens over that photo,” said Bobby without preamble when Dean answered.

Dean sighed and leaned against the trunk. “Let me talk to him.”

“Dean!” Maglor sounded as worried as Bobby had described. “How fare you? Are you well?”

“Dude, I’m fine. What is that thing?”

“It is indeed the hilt of a Morgul knife; I believe it was meant to poison, not to turn the victim into a wraith, but even the hilt is evil enough. Do not handle it unless you must.”

“Haven’t touched it. Sam used gloves when he put it in the curse box.”

“Well done. How came you by it?”

“Got into a fight with the mother changeling, and she got in a good shot at Sam’s side before I torched her. Left a piece of the blade in the wound. He was unconscious for a couple of minutes.”

Maglor’s tone grew even more worried. “We shall come to you immediately. What is Sam’s condition now?”

“He’s fine, for having his side sliced open. I got the shard out—”

“You what?!”

Dean jumped, startled. “Uh....”

“Let me speak to Sam.”

Dean glanced over at Ben, who was resting his head against the window on the other side of the car and looked to be dozing, and pushed the speakerphone button. “Okay, you’re on speaker.”

“Sam, what do you remember from the time you were unconscious?”

Sam blinked. “Not much. Things were grey, kinda fuzzy, and I... got lost, I guess. And then Dean showed up. I don’t... I can’t remember much of what he said, but I do remember the last thing: ‘Lasto beth nin. Tolo dan na ngalad.’ And then I woke up.”

Maglor inhaled sharply. “Dean. How did you know that command?”

“They said that in the movie, didn’t they?” Dean asked with a puzzled frown. “I guess that’s where I’d heard it before, but I don’t know why I said it. What’s it mean, anyway?”

“‘Hearken to me. Come back to the light.’ I cannot believe... Dean, Sam was beyond the aid of mortal medicine. You just called your brother back from the brink of death.”

Dean’s frown deepened. “So?”

“That gift is extremely rare. The only Men I have known to be capable of such a feat were direct descendants of Lúthien.”

Sam and Dean stared at each other in shock.

“The hands of the king are the hands of a healer,” Sam quoted again.

“Is that even possible?” Dean asked. “I mean, Dad was from a family of mechanics, and we don’t know anything about Mom’s side apart from the fact that she was a Campbell.”

Maglor made a thoughtful noise. “I left the old lands long before those houses were established, so I cannot be certain. But if I mistake not, the earliest Campbells were allied by marriage with the House of Bruce, which was one of the ancient royal lines descended from the kings of Arnor. I would not have thought the bloodline could run so true after so many Ages, but... such gifts do not appear by chance. And as Sherlock Holmes was wont to say, ‘when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however unlikely, must be the truth.’”

“Guess it’s something we oughta look into,” Sam shrugged. “Y’know, in case someone wants to use it against us.”

“Later, dude,” Dean replied. “Right now we’ve got to get Ben home. Hey, uh, thanks, Maglor.”

Maglor murmured something that might have been an amused “Idjits” before hanging up.

Dean sighed and ran a hand over his nose and mouth, trying hard not to let Sam see how badly he was shaking.

It didn’t work. “You okay, Dean?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s just... it’s a lot, y’know? Find out I’ve got a kid, lose the kid, find the kid, almost lose you, find out I’ve got freaky mind powers and royal blood and we might be related to an Elf....”

“Yeah, and those powers took a lot out of you. But: my power still appears to be foresight, and since I am such an awesome little brother....”

Dean perked up. “Pie?”

Sam chuckled. “Sorry. Peanut M&Ms.”

“Gimme.”

“In the glove compartment.”

Dean tried to dash back to the driver’s door, he really did, but it turned into more of an exhausted half-jog. At least Sam had the grace not to laugh at him—or maybe it was just that his side hurt too badly. He was moving about like he normally did when he got himself sliced open, which was oddly comforting. In any case, Dean got the M&Ms (and Holy snack food, Batman, they were dark chocolate to boot!) out of the glove compartment before Sam eased himself into the front seat... but Sam had to open the package because Dean’s hands were shaking too badly.

Barely had Dean gotten his second handful into his mouth, though, than his phone rang again. Sam answered it for him. It was Lisa, apparently in a panic about seeing Changeling Ben get torched. Sam couldn’t get her to calm down, and he was starting to look a little grey in the face, so Dean hurriedly finished the candy that was in his mouth and took over.

“Dean! Why weren’t you answering your phone, and why is Sam telling me to calm down?! My son just went up in flames!”

“It wasn’t Ben, Lisa,” Dean said firmly. “Ben’s with us. What you saw was a changeling.”

That brought her up short. “A what?”

“A changeling. It’s a monster. We just killed its mother, and we’re bringing Ben back. Just... give us a few minutes, okay? I promise you, Ben is fine, and there’s no more danger. I’ll explain everything when we get there.”

“O... okay. How long do you think you’ll be?”

Dean sighed. “Fifteen, maybe twenty.”

“Okay. I’ll just... um... Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Dean smiled at that. “See you soon, Lis.”

“You sure you’ll be able to drive that soon?” Sam asked as Dean hung up.

Dean reached for the M&Ms again. “You sure as hell ain’t drivin’.”

“Dean....”

“This is already helping, okay? Just shut up and get some rest.”

Sam watched him eat another handful of M&Ms, making sure that Dean wasn’t lying, but he wasn’t, so Sam gave in and found a more comfortable position that would let him rest his head on the back of the seat. By the time Dean’s shakes had diminished to the point that he felt safe to drive, both Sam and Ben were snoring slightly.

The drive back to Lisa’s house was uneventful, and Dean woke both passengers before he pulled into the driveway. Lisa was standing at the front door and looked anxiously at Dean as he got out of the car, then bent down to catch the streak of light that was Ben barreling out of the back seat and into her arms.

Sam got out stiffly just as Lisa looked at Dean once more with eyes brimming with tears of gratitude and relief. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

“I’ll give you two some time,” Sam said to Dean and started around the front of the car.

But Ben pulled back from Lisa slightly. “Mom, Sam’s hurt—he got stabbed—I think it was a Morgul blade, ’cause it melted when Dean poured holy water on it.”

Lisa looked at Sam then and noticed him favoring his side. “Sam! Come inside, please.”

Sam held up a hand. “No, really, you and Dean....”

“Dean and I can talk in the kitchen, and you and Ben can hang out in the living room. I insist.”

Sam looked at Dean, and Dean didn’t bother to hide the weariness in his eyes this time. Apparently, pulling someone back from the brink of death took a lot more energy than he’d realized, may even have left him hypoglycemic, and the chocolate wasn’t going to last long enough for his conversation with Lisa to go any further than talk. And Sam knew Dean’s tired face all too well.

Sam sighed. “Okay.”

And the four of them trooped inside, Ben making a beeline from the door to the couch to start making it comfortable for Sam.

“Can I get you a beer, Sam?” Lisa asked.

“No, thanks, just... maybe some water.”

Ben dashed off to the kitchen.

“Dean?” Lisa prompted.

Dean sighed. What he really wanted was whisky; what he really needed was—“Coffee, if that’s okay.”

Lisa nodded. “Sure. You still take it black?”

“Yeah... maybe some sugar in it this time.”

She studied his face. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just kind of a tough fight.”

She nodded, probably realizing what an understatement it was, and motioned for him to follow her into the kitchen. Ben almost collided with them on his way back with Sam’s water.

They didn’t talk until she got the coffee made and loaded Dean’s cup with sugar and he took a couple of drinks. It was amazing how fast the sugar seemed to help. “Thanks, Lis.”

“So. You said you’d explain.”

So he did, quietly enough that Ben couldn’t overhear from the living room.

“Come on,” she said when he’d finished.

“You know how I never mentioned my job? This is my job.”

“I so did not want to know that.” She looked over at Ben, who was listening to something on headphones while Sam dozed. “Do you think he’ll be okay?”

“Yeah. I think he’ll be fine.” He paused. “He’s a Winchester.”

Lisa blinked. “No, Dean, I told you. You’re off the hook. I had a blood test done when he was a baby.”

He took her hand. “Lisa. You don’t have to lie to me. Ben’s a good kid, and I’m proud to be his dad.”

She ducked her head, embarrassed, then met his eyes again. “Look, if, um... if you want to stick around for a while... you’re welcome to stay.”

Dean looked back at Ben, considering. It wasn’t like he had to hunt, now that Azazel was dead, at least not until Bobby and Maglor and Ash worked out what was going on with the whole Return of Morgoth thing. He and Sam were both worn out, not just from this hunt, but from everything that had happened in the past two years. He liked Lisa, even after all this time, and she didn’t seem too freaked out about knowing the truth, and Ben... no lie, the kid was great. If the world really was about to end, could he really pass up the one chance he had to be a real dad for even a short time?

“I’ll have to check with Sam,” Dean finally said, “and I can’t make any promises, but... maybe for a while.”

Chapter Text

A while, it turned out, was just over a year. There were a few urgent hunts that took them away for a couple of days now and then, but Sam was as glad as Dean was to have the chance to recover their strength and settle down for a time. Dean bought a truck and got a job at a construction firm while Sam took a position at the public library, which sufficed to keep them in a decent apartment and plenty of books and ammo. Sam took the opportunity to learn as much Elvish as he could and to do some genealogical research; the Winchesters, it turned out, were descended from the Princes of Dol Amroth, and the Campbells had blood ties of their own to the House of Telcontar even before Sir Niall Campbell married Mary Bruce. The brothers managed to save Agent Henricksen’s life during a demon attack and got the FBI off their backs; Gordon Walker turned up dead on a night when both Winchesters had alibis, which surprised exactly no one; and when a demon and an art thief each tried to worm their way into the boys’ lives with motives that didn’t pass the smell test, the Winchesters told them both to go to Hell—literally. And on the non-supernatural side of the ledger, Dean’s relationship with Ben and Lisa really took root and thrived, and Ben was thrilled to have not only a dad but also an uncle who were, in his estimation, practically superheroes.

Shortly after Ben’s ninth birthday, Lisa told Dean that the last year had been the best of her life, and both Dean and Sam were inclined to agree with her.

But on September 18, 2008, while Sam was in the middle of shelving books, he was surprised by a startled gasp and an oddly accented whisper of “Cousin Túrin?!”

Sam turned to see a tall, fair-haired, middle-aged man staring at him in astonishment, standing uncomfortably as if business casual were not his usual attire. And he wondered if this man might be one of their mother’s Campbell cousins, since he did look a little like the one picture of Mary Winchester that had survived the fire. But surely a Campbell would have gotten his name right... wouldn’t he?

The stranger took another deep breath. “No... no, you’re not Túrin. My apologies. And yet—you are very like him... of course, I saw him only once, and that was... a very long time ago.”

“My name’s Sam,” Sam offered.

The stranger’s eyes lit with recognition. “So I was not so wrong—you are the man I seek, and we are kin from afar. I was told I would find you here.” His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “My name is Tuor.”

Sam quickly thought through the tales from the Elder Days he’d studied and placed Tuor as the father of Eärendil and the only human ever granted the life of the Eldar. But he was supposed to be on an island somewhere off the coast of Aman, forbidden to mix with mortals!

His astonishment evidently showed on his face, because the stranger nodded. “Yes. I am that Tuor. The Valar have sent me to tell you to prepare for battle. We may have only a year before Morgoth returns.”

Sam swallowed hard and checked his watch. “I’m supposed to meet my brother for lunch in ten minutes. Will you join us?”

“Yes,” Tuor nodded. “That might be best.”

Unbeknownst to Sam, Dean was at that moment turning around from putting something in the toolbox on his pickup to run smack into a slightly more familiar figure in a tan trenchcoat.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean pulled back in surprise. “Castiel!”

“I must speak with you and Sam immediately.”

“We’re just about to meet for lunch. Hop in.”

Castiel disappeared and reappeared in the passenger seat. Dean shook his head and got in the truck. But the foreman, Sid, happened to walk outside just as Dean started the engine, so he waved Sid over.

“Hey,” he said when Sid reached him, “I’m probably gonna be late getting back from lunch. Got some unexpected company, may have some family business to take care of.”

Sid nodded. “That’s fine. We’re a week ahead of schedule, thanks to you. Go ahead and take the whole afternoon.”

Dean smiled. “Thanks, dude.”

Dean expected Sid to move on after that, but instead he caught sight of the figure in the passenger seat and asked, “Who’s your friend?”

“Ah, this is my cousin Cas. Cas, Sid.”

“Hi!”

“Hello,” said Castiel with a nod.

Sid patted the door. “Have a good rest of the day!”

“You, too,” Dean replied and pulled out before Sid could decide to chatter at them any further. At the end of the block, though, he glanced over at Castiel. “What, no rebuke for lying?”

“It was not a lie, simply imprecise. We may not be first cousins, but you are of the line of Lúthien, and Melian is among the greatest of my kin.”

“So did not need to know that,” Dean murmured.

Before the conversation could get any more awkward, Dean’s phone rang. “Hey,” said Sam when Dean answered, “change of plans—I’m pickin’ up Chinese. Meet me back at the apartment.”

“Why? What’s goin’ on?”

“Got a surprise for you.”

“Yeah? I’ve got one for you, too.” Dean held the phone away from his head for a moment. “Hey, Cas, you like Chinese food?”

Castiel shrugged. “I’ve never tried it.”

Dean nodded and spoke into the phone again. “Get me some moo goo gai pan and some beef and broccoli.”

Sam’s blink was almost audible. “You’re that hungry?”

“Trust me.”

“All right. See you in ten.”

Dean glanced at Castiel again as he hung up. “Do angels even eat?”

“We can if we so choose. But I believe I may need to do so more often now than I did when last we met.”

“Why? What happened?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Okay, well, save it for lunch.”

The rest of the ride back to the apartment was silent; Castiel evidently wasn’t one for making small talk. But thanks to the difference in distances to their respective workplaces, Dean pulled into the parking lot of the apartment complex just after Sam did, and he was surprised to see a fair-haired stranger in the front seat of the Impala. Sam got out with his arms full of take-out boxes and did a hilarious double-take when he saw who was in the passenger seat of the truck.

“Surprise, Sammy,” Dean called as he stopped the engine.

Sam grinned. “Hey, Castiel!”

Castiel zapped out of the truck and appeared next to Sam to take the food from him. Dean waited until Sam’s passenger had gotten out before following suit, but he froze when the stranger turned to him and Dean was reminded a little—no, a lot—of Mary. And it seemed that the shock was mutual.

Sam spoke up from the other side of the car. “Tuor, this is my brother Dean. Dean, this is Tuor son of Huor.”

“T—” Dean’s eyes threatened to pop out of his head when he placed the name.

Tuor chuckled. “That was Sam’s reaction as well.”

Dean suddenly remembered his manners and offered Tuor his hand. “Good to meet you—damn, what do I call you, Grandpa?”

Tuor laughed and shook hands. “For kin so distant, I think we need not be formal. Call me Tuor, if you will.”

“Okay. Tuor it is.”

Tuor then turned to look at Castiel, who bowed his head. “Mae govannen, hir-nin. Castiel of the people of Manwë at your service.”

“Mae govannen—Castiel? That’s....”

“Not Quenya,” Castiel interrupted, looking slightly embarrassed. “I believe it is Hebrew.”

Tuor inclined his head in understanding. “Well, I suppose we had better continue this conversation inside. That food smells marvelous, and I have not yet eaten today.”

Men and angel trooped inside and quickly settled around the Winchesters’ thrift-store kitchen table. Both Castiel and Tuor were new to the experience of Chinese food, so the first half of the meal was occupied mostly with small talk and exclamations over the quality of some of the dishes. But finally Dean got around to asking Tuor how long he’d been back in mortal lands.

“Some days,” Tuor replied. “My ship landed in... Iceland, I believe you call it, and though Lord Manwë had instructed me on how to find my way here, it still took more time than I had anticipated to obtain conveyance hither. Now that I know how these aeroplanes of yours work, however, the return journey should not take so long.”

“Oh, so you’re not staying?”

“No. I am only to deliver my message and offer passage West for anyone whose safety you wish to ensure for the moment. Valinor itself may not remain secure for long, but the Valar wish to extend this grace to you.”

“So why’d they send you? Why not, I dunno, some other Maia?”

“As a Man, I am less likely to attract attention, either from other Men or from spirits. Lord Manwë suspects that not all of the Maiar in Middle-earth remain reliable.”

“With good cause,” Castiel added. “And even were he mistaken about them, the Enemy’s spies are more prone to see through the disguise of an Elf or Maia.”

Dean nodded thoughtfully. “Makes sense. So, what’s the message?”

“War is coming,” said Tuor. “We may have only a year, perhaps a year and a half, before Morgoth is able to break through the Walls of the World and return to Arda for the Dagor Dagorath.”

Dean swallowed hard. “Is Manwë sure?”

“As sure as he can be, given that none of the Valar have any clear memory of the end of the Song. But this is not mere foretelling. Everywhere the Enemy is moving, preparing for his arrival. Demonic activity has spiked, and Lilith has returned.”

The Winchesters exchanged a look. “Lilith?” Dean repeated. “Like, mother of all demons Lilith?”

“Not precisely,” Castiel replied. “We believe she was the first of the Houseless whom Morgoth corrupted. There’s a slight chance she was also the mother of the first Orcs.”

Sam involuntarily shuddered.

“And as such,” Tuor continued, “she will seek to marshal not only an army of the Houseless and other evil spirits but also of monsters of every kind. Already the Orcs have begun to multiply in the old lands, and Wargs and giant spiders have appeared in the forests of Europe. I do not doubt that she will find and summon every remaining dragon and Balrog, should any still exist.”

“What for?” Dean pressed.

“Such information as Lord Manwë has gathered suggests that she intends to help Morgoth return from the Void.”

Both Winchesters swore.

“We do not know yet whether she has discovered the whole of the spell she will need to breach the Walls of the World. What is plain is that she seeks to have an army ready and waiting for Morgoth when he does return.”

“The army I was supposed to lead,” Sam sighed.

Tuor nodded. “We believe Morgoth instructed Azazel to find a special child and enspell him or her to be his lieutenant, perhaps even become Antichrist. And Lord Manwë further suspects that Morgoth specifically wanted you, though he could not give Azazel sufficient details to ensure that only you were ensnared.”

“Why Sam?” Dean frowned.

“Some among the Eldar have held that Túrin Turambar would return for the Dagor Dagorath, lead the armies of Manwë, and strike the blow to kill Morgoth, thus avenging the wrongs suffered by the children of Húrin. But Túrin’s fëa went to the Timeless Halls long ago, and if he is to return, it must be at the side of Yésu Hrísto Eruion, the Anointed One. But I confess to being shocked when I saw Sam in the archives earlier—both of you bear an uncanny resemblance to my lamented cousin. I thought briefly that Lord Manwë might have been mistaken and that Sam was indeed Túrin returned.”

“He is not,” Castiel stated flatly. “Nor has Túrin’s soul been divided.”

“No, that is plain to me now. But together, Sam and Dean, you form a unit that is so like Túrin that one might easily think your souls were twinned from his. And Lord Mandos believes that it is to fulfill his role that you were born.”

Dean leaned back in his chair. “So Morgoth was tryin’ to split us up, make us fight each other.”

“With me leading Hell’s army,” Sam added, “and Dean leading Valinor’s. Divide and conquer.”

“Exactly,” said Tuor. “He has failed in that scheme, thanks to your ‘chance-meeting’ with Maglor. But Lord Mandos has seen that your doom is not so lightly to be set aside. If Lilith should succeed, Lord Manwë will need both of you to lead the forces of Men alongside the armies of the Eldar in fighting against Morgoth.”

Both brothers sighed, and the meal continued in momentary silence until Dean asked, “So, Cas, what brings you here? You have a message of your own?”

“Indeed. I have just returned from Aman myself.”

“Really?”

“I have been in the Halls of Mandos.”

Sam blinked. “You’re not—I mean....”

Castiel almost smiled. “No, Sam. I wasn’t dead, though I did find it more expedient to move as pure spirit. No, I was looking for information. Lady Vairë the Weaver, wife of Lord Mandos, records all of Arda’s history in her tapestries, which hang in those halls. I had reached the limit of what my sources here could tell me, and I knew I could find what I sought there.”

“And did you?”

“Yes. Unfortunately. Lady Nienna urged me to tell Lord Manwë everything, and I did so. He ordered me to return to aid you... with some... restrictions.”

“Restrictions?” Dean frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I am now bound to this form. And as I said, I am limited, though I do not have as many limits as were imposed on the Istari who came to Middle-earth in the Third Age. I am subject to hunger and thirst, and I believe it may be possible for me to be injured or slain. Nor am I able to fly as far or as swiftly as I once did.”

Sam placed the term Istari before Dean did and asked, “So... you’re like Gandalf, except you can still fly?”

“Nor am I what you would call a ‘wizard’—but yes, basically.”

Tuor looked puzzled. “Why did you not return with me? There was room enough on board the ship.”

“I didn’t have the information I needed until two days ago. It doesn’t change your message, only adds detail. Your son was kind enough to bring me close enough to Middle-earth that I could complete the journey alone.”

Tuor bowed his head in acknowledgment.

Sam cleared his throat. “So, Tuor, you... wanna tell us what’s going on with Morgoth and Lilith?”

“Gladly, Sam. Have you a map of your country?”

“Yeah, hang on a sec.” Sam went to his desk and retrieved a road map while Dean cleared the table, and together they spread it out for Tuor as he began again.

“Lord Manwë has set a mighty watch on the Walls of the World since the end of the First Age, and even now it has not relaxed or weakened. If Morgoth attempts to cross directly into Valinor through the Door of Night, he will be repulsed—and he knows this. However, because of the shocks resulting from the Breaking of the World, the Walls are not as strong on this side of Arda, and there are two particular weak points over the United States that Lilith may seek to exploit. Breaking through will still require an immense amount of power, but it will easier here than elsewhere.” Tuor scanned the map for a moment, then pointed. “The first potential breach is here, over Ilchester, Maryland. Specifically, we think, over an abandoned convent that appears to be where Azazel contacted Morgoth to receive instruction regarding the special child; some say it lies over a hellmouth, but that part is only rumor. This location is ideal for a quick takeover of the United States and for launching an armada toward Valinor, given its proximity to Washington and to the coast. Lord Manwë believes it will be Lilith’s first choice—but he fears that once she realizes that her plans are known, she will shift her tactics and attack the second point.

“That lies here: Carthage, Missouri. And it may in fact be easier for the spell to break the barrier there, since it was the site of a major battle with severe casualties during your Civil War. Our scouts have not been able to ascertain much about the exact spell Lilith will use, but it does appear to require great bloodshed. Whether or not that will also mean the slaughter of the town’s current residents, we do not yet know.”

Sam rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, we could probably get someone to guard the convent, or at least keep an eye on it for us. A Civil War battlefield’s gonna be harder.”

“You said this was gonna take a year, maybe a year and a half,” Dean frowned. “Why is that? Are there, like, other seals that have to be broken first?”

“Not as such,” Castiel replied. “The passage of time may cause the Walls to thin further, but they will not be affected by anything Lilith does in the meantime. No, she will seek to build an army for Morgoth, and as Tuor said, even if she already knows the whole of the spell to summon him, it will require far more power than she currently has. She will need the time to gather her strength. And so will her allies.”

“Allies? What-what allies?”

Castiel looked depressed. “There are three Maiar who are known to have been working with Lilith: Alatar, Pallando... and Zachariah.”

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. “Zachariah?” Sam asked. “Your superior?”

“Yes. Maglor was correct. He has betrayed us. Apparently he believes that Our Father has delayed the end too long and that we ought to force it to come now. Why he believes this is unclear, but perhaps he hopes to have mastery over Arda Remade. He has always been ambitious. I have recently heard him expressing contempt for the Secondborn, too, and my friend Uriel agreed. I have no idea how many others of my brethren Zachariah has corrupted or how many have followed blindly without realizing his error.”

“That is what you sought from Lady Vairë,” Tuor said thoughtfully. “To learn when that change began.”

Castiel nodded. “I had hoped it was only discontent with the present state of Arda.”

“So what’d you find?” Dean prompted.

“His treachery runs deeper than we knew,” Castiel stated grimly. “I suspect he ordered a cupid to ensure that your parents were attracted to one another, though I have no proof. I do know that he ordered us not to prevent your mother’s death, and I have learned that that order did not come from Lord Manwë. And I now know also that he appeared to your mother and her parents as a hunter who looked very much like Dean does now—indeed, he called himself Dean Van Halen. And it was through his subtle manipulation that Mary and her father crossed paths with Azazel.

“The demon sensed the blood of Númenor in Mary and decided she would make a good mother for the special child. So Azazel possessed Samuel Campbell, then killed him and his wife Deanna and John Winchester but prevented the Reaper from carrying John into the West. And he offered Mary a deal: he would return John to life if Mary gave him leave to enter her house in ten years’ time for an undisclosed purpose.”

“Ten—” Dean cut himself short and shared a horrified look with Sam.

“Yes,” Castiel nodded. “The date was May 2, 1973. What Mary couldn’t know was that the permission was valid for the entire year following the ten-year mark. And Azazel’s spell had to be performed when the child was precisely six months old.”

Sam leaned his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands.

“Why did Zachariah interfere?” Dean asked, sounding deceptively calm.

Castiel sighed. “I don’t know, Dean. Somehow he had seen the two of you in the future and felt compelled to ensure that that future would come to pass, by fair means or foul.”

The brothers cursed in quiet unison.

Tuor evidently decided that this news was better dealt with in private, because he changed the subject. “Alatar and Pallando are Istari, are they not?”

Castiel nodded. “They were known in the Third Age as the Blue Wizards. They disappeared into the East and were never heard from again. Olórin suspects that they are responsible for a number of false religions in the East, leading the Men of those lands astray with the promise of occult knowledge. Like Saruman, they may have begun by teaching truth, but eventually they themselves fell into error.”

Tuor scratched his beard thoughtfully. “They will be formidable adversaries, then—but perhaps not so formidable as they were in the Third Age. The habit of practicing evil diminishes the power of even the greatest spirit.”

“True, but they have also grown strong in sorcery and necromancy. And Zachariah will not have lost as much of his power as they have, since he arrived in Middle-earth only after the downfall of Sauron.”

Dean sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Awesome. Must be Thursday. Aren’t there any other angels we can trust, Cas?”

“I am certain of only one other,” Castiel replied. “My brother Rincaro is also with us.”

“Rincaro? Who’s—”

“You rang?” asked a familiar voice from the living room.

Sam and Dean were on their feet in seconds, guns aimed at the brown-haired figure that had appeared on the couch.

“Hey,” said the newcomer, hands raised placatingly. “I’m on your side, honest.” And he manifested a white Stetson and waved it at them to prove his point.

“We killed you,” Sam frowned.

The newcomer scoffed and plopped the Stetson on his head at a silly angle. “Please. Like I’d let you mooks get the jump on me for real.”

Dean glanced at Castiel. “Your brother is the Trickster?!”

“He is of the people of Lórien,” Castiel explained. “His tricks are intended to teach, not to harm.”

“Except when people end up dead.”

Rincaro shrugged. “Omelets, eggs. Some assembly required.”

Sam huffed and put away his gun. Tuor didn’t quite manage to suppress a snicker.

“Why the hell would you want to help us now?” Dean demanded.

Rincaro straightened his hat and leaned forward, deadly earnest. “Zachariah’s obsessed with the idea of you being Túrin reborn or whatever he thinks you are. He’ll do anything to make sure you can’t escape the role he believes you were destined to fulfill from the moment Dad gave Being to the Song. He’s wrong, but he’s powerful enough to be a dangerous enemy; even Castiel is no match for him. And he’s incredibly petty when he’s crossed. But I’m stronger, faster, and better. You need me—to run interference, if nothing else.”

“He’s serious, Dean,” Castiel stated. “He was the one who warned me not to trust Zachariah and urged me to contact you after Azazel’s death.”

Dean sighed and lowered his gun. “Fine. Go... run interference.”

Rincaro winked and vanished.

Dean righted the chair he’d knocked over in his haste and sat down heavily. “How the hell am I supposed to manage this mess by myself?!” he asked the room in general.

“Dean...” Sam began.

“Yeah, I know you’ve got my back, Sam, and you’ll help all you can. Thanks, and I do trust you. I can’t do it without you. You still know what I mean.”

Sam sighed. “Yeah. You’re the eldest; you’re in charge—Ike.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Does that make you Patton or Bradley?”

“I don’t wear a helmet to bed, Dean.”

“Yeah, and Bradley was a bean pole, too, from what I remember. Awesome. Just make sure you don’t turn into Montgomery on me.”

Sam snorted.

Tuor put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Dean, you may be the closest thing this generation of Men has to the Heir of Isildur, but you are not Aragorn, never mind the Anointed One. None of us expect you to be! But even Aragorn did not labor alone forever. Without the Fellowship, neither he nor Mithrandir nor the Ring-bearers could have accomplished their task. Nor could the Nine have succeeded without the aid of many others—Radagast, Elrond, Galadriel, Gwaihir, Faramir, Théoden, Éomer, Éowyn, Fangorn, the list goes on and on. You and Sam together must take up the standard of the kings of old, your forefathers, fighting evil to the last, and together you must play the role that lore once gave to Túrin if the worst should happen; but you would both do well to keep about you such friends as are willing and able to assist. A sworn brotherhood, a fellowship.”

Dean nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I know which hunters we can count on.”

“What should we call ourselves?” Sam wondered. “I mean, we’ve already had the Fellowship of the Ring and the Last Alliance of Elves and Men—not that we’ve got more than one Elf right now.”

“No, but you have two Maiar,” noted Castiel.

“Zachariah’s tryin’ to sell this Apocalypse as destiny, right?” Dean said, leaning back in his chair. “No choice, no escape, no reason to fight it. It’s inevitable.”

“It might prove so,” Tuor replied. “But he does seem to deny that there is any room at all for free will, save perhaps his own.”

Dean nodded. “So how about Team Free Will?”

“Fits on a T-shirt,” Sam shrugged and got slugged on the arm for his trouble.

Chapter Text

Dean’s first order of business, as the de facto captain of Team Free Will, was to pack Ben and Lisa off to Aman to live with Tuor and Idril until the war was over. Lisa wasn’t thrilled about moving, but once Ben got his head around the fact that Dean really meant that they’d be living with genuine Elves, his excitement knew no bounds—until Lisa decided to harness his energy by making him do a good chunk of the packing. Sam and Dean saw Tuor, Lisa, and Ben off at the Chicago airport Friday evening, held a garage sale Saturday and Sunday to clear out their apartment and her house, handed in resignations and put house and truck up for sale on Monday, and were on the road to Sioux Falls with Castiel in tow bright and early Tuesday morning.

Ellen Harvelle and Ash Buchholz had settled in Sioux Falls after the Roadhouse burned down, and Maglor had landed an adjunct professorship at the local college that gave him enough of a salary to have his own furnished apartment. Ellen’s daughter Jo also happened to be in Sioux Falls that week because she was between hunts. All four of them, therefore, met the Winchesters and Castiel at Bobby’s house to hear the full details of the message Castiel and Tuor had brought.

His nickname now firmly stuck and bemusedly accepted, Cas took off immediately after the briefing, claiming that he needed to deflect Zachariah’s attention from the brothers. Bobby recommended that the Winchesters stick around while they considered strategy, and they agreed, talking with the other unofficial members of Team Free Will late into the night for several nights running. That weekend, however, Bobby became concerned about a friend and fellow hunter in western Wyoming who’d suddenly stopped answering her phone. He took off to check on her, and Sam and Dean stayed behind to house-sit for him.

“Bad news, boys,” Bobby reported when he called to check in on the 29th. “Olivia’s been ripped to shreds, apparently by some kind of spirit. Looks like the same thing killed all the other hunters in the area. If it’s headed east....”

“We could be its next target,” Dean agreed. “We’ll stay locked down. You be careful gettin’ back.”

“Dean—if things get bad, Maglor and I built a panic room in the basement a couple weeks ago. Walls are salt-coated iron. You’ll be okay in there until I can get help.”

Dean laughed. “You’re awesome, Bobby. Thanks.”

They hung up, and Dean relayed the news to Sam. Jo and Ellen were on their way to a hunt in Pennsylvania, and Ash had gone to Austin on a research trip, so the only person left in town for them to worry about was Maglor. Sam suggested having him over for supper, and Dean agreed.

While they were eating, all three started feeling a strange sense of foreboding. They finished the meal rapidly and headed back into the living room, where most of the weapons were... just in time for the temperature to drop about ten degrees.

Dean shivered and pulled out his EMF meter, which screeched as soon as he turned it on. “Well, whatever ‘they’ are, they’re hee-eeere.”

Sam huffed. “Not the time, Dean.”

Before Dean could retort, multiple voices began chanting outside in some harsh, guttural language that neither he nor Sam had ever heard before. Maglor frowned as the chant finished and began again, closer and louder.

“I’m guessin’ these aren’t standard ghosts,” Dean stated.

“No,” Maglor replied. “They are spirits, but not of Men, though their speech is Mannish.”

“You know what they are?”

Maglor shook his head. “I have had no dealings with spirits such as these.”

“Well, what the hell do they keep chanting?”

“It’s an obscure dialect of Westron, possibly from Cardolan—‘Cold be hand and heart and bone, / And cold be sleep under stone....’”

Sam’s eyes went wide. “That sounds familiar.”

Dean looked at him. “Didn’t Gollum....”

“In the movie, yeah, but in the book....” Sam dashed to the computer.

Maglor frowned as he caught more of the verse. “‘’Til the Sun fails and the Moon is dead’... ‘’Til the Dark Lord lifts his hand / Over dead sea and withered land’—Dean, this is some kind of curse. They seek to stop us from stopping Morgoth. Lilith must have sent them.”

Dean frowned. “If it’s a curse, why isn’t it working yet?”

“The wards on this house are too strong. But it may not take long for them to realize that we have not succumbed. And when they do—”

Something heavy landed against the door.

“Guess they just did,” Dean growled.

Maglor cursed in Sindarin. “There are too many things in the junkyard that they could use as a battering ram, too much that is not iron.”

“Dude,” Sam suddenly said. “I know what they are.”

“What?” Dean snapped.

“Barrow-wights.”

“Bar—” Dean sighed, rolled his eyes, and shook his head. “Great. That is just—how the hell are we supposed to summon Tom Bombadil on this side of the Atlantic?!”

“Dean.”

“That’s all the lore we got, Sam! ‘Ho, Tom Bombadil, Tom Bombadillo!’ We don’t even know if the Withywindle still exists, never mind where! And even if Tom and Goldberry aren’t holed up in some love shack in Scandinavia, even if they could hear us halfway around the world, there’s no way he’d get here in time!!”

Another heavy blow landed against the door, as if to prove Dean’s point.

Sam held up his hands in a Whoa, stop gesture. “What about Castiel?”

“Cas has only been here since the Fifth Age. Barrow-wights went out with the Third Age.”

“Well, obviously not entirely—”

“Yeah, yeah, Lilith got some from somewhere, but they obviously also haven’t been attacking in Ages. Don’t you think we’d have more lore otherwise?!”

“Dean, he’s a Maia.”

“A Maia who’s trapped in a human body, Sam. We don’t even know where he is right now, and besides, it’s probably not safe for him for us to summon him so soon.”

The house began to groan as if a gale-force wind were blowing.

“A single Maia will not be aid enough,” Maglor said quietly. “Iarwain Ben-adar might, but Dean is correct; Iarwain ceased to concern himself with affairs beyond his own borders long before even the War of the Ring. He will not come. But perhaps the Red Book contains some other information of value.”

“Here,” Sam said, ushering Maglor to the computer. “I’ve got an e-book version open to the right chapter.”

Maglor sat down and skimmed to Bombadil’s song, then shook his head. “This is the new moon; we have too few heavenly lights to call to our defense. Starlight is sacred, but it would not be enough to drive away one Wight, never mind the host that seems to surround us.”

Dean sighed as the door shuddered under another blow and started grabbing shotguns. “Door’s not gonna hold out much longer. And if they’re usin’ brute force, panic room ain’t gonna slow ’em down much.” He shoved one gun at Maglor, who took it warily, but before he could hand another to Sam, Sam had already picked up one of his own.

Sam met Dean’s eyes and deadpanned, “For a minute there, I thought we were in trouble.”

Dean snorted and led the way to the door. Maglor stood to his left, Sam to his right, and all three of them shouldered their guns and prepared to go down fighting.

And then a horn sounded in the distance—not a car horn, but a hunting horn.

Sam and Dean frowned. Maglor stared.

“One of theirs?” Sam asked.

“No,” Maglor replied, sounding confused. “One of mine.”

Dean wasn’t sure how he could tell, but the Barrow-wights’ focus seemed to shift away from the house and toward the sound of the horn. And seconds later there was a sound of terrible battle raging around the house, combined with singing that was clear and sharp as starlight and the shrieks of fleeing Wights. Dean’s hair stood on end.

Almost as suddenly as it started, the battle ceased. The silence that followed reminded Dean of the silence after a poltergeist had been dispatched, and he glanced over at Sam.

“I think it’s clear,” Sam finally replied, still looking kind of shocked. “I mean, I think there’s still something out there, but it’s not Barrow-wights.”

“Agreed,” said Maglor. “Let us greet our friends, whoever they may be.”

Dean stepped forward and cautiously opened the door with his left hand, keeping his gun ready to shoot any enemy that was still outside. He found himself looking at... an empty junkyard. Cautiously he made his way onto the porch, followed by Sam and Maglor.

“Le suilon, Dean Winchester,” said... something Dean couldn’t see. “L’a mellyn. Odulem am edraith anlen.”

Dean blinked. “Uh... thanks?”

But Maglor was staring into the darkness as if he could pick out some form invisible to the human eye. “Man le?” he finally called.

“I enneth nîn Thranduil Oropherion,” came the reply, though Dean still couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from. “Mae govannen, Fëanorion.”

Maglor’s eyes widened in shock. “Thranduil Oropherion?! You are far from Lasgalen, Elvenking!”

“And you are long among mortals to speak their tongue so freely,” Thranduil replied, amused. “But for their sake, I will do likewise.”

“Elvenking?” Sam echoed. “Like... King of Mirkwood? That Elvenking?!”

A ripple of laughter ran through the unseen band of what Dean assumed to be Elves.

“Yes, Samuel,” Thranduil replied. “There is no other remaining in Middle-earth, to my knowledge. Unless....”

Maglor shook his head. “Nay, I will not claim that title or any other. Elrond had more right to it than I, and he did not claim it. Even had Maedhros not confirmed Fingolfin as High King, though, I have forfeited my right to rule by my own deeds. Justly am I dispossessed.”

The invisible Elves’ relief was palpable.

Dean shook his head in confusion. “Wait, wait, wait. Why the hell is the Elvenking in South Dakota, and why can you see him and we can’t?”

“To answer your second question first, Dean,” Thranduil replied, “we are neither ghosts nor wholly incorporeal. The best English description is that we have faded—our fëar have largely consumed our hroar, and we no longer have such incarnate form as the eyes of most Edain may see. This state can have advantages, as you saw tonight; but it is also very difficult to avoid being killed in a war when neither side knows that you are there. Europe was no longer safe for us once the Great War began, so at its end we found an American troop transport ship and sailed hither.”

“Yeah, but why are you here? Don’t get me wrong; I’m grateful. But....”

“It does seem kind of random,” Sam agreed.

“That is partly my fault,” said a second voice.

Thranduil chuckled. “You have, as some might say, a fairy godfather. Rúmil was very fond of your mother, though he never spoke to her directly and she never saw him. He was unable to save her life, but we have taken it upon ourselves to aid you as much as possible whenever our paths have crossed.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but Sam frowned slightly. “Did... wait, you killed Gordon, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Samuel,” replied the second voice, which Dean concluded must belong to Rúmil. “He had become that which he hunted, and you were his next target. The thief betrayed you to him.”

“Thief—that Bela chick?” Dean frowned. “Why the hell would she do that?”

“He had an artifact she wanted. But it did her no good. The hellhounds took her some months ago.”

The Winchesters sighed in unison. Bela Talbot had been a nuisance, but nobody deserved hellhounds.

“We became aware that the Barrow-wights had been summoned,” Thranduil continued. “So we followed them here.”

Dean nodded. “Thanks.”

“But why would they follow you hither?” Rúmil asked. “You both are Isildur’s heirs, that much is plain, but the Barrow-wights have lain hidden for Ages.”

Dean sighed. “Maglor, maybe you’d better explain.”

Maglor quickly briefed the other Elves in Sindarin. Then there was a short murmured conversation that Dean wasn’t able to follow at all.

Finally, Thranduil spoke up again. “It is long since we dealt directly with the Edain, Dean. But in the Elder Days, our houses were allied, and it is time that we renew that allegiance. What would you have us do?”

Sam and Dean looked at each other in astonishment. Then Dean drew a deep breath and turned back toward where he thought Thranduil was. “Um. There’s this convent, St. Mary’s, in Ilchester, Maryland. We think that’s where Lilith’s gonna try the spell first. Could you, like... guard it for us?”

“With a good will, my liege.”

Dean stuck out his hand, and warm invisible fingers grabbed his forearm just below the elbow in a warrior’s handshake. It took Dean a second to figure out how to return the grip, but he did manage it and found Thranduil’s arm to be truly too solid to belong to a ghost and yet not quite what he normally considered corporeal.

“We will send word if aught occurs,” Thranduil continued.

Dean nodded. “Awesome. Ah—le hannon.”

Thranduil chuckled and squeezed Dean’s arm. “Navaer, elvellon.”

Then he let go, and Dean sensed the Elves leaving. He and Sam stood there for a moment, frozen in shock, until Sam finally shook his head and said, “Dude.”

“Seriously,” was all Dean could manage by way of reply.

Team Free Will had very few run-ins with Lilith after that, though the rest of Team Destiny, as Dean called them, did give the hunters some trouble. Pallando did his best to conjure the ghosts of Sauron and Saruman on Halloween, but despite Uriel’s attempt to ‘help’ Cas by offering to level the town, Cas and the Winchesters were able to stop Pallando from succeeding. Uriel then tried to set a trap for Sam and Dean by ‘capturing’ Alatar and asking Dean to torture the Istar for information, but Maglor saw through the ruse and, in the process of ensuring the brothers’ safety, very nearly killed Uriel. They saw very little of Rincaro, though, until Zachariah attempted to kidnap and brainwash Sam and Dean; then Cas and Rincaro not only rescued and disenchanted the Winchesters but sent the fallen Maia packing before he got a chance to work the brothers over face to face. Dean was so grateful that he started calling Rincaro “Rinc,” and the nickname stuck. And the Winchesters repaid the favor a month later when Uriel and some others of Zachariah’s followers captured Cas and Rinc and attempted to “re-educate” them.

Between skirmishes, the hunters had their usual caseload to handle, and a few of their hunts had surprisingly positive outcomes. Perhaps the most surprising of all was the Orc infestation near Blue Earth, Minnesota, that led Sam and Dean to discover that the pulpit of Sacrament Lutheran Church, once held by their friend and fellow hunter Jim Murphy, had been taken by another hunter named David Gideon who had rallied his congregation to form a small but efficient hunting militia. Once the Orcs were dispatched, Pastor Gideon talked with the Winchesters late into the night to get the full story behind the uptick in monster activity, and he urged them to contact him when they got word that Lilith was moving on Ilchester. “If there’s any way we can help ensure that the Apocalypse happens on God’s schedule rather than Lilith’s,” he said, “we ought to do our part.”

Sam started having nightmares about Ilchester during the last week of April. So it wasn’t too much of a surprise when a mockingbird flew up to Maglor on May 7, while he was having a picnic lunch on campus with the Winchesters, and started singing at him, gesticulating jerkily with its wings. Maglor whistled what were apparently short questions and got answers that made him increasingly concerned before he tilted his head in thanks and the mockingbird flew away.

“What was that all about?” Dean asked.

“Message from Thranduil,” Maglor replied, pulling out his cell phone. “We need to speak with the others as soon as possible.”

“Well, I can spare you two phone calls,” Rinc said, appearing at the end of the table. “Castiel and I know, and we’ll go along with whatever plan you come up with. But we’re a little busy keeping Zach from catching up to you again, so we can’t come to the briefing.”

Dean blinked. “Dude, were you eavesdropping?”

“Technically, no. You’re in a public place, and I was on my way here to warn you anyway. But now you know, so I can leave. Bye!” And he was gone.

Sam rolled his eyes, Dean shook his head, and Maglor calmly proceeded to call Bobby.

When the team assembled that evening, Ash had found maps of the convent and of the surrounding terrain. These he spread out on the table while Maglor relayed Thranduil’s information:

“Thranduil has summoned as many Elves as he could find in North America; his force numbers thirty in all. They have kept constant watch on St. Mary’s since the beginning of October. All was quiet there until the last week, when Wargs and Orcs began moving into the surrounding woods. So far, Thranduil reports, there have been only minor skirmishes, no more than a handful of Orcs at a time. But two nights ago his scouts followed the survivors of such a skirmish back to their base. Based on the conversations they overheard, he believes that Lilith will attempt the spell on the 17th.”

Dean nodded. “What kind of numbers are we looking at?”

“It is impossible to say for sure. Thranduil estimates at least two hundred Orcs and perhaps as many Wargs are already in place, but we have no sign of how many Lilith will bring with her, or how many of the Houseless will take part.”

“Sam?”

Sam sighed. “Not very easy to tell from my dreams, but... it looked like a lot more than two hundred to me. I’d guess more like a thousand. And I’m pretty sure I saw spiders as well—not, like, Shelob-huge, but... elephant-sized, maybe.”

Dean cursed quietly.

Maglor leaned back. “The date seems an odd choice to me. It cannot be the full moon, surely.”

Jo looked at a calendar. “Nope. Full moon’s the 9th, new moon’s the 24th. The 17th is the waning half.”

“The new moon would be a more logical choice—but late May is a season of martyrs’ feasts, and the 24th in particular is one of the many feasts of the Blessed Virgin. To so profane a sanctuary bearing her name on that day would go ill, I think. The waning half moon would be a less formidable adversary—Isil will not rise before midnight.”

“Or it could just be a fakeout,” Bobby noted. “I mean, if you’re gonna have a Black Mass, I don’t think the church calendar matters as much as the moon phase. And the waning half don’t have much juice one way or the other.”

Sam shook his head. “Lilith will be there, Bobby. I saw it.”

“Maybe Lilith’s the diversion,” Ash ventured.

Sam frowned and grabbed his dream journal, flipping through the descriptions he’d written down. “Lilith, Alatar, Pallando, bunch of demons, Col. Klink—”

“Col. Klink?” Dean guffawed.

“Shut up, jerk, not literally. Guy just looked like Klink in the face, that’s all. Not even a monocle.” Sam kept flipping and frowned. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Uriel wasn’t there.”

Dean snarled suddenly. “He’s gonna try for the Devil’s Gate.”

Bobby frowned. “How do you figure, son?”

“Sam ain’t the only one who sees things,” Dean snapped, then froze and blanched as if realizing what he’d just admitted. “Um. It’s... it’s not like....”

Sam looked at him steadily. “Dean. It’s okay.”

“They’re not like yours, Sam. Just flashes. And sometimes I just know things.”

Maglor nodded. “That is to be expected. Not every descendant manifests all of the gifts in the same ways or to the same extent.”

Dean ran a hand over his face. “Been close to two years now. You’d think I’d be used to this whole Heir of Isildur thing.”

Sam squeezed his shoulder. “Hey. This time you got a flash that I didn’t. This is good, Dean.”

Dean nodded and took a deep breath. “So. Main group’s still headed for the convent, but Uriel’s makin’ a play for the Devil’s Gate. Two fronts. No way we’ve got the numbers to match Lilith, but we can up our total a little. Thranduil’s already at St. Mary’s; we can call Pastor Gideon, send the Blue Earth contingent out there as well. What about the nine of us? Where do we go? I mean, Gideon’s good enough with the low-level stuff, and Thranduil’s got Ages of experience with everything but the demons, but... with Lilith and two wizards in the mix, plus whoever this Klink lookalike is, I’d feel a lot better with a more senior hunter there.”

Bobby and Ellen exchanged a look and chorused, “Rufus.”

Dean frowned. “That old coot who tipped us off about Bela? Thought he was retired.”

“He is, technically,” Bobby replied. “But somethin’ this big, he’s probably already heard rumblings from his own contacts. Might be better to have him headin’ up things in Maryland while we head back to Wyoming.”

Sam nodded. “That sounds reasonable.”

Dean looked over at him. “Hey, you think maybe Cas and Rinc could fly all of us from Maryland to Wyoming and back?”

“What, leave the car in Ilchester?”

“Yeah, and have a strategy meeting with Rufus, Thranduil, and Pastor Gideon before we head out. That way, if the battle’s still going when we get back, we can come in from another angle, catch ’em off guard.”

Sam considered it. “It’s a thought. Y’know what else would be nice, though, is extra firepower.”

“Like what, automatics?”

“Well, that, yeah, would help with the monsters, but I’m thinking... something that could take out Zachariah if he shows up. Or something we could use on Uriel. I mean, Gríma was able to kill Saruman with a regular knife, so the Istari shouldn’t be that hard to kill. But Zachariah and Uriel aren’t bound to their physical forms the way Alatar and Pallando are.”

Dean nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah. Not a lot of places we could look on such short notice, though.”

“There’s Dad’s lockup. We never did finish the inventory after the break-in. Might be something hiding in there that Dad wouldn’t have recognized.”

“The chances of finding such a weapon are slim,” Maglor cautioned. “But it would do no harm to look.”

“No,” Dean agreed, “and even if we don’t find anything that would work for that, there might be something we’ll need for another reason.” He looked back at Sam. “How long do you think we ought to give ourselves?”

Sam shrugged. “I dunno. Twelve hours, maybe?”

“I’d feel a lot better,” said Bobby, “if I went with you two to stand guard. If Team Destiny has any idea you’re there, something’s liable to come after you.”

Dean nodded. “Sure. Makes sense.”

Ash leaned forward. “Now when you say ‘all of us’ are going to Wyoming, exactly who do you mean?”

“I mean us.” Dean indicated the seven individuals in the room. “Who do you think I mean?”

“I’m just sayin’, somebody needs to be in charge of communications.”

Dean frowned. “If I didn’t know you, Ash, I’d suspect you were tryin’ to chicken out.”

“Dude, you know I’m no good in pitched battle. A bar brawl’s one thing, but you get more’n fifty people involved, I get lost. Plus, we get to Ilchester and half of our side ain’t visible, I’m liable to shoot one o’ the good guys without meanin’ to. And besides, somebody’s gotta play the Smith to your Ike.”

Sam blinked. “You’re offering to be our chief of staff?!”

Ash shrugged. “More or less.”

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “How’d I get rooked into this?”

“Right place, right time, right bloodline?” Sam teased.

Dean glared at him. “That was rhetorical, genius.”

The others exchanged amused looks.

Dean sighed. “Okay. Ellen, you want to call Rufus while we try to work through strategies?”

Ellen nodded and pulled out her phone. “Sure.”

Sam pulled out his phone as well. “I’ll go ahead and call Pastor Gideon, too, see how many he can bring.”

Dean nodded. “Good plan.”

And while they made phone calls, the other five gathered around the maps to start planning defenses.

Chapter Text

Having made their battle plans and coordinated times with Thranduil (sent via blackbird), Rufus, Pastor Gideon, and Cas, Team Free Will headed out from Sioux Falls early on the morning of May 15. Bobby had helped Ash set up a radio system to keep all the groups in contact with one another, so he stayed behind at Bobby’s house. Ellen, Jo, and Maglor decided to go straight to the Devil’s Gate and camp there in case Uriel showed up early, while Dean, Sam, and Bobby went to Black Rock, NY, to check through John’s storage unit for anything that might be useful. They arrived in Buffalo late on the 15th and got to the storage unit around 7 the next morning. Bobby stood guard at the open door while Sam started cataloguing weapons and Dean worked through the curse boxes. It was a slow and largely frustrating process; the weapons might be useful enough on monsters, and they did load those into the Impala to take with them, but nothing had any apparent value in dealing with fallen Maiar. And Sam was chagrined when the sheer amount of stuff proved to be more than they could get through in one day. So they went back again the next morning, knowing that they had to be on the road no later than noon to get to Ilchester on time.

Suddenly, around mid-morning, Dean choked out, “Sam.”

Sam turned to see Dean staring at something in a small curse box. He walked over to look at it and saw that it was a man’s ring carved to look like two snakes with emerald eyes, one of which was holding up... and the other one was eating... a crown of... of....

By the time Sam’s brain stalled out, Dean had recovered enough to snap a picture with his phone and was calling someone, with the speakerphone on so that Sam and Bobby could hear the conversation.

“Pedo.”

Dean still sounded half-strangled when he said, “Maglor... tell me I’m seein’ things.”

“I cannot. It is the Ring of Barahir. I remember the day Finrod made that ring—I was shocked that he would give it away, but Barahir and Beren after him were loyal friends and proved worthy of the gift.”

“Is... does it....”

“It is not a ring of power, nor does it hold any special virtue save its age and its meaning. I cannot think how or why your father might have come by it. But Dean... this cannot be only chance, any more than the appearance of your gifts. That ring is yours by right, I deem.”

“Maglor....”

“Take it, Dean,” Maglor said gently. “And may the Enemy tremble to know that the heirs of Isildur ride again.”

“Thanks, dude,” Dean replied absently and hung up, still staring at the ring in shock. Then he tucked his phone back into his pocket and ran a trembling hand over his nose and mouth.

“Dad couldn’t have known,” Sam said.

“The Ring of Barahir, Sammy.”

“You’re the first-born.”

Dean shook his head. “I don’t... I... I guess I just wish there was something for you.”

Sam simply squeezed Dean’s shoulder for lack of anything better to say.

Dean took a deep breath and picked up the ring. “Well, if we find Andúril, it’s yours. Sharp shiny things were always more your deal anyway.”

Sam huffed a laugh. “Okay, Dean.”

Dean handed the curse box to Sam, swallowed hard, and slid the ancient ring onto the index finger of his left hand. And for a split second Sam could have sworn a white flame flickered in the middle of Dean’s forehead.

“Doesn’t that belong to the wrong branch of the family?” an unfamiliar male voice asked suddenly.

The brothers drew and spun in tandem to face a balding, white-haired man in a business suit who wore an infuriatingly smarmy smile and seemed wholly unconcerned that they and Bobby were pointing guns at him. Sam recognized him from his visions as the man who’d looked like Col. Klink.

“Who the hell are you?” Dean demanded.

Klink held up a finger. “Ah. I asked first.”

“If you know enough to ask that question, then you know that Túrin left no heirs. The House of Hador survived only in Tuor, and the lordship of Dor-lómin passed to the Halfelven.”

“And yet here you are... Turambar.”

Dean’s lip curled as he growled, “Who. The hell. Are you.”

Klink stepped forward. “I have a job for you, Dean.”

“Answer me!”

“In Middle-earth, I’m known as Zachariah.”

The humans shot him on principle.

But he showed no sign of even feeling the bullets, frowning in confusion. “Are you letting this abomination corrupt you, Dean?” he asked, pointing at Sam.

“Sam ain’t the one who’s corrupt here, Zach,” Dean retorted. “And you’re not makin’ any points by talking about my brother like he’s trash. The answer is no.”

“You’re refusing to aid the Lords of the West?”

“No, I’m refusing to play your destiny game. I know what you did to my mother. I know you’ve gone rogue. And I’m not gonna sit here and let you and Lilith bring Morgoth back so you can remake the world into your wacked-out idea of paradise, whatever that might be.”

Bobby shifted, and Zachariah suddenly turned and snapped out a hand toward him. And Bobby cried out in pain and crumpled to the ground.

“Bobby!” Sam cried.

“What’s it going to take, Dean?” Zachariah asked, smirking maniacally as he turned back to face the Winchesters. “Paralysis? Stomach cancer? Refuse me, and I guarantee he’ll never walk again.”

Dean’s jaw twitched as he tried to come up with a suitable retort that wouldn’t endanger Bobby’s life—but he didn’t have to.

“Hey, lion-breath.”

Zachariah spun to see Rinc and Cas standing over Bobby with drawn swords. And Sam and Dean exchanged a glance and released tiny, inaudible sighs of relief.

“Rincaro,” Zachariah snarled.

Rinc said something in Quenya that Sam didn’t catch, and Zachariah hissed and recoiled.

“Castiel? You defy me?”

“You have defied the Valar,” Cas returned. “You have fallen into Curumo’s error. I am here at Lord Manwë’s order.”

“Fools!” Zachariah growled. “The House of Húrin lives again. The end is coming.”

“Not if we can help it,” Sam replied.

Rinc stepped forward. “Zach, if you don’t want to die, leave now.”

Zachariah snarled and vanished. Bobby gasped and groaned.

“Bobby?!” Dean stowed his gun and started forward, as did Sam.

Cas stowed his sword... somewhere and bent to pick up the elder hunter. “I do not have the skill to heal him, but I will take him to a hospital.” And cradling Bobby in his arms, Cas disappeared.

“Thanks,” Sam nodded to Rinc.

“Sorry I wasn’t here sooner,” Rinc shrugged. Then he caught sight of the Ring of Barahir and grinned. “Wondered where that had run off to! Looks good on you, Dean.”

Dean looked at it and ran his thumb over the band before looking back at Rinc. “That silver sword what you use to kill a Maia?”

“Well, technically, no. Might force him out of his present form, but it won’t force him out of Arda. But that,” he pointed to Maeglach, “might do the trick.”

Dean nodded, disappointed.

“And speaking of swords.” Rinc reached into his jacket and pulled out one of the longest swords Sam had ever seen, complete with jeweled scabbard and sword-belt. “Took me a long time to find this, but I figured Sammy might need it.”

Sam took it from him with a puzzled frown and tugged on the hilt gently. The sword slid out of the scabbard a short way, enough for him to see that it was still in mint condition, whatever its age, still shining as though lit from within, and the part he could see was engraved with a crescent moon, a star, and several runic inscriptions. Wide-eyed, he looked back at Rinc. “Is... is this....”

“The only other heirloom of your house that I could find,” Rinc replied. “The Crown of Gondor and the Sceptre of Annúminas were destroyed when the old kingdoms fell, and Eldarion sent the Elessar and both versions of the Elendilmir into the West with Gimli and Legolas. Why, I’m not sure, but he probably had some foreboding about the fate of at least Arnor and decided to get them to safety while he still could. I thought maybe he’d sent the Ring of Barahir with them as well, but now I see he didn’t. Anyway. Yes, that’s Andúril.”

“Dude,” Dean breathed.

Sam looked at him. “You sure you don’t want it?”

Dean snorted. “You kidding? I’d look stupid haulin’ around a piece of hardware like that.”

“You’re older.”

“You’re taller, Sasquatch. It’ll fit you better.”

Sam swallowed hard, feeling as overwhelmed as he knew Dean had felt about the ring, and slid the sword back into its scabbard. Then he unwound the belt and buckled it on. When he looked up again, Dean was staring at him.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just...” Dean motioned toward the middle of his forehead. “Thought I saw something.”

Rinc was smiling at them—not a smirk, quite, but a proud smile. “C’mon, muttonheads. We’ve got a date in Ilchester.”

Sam and Dean looked at each other, took a deep breath, squared their shoulders, and walked out of the storage unit side by side.

The six-and-a-half-hour drive from Black Rock to Ilchester was filled largely with Metallica, AC/DC, and Led Zeppelin. Rinc had opted to ride with them, but none of them felt much like talking after what had happened to Bobby. The only real conversation that occurred was when Ash called to inform them that omens were beginning to pick up around Ilchester. “Southern Wyoming’s still quiet as the grave,” he reported.

Dean sighed. “Okay. Thanks, dude.”

Sam looked at him as he hung up and pocketed the phone. “Dean... don’t even think it.”

“Think what?”

“That Bobby shoulda gone to the Devil’s Gate. None of us know everything. And it’s not like it’ll do us any good to talk about what might have been.”

Dean sighed again. “Just hope he’s gonna be okay. I’ve got a really bad feelin’ about this.”

Rinc leaned forward. “Dean... I can handle transporting the two of you and bringing Maglor and the Harvelles back. Have Castiel stay with Bobby.”

Dean nodded and called.

“I will be glad to guard Bobby,” Cas replied. “He is wandering in a fever, and if I’m not mistaken, it has a supernatural cause. I don’t know what more I can do for him, but I can prevent anything from hurting him further.”

“Thanks, Cas. We’ll get back as soon as we can.”

“Focus on stopping Lilith and Uriel, Dean. If you don’t, none of us may survive.”

Dean snorted. “Thanks for the pep talk, coach.” And he hung up and cranked up the radio once more, as if daring anyone to talk to him again.

Rufus, Pastor Gideon, and Thranduil were waiting for them when the Impala pulled up outside the convent. At least, Dean thought he could make out Thranduil’s shadow, such as it was, but he wasn’t absolutely sure the Elvenking was present until he started briefing them on where the Orcs were holed up. Sam did most of the talking with regard to the team’s plan for holding the convent, and most of what he didn’t say was filled in by Rinc. Dean hadn’t intended to stay mostly silent, but he was grateful not to have to carry the conversation.

Finally, though, Rufus turned to Dean. “Where’s Bobby? I thought Ellen said he was comin’ with you.”

Dean licked his lips and forced himself to answer. “He’s still in Buffalo. In the hospital. Zachariah showed up.”

Rufus and Thranduil cursed at the same time, neither in English, and Pastor Gideon’s kind face grew concerned. “Is there anything we can do for him from here?” the minister asked.

Dean shook his head. “Just pray, Pastor. And keep Lilith out of that chapel.”

Pastor Gideon nodded. “Okay. We’ll do that. Anything we can do for you?”

After a beat, Dean smiled a little and put a hand on the Impala’s roof. “Look after my baby?”

Rufus laughed, but Thranduil replied seriously, “None shall touch her, Dean. You have my word.” Then he added, with an undercurrent of amusement, “Indeed, I think I shall set Rúmil to guard her.”

That made Dean laugh. “Le hannon. We’ll be back as soon as we can.” Then he looked at Sam, who looked at Rinc, who snapped his fingers... and suddenly they were outside the Devil’s Gate, where Jo, Ellen, and Maglor were kicked back in lawn chairs waiting for them.

Ellen did a quick head count and jumped to her feet. “Boys, where’s Bobby?”

Sam held up a finger and radioed Ash. “Green Eyes to Goldilocks. We’re in position.”

“Ah, 10-4, Green Eyes,” Ash drawled back. “Good huntin’.”

Sam nodded and looked back at Ellen. “Cas had to take Bobby to the hospital in Buffalo. Zachariah showed up.” And he explained what happened.

After another round of curses in English and Sindarin, Maglor deftly changed the subject to Andúril, and Jo insisted on examining the Ring of Barahir. And about the time everyone finished gushing over the heirlooms, Rinc not-so-gently suggested that they eat quickly and stand their guard.

When Uriel finally did show up three hours later, the confrontation was almost anti-climactic. He simply appeared and demanded that the hunters give way, and Dean shot him with Maeglach twice. Uriel fell, burning from the inside as was usual with the Colt and its reforged counterpart; the smoke that rose from the corpse tried to reform itself into a humanoid shape, but a sudden gust of wind from the west dispersed it. Rinc snapped his fingers, and the remains burst into flame.

Dean quickly reloaded Maeglach while Sam handed his shotgun to Rinc and passed Dagnir-en-Raughoth to Jo. “Gonna need both hands,” he explained.

Dean nodded and radioed Ash that they were done, and Rinc snapped his fingers once more and teleported the team to meet up with the reserve force Pastor Gideon had stationed a short distance from the convent.

“Are we glad to see you guys,” whispered Rob, the reserve commander who reminded Dean way too much of Daniel Jackson. “They didn’t even wait for full dark, just attacked the second the sun went down. We can’t see too much from here, but it sounds pretty bad.”

The battle did indeed sound grim. It was hard to tell who was screaming over the gunfire, but Dean could definitely make out Wargs howling and baying and spiders chittering.

He nodded to Rob. “Let’s go.”

They skirted the edge of the convent grounds to find a good angle of attack. Once they were in position, Sam looked at Dean, who nodded once, then drew Andúril and cried, “ELENDIL!”

The reserves yelled and charged, and the Orcs fell back before them. Sam and Dean kept pace with each other the whole way, Dean firing his shotgun and Sam cutting down anything that got too close. The Sacrament Lutheran crew had portable spray packs of holy water that they used to hose down the demons that ringed Team Destiny; Dean thought he saw Meg and Ruby, two of their old nemeses, in the mix before they vacated their hosts and fled. And before Zachariah could try to turn anyone into a toad, Dean managed to shoot Alatar in the shoulder. Pallando cried out in alarm and caught Alatar as he fell, then ran for the woods.

Lilith and Zachariah turned to face the Winchesters, and Dean switched his shotgun for Maeglach and shot one of the henchdemons that was still trying to guard Lilith. Zachariah paled and disappeared. Lilith shot some kind of energy toward Dean, but Rinc blocked it. Demon and Maia battled for a good minute, but before Dean could get a clear shot at Lilith, she called a retreat and vanished. The remaining monsters fled the field, presumably chased by Thranduil’s contingent, leaving the rest of the defenders in various states of injury and breathlessness—but victorious.

Dean had barely caught his breath when he looked at Sam and said, “We gotta get back to Bobby.”

Rinc nodded. “Go. We’ve got this.”

“We’ll follow as soon as we can,” Ellen added, “put Maglor in your room and Jo and I will take Bobby’s.”

Sam nodded once in acknowledgment, and the brothers walked quickly to the Impala and sped back to Buffalo, arriving shortly before 1:00. Cas met them at the hospital and took them to Bobby’s room, deflecting cries that it was after visiting hours and calling for a doctor on the way. Dean took one look at Bobby’s fever-flushed face and cursed Zachariah in every language he knew.

The doctor who came explained that although Bobby’s fever was dangerously high and wasn’t responding to treatment, none of the tests had turned up a cause. “It’s like he’s fighting some phantom virus or something,” the doctor concluded. “We’re doing everything we can, but if he can’t beat this on his own... I don’t know how long he has.”

Sam thanked the doctor in a manner that was clearly a dismissal. She took the hint and left.

As soon as the door closed, Dean rounded on Cas. “Can’t you do something?”

Cas bristled. “I am a warrior, Dean, not a healer. I don’t have your gift.”

“Oh, like I know what I’m doing. I didn’t exactly study under Elrond, you know.”

“The power is in your blood. Father created Melian to heal and renew, and that gift is the mark of her offspring. You will know what to do when you try, Dean. I believe in you.”

Dean grimaced. He hadn’t had much practice with using his healing power in situations that didn’t involve the psyche being trapped or lost due to supernatural interference, so he wasn’t entirely sure how much good he could do. But he had saved Bobby from a dreamwalker once before, so he knew he could connect with Bobby’s consciousness, wherever it was. And if Cas was useless, Dean knew he probably was their only shot at saving him.

“Soda and chocolate?” Sam asked, his hand on the door handle.

Dean sighed. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Sam sprinted down the hall and sprinted back with an armload of goodies from the vending machine. “Wish I knew where to find athelas—if it even exists anymore.”

Cas looked like he was about to offer to go look for some.

“No time, Cas,” Dean sighed, pulling a chair up to Bobby’s bedside as Sam took up his usual position of support beside him. “I need to fight this now. Just... stand guard, huh?”

Cas nodded once and stood with his back against the door. It would have looked ridiculous had Dean not known that the slight frame hid a powerful spirit.

The emeralds in the ring glinted in the low light as Dean gently laid his left hand across Bobby’s hot forehead. The wrong branch of the family, Zachariah had said, damn him. Here you are, Turambar.

Well, hell if Dean was going to prove him right. He and Sam might have a lot in common with Túrin, but Mom had looked a hell of a lot like Tuor, and even though he’d only been around their however-many-times-great grandfather for a day, he could tell the similarities went far deeper than a mere family resemblance. And that was one heritage Dean was proud to claim.

Thus determined, Dean put his right hand on Bobby’s arm and closed his eyes. But what he sensed first wasn’t Bobby’s soul; there was some kind of force around Bobby that was feeding the sickness, whatever it was. Dean pushed, and the force resisted. Dean snarled and pushed harder, power surging forth like it had when he’d called Sam back. A struggle ensued and lasted for what felt like hours, and Dean was dimly aware that his wordless growls were occasionally slipping into Sindarin words he didn’t know and were being joined by moans from Bobby. Sam’s hand gripped Dean’s shoulder, lending him strength he hadn’t even known he needed.

Finally, when it felt like the struggle was at a tipping point, Dean summoned the last of his reserves and gave one final shove, crying, “Ego! Awartho den, edledhio!”

The force snapped and recoiled like a rubber band, and Bobby shuddered and broke into a sweat as the fever fled. Dean tried to keep pushing, to see if something else was wrong, but Sam was shaking him with an urgency that bespoke alarm, and Dean opened his eyes to realize that he was exhausted.

“Spiders, Dean,” Sam said, snatching Dean’s hand away from Bobby’s arm and pushing the opened Mountain Dew into it. They’d both gotten into the habit of using non-vulgar curses around Ben, and most of the ones they’d picked up from Maglor had stuck. “You haven’t looked that pale since... since....”

“The last time I almost died?” Dean croaked and guzzled down a third of the soda, not taking his other hand off Bobby’s forehead. “’Sokay, Sammy, you can say it.”

“You scared me, dude. I wasn’t sure if I could pull you out.”

Dean chugged the rest of the soda and belched out the carbonation. Then he sighed. “I gotta go back in, make sure.”

“No, you don’t, Dean. You broke the fever, and you almost broke yourself. Let the doctors look at him first.”

“Sam....”

“Dean.”

“Hey,” Bobby said weakly. “Let a guy sleep, will ya?”

Dean’s eyes snapped back to Bobby’s face as Sam grabbed the empty soda bottle from him. “Bobby?”

Bobby’s eyes weren’t open, but his color was slowly returning to normal, and he managed a small smile. “’M okay, Dean. Thank you.”

“You sure?”

“Get y’r damn hand off my head, idjit. That ring’s heavy.”

Dean snorted and smoothed Bobby’s damp hair back from his forehead. “See if I ever go dumpster divin’ for you again.”

Bobby chuckled. After a pause, he added, “Dean... if there’s lasting damage... it ain’t your fault. Don’t you go killin’ yourself to try an’ fix it.”

“Bobby....”

“You saved my life, son. We c’n make lemonade from the rest.”

Dean sighed. “If that’s how you want it.”

“’S how I want it.”

“Okay.”

Sam reached across the bed to push the call button, then dragged Dean’s chair back from the bed and slapped a package of almond M&Ms into his hand with a face that said Eat before I force-feed you. Dean rolled his eyes and tore open the package.

By the time Sam had bullied Dean into eating all of the junk food he’d brought back, the doctors had subjected Bobby to another round of pokes and prods and scans. The mystery infection was gone, they concluded, but there was a shadow around two of the lower vertebrae that seemed to be causing paralysis below the waist. Since they couldn’t trace the cause, however, they couldn’t treat the problem or tell whether it was permanent.

Dean stood unsteadily and started to push his chair back up to the bed as soon as the doctors left. “I gotta go back in.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Sam replied, reaching into Dean’s jacket and snagging the Impala keys. “Cas!”

Before Dean could protest, Cas poked two fingers at Dean’s forehead, and Dean found himself in the motel room with a very startled Maglor. Dean grumbled something uncomplimentary about angels.

“Dean?” Maglor asked. “What happened? How fares Bobby?”

Dean explained.

“Labadal,” Maglor murmured when he’d finished.

Dean blinked. “Do what now?”

“Túrin had an odd habit of befriending the crippled... Sador Labadal, Brandir the Lame. Not that he did ill, of course, for they were among his wisest counselors, but still... whether this be another attempt to force the plot, I know not, but it does strike me as strange.”

“So Team Destiny strikes again. Awesome.” Dean scrubbed wearily at his eyes.

Maglor placed a comforting hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Dean. We have forced them to retreat. Bobby will recover, even if he can no longer walk. You must rest.”

“Dude, it’s my fault.”

“No, it isn’t. Bobby would have insisted on joining you even if he had known he would be attacked. You could not have aided him further tonight. And had he not gone, I do not doubt that Zachariah would have attacked Sam instead.”

Dean lapsed into stubborn silence, and a moment later Maglor pushed him to sit on the bed before retrieving his guitar from the closet.

“Oh, what,” Dean snarked, “you gonna sing me to sleep?”

“If that is what it takes,” Maglor replied evenly. “Or would you prefer a sleeping-draught?”

Dean looked downright mulish but slid off his boots and lay back against the pillows. Maglor began to play something soft and gentle, and Dean relaxed without meaning to.

He didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until he woke up several hours later with Sam snuggled protectively beside him. And though he groaned inwardly at the indignity of being cuddled, he was still too bone-weary to protest or struggle before sleep claimed him again.

Chapter Text

By the time Dean was finally able to stay awake for more than two minutes, Pastor Gideon and Rufus had turned up to check on Bobby and the boys and to give an update on the aftermath of the battle. Rufus had had to do a lot of fast talking when Baltimore PD showed up, but they managed to pass it off as a pilgrimage that had gone south when a pack of rabid wolves attacked. Thranduil and his Elves had made short work of the slain, and the Orcs and spiders never came to the attention of the police—but several people from Sacrament Lutheran had died, and quite a few more were severely injured.

“Don’t blame yourself, Dean,” Pastor Gideon said at Dean’s crestfallen look. “We all knew the risks, and we volunteered to be there. At the risk of sounding prideful, I don’t think you could have done it without us.”

Dean sighed. “No, we couldn’t. Don’t mean I feel better about losin’ people.”

“Don’t mean you have to take the blame, either,” Rufus countered. “Lilith chose to fight. Ain’t your fault. And it ain’t like you came out unscathed,” he added, looking meaningfully at the bed that Dean was still too fatigued to leave except for biological necessity—and even then only with Sam’s help.

Dean grimaced and nodded. “Thanks. Both of you.”

They said their farewells and left... but Dean was asleep again before the door closed.

The next several months were surprisingly quiet, apart from a handful of clashes with Pallando and Zachariah and a final attempted solicitation from someone called Crowley, whom Rinc identified as Lilith’s second in command. Even the usual kinds of hunts were few and far between, and Sam didn’t have more than brief flashes of vision that he could recognize as such. The Winchesters thus spent most of their time in Sioux Falls, helping Bobby adjust to life in a wheelchair after he emphatically refused to let Dean try again, even when he’d finally recovered his full strength (which took the better part of a week, to Sam’s dismay). If Bobby got too grumpy or just needed some space, the brothers would stay with Ellen or Maglor, but they tried to be nearby whenever he needed help.

It was both the least they could do for their foster-father and the most they could do to keep themselves occupied while waiting for news of Team Destiny.

But on Veteran’s Day, Ash came to the team with a stack of Internet printouts. “Omens are kickin’ up around Carthage,” he reported grimly. “I’d guess Lilith’s aimin’ for the new moon, the 16th.”

Maglor nodded thoughtfully. “Isil’s light is still sacred; sorcerers might employ its power for some spells, but for a spell strong enough to breach the Walls of the World....”

“The darkness of the new moon would be necessary,” agreed Cas, who was grounded while recovering from wounds sustained during his last run-in with Team Destiny. “Lilith might even seek to veil the stars, though I don’t know if she could succeed.”

Sam took the printouts from Ash and started flipping through them. “Something like this calls for an all-out offensive. Hordes of demons, maybe hellhounds, maybe worse. Think we ought to call Pastor Gideon, Dean?”

“No,” Dean replied. “Even if they’ve recovered from St. Mary’s, Lilith’s got them tagged, and so has the media. They’d attract too much attention this time. We need to make like his namesake and take a small group—harder to track, easier to keep alive, easier to pull out if things go sideways.” He sighed. “Five days. Five hundred miles, need a full day for travel, means we’ve got until Sunday to arm up. Who all’s going—you, me, Maglor, Cas, Ellen, Jo....”

“I’ll stay here, help Bobby,” Ash offered.

“You would.” But there was no heat behind Dean’s statement.

“I don’t need a damn babysitter, Ash,” Bobby grumbled.

Cas sighed. “The car seats only six. I will ask Rincaro to meet us there.”

Dean nodded. “Seven of us, probably seven of them. Makes sense.”

Sam blinked. “Seven?”

“Lilith, Alatar, Pallando, Zach, Meg, Ruby, and Crowley. Our inner circle against theirs.”

Ash started whistling the theme from The Magnificent Seven. Dean rolled his eyes.

“Did you ever visit Carthage, Maglor?” Jo asked.

“Which one?” the Elf returned wryly.

“The old one—Aeneas and Dido.”

Maglor nodded. “Yes, I remember Carthage in its splendor. And I remember, too, what Cato said of it.”

“What’s that?”

“Cartago delenda est.”

The humans exchanged an uncomfortable look at that.

Thranduil, who had been off hunting Orcs since St. Mary’s, sent word the next day that the corporeal monsters all seemed to be heading toward Detroit. Jo wondered aloud at the change in tactics.

“Well, think about it,” Sam replied. “Spiders, Orcs, and Wargs aren’t going to contribute much to the power of a spell unless there’s a certain amount of blood that has to be spilled, and demons and hellhounds can even do that. But from a tactical perspective, Carthage is kind of in the middle of nowhere—not a major industrial center, not a seat of power, anything. Detroit’s got factories that the Orcs can convert for making weapons, and it’s already kind of an urban wasteland. It’s a perfect place to rebuild Hell on Earth.”

Dean nodded. “So Lilith sends the Orcs to prep Angband 2.0 while the demons congregate in Carthage.”

“Exactly.”

“So why did she have the Orcs attack in Ilchester?” Jo pressed.

“She may have suspected that the convent would be held against her,” Maglor noted. “And she could not simply abandon it without a fight; there had already been a connection to the Void opened there once. The spell may gain power from the blood already spilled in the Battle of Carthage, but it will likely take far more work to harness that power for Lilith’s purpose.”

“Not only that,” Sam continued, “but Ilchester’s right on the outskirts of Baltimore. If she’d gotten in, then having the monster army right there would mean Morgoth could take advantage of the chaos from his arrival and take control of the city before anyone could react.”

“But he can’t use brute force to his advantage in Carthage,” Dean added. “I mean, from Baltimore, it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump to DC, and once he had that, he could—presumably—unleash our nukes and subdue the whole world in a matter of days. What’s he gonna invade from Carthage... Kansas City?”

“They got some crazy-lookin’ women there,” Maglor deadpanned.

Dean howled and Jo booed. Cas just looked confused.

Ellen sighed. “Well, clearly we can’t take on however many thousands of demons there’ll be with just seven of us. But I guess we oughta at least stock up on salt rounds.”

“Four humans, two Maiar, and an Elf, Mom,” Jo returned. “Think positive.”

“And it’s not like we need to take ’em all out,” Sam agreed. “Like Dean said yesterday, all we need to take out is the inner circle.”

“That’s all?” Bobby asked dryly.

Dean suddenly sighed heavily. “I dunno, guys. I got a bad feelin’ about this.”

Packing box after box of shotgun shells with rock salt over the next three days did nothing to improve Dean’s sense of foreboding, not even when Rinc turned up to help. But it did succeed in lifting his mood from grim determination to something closer to his usual pre-hunt humor by Saturday evening. Sam was seeing to dinner for a change by the time Dean finished with the shells and Ellen and Jo finished cleaning and loading everyone’s guns, so Dean went into the kitchen and snitched a bite.

Sam huffed but didn’t call him on it. “What time are we leaving tomorrow?”

“It’s a seven- to eight-hour drive,” Dean observed. “We ought to leave as early as possible—first light, maybe earlier.”

“Gonna go ahead and load the car tonight?”

“Yeah, might as well.”

“Need my help?”

“Nah, I’ll get it.” Dean snitched another bite and winked at Sam’s annoyed face before going back to the study and gathering up the ammo boxes.

Just as he tucked the top of his armload of boxes under his chin, Maglor, Cas, and Rinc walked in. They exchanged a look, and Maglor started gathering guns.

Dean blinked. “Um....”

“Ah, let us help,” Rinc said with a shrug and followed Maglor’s lead. “It’ll save you some time.”

Cas gently took the ammo boxes from Dean. “You will need your hands free to open the trunk,” he noted.

Dean blinked again, then smiled gratefully. “Thanks, guys.” He gathered a few more supplies that he could carry with one hand, then led the others out to the Impala.

While Dean unlocked the trunk, however, Maglor scanned the sky, frowned, and murmured something to himself in Sindarin.

Dean turned to him. “What was that?”

“Eärendil Gil-Estel—he should be there.” Maglor pointed to a spot in the sky that, when Dean looked at it, was conspicuously vacant. “Never before has the Mariner failed in his rising and setting. He might wander, and for great events his course might be diverted, but....”

Rinc looked and cursed quietly. “You’re right, Maglor. He’s not up there at all. And there’s only one reason Manwë would ground him.”

“Was he not recalled during the Breaking of the World?” Cas frowned.

Rinc shook his head. “Technically, no. Happened in the middle of the day; he was already home.”

“What are you tryin’ to say, Rinc?” Dean demanded.

“That there’s a better-than-even chance this won’t work,” replied the Trickster with a glare. “At least, that’s what Manwë’s thinking.”

“Oh, so what, we’re just supposed to give up, let Morgoth walk in unopposed?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Cas looked at the blank patch of sky again for a moment and then shook his head. “No, brother, this is not Lord Manwë’s doing. Eärendil guards the Door of Night; Lord Manwë would not relax that guard. I fear Lilith’s forces have engaged him in another part of the sky.”

“Whatever the reason,” Maglor said firmly, “it is an ill omen. But Dean has the right of it—we must not be deterred, even by certain death. Failing to act now would be unconscionable.”

“’Long as I get to put a slug between Zach’s eyes and wipe that smug smile off his Valar-damned face, I’ll die happy,” Dean grumbled and started stuffing supplies into the Impala’s trunk.

The temptation to have a last-night-on-earth blowout was strong, but everybody knew they had to be up early the next morning. So Sam and Dean had only a couple of beers each; Ellen stopped short of letting Cas drink her under completely under the table when Rinc suggested that the former bar owner teach his naïve little brother how to do shots; and the only last-night-on-earth comment to be made was by Cas while they took a group photo with Bobby’s camera. Dean didn’t even hit on Jo, reasoning that Lisa might still give him what for if they didn’t die. The humans all went to bed at a reasonable hour for hunters, and after a good breakfast—cooked by Ash, of all people—the Winchesters and Harvelles piled into the Impala with Maglor and Cas and were on the road by 6:30. They stopped for lunch in Kansas City and got to Carthage a little after 2:30, which left them three hours to check out the town before sundown.

But the town was strangely quiet, and Rinc wasn’t at the rendezvous point when they arrived. Something else, according to Maglor, was.

“Castiel?” he asked quietly. “Do you see....”

“Reapers,” Castiel replied with a nod. “Hundreds of them. They only gather like this at times of great catastrophe. Excuse me, I should find out why they are here.” And he vanished.

Dean frowned. “You can see Reapers?”

“Not as with sight,” Maglor replied... and shivered.

Dean’s sense of foreboding trebled at the sight of someone so ancient looking so disturbed. And it wasn’t like Rinc to be this late. So Dean checked his cell phone, couldn’t get a signal, and switched to the handheld radio Ash had insisted he carry just in case. “KC5 Fox Delta Oscar, come in.”

“KC5 Fox Delta Oscar, go ahead,” came Bobby’s reply.

“Bobby, please tell me Rinc is with you.”

“Wish I could, son.”

Dean cursed.

“What’s goin’ on?”

“Cas and Maglor say there’s Reapers everywhere—and it looks like the whole damn town’s dead. No sign of human life anywhere that we’ve seen yet.”

Bobby cursed in what sounded like Japanese. “Omens are headed off the charts. Y’all be careful.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Dean clipped the radio back on his belt with another quiet curse.

“Should Cas have been gone this long?” Sam asked, visibly worried.

“Probably not. If somethin’ snagged Rinc, they’ve probably got Cas, too.” Dean sighed. “Do we split up or not?”

“Be faster if we did,” Ellen replied. “You boys go that way. We’ll head back the way we came into town. Rendezvous at the battlefield, if we don’t meet up before.”

Dean nodded, and the hunters split up on foot.

The sun had almost set by the time Sam, Dean, and Maglor headed back toward the Impala, having found neither Cas nor Rinc nor anyone else. They were still a mile or so from the car, with Dean walking down the middle of the street while Sam watched the left side and Maglor the right, when a female figure suddenly appeared in the middle of the street in front of them and said, “Howdy, boys.”

“Meg,” growled Sam.

Meg chuckled. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

“Could say the same about you,” Dean returned and drew Maeglach.

“Didn’t come alone, Deano.”

And a chorus of growls and barks rose from an unseen source.

“Hellhounds,” Dean surmised, trying to quash his sense that something really bad was about to happen.

“Yeah!” Meg grinned. “C’mon, boys, my father’s on his way. He’ll want to meet you.”

Sam shook his head. “I think we’ll pass, thanks.”

“Your choice. You can make this easy or really, really hard.”

“When have you known us to ever make anything easy?” Dean retorted and shot the hound closest to Meg, which had given away its position by stepping in a puddle.

“Run!” Sam yelled, and they did so, though Dean kept looking over his shoulder and shooting those hounds he could spot. He’d killed three more by the time he realized that he had one shot left and couldn’t reload Maeglach on the run.

And then he heard a sound that he would never in a million years have expected to hear, one that chilled him to the bone.

Maglor screamed.

Dean spun and managed to shoot the hellhound that was attacking Maglor just as Sam grabbed Maglor’s arm and hauled him toward a hardware store that was close behind them. Then Dean switched to his shotgun and fired round after round of salt at the hounds to cover the retreat as he backed toward the store. When he got inside, Maglor was leaning heavily against the counter, clutching his sides, and Sam was running back to the door with bags of salt. Together, the brothers got the doors salted and chained shut.

Dean caught his breath and handed the shotgun to Sam, then dumped the empty brass out of Maeglach and used a quick loader to reload it. “You all right over there, Maglor?”

He was answered by the thud and groan of Maglor collapsing.

The brothers were at the Elf’s side instantly. Maglor was ashen-faced, and a frightening amount of blood was soaking into the right side of his shredded shirt.

“Stars, Maglor,” said Dean, “I’m so sorry. Here, let me....” He reached over to examine the wound.

Maglor caught his hand. “Spare your strength, mellon-nin,” he said weakly. “I am slain.”

Dean froze. “No. I can’t—I won’t—”

“Dean. This hroa will not last much longer. I shall, I hope, be granted another in the West. But there is one final way I can aid you ere I depart. Build a bomb of salt and iron, and I shall trigger it to destroy the hellhounds.”

“No. No, there’s... there’s gotta be another way, somethin’ we can do....”

Maglor shook his head. “Only Estë herself could heal these wounds. And I am weary—you cannot imagine what it has been like to live alone with the knowledge of my folly these twelve thousand years.”

“He’s right, Dean,” Sam said sadly. “We’ve gotta do something about those hellhounds, or we’ll never get out of here in one piece.”

Dean ran a hand over his nose and mouth to try to pull himself together. “Yeah. Okay.”

Quickly they found towels and Ace wraps to make a pressure bandage. Then they built a bomb out of the materials in the store, and it was Dean who pressed the trigger into Maglor’s hand, noting the long-faded burn scars from the Silmaril that the hellhounds’ poisoned bite had made livid once more. Sam stood behind him, radiating sorrow.

Dean bit his lip and tried to think of something, anything, to say that would be adequate. “Hey, um....”

Maglor smiled wanly. “Dean. You need not speak. Nor you, Sam. I shall see you again in Eldamar.”

And Dean had a sudden flash of vision—himself and Sam, Cas and Bobby and all the rest of Team Free Will, on the deck of an old-school ship as it docked in a harbor full of white buildings that gleamed in the sun, and Maglor there on the quay in the middle of a group of Elves who’d turned out to welcome them—and nodded, oddly heartened. “Yeah. Yeah, and soon.”

“What do we do about letting the hellhounds in?” Sam asked.

“Unchain the doors ere you leave,” Maglor replied. “I shall order the salt away from them once you are out.”

Dean blinked. “You can do that?”

Maglor chuckled. “I am a prince of the Noldor. My command of the elements is... stronger than most.”

Dean quirked a wry smile and stood, nodding at Sam. Together they unchained the doors before going back to Maglor and crouching on either side of him.

“That’s it,” Dean told him. “Give us two minutes to get out.”

Maglor nodded. “Good hunting, my friends. Írë lúmë tuluva.”

“’Til Eldamar,” Dean nodded back, squeezing Maglor’s shoulder.

“Namárië,” Sam breathed, squeezing his other shoulder.

They were rewarded with the barest ghost of Maglor’s usual smile. “Go quickly.”

The Winchesters stood and ran to the building’s second floor, out across the roof to a fire escape, and down the alley, only the echo of the hellhounds’ baying following them. And exactly two minutes after they left Maglor’s side, the hardware store exploded.

They paused briefly to watch the fire, then swallowed their heartache and raced back to the Impala.

It took until well after dark, but Ellen and Jo finally found the building where Lilith and Alatar had trapped Cas and Rinc in what looked like a circle of fire. Alatar was in the middle of a monologue about how the other Maiar should give up and join Morgoth, so the women hid and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally, though, the demon and the Istar cleared out, reasoning that the trap would suffice to hold their captives. No sooner had Lilith teleported away with Alatar than Ellen and Jo emerged from their hiding place, checked that Cas and Rinc were okay, and went in search of fire extinguishers.

No sooner had they put a break in the fire, however, than Rinc dragged Cas out of it and said, “We gotta get out of here now.”

The Harvelles dropped their fire extinguishers, and Rinc snapped his fingers.

They found themselves at the battlefield, which was littered with fresh corpses, just in time to see Lilith fall with Dagnir-en-Raughoth sticking out of her chest while Ruby fell beside her, burning from the inside out, as Dean stepped out of the shadows with Maeglach blazing. At the first report, Crowley and Meg vanished, but the second shot brought down Pallando and the third felled Alatar. Dean rounded on Zachariah while Sam swiftly retrieved Dagnir-en-Raughoth and turned to break Lilith’s altar.

But alas, the damage was already done. Even as Dean shot Zachariah squarely between the eyes, the ground began to shake as Lilith’s spell opened the breach between Arda and the Void. Cas and Rinc flew everyone (including the Impala) back to Sioux Falls before Morgoth actually came through, but they hadn’t been back at Bobby’s three minutes when the shockwave reached them and knocked humans, Maiar, and half of Bobby’s books onto the floor.

“Stay down!” Bobby cautioned, and everyone obeyed. Sure enough, a minute and a half later, the secondary shock came through and knocked down even more books, killing the power before it faded.

The fact that the explosion was felt that strongly over five hundred miles away was... disturbing.

While Rinc snapped the room back into a semblance of order and Cas and Ellen helped Bobby back into bed, Sam got a fire going, Dean and Jo rounded up candles and hurricane lanterns, and Ash scrambled for a battery-powered radio and finally managed to pick up an emergency shortwave station. And what they heard sent Ellen and Jo back to the kitchen for Bobby’s emergency stash of Wild Turkey.

Devastating earthquakes throughout the Midwest, others likely to be triggered elsewhere, and fears that the Yellowstone Caldera was significantly destabilized and might finally erupt, especially given one massive quake northwest of Laramie that had destroyed a group of historic private rail lines. The electronic infrastructure of the whole United States destroyed. Power out across the country and into Canada and Mexico. Sudden disappearances, on the order of two billion people worldwide. Sudden appearances of wolves and what were variously described as demons, zombies, and Orcs, as well as unconfirmed reports of giant spiders and dragons. The news just kept getting worse, and even though all of the hunters were headed toward being well and truly drunk by the time Ash switched off the radio, the whisky wasn’t helping.

They’d failed.

Finally, Dean startled everyone by jumping to his feet and throwing his glass against the back of the fireplace with all his might. He watched it shatter, watched the flames leap as the alcohol hit them, then turned to Cas, eyes blazing.

“How do we find the Straight Road?”

Chapter Text

Henricksen had to call in every marker he had to get a jet and the necessary clearance, and Cas had to render Dean unconscious to keep him calm, but the surviving members and human allies of Team Free Will (and the Impala, her trunk loaded with all the spare fuel they could find) found themselves in Keflavik, Iceland, early on the morning of November 18. Apart from a route to the Straight Road, Dean didn’t know what he expected to find when they got there.

The white-haired, bearded Elf who was waiting for them at the gate to the harbor was definitely a surprise, though.

“Mae govannen, Valandili,” said the Elf with a slight bow when Sam and Dean got out to talk to him, leaving Cas, Rinc, and Bobby in the car. “Lord Manwë and Lord Ulmo bade me give you greetings. My name is Círdan, and I am your captain. Your ship awaits.”

Dean stepped forward warily. “Two questions, Círdan. One, you got accommodations for Bobby? Wheelchairs aren’t exactly boat-friendly.”

“Have no fear. His cabin has been carefully prepared, and I have ordered one of my crew to attend him.”

“Okay. Two...” Dean jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You got room for my baby?”

Círdan laughed. “Lord Oromë said you would ask! Yes, there is space enough for your steed in our hold.”

Dean turned to look at the Impala and tried to picture her as a mighty warhorse... and ended up laughing in spite of himself. “Awesome. Thanks.”

Círdan gave them directions to the dock and walked away while the Winchesters got back into the car. Dean drove around to the right spot, and Ellen, who was behind them in a rented van with Jo, Ash, Rufus, Henricksen and his family, and a hunting friend of Bobby’s named Pamela Barnes, followed. They found a host of Elves, their ears carefully hidden, working busily on the dock to load a beautiful three-masted ship made of silvery-grey wood and carved to look like a swan. The Elves made quick work of loading the luggage and the car onto the ship, but although they spoke to the humans, it was mostly in their own language, in a dialect that only Cas and Rinc could understand. The Maiar ended up translating until Círdan came to tell them it was time to board.

“My apologies,” Círdan said. “Very few of us have had cause to learn English, and even then, we have only begun in the last few sun-years. I daresay, however, that you will find many more English-speakers on Tol Eressëa—Dean’s son and his mother have been good conversation partners, and many of the Elves there have been curious to learn of the state of Middle-earth from them.”

Dean perked up at that. “Lisa and Ben? Are they okay?”

“They are very well. In fact, there is a long letter from each of them in your cabin.”

Dean heaved a sigh of relief, and Sam squeezed his shoulder.

Círdan smiled kindly. “Come. We will be departing soon.”

Sam clapped Dean on the back and grabbed the handles on Bobby’s wheelchair, and together they led the team onto the boat. Then Ellen and Pamela took charge of getting Bobby to his cabin, and the Winchesters waited on deck while the others finished boarding. Círdan waited on the dock, apparently counting heads, and once everyone was up the gangplank, he followed, frowning slightly.

“Is there a problem?” Sam asked.

Círdan looked at him. “Where is Maglor? I understood that he would be coming with you.”

Dean shook his head. “Nah. He’s way ahead of us. Probably already in Mandos by now.”

“What happened?”

“Hellhounds,” the Winchesters chorused.

Círdan nodded sadly. “I am sorry. But mourn not overmuch. I was to tell him that his pardon is assured. You will see him again.”

Dean sighed. “Círdan, this... this rehousing thing. How long does it take?”

“It varies. Ordinarily, for one of Fëanor’s sons, it might take an Age, perhaps more. But since the end of all things as we know them is so nigh... it would not surprise me if he is released from Mandos ere we arrive.”

“And how long will that take?”

“No more than seven days, more likely only five.”

Sam blinked. “Seriously? I mean, I thought it took over a month to get there from Númenor.”

“Geek,” Dean muttered affectionately.

Círdan chuckled. “Ar-Pharazôn had many more obstacles to overcome than we shall, and this ship is far swifter than were his. Moreover, once we reach the Straight Road, we shall have a strong current to speed us.”

Sam nodded. “Great. We’ve never done much sailing, so we weren’t really looking forward to spending a whole month on the boat.”

Círdan clapped him on the shoulder and led the passengers to their cabins. And the first thing Dean did once he and Sam were settled in their shared cabin was to sit down and read the letters from Ben and Lisa, catching up on their news from the last year.

The journey itself was unremarkable. The only reason Dean knew they’d left the normal world behind was that Círdan called him on deck when they were far enough along the Straight Road to be able to see the curvature of the earth falling away from it, below the surface of the waves. But the ship’s path didn’t feel precarious at all, the way the flight path of an airplane usually did. The Straight Road itself was close to a mile wide, and within a day it wasn’t obvious that the sea had changed at all. It was just water, water everywhere and only wine to drink—at least at dinner.

It was good wine, though. Dean had to give the Elves that. Even for a blue-collar palate used to cheap beer and Jack Daniels, the stuff was tasty. And strong, too—he and Sam got smashed the first night without meaning to, and the next morning they both had a vague memory of stumbling back to their cabin and having a humiliatingly tearful heart-to-heart about everything and nothing and falling asleep in the same bed, fully clothed, cuddled together like their lives depended on it. Like they had when they were kids.

“Normal people wouldn’t have had to get drunk to talk to each other like that,” Sam complained.

“Shuddup,” Dean retorted into his pillow.

The food was good, too. Not at all what Dean normally liked; even the fried fish wasn’t breaded, and he was reasonably sure the cook had never even heard of potatoes. But it wasn’t weird, heavy gourmet stuff, either, mostly fresh-caught fish or chicken with sauces light enough to be easy on a stomach that wasn’t used to being on a boat, and all of it flavored with spices Dean was quite sure he’d never heard of but could learn to love in a hurry. The first meal was almost too pretty to eat, according to Jo, but Dean tackled it without hesitation and found it to be far more satisfying than he’d feared. There were even enough vegetarian dishes to please Sam, and they were seasoned nicely enough that Dean could eat enough to be polite and not feel like he was choking down rabbit food.

And there was pie. And apple fritters, and cherry pudding, and tarts of fruits he’d only read about in books, and candies and cakes so wonderful he understood why Rinc had such a sweet tooth. Sam kept teasing him about putting on weight from eating so much sweet stuff, but Dean finally reasoned that if you were sailing on the Good Ship Lollipop, you’d have to be crazy not to eat some of the candy. And Sam didn’t really have a good comeback to that.

The only other sign that this wasn’t a normal cruise was the fact that the weather kept getting warmer, even though it had been freezing when they left Iceland and Sam didn’t think the latitude was changing all that much. By the fifth day, the weather was positively balmy, and Jo was lamenting that she hadn’t brought lighter-weight shirts. Well, and Dean had no clue whether human sailors normally sang as much as these Elves did.

The fact that the trip was uneventful didn’t mean that it was boring, however. Rinc’s presence alone would have ensured that, but the humans had ways of making their own fun. They swapped stories, cleaned weapons, made up tall tales, played poker, and (in the case of Dean and Ash) sang classic rock loudly and off-key. The Winchesters even took the time to have a good long talk with Henricksen, and at the end of it, all three men felt like they’d not only cleared the air but strengthened an alliance into a real friendship.

All the same, Dean was ready to be there after about two days. And more than once Sam found him napping in the Impala when he couldn’t stand not being in control of the destination any longer. Sam even joined him a couple of times.

After breakfast the sixth morning, Sam and Dean took Bobby up on deck to get some fresh air. It was raining a little, just enough to be refreshing rather than miserable, and the air smelled sweet in a way Dean couldn’t quite place.

Then he took a deep breath and realized it wasn’t the rain he was smelling, nor was the music in the air coming from the crew. And suddenly he was desperately homesick for a place he’d never been.

“We’re almost there,” Sam breathed.

“Yeah,” Dean replied. “Yeah, we are.”

Bobby looked from one Winchester to the other. “You boys see anything?”

Sam looked out into the mist and shook his head. “No, not yet. I feel it, though.” He paused, frowning a little, then added, “Seems like I had a dream like this a few months ago... didn’t think it was a vision at the time.”

“I didn’t see this part,” Dean confessed. “Just getting there.”

Sam blinked. “You did? When?”

“Carthage.”

Sam started to ask, then realized the moment Dean must have been talking about and nodded.

The other passengers slowly joined the Winchesters on deck; Dean wasn’t sure whether Pamela had alerted them that the ship was getting close to land or whether they could sense it as surely as he and Sam could. And shortly after the last of them arrived, the mist seemed to roll back like a curtain, and the humans let out a collective gasp.

The continent of Aman stretched before them in the bright sunshine... and it was gorgeous.

Immediately in front of the ship was a decent-sized island that appeared to be inhabited, but Dean’s eyes skipped over it entirely. Instead they were drawn to the mainland—white beaches, green plains, and massive mountains that beckoned to him at a soul-deep level. The longing he’d felt trebled, and somehow he knew that he needed to go there.

But the ship, it became rapidly apparent, was headed for the island.

“We shall arrive in Avállonë within the hour, friends,” Círdan announced.

“Avállonë?” Jo asked. “Where’s that?”

Círdan pointed, and they all saw the bustling port city directly in front of them. “It is the destination for all who are newly come from Middle-earth—though there have been few of those for many yéni. And it appears word has spread of your arrival,” he added with an amused smile. “I see a great many Eldar waiting to welcome you.”

Everybody else seemed excited by this news... but it felt wrong to Dean, like that wasn’t where Maglor had promised to meet them.

Ash nudged him and shot a questioning glance toward the mountains on the mainland. “You seein’ something, compadre?”

“Not now,” Dean confessed, “just... a feeling.”

Ash nodded thoughtfully. “Well, you ain’t been wrong yet.”

Dean smiled in spite of himself. “Thanks, Ash.”

The feeling didn’t diminish as they got closer, though. Instead, the more clearly Dean could see the city, the more confused he became. It didn’t look familiar at all.

Sam frowned at him. “What?”

“This is wrong,” Dean whispered. “This isn’t what I saw. We’re in the wrong port.”

“Maybe we’ll go to the right one later.”

It was a sensible suggestion, and Dean nodded his agreement. He still felt uncomfortable, though.

But he forgot that feeling a moment later when he caught sight of Lisa and Ben standing on the dock.

Lisa was wearing a flowing silvery-white dress that looked striking against her sun-darkened skin, and her dark hair was pulled back from her face with some kind of jeweled combs. She was stunning and radiant, and Dean realized anew just how much he’d missed her over the last (long) fourteen months. Ben had evidently hit a growth spurt because he was almost as tall as Lisa’s shoulder. It was odd to see him in Elven garb rather than the jeans and T-shirts he’d favored before they left, but he looked happy and healthy. And Dean knew he’d done the right thing in sending them here.

Ben was bouncing on the balls of his feet for about five minutes before the ship actually pulled up to the dock, and he scarcely managed to wait until the gangplank was down before racing up it with a cry of “DAD!” and throwing himself into Dean’s arms.

Dean laughed in spite of himself and returned the hug. “Hey, short stuff!”

“Has it been a whole year already?”

“Yeah. Longer.”

“I keep losing track. It’s not like it’s boring; time just... doesn’t really seem to matter here.”

Dean nodded.

Ben pulled back and ran over to Sam for another hug. “Granna Idril and Granpa Tuor came with us,” he continued afterward, “and there’s lots of other Elves who want to meet everybody.”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Hell, Ben... feel kinda underdressed.”

“It’s cool, Dad, really. C’mon!” He grabbed Dean’s hand and pulled him toward the gangplank.

Dean looked over his shoulder at Sam, who shrugged and began pushing Bobby after him.

There weren’t many familiar faces in the crowd, only Lisa, Ben, and Tuor. Maglor was nowhere to be seen, and Dean didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried. Tuor introduced him and Sam to Idril, who also looked a lot like Mary Winchester, and Sam took care of introducing everyone else. And it was at about that point that Dean looked again at the crowd and suddenly felt very, very... short.

Feeling young, he was used to. But apparently Maglor hadn’t been abnormally tall.

He was about ready to bolt back to the ship when Tuor pulled him and Sam forward. “I doubt that there are many present whose names you would know now, but here are a few people I think you will recognize by name if not by face.”

The first person he presented them to was an old man with flowing white hair, beard, and robes and a white walking stick. Dean frowned a little, since it seemed incongruous for someone who looked that old to be in a place like this—but then it clicked, and he heard Sam gasp at about the same moment as he figured it out himself.

“Gandalf?!” they chorused.

The wizard chuckled and tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Mae govannen, elvellyn. It’s been a long time since anyone called me by that name—in fact, I believe young Ben was the first in over an Age, and the only reason I recognized it was that it sounded the same in Anglo-Saxon. And I see you’ve found two of my scapegrace brothers,” he added, looking past the Winchesters to Cas and Rinc with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“I resemble that remark,” Rinc shot back with a grin. “Hello, Olórin.”

But Cas just looked confused. “I’m not....”

“It’s a joke, dude,” Sam and Rinc said at the same time, which made Ellen laugh and Bobby shake his head.

Gandalf laughed, too. “You’ve done well, Castiel. I know Lord Manwë will be pleased.”

Cas bowed his head in thanks.

More introductions followed—Galadriel and Celeborn, Haldir (who was very pleased to hear news of his brother Rúmil), other Elves from Lothlórien, and several from Rivendell like Lindir, Glorfindel, and Erestor. And then they got to one figure who looked startlingly like John Winchester.

“My grandson Elrond,” Tuor explained before pointing out the Elves around him. “His wife Celebrían, and their sons Elladan and Elrohir. Arwen’s fate, of course, you already know.”

“Mae govannen,” Sam said with a nod.

“Hey,” Dean managed.

“Sam, Dean,” said Elrond. “I understand that you have already found the few remaining heirlooms of your house that were in Middle-earth. There are others, however, that have remained in my keeping for many years. I believe the time has come for me to pass them on to you.”

Sam and Dean exchanged a startled glance. “Wow,” said Sam. “Uh, thanks.”

Elrond motioned to Erestor, who handed him a small chest that looked like it was made of ebony and bound with silver. Given the odds that it had been on this island for six thousand years, though, it was probably some other now-extinct dark wood bound with mithril. Elrond then opened the box and reached into it. “Of the two of you, I deem, Dean is the healer.”

Dean swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”

Elrond nodded. “This, then, is for you.” He lifted out a silver brooch shaped like an eagle, in the center of which sat a huge green stone.

Dean’s eyes went huge. “No way. You... you’re giving me the Elessar?”

“Indeed so. I do not know whether it will aid you in the war to come, but none other has as much right to bear it as do you.” And he handed it to Dean.

Dean just stared at the brooch, unable to move past the knowledge that before him, only Idril, Eärendil, Galadriel, Celebrían, Arwen, and Aragorn had worn it. Finally, Lisa took it from him gently and pinned it across his overshirt while Sam quickly shortened the cord of the amulet. The Elessar didn’t feel as heavy against his chest as he’d expected it to... but beyond that, he was just too overwhelmed to process much of anything.

Finally, though, he managed to look back up at Elrond and choke out a “Le hannon.”

Elrond smiled and glanced over his shoulder at one of the twins, who looked so much alike Dean couldn’t remember which was which. Twin A nodded to Twin B, and they both stepped up beside their father.

“I have often wondered,” Elrond began, “precisely why it chanced that this next heirloom should have survived in two copies. It seems to me now that the reason was so that you each could have one. For Bilbo’s rhyme did not apply only to Aragorn; the crownless shall indeed again be king.”

“Whoa, wait,” Sam replied, holding up his hands with a huff of a nervous chuckle. “We’re American citizens; we can’t accept that kind of title—Article I, Section 9—”

“Sam,” Galadriel interrupted gently, “do you truly think your nation will last long enough for the question to matter? And the Elendilmir does not confer any title upon you, only identifies you as the heirs of Isildur, a fact already made plain by Dean’s wearing of the Ring of Barahir.”

Sam gulped and looked at Dean, who shrugged helplessly.

“Just take it, ya idjits,” Bobby rumbled. “Ain’t like there’s much chance of us goin’ back now.”

Elrond handed something that didn’t look much like a crown to each of the twins, who then stepped up to each of the brothers. When Twin A stopped in front of him, Dean could see that it looked a lot more like a necklace, a single white gem—pretty good-sized—on a silver, or maybe mithril, chain. But Twin A didn’t put it around Dean’s neck; instead, he fastened it on Dean’s head so that the stone sat right around the middle of his forehead. And when Dean looked over at Sam and saw his gem sitting in about the same place, he was suddenly reminded of that moment in John’s storage unit when Sam had strapped on Andúril and a white flame had seemingly flared for a moment right where the gem now was.

Dean didn’t know what to say. Neither, apparently, did any of the other humans.

But then Dean looked around and saw that the sailor Elves were getting ready to unload the cargo. Knowing that the Impala had been the last thing in, he nearly panicked—until Círdan shouted for them to stop.

A week wasn’t enough time for any of the humans, except maybe Sam and Bobby, to have picked up more than a smattering of Telerin. But Dean had heard the sailor Elves talking about the car often enough to know what terms they used to describe it, and Círdan was clearly telling them not to unload it. Dean couldn’t figure out why, though, until Círdan said something that sounded like Alqualondë, and the name struck a resonant chord in Dean’s mind, a place name that had come up in Maglor’s stories or songs or something.

He turned to Sam. “You gettin’ any of that?”

Sam frowned. “The car goes on to Swan-haven. That’s all—they’re talking too fast, and it’s too different from both Quenya and Sindarin.”

Dean returned the frown. “So if the car goes on... you think maybe we....”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, maybe.”

Moments later Círdan came over to them. “My apologies, my lords. There had been some miscommunication. This is not to be your final destination today; I have orders to take you on to Alqualondë.”

Dean suddenly felt a whole lot better about a whole lot of things.

Pamela sighed in disappointment. “I just got my land legs back.”

“Your pardon, Lady Pamela,” Círdan returned, “but you need not travel further. Only the Gwaith may continue to the mainland at this time. The Valar wish to speak to them.”

Dean frowned. “The who?”

“I Gwaith i Innas Lain.”

Dean looked at Sam, who thought hard for a moment. “The Fellowship of....” Then he burst out laughing. “The Fellowship of the Free Will. Team Free Will!”

“I like it better in English,” Bobby grumbled, and everyone laughed.

Chapter Text

After a hurried leave-taking, the eight members of the team got back on the ship and set sail once more. And an hour or so later, as they approached the shining port of Alqualondë, Sam looked over at Dean and saw him nodding thoughtfully to himself, the tension in his jaw and shoulders easing as the ship drew toward the dock.

“Is this what you saw?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Dean replied quietly. “Yeah, this is the right place. He’ll be here.”

There wasn’t as big a crowd waiting for them when they arrived, but it was still big enough that the group got separated somewhat. Sam and Dean got sidelined chatting with Finrod Felagund and his brother Orodreth about the state of Middle-earth, and somehow Dean wandered off in the middle of the conversation without Sam realizing it.

But suddenly Sam heard Dean yell, “Dammit, Maglor, you are not supposed to look younger than me!”

Maglor’s laugh rang out louder and clearer than Sam had ever heard it. “Mae govannen, Dean!”

Sam craned to see through the crowd—he hadn’t felt this short since he was twelve!—and finally spotted Dean and made his way over to greet Maglor... who did, in fact, look younger and less shadowed than he had before his death and was currently hugging Dean. Maglor released Dean, turned to Sam, and bowed slightly, holding his right fist to the left side of his chest, then pulled Sam into a hug.

“Mae govannen, mellon-nin,” he breathed before letting Sam go. “I had no news of you for days before I was rehoused, and I feared the worst.”

“We missed you, too,” Sam returned, feeling a tear slip down his cheek.

A voice called something in Quenya that Sam didn’t quite catch, and Maglor turned and grinned at an even taller, red-haired Elf who was walking toward them. After another quick exchange in Quenya, Maglor put a hand on Dean’s shoulder and said in English, “Dean, Sam, this is my oldest brother, Maedhros.”

“Hey,” Dean nodded. “Ah, mae govannen.”

“Elen síla lúmenn’ omentielvo,” said Sam.

Maedhros smiled. “I am very pleased to meet you,” he replied carefully in English. “Maglor has spoken of you often.”

Dean blinked. “Wait, what do you mean, often? He’s only been dead for a week.”

Maglor laughed and translated when Maedhros frowned at him in confusion. “You must forgive Maedhros,” he continued in English. “He has not had as much practice with spoken English as have many of the Eldar you have met. And you will find, if you have not already, that the passage of time has little meaning here. But he is right to say ‘often’—your tale is both the most pleasant and the most urgent of the many I could tell, and by human standards, I have been long in the telling of it.”

Maedhros nodded. “He speaks of almost nothing else—but that is only right. The tidings are indeed urgent. From what I hear, even while he was in the Halls of Mandos, he was pestering the Maiar for news of you... one of them knows you by name?” he continued, frowning at Maglor.

Maglor nodded. “The one you call Tessa, I think.”

Dean blinked. “You gotta be kiddin’—Reapers are Maiar?”

“The people of Mandos have had many names. Reapers and Valkyries are ones you would recognize. But yes, they are still Maiar.”

“Huh.”

“We must not linger here,” said Cas, appearing at Dean’s side. “We need to get to Valmar as quickly as possible.”

Dean rounded on him as the rest of the team caught up. “We’re in a place where time has virtually no meaning, Cas. You can give me five minutes to catch up with Maglor, and you can sure as hell forget about zapping us anywhere. I’ve been away from my baby way too long, and since Círdan went to the trouble of bringing her this far, I am not letting her just sit on the beach for who knows how long until we get back. We’re driving.”

Cas scowled and opened his mouth to object, but Ellen interrupted. “I don’t know about anyone else, but I’d really like to see the scenery. There’s no telling when we’ll get to come back this way once we’ve talked to the Valar.”

Jo and Ash nodded vigorously in agreement.

“You think we got enough gas to get over those mountains, son?” Bobby asked. “That road looks mighty steep.”

“We may be able to help you there,” said Maedhros. “Maglor has spoken much of your machine, and Finrod and I may be able to help it run better.”

Dean blanched. “Look, Maedhros, no offense....”

“Relax, Dean,” Maglor chuckled. “They will use no tools on her.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“As long as we can fit everyone in the car,” Sam interjected smoothly, “I think I’d rather drive, too. Like Ellen said, we may not get another chance to look at the scenery, and... y’know, all this... it’s kinda overwhelming. The Impala’s about the only piece of home we’ve got left.”

Cas sighed. “It seems I’m outvoted.”

Rinc nudged him. “C’mon, little brother. We can go ahead to Valmar; we wouldn’t fit in the car anyway.”

Dean glanced around at the team before nodding to Sam. “It’ll work. You, me, and Maglor in the front seat, everyone else in the back.”

“How you gonna get four of us in the back?” Bobby frowned.

“Jo can sit on Ash.”

“Oh, thanks, Dean,” the adopted siblings chorused.

“We’ll see you in Valmar,” Rinc said to Dean, then nudged Cas again, and the two Maiar vanished.

Maedhros called to Finrod, and they followed the rest of Team Free Will over to where the Teleri were just removing the last ropes from the Impala. The cousins circled the car, discussing it quietly in Sindarin and throwing a few questions to Maglor, and then they put their hands on the hood and... started talking to the car. They weren’t even really chanting, and Sam couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it didn’t sound much like a spell from where he stood. A glance at Dean showed that he wasn’t sure whether to be freaked out or relieved.

As they finished, Maglor and Sam helped Bobby into the back seat, and Dean stowed the wheelchair in the trunk. Then the Winchesters and Maglor thanked Maedhros and Finrod while the Roadhouse crew piled in beside Bobby (with Jo opting to sit on her mother’s lap instead of her foster brother’s); Men and Elf squeezed into the front seat; and they were off, roaring down the unpaved road toward the sheer-faced mountains of the Pelóri.

The trip wasn’t too eventful at first. Maglor brought them up to speed on what had been happening in Valinor since he arrived (short version: not much), and they brought him up to speed on their own news, such as there was. But as the car sped up the mountain road toward the Calacirya, the only pass, Sam kept glancing out the window and feeling like the view, glorious as it was, was somehow out of perspective.

Then, when they were about halfway up the mountain, he suddenly realized why. Aman and the sea surrounding it were flat; there was no curvature between them and Tol Eressëa, so of course the perspective looked wrong to eyes accustomed to living on a globe.

At about the same time, Dean glanced down at the gas gauge and muttered, “What the hell....”

Maglor only chuckled.

“Usin’ too much gas?” Bobby asked, worried.

“No,” Dean replied. “Needle’s barely moved at all.”

“Maedhros did say they could make it run better,” Sam observed.

“Yeah, but they talked to her, Sam! The hell kind of spell is this?”

Maglor chuckled a little louder. “Welcome to Valinor, Dean.”

Sam looked out at the hood then and added, “And why is the paint sparkling all of a sudden?”

“Diamond dust,” said Maglor mildly.

“Diamond dust?” the humans echoed incredulously.

“I thought the streets were paved with gold,” said Jo.

“In the Timeless Halls, perhaps,” Maglor returned. “We have other uses for it here. But diamonds indeed are the least of the jewels my people have wrought, and the dust thereof is not like the dust of wood, which is subject to decay. So why should we not use it upon the roads?”

Dean just shook his head and pressed down on the gas pedal.

The view really was worth the drive, though, especially once they got through Tirion-upon-Túna, which was even more amazing than Sam had imagined it to be. Once they were on the downhill side of the Pelóri, everything seemed... brighter, more vibrant, more alive. It was like being in a Technicolor movie. Birds and wildlife of types he’d never seen startled away from the car as it sped through mallorn forests and meadows of flowers that looked like living jewels, past crystal-clear streams and grass so green it barely seemed real.

As much as he loved America, Sam wasn’t sure he could go back now, even if the Valar would allow it.

Dean had lost all sense of time and speed by the time they finally approached the gates of Valmar. Valinor was awesome, but as glad as he was to be driving and as much as he didn’t regret not going with Cas and Rinc, he couldn’t suppress his need to get there, to go further up and further in. He didn’t even know what it felt like he was flying from or what he was flying to. He just drove and drove... until finally they were there, and he slowed down enough to realize he needed directions from Maglor.

And then he realized he was still doing 80.

Shaking his head to clear it, he slowed the Impala down to 35 and followed Maglor’s directions to the western gate of Valmar. And when they got there, there were Cas and Rinc... and Rinc.

Wait.

Cas and Rinc and someone who looked exactly like Rinc, except taller and more impressive, and he wasn’t wearing modern clothes.

Dean blinked a couple of times while Maglor slapped a hand over his eyes. “What the....”

“I’d forgotten Eönwë had a sense of humor,” Maglor groaned.

“What are you talking about?”

“Wait,” Sam interrupted. “Are you saying that that—the tall one—is Eönwë, the herald of the Valar? As in the archangel Gabriel?!”

Maglor sighed. “Yes, Sam. It had not occurred to me that he and Rincaro are brothers—all but twins, really. I have not seen him in this guise before.”

Dean frowned. “Then how the hell did we end up with the rebel?”

“Rincaro is no rebel, Dean. He loves the Children of Eru as much as any Maia I have known, and he is as passionate about delivering messages of justice as is Eönwë. His methods are simply more... questionable.”

“Understatement,” muttered Bobby.

No sooner had Dean shut off the engine than Cas walked over to get Bobby’s wheelchair out of the trunk. He and Dean helped Bobby into it while Sam held the chair still.

“Such strange devices,” Dean heard Eönwë murmur to Rinc; he could tell which Maia it was only from the accent. “And you say these are common in Middle-earth now?”

“What,” Rinc returned, “the car or the wheelchair?”

“Wheeled chairs were known in Númenor, I deem, but the—car, you called it? That is new to me.”

“You need to get out more, Eönwë. Those have been around for almost a yén already. And don’t get me started on what’s still in the trunk.”

By that point, Bobby was situated and everyone else was out of the car, so Dean turned around. “Hey.”

“Hail, Dean Winchester,” Eönwë began.

But Rinc whacked Eönwë on the chest with the back of his hand. “Skip the speech, brother. He’s had enough welcome speeches today to last a year.”

Dean laughed in spite of himself, and the unfamiliar weight of the Elendilmir pressed slightly against his forehead, reminding him exactly how overwhelming a day it had been. “Thanks, Rinc. We’re gettin’ one from Manwë, too, right?”

Eönwë shook his head in amusement but said, “Indeed so. But you are all indeed most welcome, though the tidings you bring are not. Come. We should not tarry.”

The team followed Eönwë through the gate toward a low green hill, where stood two dead and blackened trees, and Dean heard Maglor’s breath catch a little. Some of the images from Maglor’s songs came to mind unbidden, and Dean realized that those had been the Trees, the ones that had given light to all Valinor before Morgoth had them destroyed. He reached up and squeezed Maglor’s shoulder in silent compassion.

Maglor smiled down at him sadly and whispered, “Le hannon, mellon-nin.”

But their actual destination was not the hill but the circle of what looked like giant statues that stood in front of the hill. As they got closer, Dean could see that they were huge thrones, and all but two of them were filled with humanoid figures, although some—like the veiled figure in grey and the male figure whose skin was a sea-foam green—were less obviously human than the others. And it seemed like there was a crowd around the thrones, though he couldn’t see it as much as he could feel it; he guessed those were mostly Maiar who didn’t want to take visible form. There was an air of solemn stillness about the place, too—not unfriendly, but not exactly warm, either.

And then, as the team walked into the circle, Dean saw the giants’ eyes move, and he realized that they weren’t statues at all. He’d known they were meeting the Valar, but he didn’t expect them to be waiting... and he really didn’t expect them to look like that.

He swallowed hard, and Maglor returned the shoulder squeeze.

Finally, once they’d gotten to the middle of the circle and stopped facing the two empty thrones, there was a sound like rushing wind and a bright flash of light... and the thrones weren’t empty anymore. In one sat a male figure robed in blue with an eagle on his shoulder, and in the other sat the most beautiful woman Dean had ever seen, dressed in white and shining as if lit from within. And Dean almost forgot to breathe.

“My lords,” said Eönwe, and his voice suddenly grounded Dean in a way he didn’t even know he needed. “The heralds we have long awaited have arrived. I present i Gwaith i Innas Lain.”

“Welcome, friends,” said the Vala who had to be Manwë. “Dean, Samuel, Maglor, Castiel, Rincaro, Robert, Ellen, Joanna, Ashton. You have done valiantly the task that we have set for you, and though I sent no summons, Dean, you did well to heed the summons in your heart to seek our counsel face to face. I am only sorry that we meet thus now, in the last measures of the Song. And we shall have need of your valor and your ingenuity again ere the final chord sounds.”

None of them knew quite what to say to that, so they didn’t say anything.

Manwë looked around the circle then and introduced the various Valar. “You will have time to know us better hereafter,” he concluded. “And we will have time to speak of strategy when Melkor’s plans become clearer. For now, though, take your ease and let your hearts forget their troubles for a time. The very end is yet to come, and you shall all need your strength.”

Bobby evidently grimaced or something, because the Vala who’d been introduced as Estë said gently, “Yes, Robert, even thee. Thou shalt abide in Lórien for a time, and I shall restore thee fully.”

Dean looked over at Bobby, who looked shocked. “Fully? Y’mean....”

“Yes. Thou shalt walk again.”

Bobby swallowed hard a couple of times before he managed to whisper, “Le hannon, hiril-nin.”

She smiled kindly. “I ’ell nîn.”

“I would speak further with Dean and Samuel,” said Manwë. “Eönwë, please show the others back to their carriage.”

Eönwë bowed low, then turned and motioned for the others to follow. Ellen and Jo each hugged the Winchesters before they left, and Maglor gave them each a pat on the back. Then they walked away, and Sam and Dean were left looking at each other, not sure whether to panic or fall on their faces in reverence or try to brazen their way out of the jam—if it was one.

“Oh, children,” Manwë sighed. “Zachariah has done you great harm in trying to cast you as Túrin divided against himself, or even as Melkor and myself. Only by the grace of Eru and your own great love one for another have you escaped a doom that should never have threatened you to begin with. But your true doom is scarce less heavy now that Melkor has returned. And I am no less grieved by that than is Nienna.”

Suddenly no longer tongue-tied or unsure of himself, Dean surged forward. “Then why the hell didn’t you help us stop this?”

Manwë shook his head sadly. “We would have done far more damage to your land than you know—Beleriand was all but annihilated when we returned to Middle-earth for the War of Wrath. We were not prepared to take that risk. Yet were all of us together to have appeared in Carthage, we could not have prevented Morgoth’s return.”

“Why the hell not?!”

“Dean. Arda was marred from the moment of my brother’s rebellion. That damage goes deep, to the foundations of Eä, to the very Song itself, and he has poured much of his considerable power into warping the whole fabric of Arda. Though Eru will not allow Morgoth’s mischief to endure, the marring cannot be healed easily, and it is not within the power of the Valar to do so. Sauron’s power was broken with the destruction of the One Ring, but all of Middle-earth is Morgoth’s ring. To end his threat to us forever, this Song must end, and Arda must be unmade so that it can be remade aright. The timing of that end lies in Eru’s control alone; naught that any created being could do can change it. But you made the right choices, all of you. You did exactly what we asked of you. Had it not been time for Morgoth to return, you would have succeeded in stopping Lilith, even without our help. You have done well. Take comfort in that.”

“You could have warned us!”

“The message I sent through Tuor was the only message I was able to send. Not even I know all that lies within the Song or within the mind of Eru. We did not see this Age when Eru gave us the vision of the Song before Time began. Even on the day itself, I could not know with certainty what was to occur, only that the attempt would be made.”

“Wait,” Sam frowned as he stepped up beside Dean. “Are you saying our choices made no difference at all?”

“No freely-made choice is without consequence,” said Mandos gravely. “And it is no small thing to be blameless in the face of evil that you could not prevent. Had you done ill, our conversation now would not be so cordial.”

That gave Dean pause. If this was Mandos when he was cordial, there was no way Dean wanted to see him disappointed, never mind angry.

Manwë leaned forward. “Sam, Dean... you came to us for help, but in truth, it is we who need your help. Those who were most faithful to Eru in this life are now gone, but some who remain have turned back to the truth. If they are to fight for us, with us, someone must summon them—and we cannot. We have not been inactive all these years, but we have hidden ourselves from Men for too long. They have forgotten our names. And were we to reach out to them now, to call them to join us against Morgoth, they would not respond. Yet they will answer to you, for you are Isildur’s heirs. To you alone is appointed the authority to lead Men in the final combat.”

The brothers exchanged a look, then looked back at Manwë and chorused, “How?”

When at last the Winchesters returned from the Máhanaxar, Bobby was blown away by how powerful and regal they looked... and yet they somehow seemed to be even more themselves than they ever had been. Gone were the petulant Sam who tried too hard to be normal and the cocky Dean who tried too hard to be cool. In their place were strong, competent, responsible men, scarred but unbroken by a lifetime of fighting evil. Hunters. Generals. Kings.

“Well?” Ellen asked.

Dean looked down at Bobby first. “Melian’s gonna come take you to Lórien here in a few minutes. Estë thinks Zach put some kind of curse on your back, and it might take some study for her to figure out how to break it. But as soon as she can, she will.”

“A curse?” Bobby repeated. “It ain’t physical?”

Dean shook his head. “Said I probably coulda healed it if it was.”

“Just as well I didn’t let you try.”

He got a wry smile in response.

“They want us to find a way to gather an army of humans, like a resistance movement,” Sam stated. “But they don’t want us to leave unless we absolutely have to. Honestly, I don’t know if it’s gonna be possible, even if we do go back. I mean, it’s not like anybody knows who we are, and pretty much all communication’s been wiped out except radio and maybe analog TV. And it’s gonna be even harder trying to do it from here, since we’re not even on the same planet.”

“Not much of a Resistance out there yet, either,” Dean noted. “It’s only been, like, a week. But as soon as Morgoth starts makin’ moves on Washington....”

Ash rubbed his chin. “You could always John Connor this thing. Y’know, radio broadcasts or something—even TV, maybe.”

Dean looked at him. “You’re thinking....”

“Use the Eressëa palantír to hack a satellite,” Ash replied. “We need to get back to Avalon.”

“Avállonë,” Sam corrected.

“’Swhat I said.”

Dean laughed and clapped Ash on the shoulder. “Only you, Buchholz. Only you.”

Now firmly ensconced in Meadow Brook Hall in Rochester, Michigan, Melkor was deep in conversation with one of the oldest and most trusted of his incorporeal lieutenants when a crossroads demon appeared and bowed low before him. “Well?” Melkor demanded.

“We have tried absolutely everything, my lord,” replied the demon. “Sam Winchester cannot be found. But I have found someone who I hope will serve as an acceptable substitute.”

“Very well. Bring him.”

The demon vanished and returned moments later with two others supporting a young Man who was, to put it bluntly, a mess. In better health he would probably be quite attractive, but now his blond hair was stringy, his eyes bloodshot and pupils blown, his face wan and pale, and his body wracked with the tremors of withdrawal.

“Azazel found him useful,” the crossroads demon explained in the Black Speech so that the Man would not understand what was said. “Sam Winchester was his best friend at Stanford, so one of Azazel’s children took him as a host. But the demon has left him in case you wish to speak with him directly.”

Melkor drew the darkness about himself more closely and studied the Man, reading his memories of dreams shattered by possession, the torment of watching the death of Jessica Moore and of the intoxicants and the sex and all the other ways the demon had abused his host. Those abuses had stopped after Sam left Stanford, apparently, but their full effect was only now evident in the host’s condition... and the host felt terrible. There was about him a deep sense of despair, a longing for the release of death. And Melkor smiled to himself. Yes, this one might be an acceptable substitute after all.

“Bring him closer,” Melkor ordered, and the demons complied, bringing the Man to the foot of the throne.

Melkor had never cared much for the arts of healing, and his powers in that regard had diminished greatly over the Ages. But they were not altogether lost, and now Melkor put forth such power as he still had to heal the Man who trembled before him. The Man gasped as illness fled and strength returned, and he searched the darkness for the face of his benefactor.

“What is your name, child?” Melkor asked as kindly as he knew how.

“Brady, sir,” the Man replied. “Please, I—”

Melkor didn’t give him a chance to continue. “Brady, you will be our guest for a few days. Make him comfortable, and give him anything he wants,” he ordered, and the demons took Brady away.

After a week of allowing Brady to live in luxury, Melkor summoned him back to the throne room. The Man had taken full advantage of the time, by all reports, and now he was well tanned and clean-shaven, his hair clean and cut in what Men of this time would consider an attractive style, and he looked as healthy and well fed as if he had never been possessed. The camera would love this Man, and so would the masses.

Yes, he was no Sam Winchester, but he would do nicely.

“I’m here,” Brady began when Melkor did not speak. “And I wanted to thank you for being so kind to me. It’s been... kind of a rough few years.”

“I can imagine,” Melkor replied, smiling to himself in the darkness.

“Um... I hate to ask, but... who are you?”

“I am the Giver of Gifts, Master of the Fates of Arda, the god your fathers served in the East, long Ages past. The powers of this world were jealous of me and kept me away for many years, but their might is failing. I have returned. And I am in need of someone who will be my voice, my representative to the people of this Age.”

Brady swallowed hard. “So you weren’t just being nice. You’re trying to use me.”

“No! I wish only to aid your kind, and I sent my servants to find someone whom I could help, who could then bear witness that I mean no harm. This world is in chaos, Brady. I have brought order to your life; I can bring order to everyone.”

Brady muttered something about “Der Führer’s Face.”

“Oh, come now, Brady. Have I been anything but good to you?”

“I’ve only been here a week,” Brady noted.

“And could you have recovered so well in a week anywhere else?”

“I... no.”

“Well, then.”

“But you’ve never even let me see your face.”

“I cannot. Very few have seen my true form and lived. You are mortal, Brady; I would not risk your life by showing you aught that you cannot bear.”

“Well, how do you expect me to be a spokesman for something I haven’t directly experienced?”

“I will endow you with my beloved spirit, so that you will always know what to say.”

Brady shook his head. “No spirits. I’ve been possessed once.”

“Ah, but my spirit is not like that spirit. It will only make you bolder, stronger, and wiser, enlightening you and showing you my will. And there will be... other rewards as well.”

The spirit in question, a fallen Maia little less in strength than Sauron had been, sped down from Melkor’s side and began to circle Brady, dancing, flirting, caressing, enticing with brief touches of power—a far cry from the brute force generally employed by the Houseless in this Age, much more artistic and seductive. Brady began to waver as old addictions surfaced and morphed into a craving for the false sweetness the spirit offered.

“Shall I give you a taste?”

“Ummm....”

“A vision,” Melkor ordered, and the spirit embraced Brady, whose eyes rolled back as he began to moan and shake in ecstasy. Having watched the mortals touched by the Secret Fire for yéni since the advent of that confounded meddler Yésu, Melkor knew how to counterfeit the experience, and this was a very good counterfeit indeed.

After a minute or so, the spirit released Brady, who collapsed at the foot of Melkor’s throne. “That... that was awesome,” Brady panted.

“Was it acceptable?”

Brady let out a groan of pleasure and rolled onto his back. “Better than sex. Over way too soon, though. I was just getting to the good part.”

“Ah, but that was just a taste. I cannot let you drink your fill unless you are willing to remain by the fountain.”

Brady made a visible effort not to whine, but the high was clearly wearing off quickly, and he knew the pain of withdrawal all too well. “Please... I can’t... I need... I mean, I’d like to go deeper if I may.”

Melkor smiled. “Do you consent to receive my spirit, to become my spokesman?”

“Oh, hell, yes.” Brady couldn’t control the desperation any longer. “I’ll do anything.”

The spirit entered Brady quickly and, after a brief struggle, asserted control over the hroa and picked itself up off the dais. “I suppose I’ll have to keep him occupied for the first few days,” it said, walking over to a table hidden from mortal view and rolling up Brady’s shirt sleeves.

“Whatever it takes to keep him compliant,” Melkor replied. “Evict him if you must, though it would look better if he could speak for himself from time to time—at least in America.”

“Yes, I don’t think he speaks any languages other than Spanish and English. Could be a problem in the Middle East.” It picked up a heated soldering iron.

“Don’t worry. When you appear in Jerusalem, all Arda will listen and hear whatever they wish to hear in your words... my Anointed One.”

The Antichrist smirked and began to burn a binding sigil on Brady’s left arm.

Chapter Text

There were two problems with attempting to take over Middle-earth from the American Midwest, Morgoth quickly learned. One was Americans’ innate hatred of dictatorship, which was backed by their pesky military, police, and civilians with firearms; the other was their ability to innovate.

And then there was Mossad—but at least their tactics could be made useful.

Brady was high as a kite. As a jet. As a U2 spy plane.

He had no idea how much time had passed when the bliss of union with Delebfaer—pretty name, but he couldn’t get a translation—faded enough for him to become aware of the outside world again. And he didn’t even care. The sheer power throbbing through his veins had probably overloaded his dopamine circuits but good... even now, after days of feasting and frolicking with the other servants of the Giver of Gifts, he still felt like he was floating, like colors were sharper and sensations stronger but none strong enough to tie him down. He was above it all. He was chosen.

He was a god.

Oh, sure, he’d experienced all the highs and the drunks and the trips when his previous passenger had abused him with drugs back at Stanford. Some of them had even been fun, apart from the fact that he hadn’t chosen them and had to share the experience with a demon who kept taunting him about it later. And yeah, he’d felt the power that the demon exercised against its victims, particularly Jess Moore. But all those joys and all those terrors paled in comparison to what he felt as the vessel of Delebfaer. Even acid wasn’t this good. And the most delicious part of all was that brand on his arm that he’d never felt, the seal that meant Delebfaer could never be taken from him.

Damn, he was high.

He probably did need to come down a little more when it came time to deliver the speech Delebfaer had written for him and was having him rehearse that afternoon on one of the terraces at Meadow Brook. His mind kept drifting, wondering if all this power meant he could manipulate reality, could walk through walls, could fly....

He wished briefly that Sam were there, that he could share this high that drugs just couldn’t touch. Sam wouldn’t do drugs, but he would like this. He might even be able to handle it better than Brady could. Brady just kept... drifting....

He found himself standing on a high point, wondering if he’d feel anything if he fell.

Turn around, Delebfaer suddenly whispered. I want to show you something.

Brady dutifully turned his back to the edge.

There was a pop... something hit his third eye chakra... he was falling... falling into a featherbed....

Just rest a bit, said Delebfaer, and Brady closed his eyes and let himself float until Delebfaer told him it was time to wake up again.

He opened his eyes to a familiar sort of ceiling—he was in a hospital. And someone screamed.

His forehead felt funny, so he reached up to touch... was there a hole there? No, it must have been a hallucination, because the sensation went away almost immediately, chased away by the thrumming in his veins. Same thing with the funny feeling in the back of his skull and some other places that he might have thought were broken bones if they’d actually hurt. But no, he was high, he was feeling no pain.

The screams grew louder, and louder still as he sat up. Why were they screaming? He wasn’t a demon anymore.

No, Delebfaer purred, you are a god. You are immortal.

Immortal... yes... no fear, no pain....

A white-faced doctor approached him cautiously, recoiling briefly when he looked at her. “Mr. ... Mr. Andover?”

“Why am I here?”

He thought he’d asked quietly, but she flinched as if he’d shouted. “Y-you were shot, sir. With a .308 sniper rifle. And then you fell a considerable distance. You’re only here because you were still breathing when the ambulance arrived. You should be dead.”

He snorted and heard himself—or rather Delebfaer—say, “Mossad cannot kill me. I wish to return to my master.”

The doctor and her nurses scattered, and Brady felt a surge of satisfaction from Delebfaer that made him blank out for a few moments—though not as long as it would have done even the day before, and he felt a tiny bit of pride that he was beginning to handle the power better.

Did I really get shot? he wondered.

We did, Delebfaer replied, but it will leave little more than a mark... perhaps others will see it as a mark of enlightenment, given its location. Your third eye is open now.

The doctor returned. “Your cab’s here, Mr. Andover.”

Brady stood and left, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the glass doors on the way out. A perfectly round red scar stood in the middle of his forehead...

... and his eyes were a brilliant white from corner to corner.

It was the face of a god.

When the media circus and subsequent carousing were over and Brady’s consciousness was back in an ecstatic stasis and the Mossad agents who’d shot him were no longer able to put “Survived the Apocalypse” on their résumés, the Antichrist went to Melkor with a complaint:

“This Man is substandard, my lord. When I return control of his hroa, he acts dazed and is easily distracted by both fantasy and real immediate pleasures. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to maintain the façade of his freedom.”

Melkor waved a hand dismissively. “Evict him, then, if the appearance cannot be maintained.”

“But I was meant to have—”

“Sam Winchester, I know. But even if he could be found, Brady is now our public face and voice. He must remain so until I have conquered Middle-earth and launched the assault on Aman. Either help him adjust or evict him.”

“Yes, my lord,” came the disgruntled reply, and Delebfaer teleported away to study recent political rhetoric.

The room that Ash had dubbed MTAC Avalon suddenly gained two more occupants, one of whom was in mid-sentence when they appeared:

“—dn’t do that, Cas!”

Cas huffed. “Dean, the only swift alternative would be travel by eagle, and I know how you feel about flying.”

“And it would still take a lot longer to get here from Taniquetil,” Sam added, walking over from the table where Ash was deep in conversation with Maglor and Maedhros.

“I still don’t like it,” Dean grumbled.

“What’s new?”

“Antichrist. Morgoth’s still holed up in Detroit, but he’s found some schmuck by the name of Brady Andover to take your place; shoulda been killed when he was shot by Mossad, but whatever’s ridin’ him not only kept him alive but healed him. Seriously, what is this, a Tim LaHaye novel?”

“Has he gotten much attention?”

“So far he’s only made newspapers and radio, but Manwë thinks it won’t take too long for somebody to get at least analog TV up and running again.”

“Brady...” It took Sam a moment to place the name. “Did Manwë show you a picture?”

“Yeah, ’bout my height, blond, tan. And now he’s got white eyes and a showy scar.”

Sam cursed under his breath and clenched his fists. “He introduced me to Jess.”

All activity in the room paused for a good ten seconds.

Then Dean put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You make the first broadcast. Strike the first blow. And if he lands here? He’s all yours.”

Sam blew out a breath and nodded. “Okay. Thanks, Dean.”

Dean squeezed Sam’s shoulder and let his hand drop. “Ash, how’s it coming?”

“Almost there,” Ash replied. “Got a good emergency frequency picked out for this first one, should get some attention from the ham operators. They’ll get things going. Looks like one of you will have to actually touch the master stone to make the connection, but we should have it rigged up and ready to go by next week.”

“Awesome.”

“We settled on a name yet? I still kinda like that ‘Eyes Only’ bit from Dark Angel.”

“I Meril Gloss,” Maglor suggested. “Was there not a Resistance movement in Germany by that name, at the end of the Sixth Age?”

Dean looked at Sam, who thought for a moment and translated, “The White Rose—Die Weiße Rose. Anti-Nazi student group.”

Dean nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, that could work.”

“We’ll need code names, I guess.”

“I can help you there, too,” said Maglor. “Morgoth will understand, but human authorities will not.”

Dean shrugged. “Shoot.”

“Dean, you are Mormegil, the Black Sword. And Sam, you are Agarwaen, the Blood-stained.”

Maedhros frowned. “Those names belonged to Túrin.”

“Precisely.”

The Winchesters looked at each other, considering. “... That works,” they finally chorused.

“Presidents’ Day,” said each of the people who turned up at the house that stood behind a tiny rural nursery in Texas one frosty February night, as they had done at varying intervals since mid-December.

The owner of both the nursery and the house opened the door each time, and the arrivals made their way across salt lines and devil’s traps and down into the basement, where by some miracle the owner had found and hidden an analog TV that the local electronics wizard had rigged to receive satellite signals on a very peculiar band. Once everyone had arrived, the owner locked up, came downstairs, and switched on the TV. And at precisely 10:00, the color bars were replaced by a letterbox close-up of two pairs of green-hazel eyes.

“Hey, this is Agarwaen.”

“This is Mormegil.”

“And you’re watching, or listening to, Meril Gloss. So, this weekend. Guys, even if you do get to Jerusalem, don’t try to shoot Brady again. This spirit that’s riding him, Delebfaer, it’s too strong to be killed that way. It’s the Antichrist.”

“He’s already got the... ‘fatal wound that was healed’ or whatever, and it looks like he’s got some kind of binding sigil burned on his arm, so an exorcism’s not gonna do much. And besides, he’s not the real threat anyway.”

“What’s going to help the most is your reminding people of the truth: Morgoth is a false god; he is not benevolent; he’s setting up as a worse dictator than any in recorded history; he hates humans, etc.”

“Godwin’s Law, people. Don’t bring up Hitler unless you have to.”

“Right. Same thing with calling Brady the Antichrist—I mean, he is, but the term’s been misapplied so many times that you’ll come off as a reactionary. Find some other way to say it—Messiah complex, something like that.”

“Now, don’t be surprised if people don’t listen to you, even if your argument’s perfect. Win over the ones you can, but don’t get discouraged over losing friends and stuff.”

“If—really, more like when—the world’s governments capitulate to Brady as Morgoth’s representative, you’ll probably have to fight off all kinds of bad stuff. And you do need to keep fighting, if only to keep Morgoth’s forces tied up. But it’s gonna take a few months for him to get everything lined up to come after us... and when he does, there won’t be much left for you to do.”

“So here’s the plan—and with the economy being what it is, y’all are gonna have to help each other out, probably start preparing now. Off the west coast of Iceland, there is a new island that’s being formed as a result of all this seismic activity.” Mormegil rattled off a set of coordinates, and almost everyone dutifully wrote down the information. “May 1, you need to be there. All of you, families included—no child left behind. We’ve arranged for everyone to be evacuated at the same time to our secure, undisclosed location; we’re gonna need you here to help us fight this battle. But if you’re not on that island, nobody’s comin’ to get you. This ain’t the Rapture, folks; we don’t know where you are.”

“It’s also not like those movies where people wait around on the top of a mountain for the spaceship to beam ’em up.”

“Right. Nobody’s flyin’ around lookin’ for you.”

“You’ve probably got questions, and we’re sorry this broadcast goes only one way and you can’t ask ’em now. But we’ll try to anticipate what your concerns might be by the next broadcast—which is?”

“March 2. The password is ‘Brazos.’”

“Yeah. Drink some Dr Pepper if you can, celebrate Texas independence.”

The people in the room laughed quietly.

“I think that’s it for this week,” Mormegil said, looking at Agarwaen.

Agarwaen nodded. “Yep. I’m Agarwaen.”

“I’m Mormegil.”

“And this has been Meril Gloss. Y’all take care.”

And the feed ended.

“Why do we gotta go to Iceland?” asked Deke, the local skeptic, as the nursery owner switched off the TV. “Why can’t they evacuate us from Houston?”

“We ain’t the only ones in this fight, Deke,” the nursery owner replied, pointing to his shortwave radio set. “I got Resistance contacts all over the world. None of ’em know where the boys are. Could be they got a few ships from somewhere, need a central point to collect everybody. Kinda hard luck on the folks in East Asia, but... hell, as unstable as the Ring of Fire is lately, they’re probably glad to head west.”

“No, they’re probably ticked they have to leave their homes, just like I am.”

An older woman shook her head. “Deke, honey, the world is endin’. Like as not, we’ll get killed if we stay. I’d rather go down fightin’—and if that means goin’ to Iceland, then that’s what I’ll do.”

A murmur of agreement ran through the room. Disgusted, Deke stormed out of the house and headed toward his car... only to have someone with putrid breath grab him from behind and press a knife against his throat.

“You call out,” growled the creepiest voice he’d ever heard, “and you’re a dead man.”

Deke swallowed hard; he was being held in such a way that he couldn’t go for his gun. “Look, if it’s money you want—”

His captor chuckled. “No. Her Ladyship just wants to ask you a few questions.”

Someone else dropped a bag over his head and tied his hands behind his back. Then they marched Deke away—he couldn’t tell how far they walked, but it felt like several miles—and finally dumped him in a cave somewhere. He let exhaustion claim him and slept until he felt a prick on his arm and the burning sensation of something being injected. That was when he realized that he’d been placed in a chair while he was out.

“Oh, please, my lady,” his captor’s voice pleaded. “He’d make such sport....”

“Wait your turn,” came the feminine sing-song reply from behind him. “Everybody gets a chance, but Father must have answers.”

The injection must have been caffeine; Deke was suddenly awake, buzzed. Then came another prick, and he screamed as liquid fire flared through his veins. Evil laughter rang through the cave.

“Stay back, boys,” the woman warned, talking low and fast. “After he talks, he’ll be all yours.” Then she leaned in and purred into his ear, “And you will talk to me.”

Deke wasn’t sure if that feeling in the pit of his stomach was fear or lust.

She pulled the hood off and strolled around him, trailing her hand along his shoulders. There wasn’t much light, but from what he could see when she stood in front of him, she had pale skin, curly dark hair, and a face that might have been more attractive were it not for the smirk.

“What’s your name, cutie?” she asked, cocking her head coquettishly.

Deke tried to lie, but the real answer forced its way out. “G—D—Deke Harris.”

“You got a family, Deke?”

“N—Ngy—Yes.”

“Well, then, I don’t have to explain why you’ll tell me what I want to know.” She giggled. “Oh, you’d tell me anyway; that truth serum’s working pretty fast. I’m not sure I really needed it, but Father said speed was essential. But maybe I won’t ask you where you live.”

Deke swallowed hard.

“Depends on whether you fight me on these first questions.”

“What... what do you want to know?”

“Why were you at that house tonight?”

“Uhhhh-underground broadcast.”

“Radio?”

“No. TV.”

She smiled and sat on his lap, straddling him. “You’re doing well, Deke. What channel?”

“I don’t know. TV’s... always on when we get there.”

“Ah. What’s the plan for the next attack?”

“Isn’t one. At least, not from them. I left early.”

“Where does the broadcast come from?”

“Dunno. Nobody knows. ‘Secure, undisclosed location,’ ’s all they ever say.”

She leaned forward. “Who’s ‘they’?”

Deke clamped his mouth shut.

She leaned closer, close enough to kiss, her hips pressing against his as her voice got lower and more seductive. “Who’s ‘they’?”

Deke closed his eyes and made himself breathe through his nose. But she slid her hand down his pants and pressed in awkward places until his mouth wouldn’t stay closed any longer. “Mormegil,” he finally groaned. “Agarwaen... and Mormegil. They got... hazel eyes. That’s... that’s all I know... I swear... please... ssstooo—”

She cut him off with a long kiss that left his stomach roiling in revulsion, much to the amusement of the figures lurking in the shadows, and when she pulled back, her eyes turned a fearsome, oily black from corner to corner. “You’ve been a naughty boy, Deke,” she said with a bigger smirk than before. “Normally I’d have some more fun with you myself, but Father’s waiting, and I did promise the boys a turn. I’m sure you won’t disappoint them.” Then she kissed him again and vanished.

‘The boys’ came out of the shadows then, and Deke nearly went into cardiac arrest at the sight of things he thought existed only in the movies.

Orcs.

If Melkor had succeeded in his ages-long attempt to regrow his feet, he would have shot out of his throne and begun pacing, so badly did Meg’s news agitate him. As it was, he settled for killing a few hapless demons who were standing too close, raining fire on Dubai, and setting off a volcano in Saipan.

“Agarwaen and Mormegil,” he finally snarled. “My brother taunts me with their names, the names of that accursed Túrin son of Húrin. Sam Winchester should be mine.”

“All Arda is yours, Father,” drawled Brady, whose permanent high had finally dropped below the Detroit skyline. “He’ll join us sooner or later. Hell, he’s probably jealous, you bein’ so good to me when he couldn’t even get me to stop drinkin’.”

Melkor resisted the urge to smite Brady and instead set off another Pacific volcano. “Kill everyone of value to him, Megora. Everyone. Force him to appear, to treat with me.”

Meg sighed. “Father, the only person whose existence Sam values enough to join us is Dean. And if Dean is in Aman, he’s beyond our reach for now. All their hunting friends have vanished, and Sam hasn’t contacted his college friends or his mother’s family in years.”

The Aleutians edged closer to the International Date Line.

“I... could... give the order to begin capturing the Resistance groups.”

“No, not yet. We must ensure that the Jerusalem speech succeeds. Americans do not look kindly on mass arrests and summary executions, and I must control American opinion if I am to control all of Middle-earth. Once my political power is consolidated and I have taken my rightful place as god of this world, then we will deal with the White Roses.”

“What should I do, then?”

Melkor thought for a moment. “Hunters are not popular, and we must soon eliminate those that remain in any case. Are there any hunters left in Middle-earth?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Kill them all. The Campbells especially.”

Meg grinned. “Gladly.”

Fighting the temptation to take out his frustrations on the main screen at MTAC Avalon, Dean put down one gun and picked up another to clean. “Lotta words to say absolutely nothing,” he grumbled, “and the dude’s got a stadium full of fangirls... Ash, are you sure this isn’t a rerun of Triumph of the Will?”

“Well, it ain’t on DVD,” Ash drawled and took another swig of mead. “What I’m wonderin’ is whether Fred Phelps even realizes he missed the Rapture,” he added, pointing to an inset feed that showed a protest by the infamous Westboro Baptist Church, complete with their standard “God Hates [insert group]” signs and conspicuously lacking in any slogans even remotely relating to the fact that the world was ending.

“So did we,” Sam said quietly, taking a particularly vicious swipe with the whetstone along the blade he was sharpening.

“Only ’cause we’re needed here,” Dean noted. “You okay, dude?”

“Peachy.” Another vicious swipe.

“Sam.”

Sam sighed. “We’re listening to the abomination that causes desolation, Dean. No, I’m not okay.”

“Is it just that or because Brady’s a friend of yours?”

“Both.” Sam paused. “And because but for the grace of God....”

“Sammy.”

“Brady wasn’t even one of Azazel’s kids, Dean. He was a good guy until something happened around the middle of our sophomore year. Delebfaer was supposed to be riding me, and... Azazel spent my entire life trying to prepare me for that.”

Dean put a hand on Sam’s arm. “You wouldn’t have gone that way, dude. I know you.”

“Dean....”

“And I woulda done whatever it took to stop you from going darkside. It’s like I told you after Dad died; I woulda saved you if it was the last thing I did. But it didn’t come to that.”

Sam managed a small smile. “No. It didn’t. And I’m glad.”

Brady pulled some kind of fake miracle hat trick, and the crowd went wild. But Dean held Sam’s gaze and squeezed his arm, willing him to recognize the love that went too deep for Dean to ever put it into words.

Sam’s smile grew, and he squeezed Dean’s hand. Message received and returned.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad (or I’m-a-dinner-jacket, as Dean took to calling him) was the first world leader to hail Brady as the Mahdi returned. Pakistan capitulated shortly thereafter, which meant that Morgoth had nukes. But they were a threat he didn’t need right away. The more counterfeit miracles Delebfaer performed and the more order he brought to the countries that gave him the reins, the more popular opinion swung to his side. And with the Internet and wireless platforms still offline and the still-recovering mainstream news media, under Crowley’s expert manipulation, willing to hail Brady as the greatest thing since sliced bread, it was easy enough to keep the public in the dark about the monsters being sent to destroy anyone who resisted. Disappearances that were too high-profile to go unnoticed were written off by painting the victims as dangerous reactionaries who wanted the world to remain in chaos.

By the time Delebfaer got around to delivering public smackdowns, such as wiping out the Phelps family with a wave of his hand, nobody much cared. And the same went for giving Beijing the choice between submission, famine, or all of Pakistan’s arsenal being detonated in the middle of the Forbidden City. Nobody was quite sure which threat swayed the Chinese government more, the potential loss of life or the potential loss of historic buildings. And the more dominoes fell, the more heavy-handed Morgoth became against the hold-outs. Suitcase nukes turned up in Sydney and Dublin, and one actually went off in London. The message was clear: submit or die.

By Easter, only Israel and the US had not fallen. And with the American government bungling the disaster management badly at every turn, everyone knew it would not take much longer for Morgoth to have the opening he was waiting for and seize power there as well.

The Icelandic Resistance workers had begun preparing the new island immediately after the February broadcast, and a slow trickle of evacuees had started arriving not long after that—always small groups, never enough to attract official attention. One of the first to arrive was Missouri Mosely, an African-American psychic who made a point of warding every part of the island safe enough for human habitation. Some guessed that she knew who Mormegil and Agarwaen were, but no one asked; the secret seemed too dangerous to reveal. There was also some speculation that there were things other than humans on the island, but if it was true, Missouri wouldn’t say.

As May 1 drew near, though, more people began making their way to the island, by then known as White Rose, and started running into roadblocks. Flights and cruises to Iceland were cancelled and banned. There were battles, some quite intense and deadly. The broadcasts assured people that “the boys” knew about and grieved over every sacrifice, but they urged as many people to get out as could possibly do so. A final burst of evacuees arrived on April 29.

And Washington fell on April 30.

Just hours after the news reached White Rose, a grey ship landed at the western shore just long enough for two men and two women to get off. Missouri was there to greet them.

“Mercy, Bobby,” she said, walking up to one of the men, “ain’t you a sight for sore eyes! The boys sent you.”

“They did,” Bobby nodded. “First time I’ve felt useful in months.”

“Well, come on, Mister Hopafoot. Let’s get those new legs of yours a good stretch.” Then she nodded to the others. “Rufus. Ellen, Jo—we ain’t met, but it’s sure good to see you. Come help me get these folks ready for what’s comin’.”

The women nodded in acknowledgment, and the five of them made their way through White Rose. The tour took well into the night, since Mormegil had sent specific messages for some people.

At daybreak, though, one of the lookouts called Missouri through a handheld radio. Orcs had been sighted off the eastern shore.

Bobby nodded. “Guess it’s time. Y’all hold tight.” And he lifted a conch horn to his mouth and blew a single long note.

And the island shook and began to move as if it were being dragged.

The guards on the eastern shore did have to fire on the Orcs for a short time, but their boats soon foundered in the island’s turbulent wake. No sooner did Morgoth order bomber jets scrambled than a mighty typhoon developed with White Rose at its eye. High winds and high seas kept attackers by sea and air at bay, and not long after the storm finally died down enough to show the evacuees that their path was clear, another Meril Gloss broadcast began—but one without the bars that hid the boys’ faces. There were a few cries of surprise from people who evidently knew them by sight.

“Hey, y’all,” said Agarwaen cheerfully. “If he’s visible, give Ossë our thanks—you are now leaving the planet known as Earth....”

Nightmares were largely a thing of the past for the hunters within a month of their arriving in Aman; Estë and Irmo had apparently made a point of ensuring that the scars of their past began to heal and that their sleep was uninterrupted most nights. Nor had Sam had many visions lately, especially none since Ossë anchored White Rose a few miles northwest of Tol Eressëa, where Team Free Will and friends were living in Elrond’s spacious house. So it took Dean totally by surprise when, in late May, Sam woke up screaming.

“Sammy?!” Dean was at his side instantly, supporting and comforting as Sam’s screams gave way to gasps for air and he emerged fully from the dream.

Lisa and Ben, who also shared the same room, were right behind Dean. The rest of the team, along with Elrond and Maedhros, came running as well, but none approached the bed until Sam grew calmer.

“Vision?” Dean finally asked.

Sam nodded.

“What’d you see?”

Sam caught his breath and looked him in the eye. “Zombies.”

Chapter Text

“Zombies?!”

Sam nodded. “Zombies in Eldamar. Some kind of cave.”

Dean looked at Maedhros, who nodded grimly. “The Cave of the Forgotten. Ar-Pharazôn and his invasion force were buried there when the world was broken. It is said they remain until their master, Morgoth, shall return.”

Dean frowned. “Wait, I thought the Breaking of the World happened after Morgoth got kicked out.”

“It did,” said Elrond. “But long ago, when Men first awoke, Morgoth corrupted them to his worship, and it is said that whatever Man’s fate was intended to be at the first, this fall into darkness was punished by mortality. When Sauron was taken captive by Ar-Pharazôn, he induced the Númenóreans who had not remained faithful to Eru to begin anew their worship of the Darkness and of Morgoth. Thus they owned Morgoth as their master openly and held the Valar to be their enemies.”

Dean shook his head. “Great. Satanist zombies. Must be Thursday.”

The other humans laughed quietly.

“Sammy, you get anything more than that?”

Sam shook his head. “Just looked like a Romero movie. Standard zombie apocalypse.”

“Timeframe?”

“No. If I had to guess... couple weeks, maybe a month. Maybe two, if it takes modern ships as long to get here as it did for Ar-Pharazôn.”

“I’ll go check MTAC,” said Ash, “see if there’s anything in the news. ’Less I miss my guess, somethin’ like this, Morgoth’ll want a big media splash.”

Dean nodded. “Thanks, Ash.”

“I shall assist,” Maedhros added. “I doubt that I shall be able to sleep this night and wish to be of use.”

“Thanks, dude.”

Ash smiled crookedly up at Maedhros. “C’mon, Rusty. Let’s do this.”

Maedhros laughed and followed him out of the room.

Dean turned his attention back to Sam. “You gonna be okay, Sam?”

Sam nodded wearily. “Better bring me my journal, ’case it happens again.”

“I’ll get it, Uncle Sam,” offered Ben, and he did so.

Sam gave him a quick hug. “Thanks, buddy.”

“Let us rest,” Elrond told the others. “I am sure we shall all have much to do tomorrow.”

After some murmured good nights, the rest of the group left. And after some silent conversation with Lisa, Dean crawled in bed with Sam to help keep the nightmares at bay.

Both Winchesters spent much of the next week on Taniquetil, conferring with Manwë and the Elven kings—including Thranduil, who had in fact hitched a ride on White Rose. None of the other human Resistance leaders were allowed on the mainland yet, but Cas and Rinc and a few other Maiar were constantly carrying messages to both White Rose and Eressëa, where Ash and Maedhros were having no luck cutting through Crowley’s propaganda to get real news about the impending invasion. Sam’s visions got longer, more detailed, and more frequent, and although Dean worried about him, the visions did contribute valuable information to the strategy discussions.

Then suddenly, just as Sam seemed to be coming out of a pretty deep vision-trance, he started screaming as if in terrible agony.

“Sammy?!” cried Dean, grabbing Sam by the shoulders. The Elessar, which he’d taken to wearing pinned over his heart, blazed like a small green sun as he tried to connect to Sam’s mind, to find out what was troubling him, but something seemed to be blocking Dean’s power. When two attempts failed and Sam kept screaming, Dean yelled, “Manwë, HELP!”

Manwë’s hand landed on Dean’s back, and Dean was almost blinded by the power that surged through him and into Sam. The blockade broke, and Sam toppled forward into Dean’s arms, sobbing.

“Miruvor,” Manwë ordered, and Olwë filled two goblets with the clear, fragrant cordial and brought them over to the brothers, standing ready for when they would be able to drink it.

Dean was too out of breath to do more than look up at Manwë and nod his thanks.

Manwë rubbed Dean’s back gently. “Sam? Can you speak?”

Sam took a couple of gulps of air before shakily raising his head to look at Manwë. “’S Morgoth. He’s coming.”

And a split second later, Cas popped in. “Ash has intercepted a transmission,” he said gravely. “A press conference has been scheduled for tomorrow at 7 p.m. Eastern Time. We believe Delebfaer will announce the invasion then.”

Dean nodded slowly. “Okay,” he finally said. “State of the Union always has an opposition rebuttal, right?”

Sam looked at him oddly. “You serious?”

“Can’t hurt to offer one last challenge, right? Give people one last chance to do the right thing?”

Sam blinked, then smiled a little. “Yeah. Can’t hurt.”

Manwë gave Dean’s shoulder the barest squeeze of approval. Then he turned to Cas. “Make ready for the broadcast.”

Cas bowed and left.

“Here,” said Olwë kindly, handing each brother a goblet. “This shall restore your strength. And you shall need it if you are to prepare a speech ere you retire this night.”

They nodded their thanks and drank.

Sam and Ben camped out in the Impala that night to let Dean and Lisa have the bedroom to themselves. Elrond had offered them a room in another part of the house, but Sam declined, saying he really needed a piece of home right then. And in fact he slept as well as he ever did in the car. He woke early, though, as did Dean, and after breakfast they went for a short walk through the gardens.

Neither said much until Dean looked up at Sam and asked, “You okay?”

Sam sighed. “Yeah. Kinda nervous.”

“Not the speech. What happened yesterday.”

Sam shrugged.

“Sam.”

He sighed again. “Morgoth found me. I don’t know how; he just... turned up right at the end of the vision. Hurt me pretty bad. I could tell you were reaching for me, but he just laughed, said I’d never get away. Guess that was when you called Manwë.”

“You should have said something, dude. If you needed me....”

“Dean, I’m fine now. I slept just fine. And you needed some time for yourself; it’s not like you haven’t been pushing yourself as hard as everyone else.”

“Yeah, but... this is you, Sammy.”

The unspoken You’re my brother; I’d do anything for you hung between them until Sam pulled Dean into a rough hug. Dean was startled briefly, but then he hugged Sam back.

“Dude,” Sam finally said as he let Dean go, “you’re sweaty.”

A smirk and a waggle of the eyebrows were Dean’s only reply. Sam huffed and rolled his eyes.

Dean laughed and slapped Sam on the back. “C’mon. Let’s go get cleaned up, play king for the day.”

Sam huffed again, this time with a grin, and fell in step with Dean as they walked back to the house.

‘Playing king,’ however, was a classic case of Dean trying to relieve tension by cheapening the occasion. They got back inside to find that the servants had not only prepared baths (complete with scented soaps, which always provoked a grumble from Dean even though they didn’t smell girly at all) but had also laid out clothes for them—the finest Elven styles in rich fabrics that would be horribly expensive in Middle-earth, all of it tailor-made for each of them. Their jewelry was all laid out, too, including a new gold chain for Dean’s amulet.

Dean ran a hand over his nose and mouth and proceeded to vent his discomfort by cursing about the soap more vehemently than usual. Sam rolled his eyes and herded Dean into the tub without interrupting the tirade.

The clothes were comfortable, though, when the brothers finally worked up the nerve to get dressed after shaving. The colors suited them and were neither too dark nor too pale for television—Sam’s were a clear kelly green, while Dean’s were a bright royal blue, and both had red and gold trim.

Dean laughed when Sam got his tunic on. “Hey, Sammy Claus.”

“Shut up, jerk,” Sam shot back, trying not to laugh himself. “At least we don’t have to wear those stupid boiled-wool hose like they had in Robin Hood’s day.”

Dean launched into an off-key version of the theme from Robin Hood: Men in Tights, which made Sam laugh more than it probably should have.

After they got their hair done—and Dean reluctantly decided not to gel his hair—they helped each other with their jewelry. Elrond had found Sam a pendant with a clear white gem that Arwen had once given to Frodo, so Dean fastened it on him while he got the amulet transferred to its new chain. While Dean put on the amulet, Sam pinned the Elessar on his tunic low enough that the two pieces wouldn’t collide. Then they put the Elendilmiri on each other... and stared at themselves in the mirror for a long moment.

“Spiders, Sam,” Dean finally whispered. “I dunno if I can do this.”

Sam put a hand on his shoulder. “You can. We can.”

“The whole damn world is going to see us. Like... like this.”

“Beats seein’ us dead and blamed for a ton of serial killings, though, right?”

Sam had meant it as a joke, but Dean cursed again. “I forgot about that. And you know Meg’ll run with it. What the hell are we doin’, Sam?”

“Dean. Someone has to voice the other side. You said so yourself. If getting dressed up like this is what it takes....”

Dean sighed. “I know. I know. It’s just... four billion people.”

“Most of whom don’t know us and won’t care.”

“They’re gonna laugh.”

“Dude, we could be wearing Armani and they’d laugh. We’re saying what they don’t want to hear.”

Dean was still considering this point when they heard Lisa gasp from the doorway. “Dean?!”

They turned, and Dean smiled wryly. “Hey, Lis.”

Lisa tried several times to say something, but nothing came out. Finally, she slumped against the doorframe, fanning herself. And she very clearly was not fighting laughter.

Dean brightened and straightened. “Really?”

“Uhhh,” was all Lisa could say as she nodded, still staring.

“Mom?” Ben called from the bedroom. “Are you okay?”

“Huh?”

Ben came to the door to check on Lisa, and his mouth fell open when he saw Sam and Dean. “Whoa...” he breathed.

Dean beamed at Sam and grabbed his sword, on loan from Erestor. Sam rolled his eyes and reached for Andúril.

There were more appreciative curses from Bobby, Jo, and Ellen as the boys made their way down to the car. The Henricksens just stared, and Pamela just about fainted.

And Missouri just shook her head, chuckled, and said, “Boys, if your daddy could see you now... mm.”

“You look wonderful,” said Celebrían, giving them each a motherly hug. “You’ll make us proud, I’m sure.”

And then they were off to MTAC, where Ash greeted them with a low whistle and a slow “Dayumn. Good morning, Your Majesties.”

“Knock it off, Ash,” Dean grumbled, but he was clearly both pleased and embarrassed.

“I’m serious, dude. You look the part. Don’t they, Rusty?”

Maglor and Maedhros were standing by the palantír grinning at each other. “Indeed so,” Maedhros said. “I can only imagine what... Zachariah, was it? would say could he see the pair of you now—you certainly favor the Peredhil far more than Túrin in this guise.”

Both brothers felt better to hear that.

“Come,” said Maglor. “Let us show you the set with Daernaneth’s standard, and then you should rehearse and eat. Delebfaer’s broadcast will begin at noon; we cannot tell how long it will go, but Ash is set to start ours within minutes of its end.”

Dean nodded, suddenly all business. “Lead the way.”

Míriel Serindë had hand-embroidered a standard that Ash had set up for the background, a black field with seven silver stars and a silver-and-gold crown above a white tree. The stars each had a gemstone set in the center that seemed to glow of its own accord.

“Naneth made those,” Maglor confided in a whisper, “with light from Eärendil’s Silmaril.”

Ash sighed. “We’d better be careful, my friends. Two o’ you against that? Gonna melt the satellite.”

Sam couldn’t help it. He laughed until he cried.

Brady had always wanted to live in the White House. Not as President, just... part of the family, maybe. And now here he was, more or less president of the whole world, getting to give a speech from the Oval Office. Even if he weren’t permanently buzzed from being joined with Delebfaer, he’d be giddy.

And what a speech! Father had explained that the secret of eternal youth and every other good thing could be found in a dimension called the Undying Lands that was currently guarded by some stupid, jealous lesser gods, and the time had finally come for the people of Earth to take what was rightfully theirs. Delebfaer had written the speech himself, but Brady delivered it with all the fire and conviction he could muster. It didn’t really matter if he believed it himself, of course, because everybody believed him. And rightly so, ’cause he was a god. But it happened that this time he did believe it. They were going to conquer those other stupid gods and make everything bad go away.

He said it much more eloquently and soberly than that, of course.

And then, when the speech was over and everybody, especially Crowley, told him what a great job he’d done, he went to start listening to the commentaries—

“People of Earth! Stop this madness!”

The sudden proclamation caught everyone’s attention. It was said with such authority... but who... who were these two men who weren’t supposed to be on TV now? They were dressed up like somebody out of Lord of the Rings.

Then Brady looked closer at the one in green and gasped. He’d changed since college, but... that... that was Sam Winchester.

Brady was too stunned to pay attention to what Sam and the other man, who had to be Sam’s brother, were actually saying apart from the fact that they thought he was wrong. Sam was his best friend. Why was he doing this? How was he doing this, and from where, and why was he dressed up like that?

And why did some not-so-tiny part of him want to do exactly what Sam said and go beg his forgiveness, not just for the invasion idea, but for killing Jess?

Delebfaer was furious—so much so that Brady actually blacked out for the first time in a long time. When he came to, however, Crowley assured him that everything would be taken care of and that the pre-invasion party was getting ready to kick off.

That was good. Brady gladly left Crowley in charge and went off to have some fun.

The party lasted for a couple of days, interrupted now and then for some ritual sacrifices to Father that Brady didn’t pay much attention to and almost resented for taking him away from the harem he’d built up since Detroit. But when it was finally over and Brady stepped outside on one of the balconies for a joint, he was startled to see a demure dark-haired woman in a grey suit standing nearby, as if she were waiting for him.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Tessa,” she said quietly.

“How did you get out here? The public’s not allowed in this part of the White House.”

She smiled. “There are very few ways to bar me from going where I need to go, Brady.”

He suddenly felt uneasy. “Don’t call me that. Nobody gets to call me that except Father.”

“He’s not your father. Nor is he the Father of All. Only the Father of Lies.”

“You get out of here. Don’t say things like that to me, or I’ll... I’ll....”

She held out her hand. “It’s time, Brady.”

And suddenly there was a weird tearing sensation as Delebfaer stepped away from him, and he found himself staring at his own face smirking coldly. “Thank you, my dear,” Delebfaer said to Tessa.

“I do not serve you, Abomination,” Tessa returned sternly.

Brady stared in shock. “But... Delebfaer... what....”

The smirk grew. “You’ve served your purpose, mortal. We have no more use for you. Your body is mine, but your soul?” Delebfaer waved dismissively. “Go with the Reaper to whatever awaits.” And he walked back inside, leaving Brady dumbfounded.

“It’s time, Brady,” Tessa repeated gently. “My lord Mandos is waiting.”

He turned to her. “I’m... I’m dead?”

“I’m afraid so. Come on.”

Reeling from the betrayal, he took her hand.

“Did you talk to him?” Sam asked.

Rinc shrugged. “Tried to. He’s pretty disoriented. Plugged into a spirit like Delebfaer that long, it’s a wonder he remembers anything of the last seven months; he was pretty well stoned out of his gourd from all that power. And apparently Morgoth didn’t trust him enough to let him in on many of the actual invasion plans. But he was coherent enough to give me one message for you.”

Sam swallowed hard. “What?”

“He’s truly sorry about Jess.”

Sam bit his lip. “Thanks, Rinc.”

Rinc nodded once and left. And Dean held Sam as he cried.

The way West had never been completely blocked to mortal vessels, and Morgoth intended to exploit that fact and use all of the world’s navies to assail Aman. But the invasion began well behind schedule, thanks to the handful of people who took the final Resistance broadcast to heart and engaged in as much sabotage as they possibly could and to Ulmo and Ossë, whose storms scuppered many of the ships initially gathered for the armada.

Ash lost the signal from the satellite as soon as the first wave launched, however. And no matter what he and Maedhros and Maglor tried, they couldn’t get the signal back, nor would the palantír respond on its own.

Dean took that as his cue. He ordered the inhabitants of the islands to evacuate to the mainland and sent all the children from White Rose, along with any women or seasoned citizens who didn’t plan to fight or couldn’t fight, deep into Valinor. The Vanyar had set up a small village on the far western coast, near Nienna’s house, with all the supplies and medical care necessary to sustain the non-combatants for a year or two, along with a small arsenal for self-defense. In a worst-case scenario, that village would be the very last to see any combat at all.

Ben was not pleased to be sent with the other children, but when Dean charged him with keeping the others safe, he accepted it more graciously. Lisa went with him, arguing that as a former yoga instructor, she’d be more useful helping to take care of the elders who were too sick to fight. And Dean sent the Impala with them as well.

The Noldor had been busily making explosives since Team Free Will’s arrival, and now Dean gave instructions for their deployment. The Teleri mined the entire Bay of Eldamar, from the Enchanted Isles to the coastline, while the Noldor set claymores outside the Cave of the Forgotten and landmines along the road to Tirion that would be detonated remotely if and when Eldamar had to be abandoned. Olwë had protested this destructive strategy when Dean first proposed it, but Dean had noted that if the entire universe was about to be remade, it didn’t matter so much what got blown up in the short term, and even Manwë had to concede the point.

Troops, too, they deployed in defensive rings that would still allow as easy a retreat as possible should the battle go ill. Celeborn took a battalion to guard the Cave of the Forgotten, while Fingolfin oversaw the coastal defenses. There were archers and missile platoons stationed wherever possible along the Pelóri, and a full division guarded the walls of Tirion. Similar lines stood between Tirion and Valmar.

And as they waited and watched upon Taniquetil, Sam and Dean both prayed that it would be enough.

Most of the ships in the first wave sank before they even reached the Enchanted Isles, thanks to Ossë. Those that got through foundered in the minefield, since Finrod had found a way to make the mines invisible to radar. The second and third waves of ships met similar fates or simply collided with previous wrecks. The fourth wave made it past the Enchanted Isles but not to Eressëa.

It made Dean sick to think of the lives being lost. But this wasn’t just a normal hunt anymore. This was war. And the Enemy didn’t care how many people died as long as he won.

One ship from the tenth wave finally made it to shore, but its commander surrendered, so Fingolfin set the crew to guard White Rose. After that, though, they were out of luck. A handful of ships from the eleventh wave got through, and as soon as their troops—including Orcs and Wargs—disembarked, the Cave of the Forgotten opened and the battle began in earnest. The twelfth wave contained aircraft carriers, which meant the eagles had their hands full keeping bombers from reaching the coast. And the waves that followed held as many, if not more, monsters and demons as humans.

As the fighting continued, the wounded were evacuated to Tirion, and Sam and Dean went down to help as much as they could. There were plenty of other healers there, of course, not least of whom was Elrond, but Dean still used his healing powers to help the cursed, barely remembering to eat or sleep, until he collapsed from exhaustion and Sam had to call Cas to take them back to Taniquetil. Estë put him into a healing sleep... and he woke to the news that although Celeborn had been able to hold off the zombies, Eldamar had been overrun.

Even with the road destroyed, sheer persistence meant that the siege of Tirion lasted for a month of bloody fighting before Tulkas and Aulë ordered the defenders out of the city and pulled down a rockslide to block the pass. It took two months for the invaders to figure out a new plan for crossing the mountains, and another two months after that for the various factions to stop fighting among themselves and attempt it. Yavanna had withdrawn her power from Eldamar when the retreat to Tirion began, so food was in short supply, and Ulmo and Manwë sent raging blizzards to make the Pelóri even more forbidding and to prevent aircraft from being used to simply bomb a passage or airlift troops across the barrier. The quarrelling among the invaders grew to such a pitch that the better part of a company was turned by the vampires, werewolves, and skinwalkers, and not a few other humans became food for the more desperate predators. But finally Delebfaer came himself, and though he could do nothing about the weather or the supplies, he ordered the assault, and his troops dared not refuse. Once more, only the repeated onslaught of wave after wave of attackers allowed any to get through.

The Elves still showed mercy on any humans who surrendered in good faith. But by now a good number were half-mad from starvation and abuse, bewitched by Delebfaer and his demons, or just bad people and would not be stopped by anything but death.

Christmas came and went, and still only the barest handfuls of invaders managed to survive the weather, the height, and the rockfalls to cross the Pelóri. Dean was tempted to hope that the mountains would hold their own indefinitely, but he knew better. And indeed, shortly after the new year, Morgoth finally grew impatient enough to come to Aman himself.

“The guy can’t walk,” Bobby noted. “How the hell is he gonna get across the mountains?”

“He found Grond,” said Eönwë grimly. “If he cannot get over the Pelóri, he will batter his way through them.”

Sure enough, a few days later, the assault on the eastern side of the mountains stopped, and Morgoth took his hammer to the Calacirya. His troops poured through the gap as soon as he gave them leave, humans and monsters of every kind, and all of them shouting the challenge that Manwë should come forth if he were not the coward that history had shown Morgoth to be.

Then Manwë at last came down from Taniquetil, with the kings of Elves and Men in his vanguard and the whole host of Valinor behind. And the Dagor Dagorath began.

Days stretched into weeks, though with Tilion, Arien, and Eärendil engaged in the battle, there was almost no way of marking time anymore. Those defenders who had guns used them until they ran out of ammunition, and Vala, Maia, Elf, and Man alike fought valiantly and well. But Morgoth kept bringing more and more reinforcements, many of them once-human monsters, newly turned and wild with bloodlust. And by dint of numbers alone, he slowly forced the Valinoreans back.

Then a company of Wargs, trolls, and skinwalkers smashed a hole in the northern flank, and the defenders found themselves surrounded. Manwë ordered the whole host to retreat to Valmar.

But confusion reigned, not least because of the chaotic methods of the Enemy’s hordes. “Elendil!” ceased to be a rallying cry that the human defenders recognized. And neither Sam nor Dean nor Manwë himself could simply end the fighting by killing Morgoth; at least a million troops stood in the way.

Finally, when things looked blackest, after a last desperate glance at one another, Sam and Dean raised their bloodied swords once more and cried, “ADONAI!”

And then—ah, but what tongue may tell the whole of what next befell?

For the sky was split, and Yésu Hrísto returned from the Timeless Halls, and with Him all the mortal heroes of all the Ages, men and women alike: Beren and Lúthien, Elros and Elendil, Aragorn and the Fellowship and all their allies, Abraham and Isaac and Jacob, Arthur and Alfred and Richard the Lionhearted; and many millions more beside, from the greatest to the least, all whose hearts were ever faithful to Eru. The hosts of Manwë cried aloud for joy and were renewed, and the hosts of Morgoth cried aloud for fear and were destroyed, and Morgoth himself was taken captive and cast for ever into the fires that Ilúvatar had prepared for him since his first rebellion, in the Everlasting Dark whence there can be no escape.

Then Ilúvatar Himself came down from the Timeless Halls, and earth and sky fled before Him, and Eä was shaken to its foundations and Arda was unmade. The fëar of Men and Elves and Ainur were laid bare before Him and were judged by Yésu according to their deeds, and those on whom His judgment fell were cast into the Everlasting Dark with Morgoth their master, whether they owned him in life or no.

But when all who remained were assembled and the three Silmarils stood finally before Him Whose glory their sacred light reflected, Ilúvatar propounded anew to His Children the Great Music, and it was at long last sung aright, and to it He gave once more Being and gave His Children leave to enter, led indeed no more by Manwë but by Yésu Himself. Thus was Arda remade, free from stain, and it is good in His sight, to Whom be glory and honor forever.

Amen.

Chapter Text

“The eyes of Elves are always thinking of something else.”

Can it be that twelve thousand years of the Sun passed since first I suggested to my dear friend Andreth that Men would speak thus of us when Arda was remade? And yet the jest has proven true. Men are the lordly ones now, and the greatest treasure we have to offer is our memory of what came Before, both of the beauty that was and of the darkness that shadowed so much but nonetheless could not triumph forever. Truly do we live happily ever after. And greatly do our kindreds delight in one another, the more when friends parted since the Elder Days find each other again.

All things have been made new, but the memory of the old ought never to be lost. Thus I, Finrod Felagund, have endeavored to record the history of those last days as best as those involved can now recall it. Perhaps one day someone else will set it to verse, but for now, the tale is set down for any who wish to read it.

The Gwaith i Innas Lain has disbanded, of course, though the friendships on which it depended are stronger than ever. Bobby and Karen Singer have joined with Elrond Peredhel to create an archive unrivalled by any in Middle-earth. Bill and Ellen Harvelle have built a new Roadhouse, and from it their foster-son Ash Buchholz maintains an information network that surpasses even the palantíri when their use was unshadowed. For her part, Jo Harvelle has taken up with Galadriel and seeks to learn as much about Arda Remade as our arts can teach her. And the Winchesters—well, John and Mary have the home they had always dreamed of, and Dean and Lisa and Ben live on one side, and Sam and Jessica live on the other. John’s final thought before his death was “God, forgive me,” which rendered his deal null and void. Never again need they fear being parted forever by fate or foe, for death has no more dominion here, and their lives are a mixture of all they could ever have wanted, quiet and stability and freedom and joy, even when they do not stay at home.

There are no monsters now, naught of Morgoth’s making that has no place in the Music sung aright. And yet somewhere in that great refrain, there must have been the sound of heavy metal and a V8 engine. For ever and anon, the brothers Winchester will leave their homes and families and drive across the land in their beloved Impala, now healed of its hurts and made more than a thing of metal and wheels, not needing the aid of petrol to run without tiring. They do not hunt now, but if ever anyone they meet is in need of aid—in building, in gardening, in teaching, what have you—Sam and Dean are quick to render it. And if not, the brothers will simply see the sights and call on their friends and rejoice in seeing the land at peace. Soulmates, some call them, and it may be so, though in other wise than man and wife; but dearer indeed they are to one another even than twin and twin, and they are seldom parted long, even when their pastimes differ.

Sometimes Maglor or Castiel or Rincaro will travel with them. Their friendship runs deep, and their lives have been full of wandering, so it does not surprise me. And when the brothers are with Maglor, the mountains ring with their voices recalling the greatest hits of mullet rock—not a sound I prefer, but the joy behind it is unmistakable. Olórin always laughs; he has his Hobbits, he says, and Maglor has his Dúnedain, and Castiel in particular has Dean.

Fëanor has never quite got over it, though.

Chapter Text

Terms defined or translated in the text have generally not been included unless more information was needed. For names of individuals, see the Character List.

Gwaith i Innas Lain: Team Free Will
Quenta Ambarmetto: The History of the End of the World

Ainur – angels (general term)
Alqualondë – Swan-haven, the Telerin port city in Eldamar
Aman – The Undying Lands, the continent where the Valar settled; once part of Arda, but removed to a different plane during the Breaking of the World and now accessible only by the Straight Road
Andúril – Aragorn’s sword, reforged from the shards of Narsil, the sword of Elendil
Arda – Earth
Avállonë – easternmost city on Tol Eressëa, port where ships from Middle-earth land after travelling the Straight Road

Bay of Eldamar – bay on the eastern coast of Aman, barred by the Enchanted Isles; location of Tol Eressëa and eastern border of Eldamar
the Breaking of the World – to punish the Númenóreans for returning to the pagan worship of darkness and of Morgoth, and to stop the invasion of Valinor by the last king of Númenor, Eru broke the previously flat planet of Arda and turned the main part of it into a globe, removing Aman to a different plane and destroying Númenor in the process

Calacirya – the Pass of Light, only pass across the Pelóri; location of Tirion
Cartago delenda est – Carthage must be destroyed
the Cave of the Forgotten – cave on the shores of Aman in which the Númenórean invasion force was buried alive during the Breaking of the World; they will supposedly remain there until the Dagor Dagorath
changeling – type of monster that kidnaps children and takes their place, feeding on the mothers’ synovial fluid until they die; the mother changeling, in turn, feeds on the real children, and burning the mother changeling kills both it and its offspring
the Colt – gun made in AD 1835-36 by Samuel Colt for the purpose of killing supernatural creatures; destroyed by Maglor in AD 2007 to prevent the opening of the Devil’s Gate
curse box – warded box designed to quarantine and safely store cursed objects

Dagnir-en-Raughoth – “Demons’ Bane,” demon-killing knife forged for Sam by Maglor from the metal of the Colt
Dagor Dagorath – the Last Battle/Armageddon (lit. “the battle of battles”)
the Devil’s Gate – massive iron door built by Samuel Colt over a cavern in southeastern Wyoming to imprison a horde of evil spirits, misconstrued in later years as a portal to Hell itself; designed to open only when the barrel of the Colt is inserted in the lock
Dúnedain – Men of the West (singular Dúnadan); descendants of the Three Houses of the Elf-friends, some of whom have both Elven and human ancestry

Eä – The World that Is, the universe
Eldamar – Elvenhome, region in eastern Aman inhabited mainly by the Noldor, lies between the Bay of Eldamar and the Pelóri
Eldar – Elves
Elendilmir – “Star of the Elf-friends,” a single white gem on a fillet of silver worn as a crown by the Lords of Andúnië in Númenor and later by Elendil and his sons; when the original was lost (and stolen by Saruman) after Isildur’s death, a copy was made in Rivendell and became the crown of Arnor until Aragorn recovered the original after the War of the Ring
Elen síla lúmenn’ omentielvo – A star shines on the hour of our meeting
Elessar – eagle-shaped brooch made in the First Age by Celebrimbor for Galadriel and handed down to Eärendil and later to Aragorn; the green stone in its center contains the light of the young Sun and thus carries healing virtues
Enchanted Isles – chain of islands intended to block unauthorized access to the Bay of Eldamar
elvellon – Elf-friend

fëa – soul
Firstborn – Elves

Gil-Estel – Star of High Hope, a name given to Eärendil when he first sailed the skies as a token to the people of Middle-earth that the Valar had not forgotten them
Grond – Hammer of the Underworld, originally a warhammer wielded by Morgoth in the first age; Sauron’s battering ram used in the siege of Minas Tirith was named after it

Halls of Mandos – place where Elven souls wait to be rehoused, may also be akin to Purgatory for humans
hiril-nin – my lady
hir-nin – my lord
hroa – body

Iarwain Ben-adar – “Oldest and Fatherless,” name the Elves gave to Tom Bombadil
I ’ell nîn – It is my pleasure
I enneth nîn – My name is
Írë lúmë tuluva – Until then
Isil – the Moon
Istari – wizards, order of Maiar who were renowned for their scholarship in Aman; five Istari (Curumo, Olórin, Aiwendil, Alatar, and Pallando) were sent to Middle-earth during the Third Age to oppose Sauron, but only Olórin—Gandalf—succeeded in his mission

L’a mellyn – You are among friends
Le hannon – Thank you
Le suilon – I greet you
Lórien – forest in Valinor, home to Irmo and Estë

Maeglach – “Piercing Flame,” small five-shot .45 revolver that can kill any corporeal supernatural creature when loaded with consecrated iron rounds; reforged by Maglor from the metal of the Colt and carried by Dean in a shoulder holster
Mae govannen – Well met
Máhanaxar – the Ring of Doom, place outside the western gates of Valmar where the Valar hold council
Man le? – Who are you?
mellon-nin – my friend
Meneltarma (Adûnaic Minul-Târik) – “Pillar of Heaven,” the mountain at the center of Númenor originally devoted to the worship of Eru
Morgul blade – cursed dagger of a type used by the Ringwraiths

Namárië – Farewell (Quenya)
Navaer – Farewell (Sindarin)
Noldor – ‘tribe’ of Elves who were the second group to enter Aman and whose chief delight is in scholarship and craftsmanship
Númenor – island to which the Three Houses of the Elf-friends and some of their human allies moved in the early years of the Second Age; destroyed during the Breaking of the World in Second Age 2251

Odulem am edraith anlen – We are here to save you

palantír – seeing-stone (lit. “far-sight”)
Pedo – Speak
Pelóri – massive mountain range that marks the eastern border of Valinor, raised as a defense against Morgoth

Quenya – High Elvish, the language common among Elves in Aman

Ring of Barahir – ring given by Finrod Felagund to his mortal friend and vassal Barahir, which then passed to Barahir’s son Beren and later became the signet of the mortal kings descended from Elros and Elendil

Secondborn – Men (humankind)
Silmarils – greatest and holiest of jewels ever made by Fëanor
Sindar – Grey-elves; some were followers of Thingol who missed the boat to Aman because Thingol was lost, while others were persuaded to remain by Ossë; greatest of the Elves who never left Middle-earth
Sindarin – language of the Sindar, common among Elves and some Men in Middle-earth
the Song – The Ainur sang the universe into existence, and that Song includes all of history, though neither the Valar nor the Elves know many of its details
the Straight Road – only remaining path to Aman from Middle-earth since the Breaking of the World, which is hidden from mortal eyes

Taniquetil – tallest mountain in all Arda, highest point in the Pelóri, home of Manwë and Varda
Teleri – ‘tribe’ of Elves who were the third to enter Aman and whose chief delight is in sailing; related to the Sindar, Nandor, and Silvan Elves who remained in western Middle-earth
Tirion – city in the Calacirya, easternmost city in Valinor; originally home to both Vanyar and Noldor, but the Vanyar eventually moved into Valinor proper
Tol Eressëa – The Lonely Isle, home of the Telerin Elves; island in the Bay of Eldamar that is the destination of ships travelling the Straight Road

Valandili – Friends of the Valar
Valar – the Powers of the West, greatest of the angels sent into Eä; rule Arda as regents of Ilúvatar
Valinor – homeland of the Valar
Valmar – chief city of Valinor, home mainly to Vanyar
Vanyar – ‘tribe’ of Elves who were the first to enter Aman, highest of the High Elves, closest to the Valar

yén (plural yéni ) – Elven “Great Year,” equivalent to 144 Sun Years

Chapter Text

A brief language note to begin: I’ve used mainly Realelvish.net, Ardalambion, and Híswelokë’s dictionaries (especially the Dragon Flame utility) as my sources for the Quenya and Sindarin that I’ve incorporated.

Prelude

A few lines are taken from “The Kids Are Alright,” and of course “Don’t go where I can’t follow” comes from “The Choices of Master Samwise” in The Two Towers.

Weighting this fusion AU toward the canon of Tolkien-verse obviates the need for the archangel-vessel and demon-blood plotlines, since Manwë can take whatever form he likes and Morgoth is bound to the physical form in which he assaulted Valinor at the end of the Years of the Trees. But of course, eliminating those elements poses a problem for the centrality of the Winchesters to the Apocalypse; there must be some reason why demons and (rogue) angels alike have singled out this family for special attention. However, as I have explored in other stories, Clan Campbell is of noble blood, and Winchester has ties—however spurious in the Primary World—to the Round Table... so it’s possible for six thousand years of migration and intermarriage to turn a branch or two of the House of Telcontar and another of the House of Eorl into the Campbells and Winchesters of Lawrence, Kansas. (See the family tree for details.) Assuming that other lines of the Half-elven had long ago died out or become so diffuse as to be indistinguishable from most other humans, and also assuming that “by some strange chance” the bloodlines ran nearly true in both Mary and John, the results for Sam and Dean would be... interesting, to say the least.

Chapter 1

I just couldn’t resist giving Dean most of what he had in the ‘missing year’ between “Swan Song” and “Exile on Main Street” in a time and manner that he could actually appreciate—with Sam! (And yes, I do have a few timestamps written or planned for that year.) I’m also reasonably sure I’d planned for Tuor’s return in “Lazarus Rising” well before we found out that Samuel Campbell would be returning in Season 6; it just seemed the most logical way to tie this part of the story back to the Túrin theme I brought up in “Quenta Ando Rauco.” Ditto the description of Lilith and her army of monsters.

About Castiel’s name: I have yet to find a reliable translation (and I’m not entirely certain it’s genuine Hebrew), but in Quenya, -iel is a feminine ending, hence Tuor’s confusion and Cas’ embarrassment.

One of my all-time favorite movies is Ike: Countdown to D-Day, in which Dwight Eisenhower repeatedly has to make the case for his needing to be the sole commander of the Allied invasion force. Dean feels like he’s being thrust into a similar position here, but with even less experience than Ike had. Of Ike’s sub-commanders, perhaps his dearest friend was Omar Bradley—and the boys bring up other reasons why Sam is more parallel to Bradley than to George Patton, the other main American tank commander and Ike and Brad’s former superior. (If you need more explanation of those riffs, and the Montgomery crack, see Ike and/or Patton; they’re Hollywood-ized, but still reasonably historically accurate.)

Chapter 2

I wrestled with this chapter and the first part of the next for a long time, feeling hung up on trying to fill in all the gaps in the timeline and not having any success at all in getting a handle on the Blue Wizards. (Yes, I am a Tolkienist for more reasons than just liking the books.) But then jennytork reminded me that the story really is more about the brothers and their relationship than anything else, and that helped me give myself permission to gloss over most of the action between the main conflicts. There may be gapfiller timestamps in the future, but I can’t promise. En also helped me get unstuck in at least one other spot by suggesting a line (the “Right place, right time” jab), for which I thank her profusely.

“For a minute there...” is the last line of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

The fate of Thranduil and his companions is based, somewhat loosely, on another AU of mine, consisting of “Der Erlkönig” and “Leithian.” There’s no evidence in canon regarding the fates of the Mirkwood Elves other than Legolas.

Kurt Fuller (Zachariah) looks uncannily like Werner Klemperer (Col. Klink) at some angles—so much so, in fact, that he actually played Klemperer in Auto Focus, the movie about Bob Crane’s murder. Since the boys hadn’t actually met Zachariah face to face yet, Sam wouldn’t necessarily recognize him in his visions.

Chapter 3

Continuing the WWII parallels, the title of this chapter was inspired by The Longest Day—“Sainte-Mère-Église” means “Saint Mary’s Church,” and the French town by that name played a crucial role in the D-Day invasions. Because of its strategic location on the only road that German reinforcements could use to reach the northern beaches in Normandy, several companies of the US 82nd Airborne were dropped on the night of June 5 to capture Sainte-Mère-Église and hold it until the main invasion force arrived that far inland. Things didn’t exactly go according to plan, but the 82nd did eventually succeed in its mission. The situation in Ilchester is more or less reversed, but I couldn’t help thinking of Robert Ryan telling John Wayne that “it has to be taken, and it has to be held”—taking St. Mary’s, in this case, is the easy part, but the Elves and Sacrament Lutheran have a doozy of a job in holding it. (I thought about trying to work in the “Hold until relieved” order from the Orne River Bridge sequences as well, but it didn’t quite fit.)

Chapter 4

I have often wondered if the choice of setting for “Abandon All Hope” didn’t have as much to do with the Cato quotation I used for the title of this chapter (“Carthage must be destroyed”) as with the Civil War connections. If there’s been meta on the subject, though, I haven’t seen it.

I tried not to pull much dialogue directly from AAH, but there are a few lines from the episode that appear.

Maglor’s taking Jo’s place seemed to me the most natural way for the Doom of the Noldor to play itself out in this scenario—appropriately tragic, yet redemptive in that he gives his life to save Sam and Dean and to try to thwart Morgoth’s return, as opposed to his brothers’ deaths in pursuit of the Silmarils. In a way, joining Team Free Will is for Maglor an action equivalent to Galadriel’s rejection of the One Ring when Frodo offered it to her.

Now, I feel that I should note here that I do enjoy AUs in which the Winchesters succeed in thwarting Lilith and Zachariah before the Cage opens. But that just doesn’t fit with the depiction of history in The Silmarillion—the long defeat, the paradoxical intertwining of supernatural evil and bad individual choices that leads to messes that cannot be resolved without divine intervention, and the Song that balances fate and free will in a way that might be intelligible only to Eru, the Sovereign Lord who causes all things to work together for good for His Children even as He allows the consequences of evil deeds to play out. Indeed, a major source of the tragedy of the stories of the House of Húrin and the House of Fëanor, and a reason for their parallels to the story of the Winchesters, is that combination of punishment or curse with wrong choices that leads to disaster that might otherwise, with however much difficulty, have been averted. But the end of the world isn’t one of those kinds of disasters. Arda must be remade at some point, and the end will come precisely when Eru wants it to, no matter what any created being does—but that doesn’t excuse anyone for making the wrong choices, because those still have consequences for the fate of the individual soul. So in this AU, Sam and Dean make the right choices and thus cannot be blamed for causing the Apocalypse; it happened in spite of them. They might have trouble accepting that they didn’t do anything wrong, but it still puts them one up on Fëanor, whose fate (according to Tolkien) would have been very different if he’d agreed to give up the Silmarils before finding out that Morgoth had stolen them.

Chapter 5

Many thanks to surgicalsteel for helping me out with a guesstimate on how long the trip to Valinor would take by ship! Thanks also to Dreamflower, Febobe, and Anso for suggestions regarding Elven cuisine and to En for confirming that Elrond should give the boys their heirlooms as soon as they got to Tol Eressëa.

Gandalf’s mention of Anglo-Saxon is a nod to the story of Aelfwine, the Saxon whose ship got lost and ended up in the West and who became an apprentice of sorts to the Elven scribe Pengoloð in The Book of Lost Tales and the other early versions of The Silmarillion. Both Aelfwine and Pengoloð dropped out of the narrative along the way, but I don’t recall seeing evidence that Tolkien abandoned the idea that a mortal ship could stray onto the Straight Road and eventually reach Eressëa.

Sam would be the one to bring up the US Constitution in trying to decline being made king! The clause in question reads, “No Title of Nobility shall be granted by the United States; and no Person holding any Office of Profit or Trust under them, shall, without the Consent of Congress, accept of any present, Emolument, Office, or Title, of any kind whatsoever, from any King, Prince, or foreign State.” I suppose one could quibble that the Winchesters aren’t covered by this prohibition because they’re not in public office (hello, Grace Kelly), but I think Galadriel’s retort that there won’t be time for it to matter would be more effective in shutting Sam down.

Chapter 6

I have to thank En once again for indirectly prompting me to articulate some of the fate/free will questions more carefully and to weave that discussion into the text. It just makes sense that Sam and Dean would question Manwë on that point, having defined themselves for so long as agents of free will but running smack up against a point of fate that could not be altered. Manwë’s comparison between the One Ring and Arda is a very condensed version of a discussion in Morgoth’s Ring (“Notes on motives in the Silmarillion,” pp. 394-408; the exact comparison comes on 399-400).

Thanks, too, to Dreamflower and immortal_jedi for confirming my inclination to have the team drive to Valmar. Not only is it cool to think of the Impala roaring through the Undying Lands, but poor Dean needs some control over something in this situation.

Ash’s John Connor comment is a reference to Terminator Salvation, in which Connor makes radio broadcasts to the human resistance against Skynet. (I haven’t seen the movie, but I do know that much.) And if anyone can use a palantír to hack a satellite, it would be Ash.

I’ve been very mean to poor Brady, I’m afraid, turning him into a cross between 2014!Cas and demon-blood-junkie!Sam, but he seemed the logical choice to take Sam’s place as Antichrist in a world where Lucifer doesn’t need a temporary vessel like Nick. The temptation sequence and subsequent Brady-POV scenes were inspired partly by my story “Abjured” and partly by CSL’s descriptions of successful temptation in the Chronicles of Narnia, particularly the White Witch’s use of Turkish delight and the Emerald Witch’s attempts at mind control.

Chapter 7

I have not read the Left Behind series, but I recall reading somewhere that the Antichrist’s “fatal wound that was healed” is the result of an assassination attempt in that story as well; I didn’t want to rip off the plot point, but it is a logical assumption in today’s world that someone will try to kill the Antichrist. I don’t think the assassins in LB were Mossad, though. I also don’t remember where I saw Meg called Megara (and I may be misremembering)—but in Sindarin, megor means “sharp” or “pointed,” which suits Meg very well indeed. Nor do I remember which blog originated “I’m-a-dinner-jacket.”

Beyond that, though, I think I’ve mentioned all of my nods, winks, and homages explicitly in the text, with the possible exception of some NCIS nods. There’s MTAC, obviously (short for Multiple Threat Alert Center); the caliber of the gun used to shoot Brady comes from “Kill Ari,” and the caffeine before the truth serum is a nod to “Truth or Consequences.”

And I swear I had the majority of this chapter written before 6.22 aired! En and Antane can back me up on that!

Missouri’s calling Bobby “Mister Hopafoot” is a reference back to Maglor’s calling him “Labadal,” which literally means “Hopafoot.” Túrin gave that nickname to his father’s woodsman Sador when he was crippled in an accident with an axe; Sador eventually became Túrin’s best friend and mentor before Morwen sent him to live with the Elves.

Also, about Morgoth’s being maimed: The Silmarillion says that at the end of the War of Wrath, “his feet were hewn from under him, and he was hurled upon his face.” I take that to mean that his feet were actually cut off, not just knocked out from under him, and given the fact that Sauron couldn’t even regrow his finger, I don’t think Morgoth would be able to regrow his feet.

Chapter 8

Ash’s calling Maedhros “Rusty” has a slight basis in canon. Maedhros was one of the few Elves known to have red hair, and one of his nicknames was Russandol, “Copper-top.” And yes, I did actually find a canon basis for a zombie apocalypse. Sorry for not showing more of it. ;)