Sam looked over at Sarah’s body.
“I wish we could have done more.”
“I probably wouldn’t have let you,” Daniels said. “I’m used to being the only one who knows what’s really going on. But it can be hard protecting everybody when you can’t trust anyone.”
The words seemed to weigh on Dean in particular.
“Yeah,” he said, “I get that.” And then, glancing back at the car, he added, “Well, we should get going.”
Daniels nodded.
“My grandfather always said, there’s a time for headlights and a time for rearview mirrors.” She paused. “If you see your friend again, tell him I hope he finds what he’s looking for.”
Sam nodded. He and Dean climbed into the Impala. The sheriff stood at the curb, watching them drive away.
EPILOGUE
After the Civil War was over, the world watched the South’s long Reconstruction through newspapers and eyewitness reports and telegraphs. It was perhaps appropriate, then, that Sam and Dean Winchester watched the reconstruction of Mission’s Ridge on TV in St. Mary’s Medical Center in Athens, Georgia.
Dean’s most fervent wish, that the hospital’s cafeteria food would at least be decent, proved to be relevant—they didn’t leave there for almost two days.
Mission’s Ridge was on every channel, local and national. The town was still in flames, figuratively if not literally. In the wake of what had happened, investigators and the media were discussing everything from bioterrorism to mass hallucination to religious hysteria. All the usual analysts, crisis experts, and pundits were brought in to comment.
Larger discussions of the Civil War, Southern culture, and racism loomed large in the background, and Dean Winchester, who tended to think about “big themes” the same way that alcoholics think about hangovers, stopped listening.
But still he watched.
Sitting out in the waiting room, looking at the screen, he saw Sheriff Jacqueline Daniels talking to reporters from the steps in front of her office, patiently answering questions and proffering explanations. She didn’t seem worried. She looked calm and utterly professional.
Yet every so often Dean would see something in her eyes, a flicker of deeper recognition, as if she somehow knew he was out here, fifty miles away, watching her on TV.
Nah, she’s got bigger fish to fry, he mused. Besides, she was a real tough cookie.
He wondered what it might be like if he could drive back to the Ridge one more time, catch her in between interviews, take her out for a beer and a bump. Would a woman like that drink whiskey? Dean had no doubt that she would.
Give it up. Put her on the list. Ones that got away.
“Hey.”
He looked over and saw Sam standing next to him. The bandage on Sam’s face looked white, clean and entirely out of place.
“Ready to go?”
“Yeah.”
* * *
They walked back through the waiting area, out of the door toward the parking lot where the Impala was waiting. It was a perfect afternoon in late spring, cloudless, and Sam could smell the live oak. He glanced up to see a familiar figure standing next to the car waiting for them.
“Cass,” Dean said. “Sorry again about the whole Witness thing.”
Castiel looked away without comment.
“Did you ever talk to him?” Sam asked. “To Judas?”
“Yes.” Castiel appeared even more dour than usual, as if pressed down by some burden so heavy that he alone could measure its weight. “Enough to...”
He let the words trail off with a shrug.
“Can we give you a ride or something?” Dean asked.
The angel shook his head.
“I’ve made other arrangements.”
“So you just dropped by to bum us out?” Dean asked. “Make us feel bad for surviving another go-round with evil incarnate? You want me to buy you a balloon or something? How about a beer?”
“A beer?”
“You’ve heard of that—I bought you one before. And there’s a place not far from here. I’m ready for a brewskie myself.” Dean looked at Sam. “Come on, what do you say? I bet they have Bad Company on the jukebox.”
Castiel faced them gravely.
“Those demons were organized. They had a plan, and access to a relic against which we had almost no defense, and they fully expected to force Sam into becoming Lucifer’s vessel. These days are darker than ever.” His gaze was dark, galvanic with foreboding. “What happened in Mission’s Ridge was more than some freak incident. With the Apocalypse imminent, it was indication of things to come.”
“Look, Cass...” Dean started, and the rest of the words trailed away. I might as well be talking to empty space. He shook his head. “Great.”
“Come on,” Sam said to his brother. “Get in.”
They got in the Impala and Dean started the engine, pulling out of the parking lot and driving toward town. The bar they ended up at was called the Stars and Bars, and although there was indeed beer and Bad Company on the jukebox, they didn’t stay long—they drank their drinks and moved on.
By seven o’clock in the evening they were back on the highway, heading north. Sam was still thinking about Sarah, but he left the great state of Georgia with few regrets.
Sheriff Daniels was right, he realized.
There is a time for headlights and a time for rearview mirrors.
Tonight, that was good enough for him.
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Although this manuscript was edited on a book tour in hotel rooms and airports across the country, I wrote the first draft in my basement, under the tightest deadline of my life—a little over three weeks. It simply couldn’t have happened without Christopher Cerasi at DC Comics and Cath Trechman at Titan Books, two terrific individuals and tireless, top-notch editors who gave me great notes and encouragement along the way. And thanks, of course, to Eric Kripke, Rebecca Dessertine and all the creative staff of Supernatural for creating a universe worth falling in love with in the first place.
I’m also grateful to my coworkers at Penn State Milton S. Hershey Medical Center, particularly Senior Technologist Dana Fortney, whose creative scheduling allowed me to somehow keep my full-time status while I was doing all this.
Finally, as always, I must reserve my greatest thanks for my wife Christina and my kids. They walked the battlefields of Gettysburg with me, and far more important, they continue to tolerate my antics in the basement, way past any logical reason.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Joe Schreiber is the author of three original horror novels: Chasing the Dead, Eat the Dark, and No Doors, No Windows, as well as the standalone Star Wars novel Death Troopers.
He was born in Michigan but spent his formative years in Alaska, Wyoming, and Northern California. He lives in central Pennsylvania with his wife and two young children. When he is not writing, he passes the extra hours working the midnight shift as an MRI tech in Hershey, PA.
To find out more about Joe log on and visit his blog: scaryparent.blogspot.com
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Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Supernatural The Unholy Cause Page 21