Supernatural The Unholy Cause Read online

  “Thrill me,” Dean said.

  “He was totally hardcore. The buttons... he soaked them in his own urine to properly oxidize the metal. He’s the one that started all that.”

  “Hold up,” Dean said, realizing now what the other smell he’d caught must have been. “You’re saying you piss on your uniforms?”

  “Not while we’re wearing ‘em. But yeah.” The look of admiration on the large man’s face was close to religious awe. “It’s the only way to get the authentic look. I mean...” The respectful tone shifted to one of near-disgust. “you walk through here and see some of these farbs standing around checking their stock portfolios on their BlackBerrys. They dishonor the uniform, you know? Not Dave. He was just so...”

  “Hardcore?” Sam finished.

  “Totally.”

  “Hardcore enough that he might decide to bring a real gun to a historic re-enactment? Or a sharpened knife?”

  The men shook their heads, but it seemed more like a gesture of disbelief than an actual answer—as if what Sam was suggesting was so sacrilegious that they lacked the words to respond.

  “But you definitely saw him shooting?” Dean asked. “And you saw the other soldiers get hit?”

  Ashgrove said nothing, but Oiler managed a stiff nod.

  “So the weapons had to be hot,” Dean said. “Wolverton must have somehow modified the musket.”

  He waited.

  “Right?”

  Now neither man spoke.

  “Where are the weapons now?”

  Ashgrove shrugged.

  “The sheriff’s office, probably. Evidence.”

  “Was there any blood on the weapons?” Sam asked.

  “There was blood everywhere.”

  “I mean, before Wolverton used them.”

  Ashgrove gaped at them, bewildered.

  “Why would there be?”

  Before Sam could come up with a response, another soldier—a tall, bald man who had obviously been listening in on the conversation—glanced up from behind the map.

  “I think all the blood came after,” he said.

  Dean stepped toward him.

  “And you are?”

  The man stuck out his hand.

  “Private Travis Wapshot, pleased to meet you.”

  “You’re a part of Bad Company too?”

  “The Commanches? Yeah, we’re a pretty tightly knit group.” Travis shrugged. “I guess it sounds crazy. And hell, I guess it probably is. But is it any nuttier than guys who drop ten grand in Vegas or run off for a wild weekend with their secretary?” He glanced at the grimy palms of his hands. “At least our dirt washes off.”

  “I don’t know,” Dean said. “That part with the secretary sounds pretty good to me.”

  Travis scowled.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “Forget it. Let me ask you something. Why do you put yourselves through all this?”

  The three soldiers exchanged a brief, unguarded look. Finally Travis responded.

  “Sometimes modern life is too easy. We want to know what it was like for those guys back then. That was genuine experience, you know? The real thing.” He paused in thought. “We had a guy in our unit, a pipe-fitter named Art Edwards, who died last year. Metastatic brain cancer. Ugly, drawn-out disease. But he trooped with us right up till his family put him in a hospice. He used to say his future didn’t look too bright to him. He preferred the past.”

  “Maybe Dave Wolverton just got too fed up with the easy life,” Sam said. “Decided to chuck it all.”

  The other two soldiers nodded soberly. It was hard to read their expressions.

  “Can you think of anybody else who might be able to tell us about Dave?”

  Travis nodded.

  “You might want to talk to Will Tanner—he’s a private in the 32nd. He and Dave palled around a lot, I think. Even outside of the Commanches.”

  “Is he here?”

  “Haven’t seen him. I’ll see if I can dig up an email address, though.”

  Ashgrove spoke up.

  “And they should meet up with the new guy...” he said, “the surgeon...”

  “Oh, yeah!” Oiler cut in. “You gotta talk to the surgeon. He’s super hardcore.”

  “Sure,” Dean said. He’d had enough hardcore. “Well, hey, listen...”

  “No, seriously! He’s set up the medical tent right over beyond those trees.” Oiler scowled. “He’s got this totally cool name for himself, too—Doctor... what was it again?” He glanced around at the rest of the group.

  Ashgrove thought for a second and snapped his fingers.

  “Oh yeah. Doctor Castiel.”

  FOUR

  The field hospital was nothing more than a stained canvas dog tent billowing in the breeze, fifty yards from the Commanches’ bivouac. Even before Sam and Dean arrived, they could hear the groans and cries of the men laid out inside.

  “Doc, I’m gutshot.”

  “It’s bonebreak fever... I can hear the angel band calling me...”

  “Gimme a bullet to bite on. This leg’s got gangrene. I think it’s gonna have to come off—”

  To Sam—who had seen more than his share of pain and dying—the performances sounded unnervingly realistic.

  Where did they learn to make it sound so convincing? he wondered. And why would they want to?

  He lifted the tent-flap and peered in. Everywhere he looked, soldiers were scattered almost shoulder-to-shoulder on mats laid across the floor, or sprawled directly on the dirt. Their groans and pleas were almost constant.

  Standing in the middle of them, dressed in a shabby white coat that hung down to his knees, was the one man who looked even less like he belonged here than they did.

  “Cass,” Dean said. “What’s going on? Why are you slumming with this crowd?”

  Castiel didn’t even look up. He had his hand on one of the wounded men’s heads and his lips were moving slightly. Then he reached down and lifted the soldier upright, setting him on his feet and propelling him backward.

  The re-enactor staggered away, nearly tripping over the bodies of the men behind him. Glaring with confusion, he looked up at Castiel.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “I’ve returned the strength to your legs,” Castiel replied, his expression unreadable. Turning his back on the man, he opened his hands again. “Who’s next?”

  “Cass...” Dean started.

  Still ignoring him, Castiel bent down over a soldier whose face was wrapped in layers of sagging, bloody bandages.

  “Let me see,” he said, peeling away the gauze and laying his hands directly over the man’s eyes. “There. Now look upon me.”

  The re-enactor frowned, blinking.

  “Where’d you come from, bro?”

  “Heaven,” Castiel said, and he began to lift the man’s bloodstained shirt. “Now let me see that chest wound.”

  “Take your hands off me!” the man shouted, and he squirmed away.

  Castiel froze, his arms still partially extended. Sam shot Dean a look.

  All around the tent, the other “wounded” had begun to pull back, withdrawing to the corners without completely abandoning the pretense of injury. Finally Castiel looked back and noticed that the Winchesters were standing there watching him.

  A slight frown creased his forehead.

  “Whoa,” Dean said. “Awkward moment.”

  “What are you doing here?” Castiel asked.

  Dean raised his eyebrows.

  “Right back atcha, Cass.”

  “I walked the battlefields of the South a hundred and sixty years ago,” Castiel replied, a faraway look entering his eyes. “I moved among the men and brought their souls to glory. And now...”

  Something moved over his face for just an instant, so rare and brief that Dean almost didn’t catch it: a flicker of hope.

  “And now,” he repeated, “I’m healing again.”

  “Cass...” Dean shook his head. “You do realize that none of th
ese jokers is actually hurt, don’t you?”

  Castiel’s expression darkened, but he didn’t speak.

  “See?” Dean nudged the man closest to him with his toe, and the re-enactor let out an authentic, well-rehearsed warble of pain. “It’s a show. Their hobby. Like those couples that dress up in furry animal suits and...”

  “Dean,” Sam cut in.

  “Sorry.” He turned back to the crippled angel and shrugged.

  Castiel regarded the tent around him again and sighed. He turned away, taking off the white coat and tossing it to the floor.

  Still avoiding their eyes, he picked up his familiar trenchcoat from the back of a chair and slipped it on. When he turned to face Sam and Dean again, his face was utterly composed. The hopefulness was gone, buried beneath an iron mask of grim determination.

  “I have more pressing business to attend to,” he announced.

  “The great God-hunt,” Dean said. “Tell me, is He a Civil War buff?”

  “I found a lead recently,” Castiel announced. “A first-order witness.”

  “Is that like a mail-order bride?”

  “First-order witnesses are among the rarest of celestial beings. The term refers to one who actually broke bread with Christ Himself.”

  “Six degrees of Jesus, huh?” Dean asked.

  “Less than six. One.”

  “What makes you think he’ll spill?”

  “It is the break that I’ve been hoping for. Whoever the witness is, he will answer to me.”

  “Gotta respect the confidence,” Dean said, “but let’s face it...”

  Then he stopped.

  The place where Castiel had been standing was already empty.

  Shaking his head, he looked around. Several of the re-enactors had broken character completely and were standing up, staring in disbelief at the spot where Castiel wasn’t.

  “Who was that freak?” one of them managed.

  “Freak?” Dean looked around at them, grown men in costumes, huddled together with bruises and injuries painted on their faces, and Sam was afraid he was going to say something they’d both regret.

  But he just shook his head.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “He won’t be back.”

  FIVE

  It was mid-afternoon—the sun still high in the sky, throwing long bars of tree-shadow across the two-lane highway—as Dean drove them back toward downtown Mission’s Ridge.

  “You think there’s any connection between Castiel’s Jesus witness and what’s going on here in town?” Sam asked.

  “How can there not be a connection?” Dean countered. “I mean, The Passion of the Christ isn’t exactly on my Netflix list, but just because Cass’s witness shared a Happy Meal with JC, it doesn’t mean he can’t be a trouble-making son of a bitch. And that sure as hell fits the description of whoever—or whatever—killed Dave Wolverton.”

  “So you’re thinking demon.”

  “For starters.”

  “I’ll start running a search for the most common first-order witnesses currently in circulation.” Sam glanced at the speedometer and saw they were going eighty. “And you might want to ease up on the gas,” he added. “I don’t want to end up meeting the local sheriff under the wrong circumstances.”

  “Yeah, what’s his name again?”

  “Says here...” Sam checked the notes he’d copied from the internet. “Jack Daniels.”

  Dean did a double-take.

  “No way.”

  “Would I make something like that up?”

  “Sure you would.” He glanced at his brother, and then turned his attention back to the road. “I can’t wait to meet him.” But he slowed the Impala down closer to the speed limit.

  “I’m sure the feeling’s mutual.”

  Passing through downtown, Dean swung up to the curb in front of the sheriff’s office, parking next to the cruiser. The police vehicle gleamed as if it was newly washed and waxed, its windows down so Sam could hear the radio crackling faintly from inside. As they got out, he noticed an empty sandwich wrapper on the seat.

  “Any guesses?” Sam asked.

  “Lemmee see. I’m gonna say...” Dean paused, eyes half-closed, as if consulting some inner oracle, “mid-fifties, bald, big belly held in check with a Sam Browne belt.”

  “Sixties,” Sam said, “handlebar moustache, full head of hair that he gets trimmed every Saturday morning over at Babe’s Barbershop. Oh yeah, and he’s rail-thin—one of those guys who can eat chicken-fried steak three times a day and not gain a pound.”

  “‘Nam vet. Buford Pussar type. From Walking Tall.”

  “Deliverance refugee. Civic citations all over his desk.”

  “Son lost a leg in Desert Storm. Secretly he envies the kid.”

  “Cheats on his taxes,” Sam said, swinging open the door. “Dotes on his wife.”

  Dean snorted as they entered the sheriff’s station.

  “Wears women’s underwear. Crotchless. The kind that—”

  “Is there something I can help you with?”

  Both Winchesters froze, and looked round at the same time.

  Sam was the first to regain his composure.

  “We’re... ah, looking for the sheriff. Jack Daniels.”

  The woman in the snugly fitting brown uniform nodded.

  “I’m Jacqueline Daniels.” She took three steps toward them, the heels of her leather boots clicking smartly on the tiled entryway. She wasn’t quite as young as the two women they’d spotted in the street—Sam guessed she was in her early thirties—but her brown eyes and full lips suggested a vitality that wasn’t going to fade anytime soon.

  Dean, meanwhile, wasn’t looking at her eyes at all. He was staring at the badge she wore, which shone as if polished with the same fervor as the cruiser outside.

  “Sheriff Daniels, is it?” With some effort, he shifted his attention. “I’m Agent Townes,” he said, pulling out his ID, “and this is Agent Van Zandt—”

  “Townes?” the sheriff said. “Van Zandt? Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?”

  Sam cocked an eyebrow.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  She shot them a look.

  “Your names,” she said.

  “Look, are you suggesting...” Dean puffed.

  “Either you’re pulling my leg,” she continued, staring at them doubtfully, “Or your superior has one warped sense of humor.”

  Dean sighed.

  “Yeah, and people probably call you Jackie, right?”

  “They call me Sheriff Daniels,” she responded flatly. The phone started ringing, and she glanced back inside at her desk—which from this distance at least looked as clean and organized as her car. The only exception was a metal ashtray full of what looked like wadded-up bubble gum wrappers.

  “Look, can you excuse me a moment? My secretary called in sick today, and I’m a little busy here.”

  “Sure, take your time.” Dean waited while she walked back to pick up the phone, and Sam didn’t have to look at his brother to know where his eyes were going. “Hey. What do you think she—” Dean began.

  “Stop,” Sam said. “Just stop.”

  “I’m just saying, man, they write songs about this stuff.”

  “They write songs about going to jail, too,” Sam said. “Let’s try to avoid doing that in the first ten minutes we’re here, okay?”

  Sheriff Daniels finished her phone call.

  “All right,” she said, staying on the far side of her desk, “let’s get to it.

  “I’m going to be straight with you two,” she continued before either of them could speak. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m in the middle of a situation, and if I don’t come up with some answers, something’s going to hit the fan.” The phone was ringing again, but the sheriff made no move to answer it, “So if there’s something you need from me, make it fast.”

  “By all means,” Sam said.

  She gave them another look.

  “Well?”r />
  “Let’s start with this guy Dave Wolverton, the...” Dean gestured vaguely, “what do you call them? Dress-up guys?”

  “They’re called re-enactors,” the sheriff said. “If you call them dress-up guys, they’ll probably clean your clock for you.”

  “Right. Sorry. Re-enactors. According to the report, Wolverton was playing the part of an actual Civil War soldier named Jubal Beauchamp, right? And he shot another dr... re-enactor on the field with a replica of a rifle?”

  Daniels nodded curtly.

  “A customized model of the classic Springfield musket, built to fire blanks.”

  “How do you know it wasn’t real?”

  “I know a replica when I see one.” She pointed at a chair off to the right. There was a rifle propped against it. “Like that one.”

  “May I?” Sam asked.

  “Go ahead.”

  He picked up the replica and hefted it in his hands.

  “Feels pretty real to me.”

  “Of course it feels real,” the sheriff said. “It’s an ounce-for-ounce recreation of the actual weapon. These re-enactors are intensely devoted to authenticity in every detail. They’re hardcore.”

  “Yeah, so we hear,” Sam replied. “What happened to the actual bayonet and gun that Wolverton used on the battlefield?”

  “They’re in the lab now. Getting tested.”

  “Okay,” Dean said. “So maybe he just got a little carried away and decided the war was still going on? You know, maybe he was a little, I don’t know, unbalanced?”

  Daniels sighed.

  “Maybe you didn’t hear what I’m telling you. We’re talking about tax attorneys and IT guys who voluntarily choose to dress up in itchy wool uniforms and hobnail boots and do twenty-mile marches in ninety-degree heat. For fun. This is their idea of a good time.

  “They’re not ‘a little unbalanced,’” she continued. “They’re certifiable. But they’re all carrying replica guns. I don’t care if you think you’re the ghost of Lee Harvey Oswald—you’re not killing somebody with a gun that only shoots blanks.”

  “So you’re saying...” Dean started, but then he stopped, not knowing where he was headed.