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journal-of-a-man-of-letters

Sam Winchester’s Journal – Entry #35

Dean must have a guardian angel on his shoulder that comes to the rescue via speed-dial.

Just when we were about to bury ourselves in the translation of the Tablet’s footnotes in proto-elamite, which required the careful reading of the twenty-four volumes of The Encyclopedia of Extinct Languages (plus the fourteen annexes), my brother was called to a case in Idaho by Castiel. He was more than happy to escape and to wave us goodbye from the door, sporting an enormous smile on his face. Kevin and I had no other choice than to stay on our own in the bunker and try to decipher this goddamn Tablet until our heads almost exploded and the only thing we were able to see were cuneiform signs, runes and doodles dancing in front of our eyes. We finally resolve ourselves to ask for help from the only person in the batcave who had enough knowledge in ancient scriptures to understand this gibberish, Crowley, even if we would have preferred kissing a tarantula. I’m sure that Henry would turn over in his grave if he knew that his “legacy” was begging a demon for assistance concerning a problem that involved the future of Humanity.

The experience wasn’t pointless, though. In addition to obtaining a rather faithful translation, this journey to our dungeon gave me the possibility to learn that the now unemployed King of Hell has developed an addiction to human blood since the end of the last Trial. Crowley loved to repeat that we had no leverage against him but we were far from imagining that his weakness would come from a couple of globules and platelets. After all the efforts the successive Hell’s CEOs have put into hooking me on demon blood, there’s something pretty ironic about the whole situation here. Karma is a bitch, I guess.

Unfortunately, learning about Crowley’s Achilles’ heel was the only good news of the day: according to him, the fallen angel spell cannot be reversed. Maybe it’s a lie, maybe not, we never know with this son of a bitch, even if I see no reason why he would lie, particularly after the phone call with Abaddon we granted him, if you can call “phone call” a conversation with a bubbling salad bowl full of hemoglobin. After he hung up, he was devastated: all his faithful employees had forgotten his name and Abaddon is now sitting comfortably on the throne of Hell enjoying her newfound glory. I think he’s realizing for the first time he’s truly alone. Being leashed like a dog in his enemies’ basement is one thing, being forgotten and treated by his subjects as if he were demon #56248 and knowing they won’t lift a finger to save him is another. Now, in spite of his triumphant feats of arm and his $1500 tailored suits, he’s nothing.

I don’t want to think about how Castiel is going to react to the news of the spell being irreversible, even if I’m sure Dean won’t have the guts to tell him right away. I’m not gonna say that I didn’t feel any discouragement when Crowley told us we couldn’t break the spell but I know one thing for certain: the word “can’t” has had no meaning to me whatsoever for years now. I mean, how many times did Dean and I hear it in the past? You can’t stop the apocalypse and we did. You can’t fight Lucifer’s power and we did. You can’t change your destiny and we did.

We’ll do the same with the angel spell, I’m confident. Metatron will have one more story, the last, to add to his chronicles: the one were the angel spell was reversed and where a couple of hunters and an ex-fallen angel came to kick his ass out of Heaven.

And this one won’t end by “happily ever after”. Not for him anyway.

See, that’s what the app is perfect for.