Supernatural: War of the Sons by Rebecca Dessertine, David Reed
Authors: Rebecca Dessertine, David Reed
Tags: Fiction
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venom.
“Of course.” Dean bent down, but before he could grab the suitcase, Stevie, a smelly kid from New Jersey who wore his bellhop pants a little too tight in Dean’s opinion, swiped the bag and placed it on a cart. He wheeled away, Ms. Wilder striding behind him.
Dean stood by the reception desk shell-shocked, though still alert enough to salute when Ms. Wilder turned to take one last look at him before entering the elevator. It was rare for a woman to truly grab his attention as she had. Of course, he’d faked interest plenty of times; it used to be a hobby of his while he and Sam were in between cases. Dean would bet himself just how many minutes it would take him to convince the bartender, waitress, or lonely female patron into his bed. Dean’s belt notches were many. But this girl... this girl seemed special.
Not far away, Sam sat in the main branch of the New York Public Library. Rows of shelves lined every inch of the room; thousands upon thousands of books, and not an Internet connection in sight. Sam didn’t mind doing the research, but Google had become his crutch, and he felt handicapped without it.
First he pulled a series of books on archeological digs, but found very little information. After trawling through the card catalog, he decided to look at the archived New York newspapers. The scrolls, Sam remembered, had been first discovered in 1947, so there must be at least one article somewhere that could lead them to a contact. After fruitlessly pouring over several months’ worth of broadsheets, Sam was flipping through a June 1 th Wall Street Journal when he spotted a small ad in the classified section:
Four Dead Sea Scrolls, Biblical Manuscripts. Would make an ideal gift to an educational or religious institution.
The ad gave a local number and an address, which Sam jotted down on a scrap of paper and slipped in his pocket. That was as solid a lead as he was going to find on the scrolls themselves—now they just needed a translator. He wished that Don had briefed them a little more thoroughly before the unceremonious time-jacking. Sam regretted going behind Dean’s back to talk to the angel, but at the time, there seemed to be no other choice. The secret fear that Sam had been carrying around since they got to 1954 was that they would never find their way back. What if they were unable to procure the War Scroll—would Don just leave them to rot?
Without occult books to refer to, Sam was limited to commonly available biblical texts. I don’t even know Don’s real name , Sam realized. All I know is his job description: guardian of Hell’s gates .
Luckily, that was all he needed.
Flipping through an especially old book, Sam found a list of angel names and one in particular stuck out: Abaddon, Guardian of the Gates. Don, Abaddon—has to be the same guy , Sam thought. Further down the page, the book traced Abaddon’s motley history. Scholars couldn’t seem to decide on the angel’s true nature, some believed that he was among the most powerful of the Heavenly Host, others claimed he was fallen and in league with Satan. In fact, in some places, Abaddon was used as an alternate name for Hell, and even the Devil himself. Great , Sam thought.
For the moment, Sam decided that he wouldn’t share those particular juicy details with Dean. I’m in enough hot water with him as it is , he figured. But, to be safe, he discreetly tore the relevant page out of the book and slid it into his pocket, alongside the scrap of paper with the information from the advert. If it turned out that Don had less than angelic intentions, Sam wanted to be ready.
Dean tugged at the chinstrap on his hat. He needed a break. Mercifully, the lobby was quiet and the dickhead front desk guys were engrossed in their work. He made his way downstairs and threaded his way through the halls under the building, finally reaching a set of steel doors. Throwing caution to the wind, he swung them open.
A hotel security guard
“Of course.” Dean bent down, but before he could grab the suitcase, Stevie, a smelly kid from New Jersey who wore his bellhop pants a little too tight in Dean’s opinion, swiped the bag and placed it on a cart. He wheeled away, Ms. Wilder striding behind him.
Dean stood by the reception desk shell-shocked, though still alert enough to salute when Ms. Wilder turned to take one last look at him before entering the elevator. It was rare for a woman to truly grab his attention as she had. Of course, he’d faked interest plenty of times; it used to be a hobby of his while he and Sam were in between cases. Dean would bet himself just how many minutes it would take him to convince the bartender, waitress, or lonely female patron into his bed. Dean’s belt notches were many. But this girl... this girl seemed special.
Not far away, Sam sat in the main branch of the New York Public Library. Rows of shelves lined every inch of the room; thousands upon thousands of books, and not an Internet connection in sight. Sam didn’t mind doing the research, but Google had become his crutch, and he felt handicapped without it.
First he pulled a series of books on archeological digs, but found very little information. After trawling through the card catalog, he decided to look at the archived New York newspapers. The scrolls, Sam remembered, had been first discovered in 1947, so there must be at least one article somewhere that could lead them to a contact. After fruitlessly pouring over several months’ worth of broadsheets, Sam was flipping through a June 1 th Wall Street Journal when he spotted a small ad in the classified section:
Four Dead Sea Scrolls, Biblical Manuscripts. Would make an ideal gift to an educational or religious institution.
The ad gave a local number and an address, which Sam jotted down on a scrap of paper and slipped in his pocket. That was as solid a lead as he was going to find on the scrolls themselves—now they just needed a translator. He wished that Don had briefed them a little more thoroughly before the unceremonious time-jacking. Sam regretted going behind Dean’s back to talk to the angel, but at the time, there seemed to be no other choice. The secret fear that Sam had been carrying around since they got to 1954 was that they would never find their way back. What if they were unable to procure the War Scroll—would Don just leave them to rot?
Without occult books to refer to, Sam was limited to commonly available biblical texts. I don’t even know Don’s real name , Sam realized. All I know is his job description: guardian of Hell’s gates .
Luckily, that was all he needed.
Flipping through an especially old book, Sam found a list of angel names and one in particular stuck out: Abaddon, Guardian of the Gates. Don, Abaddon—has to be the same guy , Sam thought. Further down the page, the book traced Abaddon’s motley history. Scholars couldn’t seem to decide on the angel’s true nature, some believed that he was among the most powerful of the Heavenly Host, others claimed he was fallen and in league with Satan. In fact, in some places, Abaddon was used as an alternate name for Hell, and even the Devil himself. Great , Sam thought.
For the moment, Sam decided that he wouldn’t share those particular juicy details with Dean. I’m in enough hot water with him as it is , he figured. But, to be safe, he discreetly tore the relevant page out of the book and slid it into his pocket, alongside the scrap of paper with the information from the advert. If it turned out that Don had less than angelic intentions, Sam wanted to be ready.
Dean tugged at the chinstrap on his hat. He needed a break. Mercifully, the lobby was quiet and the dickhead front desk guys were engrossed in their work. He made his way downstairs and threaded his way through the halls under the building, finally reaching a set of steel doors. Throwing caution to the wind, he swung them open.
A hotel security guard
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