Chapter Text
1 | FIGHTING A WAR
March – June 2014
March 2014
“Pfft. Just as bad as monsters, if you ask me.”
“Huh?”
Dean looked up from the gun he was cleaning to see John Winchester shaking his head at the ancient TV in the corner of their motel room du jour. More like du- whatever month was in French. Things were slow in monster land, and they’d been holed up in some southern backwater town for a couple of weeks. Dean’s guns were so clean, the bullets would probably fly out at twice normal speeds. He was going coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs with the lack of monster hunting.
His dad gestured at the TV with his journal, which he’d been updating with the details of their last few hunts. “Gods. Pantheon. Whatever you wanna call them.”
They’d hunted a few low-level deities in their time as hunters, but it was unlikely they’d be on TV, or be something worth John Winchester’s attention or bitterness. On the screen, a lithe, handsome, dark-skinned man in an understated blue suit ducked his head shyly as he waved at whatever audience was in front of him. His smile was serious, but still kind. Dean thought he might recognize him. He squinted to read the words scrolling under the video of the man.
…IRST GOD OF THE PANTHEON’S 2014 RECURRENCE ARRIVES! ACTOR VICTOR HENRIKSEN, BEST KNOWN FOR HIS ROLE AS JAMES MOONEY ON THE GUARDIAN, HAS JUST BEEN CONFIRMED TO BE BAAL HADAD, THE CANAANITE STORM GOD…
Dean frowned at the screen. “You mean The Pantheon? You’re saying you believe those charlatans are real?”
They didn’t talk about the subject, but Dean had always assumed his dad put as much stock in them as Dean himself did—that is to say, none. Okay, so the Pantheon gods were considered bogus by the general public, just like the monsters the Winchesters hunted in secret, and those were certainly real, but he’d seen monsters with his eyes, had fought them with his bare hands. Whereas the Pantheon were just stories, a group of supposed reincarnated(ish?) gods that inspired humanity or something. More like jumped-up celebrities with far too much hubris, if you asked Dean. They weren’t actual gods. There were stories about angels too, but you didn’t find Dean believing in those either.
John shrugged as he stared in disgust at the screen. “There are accounts from hunters during the 1920s Recurrence. Seemed pretty real to them.”
Dean raised an eyebrow, setting his gun aside on the bed. “You’re telling me you believe that every ninety years, twelve people actually reincarnate as gods, spend two years performing miracles and creating art while people form cults around them, then kick the bucket?”
“No more strange than the things we hunt, son.” His dad pointed the remote at the screen until it went black, then went back to staring at his journal. “Not really my problem, though. I don’t need to hunt them; they kill themselves, and each other, if stories are to be believed.”
And that was that. For a time.
But there were eleven more gods to come.
June 2014
The rain was ending when they got back to their motel after their hunt. Dean was covered in mud from grave digging. He was achy and exhausted and wanted nothing more than a shower and magic fingers. He was tired enough that he could probably even forgo the whiskey. But his dad had first dibs on the shower, and they’d made a bit of a mess of the Impala’s trunk, so Dean figured he’d sort that out while he waited for his turn. He was wondering if he should try calling Sam again—it’d been a month since he’d last tried, and thirteen months since he’d last talked to him—when there was a shuffling noise behind him. Still jumpy from the hunt, he grabbed the nearest gun from the trunk and whirled to face whoever had tried to sneak up behind him.
A short, ancient man dressed in an all-black suit, face half hidden behind a gray beard, held up his hands and smiled.
“Whoa there, Dean. It’s a bit early for violence, don’t you think?”
Seeing as it was nearing midnight, Dean wasn’t sure what to make of that. Too early in what way? Their acquaintanceship? The year? His life? He frowned at the man.
“Who’re you?” How do you know my name? he didn’t add, not wanting to give away that the man had his name right.
The man lowered his hands, even though Dean hadn’t lowered his gun, and kept his slightly-creepy-but-trying-for-harmless-and-looking-more-like-squirrelly smile. “You can call me Carver,” the man said.
Dean kept his gun trained on the weirdo. “And?”
“And I think you know everything else.”
The fuck is that supposed to mean? Dean had enough time to think before the world around him whirled, and he felt like he might hurl. The gun slipped from his hands. He was falling and flying and everything tingled and there were lights and darkness and color and black. Words echoed in his head, the voice sounding the same as the old man’s. You are of the Pantheon. You will be loved. You will be hated. You will be brilliant. Within two years, you will be dead. You are a hunter, protector, and knight. You are half of the Dioscuri. You ascended a brother to the heavens so you’d never be alone, but you spend half your life under the earth. And then … he knew. He could name the stars of the sky and the rivers of the underworld, and he knew he could traverse both. Something niggled at the edge of his consciousness, a presence, but before he could figure it out, Carver stepped closer, his eyes crinkling with familiarity.
“We meet again, Pollux. I’ve missed you.”
Pollux? Yes, that was his name. A god cursed to spend his days switching between the heavens and the underworld, just like–
He was pulled into a bear hug that was pretty strong to be given by such an ancient dude. Pollux wrinkled his nose but let this Carver fellow finish this ritual or whatever it was. The man finally pulled away, his smile having grown to a beaming grin.
“Fourth of the gods to return. Welcome back.” He tilted his head. “How will you inspire the world, Pollux?”
Pollux rubbed his arm in thought. Inspire? He didn’t inspire. He was just a hunter, a grunt. All he had were his guns and his … oh yes. Of course. He looked down at his arms, half covered with tattoos he’d created—drawn on paper in the privacy of the early morning before John Winchester woke from his latest drunken stupor, inked on his skin during those increasingly frequent times when John left him to hunt by himself. His art had been the only thing that kept him sane when Sammy ran away to college and abandoned Dean for a normal life. But Dean’s art was his, it was private and special. He didn’t want to share that with the world, with adoring fans that would flock his way no matter what he did. But something inside him wanted to let that creativity out, to inspire humanity, to show he was more than a mere dumb hunter. A civil war raged inside him—hide or share, Dean or Pollux, light or dark, life or death. He was everything and nothing.
Before he could come to a decision, John Winchester opened the motel door. He switched from stern parent to dangerous hunter instantly—his posture straightened, his knife hand came up, his eyes darted between Pollux and Carver, distrust in the furrow of his brow.
“Dean?” He looked just as untrustingly at his own son as he did at the elderly stranger.
What the fuck was he supposed to tell his father—the man who had shown increasing distaste for the emerging members of the Pantheon as he sharpened his knives and oiled his guns in shitty motel rooms—about his ascension?
“Uh, yes sir?”
His dad’s gaze landed back on Carver. “Care to introduce me?” He hadn’t lowered his knife yet.
“Dad, this is, um, Carver? Carver, this is–”
“John Winchester,” Carver cut in, smiling wide and holding out his hand. “Always a pleasure to meet the parent of a god. You’re the reason he’s here, after all.”
John’s gaze flicked back to Pollux, taking in his appearance. Pollux looked down as well, noticing his muddy flannel, jeans, and jacket had been replaced with a gray t-shirt, black jeans, and black boots, the short sleeves showing off the tattoos he usually kept hidden under long sleeves. Several leather cuffs littered his wrists, and new tattoos covered the backs of his hands—stars on one and skulls on the other. He frantically felt at his chest to find the amulet he’d worn since he was a kid still there. At least one thing hadn’t changed.
John stood stock still, his eyes narrowed. “God.”
Carver nodded enthusiastically. “Pollux has ascended. And where he goes, Castor will follow.”
Cryptic though the last part was, Dean didn’t move except to clench his fists at his side, but he flinched internally. He knew he was in for it.
“Right.” John backed into their room. “Come on, Pollux.”
Shit.
He turned back to Carver, but the old man was no longer standing on the sidewalk. Dean whirled, looking around the whole parking lot, but Carver had vanished into thin air. He’d just been there, right? Dean shook his head to clear it. He was still confused from the … transformation? Ascension? Whatever this mess was. Shit. Was he really a god? A miracle-performing, art-creating, inspirational god of the Pantheon? Was that even possible?
“Dean!” barked John from inside the room.
Dean shook himself again and followed his father’s voice. He shut the door behind him, trying to steel himself for a very loud talking to. He was an adult and maybe a god, there was no reason to be cowed or to back down. He could probably kill his father with a snap of his fingers. So why was he trembling like he had when he was eight, twelve, sixteen?
Trying to feel like the deity he apparently was now, he didn’t lower his eyes or stutter out a ‘sir.’ Instead, he stood straight and, with fists clenched, looked his father in the eyes. He waited.
It must have worked, at least briefly, because John looked lost for a moment before he his face went hard.
“What made you think this was a good idea? You gank monsters every day, but now you think it’s smart to become one?” He shook his head, his mouth screwed up with disgust. “I thought I taught you better.”
“Taught me … good idea?” Pollux felt a cold fire climb up and down his limbs, but he held back from letting it out. “This isn’t something I chose. It chose me. You don’t exactly turn down godhood.”
“I knew it,” John muttered to himself. “I’ve seen it in your eyes over the years. The compassion for the monsters we hunt, those notebooks filled with pretty art you tried to hide. You were never as good of a hunter as Sam was.”
Blue-black fire crackled over his knuckles, and the need to throw a punch roiled through him, but Pollux held it in check. He rolled his neck instead and clenched his eyes shut. “If you don’t want to get hurt, you’d better stop now.”
John threw out a bitter chuckle. “Or what? You wouldn’t dare touch me.”
Pollux’s eyes snapped open, and he felt a zing of satisfaction at the stunned look on John’s face. “Don’t mess with a god, Dad.” He raised a hand, fingers poised to snap. It would be so easy, he knew it. He was a god. He could create, but he could also destroy. The civil war still raged inside of him. Which would he be today: a god of life or a god of death?