ONE

I can feel it, Dean thought. The sky is falling. It wasn’t a new feeling. In fact, the sky had been falling on Dean Winchester since he was four years old. The difference, of course, was that this time could very well be the last time. And this is where it all ends? The Apocalypse is gonna go down in the ass-edge of nowhere?

Dean let out a tired sigh as he gunned the Impala onto County Road 6. There was nothing on either side of the asphalt except cornfields, cattle, farms and farmers—the very Americana that Dean and his brother Sam fought to protect. For a moment, Dean’s imagination took hold, and the clouds on the horizon became pillars of smoke, spilling from unseen tongues of flame. The rotting wooden beams of a decrepit barn became the last remnants of humanity. Dean shook the vision out of his head, and the clouds were once again clouds. The barn was, once more, just a barn.

For months, Dean and Sam had been on the suicide mission to end all suicide missions—to hunt down and kill the Devil. Though the weight of the task seemed unbearable, the brothers knew that they were the only ones who could shoulder it. It was, after all, their fault that right now Lucifer walked the earth.

No. Sam’s fault.

Dean shoved the thought to the dark recesses of his mind. It wouldn’t do him any good to dwell on it. His younger brother—the boy who Dean had practically raised since their mother died—had broken the Final Seal. In a moment of weakness, Sam had killed the demon Lilith, unintentionally popping the lock on Satan’s cage. Now, after nearly a year of chasing him, they were no closer to shoving the bastard back into the lock-up.

But that wasn’t even the bad news. The angels, ostensibly protectors of humanity, had in fact been behind Satan’s jailbreak.

“They wanted you to break the Seal,” Dean had explained to his brother in the moments after Lucifer’s rise. “They’re sick of waiting around in Heaven. With Satan out, they get to bring on the prizefight. Winner takes Earth.”

The angels already had a plan in motion—according to the winged bastards, the only way to defeat Lucifer was for Dean to be the host for the archangel Michael, the most powerful weapon in Heaven’s arsenal. They even had an overdramatic pet name for Dean: the Michael Sword. Every fiber of Dean’s body rebelled against the idea. The battle between Michael and Lucifer would have the minor side effect of destroying half the Earth. A “planetary enema,” Zachariah had called it. The douche.

Lucifer’s final vessel was to be Sam. The symmetry must be funny to someone upstairs, Dean thought. Michael and Lucifer were brothers, one of them following closely in their father’s footsteps, the other... Well, just like Sam, Lucifer had always wanted to go his own way.

However, the one thing neither Heaven nor Hell could control was human will. While on Earth, angels—both righteous and fallen—had to take a willing human host. If Sam and Dean didn’t say “yes” to Lucifer and Michael, the battle couldn’t happen. The archangels would have to putter around in their alternate, non-ordained meatsuits, tearing their lesser vessels apart while they waited for Sam and Dean to come around to the party line.

The Winchester brothers weren’t going to fight each other. There had to be another way.

But every time they thought they had Lucifer within their sights, fate slapped their faces again. They had tried their old standby: straight-up violence, attempting to kill Lucifer outright. First with the Colt, a gun so powerful it was said to be able to kill anything, but that had barely given their Adversary a headache. They had Ruby’s demon-killing knife, but that was just as impotent against an archangel. The only chance they had left was to catch Lucifer by surprise. No small feat.

“Take a right at Camp Dakota Road,” Sam directed.

“Really? Couldn’t have figured that one out, Sam,” Dean shot back. “Since we’re going to a camp.”

Sam had been getting under his skin recently. Actually, everything had been getting under his skin. The endless hours on the road had proven useless thus far, and Dean was beginning to doubt that they would be able to win this war.

Can’t fight something you can’t find, he thought. But he also had doubts about his role in the battle to come. Even if I’m doing everything in my power to find another way... can someone change the role they’re destined by fate to play? Avoiding destiny is what Dean and Sam had been doing so far. But how much longer can we keep that up? They were flying under the angels’ radar, and for now, that was enough.

It had to be.

A week ago Sam had started tracking the local news from a small town in South Dakota. It had been lighting up with apocalyptic signs like an end-of-the-world Christmas tree.

Maybe we’re finally getting a freakin’ break, Dean thought hopefully.

Their first stop was a kids’ day camp. A gas station attendant a couple of towns over had told them about it. The scruffy dude had said he didn’t rightly know what had happened, but his cousin’s girlfriend’s mom had told him that it was like something out of the Bible and children had been harmed. That alone was enough to warrant a visit.

Dean pushed the accelerator to the Impala’s firewall, his hazel eyes glinting with anger. Every second they were delayed, Lucifer got another step ahead of them.

Sam threw a sideways glance at Dean. Thanks to all the years they had spent on the road, Sam could read his older brother’s mood just by the way he tightened his grip on the steering wheel or blew his breath out through his nose in short staccato bursts.

Dean’s pissed about something again, Sam thought. And probably for no good reason. Sam felt the constant burden of his brother’s anger and expectations. Chief among them was the expectation that they’d do things Dean’s way—or, more accurately, John Winchester’s way. The pressure to fit into their father’s shoes had always been immense—doubly so since his death—and Dean was the poster child for Daddy’s boys. He dressed like John Winchester, drove his car, listened to his music. He even walked like John. Sam, on the other hand, had tried time and time again to get free of his father and everything that he represented. Now, Sam realized that Dean felt like his brother had strayed too far off the path, at times even irretrievably. He had dealt with demons, using the power that their blood gave him... all things that John would never have allowed. Despite all of that, Sam was fine. He knew that, he just wished that Dean would realize it too. For the most part, Dean seemed to trust him, but that didn’t mean they would always get along.

The final battle is looming, and we’re stuck smack dab in the middle of it. Sam pursed his lips together—he felt like they were coming to the end of something. He just didn’t know what.

Preoccupied, Sam glanced out the passenger window just as the Impala careened by the split log sign for CAMP WITKI NIKI.

“There!” he shouted, a little too loudly, pointing at the sign.

“G-and-an-H crap!” Dean yelled, as he turned the wheel quickly to the left, fishtailing the Impala’s tires, a spray of gravel hitting the trees on both sides of the deeply rutted driveway. “Inside voice, inside voice!” Dean spat. He opened his mouth to say more, then clearly decided to drop it.

The Impala bumped its way over the gravel.

“Okay,” Dean said. “So what are we walking into?”

Relieved his brother’s outburst was over, Sam grabbed his laptop.

“From what I can find, a bunch of creeped out parents, but no dead kids. Guess our gas station buddy was overstating that part.” Sam pulled up the Grenville, South Dakota Tribune webpage and scanned the article.

“There’s this posting on a comment board written by some totally hysterical mother named Nancy Johnson. Something huge happened yesterday, but she doesn’t say what, just that a strange man walked into the camp. It scared the bejesus out of all the parents, but there’s nothing in the police report, so technically no crime was committed. This woman writes, ‘Considering the highly sensitive nature of the children at Witki Niki, it is of the utmost importance that each child be under an adult’s care at all times.’”

Dean brought the Impala to a stop on a grass field. Pulling on the hand-brake he turned to Sam.

“We’re here because some berserk Betty on a mommy-blog vents that a ‘strange guy’ walked into little Timmy’s day camp? Are you effing kidding me, Sam?” Dean paused for a moment to let his frustration sink in. “What, so if somebody farts in Yankee stadium, we run it down as a demon?”

Sam sighed. Sometimes he felt as if he could never to do anything right for Dean.

“There are apocalyptic omens here. The attendant says it was straight out of the Book of Revelation... You don’t think that’s worth looking into?”

Sam pushed open the car door. Then he heard it.

“What the hell is that?” Dean growled, emerging from the other side of the Impala.

A cacophony of what sounded like a thousand dying car horns emanated from behind a grove of trees. Sam and Dean looked at each other, the edginess of the last twenty minutes now dropped.

Sam sprang into action. Ears stinging from the piercing noise, he ran round to the back of the car, popped open the trunk and lifted up the false bottom to reveal their secret stash of weapons and materials. Dean reached in and backhanded Sam a revolver, taking a sawed-off for himself. He slipped the shotgun down the back of his worn Levi’s with practiced ease.

Sam palmed a quart bag of salt and slipped it into his breast pocket. Never be caught off guard, he thought, hearing his father’s words as if John was standing two feet away.

They strode through the grass with deliberation, the strange noise getting louder and louder. As they reached a rocky path that led down a slope, they heard a high-pitched voice call out, “Hey! Stop! I said stop!”

The Winchesters turned and were accosted by a freckled, red-haired youth, several inches shorter than Dean and several years younger than Sam. He came limping toward them, an elaborate-looking air cast on his left leg.

He managed to get within a few yards of them before he had to start hopping on his good foot. Dean looked the young man up and down, eying his lime-green cast.

“Wow, that’s some injury there. You get that playing World of Warcraft, or doing some major texting on lonelygeek dot com?”

Sam saw the guy’s face immediately sour. Smooth, Dean.

“I got it on duty,” the young man squeaked out.

“Really. On duty?” Dean said, smirking. “What do you do, exactly?”

“I’m head junior counselor. Who the hell are you?”

But Dean had already lost interest and was making his way down the hill.

“Don’t worry about it, kid.”

Sam glanced at his brother’s retreating back, then smiled at the young man. “We’re just checking some stuff out. Were you here yesterday? I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

The young man looked embarrassed and Sam could see sweat bead on his upper lip, despite the breeze.

“Caleb. It wasn’t my fault,” he stuttered. “The EPA said it was just a freak explosion—”

“Explosion?” Sam interrupted.

“Yeah, freak explosion of the population.”

“The population of what?”

His answer didn’t come from Caleb, but from the tree line.

“FROGS!”

Sam turned to see Dean holding up a large frog. Dean took one of the amphibian’s front legs between his thumb and forefinger and made it wave at his brother to join him. Sam thanked the kid and headed down the hill to meet Dean.

“Can you believe this?” Dean said, gesturing toward the sea of frogs that were hopping around the forest floor. “Guess Kermit and Miss Piggy have been busy.”

Sam walked past him toward the lake.

“Okay, you got your frog-sex joke in, but now are you going to tell me I was right? I mean, this is about as apocalyptic as it gets.”

“I guess so.” Dean gently put down the frog and caught up with Sam. “Remind me what the deal is with frogs and the Apocalypse?”

Sam looked toward the lakeshore, where every kid in the camp was sprinting around with buckets, bags, milk crates— anything that could carry more than one frog. He spotted several makeshift frog-racing sites, as well as kids trying to make frogs play badminton, kids having frog tea parties, a couple of kids trying to have frogs play basketball—there was even one lonely kid that had set up frogs for a mock trial. Deep inside him, Sam again wished his childhood had been more normal. The kids here were having a ball, despite the biblical overtones of the situation.

Sam turned to his brother.

“In Exodus, God rained frogs down on the Egyptians as punishment for not letting the Israelites free. ‘And if thou refuse to let them go, behold, I will smite all thy borders with frogs.’”

“Okay, so frogs are bad. But these kids are going apeshit over them. Doesn’t look so terrible to me.”

Sam shrugged. He didn’t have all the answers.

Caleb tottered down the hillside and caught up to them.

“Excuse me, I still didn’t get your names,” he said.

Dean scowled at him.

“Why don’t you tell us how all these frogs got here.”

Caleb threw his hands in the air, exasperated.

“Like I told Mr. Butler! How many times do I have to explain this?”

“Who’s Mr. Butler?” Sam asked.

“My boss,” Caleb said with a hearty eye-roll. “Justin Black’s father showed up out of the blue yesterday. I didn’t exactly realize he wasn’t supposed to see his son. Guy was acting kind of strange, and the next thing I know he’s down at the lake with the kids. Then all hell broke loose.”

Dean surveyed the children running around in near-hysterical, frog-induced mayhem. A few tired-looking counselors were trying—and for the most-part failing—to keep some kind of control.

“Where is Justin Black?”

Dean and Sam made their way toward a large rectangular log cabin dining hall. Inside, little Justin Black sat at a long table. He was pudgy, and wore a striped shirt a size too small and cargo shorts five inches too long, Dean could tell that Justin wasn’t the most popular kid at Camp Witki Niki. Dean himself would have made fun of this kid.

Justin’s face was red and splotchy from crying. A large frog sat in his lap, and his fingers stroked its flat head like it was a golden retriever.

“Justin?” Sam said gently.

The boy looked up suspiciously.

“Justin, hey. I’m Sam, and this is my brother Dean.”

Dean gritted his teeth. Aliases, Sam, aliases. Guy has such a soft spot for kids.

“Justin, we know that your dad came to see you yesterday. Was that the first time you’d seen him in a while?” Sam made his way to the bench next to Justin, and the boy nodded his head.

“Not supposed to see him till he pays my mom all the supports,” he murmured, and then sniffed and wiped his dripping nose with the back of his hand.

“You mean child support?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Justin said, keeping his eyes on the table.

Sam scooted toward Justin a little.

“You know what kind of frog that is?” he asked.

“It’s a Rana catesbeiana, American Bullfrog,” Justin said with a short snort.

“Oh, of course,” Sam said, gently touching the frog’s head. “Justin, did your dad seem... normal yesterday?”

“Umm. What do you mean?” Justin moved the frog away from Sam’s reach.

“Did you recognize him right away?” Dean probed. He pressed his hands on the table and leaned toward the boy. Sam gave him a warning stare, indicating that he should take it easy.

“He’s my dad,” the boy responded.

“No, I know that, but did you notice anything different about him?” Dean persisted.

“Well. Like maybe...” Justin trailed off as he inspected his frog.

“Like maybe what?”

“Maybe he wasn’t like usual... like... mean.” Justin’s large wet eyes met Dean’s.

“Do you think that was your dad, Justin?” Dean asked, crouching so his head was level with the boy’s.

“Of course. He brought me my favorite thing.” Justin rearranged himself on the bench.

“What’s that?”

Justin looked at Dean like he was a complete idiot.

“Frogs. What else?”

Sam and Dean got back into the Impala.

“Okay, so the kid’s father shows up, hasn’t seen him for a while. Guy used to be a dick, now he’s bringing Justin a butt-load of his favorite apocalyptic omen? What, the store was out of Super Soakers?” Dean pressed his fingers into his forehead, soothing a building headache. “Who is this guy?”