"Apocalypse? Yeah, like hell it's real," Dean said, shaking his head.
Sam looked at the old journal lying open on the table. "What book is that, anyway?"
Bobby rested a hand on the worn pages. "The Book of Revelation. One of the biggest sources of Apocalypse lore. I always figured most of it was just old prophecy and symbolism."
He glanced back at the page.
"At least I did until that angel showed up and this whole damn mess started."
Henry stayed quiet. He'd already expected Dean to react this way. Maybe hearing it from Bobby instead would finally make him take it seriously.
Dean looked from Bobby to the book. "So you're telling me the Apocalypse is real... Lucifer is real... all of it?"
"Yeah. That's what this book says."
Dean folded his arms. "So all sixty-six Seals break... then what happens?"
Bobby took a slow breath. "Then the Apocalypse begins. Lucifer walks free, the Four Horsemen ride the Earth, and the whole world goes to hell. "
"War spreads across nations, pestilence tears through populations, famine follows behind it, and Death cleans up whatever's left. That's how Revelation says it ends."
Nobody spoke. Even Dean didn't have a comeback.
Henry watched him in silence. It was about time Dean accepted it. Whether he liked it or not.
His own situation worried him far more. From now on he'd have to be careful. Lucifer wasn't the biggest threat to him.
Heaven was. Castiel hadn't sensed anything unusual about him, and that was probably the only reason he was still standing here.
The moment angels found out a human-angel hybrid existed, they wouldn't hesitate to hunt him down — to the Host of Heaven, something like him was an abomination with no place in Creation.
Forget Lucifer. Every angel up there would try to erase him.
Then there was Chuck. As far as Henry could tell, God didn't know he existed. If Chuck had already known, Henry doubted he'd still be breathing.
Chuck preferred Creation to follow His design, and anything capable of changing that design never stayed ignored for long.
Jack had already proven in the original timeline what a nephilim could become. No clear ceiling on the growth, which was exactly why Heaven feared them.
Whether Henry's own growth would reach that level was unknown. Until he had an answer, staying off Heaven's radar was the smart move.
Should probably ease off the angel powers for a while, he decided.
Until he was strong enough to survive a fight with higher-ranking angels, drawing attention was the last thing he wanted.
Right now an archangel wouldn't even register him as a threat — they'd wipe him out without trying.
Dean exhaled and waved a hand. "Okay, let's forget the Apocalypse and Lucifer thing for a minute. Does that book say how to stop all these ghosts? 'Cause compared to us, Henry's got a whole crowd of them chasing him."
Bobby flipped through several more pages. "Yeah, it does. According to this, there's a ritual that'll put every spirit raised by the Seal back to rest."
He frowned, skimming the instructions.
"Problem is, it's written in Enochian and old Latin. Gonna take me some time to translate, and most of the ingredients oughta be somewhere around this house."
"Then start translating."
Bobby nodded, already reaching for another reference book.
"I'll work on the ritual. You boys gather everything on this list. If this book's right, we don't have much time before more spirits start crawlin' out."
Sam packed rock salt into shotgun shells while Henry sealed them one by one. Bobby stayed absorbed in the journal, translating. Dean barely touched the ammunition in front of him.
Henry glanced over. "Dean, quit thinking so much. We deal with the ghosts first, the Apocalypse is tomorrow's problem."
Dean looked up. "You know what I hate?"
"Besides healthy conversations?"
He ignored that. "I hate crap I can't shoot. Ghosts, vampires, demons — those I get. You find 'em, you kill 'em, you move on. But destiny, prophecy, angels..." He shook his head. "That's Sammy's department."
Sam didn't look up from the shells. "You say that like I asked for it."
***
After some time, Bobby shut the journal. "Well, all of you ready?"
Dean and Sam nodded, each carrying a shotgun loaded with fresh rock salt rounds. Henry rested the iron rod across his shoulder.
"One suggestion," Henry said before Bobby unlocked the basement door.
"Whatever you do, don't talk to the ghosts. They manipulate people emotionally. The more you listen, the easier it is for them to get inside your head."
The others nodded. Bobby unlocked the heavy steel door and the four of them stepped out.
They'd barely climbed the stairs when Meg appeared in front of them.
"So... you finally crawled out of that hole." She smiled coldly. "You really think hiding in the basement was going to save you?"
Henry looked at her for a moment. "Would you mind coming back later? We're kind of busy."
Her face twisted with rage. "You think this is funny? I'm dead because of you sons of bitches!"
She lunged at Henry. Sam fired immediately. The rock salt blast tore through her, and she exploded into white smoke.
They entered the main hall, where Bobby quickly poured a wide circle of salt across the floor and placed the ritual ingredients inside it. He opened the translated journal and began chanting.
One by one, ghosts started materializing beyond the salt circle.
Within seconds there were dozens, surrounding the room from every direction, clawing at the invisible barrier, shrieking loud enough to shake the windows.
Henry cracked his neck. "Well... it's about time I stretched my body."
He raised his hand. Every loose piece of iron in the room lifted into the air — crowbars, rods, chains, nails, tools — and shot forward like a storm of iron.
The ghosts exploded into white smoke the instant it struck them, then re-formed a heartbeat later.
Henry flicked his wrist. The whole swarm turned in midair and slammed into them again before they could recover. "Hehehe... die, you damn ghosts."
Dean fired another round into an approaching spirit. "Looks like sleeping for two weeks left him with a lot of pent-up frustration."
Henry didn't bother looking back as another wave of iron ripped through the ghosts. "You're not wrong."
*****
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