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Child of Elves and Men

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Chapter 1: the Beloved “Valley”



It began long ago, far way in the long buried and forgotten west, in a land where elves road openly and proudly fought against the night; in a land of an elven lord and prince. The dwarves called this land Nargothrond and its liege lord they named Felagund, in the Dwarvish fashion. To the elves of Doriath he was Finrod, and to his own kin of the West he was called Findaráto. Beor the old called him Nom, meaning wise and to his one and only beloved he was Meldonya-beloved. He was loved by all who met him, for his charm and gentle nature softened many of his cousins’ hardened hearts. But none loved him more than a simple and humble Man; a descendant of Beor the old: Barahir.

The moment Finrod set eyes upon the Man he lost his heart to him, and likewise did Barahir feel when he stood before the beautiful and gentle elf. The Man was young and foolish but he knew in his heart of hearts that he would love no other with the same burning flame with which the elf brought from him. Yet Finrod knew that the man was yet young and may grow out of his love like he had seen many times in his race, but as Barahir grew so did his love and passion, though the burning desire to possess the golden elf faded leaving behind a gentle yet fierce yearning to belong to the other and he to him. Many of Finrod’s counselors warned their lord not to love him.

“His race is weak and they become frail and die easily,” they had said to him, “The man will grow old while you remain young. He may love you for your youth and beauty now, but once he is old and crippled by stiffness and age, he will curse you for It.” but their words had come too late to save his heart; for it was lost the moment Finrod set eye upon Barahir.

Finrod yearned to be with his beloved again and every moment away from him seemed to be a knife in his heart. But as the days and months passed Finrod’s love, though just as pure and strong for the Man, dimmed in his mind in favor of other things, and soon many years had passed since the two had seen each other. Though by fate they were reunited, their meeting brought with it a bitter sweetness: Barahir’s father, Bregor, was dying, and in his grief Barahir sought the comfort of the elves to help ease the pain of if his father’s passing. Finrod was kind and the moment they were alone Finrod bade Barahir to speak to him and share his pain instead of burying it within himself as Men were want to do. And so Barahir spoke and Finrod harkened to his words and found his love returning swiftly to his forethoughts. Likewise did Barahir find his love returning and the deep yearning for Finrod’s love and attention throbbed within him. But with his father’s passing comes the duty of heirs and marriage. The very thought of being cleaved to another besides his love, made him feel ill and for a moment he paused in his speaking and simply stared at his loosely clasped hands before him, his face paling at the thoughts that raced through his mind.

Worried that Barahir could be ill, Finrod knelt before him and took Barahir’s face in his hands; tilting it up to force him to look him in the eye.

‘It’s rougher than I remembered,’ came the unbidden to his mind. Then without realizing his thumbs began stroking the man’s cheeks, smoothing down the whiskers there. Warm hazel eyes met Finrod’s emerald green, and another thought came unbidden, ‘he has grown so handsome.’ Just when Finrod’s resolution was about to fail, Barahir took the elf’s hands in his own and kissed them. Barahir’s lips were chapped but soft against Finrod’s knuckles, and a smile whispered across the elder’s lips.

“Finrod, I know that my love for you may be a brief and passing thing, but know this: my love for you is no more weaker because it is brief; if anything it is stronger for it, and even though a fire is a brief and sudden thing, it’s warmth is no less welcome and its embers remain long after the flame is dead.” Barahir spoke with a wisdom that belied his age and race, and Finrod could not help the smile that came to his lips and the warmth of the Man’s hands calmed him.

“I do not think that your love is any weaker just because it is a brief and passing thing,” Finrod answered as he took his hands away to remove his ring. “I know it is strong and warm and even though you will one day die, the warmth and strength of that love will strengthen me when that dreaded day comes, but until them, here,” Finrod placed his ring on Barahir’s right forefinger, “as a symbol of my fealty and love to you, I give to you my ring and promise that I will come to your aid whenever you need it.”

Barahir was so touched by the gesture of love and devotion, his words nearly left him.

“You cannot give me this!” he said and went to remove the ring, but Finrod stayed his hand and smiled.

“It is mine to give to whom I will,” he said and brought Barahir’s hand to lay over Finrod’s heart, “like my heart.” Barahir leaned forward and kissed Finrod and the elf denied him nothing.

Soon their bodies were entangled with each other upon Finrod’s bed, lost in the throes of passion and love; Barahir peppered kisses all over Finrod’s body and Finrod moaned as his lust and want mounted.

“Beloved,” he gasped as Barahir nipped at the sensitive flesh on his neck; working his way slowly towards his very sensitive ears, Barahir moaned in answer. “I know that when you father passes that you must marry and have heirs, but I cannot let you go without something to remind me that you loved me first and always.” Finrod moaned as Barahir sucked on the tip of his ear.

“And what would that be?” Barahir asked in a sensual deep whisper in the elf king’s ear.

“A child!” Finrod gasped out as Barahir found a very sensitive place. Barahir stopped to look at Finrod and Finrod looked up at his lover, and found a look of wonder and joy on his face. “Why did you stop?”

Barahir chuckled and began to prepare Finrod, slowly, to take him. Finrod caught his hand and brought it to the place where he wanted it; an opening behind his scrotum. Barahir raised his eyebrows in surprise, when his fingers found the wet heat of the opening. Finrod gasped and moaned with pleasure, his eyes rolling up into his head as sparks exploded all over his body from that place. Barahir grinned wolfishly and continued his slow torturous lovemaking to the golden elf beneath him.

Now, why, might you ask, am I telling you this tale? Well it is quite by fate and chance that I was there during this time to witness this love unfold; and when Finrod and Barahir parted with Bregor’s passing, Finrod’s hand rested over his womb and a tender smile lit his face. For Finrod sensed the brilliant light of the new soul being nurtured within him.

“I don’t want to leave you, Meldonya,” Barahir said when Finrod told him of the unborn child within him; but Finrod gave him a tender and loving smile.

“I know,” he said as he brought Barahir’s hand to his belly, “but you must. Think of our child and of your people. I will be safe here, and so will our baby. Worry not for me, beloved, I will be safe. We will be safe.” Barahir sighed and smiled weakly before he conceded that he must do his duty and thus he left, but heavy was his heart as he passed through the gates of Nargothrond; glancing back every so often to see the form of his lover until he was beyond his sight.



Months passed swiftly for the king of Nargothrond and soon a small swell could be seen in Finrod’s belly; and the council soon realized that their lord had ignored their wishes and was carrying the child of a mortal Man. This angered them and their hearts turned cold in their anger, and soon they turned to the two sons of Fëanor, who had taken residence in the halls after the fall of their own lands; and they conspired with them to have the child taken away from Finrod at birth. But the council misjudged the sons of Fëanor, for as heartless as they seemed to those around them, Curufin was a father and could never comply with those demands that would surely break Finrod’s heart. Celegorm, though hot headed, held some love for Finrod; for he had been good friends with his younger brothers who were now lost. Both cared about the happiness of their friends and family and thus tried to be kind when it came to matters of the heart.

Celegorm and Curufin knew how gentle hearted their cousin was, hence his involvement with Men, and both knew that if the council got their way, and the child was taken, Finrod would die from grief as sure as if he was struck with an arrow through his heart, if he thought that the child was dead. Thus they went to Finrod while he was in his private chambers and found him sewing, of all things, a blanket. The two stopped and looked about them and to their surprise found that Finrod had set up a small nursery in a corner of the room next to Finrod’s bed; a small cradle and a crib, and a changing station along with a dresser. In the cradle Curufin saw a small stuffed toy, and he found himself remembering how much he loved his own son, and how happy his wife was when she was pregnant with him. Memories came unbidden and he found himself smiling as he looked at the little stuffed animal toy.

“Brother,” he whispered to Celegorm and gave him a gentle nudge to look at the cradle. Celegorm swallowed hard, memories of little baby brothers and nephews coming to his mind, as he thought about what they would have to do. Celegorm nodded to his brother and loudly cleared his throat. Finrod looked up from his sewing and, when he saw who it was, he smiled. He sat aside his sewing and slowly stood. Celegorm’s eyes widened comically at the sight of Finrod’s very large belly. Finrod came forward and embraced his cousins, kissing their cheeks.

“My dear cousins,” he said happily, “What brings you here?” His smile was bright and welcoming; indeed his whole body glowed with the life he carried, as his hand rested on his burgeoning belly. But, when he saw the sad and grim faces of Celegorm and Curufin, his smile fell away into worry, and resignation. “What did they tell you to do?” he asked, knowing that they were there on the behest of the Council.

“They want to take the child once it is born,” Celegorm said, and was met with a sour look from his brother. “What?” Curufin gave him a pinched look in response.

“I thought we were going to break it to him gently?” Curufin said through grinding teeth. Celegorm shrugged his shoulders and looked back to Finrod, and found him as pale as death. Concerned for his cousin, Celegorm grasped Finrod’s shoulder and Curufin took the other. Once they were certain that he was not going to collapse, they gently led him to his bed so he could lie down. Finrod sat down and wrapped his arms around his belly, as he found himself close to tears; taking comfort in the babes flitting movements and light kicks. “Finrod,” Curufin said, his voice so tender and soft, that Finrod looked up at the two brothers. “Ingo, we don’t want to do this. It is your child,” He said, when Finrod’s face opened with shock. “I know you love him very much, and I know how soft hearted you can be with family, and loosing this child; having him ripped from your arms at birth, it would kill you. Contrary to popular belief, cousin, we are not heartless, and we don’t want you to suffer like that.” Finrod smiled at Curufin’s very rare show of gentleness that rarely showed its face since he lost his lands, and his position.

“But, Finrod, there is still a great danger with this child,” Celegorm said, and Finrod looked puzzled at his words. “A son of the house of Finwë, and of the house of Beor, could unite our peoples and as such the Enemy will see him as a threat. He would never see the houses of the Eldar and the Houses of the Edain unite through one person.” Finrod’s eyes became downcast, realizing his error, but found he could never regret it. “it might be best, cousin, if we have Avery get him as far away from here as possible, get him away from Morgoth, and the threat of death.” Finrod nodded in understanding but as he tightened his arms around his belly, he found tears gathering in his eyes.

“I understand,” he croaked, for that was all the sound that he could make as tears were shed at the thought of giving away his unborn baby.

“He will make sure that the child will have a very loving home and a family.” Finrod nodded and looked back at the blanket he had been embroidering for his son; a family tree of his son’s bloodlines, naming all of his ancestors by name and the date of their birth and death, all in Quenya, Tangwar script. He was almost done, all that was needed was the date of his son’s birth and he would swaddle his child in it (he had his suspicions of when the child was to be born based on his own foresight). “Have you named him?” Celegorm asked as he placed a gentle hand on Finrod’s belly. Finrod nodded, a bittersweet smile coming to his face as his own hand joined Celegorm’s.

“Imrathon,” Finrod said with a sad smile as he rubbed the swell of his belly.

“Valley,” Curufin mused with a smile, “’tis a good name.”

“Thank you,” Finrod smiled in return.

Suddenly the tears came and Curufin and Celegorm held him as he cried and shook with sorrow and grief. When they dried, Celegorm and Curufin left with promises to protect him and his child, and Finrod was alone in his sorrow. He stood from his bed and moved to his writing desk. Sitting down and pulling out a piece of parchment, he began to pen a letter to the people who would be the parents of his unborn child, and as he wrote the tears returned, threatening to ruin his ink-marks but he held them at bay until he had folded and sealed the letter with deep blue wax. His royal signet ring pressed into the cooling wax and left the seal of his house. It was risky to seal the letter as such but he wanted his child’s parents to know that their son, his son was royalty. After he set the letter aside, he let his head rest in his arms on the desk and the tears came. I would have given what little comfort if I could and as such it pained me to see him cry so, but as the tears came so did a vision of his son, at stages of his life; first as a babe in the cradle then a toddling child, and after an adolescent then a teen, and finally a young Man in his full strength, a playful smile on his lips and a light in his eyes. Finrod smiled then and laughed, as he placed a hand on his baby.

“You will be a star, my son,” he whispered, smiling through his tears, “a great hero. Let those enemies of yours who hear your name tremble in fear, for great will be your wrath against them.” Foresight was a rare gift to those that had it and for Finrod at this moment it was both a gift and a curse; as he sat in his tears and saw what would be with his son and never with the two of them together.



Months passed by and the farther into the year it went, the larger Finrod’s belly grew. Soon the child’s gentle fluttering movement turned into strong kicks and turns. Every time Finrod felt his son turn and move, Finrod would gasp and his hands would fly to his belly to feel the movement. Months passed all to quickly for the elven king and the year was soon drawing to a close, but a new year was about to begin and with it new life. The year was 430 of the First Age, and it was the first month of the year. For Finrod this month passed all too swiftly and the second was about to begin. Finrod felt that the time was drawing near, thus he spent whatever time he could alone sewing the last of the embroidery on his baby’s blanket, and singing softly songs of Power and protection around his unborn child. It seemed to most that Finrod had returned to his old worships, for every night his cousins would find him on his knees by his bed; his head bent in prayer, and his face reddened with tears. The two of them would go to his side and help him into bed but not before hearing his plea for his son’s safety and protection. On one of these nights Celebrimbor found him instead of his father and uncle and soon after Finrod was abed, Celebrimbor sat outside the door to the King’s bedchambers sobbing and holding himself until his father found him and brought him to bed. This went on for nights on end, but on the 4 and 20th day of the first month something else happened. It was the wee hours of the morning just after midnight, when Finrod was found: his waters had broken and his labor had begun.

For a while Finrod was able to bear through the contractions without a sound, for they had come without warning whilst he was in prayer; but soon his low moans could be heard outside his chambers. A maid passing by in those wee hours heard him cry out in pain and then whimper with the aftershocks. Knowing it could be only the babe, she sent for the sons of Fëanor and the midwife that had been observing the pregnancy. When the Fëanárion’s and the midwife arrived Finrod was kneeling on the floor by his bed, where his water had broken, as he gripped the bed covers and moaned in pain. Curufin rushed to his side and Finrod leaned into his embrace.

“Telyacormo, help me get him onto the bed,” Curufin ordered, and Celegorm wrapped his arms around Finrod’s back and pulled him to his feet; but as he did so Finrod gasped out and screamed. “Finrod, what’s wrong?” Curufin asked, and Finrod gripped both their arms in a vice like grip. “Ingo?” Worry tinted Curufin’s voice for the first time, fearing that the babe and Finrod might not make it. Finrod gasped and grit his teeth as the two brothers slowly pulled him onto the bed. He groaned as they pulled pillows up behind him to support his back, and he let his legs fall open wide to relieve the building pressure there. The Midwife, who was silently giving orders to the maid to heat water and bring warm clean towels, now knelt on the bed before Finrod, and pulled up his robe to check how far he was. Finrod gasped and gripped his belly as a contraction forced a groan from his lips. The midwife checked the opening and found it not only fully dilated but also she felt the briefest of touch from the babes head on her finger tip, not more than a knuckles length in, as the contraction waxed.

“I can feel the baby’s head, my lords,” She said and Finrod groaned as a contraction began to build again, just on the heels of the former one. Suddenly Finrod felt an uncontrollable urge building within his belly.

“I… I need,” Finrod groaned and gasped as he sat bolt upright, his mouth open in a scream, when he realized what the urge was. “I need to PUSH!” Finrod gasped out and bore down with the contraction. Finrod let out a strangled sound, akin to that of a wounded animal scream swallowed by a groan. Celegorm suddenly leapt up onto the bed and slid behind Finrod supporting his back and holding his hand.

“You’re doing so well, Ingo,” Celegorm praised, encouraging him to continue. Curufin was beginning to smile, his eyes lit up with wonder and joy as he remembered his own son’s birth. The midwife positioned her hands to ease the babe’s head from the opening, when Finrod suddenly threw his head back in an open mouthed scream. Startled the two Fëanárion’s looked back to the midwife who smiled at their looks of fright.

“It’s crowning,” she said as she slowly eased the skin of the opening around the baby’s head. Curufin smiled wide and bright, his eyes lit with excitement, and Celegorm smiled back as Finrod stopped pushing for a moment to gasp for breath. He sagged in to Celegorm’s arms for a moment before he gathered his strength and, bowing his head to his chest, he pushed with all his might. Finrod felt weak and he looked nothing like the elven King he was known to be; his once silken hair that had been compared to spun gold and silver threads was now dull and lank, with none of the sheen it normally had; and it was plastered to his body and forehead with sweat. His whole body was glistening with perspiration as his night robe was clinging to his skin as if he had emerged from his bath in them.

Finrod opened his mouth in a strangled scream as the child slowly, but surely, eased into the world. Finrod stopped pushing and sagged into his cousin’s arms, gasping deeply for breath. He let out a weak whine and sagged even further into Celegorm’s chest. His legs shook from the excursion and his whole body quivered like an over worked horse.

“Head’s birthed,” the midwife said, cradling the head in her hand. She looked up at Finrod’s weak and pale face. “Would you like to feel it?” she asked. Finrod nodded slightly and Celegorm helped guide his hand to the little head between his thighs. Curufin snick a look and found Finrod’s hand tenderly caressing the babe’s head. He looked back up and found that Finrod’s face had brightened as he ran his fingers over the delicate face of his unborn child, and it seemed to him as if the very touch of the babe’s form gave Finrod new strength to push on. Finrod brought his hand away and gripped Celegorm’s hand tightly, before he bore down with every ounce of strength he gathered. As the pressure mounted, Finrod struggled with his cries, trying to keep quiet in vain, and with his last drop of strength he pushed, but could not stop the scream that was rent from his throat. When it fell so too did Finrod, as limp as if the very life had been drained from him, as he gasped for breath; relieved that the pain was over. Finrod bent his every ounce of strength into his hearing as he listened for the first signs of life from his child, and he was not disappointed; for a small whimpering could be heard for a second before it rose in strength. That thin wailing of a newborn was a sweet as the music of Aman to his ears, and Finrod felt a smile pull across his lips and tears run down his face; so overcome with joy that he laughed through his tears. “My congratulations, my lord Finrod,” the Midwife said as she lay a squirming and crying bundle in his arms, “You have a son, and what a strong one too!” she laughed. Finrod pulled the child tightly into his arms and laid his cheek on the baby’s head, breathing in the smell of his baby’s skin. Drawing back he pulled a flap of cloth away from his baby and found his breath stolen from his body, as he gazed upon his newborn son. He had plastered wisps of sandy blond hair on his head and his eyes, now that they had opened, showed the promise of becoming a deep mossy green.

“Perfect!” Finrod breathed, tears running down his face. For a while he just stared at his little baby until he began to fuss and Finrod opened his robe to nurse his child for the first and the last time. Celegorm gently eased Finrod back onto the bed as he slipped out from behind him. Curufin was lost in the wonder of gazing at the newborn. He reached out his hand and rubbed a callused finger gently over the babe’s hand, and the baby grabbed on to it with surprising strength.

“The council will send someone here soon to take him,” Celegorm said as he stood. A light knock came at the door and Celegorm walked over and opened it.

A bittersweet smile found its home one Finrod’s face as he realized that he would lose his son very soon. Celegorm gestured the elf standing at the threshold to enter, and Finrod suddenly felt very lost. A golden haired Noldor stood before them, and Finrod realized with a jolt, that Avery indeed did look almost identical to Celegorm and Curufin’s father; save for the color of his hair and the shade of his eyes, they could have been twins. When Avery’s eyes found Finrod, a sudden feeling came over him telling him that his son would be happy and loved with the family Avery had found for him. Avery’s eyes went to the bundle in Finrod’s arms and a tender, but almost sad look came across his face. The Golden one crossed the chamber in steady swift strides. Imrathon had already finished nursing but Finrod still held him close, not wanting to lose his baby just yet. But Avery was gentle, yet insistent as he carefully lifted the child from Finrod’s arms; shushing his cries, and rocking him gently, when he began to fuss. Avery looked back at Finrod and gave him a sad smile, nodding his goodbye, before he turned and swiftly exited the room just as the pains returned, and Finrod had to deliver the afterbirth.



Just as Celegorm predicted the Council came and what they found was not what they expected; Finrod sobbing and crying into his cousins’ arms’. Two councilors were with the men and the sight of Finrod sobbing into his cousin’s arms was enough to give them guilt. As it turned out the pains that Finrod felt and thought were for the afterbirth, were actually for the twin, but the reason Finrod was sobbing was because the child was so weak that he took only a single breath before he died. They were identical, and it broke Finrod’s heart to not know where his child’s soul would go after his death and that his brother would never know of his twin.

“My lord,” started on councilor, as he stepped closer.

“Get out,” Finrod Whispered softly into Celegorm’s chest.

“Sire?” he asked in confusion, only for Finrod to round on him; lashing out in pain and grief, throwing a crystal goblet at them, only for it to miss and shatter on the door frame.

“GET OUT!” Finrod screeched through his tears. “Get out, and don’t you dare speak of this again!” with that the fight and anger seemed to drain out of him as his sagged into Celegorm and Curufin’s embrace and sobbed. The councilors and the men with them left in shame and regret, leaving Finrod to grieve with his Cousins alone.



Chapter Text



Mary and John were expecting their first child during the fall and winter of 1978. They were hopeful that their baby would be strong and healthy, putting all the care and love into the child’s nursery. Mary had placed everything just so, and had bought a little ceramic angel to watch over their little one’s crib. But it seemed that all the care, perpetration and prayers of the Winchester family was all for naught, for in the middle of the night in the cold of January, Mary was awoken to a feeling of wrongness. She cradled her belly and pondered the feeling before she reached over to the other side of the bed and woke her husband.

                “John,” she said, as she shook his arm urgently. John snorted awake and moaned. He groaned groggily and sighed; fighting off the blanket of sleep that tugged on his eyes.

                “What is it, Mare,” he asked and rolled onto his back. He blinked away the sleep from his eyes and squinted at the small alarm clock settled on the nightstand. John groaned with frustration when he saw the clock’s bright green numbers declaring it to be only 4 in the morning. John looked at Mary with tired eyes as he slumped back onto his pillow. “It’s 4 in the morning, Mare. I got work in two hours.” Mary gasped and hunched over her belly before she spoke again.

                “John, I think something’s wrong,” she said, her voice breathy and panicked. John must have picked up on the tone in her voice, because in an instant his eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright; wide awake.

                “What is it, Mary? What’s wrong,” he asked, his own voice laced with his own fear. Mary gasped again and her arm shot out to grab John’s arm in a vice-like grip in pain. Mary doubled over and hissed her face screwed up with pain. She let out a whimper as her belly tightened, and released, gasping in the aftershocks. Only then did she release John’s arm, and only then did the ex-Marine leap into action. John leapt out of bed and pulled on a pair of pants before he grabbed the packed bags, packed for just this emergency. He threw the straps of the bags over his shoulder before he picked up Mary, and carried her out to the car like a bride. The big black muscle car’s doors creaked when John opened them, and sat Mary down in the passenger seat. John carefully turned her so she could buckle up before he slammed the door shut. He quickly threw the bags in the back seat and ran to the driver’s side door. He opened it and piled in. John fumbled with the keys for a moment before he put them in and turned the ignition to start the ’67 Impala. John threw the car into reverse as the car roared to life, and tore out of the driveway. He flung it back into drive and speed towards the hospital with his foot to the floor.

He ignored stop signs and lights; flying through intersections like a black streak, all the while spurred on by Mary’s increasingly panicked exclamations that something was very wrong. They were nearly there when Mary let out a hair-raising scream. John looked over at his wife and saw her doubled over in the seat, with a growing patch of red on her nightgown at the base of her belly. John went white and stomped the accelerator to the floor, revving the engine up to redline and pushing the old car to the limit.

When they finally arrived at the hospital, John was in all out panic. He shouted for a doctor as he carried Marry in his arms, bridal style. Mary’s nightgown now had a significantly large blood red stain between her legs, and when John handed her off to the doctors and ER Nurses, she was crying and clutching her belly in pain. When John moved to follow them into the emergency treatment center, a doctor halted him with a hand in the middle of his chest.

                “What are you doing,” he demanded the doctor, “I need to be with Mary!” the doctor shook his head and firmly pushed John out of the doorway and back towards the waiting area.

                “Sir, I need you to wait out here,” the doctor said, “I know you want to be with your wife, but right now you’ll just be in the way.” The doctor motioned a nurse to come over and turned back to John. “Why don’t you take a seat in the waiting room, while we do our jobs? The nurse here will show you the way.” And with that, the doctor disappeared behind the double doors. The friendly ER nurse that appeared at John’s arms carefully pulled him towards a hallway and into a private waiting room with more comfortable chairs. She left him with a gentle smile and went back to her duties.

John couldn’t stay still as he waited. He sat down for a moment only to stand back up and run a distressed hand over his mouth. He put his hands on his hips and tried to calm down before he began to pace. He was like a caged animal as he paced back and forth across the room. After a while of fruitless fretting he sat down, and dropped his head into his hands. He wiped his face and put his head between his knees, his hands laced across the back of his head, as he tried to control his rapidly beating heart. It was a little over half an hour later, closer to an hour, when the doctor returned. John leapt to his feet and looked the doctor over. The man was calm and collected, and had an air of quiet sympathy as he motioned for John to sit back down. The doctor took a seat next to him, and one look at the sad expression on the doctor’s face was all it took for John’s heart to plummet to the floor. John sat down with a heavy heart and waited for the bad news.

                “Mr. Winchester,” the doctor began with a quiet sadness, “your wife… she… she suffered a late miscarriage. I’m sorry.” John’s heart fell to the floor and shattered. Tears welled up in his blue eyes, and John doubled over to bury his face in his hands. Shudders shook the Marine’s shoulders and soon the doctor was holding a sobbing young man that had just lost his only child. The doctor rubbed John’s shoulders as he cried but waited patiently to continue.

                “How,” John finally asked, “why? Everything was fine. Why?” the doctor saw the fragile youth in the man and dreaded to break his heart further.

                “There was mass,” he said. “And we found some scarring. Has your wife ever been in an accident, or had a failed pregnancy before?” John shook his head and sobbed openly. The doctor let him cry into his shoulder for a moment before he continued. “I’ve already told your wife this, but there is more. I think you should be with her for the rest of this.” John nodded as the doctor helped him onto his shaky feet. The doctor kindly led him through the hallways up and elevator and towards Mary’s room.

When John finally saw her, lying in the bed, curled up on her side and sobbing, he rushed to her side and pulled her into his arms. The doctor let them comfort each other before he gave them the bad news. John held Mary tightly in his arms and the two of them comforted each other in their grief. The doctor stood before the bed, his hands held limply at his side, and regretted what he had to say to them to make the situation worse. He hated this part of the job and nothing hurt more than telling a young healthy couple like this the news he had to bear.

                “Mary, John,” he said after a moment, “the scarring we found…” the doctor’s shoulders sagged, “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but… it is unlikely… that Mary will ever carry to term. I am so sorry, Ma’am,” he said gently at the crushing look of despair in Mary’s eyes. “I wish I didn’t have to tell you this. There are options, though.” John and Mary looked at him with hope and mingled sorrow on their faces. “There is always adoption. There are many beautiful babies out there that are unwanted and need a loving home. There are some restrictions and regulations, but I am sure that you both would pass the examinations and tests. You’re both employed and have a good home, and support systems. The nurse can refer you to a local adoption agency, if that is what you want to consider. I just want you to keep your mind open to the possibility and consider it.”

The man gave the pair a wan smile before he nodded, gave Mary an awkward but comforting pat on the shoulder and left. When he was gone, John looked over at Mary and saw the look of longing on her fair face, her hand pressing on her now flat belly and empty womb.

                “Mare,” John asked with as much tender courage as he could muster, “do you want to adopt?” Mary didn’t answer for a long while and when she did it was distant and sad.

                “He was perfect, John,” she said and finally looked at her husband. Tears were rolling down her cheeks sorrow and love on her face. “They let me hold him. He was so tiny… and perfect. He had your hair and… oh John! He was our little boy,” she sobbed, grief and pain pulling her face into a marred smile, “our little David!” Mary broke down and started sobbing and John held onto her, holding her to his chest, tears of his own running down his face and into her hair. The two sat there for a long while, crying as they both mourned their unborn son.



Over the next few weeks, John and Mary struggled with their grief. The two held onto each other like a lifeline, as they buried their only child, and held each other up as they went through the headache of getting qualified to adopt. But as soon as they got clearance, Mary and John went looking for their son. Every child that they saw didn’t fit right, didn’t seem like their boy; though each and every one of them were precious in their own way. Then on the evening of the 24th of January the adoption agency called them. A newborn baby boy was left at the very hospital where Mary and John had lost their child. The doctors called CPS and they called the agency and the Agency called them, after it was determined that the child was indeed abandoned. The moment that the CPS officer laid the baby boy in his wife’s arms, John knew Mary was in love. The moment she laid eyes on him, the sorrow and despair that hung over Mary like a black cloud lifted and the baby in her arms cooed and reached up to her face. He was perfect, and they both knew it. Mary looked at John and he knew without a doubt that this baby was the one. Mary’s milk hadn’t dried up, almost as if she knew that there was still a child to nurse.

                “Does he have a name,” Mary asked, looking up that the doctor and CPS officer with joy and love. The pair shook their heads, and Mary looked over at her husband.

                “There was no name,” the officer said, and then pulled out a wax sealed letter from her purse, “just this. We haven’t opened it yet, but I think it’s meant for his new parents.” John took the letter and observed the beautiful and strange script on the front before he put it in his pocket.

“John, what do you think?” John leaned over Mary’s shoulder to get a closer look and his heart melted; completely smitten with the little boy in her arms. He was perfect, with sandy blond hair and bright blue eyes that showed the promise of turning green as he got older. John’s eyes watered. He could have been their son.

                “What do you think of Dean, Mare?” John asked, “for your mom.” Mary’s eyes grew sad but her smile never wavered as she nodded. In that moment John knew, blood or not, this child was theirs; this little boy was their son. Even if John and Mary had no children of their own they would have this little angel, their Dean.

                “We’ll take him,” Mary said and the CPS agent smiled.

                “Good,” she said, “we’ll just need you to sign some papers, and a judge to officiate it, but you can take him home today if you like.” Mary beamed and nodded. John pulled Mary to sit down as he picked up the clipboard and stack of papers, and began to sign as needed.

Soon enough on the 30th of January John and Mary Winchester officially adopted baby boy, now named Dean Michael Winchester, and became his legal parents. The couple couldn’t have been happier, and doted on Dean with all the love and care they could give. John was there for Dean for his first steps, his first shots, and Mary and John waved their little boy goodbye for his first day of Daycare. The couple loved him but always felt a part of their lives was missing.


Then 4 years later, on May 2nd, Mary and John were blessed with a son of their own flesh and blood. It was a shock to the couple who had stopped trying after Dean came into their lives, but they took each day one step at a time. So to their absolute joy, Samuel Winchester was born into their lives. Dean loved his new baby brother, to the relief of John and Mary, and never once felt that he was ignored for their new child. Everything seemed perfect. Then, on the night of November 2nd, Mary walked into the nursery and was killed by the Yellow eyed Demon, called Azazel, and burned above the cradle of her six month old son; burning their house and Mary with it. And the rest you know.

This, my friends, is where I come in, for quite by chance, and the will of an Elda, I found myself thrust back into this tale; if only in a small capacity, for I was the one that brought Imrathon to his new family, from the care of Finrod’s arms. I am Avery Istilel Elfstar, whom the Eldar have called Silmaril; for my spirit was forged by the light of the Silmarilli and by Fëanor, the Spirit of Fire. I am a guardian, a protector, of those that have come into my care; and I am a keeper of fate. Though my part to play in this tale is little, the impact of my actions has rippled across the cosmos and time, and changed the fate of those that would have elsewise died.



Let me tell you about when Finrod was reborn in Valinor.

When the golden Noldo came to Mandos, the first thing he asked Námo, the Doomsman of the Valar, was about the fate of his second born; the child that had died at birth. He asked if he had entered the halls, and Námo smiled. The Doomsman stood and turned Finrod around to gaze at the form of his wife, Vairë the weaver. In the Vala’s arms lay the form of a tiny newborn babe, the very baby that Finrod had lost all those years ago. Now, normally when a child of pure innocence, like a baby, comes into the Halls, they would be reborn immediately, but because the child was Half-elven, and had the choice yet before him, and was Finrod’s son, Námo delayed this until Finrod came; so that he could raise him when he came to his Halls. It was never a matter of if Finrod would come to his Halls; it was a matter of when.

The child Vairë handed Finrod was Imrathon’s twin brother. Finrod loved his son greatly, but because I had told him that his eldest son now bore a different name, Finrod named him Imrathon as his mother name, and gifted him the father name Brego, in honor of Barahir’s father, Bregor. Finrod loved his son greatly, but he still longed for the sight of his eldest’s face, and longed to hold him in his arms; to sooth the ache there that time had not healed. Brego likewise desired to meet his brother, his twin, and longed to have the relationship that many twins of Elven birth had born. But Brego was Half-elven, and as such, he grew up knowing that one day, he would have to make the Choice of the Half-elven. Finrod dreaded the thought that his son would hear the call and choose as Elros did, and become counted amongst Men. But I knew that, although Brego treasured and was fascinated by his mortal half, he was at heart one of the Eldar. It was his firstborn, Dean that I worried for; his fate was ever shifting, ever changing’ as one of the Firstborn or the Secondborn of Illuvatar.

Dean was loyal to family and would do anything for his family. This above all else made him so much alike to the mighty Kings of Old. He was wise and kind, though he buried it beneath a bad boy veneer. His bearing commanded respect from others, and his selflessness only added to the quality of his heart. His gaze was fixed upon righteousness, even though he brushed off such ideas about himself, and would do anything to help others. His body bore the scars of a thousand battles, fought in the name of protecting the innocent, and his will was hardened by the fire of War, into a weapon of the light. I told Finrod this, and it only increased his desire to see his son.

In truth, I feared for him, for Dean. His loyalty to family also included his brother Sam; of whom I also cannot determine fate. But it is of no matter; I have seen many visions of their ultimate fate. I have seen many versions of their lives, and I know that they are always similar. So in this, I know; their end will be good and just.

Finrod for many years begged for my favor, for my aid so that he might see his son. So that he might know him, and know and see with his own two eyes that his son was safe and well, but I was reluctant to show him. I didn’t want him to see the ugly world of demons and monsters that Dean was raised in, the world he fought and died for, without a word of thanks. But Finrod and his kin are nothing if not stubborn, and persistent. I myself am testimony to that, and Finrod over time, wore me down until in the end, I agreed to bring him and Brego to Dean’s world, his Earth, just to make the nagging stop. But I forewarned him that in this world, he and his son would have to fight the creatures of darkness, and that they must do so from the shadows of society. They would have to seem as normal as possible in order for them to fly under the radar, so to speak, of the Hunters.

The year was 2009 Anno Domini (in the year of our Lord), and I have to tell you that to Finrod and Brego, coming from the land of Aman in Arda of the Second Age to the modern world of Terra Firma was quite the culture shock. Finrod did not know what to think of this world of electricity and industry. It felt like something his Uncle Fëanor would have loved, but after a time he settled down in the home I had arranged for them to live in quite nicely. He acclimated to the language very quickly, considering that he had little knowledge of Westernesse, and to the society; about as well as he did when he first encountered man. That is to say he stumbled a bit because of his lack of pop culture references, but eventually he hit the ground running.

Brego was fascinated by the technology and advancements in medicine, as well as so many other things. Brego found that he had a love of theater and cinema, and also discovered the martial Arts, and took a shine to the fighting style of the US Marines, almost like a duck to water. I provided them with identification and for Brego a Birth certificate like his brothers, things I had been doing for others on this world who had become trapped here, and he took advantage of his new citizenship by going out and meeting soldiers and learning. He learned fighting techniques and styles from them as well as important survival training, much like that he learned in Valinor. Brego idolized his twin brother, seeing him as a great hero, like those in the First Age, and he wanted to be able to help him fight the good fight; slay monsters, and save people from the evil of the world that lurked in the dark.

Finrod was not so happy at first to learn what his son was up to and was planning to do, but he would rather be at his son’s side than be angry at him needlessly. So he began to teach Brego the fighting style of his kin, the Eldar, and Brego excelled. He loved the graceful movement of the technique and the lethal dance it wove. His movements became smooth and graceful, and his gate became careful and silent, as all of his elven kin had. Finrod was proud of his son, and as a special graduation present, he gave Brego a knife that was blessed by Manwë himself to kill any and all evil. Brego beheld the knife with awe, before he carefully accepted it from his father’s hands.

                “It’s perfect, Atar,” Brego said as he beheld the blade, his smile as bright and wide as the rising sun. “I love it. I shall treasure it always.” Finrod smiled and gave Brego the dagger, kissing his son’s forehead as he did.

                “May the Grace of the Valar protect you, Yonya,” (my son) Finrod whispered into Brego’s crown, and pulled away. He had the same proud smile on his face that he had when he saw Barahir again, when he had saved Finrod’s life. “We will start small, Brego. Do you understand?” Brego nodded solemnly and Finrod smiled thinly, “I won’t lose you!” Brego understood perfectly, and pulled his father into a bruising embrace.

Finrod started them out slowly; Simple hunts, to get them started: salt and burns and the occasional monster. Finrod was particularly gifted with a blade, and very quickly Vampires learned to fear the arrival of said golden head of hair in town. Werewolves likewise cowed in fear, for they sensed that he had the skill and might to slay one with his bare hands. Soon enough Finrod decided that he would keep to the research in their hotel rooms while Brego used his charm and natural open natured smile to help get information from interviewing the victims’ families. Once they found out what was the cause, Finrod would only then emerge from his room to hunt down the monster. Ghosts sensed his presence and showed themselves to him. And he kept them distracted with Songs of Power while Brego cut their tethers and sent them on.

Brego was as much a natural to Hunting as Dean was, and Finrod’s natural kindness and gentle nature helped with the occasional family members, smoothing over ruffled feathers so to speak, with the more hard headed hunters they came across. They could not avoid Hunters that knew the Winchesters. Sam and Dean were legends by this time and their father even more so, so when they did eventually, they immediately saw the resemblance of Brego to Dean. They didn’t dare try to kill the boy, in case he really wasn’t a monster, and especially because Finrod may have looked fair and delicate, but beneath that gentle face was a mind like a razor and a will of pure Mithril. The Hunters knew a predator when they saw one, and the way Finrod moved, swift on silent feet, graceful and agile, he was a top predator they did not want to mess with. So they did the only thing they dared to: they contacted Sam and Dean, to let them deal with it. Finrod dreaded and yearned to meet his son, but from what I had told him, Dean did not know he was adopted, nor did he know that he had a twin brother.


When Dean and Sam got the word that there was a new pair of Hunters out there, one with a rare knife, running with a blond man they were curious. Then they heard that the one with the knife had Dean’s face. When they heard this, they were with Bobby at the time, with Castiel in attendance.  To say that Dean did not take the news well would be an understatement.

                “WHAT!” Dean shouted, and stomped his foot in frustration, “Son-of-a… it’s bad enough that the first one framed me for Murder, now there’s one of those fugly Shapeshifters wearing my face, and Hunting too?! God,” Dean bemoaned and threw himself onto his bed with a frustrated groan. Sam waited for Dean to finish his rant before he interjected.

                “Dean,” Sam said, making the other brother pause in his grumbling and look at him, “it might not be a Shifter.” Dean threw up his hands in frustration and derision. “The guys that saw him said that he was wearing a necklace that might be silver, or if not silver then Mithril, which is just as powerful against Shifters and Werewolves, so it couldn’t be that.” Dean sat up and fixed Sam with a hard look; one born of many hours of dealing with a stubborn little brother.

                “Then how in Sam-hill do I have a doppelgänger out there that looks just like me?” Dean demanded as he threw his arms up in wild gestures. Sam looked just as puzzled as Dean, but managed to keep his temper down. After the debacle with Anna and their parents in the past, Dean was getting more and more frustrated with life and the way things were going.

                “Did you two idjits ever stop and consider the Twin equation?” Bobby asked gruffly. Both Dean and Sam looked at the old Hunter as if he had just sprouted another head and was singing hosannas to the end of times. Castiel on the other hand, looked thoughtful and the moment Dean saw this look on his Angel friend’s face he squawked in indignation.

                “That’s not possible,” Dean shouted, in frustration about ready to start pulling his hair out, “I don’t have a twin!” Sam on the other hand, stopped and looked thoughtful.

                “It could be possible, Dean,” Sam said softly, and Dean turned to his brother and looked mortified.

                “I don’t believe this,” Dean groaned and threw his hands up in the air in defeat. Castiel looked thoughtfully as he considered a different option.

                “We will have to find these men,” he said, his voice grave and gravelly, “it is quite possible that this man is using a very powerful glamour spell or charm to make himself look like Dean. Either way something like that would require a great amount of Power to maintain, and power like that is something that we sorely need.” Dean sat on his bed and grumbled with displeasure at the thought of someone using his face out there, but he kept quiet; finding logic in Castiel’s idea.

Eventually the four of them, Dean grumbling the whole time, began to put together a plan to catch the pair of odd Hunters. They finally all took off for Bobby’s place to reconnoiter the best plan, and put it into action. Once there, they began making calls, asking around about the two hunters and digging up new information on the pair. During their digging they found out that though the two of them were new to Hunting, they seemed to be experts in tracking and were very efficient Hunters. The one that looked like Dean carried himself like a warrior, with calm and confident grace, whereas the other moved with the agile grace of a predator like a big cat. They worked well together, as if they knew each other’s every move before hand, and were in complete sync.

Then they got a lead that stumped them even more. A Hunter that had joined up with the pair told the Winchesters that the golden haired Hunter had an ethereal glow, and grace about him that set his instincts on edge. And the young man that did then Hunting part was an almost exact double of Dean save for a few things: his tan was more even and his freckles looked more faded. His eyes held a light within them that put him off, but the Hunter said that the young Hunter introduced himself as Brego, not Dean. He told them that he was kind as well as charming to everyone he was with. He was smart too, the Hunter admitted. The Hunter told them over the phone, that he went through books like they were going out of style, as fast as anyone he had ever met, and he was pretty good with computers too. He could hack really well, but he had this charm in him that was kind and gentle with women and children. But he was firm and commanding when he was with any stubborn men.

                “Kid stood tall like a king, and had the way with words like one too,” the old Hunter told them, “He wears this wicked looking dagger on a fancy belt, and knew how to use it too. When the time called for it, that kid fought like an avenging angel.” Dean let out a derisive snort, to which Castiel sent him a scathing glare. Dean noted everything before thanking the man, and hanging up the phone.

                “Well, I got something on this guy,” Dean said, as Sam enter the room from his own research.

                “So did I,” Sam said, “you first.” Dean nodded and turned back to his notes.

                “Well I got a name, and it’s an odd one too,” Dean told him, “get this, they guy said his name is Brego Imrathon Arafinwion. Yeah I know,” Dean chuckled when he saw Sam raise his eyebrows. “And the other guy is called Findaráto Ingoldo Arafinwion.” Sam’s brows furrowed at the same last name.

                “Family,” he asked, and Dean shrugged. Sam mulled this over for a minute, wondering why that name sounded familiar. “Dean, that name,” he said as the gears in his head began to turn, “I swear I’ve heard it before somewhere. I know I have.” Dean looked back at Sam and shrugged again before turning back to his notes. Suddenly the light bulb went off in Sam’s head and his jaw dropped to the floor. Sam surged to his feet and rushed over to the bookshelf. He quickly started combing through the titles and leaves looking for a specific book. “Bobby,” he shouted.

                “Yeah,” Bobby hollered back.

                “Where’s that book Dad left here, the Tolkien one?” Sam yelled and began to frantically paw through the old stacks for the book. Dean gave Sam an odd look before he returned to his notes.

                “It’s in the desk, ya idjit,” Bobby groused as he entered the study.

The old hunter went to the desk and pulled out an old hard cover book. He handed it to Sam with a sour look, and Sam opened it to the Appendices, as Castiel and Dean looked on in curiosity. Sam searched through the end of the book to find what he was looking for, and when he did, a letter fell out of the book. Sam bent over curiously and picked it up. It was old and slightly yellowed made of what felt like vellum or cotton rag. It was still crisp and sealed with a large wax seal that had been broken. The scrip on it was elegant and looked like Gaelic script, except Sam had seen this exact same script embroidered on Dean’s baby blanket; up in their room. Sam’s brow furrowed as he became brooding and pensive, confused as to why his Dad had never told him about this letter, and set down the book. He looked it over wondering why the seal and old paper suddenly looked familiar, and tried to remember where he had seen it before.

                “Hey, Bobby, what’s this,” Same asked and the old Hunter looked up from his own research as Sam showed him the note. Bobby frowned as he looked at the note, before he looked up pointedly at the tallest Winchester. The old trucker motioned Sam to follow him into the Living room and away from Dean and Castiel’s ears. Bobby wheeled his chair into the room, closing the door gently behind him before he turned the chair to face Sam.

                “That was the note they found with your brother Dean when he was a baby,” Bobby answered softly. Suddenly Sam at a flash of a very old memory of John showing him the note, and telling him that Dean wasn’t his real brother. Sam was just a little kid at the time, and had always wondered why Dean was so different. He had always asked why Dean could see so well in the dark, or why Dean’s hearing was so good. And when John told him, it made sense but that didn’t make Dean any less his real brother. Sam looked over at the wheelchair bound hunter and realized that John had told Bobby too, but not Dean.

                “John went to every language expert on Gaelic linguistics, but no one could tell him what it said. Turns out your daddy was barkin’ up the wrong tree. It’s not Celtic, its old Tangwar script: Noldorean elvish. Your daddy found out right around the time that Numenorean kingdom rose out of the ashes of the Soviet Union. He got that book on Tolkien’s languages and any other book he could find about the Eldar. He was tryin’ to translate it when… well, you know,” Bobby explained. Sam gasped lightly as it dawned on him, remembering the moment when Bobby threatened to put a hole through John with a shotgun full of Buckshot.

                “Hey,” Sam said as a thought popped into his head, “maybe Cas can translate it; the blanket too.” Bobby thoughtfully mulled over Sam’s suggestion, considering the idea for a moment.

                “Maybe,” he said, and a thoughtful look passed over his face. “He is an angel, and he has translated quite a bit from dead languages. He could probably tell us what language it is, and help us narrow down the translation. He might even know what it says.” Bobby shrugged his shoulders and wheeled his way back into the study, to find Dean and Castiel looking over the Tolkien appendices and dictionary on the Languages of the Eldar, and After-comers that Sam had left open on the desk.

                “It can’t be a coincidence, Cas, not with the spelling exactly like that,” Dean said to Castiel. The angel loomed behind the hunter, and tilted his head in that birdlike way that said ‘I am pondering you’. Sam looked back at Bobby, and the old hunter just shook his head, murmuring, “idjits,” under his breath, before Sam loudly cleared his throat; gaining the pairs’ attention.

                “Sam,” Dean said with a smile of relief, “we found the name. ‘Findaráto Ingoldo Arafinwion’ is the Quenya name for Finrod Felagund, son of Finarfin. Tolkien wrote about him in his life’s work and it was later published by his son posthumously: The Silmarillion.” Sam looked at the name and the book and was suddenly remembering his Dad talking on the phone to an English gentleman about the note. Other memories followed about his dad talking to some of the Numenorean’s that were still in the states about it, but the memory of that phone call stuck out.

                “Chris Tolkien,” Sam asked. Dean looked up startled and confused for a moment, as he took back the book.

                “Yeah,” he answered, “Christopher Tolkien. How’d you know that?” Dean looked confused and curious as Sam mulled over his answer.

                “I think…” Sam started, “Dad may have talked to him once, before I left for school.” Sam looked up and saw the echo of pain wash across his face at the memory of those last few days. Dean rolled his eyes before the lit upon Castiel. Dean gave the angel a rakish smile, full of confidence.

                “Well Mr. I-know-every-language-that-existed, do you think you call translate this,” Dean challenged, as he snatched the note from Sam’s hand, and waved in in Castiel’s face. Suddenly he stopped and looked at the note in confusion. “Hey,” he mused, softly, “I’ve seen these runes before.” Dean’s brow scrunched up as he tried to remember where he had seen them, “I know I have… somewhere.”

Sam swallowed hard against his nervousness before he slipped out of the room. The tall brunette rushed up the stairs two at a time to grab the only thing that was as pristine as pure as the day Dean came into his family. It was a pal blue blanket made of cotton and silk, embroidered with the same runes as the note. Sam, real quick, pulled the beat up old foot locker out from under his bed, and pulled the key out of his pocket. The foot locker was his Dad’s, and one of the only things that Sam had kept of the man’s. He used it to store things that he wanted to keep, and as such some of Dean’s things ended up in it as well. Sam unlocked the padlock and opened the lid. Inside were several small mementos from his past: a soccer uniform from one of the few towns he stayed in long enough to be on the team, one of his favorite books from before he found out what his dad really did; a stuffed bear he had slept with until he was 9, and at the very bottom, a perfect pale aqua blue blanket, embroidered with emerald green and gold thread, stitched out pristine rune letters and lines that seemed to make no sense at all. In the corner of the blanket was a strange diamond crest, with gold and red rays surrounding a blue disk with similar rays, and Sam realized that it had to be a crest or a heraldic seal of some kind. It had to be important if it was purposefully placed on one of the blanket’s corners. Sam gingerly picked up the blanket and marveled at the softness of the cloth, and how beautiful it was, even after nearly thirty years. Sam shut the trunk and quickly ran down stairs, clutching the blanket in his hands.

When he got down to the study, Dean was still musing over the runes on the note and Castiel was studiously translating the note onto a separate piece of paper.

                “Hey, Castiel,” Sam said and the angel looked up from his work. Sam walked up to the overcoat wearing angel and handed him the blanket. “Is this the same language as that?” Castiel looked over the not for a moment before he turned his attention to the blanket. With careful hands he unfolded the large fabric of cloth and laid it flat on the desk. He examined the workmanship briefly but thoroughly, before he nodded and went back to translating the note.

Dean looked up from his musing and noticed the blanket. He stood up and moved closer to get a better look at the cloth. He ran his fingers over the soft fabric and a wistful smile tugged on his lips, as if he was lost in an old memory.

                “This was mine,” he said softly, picking up the cloth. He ran his hands over the smooth material, careful not to get any grime on it. He brought it to his face and drew in a deep breath, his smile broadening but still soft and happy. “This was… this is my blanket. Dad said it was a gift from someone, he never said who. He said it was silk,” he said softly, “pure silk.” Dean sighed into the cloth, his face lightened by the very presence of the old blanket, as the spells of protection, love, and restful sleep worked their magic on him; calming the darkness in his mind. “I never thought I’d see this again.” Dean grinned happily. Sam shared a look with Bobby, and the old hunter just sighed.

                “Finished,” Castiel declared, and handed the note to Bobby. “It was written in a very old language that I only knew of in passing. Most angels don’t bother to learn it. The Elves are outside our purview of protection, and as such not our problem.” Sam shot the angel an odd look and turned to Bobby.

                “Balls,” the old hunter said his face suddenly sad before he handed the note to Sam. “You might want to read it.” Sam picked up the note and began to read.



                ‘Findaráto Ingoldo Arafinwion, Finrod Felagund; son of Finarfin, King of Nargothrond; Heir of the Noldóran of Aman,

                ‘To the keepers and protectors of this child of my flesh and blood,

‘It was never my intention to abandon my only son and child, but to you I entrust to his care. I dearly love this child of mine, and it is because I love him so that I must give him up. This child is of the blood of my House and also of the blood of Barahir, a child of Men.

‘I cannot in good conscience raise my son with the threat of murder, torture, or worse over his head by his mere existence. To which, I entrust my most precious possession to you. Care for my child well; love him as I love him. Love him as if he were your own son. Protect him at all costs, for he is Mankind’s most precious possession: a Half-Elven, and my one and only heir.

                ‘Keep him safe, and love him well. When he is old enough to understand, tell him that he is, was and shall always be my Imrathon: the son of Finrod Felagund and Barahir; son of Bregor, of the house of Beor.’



When Sam had finished reading his eyes were wide with shock and his mouth hung open. He looked at his brother with new eyes, and finally understood the grace and surety of Dean’s gate; the charisma in his smile, and the brilliance of his eyes. He looked at his brother and saw a new man. Bobby took the note again and read through it.

                “Castiel, did you even read this?” he asked and looked up at the angel. Castiel tilted his head and squint his eyes in confusion. Bobby swore under his breath and held out the note. “Here, read it.”

Castiel carefully reached out and took the note from Bobby’s outstretched hand. He slowly read over the words and his brows furrowed further the more he read and his head took on that characteristic tilt he always got when confused.

                “This is most interesting,” he said and looked up, “of whom does he speak?” Castiel turned his gaze towards Sam and Bobby. Sam hung his head and avoided the angel’s gaze, as he shuffled his feet.

                “What note,” Dean asked, and looked over Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel picked up the original note and held it beside his translation. Dean’s eyes immediately picked out a word on the original that the others hadn’t. “Hey, that name is on my blanket.” Dean said with a smile but the smile quickly fell as the implications began to dawn on him. “Why is it on my blanket?” Sam looked at Bobby and the gruff old hunter gave him a cold look, which said no more lies; no more hiding the truth.

                “Dean, there’s something I gotta tell you; somethin’ you need to know,” Sam said carefully. Dean looked at Sam with wide green eyes, pleading for the truth; begging for a lie.

                “What,” Dean croaked, swallowing down a hard lump in his throat.

                “Dad told me this, and he should have told you a long time ago,” Sam said, and Dean’s bright eyes darkened. He gulped before he nodded. Sam continued, “You should probably sit down, Dean,” Sam gestured to the chair, and Dean sat down gingerly, his heart beating a mile a minute. It was almost worse than the ghost sickness; it was beating so loud, pounding with fear in his chest. Dean mustered up a smile and hid his weakness.

                “Fire away, little brother,” Dean said with false bravado and an even more false smile that couldn’t quite reach his eyes. Sam licked his dry lips and took a deep breath, bracing himself for what he had to do.

                “Dean, this note,” Sam started, “it was found with that blanket,” he explained, gesturing to the items in question. He clasped his hands before him and chewed on his lips. “The blanket was found with a newborn baby boy that was left at the Lawrence city Hospital, in 1979.” Dean’s fake smile cracked around the edges but he tried to hold up his bravado a little longer.

                “Lawrence,” Dean chuckled, “that’s where I was born,” he grinned wide but obviously very fake. “What are the odds?” Sam’s face twisted with pity and despair for a moment as he gathered his words. “What?” Dean asked.

                “Dean,” Sam started and sighed, Dean’s fake smile crumbled and fell before the hesitation in his brother’s voice.

                “Sammy,” Dean said. Sam clenched his jaw and bit the bullet.

                “That baby was adopted by…” Sam stopped and took a shaky breath then pressed on, “my Mom and Dad.” Dean’s façade crumbled and fell into dust with shock. Fear and insecurity warred in his eyes, as he looked at his little brother with pleading eyes; frozen in his chair. “Dean. that baby… it was you.” Dean visibly crumbled before his brother’s eyes, his face as white as milk under his tan skin, and he wasn’t the only one shocked by this news. Castiel’s normally stoic face became open and radiated shock, his eyes wide as he looked back and forth between Sam and Dean.

                “What,” Dean croaked when he finally found his voice. Sam swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth before he answered.

                “You were adopted, Dean,” Sam finally said. Dean sat frozen in his chair, his face blank before he let out a breathy and watery laugh, his face crumpling in despair even more. Tears welled up in his mossy green eyes, as Dean brought a shaky hand up to wipe them away. Dean shook his head in denial.

                “That’s not possible,” he denied, “we have pictures of Mom, when she was pregnant with me.” Dean felt his heart sink with every word out of his own mouth. He could deny it all he wanted, but somewhere in his heart he knew Sam was telling the truth. Sam shook his head.

                “Those were of David, Dean,” Sam explained, his head hung low as he sat down on the couch, his hands clasped between his knees. “He, uh… he died… at birth. Dad told me, when I was ten.” Dean looked up at his brother in betrayal, crystalline tears of confusion and despair running down his face. Sam’s heart broke but he pushed on, “that why Mom and Dad never expected to have another kid, Dean. The doctors told them that they couldn’t; she wasn’t supposed to!” Sam began to cry himself, now, choking on his words, but forcing them out all the same, “they adopted you when you were abandoned at the hospital, Dean, because Mom wanted a family.” Sam was crying and Dean was still frozen to his chair with tears running down his face. Sam coughed and wiped the tears off his face, in an attempt to compose himself and finish. “Dad was supposed to tell you when you turned 18. That was the deal he made with Mom, but he never did.” Dean’s face became twisted with despair and confused anger, and finally exploded.

                “So what…” he yelled, “I was just some replacement, because they couldn’t have their own?” Dean’s face twisted with helpless anger, “that I was some throwaway kid?” Dean bit out bitterly, in anger and grief. He laughed bitterly, “you know it all makes sense now…”

                “No, Dean,” Sam tried to explain.

                “Why he treated me like crap all those years,” Dean drove on bitterly, surging to his feet to pace. “You,” he pointed at Sam as he raved, “He doted on you. You were his son. Me; I was just the replacement. I wasn’t even blood! My own family didn’t even want me!” Sam finally had enough of Dean’s self-degradation and surged to his feet.

                “Dean,” he yelled, and Dean stopped, his face twisted with bitter sorrow and confusion. “No,” he said calmly, and dropped his head, before he looked up at Dean through his bangs with big wet hazel eyes. “Just read the note.” Castiel handed Dean the translated letter, and Sam watched with trepidation as Dean’s eyes grew wide and his brow wrinkled in confusion and painful sorrow. The look transformed into understanding and sadness, as tear ran down his cheeks. Castiel set a comforting hand on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean looked up at the angel. His eyes welled with despair and fragile hope, as he took a gasping sob. Castiel’s own face was soft and comforting, just as it was when he took Dean to the past to see his parents the first time and came to take him home.

                “Sammy,” Dean whimpered, and Sam sighed sadly, finally understanding why their father never told Dean. He would have reacted much worse back then, he might have taken off and never came back. But right now he needed his brother to understand that he was loved.

                “You were wanted, Dean,” Sam said, “but it wasn’t safe for you to be with your real family.” Dean shook his head and looked at Sam with soft eyes.

                “No,” Dean said, swallowing his tears.

                “Dean,” Sam asked with confusion.

                “No, Sam, you are my family,” Dean said a sudden peace entering his eyes, “blood doesn’t matter.” Tears ran down his smiling face and he looked over the group of people assembled in the room. “Family don’t come through just blood; It also choice. We’re brothers, Sammy; no matter what.” Sam’s eyes watered and he struggled to swallow back his tears. He smiled, strong and watery, but genuine at his big brother. Dean wiped the tears from his face and gave Sam a cocky smile. “And what did I say about chick flick moments.” Sam barked out a teary laugh and smiled at his brother.



Castiel looked over the blanket with new knowledge. The fact that John and Mary were not Dean’s parents by blood was a shock, but Dean was the Righteous Man, there was no doubt. Castiel had seen Dean’s soul in Hell, and it shown with a radiance that he had never seen before. It was as bright and as pure as the Holy Star that marked Christ’s birth, despite the befouling of Hell, it shown pure. Castiel knew when he saw him, that Dean was the one. Thus he gripped him tight and raised him from Perdition. Castiel studied the blanket with the intent to understand its secrets and unlock the mysteries that he held. The angel tilted his head, and suddenly the connecting lines made sense. The Blanket not only had the name of the author of the note, but also many others connected by the lines; and with crystal clarity it clicked into place and Castiel knew what this was.

                “This is a Bloodline,” Castiel stated as he ran his fingers over the delicate stitch work, “it traces back quite a ways in the father line, but not as much through the mother.” The Winchesters looked up and moved to stand by the angel to examine the cloth for themselves.

                “My mother is Finrod,” Dean said suddenly and haltingly, looking to Castiel for confirmation. The Angel of Thursday nodded. “It he is my mother, then my dad… who is he?” Sam studied the blanket and the note again, and his eyes widened as it dawned on him

                “Barahir,” Sam said, and Dean’s head whipped around to his brother with wide eyes.

                “What,” he croaked, and Sam looked at Dean was awed eyes.

                “Barahir,” he said more clearly, “he’s your father.” Dean’s jaw dropped.

                “Barahir,” Dean croaked and cleared his throat when he found his voice, “as in Beren, son of Barahir: The great hero of Men; that Barahir?” Sam’s face was blank for a second from shock.

                “Yeah,” he said, and Dean’s face went white. He quickly grabbed the book from the desk and flipped through the pages until he found the right one. It was at the end of the book, and looked worn, as if someone had run their fingers over the lines hundreds of times.

                “Here,” Dean said and pointed to the name. Sam looked at the genealogy of the house of Beor with curious eyes until he lit upon the name Dean had pointed out.

                “Beren, son of Barahir; the son of Bregor,” Dean read carefully with a shaky voice, “was a vassal of the House of Finrod Felagund, by Beor the old.” He then pointed to the names and dates that were listed in a long line. Sam looked at his brother with awe before he turned back to the blanket.

                “Dean this is the family tree of Beren,” Same said his eyebrows high on his forehead. His voice was breathy and shocked. Castiel looked around Sam at the book and studied the bloodline.

                “It is also identical to the embroidering on the blanket,” Castiel said, “this indicates that Barahir, of the House of Beor the Old is your father.” Castiel pulled the book out of Dean’s hands and began to study it. He turned the page back one and found another surprise, “as is this one through your mother.” He said. He turned the book to Sam and Dean and showed them the family tree of the House of Finwë. Dean and Sam’s eyebrows shot to their hairline, and once Bobby craned his neck high enough, he swore.

                “Balls, Dean,” he cursed, “ya idjit, you’re not just Half-Elven, you’re royalty!” Dean’s head whipped around to face Bobby with eyes blown wide to the size of saucers.

                “Royal,” Dean breathed as his face went pale, and he swallowed hard. “Sam, what is this book?” he asked with a shaky voice and equally shaky hands, as he pointed to the book in question in Castiel’s hands. The angel closed the book and turned it over to read the cover.

                “The Silmarillion, by John Ronald Reuel Tolkien,” he said, “edited and published posthumously by Christopher Tolkien.” Suddenly there was a thump, and Castiel, Sam and Bobby turned around to see that Dean Winchester had fainted.




Chapter Text



To say that Finrod was eager to meet his eldest son was to say that a twister blows wind, a complete understatement. I have him the tools he needed to find his son, but it was a very long and arduous journey. The country was large and the Winchester brothers spent most of their time on the road; which made tracking them down difficult on a good day. Trying to find them during the Apocalypse was near impossible. The boys were on the run from other hunters that wanted them dead, the law, and most of Heaven and Hell. But all was not lost. For every monster Finrod and Brego slayed was a step closer towards finding Dean and one step closer towards their increasing involvement in the War. Finrod didn’t care; he had fought in one Holy War before during the First Age, against Morgoth and Sauron, so fighting the pitiful creatures that called themselves Demons, when he fought the dread Balrogs of Morgoth, it was no difficulty. But I warned them that their involvement would intertwine their fates with those of the Winchesters, and their ultimate fate; a fate to which my gaze and foresight is blind. It is obscured to me, so much that it may as well be not written. I did not know if this was for good or ill, but all I do know is that the end would come, and I must trust in Fate to push towards its ultimate conclusion.

Finrod and Brego had just finished a hunt with a partner, a fellow Hunter in the community, and he asked them to join him for a drink at the Harville Roadhouse; a known Hunter’s dive, run by a Hunter’s widow. Brego smiled wide and bright at the invitation, while Finrod remained reserved about it. He didn’t trust the man’s ulterior motives, but he ultimately agreed. Brego drove them to the place and pulled his car to a stop before the new building. It had obviously been burnt and rebuilt very recently, but it retained its old charm. Brego turned his gaze to the Hunter that led them there. The man ignored the piercing eyes of the Half-Elven and stepped out of his pickup truck. He straightened his coat and walked up to the porch, before he stopped and turned to wave them over.

Brego turned in this seat and looked back to Finrod. The former King of Nargothrond gave his son and encouraging smile before he unlatched his seat-belt, and opened the door. Brego quickly did the same, and stepped out of the car; his keen gaze running once more over the façade of the building. The building had an old look, despite its new construction; its brown wooden boards worn and warped in some places on the siding. The windows were about the only thing that looked new, and the swinging doors, though they looked fairly old, were hanging on new hinges. Brego and Finrod shut their doors and walked up the path to the porch. The old and new wood creaked and groaned under their steps, almost as if to welcome them. Finrod smiled with a chuckle, remembering the many bars and inns he had seen in the large fortresses in the other Elven Kingdoms. They opened the doors, and upon entering they found the Roadhouse to be dark, but warm inside. The tables were small and cozy with a few booths lining the walls, and it had more of a feel towards an old Western Saloon than a new bar; especially with the dark wood bar and old bar stools surrounding it. There were a few patrons already inside, and it was apparent to both of Finrod and Brego that they were all Hunters. They had a mean and rough look about them, and they all had the same eyes: worn and haunted, like they’d seen too many things. Finrod glanced at his son, and the younger gulped nervously, before he squared his shoulders and put on a big charming smile. Finrod shook his head wistfully, seeing Barahir in their son more than ever; quirks and all. The blond elf followed Brego into the room and towards the bar. They sat down at one end and smiled at the man across from them nursing a beer. Their partner for the day was settled in beside them, at a fair distance, and called for the bartender to bring them some whiskey.

The woman tending bar turned around and placed a set of glasses before them. She carefully poured out their drinks, and slid them over to their hands. Finrod studied the woman for a moment before he picked up the shot glass and knocked back the drink in one swallow. She was an older woman with auburn hair, pulled back into a messy ponytail. She had frown lines on his forehead and a hardened look to her eyes that told him that she too was a Hunter, and that she had lost someone to the War. She wore a plaid shirt over a t-shirt and even though she was hard on the men she served, she had a mother’s heart hiding behind her gruff exterior. Finrod smiled at her as he knocked back the whiskey, but immediately puckered his lips and choked around the bitterly strong smoke flavor. He swallowed it down and coughed a bit around the burn in his throat.

                “Ugh,” he gasped, trying to catch his breath. He shook his head a few times to clear away the cobwebs in his head, and shivered before he composed himself again. The woman snickered at the redness to his eyes and smiled.

                “Bit strong for you, dear,” she asked with a laugh. Finrod shook his head.

                “No, it not that,” he answered, swallowing the strong after taste, “it’s the flavor. I never could quite like that smoke wood taste. I never understood why my cousin even brewed such vile tasting liquor,” he shivered and blinked a few tears out of his eyes. The woman laughed and several other Hunters did as well, snickering into their glasses. “I think I’ll drink my own liquor, thank you very much,” Finrod said with a good natured smile. He reached into his saddle bag and pulled out a bottle of Valinorean Mirruvor, followed by a smaller flask bottle of Dorwinean wine. Finrod poured a small shot of the Mirruvor into the shot glass and downed it in one gulp. He sighed in contentment as the liquor washed away the harsh burn of the Whiskey and warmed him inside; washing away his stress. Brego reached for the bottle surreptitiously and Finrod slapped his hand, fixing his boy with a sharp look as well.

                (‘Not until you’re older,’) Finrod reprimanded via Osanwe. Brego had the sense to look properly chastened and gave him a sheepish smile, before he turned back to his drink.

                “May I have a wine glass, if you have one, and some water, please?” Finrod asked the woman. The woman smiled, nodded, and set the glass on the bar before giving him a pitcher of cold water. Finrod smiled, “thank you.” He poured a small measure of the dark nectar thick wine, and then added water to the glass until it reached the largest part of the bell, to dilute the wines strength. He swirled the glass to mix the water with the wine and brought it up to his nose. All eyes were on him as he took a deep breath of the scent then sipped it. There was a sigh of relief when he set it down after only a single sip. Finrod looked up at the woman who was staring intently at him, and asked, “What is your name, miss?”

                “Its Mrs. Actually; Mrs. Ellen Harville,” she answered. Ellen held out her hand and Finrod gladly took it and giving it a firm shake in greeting. Finrod let go of her hand and gestured to his son.

                “Finrod is my name,” he introduced himself, “and this is Brego, my son.”

Ellen stiffened when she heard the name and finally set eyes on the boy. She had heard the rumors of the double of Dean Winchester out there, but she didn’t think that he would have the balls to come into a Hunter’s bar. She scrutinized the boy, her hand gripping the silver knife under the bar, before she saw the silver necklace and pendant hanging around his neck and resting on his bare sternum; touching his skin. She relaxed a little, but was still wary of the other man. Now that she had a good look at him she could see the resemblance to the other, and she knew that there was a thin line between just a coincidence and the Supernatural. She forced herself to stay loose and looked back at Finrod.

                “Your son, eh,” Ellen asked with a raised eyebrow, skeptical; and Finrod nodded earnestly. “He looks a lot like John’s boy: Dean,” Ellen hedged, and sure enough at the mention of Dean, Brego’s eyes snapped to Ellen.

                “You know Dean,” he asked excitedly before Finrod could answer. Ellen smirked and nodded nonchalantly as she cleaned a glass.

                “Sure do,” she said, “stubborn as his daddy, that one.” she grumbled but Finrod smiled softly; knowing that his sons were so alike, just like their father.

                “Do you know where we can contact them,” Finrod asked. Ellen gave him and odd look, her eyes fierce before she deigned to answer.

                “Most of the time Dean and his brother Sam are on the road,” she said picking up a glass and cleaning it out with a dishcloth. She looked back up at them once she put it down and picked up another, “but in a pinch, you could contact Bobby Singer. He sometimes lets ‘em crash at his place. He might know where they are, and have ‘em get in touch with you.” Finrod looked at Brego and felt a trap when he heard on, but what choice did they have. Brego looked over at Ellen before he spoke.

                “Singer,” he asked, and turned to his mother, “where have I heard that name?” Ellen mulled over whether or not to tell them but her gut said to go with it.

                “Bobby owns a salvage yard in Sioux Falls, South Dakota,” Ellen told them. Just then the phone rang, and she turned away to answer it; leaving Brego and Finrod alone.

Brego looked at his mother for a moment, and saw that Finrod had finished his drink. The golden Noldo stowed away his bottles back in his bag, and pulled out several dollar coins from his pocket. He placed the proper amount on the bar, before he turned and touched Brego’s arm as he stood. Brego finished his drink and did the same, before following his mother out the door. They headed for their car and looked at each other over the hood. Brego opened the driver’s door and slid into the seat. Finrod did the same and sat in his seat with a smile, before he shut the door with a creak and slam. Brego started the car and waited for Finrod to buckle up before he turned and looked at Finrod, closing his own door. Finrod was smiling with misty eyes, and he looked truly happy for the first time in a long while.

                “A lead,” he said, “we finally have a lead, Brego,” his mile grew even brighter, “we may find him yet.” Brego flashed Finrod his own cheerful grin, before he put the car in reverse and pulled out onto the road. Finrod pulled out a map, and plotted their route towards Sioux Falls.

In the Roadhouse, Ellen looked out the window over her bar, and watched the car drive away. Once she was sure it was gone, she quickly dialed Bobby’s number.

                “What,” the old Hunter groused, and Ellen pulled the phone away from her ear with a wince.

                “Jeeze, Bobby,” she hissed, then joked, “what made you so cranky; someone lose your favorite book?” Bobby grumbled in irritation on the other end of the line, much to Ellen’s amusement.

                “More like trying to wake up a blasted Winchester from a dead faint,” the Hunter grumbled back, and Ellen snorted before what he said registered.

                “What happened,” he asked holding the phone to her ear with her hand now instead of her shoulder, and gave the older man her full attention. She heard Bobby snap at someone on the other end before he answered.

                “Blasted idjits,” he grumbled, “its nothin' serious, Ellen; learned a bit of shocking news that’s all. Then he up and fainted on us, like a right school girl,” he joked, and Ellen laughed. “Why are ya callin’? Were there anymore signs?” Ellen shook her head out of habit and verbalized her negative to the phone.

                “No,” she said, “no signs, but a couple of Hunters came through here just a minute ago,” she told him, “the two of them are headed your way. One of ‘em looks just like Dean,” she said and laughed, “thought it was a gutsy Shifter before I saw that silver necklace he was wearing.”

                “What’s his name,” Bobby asked intently, his attention caught in full.

                “The double,” she asked and received a snappy “yes” in answer. “I think it was Brego.”

                “Balls,” Bobby swore, and sighed “well thanks for the heads up, Ellen,” he thanked her and hung up. Ellen looked at the phone in her hand, now giving her a dial tone, before she hung it back up with a shrug.

                “Well that was weird,” she mused quietly to herself, then returned to pouring drinks, and handing out Hunts to Hunters passing though.



Back at Bobby’s, Sam was softly slapping Dean’s cheeks to get him to wake up. They had moved him to the couch from the floor in an effort to wake him, to no avail. Sam smacked him a little harder, but it was no use, Dean was dead to the world. Castiel put his hand on Sam’s shoulder and pulled him gently aside. Sam moved away and watched as Castiel placed two fingers on Dean’s forehead. In an instant Dean’s eyes snapped open and with a jolt he gasped awake.

                “Son of a bitch, don’t do that,” he gasped, and saw Castiel staring intently at him. “Cas, we’ve talked about this,” he said uncomfortably, “personal space.” Castiel moved back and stood, still staring at Dean intently.

                “My apologies,” he said in a gravelly voice. Dean sat up and rubbed a hand over his forehead and neck. Once he got over the feeling of his heart about to pound out of his chest, he looked up at the others.

                “What happened,” he asked. Sam snorted incredulously in laughter, a completely disbelieving smile on his face.

                “You fainted, Dean,” he told him with a grin.

                “What,” Dean squawked indignantly, “no I didn’t!” he denied and Sam laughed.

                “Yeah, you did,” he laughed, his smile growing and brightening with every moment. Dean shook his head and decided to drop it for now, before he got into an argument he really didn’t want to lose.

Bobby rolled back into the room with a grim expression on his face. He took one look at Dean and couldn’t help himself from rubbing it in.

                “Well, Dean, if you are done playing Sleeping Beauty,” he ribbed, “we have some more news on your little double.” The two Winchesters looked back at him intently and Castiel tilted his head in confusion over the reference. Bobby rolled his eyes and moved further into the room. “He was just at the Roadhouse, with that Findaráto fella, and Ellen said that they’re heading this way.” Dean paled and looked about ready to faint again, and Sam took on a paler shade himself. “This is a good thing, right Cas?” he asked the angel, and Castiel nodded.

                “We can find out what spell his is using to look like Dean,” the angel mused, “perhaps we can even convince Finrod to join our cause. If this book is accurate, he would be a most formidable ally,” he said. Sam smiled and sighed.

                “Yeah,” he agreed, looking much more colored that before, “Tolkien wrote that Finrod was able to kill one of the first Werewolves with his bare hands, and that he could contend wills with even Sauron.” Dean’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline with pleasant surprise. He blew out a low whistle in approval as a smile pulled across his lips.

                “Wow,” he said, “that’s pretty impressive.” Sam smirked.

                “Yeah, I guess stubbornness runs in your family, Dean,” Sam said, “after all he is your mother, and Beren is your half-brother.” Dean looked a little faint again and sat down, running his hands through his hair; brushing it up in spikes.

                “Yeah, I guess so,” he mused weakly. Castiel sat down beside him, and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. Dean looked over to the angel and gave him a weak smile. “Looks like all we have to do now is wait.” Castiel smiled, and put his hand in his lap again. Sam rolled his eyes at the intense eyes the two were giving each other, and looked over at Bobby with a knowing smirk.

                “Idjits,” Bobby griped, as he rolled his eyes, and wheeled himself back into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. It was getting too weird today without something to keep him awake.




Chapter Text



The long and winding drive from the Roadhouse to Singer’s Salvage in Sioux Falls lasted through the night. In an effort to continue their journey without stopping, Finrod and Brego switched driving so one could rest while the other drove. Finrod spent his time behind the wheel contemplating his son. From what little he had been able to pry out of other hunters, after plying them with drinks and gently compelling them to speak their minds; he had learned that Dean was a faithful and loyal man that protected his little brother with all the ferocity of a mother bear, or a dragon guarding its plunder. Dean was selfless in all other things but in terms of his brother he was selfishly greedy. Hunters called the pair codependent and said that they lived out of each other’s pockets, driving around the country in their father’s old Chevy. More than once were they called homeless bums by other hunters in one breath while being praised in the next breath for their dedication to saving lives. Finrod smiled at the picture of a selfless and dedicated protector willing to break even the law of the land to do the right thing; and as far as he was concerned Dean was every bit his father’s son, and Beren’s brother. He just wished that Dean was better behaved with women. Finrod chuckled at the mental image of Dean meeting and flirting with his aunt Galadriel.

It was just after three in the morning when Brego spelled his Ada and took over driving. Finrod slept the rest of the ride, resting in blissful reverie as Irmo Lorien placed calming dreams in his mind. Finrod only woke when they passed through town and towards Bobby’s lot. As they pulled out of town and towards where they had been told Singer’s Salvage was, Brego had time to contemplate what was about to happen. All throughout the drive he had managed to put it out of his mind, but now as he pulled into the driveway and maneuvered through the towers of junked cars he began to wonder if it was really a good idea for him to even be here, as a nervous flutter developed in his gut. He pulled to a stop and began to tap absently on the steering wheel in nervousness. Finrod noticed and glanced over at his son out of the side of his eye with a raised eyebrow. A small and fond smile pulled on his lips, as he huffed out a breath of laughter through his nose. Brego turned off the engine and sat in his seat for a long moment, before he gathered his courage and turned to look at his Ada. Finrod’s smile became warm as he reached over and took Brego’s hand and gave it a firm squeeze. Brego took a calming breath and smiled back. Finrod let go of Brego’s hand and opened the door.

Brego sat alone in the car for another moment before he breathed in deeply and exited the car. Finrod stood tall and proud, his hands slightly shaking from nervousness, but otherwise he looked outwardly calm. But Brego knew his Ada, and Finrod only stood straight-backed and regal when he was nervous. Case in point, Finrod began to wring his hands a moment later. Brego smirked and walked around the car to set an encouraging hand on his shoulder. Finrod looked over at his son and sent him a brief and fleeting smile, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat. He closed his eyes took a bracing breath and moved towards the porch. Brego let his hand fall, and followed behind shortly thereafter. As he approached he saw in the drive the big black muscle car, sitting sedately in the yard, gleaming in the morning sun; every inch of its form, well cared for and clean and its black paint shining.

                ‘That’s Dean’s car,’ Brego realized as he thought to himself, and an impressed smirk pulled across his lips. Finrod barely spared the car a fleeting glace, ignoring it in favor of the front porch; his whole thought and sight focused on the door, for behind that door was his son, a thing more dear to him than aught else. He walked up the front steps his heart was in this throat and pounding like the thundering of horses across Maglor’s Gap.



Inside the house was a different matter. The Winchesters, plus their resident fallen angel, found themselves absorbed in research for a possible hunt. Even with the thought of facing a being as old as the pyramids that happened to have killed a Werewolf with his bare hands, and was also Dean’s Mother, it was business as usual in the Singer house. But try as he might, Dean’s heart was just not in it. All he could think about was that his birth mother was coming, and as he paced the room he began to wonder what he was really like. Tolkien’s stories about the First Age were sparse and lacked the heavy detail that his later works had. He knew only the bare minimum about Finrod, but what little they could gather from the appendices and the books Finrod was a kick ass warrior that would have impressed even John with his courage and skill. After all it took a special kind of crazy courage to take on Sauron, and then a Werewolf after seeing what it had done to his companions. Dean was impressed and a little proud to have such a badass dude for his mother, when by all accounts Finrod was a rather peaceful type. Suddenly Dean was torn out of his thoughts by the sound of a car engine breaking the comparative silence of the morning. Dean shot up from the chair he had sat in a moment before then dropped right back down, and his leg began to jitter up and down as Sam stood up and looked out the window.

In the drive a car slowly pulled in, and idled for a moment before it was shut off. Sam let out a snort as he recognized the car model. The tall Winchester smirked and shook his head in exasperation, as Dean stood up and went to his brother’s side. The elder of the two saw the car and a bright smile appeared on his face.

                “At least he’s got good tastes,” Dean said with a low whistle. Sam shook his head in exasperation as he took in the cheery ’67 impala. The car was a gleaming black to match Dean’s Baby, with the painted image of a rising phoenix stenciled on the hood in shades of gray and white with gold and red accents. Dean smiled in admiration. There were two passengers in the car and they sat there for a moment before the passenger door opened. Sam had to stifle a gasp when he finally saw the man that got out of the car. He was a little taller than Castiel, and possibly almost even in height with Sam. His face was framed with shining gold hair that was longer than Sam’s and was tied back loosely in a gold clasp. His face was youthful and very handsome with not a trace of facial hair. Sam could instantly see the familial resemblance, in his lips and smile, and his eyes; they were the same color of aqua green as their, or rather, his mother, and of course the same golden hair. He also had a strong jaw and a high, kingly brow that was similar to Dean’s, but in his cheeks and his chin they were slightly different. They were built different too. He had the broad shoulders of a warrior and tall lean muscular build of an Olympic athlete, whereas Dean was bulkier through the chest, but no less through the shoulders, and was thicker in the waist. He also lacked Dean’s bowed legs. Dean’s mother looked in a way, almost delicate with his fine bone structure and lean build. If it were not for the fact that he had very famously battled with a Werewolf with just his bare hands and won, and also battled wills with Sauron, Sam would have never thought the Elf capable of violence by sight alone. Then the driver stepped out of the car. Sam felt as if someone had stolen the breath from his lungs, when he saw him. He was identical to Dean, but not so much so that he was a perfect copy like a Shifter would be, but like a twin would look compared to another. The only difference Sam could spot at a distance was that the twin looked more youthful and less careworn and he had a happy spring in his step. Dean swore profusely beside him, when he saw the driver.

                “Holy… Son of a bitch, Sammy, he looks just like me!” Dean cursed. Sam nodded in detached wonder as he watched Finrod walk up the steps and stand on the front porch before the door. Sam looked over and found that Castiel had taken a spot next to Dean and tilted his head curiously as he observed Dean’s mother.



Castiel looked intently at the creature on the porch. He had heard about the Eldar from Michael long ago, and about their protectors, but even he was startled by the purity and radiance of the soul barely held within the confines of his form. It was so pure and full of goodness that it was obviously not a threat; not to mention the fact that it walked right through the wards without a flinch, stopping right in front of the door. Castiel pulled back the veil with his sight and peered into his soul, and again he was taken aback by the purity and brilliance of it. It glowed so brightly that the Elda’s own skin radiated its light. It looked like a soul that had been nurtured within the light of an angel’s Grace, and came forth even more brilliant and pure than any he had seen before; other than Dean. This was a soul that had been born in purity and in the peace of a Blessed Realm. Castiel saw the thread of nervousness and worry running through it like a wavelength of blue and purple light, a thing he had seen in Dean’s soul hundreds of times, but these colors were slowly being drowned out by the gold and silver threads of courage; as he tried to regain his nerve.

Castiel observed this soul for a moment more before he turned his Sight to the other person slowly making his way towards the Elda. Again Castiel felt his failing Grace flair with shock when he finally beheld him. The double was obviously no Shifter, for his soul was a perfect Twin to Dean’s, but whereas Dean’s bore the scars of the losses he had endured and those of Hell, this soul held the purity and innocence that Dean’s lacked. There was also a brilliance to it that came from his mother, and it had a mortal strength was well. These were things that, now that he saw them unblemished by the scars of Hell and life, he recognized in Dean. How could he have not seen this, Castiel wondered, ‘How could I have been so blind?’ the Twin came up the steps and rang the doorbell. Bobby grumbled about ‘idjits’ and rolled his chair over to answer.



Brego came up behind his Ada and waited after he rang the doorbell for someone to answer. The old white door swung open and an older man in a wheelchair swung into view. Finrod look at the man with a touch of pity before he smiled with genuine warmth and kindness; there was pity yes, but it was the pity of someone who knew how hard this must be on the older man. You can take the warrior away from the fight, but you can’t take the fight out of the warrior.

                “Yeah,” the older man groused, “whaddya want?” Brego raised an eyebrow at the gruff greeting, but Finrod for the most part ignored it.

                “I, well rather, we… are looking for someone,” Finrod said in his most diplomatic manner, “we were told that you might be able to contact him.” Finrod conveyed his hopefulness with his expressive eyes, and prayed the old man would help. The gruff old man gave him a once over as he chewed on his thought before seemingly coming to a decision.

                “I might,” he said cryptically, “who are ya lookin’ for?” Finrod’s shoulders relaxed a little and his smile softened.

                “the Winchester brothers: Dean and Sam,” Finrod started, “we were told you would know where they are; so do you?” the old man looked over at Brego with an appraising look then mulled over the question for a moment, before he gave them a nod.

                “Yeah, I know ‘em,” he said and Finrod brightened, his eyes hopeful. “Dean, Sam!” he called back into the house.

Finrod gripped his hands together tightly, and Brego pried them apart to take one in his own. He gripped the hand tightly as he heard the sound of footsteps approaching the door. The old man swung his chair around to let them enter, motioning them inside. Brego stepped in first, and the moment he stepped over the welcome mat the aging hunter seemed to relax a little. Brego pulled Finrod in with him and over the threshold, and as soon as he stepped over the mat and into the house he was nearly overwhelmed by the sense of fear and desperate urgency that had taken hold in the house. Finrod nearly staggered at the weight of it but shook his head clear of the emotional maelstrom permeating the house. The old hunter closed the door and wheeled into the kitchen, and Brego and Finrod followed him. Finrod caught a glimpse of a study that would have done his uncle Fëanor proud; books and papers stacked up high on a desk and on shelves with a sense of ordered chaos. Finrod cracked a grin, remembering his old uncle’s office/workshop and how it would have papers and journals stacked on any available surface with only his worktable remaining clean. Fëanor may have been a very structured person but his shop and personal workspace was barely organized chaos.

The old man opened the fridge and handed them a couple of cold beers. Finrod looked down at the drink and knew instantly that it was a test, so he drank it anyway; swallowing the brewed ale down in a mouthful. Brego followed his Ada’s example but grimaced at the watered down drink. He threw the old man a nasty look, but the hunter seemed satisfied by the response. He relaxed even more with a smile and finally held out his hand in greeting.

                “Name’s Bobby,” he said and Brego clasped his hand with a tight smile.

                “I’m Brego,” he said with a sour look, and added, “your beers horrible.” Bobby just replied with a pleased smile on his bearded face. Finrod held out his own hand with a smile.

                “And I am Findaráto Ingoldo,” he said as he clasped Bobby’s hand and bowed his head slightly in respect.

Finrod’s easy smile vanished when he heard footsteps coming from the study. He turned around and saw a very tall young man with hazel eyes and chestnut hair. Just behind him stood another man in a tan overcoat with a serious face and intense blue eyes, and wild dark hair. Finrod was taken aback, and for a moment he thought that he was one of his own kinsmen, but as he peered deeper he saw the fading outline of failing wings. In an instant he knew him to be one of the beings not unlike the Ainur, and most certainly a kinsman to Lauro, and the one that Avery had told him about. Finrod place his hand over his heart and bowed his head respectfully to the powerful being. If there was anything that spending time in the Valinor growing up taught him, it was to respect the beings of Creation and the mighty Servants of Eru: just not all of them.

                “Mae govannen, Ainu,” he said with calm and practiced reverence, and the being smiled softly in appreciation before bowing his head in acknowledgement. “Im Findaráto, Hir nin.” (Well met, holy one. I am Findaráto, my lord.)

                “I am Castiel,” the holy one replied in kind, “I am an Angel of the Lord on High.” Finrod felt as if his very breath was stolen away at the statement. Aside from Avery’s son and ardent protector, he had never met a true angel, and now one stood before him garbed in the form of a humble man. Brego bowed deeply at the waist and spoke in reverence to the angelic kin of the Ainur with a kind word.

                “Im Brego Imrathon, Hir,” he said, his head bowed to his chest. He tall one chuckled and cocked a crooked smile as he held out his hand.

                “I’m Sam,” he said, as Brego took his hand. Brego found his smile growing at the obvious mirth in he saw in the other’s face. Then Sam stepped aside, and Brego was face to face with his twin.



Dean held back while Sam and Castiel went to greet the two visitors. He watched warily from the doorway behind Sam as Finrod greeted first Sam then Castiel with a reverent bow of respect. Dean cracked a grin, knowing Castiel would appreciate the respect in the gesture. The doppelgänger greeted Castiel with a deep bow, and reverent smile, and a friendly handshake to Sam. Then suddenly Sam stepped aside and Dean found himself face to face with his double. Dean stepped forward hesitantly, all the while studying the man before him. His double stared his mouth open in shock, and Dean found himself doing the same, before he suddenly had an armful of his double. The man pulled Dean tightly to his chest and wrapped him in a bruising hug; his mouth smiling against Dean’s ear.

                “Hanno,” he whispered against Dean’s ear before pulling away (Brother.) Dean saw tears in the other’s eyes as he cupped Dean’s cheek with a joyous smile spread wide across his face. “I found you,” he said with a giggle. Dean gazed back at the double dumbfounded at the smile, and the tears now rolling down his face. Most of all he wondered why he would hug him, but before Dean could ask or ponder it further, the double pulled away. Suddenly Dean found his gaze drawn to the Elf that was slowly moving towards him.  Finrod stopped before Dean, his face a picture of wonder and unbridled love, tears shining brightly in his luminous eyes. He reached out to Dean with his hand and touched Dean’s cheek, his fingers gently smoothing over the rough whiskers and peach fuzz before gently cupping his cheek. Dean realized with a start that he was being admired, and marveled, and found himself smiling softly. Then it suddenly hit him, like a ton of bricks: this was his mother! This was the being that carried him, nurtured him, loved him for 9 months, and gave birth to him before, regretfully giving him away to another family. The very idea that he was loved so much that his mother sent him away to protect him, brought a tear down his face. Finrod’s brows pulled in sorrowful compassion as he wiped away the tear with a brush of his thumb, all but ignoring the ones on his own face.

Finrod chuckled weakly as the tears of joy began to run down his face. Dean stared at him with love and wonderment, a fragile smile pulling on his lips. Suddenly Finrod found his paralysis gone, and he all but launched himself at his son, pulling him into Dean’s chest and wrapping his arms around Dean as tightly as he dared. This was his Son! Finrod wondered; His little Imrathon. The child he had nursed but once before he gave him away, along with a piece of his heart. And Finrod’s heart swelled with love and he felt his soul brighten as the piece of himself he had thought long lost snapped into place; his fears melting away. His spirit soared and a great weight lifted, and he suddenly felt as if he had never been though the horrors of the first age. He felt young again, his heart uplifting with the same adventurous spirit of an Elf hoping for new beginnings in the Outer Lands. His very countenance even changed, and Brego gasped as he began to glow with the radiance of one of the Eldar. Finrod in this moment had no joy greater than this: holding his son in his arms again; save, perhaps, the joy he felt at the birth of his child. It showed in his form as the light of the Noldor enveloped him and his son in radiance. Finally he pulled away, finding in his heart the need to see his son speak just as much as hear it.



When Finrod finally pulled way, Dean felt suddenly bereft of something; as if he had lost a part of himself he had only known in his hart and dreams. Dean felt the overwhelming desire to pull Finrod back into an embrace just to feel it again. Dean looked at Finrod and saw that there were tears on his face, and that he looked different. It was almost as if he had been filled with light to the point that it radiated from every pore. Then he understood why they called the Noldor of Aman he Light Elves; Finrod looked as what many angels were thought to look like: fair of face and form, with a body suffused with hallowed light, making them otherworldly in appearance; a kind and loving warmth that radiated from their very being.

                ‘This is my mom,’ Dean thought, and Finrod smiled, his laughter like unto the tinkling of many bells and chimes, and his smile like sunlight and moonlight. Dean heard a strange voice suddenly coming into his mind, and with a start he realized it was Finrod’s.

                ‘You are my son, Imrathon,’ he said, mind to mind, ‘no matter what your name, you are my child; my firstborn. Oh… you look so much like your father, Dean. Our son! Oh look you, my beautiful child.’ Then Dean heard the voice in his ears, and it sounded just as sweet and caring as it did in his mind.

                “My son,” Finrod breathed, tears running down his face anew. “Yonya… oh I missed you so much!” (My son)

Dean couldn’t help the smile that found itself on his face, and wondered how he had lived without him. So overwhelmed by this flow of emotions he need to sit down. Dean reluctantly pulled away and walked back into the library/study, and collapsed onto the couch in front of the window. Dean buried his face in his hands and ran his hands carelessly through his hair. Finrod watched this with concern for a moment before he sat down beside Dean, far more gracefully, and placed a gentle and on Dean’s shoulder. Dean looked up with teary eyes, and dropped his hands to his knees. Finrod’s eyes softened with compassion, as he saw the weariness of his son’s spirit.

                “Dean,” he said his voice rough with emotion. His eyes dropped and he gently took Dean’s hand in his own. He bent down to catch Dean’s gaze before he spoke again. “I never wanted to give you up,” he said with conviction. Sorrow deeper than the sea pooled in his eyes, and Dean found himself lost in Finrod’s ancient gaze. “You must know this. I love you… more than you could even imagine; more than anything; more than life! But …I feared for your life, Dean. You weren’t safe; not with me! This is the only reason… you were sent away.” Finrod confessed and Dean held his hand tighter. His double, Brego then sat down beside him, and Finrod’s face pulled into a joyous smile. “Look at you!” he said with a soft laugh, “together! You have not been this way since before you were born!”

Dean’s face pulled in confusion at this confession and he looked over at his double; a sinking realization coming to his heart, while his mind ardently denied it. Finrod simply laughed. Sam and Castiel joined them, and Castiel seemed especially intent on studying Finrod and Dean together. Finrod saw this and smiled, shaking his head at the curiosity of the angel.

                “Dean, this is your twin brother, Brego,” Finrod said, gesturing towards his younger son. Dean’s head snapped up and his eyes went wide with shock. Castiel squeaked from the back of his throat in stunned shock, and stared wide eyed at the pair on the couch. Dean looked back and forth between Finrod and Brego; who grinned at him and gave a tiny wave.

                “Hello, brother,” he said cheerily. Dean gulped hard and gave Brego a nervous smile. Finrod reached out and gave Dean’s hand a squeeze, smiling at him before looking back at Brego. Dean looked pensive and Finrod saw a hint of envy in his eyes before they dropped with shame and worry.

                “What is it?” Finrod asked softly. Dean looked up at him with sad and lonely eyes.

                “Why did… why didn’t he get…” Dean stumbled and tried to ask, but he couldn’t find the words to say that wouldn’t sound jealous.  Finrod seemed to understand because he eyes became filled with old sorrow and pain when he looked at Brego with a sad smile.

                “I didn’t know I was carrying twins, Dean, and when you were taken away… I didn’t know I would birth another,” Finrod said and smiled, swallowing around a lump in his throat. “You see, elves can tell what the gender of a child is by connection to it, and twins, they are considered one soul split between two forms. Brego died shortly after birth,” he said with sad eyes and Dean looked back at his twin, “his soul departed for Mandos, and after I had died and had entered the halls of Waiting, awaiting my re-embodiment, I didn’t know this and had wondered what had happened to my child. I was given a very wonderful surprise, when he was returned to me, after I returned to life. Oh, Dean,” Finrod sighed, reaching out to touch Dean’s cheek tenderly. “I love you both… so much. I knew Brego was alright but you Dean, I knew nothing. You are Half-Elven, and thus given the Choice of the Peredhel. To choose between the Life of the Eldar, or to be mortal, and to be granted the Gift of Men. You are of two worlds, Dean, and this is why I came. Your choice will determine your fate. Whichever one you choose, Dean, know that I will always love you. But I wanted you to know you had a choice, and to not have it made for you.”

Dean took a deep breath and wiped his hand down his mouth, a weak smile pulling at his thinned lips as he gulped hard and chewed on this new information. Finrod squeezed his son’s hand encouragingly, a warm smile on his face.

                “this is a lot to take in,” Dean said wanting nothing more than to stand and pace; to rant and rave, curse swear, and be angry, but he didn’t want those sad and hopeful eyes to be broken and full of dejected despair. Castiel saved Dean from further awkwardness by speaking.

                “Both you and Brego were re-born in Valinor before the War of Wrath,” he clarified and suddenly found himself under the scrutiny of both Sam and Bobby’s impressed gazes, “what?” he asked, and Sam raised a questioning eyebrow, “it was informative reading, and I like to know my adversary.” Sam scoffed and cracked a crooked smile before rolling his eyes, and getting to Castiel’s point; seeing the confused nod and curious look on Finrod’s face.

                “What Castiel is trying to say is that we need your help,” he said, “your exploits are well documented and you have a wealth of knowledge that we could use right about now. Would you help us?” Finrod contemplated this for a moment before he answered.

                “Yes,” he said, and Sam sagged with relief, “we will help, but,” he said, “I have one condition.” Sam looked at Dean and conveyed his trepidation before Dean jumped in.

                “What condition,” he asked and Finrod smiled at his son.

                “Come back with me, with us,” he said and took Dean’s hand, “I want you to see your home, meet your people, see your grandfather, see the land of your kin.” Finrod smile hopefully trying to convey his desire in words to his eldest son. Brego grinned and gripped Dean’s shoulder tightly turning him to look at him.

                “You’ll love it, brother, it’s beautiful, and grandfather will adore you. You can meet our cousins, and maybe even great-grandfather Finwë. You can meet Beren’s descendants,” Brego said with a wide grin.  Dean clenched his jaw and chewed on his lips, as he mulled over the information; gripping his hands tightly. Finrod came from the Second Age, and probably didn’t know what had happened to Numenor, or he was giving him a chance to see his kinsmen in Ennorath before going to Valinor. He looked up after a moment with a determined look in his eyes before he answered.

                “Okay,” Dean said, “we’ll do it, but Sam goes too,” he demanded, “that’s non-negotiable!” Dean expected a fight but instead Finrod sagged in relief, smiling with a nod as tears of joy and relief ran down his face. Finrod swiftly pulled Dean into a powerful embrace before he pulled away. He kissed Dean’s cheeks and forehead before resting his own against Dean’s a soft smile on his face.

                “I hope none of us come to regret this decision, Yonya,” Finrod said with a vibrant smile (my son). Tears misted in his eyes as he smiled lovingly at his son, and Dean smiled back. Castiel looked at the pair with longing, remembering the acceptance and brotherhood he felt with the Host and how powerless he felt without them, in his long and slow descent into humanity being cut off from them. Finrod looked over and saw the longing and sorrow on the angel’s face instantly, and remembered the gift the Valar had granted him to give. “The Valar will most assuredly welcome you with open arms, Castiel,” he said. Castiel looked up suddenly with wonder and fragile hope burning in his eyes. Finrod smiled, “after all, are not the Cherubim and Seraphim brothers and sisters to the Ainur? They would welcome your presence.”  Castiel’s countenance brightened, as hope and joy filled his fragile Grace to overflowing. Finrod stood up and pulled away from Dean to gladly clasp Castiel’s arms in a Warrior’s embrace; forearms clasped and heads bowed to meeting. A spark of Power passed through Finrod and into Castiel’s arms soothing hurts and bolstering his strength. When they pulled apart it was with a far greater respect for one another, as brothers-in-arms against the darkness and evil of the World.

                “Alright, if we’ve all had our little chick-flick moment,” Bobby groused, “can we get on with the plan to stop the apocalypse? And maybe get me out of this blasted chair!” Bobby shook the arms of his wheelchair with a pointed look, and glared at the gun sitting innocuously on the desk. Brego looked at the gun and stood up to study it while Finrod sent a smile and pointed look at Castiel. The falling angel tilted his head curiously, his brows scrunched in puzzlement.

                “What Grace is given me, I pass to you,” he said and Castiel suddenly felt different. He walked up to the crippled hunter and pressed two fingers to Bobby’s forehead. There was a light glow that passed into the aged man and after a moment he felt warm. His eyes widened and he gingerly braced his arms on the armrests, and slowly levered himself out of his chair and onto this feet. The aged hunter stood wobbly on his feet for a second before he took his first steps out of his chair in months. Bobby looked up with a shocked expression on his face, and, for a moment, Dean and Sam thought they saw tears in the old man’s eyes. Dean looked up at Castiel with awe.

                “How,” he asked, “I thought you were out of mojo.” Castiel looked just as bewildered and awed as Dean before he looked at Finrod. Finrod simply smiled. “Mom?”

                “I was given a gift from the Valar to give to you, Castiel,” he said, his smile pleased and contented, “a connection to Eruman, the Heaven of heavens, and the dwelling place of Eru, God, via the Valar.” Finrod laughed brightly with a cheeky smile, “in short: they gave him back his Grace.” Brego laughed, causing Dean to break out in an openly cheerful smile his own laughter igniting joyous laughter to erupt in the others. Dean pulled bobby into a powerful hug, and same joined him; for at last hope was kindled where there had been hopelessness, and in that moment their strength renewed.

                “Okay,” Bobby said gruffly, “now that that’s over,” he grumbled as Dean and Sam pulled back, “can we please get on with the plan to stop the devil.” Brego looked back at the gun again and picked it up, studying the craft of it and the Power woven into its making.

                “Yeah,” Dean said, and looked over at Finrod, a hopeful smile on his face, “you see, mom, we got this gun that can kill anything, and if we can get close enough, we’re gonna use it to kill him.” Dean’s hope was so bright that Brego was reluctant to burst his bubble.

                “It won’t work,” Brego said as he examined the gun, “this… weapon…,” Brego paused and lifted the gun in his hands, “it has power but it… it doesn’t have the Power to kill him.” Sam’s shoulders slumped and he sputtered in denial.

                “No, the Colt can kill anything,” he said, and Brego shook his head.

                “It may be powerful, and it might kill most things,” Brego explained, “but this gun… Sam, I’m Noldor. I was raised in Valinor. I was taught craft by the finest craftsmen of the Eldar. I studied under Aulë, the great Smith of the Valar. I know how to create Weapons of Power, I’ve seen how it’s done, and this… this doesn’t have the Power. It won’t kill him.” Brego put the gun back on the desk while the others came to grips with the fact that their idea wouldn’t work. Brego sent his Ada a look and Finrod sat down, worrying his lip. Brego sat down beside him and placed a hand on Finrod’s knee; consoling him.

                “Mother,” he said urgently, “you have to tell them,” Finrod grasped his hand and squeezed hard, his eyes resigned. Dean looked at Finrod with dawning realization.

                “You have plan,” he stated, and after a moment Finrod nodded. He looked up and saw the hopeful looks of his son and the hunters around him. He swallowed hard around the lump of fear in his throat before he answered.

                “There is a spell,” he began hesitantly, “the Valar created it with Eru’s blessing. It was used to lock Morgoth beyond the Doors of Night and into the Void. Not many know that there was a second part to the spell, formed by Varda, the Lady of Light, to prevent the Fallen Ones from returning.”

                “Fallen Ones,” Sam asked. Finrod’s gaze drifted, as if he was reliving some far of horror.

                “Valarauko,” he breathed in nameless terror, as if the very name would summon its presence. His gaze cleared and latched onto Castiel’s. “Balrogs; demons of the ancient world; Corrupted Maiar spirits that fell into the service of Morgoth; they were demons of Shadow and Flame.” Finrod shook his head and continued, “The spell locked them in a cage, in the Void, set with Seals. The Power of these Seals was derived from the Power of the demons themselves. It reduced them to no more than a star in the heavens. When their power is gone, their light is extinguished; they die.” Sam’s eyebrows shot up in stunned shock.

                “If this spell was so powerful, then why not use it on Morgoth?” he asked. Finrod sighed.

                “The spell requires representatives for each of the Valar, or the Valar themselves,” Finrod explained, and sighed looking up at Sam with patient pity. “None of them wanted to do such a thing. For all his evil, for all his Darkness and corruption, he was once their brother; and none of them wanted to essentially sign his death warrant. It was made more for his lieutenant, Sauron, than for Melkor; but they never could catch him.” Again there was a flash of pain across his face and through his eyes was old sorrow, but Finrod breathed and continued on. “I think that the spell could be used against Lucifer, to lock him up, for good. If we have representatives from each of the seven Legions of the Host…” he paused and his eyes glanced between Dean, Sam, Castiel and Bobby, “it might just work.”

                “Whoa, wait… back up,” Dean said holding up his hands. “Seven legions… of Angels?” a confused look stole across his face as he turned to Castiel. “Cas, what do you know about this?”

                “There are seven Legions in the heavenly Host,” Castiel explained, “I come from the first Legion: Michael’s Legion.” Finrod nodded and continued further.

                “There are 77 Garrisons in each of the Seven Legions, but they can all be broken down into the basic types of Angels,” Finrod explained. “There are two separate classes of angels in the Host: the angels, consisting of mostly foot soldiers and cupids; and then the Archangels, consisting of the commanders and generals of the host.  These classes are broken down further into tiers, or power levels. The lesser tier of angels are mostly are mostly Cupids and Cherubs, whereas the Greater angel tier is comprised of foot soldiers, captains, and minor commanders that are Seraphim, all with their own unique classifications. The lesser archangels are far fewer in number, and far more powerful; they tend to be the old Seraphim. These are the direct commanders of several Garrisons, and are the second, third and fourth in command of their respective legion.” Finrod looked up and saw Sam taking notes while Dean listened with genuine interest. Castiel had a look of impressed and pleased respect, while Bobby seemed to be digesting the information.

                “Okay, that’s… wow,” Sam stuttered, a childlike smile on his face.

                “What about the last tier,” Dean asked, and Castiel answered for him.

                “The Archangels,” he said, “the Elder Archangels; the Generals of the Host.” Dean unfolded his arms and looked at Castiel with shock and no small amount of fear.

                “You mean like, Raph and Gabe and all them big dicks,” he asked. Castiel nodded. “Jeez,” Dean breathed and ran his hands through his hair.

                “Michael is the Eldest, and the General of the whole Host,” Finrod expounded, “but he directly commands the First Legion. Lucifer used to command the Second, Raphael commands the third, and Gabriel commanded the Fourth.” Finrod paused as the information sank in before he continued. “The Fifth legion was once commanded by Azazel, but he sided with Lucifer and became Fallen. He was stripped of his title in the Host and cast down with the Devil; he became the Yellow eyed demon. Command of the Fifth has since been given to Lauresel: the Guardian and Protector of Fathers and Children; he came from Michael’s legion. As a Guardian he was given charge with protecting my sister-son: Avery Elfstar, Istilel.” After hearing this Dean interrupted Finrod’s explanation.

                “Whoa, wait; wait; wait; back up,” Dean said shaking his hands in a stopping motion, “your nephew is protected by an Archangel?!” Finrod laughed at Dean’s obvious bewilderment, and explained.

                “Lauro was not an Archangel when he was given charge over Avery, nor when he was born unto him either; he was only a greater Angel at the time,” Finrod explained with a bemused smile.

                “Born unto,” Sam asked, catching Finrod’s choice words. Finrod nodded.

                “Yes,” Finrod confirmed, “Lauro, or Gabriel as he was thus named by his parents, was born into his vessel; as Avery’s youngest son. My nephew, Avery, loves him very much, and Lauro loves them in equal turn. But Lauro knows he has One Father. He is not a fallen angel like Anna; he was given permission to do this.” Finrod expounded further, “He is still a member of the Host. Anyway, the sixth Legion was commanded by Azreal the Angel of Death; and his are the reapers of souls.” Dean and Sam shared a looked with wide eyes before Finrod continued, “He likewise joined Lucifer’s ranks and was killed during the Attack on the Nursery. As such this Legion has remained under the command of the Lesser Archangels in a council, until such a time as God appoints a new General.

                “the last Legion, the Seventh, is Commanded by an Archangel known as the Guardian,” Finrod continued, “he was known as the Blacksmith of Heaven once, and is Michael’s offspring; his youngest offspring.” The collective hunters all shared a look and all at once turned to look at Castiel for conformation. The angel in question squirmed under the scrutiny and blushed.

                “Cas,” Dean asked, “is this true.” Castiel diverted his eyes and cleared his throat nervously.

                “Yes,” he answered cryptically, and shortly.

                “And I always thought that angels were junkless,” Dean said with an amused smirk.

                “We are genderless in the strictest definition of the word,” Castiel corrected, “we are not either gender, but we do have one; just not one that humans could comprehend. We just tend to be referred to as male. It’s easier.” Dean snickered and Sam hit him, sending him a scathing Bitch-face; inferring to Castiel’s obvious discomfort. Finrod raised a brow and continued.

                “As I was saying,” he interrupted, “the Seventh Legion is commanded by the Archangel who was once called Baliel. He now goes by the name he took while he was mortal during the Crusades: Balian D`Ibelin, the Defender of Jerusalem.” Jaws dropped to the floor and eyes widened in shock to hear that an archangel had been on earth within the last millennia, and not just any archangel but one of the Seven. Finrod pushed on, “his Legion are the Guardians; the protectors of mankind.” Sam and Dean sent each other wide stunned looks, while Castiel on the other hand tilted his head with curiosity and slight confusion.

                “How do you know so much about the Host,” he asked, “not even some of the prophets are privy to that knowledge.” Finrod sighed and suddenly his form seemed for bow under a great weight of sorrow and memory.

                “My nephew… he died in the Last Alliance, at the Dagorlad,” he said, “and his spirit went beyond the circles of the World… he,” Finrod paused and swallowed hard, “what he saw, what happened to him… he was changed. He stood before the Throne of God, Eru; the Father of all Creation and He put into his mind His Word, His Will, His Sight,” Finrod looked up and Dean saw tears of wonderment and awe in his eyes, “He saw His face, heard His Word, and was changed. A great Power woke within him, the likes of which had never been seen before in any of His Creation: the Secret Fire, the Flame Imperishable. Avery became the Keep of Fate, the Master of the Rift between Worlds, and the Lord of time. He is known to my people and the people of Arda as the Silmaril: a being forged from the very spark of life that all carry within; formed from the Spirit of Fire, the light of the Trees, and poured into being by the Flame Imperishable. He is a being of Light and Power like none other; only He is greater.” Finrod paused and took a breath to gather himself.

                “He can no longer succumb to a mortal wound, and until his task is done, the task given unto him by God Himself, he will not die,” Finrod swallowed around the dryness of his mouth before he continued. “Eru brought him back to life, and he was changed.” Finrod cocked a smirk and his eyes twinkled with mirth, “but he is still a descendant of Finwë, and his spirit was forged by my uncle, Fëanáro,” he chuckled, “thus he my uncle’s infamous fiery temper. Gabriel was born before this, and into his family to keep him in check, and curb his temper.” Finrod smiled, “Avery told me much of what he saw and of what Gabriel, Lauro, has told him.” Dean sat blank faced for a moment before he raised an impressed eyebrow at the knowledge.

                “Wow,” he said blandly, “that’s… impressive. I don’t believe it, but still.” Sam sent Dean a classic bitch-face, which said just how he felt about Dean’s lack of belief.

                “Dean,” he said, “we didn’t believe any of that stuff about Numenoreans or elves a few days ago,” he ranted gesturing to Finrod and Brego, “and now we have one of the most famous Elves from their historical archives, and documents sitting on Bobby’s couch. Not to mention that Captain America himself was documented as being a Numenorean. If that’s not proof, I don’t know what is.” Dean had the brains to actually look shamefaced and nod his head in assent.

                “Okay, okay,” he acquiesced, holding up his hands in placation, “so in the meantime, to sum up about the spell,” he held up his hand and began counting off on his fingers, “we need seven angels to represent their respective Legions, a place to perform the spell, and lastly bait to get the Devil there. That sound about right?” Finrod nodded.

                “Yes, that’s right,” he answered, “we will also need someone to represent the people of this world: a child of Man.” He leaned over and picked up a book and a sheet of paper and pen. He quickly sketched out the outline of the circle and the points. “They will each need to be arranged to form an eight pointed star, with the representative of Man at the north point. It will need to be painted in an open field, with hallowed water and oil, stained with the blood of each of the representatives. Once he enters the circle the fire will light, and he will be trapped. The circle will be formed of Ainur sigils and Enochian sigils, the older the better, because Lucifer is one of the oldest of the Archangels. The lines of the star will be Ainur, while the rings and circles Enochian.” Finrod looked up to see if everyone had understood him, “I have the original outline for the spell, and the runes used,” he turned to Castiel. “Could you translate the parts needed into Old Enochian?” Castiel took the page Finrod had produced out of his bag and studied it.

                “If I had a month,” the angel said, “maybe,” he handed back the page. “You would be better off finding an Archangel willing to help you. They’re the only ones that know Old Enochian. Perhaps, Balian would help; I hear that he has a fondness for humans.” Finrod smiled sadly and nodded. “As for the representatives, I believe there are some angels that would do this and would be willing to help us. If I am not too far removed from the Host I’d like to volunteer to represent the First Legion.” Finrod smiled widely.

                “I thing you will do just fine,” he said. Dean shifted uncomfortably for a moment then looked at his mother.

                “Would I work,” he asked and Finrod turned back to him with shocked eyes, “as a representative of Man?” Finrod smiled warmly but there was a sad note to it, admiring his son’s willing self-sacrifice.

                “Yes and no,” he answered sadly, as he gripped Dean’s hand. Dean looked dejected, “a representative of this world, Dean. You were not born on this world,” he explained gently. “You are willing to make the sacrifice, but you are unable to.” Sam suddenly looked pensive and quiet.

                “Someone like me then,” Sam asked. Finrod and Dean looked up sharply and fixed their eyes on Sam’s penitent form. “I mean, I’m a representative of this world. I was born here. And I started this,” he said regretfully, “it’s only right that I fix it.” Dean looked in that moment for all the world like he would take the blame himself if not for Finrod’s gentle hand and his twin’s comforting presence.

                “If that is what you wish,” Finrod said and Sam nodded. “Then you are perfect.” Sam smiled hopefully and Dean smirked.

                “Yeah,” he said, “it’s only right that the Vessel of Lucifer be the one to give him the shank.” Dean grinned and Sam sputtered and began to laugh himself. Bobby clapped his hands together, and rubbed them vigorously, all the while with a giddy grin on his face.

                “Alrighty then,” Bobby said. The aging hunter walked over to his desk and grabbed a sketch pad. “Let’s get this started. Finrod if you could write down all the details of the spell, you know incantations and all that, while feathers here gets to rounding up all the willing representative spell participants from the Host. Sam will get ready for the Spell and Dean and I will gather all the necessary ingredients.” Finrod nodded and began to write down the necessary steps to be taken to cleanse Sam, and the ingredients for the spell.

                “Some of these things can only be gathered fresh, like the Angel’s blood,” he said and looked up, “but the others should be just fine if they’re gathered now.” Finrod handed Castiel the spell ingredients list, and went back to sketching out the seal. For the first time since they arrived, Finrod and Brego could sense and aura of hope permeating the house.