Supernatural: Bobby Singer's Guide to Hunting by David Reed Read Free Book Online Page A

the ones they actually have. If an angel was behind this . . . I have to think they’d have done a better job, left my brain in better condition. Left fewer holes.
    But it’s an interesting thought, isn’t it? That I saw what I wasn’t supposed to, and somebody’s making sure that I don’t remember it?
    For the record, I’ve tried to contact the one angel I’m on speaking terms with, Castiel, and heard nothing back. He’s busy fighting a war in heaven, so . . . Guess my problem is small fries compared to that.
    It’s been close to forty hours since I slept. I should shut my eyes for a bit, see if that doesn’t clear some of this up. I’ll come back to this once I can see straight.
    . . . . .
     
    Nope. Sleep’s not happening. It’s about three in the morning now, and I’m wired. I went back out to the junkyard, looked through the car again for clues. Found a few receipts in the glove compartment (a guy’s gotta write off his business expenses), all of them from Ashland, all from before I went back to the swamp. Either I didn’t stop for food on the way back to South Dakota, or I was messed up enough to not care about lowering my tax liability—and I’d have to be pretty messed up for that. Also, some of the receipts were for three meals, which means . . . Sam and Dean were there, maybe the whole time. Why is it I can picture parts of it so clearly but can’t remember who was with me? I mean, I was there to . . . wait. Why did I go to Ashland?
    I just re-read what I wrote about the banshee, almost none of it rings a bell, now. More stuff’s leaking out. Balls.
    I have to blast through this, quick and dirty. Get what I know out there before I don’t know it anymore.
    Angels.
    They’re not the “fluffy wings and harps” types you see on Christmas cards. Angels are divine warriors, soldiers of God—His own heavenly army. Think the Mossad, but with a worse sense of humor. Or God’s Secret Service, including the suits. Their power can’t be overstated. They do have wings, but they’re not visible to humans—while on earth, they use human vessels to move around, like demons. Most of the time, they look like trench coat–wearing mooks.
    Their abilities:
    • Unimaginable physical strength. They can take a licking and keep on ticking. Only the highest level demon stands a chance in a physical fight with an angel. No human dare even try. Bullets, devil’s traps, iron, salt . . . none of it will even ruffle their trench coats. I tried every mystical warding symbol I knew, none of them stopped Cass from walking in the door when Dean and I first met him.
• Smiting. Angels can kill with a touch of their fingers—and some of them don’t even need the touching part. Works on humans, demons, monsters, whatever. If it’s alive in any sense of the word, you bet your ass an angel can kill it. Zachariah gave Sam stomach cancer with a snap of his fingers. Took away his lungs with another snap. You don’t fight angels. You find a way to have leverage over them, or you get killed by them. Even their appearance is deadly. When Pamela Barnes used a séance to spy on Castiel’s true form, it burned the eyes right out of her head. When Cass spoke to Dean with his true voice, he shattered glass and nearly popped Dean’s eardrums.
• Teleportation. As I said, they’re not fluttering around on little angel wings. When angels want to go someplace, they just go , appearing instantly out of the ether. That can be both helpful and damn annoying, since they can appear when they’re called immediately, but they also can leave without so much as a tip of the hat. And just try fighting something that can appear behind you right as you’re swinging your blade.
• Telekinesis. Same as with the high-level demons, angels can manipulate the stuff around them with their minds. Fling people into walls, send out blasts of psychic energy, pick up cars and break ’em in half . . . it’d be impressive if they