Decipher Reflections from Reality
In the playground of a nondescript town in the heart of America, a seesaw tilted and tipped in the wind, rainwater from earlier that afternoon dripping from the metal handlebars onto slivers of tanbark. A faded yellow slide spiraling into the air was scuffed black with the remnants of little boys chasing little girls up the slippery slope. Cigarette butts clogged corners in the walls near a tic-tac-toe board and rickety bridge. Placing one tiny foot before the other in a slow, cautious stride, a little girl with braided pigtails and a bright red jacket walked with determination across the lone blue balance beam on the far edge of the playground. As she reached the end of the balance beam, she glanced toward a park bench where her father sat reading a novel.
"Daddy," she said, voice hoarse. She cleared her throat and called across the playground, "Daddy! Daddy!"
Her father glanced at his wristwatch before rising and jogging toward her. He skipped over the wooden fence sheltering the tanbark and slowed to a walk as he neared the little girl. He crouched until she could peer down at him.
"What's wrong?" he said, rubbing her arms. "Are you tired?"
"No, I am not tired," she said, enunciating each word carefully, as her mother had explained to her the vital importance of proper grammar and pronunciation that morning over oatmeal and orange juice. She glanced over her father's shoulder toward the vacant seesaw that rose and fell in the wind as though children were riding it.
"I want to go home," she explained, catching her father's eye.
He fingered the novel perched on his knee. The bookmark tucked in the center pages fluttered as a breeze brushed past the balance beam.
"We can't leave until Mommy picks us up. She called me just a moment ago and said she'll be here any minute."
Her face constricted. "But I want to go now."
"She'll be here soon, don't worry." Catching sight of the seesaw, his eyes flickered with excitement. He bounced on his knees. "Hey, would you like to play with me?"
She frowned, but nodded. "Okay."
He tucked the book in his inside coat pocket and scooped his daughter into his arms, grunting at her growing height and weight. He went to the seesaw in a pace between jogging and walking, keeping enough speed to distract the girl from wandering her gaze to shadowed trees and empty streets.
The moon hung full in the sky and illuminated the park so much that the lampposts served mediocre lighting. The father caught sight of the moon and paused near the spiraling slide. He extended an arm and pointed toward the black sky.
"See that? Some people say a man lives in the moon."
"Nobody lives in the moon," said the girl simply. "There's no air in the moon."
"That's not true! A man lives in the moon and his home is made of cheese."
"No, he doesn't live on the moo—Daddy."
The father was so caught in their banter that he failed to acknowledge the upward climb of fear and urgency in her voice. He rattled off spindling claims of a man on the moon, his house of cheese, and the notion that the entire moon was composed of cheese. He only stopped talking once his daughter squeezed both his shoulders hard and painfully.
"Daddy," she choked, eyes round and widening further.
"What's the matter, darling? Are you cold? You can wear my coat."
Her grip on his shoulders tightened, the flesh under her nails turned a ghostly white—as did the color of her face. "Daddy," she whispered, "behind you."
.
The sweet taste of flapjacks and fried sausages scented the air of a roadside diner. A portly woman with a bubbly laugh poured freshly brewed coffee into half-full mugs. Bells rang as an order was filled, and the sharp ding could be heard through the stretch of the restaurant. In the booth farthest from the entrance and register, two men sat with an unattended plate of bacon and eggs accompanying them. One man hunched his shoulders over the table and the other wore a comically out-of-place trench coat.
"Must be real tough running Heaven all by yourself," said Dean, spooning a liberal amount of pie into his mouth. Sitting directly across him, Castiel frowned at a plate of French fries. Sam was occupied in the restroom, disposing bodily wastes.
"I am not alone," replied Castiel. "Anna is working hard, in addition to others from my garrison you have not met."
Swallowing caramelized apples and buttery, flaky crust, Dean edged forward and rested his hand near the napkin dispenser Castiel was absently stroking. "I bet you don't find much time to relax."
"It's my duty while God is away. I really have no choice."
"I'm glad you came to see me—and Sam. Me and Sam. Sam and I."
"Sam and me," murmured Castiel.
"Right."
Courage swelled inside his chest, and Dean reached his hand forward to close the gap between Castiel and himself. Entwining their fingers, Dean gazed at Castiel with soft eyes, unable to hide his smile at the sharp intake of air from the angel seated across the table.
"Dean," Castiel gasped, "I find you sexually gratifying."
"As do I, Cas," said Dean, tracing his thumb over Castiel's wrist. "As do I."
"Dean!"
One atrociously loud honk later and Dean snapped to attention, eyesight bleary, and discovered he sat in the passenger seat of the Impala. He witnessed no spoonfuls of apple pie or Castiel in his grasp. There was only Sam behind the wheel looking smug. Dean groaned and turned toward the passenger window.
"Dean, has anyone ever told you that you talk in your sleep?" said Sam. Dean couldn't see it, but he could feel the insidious grin Sam wore.
"What'd I say?"
"Oh," drawled Sam, "nothing much."
"Sam."
"Something we both know. Or, shall I say, someone."
Dean's eyes widened for a fraction of a second and his heartbeat quickened. In moments such as this, Dean saved himself from undesirable conversation through swift change of subject matter.
"We're parked at a motel?" he said, swiveling around to spy Sam's reaction.
Sam narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, and the gears in that massive, Stanford-educated brain visibly turned and switched. Sam directed an obnoxious knowing look at Dean—or perhaps Sam was unknowing. Or perhaps he wasn't. Dean hoped the words uttered as he slept had not betrayed him, but he could not be positive. A digression in conversation was the only sure course of action. And so Dean repeated himself, "We're at a motel? Any reason?"
"Yeah, actually. I found a case for us while you were sleeping."
Sam tapped an uncapped pen against the steering wheel, and it was then that Dean noticed the newspapers littered over Sam's lap. The laptop rested on the dashboard, a light flashing on and off indicating the power was still running, despite the monitor being clamped shut.
Dean rubbed his neck, blowing out a sigh. "When'd we get here?"
"Not too long ago. Maybe one or two hours. Got something to eat while you were knocked out. Read the paper."
Dean huffed, but gestured for a newspaper. Sam handed him a page with red circles and notes jotted in the margins. As Dean dove into the chicken-scratch, a vibration in his pocket stung his thigh. He dug for his cell phone, flipped it open, and grew intrigued at the sight of an incoming text message to his inbox. At first notice of the sender, he shrank into his seat and raised the newspaper to shelter him from Sam's curious glances.
Hello. Where are you? – Castiel
Dean grumbled and found himself replying in an instant.
everywhere and anywhere. why? do you need me?
He stared at his blue jeans as he sent the reply, cursing the moment text messaging had first given him more of a thrill than waitresses with short skirts and nylon pantyhose. Not too long ago Sam had shown Castiel how to send a text message to facilitate keeping in contact. Since then Castiel sent Dean random texts and always signed with a signature at the end. Castiel constantly sent messages, and each time Dean felt like the text was meant for his eyes only, a specialized message. But the messages were for Sam and him, not only Dean. He shoved his phone back in his pocket and settled into Sam's notes. His phone vibrated a moment later with a message, but he ignored it—and the jump in his chest.
"Father murdered and child gone without a trace?" A crease formed between his brows. "Isn't there another case like this in a town nearby?"
"And the town we just left," Sam added. "The first two cases mentioned the parents' hearts were missing from the bodies. Same with this one."
"Got an address?"
"To the park or the father's body?"
"Either."
"Got both."
"Great." Dean folded his newspaper and tossed it in the backseat. "Now get away from the wheel."
After a pit stop for a hearty lunch, the Winchesters found themselves donning translucent plastic gloves while a tiny, copper-haired medical examiner rattled off the information gathered of the recently deceased man in the body bag in front of them.
"He has claw marks all over his chest and arms, which is…weird." The medical examiner hugged a clipboard closer to her chest and pursed her lips into a tight, nervous smile. "His clothes were torn to shreds. It's almost like he was mauled by a large bear."
Elbowing Sam in the ribs, Dean raised his eyebrows, muttering, " 'Mauled by a large bear.' "
"Shut it," shot Sam.
"Oh!" piped the medical examiner. "Something the matter?" She slid her wire-framed glasses up her nose, magnified eyes blinking thrice.
Pulled out from the wall cabinets of the deceased, forty-year-old Jason Nichols lay with white lips and a pallid discoloration to his face and skin. Scratches littered his arms and exposed the bones of his forearm and wrists. Chest unrecognizable, a chasm dove into his ribcage, a dark, empty hole where his heart should have rested. Sam squatted to be leveled with the body, straining to observe as much of the body as possible without prompting the medical examiner to suspect his motives.
"When was the body found? Do you know?" Sam asked.
"I'm not really authorized to tell you that, though it's not like you're going to go off and do anything criminal. You are Inspectors, after all."
She beckoned them to come closer, and the three of them leaned over the corpse like grey-haired spinsters chuckling over biscuits and tea.
"The mother had swung by the park to pick up the father and daughter after her nursing class. When she called the father but he never picked up, she decided to head into the park and check it out. Got to the playground, noticed a trail of blood leading near the slide. She went over to check it out, and then"—she tapped the metal bed on which the man rested—"she found this guy all bloodied and mangled. Daughter's been kidnapped. No one knows where."
Dean felt sick to his stomach. He turned to look at Sam, who mirrored his movements, expression grim.
"Oh, wait, you wanted to know the time of death, right?" The examiner reached for the zipper to seal the body bag. "The father was found around ten past nine, but he died around eight-thirty."
She zipped over the man's face, muttering as the zipper nearly caught on the tip of his nose. Once she pushed the corpse back into its slot, she dusted her hands on her lab coat and gazed at the brothers with her round eyes magnified behind her wire-framed glasses. Flakes of various hues colored her irises, drawing the brothers into her like a seagulls to reflecting glass, vultures to rotting flesh.
"Anything else you'd like to know? We don't get many cases like this being a small town and all."
Dean inhaled sharply and shook himself awake, feeling the start of a headache beginning. "No, that would be all. My partner and I have all we need."
"Well, I'm glad to have been a help to your investigation," she told them, smiling brightly.
.
In the forgotten moments between night and morning, Dean and Sam parked on the block of the playground where the missing daughter had last been seen. Their hypothesis was the werewolves might return to scout for more victims. They had few leads as to where the hideout for the werewolves was located. Or if the werewolves even knew they were werewolves. Or if there was even more than one werewolf, for that matter. The ideal scenario was a werewolf would show its face and lead them back to wherever it lived, but the stakeout seemed to be business as usual. The brothers waited in the car for a sign, prepared to run to the trunk for ammunition at moments' notice.
Despite occasional cooing birds and melodic chirps of crickets, the only noise to pierce the still night air was the patters and pings from beneath the hood of the Impala. Dean tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and Sam flicked his attention across the pages of a worn text. Exhalations froze in the air after each breath they drew, and Dean had an itch in his stomach to crank the radio and fill the car with hot-tempered noise. Yet he kept watch and stayed vigilant. Sam glanced up from his book every other thirty seconds. For a while neither saw a suspicious movement, then a noise pitched clear through the gentle silence—a smooth, hungry howl.
Sam chucked his book at the back seat and the brothers shot open their doors and swung their feet outside. Dean crossed along the Impala in three long strides, unlocked the trunk, and set a shotgun to keep the divider suspended over the weaponry. He grunted a greeting when Sam arrived, and loaded a handgun with silver bullets. He snapped the barrel back in place and passed the gun to Sam before loading three more. Sam dug through the collection of silver knives and placed blades in his shoes, belt loops, over his wrists. In less than a minute, the brothers wordlessly armed themselves, slammed shut the trunk, locked the doors, and stepped onto the sidewalk and through the park entrance.
The police had cleared the yellow tape guarding the playground earlier in the day, but had gone door-to-door and warned people from venturing around the park at night. A gust of wind swept through the winding path leading to the playground. Dean rolled his shoulders against the wind while Sam quickened his pace.
"How many do you think there'll be?" asked Sam.
Dean shrugged. "Enough."
A howl followed by an echoing chorus cut through the silence. By the time the brothers neared the light blue balance beam alone at the edge of the playground, growls and the grinding of teeth were as present in the air as the crickets chirping into the quiet of night. Dean gestured for Sam to cover the east side. At Sam's confirming nod, they separated.
Dean flicked his gaze left to right, clicking in place the bullets in his gun. At the first sight of a werewolf, he was going to shoot. A mantra in his head repeated over and over: Shoot first, questions later. Shoot first, questions later. Shoot—
Sam shot first. Dean swerved around toward the direction the fire originated, but he never made a full turn because clawed fists pounded onto his back. He soared through the air and crashed onto the tanbark, narrowly missing bashing his head onto a metal support beam.
He rolled over, splinters littering the back of his signature leather jacket, to be met with honey yellow irises and saliva dripping onto his cheek. A person that was no longer a person but transformed into a werewolf dug their claws into his chest, keeping him grounded. Dean slithered his hand with the gun up as far as he could manage. Cocking a brow, he slipped on a smirk.
"Nice entrance," he said. "Hope you like the exit." He pulled the trigger and relished in the feel of the bullet's momentum pushing back on him.
The werewolf's eyes flashed a burning yellow before losing focus. Muscles limp from the absence of life, the werewolf collapsed onto Dean, who rolled it onto the tanbark.
Jumping upright, Dean scanned the park and counted the heads of the werewolves closing in on him. Including the wolf he just killed, the total was thirteen. "Sam!" he shouted. "I'm seeing twelve of them. What've you got?"
"Same!"
Twisting his back to crack the knuckles along his spine, Dean arched a brow and let a chuckle pass his lips. "All right, guys! Come at me."
He stabbed and shot and punched his way through as many wolves as he could until a wolf larger than Sam approached from behind and wrestled Dean into a headlock. From the noise of whoops and hollers around him, he predicted Sam was facing a similar predicament. The werewolf squeezed the breath out of Dean and an arm wrapped around his waist to pin down his arms. Dean kicked his legs, and succeeded in smacking his ankle on a support beam. The arm suffocating him tightened around his neck. Dean's vision faded in and out, his lips prickling.
A thought popped into his head—so ridiculous that he doubted it would work, but no more useless than useful. With all the air left in his lungs, he tightened the muscles in his diaphragm and bellowed: "Now's the time, Cas!"
He blinked, and then the werewolf choking him dropped to the ground. Dean stumbled, reached for a figure to cling to, and wound up grabbing a warm, solid mass. As he opened his eyes, he promptly shut them again.
"Another nice entrance."
"You've never called me under such pretenses," commented Castiel, gazing at Dean's hand clutching his forearm.
Catching sight of a werewolf about to tackle Castiel, Dean grabbed his gun and aimed. A bullet sliced through the air and the werewolf dropped dead. Dean indulged himself with looking Castiel over, partially ashamed at the warmth in his stomach ignited by the sight of that tax accountant trench coat.
Castiel's blue eyes were intent on an action in the distance. Castiel stepped around the spiraling slide and toward the sight capturing his undivided attention. When a werewolf came, he outstretched his hand and pressed his fingertips to their forehead, and with a soft groaning howl, the werewolf collapsed onto the tanbark. Dean guarded his back, shooting down the werewolves forced into sleep.
When Dean dove into hunting, he tended to block out the rest of the world. There was his gun and him and that exhilarating euphoria after eradicating evil from the world. At times Dean felt overwhelmed by how much evil existed, but then he remembered that good existed as well.
Castiel, thought Dean, gazing at the angel, whose face was hard in concentration. Dean shot down a werewolf he saw out the corner of his eye darting across the seesaw that moved on its own accord. He remembered from his dream the touch of Castiel's wrist under his fingertips, yet more vividly recalled the strength in that arm he clutched when Castiel saved him from the abnormally large werewolf. Though his hands clutched a gun, Dean swore he saw himself reach out with quivering fingers and trace the threadwork on that trench coat—that damn trench coat.
When sound returned to his ears Dean stumbled at the magnitude. He pressed his palms on the sides of his head; eyes squeezed shut. A howl seeped through the cracks of his fingers and pounded inside his ears. He dropped his gun by accident, and had not noticed until he opened his eyes at saw a snarling werewolf approaching Castiel from behind. Dean wondered how Castiel had not seen the werewolf after he had charged through the others without drawing a sweat. He shook himself awake because in moment such as this there was no time to wonder. He swiped his gun from the ground, dragging with it splinters from the tanbark, and aimed at the werewolf's skull. He pulled the trigger only to hear a hollow click.
Castiel was looking at something at the other side of the playground, near the balance beam and endless stretch of tanbark. Dean looked from Castiel to the werewolf, frantically pulling the trigger. Why hadn't Castiel noticed the werewolf? What if it killed him? Dean would have no one but Sam. What if Sam deserted him like their father? Dean had to stop it.
Castiel paused, too close to that werewolf, and raised his hand. He narrowed his eyes, tilting his head. Unless Dean acted, Castiel was going to die.
Dropping his empty gun, Dean curled his fingers into fists and charged, crying out to gain the werewolf's attention. The werewolf swerved around and snarled at him. Dean leaped in the air and tackled the werewolf, who dodged his attack and shoved him toward Castiel. He crashed into Castiel's shoulder, knocking them both to the ground.
Dean banged his head on the wooden barrier separating the playground from the park. The last he remembered before the world turned black was Castiel shouting a word, a very familiar word.
.
Blinds clattered against the windowpane, stirring Dean from sleep. He tried sitting up, but his body was heavy and hurt to move. He smashed his face into a pillow, breathing deeply, and beside his fingers he felt a chocolate mint under the pillow. His head was pounding and the area behind his right eye throbbed. The bed he rested upon sunk at the corner. Dean had no need to turn his head and see who sat on the edge. Pressing his face harder into the pillow, he waited for Castiel to speak, as Castiel seemed to spend the time waiting for Dean to awake by conjuring food for thought.
Castiel shifted and touched his hand to Dean's leg. "How are you feeling?"
"Like shit," croaked Dean. Grimacing, he rolled over onto his back and rubbed his hands over his face. "When'd we get to the motel? Don't remember much of last night."
"You had a concussion. Luckily I was able heal you." He glanced down to Dean, frowned, then looked away. "What do you last remember?"
"It's a little fuzzy, but I recall being—Where's Sam?"
Castiel rose from the edge of the bed and paced across the room. "I see you have conveniently forgotten the more pivotal moments. Your brother, Dean, has become the werewolves' next victim, but had you not crashed into me, your brother might be with us in this room."
"Whoa, whoa. Wait, what?"
The memories returned, images of a werewolf coming from behind Castiel, ready to attack; Dean getting chucked at Castiel; the vague cry of a single syllabic word. Dean swerved around to spy about the room, noticing it was a single with a king sized mattress. Knots formed in his stomach and he fell back onto the bed, nursing a hand over his forehead.
"Had you not crashed into me—"
"What was I supposed to do? A werewolf was coming in on you. It could have killed you."
"A werewolf isn't going to kill me, Dean. It's far too weak and insignificant. You've placed your brother into their hands. You worry about me dying, but Sam may be dead right now."
"Okay! Okay!" Dean shrunk away from Castiel on reflex. "Relax, will ya? It's okay. We'll just track down the werewolves' hide out, figure out a way to break in, get Sam, and torch the place."
"You've neglected to remember you are at a dead end. You have no way to find out where their lair is."
"Dude. Could you chill with the negativity? That's not going to help finding Sam."
"Whatever."
"Excuse me?"
"I said, as you humans so eloquently put it, 'Whatever.' "
Castiel flew away with a single beat of his wings, leaving Dean to lie alone in the room, glaring at the spot from where he had flown.
.
Wrought iron bars crisscrossed to form a cage in the center of a murky basement. A leaky faucet dripped one drop after another in the sink in an unlit corner. Miniscule glass windows were caked in years of accumulation of dust, rays of light streaming through cracks under the glass. In the center of the cage stood a wicker chair. A man sat on the chair, his ankles tied to the back legs and his hands behind his back. Rope burns plagued his wrists from repeated pulling and tugging. The man's head hung low. An innocent onlooker might steal a glance at him and assume he was asleep or even dead, but he was merely listening to the shuffle of feet approaching the basement door.
The doorknob turned, creaking from lack of grease, and footsteps entered. Click, clack. Click, clack. The man cracked open his eyes and regarded the wooden staircase leading from the basement door. Two pitch-black high heel boots strolled down the stairs. The boots came to pause before the cage, and the man lifted his head. His eyebrows shot into his forehead.
"You?" he said, surprised.
"Oh, Sam Winchester," said the woman. "I've heard a lot about you."
Saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth. He licked his lips and shook his head. "But you're—You—"
"Just a day job, Sam. But let's not worry about me," she said, hooking her fingers around the bars and twisting her mouth into a smile. "You definitely have some other things to bounce around in that big ol' noggin' of yours." She leaned onto the cage, whispering through the bars, "Best be careful who you talk about dead bodies with, Sam. You never knew who's holding the scalpel."
.
For a good, long hour, Castiel's parting words fermented in Dean's brain. Dean lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, straining to remember Sam in imminent danger. A Trickster could be messing with Dean's brain, making him believe in a reality where Sam had been kidnapped—or dead—and where Castiel seethed hatred at him. Absently, Dean retrieved the chocolate mint from beneath the pillow and let it melt in his mouth. The dull ache in his abdomen subsided for a brief moment, and Dean closed his eyes, feeling a rejuvenating lift.
Then the door to his room shot upon, a young college-aged couple stumbling into the room, mouths and tongues devouring their faces. Dean shot up from the bed, accidentally swallowing the chocolate before all could melt. The couple sprang away from each other, eyes wide, and Dean stared back at them, brows high in his forehead. The redness of their swollen lips was visible all the way from the bed.
"I'm just," he said, inching off the bed, "gonna go now."
Of course Castiel would zap him into a random motel room without bothering to pay the bill.
Safe in the Impala, Dean searched through Sam's notes for a link, a clue they had not noticed pointing to the location of the werewolf's lair. He dusted through the clippings and drove to a diner to scrounge up the day's paper, but the answers were so bleak and unapparent, he crushed the newspapers into crumpled balls in his fists and chucked them to the backseat. He collapsed onto the steering wheel, shaking his head until his thoughts swam.
He drove to the playground and circled the block twice before parking and taking a stroll through the park. He crossed over onto the tanbark and retraced his movements from last night, cringing at the red stains on the wooden divider where his head must have crashed. He rubbed a hand on the side of his head, keeping on eye on the red stain as he traveled toward the balance beam.
Tanbark had been kicked around and the soft, moist ground beneath exposed. Must have been the struggle from capturing Sam, deduced Dean. He crouched and splayed his fingers over the footmarks, envisioning a recreation of the scene in his mind. The larger foot impression must have been Sam's. By the abruptness of his marks, the werewolves must have come from behind. Circles of impressions surrounded the larger footprint. He had been ganged up, overthrown.
How could I have missed it?
The footprints then headed past the balance beam and out of the playground. Dean scratched his jaw, alternating his attention from the footsteps in the tanbark to the exiting footprints. Whether a possible lead or another dead end, Dean rose to a stand, then kicked tanbark over the footprints to hide the evidence from townsfolk. He made toward exiting the playground, but before he stepped foot over the dividers, he noticed a yellow substance nestled against a leg of the balance beam. He bent down and tapped the substance, sniffing his fingertip.
"Well, what do we have here?" he huffed, quirking a brow. "Sulfur."
.
Dean took a breather at a bar and relaxed into a barstool at the counter, beer in hand and hypotheses brewing. A demon had been at the playground the entire time. It may have recognized Sam and him, ordered the werewolves to attack, and achieved in getting Sam, possibly for the street cred of having captured a Winchester. Sipping his beer, Dean dipped his brows into his eyes and pursed his lips—his thinking face, but the bartender kept glancing at him like Dean would throw back his chair and pick a fight.
He still had no leads, only more questions. The most important being why would a demon join forces with werewolves. Swigging his beer, Dean figured shouldn't avoid the inevitable and dug through his pocket, pulling out his phone and flipping it open. Two new text messages greeted him like a slap in the face.
We need to talk – Castiel
Where are you? – Castiel
He deleted them without regret and dialed Bobby's number.
The phone was ringing, but Bobby was taking his sweet old time picking up the phone. Dean drummed his fingers on his beer bottle, watching the cold air exiting the neck. After the third ring, a flicker of doubt filtered into his thoughts and his face mellowed into a blank expression.
Bobby was unlikely to take kindly at the news of Sam's whereabouts. The exact reaction Dean predicted would sound an awful lot like: You what? Idgit, how the hell did you manage to get your own brother held hostage by a bunch of Goddamn werewolves with a personal vendetta against the world? No, I am not finished talking, ya' nincompoop. Do you have any idea how stupid you are? And worthless? You sold your soul, Dean—your soul—and now you manage to get Sam killed anyway? You're so Goddamn stupid, I—
He swigged his beer and snapped the phone shut, sucking in a haggard breath. He set the phone on the counter and kept it there. He trained his sights on the bowl of mixed nuts to his left, noticing out the corner of his eye that the bartender was edging toward him. "Great," he muttered, bringing the beer to his lips. "Crying drunk."
He tried calling Bobby a few minutes later, but drew blank as soon as he heard that voice again.
Well, no wonder John left you. You can't even work a case by yourself. What the hell are you calling me for? You're a hunter, so hunt. But then again, you never did graduate high school. Not exactly the brainiac of the family. No, that's Sam. You're the stupid one.
He hung up before he heard even the first ring and downed the rest of his beer. He jerked his hand and the bartender sauntered over with another bottle. Dean waved it away.
"Vodka, please," he said.
He pulled the bowl of nuts closer to him and grabbed a handful. He threw his head back, slapped his hand over his mouth, and ground the nuts between his teeth. When he swallowed the clear, pure liquor in the shot glass awaiting him, he slapped his hand onto the counter for another, and swallowed in one go as soon as the glass arrived.
Then he dialed Bobby again.
I don't understand why those angels even saved you. What did you do to end the apocalypse? Make Sam into Lucifer's meat suit? Got Sam thrown in hell? You're a good for nothing, Dean. You had a chance with Lisa to leave this life, but you weren't even good enough for her to want to keep you. You're worthless.
He requested several more shots, and as he swallowed he noticed the strength had started to taste watered down.
You're a drunkard. You're a fraud. You sleep in motels. Your only real home is a car. You once told me I'm the closest thing you have to a father, but I would never be proud to call you my son.
He hiccupped, running his fingers over the condensation on the walls of the new beer bottle he'd ordered. He took a sip. A pressure lodged in his throat. He tried reading the brands on the bottles of liquor on display, but found his vision to be blurred. He focused his attention on the counter. The lightening of the bar and finish of the counter was dark enough that he didn't have to look too hard to see the countertop.
If you died today, it'd probably take a week to find the body. You've got no friends, and any friends you've got have a home of their own, and their worlds, as much as you'd wish otherwise, don't revolve around you. No one would even want to attend your funeral because no one gives a shit if you live or die. That's what you get, Dean, for being a hunter. Shame you're not even that good of one.
.
Woken from sleep by an abrupt noise, Sam raised his head, squinting his eyes at the figure standing before the cage. It was the woman, the medical examiner, tapping her knuckles on the bars.
"Glad you're up, sleeping beauty. Are you hungry?"
She paused, waiting for Sam to pass comment. He glowered at her through the strands of his hair obstructing his vision.
"Well, too bad. Those infants are taking up almost all of our reserves. You know, sometimes I wonder what it'd be like to set one of them on my examination tables. But no! The Master says we have other plans for them." She walked around the perimeter of the cage, running her fingers over the bars.
"The Master was so glad to hear that we've managed to get you, Sam," she said, stopping her walk somewhere behind him. "He's a big buddy with a mutual friend of yours, a yellow-eyed guy. Ring any bells?"
Sam pulled at the rope tying his wrists, biting his lips as the burns in his skin chaffed.
"Getting a little anxious, there, huh, Sam? Don't worry, I'm not a demon. Apparently I'm a werewolf. But wouldn't know myself. Don't exactly recall those moments when I'm changed. But I'm sure you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, Sam? After all, didn't you shoot one of my kind? And I'm not talking about my family you and your halfwit brother killed last night."
She clicked her tongue at the increase of struggle. Circling around the cage, she came to a halt in front of him. She tapped her nails on the wrought iron bars. A smirk snaked its way onto her face.
"You know, speaking about your brother," she perked her voice at the change of subject, "I was told he and a man wearing a trench coat were there at the playground last night. Seeing as you seem close to your brother and all, I figured I'd update you on what happened after you were dragged away."
She glanced around the room and noticed a vacant chair abandoned against a wall. Pulling it up to the cage, she took a seat, crossing one leg over the other.
"Now, I wasn't there last night. I finished up at the lab and then came home. But I did hear the gossip, of course, especially since I'm the one put in charge of keeping you company. Anyway, about last night… Apparently after you left, everyone got really excited, and figured, 'Hey! Why not two for the price of one?' Your brother picked a nice fight, but apparently not nice enough. He's currently in one of those black body bags in my lab. Thought you'd like to know."
Sam shook away the hair hanging over his face. "Well, don't you like the sound of your own voice?"
"Touchy, touchy," she teased. A beep came from her wristwatch. "Oh, shoot! I'm running late for work."
She rose from the chair. Her high heel boots clacked on the cement basement floor as she strode to the stairs.
"What are you planning with the children?"
She spun around, lips curved. "Say something, Sam?"
Sam crooked his jaw. "The children. What do you want with them?"
"Nice question!" She stepped toward the cage. "Now I really shouldn't answer that, but seeing as you're just going to die of thirst and starvation, I really don't see the harm. So what do you, Sam, as a hunter, see wrong with the picture of children that are raised as werewolves, trained to live as werewolves, made aware that they are werewolves, and shown how to blend under radar with humans in society?"
"You sound a little too confident with that grand plan of yours," spat Sam. "And you know what they say about getting cocky."
"What, Sam? What do they say?"
"That's when you start making mistakes."
She laughed. "Coming from the man tied to a chair inside a cage!"
"I call bullshit." Sam leaned forward and lowered his voice. "My brother, Dean? Yeah, he's not dead. And I don't even have to bet you to know for a fact that not only does he know where your little hideout is, but he has a foolproof plan for breaking in here and killing those mutts you call family."
"He'd have to kill the children, too, wouldn't he?" She turned toward the stairs, shooting over her shoulder, "And I think we both know how easy killing all those little babies is going to be for a strong man like Dean."
Her black boots disappeared up the stairs. The click of the door shutting echoed around the basement.
.
Dean was mildly aware of the hot tears spilling down his cheeks. He gulped the last of his beer and kept the motion of gulping even after draining the last drops from the bottle. His phone vibrated with an incoming message. He swiped the phone off the counter and flipped it open.
Dean, where are you? – Castiel
Fumbling with the numbered buttons, he replied to Castiel with I'n noowhre spdific what boutt you.
A breath after he pressed send the phone vibrated with a reply.
Where are you? – Castiel
come finnd me
Dean never sent that message because he collapsed onto the counter before his thumb grazed the button. He dragged the empty beer bottle to his lips and inhaled the alcohol-scented air, mumbling incoherent clips and phrases until a semi-audible series of, "Cas, Cas, Cas," bubbled out his lips. The men's restroom door banged open. Moments later a disgruntled Castiel placed a hand on his shoulder. Dean didn't flinch.
"Hel-lo," hiccupped Dean.
Castiel furrowed his eyebrows. "What happened to you?"
"Called Bobby. Dude never answered. I drank."
Castiel flicked his gaze to the beer bottle perched on Dean's mouth. He took a seat on the barstool to the right of Dean and reached to remove the beer bottle, but Dean growled and swatted his hand away, curling in on himself and sucking on the lip of the bottle. Castiel kept a hand on Dean's shoulder.
"Is this about Sam?" he said.
Dean whimpered and cut himself off as soon as he realized he had whimpered.
"Dean, I want to apologize," said Castiel. He rubbed Dean's shoulder, which made Dean hum as his back had several knots due to hunching over the counter. "I was perhaps a little too harsh earlier. However pointless it was to try and save me, I am grateful you did. I'm also sorry about saying you allowed Sam to be kidnapped. I was too swept up in the moment."
Dean set the beer bottle upright. "Dude, don't be sorry. You're right. I'm useless and a sucky hunter."
Castiel tilted his head at the usage of "sucky" and the motion of his hand on Dean's shoulder slowed a fraction. "Dean, you are not useless."
"Sam's dead 'cause of me."
"We have reason to believe Sam is not dead."
At that new, insightful information, Dean turned his attention away from staring blankly at the countertop to Castiel. "Sam's dead. Bobby said so."
"I thought Bobby never answered your calls."
Dean harrumphed.
"You are not useless, Dean. To me, you have…." Castiel frowned, his hand on Dean's shoulder stilled. "You have a lot of worth."
"But you're just one person."
Castiel pulled his bottom lip into his mouth and chewed on it, which fascinated Dean to no end. Dean rationalized it was the alcohol, but the limited lighting of the bar illuminated Castiel's head and created a halo above his crown. It was so beautiful Dean wanted to touch it. He extended his hand to where he believed the halo to be, only to comb his fingers through Castiel's hair. The black hair felt soft under his skin, so he continued running his fingers over it.
"Has anyone ever told you how blue your eyes are?" he murmured.
Castiel looked torn between wanting to relax into Dean's hand or run away from the bar.
"Technically these are Jimmy's eyes."
"I guess so. Jimmy has nice hair. Soft."
"I can see that."
Dean stretched his jaw for a loud yawn. "Well, I'm spent. Zap me to the Impala? It's a long walk to the parking lot."
The space of time when Castiel contemplated the request and fulfilled it went unnoticed by Dean. By the time he realized he was in the backseat of the Impala, leaning into Castiel's side, Dean was more preoccupied with finding a comfortable position for sleeping. He rubbed his cheek on Castiel's arm, smacking his lips, and yawned a final time.
"Don't tell Bobby," he mumbled, "like anything. Especially…."
Castiel never heard Dean's concluding thought.
Not knowing the course of action one should take when a drunken person falls asleep on one's shoulder, Castiel settled with folding his hands in his lap and passing the hours Dean slept with waiting for him to wake up.
.
Ripples in the water extended from the focal point of the lake to the graveled shore. The wooden dock housed the chair Dean occupied. Pebbles of different sizes and varying hues gathered in Dean's lap. He selected a burgundy pebble he suspected was actually a stone and chucked it out toward the center of the lake. He skipped stones with the first few pebbles, but found more satisfaction in throwing and viewing the grand explosion of water.
Castiel stood behind him—Dean had been aware since the first pebble was thrown—but neither spoke a word. The silence was comforting for the moment. But soon Dean felt somewhere in his heart of hearts that Castiel had a thought to voice. He waited until the last pebble sunk into the water to lean his head back and look at the angel. Castiel lowered his gaze from the trees bordering the lake to Dean.
"You know where Sam is," said Dean, unquestioning.
"Yes, he is trapped in a basement. I have seen the house."
Castiel's eyes were always an unnerving shade of blue, but Dean could peer into his eyes as long as he wanted when they spoke at the lake. He felt centered, invincible here. Castiel's penetrating stare lost its intimidation when at the lake.
"Why didn't you try to save him?"
"It was not my job to save him."
"It's mine."
"It's only yours."
Dean looked out past the lake, beyond the trees, and into the sky. A free bird stretched its wings and soared into the horizon.
"Take me there."
.
Extraneous effort was required, yet Sam succeeded in loosening the rope tying his wrists. Light from the setting sun seeped through the cracks under the cramp, grimy windows. The woman had not visited him since morning. She had arrived for a brief exchange of information.
"Tonight is the night we pay respect to the Master," she had said. "He will turn the last of the children and their initiation into the pack will begin. You're invited, Sam."
She developed a twitch in her neck and found difficulty in staring at Sam for too long. Her excited grin was wide and broad on her face. "You'll be moving into the main room at dusk. I won't be there to move you."
Pulling a chair over to the cage, she took a seat and crossed her legs, setting her hands in her lap.
"We may have some guests tonight," she said, neck twitching. "People close to you. You think you'll be seeing a ghost, but if you don't try anything, maybe the Master will let them live." Her face became somber as she gazed at Sam.
"Last night, the last of the children who could be turned were. The unfit ones will have to be taken care of. I know it will be hard for you to witness their killings, but I promise we'll kill them after we kill the guests. I'm sure our guests' death will have a great impact on you." A beep came from her wristwatch. She frowned, rising from the chairs. "It seems I'm running late for work again." She smiled. "Goodbye, Sam. We'll be seeing each other later tonight, but I can't promise I'll be myself."
As she left, a parchment fell from her pocket and managed to soar through the bars and land a hand reach away from Sam. At first he glared at it, but ceased as soon as he felt the rope around his wrists slip from its slack. He waited until the basement door clicked shut and tried persistently hours after she left to pull a hand free. He acquired sufficient wiggle room, but the rope burns screamed anytime he moved. Squeezing his eyes closed, he counted to three, sneaking no spare seconds between numbers, and ripped a hand out from the rope. He gasped, unable to vocalize the pain lest he wanted to attract attention, and scooted the chair toward the parchment, reaching with shaking fingers. He exposed a wrist, dabbed a finger on the blood dripping from ripped skin, and wrote a message.
.
At night the walls were paper-thin. She heard voices through the walls, cries and screams, low whines. She huddled in the corner of an unfurnished, windowless room with two other girls. Time was static in the room, but one of the girls had a wristwatch with the hour and date. Two days had passed outside of the room since that night in the park. She wanted to hug her father, but his blood stained the front of her shirt and thought of him reminded her of his final moments.
Occasionally the door was opened and loaves of bread and bruised fruit tossed into the room. The girls dove for them and scampered back to the corner for they felt safer far from the door and with a solid surface behind their backs.
Her body was tired. Her muscles ached. The weight of knowledge pressed down on her. She wanted a hug, but the other girls had been kept in the room longer and forgotten the significance of touch.
.
"Not too shabby, huh?"
Dean peered out the window beside Castiel, killing the engine with a turn of his wrist. A steep, narrow house sat unlit on the corner of a silent street with tall, looming trees visible from the sidewalk bordering the backyard—a warning that kept joggers and dog walkers from lingering around in daytime for longer than necessary.
"So he's in the basement, right?" said Dean.
Castiel nodded. "Yes."
As they had favored stealth and inconspicuousness, they exited the car already armed, without requiring a trip to the trunk. Dean clutched a shotgun loaded with silver bullets while Castiel kept his sword tucked under his sleeve. Castiel, graced with the ability to discern the condition of everything and anything with the casual shift in his gaze, mapped out the weak points of the house and pinpointed the safest route to enter the basement. When the best path was discovered he placed his hand on Dean and zapped them out of the street.
"What the—don't do that," hissed Dean, distancing from Castiel.
He collided the crook of his elbow against the wrought iron cage; his eyes screwed shut and the muscles of his cheek pinched as he let out a steady breath. He shook himself to stand alert and fixed Castiel with a glare that suggested a great error in Castiel's ways had occurred. Castiel peered at him, titling his head, and opened his mouth to pass comment, but his attention was prompted away from Dean and through the darkness of the basement. He disappeared in the blink of an eye. Dean barely had a moment to register the empty place as Castiel soon reappeared beside him, a piece of paper in his grasp.
"Blood," he muttered. "It's Sam's."
He passed the paper to Dean, who walked to the filthy windows streaming slivers of light. A message in maroon was scrawled across the paper, evidence of weariness and pain shadowing every quiver in the strokes. Across the paper a concise message was written:
I'm alive. So are the children. They've been turned. Watch your back.
Castiel was reading over his shoulder, so it came as no surprise when he stated, breathing down Dean's neck, "It seems what we feared the most has finally happened."
"Yeah, but Sam's alive. Well, at least when he wrote this note he was." Stuffing the paper in his pocket, Dean gestured with his shotgun toward the wooden staircase leading to the ground floor. Castiel nodded in approval, and they ventured up the creaking wooden steps, Dean leading.
The door was ajar and a cold, dusty draft leaked through the crack. Dean grasped the knob, urging the door open, and stuck his head out, then turned back inside, pulling the door shut.
"Okay, so here's the plan," said Dean. "We look around. There's probably a room they're keeping the kids and they've moved Sam, so—"
Heavy metal sounded from his pocket. Castiel darted his gaze toward the general direction and Dean slapped his hand on his thigh, retrieving the phone. He flipped it open and answered the call without glancing at the caller ID.
"What?"
"What do you mean, 'What'? You're the one that called me a million times earlier and didn't bother to wait for me to pick up the damn phone. It's me that should be saying 'what."'
Dean froze. "Bobby?"
"Who else, ya' idgit? 'Course it's me. Now why the hell did you call so much? Something happen?"
Dean switched the phone to his other ear, blowing out a breath. "Um, yeah. I guess you could say something happened."
The silence on the other line was soaked with suspicion. "What aren't you telling me?"
"Jeez, Bobby, can't you have more faith—"
Castiel tore the phone from his hand, swerving to survey the basement walls as he spoke. "We are at a werewolf den where Sam has been held hostage. Dean tried earlier to ask for assistance, but was unable at the time. The children have apparently been turned into werewolves." He furrowed his eyebrows as Bobby responded. "No, we are nowhere near the coastline, but it is nightfall in the East Coast, so I assume the coast is clear." He paused, listening and nodding, then passed the phone to Dean. "He wishes to speak with you," he said, expression earnest.
Dean snatched the phone and had yet to press it to his ear before Bobby screeched, "Don't youever let that lunatic on the phone again."
"Too late, he already has unlimited talk and text." Dean chuckled, but the humor died off at Bobby's stern silence. "So we were just about to dive in before you called."
"Figures," said Bobby. "Now, Dean, about the children. You realize you need to kill them, right?"
Dean slumped against the wall. "Bobby, they're just kids."
"Not anymore, they aren't. 'Fraid you're going to have to, well, you know."
"But they're kids. They have their whole lives ahead of them."
"Look, just find Sam, get yourselves out, torch the place, then get pissed drunk out of your mind and forget this ever happened."
Dean snapped the phone closed and shoved it in his pocket. Leaning into the wall, he shook his head and glanced to Castiel, whose face was solemn and open.
"They're just kids, Cas," said Dean. "I—I can't—"
Castiel reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, which spoke more words than Dean had ever heard in a lifetime. He leaned into the touch, feeling his worries smooth out. He let out a breath and found that when he gazed into those blue eyes, he felt at peace.
.
A key fitted into the knob and the locked was turned. The door breezed open and never closed. One of the girls took a tentative step forward and crawled toward the door. As she neared the wooden frame and peered into the hallway, no shadowed figure appeared and pounced down on her. She pattered outside and never returned, which the remaining two girls took as a good sign.
A little girl with braided pigtails and a bright red jacket was last to leave the room. She was halfway down the hallway when a callused hand latched onto her wrist and whipped her against the wall.
In the dark she could only see the whites of their eyes. Hot breath steamed her cheeks and she wrinkled her nose at the stench. A switchblade was placed her palm. It was cold, heavy, and foreign in her hand. Had she been given it a week prior, she wouldn't have understood the significance and necessity. She curled her fingers around it, drawing it to her chest.
Like a whisper in the wind, the figure let her go and ran away.
.
From his position in a corner, Sam suspected the area he occupied was originally intended as a living room.
He sat in his chair, hands behind his back but no longer tied. He kept the act of restraint by clutching the ropes, aiding to the illusion that his wrists were tied together. How he managed to keep that act while being transferred from the basement, he could not recall and chose not to dwell on it. He was placed in a corner a perfect view of the windows with the moon shining brightly in the sky.
"We've released the children, sir," said a man to the werewolf in charge. Neither were transformed, nor the other werewolves lounging in the gathering room.
"Not the ones in the southern room, though, right?"
The man faltered. "They were not meant to be released?"
"We have direct orders from the Master to release only the ferals. You realize they'll kill the normal children on sight, don't you?" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "We can't even inform her. She left the house. Send some scouts out to find…."
As he dictated orders to the man, Sam felt a cool metal press into his hand. He wanted to look over his shoulder, but feared alerting the werewolves' attention.
"Don't be afraid," whispered the soft, childlike voice of a little girl. "You need this more than me."
A blade scrapped over his wrist, breaking the skin, but was gone as soon as it came. "Sorry, I didn't mean to do that," said the girl. "I'm not sure how to use this thing." The knife eased its way into Sam's hands, cradled among his fingers. The ropes fell into piles on the floor. He cursed mentally, darting his eyes around the room to check if anyone had seen.
"I'm going to leave now." She squeezed his hands hesitantly. "I don't know what will happen to me tonight, but I want you to know that I loved my daddy very much." She squeezed his hands one more time, then left in the same quiet fashion with which she had arrived.
"You either find those children before the ferals do, or go out tonight and gather more."
"But the Master said no one is to leave tonight."
"You find those children. End of discussion."
.
The house was a labyrinth of narrow hallways and sudden corners. Dean swung open doors and nudged his shotgun into lightless closets and abandoned rooms, but Castiel could sense with little difficulty that the road to Sam was growing farther even as they neared him. He kept this knowledge to himself, as he knew that Dean enjoyed the hapless search as it gave him a task to complete while his mind jumped from one disconcerting thought to another. Opening doors into vacant rooms soothed Dean in ways telling him the truth could not. Castiel would wait two more doors before guiding Dean in a direction he believed Sam to be.
Giggles and patters of feet came from down the hall. Dean pulled out of the empty room and chased down the noise, leaving Castiel in his wake to shut the open door and zap down the hallway. As he appeared by Dean's side, he strained his hearing, making out wisps of breath leaving lungs and the faint sigh of eyelashes brushing across swollen cheeks.
"They're here," said Dean, pointing out his gun.
Castiel slid out his sword from beneath his sleeve.
The hallway was pitch black and as quiet as crickets. Castiel sensed the blood rushing through the children's veins, but no other indication of a presence was detectable. Dean walked ahead with a hardened look, aiming his shotgun, finger ready at the trigger.
A door down the end of the hall popped open. Castiel titled his head and Dean nudged him with his shoulder. Dean pointed to Castiel and gestured wildly at the floor, then pointed to himself and waved his arm across the hall. He jerked his head up and down in a harsh nod. Castiel lifted the corners of his mouth, hoping that conveyed his response well enough.
Dean started down the hallway, inching along the wall, with that same hardened expression and his gun aimed out to the world as he advanced. Pausing by the door, he pressed his back to the wall and grasped the knob, shooting one last glance at Castiel. Not knowing exactly what was prompted of him, Castiel lifted his mouth into a warmer smile. Dean returned the gesture with the quick rise and fall of a grin, then threw open the door stuck his gun in what appeared to be another empty closet.
"Fuck, not again!" Dean lowered his gun to his side, waving his arm for Castiel to come. Castiel zapped over out of pure laziness than necessity, but Dean was too aggravated by the empty closet to comment. "For peace of mind," said Dean, lunging his hand into the black air, "just going to turn on the light and laugh this off."
He groped the air for a good moment before catching the metal string hanging from a light bulb. He pulled it down, prepared for brooms and dusty boxes, only to be acquainted with seven pairs of bloodshot eyes.
"Holy shi—"
Castiel grabbed his arm and hugged him to his chest, then zapped them to the end of the hall. The children hidden in the closet ran out, snarling and gnashing teeth, and swarmed down the hallway. Dean brought his gun forward and fired twice, shooting one child dead. It was a boy, no older that ten or twelve years of age, that collapsed on the old battered rug extending down the hallway. The rest of the children paused and looked down at their feet toward the dead body. Their heads raised in unison. The one nearest to the front licked their lips.
"We should probably run right now," said Dean, swerving around and bolting around a corner. Castiel raised his sword out before him, but never had occasion to strike as Dean grabbed a handful of his trench coat and dragged him away. "Normally I'd stick around," he explained, "but there are just some battles you have to run from."
"Is it because you killed a child?"
Dean averted his eyes and quickened his pace.
The children chased after them like a stampede of mustangs. Their bare feet pounded into the ground and collectively made the floor quake. Castiel got into the habit of zapping Dean and himself further down the hallway when the children neared too close.
As Dean and Castiel passed by the doorway to the basement, they turned sharply into a hallway with a glimmer of light at the end. They shared a sideways glance, and as the children turned into the hallway, Castiel zapped them before the light—
—and right into the main room.
.
Werewolves.
Castiel had zapped him into a room chock-full of werewolves. People that were not people but werewolves lounged on chairs and sofas, legs stretched out and arms sprawled across sofa headrests. "We had been told to expect some guests," humored a man the werewolves gathered around, "but we had thought we would need to search you out."
"May we change now?" inquired a werewolf.
The man flicked his wrist. "Go ahead."
First their jaws dislocated and grew out of their skulls, teeth falling out to make way for sharp, pointed canines and incisors, then their nails shrunk and split into putrid yellow claws. Ribs broke and mended into mangled, inhuman shapes.
To his right, Dean heard a strained cough.
"Sam," he fell to his knees, "Sammy."
Sam had kept his head hung low, but jolted with life once Dean shook his shoulder. As he stared into his brother's pale green eyes, a wave of emotion flickered over his face. "Dean," he said. "You're really here."
"I'd never let my little brother go out of my sight for too long," chuckled Dean.
Sam scared Dean half to death when he swung the arms Dean believed to be restrained from behind his back and wrapped them around Dean's neck. "Dean, I was worried for a moment you had died back there—"
"Me? Dead?" Dean patted a hand on Sam's back. "Did they shoot you up with anything?"
"No, they—fuck, the wolves." Sam shoved Dean off him and darted up from the chair. A switchblade was in his hand, but the blade was not silver, and therefore useless. Dean dug out one of the blades from his boot and handed it to Sam. Sam kept the switchblade but placed the silver knife in his dominant hand.
Castiel met Dean's eye, and with a carefree shrug from Dean, the three advanced, circling the wolves congregated in the center of the room.
And this time, Dean was going to keep a better eye on everyone.
The werewolf in the center swung its head back and let out an earsplitting howl. Another bared its teeth. Before the werewolf stepped a claw out of formation, Dean aimed his gun and shot straight through its skull.
A cacophony of yelps and snarls echoed down the hallway, and Castiel disappeared in the blink of an eye. Dean shot at the werewolves in the main room and reloaded after every shot, cursing his choice of weapon. As he reloaded, a werewolf broke out of the cluster and came a hairs' width from mauling him. Sam hurled into the beast, crashing with it to the floor. He directed the silver knife to its neck, but the werewolf grabbed his wrists and kept the knife a short distance from the bob of its throat.
More werewolves broke out as Dean reloaded, but he rolled with the punches and greeted the werewolves with the butt of the gun to their skulls. Castiel reappeared in the middle of the cluster, plunging his bloody sword into the chest of an unsuspecting werewolf. As Castiel pulled out the sword, he extended his arm behind him and pressed two fingers to the temple of a werewolf's head. Dean flipped his gun around in his hands and shot the wolf dead before it hit the floor.
The werewolf under Sam bucked and twisted, resorting to curling its fingers and digging its claws into his wrists. He glowered down at it, but cultivated all his strength into the knife, pushing through the werewolf's strength and driving the blade into its throat. Its eyes grew wide, and its grip on his wrist tightened for a brief moment before growing limp. Sam extracted the claws from his flesh, covering the wounds with his flannel shirtsleeves to staunch the blood.
From the doorway leading to the hallway, Dean saw a movement and flash of red. Eyeballing that spot, he pounded his gun into a werewolf's head, grunting in acknowledgment as Sam arrived beside him. A werewolf crept behind their backs, but before either brother could notice, Castiel snaked an arm around the werewolf's shoulders and drove his sword straight through spine and punctured a lung.
Dean turned to Sam, gesticulating a course of action, then advanced toward the doorway, Sam covering his back.
The light from the main room filtered into the hallway, yet the length of the hall remained blackened with shadows. The tip of the shotgun tasted the first smell of the musky air as Dean exited the main room. Once Dean was in the hallway, all noise seemed to have evaporated, leaving him with nothing but his gun, the darkness, and the unsettling belief that something was watching him. He chose the darker half of the hall and edged along the wall. His eyes squinted at the lack of light and his heart hammered against his ribcage. His index finger fidgeted against the trigger. From habit Dean licked his lips, stiffened his eyebrows.
A flutter of air tickled his neck. From the corner of his eye, he spied a tan trench coat soaking up the minimal light. From Castiel's mere presence, Dean guessed the fight in the main room ended with victory. Sam came jogging down the hall, stopping to match their pace, and the three ventured further, sneering at every deceiving creek under the floorboards.
At the end of the hall, a light suddenly appeared, but it was out before it had a chance to illuminate anything. At its wake, another light appeared, but too went out a moment later. Matchstick smoke drifted past the men. Castiel placed a hand on Dean's arm, stilling their advance. "The demon," Castiel whispered into the shell of Dean's ear. Dean shivered, not realizing Castiel had been so close.
"I underestimated you," came a feminine voice.
Dean rubbed his finger over the trigger. "Gonna show yourself or hide your sissy ass in the dark?"
"Wait, Dean," said Sam, pressing a hand on Dean's shoulder. "I know that voice."
A match was lit, and the flame closed in on them, the stench from the smoke flooding their nostrils. As the flame came closer, a mouth with puckered lips was revealed. Then the match was blown out, the hallway descending into darkness once more.
Castiel flew away—a sting shot through Dean's chest, but he shoved that thought away. He turned his head, muttering out the corner of his mouth, "Friend of yours?"
"Sort of," answered Sam, "but I was under the impression she was a werewolf."
"Demon with an agenda," said Dean, facing forward. "Great."
"You know, I can hear you."
"Glad to hear it, sweet cheeks!" Dean sent her the most charming grin he could muster, ignoring that she couldn't see it. "Now, personally I'm not a big fan of small talk, so how about you haul your demented little ass over here so we can all go home?"
She chuckled. "No."
"No?"
Somewhere Dean heard a silent flutter of wings. Sam made no movement at the sound, and the demon kept talking as if she hadn't heard it either.
"There's a nice reward down in Hell for getting your heads—the righteous man and the lucky bastard who had the honor of dragging Lucifer back down. So I think I'm just going to keep you standing like idiots in the dark, then drag you both back to Hell myself."
"Sounding a bit confident there, huh? Wouldn't you think it'd take a bit more than a blackout to outsmart the almighty Winchesters?" He bounced on his heels at the last portion and Sam punched him between his shoulder blades. Dean kicked Sam's shin, grinning at the replying grunt. In the darkness ahead of him, he caught a glimpse of light reflecting on metal.
"That question seems to have you stumped, so let's try a new one," quiped Dean.
"Sure, I got one," she fired back. "How many seconds will it take for me to rip your stomach out from your throat and shove it up Sam's ass?"
"Unfortunately I don't have the answer to that one, but I do know how many seconds it'll take for you to die tonight."
"You filthy son of—"
Beams of amber light shot out her gaping mouth and hollowed eye sockets. Flashes from the light splashed behind her to reveal Castiel glaring at his hand stabbing the sword into her back. The demon grew limp in his arms, light dimming as remains of life existed the vessel. Soon the hallway plunged into darkness. The air was black and thick with tension, but Dean found himself trudging through it and kneeling as he reached Castiel. Sam hung back near a wall, but Dean could imagine the wounded expression that must have been in his brother's eyes. Dean strained his vision to make out the features of Castiel's face.
Castiel splayed his fingers over the dead woman's forehead, but shook his head. "The soul had long left the body before this moment," he said gravely. He traced his fingertips over the woman's face, as though memorizing every detail of her beauty and life.
A distant howl cut through the quiet.
Messing with the knife in his hand, Sam asked, every word heavy on his tongue, "What about the children?"
"Sam, no," said Dean, swerving around. "I'm not going to kill a whole bunch of innocent children with entire lives ahead of them."
"But, Dean, they're not children anymore. They're…monsters."
"Sam—"
"I will do it."
Sam and Dean tore their attention away from each other to look at Castiel, who was setting the woman on the floor and rising to a stand.
"Cas, you don't have to do this," spoke Dean.
"Yeah, we'll take care of it," added Sam.
"It's all right. I already know where most of them are. It will be quick and efficient if I did it. Not to mention they may have a chance at redemption."
"Redemption? But—" Sam stumbled toward Dean, grasping his arm. "Dean, what about Madison. Did she—?"
Dean squeezed his eyes shut. "Cas, we'll meet you at the car."
He wrapped an arm around Sam's shoulder, ignoring Sam's pointed stare, and scrambled through his memory for a pathway to the exit.
.
Sam went straight for the backseat, curling in a ball with his back to Dean, who was hunched over, tapping his fingers along the steering wheel. For a while Sam said nothing, his last words being those in the werewolves' den, and Dean was startled with Sam took a deep breath and spoke as clear as day, "Please tell me something happened between you guys because the last I heard was you moaning his name in your sleep."
"Damn it, Sam," snapped Dean. "Just fall asleep before I make you fall asleep."
"So you're telling me that the entire time I was shacked up in that Hell hole, nothing happened."
"That's right."
"Nothing at all."
"That's what I said," spat Dean.
"And all those longing looks a few minutes ago, that was just me reading too much into things?"
A chuckle rumbled deep in Dean's chest. "Well, you always were the smart one."
Dean stole a look in the rearview mirror in time to see Sam twisted onto his back, face scrunched in disbelief. Dean smiled at the reflection, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
Sam pinched his lips into a thin, white line. "Whatever. Just keep it PG up there when Cas gets back."
Dean started formulating a wisecrack reply, but by the time he figured out a good one, Sam had turned around, arms crossed, and let out a loud snore.
Castiel appeared in the passenger seat a moment later, forcing a smile when Dean jumped in surprise.
Switching on the ignition, Dean cranked up the heater, warmth returning to his fingertips, took his foot off the brake pedal, and drove away from the curb.
Perhaps it was Sam as a chaperone in the backseat, but Dean had never felt more aware of Castiel being less than a breath away. The heater had made the car toasty and his fingers and toes tingle with warmth. There was so much he wanted to tell the angel sitting next to him, but words were petty and actions prohibited while driving. He settled with stepping on the gas and running a red light.
"Hey, I was—"
"May I—"
Dean feathered the break. "Y-you go ahead."
"No, I insist. You go."
An abrupt snore came from the backseat that had Dean tightening his grip on the steering wheel. "I was—" he coughed "—was just going to ask if it was, uh, too hot in here for you? I mean, with the heater and all…."
Castiel hummed in consideration. "No, my body temperature is adequate."
"That's great. So what were you—"
Castiel extracted a cassette tape from the radio and reached inside his pocket for a replacement cassette he had apparently tucked away in his coat the entire evening. The soft whispering from the radio as the cassette tape settled in place numbed Dean's adolescent panic.
"I went to one of these music stores," said Castiel, and a sound resembling rain pattering on window glass filtered through the speakers, "and heard this song playing. It reminded me of you."
Despite the racket flooding the car, Dean felt touched, and he said so. "I'm honored, Cas."
"It's not your usual taste," Castiel blew out a wary sigh, "but I hope you like it."
"Cas," said Dean, looking away from the road to Castiel, whose hands were knotted in his lap. He waited until Castiel met his gaze. "Cas, don't worry. I like it, too."
My parachute didn't open. And when my backup failed the pixie dust prevailed, and I woke up next to you. All I wanted was to hold you.
"What happens now?" said Castiel.
"With what?"
"With us."
If anything were to happen, Dean seriously needed to introduce Castiel to new music. "What would you like to happen?"
"You fe—" Castiel hesitated, and with a quick glance, Dean noticed his eyebrows were drawn together. "You see our relationship as I do."
"Yeah. I guess you could say that."
"What happens now?"
Dean blew out a breath, and the warm air in the heater flew past his cheeks, warming his face until a sneeze tickled its way out his nose. Recovering from that unprecedented display of vulnerability, Dean leaned back into his seat, steering the wheel as he drove the Impala into a highway. "Well, whenever Heaven gets too dramatic for you to handle, you can always come down to Earth and say hello. Or, if you ever just want to pop in and say hello, you can do that, too."
"Would you like that?"
Dean was pulling a smirk before he even realized it. "Hell, I'd love it."
He stole a peek out the corner of his eye, spying Castiel gazing out onto the road with a blissful expression. He turned up the volume on the radio until that nonsensical song took advantage of the base boost, and pressed a little bit more on the gas.
The End
A/N: This was written for deancas_xmas Secret Santa exchange on LJ and was beta'd by quovadimus83 from LJ. The song Castiel put in the radio at the end gave inspiration to the title of the story. It's Decipher Reflections from Reality by Play!Radio!Play. :) Thanks for reading!