Apocalypse Now, Apocalypse Later

by TheKuraning

Disclaimer: Supernatural, The Elder Scrolls proper, and TES IV: Oblivion belong to their respective owners.

It seemed like it had been raining for days, now. Weeks, even. The steady drumming of droplets rang over their heads without pause, as though the very heavens were weeping for them; for their family. Sam Winchester knew better than to believe that, however.

While over a decade ago he believed in the stories and myths, believed in the mercy and love of heaven, there had been far too many dealings with angels in the past to remain naive. Heaven didn't care, at least not about people. And that was just the way things were. Chuck couldn't have been bothered for anything besides Amara, and that had only lasted as long until the two had gone on vacation. Since then... radio silence. Even Jack hadn't been enough for Chuck to intervene.

These were all thoughts Sam tried to keep out of mind, of course. There was no use worrying about the things he couldn't change. So instead he sat at the heavy walnut table in the bunker's foyer, flipping through book after book after decrepit book. This is what was within his power: research. And he was good at it. The Men of Letters had stored hundreds upon thousands of files, ledgers, books with every sort of occult information that seemed to exist, at least until the 50's, and Sam was determined to find the missing puzzle pieces, the spells or rituals that would allow them to walk between worlds and find Jack and Mom. Bring them back. Finally, finally be safe.

Sam flipped the page. The words were blurry and all starting to blend together, but he couldn't stop yet. He didn't know what else to do.

"Morning, sunshine."

Briefly, Sam's eyes shot up as his brother crossed the foyer, bath robe tied loose over his pajamas. Dean's eyes seemed just as blurry as the book had, and his hair stuck up at odd angles. He must have just gotten up.

"Morning," Sam replied as Dean continued his beeline towards the kitchen. "I'm surprised you're up. You seemed pretty worn out when you got back, yesterday."

"It was just a couple rougarou. It was basically a beer run." The tap ran, a jar opened - Sam heard the coffee pot hiss to life, and it wasn't long until he began to smell it. He inhaled deeply. Coffee was such a nice smell.

"You on the other hand," Dean continued as Sam heard the clicking of the stove, "you haven't moved a freakin' inch since I left to hunt them in the first place. You even get your four hours, Sammy?"

Sam didn't grace that with an answer.

"There has to be something," he said instead, "I can feel it. Something important – something we're missing, and it's bound to be in here somewhere."

Sizzling fat; bacon? Or sausages? Either way, it was satisfying, and Sam's stomach let out a growl of approval.

"Look, Sam," Dean was saying, "I want to find a way to get Mom back, too. And Jack. But if you keep forcing yourself on like this, you're going to burn out. Hey, you want breakfast?"

Sam didn't need asking twice; book balanced in his hand, he had already been in the process of standing and stretching, and with a yawn, he shuffled in to take his spot at the kitchen table.

Dean had three pans going at once. One of course, was bacon; he always had to have bacon. In another, hash browns with an ungodly amount of oil. In the last, Dean was hard at work trying to shape runny batter into the form of what looked like... well, Sam wasn't sure what it was supposed to be, but damn if Dean wasn't trying.

That was another thing that had changed over the years. Sam knew he had lost time during which Dean had been practically domesticated, but his brother's cooking prowess still astounded him to this very day. While decidedly less than healthy, it was hard to say Dean's food tasted anything less than good. Sam dumped his book on the table and went to the cupboard to get a couple plates. It was when Dean had given up on shaping the pancakes that they finally sat down to eat, and they were each half way through their first mugs of coffee before the conversation began again.

"So, nagging aside, you find anything?" Dean motioned with his fork towards the heavy old book Sam had been reading, half-forgotten on the table in favor of more greasy food than the younger man ought to have been eating. Sam paused mid-chew and eyed the book wearily. It was old – very old. The script was foreign in a way neither of them had ever seen, sleek and jagged and almost dangerous-looking. Many of the pages were torn, faded, or lost, but occasionally, in those that remained, there was the tight, neat scrawls of notes made by a Man of Letters of yore.

"Well actually," Sam eventually said as he swallowed his bite, "get this. Whatever is in this book, someone was translating, to some extent. There's not a lot I could make out, but on one of the pages..."

He flipped back in the tome, eyes scouring until he came across one he'd bookmarked far earlier. Then, he spun the book around and in one fluid motion, passed it across the table to Dean. His older brother squinted, a thoughtful frown overtaking his features as he paused mid-chew, leaning close over the page to read the notes.

"A head of lettuce, a roll of yarn, and a soul gem," he read aloud, "burn with a lock of hair in the rain... yadda yadda... the barrier will rend, and feet may travel across." Dean's frown deepened and his brow furrowed. Lazily, he lifted a piece of bacon to shove in his mouth with the rest of it, seeming to mull it over, and again turned his attention to Sam. "What the hell is a soul gem?" he finally asked, and Sam shrugged.

"Never hear of it," he answered, "but these notes... they're full of stuff like this. Weird spells that make no sense, but a lot of them reference a barrier or a breech. I don't want to get my hopes up, but Dean..." Sam set his fork down and took the book back in his hands, leafing through pages. "I think these are instructions on moving between worlds."

"I don't know, man," Dean eventually sighed, "it seems too easy. Lettuce and yarn? I don't know what that soul gem crap is, but I'll bet it beats trying to catch Lucifer. Again."

That was as close to a yes as Sam figured they would probably get. He offered Dean a tired, hopeful look; he felt like it was a look he was wearing a little too often these days. Taking care that the page remained marked, he snapped the book shut and pushed himself to his feet.

"I'll go check the records and see if we have one in storage," he announced, "if I find anything, I'll give you a shout."

"Yeah, you better," Dean teased, "hey, you gonna eat that?"

And that was how the rest of his breakfast disappeared, at any rate.

The computers were slow to find much of anything in the bunker, especially if more time had passed since something had been catalogued. Despite the speed of modern technology, it was often too much to simply let happen on its own. Therefore, while the computers ran and searched through the Winchesters' ever-expanding database of fantastical items, Sam decided it was best to give the poor machines a hand and start looking, himself. He wasn't sure why he picked the storage room he did; all he knew was that for some reason, the rain sounded louder in this particular room than any of the others. It was a sort pf soothing rhythm as he worked, allowed him to relax however much he could and just dig through the ridiculous amounts of crap the Men of Letters had hoarded so long ago.

It had been hours—almost time for a late lunch, if the smell of burgers wafting down the halls were of any indication—when something caught Sam's eye. It wasn't anything particularly noteworthy. A wooden, hand-carved box sat on a shelf towards the far corner of the room, small and discreet. Frankly, Sam was surprised he noticed it at all, and by all standards it seemed relatively lackluster; yet, as soon as his eyes landed on it, he was drawn forth like a moth to a flame.

The wood was dark and old, covered in a thick layer of dust that Sam blew off in a puff. When he could see its face more clearly, he discovered carved into it more of the strange script that had been in the tome. This, certainly, was no coincidence. Curiously, he lifted the box off the shelf and stepped around piles and piles of junk until he finally exited the room and carried it back to the foyer, setting it gently down on the table. There was a latch, but no lock, and when Sam ran his hand around the edge, he could feel the faint vibration of something. He undid the latch and flipped open the box.

The inside was padded and lined with black velvet, but neither of these were what drew Sam's interest. What did was the oblong, light blue crystal laying nestled in the padding. Within the crystal swirled a bright, electrifying sort of mist, and every now and then Sam could have sworn he saw it take the shape of a wolf. It was this crystal that was radiating so much energy.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, voice booming and echoing through the bunker. It took a minute, but soon he heard his brother's heavy footsteps. He carefully took the crystal in his hands and held it up, catching the light just as Dean came up the stairs into the foyer, as well. The two shared a meaningful look.

"Well, hot damn," Dean said after a second, "looks like a soul in there, to me."

"We need yarn and lettuce," Sam reminded him, "if we hurry, maybe we can try the spell before the rain lets up."

"Good call," Dean agreed, "I'll go see if there's any yarn in Cas' room. There should be lettuce in the fridge."

Under normal circumstances, Sam knew Dean would not have agreed so easily; frankly, if they were going to try such a strange spell, he would have wanted Castiel to be there in case things went south, but Cas was still off looking for the components of the Demon Tablet spell in Chuck-knew-where. Really, it was probably better this way; keep one of them in reserve, just in case. They would have to leave him a note, though. As Dean headed back towards the rooms, Sam paused to hastily scribble a note and the spell instructions on a nearby post-it note and left it on the table where Cas would hopefully see it, later.

When that was done, he strode purposefully into the kitchen and right up to the fridge, yanking one door open to rummage through the climate-controlled drawers. The head of lettuce they had was a little small, and a little old. Originally, Sam had intended to make some fresh salads with it, but they had kind of gotten caught up in business for a while and it had remained untouched. It wasn't oddly smushy yet at any rate, so it would have to do. After tucking the lettuce under his arm and shutting the fridge door, Sam fished out a bowl and took everything back into foyer. Dean returned not even a minute later with half a roll of yarn.

"I have no idea when that birdbrain took up crochet, but he's gotten really good at it," he admitted as he tossed the yarn into the bowl, "I feel kinda bad, had to cut this off his latest project. Sucker's got half a queen-size blanket on his bed." Sam, too, was impressed. He made a mental note to replace Cas' yarn later.

"Well either way, this is everything," he said, setting the lettuce and crystal in the bowl with the yarn. Well, almost everything; he fished his angel blade out of his coat and sliced a lock of hair from his glorious mane, dropping that into the bowl as well. Dean, meanwhile, produced a matchbook from somewhere, struck a few on the side, and dropped them into the bowl.

"Is there an incantation, or something?" he asked. Sam quickly looked over the notes in the book and shook his head. The rain continued to patter against the bunker as time passed. The fire caught the yarn, then the lettuce, and burned and burned. Nothing happened. The wind howled outside. The rain grew louder. And still nothing happened. The fire quickly began to die. Neither of them said anything, but by the identical looks of disappointment on their faces, they didn't really need to. Even if they hadn't had the highest of hopes in the first place, watching the spell fail right in front of them was more disheartening than they had expected. Soon, all that was left were the blackened, smoking remains of the lettuce and yarn, and the now oddly browned crystal.

"Well," Sam said, "I guess I don't really know what I was expecting. You were right. It was too good to be true."

"Hey, don't beat yourself up, Sammy," Dean replied as the two began to clean up, "it was worth a shot, wasn't it? And hey, look, for a failure, I'd say this is the best case scenario. No weird shit happening to fix, just..." He motioned to the bowl and the burnt remains inside.

"Yeah, that and getting Cas more yarn," Sam agreed, "I'll look for a case or something over lunch and we can pick some up for him on the way back."

The last thing the two were expecting as they turned around was what they inexplicably came face-to-face with. All the brothers registered was the smirking visage before, startled, they dropped everything and reached for their knives, brandishing them threateningly at the silent intruder. The man who had most certainly not been in the bunker with them before merely laughed, loud and boisterous, his smirk sharpening into toothy grin. He looked old, yet surprisingly spry; wrinkles lined his face and crinkled at the corners of his eyes. His hair was mostly grey and in some places white, with only small, sad slivers of black clinging desperately onto youth; his full beard looked much the same. He was dressed in a sharp black suit with matching oxfords, multiple rings in either hand, and in his grasp he held an old, crooked walking stick.

"Well, now, don't look so surprised!" the man crowed in a harsh Scottish brogue, "you've invited me in, the least you could do is offer me a drink!"

"Who the hell are you?" Dean demanded, "and how the hell did you get in here?"

"Oh?" the man replied, "you mean to tell me you've brought me all the way here and you haven't even done your research? How delightfully... mad!"

"Wait," Sam said, his eyes darting to their bowl of failure and shattered dreams, "that spell—the yarn, and, and the lettuce..."

"Yes, yes, yes! My summoning spell, of course! But surely, you knew that, didn't you?" The man snapped his fingers; the metal of their knives instantly became searing, and the brothers reflexively dropped them, where they continued to glow white-hot on the floor. He snapped his fingers again, and their chairs—they began walking. Walking towards them. Sam's eyes widened, but suddenly unable to move, the two were forced to watch as the unholy constructs advanced on them. Some mystical power forced them down to sit in the demon chairs, and when all was said and done, the old man looked very proud of himself. "Now, let's have a little chat, shall we? You want my boon, is that it?"

"We don't want anything of yours, you old—!" Dean started, struggling to hop back to his feet but to no avail. Sam quickly cut him off.

"Who are you?" he asked, "Where did we summon you from? How did you get here?"

"All fine questions," the old man said. He leaned back against the table, twirling his cane once in his hand. "I think you know who I am, little mortal. You've seen my face in your heart. You've sung my works to yourself deep, deep, deep in your subconscious. You've tried to keep me out—oh, you have!" He leaned forward eagerly, steadying his attention on Sam. There was more off about this man than his sudden appearance in the bunker. It was his eyes, Sam realized. Rotten yellow eyes, slitted like a cat's or a lizard's but infinitely more dangerous. The man's voice grew quiet, soft, just as dangerous as his eyes. "I was there with you, you know. I found you, broken, shattered, and I would put you back together, maybe not in the right order, but where's the fun in THAT? And you!" His gaze snapped to Dean, held there for a moment, and Sam could see the involuntary shudder slip down his brother's back. "Oh, I tortured souls in Hell and I liked it, oh, poor me! Absolutely maddening, isn't it? Alistair may have run the show, but that spirit had always been in you. How do I know? Because so have I."

"You wanna cut the monologue crap?!" Dean forced out, "Sammy here asked you a question!"

"My dear Winchesters," the man replied, "I am Sheogorath, the Daedric Prince of Madness. You may now, of course, cheer." He motioned to the boys, and when neither of them immediately responded, he huffed and twirled his cane once more. "I don't just show up for anyone, you know. You could at least pretend to be excited! Traveling this far from the planes of Oblivion—"

"Planes? You mean like...?" Sheogorath cut Sam off before he could finish asking.

"Yeeesssss, a different dimension, what have you," he dismissed with a disgruntled wave of his hand, "I know, I know. You're looking for help to find that boy in that fun-less hell-scape. Heard it all before."

"So can you?" Sam pressed, "can you help us get there?"

"Sam," Dean growled, "this isn't as good of an idea as you're thinking."

"When have our ideas ever been good, Dean?" The two exchanged glances; Sheogorath laughed once more.

"Boys," he interrupted, "boys, boys, boys! Of course I'll help you!" With another snap of his fingers, the odd force keeping the two of them seated was gone. Hesitantly, they took to their feet. Dean's eyes were narrowed deeply in suspicion, nose wrinkled in a half-sneer. Sam understood. This was strange; this man was strange. Really, he did. But it was easier than trying to find Lucifer, and it had worked. It had actually worked.

"What's the catch?" Dean finally demanded.

Sheogorath's grin, if possible, broadened. Languidly, he pushed himself to his full height—he can't have been much taller than Cas.

"I was hoping you would ask," he said as he straightened his jacket, "I do so love it when the mortals know they're being manipulated. There's someone I need you to find and bring to me, at my palace. He's very important to me, you see, but unfortunately he's disappeared. Not where he should be! Unless it is, in which case, well, I've been looking in all the wrong places." Another exchange of looks; Dean still didn't seem entirely convinced. Frankly, neither was Sam. He wasn't quite sure what a "Daedric Prince" was—some sort of Trickster, maybe? But the alternatives weren't looking any better. And they'd dealt with tricksters, gods, even Chuck and Amara themselves, in the past, not to mention archangels, princes of hell—this was all par for the course. Even if the guy was a little... eccentric.

"Alright," Sam said, "we'll find him." For a moment, anger burned in Dean's eyes, but soon he sighed and his shoulders slumped in resignation.

"Yeah, okay," he agreed, "we'll find your boyfriend. Who is he? Can you give us anything to go on?"

"His name is Shaazah," Sheogorath explained, "it took quite a lot to get him as far as I did, let me tell you. And then he just disappears! Not a trace! No invitation! Frankly, the nerve is astounding. He's a small little guy. About this high, scrawny, smells like a stray cat." He held his hand at about his shoulder, then offered the brothers a bright smile. "I can take you to the place he was supposed to turn up last, and let you make your way from there. Shouldn't be an issue!"

Dean opened his mouth; no doubt he had some smart-ass retort lined up to shoot off. Sam was going to let him have his snipe and then politely thank the deranged stranger they let into their lives and go about their business as quickly as possible when Sheogorath took his walking stick in both hands, lifted it ever so slightly, and then tapped it to the floor with a strange sort of resolve. Suddenly it was dark, and Sam flinched. It took a moment for him to notice there was light; dim, but light all the same. His eyes quickly adjusted. The three were in a small stone room with a single rickety bed, table, and chair, and a barred door—wait. A barred door?

They were in a prison. A weird, oddly dungeon-looking prison. Dim torchlight trickled in from a gloomy corridor just outside their cell. In the cell across from them, Sam could vaguely make out the dark shadow of a man sitting at a table of his own. Eyes wide, he whirled around to face Sheogorath, whose shit-eating grin was still plastered to his face. Sam tried to find the words to express his confusion, his frustration, but it all died in the back of his throat as Sheogorath's eyes burned in the shadows.

"Here we are boys," he announced, "just take care of this little favor for me and I'll send you anywhere you want to go. Oh, and if you even think of trying to find me before you've finished your task, I'll rip your stomachs out through your respective throats and use them to make balloon animals. Though, now I'm kind of hoping..."

Dean lunged, but in a split second Sheogorath vanished into thin air, and Sam winced as he watched his brother land painfully on the hard stone. For a long time, the two were quiet as they tried to process what, exactly, had just happened to them. Then, slowly, Dean pushed himself to his feet and sighed before looking up to stare Sam straight in the eye.

"Son of a bitch."