Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Supernatural'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.
A/N: Tag to 5.13 – The Song Remains the Same. Anyone else feel that tonight's ep was rather pointless, aside from the first five minutes or so?
Plan B
Do or do not – there is no 'try'. – Yoda, Star Wars V: The Empire Strikes Back
It took six days after waking up in that cheesy little motel following the rather pointless trip down 'memory lane' before all the pieces finally fell together. Sam blamed the lag on the fact that he'd apparently died again. A little smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth as one detail brushed up against another detail and everything lined up in perfect clarity, similar to the moments he finally had all the kinks worked out of whatever hunt-of-the-week they'd been working on only far more intense.
The Impala was skirting the outermost edges of the greater Chicago area, the radio tuned to a station that had just finished playing a threefer of Metallica and had switched to commercials for the moment. Dean was still humming along to Ain't My Bitch – the last song played – and most of his focus was on the sloppy road conditions. The late winter weather in the Lake Michigan area had been warmer than usual the past few days, but still cold enough that the on-again, off-again precip couldn't seem to decide between rain, freezing rain, sleet, and slushy snow.
Sam's smirk lingered and he decided to keep quiet – for now.
At roughly two o'clock in the morning – roughly three hours after Sam's little revelation – Dean pulled to a stop at a fleabag close to downtown Peoria. He made a gesture to the twenty-four-seven stop'n'rob across the street and mumbled something about beer. Sam's smirk brightened a little; it was obvious Dean hadn't realized the time – it was ten past booze o'clock – but he climbed out of the car anyway. The drive-thru they'd snagged at eight was wearing really thin.
About twenty minutes later, he rejoined his brother who was just finishing schlepping things into their room – number 3 – from the car. "Too late for beer," he said. "But I got you some M'n'Ms and a bottle of Coke. Chips, too."
"Guess it'll hafta do," Dean replied.
Sam waited until the M'n'Ms were mostly gone before springing his idea on his brother. In retrospect, he really should have waited until Dean had finished swallowing his mouthful of soda.
"What?" Dean nearly squeaked the question, mopping soda-foam off his face with his shirt.
Sam's smirk remained locked in place. "I said, I think we should head for Detroit after this job's done." When Dean started to open his mouth to argue, Sam held up his hands. "Just hear me out, alright? I know our last attempt at Lucifer didn't exactly go down like either of us had pictured –"
"Ya think?" Sometimes, Sam's ability to understate matters made Dean's brain twitch.
"Shut up and let me finish," Sam snarked. "It didn't work, but I think I know a way that might."
Dean could tell Sam was serious – he had that same expression on his face that used to show up when he'd solved a gig; the expression he hadn't seen since before angels and time travel and yellow-eyed demons…hell, before Jess and college and that fight he still dreamt about sometimes. The expression that said 'I'm made of win and awesome and now go kill the son of a bitch'. Yeah, Sammy liked to pretend there wasn't anything about hunting that he enjoyed, but Dean knew his brother better than that.
Dean did the only thing he really could when faced with that expression. He shut up and listened.
It was a damn fine plan. Even if it didn't work, at least they knew they hadn't given up.
Dean called Castiel after the poltergeist was taken care of. Cas didn't have any trouble listening – it was what he was good at, after all.
Once Sam had finished, Castiel merely nodded. "Even if it does not work like you hope," his dry voice seemed packed with more gravel than usual, his trenchcoat a little more worn than it had been, "it should definitely garner His attention."
It was obvious that the angel believed it to be a win/win scenario.
The weather in Detroit was, if anything, weirder than it had been in Chicago – it was nearly forty degrees, but stubborn snow still fell from a dirty sky. All three occupants of the Impala likened the sight to ashes – Dean's thoughts went to scenes from Dante's Peak, Sam's to a documentary on Pompeii, and Castiel…well, he thought briefly on Uriel's long and storied career. They found a motel, the desk clerk didn't make any gay cracks for a change, and spent two long days hashing out the finer points of Sam's plan.
An abandoned warehouse not far from a closed-down car factory became their site. Even with the shitty weather, they 'moved in', taking over an office that had less mildew than most of the motels the boys favored, but more dust. A pair of bolt-cutters provided them access to the master switch, so electricity wasn't an issue, and scrounging skills located a small space-heater that only needed a little oil on the fan to be functional managed to make the cramped room almost bearable for the next week.
When Lucifer arrived – his Nick-suit looking like a longtime sufferer of leprosy, with large patches of scaly, dry skin peeling back to reveal pussy flesh and oozing sores underneath – it was almost anticlimactic.
"You wished to see me, Sam?" he said, though the words were somewhat hard to make out; the teeth of his meat-puppet were mostly missing. He strode over the swept-clean cement floor of the warehouse, stopping only a couple of feet from Sam.
Sam nodded. "You said Detroit…so, I came to Detroit."
The fallen angel smiled. The expression was far more gruesome on the rotting face than ever before. "What made you change your mind?"
Sam smirked. "Who says I did?" In a single motion, he lit the lighter and dropped it in the pool of oil.
The oil lit with the muted fwoomp sound normally reserved for kerosene.
Lucifer growled – at least, that's what Sam assumed, but the force of it had to have torn something loose in his borrowed throat, because it cut out and started sounding more like squeaky gravel than an actual voice.
Sam's smirk morphed into a real smile when Dean stepped quickly across the burning ring of flame and tapped Lucifer on the shoulder. When he spun around, the motion was halted by Dean's right cross. "That's for messing with my brother, dick," he said as he made a shaking motion with his left arm.
Castiel's angel-killing shortsword fell neatly into Dean's grasp. He wasted no time in transferring it to his right hand and slicing it through the air.
The well-honed blade cut through the dying flesh with the ease of a razor through cotton candy.
The body dropped, the edge of one foot just at the outermost edge of the burning oil. The head went rolling off into the shadowy recesses of the warehouse – though it was easily tracked as the lightning flashes within the half-putrefied skull signaled the death of the biggest bad they'd ever hunted.
With the body smoldering behind them, Dean and Sam loaded their things back into the Impala and headed south.
They met up with Cas in Ft. Lauderdale.
Dean returned the sword to Castiel. The success of their mission evident just by their arrival, though even the redheaded bartender working her way through law school could tell the three friends were celebrating something.
A/N2: And that's where my head's at after seeing tonight's episode. For followers of my other fics, don't fret – I'll be back to them once I'm done with my NCIS fic; I've just been having a helluva time finding the time to write lately.
Remember to lemme know what y'all think!