Chapter 2
I'm not the only one dealing with anger issues at the moment. Dean can't contain it anymore and lets go of my hand to launch himself to his feet. Bobby and Sam are trying to convince him that we can find another way. Dean disagrees.
Pacing helps, I guess.
"Yeah, no, this is good. Really. You know, eight months of turned pages and screwed pooches but tonight, tonight's when the magic happens." He's almost manic, so desperate to have us, have himself, believe in his choice.
"You ain't helpin'," Bobby snaps.
"Yeah, well, why don't you let me get out of your hair, then?"
I can't stand it anymore, either. I finally speak to him. "Surrender is never an option for you, Dean. You don't give up! After all we've been through . . . Why? What the hell happened to you?"
"Reality happened, Jay. Nuclear's the only option we have left. Michael can ice the devil, save a boatload of people."
Bobby tags back in, switches gears, tries to appeal to Dean's massive savior complex. "But not all of them. We gotta think of something else."
That tactic doesn't work either.
"Yeah, well, that's easy for you to say. But if Lucifer burns this mother down, and I could have done something about it, guess what? That's on me."
"You can't give up, son."
"You're not my father. And you ain't in my shoes."
There is a silence after this ridiculous, wounding, over the line statement. Dean is realizing what he said, but not taking it back. Sam is shocked by the meanness of it. I am more disappointed in Dean than I have ever, ever been. And angrier at him than I ever thought possible. Bobby sits frozen in his chair, a blank look in his eyes.
I'm on my feet and in Dean's face before I realize I've moved. So close to him that I can feel the heat of his skin, hear the fabric of his shirt move as breath makes his lungs rise and fall. This nearness doesn't raise the normal flush to my face, the accustomed excitemet that the smell of him brings. My pulse is quickened for entirely different reasons today.
Sam has a hand on my shoulder. I must look like I'm going to hit him. I might. I want to. I want to punish him for the pain he just caused. I want to smack that defiant look from his face. I want to knock some sense into him. I want to wake his dumb ass up. But I can't because I love him, even if I hate him right now, too.
With our angry faces directed at each other, neither the boys nor I notice Bobby move until we hear his desk drawer slam.
There's a gun in front of him. The one he keeps here in the library desk. I have just enough time to wonder which of us idjits he's going to pop in the foot to get us to behave like our normal selves before he takes a bullet out of his shirt pocket. He just looks at it. So do we.
"What is that?" Dean is concerned now. Pisses me off, but I have to agree.
"That's the round that I mean to put through my skull," Bobby expalins so very calmly. He sets the bullet down in front of him and directs his gaze at Dean. "Every morning, I look at it. I think, "Maybe today's the day I flip the lights out." But I don't do it. I never do it. You know why? Because I promised you I wouldn't give up!"
And this, though it breaks my heart, is Bobby's last plea to make Dean see reason. To make him remember who he is and what he stands for. Who he stands up for. To remind him how very much we need him.
This latest ploy is not given the chance to work. Cas's sounds of pain distract us all too quickly. I've seen him react this way before, hunched over, hands to his head. Angel radio is screeching.
"Cas, you okay?" Sam asks worriedly.
"No," our angel deadpans.
"What's wrong?" I ask. Moving toward him. I can't help him, but I can offer comfort, I guess.
"Something's happening," he explains, vague as ever.
"Where?" I ask. But no answer.
Cas is gone.
