I have no excuse for the delay in posting. But was futzing around this weekend, reread Veritas Aequitas, and remembered how much fun it used to be to write. So I said, Self, stop worrying about what somebody else wants to see, write what YOU want to see. So there we are.
He could feel it, just out of sight, lurking, waiting…could almost hear the breaths, feel the heat of its flesh, smell the stink of its breath…
Sam lay beneath the threadbare blanket, sleep nowhere close by, and he ran his eyes around the perimeter of the room, checking salt lines and sigils, checking security…checking for lifelines. Anxiety lingered close to the front of his brain, nipping and biting at his nerves, and he forced himself to take a long, slow breath. Stop being paranoid. There's nothing hiding in the shadows.
Assuring himself that all was still secure, despite his ragged nerves, he spared a glance to the twin bed next to his own. Dean was still sleeping, curled in on himself, hugging a pillow to his chest, knees pulled up. His breaths came slow and even, and Sam knew he wasn't having nightmares. For once. Thank God for small favors.
Sam knuckled at his eyes, swiping away the grit of sleeplessness. The sheets were scratchy against the bare skin of his legs and the blanket smelled faintly of mothballs and weed, so he grunted and rolled out of the bed. Half past the ass-crack of dawn anyway, may as well get an early start. Nearly tipping over sideways, he grumbled and stumbled to the bathroom, itching for a shower, eager to rinse away the grunge of the cheap motel. Dark brown rust stains in the tub made his toes curl, but he hopped in and quickly turned on the taps, which rumbled and squeaked for a few seconds before sputtering forth a thin stream of tepid water from the showerhead.
Over the sound of the falling water Sam heard Dean's phone ringing, and he caught the low growl of Dean's sleepy answer. The long silence that followed immediately made Sam's instincts prick, as if the devil on his shoulder was whispering in his ear, trouble. He hurriedly rinsed the shampoo from his hair, cringing as it stung his eyes, and then hopped out of the shower. He slipped on the wet tile, nearly spanging his head off the sink, and he snatched a towel to wrap around his waist. The towel was so threadbare that it was barely enough to make him decent, and he cussed, poking his head out of the bathroom. "Who was that?"
Dean spared his brother a glance as he drained the last mouthful from the fifth of Jack Daniels he had started the night before. "Bobby. He's been getting calls from hunters all over, all seeing the same shit we saw yesterday…"
"The kid in the morgue you mean?" Sam scrubbed a hand-towel through his hair, trying not to remember the details of the mangled body. Only just got my stomach back where it belongs.
"Yeah." Dean's mouth tightened and the muscles in his jaw jumped. "This all points toward big bad." He scratched at his scalp, concern clearly etched on his face.
Sam's stomach twirled. "I know," he muttered in agreement. "For it to be so sudden and widespread doesn't feel right."
Dean shrugged, turning the empty liquor bottle over and over in his hands as if trying to ground himself to reality through the touch of the smooth glass. "Who the hell even knows anymore?" He dropped the bottle to the carpet and leaned forward, elbows on knees, resting his forehead against his tented fingers. "I'm seein' Satan in every shadow nowadays."
Sam nodded in grim agreement and stood to slip into his boxers. "So what's the plan?" A mirthless smile curved his mouth. "Remember when the only thing we had to worry about were hauntings and wendigos and vampires? You know, run-of-the-mill, non-apocalyptic monsters."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Those were the days." He leaned down and retrieved his jeans, which were crumpled on the dirty carpet in front of the television. After a quick sniff-check he shimmied into them, then flopped to a seat on the bed to pull on his boots. As he yanked a bootlace tight it snapped, whiplashing across the back of his hand, and he barked a terse fuck.
Sam shot him a look but didn't comment, instead mentally filing it away, adding this to all the other tiny signs that Dean was giving him. He'd been snappish and cranky for a week now, hitting the bottle far too often and too hard (although when you probably can clinically qualify as an alcoholic, how much is too much?). He opened his mouth to comment, but Dean turned to look at him and suddenly flinched. Sam whirled, his adrenaline spiking, only to find Castiel standing blank-faced behind him.
"Goddammit, Cas, don't fucking do that!" Dean hissed, hand clutched over-dramatically at his heart. "Can't you call ahead once in a while?"
"There was not time," Castiel relied, his eyes hard and unreadable. "I have news that may disturb you." He glanced at Dean, something deeper flickering behind his gaze.
"Well, that's nothing new," snarked Sam. Dean shot him a look but didn't speak.
Castiel would have rolled his eyes, if it weren't completely unheavenly to do so, and he intoned huffily, "Frankly, I believe you need to see it to understand."
Before either Sam or Dean could object, Castiel reached out and pressed his finger to Dean's forehead, and they disappeared.
"I told you not to do that!" Dean barked, head spinning slightly, sphincter compressing. Goddamn it, you fuck, you owe me a bottle of Exlax. "And where's Sam?"
Castiel shook his head. "It takes too much energy for me to transport you both at the same time. I will go to him in a moment, and bring him." His eyes softened. "Do you know where you are?"
Dean glanced away from Castiel, and his stomach flipped as he recognized the homey wraparound front porch of Missouri Mosely's house. Lawrence. Fuckin' Lawrence.
"Cas, we can't be here. I just…" Dean stopped, the press of panic in his chest nearly choking his breath. He suddenly felt like a little kid again, left alone in a dingy motel room with a fussy baby and not enough food to last the week. "Tell me this isn't the center of everything, not Lawrence."
"I do not believe it is the center, Dean." Castiel gently touched Dean's shoulder, and he was taken aback at the trembling tension he found there. "It is another point on the map, but it is not the cause. But I felt you should see what I've found, because it may lead us to our next step."
Realization was like a sledgehammer blow. "Dammit, Cas," breathed Dean. "Tell me she's not." Castiel didn't answer, just turned and walked up the steps of the front porch, looking over his shoulder at Dean with somber eyes.
"Fuck." Steeling himself with a breath, Dean cautiously pushed open the front door, cringing as the copper-salt smell of blood smacked him in the nose. The entryway was dim, lit only by the glow of the round stained glass window, casting shadows on the dark wood trim and banisters. The cast-iron radiator was ticking and hissing, and the carpet in the hall was stained dark with what was clearly a gory drag-mark. He huffed a breath in through his mouth, banishing his nerves at the smell of death, and followed the gruesome trail down the hall to the bedroom.
The ponderous tic of a grandfather clock was the only thing breaking the silence as Dean stepped into the bedroom. Shelves crammed with knickknacks sat undisturbed, porcelain figures staring blankly out over the room. On the dresser there was a neat army of perfume bottles and a framed needlepoint of the Lord's Prayer. A jagged crack zigzagged across the glass of the frame.
And amongst this picture of domestic peace lay Missouri, well, her torso anyway. Her lower half was piled in a barely recognizable mass across the room. Her face was a mask of gore, one eye staring empty like a blank television screen. The other eye was gone, just an empty socket pooled with clots of congealed blood. Her chest was flayed open and pinky-red bits of lung tissue were splashed around her like spilled paint. Her hands were curled into clawed half-fists, and a few of her fingernails were broken off. Dean crouched and tentatively took one of Missouri's hands in his, and shook his head a little. He had the sudden, strange notion that he should pray, but what the fuck was the point now? Too little, too fuckin' late.
A glint caught his eye, and he bent to pick up one of Missouri's diamond earrings, the post bloody and bent. But as he looked down at the dark, weathered skin of Missouri's hand, his brow furrowed suddenly and he pulled his small multi-tool from his pocket. With a squint of discomfort, he ran the blade of the knife under Missouri's fingernail. The tip of the blade came away gummed with a black, tarry grit. A quick sniff confirmed his suspicions. He rocked back on his heels and regarded the body, his friend. She'd given him a verbal bitch-slap now and again, sure, but this…she should have been baking cookies for her grandkids and belting hymns in the church choir, not having her guts torn out by walking terror.
Suddenly down the hall he heard Sam squawk, "Goddammit, Cas!" Dean heaved a little sigh out his nose and stood, turning away from Missouri's corpse and willing himself to remember her the way she used to be. As he shuffled down the hall back toward the living room, he heard Sam ask in a clearly disturbed voice, "So it somehow managed to take out a Precog? How is that possible?"
Dean trudged into the living room, jamming his hands deep into the pocket of his jeans. Sam shot him a look, appraising his brother's posture. "You okay, Dean?"
Dean shook his head. "Take a look." He gave Sam a small shove toward the bedroom, cringed at the sound of Sam's quiet gasp. Missouri's tabby cat, too frightened to move or make a sound, quivered in a corner of the couch, its fur crusted with the dried blood of its mistress. Castiel tilted his head slightly as he stooped to gather the terrified animal into his arms, and it buried its face in the crook of his elbow, shivering.
Dean sat gingerly on the arm of the couch, remembering full well the rich voice of his friend warning him about feet on the table, and he wished that she was there to smack him in the head. He sighed. "She's not even a hunter. So why kill her?"
Castiel absently smoothed his hand over the cat's fur. "Perhaps her unique abilities drew them to her."
"They were looking for something, then." Dean smoothed his thumb over his lips, trying to wipe away the taste of bile in his throat.
"They're looking for us." Sam slumped into the room, his face pale with nausea.
"Pompous much?" sniped Dean. He didn't look at Sam, instead moving to Castiel's side to scratch the nape of the still-trembling cat's neck.
Sam's mouth tightened at the corners. "They're killing hunters. They're killing our friends. They came here to make Missouri find us, they're trying to track us, I'm telling you."
Dean glared at his brother. "How the fuck do you know, man? It's the damn apocalypse, people are dying everywhere. It doesn't have to be about us all the time, for God sake." Denial like heroin.
Castiel turned a serious eye to Dean. "I believe your brother may be right in this case, Dean." Dean clenched his jaw around the curse and remained silent. "The likelihood exists that forces are actively searching for you. And they know that if they cannot get information from your friends and associates, then their slaughter would certainly draw you into the open."
"Then why the hell would you bring us here?" Sam snapped, cutting Castiel off. "They could be watching the house."
Castiel looked over at him with hooded eyes. "No. The Prophet Chuck assured me that those who did this are gone. They have moved north. I fear that they're seeking out another of your friends."
