Part 2
As he finishes off his fourth glass of iced tea, which is sweet enough to make his teeth hurt, Dean keeps his other hand on his .45 and his eyes on the handful of strangers who are still smiling at him. He remembers mocking heaven to Cas as some kind of Stepford paradise, and he wonders if this whole thing is someone's idea of ironic justice. He hasn't seen Cas since the angel sent him to go save Sam, but he wouldn't put this past Zachariah.
A couple days ago, he and Sam were safely bored, hiding out from Armageddon at Bobby's. Now he's sitting with Sam in a bright yellow kitchen drinking tea and trying not to think about the fact that these people seem to know every detail about his life. Dean's tired from driving all night, and his ribs hurt like hell. He's got his gun on the table in plain sight, hoping it reminds these very pleasant whack jobs – don't mess with me and my brother.
Mrs. Wessell had taken them to a very nice house with a picket fence, flowers out front, and a plaque on the door that read, "Be not forgetful to entertain strangers for some have entertained angels unawares."
Dean refused to go in at first, but Sam convinced him that the advice on the plaque probably wasn't intended as a threat.
He can't stop thinking about that plaque, while he tries to figure out what they're dealing with. Dean was thinking demons, which is still the most likely scenario. Sam brought up a trickster, which was possible, but which is becoming less and less likely as the day went on and no Martians land in the center of town. This is weird, but it's almost too subtle for a trickster. That leaves angels. Maybe this is a town full of angels trying to test him in some way or another, which would just suck, but Dean wouldn't put it past those dicks to screw with him this way.
"Is something bothering you, dear?" Mrs. Wessell asks him pleasantly, as she fills his glass with even more iced tea.
Dean clenches his jaw and tries not to throw her a dirty look. What's bothering him? Well, there's the little fact that the town seems to have been waiting for them. And then there's also the disturbing fact that everyone they've met seems to know personal things about them– everything from Sam's geeky love affair with his laptop to Dean's virginity upon coming back from hell. Some teenage jerk asked him about that.
But that's not all that's bugging Dean. Sam's bugging him. His pain in the ass brother has hated being touched ever since coming off the demon blood. So here is Sam letting some pre-med student, home on vacation from UT, stitch and bandage the worst of the gashes he got from that pistol whipping. Damn hunter…seeing the mess he made of his brother, Dean wishes he could kill the bastard all over again.
Even so, Dean doesn't like the idea of some twenty-year-old medical student practicing first aid on Sam. All they need is for any of those wounds to get infected or something even worse. Dean offered – okay he'd demanded – to stitch them up himself. After all, he's been stitching up Sammy since the kid could walk.
But Sam said, "No way. Not until you get your ribs taken care of. I can hear you rattling from across the room."
Dean knew full well that Sam was damn stubborn enough to hold out on medical attention just as long as he did, so he reluctantly agreed.
He's not going to admit his ribs feel better, and the med student's work on Sam's face looks all right, but it's not as careful as Dean would have done it.
Dean's about to say thank you anyway, when the pre-med student grins and says, "We stockpiled bandages when we heard you two were coming."
That's almost enough to make Dean go for his shotgun again. It brings it all home. They have no idea who these people are, and yet he and Sam are sitting in their kitchen.
"Okay, that's enough." Dean points at some little kid who's poking at Sam's tattoo. "You back off too."
Sam rolls his eyes. "Dean…"
Dean glares at his brother. "Shut up. And put your shirt back on. There's people taking pictures through the window." He points at Sam's iced tea. "What's that green stuff? Mine doesn't have that. Why does yours?"
Mrs. Wessell diplomatically reminds him, "Sally asked you if you wanted any mint in your tea, but you said no."
Dean ignores her. "How do you know it's mint?"
"It tastes like mint," Sam says sulkily.
"I grow it in my garden," a young woman explains. Sally probably.
"I'm not going to be assassinated by iced tea. Get over it, Dean."
"You don't know that."
Dean's about ready to haul his brother out of the damn kitchen, but his plans are interrupted by an older man who approaches the table. The guy's just been one of many people coming in and out of the room, and Dean hasn't been paying much attention to him. It was one of the first things his dad ever taught him – never turn your back on the quietest person in the room. The guy gestures for Mrs. Wessell to take a seat, and all the others leave the kitchen.
The man holds out his hand but Dean doesn't take it. He offers his hand to Sam, but Dean knocks it away. The guy's persistent. He shrugs and takes a seat next to Mrs. Wessell.
"I'm Steve Johnston. I'm a pastor at the Baptist church here in Philistine, the only church in Philistine now, even though, believe it or not, there used to be a dozen."
"Yeah, yeah, demonic priests are a dime a dozen. So what do you want with me and my brother?"
"You think I'm possessed?" the guy asks, and Dean wants to clock him for looking amused.
Mrs. Wessell leans in. "We want to thank you… offer some hospitality. For all you've done for all of us, we certainly owe you boys that much."
The pastor nods. "That pretty much covers it. Abby's good at getting to the heart of things."
"Okay, that's enough." Dean pushes his chair back from the table. "You act like you know us. You know our names. How about you fill us in with your agenda before we just exorcise the lot of you?"
Sam frowns. "Dean, they're not demons. I'd be able to feel it if they were. Could you try and relax? I know your ribs are killing you."
"If they're not demons, then what are they?"
Sam chews on his lip, before he suddenly asks, "Are you fans?"
"That's all we need…more of your demon groupies," Dean mutters, and Sam shakes his head.
"Not fans of me, dumbass. Fans of the books, you know, Chuck's books… Supernatural. Maybe they've read the series."
Dean shrugs. That actually makes some sense, but it doesn't explain how they knew that we were coming …
Mrs. Wessell nods eagerly, her eyes bright. "We've been following the words of the prophet for a long time, even before the prophet knew he was a prophet. We know the truth."
"What truth?" Sam asks.
The pastor replies, "The truth about the real world. We know what we're up against, what you've already done for us. We've been praying for you boys ever since we've known about you."
Dean is stunned, trying to get his mind around what they're telling him. "You know the truth? All of it?"
Sam cuts in, "Ghosts, goblins? Demons? You're saying you believe in all of it?"
Mrs. Wessell says, "Ghosts are real, goblins are real. Demons are certainly real, but we've always known that."
"It's all in the prophecies," the pastor adds. "We own the first editions of most of the books."
Sam persists, "But the books aren't being published any more. Chuck… I mean the prophet… hasn't been putting out new books for over a year now."
"We follow his blog. Praise the Lord for wireless. The prophet posted yesterday that you boys would be coming to Philistine and that you would need some hospitality." Mrs. Wessell waves her hand vaguely at the tea and cookies. "Nobody's been doing anything but getting ready ever since."
A new horrifying idea occurs to Dean, even as he struggles to make sense of what these people are telling them. "So you're saying that every evil sonuvabitch who's out to get us only has to read Chuck's blog to find out where we are?"
"Of course not," Mrs. Wessell reassures him. "He's got his site locked. We're on his friends' list. I'm sure he would add you as well."
"Terrific," Dean says, darkly. "Who's to say he doesn't have Lucifer as a friend?"
Pastor Steve says, "He's a prophet. That's some tough security to break."
Sam is trying to make sense of this. "So y'all are Chuck's…followers?"
Pastor Steve says, "We're Baptists. But we listen to the prophet. We're facing Armageddon, you know."
For the life of him, Dean doesn't know what to say. He needs to check in with Sam, but his brother is just shaking his head, clearly nonplussed.
Mrs. Wessell pushes the tray of cookies at Sam. "Have some more, Sam. The prophet says that you haven't been eating well since starting the apocalypse."
"That's true," Dean admits, kind of impressed. Sam glares at his brother even as he dutifully takes a cookie, and damn, these people are good.
"The cookies were originally for the bake sale, but now that you're here, we obviously don't need to keep holding it."
"The bake sale?"
The pastor says, "We've been holding a bake sale every Sunday for a good long time. We know you boys have been getting by with credit card fraud and hustling pool, but that's just not a reliable source of income, not in these economic times. Now, I'm not judging you. We have quite a few former cons in our congregation."
Mrs. Wessell adds, "We figured with the banks tightening up lines of credit, you boys would need some ready cash."
And wouldn't you know, Sam, anti-Christ sap that he is, looks like he's about to cry. He asks quietly, "You held a bake sale for us?"
Dean rolls his eyes. "You are so friggin easy."
Sam throws him a dirty look just as a younger woman ventures into the kitchen, smiling apologetically while balancing a crying baby on her hip.
"Sorry, I've been listening in. I also wanted to say thank you for everything you've done. You boys haven't had much of a life, but it's not in vain, you have to know that. My baby's name is Johnny. We named him after your father."
Dean just stares. He's suddenly very tired and more than a little bewildered. Nobody has ever thanked him for his life before. Nobody but Sam, and that's different.
Mrs. Wessell pats him on the arm. "I fixed up a room in the house. You boys need to rest. And don't tell us you don't need one. The prophet said you would."
To Be Continued
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