One
Hell, Dean notes, never had a routine. There are only three constants- the pain, the offer, and refusing the offer. Sometimes it is hard to remember why precisely he was refusing. At those times he will chant his brother's name in his head until he can manage the word "no".
Sometimes he hears whispers; whispers of someone coming to save the souls of the damned, of warriors of light that would lay siege to Hell and set them free. He knows them for what they are, of course. They are just rumours, passed around by those who still dared to hope. For some reason, the whispers grow more frequent, more excited the last few… he isn't sure if it is days, months, or decades, but he knows that they get more persistent as loses hope to remain himself.
"A legion is coming. They're going to kill Alastair and his demons and save us all."
"They're drawing nearer! Soon we will see their lights."
"No one is coming. We're alone and hoping otherwise is stupid and irresponsible."
"But they are! Listen and you will hear the demons screaming as they are extinguished."
Those aren't demons screaming, Dean thinks dispiritedly, but doesn't try and argue.
"There is only one," The souls claim next. "But he has destroyed thousands of demons and he will free us."
Dean notes that there are much less of them now, only a handful remaining. He isn't sure what happened to the rest and he doesn't want to know. There is only one way to leave, after all, and that is worse than staying. The number of the souls he can hear (he can see none) dwindles down from nearly twenty to eleven, then should be new souls coming, so Dean guesses they're put somewhere else. He can see why the demons would want to do are three of them remaining when someone does come. It isn't very much like what the whispers had said at all. There is no blinding light, nor are demons falling dead at the mere sight of the newcomer. The figure looks more like a soul than anything really. Well, a soul without the layers and layers and layers of scars and wounds and cuts that a soul that had been in this place accumulated. And, y'know, frigging ten foot long wings.
Holy crap, I finally lost my mind, is Dean's first thought.
He watches silently as Alastair drops his blade and turns to face the outsider. At a second glance, the latter looks kind of beat up: his left arm hangs uselessly at his side, the right side of his face appears quashed and bruised, one of his wings droops more than the other one. He doesn't look weak, though, just kind of tired. Dangerous, nonetheless. He has a stabby bladey thing in his hand. It's too short to be a sword, but certainly is not a knife. He hears Alastair yell a command, and suddenly there are demons at his side- more demons than Dean has ever seen at a time before. Ready to watch Wings get his ass handed to him on a silver plate, he certainly doesn't expect what is coming. This isn't a battle, he realized, this is slaughter. The lower order demons attack swiftly and die just as swiftly, and Alastair is the only one left standing once again. He is chanting something, but then the blade is in his stomach and he is bleeding out on the floor. The fight is kind of unexciting, all in all, even if it isn't in the way Dean thought it would be.
Wings makes his way to him then, and Dean shrinks away, because the guy is a friggin killing machine and Dean is pretty much as helpless as they come right now.
"You are Dean Winchester." The being states, or maybe asks.
"Been for a while," Dean mutters back, though, thinking about it, those are terrible last words. What happens if you die here? Is it even possible?
The stranger gives him a look that Dean can't read, eyes blue and alien.
Dean wakes up in a pine box after that with a strong will to live. He is alone, but that's something he is used to, by this point. He digs his way up, and suddenly everything is so bright and so vivid and alive somehow. He thinks he might throw up. Then he thinks of how much time he must have missed and he feels like throwing up for entirely different reasons. How long had it been? Years, decades? Has he lost Sammy again, for entirely different reasons?
There is another part of him, though, that is driving him out, to seek out means of survival, to find civilization. After maybe forty minutes of walking into a random direction, he stumbles upon a road, and then a gas station. How very fortunate.
There's water. He's missed water. How very strange that one could miss water. Looking around for any kind of calendar, he finds a newspaper. It's 2008, just the end of August. Relief washes over Dean. He's been gone for three months. Three months! That's practically nothing. Sam must still be the person he was when Dean died- Oh.
Sam must have done something. Of course Sam had done something. Okay. Right. He needs a way to fix this. And he needs to kill the kid.
Now that he thinks about it, what Sam had done was some powerful stuff. Dean remembers being torn apart by hellhounds, but when he looks into the mirror, there isn't even any scars on his chest. Even those that had come from other sources have disappeared. His right shoulder burns for some reason, and it's red and swollen when he looks at it. The wound, as Dean takes a look at it, has the shape of a handprint. Calling that disturbing would be an understatement.
Alright, moving on. Dean is sure he saw a payphone around here somewhere. He has to break into the cashier register, but that's easy enough. He gets it open quickly and is in the middle of getting cash out when he first hears the sound. It's high enough to make his ears hurt and he fumbles with the salt container he has nicked, trying to get the it on the window sill. Halfway through, though, he is forced to stop and cover his ears as it grows in volume. The window turns out to be a bad thing to be near: it cracks and breaks, and Dean ends up on his knees in broken glass. Ow.
The sound is gone just as quickly as it came and Dean (since it seems like the best option at the time) makes his way to the payphone. He calls Sammy first, but it's never that easy, and an automated voice informs him the number had been disconnected. He dials Bobby next, unsure what he is going to do if Bobby doesn't answer. Fortunately, he picks up on the first ring.
"Bobby?" Dean manages to keep disbelief out of his voice, but only just.
"Yeah?" Bobby replies.
"It's me."
"Who's me?"
"Dean."
There is no reply but the dial tone. Okay, it's not exactly a "Welcome Back" party, but he'd a fool to expect something else. Sighing, Dean dials the number again.
"Who is this?" Bobby demands.
"Bobby, listen to me-"
"This ain't funny. Call again and I'll kill you."
The dial tone sounds again. Dean glances around, spotting a beat up white minivan in the corner of the parking lot. It's not his baby, but it will have to do. He makes his way towards the car with certainty. It's locked, but there is no kind of security, and he knows more than he should about taking others' vehicles. The wires spark and the engine turns, and he is just about to drive away, when he sees movement out of the corner of his eye. Out of reflex, he turns to look at and jumps when sees the its source. Behind him on the parking lot, there are people standing; maybe six of them, most wearing formal attire. They're unnaturally still, staring at him, watching as if trying to make something out. Then the one that appears to be the leader (a tall, bald man with dark skin) moves forward. There's a stabby bladey thing in his hand (it's not quite a sword, but too long to be a knife) that looks familiar for some reason and he is certainly following Dean. Then there's a blinding light behind the standing people, and Dean turns and drives as fast as the car can go.
He only needs to stop once (gas) before he reaches Bobby's. The man takes his time opening that door, and glares suspiciously at Dean standing on his porch.
"Surprise."
Bobby seems at loss for words. "I- I don't…"
"Yeah, me neither." Dean admits, stepping inside. "But here I am."
Then Bobby lunges at him with a silver knife. Dean barely has the time to grab his hand and maneuver out of the way.
"Bobby! It's me!"
"My ass!"
Dean ducks away as Bobby stabs at him, putting a chair in between.
"Woah, woah, wait! Your name is Robert Steven Singer, you became a hunter after your wife got possessed, and- and you're the closest thing I've got to a father."
For a second, he thinks Bobby believes him, but then he sees the other man tense. Dean is ready when Bobby attacks a second time, and wrestles the knife from him.
"I'm not a shapeshifter!" He protests.
"Then you're a revenant!"
"Alright. If I was either, would I do this with a silver knife?" Dean pushes up his sleeve and slices his arm, wincing slightly.
"Dean?"
"That's what I've been trying to tell you!"
Since Bobby has lost track of Sam, Dean resort to slightly more creative means in order to find Sams.
"Yes, the name is Wedge Antilles… social is 2-4-7-4. Thank you."
"How'd you know he'd use that name?"
"You kidding me? What don't I know about the kid?"
Dean opens up the tracking system for Sam's phone on the laptop. It takes a moment for it find a signal, and then it beeps.
Phone Location
362 Eve's Drive.
Mason City, Iowa.
Dean knocks on the door of the motel room, and , to his surprise, a young woman opens it. She's pretty, and wearing nearly nothing, and most certainly not Sam. He's just about to say they have the wrong room when he sees Sam emerge from behind her. He's dark-eyed, and he looks like he has aged years, but he is certainly Dean's baby brother.
Fifteen minutes later, after Sam, Dean, and Bobby are alone and it's been firmly established that Dean is actually Dean and that Sam did not bring him back, Bobby looks back and forth between the brothers, clears his throat and points out that the sticky question remains.
Dean shrugs and slides his hands into his pockets. Pockets, which, unlike expected, are not empty. Dean almost yelps, turning his pockets inside out and watching two hex bags fall out onto the floor. Sam's eyes widen.
"I'm gonna guess those ain't yours?" Bobby comments.
Dean shakes his head and picks one up cautiously. "Should we just burn it, or…?"
"Unwrap it, might give us a hint." Sam says slowly.
Dean fumbles with the strings, putting the fabric and its contents down on the table. "Um, that's bird bones, herbs, and soot?"
"I've heard of human ashes being used in spells." Sam states. " A father's ashes, in particular."
"You think…?"
"I don't know!"
"There's something else here." Bobby waves his finger just over the the unwrapped hex bag, pointing at a tiny, translucent, white ball.
"Huh," Dean pauses. "Looks like the inside of a beanie baby."
"Or a fish egg?" Sam guesses.
"Spider egg, more like it." Bobby clarifies. "And the 'herbs' are lavender and hemp."
"So what does that do? Ashes, spider egg, bones, hemp, and lavender?" Sam asked.
"Do I look like a witch to you?" Bobby grumples.
"Human remains mean black magic, right?" Dean asks.
"Most likely." Sam shrugs.
"Then I say we burn them before they kill us." Dean states.
Both of the other men nod, and Dean makes his way to the motel room sink (which is thankfully metal and large enough) and uses a lighter and scrap paper to make a flame. He deposits the unwrapped hex bag first, taking care that all the components burn.
"I wonder why the curse was taking so long to work. Assuming it is a curse." Sam comments, but Dean knows he's just being difficult because he follows the words with dropping the other hex bag into the fire.
The flames flash blue, and then all hell breaks loose.
Metaphorically.