Quiet settled around them as the engine pinged, a metallic sound and there was a sense of wrongness, of something not quite right yet hard to place as they sat in the truck at the start of Bobby's driveway. Michael was leaning out the window, head tilted back, eyes closed like a hound after a scent. Sam figured that was what was happening over there, trying to catch the fragments of what might have lurked here or still did.
The house had a lost look, boards over all the windows, paint peeling in large, thick curls as if something beyond sun and wind had come through. Skeletons of hulking cars, some that were still salvageable were sitting silent, rusty witnesses that had no words and the bare ground was harsh against the fading light of afternoon.
It looked like a place they would investigate, something forgotten and not once considered home.
"Whatever angels were here have been gone for some time. There is nothing else but small animals."
Michael's verdict shook him back to this minute, and he held in a comment that would end up calling him something like Cujo.
Dean would have a better comeback, he was always better at those. Probably from watching TV instead of researching to save their asses.
It was a beat before he realized Michael was waiting for him, hand on the door handle, staring with some kind of eternal patience for Sam to collect his crap and be ready for what was here. He wasn't sure he was as he pushed his own open, the angel following his lead, doors whispering closed.
Would do no good to make too much noise as he wasn't sure if there were eyes still set on this place.
Even before he reached the yard proper he realized why the ground seemed so bright, so massively glare inducing. Hundreds, if not thousands of pieces of glass were everywhere. Not one was over an inch big and not one of the old wrecks or windows still had some left in their frames. The mirrors on cars had even popped and it was like walking on sharp gravel, the sound of cracking and grinding under his boots.
The holy water flask was heavy in his shirt pocket providing the only sense of familiarity, something almost forgotten but it was little comfort looking at the destruction here.
"Leaning towards angels," and he was surprised he still had a voice.
"We do not know what happened yet."
Sam knew that was to his worry that Dean did not survive this, that he went the same as Bobby and some helpful good Samaritans from town had covered the windows while the city hungrily waited to collect on an heirless corpse. Or worse, carted off because he was a true vessel and Raphael was probably all focused on that little world ending battle. Dean was off limits in that way but some things were worse than death and he doubted heaven was ignorant of that fact.
"Don't think Bobby went softly."
"We will look around outside first," was the only response and he made his mind stay on what was around him and not sink into unprovable what if's.
It was lonely. That was the only word he had for this. Reflections of skinned metal twisted up like strange offerings to the sky off in the back. No true signs of life, no attempts at clean up and his stomach did a strange sinking twist at the sight of Bobby's study boarded. Those windows, where they sat with the grumpy old hunter making demands and being his general hard to get along but can't live without self.
Then his feet were moving quickly towards stains still working on fading as his eyes were faster than his processing. Splattered across the feeble weeds, the earth, the tiny crystal fragments of windows was something dark and once liquid. There were deep indentations in the earth here, the sign of something heavy being slammed down a few times, pushing the glass into the ground until it became a dazzling misshapen mosaic.
"Angelic." Michael was beside him and Sam didn't know to be relieved or worried more. "At least this portion is. I can still smell the lost grace mixed in the blood."
Turning, he searched the nearby area, looking for a sign and he found it in a beige minivan. Its back end looked punched in, a muddy red streak as a scar across the paint. He was over and touching it, unable to stop himself.
Angelic, he wanted to believe that but something in him knew better.
"I do not know who it belongs to, Sam. It may be what happened to your friend."
Fingers on the streak, its color cemented from long hours under the sun's heat. Blood and pain, his family suffering and there was little to be learned by dwelling on it.
The porch railing by them was partially broken, one side a collection of splinters and wood pieces scattered across the stairs. Some of the nearby slates of the house were cracked and warped from whatever was thrown at them. All that was left out here were the small tells of violence but it was enough to know they were too late in many ways.
"We should look inside."
Of course the door was locked but before he had a chance for anything Michael merely gave it an encouraging shove by the deadbolt. A tearing sound, more wood breaking then it swung open as if it had been open all that time.
He swallowed a comment on over kill and made a mental note to ask the angel just how strong he was. It made him wonder how he saw, what he actually smelled. If he could turn it off, or if he took in everything here; monsters, exhaust fumes, death and decay, mold.
It made him feel slightly guilty that he had been put off by the nachos and feet comb their stolen truck had going on.
It was black inside, an artificially induced night from all the missing windows and he mentally scolded himself. Thankfully, Bobby was a pack rat. In the light forcing its sway in thin blades from the door, he found a flashlight in the third drawer. He should have known that.
As he pulled it out his hand brushed something familiar. Dean's phone, battery dead but still there and he understood why his brother did not pick up now.
He left it where it was, it seemed wrong to move it.
Weak beam as all of Bobby's stuff seemed to be at least a decade old or it wasn't welcomed in the house but it was enough. Sweeping it across the kitchen he saw a chair knocked over, fridge door swayed out advertising its defunct status. Shelves were empty, thick dust had settled and made a home as quickly as it could and it all had a forgotten air.
Walking into the study he saw Bobby's desk divested of its drawers. They laid in a helter-skelter pile, the lock on one looking as though it had been pried open with a tool close to a flat head screwdriver. All of Bobby's work, his research was gone from here. Even photos, the few the man had had had been stripped from their frames. Like he was erased and Sam chocked back a noise crafted from grief.
It was clear that at least one thing was right, that Bobby was, for all purposes, most likely dead if this was the aftermath.
Michael came to him from where he had been looking over the front entry, placing a hand on him. "Someone's here."
"Angel? Demon?" He almost included 'other' since given their lives that was a distinct possibility.
"Human."
It could be Dean but he doubted it given the state of things and he eyed their escape routes. Nothing looked promising as he heard the back door hinges whine softly at the request to open more. They fell back to the front, which looked rather unusable given that it was nailed shut with plywood instead of windows. He cursed his rustiness for leave the other door open like a big welcome sign yelling 'Here! They're right here!'. Footfalls soft and steady and he switched off his light as whoever it was entered the kitchen. Even if Michael wrenched the door behind them open, the noise would be a giveaway and the front yard has little cover. He did not look forward to being shot in the back.
He tugged at Michael, hoping to show which way to go in the gloom that was lazing and hazy all about them. Years in this house, knowing it, praying nothing was discarded or tipped over in their way. He felt the chill of the door pull under his fingers as he gave the door from the hallway to the kitchen an encouraging shove.
It was the old wood and bad brass that gave them away, that final inch causing the door to squeal in some sort of wounded protest. Moving fast now, at the table when a high powered beam was on them, turning his world white with a scattering of black dots and he blinked rapidly.
"Stop or I'll shoot. Hands were I can see them. Drop your weapons. I said drop."
A woman's voice strong and clear and he did it, knife nosily meeting the floor. Shit, police were not what they needed.
"Outside, now." She was close, at the doorway between the study and the kitchen and Sam felt it wise to follow her instructions. He had no idea if she was armed or with what, as he made his way to the back door, the world exploding back into his vision.
There were down the stairs before they stopped, Sam still mulling over whether or not she would shoot them if they made a run for it. Something clattered against the porch and he realized she had picked up their weapons and moved them with her till this point. Turning he saw her, eyes sharp with her dark hair pulled back, thin face displeased and something else he couldn't name.
She was familiar and then he had it, that tan uniform, gun belt heavy with supplies as the weapon was already drawn and trained on them.
"Sheriff Mills?" he tried which only served to make her look unhappier.
"Dead thing should stay dead, Sam Winchester. I've learned enough to know that. Don't nothing come back the right way the second time."
Memories of having to shoot her zombie son who was busy eating his own father were far brighter and more real to him now than they had a right to be.
"Why do you think I'm dead?"
"I was with your brother when we burned you, near out of his mind with grief."
A small sound did make its way out of him then, he just couldn't process anymore. Dean thought he was dead. His brother thought he had salted and burned him and Oh God, what had happened? They were supposed to be safe. Him in hell was supposed to help Dean have a normal life, have a chance to be with Lisa and have a family, finally.
To know what rest was even with him in hell. Sam had hoped that maybe Dean could find a thread of happiness.
"We have been in hell, sheriff," Michael finally added, the angel taking her in, stoic and statue like and he worked on being that same, cool collective calm.
The way she stood telling him she didn't want to shoot them, but she would if she had too.
"And who is we?" She asked, her posture not changing but a slight tension was winding higher.
"Michael. I was imprisoned with Sam and my brother."
She scoffed, some guttural disbelieving sound. "The archangel? Even if it was true, can't say it helps a lot given what I've seen. Besieds, why didn't you just fly?"
"When I was freed I was bound to this flesh," Michael said, watching her, making slow measured movements to his right and Sam wanted to tell him to knock that shit off.
"You're asking to be shot," she told him, gun never leaving him and Sam made a small noise of agreement until he figured it out.
"Outside of cutting myself open with one of those knives, it's the only way to prove to you what I am."
Sheriff Mills was weighing her options. Sam could tell the way she clenched her jaw and then her right shoulder stooped in some kind of resignation.
A flask was being tossed to him and he scrambled to catch it. Silver, worn with small marks and he opened it, taking it drink. Bitter salt water that he assumed had seen a blessing at one point. He passed the bottle to Michael who followed suit.
"No tricks, do what you saw you are going to do then place the weapon on the ground."
"I understand."
She did a soft ball under hand throw of the knife from where she stood and Michael had it in hand after it shuffled and spun across the dry earth. He rolled his sleeve up and just plunged it in his arm, taking the blade down as grace flowed tinged a red sheen of blood before flesh began immediately stitching itself back together.
"Jesus," she got out and Sam had to agree with her after that terrible demonstration. "Leave it all on the ground and walk towards my car, hands were I can see them at all times."
The dull thump of the flask falling and hitting the ground as he turned, hand still up, glass a loud accompaniment as they followed their path back to the truck. Her car was behind it, probably got there when they were in the kitchen and he was searching. Just far enough away that it would sound like a car passing on the road and not one pulling in.
"Stand against the car, put your hands on it."
He did as he was told feeling himself being relieved of his flask, phone and salt before the cuffs were slapped on his wrists and he tried for a positive thought. That maybe this wasn't as bad as it looked and she did look pretty freaked out. If he was her and had someone over a head taller lumbering around he'd want them restrained too.
The part he was annoyed with however, despite everything, was that she looked at Michael and then simply frisked him and let him stand without restraints. Sam figured she didn't want a set of broken handcuffs if she had seen what the angel had done to one door lock.
"Get in," she said opening the back door. "Don't make any trouble."
"Where are you taking us?"
"Somewhere safer to talk. Don't think it is here."
As much as he wanted to, he knew it wasn't the place to question just why that was and he watched Michael get in and then move over for him to get his gigantic ass into the car as Dean would say. She helped him not knock his head, her hand gentle and not showing hostility. Sam was slightly embarrassed as he should be better at this. Wasn't the first time he'd ever been restrained and arreseted.
As the door slammed he glanced over at Michael and his damn free hands who seemed slightly amused over his current situation. He honestly felt like kicking him because obviously, cuffs, he couldn't just punch him. Because Dean would also be the person finding this hilarious and it just wasn't fair. He didn't ask to be this big and he breathed, trying to focus on the unfairness of this all instead of what happened when they got here.
"Sam, she is unsure and it is a wise decision."
Michael's lip service did him little favor and he breathed in again, trying to remember the whole keep on living again. He glanced out the rear window and saw that she had holstered her gun, her phone out to her ear as she walked towards the house.
"She is human."
He nodded, rolling his neck to try to get it to pop, to make it feel used and actually his own as he was still have drifting problems with that.
It was hard not to let the claustrophobia get's its needles all up under his skin which was a tall order when trapped in a muggy car with the faint scent of vomit mixing in with the food smells back here. There was a Plexiglas barrier with air holes cut into it, letting him see into the front where her jacked and laptop lay, radio on low as dispatch carried on with orders too soft to fully make out.
There was still no Dean and his brother was in worse trouble with no one left to help except the sheriff.
"Sam."
Michael moved his thumb across the back of his hand again and all Sam wanted as to bury his face against Michael's chest. Like he had been and hadn't in hell all that same time. When Michael appeared small and spread across the universe all at once.
"Someone tortured my family, made it so they were in danger and Dean had to –"
"Concentrate on what we are doing. We can change none of that. We can, however find out as much. I do not feel she is dangerous or the maker of rash decisions."
He turned to see out the back, knowing he needed to pay attention to her. She was moving on the phone, walking back, watching the car.
"I just – we need to go faster."
"I believe it will, that we will gain allies Sam. I am willing to endure the tests if it gives us answers."
All he could do was nod stupidly and watch her move all their things over to the trunk of her car, the lid slamming down hard and he jumped. Something was so final in that noise and he felt Michael's hands in his hair, sliding down to his cheek, thumb moving in small circled beneath his eye.
She was getting in and saw them like this and he was not ashamed. He didn't know how she would feel but as she sat in the front, watching there was something of interest and Sam wanted to close his eyes and couldn't.
He needed to pay attention. There were answer to what happened to his brother here.
Finally, she started the car, driving away from the gutted house he had once thought of as maybe being a home, even in his mind.
XX
XX
Twenty minutes.
He was pretty sure it had been twenty minutes but as the angel pressed up against his arm on the back seat of a police cruiser would tell him, he wasn't a good manager of time passing recently.
What he was sure of was that he had gotten his crap to stop hanging out and it was now stowed properly so that he could concentrate on what the hell was going on here. They were out of town, and she was driving along a back road; some old highway that used to be important but fell to the ideas that any good road had more than two lanes and that newer was always better.
Sheriff Mills glanced back at them occasionally but there wasn't anything that keyed him in to danger. She was distrustful, sure, he didn't blame her but he didn't feel like she was going to pull over, walk to his door and put a bullet in his skull either.
Plus, he doubted she would do that while he had heaven's tank beside him because a bullet wouldn't slow Michael down and if he was bleeding with a shattered brain Michael would be all kinds of angry.
Well, at least he hoped so. He tried not to think about what angelic spouses do or that he actually had one because that idea was still too big at times and too normal. Something he accepted and was in denial of, the archangel was just there and he hated and longed for it.
At least she had lowered the windows a bit to get some fresh air, breathing in the scent of just turned fields ready for planting and the dusty smell of empty furrows.
"How long?"
Her voice was all crackling with the moving air but he caught it, not quite getting it at first.
"How long, ma'am?" and she sighed.
"Jody. You know that. And how long you two been back?"
"Only a couple of days. We came back were we went in," he answered as she slowed to turn into what he thought was a tiny park. "Do you know where Dean is?"
"Haven't heard from him in about a month." She was turning towards them, keys turned to off. Her lips were thin and face pulled tight, some deep unhappiness was settled in her face. "Called me after whatever you saw happened back there. Told me was real banged up and not nearby. Told me he was going to ground."
"We will find him, Sam."
Michael was just there before he knew he need it and he let out a breath. Dean was alive. Alone, hurt, hunted by angels and being a jackass probably, but alive. Just the danger alone of him being isolated and why was his brother so stupid?
"Your brother is resilient. And I know personally that he makes himself very difficult to find," Michael was saying and Jody let out some kind of laugh, agreeing and frustrated and just plain tired.
"No funny business," she warned, opening her own door and he knew she was watching everything they did. "And before you get ideas, someone is meeting us here."
Sam was damn grateful to be out of the car, Michael still close and beside him. The question of who it was coming here died on his lips as her eyebrows shot up, warning she was unamused by questions.
Instead they dutifully went where she pointed, the closest picnic table. It was weathered, faded, and cut deep with people wanting to place a mark with switch blades and anything sharp enough to carve against the aged wood. Three other tables were nearby, all in similar shape. Strong enough to hold a family, banged up enough that no family would want to touch them.
Trees grew tall, straight trunks wide and solid showing their years but the underbrush was clear here. Little obstructed their view as late day sunlight shafted through the shifted canopy of bare limbs just beginning to bud.
"Bobby?" Sam finally found the courage to ask and her face had a s strange firm pulse as she sat down across from them, wood creaking in mild protest.
"A few months ago Dean called me near hysterics. Said you were completely off the rails. You'd had issues before, and frankly didn't want to be in the same room with you. Your brother was worried that something was wrong, that something was broken in you but that night he was beside himself."
She placed her hands folded on the table and leaned forward slightly, her eyes slits as she narrowed them and he already knew. He wanted to beg her not to say it because it couldn't be and it shouldn't be something real.
"Said you killed Singer and he had to hunt you through the yard to put you down."
He was already moving before he beacme aware of anything else, feet stumbling and his face nearly met the ground because his hands were cuffed and not available for fall breaking.
His stomach was empty outside of a little bile but it emptied anyways. This wasn't reality, this was some messed up world that Lucifer had made for them. Some little sparks of happiness while Satan striped away everything else. They hadn't made it out, there hadn't been some hand of God rescue and all the people he loved and cared for would die all because of what he was.
Hands were on him, he was distantly aware there was shouting before a loud pop and his hands were useful and they clutched at his thighs, jeans rough and almost there but not enough.
"Sam."
"He has us, doesn't he? We didn't get away and this is eternity, isn't it?"
"Oh, Sam, no."
Michael was there, squatting in front of him, taking his hands and it was close. Rough skin tracing the grooves and soft lines of blue veins under that skin.
"Sam, do you trust me? Even if I cause you a little pain do you trust me?"
"Yes."
Because whatever this was didn't matter for that and he thought Jodi was by them. He braced for a bulled but it didn't come.
Instead, Michael was turning his hand over, fingernail pressed against the knuckles before he applied just enough to sheer that thin cover, to start to expose the bone. He winced, tried to draw his hand away and everything felt more snapped into place.
"Trust in me," Michael said and Sam felt something stir, some flash of heat under all those lines they shared as the angel placed his palm against the wound. Small blood smears on that skin, staining the cells in soft whorls. Sam thought the angel was bleeding for a second too.
"Do you trust in me?"
"Yes."
Something snapped and strengthened and everything was suddenly brighter, sharper and Michael let out a breath as he bowed his head, trying to take in Bobby, of what something that appeared to be him had done. Of Dean being tricked into killing what he thought was him.
"I wish you had told me sooner what you feared." Michael's voice was soft and low against his ear. "I may be bound but I know how to access the bond to small degrees if need be. We are free, you and I. I am sorry for your friend."
His vision was a glossy smear then, tears ripe and ready and he let them go, knowing he had lost Bobby all over again without ever being able to say 'thank you' or 'I'm sorry.'
Jody moved away, watching them but not hovering as Michael's arm pulled around his waist, he buried his head in the angel's shoulder, glimpses of hell and their small salvation there and he hoped Bobby had made it to heaven.