A/N: A big hug and a steaming cup of hot chocolate goes out to mainegirlwrites for betaing this chapter. Thanks, girl! :)
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.
Give Me A Sign
Bobby's gaze shifts from Dean to Sam and back again, attempting to comprehend the look his boys just silently exchanged. The news Sam brought to share for show–and–tell doesn't sink in right away, his brain still a little slow from his oh–so–tragic near–death experience, and Bobby has to repeat the words several times to himself before they make any lick of sense.
After such a speedy and full recovery, you'd think it'd be easier.
"Where?" Dean asks without hesitation, eyes now a perfect reflection of his little brother's. But Sam is already halfway out the door.
Must be one hell of a find.
Dean disappears in pursuit of Sam, leaving Bobby to glare accusingly at the Styrofoam cup, as if the thing itself is responsible for keeping him locked up in a confining hospital room. Really, if it were the graveyard shift, he might risk following them. But, as it isn't, and as dozens of nurses and doctors seem keen on checking in every five minutes, he knows it's pointless to try.
To be honest, he feels like a goddamn fish in a tank, on display for any and all to see.
"Don't you see it, Sammy?"
He flinches at the deep tone that announces the presence of a taunting voice, even now. For a heartbeat, the devil takes the reins; laughter reverberates through his mind, banging around the inside of his skull and bouncing off the corners to push and shove and prod—
"He isn't real. None of this is real."
He wants this nightmare to end. Here, now. Forever. Because he can't take it, not like this. Not with Dean just two steps behind him. The real Dean, his brother. The one who's always been there for him, taken care of him, protected him from the evil things in his closet, under his bed. The one who kept him human and alive.
Sam smirks. You're not real, he thinks. If you were, you would have pulled me back to Hell by now instead of screwing with my head.
And by some miracle, Lucifer's voice fades away with the images of his time spent in the Pit.
"Uh, Sam? Dude, you with me here?"
Sam mentally shakes himself and looks over at Dean. "Yeah . . . sorry, I'm good." He tries to remember if Dean had been talking to him before. "Right, so—you were saying . . . ?"
Dean frowns slightly, but lets the strange behavior pass. Still, his eyes scan the hallways as they dodge doctors carrying clipboards and nurses pushing patients in wheelchairs. A huddle of men and women in white tend to a bleeding man on a stretcher, and the group shoots past the brothers in the opposite direction, shouting for others to clear a path. It freaks Dean out that the scene doesn't faze him. "Where is this damn thing, anyway? What is it?"
In answer, Sam pushes the door to the men's room open and leads his brother to the spot. Dean's quick stride halts completely at the sight of the broken mirror hanging cracked and abused on the wall. He immediately tries to make his right hand cease to exist by shoving it deep into his pocket.
"Huh," he says, a small smile creeping onto his lips, "I wonder who could've done that?" Dean finds Sam is totally not amused.
What Dean doesn't know is that Sam catches the small movement out of the corner of his eye. Or is he just imagining things? Maybe it didn't happen at all. Sam shakes his head, trying to clear it, to focus. Ever since the wall isolating those memories—the ones he'd so desperately wanted to keep locked away—collapsed, he has discovered even little things, like remembering what he had for lunch, leaves his head burning.
And, suddenly, he can't remember why the wall fell in the first place. Or what caused it.
All Sam knows is that it just, well . . . did.
Eyebrows scrunched together, he grabs the mirror to remove it, feeling off–balance and slightly disoriented.
Hazel eyes take in the sight of smeared blood on the wall. Of course, no normal person would think to look behind a broken mirror for an angel banishing sigil. Dean isn't even sure a hunter would. But, truth be told, he's never been a normal hunter, let alone normal. Because nothing about a hunter's life screams normal.
Dean is just about to ask how in hell Sam found the sigil when a sharp pain rips through his head. The world blurs to a single as he staggers into the sink, one hand gripping it tight for support, the other trying to keep his head in one piece.
"Dean? Dean!"
His skull feels as if it's being ripped in two by someone with both the rage and power of Superman. No, scratch that, it's gotta be Hulk. Or maybe his head is about to explode. He knows for sure this ain't normal. For one, it's never happened before. Still hurts like a mother, though.
"Dean? Talk to me, man!"
He opens his mouth to tell Sam to quit worrying, to stop screaming because some doctor will burst through the door and see the sigil. But he only ends up emitting a yell of pure agony as another wave of pain washes through, this time down to the very tips of his toes. His head's on fire, white light dances across his vision, and he can feel himself slipping, losing the flimsy hold on consciousness. . . .
The last thing he hears before darkness claims him is Sam.
"Hold on, Dean, just hold on. I've got you."
The walls of the barn are covered in symbols and sigils and everything that they could find from Bobby's book. They jump out at him like a million flashing neon signs in the night, the black paint a stark outline against a white background.
Dean continues to turn the knife in circles with the tip of the blade pressed into the wooden table. Turns out whatever pulled him out of Hell took a vacation, hopped on plane headed for New Mexico. Obviously, this thing isn't bound to show up anytime soon. Sighing impatiently, he looks to the older hunter.
"You sure you did the ritual right?"
Bobby tilts his head and gives him a pointed look that clearly says, "You really wanna go there, boy?"
He chucks the knife across the table, knowing it's probably useless now anyway. "Sorry," Dean grunts. "Touchy, touchy, huh?" He rubs a hand over his face while Bobby just sits there and wishes they could wrap this whole thing up and go back to his place. At least there he can do something a little more useful. Have a drink, get in a few hours' sleep, take a year–long break. . . .
They instinctively get to their feet and take up the loaded guns when the metal roof begins to shake. Dean looks around, expecting, well . . . something. But there's nothing.
"Wishful thinking, but maybe it's just the wind," he tells Bobby.
Then, right on cue, the light above their head shatters into a thousand pieces. Then another, and another, and another. Like some freaky chain reaction. Glass and sparks rain down around them as the door swings open on its own. A dark shadow crosses the threshold, and a figure that looks strikingly human steps into view, confident in its deliberate stride toward them. The creature doesn't flinch or falter at the exploding lights or even when rock salt rounds pierce its chest. The being appears rather indifferent to the symbols on the walls, somehow knowing they are harmless.
Dean and Bobby abandon the guns when they realize how powerful this thing has to be. Dean picks up Ruby's knife, hiding it carefully behind his back and hopes it's just some weird demon–spawn with a death wish.
The guy is dressed like a tax accountant, but it's clear it isn't human. It moves as if circling prey from above to stand in front of him, a smooth face with no eyes, nose, or mouth.
"Who are you?" Dean demands.
Replying in a voice he can only describe as robotic, the creature says, "I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition." With no visible mouth, it sounds as if the voice might be emanating from just about anywhere.
Huh. Weird. "Yeah," Dean nearly growls, getting a decent grip on the knife, "Thanks for that."
The blade sinks sickeningly into the flesh all the way up to the hilt. While Dean waits for a reasonable reaction to the wound, the being simply removes the knife, clearly unfazed and unharmed. The weapon clatters to the floor, useless.
Bobby steps up to the plate and takes a nice swing at their summoned visitor with an iron crowbar, only the tax accountant is ready and blocks the attack without looking (well, he can't be sure, but the being doesn't turn its head), hardly using a shred of exertion. Two fingers to the forehead and Bobby Singer slumps to the ground, rendered unconscious.
Which leaves Dean on his own.
The creature speaks again, in the same deep, gravelly tone. "We need to talk, Dean." The head is cast downward at Bobby. When the creatures looks back up at him, two icy blue eyes have abruptly appeared on the pale face. They swirl strangely, hypnotizing him with only a glance. "Alone."
"Just—stay the hell away, all right? Lose my number. And ignore my last message."
Castiel finally flips the phone shut after listening to Dean's messages on constant repeat, trying to determine what had caused such a drastic change in tones. In all honesty, he couldn't decide which was more painful—the former or the latter.
But it doesn't matter now. He'd made his choice, given Sam, Bobby, and Dean the chance to move on without him. And after watching them deal with far less troubles, he came to the conclusion he had made the right choice, done the right thing. Even if it hadn't been the most desirable option.
He wondered if it made any difference that he'd finally made things right the second time around, after he'd been given a handful of second chances.
He still doesn't understand, after all the trials and tribulations. At least . . . not completely.
How could he sacrifice everything—his faith, his brothers, his life—for one being, one insignificant mortal man who acted on pure and selfish impulse, who had practically destroyed the world several times over, who had left one mess after another for someone else to tend to? Why did he have to lose all he had strived for, be doomed to protect the most suicidal, reckless, and cursed human to ever walk the earth? Why hadn't he returned to Heaven and remained in his true place when he had the perfect opportunity to do so?
Questions with answers he'd been searching for. And could not find.
He knew he didn't deserve it. None of this. Not to see them, not to even be here. Not after all he'd done to them, intentionally or not. Perhaps Dean's message rings with a sort of truth.
Even if he were to return, there would be no guarantee of forgiveness. From any of them. There would undoubtedly be anger, mistrust, rejection. Castiel did not expect Dean to welcome him back with open arms. His angry words in the last message made him certain, if only of one thing.
There is sudden movement in the hall, and through the eyes of Claire Novak he sees them. Sam in the lead, Dean following close behind, speaking rapidly to his younger sibling, who appears distracted. A wounded man on a stretcher surrounded by several physicians blocks his view momentarily. Then, once they enter the restroom, he stands.
He hesitates before tossing the cell phone into a rather full trash can and falls into step behind them.
The first thing Dean becomes fully aware of is an annoying throbbing right above his eyebrow, suggesting the arrival of a nasty headache. Although, everything else feels fine at the moment besides his head, or at least he thinks so. Kinda hard to tell when you're so stiff from lying immobile for a while.
He opens his eyes and quickly covers most of his face by burying it in one arm. "Dammit, Sam, turn off the lights," Dean groans into the crook of his arm.
Sam smiles in relief and catches Bobby's eye. "Yeah, I think he's good."
Dean removes his arm and opens his eyes more slowly this time, and instead of light stabbing his vision, the enormous form of an annoying little brother progressively comes into focus. More annoying than the fading headache.
"Dude, you look like hell," Sam says, barely suppressing a chuckle.
Dean realizes he's lying down and attempts to sit up. "Shut up, Sam."
White sheets. Clean sheets. So that rules out being at the motel. Dean frowns. Then where—?
Seeing the expression on his older brother's face, Sam puts out both hands to keep Dean from flipping out. "It's okay, man. You just passed out in the men's room. You're here in the hospital with Bobby and me." He doesn't move for a few seconds, waiting for a delayed reaction.
But Dean just sits up a little in the hospital bed and rubs at his eyes. Looks over at Bobby sitting on the bed next to his, who says, "Hey there, Sleeping Beauty."
Dean shakes his head. "I don't pass out," he assures. "Or faint, just so we're clear on that. So are you going to tell me what the hell really happened, or am I gonna sit here in the dark forever?"
Sam looks nervously at the floor, the walls, Bobby. Whatever he thought would happen, he hadn't predicted denial right off the bat. "Um, well . . . that's basically what happened, Dean. No other way to put it, really."
Dean locks eyes with his brother and decides he must be telling the truth. He sighs and closes his eyes again. "Did I hit my head by chance?"
Dean doesn't hear a smile in Sam's voice this time. "Actually, yeah. Do you remember anything?"
Thinking hard, he tries to remember how he ended up in the men's room with Sam, of all places. There had been light, lots of it. Blinding light. Red streaks on the wall that must have been blood. And a man—a man dressed in a business suit and overcoat.
Dean frowns again. "Was there someone else with us?"
Sam shakes his head, confused. "No. Why?"
"Huh, must've been a dream, I guess." He opens his eyes to see Sam looking down at a cell phone. Dean's cell phone. "Hey, what're you—?"
"Relax, dude," Sam says, turning the phone so Dean can see the picture he'd been looking at. "This was the sigil I showed you before you . . . blacked out. Look familiar?"
Dean's eyes widen. "What's an angel banishing sigil doing in the men's room?"
"That's what we were trying to find out," Sam replies, about to put the phone back in his jacket pocket.
"Hold on, let me see that picture again."
Sam hands the phone back to Dean, wondering if he might have hit his head harder than Sam originally thought.
On the floor underneath the sigil and next to the sink, a broken mirror sat leaning against the wall. That's when he suddenly remembers he broke that mirror and that Sam has no knowledge of the incident. And that his hand had magically been healed only hours after slyly hiding it from his little brother.
Deciding he'll send the picture to Sam on his own damn phone, Dean goes to his very short list of contacts. Only, as he's scrolling down, there's one, listed right after Bobby, that he doesn't ever remember being there before.
For the life of him, Dean Winchester has no idea who "Cas" is.
Anyone else think of the song Calling All Angels by Train while reading this?