The bus route to Lawrence from Sioux Falls was new. There was talk of malfunctions, talk of Heaven interferences, talk of crime, but Sam Winchester didn't care.
Everything was gray now.
The plastic seats lining the station. The .45 packed into his duffle. The hex bag hung on leather string from his neck. The bus itself, inching into the station with a shudder of electrical power.
Because she was gone, and she wasn't coming back.
Fire.
Sam picked up his duffle, and boarded the bus quietly, like any normal citizen should.
Too much fire. Where was she, where was she?
He found a seat relatively quickly, smiled at the old woman across the aisle. The floor of the bus rumbled softly, and the final passengers squeezed into their seats. Still, Sam Winchester was silent.
The ceiling, Sammy, check the damn ceiling. Pieces of plaster, ash and dust and oh so much blood up there. Wonder how she got up there, Sammy.
The nine-thirty bus to Lawrence was a long, long ride.
Before the end, Sam Winchester had changed.
Before the end, he had vowed his revenge.
...
Castiel had a bitch of a hangover. Not that he'd ever admit it to Dean, but it was honestly the worst thing he had ever experienced.
"Advil, dumbass," Dean had thrown a small brown-red pill at Castiel's head, a satisfied smirk playing on his face when he made his mark. "What, they don't have these in Magical Rainbow Land?"
Recently, his new companion had taken to making fun of everything Castiel did or said.
"Your tie's always backwards, man. It looks stupid."
"Still a virgin? Awkward, dude."
"If you say you don't like pie one more time, I will punch a wall."
"One word, Cass. Consonants."
It never ended. Castiel couldn't really bring himself to complain, though; he found himself liking Dean. Maybe it was the loud voice, or the stupid jokes Castiel never understood, or the fact that the smallest thing could make him smile.
Or maybe it was just the fact that for the first time since...ever, Castiel had a friend.
So a few misguided insults and medication tablets couldn't hurt.
...
As soon as they were on the road, Castiel noticed something different about Dean. There was a worry there, a knot of something that hadn't existed before.
"Dean," he said, as soon as the Impala (or Baby, according to Dean) was out on the rain-slicked freeway. "Is your shoulder hurting you again?"
Snort.
"No," he replied. A white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. "Why?"
They turned a sharp corner, and Castiel took a moment to watch the greys and browns of after-rain scenery pass them by. They were headed for Lawrence, Lawrence in Kansas, and Castiel hadn't even been out of the county yet. It was exciting, to say the least.
"Because you look rather disconcerted."
"English, Cass."
"Troubled."
Dean shot him an emerald glance of exasperation.
"And why would that be?"
"You tell me."
A silence fell over them once again, and Castiel let his shoulder lean into the cool glass of the shotgun-side window. His headache was not yet gone, and every bump the Impala stumbled over made him flinch unexpectedly. Alcohol would take some getting used to.
He couldn't even remember anything that happened after...after...(he didn't want to say it, didn't want to believe it). The hotel was a blur, bright colors, loud noises, a cell phone ringing as he drifted off to sleep...
He hoped, somewhat cautiously, that he and Dean hadn't...
No. Castiel blinked rapidly as if to cleanse any more rogue thoughts from his mind. No, of course not. They were adults. Responsible adults.
Well, except for Dean.
"You okay over there, Mr. Comatose?"
It was going to be a long car ride.
...
Sam Winchester noticed something very different about his brother the instant he laid eyes on him. His face was the usual stubborn mask of normality, his smile screwed into something more like a grimace, yet still as funny and, well...relieving, as it had always been to Sam. Maybe, he told himself, as he made his way across the parking lot. Maybe it was the gunshot wound he could make out in his shoulder, carefully stitched. Or maybe it was the after affects of alcohol showing in his gait.
Or maybe it was the guy who followed him out of the car.
They were laughing. They hadn't even noticed Sam, on the other side of the street, his beaten duffle and a blurry picture of sanity following him. Sam: the smart one, the emotional one, The One Who Was Going Somewhere. Watching his brother and a friend laugh and talk like he wasn't there.
Like Jess had never died.
Sam found himself hating the man he had never met.
Dean was making a joke, making a face, and the dark-haired stranger in the white dress shirt and rumpled blue tie was smirking. The door of the Impala slammed, and Sam's heart thudded in his chest with the unfairness of it all.
"Sammy!"
Dean jogged over, and his mask slipped and fell, the lines of joy replaced by lines of uncomfortable pity, uncomfortable love, uncomfortable everything.
"Jesus, Sam, I missed you," his brother moved to hug him, pulling him into an embrace once reserved for a quiet, bookish Sam. A Sam four inches shorter and a whole lot happier.
"Dean."
He let himself be hugged. Dean smelled familiar; leather and greasy diner food. Dean was Dean. His brother. He would never die.
"Hey, so, um...this is..." Dean broke away, motioning behind him towards where the stranger was standing. It seemed the stranger was very interested in a bee wandering across the sky, and Dean had to snap his fingers in front of his face to bring his attention back to Sam. "This is Cass. Castiel Novak."
Castiel. Funny name.
"You okay, Sam?"
No. A hundred times no.
"Yeah, man. Just...just a little tired, y'know?"
Fire.
She's on the ceiling, Sammy. Check up there, Sammy.
Castiel Novak.
Dean was Dean and Dean was familiar.
Fire.
Fire.
FIRE.
Sam Winchester forced a tight smile.
"Nice to meet you, Cass. I'm Sam. The other Winchester."
...
Anna Milton sat at her desk, as she had every day for the past ten years.
It was a pleasant existence, this, one she never regretted in the slightest.
There was always someone there, after all, to wash the blood from her hands if she needed it.
"Uriel," she sighed into her cell, tapping one long nail one the shined mahogany surface of her desk. It was expensive, imported from some forest deep in a third-world country, and she loathed to let it go filthy. "I'm waiting for the results of Angel Blue."
There was a silence.
"The one with Winchester, ma'am?"
Anna choked back a snort of disgust. The name reeked of filth, and Anna hated filth.
"Yes, Uriel. The Winchester boy. I want to make sure Novak is carrying out his orders as planned." She bit her tongue as she said this, adjusting the polyester-cotton of her suit and knitting her eyebrows together. "He's to kill the right one. There's two, you know."
Silence again.
"Dammit, Uriel! Intel! I want intel."
"Yes, ma'am. And which Winchester is it?"
Anna had to pause for this. It would be so easy, she mused with a quirk of a grin, to just say both. Both of them. But that wouldn't do; Michael would have her strung from the rooftops and gutted for such disobedience, such filth, and she would not have that. Oh, she would not have that.
"The youngest one," she answered. "Not Dean. Sam. Sam Winchester."
With a click, Anna Milton hung up.
Angel Blue was supposed to be a tricky operation.
But it was so easy for her, for Anna the Angel.
All it took was one naive idiot who believed his boyfriend was still alive, and a pair of filthy filthy brothers.
...