He was finally starting to get it, why Mom hadn't wanted him to hunt. It wasn't an easy life. There were hard decisions to make, and sometimes, people you liked were caught in the crossfire. Innocents died, guilty parties lived and there was nothing you could do about it. Dean found less and less appeal in taking cases as time wore on, but he found himself thinking of Lebanon less and less, too. That life was far behind him now. There was no point in dwelling on it.
Dean was getting a little sick of diner food, though. Turns out, there are only so many burgers a man can eat before getting tired of it. He had just pulled into California about ten minutes ago. Maybe he should pay Sam a visit and see if he could dinner out of it.
"Double bacon cheeseburger with fries?"
He nodded. Never mind. So long as double bacon cheeseburgers still existed, he'd be perfectly content to stay on the road.
"Anything else?" she asked.
"No thanks."
She leaned closer to him. "Maybe you should be a little more careful, Dean."
He leapt to his feet, already pulling his gun from his pocket. The waitress smiled, her eyes flashing back. Knowing that the Colt was still secured in the back of the Impala, Dean headed for the door, only to be stopped by the tall brunette woman who had been sitting near it.
"Here's the thing," the demon said, voice deceptively sweet. "If we didn't need your brother, you'd be dead right now. So sit down, shut up and drop the gun."
Need your brother. Dean didn't know what they could possibly need Sam for, but he didn't want to find out. Guns blazing it was. He fired a shot at the brunette and flung himself out the door.
The parking lot was empty save for the car that the two demons had presumably come in and the Impala. Dean wasted no time in flinging open the door and all but throwing himself into the driver's seat. He'd just put his hands on the steering wheel when he heard the voice come from behind him.
"Stop or I shoot."
Dean turned around very slowly. Another demon, smiling brightly, waved at him with the hand not on her gun. Reluctantly, he put his hands in the air.
/
"Hi, Sam!"
When the unfamiliar name came up on his caller ID, Sam had considered not picking up. His roommate, a senior going for a undergraduate in Linguistics named James, pointed at the video game they had been playing (well, James had been playing and Sam had been failing to play). Sam shook his head and turned his attention back to the phone.
"Who is this?"
The young woman on the other end of the phone sighed. "I'm disappointed in you, Sam. I thought you'd remember me."
Something about her just seemed off and suddenly Sam realized who he was talking too. "Meg? How—how'd you get this number?"
"I'm creative."
Sam wasn't sure what to say to that. In his experience, people who 'creatively' got your number were not creative so much as downright psychopathic, but she hadn't seemed bad when they'd met at the bus station.
"What made you call?"
"You know how I said that I was looking for something in California? Well, I think I found it. Say hello, Dean."
Sam's heart dropped. James gave him a questioning look and mouthed 'dude, game' but Sam was too frozen to even shake his head at his slightly younger friend. He tried to speak, but nothing came out of his mouth.
"Hello Dean," came his brother's voice, strained, but still sarcastic.
"Oh, he's funny," Meg said, stretching out each of the words. A sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line made Sam grit his teeth. "You know, I usually like funny, but I'm not in the mood. See, your mommy? She killed my daddy."
Demon. She was a demon. Sam swallowed, hard. "What do you want?"
"At first, I thought to myself, why don't we even this out? An eye for an eye. And then I remembered something about my father—he had a dream. And I'm gonna see it through. I have the Colt and I have your brother, and all I need is you. So here's the deal, Sammy. You're gonna come out to the abandoned Tucker Railway Station in Wyoming and you're going to do a little something for me. Or, I stab your brother in the back."
Sam's grip on the phone tightened. In the background, there was a strangled cry. Sam jerked away from the phone. James looked up for the first time, putting the game on pause. Sam squeezed his eyes shut and lifted the phone back up to his ear.
"Don't hurt him."
Meg laughed. "No promises, sweetheart."
And the phone went dead. Sam scrambled off the bed and pulled his already packed rucksack out from underneath it. James tossed his controller down on to the pillow.
"What's up, Sam?" he asked.
Full circle. Once he had run from Stanford at Dean's insistence. And now, he was running from Stanford to save him. Sam dragged a jacket over his shoulder and dragged the bag off the bed.
"My brother needs me."
Again.
Sam pounded on the one on his phone. Mom still had his first speed dial, even nearly a year after stopping hunting. The phone rang three times as he lurched down the steps, rucksack swinging haphazardly from his shoulder.
"Sam?"
"It's Dean. A demon named Meg has him. She wants me to go to Wyoming…some abandoned railway station, Tucker or something. I don't know why but Mom I can't let him—I can't let him—"
Can't let him what, die? Let him get hurt? Because he should have been there, he should have stayed with Dean. He should have known that his brother couldn't hunt alone without something going south.
"Sam, we're in New York. Don't you dare go there until Bobby, Ellen and I are—"
Sam slammed the phone shut just as he reached the parking lot. It was enough to know that Mom, Bobby and Ellen were coming. He was closer and he wasn't going to waste any time.
/
Dean awoke to a dark, musty room. Even after his eyes adjusted, there was still barely enough light to see by. He took stock of his situation, just like Mom had taught him, barely managing to keep his panic in check. He should have been more careful in that diner! He tried to swivel around to get a look at the ropes binding him to the chair.
The ropes cut deep into his wrists and no matter how hard Dean tugged at them, he only succeeded in making them tighter. Say what you would about demons, but apparently, they tied good knots. Meg smirked as she walked back into the room. Dean wasn't quite sure where they were, but wherever it was, it smelled musty and the floorboards were wearing thin. The creaking was beginning to drive him insane.
"What do you want?" Dean asked.
Like one of those old Westerns that Mom adored, where the villain has the courageous hero trapped in their clutches, only to spill their entire plan at the prompting. Dean didn't doubt that Meg was a bit more genre savvy than that, but he thought he could at least get a little bit out of her.
"I would have thought you'd know, Dean." She squatted down next to him, mouth uncomfortably close to his ear. He tried to jerk away. Short of knocking the chair over, there was no way to get any further. "After all, we're very much alike. My dad had a mission and he would want to see it carried through."
She pulled a knife from her jacket and inspected it. Dean couldn't help but be the slightest bit intimidated. It was just another layer of the game, he reminded himself, swallowing back the fear.
"What, and you've gotta do his dirty work for him? He's dead. He's not gonna care."
On second thought, reminding her that Azazel was dead probably wasn't his best move. Dean didn't have time to anticipate the swing until Meg punched him in the face. He reeled back the best he could, spitting out a bit of blood.
"Oh, come on, Dean. What if it was the other way around? What if my dad had had his way and your mom was six feet under? You'd still be trying to carry out her last wishes, don't lie to yourself."
Well, he had to agree with her there. Thinking about how close Mom had gotten to actual Hell made his stomach wrench uncomfortably. If she had actually died for him, God knows what he would have done.
Meg checked her watch. Nonchalance practically rolled off her. Dean wondered absently to himself how much time she spent perfecting the look in a mirror.
"Your brother should be getting here any time now. It's a long drive out here, but I think he'll be pretty compliant, don't you? What's a red light or two when a demon's got your brother?"
He was starting to get a headache. Whether it was due to how hard she had hit him in the head or how much she was rambling, Dean didn't know. He closed his eyes and leaned back into the chair. At least she hadn't tied him up standing. He'd gone through that a few times and it was never a fun experience.
"You know," he said, half to himself, "if you wanted to, you could have a normal life. Go possess Jane Doe or whatever, avoid iron and claim a salt allergy. You wouldn't have to worry."
"Worry? About what, hunters? Don't get a big head, sweetheart, I don't worry about you." She looked at him for a few moments, considering. "Why don't you go after that normal life if it means so much to you, huh?"
He flashed her a grin. "Cause demons keep tying me up in creepy abandoned buildings."
Meg stalked off to do whatever it was that psychopathic demons did in their free time, so Dean was left alone. Stuck between spending time in his own head and trying to work free of the knots, he took the easy option. Several hours later, he'd broken three nails and bruised his knuckles. The ropes weren't any looser.
"They're thinking about tearing this place down, you know. Something about it not being a historic monument if nobody's using it."
Meg reentered the room, this time trailed by a lanky figure that could only be one person. Dean gave one desperate tug at the ropes.
"Sam! Get out of here!"
A soft click.
Dean glared at Meg with every ounce of hate that he could possibly summon. She blew him a kiss with the hand not on the gun she had aimed at his head. Sam's hands were clenched into fists by his sides, but they were empty. Dean knew that Sam must have called Mom but it wasn't like that was going to do them any good. Last Dean had heard, they'd been out East or something.
Meg approached him. Dean did his best not to tense up when she moved behind him. Across the room, Sam shot him his best approximation of a reassuring smile. The ropes around his wrists loosened and fell to the floor. Meg nudged him in the back with the gun. Dean stood shakily. His legs wobbled beneath him as he tried to keep his footing. The concussion he undoubtedly had wasn't helping matters much.
"Here's how this is gonna work," Meg said. "Sam, you're going to walk in front of us where I can see you. No trouble, no shooting, all right?"
Sam nodded stiffly. Dean guessed that he was holding his tongue, trying not to say something that he—or, more likely—Dean would regret. The gun stayed pressed into the small of his back.
They walked out of the building, which decidedly wasn't an abandoned house like Dean had anticipated. He couldn't tell what it was, but it hardly mattered. They walked out into the twilight.
Meg pointed at something half hidden underneath a layer of mosses and ferns. Uncertain, Sam walked over to it. Meg pulled a small crowbar out of her jacket. Suddenly thankful that she hadn't decided to use it, Dean watched as she handed it over to Sam.
"Break it," she ordered, jerking her head at it.
Dean looked closer as Sam nudged the ferns out of the way. A railroad tie. What did she want with a railroad tie? Taking another glance at Meg, Sam shrugged and dug the crowbar underneath the tie.
"Why?" Dean asked, turning his head to look at her.
Meg smirked. "Samuel Colt didn't just make guns. He built a railway system that forms the largest devil's trap in the world. They don't make hunters like that anymore."
And now, it was broken. Meg gave him a particularly large shove and Dean got moving, past what had been a line of iron. They walked in silence for about ten minutes. Dean ignored the pounding of his head in favor of trying to get his brother's attention. Sam seemed determined not to notice.
Eventually, they came to a cemetery seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Nothing good ever happened when they wound up in a cemetery. Dean started to scuff his feet in the dirt in protest, but Meg made a point of digging her gun into his shoulder blade.
"All right, Sammy," she said cheerfully. "Let's get this show on the road."
Meg withdrew the Colt from her pocket and tossed it over to Sam, careful, to keep the gun trained on Dean's back. Dean kept his eyes on the Colt, watching as his brother caught it as deftly as a softball.
"What if I just—"
Meg laughed. "You want to see who's the quicker draw? Be my guest." Sam didn't move and Meg's smirk widened. "See that indentation there? Do me a favor, Sam, and fit the key in the lock."
"Sam—"
But before he could protest, Sam stepped forward.
/
"Sam!"
She couldn't think, couldn't breathe because this…this had been her nightmare for so long that it was almost impossible to comprehend. Mary leapt out of the van before Bobby fully stopped it. Her ankle buckled beneath her, but it didn't stop her.
Black smoke poured from the old monument in the center of the cemetery, wind howling and whipping around. Mary fought her way to the center of the storm. Dean knelt on the ground next to his brother and Sam—and Sam—
Meg raised the gun again, this time to shoot Mary's older son. She never got the chance. With strength that she didn't know that she had in her, Mary reeled back and kicked the demon as hard as she could. Meg gave a small, surprised gasp as she staggered backwards.
Directly into the smoke, taking the Colt with her as she fell.
"What is it?" Ellen shouted, she and Bobby springing from the van and sprinting on to the scene.
Bobby gaped at it for a few seconds, mouth hanging open. Then, sounding as if he could hardly believe it himself. "It's a gate to Hell."
"Close it, then!" Mary screamed over the wind.
She didn't care what it was, didn't care what it did. All she cared about was the blood slowly starting to pool around her Sam's body and the way Dean was hunched over him, hands pressed over the wound.
Bobby and Ellen ran at the portal, or gate or whatever on Earth that thing was and searched for a way to follow her orders.
Mary collapsed beside her boys. She slowly became aware that Dean was crying but she couldn't bring herself to believe it. Gently, the sob already building in her chest, Mary reached down for Sam's hand. Almost automatically, she felt for his pulse.
Nothing. The wind around them grew to a crescendo, the gasping, wailing noise that always accompanied a demon entering a higher pitch.
"Sam?" No answer. "Sam, please. I need you to open your eyes. Baby, please, come on, sweetheart, do it for me."
Still silence. Mary buried her face in her son's hair and screamed.
/
Two days passed. Mary sat vigil by his body with Dean. The two of them never spoke, just looked down on Sam as if waiting for him to stir. As if Meg had just knocked him out, as if he could lift his eyelids and smile at them.
Mary drowned in memories. Taking him home from the hospital for the first time. Those first few nights after the fire when she and Dean couldn't sleep spent just watching him breathe. Volunteering in a first grade classroom, never quite normal enough to fit with the other parents but always worth it to see him smile at her from across the room. Driving to soccer games and mathlete championships and mock trials and concerts and plays and musicals even when he was backstage. Seeing the acceptance letter on the table.
Mom. Dad. John. Jess. All of them, gone. And now, a bigger regret. Her son, stretched out on a dirty mattress morgue.
"I'm going out."
Mary didn't turn to watch as Dean swept out of the room. She wanted space to breathe but she couldn't leave the room, couldn't tear her eyes away from him. A litany of you should have been there and this is all your fault.
An hour or so passed, but Dean didn't reappear. Neither Ellen nor Bobby came in to check on her. They'd learned to keep their distance after the first suggestion that it was time to let him go. Mary reached down to brush some of his hair out of his forehead.
A breath. Mary jerked back, falling back into the chair that had been her prison for forty-eight hours. Sam's chest moved almost convulsively as he gasped for air. His eyes flew open and he sat up.
"M-mom?" he said hoarsely, blinking up at her.
He reached up and rubbed at the spot where Meg had shot him. Mary knew that the skin beneath his shirt was unblemished. Her eyes filled with tears for the first time since she'd come upon him lying in the dirt.
"Hey, sweetheart," she replied, gently touching his face.
"What—what happened?"
Before Mary could answer, the door to the abandoned house swung open and Dean walked inside. He already looked a thousand years older. But the second he saw Sam, alive, his face broke into a grin.
"Sammy! Mom, I told you to call me when he woke up."
When he woke up. Mary sat in silence for about fifteen minutes as her boys joked back and forth. She couldn't take her eyes from either of them—Sam, who had just taken breath when never should have again and Dean, who had just agreed to take his last.
"Sam, can I talk to your brother for a second?"
Without really waiting for a response, Mary grabbed Dean by the sleeve and dragged him out of the house. He didn't protest, but Mary could tell the last thing he wanted to do was follow her.
"What did you do?" she snapped the second they were outside in the darkness.
He opened his mouth and tried to speak, but no words came out. Dean cleared his throat and started again.
"I couldn't just—just leave him there." His voice cracked. "He was dead, Mom, and I'm supposed to—it's my job to protect him."
There were a hundred different things she could have said—that it wasn't his job, it was hers, that he didn't have to take this all on his shoulders, that she hated him for doing this, that she loved him. But she just couldn't find the words. Instead, Mary stepped closer to him and wrapped her arms around him. It wasn't like when he had been a kid and the hug could solve everything. Heck, she couldn't even get her arms all the way around him properly anymore.
"You made a deal," she said, stepping back, her hands on his shoulders. "How long?"
"Mom—"
"How long?"
He took a deep breath. "One year."
She shook him. "How could you?"
Losing Sam had been hard, but at least she'd had the knowledge that he was somewhere better. Mary didn't know where she stood with Heaven anymore. Sam believed, though, and that had been enough. With this, she knew precisely what awaited Dean and it wasn't exactly pretty.
"I thought my life could mean something—that I could mean something. Saving him—"
Mary shook her head, her throat tightening again. "You do mean something," she said fiercely. "Don't you dare tell me that you don't. You mean everything to me."
Now they were both crying, holding each other outside of a run-down abandoned house in Wyoming with a dead man walking inside. Mary took a deep breath.
"We're going to get you out of this, Dean. I'm not letting you go."
She released him and took another step away.
"You have to tell Sam. I'll wait."
Shoulders hunched, he made his way back into the house. Mary watched him go, tears that she hadn't let herself cry for his sake sliding down her face. She'd been right. There was always another battle, another person to save. It was never going to leave them alone, it was never going to end.
They had work to do.
Mary Winchester wasn't going to let her son go to Hell.
