As Dean painfully and begrudgingly stood, he noticed the two-inch deep imprint of himself in the steel wall. Three hours ago, that might have still filled him with vicious rage, but six and a half hours into Crowley's game, it only filled him with miserable regret. If throwing him around was Crowley's idea of demon lessons, Dean no longer wanted any part of it. What he wanted was to slice Crowley's throat open with his Blade, but Castiel wouldn't let him. The angel insisted that if they were to be "friends" as Dean suggested yesterday, that he would not pick up the First Blade unless absolutely necessary, and for some reason, Dean was obeying. Even though he felt an undeniable itch to use it, to hold it, it seemed easier to put it down now than it had even when he was human.
The angel walked into the room just as Dean thought of their agreement, but Dean took no notice of him. He shook off his crash, determined not to be thrown again, and growled as he turned around. Dean threw his arm as if backhanding Crowley across the face, and the older demon's lazy chuckle broke off into a surprised shout.
"My turn," Dean muttered as Crowley smashed with a huge clatter into the opposite wall.
"It's about damn time!" Crowley yelled as he stood. He snapped his fingers to fix his suit and faced the Winchester. Whatever he was going to say cut off in an alarmed yell as he crashed into the wall again. He didn't slide to the ground, however; Dean approached him with open hostility, a look of deep concentration and resentment tugging on his features.
"That's," he growled. Crowley's head snapped back against the wall. "E–," Crowley's head snapped back again, denting the wall further, "–nough!" Dean finished. Crowley's head broke through the wall.
"Yes, Dean," Castiel said from the doorway, Dean's name catching almost unperceptively in his throat. Almost, Dean smirked to himself. "It is. Release him."
"But, Dad!" Dean whined mockingly. When Castiel did not respond, Dean rolled his eyes and released his unseen hold on Crowley. Though his body deflated, his limbs could only hang limply; he would have fallen to the floor if it were not for his head stuck in the wall, bending his neck at a decidedly uncomfortable angle.
"Thanks, Cas!" came Crowley's muffled moan of sarcasm and pain.
"You're welcome," Castiel called back, nodding sincerely. Turning back to Dean, he said curtly, "Sam called. He wants to speak to you."
"Can't you tell him I'm busy?" Dean complained. "Really, just explain what I'm doing, and I'm sure he'll understand. He'll even appreciate it, I bet!"
"This is not funny, Dean," Castiel deadpanned.
"Why not?" Dean asked cheekily. "Is Sam's payphone almost out of minutes?" Castiel looked away from him, suddenly very interested in Crowley's floundering attempts to free himself from the wall.
"He claims it was do with Chuck," Castiel told him finally, voice devoid of emotion.
"Chuck?" Dean repeated, his face twisting in confusion and some distaste. "Mousy guy in a bathrobe, always drunk, worse hair than Sam, writes about our lives Chuck?"
"Yes, that Chuck."
"That bugger's real?" Crowley called.
"Of course, he's real, you ass," Dean said over his shoulder. "You used his books against us, remember? Killed Sarah Blake?"
Crowley harrumphed with effort, not actually listening to Dean. "Vaguely."
Dean made him punch himself in the face in a fit of anger, satisfied when he heard Crowley yelp in pain.
"Dean!" Castiel shouted, losing patience.
"Sorry," Dean shrugged. "It felt good. Might become a habit."
"Are you going to talk to your brother or not?" Castiel asked slowly.
"Yeah, sure. Why not?" Dean said. "I'm done here." He reached for the phone in Castiel's front jeans pocket and pulled it out slowly, patting the material after he did and letting his fingers feel between Castiel's legs a little. Castiel's breath caught in surprise and embarrassment. His leg twitched, and he tried to bat his hand away, but Dean was already turned around and walking away.
"Heya, Sammy!" Dean greeted cheerfully. Behind him, Crowley crumpled to the floor suddenly with more noise and cursing than needed, and Dean laughed loudly into the phone. Not bothering to cover the mouthpiece, he exclaimed, "Nice! You know, I had a lot of fun here after all, Crowley. We should do this again." The he walked out of the room with Castiel close behind.
"Yeah, yeah, shut up a minute," Dean told a very aggravated Sam. "I'm putting you on speaker. We've got an audience."
"–the hell are you talking about, Dean?" Sam was shouting. His voice crackled unpleasantly through the phone.
"Cas is here," Dean explained simply.
"What was all that with Crowley?" Sam barked
"Oh, he, uh, had a bad fall," Dean said with a laugh. Castiel hummed disapprovingly.
"What were you doing? And why do you want to do it again?" Sam pressed.
"He was teaching me a few things," Dean said somewhat defensively.
Sam paused, and Dean could just imagine the annoyance on his face. "Like what?"
"What's with the twenty questions? Don't you trust your own brother?" Dean asked grinning. Castiel could see it was forced.
"We both know the answer to that," Sam said harshly after a pause.
Dean sighed dramatically before restarting the conversation. "So, I heard you called about Chuck? What's the idiot up to now? You know, I kind of thought he was dead."
Sam's chuckle sounded cautious. "Yeah, so did I. We haven't heard from him in ages, and all of sudden, there he is."
"Wait," Dean stopped in the middle of the hallway, and Castiel walked into him. "He's there? As in, with you? Or you're with him?" Dean stumbled over his words. In his frustration, he shouted at Castiel, "I'm a demon! I thought you would actually get the personal space thing by now!"
Castiel jumped back looking wounded. Dean shook his head and returned his attention to the phone conversation, still conflicted as to whether Castiel's pain upset or pleased him. Or maybe both, he thought with a devilish grin, specially aimed at Castiel. The angel's nostrils flared uncomfortably, and he looked far away from Dean.
"Dean, calm down, he didn't do anything!" Sam snapped through the phone.
"Well, excuse me, but I don't like being stepped on," Dean snapped back.
"Would you just shut up and let Sam say what he called to say?" Crowley yelled over the bickering. He limped toward Dean and Castiel from the direction of the kitchen, holding an ice pack to the back of his head. Taking the phone out of Dean's hand, he asked, "So, Moose, how's the search for Cain going? I hear you're not dead yet. Are you just incapable of finding the most demonic demon to ever be a demon then?"
Both of the other present parties stared at Crowley with shock and judgment. Sam contributed a surprised silence as well until he dragged out a judgmental question, "What?"
"The hell was that?" Dean finished the question for him.
"Oh, shut up and answer the question, Moose!"
"Wait," Dean said again, holding up his hand. "You're serious? Sam, did you go after Cain? Is that where you are?"
"No," Sam said quickly. "Well, yes but no," he corrected, seeming to confuse himself. "Yes, I went after Cain – sort of – but no, that's not where I am. I didn't find him. I never started looking for him."
"But you just said you went after him?" Castiel argued, moving around Dean to stand nearer Crowley and the phone.
"Because I did," Sam said, "just not directly."
Dean groaned, "Getting a headache, Sam."
"Yes, I left in search of Cain," Sam said flatly, "but I don't exactly know where he is, and I couldn't take Crowley with me. So, I went looking for this guy Dad used to know, Paul Miller, he used to be really good at finding things – like, a less tech version of Ash; he was great with spells and rituals and the lot–"
"Yeah, Sam, I remember him. We stayed with him for months in the beginning of everything," Dean interrupted, "until Dad got fed up with his lack of results, and left us there for a while. What are you doing with him now?"
"Yeah, well, angels attacked us as soon as I got to his house in Tiptonville, Tennessee," Sam continued. "I got out, had to kill a few of the angels to do it, but eventually I drew the banishing sigil on the floor and got rid of them. Paul, uh, he wasn't so lucky though. He was smited before I got rid of them all." Sam paused, probably emotional because he had gotten someone killed. Dean rolled his eyes. "I'm hiding out in a safe now of his house now, but things are getting really, really weird around here."
"Where are you now then?" Castiel asked.
"Kansas City," Sam answered quickly.
"Kansas City?" Dean asked urgently. "How weird? What kind of weird?" He glanced worriedly at Castiel, who returned his look nervously. "Isn't that like a seven-hour drive from Tennessee to Missouri? are you insane, Sam?"
"Yeah, Kansas City, and yeah, I think it was about seven hours. I didn't care. I wanted to put distance between me and the angels, so I went to the furthest safe house he mentioned. And, I don't know, just really weird. No one's around. They were before the angels came, but since the angels left there's nothing."
Dean's face hardened, and Castiel watched him warily. In the middle with the phone, Crowley asked, "Are you two going to tell the group why you're suddenly looking constipated?"
"What?" Sam asked. "Dean, Cas, what's going on?"
"Get out of there, Sam. Get out of Kansas City, right now," Dean ordered.
"Dude, why?"
"Because I said so, that's why!"
"No, Dean. You're not Dad! Tell me what the hell is going on."
"Sam," Dean cautioned.
"No, Dean!"
"Sam! Shut up, and I'll tell you!"
Sam's angry sigh was heard through the phone.
Dean forced calm into his voice. "The Croatoan virus is about to hit Kansas City. Maybe it already has, I'm not sure. Either way, you need to get back here right now."
Sam didn't answer for a minute. "How would you know that, Dean?" he asked slowly.
"Because I've seen it," Dean said.
"On TV?" Sam asked. "Weather reports and demonic signs and whatever?"
"No, in person," Dean said slowly. "Look, Sam, it's a long story. Just get back here, and I'll tell you all about it."
Sam was silent again, but Dean could almost hear his jaw set and the expression on his face. "Fine," he finally said.
"Alright," Dean said. "See you soon. Oh – and avoid Detroit!"
"Avoid Detroit?" Sam repeated. His voice sounded utterly done. "I am nowhere near Detroit, Dean!"
"Yeah, just stay away from it, alright?"
"Whatever," he huffed.
"Sam!" Castiel called so that Crowley did not hang up.
"Yeah, Cas?"
"Don't lead the angels here. They'll be following you, obviously. If you can, grab one and bring him, but only one. Don't be followed."
"Why do you need an angel, Cas?" Sam asked. His tone was so much lighter when addressing Castiel rather than Dean. It was almost conversational. Dean wanted to vomit at the level of trust it displayed.
"I should not explain my reasoning over the phone," Castiel glanced from Dean to Crowley and added wearily, "Return quickly. Please."
"Yeah, Cas, I will," Sam promised gently. "I guess I gotta go then." With another uncertain sigh, the line went dead, Crowley closed the phone.
"Care to explain what that was all about?" Crowley asked, looking from Castiel to Dean.
"You know why I want Sam to bring back an angel," Castiel stated.
"Obviously," Crowley huffed before he could keep talking. "I want to know what the big deal about Kansas City is."
"During the apocalypse," Dean began in a bored tone, "take one that is, Zachariah sent me to the future to see how horrible everything would get if I didn't say 'yes' to Michael."
Ground-shaking thunder erupted outside. Castiel's head jerked up to scrutinize the ceiling as if he could see the sky and the weather, but neither Dean nor Crowley noticed him.
"Kansas City, 2014. Five years at the time," Dean was saying. "Croatoan virus had killed pretty much everyone, and a deranged version of me led the suicide charge with Stoner Cas."
Castiel's head whipped to stare hard at Dean again. Crowley's eyes popped out of their sockets. "Stoner Cas?" he burst out with a huge guffaw.
"Though I do not understand it, I resent that reference." Castiel deadpanned, making Crowley laugh harder. Castiel was purely offended and glaring at Dean.
"If you don't understand it, why are you so offended?" Dean laughed, too.
"Because I do not throw stones," Castiel said. "I am no hypocrite."
"It's worse than that, Bible Boy," Crowley smirked.
"How so?"
"It means you did drugs – frequently and got really damn high," Dean explained in a deadpan to mimic Castiel's usual tone. "Also, led orgies."
"I wouldn't–" Castiel started outraged.
"You did," Dean said.
"–become so like you!" Castiel finished.
Crowley's eyebrows shot up to merge with his hairline, and he stepped out the way, summoning popcorn into his hand again. Dean raised one eyebrow, seemingly impressed but also fuming. Where did he get the right? Dean was screaming in his head. Still, Dean had to hand it to the angel because that remark would have hit human-him exactly where Castiel probably wanted it to. Dean took a threatening step toward Castiel and watched as he swallowed past a lump in his throat. The angel was slowly realizing that he wasn't really an angel anymore but Dean was still a demon.
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
"It means that I care," Castiel stated without hesitation, deciding to commit to his challenge.
He turned to leave, but Dean spun him around again by the shoulder and launched a fist at his face. Castiel caught it and twisted Dean's arm so that his palm opened and his shoulder dislocated. Dean yowled in pain and stomped petulantly on Castiel's foot to distract him. Before he could do the angel any worse, both he and Castiel were flown to opposite sides of the room.
"You're like children!" he exclaimed. "No wonder Moose insisted I babysit. You can't be left alone for a second. Now, both of you sit down and shut up." Dean tried to move anyway, and his head was thrown against the wall in consequence. "I said, 'stay down.'"
"Whatever, asshole," Dean muttered, popping his shoulder back into place and lounging against the wall. Castiel rearranged himself in a more comfortable but upright position and looked up at Crowley expectantly.
"Now," Crowley barked. "Dean will finish explaining. Then Castiel will go back to his room to cool off while Dean and I finish our lesson. Yeah? Good. Explain," Crowley ordered, glowering at Dean.
"Well, at this camp-base thing – camp: Camp Chie-ta-qua or something, I think – Cas and I were still going after Lucifer. Chuck was there, but the angels had abandoned us, so he didn't get visions anymore. Hey, how much toilet paper do we have?" Dean broke off to ask.
"What? Why?" Crowley asked.
"Humor me."
"I don't know. I think enough? There's only one person – uh, two people," Crowley frowned apologetically at Castiel, "who use it."
"Next time you go to the store, buy some," Dean commanded.
"But I just said that we're fine!"
"Just trust me," Dean insisted, his hands raised in surrender, flinching only slightly at a twinge in his shoulder.
"Well – whatever. Just keep going."
"Right, uh," Dean stalled, trying to think of where to continue. "Sam said 'yes' to Lucifer in Detroit. I don't know when or why but he did. Then, he, uh, killed me. That is, he killed future-me. Me-me then had a conversation with him. He claimed that the future – the one with possessed Sammy and my death – it was inevitable. No matter what we did. We'd always end up… there," Dean finished slowly, lost in the past.
He had been so righteous back then, been so outraged by his future actions and decisions, especially the way he had treated Castiel. It was disgusting. The future that had played out in the end actually featured an even worse version of himself, and now that he was thinking about it, the demon now in Dean would have loved to laugh at the righteous reactions he would have received. The way he became a drunk after criticizing Bobby for it. The way he seemed to enjoy working with demons. The way he dragged Kevin into the mess that was the life of the Winchesters. The way he dragged Charlie in and let her run off to some unknown world with some crazy woman. Even before he was a demon, he'd done some truly stupid things.
"Dean!" Castiel called impatiently.
Dean shook his head and put on a grin. "Yeah, angel?"
"Keep talking."
"Wait, I thought you knew already?" Crowley questioned.
"I knew that Zachariah sent Dean to the future. I did not know what he saw. Dean had refused to tell me much," Castiel said. "He had been too broken up about it. He had cared."
Glaring at Castiel through his lashes, Dean finished, "Yeah, well, that's it. I was a real asshole. You were a stoner who led orgies–" he ignored Castiel's indignant bristle "–Sam was the devil. Bobby was dead. Chuck managed the fort and whined about toilet paper. Croats were everywhere. We tried to kill the devil; the devil killed us. Zachariah sent me back. No," Dean stopped and glanced to Castiel, "you showed up and kicked Zachariah's ass so that he brought me back. Yeah. That sounds right."
"And now simply avoiding Kansas City is your solution?" Castiel asked.
"And Detroit, yeah," Dean nodded.
Castiel shook his head, and Dean thought he heard him mutter, "Pathetic demon."
"What do you want from me, Cas?" Dean challenged. "Going to either city would be stupid. We have no reason to be there, and things'll get even worse if we do. Ergo," he concluded dramatically, "we avoid."
Castiel looked insulted. "So, we don't help fight this virus? You have an obligation to help those people."
"No, I don't, Cas," Dean argued. "I have an obligation to kill monsters, not save people from zombie sickness."
"From a logistics standpoint alone, it'd be a suicide mission," Crowley offered with a shrug. "You'd probably get infected, and Dean and I would have to leave you. Now. I'm glad that's all cleared up. Dean, go back to the training room. Castiel, get something to eat."
Dean resisted the urge to challenge Crowley's authority and stalked back to the room they were in earlier. It was in the very back of the bunker's basement, full of interesting weapons, some of which Dean was familiar with, others not so much. The walls were thin, should-be shiny steel that had rusted and become grimy over time. One of them was even lined with a mirror to improve your technique or something, as Dean thought. Mats were folded up in one of the back corners, but they didn't look very cushiony or useful in the slightest. In fact, they looked practically government-commissioned, and Dean really wanted to find out the story behind them.
Dean and Crowley had spent the first six or so hours of the day in here, going over the little things. First Dean learned how to levitate objects right next to him. Then he moved a yard away. Then another one and another, until he was succeeding from all the way across the room. After that, Crowley hid the object so Dean couldn't see it or so something was holding it down. As long as the obstructive object was pretty small, Dean had no problem. He'd simply move that one first. As the obstruction became larger, they thwarted Dean's efforts. That's when Crowley decided he had to demonstrate the procedure he had been so simply rattling off all morning.
By throwing Dean across the room with barely any effort.
"You've got to think big!" Crowley had said. "Even to move the small things."
"I can see a pretty small thing that I'd like to move," Dean had countered.
"Is that so?" Crowley laughed. "Take your best shot."
Of course, Crowley very easily held off all of Dean's tries. Sometimes, concern crossed his face, as if Dean were about to succeed; but then nothing would happen, and Crowley would smile mockingly again. After a few hours of Dean failing and Crowley demonstrating, the walls of the room had dented and wrinkled so much that they looked like tinfoil rather than steel. The only wall left in peace was the mirrored one, and Dean got the feeling Crowley enjoyed watching himself beat Dean up, the arrogant ass.
"So," Crowley announced his presence while Dean was examining the hole that Crowley's head put in the wall. "What have you learned?"
"That you're a dick," Dean answered without turning around, "but I already knew that, so I guess nothing."
"Don't be smart, Dean, it's not like you," Crowley taunted. Dean didn't respond, knowing it'd annoy the other demon more.
"You're an emotional dimwit!" Crowley shouted at him. "That's your problem. Hell, it's the source of all of your problems! If you want to be a demon, you need to get rid of your feelings; they're disgusting."
Dean turned around slowly. "But I do best when I'm angry," he replied seriously.
"No, you do best when you're determined," Crowley corrected. "Same for ghosts and humans: anger leads to ruin; determination gets things done."
Dean contemplated this by frowning at the floor. As he came to the decision to agree, he was being flung across the room again. Crowley chuckled, watching him get up slowly. The day of collisions was starting to catch up to him, so although that was just a teaser toss, his body hurt everywhere.
"Sorry," Crowley laughed. "I just had to."
Suddenly, he was flying into the mirror. "Sorry," Dean smirked. "So, did I." Watch that, he added to himself. Dean sat down on the pile of mats to watch Crowley struggle to his feet. The older demon was having a very difficult time with the shattered glass surrounding him, and his yelps really made Dean's day so much better. When he finally stood, shook the glass from his suit, and magicked it perfect again, he used his little front-pocket handkerchief to dab at the small cuts on his hands and forehead. Dean shook his head, deciding that Sam was not the only girl in the bunker anymore.
"What are you laughing at?" Crowley demanded.
"You," Dean answered simply, rolling his eyes.
"Shut up," Crowley complained. "You're going to clean this mess up now!"
"But, Mom!" Dean whined.
"I said, 'shut up'!" Crowley exclaimed. Dean wanted to laugh, but he suddenly found his jaw stuck as if with peanut butter.
"You're going to clean this up in the conventional way of demons," Crowley ordered.
Dean mumbled something incoherent as he fought for control of his mouth. Finally, he was able to stretch his jaw like a snake and told Crowley's retreating figure, "No! You're the one who made it." He imagined a wall in Crowley's path, and Crowley walked into the invisible barrier. "You do it." Dean then walked past him with a skip in his step. His mood was greatly elevated by his success over Crowley, and he was going to celebrate with a hot bath. To get to that bath, he just had to shove through an eavesdropping angel's shoulder.
