Author's Note: First, sorry I've been gone for so long. The reason is two-fold: first, I've been very busy; second, I had a terrible time writing this transitional chapter. Anyway, I hope you enjoy. Sorry it's a bit short.
P.S.: I found that there are several typos and edits I'd like to make to previous chapters, so please expect that maintenance to be done in the next few days.
Servant of Heaven, Son of Cain
Chapter Eight
Hey. This is Dean's other, other, other cell. If you're trying to reach me here, you're either Sam, really desperate, or both. Anyway, here comes the beep. You know what to do.
"Fuck!"
Throwing his phone down into the seat beside him, Sam pounded the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. Twelve calls and eight text messages to Dean, about the same amount of each to Cas, and neither one of them were answering. The radio silence had brought Sam to the edge of a nervous fit. He couldn't believe this was happening again. It made him furious.
How dare Castiel pull this kind of dumb-shit move on his own?
One hour ago, the young Winchester had found himself sitting bolt upright in a run-down hotel, with only the clothes on his back, the keys to the Impala in his pocket, and money enough to fill the tank. When he asked at the front desk, he discovered his room had already been paid for, "by some awkward guy named Clarence." The same guy, Sam was told, parked a nice, classic car around back, and then disappeared. A quick search of the area confirmed it—Castiel was nowhere to be found.
After jotting down some basic directions, Sam peeled out of the hotel parking lot and made for the interstate, calling Dean and Cas incessantly along the way. Really, he didn't expect to hear from Cas, but the lack of reply from Dean was frightening. Dean should have answered. Dean was just resting in the bunker, safely locked down in his room, with his phone beside him on the nightstand.
Right?
As mile after mile of misty countryside rolled away behind him, Sam's anxieties continued to mount. He needed Dean, mark or no mark. There's wasn't anyone else left—no Bobby, no Ellen, no Joe, nobody. If Cas was out there doing something stupid—which, experience indicated, he probably was—then Sam needed back-up, and he needed it fast.
After hours of reckless driving, the young Winchester braked to a screeching halt in front of his subterranean home. Barely taking the time to pull the keys from the ignition, he practically threw himself down the stairs on his way to Dean's quarters. When he reached the room in question, his worst fears were confirmed.
Dean was gone.
The door to Dean's room was splintered and buckled towards the center, as though charged by a bull. When Sam tried to push past it, the thing came clean off its hinges, hitting the floor. The young hunter swallowed hard. His brother, it seemed, was worse off than they'd realized.
Inside Dean's room, Sam found a disaster. Everything he could see had either been upturned or destroyed, and the air stank of blood, whisky, and sweat. Sam noticed that several of the weapons his brother kept on display were missing from their cases. His phone, though, was right where Sam remembered—on the nightstand, screen flashing with missed messages.
All of this was disturbing enough, but it paled in comparison to what Sam found in the corner of Dean's room. There, on the floor, amidst scattered herbs and spent matches, was the carcass of a small rodent. The poor creature was barely recognizable for what it was—it seemed its body had been rung out like a wet rag, its blood collected in a little stone bowl. Kneeling down, Sam used a pencil to inspect the gory mess. It was clearly some sort of ritual, but he didn't know what type. Regardless, it set him on pins to know Dean had done something so dark.
Squatting back on his heels, Sam passed a hand over his face. He felt ill and alone, without any hope of finding his brother, or Cas, for that matter. He needed help.
Desperate, Sam took out his phone and let his thumbs hover over the buttons. Dialing was a struggle. His gut told him it was a bad idea, reminded him that he'd promised not involve this person in his problems again, not after what happened last time.
But he couldn't help himself.
The ringing began, and Sam swallowed. After the third chime, a familiar voice answered.
"Sam?"
The young Winchester closed his eyes in defeat.
"Hi, Charlie."
Reviews are Loved.
Critiques are Encouraged.
Always feel free to ask Questions.
~dances-with-cacti
