A/N: Another one. A completely AU take on what definitely won't happen at the beginning of season 12. Complete in three parts. Also it went a little Liam Neeson somewhere along the way through no fault of mine! Apologies for any OOC-ness.
Disclimer: I own nothing, 'cept for stuff you don't recognize.
I go Not to Seek a Great Perhaps
PART I
Summary: Sam gets shot and that's not the worst part of his day. Dean is reunited with his Mom and things get complicated from there on out.
Sam was done before he reached the bunker. He was done when he flicked on the lights and found a stranger in his goddamn home. Done when he realized that stranger executed a perfect Enochian banishment without flinching.
The bullet wasn't even really a surprise as much as it pissed him off more.
What was a surprise was waking up, after passing out from blood loss, with a sore chest wound in his upper left quadrant – again – and not recognizing his surroundings.
"You want him loaded for transport?"
The world was offensively blurry.
"Yeah… they've already prepped him. Should be ready to roll out in ten minutes."
The voices were strange, but that wasn't his main concern. He jiggled his arms and frowned as his fingers sought out the cuffs that led to the cool, wrought steel of his… his hospital bed? He opened his eyes and looked around at what seemed very much like a small plane. A private plane. He frowned as a couple of captains made their checks in the cabin without paying him the slightest mind.
"I've put agent Limas on him and given him instructions to shoot if threatened. You do not – under any circumstance allow Mr. Winchester free of his restraints. You do not address him even if he addresses you, do you understand?"
That voice he knew. It was coming from somewhere outside the grounded plane. He frowned in disgust when a new sensation became aware to him. He was in a gown, covered under a thin sheet with a catheter inserted up his urinary tract. It was just disconcerting how easily he recognized that sensation.
"We'll layover in Reykjavík and Rome, but when we land in Muwaffaq I want the ground team ready to greet us."
Her voice instantly brought home the circumstances preceding his ill-timed "arrest". Grief was swelling dangerously close to the surface along with a now-familiar sense of desolation. And rage.
He flinched when he suddenly spotted the person sitting behind him on his left. A dark haired, older man. Agent Limas? Slightly Latin-American in appearance, with an expensive suit covering muscle. The two looked at each other, Sam for the first time, and the stranger like he'd been staring for a while. "Who are you?" He was surprised how petulant he sounded. Didn't quite think he had the energy for that kind of emotion really.
The man continued to stare through deceptively warm, brown eyes.
Sam snapped his mouth shut and looked back towards the plane exit where voice still echoed sporadically.
"Manifest is checked," the pilot commented into a mic through the open cockpit door, sounding almost bored.
"Pre-flight check complete," his co-captain joined.
"Initiating," was muttered as a low rumble signified the pre-launch maneuvers.
"Hey!" Sam called as the first inkling of concern made its presence. "Where are we going?" he yelled up to the cockpit, but was rewarded with little else than the co-pilot getting up to close the cabin door. Sealing them off from him and his creepy warden.
Then steps sounded as several pairs of boots made their way up the ramp and into the plane. Each person who entered sent him a surprised look, probably over the fact he was awake, before they sat down into beige leather seats.
Sam was torn between demanding answers and glaring at them and so did neither. Instead his eyes darted around, trying to peer out the windows in rampant confusion. He jerked his cuffs when a loud whirr signaled the primary engines engaging thrust. The plane barely jerked as it glided forward and he watched out the windows as the hangar they'd been parked in slipped by. "Hey, where are you taking me?!"
Two men closed reeled up the steps and sealed them in. "Answer me!" he bellowed when he became aware of how high pitched his voice had gone.
And where the fuck was "Muwaffaq"? He ran through every scrap of airport information available to him on command, but came up blaringly empty. He looked over at his warden and jerked in his seat, aggravating the catheter and prompting a wince. His shoulder joined with an obstinate sting before he bent over himself with a growl. His muscles coiled tight which made him realize his ankles were trapped by soft restraints as well. He jerked them to get a feel for their give and was thoroughly disappointed.
"Why are you doing this?" he demanded of the woman who'd shot him, as the plane rolled onto a landing strip, lining up for takeoff. "Why didn't you just kill me?!" He yelled, not even caring as his voice cracked a little bit that time. That his breath was wheezing in and out as his heart rate sped up.
She was seated with her side to him, but stared stonily ahead, out a window. It was a beautiful day.
The thought made a swell of grief bubble to the surface and he let loose a desperate, little sound before he slammed back into the bed. He looked out at the airfield – a smaller one by the looks of things – and wrung his wrists in the restraints. Every inch of him was on edge as the plane started shaking.
This was happening.
This is happening, oh God oh God oh God-
He was being taken and there was absolutely no one left to help him this time around. Not a soul would know where to look. He didn't even know how long he'd been missing for! "Damn it," he muttered in desperation as the plane engines kicked up and shot the private plane off. They sped across the ground and he watched the home he'd come to love vanish as the wheels lifted from the ground. "Please don't do this," he muttered even as he refused to take his eyes off the view. They were still somewhere in Kansas or Nebraska, he guessed from the weather and the vista.
Then, as the plane's wheels lifted from the ground, he remembered his attacker's name. He turned to look at her and was pleased to find her staring morosely out the windows. "Please, Antonia," he begged, not above manipulating her in lieu of being strapped down too securely to physically force them to stop.
She flinched and looked directly at him for the first time.
"Don't do this," he pleaded. "I'll do whatever you want, just please let me tell someone where I'm going."
She continued to stare at him and didn't respond.
"Don't do this!" he roared and jerked in his bed. Several of the people on the plane jerked hands towards their flanks, though no one drew any weapons. Antonia was the only one who didn't flinch.
"He's breaking the skin on his wrists," his warden commented, almost pensively. He was rubbing a hand over his scraggly face as he addressed Sam's attacker and kidnapper.
"Sedate him," she ordered with zero inflection.
"No! No no," Sam tensed in a useless attempt to get away when his warden approached. Instead of grabbing Sam directly the man reached for an IV bag he hadn't even noticed. From a container somewhere behind Sam's bed he pulled out a needle, tapped it and injected it into the bag without hesitation before he pressed the plunger.
With a thoroughly unnerving expression he watched as Sam felt the effect of whatever he'd been given. Outlines going blurry and the deafening roar of the airplane engines dulling to a muted buzz. "Please," he breathed drunkenly just before his head bounced onto the bed. He attempted to straighten, but found it next to impossible. "Don-" He swallowed and blinked heavily as the world blurred even more. It became hard to swallow.
His deep breaths soon became the only sound to escape him, as the rest of his travel companions watched their journey across the North-American airspace in silence.
"Mom?" Dean literally felt like his bran had short circuited. Literally. Little jolts of excess energy kept twitching his fingers like a ghost possession in full effect.
"Dean?"
Oh God, she's real. She sounded exactly like he remembered her. She stared at him like she'd seen a ghost. The thought almost made him laugh. "What the Hell…"
He didn't know what he expected, but her response wasn't it. "My thoughts exactly," she breathed. Well she recognized him. That was a plus. Little tufts of blonde hair breezed in her exhales. Just like the night time breeze did. Okay, so she wasn't an apparition. She hadn't just crawled out of her grave, because her dress was just like he remembered. As in precisely. From that night. He frowned and took a step closer until she raised both hands in supplication.
"You know who I am?" he asked to make absolutely sure.
"I-" She glanced around the night. Probably spotted the scattered headstones in an instant, but he wondered if she was with it enough to realize where they were. "You look like him," she said, almost as an accusation.
He couldn't help his smirk. "I'm him- Dean," he corrected as he approached.
"Winchester?" she asked with a healthy amount of skepticism and exhaustion.
His grin grew and he stepped closer.
"Christo," she fired off with a suspicious expression.
He huffed a delirious laugh. "Right back at'cha."
She looked pissed – as in, severely pissed – and he suddenly remembered every spat between his Mom and Dad with technicolor clarity. It always ended in Dad losing and storming off. "Listen, I'm not entirely sure what's going on-" she began, but he cut her off with a soft wave of a hand.
"It's a long story- Long," he emphasized with closed eyes. "But you can trust me."
"Where's John?" Horror shot across her expression. "Where's Sam?" She took a frantic look around.
"No, no, Sam's fine. He's fine," He inched closer with a smile.
"How old are you?" She frowned at him and for an instant he saw traces of the Mary he remembered as a younger woman. Brave in the face of the unknown.
His smirk wasn't unkind. "I'm thirty eight. How old are you?" He arched an eyebrow and watched her mind drift to somewhere else.
Her head tilted. "Last I remember I'd woken up and checked in on my baby son. Sam."
Something downright dangerous forced down her shoulders and put a look in her eye Dean always thought he'd inherited from Dad. He held up his hands and tried for the most sincere version of himself. "Okay," he nodded. "What year was that?"
"'83," she said, almost in a question. She looked around again, this time a bit more with it.
She recognized the headstones. Good. "Alright-"
"What year is it now?"
Dean stopped in surprise. She had figured she was no longer in her own timeline, as opposed to him being dropped in hers, which was…which was pretty impressive for a two minute arrivee. "2016."
Her expression dropped into something not unlike despondency and exasperation. "Fuck," She ran a hand down her face and looked around yet again. Much more openly. A puff of wind pulled at her gown and hair.
"I think we're in Lawrence," He glanced around as well. "Although I'm not sure."
"Where else would we be?"
He faltered a little under the intense examination. "Lebanon."
She frowned before she recognized the name. "Lebanon?!"
"Shh- Yeah," He came closer, almost close enough to reach out and touch her. Almost. The notion prompted a silly grin. "Hi."
She frowned for a second until she looked him in the eye. "Hey, buddy."
His grin turned blinding. "Hey," he said again softly.
"Tell me something, Dean-"
"Anything."
She studied him like John had sometimes done. "If this is 2016 and I'm where I'm supposed to be, but not when…"
"Yeah?"
"Where are you supposed to be?"
"With Sammy," He grinned. "He should be back in Lebanon right now."
"Why Lebanon?"
"He should've gotten back," He checked his watch almost as an afterthought. "Yeah."
"You guys live in Lebanon?"
"Yeah," He just couldn't stop smiling. At least not until another unnerving thought crossed his mind. "Hey, I'm gonna need to check you out, alright?"
She frowned, about to object, until a thought apparently crossed her mind as well. "You're not talking about a medical check."
He looked deep into her eyes. "I'm not talking about a medical check."
Her expression turned sad for the barest instant before she hid it behind a mask of concentration. "You guys are hunting with me, aren't you?"
A frown flashed across his face. "Not exactly," He gestured for her to join him. He'd gotten a good look around and knew he was definitely in his Mom's graveyard. Knew where, too, how to get back to the road, and from there out of town. "I'll tell you everything, but first I gotta check you out and find us a ride, okay?"
She watched a few seconds longer before she nodded. "Ok."
"OK," He smirked and invited her to follow. "It's this way."
Together, Dean and Mary Winchester walked out of Oak Hill Cemetery.
He broke into a closed hardware store on their way out of town and nicked a vat of Borax along with a conveniently displayed silver-plated door-handle. Not that he expected to find anything, or that anything untoward occurred when the textures touched her skin.
They watched each other through their lashes as he touched a dollop of Borax on her arm, followed by the handle. "Satisfied?" she asked, but smirked the second she'd said it. She had looked unsure about the Borax, but hadn't commented or asked him about it.
He smirked as well, albeit a bit self-consciously. "Can't be too careful."
"No you can't," she agreed softly. She looked more tired now.
Together they stole an old pinto with an almost full tank of gas and drove off towards the bunker. They hadn't been driving long before she looked at him across the cabin. "So what aren't you telling me?" she asked from the passenger seat, out of the blue, as unconcerned by the grand theft auto as he.
Dean glanced over before he realized he'd have to tell her at some point before they joined Sam. "You kinda…" But how the Hell to do it. He swallowed. "You kinda-"
"I'm dead, aren't I?"
He looked at her in surprise. "How'd you figure?"
She turned to stare out the window. "I kinda' figured after I realized how surprised you were to see me," She looked over. "How relieved."
He swallowed down the swell of emotion.
"How long now?"
The swell climbed higher and almost choked him. "A while," he croaked out.
She watched him with that same look. The one that let on how much was going on in her head. "Is Sam ok?"
He looked over and forced the emotions down to a manageable level. He didn't have the time or the energy to take any longer getting back than absolutely necessary. "He's good- I mean he's probably worried sick."
In truth Dean wasn't quite sure what kind of mess he'd have waiting for him when he got back. He'd tried calling after they robbed the hardware store, but there was no answer. He'd sent about seven text messages telling his brother to stop whatever he was doing, that he was alright. That he was coming home. He'd called Cas with a similarly disappointing result. He had a vague inkling that Sam had gone on a bender of epic proportions and that Cas was busy wiping up the vomit. Or simply being there for his brother.
God, he hoped they were just grieving the normal way.
Not the Winchester way, which tended to involve far more self-destructive tendencies than those of the average Joe.
"He might be a bit shook up," he allowed. "He doesn't handle me dying very well."
Because his eyes were on the road he failed to see Mary's reaction.
"But a friend should be with 'im. He's fine," he muttered. "He's fine."
It didn't ring as true as he'd hoped.
Sam awoke the second time with a jolt. Slow, creeping awareness transformed to a panicked jerk the second he was with it enough to be disoriented. He made to sit before he realized he was still lying down, strapped to the hospital bed.
It was dark now, wherever they were. "No…" he whimpered when a shadow blacked out the dimmed lights from inside the plane cabin.
The airplane engines were still running, but the door was open. They were on the ground and cold, night air was mingling with the dry air-conditioned cabin. Now was his moment to escape, he thought, just as a wave of dizziness overcame him. A large hand swept his hair back in a familiar manner and a soothing voice shushed him.
"Shh, take it easy," his warden murmured.
Sam had no choice but to do as told as the drugs took hold and dragged him under.
"Saaauumm?" Dean hollered the second he was through the door. He stomped inside and down the steps with his Mom following close behind.
God, his Mom.
How weird was that.
A coagulated puddle of blood stopped all thoughts of surrealism and brought him screaming back to bleak, oppressive reality. "No," he muttered as he jogged over.
It wasn't big, but it was enough. He drew his gun and looked around.
"Dean, weapon?" Mary whispered.
He pointed to a table where he'd strapped a Smith and Wesson underneath. The sound of duct tape tearing let him know she found it. "Sam!" he barked. Nothing stirred. He glanced back and gestured to the two openings on Mary's side. One leading to the kitchens and the other to a wing of empty rooms.
She angled the gun like she'd done it for years, but didn't move from his rear.
He stepped closer to the puddle of blood. It was brown. Stiff and cracked. So hours old. He looked past it and caught his eye on a misplaced shine on the floor. A single cartridge gleamed in the glaring overhead lights. Innocent and still. "Sammy, answer me!" he bellowed through the compound.
"Dean, what's happening?"
"I dunno. Sam!" he let his anger take over. "Caaas!" Not a sound from anywhere within. "The Hell?" He turned in a circle and took in the room. Nothing had been moved, but evidence of foul play hung in the air like an unwelcome guest. Like a goddamn smell. "Stay here and keep an eye out, I'm gonna go check his room," he ordered before running down the hall, calling out to his brother along the way. "Saaam?" It was goddamn typical, was what it was.
His voice carried past well used hallways and open doors, into long since abandoned passageways and yet undiscovered rooms. No sign of life besides himself. Sam's room looked like it had when they left. He ran a hand over his forehead, feeling sweat beginning to pile on, before he pirouetted and jogged to his own room. The kid had drunk himself into oblivion and crashed in his brother's bed because that was the kind of sad sap Sam was.
He pushed his door open and took in the emptiness. Goddammit! "No no no…" His breathing was escalating. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. "Cas!" he bellowed, no longer hopeful enough that he'd get an answer. His was heaving deep breaths as he stared at his own room. Also very much like he'd left it, including the made bed.
"Sam, where the Hell are you?"
He flinched when Mary's scream was superseded by the report of a weapon. He jolted back into the main room just in time to see her stumble to the floor with her mouth open and her gun pointed squarely at Castiel's face.
Gunshot wound sitting slightly off center in his forehead.
Cas stood, watching her with a complete look of confusion and mental vacancy. Not until he saw Dean did he snap back to it. "Dean."
"Cas, what the Hell is going on?!" He flinched when Mary made an aborted movement and fired the weapon in Castiel's general direction. "Whoa, Mom! Hold off!"
"Dean-" she begged breathlessly from her prone position.
He hurried over with both hands up and chucked his own gun for her to see. "Calm down, calm down."
"What's happening?"
"I'll explain everything-"
"What's happening?!" Tears were gathering in her eyes and Dean felt a compelling urge to punch himself then and there. God, she looked exhausted.
"Mom, Mom. It's alright. It's alright! I promise. I swear."
"I know him," she breathed out. Eyes now focused on a stunned Cas like she was reliving a nightmare.
Which, Dean granted, she was. "It's ok, you've met him before, you just don't remember."
"When?" she stuttered out, gun still pointed at the lesser angel.
"A few years ago," he allowed in a wry tone.
The glare she sent him had him upping his pleading and taking on an even softer expression, honestly scared she'd shoot him. Or yell. God… the yelling.
"You met in the past. We were there too. It's a long story, Mom. I need you to put the gun down. Put it down, c'mon. Please," He was keenly aware how lethal she could be without a loaded weapon.
"What is he?" she snarled, anger now replacing shock. "Did he do something to Sam?" Her voice was something of Dean's worst nightmares.
"No, no, Mom. I promise. He's a friend. I trust him with my life, with Sam's life."
That was the right thing to say, he realized, as she turned to stare at him and carefully lowered the gun. "What is he?" She gathered herself and pushed to her feet when Dean moved to help her. Clearly not of mind to be pampered in front of a potential threat. Another thing, Dean discovered, he thought he'd inherited from Dad.
"It's Cas. He's an angel."
Her look was so completely disproportionate to the ramifications of Castiel's appearance without Sam by his side; clearly seeming to say: oh please.
"I swear, okay? I promise," He still had his hands up, but backed off a step as she levered herself back on her feet fully. "You shot the guy in the head and he's still standing," He pointed at Cas without looking.
Taking the prompt the angel touched two fingers to the entrance wound and healed it in a second, patching the exit wound meanwhile. Mary's eyes widened even further, though Dean honestly hadn't thought that a possibility. "Mom?" he asked cautiously.
"I'm fine," she breathed. "He's a friend?"
"He's good, I promise."
"Good," She swallowed, not taking her eyes from Cas. "Good," She pushed away from Dean and circled the celestial being with a new wariness. "And he's… Cas?" She frowned, still staring at Cas who was staring right back. Following her as she slowly stalked along his right.
"I am Castiel."
Dean held his breath and watched his Mom. Waiting for her reaction. "I am an angel of the Lord."
"Yeah alright," she whispered with conviction that made Dean do a double take. Only then did she look from him to her son. "And I've met him before?"
"Approximately thirty eight years ago, to you and the general populous of the Earth," He was still watching her as she carefully stepped a circle around him. Possessing a kind of graceful stealth that Dean hadn't expected. "Approximately six years ago for Dean."
She frowned with the beginnings of real concern in her eyes. "I don't remember meeting you."
"Michael erased yours and John's memories of our presence."
She glanced at Dean as a flash of something lit up at the mention of John, or perhaps her loss of memories. It looked a lot like regret. She hadn't asked about John after first meeting Dean which hadn't escaped his attention.
"You helped me protect your sons from my brothers and sisters," Cas explained.
"And are they the ones that have Sam now?" she asked Dean. She looked willing to march into Heaven if he said yes, but he never got to answer.
"That is unlikely," Castiel explained. "It was a woman who took your son yesterday afternoon," He looked at Dean and only then showed some of the 'Cas' he was familiar with. "Dean, I'm sorry. She used a banishing spell before I realized what was happening."
Dean nodded and made to ease him, but was again interrupted.
"A woman took my son?"
"A Woman of Letters, I believe," He looked to Dean. "She had gained access to the bunker, but she was human."
"Do you know who she is?" Dean asked.
"Sadly no," He looked forlornly at the small puddle of blood. "She shot him."
"Yeah, I can see that. Can you get a bead on him?"
"No," He gestured to his own ribs, not even bothering to explain.
Mary watched and copied the angel. "What's this?" Motioning up and down along her own flank.
"Years ago I branded Sam and Dean with wardings against detection from other angels. Unfortunately that includes myself."
"You think this chick knew where to aim?" Dean asked.
Cas took on a pensive expression. "She would have avoided grazing bone."
"So that excludes a headshot," His shoulders dropped what felt like a mile. "That's a relief," A flash of guilt quickly filled the gap left by relief. Dean knew better than to leave. He knew better.
"It does not exclude his general stomach area."
"Or his chest, if she knew where to aim," Mary added.
Dean frowned and turned his back, choosing to ignore his Mom. "Not helping, man."
"Sorry," Cas said.
"Wait, no," Mary suddenly looked unsettled once again, as though she remembered something.
Only at that moment, for some inane reason, did Dean remember she wasn't wearing shoes. That she was still in that goddamn, flimsy nightgown and probably freezing like Hell. "Mom, we need to get you some clothes."
"And go find Sam," Cas chimed.
"Wait, stop!" she barked.
Both Dean and Cas stalled and watched her as her eyes flickered across the ground in thought. "Someone broke into this place? What is this place? Thought you said he was safe?" She looked at her firstborn, demanding an answer.
And Dean felt keenly what he'd felt on many occasions in the past. But never once from her. "I thought so," he offered weakly. He looked at the angel. "I thought he'd be safe, at least," If not completely heartbroken. And alone.
Castiel nodded, similarly morose. "As did I."
Mary looked at both of them. "So how do we find him?" She sounded upset. "Where do we even begin to look?" She looked like she was doing her damndest to grasp any pertinent information out of the hurricane of strange she'd been flung at. Batting to keep tears at bay too, it seemed.
When she looked at him, Dean turned to Cas.
"We start with the Men of Letters."
A flicker of anger lit up inside him as he remembered the power that lay in the hierarchic offices, of knowledge passed down, and skills honed and refined. Old dudes in libraries, making decisions that impacted the future without any understanding of what he and Sam dealt with on a daily basis. He started nodding, remembering flashes of what it felt like to wipe out an entire Louisiana branch of Stynes. The power trip that came with putting a bullet into each of their skulls and watching their bodies drop. "Alright, so we go track down some MoL bunkers."
"She spoke with an accent," Castiel said. "British."
Dean was nodding as a plan began to form. Fuck it, to Hell with everything. This happened every single time they split up, believing the other to be safe. This happened in the wake of every self-sacrificing act and for once, just once!, he thought Sam might've had a point back when he addressed the issue for the very first time almost a decade ago.
It needed to stop. Either that, Dean amended, or they needed to improve.
Then a new thought struck him. If Sam saw the sun return with no brother in sight, did that mean he belived Dean to be dead? Dean had to think about that for exactly one and a half second before experience answered for him, that, yes. Sam would damn well believe his brother was dead and with him on every reaper's shit-list Sam would've lost hope even if he didn't want to.
And he honestly wasn't sure what his brother's reaction had been.
His eyes roamed from Mary who was watching Cas, to Cas who was watching him. Past the map to the bank of computers on the upper level.
"Hey, Cas?"
The angel snapped into focus.
"You think we could figure out how to use those?" He pointed to the machines and waited for Castiel to look.
"I think we can, yes. You think they'll tell us where to find Sam?"
He looked back over at the table and remembered how it had lit up once. "God, I hope so."
"God isn't here anymore," Castiel added as an afterthought.
Dean looked at him in surprise and the two stared at each other with different emotions warring for dominance over their combined expressions.
"What do you mean 'anymore'?" Mary asked.
TBC
