Dean threatened that if Sam didn't leave his room by the time he finished his shower, he'd do... what? What precisely could he do or say to his brother that he hasn't already put him through? A slap to the mouth? Pull out a gun on him? He knew he'd never do any of those things and even if at some point in his life he did, Sam wouldn't back down from it. Persistence was a Winchester virtue. Or a curse. At this point they're one in the same. Sam knew the threats were empty, so he sat on the bed, resolution firm, as his brother mumbled derogatory remarks and slammed the bathroom door closed. Dried blood caked onto clothing and skin would be difficult to scrub off.
Dean threatened Sam to leave his room because it was late, he was tired, he was not in the fucking mood so let him get a few hours sleep, for his health and his sanity. Sam made no attempt to move from his vigil at the end of the bed and told his brother as much. Resisting the desire to grab Sam by his hair and drag the stubborn asshole outside, his pride wouldn't allow it. To do that would be an admittance to discord, to an uneasiness in the air that Sam must have been imagining. He would not cave to pressure forced upon him and admit to something that was not true. Everything is fine. Everything was fine until Sam insisted it wasn't.
In his mind, Dean could see Sam right now, unmoving... Maybe his eyes even illuminated white like in cartoons. Orbs floating in the dark, a reminder that he wasn't going anywhere. He could feel the bed dip at his feet where Sam rested. A little devil on his shoulder attempted to persuade him to kick him off: if Sam was going to act like a bitch, nothing should stop him from acting like one, too. Two could play that game. Pride won again. Dean could play the game and very well, but not for this reason. Whatever Sam thought, it just wasn't true.
He's seeing things that aren't there. Give him some time alone to think about it and he'll give up. He's a smart kid, usually reasonable. Sammy'll see he's at fault and head back to his room, wake up in a couple hours and both of them will pretend this never happened.
Blood in his hair, stinging his eyes, blood dripping from a knife blade onto the handle so thickly it nearly slid out of his hand an excessive amount times before he was through. Cutting their heads off was not enough, not tonight. Blacking out. More blood and not from a vampire, but from the body ostensibly sacrificing itself. Secondary warmth missing by his side. Vague words that should otherwise be nothing new but... They meant so much more now. Words vibrated differently and it was wrong, all wrong Dean couldn't pretend those things did not happen. He was losing control of his thoughts and consciousness. Cas should be here and he wasn't. He wanted that god damn coat off of him in an attempt to help Cas blend in more and now that it still lay on the table, he wanted it back on the angel right now.
To hell with arrogant pride. Enough is enough. Sam could not be in the same room with him right now and needed to leave immediately.
Dean tossed the bedsheets with an embittered yell, hand flailing fruitlessly in the darkness for the bedside lamp. Once it was found, he shot out of bed and stood in front of Sam. Still with the same look. He truly would have waited all night, waiting until Dean woke up in a few hours to continue pressing him.
He doing this on purpose, Dean thought. He wants to aggravate me to a point where I stop thinking about what I'm saying, hoping I'll slip up. But what? What could Sam want to hear? No matter what it could be, this game of diligence had to stop.
With a deep breath, Dean tried to sound reasonable. "I get it: there's something you want from me. That's why you're here doing the Cas thing. Whatever it is can't be that important so please get out of here so I can get some sleep."
Sam was stunned. Self-denial and Dean greeted each other as friends on a daily basis and in a way it might have helped him stay alive as long as he has (well, from dying in between other deaths). Ignoring the hurt, dismissing drama was only a temporary fix to a problem, one that could only be added upon and Dean of all people should know that, having broken down so many times before.
Only now Dean was doing nothing to conceal it. His anger, his asperity was not bound by duty anymore. Stay in control, be strong for Sammy, show 'em your not afraid. Whatever had interposed those emotions from the surface had dissolved. Why couldn't he see it?
"It's not important?" Sam asked confoundedly. "You fly off the handle every time I try to speak to you, you've been doing it for weeks, and you act like nothing's wrong."
"The only reason I'm so pissed off is because you keep accusing me doing things I'm not doing!" So much for keeping calm.
Knowing very well his height would not intimidate his brother, Sam stood up anyway. "One wrong word, hell, a wrong letter has been sending you off into a new stratosphere of pissed off and I'm..." His own tension relented a little. "I'm worried. I know Cas has to be, too."
Dean laughed snidely. "The hell do you know about Cas? He's never around. Can't get much perspective on him when he's MIA."
Before Sam could explain to him what he felt was the true nature of Cas' disappearances, a single firm knock came from their door. Being a singular sound, the two, while suspicious, let time pass; maybe a wind blew something against the door. An animal? When a second knock bounced off the door, it was another example of the motto "There's no such thing as coincidences" coming to life. It was definitely human... or humanoid, and a polite one at that, in spite of the late hour to be soliciting.
The gun on the nightstand was hastily grabbed by Dean as Sam mouthed to him "I have nothing on me."
"All I have is salt and holy water in the bag." Dean was quick to add as he saw the unmistakable signs of a bitchface about to make an appearance, "Just stand behind me. I get overwhelmed, you go on ahead and horse kick 'em." He took an aiming stance and moved toward the door, Sam following closely behind.
"Kick them? Seriously?" Sam sibilated confoundedly, voice above a whisper. Not only was his brother unprepared for monsters or whatever entity that wanted to harm him from attacking him while at his most vulnerable, he was also an idiot.
Glancing over his shoulder, Dean snapped back. "Throwing a handful of salt is any better? It knocked, so I'm pretty sure we can cross off demon and ghost off the list. A solid kick to the chest with your hoof should take down whatever it is. Now zip up; you're too loud."
"Don't want them to overhear us whispering about how we have nothing to fight them off with?"
Dean grit his teeth. "Be quiet, Sammy! It's my fault I'm under-armed, so just let me handle it."
"Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester." The voice on the other side of the door was that of a teenagers and to Dean one that sounded familiar. His mind began to process it, trying to put a name and face to it, but to no avail. Incredibly flat, it was unmistakable.
Neither of them answered back. Dean checked to see if Sam recognized it also. Negative.
"I know this is... I know how this appears, knocking on your door at such an unseemly hour, but we made a promise to Castiel that we–"
"You talked to Cas?" Sam placed his hand on Dean's shoulder, hoping he would be more cautious. Dean of all people should know what one would say to gain trust, and most of the beings that knew Cas wanted him dead. If Dean were thinking straight, he would know he could be walking into a field full of landmines.
"Yes. He suggested we knock as opposed to appearing before you. A safety concern, as it were."
"You said 'we,'" Sam chimed in. "How many of you are there?"
"Just us two. We are unarmed and while I cannot force you to believe me, we do not seek to harm you. That was..." His voice lowered substantially. "Never our intention."
Dean saw it in his head as clear as daylight when he heard "two." "Earlier tonight in the woods. You're the kid and the woman." Only one word was said then and faded from distance, but it remained fresh in Dean's mind. Them and Cas with his blade against the woman's throat. She reached out toward him and disappeared. So he was correct about using transportation mojo to pop in whenever they wanted.
"Yes, and as you saw, Castiel was tentative of us as well. He had every right to be."
"So if you're not angels or demons, what are you? And why were you following us?" Sam asked, tension beginning to blossom in his voice. Being stalked by the very same people who were politely addressing them only feet away, ones that could not be identified, raised too many red flags.
A stretch of time went by, so much so that Dean thought they had left. Gun still raised, he glowered back to Sam - "Where'd they go?" Sam shrugged. Before Dean could call out for a response, he answered.
"I know the two of you have many questions and against better judgment, we gave our word to the angel to answer them. While we do not condemn you in your wariness of us, all we can do is hope for you to believe that we do not wish to harm you, nor has any befallen Castiel. We are only here to carry out his wish."
Sam and Dean could have sworn they heard his company retort to that comment, but they couldn't make out what she said, although they did hear the sigh from the boy the followed shortly after.
"So, what the hell do we do?" Sam asked. "I mean, they sound harmless, but so do most things that end up trying to kill us."
"Damnit, I don't know," Dean bemoaned as he rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. He knew he should say no, for them to turn right back around and go harass someone else, and if they didn't like that answer and decided to get a little frisky, a bullet to the head would solve that dilemma. The vampires, worrying about Cas and arguing with Sam left him drained, his mind and body aching for a brief respite. But they talked to Cas. They might know where he was and what he has been doing... It was a guaranteed in, wasn't it? If they have been following or stalking the three of them for who knows how long it truly was, they would know that Dean and Cas' relationship has been under duress and could use the subject to gain Dean's trust.
But what if they told the truth? Everything in life was a 50/50 chance, and the two of them had done far more reckless things. If they did in fact come under their own volition under friendly terms, by denying them entrance, could Dean be making an enemy out of them? If they were as passive as they sounded, that shouldn't be the case, but... Why was something so simple difficult to decide upon?
Grumbling deep within his chest, Dean conceded. "If I let you in–"
"Dean..."
"I know, Sam, back off. If I let you two in, we run the gamut: salt, water, Sam goes back to his room to grab a knife and we give you a souvenir to remember us by. Not once will this gun not be aimed at either one of you. Terms sound fair?"
"Yes, Dean Winchester" the voice behind the door said almost immediately.
The use of his full name threw him off a little, as did the swiftness of the reply. He sounded suspiciously eager to enter room.
Sam passed in front of Dean to open the door, but hung his hand over the knob. While his face looked doubtful of the integrity of whatever was on the other side, his eyes shown with concern. His brother could not find answers for himself, so in desperation he turned to strangers promising him guileless solutions. They knew it, too. Using his volatility to gain trust. He knew Dean was astute even when distracted, but this was different somehow. Not since Lisa had Dean cared so much for someone other than Sam...
"Are you positive? Even though we have no clue to what they are?" Sam knew the answer before he asked. He felt obligated to warn him one last time.
Dean only nodded, resuming his stance as Sam heavily opened the door.
"We should start off with names first. Can't keep calling you 'you.'" Sam handed the boy a roll of paper towels for the fresh cut on his arm, as well as to wipe away the holy water dripping from his face and onto his lap.
He tore off several sheets and pressed them against his arm. "Thank you, Sam Winchester."
"No, man, you have to stop saying that," Dean groaned, leaning against the door. "Calling us by our full names. Too damn strange, even for me. 'Dean' and 'Sam,' alright?"
"We're sorry to cause you discomfort," he said, looking between the brothers. "Habit, I suppose."
Sam took a seat at the table where Cas' coat still lay. "'We?' She can talk, too?"
"Yes. My companion has... much to think about." For the briefest moment, when his eyes focused on her, Dean could have sworn he saw pity there, or something much deeper. Hapless; watching someone you care for flounder before you. Did Dean look at Sam that way when he hallucinated, or when he withdrew from demon blood?
"We ourselves do not have names. Will the names of our vessels suffice?" All attention was focused once again on the brothers in front of him.
No names? Just when in the hell were they dealing with? Sam waved a hand. "Yeah, sure. That's fine."
Releasing his grip from his arm, the kid ripped off another sheet from the roll to wipe his face. "Her's is Jillian. This one is Roland."
Dean laughed through his nose. "And the gunslinger followed. Doesn't that figure."
"What are you talking about?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow in bewilderment. Was this another pop culture reference he should understand but didn't?
"You should really read a book sometime, Sammy," Dean responded arrogantly. While Sam mumbled "jerk" under his breath, Dean ignored it and turned his attention back to Roland.
There were no surprises during the tests: no reaction to salt, no smoke when splashed with holy water, and no screams of agony when Sam sliced into the flesh of their forearms. The two of them knew that would be the likely result, but human nor demon was exempt of a hunter's form of patting and frisking. The boy, Roland, presented his arm eagerly before Sam could say to, mouth a thin line and eyes large. Sam felt like he was being studied or critiqued. Harmless curiosity or not, it was still intrusive. After being cleared, he sat rigidly at the end of the bed.
Jillian wasn't as zealous as her companion. She still submitted to the testing without hesitation, but appeared to be despondent all the while. Something much more pressing was on her mind than the tests and this visit to the Winchesters. Her face was drawn, head hung low. Exhausted. She looked exhausted. If she were like most monsters they've encountered, sleep was either not necessary or possible. This too shattered the brothers' expectations and made them all the more cautions.
When Sam returned to hand her a washcloth for her arm, she stood vigil at the window (just like Cas), solemnly accepting it before diverting her attention away once again. It was clear Roland would be doing the talking.
"I'm sorry to impede on you," Roland looked at the floor in an act of humility, "but could we bother you for something to drink?"
Well, that's different. Sam was just as thunderstruck as Dean. "Do you mean like liquor or...?"
"Water would be best, if you have any."
"Yeah, uh – there are bottles in the fridge." It came out almost as a question. The only reaction Dean got out of Sam as he went to the kitchen was a shrug that said "I don't have any idea what's going on either."
"You two look very troubled. Have I done something wrong?"
Dean began to notice a trend between their early morning visitors in the form of their facial communications. Their faces remained motionless, a mask of marble where the rest was normal. Like now. Roland spoke as if he had offended them, his voice an even hum and expressionless. The eyes. That was how the both of them conveyed their feelings where words could not. Eyebrows drawn together, Roland honestly appeared concerned that he had insulted them in some way while the rest of him did not. No inclination of the body, an invasion of personal space one would do to show that, yes, I am worried. No tilt of the head, not even his jaw hung open, lips parted slightly as one does when fretful. Almost as if everything but was paralyzed.
Perhaps it was because Roland was so young, Dean felt like he was obligated to reassure him. "No, you didn't do anything. It's just a weird request because... You're, uh..." Dean struggled to find the words, gun held loosely in his hand.
Considering what Dean meant for a moment, Roland responded, "Oh. That is because you see us somehow being related to your demons and angels as we similarly inhabit bodies, but we do not possess a host as they would."
Sam returned with the water bottles, handing one to Roland who was grateful to receive it, then to Jillian who wavered momentarily before holding her hand out.
"There's more than one way to possess someone?" Dean asked intrigued as Sam sat down once again. His eye caught the glimmer of the knife looped between his belt at the side.
After draining the bottle of half of its liquid, Roland took a restorative breath and replaced the cap. "Theoretically, yes. Your demons and angels, their anima – their consciousness, what qualifies as their life – enters a host physically and rather violently. With or without consent. We, on the other hand, possess remotely, if you want to label that as being possessed."
"So you're saying you're not even here right now?" Dean asked doubtfully. "Then where the hell are you?"
"That I... cannot say for certain."
"Can't, or won't?" San questioned critically.
Roland shook his head. "Where we are from, there is no location or coordinates, nor does it have a name. It simply is. Like us." His voice lowered, reflecting on his own statement. "Unlike Heaven, it has not been given a title by the sentient creatures that dwell within, who then venture to Earth and even other universes to spread its existence."
"We are," Jillian added, caught in a daydream. Though she was listening to the men converse, she spoke more to herself, as if trying to sort out and reason with the thoughts running rampant in her head.
And I thought nobody could get more cryptic and vague than Cas, Dean thought. "So you're from Parts Unknown. That's not really helping your case out at all."
Before Dean could become defensive, effectively ceasing all communication and kicking them out for such absurd answers, Sam interjected in hopes of changing the topic when clearer answers may be available. "OK, so you're no different than anything else. For one reason or another you're here, just like us. It doesn't matter where you're from. But why are you here? You two just didn't travel here on a whim."
Jillian made something that only could be described as a choking sound deep withing her throat; Sam thought she may have accidentally inhaled water. The bottle was on the table rather than in her hand, so something Roland had said must have amused her.
"That's correct."
"That is... not entirely correct. You sound as if you condemn me." In his voice bloomed an edge as fine as a blade's. "I am not the only one at fault."
She folded her dirtied and scratch arms over her chest. "I did not say you were. Can I not find felicity in this drama we find ourselves in?"
"You've become melodramatic," Roland lamented.
Eyes sharp like a hawk's pierced through the boy and she left it at that.
"Just answer the damn question," Dean impatiently demanded. These two had to be angels. Such an effusive display of family drama reminded him of his many encounters of watching them bicker.
Roland at first glanced to Jillian for help and soon realized she would offer him none, retreating back into daydream. Looking into his hands, he shyly fought for words. "I have..." The stern countenance of Dean was more than he could bear, so he turned to Sam who appeared more reassuring, although still naturally skeptical. "I have wanted to since the moment I saw two human brothers burdened by inevitability defy it. You do not know," Roland almost pleaded, "how wondrous it was to witness something like that."
"What do you mean?" Sam asked. "We do a whole lot of things we shouldn't be doing."
"That fall of Satan." The spark in his eyes returned. "Sam Win– Sam was the child molded to be the vessel of Lucifer, tainted by blood. His brother, the vessel of Lucifer's own kin, fated to fight him and bring upon the Apocalypse and you, Sam, who always thought yourself a failure and worthless, like you could not find a place for yourself in the world you live in, died for it. I see the way you look at me Dean, but know that we do not watch events like these as entertainment. Only because that is how it has always been."
"Looks like we have ourselves a fan club." The false elation in his words were thick. "You keep saying that, that you 'are' and 'watching' us. What the hell does it mean?" It was all too oblique. Oblique and strange and unbelievable. If it weren't for Sam, Dean would have shot the both of them by now. So they knew details from the averted Apocalypse. A lot of other people did, too. That alone was not justifiable grounds to trust them.
Roland removed the bloodied paper towel from his arm and not knowing where to put it, he simply held onto it. He took a deep breath, preparing himself or acknowledging that this was the reason they came here for, what Castiel insisted they tell Sam and Dean before they severed connection with these soiled bodies. Divulging this arcana with the angel previously was a rehearsal; prepared, he now only had to recite it.
"It is as it sounds. We do not remember our creation, much like you do not remember your own birth. With nothing to explain to us how we came to be or what purpose we serve, all of us -for there are more than myself and my comrade- exist, flowing through time which can only be measured by beings like yourself."
"That's another thing," Dean interrupted and was shockingly cut off himself by Roland, much to Sam's entertainment. "Questions will beget questions. I do not wish to sound impolite, but I ask you refrain from doing so. Because..." Dean's intense gaze made him falter. Further aggravating Dean on an already bad day is not something done casually. "Because I am certain I will cover all that you may have," he completed meekly. The hunter shifted his weight and mumbled "Whatever."
"Time for us existed long before your God created Man, as did the other gods with their respective planets. I know how that sounds and yes, it is true. It is as they say here: Man is not alone in the universe. The complexity of it is not apparent at first, although it will be."
Sam shook his head in disbelief. "You talk about aliens so casually..."
"Says the guy who was never chased down by a UFO," Dean was grimly reminded, remembering his own close encounter. It would have been the fourth kind. The kind with poking... Cas wasn't even allowed to poke yet...
He suppressed a whine and noticed all eyes, even Jillian's, were on him and silent as death. "The–the hell you all gawking at?"
Sam smiled at his brother whose face was growing more pale by the second. There was more than abductions on Dean's mind at the moment, so he decided it best to let it slide.
"I suppose we could been interpreted as aliens as we are not of your planet," Roland attempted to return to the topic. "Considering all you have encountered in your lives and all the knowledge you have gained, life on other planets has to be the most sane instance of them all."
"Yeah, I guess," Dean grumbled noncommittally. This was positively insane, all of it. He was talking about aliens to aliens. Wait. When did he start believing a word they said? The animalistic urge to call them out on their bullshit that he had to quell made him want to grab them by their shirts and toss them out the door or better yet, the window. Of course Sam would want to impersonate Dr. Phil and mediate this existential discussion. In his heart of hearts he knew Sam too was cautious of what Roland was telling them: years of broken bonds and trust made both the men skeptical of everything that was told to them. Why did he say nothing?
The other half of the water bottle was quickly finished before Roland continued. Sam wanted to ask why they needed to drink at all but knew he'd be met with the same resistance that Dean encountered.
"We oversee them, too. Everything that lives or has lived we have observed, and we remember all of it. But we've noticed a change since commandeering these bodies. We cannot see anymore, not as we used to. Only as... well, how you would, I imagine. I knew this would be difficult to explain so let me tell you before I even begin to.
"You both have experienced something like this before with the archangels, but even they do not know just how complex travel can be. Dean, you were sent into a universe by the angel Zachariah, in which the Croatoan virus plagued the world and your brother fulfilled his destiny as a scion of Azazel and vessel of Lucifer. You met yourself in this future, the man you became after Sam's decision. Castiel lost... everything. His grace, his family in Heaven and on Earth."
Dean closed the small gap between him and Roland and pressed the gun against his forehead, his finger a hair's width away from pulling the trigger. Utterly confounded by the quickness of his brother's movement and aggression, Sam flew out of his seat, the back of the chair bouncing against the table before crashing over. He shouted his name which was ignored.
Through clenched teeth Dean strained against abject trepidation and from violation. Something only he saw, something very private was revealed as if here were there to witness it. Memories finally buried after years of recall. Sam was gone. Cas was gone. Bobby. Everything that gave him reason to continue living was taken from him and he continued on as nothing more than a husk willing to sacrifice everyone and everything for one last chance. That man was vile, reprehensible. It was a man he still knew deep within his soul he could become and it scared the living hell out of him.
"How the fuck do you know what?"
"Dean. Dean, stop," Sam called, not daring to venture any close to his disturbed brother.
"You weren't there, Sam! How..." He swallowed, hoping it would get the quiver out of his voice. "How do you know that?"
Roland looked to the man towering above him pityingly, the gun still marking his head. "My example is also my proof. You are undoubtedly skeptical of all I have so far explained and I find no fault in that. But this is how it must be, for you to believe me and to identify myself. Some privacy must be sacrificed."
"You promised not to kill them unless they came at us," Sam firmly stated. "I know it's uncomfortable, but please, back away. It's pretty clear they aren't lying to us."
"No," growled Dean. "I wanna hear what else this son of a bitch knows about us."
"You just want an excuse to kill him!" If this continued Sam would have to risk interfering a volatile situation to take the gun away from his brother. It did raise another question. The two seemed to value the bodies they wore, pleading for them not to be harmed, even drinking water as if it would sustain them. Why? Did it really matter?
When they first entered the light of the hotel room, healing scratches were visible under dirt which meant that the wounds were old. The cuts he gave them showed no signs of advanced healing. It was as if they were still human, aging and hurting and breathing no different than himself. Altered consciousness such as trance states were similar, but something else was clearly in control, not implanted or impressed upon. Whoever the real Jillian and Roland were was still in there, their souls or their cognizance, whatever made them them, were tucked away dormant but safe. They wished for no harm because of the life still within.
"Dean, if you kill a puppet," Sam said slowly, "it won't kill the person controlling it. Even if you shot Roland, you wouldn't be getting rid of what you were really aiming for. You'd be killing the person inside." He took a step toward Roland's side and grabbed his wrist, raising it. The kid offered no resistance. "If they could heal themselves, they would have done it already. They need water to live. This isn't a normal possession: they're living in these bodies as a human would. So just... stand down."
The wild look remained in Dean's eyes, dark as a snake's and ready to bite. Was what Sam said true? Given there current state, it had to be. Still, something did not settle right in his gut. Ageless patterns of interplanetary consciousness had a limit to their power when doing something as simple as controlling a human? Living, dead, doll or whatever, he would stay on his guard.
"Quick question," Dean said, a calm coming over his voice. "Dean Smith. What car does he drive?"
Roland's face, if you squinted, appeared to light up as he understood where Dean was taking this. "A Prius."
"Jared Padalecki has an..."
"Alpaca in his back yard."
Dean slowly aimed the gun away, laughing weakly as he did so. "You know, I still have nightmares about driving that damn thing. I've been to Hell and back, and I've shared a car with Sammy after a burrito, but nothing compares to that."
"Dean, but... you." What happened? What the hell just happened? In the blink of an eye Dean goes from homicidal to chummy. It is a skill he's perfected since he was a teenager, but it was one Sam never got used to. The transition is so smooth, enough to make your head spin if you thought about it. "How did...?" he couldn't even form sentences. Now was a good time to sit down, so he did after placing the chair upright, folding his arms upon the tabletop and resting his head on them. Brain numbed, he still managed to fumble out, "Did you really have to mention the damn burritos?"
"I think they already know about the burritos," Dean teased brashly. "If they already have the goods on Bizarro Dean and the alpaca whisperer, I'm willing to bet none of us have any secrets. Now here's the deal, kid. Well, you're not a kid. Besides the point. I don't know what you are or what you can do and a little birdy keeps telling me you don't either, so this gun here? Out of sight. But I'm a pretty quick draw."
Sam guffawed. "Still thinks he's a cowboy."
"The adults are speaking," Dean said with the tone of a parent being interrupted while talking on the phone. Which is essentially what happened. Sam could sulk all he wanted. Shoving the pistol into the back of his jeans, he pulled out a chair and sat directly opposite of Sam, far enough to have both Roland and Jillian in his vision. "OK, so you know all this. Details of everybody's personal lives. What's the purpose?"
Roland's brow creased, trying to determine where to start. Which way would be easier, clearer to understand? Dean, while critical, was willing to listen and give him a chance. Would be sound believable?
"Yes or no... Do or do not," he repeated to himself from earlier that night. "I do not know what we are or why we are able to see what we can. That's... not it." Tumbling over his words, Roland gripped the edge of the bed tight, not knowing how else to express the chaotic mess in his mind. "Every... Your lives, from the instant you are born until the moment of death are comprised of either yes or no moments, something you decide yourself or something thrust upon you. That in itself seems of no concern and just a fact of life. But it is far more complex than you could possibly conceive."
Sam stirred and raised his head, waiting for Roland to continue.
"Your physicist Issac Newton said that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, and I find it a very good example of how we observe the universe at work." He faltered. "I know this may sound absurd, but..."
"We deal with the absurd everyday," Sam tried to comfort. "Try us."
"Well... Every decision you make follows that law. Physically. It manifests into..."
"The point he is trying to express," Jillian softly interceded, "is that whenever you accept or decline, that current universe diverts into two, the equal and opposite reaction: one yes, one no. And in turn those two become four, four into eight. A finite amount of replications until the creator of that particular branch dies, thus ending it. But even the acceptance of death is not definite as it once was," she added to herself at the end.
"Do you mean us? Like hunters?" Sam asked, bordering on defensive and he was not sure why. We felt way too confused to be offended. "Because we bring people back from the dead so often?"
She brushed off his answer, looking back out the window instead where not even her reflection could be seen.
Roland shook his head. "Do not misinterpret that. She was merely musing to herself."
"Yeah, that's not the problem," Dean agreed. "Whatever the hell they just said is."
Knee gripping his knee even more tightly, Roland began to fidget. "Allow me to, um, use an example. Something as mundane as... waking in the morning. Do you wake up when the alarm sounds or do you continue to sleep? The two decisions create two new universes seamlessly, one in which you arise and begin your day, the other in which you sleep several minutes more and repeat what you did before."
"So then those two universes would become four: the universe where you woke up when you should and decide to do something else, and the other one where you're still in bed and have to decide on whether or not to get up again." Sam tried to reason. Well, it sounded completely unreasonably, but he tried to make some sense of it. He believed in alternative universes or realities as he had seem them for himself. This was a new addition to what he knew as true, that choices made changes, but even minor ones.
Why not? Why would the universe limit itself, or see the difference in, saying no to Lucifer and whether to have pancakes or cereal for breakfast? That's none of its concern. It was space with floating mass occupying it, spread out between distances that could only be measured by time. Space was not sentient – as far as he knew; after tonight he would have to rethink about life as he understood it. It has no say in what happens within and could only watch. Much like what Jillian and Roland said they do.
Dean crossed his arms over his chest and whistled. "So, throwing out a hypothetical here, let's say I understood what you just said and thought 'Gee, that makes perfect sense, an infinite amount of mes fucking up their lives sounds swell.' Where do you fit into it all?"
"We watch," Roland said wistfully. "As the divergences happen, created not only by you humans here but by anything with the intelligence to make a choice, we observe simultaneously. So we can see any version of yourself at any given moment."
"What am I doing right now? Any other me." Not only was it for some type of proof or confirmation, but who could pass up an opportunity to what is basically a twin is up to, Sam reasoned. How did Bizarro Sam end up? What kind of life did he live? How many are alive? Dead? Or worse...
"That is something I cannot answer. Our sight has altered since we took control of these bodies. We now see as you do, I assume. Similar to tunnel vision, if an analogy would be helpful to you."
Wouldn't that figure. "So you're drawing blanks?" Dean taunted snidely.
"Our focus is being funneled, but our memories remain intact, Dean Winchester." Unable to convey sarcasm or irritation, the use of Dean's full name after being specifically told not to was the next best thing. Sam took note and simpered low, not wanting Dean to see. Goofy as he appeared, Roland could probably handle himself whenever the moment arose. "Up until the moment of intake."
Sam was still smiling when he told Roland yes, that's fine, just do what you can, looking to Dean and rolling his eyes. He could be such a prude sometimes.
Roland stalled, not being able to meet the gaze of the brothers. He did not appear to be panicking, but that did not mean he wasn't. "There are... some where Mary and John Winchester still live, others where they never hunted. Sam was not chosen by Azazel, thus avoiding the taint of demon blood. Where the both of you never became hunters and have wedded, stable lives with children and modest homes. Sam is dead, Dean is dead or both, for any number of reasons and Dean, you never were chosen for Micheal and never met Castiel or Kevin Tran or–"
From the side of the room, Jillian groaned, cutting off her fretful companion. "And you characterize me as the melodramatic one." Finally leaving her post by the window, she strode over to Roland's side and sat down, but the rigidness of her stature said it was not for comfort.
"What happened? I though Mr. Roboto couldn't have panic attacks." Dean scrunched his nose and asked Sam, "Was that even a panic attack?"
Sam should have assumed that Roland would list off things like that: alive or dead, happiness and peace, together or torn apart. There are many decisions he made and not by another that would lead him to an extremely different life than the one he led currently. Those thoughts are easy to ignore. It's human nature to dwell on mistakes, to desire to turn back the clock and re-do whatever could have been altered. It might take some time, but you come to terms with it: there's no going back so you deal with whatever mess you made right here and now.
As a hunter, one is reminded almost daily of regrets. Fate has a delightful way of returning to you something that has brought strife. A vampire slaughters your family and you bet a couple years down the line there it is again, attempting to finish off what it began. Did a crocotta manage to escape while you were down? That's OK – you would see it again. A day, a month, decades, didn't matter. They all come back. Not only monsters but also the people who you've let down due to it. Families losing a loved one because of your inability to act, something you could have stopped. Your own friends and fellow hunters becoming alienated and detesting your existence.
But there was a world out there were none of that came to be. Somewhere right now Sam Winchester and Dean Winchester were living out normal human lives, doing normal human activities. It was a holiday so Sam was sure Dean would be hosting a cookout, inviting Sam and his wife and kids -damn, kids?- and his parents, his parents would still be alive, finally able to spend time with the grandchildren. It would be a universe where Castiel never met Dean, so he might be dating or married himself. Dean with kids... Within his heart, in his soul, he knew Dean would make an extraordinary father, no matter what this Dean thought.
It felt like the wind got knocked out of him, a kick straight to the gut. Having experienced first-hand traveling to these universes Sam figured there had to be many more, and could only be reached by angels who wanted to use them as a private playground. And there was more, perhaps even an infinite number; all conscious life may vanish here but in another place, who is to say? Sam Winchester, college graduate. Lucifer. Father. Compost. Half of him wanted to call Roland out, that what he's saying could not possibly be true. The other half was more pragmatic.
And Dean, he didn't seem to care at all, or made a good show of not caring which he was an artist at doing. How could this information not sink into his skin like a damp chill? They had both lost so much and now knowing that out there right now, oblivious to them or any of the others, Dean and Sam were living the good life. A world in which they said yes or no. Hell, Dean had to be with Ben and Lisa in one of them. How could that not be affecting him right now? He shared this world with Cas... How does that not twist your stomach into knots? Mom and Dad, alive and together. Sane, judgment not clouded by grief and obsession.
Draw attention away from the pain. That's what Dean had done. What he always did. Cracks in the facade would show if only briefly, like an aversion of the eyes, a tentative sigh or gulp because it was so difficult to swallow this all, wasn't it?
So he shrugged and allowed Dean to continue playing.
After more than a minute of silence from their visitors, Dean asserted dubiously, "You two keeping us in the dark?"
"The long-term complications are finally becoming relevant to him," Jillian said ever flatly. "He adores you both, although he is now not as trusting after listing what you do not have. It is what I have been trying to impart on him all along."
"Why now?" Dean asked.
"Do not feign ignorance, child. There is danger in our ability and the knowledge of it from outsiders. It is," she breathed, the hostility draining out of her words, "easy to taunt extinction from the safety of time and environment. But now that we face a probable death, even he cannot ignore it."
"Wait, why do you think we'd kill you? Why now?" Sam asked, not trying to conceal his reproach. Where did this come from all of a sudden?
She sat beside Roland in the same way he did, back rigid with her hands in her lap. With sullen gazes, they reminded Dean of people in photographs from the late 1800's and early 1900's. The information of infinite worlds in their heads and they managed to look as blank as Sam did when he talked about Motörhead.
"If not kill – use," Roland broke his silence. "We have just given you the apple, so to speak. Universal travel is not unfamiliar to you both. The angels who had such an ability are gone and not only that, they had full command of their strengths. We are... vulnerable."
"Our powers are unknown as we've never dared use them," Jillian continued. "There's a possibility we may never die. But your kind..." She looked aside, away from the brothers. "You have a way of defying preconceptions and make the impossible possible. You ask. You research and study and are relentless in your pursuits. Given enough time, what you could do to us, impose upon us by means even we do not know could be catastrophic to everything, not only our kind."
It took a moment, but Dean understood. Roland and Jillian had, with shaky consent, dangled a carrot in front of their faces and that carrot was called a better life. In a galaxy both close and far, far away, Dean was living the high life or any life other than this, a life he didn't know about until two creatures or beings or whatever came knocking on his door in the twilight hours. The bridge that connected here to there and it was not under home field advantage. They were children. Not easily manipulated but as they said: vulnerable. Something in a tome may not be specifically made to banish them or control them, but who is to say it wouldn't? Could a spell to track angels be modified to locate something not of this world? If they were puppeteers as they claimed to be, the strings could lead anybody or anything right to them. Severing the lines was the only solution but here they were, under the pretense that Cas wanted them to stay which may or may not be a lie, but why would they now?
"You think we're going to use you? To do what? Kill the other me? Take his place?" Dean knew how exaggerated his umbrage was. Like he wasn't trying at all to conceal the fact it was something he could consider.
After silently pondering, Roland asked Jillian, "What is it that Castiel told us? The aphorism..."
"'The road to Hell is paved with good intentions,'" Jillian answered.
"Yes, and what that means, Dean, because I can so clearly read it in your face," Roland remonstrated Dean, whom turned away at the sound of his name to change the very look, "it matters not the reason you would want to travel, for decent or nefarious purposes; it is wrong."
"Which is why you did the same thing," Sam said with little remorse.
Dean lost count of how many minutes the room remained like a crypt, Sam's caustic words leaving all at a loss. If anything was being said between the two Dean couldn't tell this time. To him it looked as if they were inwardly reflecting, but it was hard to say, kind of like judging the character of a wall. Lips pressed tight in frowns; faces looking straight ahead but eyes cast downward. Blood still seeped through the cuts although they did not drip down their dirtied arms. So out of place. Confused. Lost.
He had a dream like that once upon a time. He was missing for weeks, but he came back. He always did. No matter what forces attempted to pry them apart, they always found each other again. Knocking on his door with the force of a falling feather. Dirt dried with blood caked his face, cut and swollen lips, clothing in tatters with rips and holes in them and in the case of the coat, entire pieces were missing. He wasn't panicked or scared or any of the shit he should have been. All he could say was "It's gone." And he'd demand what, what's wrong, what do you mean but the answer was always the same.
Dean would wake up remembering his friend was dead and dreams like that had no meaning anymore.
"Perhaps we deserve this," Jillian meekly broke the stagnant air. "We altered your universe by coming here. Decisions that were never supposed to be made were. Deaths were inadvertently propagated by us when we promised to never interfere in any way. We... I. I wanted a reason to be. I now know the feeling of pride and greed and am being repaid in kind for it, even at the expense of my family." Jillian's tongue twisted with the word, which was not foreign in nature, but it seemed the only correct term for her brethren. Not blood relatives or lawful, nor forged in blood. Family like the angels, created by one Father, all of them.
"We are NOT–" Her voice broke, rising higher than she knew possible, and the shock was clearly visible as her voice caught in her throat in an effort to control it. Regaining her composure, Jillian continued. "We are not supposed to assert ourselves, but we did and in doing so have tainted this universe to a degree I cannot foretell."
"Your monsters," Roland interceded affably with the intention of giving Jillian time to settle herself for though she seemed collected on the outside, he heard her frantic cries from the inside. "Us being here has unsettled them and we both beseech you to believe that this was not our intent, nor did we know it would happen at all."
"We kind of figured that. But do you have any idea how?" Dean queried.
Roland shrugged. "Our decisions, perhaps. The string that connects us to your world? Maybe even both. Either way, we are the cause and we hope that you will regain some normalcy when we depart. Returning your enemies to their predictable states is the absolute least we can do for you."
"How about you take 'em all with you? We don't mind."
"Seriously, Dean?" Sam gawked.
"Completely." Sam rolled his eyes at his idiot brother. "Can I ask, um, something a little more personal?"
Roland dabbed his arm with the paper towel again, which was on the verge of not being able to absorb any more. "I, I might be able to."
"Uh, yeah. About Cas..." He didn't want to go any further than that. Please, please don't need an elaboration. Sam being in the room wasn't the problem. It was, well... He fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat.
Tilting his head at an imperceptible angle, Roland recalled Castiel's own concerns. "Are you worried that the angel is being affected too?"
Dean bashfully nodded, something Sam would have thought adorable if his brother wasn't such a god damned idiot. He loved the guy, and Dean knew Sam knew how much he loved him. So why continue to act otherwise? Why did Dean still see it as such a horrible thing? Idiot brother loved idiot angel. Accept it!
"It is not my place to discuss that matter. Castiel will soon return to you soon to–"
"Don't you try to bullshit a bullshitter, Rol." Dean's voice took on a graveled edge, critical and threatening. "If you know as much about Cas as you say you do, you'd know he's..." He licked his lips. "You'd know that's a lie."
"You and Castiel have much to address. I know you will find my words harsh but I must say them. Throughout all of this, you have not considered Castiel's feelings." Roland raised a hand and Dean snorted indignantly. "I know you want him to return to you but I beg of you to reflect on that for if you do, you will understand why he strays." He looked to Sam in apology. "I will speak no more of it."
"Good thing," Sam said with some relief. "Dean would probably shoot you."
Dean looked out the window. The faintest signs of dawn were beginning to show, along with the chirping of birds. Baby was in view, as always. By his side, patiently waiting for the next trip to anywhere in the continental United States. She enjoyed her work and the work put into her by Dean. Never breaking down. Waiting.
Dully, Dean asked, never taking his eyes of the Impala, "Ever heard of the Winchester House? Place out in California. Absolutely enormous. Millions upon millions of dollars invested into this mansion since it started construction in the late 1800's. Some bogus medium told her to construct it because the spirits of people killed by the Winchester rifle back in the Civil War were haunting her. So she moved out west and did exactly that.
"Girl wasn't too right to begin with and she claimed that ghosts still haunted her while she lived there, so naturally it's a big tourist attraction now. But sometimes, when I think about crazy and lonely Sarah in a place that huge all by herself, hearing the ghosts of the people she harmed with nothing but her name, makes me wonder if the Winchester curse isn't such crap after all."
He asked no one, and no one answered.