A/N: Next chapter. Whoo. I can't believe it. Just shot over 30k. Things are heating up. Please R&R and Enjoy.
Dean is starting to get the feeling that there is much more to Cas than the nervous boy who lived across the street. The first few tip-offs he'd been able to let slide. But these last few? Not so much.
There was Bobby—his absence mainly, but also the enormity that Dean doesn't know about him. Then Cas' skills with, one, breaking into houses (both his and Dean's), two, dealing with psychopaths over the phone, three, running from thugs with guns, and, four, consequently, defending himself. Most obviously after that, is Meg.
The girl (on that shaky precipice between childdhood and adulthood) had, and it really pains Dean to admit it, scared the shit out of him. Not her devil-may-care-attitude—Dean takes that and more every day. What unsettled him to the core was what he'd seen when she walked in—when he really looked at her.
The vision (or hallucination, Dean's still not sure) was reminiscent of the white-washed afterimage he'd seen the first time Cas showed up but…darker. And shakier. Dean saw an older woman, face streaked with blood, and grit stuck in her blonde, pink-highlighted hair and a knife in her hands. There was a mocking glow in her eyes and death wish in her smile.
Yeah. No one could really blame Dean for wanting to take a few steps back, or craving the comfort of one of Dad's guns. That urge had been drilled into him for years. There was, of course, the fact that she'd also held a knife to Sam's throat, and his little brother was frozen solid, which was reason enough for Dean to hate her guts on instinct.
But Cas knew her, and trusted her, and in the end they'd ended up running off in the night together, gun-waving crazies sprinting after them. Suffice to say, Dean is conflicted about a lot of things. And the running loop in his head, dashing between, who the hell is after them, where Meg's insane driving is taking them, what exactly is Cas hiding, and shit, Sam saw him freak out—what's he going to think, is being unhelpfully derailed every few seconds by the thought of Dad. It's almost amazing how many fears and dreads can be wrapped up in one word.
They'd left the house (even if Dean didn't take Sam with him, Sam's here now, so Dean doesn't have a leg to stand on there) in the dead of the night. It was almost two. Dean and Cas had possibly provoked a very dangerous man over the phone, seconds before some other group of very dangerous people broke into Cas' house and started shooting at them. Now, Dean is with Sam and Cas in the car of a strange girl they'd just met, off to the devil knew where, with no means of alerting or explaining any of it to Dad.
Dean almost wants to argue that if Dad would spend less time at dark, smoke-clouded bars and came home at a decent hour, none of this would have happened. Then again, he wouldn't be with Cas right now, and somehow that seems like the worse of the two evils. Besides, Dad's weakness for liquor and late nights is…necessary. Dean would rather him take the anger and bury it in the bottom of a glass than bring it home to Sammy. He tries not to feel guilty for that.
"Okidoke, kiddos. Ride's over," Meg announces from the front seat after some time. She sounds drawn—fraying at the seams.
They'd driven into town a few minutes ago, and now they're stopped in the back of a building in desperate need of repair. Dean doesn't go into town much, and he's sure he's never seen this part of it before. There's a shadowy overhang to it, building the night's darkness and the flickering lampposts into a sinister oppression. They're parked in an alley with dumpsters and dripping drainage pipes. Dirt piles upon dirt and, the blackness of grime creeps over the walls of each building. It climbs from the ground up, like dark, jagged fingers across the uneven bricks. The steady hum of the car's engine breaks the stillness of the dark, dark alley, but a chill seems to carry through the metal, Sam and Cas' bodies, and into Dean's bones. He tries not to shiver.
Meg taps impatiently on the dashboard, unmoved by their surroundings. "Hurry up. Get out. I still gotta stash the car."
"But—" Sam protests, eyes seized by the scene outside his window. Dean can tell he has the same uneasy feeling about the place by the wrinkle in his forehead.
Meg doesn't seem to care. "Do I have to hold your hand? Get outta the damn car."
Sam pops open the door, gets out and Dean follows, valiantly glaring at Meg and tugging along Cas, who's apparently too lost in thought to disentangle their fingers. Dean's not really minding that, truth be told. Sam's starting to grow out of holding his hand, and it's…nice to be more than just needed—Cas actually wants him. It keeps the anxiety at bay.
A second after the door closes, Meg pulls off in a shrieking cloud of exhaust that Dean knows (from some of Dad's few impromptu mechanic lessons) is partly the car's fault, but, mostly, it's Meg's driving.
The three of them stand awkwardly in the darkest area of the alley, waiting—trying to be inconspicuous. There's a cat digging through the trash a few yards over, chewing on the remains off a bone. The buildings here don't reek of newly constructed materials, in actuality they look like they're falling apart. He assumes, and it's not really that far of a stretch) that they're not in the best part of town.
The air is heavy. Not even a soft breeze stirs the air. The atmosphere seems almost supercharged, as if it's waiting, like Dean, for something terrible to happen. He quietly starts counting the amount of rats skittering through the garbage to distract himself. The number becomes too large, and Dean decides to stop. The hair on the back of his neck keeps rising, like someone is about to jump out from behind him. Sam and Cas are uniformly quiet, and Dean wonders what's going through their minds, and if the darkness is driving them as crazy as it is Dean.
Meg is taking an awful long time to get back.
Sam shifts beside Dean and clears his throat. Dean can predict exactly what he's going to say. When when his little brother opens his mouth and mutters, "I'm sorry, Dean," it doesn't really come as a surprise.
Dean takes a deep breath, but doesn't say anything, yet. He's trying to organize the millions of things he really needs to say to Sammy and not let the few angry objectors free. His grip on Cas' hands tightens, but Cas only leans closer brushing their shoulders together, and that calms Dean more than words.
"Sam," he starts, still sorting out what's to come. He settles for, "That was too dangerous."
"I know," Sam says, but he really, really doesn't.
"They had guns. We're lucky no one got hurt. You shouldn't have been there. You were supposed to be in bed." This time it's Cas' hand that presses harder—a caution rather than a reassurance.
Sam shakes his head. "I was supposed to just let you go off? Dad told us to stick together."
This isn't really what an apology sounds like, Dean thinks. "Dad told me to keep you safe. This is my responsibility. My job. And this—I'm not—Do you think he'd want you out here, running away from thugs in the middle of the night?"
"I can protect myself!"
The words come out like a slap in the face. Like Sam is saying Dean is unnecessary. That all he's done is pointless because Sam can protect himself. The anger is easier to grasp than the hurt.
"Are you kidding me?" Dean yells. His voice is too loud. Both Sam and Cas flinch. He forces his volume down. "Meg had you at the point of knife. How is that defending yourself?"
Sam flounders. "She—It—I wasn't expecting—"
"You're never going to expect an attack when it matters. You have to be prepared all the time. That's what Dad told us."
"And he taught me how to defend myself."
Dean can't believe this. "You never listen to Dad. You hate it when he takes us out—for shooting or for anything else. You argue with every damn word out of his mouth—"
"Dean," Cas interrupts.
In that second, Dean realizes he's slipped right out of their hand hold, and every accusing word brought him step by imposing step towards his brother. He freezes, then ducks his head.
It's not—Dean doesn't want to be upset. He doesn't want to hurt Sam, but just thinking about Meg's gleaming knife on his little brother's throat…stains the world red.
"I'm here now," Sam says, barely above a whisper. "I'm part of this."
He doesn't sound nearly repentant enough. Still a hint of building confidence, like it only matters that in the end, he got his way.
Before Dean can do anything to wipe the faint smirk off Sam's mouth, Cas says, "Meg's coming," Dean straightens up immediately, calming his face to solid nothingness and turning away from Sam back to Cas.
Sam calls out his name, "Dean—"
He shakes his head. "No. I don't want to talk about it anymore. I don't want your apologies until you really mean them."
A beat of quiet, then, "Fine."
Dean doesn't bother replying.
Meg appears out of the shadows a second later.
"How chivalrous. The gentlemen waited for me," she laughs. She walks closer, swinging her hips with every step, and flipping her shiv between her fingers.
"Beginning to think you weren't coming back," Dean retorts, malice in his words.
Meg rolls her eyes, running her hands through her sharp, pixie-cut blonde hair. "That would be monumentally stupid." She struts past them, down a ways then across the street until she stands in front of a group of drooping boxes. She crouches down next to the slouching structure, clucking her tongue. "Strength in numbers and all that." She pauses then, contemplating, before adding, "'Course you guys are idiot, little kids—excepting Cas—so that's really debatable."
"Idiot?" Dean growls.
"Little kids?" Sam exclaims.
Meg blinks at both of them, then, drawing out each syllable, repeats, "Yes. Idiot. Little. Kids."
"Stop harassing them," Cas sighs. He looks so much more tired now. Like everything that's accumulated up until now has snowballed into an overwhelming burden.
And Dean's not exactly helping as he promised, so he keeps his mouth shut and doesn't attack Meg further.
"Whatever." Meg brushes off his warning like it's dust, but focuses on the ratty coupling of boxes and blankets, putting her back to Dean. She peels back the closes blanket, edges into the opening of the biggest box and calls behind her, "Are you coming?"
All three of the boys crowd closer, watching in morbid fascination as she crawls half-way in (as far as she fit), grabs ahold of the moldy back panel of the box and pulls.
The soggy cardboard rips free to reveal a neat hole in the brick building.
What the hell?
Meg props the cardboard up against the side of box like a door then keeps shimmying in. The hold is a little too small for her, but with a few small grunts, she angles herself in entirely.
"Are you coming?" she calls from the inside. Her voice echoes oddly, and there's a small cloud of suspicious looking dust floating up from the hole.
"This really a good idea?" Dean mutters, mostly to himself.
Cas shrugs as if to say, there's not really a better option. Sam purses his lips and stomps forward with all the spite that can be forced into his body. He crouches down and disappears inside the hole with barely any trouble at all.
Well, doesn't really look like Dean has a choice then. Cas peers at him out of the corner of his eyes, and offers one of those almost smiles that's just a little too strained at the corners. Dean needs to man up. He's not here to cause complications.
Dean steps up to the little lean-to of boxes. It smells, and the cardboard is damp, speckled with mildew. Dean resolved himself not to care. When he stoops down to the ground, the knees of his pants soak with the water, and when he pulls himself into the darkness beyond the hole it kind of feels like diving into a swimming pool with his eyes shut.
The outcome is slightly less wet.
The inside of the building is sticky and humid. Dean can feel the perspiration forming on his forehead. Cas follows behind him, hands scrabbling out and accidently latching onto the back of Dean's jeans.
Meg chooses that moment to get light system the room has functioning.
Now Sam and Meg have a perfectly illuminated view of Dean getting his ass grabbed by Cas. Accidently. Except that Cas doesn't really let go until he's through the hole and that's just a few seconds too long.
Meg is cackling as Cas brushes the dirt off the front of his pants. Dean is pointedly not saying anything (because he's not going to make Cas feel bad, it was an honest-to-god accident that and the amount of heat rushing to his face might be burning off a few brain cells). Sam seems to be choking on air.
"What?" Cas asks blankly. "Is there something on me?"
"Not shame, that's for sure," Meg says, trying to catch her breath.
Dean glowers at her as hard as he possibly can.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Just…refrain from groping your boyfriend in public, okay?"
Cas narrows his eyes at her, still not getting it. "What are you…?"
"It's whatever," Dean barks, "Ignore them." He stomps off, away from the entrance hole.
The room (the door to rest of the building is dented in, and there's a broken pillar collapsed in front of it), has a tall ceiling, and the metal pipes that look like they belong in the back of kitchen. Except, there's no ovens, or any real furniture at all. Just a few mounds that look like pillows (Dean can't be sure) and a load of discarded blankets.
Dean takes up residence, leaning against the gray, bare wall closest to the broken door. "Are we going to get down to business or what?"
Meg wipes a tear out of her eyes, and sighs. "Assertive aren't you? Bet Clarence isn't used to that."
Can she just stop for a second with the innuendos? They're really not helping.
"This isn't the time for joking, Meg," Cas intones, and Dean wants to smile, because the grin on Meg's face immediately drops off.
"Fine. All work and no play. You'd think I'd be used to it by now." She moves away from the light switches (big metal handles) and to the other corner of the wall.
As Dean watches, she starts tapping at the pipes attached there, explaining absently, "This place has been here for a while. Hasn't really gotten much use, but, hey, that works. Less people know about it. Started using it about a week ago, so no Cas, I haven't been hanging around the neighborhood. I just got back. And I hadn't even planned on visiting. I do recall you saying something like "never come here again" last time I showed up at your house, but circumstances kinda took that out of my hands."
Dean is going to sit Cas down soon. He's going to ask him why he knows a girl who drives like Evel Knievel and swings around a shiv when she's bored. It's going to be a very long conversation, Dean can see that now.
"Here it is," she sings as she snakes a hand into the crevice between one of the pipes and the wall and pulls out a stash of what looks like paper in a Ziploc bag. "Okay. Time for debrief." When Cas, Dean and Sam move closer until they're all clustered in the center of the room, she frowns. "You sure you want dweedle-dee and dweedle-dumber around for this?"
Cas gives her a look that Dean would like to classify under shut up and get on with it or die.
"Fine, fine. Take a seat."
The four of them do, Sam and Dean uncomfortably while Cas and Meg descend as if they're so used to sitting on puddle speckled floors in abandoned buildings that it's really not out of the ordinary anymore.
"So," Meg begins, "What do you want to know?"
Try, everything?, Dean thinks.
"What do you know about Bobby?" is Cas' first question. Dean really hopes it's far from the last.
"Well, I know he's got a really creepy beard and wears too many baseball caps, you'll have to be a bit more specific."
"Where is he?" Dean scowls. He's getting beyond tired of her slick mouth.
"Fine, fine. Excuse me for trying to have a sense of humor," She raises her hands in a gesture of peace. "To fully answer that question, let me tell you exactly what I've gotten up to in the past few months—condensed of course."
Cas purses his lips but nods for her to continue.
"It's taken awhile, but Crowley's finally had enough of me. I know, surprise, surprise. I got on his bad side, a little after you left and decided to split town. Came back after his divine wrath passed on to some other sucker. I got back into a few of my other circles, and there's this name keeps getting passed on. I'd never heard it before. No one else knew much about it, except that there were a lot of dead bodies accumulating and none of the usual suspects were claiming them.
"I started running interference between Crowley and some of the other heads, trying to get closer, but my only run-in with our mysterious newcomer ended up with me in handcuffs, hanging from the ceiling, and a very unsettling man with a knife. Needless to say, I got out of it," she tosses in a devilish smirk there, "but they've been on my ass since then. I dug up as much as I could—none of it good, trust me. A gang wiped out, throats slit and necks broken. That's the usual MO. A few professors strung up with evidence of torture. A longer laundrylist of theft and break-in—to some really odd places too. Museums and stuff.
"The name was Abaddon."
Cas is taking this all in stride, not much is breaking that face of stony composure, but Dean is barely keeping it together. Slit throats? Broken necks? Gangs? He's trying to piece together what crazy comic book he's strolled into, but jamming Cas (panicking, sincere, solid Cas) into place with the rest isn't working.
"As for how that connects with Bobby, I'm still figuring that out. I know he's been in contact with Crowley ever since he pulled you off into the land of white picket fences, but whatever business he's been pulling behind the scenes after that, I didn't really care enough to delve into. Or, I didn't, until I started getting word people surrounding Abaddon were looking for him.
"Around that time, the guy I was staying with—oh don't give me that look, Cas, I can do whatever the hell I want, I'm as grown as it gets—sold me out. I decided to head here. So, if you're asking where Bobby is? I don't really know, but I'd bet money that Abaddon does."
"What you're saying is," Dean says slowly, "some gang called Abaddon abducted Bobby. Because of Crowley? And you're some kind of networking criminal?"
Meg scoffs. "Criminal? Really? I'm sure you can think of something more creative than that. I'm not saying he got abducted, I'm speculating he got abducted. By Abaddon, whoever or whatever that is. And as far as Crowley goes, I wouldn't put it past him to throw a friend under the bus, but I'm thinking it had more to do with whatever Bobby was searching for than his connections."
"And what was he searching for?" Cas asks sharply.
"Beats me," Meg replies, "But I don't think anyone wanted him to find it."
Cas makes a sound like a frustrated hiss. "How does this help us find him?"
"I don't think you're seeing my point here, so let me outline it for you. Abaddon is not to be fucked with—excuse my language little children. They're looking for or already have your old man. My advice? Stop looking. Cut your ties. They've seen your faces, so I'd be getting a move on, real soon. Unless you want to get caught by the crazies who cut people's throats for fun."
"No," Dean and Cas say in unison. Cas clears his throat, but there's thankful relief in his eyes. "I'm not going to abandon him." And Dean is not going to abandon Cas.
Meg shakes her head. "This isn't a game. Cas, you should know better, even if your tag-alongs don't get it. People are going to die. You could die. Probably painfully with lots of blood. I mean, I don't care. Get yourself killed if you want to, fine as long as you don't drag me down with you. But this? This is just…stupid. What do you care about one old man? Adults never helped you before. You don't need him. Throwing your life away for him is pointless!"
Cas opens his mouth to hopefully tell Meg where she can shove it, and Dean is so behind him, ready to back him up, when his lap is suddenly full of a very fluffy, very asleep, Sam Winchester.
The tension freezes in the air, and the only sound is Sam snoring. The kid had just…dozed off. Dean sighs.
Meg's demeanor shifts like a switch has been flipped. She goes from desperate and intense to pulled back and condescending in less than a second. "Looks like it's bed time for the kiddies," she whispers.
"Meg—"
"No," she says, standing in one fluid motion, taking the Ziploc bag with her. "No."
Dean wants to stand up with her, grab her, shake her maybe, but he can't just throw Sam onto the floor. "You can't just—"
"Oh but I can," she snarls, eyes flashing dangerously. "I have the information." She holds up the clear, plastic bag. "I have the connections. I have all the power in this—don't make a mistake. You will stay here. I am going to turn off the lights and you are going to sleep on this insane, stupid idea until morning. By then, your sanity will have returned with some of my patience, and we will talk." Meg stomps angrily to the light switches across the room. "Until then, no one speaks to me. Not. One. Word."
And with that, she flips both switches and plunges the room into darkness.