Chapter 11
"We don't know that it will kill him and he's the easiest angel to get at," Sam tells him again. In that simple statement Dean can once more see the bones of the stone-cold killer his brother had become and it makes Dean shiver. Maybe Sam doesn't need to be pulled out of Hell to become soulless, since he's doing a good imitation of it now. Maybe he just needs a couple more years of this life forcing him to choose the deaths of innocents as part of 'the greater good'.
It's a fucking scary thought.
"He'd probably volunteer, but I keep telling you, he's one of the good guys and we don't do that to our friends." Neither of them look convinced and Dean can admit they've got reason. They don't know Castiel as well as he will, or would. Maybe they never will… huh.
"I think I know who's going to show up," he offers as a distraction.
"You think," Sam repeats.
Bobby's got his arms wound over his chest, holding back some of his choicer comments, Dean's sure. "We've got a lot riding on this, Dean," the older hunter says half-threat, half-soothing.
"That's an understatement," Sam growls, all threat.
"Don't worry. This'll work." It had better work.
The front door, unstable in its frame, falls with an echoing boom. The "Mother of God!" they hear almost matches it for volume. Most of the tension drains out of them, out of the room. Sam's the first one moving.
"Ellen?" He steps into the front hall.
"What kind of people you letting into the place?" she says, only half joking.
"Um, demons?" Sam answers tentatively. "But we won, if that counts."
She looks around at the cracked roof, the holes in the wall, the blood on the floor, and snorts. "The place needed remodeling anyway." They ignore Bobby's indignant "Hey" in the background. She turns to the big hunter, examining him up and down. "You're looking good, Sam." Sam smiles ruefully, and glances down in embarrassment.
That's when she slaps him.
"Are you allergic to giving me peace of mind? Six months I don't hear one word from you. I don't know if you got Dean out of his deal, or what's happening with you. Then—then—Dean comes back from Hell and I have to find out from Rufus. And still, it's another two months before you pick up the phone." Her voice cracks on the final sentence and her eyes are moist.
Sam's got his hand over his stinging cheek but, seeing her distress, he lowers it. "I'm sorry, Ellen," he says, opening his arms and moving closer.
She glares at him, not yet willing to give in. "You'd better be. You better put me on speed-dial, kid."
"I will," Sam assures her and she lets herself be folded against his chest, protected and soothed. "I know it's no excuse but I was pretty messed up."
"We all were," Jo says as she picks her way over Bobby's mangled door. Sam opens an arm and invites her in. She's actually more hesitant than her mother but she too gives in, letting herself be comforted by Sam's giant frame and outgoing personality. It's a gift Dean has often envied. It was a long time after Dad's death, in the months leading up to Hell, that Dean realized that he'd never been allowed to be as open and vulnerable as Sam. He'd always had to be the strong one, dependable, alert, aware of the dangers that could be hiding in the corner. It's been minutes, and the three of them are still hugging in the hall, rocking slightly with their eyes closed, in front of a huge gap in the house that anything could charge through.
Should he go up and join in the group hug, he wonders even as he knows he's not going to. He finds it hard to let go, to be unguarded with anyone, even Sam. If he does get together with Lisa, is she going to be able to accept that or will it eventually drive them apart? They hadn't really had enough time before, or rather, he hadn't been in the proper head space to do it.
His chest feels a little tight but he's reassured by the glimpse he has of Bobby, bringing out the silver flask full of holy water. Bobby would die for either Ellen or Jo. Dean knows this, but it's good to know the old hunter doesn't let sentiment stop him from taking precautions. Makes him feel less like a psychotic, paranoid freak loner. Or at least less alone.
The three in the hallway finally break apart and Ellen moves toward Dean. He braces himself for the slap—even though Sam already got one that, maybe, relieved the hunter's frustration with them—but she doesn't hit him. Instead, Ellen grabs his face and examines him, tilting his head this way and that until she drags him down by his jaw so she can see his eyes. He hopes all she can see is green…
"Kid, you look like shit."
Yeah, he didn't think he'd get lucky.
He doesn't bother trying to play it down or distract her; Ellen won't put up with that kind of bullshit. He goes for rueful acceptance instead. "I'm doing okay, I guess," he says with a roll of his shoulder.
"It's better than the alternative, right?" Jo smiles at them. " 'Cause then we'd have to exorcise you." The joke is a little forced and wobbly but it's a good effort. Dean's smile broadens in appreciation.
"Jo!" says Ellen, shocked and embarrassed. "What a thing to say."
It's all Dean needs to release the last of the useless tension their arrival had caused. He gives Ellen his widest 'hey, darlin' smile. "The best part is being able to see the both of you lovely ladies." He gives Jo a wink, ignores his brother's eye-roll, and bends over to give Ellen—the only living person he's ever allowed to be even the slightest bit motherly towards him—a kiss on her rosy cheek.
"You're a snake charmer, alright." Ellen removes her hand from his chin and gives him a couple sharp raps on the cheek. "Too bad I'm not a snake. You got the flask ready, Singer?" A quick drink, a pause to check for smoke, then she's handing it over to her daughter. Jo drinks and breathes out like a kid making frost on a window. No smoke. "Good enough?"
Bobby nods and smiles. "You know it. Welcome back."
"So… explain it to me again. How's a devil's trap's going to hold Lilith?"
"It's a very special devil's trap." Bobby has the maps and the drawings and the incantation spread out on his desk. Everyone, except Dean, is gathered around, staring at them. "The circle needs to be where innocent blood was spilled, the more the better. The ink is made out of rowan berries, black onyx powder, holy water, salt—"
"And blood of a lamb," Ellen finishes for him. "That part I got. It's the rest of it that seems a bit in fairyland."
"Why is Sam the agent for the forces of Hell?" Jo asks. "I know he was possessed once…" She can't look at Sam as she says it. It doesn't matter that Meg had been in charge when he'd attacked her. The demon had used his body to overpower and terrorize the young hunter, and physical triggers can be hard to shake, still Bobby leaves it to Sam to answer her. It's his story to tell, after all.
"Remember all those kids I had Ash look up? The ones who'd had a parent die in a fire when they were six months old?" She nods. "They all had special powers: visions, mind control, super-strength. Comic-book stuff."
Jo's mouth is open. "No shit," she says, impressed.
"Joanna Beth. Language." Jo rolls her eyes and Sam has to smile. Being a daughter seems as much fun as being the baby brother.
"The Yellow-Eyed Demon visited all of us when we were six months old. Azazel, that was its real name, bled into our mouths. That's where the power came from."
"Whoa," Jo says, but this time her voice is filled with sympathetic horror. It makes Sam uncomfortable, like he's ten again and realizing how different his life is from all of his classmates and the kids he wants to call friends. 'Freak' doesn't even begin to cover it.
"He was doing prep work for the Apocalypse," he says to get the attention off him and his… situation.
"The Apocalypse?" Ellen asks in disbelief.
"Yes, the Apocalypse," Bobby says impatiently. "Boiling seas, red skies, End of Days, the whole bit. I sent you the memo after the Witnesses, remember?"
"Don't get snarky with me, you old coot. You've been sending out so much junk lately I started to think you'd been taken over by a spam-bot."
"You didn't read it."
"Not everything that drops from your lips—or gets typed by your fingers—is a pearl, Singer."
"It doesn't have to be a pearl to be important," Bobby gripes back.
"You might think so. Doesn't make it true."
Sam very carefully doesn't look at Jo since she's doing a worse job of hiding her giggles than he is. God, they sound like a crotchety married couple. What makes it even funnier is that they'd both be horrified if he mentioned it. Finally, he lifts his hand and clears his throat. "Guys. Hey, guys!" They pause and look at him. "The ritual?"
They look at each other sheepishly, and just like that, they're back to being hunters: professional and calm. They continue talking about the ritual—what's required, when and where—and they work on deciphering the actual words which, oh joy, oh bliss, the Trickster put into Dog Latin, until they get to the sticky part. The part Dean hasn't really shared with them yet.
"Where is your brother anyway?" Bobby asks after a quick look around the room reveals that Dean's not even in the room anymore.
"I dunno," Sam answers. "He was working on the car earlier."
Bobby snorts, "And he thinks messing with it is somehow more important than stopping the End of Days?"
All Sam has to do is look at the older hunter to make him realize just what a stupid question that is, although he has a point. "He's been having a hard time keeping himself grounded," he offers.
It's a simple explanation and one Sam's not sure is even relevant, but it's true and it worries him. It's worried him ever since the ghouls and it's not his only concern when it comes to Dean. His brother is depressed and off his game, uncaring of his safety in a way that rivals those first few weeks after Cold Oak and his deal. Even before Carthage and the rugaru, they'd been… wrong and it had gotten worse after Memphis. They're still a good team, they still work smoothly together on a hunt, but everything else feels jerky and off rhythm.
Maybe it was the lies and the sneaking around and all that shit, but it seems like there's more to it. Like Dean hasn't forgiven him for killing him in some future that's not going to happen anymore. And, yeah, okay, that sucked—or would have—but it's not going to happen anymore.
Quite frankly, Sam's sick of being held accountable for stuff he hasn't even done. This whole thing where they're not brothers? He's had enough of that, and it pisses him off that Dean was the one who called him on his behavior, but here he is acting secretive as fuck and shying away from… from them.
"I'll go talk to him."
He doesn't let Bobby or Ellen argue or give advice or any of the other 'helpful' things they might think of. He grabs a couple beers from the fridge and then he's out the door and heading to Bobby's work shed. He's got long legs. He uses them well. It takes him hardly any time to reach the hut where, sure enough, Dean's got his head under the Impala's hood.
"Hey," he says, civilly enough.
Dean looks over and right at the beer he's offering. "Oh, God. We're going to have one of those 'talks', aren't we?"
"You love 'em. Don't bother lying." He manages a smile and Dean's face relaxes a little. "Bobby asked me if you thought fixing the Impala was as important as saving the world," Sam teases as they shift over the workbench. "I told him it was a stupid question."
Dean chuckles as he leans against the table, giving Sam the little roller stool. Sam lets his brother take a long swallow before bringing up the reason for this chat. It's routine, familiar. Kind of like the salute dueling swordsmen make before a match, but whatever. It works for them.
"You had another one of those moments, didn't you."
Dean looks down, expression closed so that Sam knows, whatever Dean was reliving, it hadn't been pleasant. He waits. Dean'll cave.
"I have this memory of us: you, me, Ellen, Jo and Castiel; heading out to Carthage to face down the Devil."
Definitely not going to be pleasant. Sam braces himself.
"The night before we spent at Bobby's; just drinking, shooting the shit." He stops and laughs. "I made a pass at Jo."
Sam's mind blanks. "What? No way."
Dean shrugs. "All of a sudden, she looked hot."
"She… Did she? Wait. No. I don't want to know." God, he sounds like a teenager hit with hormones and a crush.
"Relax, man. She turned me down."
"Smart girl."
One of Dean's eyebrows lifts in rueful acknowledgment and he's smiling even as he takes another drink. It falls away pretty quick though, and then he's rubbing his thumb over the label, staring at it as if it's going to turn into gold while he watches. "The next day she and Ellen were both dead."
There is nothing Sam can say to that. He doesn't even try.
"I kissed Jo good-bye." Dean's laugh this time is hollow. "It didn't even work. They died for nothing."
"It's not going to happen," Sam tries to reassure him. "Not anymore."
"Not like that, no, but, eventually, some other way probably. And for what?" There it is again: that defeatism that's been infecting his brother since Memphis or rather, since Hell. It scares him and pisses him off and he needs to stop it. Now.
"What is up with you, man? You're the one who told me that saving people, making sure that what happened to our family doesn't happen to others was important, was worth doing. When did it change?"
"Because it didn't change anything. I've died, you've died. We get hurt and bashed up and we work our asses off trying to do the right thing—the noble thing. But in the end, we're just pawns in some celestial grudge match that started back when the Earth was created and humans had barely crawled out of the water. Heaven and Hell don't care if we're 'good people'." He even makes quotey fingers. "They just want us to cave in to them and play our roles, the roles they picked out for us."
"We still save lives, Dean," Sam argues. "It's still worthwhile."
Dean looks at him and his eyes are distant, assessing. "I know it is. But it's not the only worthwhile thing out there."
"Are you talking about college again, because I swear—"
"Naw, man," Dean cuts him off. "That's your choice, right? But what about family, kids? Neighbors that know your name and invite you over for a barbeque?"
Oh, whoa, is all Sam can think. It's not completely unexpected and yet it still is. Ever since the djinn infected Dean way back the second year they were together, and then he'd seen Gumby Girl in Dean's dream when they'd hunted that guy with the dream root, he'd known that Dean was much more of a nester than he'd ever thought, but this… This is not just some fantasy that a djinn forced on his brother. Dean's been thinking about this.
"What does that mean? Are you just going to walk out?"
Dean shifts uncomfortably. He takes another drink. Sam unclenches his jaw. The moment before he's about to give into the temptation to beat some answers out of him, Dean sighs. "I dunno. Not all the way? I mean, Mom's parents managed it. Bobby has a place—"
"So did Olivia Lowry and Carl Bates," Sam points out. "Remember them? You think the Witnesses cared whether they hunted full or part-time; had a home or a family?" So he's angry, so what? He's allowed to be pissed and, if he's honest, a little scared. Dean's going to leave him.
Again.
"Bad stuff happens to good people all the time," Dean says back, voice calm and level with the totality of his belief. "Makes no difference if it's supernatural or completely human monsters that cause it. It's going to happen. We can't save everyone and I think, I'm pretty sure, backing off's the only way we're going to save ourselves."
"Is this a ghost thing?" Because that would explain it. If one of Dean's ghosts had come back and said "THOU SHALT NOT HUNT" then Sam could understand why Dean's changing on him like this.
"I wish. Fuck, do I wish," Dean says.
Not a ghost thing then.
"This is so messed up," Sam says. "I'm finally okay with hunting—hunting with you—and you want to get out?" He has nothing but this now. There's no Jessica for him to set up house with. All he's got is his brother and it looks like he's going to bail. "How can you do that?" He glares at his brother, demanding an answer.
"I can do it because it's a good idea—for both of us. I mean, come on, man, how many times have I watched you die? How many times have you watched me die?" Sam knows he flinches. It's still a sore spot. Will always be a sore spot. "We've been front and center during this whole thing, and I'm thinking, it might be a good idea to, I dunno, fly under the radar—"
"Exit stage left?" Sam suggests mockingly.
"Laugh all you want, but you're supposed to be Lucifer's vessel—the Boy King of Hell—Gordon won't be the only hunter out there who thinks he can save the world by killing you."
"Run and hide." It goes against everything they were taught, everything he's come to believe.
"Weekend hunts," Dean counters, "instead of joining the National Guard."
"Run and hide," Sam repeats, but this time, he doesn't bother to hide the sneer.
"Fuck it. Whatever." Dean pushes off from the bench tossing his empty bottle into the large garbage bin with a rattle and a crash. "You're a grown man. You can make your own decisions about what to do with your life." Sam nearly smiles at that—would've if he hadn't been so annoyed by Dean's hypocrisy. Dean has never let Sam make his own decisions and he doesn't expect his big brother to start now. However, it's obvious the conversation is over: the music is up and Dean's under the hood and he might as well have said 'go back to the house, Sam'.
He does go back inside because he has to reassure everyone that Dean hasn't been kidnapped by evil angels. They finish going over their strategy, polishing up some rough edges and making some contingency plans. It's productive and for the first time since Ruby—lied, twisted, used—since Ruby had him convinced that killing Lilith was the only way, he feels in control of his life. He's making the decisions. He's got the power. It's a good feeling.
Damn right he's a grown man.
When Dean comes in for supper, he expects his brother to start up with retirement planning but Dean says nothing. A couple times he thinks Dean's going to say something, but then he gets this face, like he's being forced to eat green peppers, and he keeps his mouth shut. In fact, he keeps his mouth shut through most of the meal. He eats. He listens to the table talk. He grunts in the right places, even drops a comment or two. But that's it. No flirting, hardly any teasing and certainly no mention of life after Lilith.
It freaks Sam out.
Dean's got to know that Ellen and Bobby would probably back him up on the idea, but there's not a hint that he's anything but the enthusiastic, dedicated hunter he was before he went to Hell.
They give Ellen and Jo Bobby's spare room, which means they'll be sleeping in the front room. As everyone gets ready for bed, Sam braces himself. He's sure that, once the others are in bed and it's just them, Dean will start trying to convince him that he's right and Sam's wrong, because that's the way Dean is. Sam waits, arguments and counter-points prepared, but Dean only mumbles a vague "Sleep well, Sam" while he rolls himself in the blanket and turns his back.
Is it some kind of ploy? A reverse-psychology thing where, because Dean doesn't pressure him into a particular decision, Sam wants to do what Dean wants him to as some kind of a reward? Or it could be he's actually trying to treat Sam like an adult with a brain. It's an odd thought, and makes Sam uneasy. Which is stupid, of course, because he's been bugging Dean to give him some respect since they were teenagers, so this is a good thing. It has to be.
So why does he feel so put out?
He spends the rest of the night trying to figure out an answer but when dawn brightens the windows, he still hasn't got one.
It's a six-hour drive to Wounded Knee and that's if they drive straight through, no stopping. There's no particular time that they have to do the ritual—day or night hasn't seemed to make any difference to Lilith's power—so really, the only reason to be up at this God-awful time of the day is because someone made coffee and he can smell it.
Also, the floor is a damn uncomfortable bed.
Not for the first time since he started getting visits from his dead selves, Dean thinks he's getting too old for this. Body and spirit both slowing down.
He shambles into the kitchen and heads straight to the coffeepot like one of Sam Hain's zombies looking for brains. Some days it feels like it's the only thing that gets him moving, so the comparison is a good one. He grunts at his brother who, smart man that he is, doesn't try to talk to him. He wishes he could tell Sam his realization about zombie-coffee-brains, but he doesn't think his brother would appreciate it right now. Not the way he's been staring and glaring and itching for a fight. Dean's determined not to give him one. His new mantra: Sam is an adult. Sam can make his own decisions.
Sam is a friggin' idiot, he thinks, and he scowls into his mug of black heaven.
No, he's not, he acknowledges a moment later. As much as Dean has tried to explain all this shit to him, Sam can't really know... the immediacy of it. When his ghost filled him with memories of being torn to pieces and munched on at Sam Hain's Monster Mash, Dean felt it: his muscles tearing, his blood pouring, teeth biting into him. He heard it: joints popping, liquid slurping, guts sliding against each other…
And that is so not a good thing to be thinking about first thing in the morning. He rubs his stomach in soothing circles.
"Getting an ulcer?" Sam asks. Dean's on his second cup of coffee so he knows it's okay to talk.
"If I am, I haven't died from it yet." Shit. That was a little insensitive. "Sorry. Bad joke."
"Actually, it may have been one of the deaths the Trickster put you through. I can hardly remember them all."
Dean carefully doesn't laugh or make references to the Bill Murray movie: Sam doesn't, and likely never will, be able to laugh at what happened in Broward County. Even though death by rotten taco is right up there with toilets from a collapsing space station.
"If I knew that you were going to die tomorrow, I'd do everything I could to change it," Sam says out of the empty air.
Dean stares at him. "I know you would."
"Because you're my brother, and I love you." Which would be much more touching if Sam didn't sound so pissed.
"Okay. Random."
"I know I messed up in Memphis—even before that, with Ruby—and I shouldn't have stabbed you, I know that."
"I know you know that, Sam." It is way too fucking early for this, Dean thinks, and gets up to pour himself another cup of liquid brains. He lifts the pot up in offer but Sam waves him off.
"If you know that, then why can't you forgive me?"
Okay, what? "Huh?"
"You forgave Dad for just about everything from neglect and near abandonment when we were kids, to being an obsessed asshole. Hell, I shot you…twice, and you forgave me that.
"Whoa, just wait," Dean holds up his hand. He should've stayed in bed; should never have succumbed to the siren smell of fresh-brewed coffee. "What haven't I forgiven you for?"
Sam glares at him in hurt disappointment. "For stabbing you, in Memphis."
"Where do you get that idea from?"
"That's why you want to get out of hunting, right? To get away from me?"
Dean can't help it, he laughs in stunned realization. "Is that why you're so pissed at me?"
"Don't I have a right to be?" Sam looks really upset now, and kind of betrayed, so Dean knows he has to pull in his—totally understandable—amusement.
"Sam, I'm not upset about getting stabbed—I mean, I don't want you to ever do it again, but I thought about it and I figure it's partly my fault, because I could've timed that way better. Killing Ruby after you'd just… swapped all sorts of bodily fluids I'm never going to mention again, was not my most brilliant idea ever–"
"You have brilliant ideas?" Sam looks at him with hopeful eyes, willing to be reassured and Dean sighs in exasperation. Fucking adult, his ass. Sam's still a teenage girl inside.
"You want reasons? Number one; I'm tired, Sam. I'm tired of all the monsters and the angel crap and the damn Apocalypse. Having the forces of upstairs and down working against us, it pisses me off and makes me want to do anything to thwart them."
Sam tips his head in reluctant agreement.
"Who are you thwarting?" Jo says as she stumbles into the kitchen.
"As many things as we can all at once," Dean answers easily before steering the conversation to more public things. Like who's going to cook breakfast. Turns out he is, since he opened his mouth. It also turns out that Dead Dean the First has given him more memories than just Lisa's warm body and his own warm blood. He makes damn fine scrambled eggs now.
Score one for the dead guys.
They're barely out of Sioux Falls when Sam goes back to their previous topic of conversation.
Dean wants to run through the words of the ritual to memorize it. When Bobby had told him it wasn't real Latin but a bastardized wanna-be version, he'd actually been happy, figuring it would be easier to remember, except it wasn't. He's familiar with Latin, knows enough to recognize its structure and rhythms, and this mumbo-jumbo nonsense has none of that. Maybe it made sense to the Trickster but he was probably the only one. However, before Dean can start on that project, before they've even breached the city limits, Sam's asking questions.
"Why else do you want to get out?" Sam asks, turning down the radio, giving Dean his full attention and pulling Dean's to him.
Unfortunately, no one's going to interrupt them this time since Ellen and Jo are travelling in their truck and Bobby's in his Chevelle. Back in the yard, Dean teased them about playing "Convoy" by C.W. McCall as they drove, and he'd called Bobby "Pig Pen". He'd be Rubber Duck, of course. Sam had wanted to smack him for being annoying. Dean took that as a good sign, a sign that they're slowly working their way back to the way it was before he'd made his deal, which means his little brother will be more willing to listen to his suggestions. He just hopes there's enough time.
"You said you've had visits from three ghosts, not one. What did the other ghosts tell you?"
"It doesn't matter," Dean tries to cut him off—this isn't what he wants to talk about.
"It does matter. Because that means you died two more times that you haven't told me about and maybe those deaths are why you… You're different."
"Sam…" Dean sighs. He doesn't want to talk about it. What use is there in talking about it? It's just going to rile them both up and make it harder to do what they have to. He reminds himself that Sam is an adult and can make his own decisions, but he wishes like hell his brother was still his little Sammy who would just trust him.
"After… after you sacrificed yourself to cage Lucifer–" Breathe, dammit. Breathing's good. "After that, we didn't see each other for over a year."
"I was in Hell for a year?" Sam interrupts. His voice is filled with horror.
"Not… no." Dean tells him. "Someone took you out or rather took your body out. They left your soul back downstairs, Sam, and you were… You were the most efficient, ruthless hunter I've ever met. You didn't hesitate to use whatever, whoever, was at hand to achieve your goal." He stops, hoping that's enough, that Sam will be happy with the snapshot, but he doesn't expect it.
The quiet beside him is heavy as Sam processes what's been said.
"Who," he asks finally. "Who did I use?"
Dean says nothing. He doesn't have to.
"You," Sam says, knowing it's true. "I killed you."
Dean can't look at him, can't see him fall apart like he knows Sam will because Sam's a soft touch like that. "You got me killed," Dean corrects him, a small difference but important. Except, in the end, dead is dead. And now he remembers wishing that it was Lisa's face up there, that it was Lisa's hands running over him while he died. He would've liked to say good-bye to Lisa and Ben.
"Shit," Sam's soft exhalation pulls him out of his newly remembered memory.
"Don't worry about it," Dean tells him. "It's not gonna happen now."
The miles pass by with only the road and songs playing too low to hear. Dean checks the rear-view but Ellen is still twenty yards back in her old truck and Bobby's Chevelle a few beats behind her. The sun is coming up lazy and dim in the November sky. It suits the mood inside the Impala and, if Dean were a different person, he'd try to find the symbolic meaning of that. Instead he's just going to hope that Sam'll let the subject drop.
"There were three ghosts," Sam breaks into the silence and ruins Dean's nice little fantasy. "Like the Dickens Christmas story, you said."
Damn it, he had said that.
"So what happened the second time?"
At least this one is fairly easy to answer. "Remember what you said about Sam Hain and the nasty shit that rises with him?"
"They killed you?" Sam's voice has moved a mile away from his earlier aggressiveness but it's still not a question Dean wants to answer. Unfortunately, he waits too long to lie. "It was me, again. I caused it."
Dean coughs because of the memory of blood he can feel running down his throat. "Hain turned you, somehow. Powered up the demon blood or something." It's as much exoneration as Dean can give him. "You tossed me to the zombies." He glances at his brother and risks a small smile, "They really do go for the brains."
Nothing. Stony, concerned pissy-faced-Sam is in full control.
"And the last time, in Windom?" Sam's voice is tight and, Jesus fuck, but Dean hates this. Hates tallying up the ways that Sam's killed him or caused his death. Four times now, including the Deal. More if they count attempts. "Dean," Sam prods, "was it me."
Rock salt in the haunted asylum. Hunted across that dock when Sam was possessed by Meg. But maybe that one doesn't count.
Dean runs a hand over his face, through his hair, as if that will take away the past. "It was, kinda, I guess. Lucifer was wearing you."
He's not going to count the time they were both strung out on Siren venom, plus that was the other history. As was Sam strangling him when he tried to stop him going with Ruby to kill Lilith. Letting him get bitten by vampires, and setting him up as bait for the Alpha Werewolf.
"Jesus." It's a prayer, a denial, a wish for things to be different.
Then there were all the times Sam had let Lucifer in and Satan tried to kill Dead Dean the First but maybe he shouldn't count those either. In fact, if he wants this to work, he should definitely not count those. He shouldn't count any of them. They don't matter anymore. They can't.
"It's not going to happen," he says for about the millionth time.
"No wonder you hate me."
Oh, Jesus… "I don't hate you."
"Okay, maybe not hate, but want to get away from? Definitely. Except it's not fair." Sam finally turns to face him and his expression is half-hurt, half-angry. "You blame me for stabbing you. Okay, I deserve that, but then you blame me for stuff my future selves did in some other timelines, and that I'm not going to do anymore. I mean, I get it, you're pissed but it's like I'm not even your brother anymore."
"That is not what this is about," Dean says, but it's like stopping the Mississippi.
"You just can't wait to get away from me—"
"Shut up, Sam!" It's his turn to interrupt. "You want to know the main reason I'm thinking of getting out?" Sam nods reluctantly.
"For that year, I lived with Lisa and Ben. I worked a regular job and drove a regular truck. One that hadn't been outfitted with hidden compartments for storing illegal weapons. I went to baseball games and soccer games, family dinners and neighborhood barbeques. And it would've been really nice—weird, but nice—except that I thought you were trapped in the Pit with Lucifer riding your ass."
Sam stares at him, processing it, and hopefully thinking that it sounds nice. "You want to go back to that."
Dean hums low in his throat because he has to phrase it correctly. Entice and tempt: slow, slow, slow. "Something like it, I think. It should be better this time, because you're alive and I know you're alive. If you want to keep on hunting full-time I won't stop you, but I can at least make sure you have a place you can come back to—heal up, restock, whatever. Or you can try settling down like me. We can get together on weekends for football games and beer."
He almost wishes he could generate that siren's venom because it would make this so much easier. Treating Sam like an adult might be a good thing in the long run, but in the short term it's sucking ass.
Sam's jaw is out, canted at a stubborn angle. "So suddenly you think that life will be better?"
"Come on, Sam, can you really see us doing this in five years? Ten? How about twenty?" Dean laughs. "Do you actually like being stuck in a car with me eight hours a day, every single day? I mean, I drive too fast and I'm bossy. You hate my music."
Sam can't help but smile. "You do listen to the same five albums over and frigging over again."
Dean shrugs easily; he's not ashamed of his music. "I like to sing along."
"Is that what you call it?"
"Bitch," Dean says to test the water. He watches his brother closely, and sure enough, Sam tries to hide a small smile. Whatever he's doing, it seems to be working. "You're not exactly the stuff of fairy tales, either. For one, you're gassy," he points out. "You eat half a burrito and you get toxic." This time it's Sam's face that turns red. "We know things about each other that brothers just should not know."
Sam's not looking at him. He's staring out the window, hiding his eyes, but Dean can see him chewing on his lip, holding something in. "What is it?" Silence. "We can throw in the occasional soccer game," he offers, because his brother used to be into the sport, but Sam's still not talking. In fact, he's got his arms crossed, is chewing on his bottom lip, and his leg's vibrating like a massaging bed. All signs that his brother's working up to something.
"Sam, talk to me."
"You never call me Sammy anymore."
Dean's brain stops as he tries to process that statement but he really has no luck in understanding it. "And?"
"And what? That's it."
Dean frowns because the dots just aren't connecting for him. He checks the rear-view automatically—ugly truck still there—before returning his focus to his baby brother who seems to have developed his own language or something. "I'm sorry, man, but I need a little more. I mean, you hate being called Sammy."
"I know." Sam's looking at his lap.
"But you're upset because I finally respect your wishes."
One shoulder lifts and Sam turns to look out the window. His cheeks are red. "I guess."
He cannot fucking win.
"Are you sure those ghouls didn't snack on some important male bits? I mean, come on! I try to treat you like an adult and all that crap, and it makes you think I don't love you anymore." He tries to keep his tone light—teasing rather than the bat-fuck insane he's feeling—but it's hard. He doesn't know where he stands with his brother anymore, hasn't since he found out about Ruby and that blood-sucking revenge bullshit. He'd been hoping that they'd been doing better, but now he's not so sure.
Sam is staring at him.
"What?" Dean glares the question at his brother.
"Is that what you've been doing? Trying to treat me like an adult?"
"Yeah." What the hell else would he be doing? "And it's fucking hard."
Sam laughs outright.
"Laugh all you want, ass-wipe."
"I'm not laughing at you," he says even as he keeps on chuckling. "It's just that I discarded that idea."
Oh.
"You actually said it a couple times though. It just didn't sink in."
"It's one of the things Dead Dean the First made sure I'd remember," Dean says. "That feeling of knowing that a lot of the shit we did, the bad choices we made, were a result of either me being over-protective or you rebelling. And I may not be the brightest guy on the planet, but kill me a couple times and I do learn."
Sam laughs. "I always knew you letting me grow up would be a sign of the Apocalypse."
"Oh, ha, ha," he says, but the words have no real bite because Sam's sitting shotgun and grinning at him like he hasn't done in a long time.
"You suck at it, you know."
Dean sniffs and lifts his nose. "I don't suck. You just suck at growing up or something."
"I'll get better," Sam says. He's still smiling. It's a good sign that their little chat is maybe over—please God, let it be over—but Dean doesn't turn up the stereo or anything insensitive like that, just lets Sam think in the quiet, white noise that's them on the road.
Sam twists in his seat so that he faces Dean. All Dean can do is steal sideways glances. "I always knew you wanted that life," he says. "Apple pies, white picket fences and a dog."
"You're the one who wanted a dog."
'Whatever," Sam shrugs. "Even when we were kids, you were always the one nagging me about keeping our latest dump clean. You made sure the laundry was done and the garbage was out."
Dean shifts uncomfortably on the seat. "Only because it had to be done." And Dad wasn't there to do it half the time, goes unspoken but understood.
Sam laughs suddenly. "Remember that place in Indiana?"
No, Dean doesn't. They've been to a lot of places in Indiana.
"Old Mr. Jewison, the WWI vet. You used to do his lawn and you wouldn't let him pay you."
Now Dean remembers. "He told awesome stories," he defends his younger self even as he feels his cheeks heat in a blush and Sam, who often shows more tact than his older brother, doesn't tease him about it. Dean remembers he'd liked doing Mr. Jewison's lawn. He'd enjoyed the whirring sound of his old push mower (that Dean kept sharp for him) and the smell of the fresh-cut grass. The overly sweet lemonade had been gross, but Dean could never say 'no' to it since the old guy made it as a special treat.
"Actually, the more I think of it the more I think it'll suit you: being a responsible neighbor."
Dean thinks there might be cautious acceptance in Sam's tone, still not where he needs his brother to be, but closer than he was before. He needs to make some concessions here, he know this, so he sighs and confesses, "To tell the truth, as much as I'm growing to like the idea, it still freaks me out."
Sam chuckles. "Dean Winchester, respectable citizen? I think we're all entitled to a little freak-out."
"Bitch." This time Dean is smiling full out.
And Sammy's smiling back. "Jerk."
"Dean." The angel's voice is quietly urgent. It is also completely unexpected but Dean manages to keep his surprise out of the steering wheel so they don't careen all over the road like a drunk.
It doesn't stop him cursing though. "Jesus, God, Cas! Warn a person."
"Don't blaspheme."
Sam snorts.
Dean tries to glare at them both equally. "Don't pop into existence in the back seat of my car when I'm going eighty then."
"It was too important to wait until you were travelling at a safe speed."
"You could've been waiting a long time," Sam says, still smiling.
"Exactly," Castiel agrees with innocent condemnation and Sam barks out another laugh. "However, Dean's driving is not my concern."
Sam sobers. "What happened?"
"I told Zachariah about Gabriel being alive and in hiding and yet still working to prevent the Apocalypse. He reacted as you had predicted." There is a universe of disillusionment in the angel's voice.
"Cas, I'm sorry," Dean offers simply. Sam nods agreement.
"They want Lucifer to rise so that the End of Days can begin. They are willing to condemn billions of our Father's final creation in order to be free of the duty He put upon us so long ago." He looks between them, guileless blue eyes lost and bewildered. "I do not understand how they can think this is what God wishes."
Sam's looking at him too, as if he's got all the answers. They're just lucky that he does, sort of. "It's because He's been silent for so long, Cas."
"It does not change what He said."
"No, it doesn't," Dean agrees. "But, without Him around reinforcing His orders, it gets easier to bend them, or ignore them." Castiel says nothing more, just stares through the front window looking blank and unhappy. "So, aside from being dicks about the Apocalypse, what're the bosses doing now?"
"I believe the remaining archangels are searching for Gabriel with limited success. His disguise seems to be remarkably effective."
"He's had a couple millennia to perfect it," Sam points out.
"And Zachariah?" Dean asks. "What's he up to?"
"Assisting Michael and Raphael. He is known for his persistence when given a task by any of the archangels."
"Brown-noser," Dean grunts in agreement. He sees in the rear-view that Castiel's looking at him in puzzlement. "He decided to show up in my dreams one night."
As soon as he says it Dean realizes that Zachariah's visit happened in some other Dean's life, not this one. Shit.
"I am unaware that Zachariah was taking a personal interest in you."
He ignores the unspoken question for a blunter one of his own. "Is Uriel going to be following you?"
"Probably," Cas answers shortly. "Why are you interested in what Zachariah or Uriel, or any of the angels, are 'up to'? How will their appearance, or lack of it, alter your plans? You have got a plan, haven't you?"
"Dude," Dean forces a chuckle, "I just want to know where they're going to be."
Castiel's eyes narrow and Dean can feel the anger start to rise within the heavenly warrior. "Gabriel isn't helping you, is he? That was a shaded truth you wished me to pass on. I have done so." His voice drops practically into the sub-sonic range; "Now I would appreciate the truth."
"Cas…"
"The truth, Dean. Not a shade or a variety. If you wish for my assistance in whatever it is you have planned, then you will not lie to me or prevaricate or redirect."
The threat is clear, unambiguous, and the angel has a right to it, but Dean cannot tell him. He opens his mouth and nothing comes out. He looks at his brother in panic and Sam—Sammy—understands.
"Dean's been getting visits from ghosts."
Cas moves his gaze to Sam. "Ghosts," he repeats without inflection, which somehow makes him sound even more skeptical.
"Time-travelling ghosts of himself, coming back from the future."
"How many?"
"Three," Sam answers. "That I know of…" he looks at Dean and Dean nods.
"Why?"
"It's a-a spell, or something," Sam sounds hesitant. He's back to looking at Dean. So is Castiel.
"That's right," Dean confirms now that he can speak again. "A spell. It kicks in when I die violently."
"No." There is no doubt or possibility of argument. "It is not possible."
"Of course it's possible," Sam says. "It's happened; I've seen it."
Castiel's head tips as he considers this new information. Dean would drum his fingers on something if it wouldn't be a complete give-away, but he hopes to Christ that the angel lets it go at that.
No such luck, of course. "Who cast the spell and why?"
Sam opens his mouth and shuts it. "I, uh… Good questions, actually." He turns to look at Dean again and Castiel's stare follows. "Who did cast it?"
Dean tries a disdainful sniff. "You don't think I could do it?"
Sam snorts. Cas continues staring. "God can have prophets deliver information across universes and histories as my brethren aren't limited to a linear existence. However, once a human's physical existence has ended—a normal human's existence—they either move to a new reality or become ghosts in this one that continue to exist linearly."
"But ghosts have moved through time before," Sam argues.
"Not without God's intervention and I will not believe that is what happened to your brother."
"What? Aren't I special enough?" When Cas swings his intense gaze back to him, Dean wishes he'd kept his mouth shut. He really should learn to do that.
"It is not improbable that you would be important enough for our Father to step into your life to give advice. It is, however, impossible that He could do so without the Garrison being aware of it. His presence…" Castiel's voice trails off and his face takes on an expression Dean's only seen in the aftermath of sex—great sex. "His presence rings like a bell through all of us. I would have felt Him and I have not."
"So not God," Sam feels the need to confirm when Dean would much rather he shut up. Cas shakes his head. "Something as powerful?"
"There are very few beings as powerful as God, and I can't see any of them taking an interest in Dean."
"Thanks," Dean says dryly.
They're staring at him again. He can feel the pressure in their gazes like hands on his shoulders. He squirms. "So why are you being sent back?" Sam asks and his voice, normal and unweighted, makes him jump.
It's another question he can't answer.
"Maybe to do exactly what I am doing," he says instead. "Saving the world." It's not a complete untruth, but he adds his best 'I'm awesome' grin and he can see Sam giving up on the question. Cas, however, is a harder sell. His eyes narrow appraisingly. Dean cocks his eyebrow at him, "What? Isn't that kind of what the angels wanted me for?"
It makes the angel jump and look away. If he'd been human, he'd be blushing guiltily.
"What if you can't?" Sam asks him. "Save the world, I mean.'
This one is easy. "Keep coming back until I do."
Death after death after death.