GUYS. DID YOU SEE THE TRAILER?! DID YOU?! IF NOT, YOU NEED TO GO LOOK IT UP NOW.
I sort of freaked out after watching it. Like, I was literally, actually hyperventilating.
WHY CAN'T IT BE OCTOBER 6TH TODAY?
Ahem. Sorry. Got a bit carried away there.
So this chapter is a long 'un. Mostly because I couldn't figure out how to end it. But here it is. I feel like it's been a while since my last update. Has it actually been, or does it just seem that way?
Writing for Meg should not give me as much joy as it does, but I LOVE HER. I didn't used to, back at the start when she was all annoying and working with Azazel. I really hated her then. Then she came back in season five with Lucifer and she was all badass and "Hellhounds." "Yeah, Dean, you're favorite!"
Also, have you checked out my story "Stories Are The Best Medicine" yet? If not, you should. :)
Me: Remember when I said I was easing us into the other Crowley, from Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett? Well, here's the other Crowley.
Crowley: Can we make this quick? I was menacing the plants.
Me: I'm pretty sure the plants are fairly menaced.
Crowley: Oh, I wouldn't count on it. They need very strict discipline, houseplants.
Me: Can you just say the disclaimer?
Crowley: No.
Me: Why not?
Crowley: Because I'm a demon and I don't listen to humans.
Me: But you have to listen to me.
Crowley: Oh? And why's that?
Me: I can't say for sure, it's all ineffable.
Crowley: That was low. Fine! Bianca Valdez does not own Supernatural or Good Omens. Now I'm LEAVING.
Me: Great! Good—
Me: ...he's already gone.
Then
That was the Impala's engine.
That was Dad.
What was Dad doing here?
And, more importantly, what was he going to do when he saw Sam?
The newcomer strolled confidently into Castiel's aisle, true face bared to the angel, grinning and clutching his very one angel blade. "Hello, Castiel," he said. "I was hoping I'd find you here."
His eyes flashed black.
Castiel gripped his weapon tighter. "What do you want?"
"What do I want?" laughed the demon. "I want world domination. I want Hell on earth. But I'll settle for your head on a stick."
"Why?"
"Three reasons. First, you're just plain annoying. Second, you're dangerous. It's much simpler to get at the Winchesters when you aren't hanging around them. Third, they've been conveniently misplaced on the timeline. Without you, they're stuck here. Sorry you'll have to miss the prizefight. It'll be entertaining."
With that, the demon launched himself forwards, and the fight began.
"I'm looking for the Winchesters. You seen them?" She glanced down at the book and smiled. "They were here. Thanks, Freddie."
Lovingly she stirred her fingers through the pool of blood gathered in the ancient-looking cup. Light began to shine through it.
"They were here. The Winchesters."
A pause.
"Yes. Of course, you're right. You're always right. Thank you, father."
A storm collected on the horizon as Meg stalked off into the fading light.
Now
The fight lasted barely a minute.
As the demon swung wildly at him, angel blade extended, Castiel ducked beneath its arm, grabbing firmly at the appendage and twisting the demon into arm lock. The blade clattered to the floor.
"How have you followed us?" Castiel demanded, placing his own weapon at the demon's throat. "And why? Killing me is not worth the risk. What do you want?"
The demon hissed and squirmed. "It's not rocket science," it snarled. "You left the door open! It only stands to reason that someone else was going to walk through."
Castiel pressed the blade harder into the demon's throat. "Why are you here?" he repeated angrily.
The pupils expanded until the eyes were once more filled with black. The demon grinned madly, unperturbed by the trickle of blood sliding down its throat "Sam Winchester!" it said, laughing. Then it threw back its head and screamed.
A black cloud of pure demonic evil began to flow from its mouth, and Castiel stumbled backwards. "No!" he yelled, stretching one hand outwards in the hopes of smiting the hideous, twisted creature.
He was too late. The writhing black smoke that was the demon spilled into the air vents, the poor vessel collapsing to the floor like a puppet with cut strings.
Castiel checked the man's pulse. It was silent. Whether this man had already been dead or if the demon had gotten it killed, the angel couldn't tell, but he suspected the latter.
Face grim, hidden thoughts of guilt having to do with his own vessel emerging, Castiel smoothed out his trench coat and tucked his blade back into his sleeve. Then, sending an apologetic look in the direction of the dead cashier, Castiel left the building.
Dean stood by the car, looking impatient. "Did you ge—" the words died on his lips the minute he saw Castiel's rumpled appearance, the look on his face, the blood on his sleeve. The hunter's own expression became more serious.
"What happened?"
"We need to get to Sam," said Castiel. He started towards the car, but Dean stepped in front of him.
"Cas. What happened?"
Castiel leveled his gaze at the slightly taller man, before flapping his wings gently and appearing in the front seat of the Impala. Dean slid into the driver's seat angrily, his expression stormy.
"Castiel, I am not moving this car until you tell me what the hell is going on."
"There was a demon."
Dean's eyebrows flew up incredulously. "What?"
"I was ambushed by a demon. I managed to overcome it, but unfortunately it escaped before I could kill it."
"Why didn't you just kill it right away?!"
Castiel turned his eyes towards the road. "I needed to know what it wanted."
"….And?"
"Sam. Dean, I don't know why, but the demons are after your brother."
Something changed in the hunter's face, something darker. Eyes narrowing intently, he pressed the pedal to the floor and roared out of the gas station towards the house of Bobby Singer.
It was the book that did it.
Or, at least, that was where Sam had chosen to lay the blame, even though truthfully it was his fault. Though perhaps it had more to do with his incredibly bad luck than anything else.
He'd been reading for over an hour, and he thought he was going to go insane. At some point he'd begun pacing, telling himself that it was to stretch his legs. So here he was, book in hand, standing beneath the rotating shadow of the fan above, and he had found nothing.
Still nothing.
Sam allowed himself a tiny moan of frustration and let the huge, dusty tome drop lightly onto the table. This small, ordinary action was his downfall.
The book landed half on, half off of the tabletop. It wobbled for a second, and Sam lunged for it. As he did so, his leg caught the chair leg, and with a resounding crash, it hit the floor. Sam flinched back, fingers brushing the book, and it lost its own battle with gravity.
Crash. Thud.
Sam's eyes widened as the voices upstairs ground to a halt. Hurriedly he grabbed his jacket and ran for the door.
He could hear footsteps upstairs, coming downstairs, Dad's footsteps coming towards him, and Sam threw all caution to the wind and just opened the door, ignoring the ugly grating sound of metal on metal, because he honestly couldn't remember a time in his life when he'd felt so afraid.
Now he knew how all those demons they hunted felt. Having a Winchester on your tail was the most terrifying experience out there.
Except that it was Dad. Sam was afraid of Dad, and it was the worst feeling. He'd been angry with his father before. He'd shouted and fought, told Dad he hated him and meant it, ran away with the intention of staying away, but he'd never been afraid of him before. Dad was infuriating, but he was safe.
Not as safe as Dean, but still safe.
And now Dad was after him, and Sam had to get away before he was seen, because if John did see him, he was dead meat.
Literally.
Sam tore across the cellar, heading straight for the doors which lead up and out into the yard. His shaking fingers fumbled with the latch, but finally he managed to push them open. Not stopping to look back, he pushed through, his feet kicking up dust as he ran to hide behind a car.
For a moment, all Sam could hear was his own ragged breathing and the blood rushing in his ears. Then his pulse slowed enough for him to hear the slow, ominous crunching of gravel beneath heavy boots.
Sam froze. Dad.
The next thing that happened was so quick that Sam missed how it had happened. One minute he was crouched behind the car, trying not to move, trying not the breath, and the next moment he was being thrown into a car with enough force to dent the hood.
"I told you to stay away from my family!" John shouted. "So you run to Bobby?! What lies have you been telling him?! What do you want?!"
Sam stared at him in panic, unable to answer due to the lack of oxygen in his lungs. Wheezing, he slowly pushed himself upward and sucked in a huge gulp of air.
"John, wait—" wheeze "—I can explain!"
"Yeah, I bet you can!" roared John furiously, swinging a punch at Sam which sent him to the ground, where he was immediately given a kick to the ribs. Sam groaned, his already injured body protesting against the violence.
He was vaguely aware of Bobby coming running from the house, attempting to reason with his father, but John wouldn't listen, shoving Bobby aside and keeping him there with his own personal punch to the jaw.
Bobby was out of play, and now Sam was completely alone.
Sam's every instinct told him to fight back, but he couldn't seem to get a punch in. This was probably a good thing, seeing as it would simply aggravate John more, but at this point that didn't matter. Sam just needed to get away from his father. He needed to make John understand.
Sam stumbled to his feet, leaning against a car and accidently cutting himself on a sharp piece of metal. Bringing his now bleeding hand towards his chest, he was too slow to duck the punch that John swung at his jaw. Nor did he escape the swing at his stomach which followed a moment after.
"Stop!" Sam managed to gasp out.
There was a sudden still.
The ragged breathing of two strong men who had just been engaged in a fight.
The ominous click of a trigger readying.
Sam stared up into the barrel of John's gun, leveled with a steady hand directly at his heart.
His eyes widened. "No…" he breathed. "Wait…"
John's finger tightened on the trigger, his eyes seeming to stare into Sam's soul.
A gunshot rang through the air.
Her heeled boots made clicking sounds on the street. Her hips swayed from side to side as she walked. Her dark hair blew around her face as the wind rushed past, and she surveyed the world through black eyes.
"We found them."
She stopped and inhaled the scent of victory.
"Where?"
"Singer's house."
She smiled, and it was the smile of a snake. "Then we were right."
He nodded slowly.
"Are we ready?"
"Yes."
She turned away from him. "Give them the order." With that she strode off, sunlight seemingly absorbed into her black leather clothes, an ironic commentary on the state of her soul.
Her soul was like a black hole. She didn't have one.
She reeked of vice. She bathed in sin. The very air she breathed was filled with wickedness.
Meg was the very image of ungodliness and she loved it.
Sam slowly opened his eyes and lowered his hands from where they'd flown to cover his face.
He was alive.
Alive.
But John never missed a shot, so how…?
As he slowly peered out at the scene before him, Sam realized what had happened.
It wasn't John who had fired the shot.
Somehow, they'd missed the rumble of the car's engine as it drove up the driveway, the crunch of dirt beneath its tires. Somehow they'd missed the sound the door made as it opened.
But there was no ignoring it now.
Dean—his Dean, from his time—stood on the gravel drive, smoking gun in hand, serious look on his face. Behind him crouched an unfamiliar, most-likely stolen car, and leaning heavily against that stood Castiel, looking, perhaps, a bit worse for the wear but still an angel and still on Sam's side, angel blade drawn and ready to defend the Winchesters with his life.
This was different from anything else, though. This time the threat wasn't some monster.
The threat was another Winchester.
On the porch to Sam's left, he saw that his and Dean's younger selves had run out and were now watching, petrified. Bobby was slowly clambering to his feet behind John, looking angry.
Then Dean spoke.
"Why don'tcha put down the gun, John," he said coolly. A wave of relief washed over Sam at the sound of his brother's voice; it didn't matter that he was still in danger, that he was still beat up and bleeding, because now Dean was here and Dean would protect him.
Funny how your childhood instincts take over when you're afraid.
John raised the gun from where he'd lowered it and aimed at Dean. "Who the hell are you?"
Dean sighed. "I'm really not in the mood for explaining myself at gunpoint. So why don't you drop that and we can have a nice, civilized discussion."
"Or I could just shoot you now."
Dean quirked an eyebrow. "You think you're faster?"
"I don't know. But I do know one thing." John swung the barrel of the gun back around towards Sam, and he froze. "Even if you shoot me first, I could still get a shot out before I dropped dead. Now, obviously you care about this maniac. How'd you like to be responsible for his death?"
"If you touch one hair on his head, I will make you rue the day you were born," Dean threatened.
Sam watched this scene with wide eyes, heart in his throat. This altercation awakened to many bad memories. Dad and Dean shouldn't be fighting. He was the one was supposed to fight Dad. Dean was the one who smoothed things over. He was the middleman. He brought them back together after an argument.
The only time either of them had aimed a gun at their father and meant it was when he was possessed by Azazel.
Sam hadn't been able to shoot him then, and he knew that Dean wouldn't be able to shoot him now. He knew because Dean hadn't shot him when he was hopped up on demon blood and out destroying the world. He knew because when he'd been possessed, stealing and destroying and threatening Jo, when the demon had put the gun in Dean's hand, begged with Sam's own voice for Dean to kill him, his brother wasn't able to pull the trigger.
You don't give up on family.
"Dean…" Sam called weakly. "Don't!"
His brother's eyes switched to him briefly. Even from this distance, Sam could see the tremor in Dean's arm, though he knew that no one else (barring Cas and their younger selves) would notice it.
Dean and John locked gazes, tension filling the air. "We don't even have to talk," said Dean slowly. "Just let him go and we'll get out of your sight. You'll never have to see us again, I promise."
Sam didn't miss the irony in those words.
John considered this for a moment, gun hand not wavering. Then his face hardened.
"No. I already warned him away from my family. I don't give second chances."
He sighted along the barrel and Sam flinched back. A cry escaped from the mouth of Sam's own younger self, past-Dean at the same time shouting, "Dad, no!" and then the air was filled with the flutter of wings.
Singer's Junkyard and Auto Salvage rang out with the second shot of the day.
The bullet pierced itself harmlessly through the metal of a car door.
Cas stood behind John, pulling him into an arm lock and wresting the gun from his hand. "Enough!" he said harshly. "Violence will solve nothing!"
John opened his mouth to retaliate, but they never found out what he would have said, because at that moment the air filled with a ferocious growling noise.
A shiver went down Sam's spine. He exchanged a glance with Dean, and the look on his brother's face was pure terror. Their mouths moved at the same time, the single word spoken with dread.
"Hellhounds."
Almost in the same moment, a cry pierced the air, followed by a desperate call of, "Sammy!" from the mouth of Past-Dean.
All eyes switched to the porch. A strange man stood there, blade at Past-Sammy's throat.
The man's eyes were black.
A footstep behind Sam and the prickle of hairs on the back of his neck alerted him to the approaching figure behind him and he whirled, but it was too late. In seconds he was in the same position as his younger self.
And the demon who was holding him captive was Meg.
"Hey, Sammy!" she said, all perky and menacing at the same time. Her black hair blew into his face and her hand was unnaturally cold on his arm.
"Meg," snarled Dean, starting forward. "Let them go!"
Meg laughed. "Sorry, Dean-o, but you don't have any leverage. And besides, my father really wants to see them."
Sam's blood ran cold. "No!" he choked out.
"Oh, yes," smirked the demon. "Now, instead of just one meat-suit, we've got two!"
There was a blast of wind and then Sam's surroundings changed. He lashed out violently, but a fist collided his head and sent him spinning into darkness.
The last thing he saw was the bright white flash of Meg's smile.
I don't usually put a note at the bottom, but I just have to say this. You know in the chapter when Dean's all "Why don'tcha put the gun down?"? Does anyone elsehave that scene from the beginning of the Avengers running through their heads? I just keep hearing John being all "You want me to put the gun down?!" And Sam being all "Bad call. He loves that gone." Hm. Does that make Dean Steve? And Sam Tony? That doesn't work. Dean is TOTALLY Tony.