It was a two-hour drive to Cincinnati, and the closer it got to being time to leave, the less Dean wanted to go.
It was only partly about facing some unknown but probably dangerous dude on his own—after what happened the last time, he had a right to be nervous—but it was also that with a half a million dollars (holyfuckingshit) he could really commit to this new lifestyle. New house, new car, vacations to Aruba: it was all within his reach. He just wasn't sure he actually wanted to reach for it.
In the morning, he pulled nails and carried broken bits out to the bin, and all he could think was 'this wasn't him; this wasn't him; this wasn't…' except, of course, it was.
"Hey, maricon, when's that hot chocha gonna show?" Hector called from his place on the other side of the yard. "I got somethin' to give her!" Of course, he grabbed at his crotch—just in case Dean didn't get the idea.
Jim was closest to Hector, so he hit the little asshat, telling Hector to "shut the fuck up". Jim had muscles, but didn't want to truly hurt the little cockroach, so he didn't break Hector's arm (or neck). Unfortunately.
Hector said nothing verbally, but his smirk said he wasn't going to stop. It was just one more worry Dean added to the list. Then Lisa showed up at the house during lunch.
"What are you doing here?" Dean asked her when he found her waiting in their bedroom with his newest suit laid out on the bed.
"Helping you get dressed," she said as she stood, dragging the suit along with her. "Not that you don't look delicious in a towel…"
Dean ignored her lascivious little grin and pointed at the suit. "What's that for?"
She rolled her eyes. "It's a suit, Dean. You wear 'em."
"Ha, ha," Dean said. "Why do I want a suit?"
"So you'll look somewhat respectable," she answered as she pulled off the towel.
"I'll look like a dick," was Dean's response even as he pulled on the clean boxers she'd laid out.
"We discussed this last night," she countered.
Dean raised his brow.
"If something goes wrong and hotel security is called, they'll be less likely to assume you're the bad guy if you're wearing a suit. Castiel agrees."
"Oh well, if Castiel agrees," he teased. She whacked him on his chest.
"It's not much backup, but it's something," She didn't look at him as she laid out his outfit one piece at a time.
"You don't have to worry," Dean tried telling her.
She shrugged. "I don't like the idea of you going in alone."
"I'm not going in alone," he said. "Bobby̵̵̵̵ –"
"Isn't going to get there in time." She sighed. "I'm not an angel, Dean. I know how long it takes to drive from South Dakota to Cincinnati."
Dean felt his flush of embarrassment. "He was going to try and catch a plane," he offered in apology.
Lisa shrugged. "I hope he makes it." Silently, she handed him the ankle sheath for his push blade, and silently he put it on.
Dean turned away to pull out the belt with the protective sigils etched on the back of the iron buckle. When he turned back around, Lisa was holding out a tie.
When Sam had first forced him into one of these monkey suits, Dean had tried to get his Stanford Law-corrupted baby brother to let him use a clip-on. Sam hadn't, of course, but it had turned out that tying real ties was easier than he'd thought. He'd been tying knots since he was six; intricate knots that could trap spirits and elementals, so a single Windsor had been a snap.
He still didn't like having one around his neck.
He rolled it up and put it in his jacket pocket. Then he lifted his arms and turned. "Do I pass muster?"
Lisa looked him over slowly, bottom lip caught between delicate teeth. He had a memory of those teeth scraping over his skin…
He shivered as heat pooled in his groin.
Shit, no! Fuck… He wasn't going there, not again.
"Will security arrest me, or give me a pat on the head?" he asked to bring them both back to this reality.
"If they're female, they might just give you a full body search," Lisa answered with a final sweeping glance. "You clean up nice, Dean Winchester."
He didn't want to hear it. Didn't want to live it, or be it. He didn't want her to think it was fucking permanent, because it might not be. He'd get Sam out of the hole and then… Then they'd see. He'd been pretty fucked up when he got out of Hell; Sam would probably be worse. Or maybe better, a little. Though that was doubtful.
"Dean!" Lisa was waving her hand in front of him. The smile she gave him when he finally responded was more uncertain. "Are you okay to do this? Because I could drive if you need me to."
Dean frowned. No way was he letting Lisa get anywhere near the buyer, 'Mr. Hemlock'. Pretentious ass.
"I'm good. I just need to eat something."
"Do you want me to…" She jerked a thumb at the ruined kitchen.
"Feed me sawdust and nails?" Dean teased with a smile.
She smiled, too. "Right, yeah. I can't believe I forgot."
Dean kept his smile, but didn't bother teasing her anymore. "I'll grab something on the way. Nothing messy," he assured her before she could get the words out.
"Well, okay then," She smoothed her hands over his shoulders and lapels. "I guess you're good to go."
"Guess so."
He stared at her. She stared at him, and they both waited for the other to make the first move.
Dean snorted at their ridiculousness. "C'mon. I'll walk you to your car."
They ducked around the draped plastic that isolated the work area from the rest of the house. It had the added bonus of avoiding the crew who'd decided to eat their lunch on the back deck. If Dean went out there dressed like this, there'd be no end to the cat-calls and heckling. Plus Hector could be there. No way did he want Lisa drawing Hector's attention again today.
Dean took a quick look at the crew's vehicles parked on the street, but didn't see José's blue Ram anywhere. Hopefully, wherever the crew boss had gone, he'd taken his ugly cousin with him.
Lisa saw his quick scan and sighed internally.
It had only been a month, just over a month, she reminded herself. It was way too early to expect Dean to have changed a lifetime habit of looking for ghosts and vampires in the bushes. She'd talked to one of the psychiatry profs at the college, and he'd said that hyper-vigilance was a common symptom of PTSD. He'd told her not to worry unless it showed signs of turning into paranoia. He'd also told her, very strongly, that she should do everything in her power to get "her friend" professional counselling.
She'd resisted the urge to laugh out loud. It hadn't actually been that hard to resist, just the thought of how badly she could screw this up—this being her life, Dean and Castiel's lives, and, most importantly, Ben's life—made her want to hurl. She knew she wasn't ready for this, any of it. She'd thought she was. She'd been wrong.
However, no matter how shaky she felt about whatever it was that they were building, there was no way she would toss Dean—or Cas—out of her house.
"Cas is waiting for you at the hotel?" Dean asked.
"Hmm." She nodded. "The grocery store is only a couple blocks from the motel, so he went to get some supplies. He should be back by the time I am."
"Okay. Good," was all Dean said, waiting as she unlocked the door of her small car. He held the door as she got in, closed it, and then waited until she locked it again.
He leaned into the open window. "I bet you're missing your ex right about now. The uh, the boring one?
Lisa laughed abruptly, "God, shut up!" Gary had been awful, and she couldn't regret dumping him for Dean and Cas. "Just be careful, okay?"
"I will," Dean smiled back. He leaned all the way in and gave her a kiss before he backed all the way out. He rapped the roof a couple times then nodded at her, as if satisfied that he'd done his duty in protecting her.
It made her want to roll her eyes at him, but she didn't; she just started up her practical little Focus and drove away.
Her dad had been like that. He hadn't done much to contribute the family emotionally, but he'd always done his best to make sure they were protected physically. Mom had had a Volvo when they'd been small, even though they could hardly afford it on his salary. He'd also arranged for both her and Julie to receive basic self-defense training. Julie hadn't taken it any further, but Lisa had joined a karate club—only partly to piss off her mother. Dad had actually spoken up for her right to join the club; one of the few times he ever gainsaid her mother over family stuff.
He hadn't known how to hug or say 'I love you', but he had shown it in his own way. It hadn't stopped Lisa from wanting the hugs or the words though.
Lisa groaned when she realized what that meant. It meant she'd done what thousands of magazine articles and pop-psych books warned against: she'd gotten involved with a man who was just like her father.
She was a cliché.
She was so intent on dissecting her discovery that she didn't notice the ugly blue truck that fell in behind her as she turned off her block, but then, she wouldn't have recognized it if she had.
.o0o.
Dean decided to stay on the main highway instead of the less-used secondaries the way he and Sam had always done.
Like one his trip down to Foul Ball, it was faster, which it was and he hadn't left himself a lot of time to get to Cincinnati. Mainly he'd done it because it was easier to ignore the empty seat beside him when he had to worry about the assholes on the road with him. Jerks who cut him off, convoys that boxed him in, families on vacation that barely hit the speed limit—they all served to distract him from the fact that Sam wasn't in the car with him.
It hadn't even been two months, yet, he reassured himself, barely a month and a half.
Only fifteen years down there. Sam could last fifteen years. Dean had lasted thirty years without breaking, so of course Sam could survive fifteen. He was a stubborn bitch. He was.
Dean pressed down on the gas.
.o0o.
Lisa pulled into the motel parking lot. As usual, it was busy—good food and indoor water slides—so their assigned stall in the covered parking had somebody else's car in it.
She made a mental note to call the front desk again. Maybe if she complained about it enough, they'd actually call in a tow-truck. And while she was thinking that, maybe she'd find a unicorn in their room—it was just as likely.
She drove to the end of the row and turned, searching for a place. She finally found one at the far south corner of the lot and pulled in. At least it would get some shade from an unhealthy looking tree.
"Lisabraeden," the female voice said calmly from the passenger seat.
Lisa shrieked, jumped, and dropped her keys onto her lap. "Jesus, Rachel."
"My apologies." It would've sounded better if Rachel's voice had had any inflection whatsoever. "I needed to speak to you privately."
"You couldn't have announced yourself, or something?" Lisa asked. Her hands were still shaking, and her heart was still charging along.
"I waited until you were stopped," the angel said, as if that was the only courtesy required, and Lisa supposed it was a point in the angel's favor. If Rachel had appeared while Lisa was driving, she probably would've gone right off the road.
She sighed. "You need to speak to me?"
Rachel looked at her, looked away. She swallowed and flexed her hands.
Nerves. The angel was nervous.
"How are things going… up there?" Lisa asked to start the conversational ball rolling.
"It is chaotic," Rachel answered.
Lisa waited for more but there wasn't any. So much for that strategy.
"It's too hot to do this here," she said in exasperation, opening her door as she spoke. "We can wait for Castiel in our room; he'll be back soon."
"No. It is you to whom I wish to speak," Rachel responded.
She hadn't bothered with the car door, Lisa noticed. Of all the superhero abilities Lisa'd heard of teleportation was at the top of her wish list—right up there with slinging webs and sticking to walls—but she didn't feel envious. Angels were lacking too many of the things she prized. Like emotions and empathy. Humanity…
She'd be willing to give up sweating, however, so she started walking to their motel room. Rachel followed. "We have located Jimmy Novak's family."
Lisa froze. Her pulse spiked. "Why are you telling me?"
"Because you are a parent."
"And…" Lisa prompted.
Rachel shifted. It was almost as if she was unsure. Maybe she was. It made Lisa feel somewhat better. "Why is that important, Rachel."
"It is merely a feeling I have," the angel said uncomfortably. It explained why she looked so nervous. Angels didn't do so well with feelings.
Rachel took a breath and started again. "My vessel, she was also a parent. It is from her memories and emotions that this feeling arises. The last interaction Jimmy's family had with him was traumatic. His wife was possessed by a demon, his daughter housed Castiel, and they were the epicenter of a battle between Heaven and Hell. It is possible," she continued hesitantly, "that seeing Castiel again, still wearing her father's face, could be damaging to Claire."
Lisa started walking again, albeit more slowly than before. "I don't imagine it will make his wife happy either," she murmured.
"Yes, exactly," Rachel agreed with something close to eagerness. "As an angel, Castiel would not understand how seeing his vessel could harm more than it helps. I do not understand it myself, but my vessel—Sonya—assures me this is so."
"What has that got to do with me?" Lisa tried to pin Rachel down with her eyes, but the angel wasn't looking at her.
"The man in that vehicle is staring at you," Rachel said. "Do you know him?"
Lisa looked around, but there were a lot of vehicles. "Which one?"
"He is leaving now."
"Well then," Lisa shrugged, dismissing it. "What do you want from me, Rachel?"
Rachel straightened, as if for inspection. "I want you to phone Jimmy's wife."
Again, Lisa froze.
Rachel was oblivious. "As both a human and a parent, you will be able to discern any hesitations or reservations that Jimmy's wife might have over the meeting."
"Uh, maybe?" Lisa replied. She unstuck her feet. "A lot of clues are lost over the phone."
Rachel waved that off with a tilt of her head. "You will be better able to do so than Castiel, who is, despite his Fall, still an angel in thought."
True, Lisa silently agreed. "So you want me to call Amelia Novak and ask if Castiel can see Claire?"
"Yes," Rachel nodded. "That is what I want."
"You could tell him all this."
The angel shook her head. "It is better coming from you. He respects your knowledge of the parental role, and he will defer your judgment." She pulled a piece of paper out of the air and handed it to Lisa.
"That's it?" Lisa asked.
"Yes."
Lisa took it and stared at it a moment. "And you have nothing else? Nothing about Sam or the war in Heaven?"
"There is nothing further in regards to Michael and Raphael's quest to free Lucifer," Rachel replied calmly, all doubt and hesitation erased as if it had never been. "Eventually, they will be successful. We are working on counter-measures we hope will be equally successful."
"Okay, then," Lisa's head bobbed in a helpless nod. "Okay. I'll tell him."
"Thank you, Lisabraeden." And the angel was gone, just a slight smell of clean wool and the sound of a mountain meadow.
"He trusts you," she muttered. "Shi-it." She scrubbed her hands over her face and through her hair.
.o0o.
When Dean arrived at the hotel for the meet, he was glad Lisa had insisted on him wearing a suit. It wasn't a five-star hotel or anything, but it was respectable and everybody seemed to be in suits—even the kids. He checked in at Reception, just like the confirmation email had instructed, and he was given a room key and directions without even a blink.
Now he was standing outside room 494 and thinking that this had been a very bad idea.
He should've waited for Bobby, or even Cas. He shifted his feet slightly, so that he could feel his gun's reassuring weight. He couldn't put his hand on it, not in the hall. There were too many discreet black half-balls in the ceilings indicating the presence of security cameras. He also couldn't take it out and hold in his hand, but he wanted to.
This was as bad as going to see Foul Ball in Arkansas.
"Man up, Winchester," he muttered, shifting the small case from hand to hand. He reminded himself that there was half a million dollars at stake. Three quick knocks, followed by two slow, then he put the key card in the reader and opened the door.
Two goons (cheap suits, dark sunglasses, underarm holsters) waited just inside.
"I'm looking for Mr. Hemlock," Dean said. He even managed to keep a straight face as he said it. He couldn't deny pseudonyms were a good idea, but did they have to be so lame? At least he hadn't picked them.
"Mr. Socrates, I presume," said a man from somewhere behind the goons. The one on the right, who had a fancy handkerchief in his suit pocket, stepped to the side allowing Dean to see a slim, older man sitting at his ease in a light grey suit. Everything, from the shimmer of the cloth, the shine on his shoes, to the huge-ass stone in his ring, said "I have money and you don't."
"You can call me that, yeah," Dean said in response.
"You have a weapon, Mr. Socrates?" It wasn't really a question.
"Of course."
The guy gave a soft nod to the handkerchief wielding goon. Foo-foo Goon obediently took a step closer to Dean.
Dean stepped back.
"Please, Mr. Socrates," 'Hemlock' remonstrated gently. "I am trusting you with a lot of money."
"And I'm trusting you with goods that are worth a lot of money, plus my life," Dean said as soon as he got his jaw unclenched. "You're already two men up on me, so I think I'll keep my gun just where it is."
Hemlock's face tightened just for an instant, before he smiled and rose gracefully from the low armchair. "Very well. Then let's proceed, shall we?"
"You betcha," Dean replied but didn't budge.
The moment stretched into three, then more. Hemlock gave him a small smile, full of condescension, superior breeding, and challenge, but Dean didn't back down. He waited until the goons moved away, across the room, almost to the sliding doors, before he stepped fully into the sitting room. He gave everything a quick look, just to make sure there was nobody hiding behind everything. It was plush, lush, impersonal, and completely outside of what Dean usually experienced in a motel room.
There was a decent-sized table placed between the casual seating area and a huge, raised bed. It occurred to Dean that this could be a honeymoon suite. Big bed, no visible TV, huge-ass flower arrangements, and one of those fancy wine stands that he'd seen in movies…
"Honeymoon suite?" he asked.
Hemlock gave that irritating smirk. "I hope you don't mind. It was the only one available."
Only one with enough room for Hemlock and his ego, Dean thought but didn't say. Instead, he shrugged and walked over to the fake wrought-iron chair. Then he waited.
"Have a seat," Hemlock said with a wrist-swirling wave and a fake smile.
Dean gave back a smile that was just as fake. "After you," he said politely. No way was he going to be the only one sitting down. The fancy back on the chair would make getting his gun out difficult if this thing went pear-shaped.
Hemlock's smile morphed into a sneer, but he did lower himself into the small chair, carefully managing the seam of his pants and the fall of his jacket.
Dean hadn't buttoned his jacket, and he didn't give a fuck about the seam of his pants. He sat, placing the little case he'd borrowed from Lisa on the table. He didn't take his hand off it. "The agreed price was 500,000 dollars," he said.
Hemlock frowned. "Please, Mr. Socrates, a cup of coffee first. After all, we can be civilized, can we not?"
Jeez, this was almost exactly like Foul Ball.
"I'm good thanks," Dean replied.
The guy smiled in gentle understanding. "I understand why you're so nervous, Mr. Socrates. Our mutual friend told me you'd known Bela Talbot. I assure you, her tactics are not mine. Are you sure you wouldn't like some coffee?" He waved a long-fingered hand at the waiting cups. "The blend here is quite nice."
Dean gave him a tight smile. "Got a few other things to do after this, actually."
"So unpleasant. Very well then." Hemlock waved that same hand at his goons. Foo-foo Goon lifted a large suitcase onto the bed. He unlocked it, opened it, and pulled out a smaller, hard-sided case. Foo-foo Goon took that out and put it on the bed before unlocking it. Inside the smaller case, bundled and stacked, was a whole lot of money.
"Fuck me," Dean breathed.
His host's smile quirked up while his eyelids drooped sleepily. "Well, if you're offering…"
That brought Dean's mind out of the suitcase full of money (five hundred thousand dollars!) and back to the now. "I'm not."
"Too bad." Hemlock's expression smoothed back into his normal slightly smug look. "You really are most unfriendly." Dean opened his mouth to comment, but the guy wasn't finished. "Since I've, hm, shown you mine, it's time for you to show me yours, don't you agree?"
Dean did agree. He wanted this meeting to be over. He unlocked Lisa's little suitcase, unfolded the scarf she'd lined it with.
"How pretty," Hemlock cooed. "And here I was thinking you had no sense of style."
Dean gritted his teeth and kept unwrapping. He pulled out the first Ziploc–
"I take it back. You're a Philistine."
–and set it out for the guy to look at the figurine inside. "One Abraam's Goat, supposedly carved by the actual Saint Abraam of Fayoum. It's supposed to protect against hunger by making crops grow even in the harshest conditions." Dean took out the next one: an ordinary walnut shell in a gold fob setting. It looked amazingly tacky. "A walnut shell supposedly used by Umbrella Jim Miner when he plied his trade on the Mississippi riverboats. For luck."
One by one he took out four of the items Castiel had bargained with. They all promised luck, wealth, or protection from physical or spiritual bad guys and they might possibly deliver for certain people under certain conditions. Harmless, in other words.
He wasn't so sure about the last item he pulled out of the case.
"The Genghis Coin," Hemlock said in awed tones.
"It's not verified," Dean warned because the chances of it actually being something that had belonged to Genghis Khan were tiny. The chances of at least five megalomaniacal wannabe-conquerors believing it had belonged to Genghis Khan were, however, running at one hundred percent.
Hemlock barely pulled his eyes off it. "That's irrelevant. People don't pay for what something actually is; they pay for what it represents. You don't really think Jackson Pollock's No. 5 is worth 140 million, do you? It is, after all, just paint splashed on a canvas. So it is with this."
Dean had only a vague idea who Jackson Pollock was, but he could agree that no painting was worth that much.
"Just so we're clear. I don't want you thinking I scammed you."
Hemlock laughed. "Not possible, I assure you."
Dean frowned. It sounded like an insult, or like there was a sub-text he was missing. He shook the feeling away—he had something more important to discuss. "Listen, Hem—dude. Before we go any further, I would like to change the deal̵–"
Hemlock's laugh this time was a lot harsher. "Funny that," he said. "So would I."
Suddenly, there were a lot of guns pointing right at Dean. Hemlock had a small one, the two goons had large ones, and the two new goons, who burst into the room from a discreet connecting door, had the big ones, too.
Dean didn't even bother going for his, even though he wanted to. He wanted to a lot.
"Seriously," he said, proud of the way his voice didn't waver. "Over a measly five hundred thousand dollars?"
Hemlock waved his free hand. "Actually, keeping the money is just a bonus. The real prize is you, Dean Winchester."
Oh shit.
"If half the stories about you are true," Hemlock went on. "Then you are, in and of yourself, a paranormal experience, a locus for supernatural power, and a conduit to the spiritual world. Plus, you are very good looking," he added, which bumped Dean's heart-rate up another notch. "I'm sure I can find a buyer who will appreciate all your, hmm, attributes."
This time, the smile Hemlock gave him was full of slime and dirty thoughts. It reminded Dean of Alistair Way too much of Alistair….
Alistair on the rack. Placed there by the angels to be tortured. Smiling at him and singing. Reminding him of what he'd become in Hell; what he'd done in Hell.
Alistair standing beside his rack in Hell. Smiling down at him, gently, fondly. Assuring him that it could all over, forever. All he had to do was say yes.
Alistair pulling him down from the chains to lie on a bed crafted from sinew and bone. Touching him, stroking him, laughing at him because he hadn't been—never was—able to say no.
"NO!"
The chair fell back, the table fell forward. Dean reached for his gun even as one of the goons pulled their trigger. He was going to die.
It was better than the alternative.
Everyone—everything—stopped.
"Dean! My, my, my. You do put yourself into awkward situations, don't you."
It was Balthazar.
Dean looked at the scruffy angel with the whisky glass, standing in front of him. He looked at the room full of frozen goons and double-crossing rich guys. He looked at the tranquilizer dart, spinning quietly in place about six inches from his heart.
He stepped out of the dart's path. "What are you doing here?"
"You needed rescuing from Hell again," the angel casually said. He held out the tumbler of whisky. "Here," he offered. Dean reached out and Balthazar whipped the glass away. 'This is 25-year-old Glenfarclas single-malt. Appreciate it."
Dean took the glass with a hand that barely trembled. He didn't swirl it or any of those other fancy tasting things he'd seen on TV, but he did limit his intake to a sip.
"Holy shit!" he managed to breathe. "That's… strong."
"Hmm," Balthazar agreed absently. The angel was poking at the Ziploc bags that were hanging in midair. "You know these are mostly worthless."
"Yeah, Cas picked them for that reason." Dean took another sip. It tasted like bitter oranges and coffee, and nothing at all like Hell. He took another sip and let the alcohol sit on his tongue. "The guy knew what we were selling, in case you thought we were trying to scam him or something."
Balthazar straightened from where he was examining Hemlock's ostentatious ring. "Why should I care? Scam away," he said. He pointed at all the gun-wielding goons surrounding them. "It seems to be a common human activity."
Dean looked at the circle of guns and decided that he should really get out from the middle of them. As he worked his way out, he had to admit Hemlock had hired professionals. The four goons had placed themselves around Dean so that none of them risked hitting a cohort if they had to fire. It had been well-planned.
"Thanks for this, by the way," he said.
"Oh well." The angel shrugged. "Always nice to get out of the castle. Do you mind if I take this?"
Dean looked at the baggie Balthazar was holding up. "Why do you want a fake Genghis Coin?"
"Well, because it's not a complete fake."
Dean's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "It's not?"
"Oh, it didn't belong to Genghis Khan, and it certainly doesn't contain any bit of his power to lead and unite nations," Balthazar reassured him. "But it has been prayed and sacrificed to enough that it's covered with a corrupting power."
"Hitler's supposed to have been the last evil overlord to hold it," Dean said. "Although, rumor has it, Joe McCarthy carried it in the fifties."
"The communist witch hunts?" Balthazar lifted the coin to stare at it. "Hmm. It's possible. Hitler definitely had it. His stench is all over it. Too much more like him and it'll be positively demonic." He turned to look at Dean. "May I take it?"
"Uhh… I guess." Dean shrugged. Did he care if Balthazar made off with something Hemlock—the back-stabbing asshole—had paid for? Speaking of which…
Dean went over to the bed to pick up his case full of money. "Why do you want it, anyway?"
"I'm working for Virgil now," Balthazar said, as if that explained everything. Dean just looked at him. Then Dean looked at him longer and with more focus. "Virgil?" he prompted.
"Oh, of course. You haven't met him." Balthazar said. "Virgil is the Keeper of the Weapons of Heaven."
"Okay…" That wasn't helpful at all.
"Gabriel's Trumpet? The Staff of Moses?" Balthazar was watching him for signs of understanding. "The Ark of the Covenant? Even you should have heard of that one: Harrison Ford stole it from the Nazis."
"Oh, ha-ha," Dean sneered back even if that example had helped him understand. "And you like working for this Virgil guy? I thought you weren't big on taking sides or orders."
"I don't have to." Balthazar said with a satisfied smirk. "Virgil's only focus, his only task, is to guard the Weapons of Heaven. He doesn't take sides, so he doesn't take orders from anyone. Therefore he doesn't care what I do, as long as I make sure the Weapons are safe. He's also one of the scariest angels in Heaven. No one messes with Virgil, except Father and he's not around."
"And now that you're one of his crew…" Dean trailed off.
"Nobody messes with me." This time Balthazar's smile was wide and bright. "It's a win all 'round. I have you to thank for that, by the way," he added.
"What?" Dean frowned.
"Matteuccia's Grimoire," the angel reminded him. "When I brought that up to him—along with a few other things from Foul Ball's collection—he offered me the job. He wouldn't have done it if I hadn't had the book, and I wouldn't have had the book, if you hadn't needed rescuing. So I am grateful to you and your abominable luck. However, considering I just saved your life again, I think we're even,"
"Can't you just… break the stupid bond?" Dean suggested. "I mean, I'm not exactly 'The Righteous Man' anymore."
"But you are a lot of fun, and you bring me to the most interesting places. And you give me gifts," Balthazar teased, lifting the baggie with the mostly-fake Genghis Coin.
Dean stared at the sloppy angel, in his sport coat and T-shirt. Ever since he'd gotten out of Hell he'd had angels hounding him. Stopping the Apocalypse hadn't changed it any. In fact, he knew more angels by name than before, what with Cas being the Rebellion's Princess Leia. What was one more?
He wasn't going to rely on Balthazar showing up the next time he was in a jam, after all. Relying on Balthazar for help would be like trusting The-Angel-Formerly-Known-As-The-Trickster to tell the truth. At least Balthazar always brought good booze.
Dean shrugged, accepting the deal.
Balthazar smiled at him, produced another previously non-existent tumbler of liquid, and saluted Dean with it. Dean lifted his glass in return, and poured the rest of the fragrant liquid down his throat. Then he picked up the case of money and headed toward the door.
"Aren't you going to…" Balthazar waved at the baggies hanging in the air.
Dean looked at them. "Nah. Let 'Mr. Hemlock' have them. He paid for them."
Balthazar's eyes widened in surprise. "How very forgiving of you."
Dean laughed. "I'm supposed to be respectable now, but I can hope his next client will double-cross him for me."
Balthazar laughed and slung an affectionate arm over Dean's shoulder. Dean worked really hard not to reject the gesture.
"Did you know that the real Socrates died of hemlock poisoning?" he asked. Dean shook his head, so the angel continued, "He was tried and found guilty of impiety. Meaning he wouldn't believe everything the priests told him. Sound familiar?"
"I didn't pick the stupid names," Dean said because he wanted everyone to know they hadn't been his idea.
"No? But considering how your meeting turned out, they are appropriate." Balthazar laughed as they walked down the hall. The lights in the sconces popped as the angel passed by. "I rather think he was planning the double-cross from the beginning."
Dean knew he had. Whether 'Hemlock' had known from Cas' call, or whether he'd found out later, he'd planned the sale as bait to catch Dean.
The hunter becoming the hunted.
Dean pushed the elevator button. While they waited for an elevator car to arrive Dean thought about it. "You know, my family—my dad… We did a lot of crappy or illegal things to get by, but we never entered a deal meaning to double-cross anyone."
"I guess that puts you on the side of the angels then. Or at least, one angel in particular," he said, giving Dean a hard pat on the back. Dean glared at him in return, but Balthazar just smirked at him.
The elevator pinged. Dean got on when the doors opened. Balthazar didn't.
"Give Castiel my regards. Tell him I heartily approve of what he's doing, even if I'm not allowed to say so."
The elevator doors slid shut unnaturally fast, and Dean was moving down. He had the elevator car all to himself. He was alone with a suitcase full of money.
He needed to call Lisa.
.o0o.
"Where are they?" Castiel's voice might have been quiet, but Lisa didn't mistake it for anything other than a command.
"They're in Saginaw. Michigan." she answered. "It's not far, but we're still not going right away. Like I said, we need to give them warning."
"Although I will repeat my doubts that 'the mom card' is an actual human rule requiring the level of deference you describe, I do understand that I am probably not one of Amelia Novak's favorite creatures." Castiel's expression was unhappy. "At best, she will blockade the doors. At worst, showing up on her doorstep unannounced might get us shot, and that would be painful."
"I'm sure she wouldn't actually shoot anyone, Castiel," she said to reassure him. From everything she'd heard blockading the doors was possible.
The former angel gave a small shrug. "The memories of her I inherited from Jimmy are incomplete," he responded. "Plus she was possessed by a demon, which might have changed certain aspects of her personality."
When Lisa couldn't stop staring at him, he continued. "It is best to be aware of all possibilities before engaging unknown targets," he assured her.
Lisa gave her aching forehead a rub because it wasn't bad enough that her kitchen had been demolished by a vengeful angel out to assassinate one of her house-guests, but her home life had turned into a whole world of weird. Yet, when it wasn't weird, it was kind of wonderful.
Now, she had to make a phone call to a woman she didn't know to ask if the angel she was falling in love with could visit with his vessel's former family. All things considered, she'd rather have a root canal.
"Yeah, but," Lisa sat down at the small table as she tried to organize her thoughts. "She's not 'a target'," she finally said. "She's your wife, or was your wife."
"She was Jimmy's wife," Castiel corrected calmly. "And, as Dean has previously pointed out, I am not Jimmy."
Right.
He was Castiel. Amelia didn't know Castiel, not like Lisa knew Castiel. Knew him, liked him. Admired him even.
"I'll remember that when I talk to her," she said instead of all the other things she'd like to say.
Castiel looked at her as if assessing her current mental state. He tilted his head like a bird's, and if anything, his gaze grew more intense.
"It can't be any worse that being a cold-call telemarketer, right?" she said brightly.
"I do not understand the reference," Castiel replied. "However, it appears to me that you could use… consolation. Dean told me that a hot bath, a glass of wine, or a massage—individually or in combination—are the traditional means of comforting a female of whom you are fond."
At least it made Lisa laugh. "You forgot the chocolates," she said. "The good kind, not the corner store crap Ben likes."
"I will remember." Castiel was still frowning at her, but now it was thoughtful, and she knew he was committing this to memory. She also knew that he would remember. He was, perhaps, the most reliable, conscientious person she'd ever known.
She didn't want him to go to Amelia and Claire, she realized. What if he decided to stay with them? Did he realize what kind of hole he would leave in her and Ben's lives if he didn't come back? Of course not. She'd never told him—never even hinted—at how important he'd become to them, because she'd only just realized it herself.
"You know," she said softly. "I think, right now, I'd just like a hug."
Castiel's face lightened. "I know how to do that," he said, and opened his arms.
She walked into them and was enfolded. It didn't matter that his arms were just flesh and blood, she could feel the warmth and acceptance that Heaven's angels were supposed to grant.
"You sure do," she murmured into his shirt. "You sure do."
.o0o.
Dean stopped trying to phone when he hit Indianapolis. Neither Lisa nor Cas were picking up, and there were only so many voicemails he could leave.
At first, he'd thought they might be in trouble, but now he was wondering if they were just "busy". They had the motel room to themselves, after all, and they were both pretty open about liking sex. With each other.
He didn't want to be jealous, because he didn't want to build that kind of relationship with Lisa. Eventually, he'd figure out a way to get Sam out, and if he was in the kind of shape Dean had been when he got out of Hell, Sam would need taking care of full-time. He couldn't ask Lisa to put up with that on top of everything else.
Besides, it wasn't like he knew how to do long-term.
The longest relationship he'd ever had with a female was the one between him and the Impala. So, either way, it would be a good thing if Cas and Lisa figured something out—something that included taking an afternoon off to do the horizontal mambo.
It wasn't that he couldn't understand why they'd grab some time, because even he could admit that Lisa and Cas were hot together. Watching Castiel discover what his dick was for… Well, it had been way hotter than any porn Dean had ever seen. And Lisa had been… She'd been like a goddess—a nice one—powerful and kind. There was just enough light to watch them, so Dean did watch because he wasn't dead, although he probably should be.
Dean pulled out to pass a truck pulling a camper that was bigger than Lisa's house, watching the traffic and gauging the risks automatically as his mind circled around him: Cas, and Lisa—him and Lisa—Lisa and Cas—not normal, but normal-ish.
It wasn't that he hadn't done group sex before, but he'd always been the meat in a girl sandwich. It had been fun, but they'd all known that it was only going to be the one night. Or, rather, a part of the night.
Now he was doing this thing—this monogamous three-way with Cas and Lisa—with people he actually knew and cared about, had made him do things that Dean had never, ever, thought he'd do again voluntarily. Things like touch another guy—instructional touches to show Cas what to do, where to place himself—but it didn't seem odd or even weird. It was just this… thing. A big, magical, gentle thing that looked and felt wonderful.
Dean stopped, backed up his thoughts.
It was sex—just sex.
So it was totally cool if Lisa was off teaching something new to Cas. It was just the sex Dean was envious about.
He was sure of it.
His cell phone rang, jerking him back into the Now.
He dug it out of his pocket, and checked the number. It was Paul. "'Lo?"
"Hey, Dean, glad you answered." Paul's voice was hurried. "So, um, Julie was just having Braxton-Hicks contractions. So, not a father yet."
Dean tried to dredge up some interest. "Um. Okay?"
"Yeah, still five more weeks!" Dean says nothing.
Paul clears his throat awkwardly. "So, hmm. The thing is, the Abscott's have shortened their timeline, so I have to call off the job on Lisa's house for a couple days. You okay with that?"
"Yeah, man, of course." What else was Dean gonna say since Paul was essentially donating his time and his crew. "They paying for the rush?"
"Yeah, nearly double." Paul's chuckle was rueful, admitting that, like the rest of humanity, he wasn't above financial temptation. "Anyway, I'm going to call José. Maybe we can put you to work on the Abscott place…" His voice trailed off.
Dean waited.
Then he rolled his eyes. "Sounds good. Just let José know what's up and then he'll tell me." Paul made a vague sound that could indicate acknowledgement. At least, Dean chose to take it that way so that he could hang up.
He knew he wouldn't get transferred to the Abscott McMansion—tight deadline, rich and finicky clients? He had neither the experience nor the seniority. Not that he cared about the job—not with a suitcase full of cash in the trunk. He did care that it kept Lisa out of her house longer. She'd made the tiny place into a real nice home. Nice, until he'd dragged her into some kind of angelic civil war…
"Why do you feel guilty?" asked someone right beside him in a mellifluous voice.
"Jesus, fuck!" Dean ignored the honks coming from behind him as he brought the Impala back into the lane.
"Don't blaspheme," the angel said mildly.
"Bells," Dean countered. "You all need frigging bells. Which one are you again?"
"Mehiel," the angel said, still calm despite Dean's rudeness. Mehiel's vessel was an older man, wearing a tweed jacket and a sweater vest. Patron saint of professors and orators, Cas had said. Dean remembered because the guy looked like he'd talk your ear off.
"How did you find me?" Because the carvings on his ribs were supposed to hide him from the angels.
"Balthazar is never discreet," Mehiel said like he was on a stage. "I tracked his presence back to that hotel, deduced that you would return to Castiel, and calculated your likely route. Then it was just a matter of locating your vehicle, which is also not discreet."
"Wonderful," Dean muttered, not caring if he sounded like a brat. "So what're you–"
"Why do you feel guilty over Leviah's attack?" Mehiel asked again. "Did you somehow instigate it, or encourage it?"
Dean stared at him some more, but the angel didn't fidget or look away. It was the same way Cas used to look at him, back when they were still getting to know each other. "You wouldn't understand," Dean finally said.
"Well, no. Angels do not, in general, feel any emotion let alone guilt," Mehiel agreed. "It is why I asked. Why do you feel guilty? There is nothing you could have done to prevent Lauviah's attack. Or did you pray –"
"Hell, no! Of course not!" Dean glared at him.
"Then I do not understand. Why do you feel guilt over the attack?" the angel repeated.
"Because I brought this on her, alright?" Dean blurted out. "Angels and demons, and all that shit."
"Interesting," Mehiel said with a hum. "Completely ridiculous, of course, but still fascinating. Human minds are so disorganized and malleable."
'Thank you, Mr. Spock," Dean said through clenched teeth. Talking to normal angels always made him want to punch things—preferably them, except that was a good way to break all the bones in his hand.
"It is similar to the guilt you over breaking the First Seal," the angel continued. "Considering Alistair's expertise–"
Dean held up a hand. "Stop right there. We're not talking about Hell unless you're willing to talk about how you angels didn't get off your asses until it was too late."
The angel nodded placidly. "And, even knowing that your experiences in Hell were carefully orchestrated, you still feel guilt. The angels who were assembled to retrieve you after you broke the First Seal do not feel guilt at having left you there."
"Not. Talking. About Hell." He was panting, sweating, and he could almost feel the knobby bones of Alistair's table digging into his back. He wanted to throw up. "Why are you here?" he asked instead.
"I have a question for you."
Actually, Dean thought, Mehiel seemed to have a lot of questions, and he didn't seem to care if Dean actually wanted to answer them.
"I actually only have one question, officially, and it has nothing to do with the situation with Lisabraeden's residence," he said. "It is merely that your assumption of guilt—your belief that Lauviah's actions reflected back on you—made me curious."
"Good to know I could tickle the curiosity of a five thousand-year-old being," Dean said. "Surely after all this time, there's not much left of human behavior that surprises you."
Mehiel's face brightened slightly. "Actually, most of my service has been performed in Heaven, not in the Garrison. I am much more of thinker, rather than a doer."
"Angels on Earth don't need to think?"
Mehiel didn't notice the sarcasm. "Not so much, no. The requirements lean more toward obedience and vigilance, and although all angels are well-versed in obedience, vigilance requires the ability to focus in on one aspect of a situation and maintain that focus for the duration of the task. Allowing oneself to be sidelined by extraneous issues, or frivolous minutia, would be a detriment in such a situation–"
"So your job was to be nosy?" Dean asked, voice drier than the surface of Mercury.
"Yes," Mehiel answered seriously. "It still is, which is why I am here."
"Why are you here," Dean repeated.
"I'll get to that, but first, if I may ask."
"No." Dean reached over and turned the stereo's volume up as loud as it could go.
Mehiel waved his hand and the music died. "It's not about Hell, I assure you. Or at least not about your experiences in Hell–"
"Fine!" The steering wheel creaked. Dean loosened his grip.
"I have learned that many humans believe that by taking an action that results in feelings of guilt, they are condemned by our Father to Hell," Mehiel explained, voice smooth and unconcerned. "It does not seem to matter whether the action that caused the guilt was a minor offense—stealing a candy bar, for example—or a mortal sin, such as causing the death of a fellow human."
Dean forced a shrug. "I'm not an expert on religion, man. I just know enough to fight the bad guys."
"And to both start and end the Apocalypse, but it is not that about which I am curious," Mehiel responded. "No, my curiosity is regarding those mortals who feel no guilt over the heinous acts they have committed. I believe you call them 'serial murderers'–"
"Serial killers," Dean corrected. "Psychos."
"Yes," Mehiel agreed. "My question is this: if feelings of guilt result in condemnation to Hell, do humans believe the lack of guilt secures passage into Heaven? If so, does that mean they believe unrepentant serial killers are allowed into Heaven?"
Dean once again had to manually remember to close his mouth. It had been so long since Castiel asked dumb questions like that. "I don't know," he said. "Zachariah got in, and he was a complete douchebag."
Mehiel shook his head. "He was an angel. Entrance into the human Heaven is permitted automatically."
Once again, Dean loosened his hands from the wheel. "He was still a sociopath. And where there's one, there's usually more," he said with false brightness.
Mehiel stared at Dean through narrowed eyes. Dean got the feeling the angel had heard something other than what he'd said.
"If I understand your elliptical phrase correctly," Mehiel said slowly. "You are inferring that the best way to test my theory is to search Heaven for the presence of a serial killer or any other such conscienceless being. Interesting." The angel's void was filled with respect. Dean just wanted to punch him.
"It is a valid method of study. Although, finding one will not prove the theory, finding three or more certainly would." Mehiel nodded. "Yes, that is an excellent idea. Once I have the raw data, I will be able to do an analysis on the effects of a conscience, or lack thereof, on the afterlives of mortals. Thank you, Deanwinchester. I would never have thought of it."
Dean reminded himself that punching angels was bad, bad, bad. "Glad to give you your fucking thesis," he ground out. "Are we done here?"
"Ah, sorry. Not quite." Mehiel's lips lifted into an awkward smile. "There's still the matter of the question I need to ask you."
"Another question?" Dean didn't care if he didn't sound friendly. "Are you sure it's not Cas you want?"
Please let it be Cas.
No such luck.
"It is your answer that matters, so asking Castiel would be a waste of time." Mehiel paused, oblivious to Dean's anger. "'Waste of time'… How does one 'waste time', which is infinite–"
"The question," Dean interrupted.
"Yes, of course. My apologies." The angel cleared his throat. "It is known that you desire the return of your brother from Hell," Mehiel said. "How badly do you wish it?"
It felt like a gut punch.
The angel continued, oblivious. "If the only way to bring your brother back to Earth is to allow Lucifer to…" Mehiel paused as if to search for the word, but Dean knew he was just being a dick. "If allowing Lucifer to ride along with him restarted the Apocalypse and destroyed the world, would that be an acceptable outcome?"
"God, no! What the hell kind of question is that?"
"So you would chose not to have Sam returned to you in those circumstances." The angel frowned at him intently, as if each word had weight.
"I said no," Dean spat. "What the fuck, man. He sacrificed…" Dean had to stop and just breathe, try to work some spit back into his mouth. "He gave up everything to stop the Apocalypse. He would not be happy if I – if we messed that up."
The angel looked at him and Dean had absolutely no idea what he was thinking. It had been so long since Cas' expression had been frozen that Dean had forgotten how frustrating it was trying to read a normal angel.
"If Michael does free Lucifer, why the hell won't they just duke it out down there?"
Mehiel raised an eyebrow. "For the same reason Lucifer would never fight Michael in Heaven. I believe you call it 'home court advantage'?"
"Seriously?"
"Oh yes. That is a human expression I do understand." There wasn't even a hint of humor in the brown eyes that gazed steadily at him. Suddenly, Dean wondered if Mehiel's vessel had had a sense of humor before he'd agreed to be a vessel. Maybe the guy had known how to do card tricks, or juggle. Stupid things that served no purpose but to be fun.
"What would you be willing to do, Deanwinchester, in order to ensure that your brother—and only your brother—was brought out from Hell?" The angel asked.
"I won't trade my soul," Dean said immediately, because he had learned something from the last couple years. The angel didn't need to know that Dean had thought about it, seriously thought about it, in the first week or so after Sam… After Sam.
"That won't be required," Mehiel said easily. "However, we may require your… Will, for want of a better word. Would that be acceptable?"
Dean stared at the angel, trying to judge how far he could be trusted. Aside from giving up his soul, how far was Dean willing to go to get Sam back again?
Pretty damn far, actually.
"Nothing else; just my will?" he confirmed.
Mehiel nodded shallowly. "And your Memories."
Dean frowned at him. "You're going to take my memories? Make me forget –"
"No, No. Nothing like that." Mehiel waved it away. "You need to remember your brother. As he was, all that he was. We must be certain that his soul and his spirit is his own, and your memories will be the only guide we have."
Oh. Wow…
"And if they aren't right?" Dean asked.
Mehiel didn't need to answer verbally. His look was enough. If they weren't sure it was purely and truly Sam coming up from the Pit, he'd never get out of Hell.
And it was Dean's responsibility.
But, as he'd told Bobby last year, what didn't he know about Sam? He knew Sam's favorite music (crap), his favorite cologne (sandlewood). So he didn't understand Sam's obsession with rabbit food, or why he'd gotten involved with Ruby (except that Ruby had been an excellent liar), those gaps weren't important. They weren't. Much.
No, they weren't. Not when their old Lego blocks were rattling in the vent.
"Yeah, I can do that," he finally said. "Now?"
"No, not immediately. Maybe not ever," the angel said.
Dean glared at the angel. "So what you're saying is the chances of this actually happening are, what? Zero? Why the hell did you bring it up then?"
"Because when we do need you, it will likely be with little warning, and with no opportunity to explain it to you. Therefore, despite some initial reservations, it was agreed that this measure would have a greater chance of success if you were prepared for what will be required of you." Mehiel replied with the fussy grammar and perfect diction that made him Dean's least favorite 'good-guy' angel.
"So you can't give an ETA? Not tomorrow or the next day? Next week?" Dean sneered. "How about a year from now, give or take a week?"
"I can only ask the questions, Deanwinchester. I have not the ability to reveal the future." Then he was gone—wing flutter and ozone smell and all.
"What the hell does that mean?" Dean yelled.
God damn, cryptic angels and their useless warnings!
Author's Note: All the whiskies mentioned in this story are real. In order to find Scotch Whisky suitable for a laid-back, hedonistic angel, I researched ('cause that's my idea of fun). As I got into it, I realized that I had no idea how much went into flavouring Scotch: nuts, berries, other wines, fruit, coffee... It was an eye opener.