Title: The Price of Happiness (Chapter 14)
Notes: Aw, hell, I couldn't leave you guys waiting another week. Here's the finale. Hope you enjoyed the story. Thanks again for reading and thanks to those of you who posted reviews. Much appreciated.
oOoOoOo
The night pressed in harder on the graveyard and Dean stood over a copper bowl and dropped a lit match into it. The flame flashed quickly then died as a definite crack filled the air. A moment later, a lithe blond wearing tight clothing and well-heeled boots stood in the sodden spot in the graveyard, a sloppy but passable devil's trap spray painted onto the ground beneath her.
"Meg," Sam gasped as he stumbled backward and came to rest on a headstone.
"Yeah, your demon lover's dropping in for a little chat," Dean said over his shoulder as he turned to face the demon.
A moment later, the rustle of wings sounded and Balthazar appeared to Sam's left. The younger Winchester blanched with shock and surprise at all the party crashers. He locked eyes with his brother for a moment who merely shrugged and focused his attention on their female guest.
"I need to bleed you, bitch," he said without preamble.
"Why Dean, you do say the most charming things," she remarked.
"I've got a proposition for you," he continued. "One that's gonna save your life and the life of your boss."
"My boss?" she asked skeptically and peered around him to Sam, who stared back at her with wide and disbelieving eyes. "Hey there honey. Miss me?"
Dean followed her gaze and shook his head.
"You and me, we are having a chat about appropriate bed mates once this is over," Dean growled then looked back at the demon. "He's off limits to you right now. We're here to talk about the big plan, you and the star of your little I Love Lucy play you're running here: Satan—Sam's would-be hitch hiker. You and me, we need to work together or you can't jump start the apocalypse."
Meg's eyes flashed black quickly and she hissed with uncertainty as Dean grinned in her direction.
"What?" she snarled.
The interest in her voice, the harsh breathy sound to her words said he was hitting the right spots with her. He planned on convincing her and lying the best way he knew: by telling mostly the truth. He wouldn't tell her the whole thing got called off in his timeline. He wouldn't tell her it failed and Lucifer was back in his box. He also wouldn't tell her that last time he saw Meg was just before he was thrown into Purgatory. From what Sam explained, Crowley had taken her back to demon detention. What he was doing to her was unknown. Nor did Dean especially care. Sure, she had been useful in the recent past, but she'd possessed his brother once and tried to get Dean to kill him; she also killed Caleb and Pastor Jim. Things like that soured him on her no matter what side she was on during any given week.
"Yeah, you and Lilith and Ruby, all the Lucifer groupies, yeah I know your whole plan," Dean revealed. "My wingman over there is in the know."
"You know all this and somehow you think that you and I are on the same side?" she shook her head and spoke coyly. "Call me the Doubting Thomas here, but I thought you were going to dirty dance with Michael."
Some thick and ominous clouds skidded across the sky, swallowing the moon and light further. The deeper darkness sent a strong and penetrating chill down Dean's neck that started to seep into his chest and made his heart cringe.
"Things got in the way so that can't happen as things stand," he said strategically. She looked at him suspiciously. He threw in the one name that he figured would move her to his side of the table. "Crowley."
Again, her eyes went black. Her expression was terrifying. The air crackled with a dark and malevolent energy.
"Dean?" Sam asked hesitantly from his safe distance, holding out his flask of holy water defensively.
"Parlor tricks only, Sam," he assured his brother. "She's suck at the moment and can't do more than give you the tinglies. Enjoy as you seem to be into that."
He turned his eyes again on the trapped demon and folded his arms. He then nodded to Meg.
"Crowley?" she snarled. "He's a bottom feeding crossroads demon."
"Was a bottom feeding crossroads demon," Dean answered, walking around the protective circle, swinging wheedling his hunting knife. "He's about to become the King of Hell because your side messed up; he's in a position to throw your Daddy's ass back in his cage—got one of the horseman, Death himself, all lined up to collaborate on the project, too."
She repeated Crowley's title and her eyes went inky black again. Dean's mention of the horseman shook her. She apparently feared that power nearly as much as she hated Crowley's existence. Her eyes rolled back to their proper pigment, but her expression said all Dean needed to hear: She was listening more and doubting less.
"Well, then give me one good reason why I should help you rather than kill you," she sneered.
Dean heard Sam stutter on his breath at the threat. Whether he was also coming to terms that the black-eyed skank in front of them shared his bed just a few short days earlier was a question, but Dean didn't want to probe into it. Once this negotiation was over, that would all be a memory—a memory only Dean held and he would do his utmost to purge it.
"Killing me is a bad idea," he said and started to weave the story he spent the full 24 hours driving to Vermont concocting. "You'll be charcoal before it happens, and you know it. Got the God Squad watching my six. The Limey mook over there is quicker on the draw than you. Besides, you need me in Hell eventually to get this whole thing started."
"So let's make a deal, baby," she grinned predatorily.
"You're not a crossroads demon," Dean noted with simple shrug. "That's Crowley's domain at the moment. He's clued in by now to what's up. That's why the deal I made when I was 16 didn't take. See, Crowley wants me up here. His order: No crossroads deals for me."
"That's not how it goes," she shook her head vigorously. "You already…"
"Contract's tied up in litigation, I guess," Dean shrugged, rolling out the rest of his cover story. "I seem to be standing here trying to offer you a way to get your side back on track and help me do the same without Crowley getting in the way. I'm not jonesing for the end of the world to start, but Crowley is going to kill someone I care about so I need your help to stop that. In the long run, you need me to do this spell. That's why we're partners." His lie rolled off his tongue so smoothly even he nearly believed it. Meg looked intrigued and willing. "Hey, I don't like it any more than you do—less, even. It's a really long story, but Crowley's gearing up to pop the cork on Purgatory and spring the Leviathan. Future's been seen and confirmed—my angel buddy could tell you. He won't because you are an abomination, and he'd like to fry your ass instead, so you're stuck hearing it from me. Trust me, those chompers will eat all of us, your kind and mine, out of existence. The angels, too, by the way so your daddy's gonna want you to support this plan. Now, you and me, tonight, we need to work together to stop Crowley."
Meg scoffed and glared at him. His lack of sympathy and empathy were unsurprising but oddly callous for someone asking her for a favor.
"Sister, as of the now, things are looking like your boss is never going to join the prize fight," Dean said in a calculating tone. "He stays in his kennel, and you're going to be an hor d'oeuvres in a week. So, what say you and I help each other out here so we can avoid being courses on a menu?"
"You're here to save me and help Lucifer?" she asked doubtfully.
"No," he replied flatly and shook his head, slapping his knife on his thigh agitated as the discussion continued.
He did not expect it to go smoothly or quickly, but he also did not expect the lightheaded feeling in his skull to crash over him like a tidal wave. He did not expect his heart to flutter and feel like it was shivering. Dean swallowed hard and tried to control his breathing while doing his best not to fall over during their chat.
"It's just that to do what I need to do to help myself has the disgusting and screwed up benefit of saving you in the process," he explained. "It also helps your douchebag of a supreme being with daddy issues, which sucks more than I can say right now, but compromise, what are you gonna do, right? So, here's the deal, I need your blood to take do this spell. The directions are pretty fussy. I need to actually draw it, with your permission and assistance, which means you need to play nice with me when I step into this lovely little detention spot."
"Meaning I can slit your throat and end your plans right now," Meg smiled. She licked her tongue eagerly across her teeth then offered him a feral grin.
"You could try," Dean challenged. "Look, I'm doing this to help myself, but it helps you, too, unfortunately. Honestly, that pisses me off, but I've done worse things. Way… way worse things. This is… I can stomach this because it is strictly a vendetta thing against Crowley. You and I just need to do one thing together: Take Crowley off the board so we can… play our roles."
Thoughts of Hell flash in his mind in the same instant that he heard Gabriel barking those same words at him. He could see Zachariah smirking at him, forcing Sam to suffer, hurting Adam as well. It was like watching his life on rewind at 10 times the speed. He clenched his jaw tight and leveled his eyes back at her.
"What do I get out of it other than a severe case of anemia?" she asked folding her arms and cocking her hip out.
"How 'bout I don't exorcise you right now?" Dean asked darkly. Meg snorted her amusement as she raked him with her eyes hungrily as she prowled the devil's trap. Dean swallowed his gorge at her touch and clenched his jaw as he offered another option. "I can sweeten the pot. I will tell you precisely when you can make your move to kill Crowley so that it will work. It'll be a 100 percent guarantee of success. He won't suspect it's coming. The angels have foreseen it."
"A little too iffy, sunshine," she shook her head.
"Oh, trust me, sweetheart," Dean vowed. "You and me, we get him in a Devil's Trap at some point down the road. I'll let you kill him rather than taking a shot at it myself. Trust me, after ganking Crowley, I will be indebted to you. Believe in that. I feel dirty about it, but again, I've made my peace with it because I've done worse."
Meg looked back at him, seeing the fury and the sincerity in his eyes. Humans were weak and pathetic creatures, so easily manipulated and so easily deciphered, she felt. The face staring back at her was muddled for certain, but there was so much truth radiating from his expressive eyes that she smiled. She was going to enjoy peeling the skin off his face someday, but killing Crowley just made her nether regions quiver and resonate with such joy she couldn't refuse this chance.
"And all you need from me is some on this girl's blood?" she asked with a pleased grin.
"Yeah," he said. "I need it for this spell."
"Why did any of this happen at all?" she asked. "I mean, how did this whole mess of you showing up here with all this knowledge start?"
"It's an accident, apparently," Dean shrugged and grimaced painfully. "Story of my life, okay? Someone messes with one thing and it looks like a windfall then in the next breath a Winchester gets it in the jewels. Near as me and my co-pilot for this spell figure, someone else tried the spell and something went wrong. I don't know what, solar flares or sequins on CeeLo Green's jacket got in the way, whatever. The point is, at the exact moment the spell was cast, I was in a celestial, terrestrial and spiritual void, which evidently is the equivalent of soul Kevlar for this spell."
Meg looked at him doubtfully and scoffed as she folded her arms and shook her head.
"You managed to be falling through the air of an open grave belonging to a vengeful spirit at the precise moment someone cast a blood spell over you?" she asked in disbelief.
"You figured that out quick," Dean observed stunned.
"Dark magic 101, you mental moron," she rolled her eyes. "Unholy ground—neither celestial nor terrestrial nor spiritual. You sure you're a hunter, and we work together? You seem a little too stupid for me not to have killed you yet."
"Well, you've tried," Dean offered smugly. "Failed—miserably, each time. But hey, don't lose faith, bitch, there's always tomorrow."
He grinned, knowing that if this spell worked, there wouldn't precisely be a tomorrow for her, but Meg's well-being and happiness would never be on any list of Dean's, unless it was a list of things to annihilate.
"So you were in the safety zone when this whammy hit so you got thrown into a DeLoran," Meg nodded. "So you're going back to that place and time? What assurance do I have that you're not going back further to try and stop what's going on right now?"
"The way I see it, you've got no other choice," Dean said. "I can make this deal with you and we work together so you get something out of it. Or, I exorcise your ass, send you back to the minor leagues in Hell and find another demon get what I need anyway."
He hoped the lie would continue to roll off his tongue convincingly. He wasn't sure he could hang around long enough to find another demon, strike up the requisite relationship with the hell bitch as required by the spell, then bleed it for the last ingredient.
"This way, it works out for both of us," Dean shrugged. "Look, either help me now or watch all your big plans to take over the world fall apart. A hunter is coming for Sam, a good one, like… one of the best. That's trouble for you because he'll kill Sam, salt and burn him and then where will your plan be? Screwed seven ways to Sunday, right? Well, because the universe likes friggin' irony, I also I can't have that happen because Sam being dead is not an option for me—ever. So, you and me, we're partners—enemy of my enemy and all that crap."
Meg continued to look at him with a pensive expression. She looked at the open grave and the smoking crucible beside it. Balthazar gave her a rakish look that was far from angelic and threw in an equally lecherous wink.
"He's an angel and will likely burn me to charcoal as soon as you're done," Meg noted. "Why should I trust you?"
"You probably shouldn't, but you don't have much of a choice," Dean shrugged. "Grow a pair, Meg. Don't worry about the wingman. Want to know a secret: Angels are dicks. This one only works on commission. and I've got nothing to give him so he's not smoking your ass for free. Let's be honest: You and me, we're still going to try to kill each other as soon this spell takes and we nail Crowley. Once the smoke clears, it'll be back to our little game of cutthroat: demons and winged dickheads against the good guys. The yin and yang of the universe that you both are trying to destroy and that I'm trying to save."
Dean didn't want to overstate his case too much. If she started asking too many questions, she might suspect Michael got his ass kicked by his little brother and just leave Dean without helping. If she was certain Lucifer won the prize fight, where would her incentive been then to help Dean? No, he had to play it cagey and let her hatred of Crowley be the focus of this. Dean shook his head at this latest twist: The evil bastard he wanted dead more than any other at that moment was the one who was proving the most helpful in getting a demon to join forces with him to save his brother and (possibly) the world.
The things I do for my family… .
"You want me to beg, I'll do it," Dean insisted.
"You'll also need to be in the void created by unholy ground when we cast the spell or it won't work," Meg said. "If you're not, you might be sent back, but you won't have your memory."
"That hole in the ground there is where this whole fiasco started," Dean nodded to the rectangular abyss.
"You swear to me on the life of your parents that what you're telling me is the truth?" Meg asked viciously. "You swear to me that we're going to spring Lucifer from the cage? That the apocalypse will start?"
"As God as my witness, all 66 seals will be broken—Lilith being the final one," Dean nodded. His vision grew cloudy. "Sammy is gonna swat her like a bug in the convent with Ruby egging him on the whole way. The bitch."
Meg blinked. No one else knew about Ruby or Lilith having a role in this plan. Meg herself didn't know the whole plan. She just knew that Azazel needed her to stick close to the younger Winchester and report in on him while keeping him mildly estranged from his family. Dean, however, spoke with such confidence that she wondered if the angel was in fact telling him all the secret squirrel details.
"And you and me, we're in league against Crowley?" she asked.
"Yes," Dean swore though his voice was slow and thick. "Look at me. I'm not lying about this. I hate that bastard and want him dead. I would love to watch you turn him inside out just like Alastair taught you."
There was a dangerous and dark look in his eyes that matched the vicious edge to his voice. Meg nodded in return. He then stepped into the circle with his knife and cup in hand.
"I believe you," she said then grasped his hand around the hilt of the knife and plunged it into her forearm.
She turned her wrist downward toward the chalice in Dean's grip, spraying the blood into the receptacle. She remained in the body as it grew weaker and paler. As the skin of Meg Masters turned sickly, ashen gray, her knees wobbled slightly. Her hand slipped from Dean's wrist as she dropped to the ground, the demon insider her smoking out but remaining trapped in the protective circle, bounding off the invisible walls like a fish swimming frantically in a too small bowl. Leaving her there to panic and (hopefully suffer) brought a smile to his lips.
Dean approached Balthazar, his hand nearly slipping from the cup. The hot, slick blood making his grip tenuous as he staggered out of the devil's trap. His hands were covered with the wet, coppery smelling liquid as he handed the chalice to Balthazar.
"You understand that I am an angel, with a sworn duty to humanity," he said, standing over the smoking concoction, holding the sloshing red cup high over his head. The crucible began to boil.
"Your neck is more important than your duty," Dean said, a seething stitch in his chest as pain radiated through him.
"It is," he nodded solemnly and began speaking in Latin as he poured the blood into the mixture and the air began to vibrate.
Dean listened carefully but snapped is head to the side as the words in the angel's incantation were not precisely those he recalled from the spell. He took an aggressive step forward but found himself first held in place then next shoved backward. His heels rocked dangerously backward on the lip of the grave. Dean pushed against the invisible wall of force but could gain no ground. He grunted and struggled, seething with anger.
"I am an Angel of the Lord," Balthazar in a rote monotone. "I've been listening to you and your fanciful lies and I cannot abide by this. You are right about me. I am an opportunist, which means I do nothing to bring myself onto the radar unless it benefits me. This does not. Angels are here among you to be the instruments of destiny. You are not God, Dean Winchester, and allowing you to manipulate the lives of so many is not your destiny."
Dean snarled a protest but was suddenly thrown backward as the angel flicked his wrist in a dismissing fashion. Dean felt his heart explode in his chest and was certain his eyes had jettisoned from their sockets in the same instant. A fiery and draining feeling tore through his veins as he felt himself falling downward endlessly into nothingness and cold. He was crushed by the darkness and swallowed whole by the ground. His final, fleeting and terrified thought as he plunged into the void, was that he was headed again for Hell.
oOoOoOo
With a suddenness that crushed the remaining breath from his lungs, he hit the ground. The ringing in his ears was deafening and made them physically itch. He dragged an unwilling and painfully sloppy breath into his throat then promptly gagged on it.
His back ached, his shoulders felt like they had been struck with a crowbar and his head was pounding like there was a jackhammer trying to open it. His eyes were not reporting any sights at all for several moments. There was an absence of light that he assumed was simple darkness rather than feared blindness. Eventually, he could feel water trickling down his neck and under his collar. The damp and cold kiss of the ground began to seep into his clothing along with a smell he recognized but could not immediately place for several seconds. As he concentrated on it, rather than the pain of breathing, it came to him: Butane.
His stomach knotted at the thought then relaxed. Hell, he recalled, did not smell like lighter fluid. It smelled of sulfur. This place, wherever it was, was rank for certain, but it smelled more old and moldy than like rotten eggs.
As he tried to assess his condition and location, a voice called out to him from somewhere above.
"Dean?" Sam croaked, his face coming into sharper focus somewhere on what appeared to be a ledge more than an arm's reach above Dean.
"Sam?" he replied in a raspy voice slowly easing himself up from what appeared to be a large, sunken puddle that mingled ground water with accelerant.
His eyes began to focus and he spied the sky above. It was inky dark and the ground around him, which stretched upward toward the heavens. The air was cold and still. A slight mist hung to the ground around Sam's looming face.
"Yeah, man," his brother coughed and reached a long arm over the edge of the sodden grave bed. His lank, damp, long locks of hair hung to his chin. "Are you okay?"
"What the hell happened?" Dean struggled to his feet, a sharp pain in his shoulders, his head throbbing as his breath continued to hitch. "Wait, first, how old are you?"
"So, joking, great," Sam began in a perturbed voice. "Sorry, I was concerned."
"I'm not joking," Dean snapped. "Answer the friggin' question, Sam!"
Dean's eyes, although having a hard time focusing on any one spot for long as the world grew blurry and tilted at odd angles every few seconds, were reporting to him that the Sam before him was not the one he was expecting. The hair was too long. The eyes were too knowing and sad. His pallor was sickly and his voice worried but not terrified. From the moment Dean had realized he was laying at the bottom of the wet grave bed again, he suspected this outcome. The difficult part was determining how he felt about it.
"I'll be 30 in a few weeks," Sam replied, stifling a rattling cough in his chest. "Why are you asking me something you know the answer to already? Are you okay?"
"Let me think about that one," Dean grumbled, peaking his head above ground to the same lumpy landscape on the same chilly raw night that he departed without warning nearly two weeks earlier. "Is it still Saturday, and are we still in Vermont?"
"Yeah, of course," Sam coughed again, grabbing onto Dean's shoulder and hauling him out of the soggy grave. "We're right where we were two minutes ago when you were bitching about the weather."
"And you're not creeped out because we're in a graveyard, that we know angels and crap like that?" he groaned.
"What?" Sam offered him a puzzled face. "Creeped out by a graveyard? Not since I was 10 and angels? Dean, what's going on? I know you're worried about lately Cas, but…"
"So that must mean it's 2013 again," Dean grumbled and buried his face in his hands. "Friggin' awesome."
"Again?" Sam questioned, and shone a small flashlight in his brother's face only to have it batted away quickly. He turned it instead to the back of Dean's head to examine him. "Man, did you hit your head? Wow. Crap, you did. You're bleeding pretty good."
Dean felt Sam's behemoth palm suddenly pressing against the side of his head as he fumbled with his coat to strip it off. It took Dean a moment to realize Sam was stripping off his outer shirt and pressing it to some gash in his head to stop the blood flow. Dean struggled away, his stomach flipping and rolling as he did so. He got to his feet and waited for his vision to level out.
"I'm fine," Dean grumbled.
"Right, Reverend Haynes grabbed you and threw you so hard your head split open, and you weren't sure what year it was, but you're fine," Sam recapped, wincing in sympathy as he looked at the cut in the darkness.
"He did?" Dean asked, pulling away from Sam's ministrations.
"Yeah," Sam explained. "I felt it get cold and then you yelped and went flying. That cut doesn't look too big, but you're bleeding enough that you'll need stitches. Might have a concussion, too."
Dean looked around. The vile and thick mist still hung on the air. His salt gun was on the ground where he dropped it. Sam looked back at him with a confused and weary expression. Dean shook his head then pulled back the collar of his T-shirt. Even in the dark night, he could see the faint outline of the tattoo on his chest. He quickly snatched at Sam's collar, pulling it downward over his brother's protests.
"What are you doing?" Sam demanded, swatting Dean's hand aside. "Okay, I know you hit your head and it's been a long time since you 'scored one for the home team,' but I am not here to give you a peep show, dude."
Dean shook his head and did not explain. He was satisfied Sam's tattoo was fully healed and therefore and been in place for years. He next rubbed his side probingly and no longer felt the large surgical scar.
"And now you're giving yourself a breast exam?" Sam wondered with a mystified expression. "Dean, what the hell is going on?"
"Son of a bitch," Dean spat and kicked a nearby headstone, sending a bolt of pain up his leg that made him swear even more loudly.
"Hey, knock it off," Sam warned in a quieter tone. "We don't need to attract any attention. Now, are you okay or not?"
"Friggin' fantastic," he groused and shook some mud from his clothing. "Back in 2013. Awesome. Bastard screwed me over, screwed us over. Perfect." He turned his head toward the dark, cloud-filled sky and shouted his anger. "Serves you right being dead you arrogant sanctimonious prick! Instrument of destiny my ass."
Sam winced at his brother's elevated decibels and shook his head.
"Okay, hey, keep your voice down," Sam counseled, placing a steadying and calming hand on Dean's shoulder. "What are you talking about, man? Who is dead? The reverend? Isn't he the reason we're here?"
Dean shook his head. He looked back down into the grave with the bone fragments and ring of salt around them. He looked back to Sam for a clue that he had any idea something might have happened. From his blank expression, it appeared the answer was a big, fat, sucking no.
"When I realized the reverend was trying to stop us, I crawled over to the bag and began flinging salt everywhere," Sam shrugged. "I thought you'd have lit the bones, but when I turned around I couldn't see you so I figured you fell in the hole. I called your name a few times before you answered. Man, I thought you were hurt."
"I'm fine," Dean scowled and reached into his pocket for a book of matches. "You okay? You were puking up a lung before—that's what got me distracted."
"I'm okay," Sam shook his head and stifled another cough. "Just… damp air, that's all. You're right. Maple syrup or not, Vermont kind of sucks this time of year."
Dean nodded, accepting the statement without question as his mind was on other things. He stripped one match off the pack and used it to light the whole book. With a rueful shake of his head, he dropped the flame into the grave and watched as the accelerant at the bottom ignited quickly. The sound of hissing followed and suddenly some of the oppressive cold hanging on the air lifted. Whether that was due to the fire burning below their feet or the death of the malevolent spirit he had just dispatched, he didn't know. Nor did he care. What was certain was that his ass was soaking wet with lighter fluid and grave water, which meant he was not leaving Vermont that night. They would be returning to their crap motel so he could shower and crash for a few hours before hitting the road.
"Grab a shovel, Sammy," Dean said listlessly as the flames died down. "I've had a long friggin' day."
oOoOoOo
"You think it was real?" Sam asked, staring back at his brother with wide eyes.
His own recent brush with a time and place out of phase with his own life was fresh in his mind. He had held that experience back from Dean out of a sense of worry and fear what the revelation would do to his brother. Making Dean ache for the things he could have had but lost was not a cruelty Sam wanted to visit upon the man who had sacrificed so much to care for him. He also feared Dean would hear the tale and fear the first trial had loosened the screws in Sam's mind…again.
Dean, however, imparted his tale after they returned to their motel room. Leaving Vermont that night was ill advised considering their beaten up and mentally exhausted conditions. Laying low for a few more hours and getting in showers was a better plan. Having done that and thrown their dirt soaked clothing into bags to be washed at the next laundromat they found, Sam set about putting few stitches into Dean's scalp to stop the bleeding. While assessing whether he had a mild or slightly more than mild concussion, Dean decided to tell his brother what happened. He wasn't sure he should, but he did it anyway.
Sam's first offered theory was that it was all Dean's imagination following a bump on his head from getting thrown into a gravestone and then tossed into the grave. On the surface, that explanation seemed reasonable. Dean's counter argument that reasonable and logical weren't part of their normal MO didn't sway Sam initially. So Dean grabbed the laptop and surfed for a few moments until he found what he was looking for.
Dean dug up an old news article on the town of Eudora, Kansas. In the fall of 2005, a young girl named Hailey Chilton, whose father died in Iraq, was killed in her family home. Originally, police arrested the mother as she was the only one with access to the child, but a coroner's report showed the injuries were too extensive to have been inflicted by the small, frail woman. An unknown intruder was blamed. The child died of the multiple blunt force trauma injuries. The home then mysterious burned a two months later, wiping out all of Althea Chilton's belongings. Dean suspect a hunter's involvement but couldn't be sure.
"And you never heard about the case from Bobby or Dad or anyone?" Sam asked. Dean confidently and sorrowfully shook his head. "So… okay… Well… Um… Are you alright?"
"Am I alright?" Dean blinked.
"Yeah," Sam nodded. "You just found out that someone you saved didn't actually get saved. That tends to put you in a… mood, like the downward spiral, I-need-to-punish-myself-and-go-kamikaze-on-somethi ng-to-make-it hurt-less sort of mood."
Dean scowled and rolled his eyes.
"I don't get moods, Sam," Dean argued. "That's your thing. You brood; you whine; you stew… Hell, you ovulate for all I know. Me? I get pissed. I get impatient. I get even when I can."
Sam shook his head and waved off the impending argument. Dean didn't like admitting he had feelings on a good day, or night as the case may be. This, certainly was neither.
"So you saw Mom and Dad?" Sam asked carefully, going over the details his brother offered.
Dean nodded. He had explained as much as he felt he should, but not everything. He held back the part about Bobby, mostly because of him being a homicidal maniac. Sam went the full Menendez on the old hunter when he was without his soul; Dean figured Bobby never getting to have the boys in his life to give him balance was the same thing (hard to forgive but just as hard to lay blame) so he was giving the guy a pass by neglecting to mention his involvement.
He also held back some of the more innocent details. Some of the bits, like getting made blueberry pancakes and things like that, seemed cruel to impart, although Dean suspected those were the things he would remember most (and would pain him the most). It simply wasn't fair. Sam never knew their mother. Adding more details that he would never experience seemed like inflicting torture on him, and Dean couldn't purposefully cause his brother that kind of pain. It was his job to protect his little brother, to save him from as many hurts as the world might try to lay down on him, so Dean surely wasn't going to add to the pile.
Sam sat on the bed, absorbing the details his brother imparted. He was skeptical until the news articles about the Chilton's panned out. His doubts grew out mostly of the whole disclosure of the tale. Dean gave up the story too readily. Sam was more used to his brother denying things and holding them in, but it was as if he could no longer stomach any lies, not even his own—not even those he told in an effort to protect his younger brother.
Next, part of Sam just wanted to doubt the truth of it. Not that he did not think such a thing, traveling to time with a different fate for their family, could happen. He'd experience something similar himself recently. Even without that, he certainly knew it could happen with the right kind (or more accurately wrong kind) of magic. He even knew the spell Dean referenced. Sam had seen it in the library back at their compound. He paid it little attention though because Sam knew reality jumping and time traveling were never the answer (something reaffirmed to him recently). It seemed that no matter what they did, nothing ever really changed. The only aspect of Dean's story other than the Chilton's that made Sam lean toward it being the truth rather than the delirious thoughts from a concussion was Dean's role in it. There was no way his brother's twisted and self-loathing mind would afford him the fantasy of a near-perfect life where he was happy and loved with everything he wanted and a desire to keep it that way. It figured that it would take Dean's Herculean savior/persecution complex to wreck his own paradise—a good life was something only Dean didn't think he deserved.
"So Mom and Dad were divorced, but still had a thing going on?" Sam inquired. Dean nodded and smirked. "That's a little… odd and kind of… I mean, I know they were adults but… I kind of don't want to think about them… you know….."
"You're telling me," Dean shook with the memory. "I think he might have been grabbing her ass in the kitchen once when I walked in on them talking."
"Okay, wow, I did not need that visual," Sam offered with a shudder.
"Dude, she used the terms hook up and friends with benefits, so if I gotta live with that in my head so do you," Dean scoffed. "Oh, and get this, the old man was driving a friggin' chick car—a sporty Chrysler—because Mom liked it. Can you believe that? She divorces the guy, takes his house, constantly busts his balls over us and apparently still got to call the shots on what cars he drove. See, that is why marriage is a bad idea all around."
Sam shook his head but did not bother to point out to his brother he was missing the point of marriage or to note that he had just done the unthinkable in Dean's universe: criticize Mary Winchester. Sam wondered briefly if this outing to elsewhere would taint their mother's memory in Dean's mind, but he pushed that thought aside quickly. In spite of the recent encounter, Sam was certain nothing could mar his brother's devotion to his memory of the woman. Sam missed her, ached to know her actually, but his love of their mother was more fantasy. He had no independent memories of Mary Winchester from his own childhood. It was his brother's beloved memories of her, the ones Dean was willing to share, that made her real to Sam. For Dean, however, their mother was locked in his broken and unhealing heart with all his precious memories of her piled around her, protectively cocooning her from any further harm. After all, there was only one photo ever in Dean's wallet; the only picture he placed in his room at their hidden compound: One of he and his mother. Sam knew there wasn't a force, natural or supernatural, that could ever shake Dean's love of her.
"And I was going to law school, you had a degree in…?" Sam continued fishing for details.
"Yeah, a friggin' college degree, in mechanical engineering," Dean scoffed, pressing an ice pack to the wound on his head. "Whatever the hell that is."
Sam grinned, finding it yet another quirk of his brother's denial of his intelligence that in this other reality he had gravitated to a field Sam was certain Dean would excel in here if given the chance. Dean thought Sam was just overstating things in a pep talk when he called his brother a genius, but he wasn't. Sam truly believed it. Dean had never focused on school because of their circumstances, not because of any defect or infirmity of his mind.
"It's building an EMF meter out of a broken Walkman," Sam explained, offering an expression that said he did not find Dean's degree as farfetched as his older brother did. "And Meg and Balthazar saved you? I mean, sent you back. Why?"
"Well, he sent me back here instead of back further to fix… whatever," Dean shrugged, rubbing his temples as he began typing on the laptop again. "Actually, the more I think about it, he probably did it to screw me—I mean, a dick is a dick, right? As for how this whole fiasco started, he thought only an angel could do it, cast the original spell that accidentally sent me back in the first place, He figured that since it'll seem like it didn't work whoever tried it is unlikely to try again."
"I suppose, but who in Heaven have you pissed off that much recently?" Sam wondered.
"I think the fact you and I still exist is enough motivation for the flying ass monkeys on the god squad, don't you?" Dean scowled. Sam nodded. "As for Meg… well, she helped because I lied to her. A little. We bonded over our mutual hate of Crowley. At the end, I stuck her with a knife in the throat to get her blood for the spell, so win-win."
Sam rolled his eyes. Dean did not relish carnage, but he did enjoy harming demons when he could. He might have felt worse for the possessed victim, but they had already killed Meg's first hostage. In his heart, Sam know that, given the chance in the altered timeline, Dean would have saved her if he could.
"So your plan was really to stay?" Sam asked. He could see the haunted look on Dean's face. "You'd have walked away from this life, I mean us as we are, for that? You'd rather have lived that life?"
"I thought so," Dean said simply. "It was better for both of us. We weren't real close, but… We got along well enough. You were going to school and going to be a regular kind of person. I was set with my… job, so I was going to make sure you were safe and happy until things started to go south."
"You were going to take care of me, still?" Sam asked and shook his head in a frustrated way. "Who was going to take care of you?"
Dean paused. To him, the answer should have been obvious: Himself. No one took care of Dean. However, having been there, there was another possible answer: his mother. For once in his life, he would have had someone in his corner, fully, 100 percent and willing to do anything at all, go to any length, to watch out for him and watch over him. John certainly would have been there for him as well, but Mary was more focused on the parenting role. She probably would have mothered him to death, or into fleeing from her eventually, but he would have come back to her (dragging along a grandchild and acceptable wife if he knew what was good for him as an act of contrition). Forgiveness for going too far was something Dean was familiar with. He looked up at his brother, who was trying and failing to read his thoughts. Dean felt a twinge of pain in his chest that had nothing to do with the bruised ribs he was sporting.
"I didn't need any help," Dean shook his head. "Life was… good."
He left much of his personal details out of the story as well. He'd told Sam about their educational accomplishments and their parents. He told him even about the family movie and Mary's boxes o'childhood crap gifts that she treasured, but he'd left out any mention of the Cubs or his career. Dean didn't know why, but that was something he wanted to hang onto, something just for him. It was grandiose and exciting and childish. Yes, it was a little boy's dream, and Dean wanted to keep it that.
Sam paused at his brother's pronouncement that he didn't need someone to watch over him. He understood that. Dean was always going to be Dean. Family mattered more than he did in Dean's view. Having them all back was something Sam wanted too, but probably not as much as Dean wanted it and needed it. He watched his brother carefully, not bothering to hide his interest, although Dean was doing his best to pretend he didn't notice. Instead, Dean continued to look at the computer screen then checked his voicemail and frowned. Sam offered him a raised eyebrow inquiry as he hung up.
"Kevin's been fed and watered for another week," Dean answered, looking up then gesturing to his phone. "Message from Garth. Also got a call from someone I used to know who needs a favor—one of our kinds of favors."
"Someone you used to know?" Sam asked, not surprised his brother was changing the subject from his foray into what might have been into business as usual. "Who do you still know who isn't dead? Or is a ghost calling you?"
"No, a cop," Dean said then shrugged. "He thinks he's got a situation for us. He sort of knows what we do—the old, routine salt and burn stuff. He helped me out with a thing while you were at college. He's… uh…. got a problem. Take us about six hours, not including the ferry ride."
"Ferry?" Sam asked.
Sam's chest felt like it was slashed to ribbons from the inside and ferries meant water which meant more moisture, yet six hours from where they were could only mean an ocean-side location. Early spring on the Atlantic coast, the north Atlantic at that, didn't mean warmth, but there was something appealing about seaside air. Like tears for him and sweat for Dean, the healing powers of salt water were not to be denied.
"I'm game if you are," Sam shrugged. "Just let me do the driving. I'm pretty sure you're still seeing double."
Dean shook his head. Sammy the worrywart. He was the one being tested by trials created by the most merciless bastard of them all, God, and he was worried that his brother got his bell rung ever so slightly. Dean scoffed but did not fight the pronouncement. He typed a few more things into the search engine then looked squarely at his brother.
"Fine, but once that job is done, if Kevin doesn't have any news for us on the second trial, I've got another case lined up for us," Dean said assuredly.
"All ready?" Sam blinked. "You just picked up one the phone two minutes ago. Where'd this next one come from?"
"Old case," Dean said. "I'm a little surprised I never thought to look into it before now. I mean, it's kind of huge. If we deal with it, thousands of people will be spared anguish and heartbreak."
Sam looked at his brother questioningly as he turned the computer screen to face it. The search engine had pulled up the homepage for the Chicago Cubs.
"I don't understand," Sam shrugged. "What's the deal with Wrigley Field?"
"The Chicago Cubs and their century old curse, Sam," Dean nodded and grinned as he closed the laptop then handed it to his brother to pack for the night. "We need to break it. Trust me, Sammy. I feel like it's… uh… my destiny."
"Destiny?" Sam looked at him doubtfully.
"Alright fine then," Dean relented. "I've earned the right to see a friggin' pro baseball game in person once in my actual life."
THE END
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A/N: Thanks for tagging along for the ride. I tried to wrap up what loose ends I could. It is true, ends are hard, always messy and generally aren't loved by one and all.
I've got a few more Supernatural stories rattling around in my brain (I need to do something to get through the summer with no new adventures for the Winchesters on TV). If you think you might be interested in any of my other stories, just favorite me as an author so when they pop up you'll be among the first to know. Thanks again for reading and for all your reviews and thanks even more to those who have given my novel a try. I'm off to finish the sequel (or rather, book two of the trilogy as it stands now). Allegedly, this second novel will be published in December… wish me luck on curing the professional writer's block...