Feel like a jackass talking about boys in my goddamn journal. Feel like a jackass writing one in the first place, but Bobby got me started at an early age and wouldn't let me quit, and I guess it's too late now. Get the hell over it, he said. It's not just for girls, it's about learning from your mistakes and keeping track of what you know and maybe helping out anybody who reads it after you're gone. I get that, but anybody cracks this thing open when I'm dead, doesn't matter where I am, I'm coming back and ripping their lungs out.
Ought to just be writing about hunts, pretty sure that's what he does. But I guess deep down, I'm twirling a pigtail around my finger and sucking on a lollipop, putting hearts on my i's and hoping the football captain asks me to prom.
Fuck, I hate this.
Bobby doesn't know, course he doesn't. How in the hell would I tell him? "Hey Dad, you know how you keep bitching me out about all the girls in all the towns? Well, don't gotta worry about that anymore, cause actually I'm a queer. Except you do have to worry about it because I like both. Guys, girls. Cock and pussy. Yeah, apparently that's a thing."
He'd be cool with it. Never gave a shit about anything like this, doesn't think it's a big deal, or a choice, or an illness. Wouldn't have to worry about him dumping me in the nearest nuthouse. Know he knows guys who happen to swing the wrong way. Girls, too. So do I. And he doesn't have a whole lot of patience for hunters who think it's a curse or some monster thing. He's a good guy. He'd be cool with it.
Only reason I'm being a little bitch about it is it's been years since I figured this out, and I'm still not sure I'm cool with it.
- Personal journal of Dean Singer, c. 1978
Motel rooms were interesting, sometimes. They were embarrassing, they were gross. Sam had seen hundreds, probably thousands, over the course of his life, all of them falling somewhere along a vast spectrum. Sometimes they just...were. Like this one. Lots of beige, easy-clean carpet, abstract watercolors on the walls. Sam barely even saw it.
This was the third room in as many days, something Sam knew but was tired enough to have to double-check against his own memory as he walked in. They were moving way more slowly than they had on the way up to Vermont, turning in earlier, spending less time on the road. Sam could hardly complain.
Sam stretched on his way to the bed, one elbow up, opposite hand tugging his bicep over. Dean, coming in behind him with their bags in hand, whistled when his back popped.
"Jesus," he commented. "That doesn't sound good."
"Feels a whole lot better, though." Sam turned and flopped backwards onto the mattress, which sagged and creaked but not too bad. He'd had worse. He groaned from low in his chest when the weight came off his spine. "It's been months. You'd think I'd be used to being in the car all day by now."
"I'm just impressed by how little you've been bitching." Dean dropped their bags by the foot of the bed. Sam had a forearm over his eyes, but could feel him standing there, looking down at him. Fingers met his knee, probed a small tear in the denim to affectionately touch bare skin. "Want me to feel out your back? Might be something I can do. Healing's never been way up in my wheelhouse but I've been getting better, with you around."
"I'm okay. You better save your mojo. Just, y'know...in case."
Rufus's coordinates, as it had turned out, were in Georgia. In the Appalachians, to be exact. Just south of the Great Smokey Mountains.
"You think Bobby's got another cabin out there?" Sam had asked a couple days earlier, frowning at a map.
"I didn't even know about the first one," Dean replied, dispassionate. Sam didn't bring it up again.
Getting to Georgia from Vermont meant traveling through the eastern part of the country. And that, unfortunately, meant other demons. A lot of them. They had to make frequent detours to give them as wide a berth as possible, which was part of the slow pace. There was always the risk of one, or more, they couldn't avoid, though. Demons like Jake, who'd learned how to hide themselves from a Knight's infernal radar, and maybe even an angel, too.
There were also hunters. They were harder to avoid, but easier to recognize. And to sneak past.
"It doesn't run dry too easy," Dean pointed out. "And it comes back quick when it does."
"Still." Sam's back wasn't going to stop hurting anytime soon, so he forced himself up and started taking his shoes off. Dean's fingers left his knee.
"What d'you want for dinner?" he asked in his "I don't care how big your lunch was" voice.
"Uh..." Sam squinted. He was hungry, he had to eat. But it was hard to identify something that sounded good through the fog of fast food and gas station fare that'd filled the last week. "Maybe pizza?"
"That weird one you like? With the mozzarella, and the tomatoes?"
"Margherita." Sam pried his unlaced boots free of his feet. "Yeah, sure."
"Awesome." Dean turned towards the door. "Be back in a bit."
"Wait," Sam protested. Of course he only thought of this now his shoes were off. "I'll go with you. Don't know what kinda pizza parlors they've got around here, but they've gotta be different than rest stops, or motel rooms...or the car." He was itching for a change of scenery.
Dean eyed him for a second, but it didn't take him long to make up his mind. "Yeah, I don't think so."
"Why not?" Sam did his best not to demand, or whine.
"We're pretty deep in enemy territory here, Sam." Dean waved a hand as if to indicate the entire region. "We just got finished putting down salt and stuff, and...I hate this, but you've got Clarence on guard duty outside. You're safe in the room." Dean shook his head. "Not so much somewhere else."
"Not even with you?" Sam raised his eyebrows.
Disappointingly, Dean didn't take the bait. "Not around here." He began to toss his keys up in the air and catch them, except they floated back into his palm like a jagged snowflake, slowed by a breath of telekinesis. Sam watched that with a knot in his stomach. "I'll go get your pizza. Unless you're in the mood to fight about this?"
There was a barely-there bite to his voice that promised to give Sam what he was looking for, if that was the case. Part of that was just Dean, and Sam, too, who they were together. Part of it was whatever lightning-and-battery-acid mixture Dean had been carrying in his veins lately, bitter and sharp and wearing his skin thin as paper.
He was better, much better. Still hadn't spilled what'd happened at the beach house, and Sam hadn't asked again, but he wasn't snapping or snarling every time he spoke any more. The ring Rufus'd given him to block the effects of Castiel's presence seemed to have helped the most. His tension still flared like a grease fire a few times every day, though. Maybe it was because they were driving through land crawling with demons and hostile hunters. Maybe it was because they were heading back south. Maybe it was something Sam couldn't even hope to get.
He let it go. "Get me, like, a personal one. I feel guilty every time I gotta toss half a large."
Dean nodded, satisfied. Maybe relieved, too. Sam heard him snark something at Castiel as he left, but didn't pick up a response before the door closed.
Sam turned on the TV and flipped through the slightly-fuzzy channels. Casa Erotica - he'd thought you had to pay for that. Dr. Sexy, M.D. A horror movie where the premise seemed to be you could only see ghosts through a cell phone camera, which was...actually, that might work, he should test it sometime. But the movie itself failed to hold his interest.
He realized before too much longer that he wasn't going to be able to stay awake on his own. Stepping into his boots and grabbing his wallet, Sam headed outside, trailing laces. He walked past Castiel on his way to the nearby vending machine. The angel, staring straight ahead, didn't even seem to see him.
Sam cleared his throat. "What, nothing to say?" he asked neutrally, back to Castiel. It seemed like he'd always had an unsolicited opinion about Sam or Dean or their relationship back in Texas, and at least part of the way up to Vermont. He'd been much quieter lately, though.
There was a flapping of fabric, as if Castiel had shook himself, and Sam glanced over his shoulder to see him blinking at him. "Did you say something?"
"Yeah." The handful of quarters that Sam'd been feeding into the machine as he scanned his options began to vibrate suddenly, jingling bright against each other. He snapped his fingers closed over them and squeezed, tight. "But it doesn't matter."
He guessed that was another thing that could be stressing Dean out. Sam had been having incidents since leaving Rufus's place. No visions, no violent telekinetic episodes. Just small things that felt like his soul misfiring. Loose junk rattling in the Impala's glovebox, a hairline crack snapping into a plastic diner glass, a circle of gravel around Sam bouncing maybe half an inch in the air and then immediately dropping at a rest stop. Dean hadn't said anything. Neither had Castiel. But he knew they had to have felt it, if not seen it.
Sam shoved the rest of the change in, punched the Diet Coke button. He grabbed the bottle, but paused next to Castiel on his way back into the room. He'd returned to staring blankly out at nothing, the light banked in his blue eyes.
Sam studied him concernedly, mouth opening partway as he tried to decide whether or not to say something. Castiel was obnoxious as hell and didn't get along with Dean; had been overly vocal about his dislike, actually. But he didn't seem keen on leaving Sam's life anytime soon. And maybe Sam just wanted a distraction from his own issues.
"Are you okay?" he asked Castiel. That startled him all over again, and Sam felt bad. "You've been...really out of it lately."
"I'm sorry." Castiel raised a hand to rub at his vessel's scruff. "It's...difficult to focus on outside stimuli when I'm communicating with other angels."
Sam blinked. "You've been talking to other angels?"
"Our long-distance communication is confined to non-verbal wavelengths," Castiel clarified. "It's also how we stay in contact with Heaven. We're able to send messages to the Host as a whole and to specific other angels, and only we can hear them, so the information is secure."
"So it's like," Sam started, gesturing, "like a radio."
Castiel cocked his head.
"Never mind." Sam did not feel like explaining that right now. "What're you guys talking about? I mean, can you tell me?"
Castiel pressed his lips together and exhaled loud through his nose. It was such a perfectly-human gesture it caught Sam by surprise.
"My garrison aren't pleased with me," he admitted.
"Why not?" Sam already had a hunch, honestly.
"They feel I've been far too lax with Dantalion, allowing him to stay so close to you," Castiel explained, something that could've come across as fatigue in his voice. "They also believe you should be learning how to use your powers already."
"Well..." Sam awkwardly opened his Coke. The bottle hissed when the seal was broken, which prompted a fascinated and puzzled look from Castiel. "Oh, it's. It's carbonated. The soda's under pressure, so it makes that noise when it hits the air." He pointed at the bottle, then went back to the subject at hand. "Anyway. It's not like we gave you much of a choice on either of those things."
"To my captain," Castiel began then, disgustedly, added, "the one Dantalion claims to be...acquainted with, that isn't an excuse." Sam sipped his Coke. It still needled him every time Dean's Knight name came out of Castiel's mouth, but Dean had stopped correcting him and Sam was following his lead. "I believe she'd understand if I could explain the situation properly, but unfortunately, I haven't had an opportunity."
"She won't listen?" Sam frowned.
"Our superior...my direct superior, currently," Castiel explained. "He's in charge of the current Messiah project, was assigned to it by Michael himself and reports directly to him. My orders come from this angel, not Annanel, and I'm supposed to be speaking largely to him. And he is...very eager for results."
"I'm sorry," Sam told Castiel. "I know how it is, dealing with somebody like that. Having 'em breathing down your neck." His father came immediately to mind, as did a lot of the hunters he'd worked with as a researcher. "I'm part of the reason you're going through this right now."
"You don't need to apologize, Sam." Castiel shook his head, lifting his hand. "I have some experience with humans. Not much, but some, and it's why I was chosen for this assignment. I'm confident in my methods." He eyed Sam. "My brethren don't have all the details, but I'm fully aware forcing you towards your destiny, or away from Dantalion, would be disastrous."
At least there was that. "Those other angels aren't gonna, y'know, come check up on you, are they?"
"Not yet. They're somewhat appeased by my talking you out of the other Trials." Sam sucked his teeth. "I don't see a reason to tell them that wasn't actually my doing."
"Right." Sam coughed, then took another drink of his soda. The silence stretched out, Castiel seemingly content to let it, then finally Sam, uncomfortable, offered, "After we've got this Bobby thing wrapped up. Maybe...maybe we can talk about what you said back on the beach, the getting my powers under control. Learning to use them."
Castiel seemed surprised completely by that, although not in a bad way. He scrutinized Sam, frowning, forehead furrowed between his brows. "Do you want that because it's the right thing for you to do, or to help me?"
Sam hadn't been expecting that, for Castiel to care enough to make the distinction.
"'Cause it's the right thing to do," he said eventually. "I owe it to myself, and Dean, to fix this." He also owed it to everyone else to get to a point where he could finish the Trials, but didn't say that. "I guess it's just a plus if it winds up helping you out, too."
Castiel nodded. Sam couldn't tell from his face how he felt about that answer.
"It's not gonna go away," Sam went on, "and you made it sound like it'd be really useful. What I can do with this." He swallowed the sour suggestion of fear and doubt on the back of his tongue. "It's time I started dealing with it."
Castiel nodded again, then told him, "That's a very wise decision, Sam." Sam wasn't quite sure if he was relieved, or proud, or if he was reading things into his tone that weren't even there.
He heard the always-familiar rumble of the Impala's engine then, and glanced over his shoulder to see it pulling into the snow-patched parking lot. Dean stopped in the space in front of their room, then climbed out, looking less than happy. He always looked like that these days, though, and he didn't seem nearly as mad about finding Sam talking to Castiel as Sam might've expected. Maybe he was getting used to him.
"Got your pizza." Dean lifted a red-and-white box. "Let's break it up."
Sam went back into the room, Dean following. It was at least a little bit of a relief to get in from the cold. When Dean set the pizza down on the table, Sam flipped the lid up to inspect it. It was small, and looked good.
"What was he talking to you about?" Dean asked as he pulled a chair out for Sam. "How getting nailed to a cross doesn't actually hurt that bad?"
"Uh...no." Sam put his Coke off to the side and picked up a slice of pizza.
They spent the next couple days following an eyelid-vein map of snaking, rundown back roads, most of which didn't even have names. It was agonizingly slow and absolute hell on the car's suspension. Dean bitched near-constantly about the second thing, but they were moving south, and staying far away from other demons. Castiel seemed impressed with Dean's commitment to that.
It was a beautiful day in rural Georgia, at the foot of the mountains they'd soon enter in search of Bobby. The sky was a rich, shocking, wake-you-up shade of blue, and it was warm despite the snow on the ground and in the trees. Warm enough to be comfortable sitting out on the Impala's sunwarmed hood in nothing but a light jacket.
They'd stopped at a roadside barbecue for lunch. Sam'd thought places like this closed down at the end of summer, but not this one, obviously. He had a box on his lap, two baked chicken sandwiches that'd come with potato wedges, coleslaw, and a soda in it, and was sitting with Dean as he ate, hips pressed together, boots dangling down over the grill. Castiel was wandering slowly around, taken with the surrounding forest.
There was a lot to worry about. Demons, Trials, working on his Messiah powers with Castiel, exactly what they'd find at the coordinates Rufus had given them. Right now, though, Sam was happy. The food was good, Dean was here, the Appalachians were gorgeous. It was peaceful in a way he'd been craving.
"Feel like I owe you an apology." Dean broke the silence unexpectedly, voice quiet.
Sam swallowed a mouthful of coleslaw, then looked at him where he was leaning back against the windshield, confused. "What for?"
"Haven't really been acting like myself lately," Dean began, and Sam shook his head.
"We talked about this. You told me what's going on." And he still wasn't sure he believed him, but he'd made up his mind to let it go, which might get hard if Dean wouldn't.
"No, I'm an asshole," Dean said stubbornly. "That's just who I am. Who I was before I picked these up, even." He pointed to his eyes, which were not currently black. "But I've been worse than usual for a while now, and that ain't fair to you.
"It's fine." Sam wiped barbecue sauce off his thumb with a napkin. "Look, don't even worry about it, I get it. We've both been under a lot of stress lately, Dean, and god knows I've taken plenty out on you before."
Dean grunted. Sam thought, for a moment, that was the end of the conversation, but Dean changed the subject instead.
"Appreciate you tracking down Bobby." He was looking off into the trees, not at Sam, one hand behind his head and the other on his stomach. The heaviest thing he had on was a flannel, but it was probably balmy enough to justify that. "I know it's important to you, and I'm not gonna complain about finding out he's alive and okay." His green eyes flicked up to Sam's. "But I don't wanna see him if he's where we're going."
"Okay," Sam agreed, nodding. He understood. And this was Dean's dad. His choice. But, at the same time... "You're Bobby's son, though." He hoped he didn't regret saying this. "Soon as he figures out you're for sure who you say you are, he's gonna be thrilled to have you back in his life no matter - "
"That's not it," Dean interrupted, sounding slightly annoyed. Sam was momentarily knocked off track.
"Then...what's the problem?"
"I don't know, man, it's just - " Dean waved his hands in the air, frustrated. "How would we even introduce each other to him?"
"What're you talking about? He already knows both of us." Something clicked for Sam then, something he probably should've realized right away. He hadn't even considered it as an issue, though. He blinked. "Are you..." He shifted more towards Dean. "Dean, are you talking about coming out?"
Dean looked away, scowling. His pupils were boiling again. "My dad never knew I liked guys, if that's what you're asking."
"I am pretty sure he knew, Dean," Sam told him in the least-patronizing voice he could muster.
"He couldn't," Dean said flatly. "I never told him."
Sam took a second, pushing his tongue into his cheek, trying to process that and figure out what to do next. He finally shook his head.
"Okay. He didn't know," he agreed. "But I knew the guy, and I honestly think he'd be fine with it. And even if he wouldn't, under any other circumstances..." Sam made a face. "Seems like the demon thing kinda outweighs the gay thing."
"Being a demon is unquestionably worse," Castiel called over to the two of them. They were probably far enough away from the barbecue place not to be overheard, but Sam shot him a look anyway; better safe than sorry.
"Who in the hell asked you?" Dean demanded, sitting up and twisting to face Castiel. Something flicked, and when he looked at Sam again, his eyes had gone fully black. "Look, I can't even worry about the demon thing. It's just too big. The gay thing's almost too big, too, but neither of 'em matter, 'cause I'm not talking to Bobby." He shook his head. "You can tell him all about me if you want, but I'm waitin' in the car."
Pushing on this, Sam could already see, wouldn't end well. Hell, he didn't even have a right to push. He was starting to regret what he'd said already. "All right." He coughed. "You're right, I'm sorry. You don't have to talk to him and it's none of my business why."
"Yeah." Dean's eyes cleared with a blink. "Thanks." He nodded to the box on Sam's lap. "You done?"
Sam glanced down at the remains of his lunch. "Uh, guess so."
"Awesome. Pitch it, and then let's get this show back on the road." Dean jerked a thumb at the nearest trash can, then slid off the hood.
Sam did the same, making the short walk to the can and dropping the box in. This road must not get much traffic in winter; there wasn't a whole lot of other garbage in the bag. He was just turning back to the Impala when his phone started to buzz in his pocket. He pulled it out and frowned at the outside screen, but it was a name, not an unknown number: Garth. He answered.
"Hello?"
"Sam!" Garth was one of those people with a genuine and unquenchable love for life. He was bubbly, enthusiastic, and frequently excited, which could wear on someone after a while. But all that was very different from the panic that filled his voice right now. "Oh, boy, I am so glad you picked up. Listen to me, you guys are in a lot of trouble."
"What?" Sam asked, bewildered.
"Sammy!" Dean called. Sam glanced at the car to see Castiel had already gotten in the back seat. Dean waved towards the passenger side, and Sam held up an index finger, turning away.
"Garth, slow down." A breeze with some frosty teeth in it carried the roasting-meat smell of the barbecue place to Sam. So soon after eating, it made him feel a little sick. "What's going on?"
"I was channel-surfing," Garth started. "I'm working a case in New Mexico and the motel has cable, which is awesome, but...sorry. Anyway." Sam stood, boots in the snow, hand in his pocket, and wrestled a sigh back into his chest. "I hit a news station. One of the big ones." Garth paused. "It must've been Kubrik. He's the only one. And they said something about a cop up in Vermont, so I don't know if you guys've been - "
"What'd you see?" Sam demanded, although he got the feeling he already knew.
Before Garth could explain, the crunching of tires on ice and gravel made Sam turn. The barbecue stand sat at a sharp bend in the road, and three cars came around it in quick succession. Four-wheel drive, black and white, the fact they belonged to the sheriff's office painted large on their sides. The lights and sirens didn't come on until they were already in sight, shatters of red and blue ricocheting off the surrounding ice. A cook in a sauce-stained apron leaned over the stand's counter, then quickly ducked back inside.
Sam looked at Dean as the cars parked. He'd gotten in behind the wheel but was now scrambling out, then headed for Sam at a flat sprint that looked significantly faster than anything a human could've managed. Sam knew he'd teleport him as soon as he got a hand on him. It wouldn't look good, running from the cops. Especially not in a way they wouldn't understand. He wanted to figure out how to handle it differently, but Garth was freaking out into his ear, and officers were piling out of the cars with bulletproof vests on and guns out, and he couldn't think of anything. This seemed like the only option.
Feet from him, though, Dean faltered. Shock registered naked on his face, and he glanced around wildly like he was looking for something, hands coming up defensively. Sam was already swimming in adrenaline, and that dumped what felt like a gallon more of it into his bloodstream.
"Dean?" Sam took a step towards him. "What's the matter? Are they demons?"
"Hands up!" one of the officers barked. The sheriff himself, judging from the badge Sam saw on his vest when he glanced at him. "Back away from each other!" There were more than half a dozen of them, all with their guns trained on Sam and Dean. "Now!"
Sam obeyed, lifting his hands above his head and moving reluctantly backwards as Dean, agitated, replied, "I don't know. Thought I..." He trailed off, then looked at the officers, and one of his hands twitched further up. Sam thought immediately of Kubrik's house.
"I said, hands up!" the sheriff repeated, loud and angry. "This is your last warning, son!"
"Dean," Sam grated, voice low and urgent. Running from the cops was one thing. Killing them was something else entirely. "Don't."
Dean looked at him, and Sam shook his head. A second stretched out long and painful, but Dean eventually raised his hands. Towards the sky, not the officers.
"Then what d'you wanna do, Sam?" he demanded.
It finally occurred to Sam to wonder where the hell Castiel was. He glanced at the car and felt shock fall icy down his spine when he saw it was empty. "I don't know, but you can't - "
"Tall sumbitch!" The sheriff interrupted him, and of course there was no question he was talking to Sam. "Drop the phone!"
Sam did, letting it fall onto the wet grass next to his boot. Garth was nearly hysterical on the other end; he could hear him even after the phone hit the ground. He wished he'd taken a second, before being told to get his hands up, to thank Garth for trying to warn them and tell him it'd be okay.
"All right," Sam called to the officers. "Okay. Don't shoot, we - we'll cooperate."
Unsurprisingly, that didn't convince the cops to lower their guns. They started moving towards them through the picnic area next to the barbecue stand, slow, cautious. It made Sam wonder what they'd heard.
"Sam Winchester?" the sheriff asked. "Dean Singer?"
"Yeah." Sam couldn't imagine lying would help anything now, if they were at the top of the Most Wanted list or whatever. Dean stayed stonily silent.
They reached Dean first. Grabbed him roughly, shoved him face-first down onto a nearby picnic table, gray-weathered and covered with slush, so they could cuff him. He didn't resist, which surprised, relieved, and troubled Sam. Then they got to him.
Icy wetness halfway between snow and water splashed up around Sam when he slammed onto the table, and he grunted at the impact. It almost immediately started soaking into his T-shirt, biting over the bare skin of his chest. He looked at Dean as handcuffs were slung around his wrists and ratcheted tight, freezing slush squelching up into his ear and hair, expecting to be grabbed and teleported out from under the officers' hands at any second. Honestly, that was looking better and better.
But Dean wasn't reaching for him. Instead, he looked shocked again, laying on the table, face inches from Sam's. And confused, and mad, and...he might've been scared, too, which had the first threads of panic drawing sharp and tight around Sam's heart.
"You're under arrest for the murder of Gordon Walker," the sheriff announced grimly. "Plus breaking and entering, impersonating a federal agent, false imprisonment, and a whole bunch of other charges we can get to later."
Securely cuffed now, Dean was hauled up first, then Sam. The sheriff scrutinized them as dirty water ran down the side of Sam's face and neck, then looked slowly around.
"We were advised to be on the lookout for three of you. Possible kidnapping."
Kidnapping. That had to be Castiel. Where had his vessel come from? Had someone reported him missing?
"No," Sam said. A little roughly, after hitting the unforgiving wood of the table so hard. He had no idea where Castiel had gone, or why, or even if he was coming back. "It's just us."
The sheriff eyed him, then nodded, deciding either that he believed him or that it wasn't his problem. "You two've got the right to remain silent, then. Anything you say can and will be used against you in court..."
He kept rattling off their rights as they were frog-marched back to the cars, two cops holding onto each of them and the others with their guns at the ready. Sam glanced at his phone on the ground, which'd finally fallen silent, and hoped he could call Garth soon. Then he glanced at Dean, who mostly just looked mad now.
They frisked them near the cars, taking their angel blades, Sam's demon-killing knife, Dean's gun. The butterfly knife in Sam's boot, the coil of wire in Dean's pocket, their watches, their wallets. Sam even saw them pull Rufus's ring off Dean, bending his fingers back painfully to do it and ignoring the steel-melting glare he shot them.
"Just what in the hell are these?" One of the deputies, youngish, a cleft in his chin, seemed bewildered by the angel blades and the Kurdish dagger. Sam looked at him as he held them out to his colleagues.
"Who cares?" another deputy replied. This guy had a short, dark beard and a scar through his eyebrow. Sam was pretty sure he was the one who'd cuffed Dean. "Just bag 'em and let's get these assholes back to the station."
They moved to put them into the back seats of two separate cars. Sam pushed back against the firmly-guiding hands before he even realized what he was doing, and Dean balked outright.
"Aren't you taking us to the same place?" he demanded. "Just put us in one car."
"'Scuse me?" the sheriff asked him, incredulous. "Last I checked, I'm not the one in handcuffs. Don't think you're in much of a position to be asking us for favors." Dean was shoved unceremoniously into a car. "And we heard to keep you away from each other much as possible."
"Probably wanna suck each other off," said the guy with the cleft chin, prompting a chuckle from the other deputies, then uselessly warned "Watch your head" right as Sam nailed his skull on the door frame.
He heard Dean snarl wordlessly and, blinking past stars, called to him, "I'm fine, it's okay." He dropped onto the molded plastic seat. "Let it go."
"Oughta listen to your boyfriend," an officer suggested.
"Any of you asshats tell me what's gonna happen to my car?" Dean returned, dripping with venom. Sam's door was slammed then, but he didn't imagine anyone answered Dean.
The sheriff climbed in behind the wheel, joined by what Sam was pretty sure was the only female deputy. He hadn't gotten a good look at her outside, and all he could see of her now was her short auburn ponytail.
His head throbbed, and he had to lean forward uncomfortably because of how his hands were bound behind his back. His wet shirt was cold against him. There was a screen of metal mesh between him and the cops. He was focusing on breathing, thinking clearly, not obsessing over how badly he wished Dean were with him. He had a lot of questions, but knew better than to ask. This wasn't the first time he'd been arrested and his father had given him a good script to follow with the police, one that was mostly silence. Smart officers gave out plenty of rope to hang yourself with, and stupid suspects did it.
The sheriff started the engine and pulled onto the road. The other two cars were behind them, and Sam wondered which one Dean was in. He tried to keep the fact he didn't know out from under his skin.
The sheriff and the deputy were silent to begin with, but then she turned to look at him. Sam saw a slice of her face, no earrings, little makeup. A mole at the corner of her jaw. Voice low, she said, "Sir. We sure we just picked up Dean Singer?"
"Sure as hell looks like him," the sheriff replied with a grunt. He was in his forties, maybe, close-cropped black hair barely beginning to silver, but gave off a much older vibe. Maybe it was the thick Georgia drawl.
"Looks like the pictures we got in the system," the deputy agreed. "Just like the pictures. And the newest one we got's from back when most of us were in grade school. Or diapers." She paused. Sam doubted they knew he could hear them. "Sir, this guy oughta be in his fifties, and he's just not. I don't like this."
The sheriff exhaled, quiet for a second. Then he said, "Maybe he's got real great genes. Maybe he never skips the cold cream."
"Sir - "
"Corporal." The sheriff interrupted her firmly, respectfully. "I don't like it, either. But it's not gonna be our problem long. These guys're big fish and I already put out the word we got 'em. Somebody'll come for 'em today, tomorrow at the latest. All we gotta do 'til then's make sure they stay in their cells."
The deputy faced forward again, and neither she nor the sheriff said anything else on the way to the station. Sam kept thinking Dean or Castiel would appear in the back with him. They didn't. Maybe it was time to start worrying.
Hauled out of the car at the station, Sam was undeniably relieved to see Dean again. He saw something release in Dean's face when he caught sight of him. He must not have been a silent passenger; the deputies who'd been in his car looked like they'd spent the last hour walking around with pebbles in their shoes, and handled him roughly as they took the two of them into the station.
The building was located in the middle of the nearest town, older and, like most sheriff's offices Sam'd been in, could've been kept up better. The polished cement floors were cracked and the paint was faded.
The receptionist openly stared at them from behind her glasses as they were led past her and the currently-empty bullpen. She had a whole bunch of bobbleheads, mostly celebrities and athletes, lined up along the edge of her desk, and no sooner had Sam noted them than something spasmed like a sore muscle inside him. They all toppled over.
"Oh, jeez!" The receptionist hurried to pick them up. The sheriff stared hard at Sam, and he blinked back, embarrassed but not about to confess.
The station was small, only had three holding cells. They put Sam and Dean in two across from each other. Most of the officers left once they were locked away, leaving only the guy with the scar and the beard.
"Hands," he said shortly. Sam obeyed, turning and putting them through the opening in the door so he could take his cuffs off. When he faced forward again, rubbing sore wrists, the deputy was leaving, and Dean was still cuffed.
"Uh, hey," Sam blurted. "Excuse me? You forgot him."
The only response Sam got was a look the deputy shot him over his shoulder, blistering with so much raw contempt it landed like a physical blow. Then he left, door slamming behind him.
Shocked and uneasy, Sam stared at Dean, who stared back. He didn't look entirely thrilled with him, either.
"Great job," Dean congratulated, sarcastic. "Just some Grad-A decision-making back there, Sam."
The vitriol was unexpected and totally unwelcome. Sam chewed on his lower lip.
"Look, I'm...I'm sorry we're here," he started. "I'm sorry this happened. But are you seriously pissed I didn't want you murdering a whole bunch of police officers?"
"I'm pissed at all kindsa things right now," Dean replied with an angry shrug, one it couldn't've been comfortable to pull off in handcuffs.
"Well, y'know, it's not like you had to stand there and let 'em arrest you." Sam pointed out. He didn't want to get mad. It also didn't seem to be his choice. "Or sit through the whole ride here. You don't have to stay in that cell." He flung a hand out and ignored the gritty, uncomfortable knowledge that there had to be something else going on here, that they would've been long gone already if Dean was capable of it.
"Actually." Dean might as well've been spitting razor blades. "I do." He turned around to show Sam his cuffs.
Sam hadn't gotten a good look at them before now. At first glance, they looked like standard-issue police handcuffs, but from how they were reddening and burning Dean's wrists, he doubted they were made of stainless steel. And there were dozens upon dozens of tiny glyphs and sigils and spell systems worked into the metal, most of which Sam couldn't even make out from here.
They were way more complex than the ones Gordon had had on Dean, more complex than any binding cuffs Sam had ever seen before. He felt his mouth fall open slightly with a little pop.
"Yeah." Dean turned back around, face hard. "We got a problem."
"The guy who put 'em on you." Sam swallowed. "The way he looked at me, he...he definitely knows who we are. You think he could be a hunter?"
"Right now, I'm sure hoping he's a hunter." Dean shook his head. "When I was coming for you, right before I got there, I thought I felt..." He hesitated, then trailed off, looking away.
"What?" Sam took a step closer to the bars of his cell.
"I don't wanna freak you out," Dean warned. "It was just for a second. Could've been a fluke." Going off his face, he couldn't even pretend to believe that. "But I could've sworn I picked up on a real heavy hitter back there."
"And by heavy hitter." Sam grabbed one of the bars. "You mean...?"
"A Prince," Dean clarified. "Of Hell."
Sam felt his head cock, a lot like Castiel's, and he fumbled over a few different words before he managed to ask, "Which one?"
"Not mine." Dean sucked on the inside of one cheek. "I know what Azazel feels like, but the others...I never met any of 'em. I don't even know all their names."
"And you're sure it was a Prince?" Sam pressed.
"Too powerful to be anything else. Had it long enough to be sure about that." Dean looked at the door, as if expecting one of the deputies to burst through it wearing a pair of yellow eyes. "Wasn't a Lord, wasn't Cain."
Sam squeezed the bar, cold, firm metal, until pain splintered across his knuckles. "You think it knows we're here?"
"Honestly, Sam, I got no idea." Dean shrugged again. "I'm on incognito mode, but I don't know it'd stand up to a Prince if one's nearby and, y'know, actually trying to find me. The dickbag who cuffed me might be possessed, or working with it all on his own. And even if it can't feel me, and Sergeant Jackass's just one of Kubrik's special friends, there's a half-decent chance it might pick up on your - "
The fluorescent lights above them buzzed, crackling harshly all of a sudden, flickering in a violent strobing pattern. They both looked up. Sam bit the tip of his tongue as he struggled to get a grip on whatever inside him was shorting the wiring. He could feel it, but he couldn't find it, and he wasn't sure he could've stopped it even if he did. All he could do was wait for it to subside on its own.
When the lights finally evened out, he and Dean looked at each other again.
"Yeah," Dean said, no inflection. "Your that."
Sam swallowed, pained. He wanted to apologize, tell Dean he couldn't control it, that he was going to try as hard as he could to get it in hand, but he was sure he knew all that already. Saying it out loud would feel cheap, empty.
After a few seconds of silence, Dean sighed and looked away, shaking his head. He'd been cooling off since he showed Sam his cuffs, but now the last of the anger fell visibly right out of him.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "Should've kept going, should've grabbed you and got you the hell outta there. This is my fault. 'S my job to protect you, and I couldn't do that."
"Dean..." Sam shook his own head as he leaned on the bars. "That's not your job. You're my boyfriend, not my bodyguard; you don't have anything to apologize for. We're gonna figure this out." Ten quiet seconds ticked by, and Sam's last words were so hollow they rang like bells in the air between him and Dean. He coughed, once, just to try and get rid of them. "Let's start by figuring out where we stand. So, one, we're pretty sure we've got a Prince of Hell in town."
"Plus a whole lotta other demons," Dean tacked on. "And I'm sure there's even more out there I can't feel. All those demons it runs with, they call that their Court."
"Right." Sam licked his lips. "The Prince may or may not be aware of us. There's not much we can do about that either way, 'cause we're in jail. At least one of the deputies out there is a hunter, a demon, or something else, and no matter what, he's definitely not on our side."
"Yeah. Understatement."
"And...can you do anything at all right now? Demon shit-wise?"
"With these on," Dean awkwardly shook his wrists, rattling the cuffs, "I'm lucky I can even feel other demons out there."
That was more or less what Sam had been expecting, unfortunately. "So you're outta the game unless we can get 'em off you. Plus, Castiel's gone."
Dean snorted at that, bitter. "Sure is. Probably caught the same whiff I did and went flapping back to Daddy fast as he could. You ask me, good damn riddance." He eyeballed Sam for a second. "You forgot about your Jesus powers going haywire."
"Oh, yeah." Sam didn't think he was familiar with the part of the New Testament where Jesus accidentally knocked over figurines and almost made lightbulbs explode. "So there's that, too." He drummed his fingers on the bar he was holding, nails tapping off it. He looked at Dean, and Dean looked back. "We gotta get outta here."
"Uh, yeah," Dean agreed, nodding exaggeratedly. "You think? Sitting around with our thumbs up our asses and waiting to see who comes and kills us first ain't exactly an option." He began to walk along the perimeter of his cell. "Problem is, I got no ideas. You?"
In answer, Sam ran a thumb along the underside of his belt until he found what he was looking for: a few small lockpicking tools, taped securely into place. The cops hadn't come across them when they were frisking him, which was kind of the whole idea. Actually, though, he was pretty sure they were supposed to have taken his belt and shoelaces when they locked him up. Maybe they wanted him hanging himself.
"Can you even reach the lock?" Dean asked skeptically as Sam, armed with two of the tools, approached the door. It would, admittedly, be an awkward angle. Getting his hands out between the bars, then back in towards himself...the exact opposite of how he was used to picking locks.
"Gonna have to," Sam replied, clearing his throat. "You said yourself we don't have any other options."
It was hard right off the bat. Sam couldn't get his elbows through; even his knuckles were close, so he had to stand with his arms in tight to his body and his wrists bent at an angle so sharp it hurt. His movements were clumsy because of that and the fact he was working blind and backwards. It was hard to get the tools into the hole, harder to find the tumblers. He kept sliding off and out. Dean, up on the toes of his boots, was fixated, peering down with his full lips slightly parted. At any other time, that might've gotten Sam's engine running.
"Careful," Dean warned. "Don't pop anything outta joint."
"Yeah, I got it." Sam's eyes flicked to him from his own hands. He was starting to wonder if the sheriff's department had taken the money they could've used on the rest of the building and poured it into these cells, because this seemed harder than it should be, even with everything else considered.
Something like ten minutes passed with only the click and scrape of metal on metal. Sam's hands'd begun to shake with the effort, which wasn't making things easier. Dean was back down on the balls of his feet.
"Sam." Dean's voice was flat and not quite commanding, but close. "You're gonna hurt yourself. Knock it off."
"No, I can - " A powerful cramp suddenly lanced up the inside of Sam's left forearm. His hand seized, and the tool tumbled out of his fingers, chiming loudly when it hit the cement floor. It skittered too far away for him to reach through the bars. "Shit!"
Sam stepped back, shaking out his left hand, tightly gripping the tool he still had in his right now. He turned away from Dean and shoved the pick into his pocket, then raked both hands backwards through his hair. He pulled in a deep breath but it didn't seem to help. He felt useless, weak. Couldn't even pick a simple goddamn jail cell lock and his leg was killing him all of a sudden.
Something in him unhinged for the third time in what had to be around an hour. He heard the dropped tool begin to vibrate behind him, then it zipped along the floor and there was a loud, grinding crunch. He turned, hesitantly, to see it embedded halfway into the cinderblock wall of the third, empty cell, and humming like a tuning fork.
"So I'm gonna say it gets worse when you're stressed," Dean stated once the tool had finally quieted down. Sam dropped his hands, arms swinging, and blew out the breath he'd apparently been holding.
"Can't even do anything useful with it." He shook his head. "Castiel offered to train me, back at the beach house, and I said no." He threw up his hands and turned away again. "Like an idiot."
"Hey, now, only one of us can have a pity part at a time," Dean said with forced humor. "And it's my turn right now." Sam closed his eyes, knowing the soup of guilt and fear and self-loathing filling up all his hollow spaces at the moment would speak for itself. A second later, Dean quietly said, "Speaking of Cas. Think you oughta call him now."
Sam opened his eyes and glanced over his shoulder, frowning. "Seriously?"
"For whatever reason, and it's probably a shitty one, don't get me wrong, he's got a stake in whether you live or die," Dean replied. "Me hating him doesn't change that. Don't know for sure why he split, but there's a good chance he'll come back if you pray to him. We are rapidly running outta options here, man. And he's a pain in the ass, but I'd way rather deal with him than the Prince." One corner of his mouth twitched, just for a second. "Better off with the angels than dead."
"They usually mean the same thing," Sam pointed out softly.
"Not in the mood for the Encyclopedia Brown act right now, Sammy." Dean jerked his head at the ceiling. "Call him."
"Right." Angels could hear their own names when spoken or thought with purpose - prayers. It was one of the few things Sam knew for sure about them. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. "Castiel. Hi. It's me...uh, it's Sam. Sam Winchester." He could damn near feel Dean rolling his eyes. "So, I'm...not quite sure where you went, but we're kind of in a lot of trouble here, and we don't really have a way out. So if you could...come back, then that'd be great. We'd really appreciate it. Thanks."
Sam opened his eyes, raised his head, turned around. He'd expected to hear wings halfway through, or at the very least right when he finished. It was still just him and Dean, though. They waited a minute, two. Five. As it ticked closer to ten, Dean snorted softly and walked away from the front of his cell, head shaking.
"Should I try again?" Sam asked uncertainly.
"No, no, I'm sure he heard you. He just ain't comin'." With no warning, Dean shouted at the ceiling. "What happened to your fucking duty, you dick with wings?! Wish you were half as good at sticking around as your goddamn captain is at sucking - "
"Hey." Back up at the front of his own cell, hands on the bars, Sam cut Dean off. He didn't want a cop coming in to check on them. Or a pissed-off rant about whatever Dean had done with Annanel.
"I don't wanna hear we're gonna fix this." Dean was full-on pacing now, bootsteps loud and angry. "I don't wanna hear it's gonna be all right. 'Cause it ain't. This is bad, Sam, it's so bad, and I can't do anything."
"I know," Sam agreed quietly. "I know, Dean. I can't, either. Just..." He rested his forehead briefly against the cool bars. "Come sit with me."
"What?"
"Like this." Sam sat down right where he was, leaning against the door, as close to Dean as he could get without leaving his cell. Dean followed his example a second later, lowering himself a little awkwardly because of his handcuffs.
Sam shrugged out of his jacket and flannel, both wet from the slush on the picnic table. He plucked at his damp tee, fanning it away from his skin where it'd been clinging cold and itchy. He and Dean watched each other. Dean's eyes kept flickering black.
"I promise I'll do whatever I can to keep you safe," he said quietly.
"I know."
"I love you. Don't say it enough."
"You say it plenty." Sam smiled at him. "I love you, too."
A few seconds passed. Dean chuckled a little, bleakly. "Y'know, feels almost like old times. Back at your cabin. Course, only one of us was in a cell then."
Sam sucked quietly on his teeth. "I'm sorry I gave you a hard time about coming out to Bobby." Dean didn't reply. "That's not...it's a big thing."
"I don't actually care that much," Dean responded. "Way bigger deal to me back when I was human."
"I wasn't out to my dad, before he died." Sam rubbed his left wrist. "And he might've known, but I doubt it. He didn't...pay a whole lotta attention to me outside of hunting. Unless something started interfering with it."
"He didn't care about, like, school?" Dean asked him.
"Uh, he wanted me to drop out soon as I was old enough," Sam answered with a little laugh. "We fought about that all the time. How much easier it'd be if I weren't in school, how...me going was a distraction." A betrayal. A commitment to something outside of killing monsters and saving lives, an investment in a future Sam wasn't allowed to want unless he was soulless and heartless and fine with being useless. A waste of time.
"Wow." Dean's cuffs clinked. "My dad damn near stroked out when I withdrew so I could hunt full-time." Thoughtfully, he added, "Not sure he ever really forgave me for that."
"Bobby...was a huge reason I stayed in school." Sam let go of his shirt. "And he knew. That I liked guys. There was never a big, formal discussion or anything, but he took it in stride." He looked at Dean. "He was really important to me."
Dean was quiet for a long time, and Sam wondered if he shouldn't've made him talk about this. He knew his memories hurt and that his dad was an especially sore subject. But then he heaved a sigh, breaking the silence. "Me, too."
At that point, the flapping and gust of wind that came then was completely and utterly unexpected.
Sam scrambled to his feet, turning to stare at Castiel where he'd appeared in the middle of his cell. He looked harried, even more rumpled than usual. He opened his mouth to speak, but Dean beat him to it.
"Oh, hey, look who it is," Dean proclaimed, loud and sarcastic as he struggled up. With his ring gone, his eyes had automatically flooded black. "You have a nice smoke break, Birdbrain?"
Castiel eyed Dean for a moment, then returned his focus to Sam.
"I apologize," he told him, voice gravelly as always. "After our last encounter with the police, I didn't believe my staying would be very useful to anyone."
"How selfless." Dean tipped his chin up. Castiel's jaw set as he willfully ignored him.
"I heard your prayer. I would have come sooner, but this area is...filled with demons. I've been eliminating some of the most immediate threats."
"You've been killing them?" Dean demanded, incredulous. "Jesus. Your halo on too tight or something? Cutting off blood to your brain? You think it's not gonna notice and get pissy about you hacking and slashing your way through its Court?"
Castiel finally acknowledged Dean. Reluctantly, looked like. "'It?'"
"There's a Prince of Hell." Sam answered for Dean. "He didn't feel it for very long, but it's gotta be around here somewhere, especially if there are so many other demons."
Castiel turned searchlight eyes on Sam, wide and backlit with faint Grace. Then he strode straight for him. "We have to go. Now."
"Wait!" Sam backed up. He hit the bars all too soon. "Not without Dean."
Castiel looked at Dean, who shook his head. "Just get him outta here. Seems like you and me are on the same page for once, 'bout where we want him to be when that thing comes rolling through." Castiel reached for Sam again like the matter was settled, and Sam once again moved.
"No!" He glared at Dean. "Shouldn't you and me be on the same page? About me not going anywhere without you?"
"Sam, I can take care of myself," Dean started.
"Not right now you can't." Sam looked at Castiel and gestured to Dean. "They put binding cuffs on him. He can't teleport right now, can't use telekinesis, nothing."
The look Dean gave him suggested he hadn't wanted Castiel to know that, but Sam wasn't sure how he'd expected to keep it from him. He was obviously handcuffed and obviously cut off from his powers. Sam went on, talking directly to Castiel. "You said you knew taking me away from him'd be 'disastrous.' Remember?"
Dean seemed caught off-guard by that. Castiel took a moment, face blank, then slowly shook his head as he looked at Dean.
"Zachariah will not be pleased," he murmured. Sam assumed that was the asshole boss he'd mentioned a few days back. "He never is, though."
With an unseen flutter, Castiel moved into Dean's cell and reached for his cuffs. Dean didn't look at all happy about it, maintaining eye contact with Sam the whole time (he thought), but he turned to give the angel access to his wrists. Castiel paused, though, with his hands inches from the bracelets.
"Where did these come from?" Castiel glanced at Sam.
"Uh...I don't know." Sam shrugged, frowning. "One of the cops who arrested us. Why?"
"They've been forged with Enochian sigils." Castiel dropped his hands, took a step back. Dean turned to look at him. "Powerful ones. They could render a lower-level angel fully inert." He looked troubled. "They might even work as well on me as they do on Dantalion. I can't touch them; I'm not sure how to remove them."
Something cold and sickening crystallized low in Sam's stomach. He'd designed a couple pairs of demon cuffs, forged a few himself, and seen plenty of variations out in the community. None of them had included Enochian. There'd been no need. He didn't know where a hunter would've gotten ones like this.
"Well." Dean cleared his throat. "Guess that answers our question about whether or not our guy's working with the Prince."
The door opened unexpectedly. Sam glanced at Castiel, then stared at him when he didn't disappear. Dean closed his eyes and Sam tensed as two deputies, the woman and the guy with the cleft chin, walked in. Their vests were gone, so he could see their nametags now: ABERNATHY and SWAIM.
He waited for them to react to Castiel, for the guns to come out, the yelling to start. But...they looked right at him and didn't react. It was like he was invisible.
"Winchester," Abernathy said shortly, gesturing with one hand and reaching for the cuffs on her belt with the other. "C'mere. Gimme your hands."
Sam complied, still confused. As they re-cuffed him, Dean demanded, "Where're you taking him?" When the deputies didn't answer, he must have turned to Castiel. "You can't let 'em take him."
"Who's he talking to?" Swaim mumbled to Abernathy. Sam only heard him by virtue of being so close.
"Ignore him." Unlocking the door, Abernathy waved Sam out with a hand on her taser, then took hold of his bicep. Swaim grabbed the other arm.
"He's in no danger," Castiel told Dean as Sam was led away from his cell. "Sam." Without thinking, Sam looked at him. So, great, now they thought he was crazy, too. "I'll continue trying to free Dantalion; I'll be close by. I'll retrieve you immediately if the situation changes. You have my word as an angel of the Lord no harm will come to you."
"Right, 'cause that's worth so damn - " The closing door cut off the rest of Dean's jab.
As they walked him down the hallway, against his better judgment, Sam swallowed, then asked, "Where...are you taking me?"
Swaim answered, ignoring the warning look Abernathy shot him. "Some big ol' FBI hotshot wants to talk to you. Can't be a field agent, but...y'know. Real important. Sheriff knows him, actually. Guess he stays 'round here."
They brought him to what was probably the station's only interrogation room, cuffed him to the stainless-steel table, and left. Sam glanced around. Yellow walls, one-way mirror, security camera. He saw, though, that its little red light was off.
The door on the other side of the room opened and a woman walked in. Sam's age, brown hair in a bun, dark, conservative suit that fit her well. She was gorgeous in a sly, almost fox-like way, and wearing a lot more makeup than Abernathy. As she moved the other chair at the table out of the way, she smiled at Sam.
"Are you the, uh...'FBI hotshot?'" he asked, tipping his head back some.
"Oh, no." She shook her head. The British accent was a surprise. "Not me."
Returning to the door, she held it open so an old man in a wheelchair could roll himself in. He was wearing a suit, too, gray-and-white hair slicked back, beard impeccable. Sam should've recognized him right away. He'd just seen him, in a vision. But he'd been a lot scruffier then, so it took a second, and when it clicked, the single light above the table started buzzing.
"Bobby," Sam said weakly.