A/N: Thank you so so so much to RainbowSkies (I'm so thrilled you decided to let me know you've been reading!), ImpalaLove, sarahmichellegellarfan1, and Lindsay for reviewing! You guys are amazing and I hope you all enjoy this chapter.

Song: Gimme Shelter by The Rolling Stones

CHAPTER 21

Gimme Shelter: Part 1

For most of his life, Dean had thought his life was hanging together by a thread.

He had thought wrong.

Now, his life is hanging together by a thread.

This is the state of his affairs:

1) The mother of his child has been kidnapped.

2) The person required to bring down their adversary has also been kidnapped.

3) His brother is being destroyed by some unidentifiable malady.

4) He must find a slab of rock hidden in a crazed frenzy by (2), and he has no idea where to even start looking.

5) The one person with the juice to help him is dead.

6) He is a ten-month-old's sole guardian.

He could almost laugh. His situation is so hopeless it's ridiculous, it's a joke. Good one, universe, good one, he thinks. You really got me this time. If only Dad could see me now. The oldest Winchester left alive, sealing the fates of all the others. It's not a cycle. It's a curse. It's inevitable, a force of nature, as sure a thing as the sunset.

So much for trying to close the Gates of Hell – now he's just trying to stay afloat.

Dean's brain somehow devises a plan: get Sam back to the bunker, where it's safe, where Mary ostensibly remains (alone?!), and figure out what the hell happened.

The Impala's gonna have to sit at the Lambert–St. Louis International Airport for a little while longer.

Back in Kansas, Dean drag/carries Sam through the threshold of their failed fortress, sets him down in the nearest chair, and immediately searches for Mary.

He finds her; he also finds Jody Mills.

"Jody?!"

"Dean," she says calmly. Mary, ethereally blonde, is cradled in her arms, content and unharmed. "Where's Claire?"

"S-s-she's not here." His stammer might have embarrassed him once. Once. The gears in his mind rotate, unhinged, trying to process what's happened. "Did she let you in?"

"Yeah," she says cautiously. "She called me – said it was an emergency. When I got here she left and told me she would be right back – it's been nearly a day! Please tell me everything is all right…"

"It's not," he says. "It's not at all."

Jody sinks into the armchair in the corner of the nursery.

Dean plucks his daughter from her. His eyes flutter shut, briefly. He rocks back and forth. Relief is bursting through the seams of his soul.

"What happened?" Jody demands. "Where is she?"

"She was taken hostage."

"What?! By who?!"

"The King of Hell."

"Th-the King of Hell – what?"

"I know. It's just as crazy as it sounds, believe me. But I've got it under control," he lies through his teeth. Hearing the words leave his own mouth, he only feels more desperate.

"What do you mean 'under control'?" she grills, narrowing her eyes.

"We – Sam and I – we've got a plan. We're gonna give him what he wants, and he'll give us back Claire."

"You're really negotiating with him?"

"We're not the US government, Jody. Times like this? Yeah, we negotiate with terrorists."

"But-but what I mean is… you trust him to let her go? I wouldn't picture the King of Hell as the honest sort."

"This guy's got a track-record of keeping deals, let's just put it that way," he replies cryptically.

She questions after a moment, "W-what can I do to help?"

The muscle in Dean's jaw contracts visibly as he observes his daughter, who is so, so precious to him.

How has this happened? How has this become his life? (Where did I get lost?).

If Sam is his Achilles' heel, she is his heart, defenseless and delicate and too easily demolished. Achilles' heel was a small target – fatal, sure, but hard to strike. His heart? Not so much.

He doesn't want to ask this of Jody, doesn't want to drag yet another innocent person into this. But he has to.

"Can you stay here and watch her while Sam and I figure this out?"

"Of course," she answers immediately.

"They're not gonna need you at the police department?"

"I already called in. Told them it was a family emergency. I can stay as long as you need me."

Dean smiles, but still looks miserable. "Thanks," he offers.

Mary securely in his arms (Don't let go. Never let go), he heads into the center of the bunker, where Sam is.

"How're you feeling?"

Sam sniffs, wipes blood from his mouth. He deludes himself that Dean didn't see.

He states, "I'm fine."

"No, you're not."

"I will be," he amends. "When this is over. I will be."

"It will never be over, Sam. Once we give Crowley the Tablet, that's it. We're not getting it back."

"You don't know that –"

"I do! I do know that!" he cries. Mary's lower lip trembles at the hike in volume, and he strokes her wispy hair, feeling it slide like silk beneath the etchings of his fingerprints. More softly, he hisses, "You wanna know how I know that? Because we're not gonna go after it! And you know what we do now? We get Claire and Kevin back, and after that we keep our heads down."

"Dean," Sam implores, eyebrows creeping together. "This – this isn't you, this doesn't sound like you." (Don't break, Dean, don't break. I need you).

It always used to be Dean saying, You're all I've got. Now it's reversed. It's reversed. Where is my brother, he thinks, where did he go? This is someone else, someone different. Dean Winchester doesn't just give up.

"We can't be reckless like this anymore, Sam," he says, looking wildly around the room. His voice quivers. He can see he's hurting him, hurting everyone, hurting himself. (This is all your fau- No. There's no time for that now). He says, "You said that, once. You were right. We can't."

Sam hears, I won't.

Both brothers are silent for a long time, miles away from one another.

Why? still ricochets around in Dean's skull. Why is he the one who has to take control, who has to lead all these people – all these fragile parts of himself – into danger? Why is he the one responsible? Why is it all on him?

Dean says, "What we were gonna do – we were gonna go in, get the trials done, and get out – all under the radar, or at least do it knowing Claire and Mary were safe. Well, that plan's been blown to shit. Now… now we have to worry about staying alive. You're sick, Sam. We need to find them, then focus on getting you better."

Sam, still sitting, peers up at his older brother. His eyes swim with emotion; his pupils are drowning in it, irises, grayish, at the moment, like the color of a tempestuous sea, swallowing them up. His gaze then flits six inches to the right, to his niece.

She is entirely uncorrupted. Her cornflower-blue eyes meet his roiling ones, expressionless, a blank canvas of possibilities and opportunities and life. She has no conception of demon-deals, of coming back from the dead, of leaving bits of yourself behind each and every time.

Understanding dawns on him, helps him beat down the blood lapping at the membrane of his esophagus. It was always Sam and Dean Sam and Dean Sam and Dean, but now it's bigger than that. Dean's not doing this for Sam, Sam's not doing this for Dean.

"Where do we start?"

. . .

Claire's vision wobbles as she carefully opens her eyes, and she thinks to herself that this has happened two too many times.

She's tied to a chair. There was no illusion of darkness, this time, because it's actually dark and she is not blindfolded. She tries to move her hands, testing the limits of her confines. The knots are tight. The rope fibers are already burrowing into her flesh. She can feel abrasions blossoming on her fair skin, an itchy sort of pain encircling her wrists and ankles.

"Awesome…" she mutters sullenly.

She's surprised to hear someone respond with: "This seriously blows."

"Kevin?" She squints her eyes and, as they adjust, she makes out the faint silhouette of someone else nearby.

What she also makes out is that they are in something akin to a dungeon; the walls and floor are made of concrete, slick and mossy and sure to be cultivating some sort of dangerous black mold or fungus. And the smell – it reeks of sewage. It wafts from the ground and from the ceiling, barrages them from every angle, making it impossible to tell its origin. Claire breathes in and gags instantaneously, her body protesting against it.

Still, the stench gives her a clue as to where they are. Underground, apparently, and probably somewhere near a drainage pipe. They're not in the sewer, but perhaps they are close.

The only semblance of illumination comes in the form of a sliver of yellow peeking through the boarded-up window. Right now, it cuts a thin line across her forehead. She can't see it, obviously, but she can feel it searing her aching head in half. From the positioning it appears to be morning.

"I should have seen this coming," is Kevin's forlorn grievance. "I knew he was on to me…"

"At least he doesn't have the Tablet," she murmurs, struggling to find a silver lining. They're still alive, at least, and if they're still alive she wagers Crowley isn't intent on killing them.

"Yeah, I guess… Claire, I'm so sorry, this is all my fault – I should have just listened to Dean and stayed inside…"

He's right, but Claire doesn't want to say so, because it would mean admitting that she is culpable, too. "It's okay, Kevin," she sighs, not really meaning it. "You were scared, so you ran – most people would've done the same."

"Yeah, but the only reason you're here is because you were trying to help me," he says. A slight whine of remorse constricts the pitch of his voice.

"I'm sure Dean and Sam are looking for a way to get us out as we speak," she says, trying to assuage her own anxiousness as much as his. And she is, she is sure. She's just not sure how successful they will be.

What was I thinking? It was stupid. She knows it was stupid. But Kevin was going to act whether she helped him or not, and she supposes she has a weakness for struggling teens.

And back, back in the very back of her mind, she has to admit she's missed being involved in all this. Since Mary was born she has, understandably, been benched – but she would be lying if she said she didn't miss it just a little. What 'it' is, exactly, is more abstract. It's everything she doesn't want to admit to enjoying, but does. It's the hunting, the adrenaline rush, the feeling that she's part of something more than just her own measly life.

She used to connect with Dean and Sam on this level. She used to be the prophet, the essential one, the one who could help. Now… Now she's just a cripple, a liability. And she wanted to prove to herself and everyone else that she wasn't, but she is.

And that's why it was stupid. Because of course she was wrong and of course she's a liability and of course it was incredibly self-centered to put herself in harm's way. She has a daughter to care for, for God's sakes. That's why she's out of the game. That's why she has to be.

She never imagined she'd miss the visions – never. They tore at her brain like piranhas and for as long as she had them she'd wished they would stop. So imagine her chagrin. Real fucking ironic, she thinks.

It's not that she wants them back, not exactly. But she thinks about it constantly, she wonders what happened. Why did they stop? Why? Now she wishes she could pray and someone would answer her like they used to, wishes Castiel would float down from Heaven and tell her where it all went wrong, where she lost herself for a third time.

But Castiel is dead, and she's not a prophet anymore.

Who am I? she thinks, who am I really? Not a small-town bartender, not a prophet, not even a good mother. Just when she settles into one identity, it's ripped away from her, tearing a schism in her soul.

Sitting here now, bound in the dark, she can only think she's just… a weak has-been who causes the people she loves unnecessary heartache, who tries to help and only makes things worse.

She imagines Dean is livid, and he has every right to be. At least she had the good sense not to take Mary with her when she went to meet Kevin at the halfway point.

All she can do now is pray he'll be able to clean up her mess.

. . .

Dean is not in fact livid, but his emotions are muddled. Of course, he's tremendously relieved that Mary is safe. The thought of Crowley with his vulnerable daughter had made him feel physically ill, to the point of debilitation. He may not have been able to fight through his pain.

Now that this crushing stress has been removed, he is more focused, more driven.

Still, though, everything has gone to shit. Claire has been kidnapped and Sam appears to be dying. No one's admitting it – no one's addressing it. Lord knows Sam's not gonna say anything about it, and Dean doesn't say anything, either, because he can't deal with it. He just can't. Not now. Not yet.

He's not blind and he's brought it up, but Dean is nothing if not persistent and even though every cell in his body is begging to push the issue, he knows he can't, for the sake of his own sanity. He needs to be sharp if he's gonna get Claire and Kevin back.

So he forces himself to stare straight ahead when he hears Sam hacking, coughs spilling from his chest with violent, lethal force. Don't look, he coaches himself. Just don't look. Bloody tissues pile up in towers next to his baby brother, and he just stares at the wall.

In any case, the amount of effort Sam is putting into appearing healthy is admirable. He's shaky, pale, and feverish, but still he puts on a valiant show, modulates his voice not to falter while he helps his brother figure out where their lost prophets might be.

It's been a while since they've done any detective work like this, come to think of it.

They start by filling in the blanks – if Claire had the foresight to call Jody, it means her leaving was premeditated and she had hours to spare while she waited for the sheriff to make the drive all the way down from South Dakota.

The best they can guess is that Kevin decided to drive to Kansas and Claire agreed to meet him somewhere in the middle. By mapping out the routes they would have taken and applying a rough timeline, they are able to approximate where Claire and Kevin actually met each other.

From there, they have to assume that Kevin hid the tablet before, he met up with Claire, since he didn't have it on him when Crowley captured them. So – that gives them at least a hazy concept of where he might have hidden the Demon Tablet.

That said, it's still a huge geographical range, even assuming Kevin hid it directly on his way.

"We should drive Kevin's route," Dean announces after examining the map they have plotted.

Sam twists his lip into an approving expression. He's impressed with the fact that they were able to piece the events together, and has to admit that Dean was actually responsible for the majority of the deductive leaps – it's tragic, he thinks, that his brother is so utterly unaware (or, alternatively, in denial) of his own intelligence.

"Okay," the younger Winchester agrees. "You're thinking we look for possible hiding spots along the way?"

"Yep. I think we've done all that we can here."

He hates staying in the bunker, all the while knowing that Claire and Kevin are out there somewhere, in god-knows what condition, probably scared out of their minds. Dean detests inactivity with every inch of his body. His blood screams at him to take action, his pulse thumps rapidly in his fingertips. He's holding a pencil and it feels alien, absurd, surreal. His fingers itch to curl around the familiar hilt of a dagger or the trigger of a gun.

Dean loads his infirm brother into the car they stole and together they set out to undo months' worth of progress.

. . .

It's the afternoon, now, and Claire can tell because the thin line of sun has gravitated to cut directly into her eyes. The light impales her retinas, blinds her anew.

Kevin, his back to the window, can't see anything but her eyes. It's odd – her entire body is cloaked in the shadows, apart from this one section of her face. Her pinprick irises are the only things marring the sparkling expanse of blue gleaming through the darkness.

"How did you get away the last time?" she demands, continuing their long-winded discussion on how to get out of this. They've been here for hours, and neither Crowley nor any of his minions has made an appearance, which she finds strange – Crowley is nothing if not theatrical.

"It was a spell that required a ton of rare ingredients, and I don't think they're going to make the mistake of delivering them to me again," he informs her wryly.

"The Demon Tablet didn't say anything useful?" she asks, finding this a little incredible.

"I dunno, I was a too busy trying to translate your stupid trials to read ahead," he shoots back.

By now they're both, understandably, a little irritable – being tied to a chair all day will do that to you. They're parched, starving, and in need of a restroom.

All of a sudden, the green-stained metal door behind Claire begins to creak open. She tries to incline her head so she can see over he shoulder, but to no avail – it's only Kevin's half-terrified and half-furious "Crowley" that alerts her to the dungeon's new addition.

Crowley rolls his eyes, daintily side-stepping a stagnant puddle to stand between his two captives. "I see incarceration has made you no less perceptive, Kevin," he drawls leisurely. In a more engaged tone, he goes on, "Tell me more about these 'trials.'"

"You've been listening?!" Claire seethes.

Again, Crowley rolls his eyes and clasps his hands behind his back. "Really, I never cease to wonder how you lot have survived for so long. You're mindless, but remarkably durable. Like… cockroaches. Just when I think I've got you, you scurry out from beneath my boot and vanish behind the radiator." He grins forebodingly, raising his index finger. "But not this time. I've had to listen to your ridiculous – albeit creative, I must admit – escape strategies all day, and now finally you've gotten to the good part. So please, enlighten me before I squish you."

"You're not going to kill us," she challenges, "or else you would have already."

Still smiling, he retorts, "So confident, are you?" He flicks his wrist, and her chair screeches across the floor, coming to collide harshly with the far wall. Her body recoils on impact, causing her head to smash into the slimy concrete with a sickening crack. All at once Kevin shouts her name and she feels pain ignite through her brain. She un-scrunches her eyes, and the images of Kevin and Crowley are decidedly blurry. Yep, she thinks. Definitely concussed, if not worse. She's sure that if she were able to place her hand at the base of her skull as she so desperately wishes to, it would come back bloody.

"Now," – he turns to Kevin jauntily – "these trials…"

"What does it matter," the teen spits back with unprecedented vigor, "it's over now, anyway."

"I don't like to be out of the loop," he states matter-of-factly.

"They're never going to find that Tablet, you know," he goes on, still not answering the question. "I hid it – there's no way you're getting your hands on it."

"You'd better hope for your own sakes that's not true," he says with pseudo-compassion. "'That Tablet' is the only thing keeping you alive."

Claire's head is throbbing, and she's bleary-eyed and mildly afraid she's suffered permanent damage. She's having a difficult time stringing words together in a way that makes sense, but eventually manages, "So… you're not… going to kill us."

Crowley looks faintly impressed that's she still has the spunk to refute him. "You're trying my patience, love. Your little sassy-redheaded-spitfire routine may take well in some circles, but not this one. Kevin here – he's the only one who can read the Tablet, after all – it wouldn't be prudent to kill him, not yet anyway. But you… Well, I hate to be so indelicate, but you're expendable. I could kill you now, and your dear Clyde would be none the wiser and still deliver the Tablet directly to my doorstep."

"You could," she grinds out, "but you made a deal."

At this, Crowley appears ruffled. "I'm King of Hell," he asserts, contrary to his new, more serious demeanor. "King of the Crossroads is just… a subtitle, if you will."

Still, through her mental fogginess, Claire's eyes glint knowingly.

Crowley is incensed. He might as well kill her, he thinks. He can. He wants to. Why shouldn't he?

But he doesn't, instead glowering dangerously at younger prophet. "If you don't tell me what these trials are, I pop her head off and use it to decorate my next Christmas tree. Do you really want that blood on your hands, Kevin? The only reason she's here is because she was trying to assist you, after all."

Kevin gulps, not quite sure what to believe. Claire tries to fashion her expression into one that will urge him not to cave to Crowley's demands, but she doesn't think he can see her.

"Th-the trials," he starts, "they were meant to close Hell."

Her heart sinks in her chest. Dammit Kevin, she thinks but does not say. She's fairly certain another run-in with the wall will kill her.

"What do you mean 'close Hell'?" he questions skeptically.

"Close the Gates."

"How many of these trials are there?" is the King of Hell's next blunt interrogation. It's unsettling, seeing him forgo his customary blithe loquacity.

"Three."

"What's the third?"

"I don't know," Kevin admits sincerely. "I didn't get that far."

"Liar," he sneers.

"I'm not lying!" he insists as Crowley edges towards him.

More calmly, the demon reasons, "So these trials – the dynamic duo has already accomplished two?"

Kevin bites his lip and nods.

Crowley exhales deeply, screwing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose in agitation. "Bloody imbeciles," he mutters. With renewed animation, his eyes spring open and he says, "Right. Well. Thank heavens they won't be completing a third."

Both prophets remain silent, praying this is not indeed the truth.