Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its characters belong to The CW and Eric Kripke.
Suggested Songs:
- "Born To Be Wild" by Steppenwolf
- "Manic Depression" by The Jimi Hendrix Experience
- "I Wanna Be Sedated" by The Ramones
- "Blue" by Joni Mitchell
Chapter Twenty
"What the hell is wrong with you? Did you take crack this morning or something?" Dean asked suspiciously from behind the wheel of the Impala, watching Melissa alternate between running her hands through her hair and singing along enthusiastically to the Steppenwolf song blaring through the speakers. She was practically vibrating with energy.
"Dean, this is the first time in for fucking ever since we've just been on a normal, non-angel, non-demon, hunt. Am I not allowed to be glad?" she said loudly over the music, gripping the front seat as she grinned. Sam only chuckled, glancing at her over his shoulder.
"Yeah, but this is a little much. Even for you," he shook his head with an amused smirk.
"Okay, so I may have had a few cups of coffee this morning," she admitted, leaning against the backseat as the song switched to something a little more mellow.
"How many?" Sam raised an eyebrow at her.
"Five," she told them with a dismissive wave of her hand. She tapped excitedly on the seat in front of her, shifting a little every few seconds because of the stiff FBI costume.
"Five?" Dean repeated, laughing in spite of himself. "You're insane, you'll give yourself a heart attack."
"What the hell," she replied with a shrug. "Everybody's gotta go sometime."
Dean let the subject pass then, but his eyes softened as he continued his repeated looks back at her. She looked out the window, drummed a beat or two, bit at her lips. But he could see the exhaustion. He didn't think she'd slept one good wink the night before. He hadn't asked exactly what the dreams were about, but she had definitely muttered something about Pamela more than once. It was weighing on her hard; Pamela's death. It had become clear to Dean that Pamela was more than just a friend to Melissa, she'd been a mother and a sister and a safe place. A place maybe even safer than Bobby's. Because Pamela wasn't a hunter, and spending time with her made Melissa just a little bit closer to normal.
. . .
The comic shop was hidden away in a dirty alley, and it didn't surprise Melissa that someone had gone missing back there. But it was the ectoplasm left behind that had brought them there. Walking in together, they raised their badges in unison before introducing themselves. It smelled oddly of pine and smoke.
"Uh, may I help you?" the portly, bald man behind the counter with the piercings and the graphic t-shirt asked as the suited hunters approached the counter.
"Agents Garcia, Weir, and Hunter," Melissa told him snappily. Sam and Dean looked on at the man with thin smiles. "Just need to ask you a few questions."
"Notice anything strange in the building last couple of days?" Sam asked.
"Uh, I don't think so," the man replied. "Why?"
"What about any strange noises? Scittering in the walls? Like rats?" Sam continued.
"And the FBI is investigating a road problem?" the man asked skeptically, raising his eyebrows over his glasses.
"What about cold spots? Any sudden drops in temperature?" Sam ignored him again.
Suddenly, the face of the man behind the counter broke out into a grin. "I knew it! You guys are LARPing!"
"Beg your pardon?" Melissa asked, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her long, black coat. She should have invested in a pantsuit for winter. On this cold February day she was stuck in one of her usual pencil skirts.
"You're fans," the man behind the counter continued in his deduction.
"Fans of what?" Sam said.
"What is 'LARPing'?" Dean furrowed his brows.
"Like you don't know," the man behind the counter scoffed. They only gave him silence and he gave a little sigh before explaining it. "Live Action Role Playing. And pretty hardcore too!"
"I'm sorry, I have no idea what you're talkin' about," Dean admitted with a laugh.
"You're asking questions like the building's haunted. Like those guys in the books. What are they called?" the man stopped to search his mind for a moment and then it dawned on him. "'Supernatural!' Two guys, use fake IDs with rock aliases, hunt down ghosts, vampires, demons. Sometimes they got some junkie girl with 'em. What are their names? Steve and Dirk? Sal and Dane? And...Mildred?"
"Sam, Dean, and Melissa?" Sam offered dejectedly.
The man snapped his fingers in confirmation. "That's it!"
"So you're saying this is a book?" Melissa asked, roaming her eyes over the rest of the grimy little store.
"Books," the man said. "It was a series. Didn't sell too many copies, though."
He paused for a moment, stepping out from behind the counter and over to the 'Bargain Bin' near the back of the store.
"Yeah," he muttered, pulling out a random copy. "I think that's the first one," he told them, handing it over to Dean.
"'Supernatural' by Carver Edlund," Dean read aloud, flipping to a summary on the back cover. "'On a lonely California highway, a woman in white lures men to their deaths.'"
"Gimme that," Sam murmured urgently, grabbing the book from Dean's hands. He looked it over for a moment and then flicked his eyes up to the employee. "We're gonna need all the copies of 'Supernatural' you got."
. . .
After doing a little research in their motel room, it was discovered that the 'Supernatural' series was unpopular, with only a cult following. They'd only published for about three years, then went bankrupt, but Melissa still couldn't believe they'd been published in the first place. Stranger still that the fact that there was even books about them at all was the fact that there was so much fanfiction about them. Whether it be about Melissa and Dean, Melissa and Sam, or Sam and Dean. Together. Incesty stuff. It had been an eye-opening trip onto the interwebs to say the least.
Next stop was the publisher's house, because as it turned out, Carver Edlund was a pen name. Naturally. She was a pretty woman with red and white streaked hair and a long cardigan. Her house smelled vaguely like incense and her brown eyes were wide and lively. Melissa dug it.
"So, you published the 'Supernatural' books?" Sam asked casually as they strolled through the woman's house into her office.
Melissa nudged Dean along the way, gesturing to the signed Grateful Dead poster the woman had on her wall as Sam kept her attention.
"This lady is badass," she whispered excitedly, her thumbs hooked in the loopholes of her jeans. Her mood had heightened even further after changing out of the monkey suits, back into her grey henley and her boots. Sure, the day had been weird as hell, but they still seemed to be clear of angels and demons. And, of course, the caffeine crash hadn't happened yet.
Dean only scoffed, a small smile sneaking its way onto his face. "Hippie." He had to take her by the hand to drag her away from it and lead her behind Sam.
"These books," the woman looked to the shelf full of 'Supernatural' paperbacks as she sat down behind the desk, "they never really got the attention they deserved. All people wanna read these days is that romance crap. 'Doctor Sexy-MD?' Please."
Melissa smirked. "Well, we're hopin' our article will...shine a light on an underappreciated series."
"Yeah...yeah," the publisher perked up, "because you know, if we got a little good press, maybe we could start publishing again."
"No, no, no, no," Dean blurted out awkwardly. "God, no. I mean...why would you wanna do that? It's such a complete, uh, series. What with Dean goin' to hell an' all."
Melissa stared down at her boots for moment.
The publisher's eyes shone a little oddly with tears. "Oh, my god! That was one of my favorites, because Dean was so strong...and sad...and brave. And afterwards, Melissa...with the hunting and the drugs and the men. Their love was so pure," she said in nearly a whisper.
Swallowing thickly, Melissa shifted a little on her feet.
"And Sam..." the woman continued, "I mean the best parts are when they cry. Gosh...if only real men were so open and in touch with their feelings."
"Real men?" Dean asked.
"I mean, no offense," the publisher shrugged. "How often do you cry like that, hm?"
"Well," Dean said with a blank smile, "I'm crying on the inside."
"Is that supposed to be funny?" the woman asked defensively, a crease between her brows.
"Lady, everything about this is funny," Dean told her with a smirk. Melissa elbowed him in the ribs and smiled at the publisher politely. That seemed to calm the woman's nerves. She crossed her arms and watched them carefully.
"How do I know you three are legit, huh? Why do they need three reporters for one story anyway?"
"Oh, trust me, we're legit," Dean assured her, ignoring that last question.
"Well, I don't want any smartass articles makin' fun of my boys," she told them, eyebrows raised defiantly.
"N-no! Never!" Sam stammered convincingly. "We're um...we're actually big fans."
"Hmmm," she murmured, "You've read the books?"
"Cover to cover," Dean confirmed as the other two nodded in agreement.
"What's the year and model of the car?" the publisher quizzed.
"'67 Chevy Impala," Dean answered with a satisfied smirk.
"What's May 2nd?"
"That's my-uh...Sam's birthday," Sam said, almost slipping up.
"January 24th's Dean's. October 13th is Melissa's," Dean continued. Anything to get the name.
"Sam's score on the LSAT?"
"One…" Sam began, looking doubtfully to Sam and Melissa, "Seventy-four?"
"Dean's favorite song?" the woman brushed past each answer and onto the next question.
"It's a tie," Dean said immediately. "Between Zep's 'Ramble On' and 'Travelin' Riverside Blues.'"
"What's Melissa's sister's name? How old was she when she died?"
Melissa smiled thinly. "Rosie. She was six."
The publisher ginned, her eyes satisfied. "Okay, okay. What do you wanna know?"
"What's Carver Edlund's real name?" Sam got straight to the point.
"Oh, no," the publisher refused politely, looking down at her desk with a guilty smile. "Sorry-I can't do that."
"We just wanna talk to 'im," Sam pleaded, "Y'know...get the 'Supernatural' story in his own words."
"He's very private," she said with a shake of her head. "He's like Salinger."
"Please," Sam said. "Like I said we're um…"
He paused for a moment, then pulled down his short a little, revealing his anti-possession tattoo. "Big fans."
The publisher looked to Melissa and Dean expectantly. Glancing at each other for a moment, they both mirrored Sam and exposed their ink. Melissa's, which she'd finally gotten around to when Dean took his necklace back, was covered a little by the edge of her bra, but the publisher got the message.
"Awesome," the woman breathed in admiration. "You know what?" she said, suddenly standing up, turning around, and hiking up her skirt to show them a matching tattoo on her asscheek. "I got one too."
"Whoa," Dean said, attempting a smile but ending up with a cringe. "You're a real fan."
"Okay," the publisher smiled, going over to scribble something on a piece of paper for them. "His name's Chuck Shurley, and he's a genius, so don't piss 'im off."
. . .
Blowing out a frustrated breath, Melissa rung the doorbell. The caffeine crash had hit sometime between the publisher's upscale hippie pad to Chuck Shurley's ramshackle two-story on the far edge of the Illinois town. Now, she was tired, edgy, and about as pissed as Sam and Dean that their lives were being put on display for the world to read. She glanced over at Dean as they waited, tapping the toe of her boot impatiently on the creaky wood of the porch.
They were just about to pick the lock when the door opened with a fast rush of the chilly air. A disheveled man in a stained bathrobe with a reddish brown five o'clock shadow shading his cheeks came face-to-face with them.
"You Chuck Shurley?" Dean asked, a bite in his voice.
"The Chuck Shurley who wrote the 'Supernatural' books?" Sam finished.
"Maybe," the man said suspiciously. "Why?"
"I'm Dean, this is Sam. And that's Melissa," Dean told him. "The ones you've been writing about."
Chuck's haggard face fell and he shut the door quickly. Melissa huffed and rung the bell once more.
Hesitantly, Chuck reopened the door, keeping half his body hidden. "Look, I appreciate your enthusiasm. Really I do. It's...uh...always nice to hear from the fans. But for your own good, I strongly suggest you get a life."
He went to close the door once more but Melissa stopped him halfway. "Thing is? We have a life. You've been using it for your books."
She forced her way in, pushing Chuck behind the door as the boys followed her. The place reeked of alcohol and hunger.
"Now, wait a minute," Chuck pleaded nervously, his voice shaking. "Now, this isn't funny."
"Damn straight, it ain't funny," Dean barked out, turning to the scrawny man as they stood in his foyer.
"Look, we just wanna know how you're doing it," Sam went after Chuck as he retreated into his living room, attempting to reason. The room was cluttered with papers and liquor bottles.
"I'm not doing anything!" Chuck insisted, looking to the three hunters as he backed up toward his couch.
"Are you a hunter?" Melissa ventured.
"No! I'm a writer!" Chuck told them.
"Then how do you know so much about demons?" Dean asked sternly, taking a step towards Chuck, who fell back onto his couch in fear. "And Tulpas, and changelings?"
"Is this some kind of Misery thing?" Chuck asked warily. "Ah, it is, isn't it? It's a Misery thing isn't it?!"
"No, it's not a Misery thing! Believe me, we are not fans," Dean barked.
"Well, then what do you want?!" Chuck choked out.
"I'm Dean, that's Sam, and that's Melissa," Dean answered earnestly, gesturing between the three of them.
"They're fictional characters!" Chuck yelled insistently. "I made them up!"
Melissa exchanged a look with the boys and sighed. "Follow us."
. . .
Propping up the decoy trunk bottom, Dean revealed their arsenal. Sam watched Chuck expectantly, his hands on his hips. Melissa stared down at the weapons: Dean's pearlescent-handled revolver, her flare gun, the demon knife. All of it. She almost laughed at herself remembering this was what they called their job. Murderers, she thought vaguely, but shook it off. She couldn't be Dean. She couldn't blame herself. It wasn't constructive.
"Are those real guns?" Chuck asked in a meek voice.
"Yup," Dean said to Chuck almost proudly. "This is real rock salt, and those are real fake IDs."
"Well, I've gotta hand it to you guys, you really are my number one fans" Chuck said, backing up towards his house. The sky was a murky gray and the wind nipped at their cheeks. "Th-that's awesome. I...think I've got some posters in my house."
"Chuck," Dean spoke up warily, "stop."
"Please," Chuck raised his hand defensively, speaking weakly. "Wait. Please. Don't hurt me."
Melissa pinched at the bridge of her nose and sighed, feeling the sting of fatigue in her eyes. The fact that their life was on display for the world made her feel a little suffocated.
"How much do you know?" Sam took a step towards the terrified Chuck. "Do you know about the angels? Or about Lilith breaking the seals?"
"Wait a minute," Chuck perked up. "How do you know about that?"
"The question is how do you?" Melissa asked darkly, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Because I wrote it," he replied simply.
"You kept writing?" Dean chimed in.
"Yeah, even after the publisher went bankrupt, but those books never came out," Chuck shook his head a little, his voice more even now. "Okay, wait a minute. Is this a prank? Did Phil put you up to this?"
Dean ran a hand over his face defeatedly and sighed a little. "Well, nice to meet you. I'm Dean Winchester, and this is my brother, Sam. And that's Melissa Lowry."
There was a pause as Chuck stared at them almost vacantly. "Last names were never in the books. I never even wrote that down."
. . .
They all stood back in the dirty living room, and Chuck poured himself a big glass of whiskey. Melissa's head was pounding, and she could see that Dean was so angry he was almost jumping out of his skin. But Sam...something was off about Sam. Even more off than usual. His face was drawn in exhaustion and his eyes were angsty.
Chuck turned a big gulp and turned back to them. "Oh, you're still there!" Chuck grimaced.
"Yup," Dean replied grimly.
"You're not a hallucination…"
"Nope."
Melissa bit at her nails a little as she leaned against the wall, her head throbbing.
"Well, there's only one explanation," Chuck piped up again after a minute. "I'm obviously a god."
Melissa scoffed. "You're not a god."
"Well, how else do you explain it? I write things and they come to life," Chuck said, the whiskey sloshing around in his glass as he paced around, his eyes glinting in mania. "Yeah, no, I'm definitely a god. A cruel...cruel, capricious god. The things I put you through…the physical beatings alone..."
"Yeah, well, we're still in one piece," Dean told him.
"I killed your father!" Chuck continued guiltily. "I burned your mother alive. And then you had to go through the whole horrific deal again with Jessica."
"Chuck…" Sam tried to quiet the crazed writer. (Or whatever he was.)
"And you," Chuck pointed to Melissa, she perked up a little, her brow furrowed. "My god, your family, your sister, Allen, the drugs...and now with-"
"What?" she asked, stepping forward as he stopped short. Chuck's eyes flitted nervously to Sam, but he stayed silent for a moment. Sam's jaw clenched.
"I toyed with your lives for the sake of entertainment…" Chuck continued, shrugging it off.
"You didn't toy with us, Chuck," Dean chimed in before Melissa could insist anymore. "Okay? You didn't create us."
"Did you really have to live through the bugs?" Chuck squeaked.
"Yeah," Dean rolled his eyes. Melissa squirmed a little. Dean hated flying, she hated bugs.
"What about the ghost ship?"
"Yes, that too," Dean replied, losing patience.
"I am so sorry," Chuck rambled. "I mean, horror's one thing, but to be forced to live bad writing? If I'd have known it was real, I would've done another pass."
"Chuck, you're not a god!" Melissa barked.
"We think you're just psychic," Sam said with a lighter tone, casting an uneasy glance at Melissa.
"No," Chuck told them with finality. "If I was psychic, why would I be writing? Writing is hard."
Chuck slumped back into his desk chair, pages littering the worn wood in front of him.
"It seems that you're just somehow...focused on our lives," Sam made yet another attempt at reason.
"Yeah, laser-focused," Dean rolled his eyes. "Are you working on anything right now?"
Chuck's face fell in realization. "Holy crap."
"What?" Melissa asked, resting her hands on the desk in front of him.
The bedraggled writer fiddled with the pages in front of him. "The latest, uh, book. It's...uh, kinda weird."
"'Weird' how?" Sam asked, all three hunters coming to stand closer to the desk.
"It's very Vonnegut," Chuck explained.
"Slaughterhouse-Five Vonnegut or Cat's Cradle Vonnegut?" Dean leaned down at Chuck with a grim look.
"What?" Sam chirped, furrowing his brows.
"What?" Dean retorted defensively.
Melissa smirked.
"It's more Kilgore Trout Vonnegut…" Chuck went on, "I wrote myself into it. I wrote myself...at my house...confronted by my characters."
. . .
Still just running on fumes, Melissa threw the door to the convenience store open, her boots stamping loudly on the linoleum floor. During their visit to the laundromat earlier in the afternoon, Chuck had gotten back to work on the new book. And apparently tonight was the night for the big Lilith showdown. A showdown which involved Sam sleeping with the white-eyed demon. Dean had been appalled, but in all honesty, Melissa wasn't completely surprised. Lilith was just a step up from Ruby. The story also involved Dean being hit by a minivan. And Melissa'd had such high hopes for a normal hunt.
They'd already tried to just get the hell outta dodge, but the only bridge out of town was under construction. Naturally. So the most they could do now was the exact opposite of what Chuck's book entailed. Melissa had skimmed the book where she first met the boys. And it was word-for-word. She was doubtful. But they just had to try their damndest to avoid Sam sinking into the throes of "fiery demonic passion," as Chuck had so aptly put it.
First few rules included: no research for Sam, no fighting, no riding around in the Impala for Dean, and no more caffeine for Melissa. Without coffee, what she'd really wanted was a cigarette. But she also wasn't allowed to fight with Dean, so it was a bit of a predicament. Instead, she had wandered over to the grimy little store as Dean parked the Impala in the municipal lot and Sam tried to figure out what to do with himself without research, in search of some nicotine gum. It was going to be a long night.
"M'am I can't accept your change," the pubescent cashier argued with Melissa hesitantly as she checked out.
"Just keep the damn nickel!" she snapped, running a hand through her hair. Before the teenager in front of her could reply, the screech of tires sounded outside.
Melissa snatched the gum and ran outside immediately. Her heart was sinking. Out on the road in front of her, a frantic woman and a little girl kneeling in front of Dean, who lay before a beat-up green minivan. Melissa shoved through the sparse crowd, muttering the occasional worried "excuse me" along the way. By the time she got over, Dean was sitting up, pink flower band-aids peppering his face. She pushed the apparent driver out of the way instantly.
"Hey!" the woman yelled, grabbing her daughter away at the sight of Melissa.
"This is my boyfriend, bitch!" Melissa growled, squatting down before Dean taking his shoulders.
"Go easy on 'er," Dean said, his eyes glossy and his words slow. Melissa furrowed her brows.
"How's your head? Do you feel nauseous? How many fingers am I holding up?" she asked rapidly, holding up four fingers.
"Calm down, I'm fine," he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her up along with him.
"You just got hit by a fucking minivan, Dean," she insisted as she followed him, walking back across the street to the Impala.
"Bigger fish, Missy," he said gruffly. "Oh, no…" he choked out, seeing the shattered rear window of the Impala as they approached it.
"What the hell happened?" she asked.
"Not two seconds after I parked it, these damn kids started breakin' in...I was gonna give him a piece o' my mind, but then that minivan…" he trailed off, frowning as he saw the band-aids the woman's daughter had put on his face in the reflection of the back window.
"Okay, I'll get a tarp and then I'd say it's time to pay Chuck a visit," she said, her hands on her hips. "And I'm drivin.' If you've got a concussion I'm not havin' you fall asleep and slam into a tree or somethin' on the way over there."
. . .
Dean was looking alarmingly pale by the time they made it to Chuck's, and he sat slightly hunched over in the ratty armchair of the living room as they waited for the writer to return from wherever it was he had gone.
"Are you sure you don't wanna just swing by the hospital?" Melissa asked him again, emerging from Chuck's small kitchen with some coffee for them. Breaking in had been easy but they'd been waiting for almost an hour.
"For the last damn time, I'm fine," Dean grumbled. She sat down on the arm of his chair and handed him one of the steaming mugs.
"Okay, slugger, I'm just checkin,'" she shrugged, running a hand down the nape of his neck.
He smiled weakly up at her as she took the first sip of her coffee, trying to ease the sting of fatigue in her eyes.
Just then, Chuck scurried in with a bottle of Jack in one hand and a six-pack in the other. He darted immediately for the living room.
"Melissa...Dean…" he said slowly, avoiding their eyes.
"I take it you knew we'd be here," Dean said sullenly from the chair. Melissa stood, her arms crossed.
"Dean, you look terrible," Chuck told him meekly.
"That's because I just got him by a minivan, Chuck," Dean said with a bite in his voice.
"Oh," Chuck replied.
"That it?" Melissa shouted, taking a step towards Chuck. "Every fucking thing you write comes true, and all you have to say is 'oh?'"
"Please don't yell at me," Chuck breathed fearfully.
"Why do I get the feeling there's something you're not telling us?" Melissa continued harshly.
"What wouldn't I be telling you?" Chuck asked.
"How you know what you know, for starters!" Dean chimed in, coming to stand behind Melissa.
"I don't know how I know, I just do!" Chuck insisted.
"That's not good enough," Melissa said angrily, shoving Chuck against the wall. "How the hell are you doin' this?!"
"Melissa, let him go!" Castiel's voice appeared out of nowhere.
Almost jumping out of her skin, Melissa released Chuck and turned to face the trench-coated angel. Her cheeks flushed in anger. She hadn't exactly gotten over the whole forcing Dean to torture Alastair thing yet.
"This man is to be protected," Castiel said solemnly.
"Why?" Dean asked.
"He's a prophet of the Lord."
. . .
The crickets were singing and the sky was starry. Melissa dozed on the hood of the Impala, one hand behind her head and the other resting on her stomach. Dean was attempting to get Sam to leave with them, out of the town in some way. Even if they had to swim. She knew it wasn't her place to be in there with them. She was done trying to reason with Sam. God knows she'd tried. So she lay there on the hood in the parking lot of the motel, hoping Sam would emerge with Dean, but knowing in all reality he wouldn't. You couldn't save someone who didn't want to be saved.
Dean's footfalls brought her out of her bleak reverie, and she sat up with a yawn.
"How'd it go?" she asked as he approached the car under the light of the stars and the streetlamps.
"He thinks he can beat her," Dean said tiredly, running a hand over his face.
"Godammit," she muttered.
"I know," he said, sliding a couple coins in to the soda machine near the car. She put her hair up in a messy ponytail and bit her lips in frustration. It was bad. It was real bad. She'd seen him tear Alastair apart, but Lilith was not Alastair, and Sam was not strong enough.
"Well," Dean turned around and looked at her shyly, "I feel stupid doin' this but...I am fresh outta options." He closed his eyes before he continued. "So please. I need help. I'm prayin,' okay? Come on. Please."
"Prayer is a sign of faith," Castiel's rough voice broke through the silence of the night. "This is a good thing, Dean."
Melissa brought a hand to her heart and jumped. She was already anxious enough that Sam was most likely gonna get iced by Lilith or one of her minions without Castiel popping up out of nowhere.
"Jesus, Castiel, ring a bell or somethin' first will ya?" she scolded him.
"Does this mean you'll help me?" Dean asked desperately.
"I'm not sure what I can do," Castiel replied.
"You can drag Sam outta here now," Dean suggested bitterly. "Before Lilith gets to him."
"It's a prophecy. I can't interfere," Castiel insisted.
"You have tested me and thrown me every which way. And I've never asked for anything. Not a damn thing," Dean demanded. "But now I'm asking. I need your help. Please."
"What you're asking…" Castiel said guiltily, casting a nervous glance at Melissa who still leaned against the hood with a dark look, "It's not within my power."
"What? Because it's 'divine prophecy?'" Dean scoffed.
Dean continued for a little longer, but Castiel never relented. He simply couldn't defy his orders. It wasn't in his blood. For a moment, some empathy struck Melissa and she almost felt sorry for him. Never having an original feeling or thought. But then she remembered Dean's bloody face after his bout with Alastair and all of those feelings dissolved. Finally, Dean just got fed up and told the angel off.
"Screw you," the eldest Winchester grounded out. "You and your mission. Your God. If you don't tell me now...when the time comes and you need me, don't come knockin.'"
Dean began to brush past the angel and walk back to the car, but Castiel stopped him.
"Dean...Dean!"
"What?!" Dean snapped.
"You must understand why I can't intercede. Prophets are very special. They're protected," Castiel explained.
"I get that," Dean said impatiently.
"If anything threatens a prophet," Castiel went on, "anything at all...an archangel will appear to destroy that threat. Archangels are fierce. They're absolute. They're Heaven's most terrifying weapon."
"These archangels…" Melissa chimed in, "they're tied to prophets?"
"Yes."
"So if a prophet was in the same room as a demon-" Dean began.
"Then the most fearsome wrath of Heaven would rain down upon that demon," Castiel finished for him. "Just so you understand why I can't help."
Castiel gave Dean a knowing look and Dean nodded.
"Thanks Cas," he said.
"Good luck," the angel replied.
. . .
Muscles finally relaxing, Melissa leaned her forehead down on Dean's shoulder as the scalding water showered down on them. They were halfway back to South Dakota, but they just had to stop. Melissa still insisted on driving, and she was almost ready to pass out by the time the sun was rising. Sam maybe could've taken over, but he was just about as exhausted as she was after almost making a deal with Lilith. His soul for her to stop breaking the seals, and sex was the only way to make things official. Now the whole "fiery demonic passion" thing made sense, but they'd stopped it by finally dragging Chuck into the same room as Lilith. But to be honest, it'd been a bit too close of a call for all of them.
Melissa shivered a little though the water was warm. Dean's arms were wrapped loosely around her waist, and her hands rested on his neck, his chin on top of her head.
"I'm tired," he breathed.
"I'm sorry," she replied, stroking his hair.
"It ain't your fault."
"Yeah, maybe if I was with you the minivan thing wouldn't've happened," she said guiltily.
"Don't do that," he said softly. There was a pause and she took in a shaky breath.
"I miss Pamela," she admitted, feeling her heart beating against her ribs.
"I know, honey," he kissed the top of her head. "You just need sleep."
"I don't need sleep, Dean," she scoffed tearfully. "I need people to stop dying. I need to stop dreaming about ghosts. I-" she began and then stopped short, grip tightening on his neck just a little.
"What?"
"I wish you didn't have this life," she nearly whispered, her voice low under the hiss of the water.
"If I didn't have this life I wouldn't know you," he replied, and she could feel the rumble of his voice in his chest against her breasts.
"And you wouldn't know about monsters, and Sammy would be some hotshot lawyer married to the love of his life, and your life wouldn't be some book," she sighed.
"Why are you sayin' this?" he asked, stepping away a little and looking into her stormy eyes.
"I don't know...maybe I'm tired too…" she smiled shyly, her cheeks flushing.
"No really, what?" he insisted, bringing a gentle hand up and down her side, from her hip to her ribs, giving her goosebumps.
"If we didn't end up here...all these people wouldn't be dead, I guess…" she said slowly, not really knowing what she wanted to say. "I'm just, God, Dean...I'm so angry. At the angels, at their God, at your dad, at my dad…"
"Your dad?" he asked, furrowing his brows as he watched angry tears start to roll down her cheeks, mixing with the shower.
She sighed through her nose. "He was driving."
He watched her sadly for a moment, lifting the wet hair away from her shoulders and bring his hands to her cheeks.
"And I just let it happen, I let myself become this thing…" she said, her face heating up in his hands and her eyes searching around frantically. "I was just...reading about us today...about this...why? Why is it us?"
"I don't know. I don't know if it's meant to be or if it just happens. But someone's gotta save the world," he shrugged with a sad smile. He brought her back close to him. "Just breathe, baby…" he told her, kissing her shoulder. "Don't focus on anything else. Breathe."
He felt her calm down against him and sighed a little in relief. Reading about himself had told him two things, one: he needed Sammy to live, and two: he needed Missy to live. He didn't care about anything else. Not the angels or the demons or Lucifer. Not in that moment.
Author's Note: Hello all! It's been awhile, but since I'm doing longer chapters now I hope it evens out. And I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Getting pretty close to Lucifer now, aren't we? ;)
Special thanks goes to Purplestan, LoveFiction2018, and Ladysunshine6 for you reviews! Thank you so much! Feedback is always appreciated and it keeps this story going!
Until next time!
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Peace and love!
