Thanks again to all you oddballs following this fic! And to my awesome theological adviser who, despite the fact it's one of her busiest times of the year, took the time to proof this for me and it's much, much better thanks to her.
Chapter 50: Back Troubles
Bela beat both feet, since they were strapped together, against the floor as she screamed in frustration. The representative of her client was way too calm and serene. His hands were secured in front of him, allowing him to pull a cell phone from his breast pocket. He pressed the call button and held it up to his ear.
"No, Master. The bait escaped. … Yes, I would agree. … Thank you, Master." He slipped the phone back in his pocket.
"What was all that about?" Bela demanded, wondering why in the hell the moron didn't call for help.
His too cool eyes focused on her. "About not making your next payment." He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. No matter what she said he refused to speak to her.
Damn it! Damn those Winchesters and damn the angels! She was sticking to stealing high dollar artifacts from now on. Any time she veered from what Daddy taught her, it meant nothing but trouble. It felt like hours but was probably only twenty minutes later when there was noise from the front door. Bela hoped it was a nosy neighbor who would release her. She no longer cared about the creepy guy sitting next to her.
Large men in nice suits, much nicer than this area warranted, entered the house. They paid no attention to her as they released the creepy guy.
"There are signs," one of the nicely-suited men told the creepy guy.
"Where?" he demanded.
"Here." Another of the men held out his arms and motioned around him.
"You two," creepy guy motioned to two of the men, "check the rest of the house. You," he pointed out another of the men, "with me outside. And you," he walked up to the last man, "watch Bela." His piercing dark eyes settled on her. "She's tricky."
No one even offered to remove her restraints. Bela grunted in frustration, wondering what it would take to convince one of them to let her go. Well, this would probably be her best opportunity. She smiled and batted her eyes.
"Nice suit," she told him in her best seductive voice. He frowned. Crap. She thrust her chest out. "I can assure you, I know how to show my appreciation." She smiled broadly. "You don't even need to release my hands." Bela winked and eyed him suggestively.
The man crossed his arms defiantly and glared coldly at her. Yeah, this was just the way her luck was running lately. She would find a cult which leaned towards homosexuality. Just freaking perfect.
Daniel led Noah into the back yard of the run-down house. He attempted to mask his excitement over the fact angelic signs had been detected in their area. His master would be so pleased if he managed to procure an angel without the aid of the heathen Bela. Noah was the leader of their detention team, all specially trained since they reached the age of manhood at twelve years old. Since he had not noticed anything, Daniel assumed any angels in the area would not be in the house. Surely he would have felt the difference. He had sensed Dean's presence upon his arrival; an angel should produce a stronger presence.
He directed Noah to check along the right fence while he went left. As he approached the large tree in the far corner of the yard, his heart rate picked up. In the shade of the tree, shielded from view of the house by the trunk, was a large lump. When he came closer, the lump appeared to be an unconscious man with dark, wild hair and a physique to be envied.
"Over here!" he shouted excitedly to Noah.
Noah ran to his position. With a frown he pulled something, perhaps an ancient artifact, from his pocket. Daniel watched breathlessly while Noah recited an ancient prayer as he held the artifact over the fallen man. It glowed with a brilliant white light. Noah's face split in a broad smile.
"He's one of them," he said in a reverent whisper. Noah pulled a radio handset from his breast pocket. "We have the package. Back yard."
Daniel stood aside as the other three men came racing from the house. They surrounded the man on the ground. Each of the detention team removed strange objects from their pockets. One was like a necklace and went around the unconscious man's neck while another bound his wrists and yet others wrapped individually around his ankles. When the detention team appeared satisfied with their work, they surrounded the man and lifted him from the ground.
Daniel rushed ahead of the team to open the gate in the fence since it would be easier than attempting to carry him through the house. The team carried the angel out to their waiting white van. They placed the unconscious body reverently inside, not wanting to harm him any more than necessary.
Could they cause harm to an angel? Daniel wondered. Angels were the warriors of God, but that did not mean they were indestructible. What evil horror had this one faced to be struck down like this?
As the van drove slowly through the depressed area, Daniel realized they were one person short. "Did no one bring the woman?"
Two of the men grinned as all three shook their heads. With a sigh, Daniel removed his cell phone from his pocket. He would call the local authorities anonymously to free her. Since she made this possible, she should not die for it. Death was reserved for disappointment. Torture followed by death was prescribed for failure. Bela might be incompetent and insane, but she had neither failed nor disappointed. As a matter of fact, the stupid woman had delivered beyond his highest expectations.
Raphael stood perfectly still as he listened to the painful moan of the wind. What did it mean? He had finally located Lilith and was attempting to learn her plans, but she was a treacherous enemy. Already he had lost her trail twice and had just picked it up again when he heard the wind.
"Michael?" he called out softly, fearing his friend would not answer. "Mike, I need you."
The wind moaned again and Michael did not appear. Never before, in all the millennia of their existence, had Michael ever failed to come when Raphael called. All thoughts of Lilith forgotten, Raphael searched for the bright line of connection between them. Its light was waning, as though Michael had been struck down in battle and lay dying. Panicked, Raphael followed it swiftly, faster than even light traveled.
He spotted Michael inside a white van. A half-dozen humans accompanied him in the human device. Raphael chose to appear in the road in the path of the van. If it hit him and vaporized the human inhabitants, so be it. It was unlikely mere humans had been able to take down Michael, but not impossible. Demons often seduced humans with promises and power, occasionally giving them the means to harm an angel.
The van veered sharply to his left. Raphael moved back in front of it. It veered again to the right, but the driver misjudged how the maneuver would work with the van's weight already positioned mainly on two wheels. It tipped precariously on two wheels before slamming down the other way, rocking violently. Raphael decided to help it out, causing a strong gust of wind to knock the van over onto its side.
He could barely see the van through his rage. The world outside of the van ceased to exist for him. Raphael ignored the human crawling out of the front door window. His focus was on reaching the back of the van. The doors swung rapidly open as he approached, showing him his worst fear.
Michael, pale and unconscious, lay unmoving covered with the kind of spellwork which could bind an angel. Without needing to look directly at any of them, Raphael reached out and caught a human attempting to escape by the throat. As the other humans ran for safety, Raphael lifted the human male off the ground as he turned to lock gazes. It was unlikely a human who sought to capture and bind an angel had the willpower necessary to beat him in a contest of wills. Especially now. After all, he was not facing down Dean Winchester.
"What have you done to him?" he demanded fiercely, desperately attempting to control his desire to break the human's neck.
The human clawed at his hand, but Raphael felt nothing. His hand was like stone, his will that of the relentless ocean. He shook the man gently, wanting an answer before the frail human neck gave way under his grip.
"Don't know," the human croaked, hands clinging to his wrist. "The others did the binding."
"His injuries," Raphael roared. Thunder cracked in the sky above them, the sound echoing down the street and between the homes.
"Found him," the man gasped as his eyes started to roll back in his head.
Disgusted, Raphael tossed the frail body made of mere flesh and bone away. He landed in a heap in one of the weed strewn yards. Raphael stepped gently into the van. First he checked Michael for injuries. Finding nothing physically wrong with Michael, which was highly disturbing, Raphael removed the binding materials. He laid his hands on his friend's chest again, attempting to heal whatever could be wrong. Still Raphael found nothing.
Winchester. This had happened the last time Dean Winchester fell to the so-called phantom pain. Raphael gathered Michael's limp and unresponsive body in his arms. As he stood he noticed wet drops on his friend's neck and chest. Then Raphael realized his cheeks felt hot and wet at the same time. No doubt the brothers would be able to explain this as well. Holding Mike close, he moved them to join the Winchesters.
A fearful resident of one of the worst neighborhoods in town peered through a crack in his always closed curtains. The noise of the overturning van and a huge thunderclap had drawn him to the window. Men ran from the overturned van when the back doors seemed to fly open of their own accord. Before his amazed eyes, a man holding another man disappeared into a blazing white flame. The flame continued after the men could no longer be seen. It devoured the van in white fury. Unlike his gas stove, the hotter the flame burned the whiter it became until he could no longer look at it.
When the white spots left his vision, he peered out again. All that was left of the men and the overturned van was a charred pothole the size of the van. He had expected to see the vehicle in flames, or at least its burned remains. Nothing was left but that hole in the street. With a shaking hand, he lifted his phone to call emergency services, not that the men he witnessed in the fire could be saved now.
Dean glanced around the room he found himself in. There were large movie posters plastered over the walls and all kinds of memory boxes stacked on the floor. He was in his happy place where there was no shouting, no arguing, and no freaking busybody people.
"Dean?"
He turned his head to find Mike standing off to one side, studying a movie poster curiously. "Where are we?"
"I'm pretty sure we're in my head this time," Dean replied. "At least there's no wheat."
Mike shook his head as he slid down the wall to sit on the floor. "May I ask why?"
Dean shrugged. "Beats me, dude."
Now the curious gaze was turned on him. Dean squirmed under the scrutiny. "I'm pretty sure you know," Mike insisted.
With a sigh, Dean leaned his head back to study the ceiling. Oh, yeah. That was where the really good pics were, he had almost forgotten. As his eyes traced the outline of a beautiful busty scantily clad woman, he said, "Honest Mike, the last thing I remember was that bitch Bela holding a gun on Hillary. I leaned back in the chair and woke up here."
"Dean."
He lowered his gaze over the seriousness of Mike's tone. "What?"
"What exactly happened when you leaned back in the chair? Did your back start to hurt?" Mike demanded.
Dean tried, but the truth was he really did not want to remember. "That would make sense," he admitted. "It's been really bothering me for a while, kind of like hot needles through my spine."
Mike shuddered.
"You're telling me," Dean agreed.
"Well, I'm guessing you must be in an awful lot of pain if we're both here," Mike said slowly and Dean really did not care for the implication. Mike's intelligent blue eyes leveled on him. "You know I can't take it, so you're shielding me from it. Isn't that right, Dean?"
"What?" Dean snapped. "You sound like you have everything figured out, what the hell do you want from me?"
Mike sat perfectly still, not even blinking, long enough to make Dean distinctly uncomfortable. "That didn't hurt," he said slowly.
"What?" Dean demanded.
"When you said, you know. It didn't hurt," Mike repeated.
"When I said...." Dean replayed what he'd said in his mind. "Hell?" He glanced over quickly. Mike still looked fine. Dazed but fine.
"I guess you're shielding us from all pain," Mike said softly. "I didn't expect this."
He was not having this conversation. Nope. Not happening. Dean stood up to grab his top Sammy box, where all the good pics of Sam were. He set it next to him on the floor before flipping the unsecured flaps open.
"Why isn't there any furniture in here?" Mike asked.
"What for?" Dean replied as he shuffled through some awesome shots of embarrassed Sam.
"To sit on," Mike said, but he sounded conversational and not pissed off. "What's this?"
"Sam stuff," Dean replied lightly as he turned around the picture of Sam with the plastic spoon sticking out of his mouth so Mike could see it. "Awesome, right?"
Mike raised a hand over the open box. "Do you mind? There doesn't seem to be a lot to do in here."
Dean shrugged. "Go ahead. This is all the good stuff." He pointed at the battered box on the bottom of the stack. "That and anything locked up is off-limits."
"Fine." Mike took out a sheaf of papers and pictures. As he shuffled through them, he started to chuckle. "You and Sam are a lot alike."
"We are brothers," Dean said defensively.
Mike grinned as he held up a bald picture of Sam. "I'm talking about how you collect embarrassing memories of each other."
Dean grinned back. "Hey, if you can't have a little fun, then what's the point in living?" He handed over a picture of them as kids, posing by a cowboy statue. "Dad took us to this crappy amusement park one year. Sam ate so much junk food he was sick for two days. It was awesome."
"What's awesome about that?" Mike asked as he dutifully looked over Dean's memory.
"No hunting," Dean said with a shrug. "We were just there to have fun. And Dad let us have spending money. I didn't have to swipe so much as a hot dog." He took the memory back and pressed it against the wall, where it stuck. "That was a good day."
"I'm starting to see why you two are such a good team," Mike said as he pawed through more of Dean's memories. "It's not just the fact you have a common history, it's because you really get each other. You think so similarly, it's almost like you can each tell what the other one is thinking."
Dean shrugged as he spread out memories in the form of photographs across the floor. "You kind of sound like you've had the same experience." He stole a glance at Mike's face. "Maybe like you and Ralph?"
Now Mike shrugged. "I never thought about it that way." His head tilted back and he frowned. "Why are there naked pictures of women on the ceiling?"
"So I can look at them lying down," Dean informed him. "Where else would I put them? Close your eyes if they're distracting. You were talking about Ralph."
He pretended to sort through his own memories, putting his favorite embarrassed-Sammy shots in one pile and the sentimental ones in another. Dean could tell them apart by touch, he didn't really need to look at them, but he figured Mike would appreciate what little privacy he could get. Mike leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. Dean waited patiently, even after all the memories from the good box had been sorted.
"I guess we are like that," Mike said slowly, his eyes opening and focusing on Dean. "We've been brothers in arms for a long, long time. Longer than human history. You can get to know someone pretty well in that amount of time."
Dean nodded seriously. "He reminds me a lot of Sam." He pointed out one of his favorite Sam memories, when Sammy was about twelve and followed him everywhere and tried to imitate everything he did. "That's when we were kids."
"You did a good job with him," Mike said as he examined the memory. "You do know that?"
Dean shrugged. He glanced around the room to avoid continuing this conversation. "I wonder what's taking them so long."
Mike looked around curiously. "Taking who so long?"
"Sam and Bobby," Dean explained. "I was sure they would've found me by now."
A lined, ancient face appeared in his vision. "Master?" Daniel croaked, his throat tight and painful.
"Daniel," his master said, his breath heavy with the scent of garlic. Sunlight streamed from behind his master's head, framing him in a bright halo. Daniel smiled at the sight. "What happened? Where is he?"
Daniel swallowed hard, but his throat was still so tight. "Someone came," he whispered. His master leaned in closer. "He took Michael."
"Michael?" Master asked, his eyes dancing. "Was it really Michael?"
Daniel wondered why his master was not helping him, why he heard no sirens from an ambulance. "Maybe," he replied. "The other grabbed my throat." He tried to move, to show his master, but his arms were pinned. When Daniel tried to roll his head to the side, it would not move either.
"The detention team, Daniel," Master demanded. "Where are they? What happened to them?"
"Ran," he hissed. "Ran away."
Master's face hardened and Daniel recognized he was in trouble. He could expect punishment later. "A detention team would never run away, Daniel. What happened to them?" his aged voice demanded.
Daniel closed his eyes. His master did not believe him. There was no reason to remain awake if Master would not listen to the truth. Perhaps Master planned to leave him here to die of his injuries for their failure. It was no less than what he deserved.
Sam's eyes were pinned to his brother's still form. What the hell happened to Dean back there? They should've grabbed Bella and brought her along. He was certain he could make her admit whatever she did to his brother.
"Where's that doctor?" Sam demanded. "Shouldn't they be doing something?"
"Damned if I know," Bobby grunted, his ballcap twisted tight in one hand. He paced along the far wall, glancing occasionally at some of the equipment monitoring Dean. When he made his fifth circuit, and Sam was just about ready to body-slam Bobby to get the man to sit freaking down, a white light started to glow in the corner.
Sam waved at Bobby before the man could walk into the light. Startled, Bobby froze as the room flooded with brilliant light. Sam had to shield his eyes until it dissipated. When he dropped his hands, Raphael stood next to Dean's bed holding..Mike?
Bounding to his feet, Sam rushed to Raphael's side. "What happ-" But then he saw the archangel's face was streaked with tears, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy.
"Ralph?" Dean's nickname for Raphael was out of Sam's mouth before he could think about it. The two angels sunk to the floor, Michael held protectively in Raphael's arms.
"Tell me." Raphael's voice cracked on each syllable as his wet eyes locked on Sam.
Sam tried to swallow past the dry, hard lump in his throat. "We don't know," he managed to say, though his voice was barely above a whisper. He understood exactly how Ralph felt, the utter hopelessness and despair, like nothing in the world would ever be right again. The next thing Sam knew, his hand rested on Ralph's shoulder and hot tears dribbled down his own cheeks.
"I'm sorry."
