AN: This takes place in early to middle season 12. Mary and the boys are estranged. Crowley and Cas are off hunting for Lucifer.
There's more angst and swearing than usual in this one. You've been warned!
The prompt options for yesterday (since I'm behind) were: Exhaustion / Narcolepsy / Sleep Deprivation.
I'll respond to comments next chapter, I swear. I just need to get this one posted!
"What are you lookin' at?" Dean tossed the papers he was reading onto the table, obviously bored with them. "Sam?"
"Not sure if it's a case yet, but it sure is weird," responded Sam distractedly. "An upscale housing development in Normal, Illinois suddenly has a bunch of people going into the psych ward. They're having horrific nightmares, refusing to sleep. Some are taking drugs to avoid sleep. And it sounds like there might be hallucinations too. The CDC was called in because all of them live within a two-block radius or have been in the area in the last five days." He turned the laptop so Dean could see.
"Normal, Illinois…isn't that where Dad's parents were from?"
"Yeah. And where Abaddon killed the Men of Letters. That's the main reason it caught my attention." Sam rubbed at his mouth tiredly. "What do you think?"
Speaking of avoiding sleep, Dean thought. He flipped the laptop closed. "I think we'll look at it tomorrow. It's late for little Sammies."
Sam shot him that annoyed yet amused look he did so well. "Are you putting me to bed, Dean?"
"If you hurry and get your pj's on, I'll read you a story before bed, Sammy."
Sam swatted the back of his head, but he went to bed. Dean may have lingered outside Sam's room for a moment before going to his own. Not that long ago, he'd hugged Sam for what he'd thought was the last time. Then he'd come back to find Sam missing. When he'd finally gotten his brother back, he had been tortured. Tortured. Dean hadn't even begun to process that, too busy with process overload because of Mom and the entire cluster that came with her back alive but working with the British dicks.
After they'd asked told Mom to go, Sam and Dean had gotten their drink on, and Sam had accomplished the impossible: he'd made Dean laugh. He'd done it by calling the whole situation a psychologist's wet dream.
Smiling to himself, Dean went to bed.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Morning brought the news that two people had died. And while ignoring Dean's gentle pestering to eat breakfast, Sam discovered something else. "Carl Genovese, a guy who lives right at the center of ground zero, owns the strip mall that includes Astro Comics. I found a newspaper article talking about how they recently found an underground safe while doing renovations."
"Astro Comics…that's where the Men of Letters' super secret hideout was, right? I mean, other than the batcave?"
"Yup. I wonder what Carl found in that safe."
Dean finished his coffee. "Why don't we go ask him?"
But it turned out they couldn't ask Carl. He was in a state of psychosis caused by severe sleep deprivation, as were four others. That was enough to get the boys heading for Illinois.
"The CDC hasn't found a thing," Sam was saying from the passenger's seat. "They aren't letting anyone in a two block area."
"Are you hacking into a government agency's files again?"
Sam huffed just a little. "N-no. Maybe. But we needed to know if it's actually some pathogen before we go in there, right?"
Dean hid a smile. After all these years, Sam was still a little defensive about doing illegal things, even when they did them for the right reasons. "Alright. So why are you still frowning?"
"Because I have no idea why certain people were affected and others weren't. All ages, though not many kids. Almost all of the paramedics and cops who responded to calls are affected. Both genders, several races. Ages 9 to 82. Not necessarily in families. Carl's basically comatose, but his wife and kids haven't showed any affects." He was visibly frustrated.
"You'll figure it out." Dean was confident of that.
"Four percent," murmured Sam, talking to himself. "But why that four percent?"
The interviews were difficult. The affected people were twitchy and red-eyed. The ones who would talk spoke of horrific dreams. One woman told them she'd been in a horrible car accident as a teenager and was trapped for four hours with her friends, who'd all died in the crash. "And it's all I see when I close my eyes," she'd explained, crying softly. "I live the accident over and over and over."
A slender man in his seventies said only, "Vietnam," with such a haunted expression that they didn't press him.
"I'm starting to get an idea," Sam admitted. "Let's see if we can talk to Mrs. Genovese, see if we can figure out what they found under that building."
Melanie Genovese and her kids were staying in an upscale hotel, having been cleared of whatever was afflicting her husband. She seemed shell-shocked, but willing to talk. "I have no idea what they found. It looked like junk to me. It's all in Carl's study. He was going to have someone come take a look at it, see if there was any value, or if we should give it to a museum or whatever. Now…" she trailed off. "You don't think there was some weird mold in it or something, do you? You don't think the junk under the store is making Carl and the others sick?"
"I doubt it," Sam reassured her. "You'd have to be in close proximity to get sick from mold. If that was it, you and the kids would be sick too, not your neighbors. Still, do you mind if we pick the stuff up and have to CDC check it over? We'll be careful."
Melanie's eyes were wet, but she smiled gratefully. "Thank you for that, agent. Of course. Take whatever you need."
"We'll let you get back to your kids, ma'am," Dean excused them.
They shook her hand, but Sam turned back as they were about to leave. "Ma'am, your husband was in the marines, right? Did he ever see any active duty?"
"Oh, yes. He was even in Fallujah. He never talks about it, though."
Sam nodded and they left.
"Wanna tell me what that was about?" Dean asked as they got back in the car.
"All of the cops who have been in the affected area are sick except one, a rookie. Almost all of the paramedics. Carl and two others are vets. And the people are dreaming about horrific things they actually lived through – that's why nobody wants to sleep. How much you wanna bet everyone affected has seen something terrible happen?" Sam was transcribing shapes in the air, talking with his hands as his brain worked through the problem. It made Dean smile.
"So it's something that feeds on fears, like a djinn. Or magnifies them," Dean was thinking too. "But it doesn't bother with you if you haven't seen much. That's why not many kids are affected."
"Or…" Sam's tone said he didn't like what he was thinking. "Or, it affects you the fastest if you've seen really bad shit, and slower if you only have had normally bad stuff in your life."
Dean sighed. "We have to go in there and find out what they dug out, don't we?"
"Yup."
"And with the world-ending, cosmic-level shit-storm horror show our lives have been, we're like all-you-can-eat buffets for whatever this is."
"Yup."
"Awesome."
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
While they waited for dark, because the Genoveses lived in far too nice an area to break in during daylight, Dean went to pick up files the local cops had promised, and Sam settled in to research what they might be looking for, now that they had more pieces of the puzzle.
Dean came back with bags full of dinner, and some confirmation. "The kid who's in the psych ward? She's adopted. Her biological family was killed in a house fire when she was little." Sam winced, just as Dean had when he had first read that. "The old lady survived a home invasion. Cops. Soldiers. EMTs. Sounds like you're right, Sam."
"There's still too many options, but here's what I've got. I don't think it's one of those angst djinn because they feed one at a time, and nobody has a handprint or liquified insides. It could be a supernatural or demonic virus that targets those who are vulnerable. Or a hex. Or a terror demon, though I don't have much information on them. But I'm leaning toward cursed object."
"Basically, we don't know until we go, right?" asked Dean around a mouthful of burger.
Sam deflated a little. "Right. We bring everything. Stuff to burn a cursed object or hex bag, a knife dipped in lamb's blood, a blessed blade and holy water, and witch killing bullets. And we fill our pockets with sage."
"So we smell good to whatever wants to kill us?"
"Yes." Sam rolled his eyes. "No, because it wards off some forms of evil."
"Rub some on your neck so the kinky choky spirits leave you alone for once."
"Eat your burger."
"Oh, you like being choked? Never knew you were into that, Sambo."
"Shut it, asshole."
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
They parked well outside of the blocked off perimeter and made their way in past privacy fences and security lights. It would have been nerve-wracking, except people had fled far beyond what was required, afraid of the unknown affliction, and the boys were soon picking the lock at the Genovese home.
The third room they came to was obviously a study, and there were a number of arcane-looking objects laid out on the desk. Dean was looking over without touching a bone-handled knife when Sam said, "Hey, Dean, look at this," in a very resigned tone of voice. He was looking at a small wooden curse box that smelled strongly like cedar. It was open and empty.
"What do you think was in it?" asked Dean. He looked closer, seeing what looked like tiny fingernail marks all over the inside. "Or who?"
Sam used the edge of a knife to close the box and looked at the writing on top. There was a word across the top that didn't fit in with the warding symbols carved into the rest of it: ƮpoųĸpƮía. "Tromokratía," Sam read. "And no, I don't know what it means. I can read Greek letters, but I don't know the language."
"What? I'm shocked at you, Sam. So, do we burn all of this?"
"We better keep the box, so we have the chance to trap whatever was in it again. Let's just…let's just take all of it." Sam dug in the duffel. They'd taken a silk-lined bag, since raw elements, especially silk, could block of lot of nastiness from escaping. While Dean kept watch, Sam used the side of his knife to push all of the items into the bag. Nothing reacted, nothing attacked, but it didn't really reassure Dean.
They searched the rest of the house, and the yard and pool building for good measure, and they would have liked to search other houses, but there wasn't any time. They'd head back to the motel for more research. Oh joy. They needed to identify what they were up against, and quickly, so they could find it and trap it and maybe even free the people already affected. If they couldn't, over 40 people would die, even without any new infections.
Unacceptable.
Dawn was peeking through the curtains of their ugly motel room when the boys got back, but they didn't bother going to bed. They'd looked into the haunted eyes of the old Vietnam vet, the little girl, the husbands and wives and kids scared for their family members.
The news wasn't good. The word inscribed on the box was a name, and it meant terror eater. "Sui generis," Sam grumbled. "It's one of a kind, a specific demon. It fills your dreams with your worst moments until you go nuts and eventually die, then either eats your soul or drags it to Hell – there are differing accounts. It was trapped way back in Ancient Greece, but nobody has ever figured out how to kill it for good. I found references to a ritual for getting it back in the box, but I haven't found it yet. And this demon can be invisible, so we have to figure out how to find it."
Now that they had a direction, research went a little faster, though most of the good stuff was in Greek and they had to painstakingly translate it. After they'd found enough that needed translation, they put it on a thumb drive and Dean went out to get it printed up and stock up on coffee and snacks. Then Sam worked on translating the physical pages while Dean kept searching and putting new things on the thumb drive. Sam gave him specific thing to look for once in a while, but mostly just worked.
About 3pm, Dean got to his feet. "C'mon, Sam. We're going to take a quick break, see the sun for a minute or two. You haven't moved from that chair in three hours." Sam's face was rebellious, but Dean wasn't taking no for an answer. They'd been up since the morning before, and he didn't want them missing anything because their brains were fried. He knew all too well the pressure to finish the hunt before anyone else died, but he was also the big brother. He dragged Sam to his feet. "Sunshine. Then maybe I'll pick up some sandwiches. And we'll have to think about sleep."
"But – Dean, let go – we have the ritual, and I think this next document is one that's in the Men of Letters vault, meaning it's authentic. Seriously, Dean. Once I find it, we should go back to the Genovese house. I think it's relatively weak for now, until it eats more – Dean, for God's sake!" They were already out the door and down the street. Sam finally jerked his arm free, since Dean had literally been walking away with it to force him to follow.
Dean grinned. Sam was outside, and even this little amount of exercise would wake them both up. "Sam, I'm going to introduce you to Gwen, then we'll head right back."
Sam sighed loudly and with feeling, but he came. And then all but froze when an incredible smell hit his nose. Gwen was Gwen Garcia, the tiny, gray-haired dynamo who ran Gwen's Goodies, a bakery that produced donuts, pastries, breads, cookies, and other miracles that could make a grown man weep. Dean almost had. He also flirted outrageously with the grandmother until she tutted at him and gave him freebies.
"Gorgeous Gwen, this is my little brother Sam. I told him he had to meet the love of my life. The cream to my donut. The icing on my cinnamon roll. Sam, the incomparable Miss Gwen."
"Díos mio! You did not tell me he was so tall and guapo! Nice to meet you, Sam."
Sam grinned despite himself. "Nice to meet you, Miss Gwen. I noticed every time Dean goes out, he comes back with something delicious from here."
"No flirting, Sammy. I got dibs on Miss Gwen!"
The woman in question rolled her eyes. "Dean, you are crazy." She was already packing things into a small box.
"It's been said. Hey, we'll have – "
"No, no, no." She actually waggled her finger in Dean's face, having to reach up to do so. He saw Sam grin and knew he'd done the right thing by dragging him (quite literally) here. "I know what you need. You trust me. Then you both keep walking and find some food for a meal, some soup or a sandwich. I can see you are working too hard. You don't want to get sick."
"Yes, ma'am," Dean lied. Neither of the Winchesters wanted to stop for that long, not until they had an answer. They'd get coffee from the shop next door and head back. They thanked the kind woman, paid, grabbed coffee, and headed back. It wasn't much, but it was a break, and it helped them stay awake a little longer.
It was two hours of frustratingly low translation later when Dean came across the ritual they needed. He made Sam double and triple check it. "Finally. Finally! Let's grab a couple hours sleep and go find that SOB."
Dean could see Sam wanting to protest, but then a scrubbed a tired hand over his eyes. While they were more than used to hunting tired or injured or whatever, even an hour or two of sleep would make a big difference in how aware they were, how quickly they moved, etc. And Dean saw the look Sam shot him before deciding. Sam agreed because Dean looked tired. What a girl.
"Fine. A few hours can't make much of a difference, right?"
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
He could hear them. They wanted that. They could have attacked silently, killed before their prey registered their presence, but they liked the fear. They would rattle the doors and howl in the distance for days, even weeks. They liked it when their prey ran, too. If hellhounds were ever unleashed, they'd hunt every human on the planet.
Dean had been hearing them, their growled reminders that his time was running short. He'd even felt hot breath on his neck twice, and he could swear that there was a wild joy in their howl. In Sam's research to try and save him, he'd come across a poem on the wild hunt, and two lines of it echoed in Dean's mind all the time now. His terror cannot be disguised / His smell is carried by the wind. There was no escaping. They had his scent and were just waiting for their master to speak the word.
And it was time now. He'd give anything for Sam to not see this, but his brother was pinned to the wall, crying out in horror as pain ripped down Dean's abdomen, pain like he'd never known. His own hot blood splattered across his face as he screamed. He couldn't even hear himself. Claws tore at him again, and he turned his head to see…Jo was going to be torn apart too. And somehow, that was worse. He was on his feet and running somehow even though he'd been dead. But he was too slow. Always too slow. She defended him, and the hellhounds tore through her stomach.
The didn't go for the throat, never for the throat. Because if they liked the fear, they loved the pain.
Sam needed to find some water, more than anything he'd needed his entire life. His hands were painted in red, dripping with it. He was Hannibal Lector and Hermann Göring and Josef Stalin. He was Lady MacBeth with hands that would never be clean. He stumbled over the bodies of those he'd killed, those whose deaths were against his soul. Kevin. Charlie. Jess. Pamela. Ash. They went on and on.
On rotate, he watched them all. He heard Kevin scream, watched his eyes burn. He saw Charlie slaughtered, covered in blood. Jess' terror- and pain-filled eyes as she burned to death above him. Pamela bleeding out because they'd asked her to help them – despite what she'd already lost. Ash, unrecognizable except for his watch.
All on him. The Boy King. The Abomination. The One Who Started the Apocalype and Freed Lucifer. Blood didn't drip off his hands, it poured.
He wept, and his tears were blood, too.
Pain crashed through Sam's head, then his knees, and he rolled awkwardly to his feet in shock and confusion, hands held up defensively. His hands. They were clean, and he blinked hard, trying to make sense of what had happened.
Good God, it was a dream. No wonder nobody wanted to sleep. Sam rubbed his jaw, the pain from striking the nightstand oddly grounding. It had been Dean's trick for him when the devil was playing Pinocle with Sam's brain cells. Real pain feels different than remembered pain.
A pained moan caught his attention, and he jerked his head to see Dean, somehow still asleep, thrashing. His face was twisted in undisguised pain, and it was such a wrong expression. Dean never let himself be so transparent.
Sam rushed to his brother's side and shook him a little harder than he meant to. "Dean? Dean, it's a dream. Wake up. Wake up, Dean. You're safe, you're not there. Wake up!"
He was prepared for the punch when it came, and ducked. It wasn't safe to wake a Winchester, and waking one in the throes of a nightmare was just stupid, but Sam couldn't let his brother keep suffering. What he wanted to do was pull Dean into a hug, but he wasn't sure he'd get away with that. So he just smacked Dean on the back when his brother sat up, still half dazed. But he didn't get up from his seat on the edge of Dean's bed until Dean bumped a fist against his shoulder. Neither asked if the other was okay. They weren't.
Instead, Dean just said, "I believe we have a demon to gank."
But they searched all night and couldn't find it.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
"There has to be something. Try wording your search differently," Sam let his irritation color his tone.
"I've tried wording it every fucking way I can think of!" Dean was on his feet, pacing and running his hands over his hair. They couldn't find the demon, and the only sleep they'd had in the last fifty hours were the two hellish hours of napping. They didn't want to sleep, couldn't face the dreams that were so much more real than ordinary dreams, but they were running on fumes and they still didn't have a way to find the thing that was causing so much misery. And two more of its victims had died.
They were getting a little crabby.
Just a few minutes earlier, Dean had nodded off, and had almost immediately jerked away so violently that he'd sent his chair flying backwards and almost landed on the table. Sam had jumped up to see if his brother was okay, and Dean had clapped a hand to the side of his neck and stared into his face for a long moment before the panic left his eyes. Sam understood.
But they couldn't find the answers they so desperately needed.
A knock on the door had them both flinching, and Dean answered it with one hand on his gun. It was a teenager he didn't recognize, holding a familiar white bag and two very large coffees. "My abuela says you two are sick but you're working to help the others who are sick, so these are fuel for you, and you're not allowed to pay." He gave a cheeky grin that gave a glimpse at the handsome man he'd be in a few years. "You could tip the delivery guy, though."
Dean thanked him and gave him five bucks. And though they hadn't thought they were hungry, they each inhaled a donut and a cinnamon roll, and the coffees were gone before they had time to cool. The sugar and caffeine high should have lasted for hours, but they were so depleted it was more like 20 minutes before they were flagging again.
If they didn't find the demon soon, they wouldn't survive.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Hooks ripped through fleshy part of Dean's shoulders just above his collarbone and between his Achilles tendons and ankle bones, pinning him in place. Clamps closed around the sides of his head, and he writhed like a worm on a hook, knowing what came next.
Red-hot pokers lowered slowly toward his eyes. Slowly, so he could anticipate. Slowly, so he could feel the heat before they touched him. Slowly, so he would begin to scream and keep screaming long after he was hoarse as they slowly, lovingly, inexorably pressed down harder and harder until they pierced his eyelid, into his eyes, and all the way into his brain. And he should have been dead, but he was never dead here, not even as the pokers pushed all the way through and out the back of his head. His tongue would be ripped out next, but even when it was, his screams didn't stop.
Sam couldn't move, even blink or breathe. Ice crystals filled his lungs and pierced him, spikes tearing at him from the inside. His body begged him to breathe, to cough, to move, but he couldn't. And then Lucifer began to flay him. He took great pride in following the contours of every muscle so in the end he had a perfect anatomy dummy. If he slipped and cut into a muscle, he'd start over once he was finished. It took days, or maybe years, and the entire time, Lucifer hummed, like it was an abstract act to pass the time. The Cage's version of Angry Birds.
And Sam couldn't wince or cry or beg or blink. Sometimes he was allowed to move his eyes and he would look to Michael, if he could see him. Michael didn't even hate him; he was simply disinterested, and that was even worse. To him, Sam was of so little import that his torture didn't really even register. He didn't even react when Lucifer did allow Sam to scream. At first, it had annoyed Michael, but now he didn't respond. It was as if he didn't hear it.
Sam no longer begged for help. Or mercy.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
Dean screamed himself awake, but even that didn't wake his brother. His face still wet with tears, Dean shook Sam, called his name, and finally slapped him. He felt a little bit sorry for that, but knew Sam would be grateful nonetheless.
Sam looked wrecked. Haunted. Dean pulled him right out of the chair where he'd fallen asleep, pulled him to his feet like he had only yesterday. He kept his hands fisted in Sam's shirt until Sam's vision cleared and he nodded, no longer looking like a scared five-year-old.
Now they both paced, carrying their papers or the laptop with them. Still, Dean caught the laptop nearly tipping out of Sam's hands once as his brother tried to fall asleep mid-step. He wanted to make a quip about it, but his brain was too occupied with other things. If he were awake much longer, he'd start to think he could actually read the Greek.
Suddenly, Sam stopped walking, messing up their little dance. Dean reached for him, wondering if he'd fallen asleep in his feet. But Sam was fine, staring over Dean's shoulder like the beige wall held all the answers. "Holy shit," he mused. "We're morons. Damn morons. We know how to summon a fucking demon."
Dean's face fell slack. Could it really be that simple? "We're fucking morons."
The Winchesters had scoped out an empty warehouse when they'd hit town, just like they'd found the closest hospital, a good place to burn or bury a body, and the best four ways out of town. So they went to the first and set up their summoning there. Both were ashen, swaying on their feet, but determined. Dean did the honors, since Sam held the curse box and would be the one to recite the ritual to trap it in the curse box again.
He waited until Sam nodded, then did the recitation as fast as he could. The building walls trembled around them and a wind blew in from nowhere, but they were far too familiar with this reaction to be worried. They also knew this wasn't a demon that required a vessel, but weren't sure if they'd be able to see it or not. Lore suggested they would, but that lore was from the Middle Ages, so they weren't exactly confident in its accuracy.
With a pop and a hiss, a…creature…appeared. Its form was not solid, but looked like greenish black ooze. It was the size of a beagle, and vaguely arachnidian in shape. It bounced around the devil's trap like a marble in a pinball machine. Then, when Sam started to read the trap spell, it froze in the dead center and hissed in a language that definitely wasn't human.
Sam faltered. Dean tried to call out an encouragement or something, then found he couldn't speak either. He could only watch. As Sam was stabbed in the back and collapsed into his arms. And was shot right in the chest, instantly killed. And jumped into The Pit. And lay on the floor of an old cabin, gut shot and choked.
It wasn't a dream, because he could see reality, could see his perfectly healthy brother across the devil's trap from him. Well, exhausted beyond measure and staring at something Dean couldn't see, but mostly fine and healthy. But alive and not lying in a mental ward with all life gone from his eyes. Or kneeling, beaten, as he waited for Dean to kill him. Or…no! Dean looked through the illusion, focused on the real thing.
"Sam?" He sounded like he had a horrid cold. "Sammy? It's Dean. I'm alive. I'm fine. Focus on what's here now. You have to read the spell." He didn't think he could move, so he had to get through to his brother.
Sam stared in horror. All he could think was, no, please, not again. He was intimately familiar losing his way inside his own mind, with watching Dean die. And he did. Torn apart by hellhounds. Bleeding out in a parking lot in Broward County. Stabbed through the heart by Metatron. Then grinning, with eyes black. But he was talking out of sync with his lips. He was calling Sam, and Sam realized the demon version of Dean was ephemeral; he could see through it.
Dean was beyond it, looking exhausted and angry and desperate. He was waving his hands and Sam remembered the paper he was holding.
"I'm back. I'm back," Sam ground out suddenly, making Dean's head feel like it was going to explode with relief. "Se pagidévo – "
The visions intensified, but Sam didn't hesitate again. Dean just stared at him with pride, with everything he felt and couldn't say, trying to silently support his brother, willing him to stay strong and finish. Because they might have a ton of fodder for the stupid terror demon, but they only had that much shit because they'd survived it all. They were still here, still kicking. Almost inaudibly, Dean growled, "You fucked with the wrong people this time."
Then there was a mini tornado and Sam was slamming the box shut with a look of immense satisfaction on his face. Then he swayed where he stood.
Dean would have like to tell you that he leaped across the devil's trap like a gazelle, or, some predator that was as fast as a gazelle, but in reality it took him a while to cross even that little distance. By then Sam had steadied himself and he put the box down carefully at his feet. Sam deliberately turned and pulled Dean into a crushing hug. Dean grabbed two handfuls of the back of Sam's shirt and hung on right back. For Sammy's sake, of course.
Finally, they broke apart, too overcome to be embarrassed by the hug. "L-let's clean this up and crash at the motel," said Sam. He cast a dirty look at the innocent-looking box. Dean understood. They weren't going to sleep, they were going to pass out, without anybody to watch their backs. And to sleep with that nearby wasn't a pleasant thought. Sam caught Dean watching him carefully. "I'm fine, Dean. It's fine."
Yeah, ya sound fine, bro. "Hang on." Dean cleared his throat. "Hang on. I'm gonna try something." He dialed Cas. It was always a crapshoot of whether or not he angel would answer, but –
"Hello?"
"Hey, Cas. Where are you?"
"I am driving just south of Chicago. My lead did not pan out, and I was heading for the bunker."
"Seriously?"
"Yes, I am always serious."
Dean almost laughed, rubbing a hand down his face and doing some mental calculations. "Cas, can you destroy a terror demon?"
"Of course. They are only minor demons." Cas' tone changed to something close to alarm. "Dean, you and Sam cannot go up against a terror demon! You –"
"Are the poster children for traumatic events? Yeah, I know. We've got it trapped."
There was a long pause. "You sound tired."
Then Dean laughed. "You have no idea. Listen, I need you to meet us in Normal, Illinois. I'll text you an address." He hung up, knowing the abruptness of it wouldn't bother Cas. "Cas is about two hours away," he told Sam. He can smite that asshole for us." He didn't imagine the relief that flashed over Sam's face. Trapped wasn't good enough for that fucker.
Clean up took forever, and by the time they were finished, Gwen's was open, so they stopped in. The eponymous owner let out a whole string of shocked Spanish at the sight of them, which wasn't flattering, but it wasn't surprising either. She loaded up two bags of goodies for them, never stopping a steady of stream of a mixture of Spanish and English which mostly amounted to you look terrible, don't you boys take care of yourselves, go get some sleep right this instant or I'll hit you over the head and tuck you in myself, etc.
They took it. Partly because she was giving them a lot of pan dulce. Partly because she was right. And partly because they were just too damn tired to argue.
Before they left, Dean leaned close to the little baker. "It's over," he said, just above a whisper. "Everyone should get better now." That earned him a teary-eyed smile and two more Danishes.
By the time they were stumbling back into their motel room Cas was pulling up. "You two look terrible," was his greeting.
But he destroyed the demon right inside the box and without apparent effort, which made him a damn hero.
Dean collapsed to sit on the edge of his bed. "Thanks, Cas."
"I can help you sleep without dreams," offered Cas.
"That's alright," said Sam quickly.
"We're used to it," added Dean, his exhaustion making him more honest than he normally would have been.
Cas leaned over and stared in Dean's eyes for an uncomfortably long moment. Then he walked over to Sam and did the same thing.
"Please?" the angel asked quietly. "Just this one time, because of the demon, let me help. I can keep watch while you sleep."
Dean heard the plea, saw the capitulation on Sam's face, and swore under his breath. "Fine. Fine. But don't tell anybody. Especially Crowley." He shucked his jacket and shoes and decided everything else was too much effort.
"Do not let the bed bugs bite," implored Cas earnestly, and Dean would have laughed, but he fell asleep first.
In the quiet motel room, the angel watched over his sleeping friends and was content.
AN part 2: The poem Dean remembers is The Wild Hunt by Ruth Fainlight. The Greek comes from Google translate and is unverified. The Spanish came from my brain and is also unverified by anyone who actually speaks the language. I'm always happy to fix mistakes that smart people find for me!