Hey guys, don't want to be that person, but I have a reason. If you're reading this, make it clear that you are. Reviews are the best way to do that. Because I'm working on another very long fic that is getting reviews, and it only makes sense that I spend more time on the story that people are asking for updates on. If you ask, I'll gladly prioritize A Candle Burns in a higher slot, but if you don't, updates won't be very frequent. That will be all, please enjoy this chapter.
After securing a new host, a well-built military man with tan skin and a buzz cut, Dean's next step is to find somewhere he can practice. And there are a couple parameters that have to be met.
He needs a place away from people, preferably far away. He doesn't want to attract attention. But far away from people, like in open fields, there's nothing to work with.
He's almost tempted to just return to that farmhouse outside Bradfordsville, but he has good reason to believe that Sam and the angel have taken note of the location. No reason to risk their checking it out.
So he puts Kentucky in his rearview mirror and just drives. He doesn't stop for a full day.
As the days pass, it is a constant battle in Sam's head as to whether or not he's going to slip into despair. He is always teetering at the edge of that chasm and it would be so easy to just take a wrong step and fall head over heels into the darkness. And sometimes he does. But he is always quick to claw his way back up.
He gets to work calling up all the hunters he knows, and that number is vast. All he tells them is that he came across a demon whom he caught in a devil's trap, but it was able to escape. Of course he doesn't say that that demon is his brother. Of course he can't. And the vast majority of them won't have access to any demon-killing weaponry, so there's no reason to suspect they'll try to get the drop on him, if they ever even encountered him. But on the very off chance that they did… they would find the attempt entirely unsuccessful, and Sam would be in part responsible for their subsequent brutal deaths.
With the dawn of this thought, after the first few calls he starts warning them that his demon-killing knife was useless against it.
He deems it time to stop once he hits New Mexico, and soon enough he comes across an area where the houses are spaced large distances from each other, with decent stretches of land presumably belonging to each resident. The first one he finds currently unoccupied, he moves on in. The house itself is small but there's a tiny hill, a large shed, and a wooded area out back. After helping himself to what's in the fridge, he heads out to the shed.
Now that he has space to himself, all the flashy basics are almost shockingly easy to get started on.
He can feel the power bubbling within him, and when he lends it enough focus, it explodes through his eyes and the world around him is changed for it. If anything, it's too much power, because the first time he feels its release he has no idea what he's doing with it. As it turns out, he's teleporting himself through the wall of the shed, but somehow still barreling straight through it, utterly destroying the structure's integrity. He lies in the grass, slightly winded and covered in wood, watching the mostly-obliterated portion of wall, but somehow the shed doesn't collapse just yet.
He climbs to his feet, brushing himself off.
Time to try again.
After five days Cas finally brings up their car situation to Sam. He hasn't been thinking about that at all, to be honest; hasn't been relevant to him. He still can't move. Not even crutches are gonna do the trick with both legs broken this badly. He could seriously use a wheelchair, but they actually don't have one of those lying around the bunker, at least as far as he's aware.
He calls up one of Bobby's old contacts and after a lengthy conversation, everything's arranged. The next morning, the stolen vehicle is taken away and replaced with a red Toyota Camry. At least that's what Cas tells him. Though he also says it looks new, which Sam sincerely doubts.
Moving things with his mind is something he's been using a lot, particularly when he was having his whole "kill as outrageously as possible" phase. That skill doesn't need a lot of practice, per se. But it could certainly use some fine-tuning. The uses of telekinesis are not limited, by any means, to fighting.
This takes more patience than he's willing to muster at first, but all the motivation he needs is the memory of his Blade. He needs it back. Ready to do whatever it takes to recover it, he devotes hours and hours every day to the tedious and frustrating task of developing his abilities.
Sam's forgotten how to converse. It's after his attempt to make a joke about Chinese takeout is such a terrible failure that it elicits a pity laugh from Castiel, Angel of Awkwardness, that he becomes aware of this. He's rotting away, lying on this stupid couch, not able to focus his thoughts on anything at all except that thing that it is not healthy for him to be focusing on for any length of time.
His brother is a demon—or rather, his brother is out of commission and his soul has been taken hostage by a demon. That's the safest, most accurate way of thinking about this. And it's always been Dean's job to protect Sam, but Dean can't even protect himself anymore, so the tables have turned. He is out there doing all kinds of things that will kill him of guilt even if they can manage to bring him back. But Sam. Can't. Do. Anything. About it.
He just hopes that Cas is doing something productive in the hours and hours he spends sequestered away upstairs. But Sam can't bring himself to ask when he strongly suspects, based on the angel's silence, that he has found nothing at all.
Weeks pass, and he can't handle it anymore. He knows he still has a lot to learn. This will likely be true for hundreds of years. But he's made progress, he knows he has, and he is itching to put his new skills to use.
He starts out discreet, unnoticed. He finds a roadhouse in the middle of nowhere and settles down at the bar for a beer. As he sits there enjoying the drink in solitude, he surreptitiously locates the one security camera in the joint, and pops the lens right on out. It's done before he is able to process it and in his shock at the success he just lets it fall to the floor, but nobody seems to notice, despite it being relatively quiet. The music's not especially loud and there's less than a half dozen patrons.
Feeling damn terrific now, he gives the "Fill me back up" gesture to the becoming bartender, and as she's pouring him another drink, he asks, "Business usually this slow?"
"Eh," she responds, stashing the bottle behind the bar, "I wouldn't really know. Just started."
"That so?" He eyes her up and down, more openly than he used to. Her long blonde hair falls to graceful waves near the end and almost brushes against the counter.
"Don't you go thinkin' I'm a rookie, though." Her eyebrow quirks in self-confidence. "I did the exact same thing somewhere else for a couple years."
"What made ya leave?" He takes a swig.
"Well, it got too popular. Too loud. Too crazy. Too many jerks." She shrugs. "I like this better."
"I betcha you could've handled it," he says, offering a smile.
"Could've. Did. Sure didn't want to any longer."
He raises his glass in a half-toast. "More power to ya."
She seems to look at him for the first time, and he knows he's doing well. Sure, this wasn't the plan, but he always has time for a hot girl.
And it is at this point that the door opens and a couple guys come in, one of them clearly having a fan-friggin-tastic time, if the volume at which he's speaking is anything to go by. Dean grimaces, turning back to the bartender. "Speakin' of loud and crazy."
She starts cleaning a glass with a cloth. "He's a regular. That's just the way he seems to talk. Never causes any trouble, s'far as I've heard."
Dean doesn't particularly care. He doesn't like him. He can barely hear himself think over his roaring laughter. Remembering what he set out to do, he decides that this man is, in some form, going to suffer tonight.
Suddenly an image pops into his mind, of Cain simply twitching his fingers, and Crowley sputtering softly for a second or two before going completely silent.
Dean stares at his hands, one of them still clutching that glass. He can do that. It's inside him, somewhere. He knows it.
And all of a sudden he's thinking about all the things he must be able to do that he hasn't been able to practice. Stripping a person of his powers of speech? Obviously can't even attempt that if he's alone in a partially-destroyed shed. There is a treasure trove of manipulative demonic strings he can pull and he is beginning to realize it's a network he needs to learn more about.
Somebody's gotta come home with him tonight.
Not Loudmouth, though. He might have it coming, but he's too annoying to deal with.
"Hey, sweetheart," he asks the woman behind the bar. "When's your shift end?"
Sam is still lying eternally on that couch, not doing anything in particular but considering calling Cas to get him a snack, when suddenly he is not alone.
She appears as a young woman, perhaps aged 30, but with very, very old eyes. It's not like it's a combination Sam's never seen before. Her brown hair is all tucked into a large, very neat bun on the back of her head, and she wears a gray denim jacket over a simple white dress. And he does not at all like the way she's looking at him.
"Who the hell are you?" Sam demands—or more like asks frantically as he grasps for the gun full of rock salt on the end table behind him. His hands tremble ever so slightly as he points it at her, for a variety of reasons that don't bear consideration.
She regards it, gray eyes completely unimpressed, and she looks back to meet his eyes without making a move to disarm him. "You may call me Eloise."
"Yeah, I mean what are you," Sam growls, trying to sound threatening, though he is painfully aware of how difficult that task is when you're sprawled on a couch with both legs broken. "How did you even get in here?"
"Sam!" comes Cas's voice as he appears at the top of the stairs, but he skids to a halt before he begins descending, and stays still for a moment, staring at the new arrival. "Are you Eloise?"
Sam glances up at Cas for the briefest of seconds before returning his gaze to the woman, but his eyebrows are drawn together in confusion. "You know her?"
"How did you find me?" Cas asks the woman, apparently not having heard the question.
"I am very, very old," she responds matter-of-factly, "and you are very, very weak."
"Cas," Sam repeats. "You know her?"
"I… I just found her," Cas responds, apparently still a little shaken. "Mere moments ago. I told her—"
"Cain has left his mark on another man," the woman finishes, eyeing Sam. "You know of this, I assume?"
Sam swallows the lump in his throat as discreetly as he can manage. "He's my brother," he says by way of answer, voice hoarser than he wants it to be. "The 'another man.' He's my brother."
Eloise nods, expression now grave. "You have my condolences."
Sam lowers the gun, very strongly suspecting it wouldn't be any use anyway. He hears Cas beginning his trek downstairs.
"You will tell me everything that has happened," she continues, "and I, in turn, will tell you everything I know."
"I don't see why we should tell you anything," Sam counters. "You still haven't said who you are."
"She's a reaper, Sam," Cas says, no doubt in his voice.
Sam turns to the angel. He's stopped at the bottom of the stairs, very near the couch where Sam now lies, and he meets Sam's eyes briefly to showcase his certainty before returning his own to Eloise. Sam does the same. Her gaze holds a profound and ancient sadness.
"That I am," she affirms. "I'm the one who reaped Abel."