AN: Hello, hello! It's an update from Azzie and it isn't Doctor Who related? What's going on?
So basically I got hit with a fat dose of writer's block and have also had a few things popping up in life that have made writing for my other stories (The Chaos Chronicles and Crossfade, if you haven't already read them) (if you're new, hi! I hope you enjoy your stay) rather difficult.
And then I had a sudden bolt of inspiration for a Supernatural story, so here it is!
I promise I'll get back to my Doctor Who stories at some point - I just can't promise when that'll be.
Oh and I passed my exams and I'm officially a third year medical student. SO I've been kinda busy.
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. If I did, Destiel wouldn't have been fucked up as much as it was, Sam would've been happy a hell of a lot sooner, and I probably would've ended things by like series 9. Also, any similarities between this and any other works of fanfiction are entirely coincidental - my mental image of what I want stories to be is wayyy too specific for me to be satisfied by stealing the work of others. Just saying.
Anyway, on with the show!
Chapter 1: Lazarus Rising
As he clawed his way upwards, sweating profusely, Dean Winchester thought that there had never been a more beautiful taste on Earth than that of the dirt in his mouth. It meant that he was truly alive again.
He had found himself conscious a short while ago. How long exactly - minutes, hours, days? It was impossible to tell. The only thing he'd found in his pockets was a crappy plastic lighter that barely had any fluid left. When it ran out and left him in darkness again, Dean decided that there was no point lying there in the narrow wooden box, and started punching upwards.
Eventually, he broke through the surface and took in deep lungfuls of pure, fresh air. It was tainted with the distant smell of farming fertilisers, but it was wonderful. He flopped backwards and laid there for a moment, staring up at the overcast sky, before stumbling to his feet. That was when he noticed the trees. In what looked like a perfect circle - with the crudely constructed wooden cross that had served as the marker for his grave in the centre - the trees had fallen outwards as far as the eye could see. It was as though some great creature had become bored, and decided to obliterate the area for kicks. Just visible through the thousands of tons of felled wood was a dirt track that looked as though it joined a wider country road a short distance away. Relishing the heat of the day, Dean set off in the same direction.
The first sign of civilisation that appeared to him was a tiny, dusty gas station - and the sight made his heart leap. Food. People. The chance to steal a car and make his way back to home turf from… wherever this was. He picked up the pace and reached the door, bringing up a hand to pound against the window.
"Hello?" He coughed, throat thick with dust and sore from being out of use for so long. "Hello? Anyone there?"
The gas station was dim inside and he hadn't seen any movement, and so made another decision. Balling the soft fabric of his flannel shirt over his right hand, Dean slammed his fist through the glass with as much force as he could muster, unlocked the door from the inside and stepped through. It may have been devoid of people, but the familiarity of the store almost made him weep with joy: the droning buzz of the fridges, the multitudes of papers and magazines on haphazard display, the grimy looking bathroom beyond a door that didn't close properly. He grabbed a bottle of water and drank half of it in one gulp, gasping at the sensation of the cool liquid against his parched tongue. The newspapers caught his eye, and he set the bottle down to pick up the nearest one. He scanned the front, eyes sliding over headlines and grey photographs before settling on the date. Thursday, September eighteenth.
He frowned to himself. "September?"
Moving through to the little bathroom, Dean washed some of the dirt from his face as best he could, before a thought struck him. Cautious, he lifted the hem of his black t-shirt and looked at his chest. His smooth, unblemished, unscarred chest. Considering he remembered the way that every nerve ending had screamed when the claws of the Hellhounds sank through his skin, the sight was an unnerving one. He lowered the fabric again and thought for a moment. Then, he became aware of a slight itching sensation across his left upper arm. It wasn't an entirely unpleasant feeling, but it was still odd. He peeled the sleeve upwards - and reeled back in shock. A large pinkish handprint was branded against his skin. He ran a finger over it, baffled, and rotated his arm to look from a different angle. And then he saw the second one. This one was smaller, the fingers thinner, but still formed the same red scarred area that the other one had. So there were two hands imprinted in his skin, one on each side of his arm. How the hell had they got there? And more importantly, who did they belong to?
Pulling his sleeve down again, Dean tried to push the image of the scars from his mind and turned his attention to raiding the shelves. Grabbing a plastic bag from behind the counter, he filled it with bottles of water and snacks. He picked up a copy of Busty Asian Beauties and thumbed through it, a grin creeping onto his face, before shoving it in the bag too. Then he moved to set the bag down on the counter and, after a few attempts, managed to open the cash register. As he took the cash from the trays and shoved it into his pockets, the TV next to him switched itself on, displaying constant static. He flicked it off - and the radio on the other side of the counter started playing white noise. Immediately on edge, he returned to the shelves and grabbed the nearest carton of salt, opening it and beginning to line the windows and doorways. A high pitched whining tone grew in volume until he dropped the box, both hands clamped over his ears as he groaned in pain. He crouched to the floor seconds before the windows shattered, sending thousands of shards of glittering glass across the floor and into his hair. And then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. He got to his feet slowly, looking all about the room. But he was alone.
No longer comfortable in the little store, Dean lugged the bag outside and headed for the nearby payphone, using the change he'd taken to call through to a pair of phone numbers that were ingrained in his brain as much as his own name was. The first one was a disappointment.
"We're sorry. You have reached a number that has been disconnected."
He hung up and tried the second one - and got a response.
"Yeah?"
He felt his chest heave with delight. "Bobby?"
"Yeah?"
"It's me."
The older man's voice sounded as gruff as ever. "Who's "me"?"
"Dean."
The only response he received was the dial tone. Frowning, he tried the number again.
"Who is this?"
"Bobby, listen to me."
"This ain't funny. Call this number again and I'll kill ya."
Once again, dial tone. He gave up, replacing the phone. It was hardly a surprise that Bobby had been suspicious, but that didn't mean that it didn't hurt to hear someone he adored dismiss him so harshly.
Leaving the phone box, Dean took a moment to think - and his eyes lit up as he caught sight of a dented white car parked by one of the fuel pumps. It looked like it had been through a few accidents, but the tyres were all inflated and the engine looked in relatively good condition. And, as a bonus, it had a full tank of fuel. Which was exactly what he needed. Hot-wiring the car took a matter of minutes: it was nice to know that he hadn't got too rusty while being dead. Getting comfy behind the wheel, he turned the volume on the radio up as loud as it would go and pulled away from the gas station.
The banging at Bobby SInger's front door very nearly matched the tempo of the headache pounding away at his skull, and he decided as he went to answer it that whoever was there was going to get a real piece of his mind. He swung the door open, inhaling in preparation for the tirade he was about to launch - and felt the words die in his throat. A tired, anxious looking Dean stood on his doorstep.
"Surprise?"
He swallowed, trying to force his voice to return. "I, I don't…"
"Yeah, me neither. But here I am." He stepped over the threshold, arms open for a hug. And Bobby lunged forwards, silver knife in hand. Dean grabbed the outstretched arm and twisted it, but Bobby broke his grip and socked him in the jaw. He reeled backwards, groaning.
"Bobby! It's me!"
"My ass!" He lunged again, and would have made contact had Dean not shoved a chair between them as a shield.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait! Your name is Robert Steven Singer. You became a hunter after your wife got possessed, and... you're about the closest thing I have to a father. Bobby. It's me."
He lowered the knife, taking a cautious step closer. Placed a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder. For a second, he thought he had got through. But then, Bobby slashed at him a second time, almost nicking his shoulder before being disarmed. Dean took the knife and held it out of his reach.
"I am not a shapeshifter!"
"Then you're a Revenant!"
"Alright. If I was either, could I do this – with a silver knife?" He rolled up the sleeve of his flannel and grimaced as he sliced into the skin above his elbow. Both men watched the fine trail of red appear, and Bobby's face relaxed a little.
"Dean?"
"That's what I've been trying to tell you."
Bobby pulled him close and hugged him as tight as he could, patting the younger man on the back.
"It's... It's good to see you, boy."
"Yeah, you too."
"But... how did you bust out?"
"I don't know. I just, uh, I just woke up in a pine box-" His sentence was interrupted by a bolt of cold water and he paused to spit some out. "I'm not a demon either, you know."
"Sorry. Can't be too careful. Come on in."
After drying his face, it took Dean almost an hour to explain what had happened in detail - and by the end of it, Bobby was sat with his jaw on the floor.
"But... that don't make a lick of sense."
He laughed. "Yeah. Yeah, you're preachin' to the choir."
"Dean. Your chest was ribbons, your insides were slop. And you've been buried for four months. Even if you could slip out of hell and back into your meat suit…"
"I know, I should look like a Thriller video reject."
"What do you remember?"
"Not much. I remember I was a Hellhound's chew toy, and then…" He paused for a moment, deliberating over how much to tell the older man. "lights out. Then I come to six feet under, that was it." Bobby didn't question it, which relieved him immensely. He changed the subject to ask about something that had been worrying him since he'd left the store. "Sam's number's not working. He's, uh... he's not…"
Bobby shrugged. "Oh, he's alive. As far as I know."
"Good... Wait, what do you mean, as far as you know?"
"I haven't talked to him for months."
"You're kidding, you just let him go off by himself?"
"He was dead set on it."
"Bobby, you should've been looking after him!"
"I tried! These last months haven't been exactly easy, you know. For him or me. We had to bury you."
That was something else that had confused him. "Why did you bury me, anyway?"
"I wanted you salted and burned. Usual drill. But... Sam wouldn't have it."
"Well, I'm glad he won that one."
"He said you'd need a body when he got you back home somehow. That's about all he said."
Catching the way his tone had changed, Dean frowned. "What do you mean?"
"He was quiet. Real quiet. And then he just took off. Wouldn't return my calls. I tried to find him, but he didn't want to be found."
"Oh, dammit, Sammy."
"What?"
"Oh, he got me home okay. But whatever he did, it is bad mojo."
"What makes you so sure?"
"You should have seen the grave site. It was like a nuke went off. And then there was this... this force, this presence, I don't know, but it - it blew past me at a fill-up joint. And then there's this." He slid his shirt off and rolled up his sleeve like he'd done in the bathroom. Bobby jumped up like someone had just jabbed his ass with a hot poker.
"What in the hell?"
"It was like a demon just yanked me out. Or rode me out."
Taking a closer look, Bobby confirmed the theory that Dean had come up with on the way there. "Or two demons. Those handprints are totally different sizes. There's too much difference there for them both to belong to the same creature. But why would they do it?"
"To hold up their end of the bargain."
"You think Sam made a deal."
He shrugged. "It's what I would have done."
As Bobby returned to the office with his laptop, Dean was on the phone.
"Yeah, hi, I have a cell phone account with you guys, and uh, I lost my phone. I was wondering if you could turn the GPS on for me. Yeah. Name's Wedge Antilles. Social is 2-4-7-4. Thank you."
He hung up and took the computer, opening up the website for Arc mobile. Bobby shot him a look.
"How'd you know he'd use that name?"
"You kiddin' me? What don't I know about that kid?" Pushing aside bottles to make room for the laptop, Dean raised an eyebrow.
"Hey, Bobby? What's the deal with the liquor store? What, are your parents out of town or something?"
The older man glared. "Like I said. Last few months ain't been all that easy."
"...Right."
A beep from the laptop cut through the awkward silence that had followed. The on screen locator read '263 Adams Road, Pontiac, Illinois'.
"Sam's in Pontiac, Illinois."
"Right near where you were planted."
"Right where I popped up. Hell of a coincidence, don't you think?"
The Astoria Motel was dingy, seedy, and tackily decorated. The walls were covered in peeling moth-eaten paper, and the door numbers were marked with red sparkly hearts. There were several stains on the thin carpet that neither of them particularly wanted to think about, and the noises coming from most of the rooms they passed made them both flush. They reached the door numbered 207 and, exchanging a nervous glance, knocked. A very pretty, petite brunette opened it, wearing only a lacy tank top and underwear. She looked at them expectantly, face falling when she noticed that their hands were empty.
"So where is it?"
Dean frowned. "Where's what?"
"The pizza... that takes two guys to deliver?"
"I think we got the wrong room."
"Hey, is everything-" Sam stepped into view behind her, looking tired in a grey t-shirt and jeans. At the sight of his brother he stopped dead, eyes widening. He swallowed, looking between Dean and Bobby. Bobby shrugged, and Dean managed the smallest of smiles.
"Heya, Sammy."
He didn't respond, even as Dean stepped into the room, ignoring the pretty girl at the door. When he was within arms reach, Sam pulled a knife and lunged. Dean fought back, both of them ignoring the girl's screams as Bobby intervened, yanking Sam backwards with as much force as he could manage. Sam shrugged him off, roaring as he glared at him.
"Who are you?!"
Dean matched his tone, squaring up again. "Like you didn't do this?!"
"Do what?!"
Bobby got between them. "It's him. It's him. I've been through this already, it's really him."
"What…"
"I wouldn't've come looking for you if it was just some fake. He's the real deal."
Dean cracked a smile. "I know. I look fantastic, huh?"
Tears sprung up in Sam's eyes as Bobby let him go, moving so that the brothers could embrace. They held onto each other with all their might, looking each other up and down even as they pulled away. The young woman watched from the side of the room, a look of pure bewilderment on her face.
"So are you two like... together?"
Sam jolted, like he'd forgotten she was even there until she'd spoken.
"What? No. No. He's my brother."
"Uh... got it. I... I guess. Look, I should probably go."
"Yeah. Yeah, that's probably a good idea. Sorry."
She ducked into the bathroom to get dressed and reappeared a few moments later in a blue plaid shirt and jeans, a hopeful look on her face as Sam opened the front door.
"So, call me."
He smiled encouragingly. "Yeah. Yeah, sure thing, Kathy."
Her face fell. "Kristy."
"Right."
She huffed and turned on her heel, leaving Sam to shut the door.
He turned back to see Dean and Bobby standing in identical positions: arms folded, suspicious glares in place. Dean was the first to speak.
"So tell me, what'd it cost?"
He snorted. "The girl? I don't pay, Dean."
"That's not funny, Sam. To bring me back. What'd it cost? Was it just your soul, or was it something worse?"
His smile dropped as he realised just what was going on. "You think I made a deal?" Bobby raised an eyebrow. "That's exactly what we think."
"Well, I didn't."
Dean took a step forward. "Don't lie to me."
"I'm not lying."
"So what now, I'm off the hook and you're on, is that it? You're some demon's bitch-boy? I didn't want to be saved like this."
Sam squared his shoulders, furious. "Look, Dean, I wish I had done it, all right?"
His older brother grabbed him by the front of his shirt and tugged him so he had to look him in the eyes. "There's no other way that this could have gone down. Now tell the truth!"
"I tried everything! That's the truth. I tried opening the Devil's Gate. Hell, I tried to bargain, Dean, but no demon would deal, all right? You were rotting in Hell for months. For months, and I couldn't stop it. So I'm sorry it wasn't me, all right? Dean, I'm sorry."
His voice was starting to crack and Dean let him go.
"It's okay, Sammy. You don't have to apologize, I believe you."
The three of them sat down, Sam reaching into the mini fridge to retrieve some beers. Bobby sighed. "Don't get me wrong, I'm gladdened that Sam's soul remains intact, but it does raise a sticky question."
"If he didn't pull me out, then what did? Anyway, what were you doing around here if you weren't digging me out of my grave?"
Sam shrugged. "Well, once I figured out I couldn't save you, I started hunting down Lilith, trying to get some payback."
Bobby rolled his eyes. "All by yourself. Who do you think you are, your old man?"
"Uh, yeah, I'm sorry, Bobby. I should have called. I was pretty messed up."
Having spotted something behind the couch, Dean lifted it up for all to see - a pink lace bra adorned with embroidered flowers. "Oh yeah. I really feel your pain."
Sam snatched it away from him and tossed it across the room.
"Anyways, uh, I was checking these demons out of Tennessee, and out of nowhere they took a hard left, booked up here."
"When?"
"Yesterday morning."
"When I busted out."
"You think these demons are here 'cause of you? But why?"
"Well, I don't know – some badass demon drags me out and now this? It's gotta be connected somehow."
Bobby looked him over as he took a swig of his beer. "How you feelin', anyway?"
"I'm a little hungry."
"No, I mean, do you feel like yourself? Anything strange, or different?"
He huffed. "Or demonic? Bobby, how many times do I have to prove I'm me?"
"Yeah. Well, listen. No demon's letting you loose out of the goodness of their hearts. They've gotta have something nasty planned."
"Well, I feel fine."
Sam ran a hand through his hair. "Okay, look, we don't know what they're planning. We got a pile of questions and no shovel. We need help."
Bobby nodded. "I know a psychic. A few hours from here. Something this big, maybe she's heard the other side talking."
"Hell yeah, it's worth a shot." Dean got to his feet as Bobby left, but Sam held him back.
"Hey, wait. You probably want this back." Reaching into his collar, he pulled out the amulet on its thin black cord and placed it into the palm of his brother's hand. Dean looked down at the little golden shape, touched.
"Thanks." He looped it round his neck, feeling relief wash over him as the familiar weight settled on his chest.
"Yeah, don't mention it. Hey Dean, what was it like?"
"What, Hell? I don't know, I - I must have blacked it out. I don't remember a damn thing."
"Well, thank God for that."
"Yeah."
He had, of course, lied through his teeth about that. As Bobby used the nearest payphone and Sam packed up his belongings, Dean stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. The circles under his eyes seemed even darker in the harsh light, and he thought he looked older than he had done before he died. He leant heavily against the sink, squeezing his eyes shut as agonising thoughts flooded in front of his eyes. His entire body, covered in blood and deep festering wounds. Chains securing his wrists and ankles. His own screams mixed with the distant shrieks of others. Unimaginable pain. He blinked and pulled back from the mirror, seeing only the dingy bathroom with its mouldy shower curtain and missing tiles. He had told Sam that he couldn't remember Hell - but oh how he wished he could forget it.
As the three of them headed to their cars, Bobby called back to the boys.
"She's about four hours down the Interstate. Try to keep up."
Dean's face was almost split in two by his grin, and Sam smirked.
"I assume you'll want to drive."
He caught the keys with ease, running a hand along the Impala and kissing the roof.
"Oh, I almost forgot! Hey, sweetheart, did you miss me?"
He slid into the driver's side, relishing the feeling of being back with his most prized possession - until he saw what Sam had done to it. He rounded on his younger brother, who had a banal smile on his face.
"What the hell is that?"
"That's an iPod jack."
Dean poked at the bit of offensive plastic like it had personally insulted him.
"You were supposed to take care of her, not douche her up."
"Dean, I thought it was my car."
He pulled a face before turning the keys in the ignition, determined to enjoy his baby again. A smooth, jazzy track started to play, and his face twisted even further.
"Really?"
Sam shrugged, the picture of innocence, and Dean ripped the iPod from the jack and tossed it into the back seat before revving the engine and setting off.
The boys had driven in comfortable quiet for the best part of two hours, just listening to the familiar rumble of the Impala's engine and the rock station that Dean had found on the radio, before he broke the silence.
"There's still one thing that's bothering me."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, the night that I bit it. Or... got bit." He snorted at his own joke for a moment and missed the withering glare Sam shot him. "How'd you make it out? I thought Lilith was going to kill you."
"Well, she tried. She couldn't."
"What do you mean, she couldn't?"
"She fired this, like, burning light at me, and... didn't leave a scratch. Like I was immune or something."
He raised an eyebrow. "Immune?"
"Yeah. I don't know who was more surprised, her or me. She left pretty fast after that." "Huh. What about Ruby, where is she?"
"Dead. For now."
Something in Sam's voice made Dean not want to push the matter further, and he shifted the topic a little.
"So you've been using your, uh, freaky ESP stuff?"
He shook his head, answering confidently. "No."
"You sure about that? Well, I mean, now that you've got... immunity, whatever the hell that is... just wondering what other kind of weirdo crap you've got going on."
"Nothing, Dean. Look, you didn't want me to go down that road, so I didn't go down that road. It was practically your dying wish."
"Yeah, well, let's keep it that way."
And with that, the conversation was over. Dean returned his full attention to the road, humming softly along to the Metallica song trickling through the speakers. He didn't notice the frown that lingered on Sam's face as he stared out into the darkness.
By the time they reached their destination, it was early morning, and the sun had almost risen fully. Bobby led the group to knock on the door - and was instantly swept off his feet into a hug by the woman that answered. She was petite, probably in her thirties, with a muscular frame and a stunning face.
"Bobby!"
He grinned, a little red-cheeked at the knowledge that the boys had seen that.
"You're a sight for sore eyes."
She glanced across at the taller men, looking impressed by what she saw.
"So, these are the boys?"
Bobby nodded. "Sam, Dean. This is Pamela Barnes, best damn psychic in the state." Dean shot her a wink. "Hey." Whereas Sam managed a slightly awkward wave. "Hi."
She smirked.
"Mmm-mmm-mmm. Dean Winchester. Out of the fire and back in the frying pan, huh? Makes you a rare individual."
"If you say so."
"Come on in." As she closed the door behind them, Bobby asked,
"So, you hear anything?"
"Well, I Ouija'd my way through a dozen spirits. No one seems to know who broke your boy out, or why."
"So what's next?"
"A séance, I think. See if we can see who did the deed."
He pulled a face. "You're not gonna... summon the damn thing here."
"No! I just want to get a sneak peek at it. Like a crystal ball without the crystal."
Dean shrugged. "Well, I'm game."
Leading them through into a small, darkly furnished room, Pamela spread a black cloth marked with various symbols across the table before leaning down to take something from a cabinet. The movement made her shirt ride up a little, revealing a tattoo scrawled across her lower back in looping cursive: 'Jesse Forever'.
Dean smirked. "Who's Jesse?"
"Well, it wasn't forever."
"His loss."
"Might be your gain." She brushed past him with a wink, hands full of pillar candles. Dean grinned at Sam, who simply shot him an exasperated look.
"Dude, I am so in."
"Yeah, she's gonna eat you alive."
"Hey, I just got out of jail. Bring it."
As she came past again, she ran a hand along Sam's forearm.
"You're invited too, grumpy."
Once she was out of earshot, Dean hissed.
"You are NOT invited."
Taking their places around the table, Pamela lit the six candles she had placed there.
"Right. Take each other's hands. And I need to touch something our mystery monster touched." With a wicked grin, she slid a hand along Dean's thigh, making him jump.
"Whoa. Well, he didn't touch me there. I hope."
"My mistake."
He sighed, took off his outer shirt, then rolled the sleeve of his t-shirt out of the way. Sam gasped audibly upon seeing the brands for the first time, but Pamela didn't react. She simply laid her hand over the larger of the two prints.
"Okay." She began to chant, and the four of them let their eyes slide closed.
"I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle. I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle. I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle." Behind them, her television turned on, displaying constant static.
"I invoke, conjure, and command... Castiel? No. Sorry, Castiel, I don't scare easy."
"Castiel?" Dean murmured, and Pamela nodded.
"It's name. It's whispering to me, warning me to turn back. I conjure and command you, show me your face. I conjure and command you, show me your face. I conjure and command you, show me your face. I conjure and command you, show me your face."
She paused for a moment. "Wait, you. The new one. What was your name? No, tell me. I don't appreciate you interfering with my séance."
The white noise from the static pitched up, and the table rattled violently. Bobby opened an eye, uneasy.
"Maybe we should stop."
She shook her head. "I almost got it. I command you, show me your face! Show me your face now!" Suddenly, the candle flames flared several feet into the air and Pamela screamed, eyes wide open and filled with searingly hot flames. The men watched in horror as she slumped forward, motionless, as the disturbances died down. Bobby was the first to move, helping her to the floor and shouting at Sam.
"Call 9-1-1!"
As he scrambled to the phone, Dean moved to help Pamela. She was just about conscious, but her face was heavily burned and there was a worrying amount of blood coming from somewhere they couldn't quite identify. Her eyelids flew open, revealing charred empty sockets. She started to sob, hyperventilating.
"I can't see! I can't see! Oh god! My eyes are gone! I can't see!"
Later that afternoon, the brothers found themselves sitting around a grubby table in Johnny Mac's diner. As Dean passed their order on to the waitress, Sam nodded his way through the end of a phone call.
"Uh huh. Yeah, you bet. Ok, bye."
Dean leant forwards as he hung up. "What'd Bobby say?"
"Pam's stable. And out of I.C.U."
"And blind, because of us."
"And we still have no clue who we're dealing with."
"That's not entirely true."
"No?"
He shrugged. "We got a name. Castiel, or whatever. With the right mumbo-jumbo we could summon him, bring him right to us. And we might not have got the name of the second one, but if they came to Pam together then there's a chance they'll come to us too."
Sam scoffed. "You're crazy. Absolutely not."
"We'll work him over. I mean, after what he did?"
"Pam took a peek at him and her eyes burned out of her skull, and you want to have a face to face? When we've got no idea how strong the other one is on top of that?
"You got a better idea?"
"Yeah, as a matter of fact I do. I followed some demons to town, right?"
"Okay."
"So, we go find them. Someone's gotta know something about something."
They paused as the waitress reappeared with a tray holding two drinks and two plates of pie, and set them on the table. Then, she plopped herself down in the empty chair, an expectant look on her face. Dean smirked.
"You angling for a tip or something?"
She raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry. Thought you were looking for us." And she blinked, her eyes turning solidly black. A uniformed man at the counter got to his feet, his eyes identical to hers. As he moved to block the main doorway, one of the cooks shifted to block the door to the kitchen, eyes ink-dark wells.
They were cornered.
The blonde's eyes flickered back to their normal state, and she grinned wolfishly at them. "Dean. To hell and back. Aren't you a lucky duck."
"That's me."
"So you get to just stroll out of the pit, huh? Tell me. What makes you so special?"
He shrugged. "I like to think it's because of my perky nipples." Sam winced as her glare intesified, and Dean continued on a more serious note. "I don't know. Wasn't my doing, I don't know who pulled me out."
"Right. You don't."
"No. I don't."
"Lying's a sin, you know."
"I'm not lying. But I'd like to find out, so if you wouldn't mind enlightening me," he paused to look at her name tag. "Flo…"
The waitress' eyes narrowed. "Mind your tone with me, boy. I'll drag you back to hell myself."
Sam tensed, ready to lunge at her, and Dean made a dragging motion across his throat with his hand, not speaking again until his younger brother had relaxed a little.
"No, you won't."
"Won't we?"
"No. Because if you were you would have done it already. Fact is, you don't know who cut me loose. And you're just as spooked as we are. And you're looking for answers. Well, maybe it was some turbo-charged spirit. Or, uh, Godzilla. Or some big bad boss demon. I'm guessing at your pay grade that they don't tell you squat. Because whoever it was, they want me out. And they're a lot stronger than you. So go ahead. Send me back. But don't come crawling to me when they show up on your front doorstep with some Vaseline and a fire hose."
"I'm going to reach down your throat and rip out your lungs."
He nodded, a thoughtful look on his face. Then, hit her with the hardest right hook he could manage. She reeled back, visibly in pain, but made no move to defend herself or retaliate. He smirked.
"That's what I thought. Let's go, Sam."
The two of them stood, and Dean peeled a ten dollar bill from the roll of cash in his pocket and tossed it at the fuming demon.
"For the pie."
They legged it, making it onto the street without being followed by any of the demons. Dean could feel his heart fluttering in his throat as he stepped into the cool afternoon air.
"Holy crap, that was close."
Sam frowned. "We're not just going to leave them in there, are we, Dean?"
"Well yeah, there's three of them, probably more, and we've only got one knife between us."
He shook his head. "I've been killing a lot more demons than that lately."
"Not anymore – the smarter brother's back in town."
"Dean, we've got to take 'em. They are dangerous."
"They're scared. Okay? Scared of whatever had the juice to yank me out. We're dealing with a bad mofo here. One job at a time."
By the time night fell, Sam had made the decision to take things into his own hands. He waited until Dean fell asleep on the couch, dozing in the faint light of the TV with a heavy book open across his lap. He closed the door as quietly as possibly and kept his footsteps light as he walked down the hallway. He didn't relax until he had slid into the driver's seat of the Impala and pulled away from the motel - only then was he safe from his brother's prying eyes.
In the motel room, the channel on the television changed from a sales channel to pure white static. The little radio began to whine in synchrony, waking Dean. He lay there for a moment, confused, before rolling quickly to grab the nearest gun. He cast his eyes across to Sam's bed and noticed that it was empty - but the flickers of concern for his brother were quashed by the rising pain in his head as the noise grew in volume. A harsh cracking came from above, and he looked up to see the mirror on the ceiling splintering. Crouching on the floor and pressing his hands against his ears, keeping as tight a grip on the gun as he could maintain, he felt the glass rain down as the mirror broke completely. Other things in the room began to break as the tremors suddenly became more intense; the TV screen, the bottles of beer on the table, the light bulbs. He couldn't stop himself from screaming as the pain became unbearable, and was barely aware of the strong arms that wrapped around his shoulders. Bobby hauled him backwards into the hallway, alarmed by the blood streaming from his ears.
"Dean! Dean!"
The two of them piled into Bobby's car, not wanting to be in the area when the motel staff discovered the state of the room. Bobby watched warily as Dean wiped the blood from his cheeks.
"How you doin', kid?"
He scoffed. "Aside from the church bells ringing in my head, peachy." Digging in his pockets, he retrieved his phone and dialled the first number on the list - and was very glad that Sam responded quickly.
"Hey."
"Hey. What are you doing?"
"Couldn't sleep, went to get a burger."
"In my car?"
"Force of habit, sorry." He glanced out of the window, watching the demons move inside Johnny Mac's diner and planning his next move. "What are you doing up anyway?"
"Well, uh, Bobby's back. We're going to grab a beer." He shook his head as Bobby opened his mouth to ask him what the hell he was talking about, and the older man eyed him oddly.
Sam seemed to believe the story. "All right, well, uh, spill some for me, huh?"
"Done. Catch you later."
The second he hung up, Bobby rounded on him. "Why the hell didn't you tell him?"
"Because he just tried to stop us."
"From what?"
"Summoning this thing. It's time we faced it head-on."
"You can't be serious!"
"As a heart attack. It's high noon, baby."
"Well, we don't know what it is. It could be a demon, it could be anything."
"That's why we've got to be ready for anything." He tapped the blade of Ruby's knife against his knee. "We've got the big-time magic knife, you've got an arsenal in the trunk…"
Bobby shook his head. "This is a bad idea."
"Yeah, I couldn't agree more, but what other choice do we have?"
"We could choose life."
"Bobby, whatever this is, whatever it wants, it's after me. That much we know, right? I've got no place to hide. I can either get caught with my pants down again, or we can make our stand."
"Ok, fine. But Dean, we could use Sam on this."
He was quiet for a moment, thinking. "Nah, he's better off where he is. We can handle it."
Lock picking tools close at hand, Sam crept into the diner, vaguely aware of the soft jazz song playing on the jukebox as he kept his footfalls as quiet as possible. The lights were low, and the place seemed devoid of staff; until, that is, his foot caught something on the floor. He looked down, seeing the leg of the chef sticking out from behind the counter. He lay face down, motionless, and his hands were covered in drying blood. Crouching, Sam rolled him so he lay on his back - and saw empty charred eye sockets. Blood was caked on the man's cheeks, and he moved to feel for a pulse in the neck, already suspecting that he had been dead for some time. Nothing. He got to his feet. A weight slammed into him from behind and sent him to his knees, fingers clawing at his throat and chest. He jabbed an elbow backwards and twisted, throwing the figure away and moving to pin it down. It was the waitress - her eyes as absent as the chef's had been. Her face was a mixture of furious and terrified, blood clotting in her tangled hair. When he noticed that she'd stopped fighting back as fiercely, he pulled back a little.
"Your eyes."
"I can still smell your soul a mile away."
"It was here. You saw it."
A panicked sob crept into her voice. "I saw it."
"What was it?"
"It's the end. We're dead. We're all dead."
"What did you see?"
"Go to hell."
He scoffed. "Funny. I was going to say the same thing to you." Straightening up, he planted his feet firmly and closed his eyes, brow wrinkling in concentration as he extended his right hand. For a moment nothing seemed to happen, then the waitress began coughing up clouds of black smoke. She heaved, shaking, and collapsed to the floor as the last vestiges of the demon within were sucked back to hell. He moved to check for a pulse, and sighed.
"Damn it."
The creak of the kitchen door made him look up, and he locked eyes with the pretty brunette he'd been entertaining in the hotel room. Without Dean and Bobby around, he was able to talk freely to her, and it made him feel a little more at ease. She raised an eyebrow.
"Getting pretty slick there, Sam. Better all the time."
He shrugged, unable to stop himself looking back at the burnt out skull of the woman on the floor.
"What the hell is going on around here, Ruby?"
"I wish I knew."
"We were thinking some high level demon pulled Dean out."
"No way. Sam, human souls don't just walk out of Hell and back into their bodies that easy. The sky bleeds, the ground quakes. It's cosmic. No demon can swing that. Not Lilith, not anybody."
"Then what can?"
Ruby shook her head. "Nothing I've ever seen before."
The can of spray paint in Bobby's hand finally ran out as he finished the convoluted symbol, and he straightened up with a groan. His hand was cramping from constant use, but he hoped the variety of symbols from as many cultures as he could think of would protect them from whatever they were about to bring down. There was very little empty space left on the walls, floor or ceiling; it had taken several hours to get to this point, and he still didn't exactly feel prepared enough. Dean had spent the same time setting up every bit of weaponry and equipment possible on the only table in the barn.
"That's a hell of an art project you've got going there."
"Traps and talismans from every faith on the globe. How you doin?"
"Stakes, iron, silver, salt, knife. I mean, we're pretty much set to catch and kill anything I've ever heard of."
"This is still a bad idea."
"Yeah, Bobby, I heard you the first ten times. What do you say we ring the dinner bell?"
Looking reluctant, Bobby added the ingredients for the spell he had found into the bowl, and began the incantation, smooth lines of Latin filling the rundown wooden structure.
Sam and Ruby had taken a seat in one of the booths, both trying to ignore the corpses. Ruby leant towards him, arms folded.
"So. Million dollar question, are you going to tell Dean about what we're doing?"
"Yeah, I just gotta figure out the right way to say it." The look on her face told him that wasn't the answer she had wanted to hear. "Look, I just need time, okay? That's all."
"Sam, he's going to find out, and if it's not from you he's going to be pissed."
"He's going to be pissed anyway. I mean, he's so hardheaded about this psychic stuff he'll just try and stop me."
"Look. Maybe I'll just take a step back for a while."
He moved to take her hand. "Ruby, you…"
"I mean, I'm not exactly in your brother's fanclub. But he is your brother, and I'm not going to come between you."
"I don't know if what I'm doing is right. Hell, I don't even know if I trust you."
She took her hand back, rolling her eyes. "Oh, thanks."
"But what I do know is that I'm saving people. And stopping demons. And that feels good. I want to keep going."
Her smile told him that it was the right thing to have said.
It was deadly quiet in the barn. But not in a 'threatening-presence-on-the-way' sense. More of a 'literally-nothing-is-going-on-right-now' kind of atmosphere. The two men sat on the table amongst the knives and guns, swinging their legs in boredom. Dean eyed Bobby with a slight frown.
"You sure you did the ritual right?" At the glare he got in response, he held his hands up in mock surrender. "Sorry. Touchy, touchy, huh?"
Above, the roof started to shake. It was gentle at first, like branches from a tree had brushed against the tiles, but soon grew into a deafening rumble. They armed themselves, taking up positions at the far end of the barn, facing the rattling doors. A slight smile touched the corner of Dean's mouth.
"Wishful thinking, but maybe it's just the wind."
His wishful thought was dashed to the winds as the doors burst open and two people stalked into the room, walking in perfect time with each other. As they got closer, the light bulbs above shattered, raining miniscule shards of glass down that glittered against them. On the left was a handsome, black haired man in what looked to be his early thirties, wearing a business suit and khaki trench coat. On the right was an elfinly beautiful brunette, probably in her mid twenties, sporting ripped jeans, a leather jacket the colour of blood, and heavy boots. There was a height difference of almost a foot between them, but the power exuding from them both was insane. Dean and Bobby opened fire, but the newcomers didn't even flinch. As they got closer, Dean reached discreetly behind him for the knife.
"Who are you?"
The man spoke first. "We are the ones who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition".
He snorted. "Yeah. Thanks for that." And he reared back, plunging the knife deep into the man's chest. He merely glanced down, totally unconcerned, and pulled the knife out, dropping it to the floor without a care. Bobby moved to attack from behind but the girl caught him easily - an impressive feat, considering she was considerably smaller. She pressed two fingers to his forehead and his eyes fluttered closed. He dropped a little, but she made the effort to lower him to the floor as gently as possible.
"I'm sorry." She turned to make eye contact with Dean, a neutral look on her face. "But we need some privacy for this."
Finally realising that his weapons were useless against these unflappable beings, he dropped everything, moving to check that Bobby was okay.
"Your friend's alive".
"Who are you?"
"Castiel."
"Yeah, I figured that much. Who's bite-sized?"
Her lips twitched at the nickname, and she extended a hand. "Forgive me, I didn't share my name with your friend. I am Jophiel. The pleasure is mine."
He accepted the handshake cautiously. "Ok, so what are you?"
Castiel seemed a little more reserved. "We are Angels of the Lord."
"Get the hell out of here. There's no such thing."
"This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith."
Lightning flashed above, and two great shadowed silhouettes appeared on the wooden walls. From each of their backs sprung the grey images of colossal wings, stretching out beyond comprehension. The light settled again, leaving them to appear as they had done originally. But the atmosphere had changed significantly. Dean huffed.
"Some angel you are. You burned out that poor woman's eyes."
"I warned her not to spy on my true form. It can be... overwhelming to humans, and so can my real voice. But you already knew that."
"You mean the gas station and the motel. That was you talking? Buddy, next time, lower the volume."
"That was my mistake. Certain people, special people, can perceive my true visage. I thought you would be one of them. I was wrong."
Jophiel cut in. "Dean. Know that we are truly sorry for the damage we caused to those people. Pamela, the chef, the waitress. It was a last resort. That's the reason we occupy bodies - to ensure we can interact with people without killing them straight away."
He raised an eyebrow. She seemed genuinely sorry, but he still didn't think he could trust her. "And what visages are you in now, huh? What, holy tax accountant and sanctified punk rocker?"
The two angels looked down at their forms, Castiel in confusion and Jophiel in mild amusement.
"These are vessels."
"You're possessing some poor bastards?"
Castiel shrugged. "He's a devout man, he actually prayed for this."
"Well, I'm not buying what you're selling, so who are you really?"
"I told you."
"Right. And why would two angels rescue me from Hell?"
"Good things do happen, Dean."
He scoffed. "Not in my experience."
"What's the matter?"
Jophiel cocked her head to one side. "You don't think you deserve to be saved, do you?"
"Why'd you do it?"
Castiel was the one to answer - and he didn't like what he heard.
"Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you."