Okay, first, I am SO SORRY it took me this long to update. A combination of school, work, health issues, and writer's block did their best to thwart this chapter. I've still been writing other parts of this story (I have 29,695 more words written, the chapters planned out, and the ending sorted), but this chapter was giving me immeasurable grief. I've decided to admit defeat and post what I have and get on with it.
Second, I want to keep the rating of this story T, so I have written a separate companion piece titled 'A Victim of Circumstance'. The contents of that story take place during this chapter. I'll indicate where you should switch over to that one, should it interest you. I know not everyone likes the more graphic stuff, hence the deliberate decision to separate the two.
Some dialogue taken from the show and modified. No copyright infringement intended.
I hope you enjoy this and I really look forward to sharing the rest of this story with you. It's gonna get crazy, but in a good way (I think)!
Thank you to all who have reviewed and continue to follow this story!
Less than 12 hours posted update: At Ciel Tombe's excellent suggestion in their review, I've moved the first portion of 'A Victim of Circumstance' into this chapter. Hope this content won't bother anyone!
Creedy pushed the dead, sagging body away from him again as Tim turned onto the highway. Of course Tim's truck would only have one working seatbelt in the backseat, he thought to himself with a grumble. He allowed himself a surreptitious glance to the left. In the hours it had taken him to get to Fort Collins, the bullet holes in the freak's face had started to close. His features were still a frightening, gory mess though. "So, start from the beginning, what happened again? What did you do to him?"
Tim's eyes flashed at him in the rearview mirror. "We didn't do shit, we just did what you suggested! We did the hunter cage match thing and then went to answer a demon call. He was so damn delirious we had to inject the blood. He pulled the demons and then his eyes fucking went black! You wanna tell me how that happened?"
"Wait, you injected the blood?! Maybe that's what did it. And I only told you to sedate him a little bit so he couldn't fight back too much. What the hell did you give him?"
"A mix of stuff, mostly heroin and meth, we think," Reggie added from the passenger seat.
"Jesus, you guys shouldn't mix uppers and downers! I don't know, maybe that made him go crazy? You're really sure his eyes were black?"
"Yes, I'm fucking sure, you moron! He even tried to use his powers against us til I took him out! What the fuck are we gonna do if he wakes up and can still do that?"
Creedy eyed the body again, as if waiting for it to come alive and show him exactly what Tim meant. "I, uh, maybe we just keep him sedated? Maybe he needs the demon blood for it." A bump in the road sent the corpse sliding towards Creedy again and he suppressed a groan as he pushed it back over.
"And how exactly do you wanna figure out if your method is gonna work? Not looking to get killed by some demonic psycho."
"Well, we could put him in a devil's trap, cuff him, see how long it takes to get it out of his system, see if it's a permanent change. Hey, maybe it will be a good thing! Maybe you won't need to keep carrying around demon blood!"
"This having a silver lining is the least of your worries!" Tim threatened. Reggie leaned over and whispered something in Tim's ear. The two engaged in quiet conversation that Creedy couldn't quite make out. He thought about creeping forward to try to eavesdrop but decided against potentially disturbing the body or angering Tim. He suppressed his sigh and crossed his arms, resigned to being the odd one out. Well, the odd one out until the dead thing beside him came back to life…
When the two in the front finished their hushed conversation, Creedy took the chance to pitch his new idea. "Hey guys? About that silver lining thing, I actually have something I wanna suggest… another use for the freak." Tim glanced at him via the mirror then nodded for Creedy to continue. "Besides the drugs, he's in perfect physical condition. We'd probably want to test that everything would stay working after he dies, but do you guys have any idea how much his organs would fetch on the black market? We could harvest everything, and within a day or so, it'd all be back, right?"
"How much money we talking here?"
"More money than you'd know what to do with. Healthy body like his, we'll get top prices." He shuffled some sheets around. "Let's see, if we do the easiest things, we'd be looking at both kidneys for around $200,000 a pop; liver for $157,000; heart for $119,000; corneas are $24,000, as long as his eyes turn back to normal; bone marrow goes for $23,000 a gram and we can probably easily get 200 grams out of him; small intestine for $2,500; coronary artery for $1,500; gallbladder for $1,200; couple thou for some bones and ligaments, around $500 each for stomach, shoulder, spleen, and scalp, though with his hair, I bet we could do way better; $337 per pint of blood; and $10 per square inch of skin. So, conservative estimates on even one round of a full harvest are…"
The smile on Tim's face grew steadily as Creedy explained. He looked at Reggie. "Why the fuck didn't we think of that?!" He returned his gaze to the backseat. "C'mon, how much?"
He pretended to add it up just for the suspense, as he already had a total at the bottom of the page. "Provided we can get everything and sell it, we're looking at around $5,345,000."
Tim nearly crashed the car in his excitement. "Are you fucking kidding me? Over five million dollars?!"
Creedy beamed. "What better use for the monster than to save other peoples' lives, and we can make a shit ton of cash doing it!"
"I assume you know the right people to make this happen?"
Creedy grinned, barely concealing his excitement. "It'll take a few days, but I'm sure I can set it up."
"Go for it. We'll make whatever arrangements necessary."
Creedy pulled out his phone and began punching in a number. "Hope you're ready to become millionaires!"
Tim glanced at the dead body behind him and smiled smugly to himself. It had come at a terrible cost, but kidnapping Sam Winchester was the best decision he'd ever made.
Uncomfortable pressure hugged every inch of his body. It was as if he were clad in those lead aprons they use for x-rays, but it covered all of him, inside and out. His skin felt stretched and taut. Reaching out for his power, it felt weak and suppressed, his access seeming murky and confusing. Opening his eyes, he understood why: he was tied to a chair in the middle of a devil's trap. He smirked to himself, knowing this wouldn't keep him long. His arrogance was quickly lanced as he realized he had also been handcuffed, and by the feel of them, it was a pair with substantial warding. He groaned with frustration and this drew the attention of his captors.
"Hey, he's back!" Reggie's voice called and two sets of hurried footsteps answered him.
"That will never cease to amaze me," another voice muttered, one it took him a few seconds to place. Creedy, that fucking bastard. He glared at the man as he strained against the cuffs and tried to stand, but it was no use. His captor had the nerve to fucking giggle. "Looks like we got 'im tied down tight though, which is good."
"Yeah, 'cause you're too chickenshit to fight me like real men. Scared of your little pet?" he taunted.
Tim's expression turned stormy. "What the fuck are you?" he growled.
"Why don't you take the cuffs off and we'll find out?" He flipped his long hair out of his face and smiled in a mockery of civility.
"Are you actually a demon?" Reggie asked uncertainly.
He wasn't quite sure himself, but that didn't mean he'd let his kidnappers know. All he knew was that he had more power than before. Way more power. "I am what I was when I freed Lucifer," he answered cryptically, "which was accidental by the way, but that's neither here nor there,".
"Then you won't mind if we run the usual tests," Creedy offered, a flask of holy water in his hands.
He stared at each man with his pitch-black eyes, a rueful grin on his face. "Do your fucking worst."
An hour later had seen the hunters exhaust their repertoire. Several exorcisms failed to perturb him, though he had laughed extensively at their shoddy Latin. Crucifixes and the word 'Christo' had no impact. Iron and salt left a rash wherever it touched his skin. Holy water didn't steam upon contact, but still left him with irritating blisters that cracked and oozed. Devil's traps didn't hold him, but his powers were greatly diminished while he was within one. His anti-possession tattoo remained intact. Their conclusion: he wasn't a demon, but he wasn't a human.
Not like that information is breaking news, he thought angrily.
"Now what?" Creedy asked.
"Now we figure out how to control him. You bring what I asked?" Tim demanded.
"Like I would ever show up empty handed!" He reached into his bag and pulled out what looked like a miniature pharmacy. Dozens of little vials and bottles and just as many needles.
Tim surveyed the collection before grabbing a particular vial. He drew up a sizable dose via an intimidating needle and turned to his prisoner, grinning. "Hope you're ready for one hell of a trip."
It didn't take long for Tim and Reggie to feel they deserved a vacation once they were making serious money on the black market. They were still struggling to launder it, considering it was millions of dollars that were flowing in, but the hundred thousand they had now would give them a hell of a vacation wherever they wanted. They picked Las Vegas and then Hawaii. Creedy knew now was his time.
Shortly after the two hunters purchased their plane tickets, Creedy slipped away and pulled out his phone. He scrolled down to 'Uncle Benji' and pressed dial. It picked up after one ring.
"Hey, Benji, how ya doing? … I'm good man, real good. Hey, you remember that unique item I was telling you about several weeks back? I managed to get it, just for a limited time. … Three weeks at most. … Beginning on the 18th. … Yeah, put it on the docket. … Starting bid? I don't know, depends what they want to do with it. Maybe, start at $500 an hour? And if they want the full experience, $1000 an hour. And if they want to max out their use, that has to be higher, maybe $1500 an hour plus a $1000 termination fee since we lose some time? … Oh, of course it's gorgeous. Did you not open the pictures I sent you? … Yeah, that item. Told you I'd deliver! … I'll bring it on the morning of the 18th. … Great, see you then."
He ended the call and took a long look at the freak in the kennel, a grin steadily growing on his face. Sure, the organ harvest was far more lucrative, but he knew this would be much more fun.
Everything went to plan. Creedy could barely believe his luck. Tim and Reggie were so excited about their trip, flushed with more cash than they'd ever had in their lives, that they basically handed over the freak's care weeks in advance. Creedy slowly increased his IV nutrition, hoping to put a little more meat back on that bony body. Too thin and the buyers often frowned upon the sale. Creedy asked for Tim's input but Tim didn't really care what he did with the freak. As long as he was in one piece and ready to get back on the road when they returned, Creedy had free range. Three weeks was more than enough time to satisfy his troubled desires.
The drive to Benji's was uneventful. Between the three hunters and lots of experimenting, they'd mastered the drug regimen to make their captive pliant and maneuverable. For the most part. He was still a bit of a wildcard when injected with demon blood, but it wasn't anything they couldn't handle. Heroin and a devil's trap seemed to slow his ass down real good.
He drove up to the gaudy gated house and punched in a code. The gate hesitated then grumbled open and he pulled through. He parked behind the house and texted his friend. Within moments, the lifelong bachelor strode out of the house, his beyond-middle aged years not betrayed by his smooth gait, handsome features, or stylish suit.
"Creedy!" he greeted, a firm handshake welcoming the younger man. "I have to say, I really don't know that I believe you on this, so c'mon, show me."
"Absolutely," he replied, his self-confidence bolstered by the truly unique thing locked in his trunk. He had taken the time to bathe the freak, brush his hair, and dress his wounds so he would be presentable. He popped up the trunk and slipped the blanket off the crate, revealing the sleeping form curled up on itself.
Benji stepped up and wrapped his fingers around the bars, peering in with thinly veiled malevolent intent. "Unlock it." Creedy pulled out the several keys necessary to open the crate. Benji leaned in and ran his fingers through the long chocolate hair. He let out a low whistle. "He's even more beautiful in person. It's almost a shame to auction him… And you're positive it's Sam Winchester?"
Creedy nodded adamantly. "100% sure. I trust Tim and Reggie, but I confirmed it independently on my own. It's him."
Benji's appreciative smile became a wide grin with too-white teeth. "That's excellent. He and his irksome brother once cost me an excellent item by way of Bela Talbot. While I would have much preferred the rabbit's foot, Sam Winchester makes an excellent consolation prize." He motioned for Creedy to lock the crate. "Let's get started, shall we?"
After moving the crate inside, Creedy felt it expedient to prove the freak's regenerative properties. A quick knife to the throat and a few hours illustrated his resurrection to Benji's satisfaction. Creedy explained all the relevant details while they waited, the older man entranced by the strange creature before him. Benji was feeling much more forgiving of the boy's previous transgressions; suddenly he seemed like the much more desirable object.
[Go to 'A Victim of Circumstance' if one so chooses. Be warned, very dark fic.]
Dean pulled off I-29 into Onawa, Iowa for the essentials: gas, snacks, and a bathroom. It was less than two hours to Bobby's. He was so damn close. Onawa was another of the countless boring tiny towns he had been through in his life. Nothing stood out about it as he made his way down Iowa Avenue towards the Sinclair gas station with a Sparky's convenience store. Dean felt a surge of envy for the smattering of regular people going about their lives, completely ignorant of the planet-threatening battle taking shape. He wasn't one of these average people, he was a goddam vessel for an archangel! Not that he'd let that happen… He felt nostalgic for the times when his biggest concerns were having enough money for food, booze, or a motel, or researching how to kill a monster they hadn't come across before. Now he had to juggle dodging angels, finding his brother, and figuring out how to stop the Apocalypse. Yeah, no biggie!
He packed those thoughts away as the gas station came into view. He topped up his Baby first, assiduously scrubbing the windshield clean of bugs and dust while he waited for her hungry tank to fill. He pulled the car out of the pump stall and into a parking space so he didn't block someone else. He locked her up and walked into the little store and headed for the bathroom, eager to stretch his legs after having been sitting for so long. He would never admit it out loud, but he really couldn't drive the Impala for days on end like he'd been known to claim. He quickly took care of business and started cataloging what food he wanted. As he washed his hands, Separate Ways by Journey began playing on the staticky radio. He absent-mindedly hummed along to the opening guitar riff as he opened the door and stepped out.
Onto a brightly lit stage.
What?!
He looked behind him as the music continued, an instrumental version apparently playing because the words never began. He was met with the face of a young woman with a headset on, peeking out from behind a curtain, giving him an enthusiastic thumbs up. "Go on, get out there! You'll do great!" she whispered earnestly.
"What's going on?!" he asked gruffly, disoriented and defensive.
"Stop stalling! Go!" She gave him a soft push and he stumbled out into the light. A single microphone stood before him, along with an electric guitar.
"Next up, we have Dean Winchester," a voice announced over the loud speaker. "He'll be performing Separate Ways by Journey, in an ode to his brother who is no longer with us." The audience 'awww'ed and he stepped back. No longer with us?! Sam isn't— What the fuck is happening here?!
"What?!" Dean huffed, his mind unable to keep up with the onslaught.
The music was interrupted by the classic DJ scratching sound and everything seemed to freeze.
"Dean," a vaguely familiar voice called from in front of the stage, "walk forward."
Dean did as instructed and three chairs behind a desk came into view, with the 'American Idol' logo lit up behind them. There sat Simon Cowell, Paula Abdul, and a face it took him a second to place, until it registered – the Trickster!
"What the fuck are you doing here?" He considered jumping off the stage to throttle the demigod but realized he was completely unarmed.
The Trickster smiled in that desire-to-punch-him-in-the-face-inducing way and Dean seethed. "You've been distracted, Dean. Pining for your brother, intent on saving him from whatever disaster you think has befallen him. There's an Apocalypse out there, and I think that's a bit more important than your brother. Radio silence doesn't necessarily mean anything bad has happened."
"Then why did the announcer say 'no longer with us'?" Dean challenged.
"To help you work out your feelings and get back to what really matters!"
"You're kidding," Dean growled.
He pointed to himself as he pushed back in the chair. "Hello, Trickster, not Jokester." He rolled his eyes. "Look, Dean, I'll give you a chance to come to terms with everything. I'll even make it fun for you!"
"No, you're gonna let me out of whatever the fuck this is," he motioned weakly with his hand, "and let me get back to looking for Sam."
"All in good time. I'll let you go when you're ready."
"When I'm ready? What does that mean?"
"When you've learned what I want you to learn."
"And what exactly is that? Why can't you just tell me?"
"Because some truths have to be experienced, Dean-o. You Winchesters are a stubborn lot. Extreme actions have to be taken." He shrugged as if it were out of his power.
"Fine, what do I have to do?"
"Whatever you have to."
Dean narrowed his eyes. "Thanks, real specific."
"You'll figure it out. At least I hope you will, or this could take a while…" He looked at the microphone and guitar. "Let's get this party started, huh?"
"I don't even know how to play guitar!" Dean complained, panicking slightly.
"Figure. It. Out."
Dean opened his mouth to respond but the Trickster merely snapped his fingers and disappeared as the world started moving again, his spot replaced by a man he didn't recognize.
The song started over and Dean went to the mic and picked up the guitar, awkwardly positioning the strap. He tapped his foot to the beat and placed his hands where he thought they should go. He closed his eyes and let his hands move as they wanted, and somehow, magically, the right the notes came out.
He stepped back and cleared his throat, before returning to the microphone and beginning to sing.
"Here we stand, worlds apart
Hearts broken in two, two, two
Sleepless nights, losing ground
I'm reaching for you, you, you
Feelin' that it's gone, can't change your mind
If we can't go on, to survive the tide, love divides
Someday love will find you
Break those chains that bind you
One night will remind you
How we touched and went our separate ways
If he ever hurts you, true love won't desert you
You know I still love you
Though we touched and went our separate ways"
As his hands played as if they weren't his, he thought about how appropriate the song was for his and Sam's situation. Dean had told them they were better off apart, on opposite sides of the world…
"Troubled times, caught between confusion and pain, pain, pain"
(Hitting the nail on the head there…)
"Distant eyes, promises we made were in vain, in vain, in vain"
(Didn't that just stab a knife through his heart!)
"If you must go, I wish you love"
(And hadn't he, when he offered Sam take the Impala?)
"You'll never walk alone"
(Yeah, because of one certain fallen archangel!)
"Take care my love, miss you love"
(He really did miss his pain-in-the-ass little brother.)
He struggled not to choke up as he sang the rest of the song, instead pressing his fingers into the frets as hard as he possibly could to distract himself.
"I still love you, man, I really love you, man" he belted out, consequences of changing the lyrics or having a one-sided chick flick moment be damned.
The song was over before he realized it and raucous applause greeted his ears. He went to put the guitar down and when he looked up, the scene had changed.
Instead of releasing the neck of the guitar, a broken ski stuck out of the snow. He was surrounded by snow-covered pine trees. A camera with a solar panel was pointed at him and he had a GoPro on his head. Best he could tell, he had been skiing and crashed here, breaking both his skis. He had a small bag with him that held a knife, some ski wax, a plastic bottle of vodka, a pair of headphones, and an iPhone.
Puzzled, Dean tried to figure out what the deal was. He thought through all the shitty reality TV he'd ever watched and nothing came to mind. Then he thought about the stupid stuff Sam would sometimes watch on the Discovery Channel and realized he had to make his own episode of 'Survivor Man'.
"Nope, not doing this!" Dean called out. "Gimmie something more reasonable!" He crossed his arms and sat down in the snow, refusing to engage in this ridiculous game.
After about thirty minutes, his ass started to get really cold and the sun was low in the sky. He gathered up all the gear, except the cameras, and trudged into the woods. "This is dumb," he yelled as he walked. "What if I just don't do anything, huh? What if I don't play your stupid game. What you gonna do then?"
As if on cue, a number of wolves' howls echoed through the increasingly dense forest and sent shivers up Dean's spine. "Okay, geez, fine," Dean grumbled. "Not like any of this is real, anyway." He took a few more steps until he heard a distinctive metallic click. He didn't even have a chance to look down before searing pain bit into his lower leg and he screamed. He fell over in surprise and inspected his leg. A rusty bear trap had closed around his leg, right above his ankle. "Fuuucckkkk!" Dean shouted, the adrenaline pouring through him not sufficient to dull the pain.
Blood was already staining the pine needle-strewn snow. He had to get the damn thing off and stop the bleeding. Vodka! He fished the bottle out and took a healthy swig before securing it in the snow. He carefully wriggled out of his jacket, took off his shirt, replaced the jacket, and used the knife to cut the shirt into strips. He grabbed a stick and put it between his teeth, bracing himself for the oncoming agony. He took a deep breath then placed his hands on either side of the closed arms. With a burst of strength, he pried the arms apart and pulled the teeth from his flesh. He tossed the thing to the side and reached for the vodka, pouring a generous amount on the wounds. Fire ripped through his nerves and he let the scream rip out of his throat. Next he balled up some fabric to staunch the bleeding and used the remaining strips to tie a makeshift bandage around his ankle.
When he finished, he flopped down into the snow and panted heavily. "Real… It's fucking real…"
The sun was beginning to set and he knew he needed to get moving. One, to get away from the scent of blood, and two, he needed some kind of shelter. He repacked his meager belongings, including the trap, and hauled himself away from the gory scene. After ten minutes of brisk limping, he came to a fallen tree which had also ripped up all its roots. It would provide one wall for a shelter. He looked around and realized there plenty of sticks and small branches to build with, if only he knew how best to design such a thing.
"Bet the fucking nerd would know," Dean hissed to himself, imagining Sam geekily braiding together some vines to make a door hinge for his stick fort. He rolled his eyes and started collecting materials. "Whatever, don't need him. I can do this by myself!" he assured himself.
He was lucky a full moon had risen to illuminate the cool night. It took him three hours to build something he deemed respectable, something that blocked out the wind and shielded his body. It didn't look great, but it would suffice. He set the bear trap out about twenty feet from his shelter on the off chance he could catch something. When he laid his head on his backpack and closed his eyes, his last thought was a faint "See, I don't need Sam…"
When he woke up, he was disheartened to see he was still in the same settings. Worse, his stomach was grumbling something fierce. A glance at the bear trap told him it was empty. His leg throbbed fiercely so foraging was out of the question. He crawled out into the snow and ate some to provide hydration. He thought through his options for food. There were pinecones galore around him, but he'd save that as a last resort. He could make some pitfall traps and hope to catch something small. He could probably make the ski into some kind of throwing spear if he tried hard enough. Rotting logs might contain insects… and while they definitely had a lot of nutritional content, he was positive he'd rather eat the pinecones…
Two weeks of living out of a tiny stick hut saw Dean pushed to his absolute limits. He'd resorted to eating snow to help him feel full when his traps were empty and he couldn't spear anything. He'd manage to make a fishing hook and fishing line out of the headphones and iPhone pieces, but most of the fish seemed to be hibernating. The only good things he had going for him were the small fire that he tended with his life and the plastic vodka bottle, which he used to melt and store water. The vodka was gone after the first full day, though far more than he would have liked was dedicated to sterilizing his wound.
He'd held on this long out of pride and sheer stubbornness, but his will was just about defeated. He didn't want to die here.
"C'mon, haven't I done enough?!" Dean shouted. "What more do you want from me?!" He was starving, thirsty, injured, cold, lonely, and all around pissed off.
The Trickster appeared, leaning against a tree. He popped his lollipop out of his mouth and smiled. "Dean, Dean, Dean. You're doing a great job at the whole survival thing, but you've missed the most important part."
"And what's that?"
"Recording it! Hey, I left those cameras right there for ya. Thought it was pretty obvious what you were supposed to do. Guess you're denser than I thought."
"So, what, I have to be that dude from the show and film how I'm surviving?"
"Bingo! And best get to it, blizzard season is fast approaching."
Dean was about ready to tackle him when he flickered out of view. Dean let out an aggravated yell. "Fine, you want me to film it? I'll fucking film it in all it's glorious pooping-in-the-woods detail! Is that you want, you fucking pervert?!" In the silence that answered him, he couldn't decide if he felt proud or childish. He chose not to think about it anymore lest he dislike his conclusion.
Another week found Dean an expert at alpine survival, on-the-go-recording, and amusing narrative. He reached the bottom of the mountain and set the cameras on the road. "Okay, I get it!" he called out.
The Trickster appeared a few feet away from him. "Yeah? Get what, hotshot?"
"Playing my role. That's what your game is, right?"
"That's half the game."
Dean's face crinkled in consternation. "What's the other half?" Like I haven't already done enough bullshit.
"Play your role out there."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, you know. Sam starring as Lucifer. You starring as Michael. Your celebrity death match. Play your roles."
"You want us to say 'yes' to those sons of bitches?"
The Trickster grinned facetiously. "Hells yeah. Let's light this candle!"
"You want the end of the world?" The Trickster shrugged and Dean narrowed his gaze. "Heaven or hell, which side you on?"
"I'm not on either side."
"Yeah, right. You're grabbing ankle for Michael or Lucifer. Which one is it?"
"You listen to me, you arrogant dick. I don't work for either of those S.O.B.s. Believe me."
"Oh, you're somebody's bitch."
The jovial nature vanished from the Trickster's demeanor and he darted forward, grabbing Dean and slamming him into a tree. Dean stealthily pulled a rock out of his pocket.
"Don't you ever, ever presume to know what I am. Now listen very closely. Here's what's gonna happen. You're gonna suck it up, accept your responsibilities, and play the role that destiny has chosen for you.
"And if I don't?" Dean challenged, lifting his arm to strike.
The Trickster grinned condescendingly. "Then you'll stay here in TV Land. Forever. Three hundred channels and, uh, nothing's on." He snapped his fingers, disappeared, and everything changed once again.
The rock in his hand was now a tumbler of bourbon. He set it down a cocktail table in front of him. The door next to a cream-colored leather couch opened and a middle-aged man popped his head in. "Ready to meet your first contestant?"
Dean looked down and he was dressed in a fine dark blue suit, white shirt, and maroon tie. He looked to the right and saw a large camera was pointed at him, a decal reading out 'The Bachelor' on the side. Dean had to stop himself from laughing. The Bachelor? That stupid dating show? Oh Jesus fucking Christ…
He returned his gaze and nodded. "Yep, send her in."
The man smiled. "Remember, you get ten minutes with each woman," he said then closed the door. Dean took a breath and straightened out his suit coat. The door swung open and in walked a drop dead gorgeous woman. She had straight dark brown hair with matching eyes, full lips that weren't too big for her face, and dimples when she smiled. The cut of her dress accentuated her ample chest and slim build.
He stood up and held out his hand. "Hi, I'm Dean."
The woman's smile became a grin and she took his hand. "I'm Alyssa. It's a pleasure to meet you, Dean."
He stepped over to the couch and held his hand out. "Here, have a seat."
Alyssa obliged and sat on the middle cushion, forcing Dean to be in much closer proximity to her than he had otherwise planned, but he wasn't complaining. Well, maybe he took that back. Warmth was pooling in his groin and an uncomfortable pressure was building in his crotch. He mentally chided himself but also felt like it wasn't such an unusual reaction after having not seen another human being, let alone a woman, for three weeks. He shifted awkwardly to ease the discomfort and hoped it would pass soon.
"So, Dean, they told me you're a detective for the FBI. That must be exciting. What's it like?"
Dean hid his surprise with a nod. "Yeah, I am. Well, you know, I can't really talk about what I do—"
"Or else you'd have to kill me?" she giggled.
Dean smirked. "Exactly. I mean, it's tough, I see some messed up things, but at the end of the day, it's about helping people and I feel good doing that."
She put a hand on his knee. "That is so brave. Your mom must be so proud of you!"
"Oh, uh, my mom, she passed away when I was a kid…"
She gasped and her hand left his leg. "Gosh, I am so sorry, that must have been difficult for you."
"It's alright. Yeah it was hard, my dad never remarried, but you know what, we're not here to talk about grim pasts, tell me what you do."
"Oh okay. I run a horse therapy program for wounded veterans."
"Wow. Tell me more about that," Dean said with false enthusiasm, suddenly understanding that what had originally seemed like it could be fun was really going to be a long day of small talk. There wouldn't be any frisky getting-to-know-you, just verbal exchanges and interested stares.
Dean suppressed a groan and resigned himself to several hours of tedious hell.
The last contestant was sitting beside him, a decently endowed redhead who was an ER trauma nurse. At least Dean had some battle stories he could share, albeit with modified details, so they could connect on that level. Some of the other women had given him little to work with and the whole endeavor had been exhausting and frustrating, not to mention he had an epic case of blue balls.
There was an urgent knock on the door, followed immediately by the door opening. Dean was shocked to see one certain trench coat wearing angel rush through. Dean stood and stepped towards him.
"Cas?! What are you doing here?… wherever here is… How'd you even find me?!"
"I found Lindsey Kangas as you had asked. I called several times to deliver the news but you never answered. I went to Bobby's since you were supposed to be there… He said you were five days late and weren't picking up your phone. I feared perhaps Zachariah or Michael had abducted you. It appears I was not far off the mark."
"What do you mean? This is the Trickster's doing."
"The Trickster?" Castiel shook his head. "It can't be."
The angel was suddenly pushed out of the way as the door was forced open. Two security guards came through and grabbed Castiel. He struggled but found himself being dragged away.
"Keep searching, Dean, it's your only way—" A large hand clasped over his mouth and then he was out of sight. Dean tried to follow but was intercepted by the producer from earlier. The man put a hand on Dean's shoulder and gripped him tight.
"The Trickster does not appreciate interruptions by pretty boy angels."
Dean scrunched his face in confusion and derision, caught off guard by the description of Cas as a 'pretty boy angel.'
"You'd best concentrate on playing your part, boy," the man hissed then pushed Dean hard back towards the couch.
When he landed, the scene had changed and he found himself in the driver's seat of a tiny car. He looked around and realized he was on a set. Cameras were pointed at him once again and it occurred to him he was in a commercial. More glances at his surroundings revealed posters and other promotional details for a car. And not just any car, a Smart Car. Revulsion prickled his skin.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" he spat. "This thing isn't even worthy of being called a car! Look at me!" He motioned to his body crunched into the seat. "I don't even fit in this thing!" He went to open the door but it was locked from the outside. "Let me out!" he hollered, indignity enhancing his frustration.
"Ready to roll in 3… 2... 1…"
"What the fuck am I supposed to say? The leading car for midgets? I mean really, since when did J.D. Power and Associates have a category for Fisher Price toys?" Dean grumbled loudly.
"Cut! Dean, you need to take this seriously. Just stick to the script. It should be on the passenger seat."
Dean looked to the side where there was a clipboard with a piece of paper, but it was blank.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" he yelled out, hoping the Trickster would hear him wherever he was.
"Get it together. You can do this. Rolling in 3… 2… 1…"
"C'mon! What is the possible benefit of this car? I can't even fart in here without getting claustrophobic."
"Yes, it's small, but with gas prices going up, getting 33 mpg city and 41 on the highway can go a long way towards putting cash back in people's wallets. Let's go. 3… 2… 1…"
He tried to focus on what playing his role here would mean.
He rolled the window down, stuck his arm out casually, and put on an award-winning smile. "Yeah, I know what you're probably thinking. This car is tiny, it doesn't look tough, it can't even fit my whole family in it! But what it lacks in size and engine power, it makes up for in efficiency and savings. The 2010 Smart ForTwo gets 33 miles per gallon in the city and up to 41 on the highway. I bet ya can't find anyone else with numbers like that. Say goodbye to being late because you couldn't find parking. And just think of all the money you'll save on gas and all the games, concerts, or events you can attend instead. She may not be sexy, but who needs a cool car when your life just kicked it up a notch?" He winked to seal the deal.
"And cut! That was great, Dean!"
"Dean!" a deep voice echoed and Dean looked to his side. Castiel was there, his face a little bloodied and worse for wear.
"What the hell happened Cas?"
"Dean, it can't be a trickster. Or perhaps he's no ordinary trickster. This is far beyond their level of magic. It was immensely difficult to find you. There is something else going on. We need to get out of here."
"On it!" Dean slammed his foot down on the gas pedal and floored it. They passed a row of bright lights and were suddenly driving in a shopping mall. To Dean's great relief, it was the Impala's wheel in his hands, her low rumble cascading up and down his legs. "Oh Baby," he murmured, his hand caressing her dash, "I've missed you!"
"Dean, focus!" Castiel said, agitated.
Dean swerved to narrowly avoid missing a small vending stand when he heard sirens. Looking in his rearview mirror, he saw the police cruisers and he realized where he was.
"Oh my God, Cas, we're in The Blues Brothers! In one of the most epic chase scenes in film history!" The grin on Dean's face was borderline feral as he dropped his foot on the gas pedal.
"Dean, you need to focus!"
The angel was roundly ignored as Dean cranked the wheel and smashed into Davidson's bakery. He snagged a donut on the way by and stuffed it into his face.
"Just in case it is a trickster, I obtained a stake for you." Cas shoved it into Dean's lap, forced to hold it there as Dean swung the car to take out a music store. "Try the stake and if it works, it works. If not, we'll have to come up with another plan."
The Trickster appeared in front of the Oldsmobile display and Dean sped up towards him. "Castiel!" he shouted, irritation evident in his tone. "How dare you try to kill me! I'll deal with you later!" Dean looked at Cas, who was staring at the Trickster with shock and recognition. Before Dean could ask, the demigod snapped again and Castiel vanished.
"Cas!" Dean yelled then turned his eyes back to the Trickster. He cranked the wheel hard and turned, swinging the Impala to the side and giving Dean the perfect opportunity to run the Trickster through with the stake.
Deadly weapon thus impaled, the scene flickered with static before an abandoned warehouse took its place.
Dean stepped out of the car and looked around. Part of him was hoping it was over, that the son of a bitch was dead, but he doubted it would be that easy. He stepped inside the warehouse and snooped around. A strange blue box lurking in the corner confirmed his suspicion. He didn't know what it was, only that he'd seen the thing on DVD covers. So, it wasn't a trickster, just as Castiel had thought. He'd said it was something more powerful. In fact, Cas seemed to know who it was, which meant…
"Oh, you sly motherfucker!" Dean growled. "I bet you're a goddam angel!"
He went back to the Impala and laid out the trap of holy oil.
"Alright, uncle!" Dean called. "I give in! I'll do it!"
The Trickster materialized and crossed his arms with a smug smile on his face. "Yeah? You'll go quietly?"
"Sure, just one question. Why didn't the stake kill you?"
The creature shrugged. "I am the Trickster."
"Or maybe you're not." Dean flung a lighter to the ground and smiled coldly as the ring of fire erupted from the ground. "Maybe you've always been an angel."
The Trickster looked shocked and laughed incredulously. "A what? Somebody slip a mickey in your power shake, kid?"
"I'll tell you what. You just jump out of the holy fire and we'll call it my mistake."
The two locked eyes, seemingly at a stalemate, before the Trickster began a mocking clap. "Well played, Dean. Well played. Where'd you get the holy oil?"
"Pays to have friends in high places."
"Where'd I screw up?"
"You didn't. I just know it'd take something special to toss Cas around like you did. Mostly it was the way you talked about Armageddon."
"Meaning?"
"Well, call it personal experience, but nobody gets that angry unless they're talking about their own family. So which dick with wings are you?"
"Gabriel, okay? They call me Gabriel."
"The archangel?"
"Guilty."
"Okay, Gabriel. How does an archangel become a trickster?"
"My own private witness protection. I skipped out of heaven, had a face transplant, carved out my own little corner of the world. Till you and your brother screwed it all up."
"What did Daddy say when you ran off and joined the pagans?"
"Daddy doesn't say anything about anything."
"So, what, you leave because of your douchenozzle brothers?"
"Shut your cakehole. You don't know anything about my family. I love my father, my brothers. Love them. But watching them turn on each other? Tear at each other's throats? I couldn't bear it! Okay? So I left. And now it's happening all over again."
"Then help us stop it," Dean implored.
"It can't be stopped."
"You wanna see the end of the world?"
"I want it to be over! I have to sit back and watch my own brothers kill each other thanks to you two! Heaven, hell, I don't care who wins, I just want it to be over."
"You can't mean that. All of earth… gone. I thought angels were supposed to protect humanity! There has to be some way to call it off."
Gabriel laughed and looked at Dean with pity. "You do not know my family. What you guys call the apocalypse, I used to call Sunday dinner. That's why there's no stopping this, because this isn't about a war. It's about two brothers that loved each other and betrayed each other. You'd think you'd be able to relate."
Dean gave him a confused look.
"You sorry son of a bitch. Why do you think you and Sam are the vessels? Think about it. Michael, the big brother, loyal to an absent father, and Lucifer, the little brother, rebellious of Daddy's plan. You were born to this. It's your destiny! It was always you! As it is in heaven, so it must be on earth. One brother has to kill the other.
"What the hell are you saying?"
"Why do you think I've always taken such an interest in you two? Because from the moment Dad flipped on the lights around here, we knew it was all gonna end with you. Always."
"No. That's not gonna happen."
"I'm sorry. But it is."
Gabriel sighed and seemed apologetic. "Dean, I wish this were a TV show. Easy answers, endings wrapped up in a bow...but this is real, and it's gonna end bloody for all of us. That's just how it's gotta be… So. Now what? We stare at each other for the rest of eternity?"
"Well, first of all, you're gonna bring Cas back from wherever you stashed him."
"Oh am I?" Gabriel challenged.
"Yeah. Or I'm going to dunk you in some holy oil and deep-fry myself an archangel.
Gabriel gave Dean a disapproving look then snapped his fingers. Castiel appeared, winded but with no additional injuries.
"Cas, you okay?"
"I'm fine. Hello, Gabriel."
"Hey, bro. How's the search for Daddy going? Let me guess. Awful."
Castiel's spiteful glare was the only response necessary.
"Okay, we're out of here. Come on, Cas." He turned and began to walk away.
"Uh. Okay. Guys?" the archangel called out, concerned. Castiel followed Dean. "So, so what? Huh? You're just gonna, you're gonna leave me here forever?"
Dean stopped at the door and spun to face Gabriel. "No. We're not, 'cause we don't screw with people the way you do. And for the record? This isn't about some prize fight between your brothers or some destiny that can't be stopped. This is about you being too afraid to stand up to your family." He pulled the fire alarm and all three beings watched as the sprinklers went off. "Don't say I never did anything for you."
Dean walked out and gave a silent prayer of thanks that his Baby was outside, damage-free. He turned to Cas, his mind already thinking about next steps.
"Cas, go make sure Lindsey is wherever you left her. I'm gonna call Bobby."
The angel nodded and disappeared with a flap of wings.
Dean pulled out his phone and pressed the number three speed dial. It picked up after one ring.
"Dean! Are you okay? Castiel said—"
"Yeah, Bobby, I'm fine. Just met another one of the Ninja Turtles… The archangel Gabriel."
Bobby failed to suppress his surprised gasp. "Gabriel? Like, messenger of God Gabriel?"
"That's the one. And he is as much of a dick as the rest of them."
"What the hell happened? I've been pulling out what little hair I got left trying to find you!"
"He thought he could teach me a lesson about 'playing my role' in the Apocalypse. Something about understanding my destiny and saying 'yes' to Michael. I managed to trap him in holy fire and make him squeal. Oh, did I mention that he's the trickster who killed me over and over again at that mystery spot in Florida?" Bobby let out an incredulous noise. "Yeah, bastard has been undercover as Loki to avoid his screwed-up family. He wants the Apocalypse because he thinks it will bring God back."
Bobby blew out a long breath between pursed lips. "This is way above our pay grade."
Dean snorted. "Tell me about it! Hey, Cas said I had been missing for days. How long was I gone?"
Bobby went quiet for a few moments and Dean's stomach plummeted. "Uh, well, Castiel said he found you about two weeks ago… So, about a month and a half?"
Dean froze. "What?!" He took a moment to let that sink in. He'd lost around six weeks of searching for his brother. "Any word from Sam while I was gone?"
"Sorry, son, no."
Dean let out an aggravated growl as he ran his hand through his hair. "I don't get it! He has to be somewhere. Why haven't we heard from him? Anything from your contacts? It's not like he could have just vanished into thin air!"
Bobby paused then answered, his words slightly rushed. "Well, uh, I, uh, might be able to explain that." Bobby's voice had gotten uncharacteristically tight during that sentence and Dean's heart rate skyrocketed.
"What, Bobby?!" The fuse was lit and Dean was going to blow in 5…4…
"In between looking for you, I was making calls to every hunter I knew and then some. Got some new names. One of 'em, real eccentric hunter, runs in some weird circles, so I don't how much I trust the information…"
3… 2… "Okay, just spit it out."
"I can't be sure it's Sam, but, I mean, who else could it be? It's not like there's tons of people who can—"
1… "I get it, you're not 100% sure on the intel. Just tell me."
"You're not gonna like this…"
0… "Godammit Bobby!" Dean practically shouted.
Bobby forced out a sigh then inhaled deeply. "This guy says he heard about some hunters that had, and I quote, 'some psychic freak on a leash who could kill demons with his mind.'"
He heard Bobby continue to speak but blood rushed into his brain and blotted out all rational thought. Hunters?! Psychic freak on a leash? Who could kill demons with his mind? Definitely Sam. What did they mean 'on a leash'? "Bobby," Dean interrupted, and the older hunter stopped talking. "What did he mean by 'on a leash'?"
Bobby hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. "Dean—"
"Tell me, Bobby."
"Sounds like they're holding him against his will. Keeping him locked up." He faltered, unsure how much to share. "The guy went as far as using the word 'pet'."
"What?!" Dean roared as he slammed on the brakes.
"Son—" Bobby started but Dean was having none of it.
"A pet? They're keeping Sam as a pet? A demon-killing pet?" Dean rasped, his throat refusing to function. "Who?"
"I—I don't know, Dean. He didn't have names. Trust me, I asked."
"Get a where at least?"
"You should come back here so you can fill me in on what happened and we can plan what to do next," Bobby urged.
"There's not really much more to tell you. I don't give two shits about their damn Apocalypse. I just want to find Sam. The sooner I get there, the better. So, a location?"
Bobby sighed. "He said they go wherever the biggest demon surge is. Seems like they're using Sam as a one-man army to take them all down. Last I saw there were some serious signs popping up outside of La Crosse, Wisconsin."
"Got it. Thanks Bobby. Let me know if you hear anything else." He hung up and resisted the urge to smash his phone.
"I'm coming, Sammy, just hang on!" he murmured, hoping against hope that he wouldn't be too late.
Blur. Everything was a blur. He shivered in his cage, barely aware of the outside world. Sometimes vague, disjointed words filtered in, but his muddled brain made no attempt to piece together their meaning. It didn't matter anyway. The details changed, but the routine never did. After some experimentation, it was determined his eyes only went black when there was enough blood to ignite his powers. Best he could tell, when he was on-call for demon eviction, he'd be injected with demon blood and some sort of compliance-inducer and a sedative to keep him from fighting back. Once the effect wore off, his eyes would return to their normal hazel. And then he would be weak again. Only the sedative was used when he was thrown out as monster bait, a hunter punching bag, or an organ farm. If they wanted him to fight, they'd give him a stimulant and his brain felt like it was going to explode right along with his frantically beating heart. When they wanted to sell him for parts, they'd make the first few incisions without anesthesia before shock set in and consciousness dwindled away. Through it all, he was powerless against their every assault, continually locked in the exhausting thrall of both chemical and supernatural withdrawals.
They kept a shock collar on him to keep him from crying out or talking back; not that his juiced-up self paid that any attention. He would speak and taunt the hunters anyway, just for the hell of it, ignoring the blistering burns on his neck. Those never seemed to heal when he was resurrected, though. Probably because they weren't life-threatening, but the constant sharp ache never dulled. He almost had to be grateful that they didn't make him eat solid food because he wasn't sure he could chew and swallow without passing out. In reality, there was nothing to be grateful for. His entire existence was pain and submission, or submission and pain, or both at the same time. There was nothing else to him, except on the blood, but even that wasn't really him. This was his eternity and it was all he could do not to flee into the gaping maw of insanity.
Every day, he retreated further from himself, conditioned more and more to respond to their commands. Control was a foreign concept to him; the illusion of control known only to his demonic doppelganger. What made him him seemed to be slipping further and further away, fading from his being like a groggy dream. But who he was didn't seem to matter anymore, not as long as he could hold on to his 'no'. The reason for the perpetual refusal frequently ebbed away from him, but it was the only thing he had left to hold onto. A 'no' until the end of time. If it was the last thing he did. He did his best to ignore the soul-deep fear that even that wouldn't be good enough. That his best attempt was just a flimsy excuse and he was avoiding the inevitable. Sometimes green eyes and familiar lips told him to 'hold on' and 'keep going', or blue eyes and chapped lips told him to 'give in' and 'say yes' but eventually those images were extinguished in the ocean of his anguish. He came to the realization that to feel was to suffer and decided he would do his damnedest to stop feeling at all.
*Black market values of organs are given in ~2014-2018 estimates.
Also, I have no experience with drugs, so I apologize if my characterizations are incorrect.
Reviews are love! Do you think Dean is making the right decision by ignoring Bobby and Cas?