The road to Las Vegas was long, and time seemed to drag on like it had in hell. In reality, it took us just under eight hours to reach the city of sin, but from where I was sitting in the back seat of the Impala with a chest full of rage and a mind full of chaos, it felt more like weeks. Towns and cars and burned, red earth blended together, like a painting splashed with water; I saw everything, but none of it registered, and it all ran together in a giant mess of almost memory.
I was so engrossed in the utter hate I felt for the angels, that I almost didn't hear the plan.
"Maddox!" Sam snapped from the passenger's seat. Judging by the irritation on his face, it hadn't been the first time he'd called my name.
Okay, so I had missed the plan.
"What?" I asked, looking around, as the world came back into focus.
The Impala was parked outside a greasy-spoon diner on the outskirts of Las Vegas. A thin haze of gray clouds had settled above the city in a non-threatening gloom that did little but remind me of how hot it was. Dean was wiggling free from his flannel over-shirt, and Sam was giving me his "seriously?" look.
"I asked if you were good with the plan," Sam said.
"A, do I have a choice?" I asked. "B, what plan?"
He rolled his eyes and shot a scowl to Dean, who sighed.
"We're going to paint a trap," Sam informed me shortly, sounding aggravated by the fact he had to repeat himself. "You're going to hit the Strip and lure Desdemona to us."
"How do you know she'll follow me?" I questioned.
"You're not supposed to be up here, right?" He began, and I hesitantly nodded. "Don't you think she would find it interesting that you're not in the pit? Interesting enough to maybe follow you?"
"Follow me or ride me right back to Hell?" I grumbled.
It occurred to me that Desdemona might recognize my face, the sunken, smoky one I hid beneath Max's. It would certainly work, getting her to follow the demonized version of John Winchester. Only I worried it would work a little too well. That the plan would go off without a hitch, and she'd end up revealing my secret identity to my sons. Either way, I was fucked.
"For the record, I am not okay with this plan," I said, my severe unwillingness to act as bait temporarily overriding my vendetta against the angels.
"We'd do it," Dead said distantly, sounding almost sincere as he straightened his black t-shirt. "But I don't think she's going to come out and play if she sees us. We've rolled through here enough times. If she didn't come out then, there's no reason she would now."
"Smart girl," I muttered under my breath. I reached into the seat next to me and absently stroked Freya's head.
"Besides, you're—" Sam began, but I was quick to cut him off.
"Just a demon," I finished for him, rolling my eyes. "Got it, thanks."
"I was going to say you're the only one who can actually see Desdemona," Sam said with a faint smile. "But yeah, that too."
I gave Sam a cold stare as the pain of a hundred knives exploded in my chest.
"You know, I used to be someone," I mentioned through clenched teeth.
"And then you died and went to Hell, so," Sam argued without hostility or any interest in actually quarreling, and casually turned around to face the silver and sea-foam green diner.
Of all the things my boys had said and done in the past two days, it was Sam's indifference that stung the most. Arguing was all we ever really did when I was alive. He did it with passion, and he did it because, deep down, for some fucking reason, he cared. His disregard of me now just made everything feel more… real.
"Dude," Dean said with a mild crease in his brow. "Ixnay on the ell-hay." Sam raised a brow and shifted to face his brother. Dean cupped the right side of his mouth with his hand to hide his lips, and in a low tone said, "He sold his soul."
"You do know I can hear you, right?" I said, rolling my eyes.
"So?" Sam said to Dean, ignoring my comment.
"I just think we could empathize a little, that's all," Dean said with a shrug.
Sam sighed in annoyance and ran a hand through his long hair.
"I'm sick and tired of demons, Dean. I don't trust them, and in case you forgot, I still hate them and I thought you did too. No offense." He paused to shoot me a quick, semi-apologetic look. "A little offense."
"None taken," I said, folding my arms across my chest to indicate I was, despite my best efforts, mildly offended.
"Name one demon we've worked with that hasn't screwed us over at least once," Sam challenged Dean, whose brow creased in deep concentration. His face lit up temporarily and his lips parted to speak, but his expression quickly fell and he closed his mouth again as he realized that there had yet to be a demon who did not, at some point, fuck them over.
"If I may point out a small detail," I spoke up. I leaned forward and rested my arms along the back of the front seat, causing Sam to instinctively lean away from me. "I'm not really working with you. You're kind of blackmailing me here. Any time you want to back out of that and let me get back to hunting, feel fucking free, because I assure you, I'm not thrilled the fucking Winchesters are risking my ass for a goddamn book."
Sam tilted his head as he pondered my rant. After a moment of thought he cracked the door open.
"You coming?" He called to no one in particular as he climbed out of the car and into the hot afternoon.
A soft groan slipped past my lips and I grudgingly opened the door with the sun-bleached army man stuck in the groove under the silver handle.
"Stay," I commanded Freya, who gave me a disappointed look as she dramatically slumped across the back seat. "Don't worry girl," I assured her, playfully brushing the top of her head with my hand. "We won't be stuck here much longer."
Dean and I climbed out of the Impala and, as we stepped out into the hot desert air, the familiar sound of Led Zepplin's Ramble On began to play from the depths of Dean's pockets. Dean pulled out his phone, glanced at the screen and absently waved Sam and I on.
"Go on in," he stated, swiping his index finger along the bottom of the screen. "I gotta take this." He put the device to his ear and a tiny grin pulled at the corners of his lips. "Hey, where are you? What? Why?"
I turned and sluggishly followed Sam into the diner. The floors were well worn, and checkered in black and white squares of linoleum. The upholstery on the booths and the round stools that stood around a long white counter were the same sea-foam green as the establishment's exterior. Cold air blasted from overhead vents and clashed with the hot air that tried to drift out from the kitchen visible through a large, windowless opening. A greasy, meaty scent wafted throughout tiny restaurant; it smelled like a heart attack and it made my mouth water.
Sam led the way, choosing an empty table along a window that overlooked the parking lot and the busy intersection on which the diner stood. He slid into the booth and quickly busied himself with one of the laminated, double sided menus tucked between the thick window and the silver napkin dispenser. I took the empty seat opposite from him and sullenly stared across the off-white, faux marble table top at my son. He wasn't ignoring me, not entirely, but his demeanor was cold and rigid enough to tell me he wasn't exactly open to conversation, either.
"I can't believe we're wasting our time here," I mumbled grumpily as I gazed out the window at Dean, who casually paced around the Impala with his phone pressed against his ear.
"Yeah," Sam said with a heavy sarcasm. "Nourishment is a huge waste of time."
"Can't you just order something to go?" I grumbled. I restlessly drummed my thumbs against the table as Sam continued to read his menu.
"We could," he admitted without looking at me, his voice calm but cold. "But we don't really have anywhere to go until it gets dark, so there's not really any point. Unless you have somewhere you need to be?" He tore his eyes away from the menu long enough to shoot me a smirk.
"Apparently not until dark," I muttered sharply.
A busty waitress in a stiff white dress approached the table with a tired smile. She pulled a pad of paper and a pen from the pocket of her pink apron.
"What can I get you boys?"
I ordered a cup of coffee, and Sam ordered himself a salad, and a bacon cheeseburger for Dean. I wrinkled my nose at him as the waitress scurried away. He shot me a questioning look in return.
"Salad? My god, you're a fucking hippie."
Sam arched a brow at this, but clearly took no offense to the term that had long since lost its edge, insult wise. He remained silent until the waitress returned with a white mug of piping hot coffee, which she wordlessly set in front of me.
"Coffee?" he retorted. "Thought this was a waste of your time"
"Gotta order something if I'm going to sit here, right?" I asked. "It's called being polite."
Sam rolled his eyes.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing," he replied. "I'm just not buying this whole 'nice demon' act you've got going on."
"It's not an act," I insisted. "Why don't you trust me?"
This finally provoked a reaction.
"If you know who we are, then you know why I can't trust you," Sam snapped, his tone bordering on combative. I had a sudden desire to goad him into a fight, to see that familiar passionate reaction. "Anyway, I thought you didn't care."
"I didn't," I replied. "But I'm beginning to second guess my chances of freedom if you don't trust me at least a little by the time this grimoire business is over and done with."
A tiny smile lifted at Sam's lips.
"You're smarter than most demons then," he acknowledged, offhandedly admitting he had no intention of letting me walk free. "Which just makes it harder for me to trust you."
I stared him down, feeling my jaw clench. I was caught, frustrated by my situation but strangely pleased with Sam's unwavering distrust for my kind.
"Your old man would have been proud of you," I commented.
That did it. I should have known it would have taken a sincere and innocuous remark to send him off the edge. He slammed a fist on the table, the sound resounding through the restaurant, causing the other customers pause in their conversations to stare at us. His jaw tightened as an angry, red flush rose across his cheeks.
"You don't get to talk about my dad," he spoke quietly but fiercely. "You don't know anything about him," he jabbed his index finger at me as the fury seemed to rise in him. "He's dead because of you bastards. Your kind killed both of my parents, so don't sit there and pretend like you know shit about what my dad would feel right now."
I had finally gotten the rise from him I had been fishing for, but not the satisfaction. It wasn't like old times. It was nothing like our arguments used to be. His words were passionate, yes, but they were hateful, and it only reminded me that nothing I did or said would make me feel normal again.
This was my new normal.
The bell attached to the diner's door jingled as it swung open and Dean stepped inside. He strolled towards us, the cool breeze of the air-conditioning bringing a look of relief to his face. He cheerfully took a seat beside Sam.
"Just talked to Cas," he announced, and I couldn't quite tell if he didn't notice the thick tension between Sam and me, or if he simply didn't care.
"Where is he?" Sam was quick to ask, still a little shaken from the brief but intense tongue-lashing he had just given me.
"Fucking Panama," Dean said with a disappointed breath. He perked up when he spied my untouched coffee, and reached across the table. "You drinking that?" He asked, not waiting for a response before helping himself. He took a slow sip and his face lit up, suddenly remembering something.
"Panama?!" Sam echoed in disbelief as Dean awkwardly attempted to extract something from his back pocket. "What the hell is Cas doing in Panama?"
"Following a lead," Dean replied as he produced a small silver flask. He unscrewed the cap and carefully poured what appeared to be whisky into the hot black liquid. "I told him we'd let him know how tonight plays out with Desdemona."
"You think Crowley'd stash the grimoire down there?" Sam wondered out loud.
"I don't see why not," Dean said thoughtfully, tucking his flask safely away in his back pocket. He paused to take a sip of coffee. "I mean, we do kind of have a harder time getting across borders than we do sneaking in and out of literally all the afterlives."
"Yeah," Sam said with a nod.
"Wait," I spoke up, stuck on something Dean had said. "Cas? As in Castiel? That broken-winged, ate up motherfucker?"
Dean shot me an icy glower.
"Watch it," he said warningly, giving me the only inch of forgiveness he could muster when it came to putting down his celestial friend.
"Why is an angel checking a lead for you?" My eyes narrowed and I folded my arms across my chest. "Why is this grimoire so important to you?"
Dean gave Sam a questioning glance, to which he responded with a disapproving look. Dean turned his gaze back to me, and quietly determined the level of trust I had earned in the last day and a half. He shrugged.
"The grimoire has a specific spell," Dean said with little hesitance, still far more trusting of me than his little brother. "A decoder spell. It can translate anything on the planet, including the angel tablet. We're helping Cas track it down so he can open Heaven back up."
"You're doing this… for the angels?" I slowly asked with a note of disgust.
"Well, we're doing to help an angel," Dean admitted. "Why? Is that a problem?"
Fucking a right it's a goddamn problem.
I gritted my teeth and produced an exaggerated grin.
"Nope."