Sorry for the massive gap between updates. I had originally gone in a slightly different direction with this chapter, which ran me right into a dead end that was also a sand trap. So I turned her around and I'm hoping this sets me on the right path 'cause I'm putting it out there. Also other reasons that have yet to be resolved but I'm trying like hell not to let them keep me from writing as they have been of late. AKF, right?
"Are you aware that there's a Hellhound running around the bunker?"
Castiel's eyes were latched onto Freya, watching her rocket back and forth between the library and the "war room". The expression the angel wore was more curious than it was cautious, presumably because I could also see her, and I was not in panic mode. I was so far removed from panic mode, I would have looked calm were it not for the deep glower I had fixed on the fucking angel. It was so intensely hateful, for a minute I thought it would take a form of its own and cleave the broken-winged son of a bitch.
No such luck.
"That's Freya," Dean said, casual but curt. He approached the table where I was sitting, the table furthest from the war room. In his right hand he carried a mostly full bottle of cheap whisky, in his left he held three rocks glasses. "She's dad's dog."
"I see."
A troubled silence crept its way between the click of Freya's paws slapping against the hardwood floors and the sloshing of whisky against glass. Castiel slid a chair out from under the table – the chair directly across the table from me – and the whine of wood scraping against wood echoed in the quietude. His gaze met mine, and he was not surprised to find me glaring daggers, nor was he entirely comfortable with it. The angel cleared his throat and shifted his eyes to Dean.
Sam, seated diagonally from me, was also trying to avoid eye contact with me, and was doing an awkward job of it. He leaned back in his chair with his knee bouncing and his head turned slightly away. For the most part, he didn't look at me. Wouldn't look at me. But occasionally I would catch his eyes wandering in my direction, as if a part of him wanted to stare at me the same way a rubbernecker watches the aftermath of a car crash. But he would always catch himself before they strayed too far and they would snap back towards a bookshelf or the ceiling.
Dean slid a glass across the table to Sam, who picked it up and gulped it down like water after a week in the Sahara. The second glass was pushed sideways to me, the third Dean lifted to his own lips. He took a deep sip before he took a seat beside me.
"Alright," he said, sidestepping the tension that filled the air to get down to business. "We've got a few things to figure out. Starting with how to get that mark off dad."
More silence. More avoiding eyes and deep glares.
"Don't everyone talk at once," Dean muttered.
I forcefully drew myself from the depths of malice and into the bunker that smelled of old spice and whisky with musty undertones.
"What we need to start with is staying off Crowley's raidar," I spoke as I pulled a pack of cigarettes from my jacket pocket.
"Ain't no safer place in the world than the bunker," Dean told me with a note of pride. "It's warded to the teeth. Nothing's getting in, not without an invitation."
"That may be," Castiel interjected. "But Crowley does know the location of the bunker. He has been here."
"Shit," Dean grumbled. Castiel glanced at me with a hopeful look. ("Look, I'm helping!") I narrowed my eyes at him. ("I don't need your damn help.")
Freya wandered to the table, her legs contently stretched, and sniffed cautiously at Castiel's trenchcoat. I placed a cigarette between my lips and watched as Castiel lowered his hand and tentatively patted her head. At first Freya recoiled at the celestial being's touch, but quickly warmed up to it and leaned into him.
"Traitor," I muttered, and lit my cigarette.
"Okay, new plan." Dean's eyes darted back and forth, staring at the table as he ransacked his mind for his new plan. "Grab all the books we can on curses and cheating Hell, load up the Impala and haul ass outta Dodge."
"I'm assuming since Crowley knows where the bunker is, he also knows what you drive," I spoke around my cigarette. I took in a deep breath of smoke and exhaled as I pocketed the pack and my zippo. "You did park it out of view back in Michigan for a reason, right?"
"Fuck," Dean muttered, and rubbed his forehead with his hand.
"There's no smoking in here."
All eyes fell to Sam. He was finally looking at me. A thin layer of disapproval covered a stormy fury the same way seran wrap covers a chocolate cake. He wanted to look annoyed, and he was, but mostly, he was angry.
"That's all you got?" I retorted with a breath of smoke. "You haven't said a goddamn word to me since Illinois and that's what you got? No smoking?"
"Oh, I'm just getting started," Sam returned, heat rising to his face in a deep red hue.
"That's enough!" Dean's voice rang loud and stern, its direction aimed mostly at Sam. "You can say your peace when we've figured this out. But right now you need to stow it. We've got bigger fish to fry."
Sam flexed his jaw and exhaled briskly through his nose. He wanted to continue, but he bit back whatever storm of words he had brewing in his brain and took another long guzzle of whisky.
"Okay," Dean said when he was satisfied with Sam's sullen silence. "Where were we?"
"I believe we were discussing hauling ass out of Dodge," Castiel said helpfully, stressing the words that seemed to puzzle him as he continued to pet Freya.
"There's also the matter of what to do about Crowley," I added to the growing list, ignoring my companion's betrayal for the time being. Dean narrowed his eyes in confusion.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Flying under the radar doesn't exactly fix the real problem," I said. "Now, you can break the bond he's got on me and cure me, but the fact is, he's never going to stop hunting me. Or you two, for that matter. Not as long as I'm around."
"What are you saying?" Dean questioned and his body tensed. There was hesitation in his voice, a note of trepidation.
"I'm saying we kill the sonuvabitch."
Seemed simple enough. And thrilling. I was itching for a shot at driving a blade through his black heart and watching the light flicker and fade.
"After we've removed the binding spell," Dean said. It wasn't a question, but the way he said it, it kind of was. I didn't reply, and Dean found that more alarming than any response could have been.
Truth was, I couldn't shake the feeling there was only one real way out of this. The minute my mortal name rolled off of Crowley's tongue, it was all over. It might have been different if he was hunting me and me alone. But he wasn't.
I'm still not opposed to suicide.
Yes, Max. I'm fucking aware.
"I'm not certain killing Crowley is wise," Castiel cut the mounting tension with a calculated opinion. "Killing him would, of course, take Crowley off the proverbial board. But his death would give way to a new king, and if your father evaded the legions of Hell for as long as he did, no king of Hell would let that stand. He'll be hunted for the rest of his existence. Unless…" The angel's face turned thoughtful, then quickly morphed into something more tentative. Dean raised his brows in expectation.
"You gonna share with the class, Cas?" he said impatiently when Castiel failed to continue. "Unless what?"
"Unless your father stakes claim to the throne," he finished.
Dean found this idea revolting.
"Uh-uh," he said, shaking his head. "No way."
Sam, on the other hand, was less perturbed by the notion. He nodded thoughtfully, and it was something Dean found as equally revolting as the idea.
"Sam," he growled.
"What?" Sam said with a defensive yet casual shrug. "I mean, it's not ideal, but it could work. It would be nice to have someone on our side in charge downstairs."
All eyes fell on me, silently waiting for my say in the matter.
"I'm not going to rule Hell," I stated flatly, carelessly flicking ash to the floor. "I'll gladly kill Crowley, but I'm not taking his place."
My response eased Dean's mind. He nodded in the minor victory and took a drink from his glass.
"You could, of course, always close the gates of Hell," the angel offered another solution as I took a sip from my glass. "Use your father in the final trial. That would solve your demon issue, and your father could not return to perdition when his time comes."
This struck a chord with Dean. His eyes brightened and he nodded.
"That could work," he agreed. Pause. Then, quietly; "I'll do it."
"Dean, no," Sam immediately protested.
"It's the best plan we've come up with so far," Dean said, averting his eyes from all to stare at the table. "Someone's gotta do it. It should be me."
"Why?" Sam challenged, launching himself forward in his seat. "Because you still blame yourself for what dad did?"
"You're damn right I do," Dean shot. His fists clenched and his gaze lifted to his brother. He stared at Sam with eyes that were firm and sad. "Because it is my fault."
"I think we've established my damnation came from higher up," I said, shooting Castiel a nasty glower that cast a shameful mien along the angel's brow. "Now, would anyone care to explain to me why Dean shouldn't close the gates of Hell? Or why no one has done it yet?"
Sam and Dean exchanged soulful glances in the silence that reclaimed the library. I rolled my eyes and spit smoke, annoyed by the damned quietude that had followed us from Michigan. Just as I was about to repeat my question, Castiel chose to answer it.
"In order to close the gates of Hell, a person must undergo a series of trials," he told me. "Each one weakens the body into a state of disrepair. Once the trials have been completed, whomever undertook the task of sealing the gates will die."
"Why do I get the feeling you know this from personal experience?" I questioned with a smoky breath.
"Because we tried it," Dean said, turning his head to look at me. "And it almost killed Sam."
I glanced over to Sam. I caught a glimpse of remorse before he averted his eyes.
"Then no," I said, shaking my head. "You're not sacrificing yourselves for this."
"What then?" Dean questioned, combative and frustrated. "What are we supposed to do?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "But I suggest we get rolling before Crowley storms the place."
"Dad—" Dean began.
"Your father is right," Castiel interrupted. "The longer we sit, the closer Crowley will get. This is a problem that will take time to solve."
Dean ran a hand down his face and heaved a weighted sigh.
"Alright," he caved. "We gather all we can carry on curses and binding spells and loopholes in demon contracts and get the hell out of here. Lay low somewhere for a while. That'll buy us some time to fix dad and figure out what we're going to do about Crowley. I'll make a hex bag for dad and load up some gear. Sammy, you start pulling books. Cas, you head into town and get us a set of wheels."
"I think Cas has better things to be doing right now," Sam spoke up, contentious and annoyed. Dean gave him an expression somewhere between blank and I-don't-give-a-fuck. "You know. Finding a way to re-open Heaven's doors?"
"You break it, you bought it," Dean said as a matter of factly.
"That's not fair," Sam argued. "Cas didn't send… him," he gestured vaguely towards me, "to Hell. He's the one angel who rebelled. For us."
"It's okay, Sam," Castiel said, much to my dismay. He leaned forward, rested his arms on the table (much to Freya's dismay) and knitted his fingers together. "This does seem like a more pressing matter. Heaven can wait a couple more years."
Dean flashed Sam a sardonic grin. Sam rolled his eyes. I gritted my teeth.
He's just trying to help.
"I don't need his fucking help."
It was when everyone shot quizative stares in my direction that I realized I had responded to Max – my own personal Jiminy Cricket – out loud.
"Max talkin' again?" Dean asked.
"Yeah," I admitted, flicking more ash onto the floor. I downed my whisky and tossed the butt into the empty glass where it protested with a loud hiss before it extinguished. "Not used to havin' a voice in my head. It's gonna take me a minute to adjust."
"And what's Max saying?" Sam asked, his voice chilly and brusque.
I stared at him, and he stared back. For a minute it felt like we were about to lock horns. The familiar taste of controversy tingled at the back of my tongue as Sam's jaw flexed. For a minute, it felt like old times.
This is nothing like old times, Max shattered the almost-moment of remembering what it was like to be human.
Fuck you, private, I spat internally.
You gonna tell him? Max asked. How there's only one way out of this, and I'm gunning for you to do it?
I flashed Sam an acerbic grin.
"To start pulling books."