Darkness. Bright flashes of searing white light punctured the gloom, accompanied with intermittent screams. Piercing shrieks echoed through Hell, so high pitched one might have mistaken them for something inhuman.
Then-
Dean Winchester opened his eyes to darkness. He took in a shuddering gasp and began coughing violently. He fumbled in his pocket for a moment and clicked his lighter. A single tuft of orange flame flickered to life, revealing the tiny space Dean was resting in.
It was a coffin.
He had a restricted area to move, and his arms kept bumping the wooden insides. The ceiling was too close for comfort, causing his claustrophobia to kick in.
"He-elp," Dean croaked. His voice was hoarse and raspy from disuse. "Help!" He coughed, attempting to clear his throat. "Help!" Panting, he began to bang on the wood above him, straining to escape the tiny box from which he had awoken. He gripped the side of the lid and pushed.
Dirt tumbled into the box, filling it up to the top, extinguishing his light and plunging him into darkness once more. Quiet.
His hand broke the surface, clawing at the dry grass as he dragged himself into the sunlight, sucking in a lungful of precious air. Groaning, he climbed out of the grave and collapsed. He flopped onto his back, breathing heavily and wincing as the sun hurt his sensitive eyes. A wooden cross marked the place he'd been buried. The sky was a beautiful, baby blue.
He staggered to his feet and gaped.
In a massive ring radiating from his grave, all the nearby trees were toppled over and uprooted from the ground, bark scorched and still smoldering. A hundred trees, at least, had fallen. Only a small circle of earth where his grave resided was untouched.
The day was hot. Dean walked along a gravel road, flannel tied around his waist. Eventually, he stumbled upon a small gas station, at which only one car was parked. He stepped up to the front door, where the sign was flipped to the 'CLOSED' side. He banged on the wood.
"Hello?"
Sighing, he bundled up one hand in his flannel, and broke the window.
The fridge held a wonderful package of water bottles, and Dean had never seen anything so amazing. He grabbed a bottle and tipped it back, draining half of it in only a second.
He walked over to a stack of newspapers and checked the date.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
"September…?" he whispered, confused.
When he managed to find a sink, he turned on the faucet and scrubbed the grime from his face, relishing the feeling of water on his skin. He patted his face dry and stared at himself in the mirror. Frowning, he pulled his shirt up. No wounds from the hellhound, not even a scar. He dropped his shirt. Feeling a new twinge of pain suddenly, he angled himself to the left and shrugged back his sleeve.
Burned into his skin was a bright red handprint.
He winced at the sight, staring at it in bewilderment. He didn't remember getting that.
He discovered the plastic sacks easily enough, and began stocking one with supplies. He dumped in matches, food, anything of use he could find. He also buried a magazine inside, the contents of which were too embarrassing to describe. He set down the sack and fiddled with the cash register for a moment, grinning when it sprung open. Coins jingled as he stuffed his pockets with dollar bills. Then, suddenly, the TV flickered on, playing a channel of only static. Thinking it may have been an accident, Dean turned it off.
The radio buzzed to life. Faint country music echoed around the store. Dean moved towards it, but behind him, the TV turned on once more. A low ringing sound accompanied the two haywire electronics.
Now, worried about the presence of demons, Dean grabbed a can of salt and began to line the windows. The ringing intensified, causing Dean to grimace and cover his ears. He fell to one knee, groaning at the terrible sound as the window blew out, showering him with glass. He scrambled to his feet and stumbled a few inches, but the force of all the windows shattering at once sent him to the ground, curled up in the ocean of glass shards.
Abruptly, the sound cut off.
Mouth hanging open, Dean got to his feet, skin covered in little red cuts and hair glinting with glass. Every single window was broken. Dean knew the store owner would not be pleased.
Outside, he found a phone booth and dialed Sam's number.
"We're sorry," a woman's automated voice told him. "You have reached a number that has been disconnected." Dean sighed.
Next, he tried Bobby.
"Yeah?" the older man answered.
"Bobby?" Dean said eagerly. "It's me."
"Who's 'me'?"
"Dean."
Click. Bobby hung up.
Dean slid some more coins into the slot, frustrated now, and called again.
"Who is this?"
"Bobby, listen to me-" Dean started.
"This ain't funny. Call again and I'll kill you."
Click.
Dean reluctantly put the phone down. He wheeled around, wondering what the hell he was going to do now, when he caught sight of the single car parked in the gravel.
The engine sputtered as he fiddled with some wires, bent over in the front seat.
"Come on, come on," Dean mumbled.
The car rumbled to life. Dean grinned.
Knock knock knock.
Bobby swung open the door. The corner of Dean's lip quirked into a relieved smile at finally seeing a familiar face. Bobby stared at him in shock.
"Surprise," Dean said.
"I don't…" Bobby whispered, bewildered.
"Yeah, me neither," Dean said, stepping into the house. He glanced around the house, noticing it was exactly how it was when he left. "But here I am."
Gritting his teeth, Bobby swung a silver knife at Dean. The younger blocked it and twisted it away from himself, but Bobby whirled around, preparing for another blow.
"Bobby!" Dean yelled, stumbling back several feet. "It's me!"
"My ass," Bobby growled, storming forward.
Dean shoved a chair in front of him to ward off the other. "Woah, woah, wait! Your name is Robert Steven Singer. You became a hunter after your wife got possessed. You're about the closest thing I have to a father. Bobby… it's me."
Bobby stared at him with grief-stricken eyes, pushing the chair to the side as if to get a better look at him. He moved forward, touching Dean's shoulder with one hand, then jabbed the knife at him once more.
Dean spun him around and held his arm behind his back. "I am not a shapeshifter!" he grunted.
"Then you're a revenant!" Bobby cried.
Dean shoved Bobby away several feet, revealing that he now held the knife. "Alright. If I was either, would I do this with a silver knife?" He yanked back his sleeve and pressed the knife to his skin, hissing at the pain.
Bobby watched him, the hostility fading from his expression as he saw blood track down Dean's arm. "Dean?"
"That's what I've been trying to tell you," Dean muttered.
Pausing for only a moment, Bobby lunged forward and embraced Dean tightly, taking in a shuddering breath. Dean leaned into his surrogate father's hug.
When he pulled back, Bobby's eyes gleamed with unshed tears. "It's- It's good to see you, boy."
"Yeah, you too."
"But… how did you bust out?"
"I don't know," Dean admitted. "I just, uh... just woke up in a pine bo-"
Bobby doused him with holy water.
Dean blinked a few times, irritated, then spat out some water. "I'm not a demon either, you know."
"Sorry," Bobby apologized. "Can't be too careful."
"That don't make a lick of sense," Bobby said, as the two stepped into the living room.
"Yeah. Yeah, you're preaching to the choir," Dean agreed, drying his face with a towel.
"Dean, your chest was ribbons, your insides were slop, and you'd been buried four months. Even if you could slip out of Hell and back into your meats-"
"I know. I should look like a 'Thriller' video reject."
"What do you remember?"
"Not much," Dean replied, shaking his head. "I remember I was a hellhound's chew toy... and then lights-out. Then I come to six feet under and that was it."
Bobby slowly lowered himself into a cushioned seat.
"Sam's number's not working," Dean said. "He's uh- he's not-"
"Oh, he's alive, as far as I know," Bobby assured him.
Dean breathed a sigh of relief. "Good. Wait, what do you mean, as far as you know?"
"I haven't talked to him for months."
"You're kidding?" Dean snapped. "You just let him go off by himself?"
"He was dead set on it," Bobby sighed.
"Bobby, you should have been looking after him."
"I tried," Bobby protested, looking indignant. "These last months haven't been exactly easy, you know, for him or me. We had to bury you."
"Why did you bury me, anyway?" Dean asked.
"I wanted you salted and burned-" said Bobby, "-usual drill, but Sam wouldn't have it."
"Well, I'm glad he won that one." Dean chuckled.
"He said you'd need a body when he got you back home somehow," Bobby continued. "That's about all he said."
"What do you mean?"
"He was quiet... real quiet. Then, he just took off. Wouldn't return my calls. I tried to find him, but he don't want to be found."
"Oh, dammit Sammy," Dean groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face.
"What?" Bobby asked.
"Oh, he got me home okay," Dean muttered. "But whatever he did, it is bad mojo."
"What makes you so sure?"
"You should've seen the grave site," Dean said darkly. "It was like a nuke went off. Then there was this force, this presence, that, I dunno, but it- it blew past me at a fill-up joint. And then this." He shrugged off his jacket and pulled up his sleeve, revealing the blistered handprint.
"What in the hell?" Bobby whispered.
"Yeah, it's like a demon just yanked me out or rode me out," Dean replied.
"But why?"
"To hold up their end of the bargain."
"You think Sam made a deal," Bobby realized.
"It's what I would have done." The 'it's what I did' went unspoken.
Later, Dean called a number that could help them find Sam. "Yeah, hi, I have a cell phone account with you guys and uh, lost my phone. I was wondering if you could turn the GPS on for me. Yeah, the name is Wedge Antilles. Social is 2474. Thank you." He hung up.
"How'd you know he'd use that name?" Bobby asked.
"You kidding me? What don't I know about that kid?" Dean sat down at a computer and found the company's website. "Hey, Bobby. What's the deal with the liquor store, hm?" He held up a drained glass bottle. "Your parents out of town or something?"
"Like I said," Bobby muttered. "The last few months ain't been all that easy."
Dean stared at him for a long moment. "Right." The laptop dinged, and he leaned close to see Sam's location. He scoffed. "Sam's in Pontiac, Illinois."
"Right near where you were planted," Bobby said.
"Right where I popped up," Dean agreed. He gave Bobby a look. "Hell of a coincidence, don't you think?"
~ Pontiac, Illinois: Astoria Motel ~
Dean and Bobby walked up to Sam's supposed room. Room 207. Dean braced himself, then knocked on the wood.
The door swung open, revealing a girl with sleek black hair that tumbled down her shoulders. An odd look crossed her face, but she recovered so quickly Dean could've sworn he imagined it. "So, where is it?" she asked.
"Where's what?" Dean questioned, confused.
"The pizza that takes two guys to deliver," the girl replied, scowling.
"I think we got the wrong room," Dean said apologetically.
"Hey, is-" Sam stepped around the corner and stopped short. He locked eyes with Dean.
After a lengthy pause, Dean cracked a hesitant smile. "Heya, Sammy." He pushed past the girl, who frowned at him, and moved towards his brother.
Sam whipped out a knife and lunged at him, pinning Dean against the wall. The girl let out a shriek. He almost buried the weapon in Dean's chest, shouting, "Who are you?!" before Bobby managed to restrain him.
"Like you didn't do this?" Dean retorted harshly.
"Do what?" Sam snarled, struggling against Bobby's hold.
"It's him, it's him, Sam," Bobby soothed. "I've been through this already. It's really him."
Sam relaxed, staring at Dean in mute shock. "But..."
"I know," said Dean, taking a step forward. He cracked a grin. "I look fantastic, huh?"
Lips trembling on the verge of a smile, Sam embraced Dean, burying his face in his older brother's shoulder. Sam took in a shuddering breath, and Dean held him tighter. When Sam pulled back, he gazed at Dean for a long moment.
"So, are you two like... together?" the girl questioned, hovering by the door.
"What?" Sam blinked. "No. No. He's my brother."
"O-Oh," the girl said. "Got it, I-I guess. Look, I should probably go."
"Yeah, yeah, that's probably a good idea," Sam agreed quickly. "Sorry."
When she had gathered her stuff and gotten dressed, Sam held the door open for her.
She glanced back at him and smiled. "So, call me."
"Yeah. Yeah, sure thing, Kathy."
"Christie," the girl corrected, smile fading.
"Right."
The girl forced a smile as Sam shut the door.
Dean was leaning against the wall when Sam stepped back inside, lips pressed together. Sam sat down, bracing himself for a scolding, despite the fact he didn't do anything.
"So tell me," Dean started, "what'd it cost?"
Sam looked up from tying his shoes. "The girl?" He chuckled. "I don't pay, Dean."
"That's not funny, Sam," Dean snapped. "To bring me back. What'd it cost? Was it just your soul, or was it something worse?"
"You think I made a deal?"
"That's exactly what we think," Bobby piped up.
"Well, I didn't." Sam scowled at the accusation and looked down at his shoes.
"Don't lie to me," Dean said.
Sam glanced up at Dean, looking scandalized and hurt. "I'm not lying."
"So what now?" Dean continued, despite Sam's retort. He pushed off of the desk and stepped forward. "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."
"Look, Dean," Sam snarled, shooting to his feet. "I wish I had done it, alright?"
Dean grabbed Sam by his collar, furious. "There's no other way that this could have gone down. Now tell the truth!"
"I tried everything," Sam replied sharply, shoving Dean's hands away from him. "That's the truth. I tried opening the Devil's Gate. Hell, I tried to bargain, Dean, but no demon would deal, alright? You were rotting in Hell for months - for months, and I couldn't stop it. So I'm sorry it wasn't me, alright?" His voice broke. "Dean, I'm sorry."
"It's okay, Sammy," Dean said after a moment, seeing the anguish on his brother's face. "You don't have to apologize. I believe you."
A pause.
"Don't get me wrong," Bobby said. "I am gladdened that Sam's soul remains intact, but that does raise a sticky question."
"If he didn't pull me out, then what did?" Dean finished solemnly.
Later...
Dean and Bobby now sat beside each other on the motel couch. Sam fetched a few beers and passed them around, then sat down across from them.
"So what were you doing around here if you weren't digging me out of my grave?" Dean asked, cracking open his drink.
"Well, once I figured out I couldn't save you, um... I started hunting down Lilith." Sam fixed his gaze on his own drink. "Trying to get some payback."
"All by yourself?" Bobby questioned. "Who do you think you are, your old man?"
"Uh…" Sam huffed. "Yeah, I'm sorry, Bobby. I-I should have called. I was pretty messed up."
Dean walked across the room and lifted a bra, one eyebrow raised. "Oh, yeah. I really feel your pain."
Sam sighed. Dean sat down next to him. "Anyways, uh, I was checking these demons out of Tennessee, and out of nowhere they took a hard left, booked up here."
"When?" Dean asked.
"Yesterday morning."
"When I busted out," Dean realized.
"You think these demons are here 'cause of you?" Bobby wondered aloud, meeting Dean's gaze.
"But why?" Sam asked.
"Well, I don't know," Dean muttered. "Some badass demon drags me out and now this? It's gotta be connected somehow."
"How you feeling, anyway?" Bobby asked him, frowning.
Dean blinked. "I'm a little hungry."
"No, I mean, do you feel like yourself?" Bobby clarified. "Anything strange or different?"
"Or demonic?" Dean added, curling his lip. "Bobby, how many times do I have to prove I'm me?"
"Yeah, well listen. No demons letting you loose out of the goodness of their hearts. They gotta have something nasty planned."
"Well, I feel fine."
"Okay, look, we don't know what they're planning," Sam interjected. "We got a pile of questions and no shovel. We need help."
"I know a psychic a few hours from here," Bobby supplied, looking contemplative. "Something this big, maybe she's heard the other side talking."
Dean perked up. "Hell yeah. It's worth a shot."
"I'll be right back." Bobby rose from the couch and headed out. Dean moved to follow him.
"Wait," Sam said. He stood up. "You probably want this back." He reached up and took the amulet necklace from around his neck, then handed it to Dean.
The elder hunter stared at it in his palm. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
Dean looped the cord around his own neck.
"Hey, Dean," Sam said. He shifted his weight. "What was it like?"
"What? Hell?" He locked eyes with Sam. "I don't know. I-I-I must have blacked it out. I don't remember a damn thing."
Sam nodded slightly. "Thank God for that."
"Yeah," Dean agreed. Later that night, he flicked on the light in the bathroom and stared at himself in the grimy mirror. He knew nothing good would come of it, but he couldn't bring himself to tell Sam about his memories of Hell. Even now, they haunted the back of his mind.
Shrill screams, echoing cries, and bright, pulsing light amidst the darkness.
He blinked a few times, waiting for his eyes to turn black.
It never happened.
"She's about four hours down the interstate," Bobby told them as they left the motel. His keys jingled as he approached his car. "Try to keep up."
"I assume you'll want to drive," Sam said. He found the Impala's keys and tossed them to Dean, who laughed as he caught them.
"I almost forgot." Dean circled around the back of the car, grinning. "Hey sweetheart, did you miss me?" He opened the door and jumped inside, staring in wonder at the wheel and stereo. His eyes found a little white device hooked up to the car, and he frowned.
"What the hell is that?" Dean questioned, glaring at Sam.
"That's an iPod jack," Sam replied.
"You're supposed to take care of her, not douche her up," Dean told him.
Sam scoffed. "Dean, I thought it was my car."
Dean gave him a look, then jammed the keys in and started the car. The radio kicked up and began blaring music. "You're the only one for me~"
"Really?" Dean muttered, eyes narrowed.
Shrugging, Sam tilted his head and gazed at him innocently. Dean turned the music off as he flung the iPod into the backseat.
"There's still one thing that's bothering me," Dean said as they drove.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, the night that I bit it - or got bit." He chuckled. "How'd you make it out? I thought Lilith was gonna kill you."
"Well, she tried," Sam admitted. "She couldn't."
"What do you mean 'she couldn't'?"
"She fired this like, burning light at me, and... it didn't leave a scratch, like I was immune or something."
"Immune?"
"Yeah," Sam said with a faint laugh. "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 or in Hell," Sam replied shortly.
"So you been using your, uh, freaky E.S.P. stuff?" Dean asked.
"No."
"Sure about that? Ah, well, I mean, now that you got immunity- whatever the hell that is- just wondering what other kind of weirdo crap you got going on."
"Nothing, Dean," Sam denied. "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."
Dean watched him for a few more moments, then looked back out at the street ahead. "Yeah, well, let's keep it that way."
Knock knock knock.
The front door of a neat white house swung open to reveal a bright-eyed young woman. She wore a tanktop and a blue necklace, her curly black hair tumbling over her shoulders. She laughed merrily when he saw Bobby.
"Bobby!" She hugged him.
"You're a sight for sore eyes," Bobby said, smiling.
She leaned back and crossed her arms, giving the brothers a once over. "So, are these the boys?"
"Sam, Dean," Bobby introduced. "Pamela Barnes. Best damn psychic in the state."
Pamela smirked at the praise. Her glittery green eyes scanned the length of Dean's body before resting on his face. The brothers greeted her.
"Mm, mm, mm," Pamela hummed, glancing over at Bobby. He gave her a look, and she chuckled. "Dean Winchester. Out of the fire and back in the frying pan, huh? Makes you a rare individual."
"If you say so," Dean replied.
Her eyebrows flicked up for a moment. She stepped back to allow the group inside the house. "Come on in."
"So, you hear anything?" Bobby asked.
"Well, I ouija-ed my way through a dozen spirits," Pamela said, closing the door. "No one seems to know who broke your boy out or why."
"What's next?"
"A SéAnce, I think. See if we can see who did the deed."
"You're not gonna summon the damn thing here?" Bobby asked, looking apprehensive.
"No," Pamela assured them, moving past Bobby. "I just wanna get a sneak peek at it, like a crystal ball without the crystal."
"I'm game," Dean said, following after Pamela.
In the main room, Pamela whipped a black cloth over a table. It had a strange design drawn on it, similar to a Devil's Trap, but not quite. She bent down to grab something from a lower shelf, and Dean spotted a tattoo inked into her lower back.
~ Jesse Forever ~
"Who's Jesse?" Dean asked.
From the floor, Pamela laughed. It was a sharp, ringing sound, but still managed to be gentle. "Well, it wasn't forever."
"His loss," Dean said.
As Pamela straightened, clutching a bundle of candles, she grinned at him and stepped closer. "Might be your gain." She smirked at him and moved on.
Dean wheeled around, as did Sam, and exhaled. "Dude, I'm so in."
"Yeah, she's gonna eat you alive," Sam told him.
"Hey, I just came out of jail. Bring it."
"You're invited too, grumpy," Pamela said, walking past Sam, who's eyes went comically wide.
"You are not invited," Dean said, poking a finger at his brother as soon as she was gone.
When the SéAnce was ready, Pamela dimmed the lights, and everyone took a seat around the table. Five candles clustered in the center.
"Take each other's hands," Pamela instructed. As everyone did so, she reached under the table and added, "I need to touch something our mystery monster touched."
Dean jumped. "Whoa! Well, he didn't touch me there." He glanced over at Sam, expression helpless.
Pamela chuckled. "My mistake."
Clearing his throat, Dean shrugged off his jacket and pulled up his sleeve, revealing the red handprint. It had faded somewhat, but the raised and blistered lines were still distinct. Sam stared at it.
Pamela extended her free hand and laid it over the burn. "Okay." She closed her eyes. "I invoke, conjure, command you - appear unto me before this circle. I invoke, conjure, command you - appear unto me before this circle." Dean cracked one eye open and watched her skeptically. She repeated the phrase again, and behind her, a TV flickered to life, showing a static screen. A high pitched ringing began to fill the room. She cut off abruptly, eyebrows pinched together. "Castiel?"
Dean looked up. The name was familiar.
"No. Sorry, Castiel, I don't scare easy."
"Castiel?" Dean asked, eyes wide.
"Its name," Pamela explained. "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."
The candles began to rattle on the table as an eerie wind swept through the room, somehow not extinguishing the flames. The ringing intensified, and Dean winced. Pamela continued to chant, ignoring outside interferences.
"Maybe we should stop," Bobby interrupted, staring nervously at the numerous trembling items filling the room.
"I almost got it!" Pamela refuted swiftly. She picked up her mantra once more, volume and tension rising together. "Show me your face now!"
The candles exploded into tall plumes of white-hot fire, arcing upwards as if someone had doused them in gasoline. Pamela screamed as her eyes lit up with the same flames, scorching her sockets as rivulets of blood poured down her cheeks. The fire went out, and she collapsed to the ground. The candles reduced to their original size.
"Call 911!" Bobby cried. Sam lunged out of his seat to follow his instructions, while Dean darted to Pamela's side.
"Yes, we have an emergency," Sam told the operator quickly.
Bobby lifted Pamela's head. Her eyes were ruined, nothing but burned and bloody flesh. She gasped in pain and released an agonized moan.
"I can't see," she sobbed brokenly. "I can't see! Oh, god. God, no..."
~ Johnny Mac's Diner ~
"Be up in a jiff," a waitress told Dean, jotting down his order. As she walked away, Sam slid into the seat across from his brother.
"What'd Bobby say?" Dean asked.
"Pam's stable and out of ICU," Sam replied, sighing.
"And blind, cause of us," Dean added, a scowl on his face.
"And we still have no clue what we're dealing with."
"That's not entirely true," Dean refuted.
"No?" Sam tilted his head.
"We got a name," Dean explained. "Castiel, or whatever. With the right mumbo jumbo, we could summon him, bring him right to us."
"You're crazy," Sam told him. "Absolutely not."
"We'll work him out," Dean continued, "I mean, after what he did?"
"Pam took a peek at him and her eyes burned out of her skull, and you wanna have a face-to-face?"
"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." Sam leaned back in his chair. "Someone's got to know something about something."
The waitress stopped by their table and set two plates down in front of them. Sam thanked her. Then she pulled out a chair and sat down with them.
"You angling for a tip?" Dean asked her.
"I'm sorry, I thought you were looking for us." Her eyes flickered to black. The Winchesters blanched.
All around the diner, demons began to rise from their seats. One walked over to the door and locked it.
"Dean…" the waitress said, her eyes now back to their normal color. "... to Hell and back. Aren't you a lucky duck?"
"That's me," said Dean.
"So you get to just stroll out of the Pit, huh?" Her expression turned malicious as she glared at him. "Tell me, what makes you so special?"
"I like to think it's because of my perky nipples," Dean replied, the corner of his lip quirking up. When the waitress just stared at him, he said seriously, "I don't know. It wasn't my doing. I don't know who pulled me out."
"Right," the waitress muttered. "You don't."
"No, I don't," Dean agreed.
"Lying's a sin, you know."
Dean's eyebrows pinched together. "I'm not lying." Her piercing gaze turned to Sam, who narrowed his eyes at her. "But I'd like to find out. So if you wouldn't mind enlightening me, Flo."
"Mind your tone with me, boy," the waitress reprimanded. "I'll drag you back to Hell myself."
Sam's chair scraped against the ground as he started to stand up. Dean gave him a look, and he settled back in his seat, scowling. The waitress blinked a few times at him.
"No, you won't," Dean said.
"No?"
"No. Cause if you were, you'd have done it already." Dean's words sped up as he figured everything out. "The 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 turbocharged spirit, hm? Or uh, Godzilla." He smirked. "Or, some big bad boss demon. But I'm guessing at your pay grade they don't tell you squat. Cause 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 gonna reach down your throat and rip out your lungs," she snarled harshly.
Dean leaned close, a smile tugging at his lips, and punched her across the face. As soon as she glanced back, he punched her again. She only straightened, her stare like daggers as she glared at him, but she didn't take any action.
"That's what I thought," Dean said. He never took his eyes off the demon. "Let's go, Sam." The two stood, and before he walked off, Dean dropped a ten dollar bill on the table. "For the pie," he told her. As soon as they exited the diner, the door clanging shut behind them, Dean's shoulders slumped and he exhaled in relief. "Holy crap, that was close."
"We're not just gonna leave them in there, are we?" Sam asked.
"Well, yeah," Dean replied. "There's three of them, probably more. We only got one knife between us."
"I've been killing a lot more demons than that recently," Sam said.
"Not anymore. The smarter brother's back in town.
"Dean, we gotta take them. They're dangerous," Sam argued, scowling from the slight at his ability.
"They're scared, okay?" Dean said. "Scared of whatever had the juice to yank me out. We're dealing with a bad mofo here. One job at a time."
At 12:30 that night, as Dean slept on the motel couch, his mouth agape and pendant resting on his chest, Sam eased the door open and slipped out into the hallway. He jammed the keys into the Impala and drove off.
Meanwhile, a low ringing began to fill the motel room. The TV flickered on, casting shadows over the furniture, and the radio tuned of its own accord. Dean blinked blearily and rubbed his eyes. Noticing the haywire electronics, he was awake and alert in a second. He turned over and grabbed his shotgun, jumping to his feet. The bed beside his was empty, the blankets strewn about messily, and Sam was missing.
Dean aimed his gun at the door. He didn't know what he expected to see, but he was prepared.
Abruptly, the ringing heightened to a piercing whine, causing Dean to drop his weapon and clap his hands over his ears. Behind him, the mirror cracked. He fell to his knees, groaning, as the windows started to shatter around him, blown inwards by an invisible force. Glass showered the room. The curtains went flying. He managed to lunge to the side, right before the chandelier collapsed, breaking into millions of shards. Dean cried out in pain. The ringing persisted. The door crashed open, and Bobby went tumbling inside, landing on a pile of glass.
"Dean!" Bobby shouted.
The sound cut off.
Blood trickled from Dean's ears.
"How you doing, kid?" Bobby asked. They now drove in his car, once they found the Impala gone.
"Aside from the church bells ringing in my head…" Dean grimaced. "Peachy." He flipped open his phone and called Sam.
"Hey."
"What are you doing?" Dean demanded.
"Couldn't sleep. Went to get a burger."
"In my car?"
"Force of habit, sorry. What are you doing up?"
"Well, uh, Bobby's back. We're going to grab a beer." Bobby glanced over at him, and Dean raised a finger to his lips.
"Alright. Uh, spill some for me, huh?" Sam looked out at Johnny Mac's Diner, and hung up.
"Done. Yeah, I'll catch you later."
"Why the hell didn't you tell him?" Bobby asked, frowning.
"Cause he'd just try to stop us," Dean replied.
"From what?"
"Summoning this thing. It's time we face it, head on."
"You can't be serious."
"As a heart attack." Dean tipped his chin at Bobby, smirking. "It's high noon, baby."
"We don't know what it is!" Bobby refuted. "I-It could be a demon, it could be anything."
"That's why we gotta be ready for anything." He reached into his pocket and unsheathed the demon knife they'd received from Ruby. "We got the big-time magic knife. You got an arsenal in the trunk." He wiggled his eyebrows at his surrogate father.
"This is a bad idea."
"I couldn't agree more, but what other choice do we have?"
"We could choose life," Bobby suggested.
"Bobby, whatever it is, whatever it wants, it's after me - that much we know, right? Well, I got no place to hide. I can either get caught with my pants down again, or we can make our stand."
"Dean, we could use Sam for this," Bobby said. His voice became softer as his argument became weaker.
"Nah, he's better off where he is."
Sam picked the lock to the diner. He slipped inside silently, frowning as he heard faint music echoing from the jukebox. They shut that off after hours, right? The diner was quiet and dark, the only light being from outside and the single, glowing jukebox. On the ground, halfway behind the counter, lay a body.
Steeling himself, Sam inched forward. Blood dripped from the body's fingers. He lowered himself into a kneeling position, then turned the body over.
The man's eyes were burned out of his head. His sockets were only bloody, scorched craters now. Just like Pamela. Sam grimaced and straightened.
A weight slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. They crashed into several chairs and hit the floor, and the figure punched him across the face. As Sam grabbed their shoulders and threw them off to the side, they grunted in pain. Their voice was feminine.
She leaped at him once more, and he barely dodged her desperate blow. She seemed more panicked than hateful as she fought. She blocked his punch and stumbled back, raising her fists in preparation, and Sam finally got a good look at her.
She was the waitress from before, the one that threatened Dean. Her hair was a disheveled mess, and her eyes...
Her eyes were a ruined mess of cooked flesh and blood. She panted heavily as she faced his direction, probably based on sound alone.
"Your eyes," Sam gasped.
"I could still smell your soul a mile away!" she cried. Her voice trembled with pain and terror.
"Who was here?" Sam demanded. "You saw it."
"I saw it," she whispered, nodding.
"What was it?"
She let out a broken sob. "It's the end. We're dead. We're all dead."
"What did you see?" Sam repeated.
Despite being blind and in agony, her tone held the sharp bite of defiance. "Go to Hell."
Sam lowered his fists and straightened. A cruel smirk crossed his face. "Funny… I was gonna say the same thing to you." He held out one hand, palm angled in her direction, and closed his eyes.
She coughed, gasping for air. Black smoke- bits of her soul -tumbled from her mouth, spilling over her shaking hand and pooling on the ground. She gagged and choked, clutching at her throat while more smoke began to pour out of her, churning in a shuddering black mass around her feet as she fell to her knees. The now-empty vessel collapsed.
Sam opened his eyes. He slowly lowered his hand, and the smoke sank into the floor, leaving a smoldering imprint on the ground as the demon returned to the Pit. He exhaled deeply.
A chair squeaked when Sam pushed it to the side. He knelt beside the woman and checked her pulse. Nothing.
"Dammit," he muttered.
The back door swung open, drawing his attention. A brunette stepped inside, wearing a black leather jacket and smirking. Her voice was smooth and appraising. "Getting pretty slick there, Sam. Better all the time."
Sam smiled at her as he stood up. The expression faded when he remembered the blind demons. "What the Hell's going on around here, Ruby?"
"I wish I knew," she told him. The moonlight cast a shadow over her eyes.
"We were thinking some high-level demon pulled Dean out," he guessed.
"No way. Sam, human souls don't just walk out of Hell and back into their bodies easy." She shook her head, a look of fear crossing her face. "This guy bleeds, the ground quakes - it's cosmic. No demon can swing that. Not Lilith, not anybody."
"Then what can?" Sam asked, although dreading the answer.
"Nothing I've ever seen before."
The spray paint can hissed as Bobby finished marking a symbol on the floor. He rose and walked over to Dean, whose eyebrows were raised at Bobby's work.
The barn walls, floor, and ceiling were covered in every occult symbol imaginable. All warding they could think of, centered around demons, to spirits, to other. A table in the back hosted an array of weapons to use, ranging from rock salt bullets all the way to the demon knife. Dean stood over the weapons, pushing a drawer closed.
"That's a hell of an art project you got going there," Dean remarked.
"Traps and talismans from every faith on the globe," Bobby replied, looking satisfied. "How you doing?"
Dean counted off the various dangerous items. "Stakes, iron, silver, salt, a knife - I mean, we're pretty much set to catch and kill anything I've ever heard of."
"This is still a bad idea," Bobby reiterated.
"Yeah, Bobby, I heard you the first ten times." Dean looked up. "What do you say we ring the dinner bell?"
Bobby sighed. He walked over to the other table with the summoning kit on top, and picked up a bowl. He sprinkled some of the stuff inside a larger container, then began to chant.
"Amate spiritus obscure-"
"So, million-dollar question," Ruby said, now seated across from Sam in the quiet diner. "You gonna tell Dean about what we're doing?"
Sam paused before answering. "Yeah, I just gotta figure out the right way to say it."
Ruby stared at him, unimpressed.
"Look, I just need time, okay? That's all."
"Sam, he's gonna find out, and if it's not from you, he's gonna be pissed."
"Oh, he's gonna pissed anyway," Sam breathed, looking stressed out. "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," Ruby suggested.
"Ruby-"
"I mean, I'm not exactly in your brother's fan club, but he is your brother, and I'm not going to come between you."
"Ruby, listen," Sam said. "I don't know if what I'm doing is right. Hell, I don't even know if I trust you."
"Thanks," Ruby muttered.
"What I do know is I'm saving people and stopping demons." He took in a deep breath. "And that feels good. I want to keep going."
Dean whistled softly, legs dangling above the ground from his sitting position on the table. He spun the knife on its tip, watching little grooves pop up on the wood. He sighed.
"You sure you did the ritual right?" he questioned Bobby.
Bobby glared at him.
"Sorry. Touchy touchy, huh?"
Outside, the wind rose to a howl, and the shutters above the barn began to bang together noisily, filling the room with their clatter. Dean and Bobby leapt to their feet, looking up at the ceiling.
"Wishful thinking, but maybe it's just the wind," Dean said.
The lights above them shattered. The pair ducked to avoid the shower of glass as the other bulbs broke in the same manner, coating the floor and adding to the cacophony. As they continued to shatter, the barn doors swung open with a great creaking sound. Emerging from the ruckus and light stepped a man.
Dean and Bobby aimed their guns and fired at him, shot after shot, but he walked calmly on, showing no outward reactions or if he even noticed the rock salt bullets. He moved past the many traps drawn on the floor, and every sigil was ineffective.
He wore a tan trench coat over a black business suit and a blue tie. His hair was an unruly dark mess atop his head, and his expression was blank and stoic. Sparks fell over him, and he didn't even flinch. Dean and Bobby shot him over and over, watching the bullets shred through his clothes but do no harm. They exchanged a wary look. Dean grabbed the demon knife and held it behind his back.
"Who are you?" Dean demanded as the man stopped before him.
The man gazed at him in a strange way that made him feel as though he was an ant under a little kid's magnifying glass. "I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition." His voice was low and gravelly, and Dean felt a twinge of recognition.
"Yeah. Thanks for that." Dean stabbed him in the chest.
The man only stared at him, something like amusement crossing his face, before he grasped the hilt and pulled the bloodied knife from his chest. It clattered to the ground.
From the other side, Bobby swung a crowbar. Without looking, the man caught it midair, with one hand, and touched Bobby's forehead with two fingers. His eyes fluttered shut and he collapsed. Dean stared at them in shock and fear.
The man turned around to face him once more. His expression shifted to a mix between urgency and exasperation. "We need to talk, Dean. Alone."
Dean moved to Bobby's side and checked his pulse worriedly. He glared up at the man, who was now inspecting a book of summoning rituals.
"Your friend is alive," the man assured him.
"Who are you?"
"Castiel."
"Yeah, I figured that much. I mean what are you?"
Castiel looked up at him, and for the first time, Dean noticed his eyes. Deep, midnight pools of the darkest blue he had ever seen. So deep, in fact, that he wondered if the very ocean itself had been modeled from them. They were neither warm nor cold, but carefully observing and familiar. His gaze was a comforting weight, but Dean would never admit that to anyone.
"I'm an angel of the Lord."
Dean rose to his feet. "Get the hell out of here. There's no such thing."
"This is your problem, Dean," Castiel told him, stepping closer. "You have no faith."
Thunder crashed outside. Brilliant flashing light filled the room, illuminating the massive shadow of wings against the wall. The wings slowly unfurled from Castiel's back, stretching out until they had reached their entire wingspan. As soon as they were completely extended, the light went out, and the wings vanished.
Dean stared at Castiel. He didn't want to believe it was true, because then that raised several uncomfortable questions he refused to think about, despite all the evidence Castiel had shown.
When he found his voice, his response was bitter. "Some angel you are. You burned out that poor woman's eyes."
Castiel bowed his head in acknowledgement. There was real regret in his expression. "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?" Dean asked. "That was you talking?"
Castiel nodded.
"Buddy, next time, lower the volume."
"That was my mistake," Castiel admitted. "Certain people- special people -can perceive my true visage. I thought you would be one of them. I was wrong."
"And what visage are you in now, huh?" Dean questioned. "Holy tax accountant?"
"This? This is a vessel." Castiel gestured at himself.
"You're possessing some poor bastard?"
"He's a devout man," Castiel replied evenly. "He actually prayed for this."
"Look, pal, I'm not buying what you're selling," Dean told him. "So who are you, really?"
Castiel frowned, tilting his head like a cat. "I told you."
"Right," Dean muttered, unconvinced. "And why would an angel rescue me from Hell?"
"Good things do happen, Dean." Castiel moved closer, until they were mere inches apart.
"Not in my experience."
Castiel's confused eyes met his shamelessly. "What's the matter?" He scanned Dean's face, and a hint of sympathy entered his expression. "You don't think you deserve to be saved."
Dean fought to keep his emotions under control. "Why'd you do it?"
A mask slotted over his face, his moment of vulnerability gone. In an instant, Castiel became a stiff-backed soldier, his voice turning serious and authoritative. "Because God commanded it."
He stepped back, leaving Dean with his personal space once more.
"Because we have work for you."