Sam would've given anything to go nearer to that room and see what was happening inside. More than that, he wanted nothing more than to rush in, get his brother and get him the hell out of there. But he and Dean weren't the only ones at risk now – now there was Brenda to consider; he couldn't be that reckless with her body.
"I didn't signed up for this," the man who had rushed out of the room kept whispering as he passed Sam in a hurry without even seeing him. "I didn't fucking sign up for this shit."
A second man, the one who had left the room in pursuit of the muttering doctor, was not one of the guards. Beside the fact that he was lacking the black clothes that all security guards in there seemed to favor, the man was far too short and skinny to be a paid muscle. In fact, as Sam watched him pick up something from a table, Sam thought that he looked like he owned the place.
Those, however, were details that registered only in the background of Sam's mind as he noticed the most important fact: he had left the door ajar behind him.
Sam moved slightly to the left, trying to find a better angle to see inside the room. All he could glimpse were a pair of legs, clad in white pajamas, lying on top of a metal platform of some sort. Blue wires, softly glowing, ran from the floor to the platform, disappearing under the sheet.
There was no way for Sam to recognize his brother from just a pair of legs. And yet, Sam knewthat it was Dean. He could almost imagine the rest of his brother's body, lying on that cold table, surrounded by strangers.
What were they doing to Dean?
The dry thud that sounded from too close was not the answer that Sam was hoping for. Turning his attention back to the two men, Sam was not prepared for the sight of the muttering doctor being struck from behind and falling just a few feet from where he hid. Dead.
Breath seized inside Sam's –Brenda's- chest. The man was dead, just like that, as if his life was of no consequence whatsoever.
And his killer was staring right at Sam.
"What are you doing here?"
Sam startled, realizing that the angry question had been directed at him. He looked up shyly, meeting the eyes of the man standing in front of him.
From Bobby's description and the pictures he'd seen in his research, Sam was sure that he was staring at boss himself. Marcus.
He didn't look pleased.
"I—"
Sam froze. He was out of his element, literally out of his body and he knew that petite Brenda would be no match for Marcus. Sam could remember all too well how it had felt trying to fight those tight ropes while he'd been in Gary's body and realizing that his muscles and strength were sorely missed.
In a way, Brenda was even more fragile and weak than Gary had been.
The knowledge that he was helpless and that he was putting Brenda's body at risk made Sam's brain short circuit in a manner that hadn't happen in years.
Suddenly, he was all of ten years old again, on his first hunt with dad and Dean, watching a werewolf running towards him.
It wasn't paws and claws that hit Sam this time though. It was a fist.
Dean hit him harder than that when they sparred, and yet Sam found his borrowed body fly through the air as if gravity had taken a leave of absence all of a sudden.
Sam had time only for three lightning quick thoughts: that his head was heading straight to the corner of the railing by the stairs; that Brenda would forever be stuck inside a man's body and that Sam would never see Dean again.
The short woman left her hiding place and looked up. She was wearing the uniform of his house staff, but Marcus' house staff all knew better than to come to that floor. It was strictly forbidden.
She had seen everything. It was impossible not to, not when Marcus had just murdered a man in cold blood less than five feet from where she'd been hiding.
"I—" the woman stuttered. Marcus was not in the mood for more stuttering, incompetent people. His house, it seemed, was filled with them.
A red haze settled over Marcus' vision as he punched the woman and sent her flying backwards. It hadn't been his intention to hit her that hard, but as he saw her head connect with the edge of the staircase and heard the sickening sound of her neck cracking, Marcus realized that it was for the best.
She had seen him kill another man. He couldn't let her go after that.
Turning around, Marcus found himself face to face with three of his security men. They stood around, stunned looks on their faces, sharing questioning gazes as they stared at the two bodies on the floor.
Curious and stunned though they were, Marcus knew he would get no trouble. He'd gone through great pains to hire men who'd do as they were told and not ask any questions. Desperate men who needed money; most with police records and a lot to lose if word got out about what was going on inside that house.
"Clean up this mess," Marcus ordered, going back to the room where he had left Dean. "I expect that at least one of you knows of a decent way to get rid of a body."
Lisa was in a hospital bed, her once vibrant face now pale and washed out. Her mouth, used to laugh long and often, was now lax, a plastic tube disappearing between her nearly colorless lips.
Ben was sitting beside her, face washed in tears, looking at him accusingly.
"You killed her," Ben said, his voice echoing in the small room and rolling inside Dean's head like steel marbles.
"You killed me," Lisa joined her son's accusing tone.
Startled, Dean forced himself to look at Lisa. There was blood, oozing through the corners of her lips and her eyes were no longer shut. She was looking straight at him with the black-oil gaze of a demon.
Dean gasped awake.
Blinking the wetness off his eyes, Dean couldn't be sure how much of it was tears and how much of it was sweat. He was drenched.
Pulling himself up, Dean walked to the bathroom at the end of corridor. The floor was cold, spreading goosebumps all over his skin. His feet bumped into a steel wheel and Dean scowled down. What was Bobby's wheel chair doing on the second floor?
Looking closely, however, Dean could see the differences now. The lower hand grip; the quality of the leather... it wasn't Bobby's chair. It was his.
Dean gasped awake, heart pumping against his ribs. He had no idea if he was awake or still asleep. He had no idea where he was.
The last thing Dean remembered was walking through Bobby's yard and being attack. Sam—something wearing Sam's face had attacked him.
Dean felt his face, searching for broken bones. He had felt his face colliding with the ground, felt the pain of the impact. Had he been dreaming that as well?
Feeling only smooth skin under his fingers, Dean moved his exploration from his cheek to his leg. He pinched his right leg, then his left, needing to be sure. The sensation of standing up and walking to the bathroom had been so intense and detailed that, for a moment, Dean had believed it to be real.
There was only lifeless rubber under Dean's fingers. No matter how hard he pinched, he couldn't feel a thing.
"You okay?" Ben's voice sounded from the dark.
They were sharing a room, Dean remembered. Because Bobby's house was full of students, crashing over.
"I'm okay," Dean lied. "Go back to sleep."
Sam woke with a gasp, jumping from the bed like a loose spring. He looked around, dazzled, confused about where he was. Tears sprung from Sam's eyes even before he realized why he was crying.
And then he remembered. The strange feeling of his skull cracking, of a bright white light and floating in nothingness.
Sam's hand lifted, touching the left side of his head. There was no pain, no wetness, not even stitches. "I killed her," Sam whispered to the empty room, biting the sob that threatened to escape. "Oh, God... I killed her!"
Sam was losing his stomach lining over the toilet in the bathroom where he heard Bobby arriving.
"You missing the damn check in," Bobby's gruff voice announced, even before the man himself came into view. One look at Sam, on his knees by the dirty toilet, pale faced and with red-rimmed eyes and the older hunter knew that something had gone terribly wrong. "Take it easy," he said, turning the cold faucet open and soaking a towel. "What's wrong?"
Sam accepted it with an exhausted sigh. "Brenda's dead," he whispered, voice shot to hell from all the bile that had been coming up. "I killed her."
"What! What the hell happened, Sam?" Bobby asked, knowing from Sam reaction that things were far from being that linear.
Sam met his eyes. How to explain to another person that he had felt his body die just seconds before? "Brenda... the woman we kidnapped," Sam explained, the sound of her name making his chest hurt. "She's dead."
Bobby cursed, leaning back on the chair he'd pulled next to the motel bed. "I got that part, son. Now... tell me exactly how that happened."
Sam rubbed his face, forcing himself to snap out of it, to fight the numbness that was threatening to set in. It didn't help his guilt and shame that he was happy that his soul had snapped back to his body instead of dying with Brenda like Sam figured it would; that Sam could still help Dean despite the life he had taken.
He told Bobby everything.
"Son of bitch!" Bobby let out, red anger coloring his cheeks.
"We used her for our purposes, Bobby," Sam said quietly. "We're responsible for her death just as much as Marcus is."
Bobby sighed. Rubbed his head. He knew Sam was right even if there was nothing that they could do about it.
"You sure that was Dean in that room?" Bobby asked, moving onto the things they could actually do something about.
Sam nodded. Even without seeing his brother's face, there was no mistaking that scream or the feeling of anger that had filled Sam when he saw the treatment that Dean was suffering at the hands of those people. "It looked like a hospital room... there was a doctor there," he said, reminding himself of the man in the white coat that had died in front of him. "Bobby... I don't know what they were doing to Dean, but we need to get him out of there. Now!"
Bobby twisted his nose. Sam knew it wasn't because he disagreed with Sam's words.
"How many guards did you say you saw in there?"
Sam paused, thinking back. "Twenty inside the house," he answered without hesitation. "Probably more in the surrounding grounds."
Bobby nodded. It was a number that neither of them liked. "Armed?"
It was Sam's turn to nod. "Smith and Wesson semi-automatic 9mm on a couple of them," he said from memory. "Taser guns on almost all of them."
"Jesus Christ!" Bobby let out in frustration. "That's one hell of a private army the man has guarding the place. What's he up to? Take over the world? And how do you suppose we get past thatto get Dean out?"
Sam's eyes hardened. "We've faced more angels and demons than that before."
"We can't just kill them all, Sam," Bobby said, as if Sam needed to be reminded of that fact. Given the way Sam had behaved when he was soulless, Sam couldn't blame the older man for having his doubts.
"You're right," Sam reassured the older man. "If we're going to do this, we'll need help. We need a way in."
The sound of the flushing toiled drowned the rest of their doubts.
"I'm gonna come right out and start by saying that the only thing we'll be teaching you in here is how to make do for yourselves," Dean started, rolling his chair to the front of the group of people gathered inside the shed. "We'll tell you what's real, what's bogus, where to find information and how it can be killed. After that, it's up to you."
The nineteen men and women in front of Dean nodded. The air inside the shed was heavy with purpose and Dean suddenly felt that this could turn a lot bigger than he had ever wanted it to be. People were starving for knowledge, and Dean had shown them the way to an all you can eat buffet.
And Ben... Ben was the most starved of all. It showed in his body language and how he stood so close to Dean as he spoke that he might as well be in his lap.
Sam used to do that. The more attention he paid to a subject matter, the closer he got to it, even without noticing. Like a moth, drawn to the flame.
The hunters' took turns teaching, each taking the subject they were best at.
David taught them the basics, the foundations of every hunter worth his or hers salt: how things manifested themselves, how they worked, how they thought (the ones that did, anyway). Demons, ghosts, poltergeists, shapeshifters, thought-forms, every freak on earth from A to Z.
Anne taught them about protective spells, charms and sigils. Enough Latin and other dead languages along with arts and crafts classes enough to make them all feel like they were at Hogwarts. It quickly became a running joke, amongst all but the hunters.
Daniel taught them how to kill. Those were always noisy classes.
Dean taught about what no one else knew. Angels. Specifically, who they were, their weaknesses, how to protect yourself from them, why there was a need to seek protection from them in the first place. And should the need arise, how to kill them.
"It will be harder to convince anyone to become a vessel voluntarily if you keep referring to me and my brothers as 'self-righteous dicks'," Jacob said, announcing his presence.
Startled, Dean dropped the beer his hands. It shattered against the floor in a splatter of glass and foam.
Swearing viciously, Dean spun from the open refrigerator to face the angel. Jacob was leaning casually against the doorframe, carefully eyeing the messy surroundings with a disapproving scowl on his face. "How the hell did you get in?"
There were protective sigils all over the property, enough Enochian to give Raphael himself pause should he decide to drop by and visit. No angel should be able to set foot inside the grounds of Bobby's old salvage yard.
The spilled beer smelled rancid in the air and Dean grabbed a mop to soak the yellow foam and shattered glass.
The smell twisted the world around him. Dean saw himself in a mirror, his reflection frowning at him from behind a counter, framed by bottles of cheap malts. The place was barely lit, red lights glinting off a row of hanging glasses right above him. There was a drink in Dean's hands, whiskey from the color of it, but all that Dean could taste in his mouth was ash.
He was trying to drown his feelings, he knew that much. Dean was just having trouble figuring out what he was drowning this time. He had spent his last years depending on alcohol to quieten the screaming voices inside his head. The whiskey was a wonderful gag.
He must've had a few already because it was working. All he could feel was one big emptiness inside of him, like someone had grabbed a spoon and gouged out his insides until there was nothing in there but void and pain.
When Dean got up to leave, there was someone waiting for him. He had seen the two tall men who had sat in a corner of the bar, watching him. Dean had paid them no attention at the time, not caring about what business was theirs.
Their business became his when men clubbed him in the head and drop him inside a moving car. They had stunk of stale beer.
"You missed a spot," Jacob said, referring to either the sigils or the beer. Dean didn't care much which. "I need to talk to you."
Dean blinked, shaking himself into the present before he turned and scowled at the angel, leaning back casually against his chair. "If this is about Ben again, you can kis—"
"Ben will make his own choice when the time comes," Jacob cut in dryly. "I am here to discuss another matter."
Dean took another beer from the fridge and after popping the cap, took a long drink, buying himself some time. He didn't trust this angel any more than he trusted any of those winged pricks he'd met before, but Jacob did seem sincere about his claim of wanting to stop Raphael from flushing the world down the toilet. "I'm listening," he said, motioning with his beer bottle.
"We think we have discovered a way to assure the defeat of Raphael and his followers," the angel said, a glint of excitement in his human eyes. "The Holy Nails."
Dean made no effort to hide the fact that the name told him squat. "You're going to give Raphael a manicure?" he asked, taking another sip.
The long suffering look of annoyance on Jacob's face reminded Dean of Castiel. It still hurt.
"I'm talking about the nails used to stake Jesus to his cross," Jacob clarified. "Whomever possesses the is capable of controlling whole armies and lead them into victory."
"Lemme guess... this is another one of those Heaven' super secret weapons that got stolen in the confusion when Michael left the building," Dean ventured.
The second the words left his mouth, Dean paused. He had no idea why he had said that, or how he had come to possess that knowledge. It was like knowing the lyrics to a song without remembering the tune; Dean knew that Heaven was in chaos and that... someone had taken advantage of that to steal Heaven's most powerful weapons. Dean even knew that those weapons implied some sort of power balance in between Raphael and Cas...
The electric jolt in his back spasmed through Dean's whole body, muscles seizing and tensing in frozen uselessness. The bottle in his hand was forgotten as Dean fingers bent at impossible angles, out of his control. Glass struck the ground, splashing beer all over the kitchen floor for the second time in less than five minutes.
Through the pain, Dean saw a man, leaning against the handrail of Bobby's stairs. Tall and lean, blond hair cut in a fashionable form and clothes a lot more casual than Castiel or any of his brothers had ever worn. A hedonist-looking angel, buying souls like a common demon. The figure by the stairs didn't open his smirking mouth, but Dean was sure that if he did, it was a British accent that would've come out.
"Hey... HEY!"
Dean blinked, staring dumbfound at the white foam mess in the floor at his feet.
"HEY! What in damnation is wrong with you? Quit zoning out when people are talking to you!"
It was Jacob's voice. He sounded annoyed; like it was Dean's fault that this kept happening.
"Only happens with the really boring ones," Dean blurted out, grounding himself back to the here and now, instead of the... whatever the hell that had been.
"Me telling you about the one thing that can make sure that Raphael goes away for good and the world doesn't end bloody is boring?" the angel said, actually sounding offended. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture so human that it surprised Dean. "Maybe coming here was just a giant waste of my time."
"You wouldn't have come if you really believed that," Dean pointed out. "You're here because you need something from me. What is it?"
From the way Jacob decided that the spilled beer was a lot more interesting to look at rather than meeting Dean's eyes, Dean knew he was right.
"I know where to find one of the Holy Nails," he started. "But I can't get to it. No angel can."
"Enochian sigils?" Dean guessed.
Jacob nodded. "I need someone trustworthy to go with me and get it."
Dean had never heard of any lore surrounding the Holy Nails, but he was aware of the importance given to any sort of religious relic. He had little reason to doubt that what Jacob was telling him was the truth. And if the angel could get his hands on something that would guarantee him victory in the coming battle, Ben's use as a vessel would become a moot point. "Okay, then... I'll help you," Dean voiced.
The angel frowned. "I'm sorry, you've misunderstood me," he said, looking slightly embarrassed. "It is Ben's help that I need, not yours. The place where the Nail is kept is not exactly..." he hesitated, searching for the right words. The way his gaze wandered towards Dean's wheelchair made it easy to guess what he was going to say next. "...handicap friendly."
"Ben's not going anywhere with out me," Dean let out slowly, leaving no room for discussion. "So, take it... or—"
"Or what?" Jacob asked, calling Dean's bluff.
Dean wanted to open his mouth and tell him to shove his high horse where the sun don't shine and ride it all the way to Hell, but the bastard was right. In the end, it was Ben's decision, not Dean's, and the only thing he could do was advising his son the best he could.
Still, the defiant tone on the angel irked the hunter in Dean; he was itching to send Jacob's feathery ass packing, just on principal alone, but this time the angel had truly caught him with his pants around his ankles. Dean had trusted the Enochian sigils too much to place any other measures around the house.
"Or your shiny vessel is getting a whole new collection of holy holes besides the one in his ass!"
The voice belonged to Daniel, but Anne and David were standing right beside him, shotguns held high and steady.
"You know buckshot, or rock salt, or whatever the crap you've put into those shells," Jacob pointed out, looking slightly offended, "it won't work... except if your goal is to piss me off and grow an appetite for tearing your head out."
"Holy Oil core," Anne informed him with a smile, cocking her gun and chambering one of the bullets. "Guaranteed to ignite on impact and burn like a motherfucker."
Jacob raised one eyebrow, looking at each of them in contempt. "Fine," he let out, hands thrown in the air. "You wanna come? Come! Be my guest... hell, come all of you!"
"Fine," Dean echoed, mimicking the angel's tone. "We will." There was strength in numbers and Dean more than welcomed the extra help in keeping Ben safe.
"God... I really miss the days when all we had to do was lit a bush on fire and you guys listened to what we said..." the angel grumbled before disappearing in a flutter of wings.
Before drinking the tea and connecting himself to the machine for one last time, Marcus made sure that everything was ready and set in place. They had been working relentlessly through the last week to get to this point; there would be no room for mistakes now.
Inside Dean's head, in the world that had been created specifically for him, everything was set in motion as well. The players were positioned; all they needed to do was play their parts.
Marcus opened his eyes and looked at his surroundings through the eyes of the persona he had picked for himself. He and Dean were sitting at the dinner table, eating waffles.
From the somber look in Dean's face and the flurry of movement throughout the whole house, Marcus knew that they were ready to join Jacob in his quest for the Nail. The excitement and sense of danger were physical things that could almost be touch, hanging heavily in the air as they were. Dean looked at him like he was about to take him by hand to the gallows.
In the beginning, while others had discussed endlessly about which acquaintance of Dean's would be best for Marcus to assume, in his mind there had never been any doubt.
Though the consensus had leaned towards figures that Dean would respect, like Bobby, or his father, or even Sam, Marcus had been adamant.
He would be someone who Dean would do anything for, someone Dean would protect with his own life.
He smiled reassuringly at Dean as a hand that wasn't really his reached out to grab a bottle and spilled honey colored syrup all over his waffles.
They arrived in between two tall bookshelves, in a corridor lined with shelf upon shelf. The space between them was so tiny that Dean's chair barely fit.
Dean looked up. The top of the bookshelves hit the low ceiling and each was filled top to bottom with books and large paper archives identified in a language that he couldn't understand. The lights, enclosed in the fake ceiling, were dim, barely allowing them to see their surroundings. Everything smelled of dust and old paper.
The weak light and the enclosed feeling of the place made Dean feel like he was inside a cave. The place, however, was clearly man-made. Even if it was cold as the deepest of caverns.
Ben and the others were walking around with their mouths hanging open, looking at the various tomes on display. "Where are we?" he asked Jacob.
"The Pope's private archives," Jacob informed, making his way to the end of the corridor. "The Vatican's Secret storage rooms, underneath Vatican Museum."
"The Vat—" Dean started, sharing a confused look with the others. "We're in Rome?" He looked around again. It looked like any storage place, if better organized than a few he'd seen before. "They have one of the Holy Nails here?"
Jacob nodded, leading the others towards a door at the very end of the line of selves. "The Vatican doesn't even know they have it," he went on. "It's hidden inside a statue. I'll only know which one is it when I'm near it."
"How?"
Jacob looked frustrated, apparently not used to having to explain every one of his actions. "It will be covered in Enochian sigils," he explained. "Which is why I need someone else to come with me to get it. Someone human."
Dean nodded, rolling his chair carefully. It was hard to pull the handrails without any elbowroom as it was in that corridor, but Dean wasn't about to call anyone for help in pushing him. they had more important tasks.
Ben was already through the door, out of sight and Dean's heart pumped harder. He had a bad feeling about this place.
"I'm afraid this is as far as you can go, Dean," Jacob said as Dean neared the door.
"T'hell are you talking about?" Dean asked, pushing forward and nearly running over the angel's toes as he passed the door. On the other side there was nothing but the beginning of a stainless steal stairway, spiraling downwards.
"The rest of the archives are in the lower levels... that stairway is the only access. Handicap unfriendly, remember?"
To say that Balthazar was annoyed that they had summoned him again so soon after last time was putting it lightly. Bobby was pretty sure that half the windows that had shattered into glass-dust when he had arrived had more to do with petty revenge rather than angelic presence.
"What part of not-a-man-service did you not get that first time around? Or the second?"
Bobby sat back and let Sam run the show. The kid was growing progressively more and more frustrated with each day they failed to get Dean back and the death of that poor woman had only worsen matters.
Rising to his full height, Sam towered over the angel for a second before opening his mouth. "Dean's still missing."
"I'm aware. I helped. I'm out of here," Balthazar announced, a bored expression on his face.
Sam grabbed the angel by his sleeve before he could flap his wings and fly away. "We need your help again."
"And why would I do that?" the angel asked with a rise of his eyebrow. "It's not like Dean's my favorite person in the whole wide world or I don't have anything better to do."
"Because I'm not above telling Cass that you've joined our side," Sam said, his face set in stone.
Balthazar eyed him in surprise, apparently not quite believing what he was hearing. Something in Sam's cold expression made him realize that yes, Sam was very serious about his threat. "What do you need now?"
"Something from your personal collection," Bobby said, finally joining the conversation and handing a photo to the angel.
"Fucking hell," Balthazar let out, sagging against the worn out couch. "You've got to be kidding me."
Marcus knew how Dean's mind worked. He had been the one inside it, not the others. He understood Dean's need to protect those he loved. And to get what Marcus needed of him, there was nothing like the love of a father towards his son.
He knew what his therapist would say, that Marcus was searching for the fatherly relationship that his own father never gave him; that he was trying to prove to himself that fathers can be without manipulative thoughts towards their sons and that love and violence can be two very different things.
His therapist was a fool.
Marcus chose Ben not because he enjoyed the feeling of being the center of Dean's world, but because when the time came, it would be for Ben and nobody else that Dean would do what was needed.
Summoning an angel.
They had tried it before. With every new angelic name that was found inside Dean's head, they had tried using a summoning spell.
None had answered. Some, Marcus learned after, hadn't answered because they were dead or trapped in Hell. Others, however, he had no idea why.
The fact was that his summonings were consistently ignored and Marcus couldn't have that.
The elaborate story that had been woven around Dean's relationship with Ben had served the sole purpose of getting him ready for that one instant, that one moment when Dean would call Castiel and the angel would answer.
Lisa's death had been the starting point and would be the final push that, according to the best minds behind the whole scheme, would force Dean into that action.
As far as the dream world went, the car crash where Lisa had lost her life had actually never happened. The memory of it, however, had been easy to plant in Dean's confused mind, weakening his defenses with the added sense of guilt of not having been able to save her. After a while, Dean himself had started to fill in the details.
The mind was funny like that. No room for holes or unexplained events in there.
Jacob had been Marcus' creation, a made up angel to lure Dean into the situation he was in now. A catalyst that would drag Dean away from the comfort zone he had devised for himself to cope with everything else. Kicking and screaming.
The man's ability to adapt was truly astonishing. They had to step up and react accordingly. Jacob had proven to be the perfect menace to arouse Dean's need to protect Ben.
After all, Dean's resistance to being taken by an angel was something that, oddly enough, Marcus could relate. Despite the fact that all of his efforts were being funneled towards that exact objective, the idea of being trapped inside your own body with no power over your actions terrified Marcus as much as it did Dean.
Dean exchanged a look with Ben. The conflict in the boy's face was easy to see; while he wanted desperately to join the others who'd already started down the stairs, he didn't want to do it against Dean's will.
"So," Dean glanced at the angel then back to the steep, descending steps in dubious frustration. "What are you waiting for? 'Beam' me down there, like you did in the other room."
"I can't," Jacob said.
"Can't?" Dean repeated slowly. "Or won't?"
"I can't... there is something in the whole bunker that is diminishing my powers," Jacob explained. "We'll return in minutes, you do not have to worry. This, however," he said, hands waving in between the three of them, "is precious time that we are wasting."
Dean moved forward, to the edge of the steps. "We are going nowhere," he said resolutely. "Ben is staying here with me. There's three hunters down there, all capable and reliable people. This ain't Excalibur stuck in a rock; any of them can do it for you."
Ben's stance crumpled, disappointment written all over his face. "Please," Dean added before Ben could open his mouth to protest. "Trust me on this. You need to stay with me."
Jacob looked between the two of them, waiting for Ben to challenge Dean's command. When the boy only nodded quietly and stayed put, the angel sighed. "You know..." Jacob said, his hand resting against the handrail, "Castiel always regretted not having been able to help you that last time you asked. I was with him that day, both of us, fighting for our lives... I saw how much it cost him not to answer your prayers."
Dean's heart skipped a bit. He looked at Ben, dreading what the kid's reaction might be.
It felt like just yesterday that Lisa had died, inches away from him, Dean's name on her lips as Dean himself cried for Castiel to help her. He had never told Ben about that. He hadn't wanted the boy to learn about it from Jacob's mouth either.
Father and son remained quietly watching one another.
"I'm sorry for what you lost," Jacob went on. "But that should not overshadow your confidence in our kind. Not everyone can touch that artifact without being burned... it needs to be Ben, or his father. Chose."
Dean had always worked under the assumption that Castiel hadn't answered him because he didn't want to. The idea that Cass might not have been able to, had never, to Dean's shame, crossed his mind.
Dean stared at the empty staircase. He could either let them lose that opportunity to finish what Castiel had started, or he could let himself trust another angel and allow Ben to go down with Jacob.
"Really, it's not like the evil archives are going to eat me," Ben said, breaking Dean's thoughts. He sounded like he'd been talking for a while. "I mean, what's the point of coming this far and stay out of it? I'm old enough, dad... let me do this."
"The 'point' is staying alive, Ben," Dean said, peering down. It was too dark; he couldn't even see beyond the first five steps. He finally acquiesced with a sigh. "Be careful," he said, knowing that Ben would understand the blessing behind the words.
The boy almost skipped down the stairs, eager to be involved, to do something. "Thanks dad," his voice echoed up the stairs, already lost in the darkness.
Sam pushed the cold cheeseburger into his mouth, barely tasting it before swallowing. It was more of a task than a meal, but Bobby was right. If they were doing this, they were doing it right. And that meant taking care of themselves too.
More than once since Dean had gone missing, Sam had wished that he was still that soulless version of himself that he had no memories of. He never voiced those wishes; Bobby already threw him enough odd looks without knowing about that. But the fact was, Sam knew that soulless-him wouldn't be this heartbroken about Dean being taken; soulless-him wouldn't have felt a damn thing, he was sure, and that would've made him all the more deadly and effective.
He wouldn't care, but he probably would've found Dean a lot sooner.
Caring and worrying, however, meant losing his temper over the phone when one more clue proved pointless; meant losing sleep because he couldn't rest until he was sure Dean was okay; meant losing his appetite because his throat was too tight with concern to allow any food to pass.
Up until the point when they had stumbled across Marcus' inquiries about the Winchesters, it could've meant losing Dean.
It stung to realize that the worst version of himself would be better at handling this than Sam was.
Left alone at the top, Dean got down to business as soon as he was alone. Unsheathing the knife he'd brought with him, Dean pressed the blade against his palm, drawing a thin red line across the skin before he started to draw the banishing sigil that would make sure that any unwanted angel-visits could be sent packing. Or, at the very least, Dean could send Jacob packing if he decided to get frisky with Ben when this was all over.
No matter what Ben wanted of him or what Jacob said, Dean could not bring himself to trust completely in another angel. Not after last time.
Stand behind me. The one time I ask.
The words echoed inside Dean's mind in Castiel's unmistakable voice. They had sounded so close and real that he turned his head around, looking for the angel.
There were dead demons lying all around him. On the floor, a devil's trap painted in red and in its center, a chair soaked in sweat and blood. Bobby's shed turned into a horror house for demons.
Castiel's eyes were on him, begging Dean to trust him. But Dean couldn't find it within himself to do that. Not when the angel had abandoned him when Lisa's life was ebbing away—
No, that was wrong. Lisa was still alive, just... taken. By Crowley.
No... she had died in a car crash. Because of him.
Dean grabbed his head. It felt like his brain was on fire, expanding and contracting inside his skull like a pulsing heart.
"Dean... Dean!"
Ben's voice was faint and muffled, like Dean was hearing him from under water. Or from the bottom of a set of stairs.
"DEAN! The lights!"
The escalating fear in the Ben's voice pulled Dean back to reality like a snapping rubber band.
Looking up, Dean saw immediately the reason for the boy's panic. The lights were flickering like they were on in the throws of a seizure. Starting from the far end of the archive, light bulbs exploded in a row, creating a continuous shower of glass and sparkles that ended with the whole place plunging into darkness.
Just as the emergency lights kicked in, turning the world red, the high-pitched sound became clear. It was loud and shrilling, threatening to shatter eardrums as easily as it had done to the light bulbs, growing in strength as it moved like a living thing. Dean knew what this was, he knew who was coming; he reached his hand to complete the sigil, but it was already too late.
"Dean Winchester," a deep, melodious voice spoke. "Our paths keep crossing... it is most annoying."
His ears still ringing from the ear-piercing assault, Dean looked up, finally seeing who had spoken. The tall, dark skinned man was imposing enough, but the being inside him was, Dean knew, far more dangerous. Raphael, the archangel.
The image of an equally imposing, dark skinned woman in a business suit and an expression on her face to match, flickered over Raphael's current vessel.
Dean shook his head, trying to dislodge the splitting image from his vision. "I was going to say the same thing," he said. Time, he needed to buy some time so that Ben and the others who'd gone below could escape. Keep the archangel busy so that they could find a way to get Ben to safety. "What are you doing here?"
"You know why I'm here, Dean," the archangel said with that infinite patient tone that he seemed to be fond of. "The same reason why Jacob is... the same reason you are."
A drop of sweat glided down Dean's neck. "Searching for the world's oldest porn magazine?" he offered with a smirk; from below he could hear nothing but silence.
"Stand aside, Dean Winchester," Raphael's voice boomed across the walls, as if plaster itself recoiled from the power hidden behind those words. "My business with you is for later. For now, I require only the Holy Nail."
"Can't let you do that," Dean heard himself saying. In truth, he had no way to stop the archangel from going over him and down those stairs. Didn't mean he wasn't going to try.
A quick in and out, Jacob had assured them; no one would be around to even notice them there, he had said. And Dean, foolishly, had taken with him no other weapon but his knife and a flimsy shotgun.
No holy oil; no banishing sigil, Dean recognized, looking at the bloody, half drawn symbol on the wall near him.
When Raphael waved his hand and an invisible force pushed Dean off his chair and flying towards the far wall, Dean knew he'd already lost.
"I found what you need," Bobby said over the phone. In front of him, Sam was nervously biting on his thumbnail. Bobby almost chuckled at the irony. "It wasn't easy, but I found you one of the Holy Nails."
On the other side of the line, Bobby could almost hear the smile spreading across Marcus' lips. Like the hissing of a rattlesnake.
"I had every confidence you would," the man said. "Congratulations, Mr. Singer. You've done an excellent job; one that will be generously rewarded."
Bobby exchanged a look with Sam. "About that... I have a special request to ask of you."
"Name it."
"When you test the Nail... I wanna be there."
"Why?"
"You're calling an angel to do it, aren't you? I wanna see that."
There was silence on the other side of the line and for a second, Bobby feared that they had played their hand too hard and lost the game even before it started.
"You now... didn't pegged you for the religious type."
"I ain't. I don't even believe any of'm will show up," Bobby answered defiantly. "But if an angel really does show up, I wanna lay my eyes on it. I mean, who would miss a chance like that?"
There it was. The right amount of faith and challenge. Vinegar and sugar to catch one particularly tricky fly.
The high-pitched laughter on the other side of the line made Bobby's stomach burn. "Somethin' funny?"
"The amount of bullshit you manage to spout in a single breath, Mr. Singer," Marcus said from the other side. "We both know you've seen more angels in the past years than you've seen the inside of a barbershop. So, why don't we cut the crap and you tell me your real price for the Nail?"
Bobby paused, sharing a concerned look with Sam that the younger man had no way of understanding.
"What's wrong?" Sam mouthed, trying to be as silent as he could.
"Alright then... no more bull," Bobby finally said. "I want in. Whatever it is you're planning to do with that angel and that Nail, I want in. I've been dicked around enough by those bastards to waste the opportunity to see them taste a bit of their own medicine. I think I more than deserve it."
The laughter on the other side of the line changed tone. No longer mocking, it was now a clearly satisfied sound.
"I like you better when you're honest, Mr. Singer. I expect you here, tomorrow, at three," Marcus said cheerfully, cutting the connection before Bobby could say anything.