Dislclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. It owns me.
A/N: Special thanks to Merisha for her awesome betaing, lilithakaducky, kaorukamiya307 (not kenkaoru307, as I have typed in previous A/Ns), deansbabygirl934, Mandy543, Nabichan Saotome, and Merisha for reviewing. Seriously, reviews are the fuel that keeps this narcissist writing!
And a thanks to everyone for reading this story. I know it doesn't get to the meat as quickly as some other stories do, but I'm trying to treat it like an independent novel or episode, in which the scene must be developed slowly. And for those Cas fans out there, don't worry. He WILL be making an appearance soon.
One more thing, I apologize for suddenly up and disappearing for a week. I probably should have mentioned before posting chapter 2 that I was going to be gone for a week on a sailing trip. But I am back and sunburned and ready to post!
Chapter 3:
Dean heaved a sigh of relief, glancing over to his baby brother's massive form dozing off in the passenger seat. It wasn't that he wasn't dog tired himself, but he just needed a chance to breathe. It was hard to do that when you couldn't decide whether you wanted to hit or hug the person sitting next to you.
Dean stifled a yawn, glaring at the road ahead. They'd been making good time, but it wasn't good enough. He needed to get to Bobby's, and he needed to get there now!
Maybe a little music would help. Double-checking to make certain that Sam was definitely out, Dean flipped the radio on low volume. The first song that greeted him was a whiny, moaning country ballad about some dude who loved some chick and was miserable about it. Ugh! And it was the only station that actually played any music whatsoever.
Dean flipped the radio off in disgust. He'd just have to suffer the silence. Focus on tearing up the road.
That plan lasted all of about ten seconds until his cell phone went off. Sam jolted out of his sleep as Dean fumbled for his jacket pocket.
"Dean?" he croaked. "What?"
"Just my cell phone, Sammy," Dean barked irritably. "Go back to sleep."
But, of course, the sasquatch refused to lay down. Dean rolled his eyes and answered the phone.
"Hello?"
"Dean Winchester?"
The voice was soft, strained with a haggardness he didn't remember, but the voice was familiar.
"Jimmy?"
Sam perked up, turning to listen intently.
"What happened?" Dean demanded. "Where are you? Where's Castiel?"
"I'm safe," Jimmy assured him. "I'm with a guy named Chuck. Castiel... I dunno, I think he got dragged back to heaven again."
Oh, God no... Tell me I didn't do this. Tell me I didn't screw him over royally just so I could get to Sam too late to make a difference.
"Dean!" Sam yelled, and Dean jerked, just in time to avoid driving straight off the road. Tires skidded as the mustang righted itself. On the other end of the phone, Jimmy frantically demanded to know what was going on.
"Shit!" Dean hissed.
"Jesus, Dean!" Sam exclaimed. "Gimme the phone, you should be focusing on driving.
"The hell is going on?" Jimmy cried on the other end.
Dean glanced at Sam and, reluctantly, handed the phone over. His heart throbbed painfully as the adrenaline from that little mishap already began to dissipate.
"Mm-hm," Sam hummed, his eyes narrowing as he stared out the window. "Yeah, that's probably a good idea. It'd probably be faster if you met up with us. Do you have any money? ... Good. Okay, we're going to Bobby Singer's place in South Dakota."
All at once, the radio flipped on, switching from station to staticky station. Piece of crap car. Dean reached over to flip it off, but at the same moment, the overhead light began to flicker.
"Jimmy? Jimmy!"
Sam stared at the phone, punching the buttons, but nothing happened. Swallowing, both Winchesters glanced up at each other. Shit.
The first demon strode out of the woods, right in front of the car. Dean didn't even slow down. The demon's black eyes widened as the mustang hit her full on, her host's body cracking the windshield with a heavy thump! They were long gone before the bitch even had the chance to peel herself off the asphalt.
Tires screeched as Dean wheeled around a turn. A crowd of demons, all possessing what looked to be a bunch of Average Joes and Mary Janes, blocked the way.
Just fine with me. Always wanted to go bowling for demons.
As Dean barreled forward, one of the demons pulled out a long, wicked-looking butcher's knife. That was just the problem with demons, though, wasn't it? They were only borrowing their bodies, so most had little to no reservations about suicidal actions. All they had to do was go off and find a new meat suit.
The demon ran ahead of the rest, throwing himself down on the ground, his knife glinting in the glare of the headlights. Dean guessed his intentions a second too late. There was a hiss of air, a pair of heavy thumps as the mustang took out the demon's body, and they were spinning out of control. Dean's stomach lurched as he gripped the wheel, frantically turning it, trying to get it under control.
Wham!
Glass exploded inward, seat belt biting into his shoulder as the car slammed into a heavy oak tree on the passenger side.
"Sam!" The word was hardly out of his mouth when Sam shifted, lifting his head from the the fetal position he had pulled himself into, glass trickling off his shoulders. He had a nasty cut above his eye, but the damage seemed minimal. Thank God.
Dean twisted in his seat, his hand going instantly for the demon-killing knife. The second his fingers wrapped around the hilt, he felt some of the old anger coming back, and suddenly he was ready to fight again, maybe take some evil sons of bitches back to hell with him. And hey, with Alastair gone and Lucifer out, maybe he wouldn't be strung up the way he had been before. Maybe once he was down there he could get to the other souls, the ones that weren't quite evil yet. Make some kind of a difference...
No, he was getting ahead of himself. First things first; kill some demons.
He pulled off his seat belt and lunged for the door, knife clenched in his white-knuckled fist when a figure appeared by Dean's window, his shoulders pulled back. One by one, the demons froze, each one resembling a deer caught in a pair of big-ass headlights.
"We advise you keep your brother in the car, Dean," the angel said coldly. Dean gulped and glanced back at Sam, who had gone whiter than the vast majority of ghosts they came across. Zachariah turned his head, watching the brothers out of the corner of his eye.
"I-I'm," Sam stammered, but Zachariah silenced him with that cheeky, 'Oh-look-at-the-cute-human' smile of his that just made Dean want to take the knife and...
"Oh, don't worry, Sam. You played your part admirably. It's your brother we've got a bit of a problem with right now."
Dean didn't miss the flick of Zachariah's eyes, or the brief smoldering of fury within them before he turned back to the demons. Several turned and fled into the woods on the other side of the road. Dean stiffened and jerked at the door, but he couldn't budge it. Scowling, he glanced down to see that the angel was holding it shut with inhuman ease.
"Let me out, Zac," Dean growled. "They're getting away."
"No."
"What do you want?" he demanded, trying again with the door. All he really succeeded in doing was straining his shoulder.
"Dean, even though you've gone and pissed us off, you're still our boy. Not a golden boy, mind you, but you have a job to do and I'd really prefer that you don't endanger yourself before then."
"Screw you and your job!" Dean yelled, throwing himself against the door. It cracked open for a fraction of a second, but Zachariah shut it again.
"Watch your temper," Zachariah warned, glaring down at him. "And remember your oath."
Before Dean could sputter in protest, Zachariah placed a hand on the roof of the car. He barely caught a glimpse of angels appearing on the road, surrounding the demons who had clumped together, before the world faded into hot, brilliant light. Pressure bore down on his skull, boiling his insides and splitting his ears open. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the light faded and the discomfort melted away. Dean blinked, jolting out of his seat when he saw the familiar dusty lot filled with cars in various stages of repair.
"Son of a bitch!" Dean yelled, all but tearing the door off and stomping out into the salvage yard. He was getting sick and tired of that angel jerking him around like some kind of freaking puppet!
"Dean?" Sam's voice was soft, downright uncertain. Any other time it might have grabbed Dean by the nose, forcing him to calm down. But right now, dammit, he wasn't in the mood to be calm or rational. Scowling, he turned, shoving his hands in his pockets to hide his clenching and unclenching flists.
Sam leaned lightly against the mustang, his eyes wide with a fear nobody had to name.
"What did he mean?" the younger Winchester asked. "My part? Your oath? What's going on?"
"Right, because you know all about telling the truth and letting everyone else know what the hell is going on!" Dean snapped.
He didn't think the kid's eyes could have grown any wider, but Sam sure managed to prove him wrong.
"Dean, I'm so sorry-"
"Yeah? You're sorry? For what, Sam? For lying to us or for starting the goddamned apocalypse?" Dean stalked toward his brother, barely conscious of the movement. Rage burned in his chest, his vision blurring with red around the edges, and any desire he might have had to play nice was gone. "Save your apologies for all the people who are gonna die because you were too good to listen to us!"
"I thought I was helping."
"Yeah?" Dean reached out and grabbed the front of Sam's shirt, shoving him roughly against the mustang. Sam let out a muted gasp, his face twisting miserably. Dean could only go on yelling. "How helpful is a demon likely to be in all of this? That's the side you chose, Sam. That's the kind of help you were. And so help me, if you even think about trying to justify what you've done, I will bust you up so bad you'll be lucky to drink through a straw." His voice dropped to a low timbre, and he narrowed his eyes. "Is that absolutely clear or do you need a demonstration?"
The look on Sam's face was one of abject fear, but he stilled, returning to the same neutral expression he had worn just an hour or so ago. Sam jerked his head.
"I get it."
"Get your ass in that house right now, and you better pray Bobby's in a better mood than I am."
Giving his little brother one final shove, Dean released his death grip on Sam's shirt and turned away, clenching his jaw as he heard Sam's boots crunching against the gravel of the salvage yard, creaking up the steps, and slamming the door shut. The second he could count on being alone, Dean shut his eyes, shoulders slumping down as he let it all crash in on him. They'd failed. Worse than failed. They'd played right into everybody's hands; the demons, the angels... lost their own battles so a bunch of frickin' angels and demons could have their little holy wars, cause it wasn't like humans mattered or anything, was it?
Heat welled up between his eyelids, but he tilted his head, denying his own tears. He'd failed. He had no business grieving when the rest of the world was about to go through hell.
o-o-o
The last few days had been hell on Bobby Singer. Ranked right up there with killing his own beautiful, demon-possessed wife. Not quite as bad -nothing was quite as bad- but he was worn thin enough to wonder if it wasn't a very, very close second. Locking Sam in the panic room, being knocked unconscious, waiting on Dean to drag the boy's sorry ass back, listening to Dean whine and cower because he failed, seeing Dean disappear and waiting around again for something, anything, while the world slowly collapsed around him. Rufus had stopped calling to update him on possible seals being broken. Sumbitch probably knew it wasn't worth the effort anymore.
Bobby sighed and sank into his couch, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hadn't slept in... God only knew how long it had been, but he couldn't let his eyes close. Any moment, one of those boys could come walking through that door, weary and bloody and ready to pass out. 'Course, any moment some jittery hellspawn eager to take out a hunter could also burst in, ready to take him out. No, all in all, it was probably better that he stay awake.
A small part of him knew that he ought to be doing something to occupy his mind. Go over some books, maybe. Fix the busted devil's traps in the panic room. Work on a few cars, supposing there would be a world next week that might have the luxury to give him a little business. All those things sounded good and well in his head, but the thought of actually leaving the house, of doing anything that might distract him from the creak of his front door, sickened him.
At least he'd managed to eat something earlier. It meant he wasn't completely hopeless.
It was pretty late, though. He probably ought to try and get some rest. After all, what good would he be to anyone if he was dead on his feet?
Stretching out along the length of the couch, Bobby groaned, feeling his back pop uncomfortably. He needed to relax. If a demon somehow got in (he'd laid salt over the entrances and double-checked his barriers, right? Yes, of course he had...) then there were worse ways to go than in his sleep. And if one of the boys came in, he had no doubt that they'd see fit to wake him.
With that in mind, he closed his eyes and tried to focus on catching a little shut-eye. He counted sheep, counted backwards, counted forwards... hell, counting wasn't going to cut it.
Bobby groaned and shifted, trying a new tactic. He began reciting Latin in his head... which, as it turned out, would not help when he suddenly found himself wondering if he ought to whip up some more holy water, just in case. It couldn't hurt... but he already had four gallons sitting in the pantry, plus every bottle in the house either filled or at least spiked with a healthy portion of the stuff. He needed to sleep.
Somewhere between listing as many different car parts as he could and attempting to recall the details of a documentary he'd watched a couple of weeks ago, Bobby managed to slip into an uneasy sleep. His dreams came in uncomfortable snatches filled with hunting and demons and doomsday signs. He saw his wife reaching out to him from behind a curtain of fire, the faces of so many dead hunters floating behind her. He saw Sam and Dean being backed hopelessly into corners, blood dripping from their mouths as they fought beyond logical ability. He saw Ellen waiting for her daughter, silent and forlorn, when demons came for her. He saw so many terrible things that he wanted to gouge his own eyes out just so he wouldn't have to watch them die anymore.
It was almost a relief when a knock at the door woke Bobby from his slumber. By the time he rolled off the couch, the door was already slamming shut. Taking a deep breath, Bobby grabbed his shotgun and crept into the kitchen, ready to shoot anything that moved. Whoever it was must have known, though, because he stood still as a statue, hands raised in a halfhearted surrender.
Bobby had to blink to assure himself that, yes, this was who it appeared to be.
"Sam," he breathed, his grip on the shotgun loosening.
The boy was definitely worn. Not the shaky, desperate, strung-out boy who had stared at him with weary, red-rimmed eyes a few days ago, but he didn't look much better. This Sam was worn down, like a threadbare sweater that just kept getting used and used long past its time. The look in his eyes... well, Bobby could have gone his whole life without seeing that. Would have preferred to, at any rate. Sam was twenty-six years old, and he had given up.
"I'm sorry, Bobby," he breathed. "I'm so sorry."
"You here alone?" Bobby pressed, his eyes flicking to the window. Damn. He'd left the shutters down, and he wasn't about to lower the gun long enough to glance out there for himself.
"Dean," Sam replied, but whatever else he might have said died on his lips. Of course. If Sam was with Dean, then he was probably looking forward to the worst thrashing of his life, if he hadn't received it already.
At that moment, the door flew open and Dean stomped in, his anger only barely in check. Bobby had no choice but to lower his gun.
"Boy, where on earth have you been?" Bobby demanded.
Dean's head shot up to glare at him. As if that would actually intimidate a man like Bobby Singer.
"You were on earth, weren't you?" Bobby added.
Dean snorted, but shifted his murderous glare to the wall.
"I was in some kind of angelic safety deposit box," Dean snarled. "Then I was in a kitchen. Then I was in a convent stabbing that bitch Ruby. Then I was in a car driving here. Oh, and we stopped by a hardware store on the way, had lots of fun."
"I'll bet." Bobby leaned the gun against the wall, within easy reach, and strode into the kitchen, flicking the light on as he went. They looked even worse with a little illumination. Both of then were running on empty, both of them were ready to throw in the towel. Only difference was that Dean still had a little anger to cling to. Sam was just done. Bobby cleared his throat.
"You boys look like you could use a drink," he said, walking purposefully to the fridge and pulling out a few of his 'special' beers. Of course they knew what was coming, but it was protocol. They both accepted the bottles, but neither looked up to drinking much of anything. Sam even started to turn a little green. But they had to get through this if they were going to get anywhere tonight.
Bobby took a long draught from his bottle, silently encouraging them to do the same. Dean brought the bottle to his lips, first taking a small sip, then a larger gulp. Sam, still looking like he'd rather vomit than eat or drink anything at the moment, followed suit.
Dean finished his beer in record time and slammed the bottle down on the table, scowling the whole time.
Sam let loose a sudden, deep cough. Bobby and Dean stiffened. The boy was bent over, one hand clutching the bottle, the other rubbing his throat. Still, he wasn't screaming in agony, wasn't smoking.
"Must've just swallowed wrong," Dean remarked. Yeah. It was the excuse they were all thinking, but none of them was buying it.
Sam swallowed and, determinately, took another gulp of beer. This time, he set the bottle down on the table and gripped the back of a chair with one hand, the other desperately massaging his chest as his face twisted in pain. Still, no yells. No smoke. No demon.
"Bobby, I... I don't feel too great," Sam confessed. Even as the pain left his face, he didn't straighten. "Is the, uh... I mean, is it too late for me to..."
"Yeah I, uh, I checked the locks. It should be secure," Bobby assured him quietly. "Maybe it's best if you, ah, rest in there for a bit."
"Sounds like a good idea."
Sam straightened and, with the stiff walk of a man headed straight for the gallows, he made his way down to the panic room. Bobby and Dean followed silently, ready to catch him at the slightest sign of bolting, but Sam didn't stray a hair. He sat down on the bed, eyes downcast as Bobby strapped him in, ready for the long haul. He didn't look at them as they left him there, didn't protest as they shut the door and locked it in place. Not much a kid in his situation could do.
Dean stared in the room for a long moment, his face stoic except for the scowl tugging at his lips.
"We oughta paint a devil's trap in front of this door," he suggested evenly. "And maybe a few wards against angels, too. Just in case."
Bobby nodded. Well, if the last few days had been interesting, the next few were bound to be downright unbelievable.
o-o-o
R&R (seriously)