It was never truly quiet at Bobby's. Phones rang at all hours with desperate hunters whose muffled curses could be heard at the other end of the line. Occasionally, precariously stacked books would succumb to gravity, or strangely marked boxes would rustle and thump. Even the house itself creaked and groaned like its cantankerous owner.
Dean rubbed his eyes, fighting back exhaustion as Cas' snores added to the nighttime symphony. Hopelessness clawed at his insides as yet another ancient tome was tossed into the reject pile. He massaged his stomach absentmindedly where the hellhound scars should have been.
Snapping slavering jaws, ripping tearing-
Something knocked against the window. Dean jolted, his veins filled with ice water, heart pounding. With aching slowness, he reached under the desk to retrieve a shotgun with trembling fingers.
The knock came again, louder, echoing through the house like a shot.
They're getting closer runhide get away. Need a spell, salt , anything.
Dean forced himself to stand, edging along the wall until he was crouched under the windowsill. Cas slept on, oblivious. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to turn back, to stop touching the curtain you won't like what you'll see. Gleaming red eyes and teeth, such great big teeth. Black nose pressed to the pane, breath coming in puffs of smoke. You got out and now they've come to take you back.
Breath hitching in his chest, Dean lifted the gingham square, bracing himself for the shattering of glass.
It was a tree.
One stupid fucking overgrown branch had Dean Winchester pissing his pants like a little girl. His knees went weak with relief. He tried to force a chuckle out of his dry throat.
"You remember."
Dean whirled around, his shoulders banging roughly against the sill.
Cas' eyes widened when he saw the gun pointed at his chest.
"Your brief time in Hell. You remember it," he said again, this time a bit more hesitantly.
Dean responded with a blank look, but he lowered the weapon.
"I remember too," Cas murmured quietly, his eyes downcast. "That's why I couldn't sleep. Humans talk of dreams but I never…" His hands fluttered in the air like birds, and Dean knew he was trying to put into words the dread that stalked him at night. The piercing loneliness that struck when the sun went down and all was quiet and you were left staring into the void of all your past mistakes. They paraded behind closed eyes wearing pointy teeth and blood-soaked claws.
"Hey man, it's alright," he forced out, still trying to calm his racing pulse, cursing the bastard for sneaking up on him, for needing him so badly when right now all he wanted was to see Sam again. My brother needs me more. He's stuck taking my punishment while I'm up here with you.
He took a deep breath. "What the hell happened to you anyway?"
Cas shrugged, examining his fingernails with the concentration of someone who was avoiding the subject. "I fell."
"Yeah, I got that part." Dean struggled to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. He wanted to grab Cas around the shoulders and shake the information out of him.
The ex-angel looked hurt. "I was trying to save you," he whispered. "Those were my orders. I-I followed them to the letter. I laid siege on Hell, fought legions of demons until I found you. But even though we won, I was cast out. Heaven was… unsatisfied with my work."
Dean felt an odd twinge deep in his belly. Not because that definitely sounded fishy, but because it sounded familiar. A cold, unforgiving authority figure who was never quite pleased? Yeah, he could definitely relate.
And Cas looked so forlorn standing there, his hair and clothes rumpled from sleep. He seemed to have shrunk a few sizes during their conversation, as if trying to fold in on himself. Dean couldn't help but feel sorry for him.
"C'mon, sit down." Dean guided him back over to the couch, casting one last threatening glare at the window. "Just start from the beginning. Maybe we can put two and two together and figure out how to save Sam."
Cas plucked at a stray thread dangling from one of the cushions. His long, pale fingers worked deftly, pulling and knotting nervously.
"Well?" Dean was beginning to lose patience again.
"You don't understand," Cas mumbled tiredly. The bags under his eyes seemed to darken as he spoke. "Even if we knew where he was, we can't save your brother."
Every day Sam woke in his cell. The door was left unlocked now; he could come and go as he pleased, but somehow Sam sensed that the routine was keeping him sane. That maybe if he left and started to wander the depths of Hell, he would become truly lost, both body and soul.
The demon blood sustained him. As much as he mentally flinched and twisted away, Sam could no longer deny the need for that barrier. Liquid strength and calm; a smoky haze from which he could safely watch the mutilations without cracking.
Azazel seemed pleased with his progress. The razor now felt like an extension of his arm.
Just turnitoffturnitoff none of this is real.
The thing on the table screamed. They always did, in the end.
Today it wore Dean's face.
It's a mask, peel it off. He's not this mess of blood and bone. Can't plead with his eyes if I take 'em out. Alistair would like that. See no evil, right? He loves irony.
Yesterday had been Bobby. Sometimes it was his father, shouting at him even as he sliced. And occasionally, if they really wanted to test him, Jess.
It's all a game. Watching and waiting, convincing. They think I'll forget, that they can trick me, prepare me to go topside. But I know what's real, oh yes, none of this that's for sure.
He breathed deeply, inhaling the thick, wet scent of shit and gore. Letting it wrap around him until he couldn't sense it anymore.
"I always knew you'd be quick on the uptake, Sammy," Azazel whispered in his ear. "You're on the fast-track now." He proffered his arm once more and Sam bent down, his mouth already watering.
Dean is coming. Any day. He won't leave me here.
He won't.
Small tendrils of panic began to trickle down his spine before the adrenaline surge chased those thoughts away and Sam was lost in a red haze.