A/N: Thank you so much to ImpalaLove, Nemu-Chan, and toridw317 for reviewing! You guys are the best!
Song: Purgatory by Iron Maiden
CHAPTER 11
Purgatory
Claire drives the Impala back to the motel, feeling helpless. She fights back tears, and for a while she succeeds. But in the end, she always cries when she's mad.
"Fuck Dean, fuck all of this," she chants to herself. She can't be heard over the radio. It sings fast, angry music, angry like she is, and she speeds, speeds past all the red-hued billboards and neon signs. It seems fitting that everything should unravel in Las Vegas.
What's the point of "treading carefully" and abandoning her all at once? It doesn't make any sense. He is a huge contradiction. One minute he seems like he cares, the next he's running away from her, treating her like a hapless child. She doesn't know if he thinks he's protecting her or protecting himself, but she supposes it doesn't matter.
She storms all the way from the parking garage to the room, stomping up the stairs and wrenching the door open with a smash.
It's not until she's inside that another smash echoes through the building, and this time she is not the cause of it.
. . .
"You have exactly twenty-four hours," Remy tells him, his tone steeped in boredom. "Meet me back here, in this same location."
Purgatory looks just as Claire's visions have described it – winding trees as far as the eye can see, and everything distorted through a sepia lens. It is so tranquil and placid that it feels as though he is moving within a landscape painting. There isn't even any breeze.
Dean spins around to confirm that he has heard what Remy said, but he's already gone.
"Alright, Sammy. Where are you…" he mumbles to himself. Where does he even begin? What if twenty-four hours isn't enough to canvas the place? It seems to stretch on forever.
In his mind, the first logical move is to start shouting Sam's name, which is precisely what he does.
The noise immediately attracts visitors, none of which are Sam and none of which appear to be friendly.
Soon it becomes clear: vamps. A pack of them. They encircle him, fidgeting, itching to attack.
Luckily, there was no way Dean was gonna plunge down this rabbit hole unarmed – he unsheathes his machete from his jacket pocket, holding it menacingly in front of him with both hands.
"Another Winchester," one of them growls, bearing his fangs. "We should have known the other wouldn't be far behind."
"I don't want any trouble," Dean says. "Tell me where you've seen my brother, and no one gets hurt."
The vampire laughs and it sounds sinister, like a hyena. "You don't even remember us, do you? Missouri, 1999."
Dean squints his eyes in obscure recognition. He vaguely recalls wasting a nest of vamps sometime around then. "Ah. So it's personal."
Without responding, they throw themselves at him, and he hacks away like he's playing baseball. He could have gone pro, if he dad had ever let him join the high school baseball team, he thinks. Blood splatters everywhere, all over his face and shirt. In one minute flat, four decapitated bodies surround him like fallen dominoes.
He has left the fifth alive for now. He crouches over him, digging his blade deeply into the monster's throat. He can feel the curve of his bones grate beneath steel.
"Where's Sam?" he hisses ruthlessly.
The vamp laughs again, its fangs mottled by its own dark blood. "Why would I tell you anything?"
"Because you want to keep your head?"
"Go ahead – kill me. It wouldn't be the first time."
Dean's upper lip twitches in aggravation, but he shrugs and says, "Can't say I didn't try to be diplomatic," before slicing the machete clean through his neck.
He stands, observing the carnage, and wipes the droplets of blood and sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. He can't imagine weeks of this.
"Dammit, Sam."
. . .
Claire comes-to in a dark room. She discovers after a moment of squirming that the room is not actually dark, but instead she is blindfolded, and her arms and legs are tied to a chair.
"Hello? What's going on?" Panic laces each syllable.
"Ah good, you're awake," drawls a British accent.
The cloth is finally removed from her eyes and she sees that she is in some sort of warehouse, baking under harsh fluorescent lights. The man in front of her is stocky, dark-haired, and balding.
"Who are you?" she demands, perhaps a bit too bravely for her own good.
"Name's Crowley," he replies. His voice is raspy and serene at the same time, and his hands are clasped behind his back as he paces in front of her. He's flanked by two taller men in suits.
"Castiel," she prays.
Crowley wags his finger at her as though he is chastising a naughty child. "No, no," he tsks. "None of that. We've angel-proofed the place."
"I'm very important to them."
"Oh I know, love. And back when the archangels were strong, I might've been worried, but nowadays it's just a big, tangled mess of politics up there. I doubt they'll be organized enough to stage a rescue mission, or even hear your call for help."
"What do you want from me?" she snarls venomously.
He resumes his pacing. "Nothing, at the moment."
"Then why did you abduct me?"
"You see, something very dear was snatched out of my jurisdiction, and I would like to know how."
"Your jurisdiction?" she echoes.
"Yes. Hell. I'm the King of Hell, as a matter of fact. Lucy being shoved back into the Cage led to a lovely little promotion for me. Anywho, Sam was pulled out by something or someone mysterious, and that's not supposed to happen."
"I don't know who or what got him out."
"I know you don't. I've been trailing you and Clyde since Wisconsin. But when the infamous Dean Winchester finds out – which we both know he eventually will – I should like to know who the culprit is, and the end game."
"What do you need me for?"
"Motivation, of course. I've been trying to get his attention for ages, but he's got bloody tunnel vision when it comes to that great oaf of a brother," he sneers. "All the omens went straight over his pretty little head, so I decided it was time to take a more direct approach – hence your involvement in this scheme. And even if I don't know what to do with you just yet, there's certainly no harm in having a prophet in my possession."
"It took quite a while to get one of you alone," he prattles on. "Joined at the hips, you two. Did you know, back in ancient times people believed that prophetesses would lose their sight if they fornicated? Fortunately, that ended up being untrue…"
"Shut up," Claire snaps.
He grins charismatically. "You're feistier than I expected. You always look so mild and doe-eyed around your partner in crime."
"Shut. Up."
"Have I touched a nerve? My apologies. Just picture how your valiant hero will rush to your aid once he retrieves his brother from Purgatory, finally gaining the courage to express all that he's been warring with for some time now. That should lift your spirits." He speaks with his hands, like a film director describing a scene from a script.
Oh my god, she thinks, does he ever stop talking? But she has to admit, he has more flair than she'd expected from a demon. He's the first one she's ever met – she had always thought of them as being pure evil, but he… well, he's damn near charming, if you look past the whole imprisonment thing.
"How did you know he's in Purgatory?" she questions.
"Haven't you been listening? You've been under my surveillance since I got topside. Being King of Hell means I have a great deal of resources at my disposal, as well as effective methods of persuasion."
"He's gonna kill you," she tells him matter-of-factly, struggling futilely against her restraints.
Crowley smiles broadly once more. "We'll see about that."
. . .
It's hard to keep track of twenty-four hours when the sky never changes. There is a sun, but it just hovers low and still – useless. He has a watch but he doesn't entirely trust it, what with the inter-dimensional travel and all.
By now, he's killed his way through nearly two-dozen monsters, but they just keep coming. There seems to be an infinite supply. He's absolutely drenched in blood – some of it his, most of it others' – and it's starting to dry, forming a thick, uncomfortable crust over his face and hands and making his clothing stiff. The scent of copper is overpowering and nauseating, and the only thing he can smell. He never thought an adrenaline high could last so long – his heart has been pounding a mile-a-minute for the past six hours at least, and part of him fears it might soon explode.
He has fought tooth and nail to survive before, but never for such a drawn-out period of time. He doesn't even want to think about what kind of shape his brother is in.
"SAM!" he cries out, descending into desperation.
Nothing. Silence.
He keeps moving, keeps marking tree trunks so he can find his way back.
At some point he stumbles upon a stream. It bubbles and trickles over rocks and branches, clear as crystal. It seems to be the only thing moving in the forest. The water is cool and he knows he should be thirsty, but he isn't. He cups it in his hands and scrubs his face, washing the layer of blood off of his skin.
All of a sudden, he hears something shift in the foliage on the other side of the stream. Dean wipes the water out of his eyes and picks up his weapon, gripping the handle until his knuckles blanche.
"C'mon out, you son of a bitch," he growls. "I know you're there."
The rustling grows louder, and a hulking figure emerges, covered in dirt and blood. His long hair is stringy and coated in various substances, but Dean recognizes him instantly.
His features slacken and his voice goes rough. "Sam?" he murmurs.
"Dean?" says the other, overcome by a parallel cocktail of emotions.
Sam crosses the brook in a hurry, paying no mind to the fact that his jeans become waterlogged from the knees down. Dean's machete falls to the ground, suddenly completely inconsequential.
Dean grips his brother tightly, holding him in a bone-crushing embrace and knotting his fist in the tattered remnants of his coat. "Sammy…" he breathes out in profound relief.
Sam reciprocates the gesture, but seems more surprised than relieved.
"How did you find me?" he asks when they pull apart.
"Cas found me a reaper."
"A reaper brought you here?"
"Yeah, like you said. Why?"
"Some of the monsters say there's a door – a door you can go through to get back."
"Back?"
"Yeah – back to Earth, I think. I'm close to finding it."
"That's great and all, but let's just wait for the reaper…"
"Can we trust it?"
"What other choice we got?"
"The door!"
"Look, Sammy, it took me long enough to find you in the first place and I ain't taking any chances on getting us back. For all we know, that door could be a one-way ticket to the flame city. Let's just go to where we're supposed to meet the reaper and get the hell out of Dodge."
Sam opens his mouth hesitantly, as if he might dispute this, but eventually agrees, "Alright."
They stare at one another for a long while, as though they're trying to see which parts are different. The last time Sam saw him, his brother's left eye was swollen shut and his jaw was broken, and his own knuckles bore the stains of guilt.
"I'm glad you're okay," Dean says eventually, patting him affectionately on the shoulder.
"Dean, I – "
"We don't need to talk about it."
Sam's eyebrows draw together and he swallows his apology. Nothing he can say would change what happened. At least Dean knows it wasn't really him.
. . .
Claire has been screaming in agony for three hours straight, but not because of anything Crowley has done.
She saw everything – Dean killing all those monsters, Dean and Sam finding one another – all of it. It's been the strongest, clearest vision yet. And she has no way of recording it.
"Please," she begs Crowley, "I just need paper and a pencil – something to write with, anything."
"And untie your hands? Do I look like an idiot to you?"
"Fine, then… Then just have someone write it down for me." It crosses her mind that this may not be a wise idea – but the unbearable pain is clouding her judgment.
Crowley rolls his eyes, but quickly realizes that whatever she's seeing may be quite informative. "Fine," he allows, moderating his tone to remain cavalier, "so long as you stop that infernal yowling. I wasn't even planning on torturing you."
He orders one of his henchmen to procure a computer, and soon enough Claire is dictating what's happening in Purgatory in real time.
"It's like having our very own newscaster," Crowley remarks to his two inexpressive minions. She thinks offhandedly that he might look more at home waving a martini glass in one hand. "Maybe we can figure out whole who-stole-dear-Sammy-from-the-Cage mystery without even involving Scooby and Shaggy," he muses aloud.
Unfortunately for him, though (and fortunately for her), none of the information she reveals sheds any light on the matter. Indeed, it looks like Sam doesn't know who bailed him out either.
. . .
"So, what was it the psychic said about a prophet?" Sam asks as they wait guardedly for Remy.
"Yeah, apparently prophets exist, and one of them has visions about us."
"Only about us?"
"Yep."
"And was she – it is a she, right?"
"Yeah," he affirms, unenthusiastically. He fails to offer a name. It's probably better this way.
If Sam notices, he doesn't draw attention to it. "Was she with you before you came here?"
"Yeah, I left her in Vegas."
"You've been with her this whole time?" He seems mildly incredulous, as though he can't fathom the notion of his brother being with anyone other than him for such an extended duration.
"Yeah," he repeats again.
"Why didn't you take her with you?"
"Too dangerous."
His responses are short and clipped – almost like they're broaching a sensitive subject, Sam notes. He shoots him a skeptical look. "I would've thought you'd gotten past your savior complex, what with stopping the Apocalypse and all."
"You stopped the Apocalypse, not me," he counters.
"It was both of us," he insists, somewhat perturbed that his brother seems as self-loathing as ever.
"Fine. Whatever. But I didn't know what to expect from this place, and I don't want any more blood on my hands if I can help it."
"How do you know she'll be okay back there?"
"She's got some sort of angel Secret Service situation going on. If she prays, they have to answer her. I figure Cas'll come through if anything goes wrong."
Sam nods thoughtfully, processing this information. "How did you find her?"
"She found me. In Illinois."
"She found you?"
"Yeah, she was working at a bar that I stopped in and she recognized me from her visions."
"And you believed that?"
"Obviously I thought it was a crock of shit at first," he replies pointedly, "but she ended up being the real deal. She knew about Michael and Lucifer and everything else."
Sam's mouth forms an upside-down U-shape and he lifts his eyebrows. "Huh. And so what, she just volunteered to help you out with this?"
"That's one way to put it…"
Something in Dean's tone piques Sam's interest – there might have been a lot of time and trauma between now and when he last saw his brother, but he can still sense when he's not telling him the whole story.
"How did she feel about you coming to get me alone?" he probes.
Dean seems suddenly fascinated by a clump of sodden leaves near his right foot.
"She wasn't real happy," he mumbles evasively. "You'll see soon enough. Anyway, how the hell did you get here?"
"I have no idea," he admits, a bit more solemnly. "I don't remember anything after falling into the Pit until just… appearing here."
"Awesome," he says sarcastically. "I guess we'll just have to figure that out when we get back."
Out of the blue, the brothers' ears hone in on the crunch of leaves nearby.
"Hostiles?" whispers Dean.
"There's no other type," Sam states grimly in response.
Sam doesn't have a machete like his brother, only some sort of wooden club that he appears to have carved himself. Nevertheless, he holds it in an identical fashion, just like their father had taught them.
This time, their assailants are werewolves.
The boys spring into action, swinging and slashing like a pair of axe murderers. Even through the chaos, Dean has a chance to observe his brother fight – he looks positively feral, like a man possessed. He smashes at their skulls, smashes at their entire bodies, until they are long dead and he is beating a corpse. Blood sprays everywhere. It soaks him, and he seems entirely comfortable with it – more comfortable than he has ever seen him, including when he was jacked up on demon blood. He seems to enjoy it.
When all the monsters are dead, they stand back-to-back, chests heaving in deep gulps of stagnant air. For a moment, it feels just like old times.
"You all right?" Dean questions, unnerved by what he has just witnessed. His baby brother was never supposed to be the merciless one.
"Yeah. Fine," he pants.
Azazel's words, from long ago, are still etched into his brain: How certain are you that what you brought back is one-hundred-percent, pure Sam?
He had always been certain until now.
A/N: I hope you guys are still liking it! If you're unhappy with Dean's behavior from the last chapter, don't worry - that will be addressed in-depth in the next chapter. Please let me know what you think :)