A/N: Hey guys, this is kinda one of those in between chapters in which important things need to be established for future understanding. Yeah. One of those things. SaintsGhost, I will try to get Dean's wings out soon (he's kinda not likin' the idea right now).
Updates may take a little longer throughout the week because I am supposed to be working.
The title for this chapter is taken from a song by R.E.M.
Love you guys and hope you enjoy!
Stairway to Heaven
Chapter Five: It's the End of the World as We Know It
Dean had stared at the journal like it was going to leap up and bite him on the ass. "Is that…Dad's?"
"You mean you didn't put it in here?"
Dean slowly shook his head. "No. I haven't seen it in nearly five months."
"Five…" Sam's forehead creased. "But you only just…"
"I didn't leave, Sam. He did. I went to bed one night, and when I woke up, he was gone."
"So…how did?" Sam gestured with the journal in his hand.
"I don't know."
They spent the next hour tearing the room apart for further evidence that their father had in fact been there, but found none. It was as if the journal had just appeared out of thin air. Sam had finally decided to call Bobby, who had headed back to his house with all the boys stuff two days ago, since Jim, Caleb, and Joshua all had gotten called off on an emergency hunt, some banshee terrorizing an all boy's high school. Dean had stormed out, poked his head back in and told Sam not to go anywhere with his wings hanging all over the place, and stormed out again, intent on getting food and trying to ignore whatever feeling it was that was attempting to bubble up and out of him.
Problem being, by the time he got back with a lukewarm bag of take-out, he was so worked up that he could almost feel his back muscles rippling. Sam was on the bed furthest from the door, books spread all over the place, wings adjusting every few seconds like some strange version of a nervous tic. The younger of the two looked up, took one look at Dean's face, and jumped to his feet. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Dean snapped, and the pain sliced up his spine, nearly bringing him to his knees as he leaned against the table, bag slipping from his stiff fingers. "Shit," he muttered, bending at the waist as he mentally pushed back, the pain increasing as the muscle spasms lessened.
He felt Sam pressing him into an abandoned chair, felt the cool brush of feathers against his fingers as he blindly reached out to keep himself from falling. "It hurts less if you just let it happen, right?"
"I'm not just gonna let this crap happen," he ground out, pushing again and causing the pain to flare up. "Shoulda just let Dad rip'em out…"
"Dean, please," Sam knelt in front of his brother, keeping steadying hands on his arms so Dean didn't do a face plant. He never noticed how his wings flared and wrapped around both of them, as if they could stand between them and the world.
"No, I won't let anything happen to you…Not without a fight…"
And Sam didn't have anything to say about that.
*~~*
Dean was sleeping, exhausted after the fight against…whatever it was. Sam was back on his bed, having been unable to get a hold of Bobby, he was trying to content himself with mass amounts of research while ignoring the soft tickling of the wings at his back. So far, he hadn't found anything of interest, and he felt like a pretty big idiot to be researching himself.
This day had royally sucked. Jess was dead, he passed out by her grave…
He kept having crazy dreams and was wondering if he should have known that Jess was going to die before she did…
And if he was supposed to know, then did that mean that their dad was in some sort of trouble?
He was distracted as his phone vibrated across the end table, and he snatched it up before it could wake Dean. Dean, for his part, just snorted and rolled over, facing the door. Sighing, Sam flipped the phone open. "Hello."
"Sam? You called earlier, and sounded pretty, uh…messed up."
"Messed up is probably a good word for it, Bobby."
Reaching for his Dad's large leather jacket, how had Dean ended up with that, Sam shrugged it on, covering the wings that were folded tightly against him and stepping outside into the cool evening air. Carefully, he walked around the Impala, hopping up onto the trunk and making himself at home.
"You need me to come out?"
"Nah, I don't think so…" His leg swung absently as he glanced up at the darkening twilight. "Dad was here."
"What?"
"Well, we think he was here. We found his journal mixed in with all our books."
"When I see that idjit…" The connection fuzzed and then returned.
"And I sprouted wings today. Can't seem to get them to go away, though. Dean says I need to be calm. It's just, anytime I calm down, I think about Jess, or Dad, or that demon. Or I see Dean and can tell he's trying to hold it all together…" A tear slipped from his eye and he angrily dashed it away. "He came to me for help, and now all I'm doing is making it worse, Bobby."
"That's not true, Sam. Four years, that boy has been a mere shell of himself. I haven't seen him like this for four years. Trust me, Sam. It could be worse." He cleared his throat. "And you two are a couple of morons. I'm sure you're trying to suck information from anything that even remotely looks like a book, and Dean's trying to deny that anything's different."
Sam laughed, but it sounded hollow, even to him. "That's 'bout right, Bobby."
"So why don't you get to bed, and the two of you get an early start out this way tomorrow. I've got your stuff all waitin' for you, you'll be out here in a couple of days at the latest. And then we'll figure this thing out together."
"Figure this thing out? Bobby, there is almost no lore or anything on this. Half the texts say that the Nephilim are man eating giants, another half claim that they're heroes from old. Apparently they taught humans magic, and science, and who knows what else, there's no mention of what they can do…and…"
"And what, Sam? What did you read that has your knickers all in a twist?"
"Do you think…I mean…"
"Come on, kid, can't help you out if you don't talk to me."
Sam swallowed hard, suddenly shivering in the cool night air. "In the Old Testament, the archangels Michael, Raphael, Uriel, and Gabriel, they were charged with hunting down and destroying the Nephilim." His wings convulsed under the jacket, settling tighter against him as if to protect from an attack. "And some of the Nephilim, their spirits became demons…"
"Sam. Listen to me, ya dingbat. You're gonna get off the phone, and you're gonna go to bed. You're not gonna worry about angels and demons tonight, alright? You just make sure you salt the doors and windows and lock up tight. Then tomorrow, you and your dimwitted brother are gonna drive your asses out here, where I can knock some sense into you two, and we can figure this out. Okay?"
It was as close to an order as Bobby had ever come to giving. Slowly, Sam nodded, and then realizing that Bobby couldn't see him, he vocalized it. "Okay, Bobby."
"Night, Sam."
"Night, Bob…" He was left with just a dial tone.
Sighing, Sam shut the phone, sliding off the back of the car. Patting the hood fondly, Sam slipped back into the dark motel room, locking the door and checking the salt lines before getting ready for bed. He never noticed the man standing in the shadows of the tree across the parking lot, watching his every move.
When the light in the motel room finally flicked off, the man shifted, stretching stiff muscles, and moved off down the road, stopping when he came to a large black truck, jumping into the cab and driving off into the night.
*~~*
It was Dean that discovered their latest problem.
Yes, Sam's wings retracted when he fell asleep. Exhaustion had led him to a state of collapse the night before and he'd ended up waking up wingless, but still not rested. So Dean wasn't surprised when he'd conked out in the car shortly after they hit the highway.
He was even less surprised when the whimpers and moans started. The kid had always been prone to nightmares when he was little, and after the week that they'd had…Dean was lucky the kid even went to sleep.
"Shh, Sammy, go back to sleep," Dean whispered, and Sam settled.
Two minutes later Dean had pulled to the side of the road as Sam's sounds of discontent had turned to ones of pain and the black wings pushed through his back, ripping through, thank God, that stupid dog shirt. Trying to get the shirt off had been a pesky problem all unto its own, and Dean ended up having to cut it off in strips, careful to avoid the black wings that kept trying to stretch out and smack him in the face. Like the Impala hadn't been cramped enough already.
"Plack!" Dean hacked as another feather poked up his nose. Never one to miss an opportunity, another offender slipped into his mouth as he attempted to cut the shirt, leaving him spluttering. "God, you taste gross, Sam."
Sam turned to tell him off and smacked him full in the face with the strong wing. "Ahh, Sam! My eye!" Dean's hand flew up to the injured appendage, swelling already evident.
"Dean, oh gosh, I'm sorry…" he turned the other way to get a better look and Dean threw himself backwards, feeling the air rush by his head as he barely managed to get out of the way in time. Sam bit his lip, trying not to grin at the look of pure frustration on Dean's face. This wasn't much fun for him, but he was glad he still got the same sense of satisfaction from irritating his brother that he always had.
"Just. Don't. Move."
"I'm trying, honest," Sam whined. "But these things have a mind of their own."
"I think you just subconsciously want to hit me," muttered Dean, "and now you're going to blame it on those things."
Sam huffed but worked hard on concentrating on keeping his wings from clocking Dean. He leaned forward against the side window, trying to give Dean better access, and suppressed the wince at the sound of his favorite shirt tearing. His brother managed to get the shirt off from around his wings just as a tractor trailer nearby decided to honk its horn. Sam jumped, startled, wings unfurling, once again catching his brother unaware.
"Shit, Sam, I think you broke my nose."
Sam turned to find Dean clutching at his face, blood running in little rivulets between his fingers. Now, he couldn't help but grin, remembering a time about twelve years earlier when he had startled a sleeping Dean and been on the receiving end of his fist. "Told you I'd get you back when you least expected it."
Dean glared the best he could with blood bubbling between his fingers, finally reaching for one of the pieces of the discarded shirt to wad up and press over the rapid flow. A muffled, "Payback's a bitch, you bitch," came from behind the t-shirt, and Sam grinned, knowing all was forgiven.
They sat in silence for a few more minutes on the side of the road, waiting for the blood to clot and the flow to stem. Already Dean had a nice set of raccoon eyes forming, and when he turned to Sam another succession of rapid apologies flowed from the younger brother's mouth like word vomit. All Dean said was something along the lines of, "Hit me again with those things and you're sitting in the back," before pulling off the shoulder and back onto the highway.
It wasn't long before Dean popped in a cassette tape, clearly hoping to avoid the conversation that he could already see forming in Sam's head. Apparently singing Back in Black was not going to be enough to avoid a Sammy Special.
"Dean."
Crap. "Yeah, Sam?" he reached out and pumped the volume up, hoping to somehow drown out his brother's voice.
"Dean!"
"What?"
"We need to talk."
Four words that Dean most definitely did not want to hear.
"About what, Sam?" he sighed, punching the button that would shut off the music, and silently apologizing for the maltreatment of his baby.
"Well, for starters, how come your wings go away when you sleep and mine…you know."
"Don't go poof?" Dean supplied, mentally sighing as he realized that there was no way out of this conversation. Sam hadn't changed at all from when he was three, saving the most difficult questions for the car, where Dean was cornered and had no way out. Dean's absolute favorite having been, Dean, why is a banana yellow? John had had to pull the car over because he was laughing so hard that tears were streaming down his face as Dean tried to stumble through a seven-year-old's explanation of the coloration of fruit.
"Yeah," Sam muttered, glancing at Dean from under his bangs and looking quickly away, wincing as he took in the deep purple color ringing his brother's eyes.
"I don't think that one takes a college degree to figure out, Sam." In fact, Dean was surprised he hadn't thought of it earlier. "I told you that you had to be calm, right?"
"Yeah…"
"Well, when I sleep, I'm as calm as I get…when you sleep…even when you were little Sam, you attempted to replay the Amityville Horror in your head."
Despite the fact that it stung, Sam knew Dean was right. His sleep was generally anything but restful. John had always said it was because Sam liked to internalize everything, and Dean had always told Sam, lovingly, that it was because he was a freak. "Okay, so, does this mean that these things are gonna be permanently stuck on the outside."
Reaching one hand up to his nose protectively, Dean mumbled, "God, I hope not," and shot a grin over at his little brother.
Sam returned the smile with a wavering one of his own, and Dean's heart sank.
"It'll be okay, Sam," he figured that if any time was the time to bullshit, now was it. "Your…mojo, powers, whatever the heck you wanna call it, probably just works different than mine. I mean, our personalities are completely different, so, why wouldn't they work differently too?"
"Yeah, I guess so," Sam mumbled. Suddenly he took a deep breath, and opened his mouth. "Butwhatifweturnintodemosnandthearchangelstrytohuntusdownand…"
Dean stomped on the break to avoid an accident as Sam's wings flared out in agitation, blocking the windshield from view. "Woah, woah, woah, slow down, dude, take a breath…"
Figuring that this might not be the best conversation to have while driving, Dean once again pulled off the road, ignoring the irate horns as he worked his way over to the shoulder. Finally, car safe on the side of the road, Dean turned to face his clearly panicking brother. "You wanna run that one by me again?"
Sam shook his head. "No, not really."
"Not really?" Dean shook his head. "Nuh-uh, Sammy boy, you don't just get to drop a load of dookie into a crowded car like that and expect me to ignore it."
"Dookie?"
"Stop trying to change the subject, Sam."
"M'not trying to change the subject," Sam's voice was petulant and he crossed his arms over his chest, whether to keep Dean out or to keep something in, he wasn't sure. "I just don't wanna talk about it now."
"No way, kid, you started this one, now I'm gonna finish it. What's this about demons and arch something or other?"
Sam glanced up guiltily and turned away, suddenly wishing that he was wearing a shirt. Mentally, he realized that he should probably cut slits in them as soon as possible to avoid losing any more…Dean's gaze wasn't letting up, and for some reason, he looked even more menacing when his eyes were half-swollen shut.
"Sam."
Sam knew that voice. The one that said, I'm your big brother and we'll sit here all day if we have to, because I have nothing better to do, so you better just spill before I get even more irritated and try to beat it out of you.
"I shouldn't have said anything."
"No, Sam, clearly this is bothering you, so you should have said something. Now say it."
"It's just…what do you know about the archangels?"
"The really cool ones with the fiery swords? Aren't there like four of them, or something?" Dean raised an eyebrow, ignoring the pull on his throbbing eyes, clearly questioning where this was going.
"Yeah. Their names are Michael, Raphael, Uriel, and Gabriel."
"Right, Pastor Jim did a sermon about them once or something like that."
Sam nodded tightly and then redirected his gaze so he didn't have to look at his brother. "One of the things they were charged with was hunting down the Nephilim."
The silence was deafening. Sam wished Dean would say something, anything. It didn't have to be reassurance, a cuss word would do fine, but he needed to know that Dean was breathing, that he was still alive, that he hadn't been shocked to death, he couldn't lose him, not after Jess…
"Dean, say something, man, please…"
"So, we're gonna have freakin' angels on our asses?"
"I don't know, Dean." Sam looked away again, unable to meet his brother's own empty gaze. Part of him hoped Dean was so wrapped up in that that he'd forget about…
"So what's this thing about demons?"
Crap.
"Don't think I said anything about demons, Dean." But Dean had caught the flinch and the flash of guilt in his eyes.
"Don't lie to me, Sam."
Sam sighed, and then turned to face his brother full on. "Some of the texts said that the souls of the Nephilim became demons and are responsible for a lot of the demonic possessions to date."
Dean's door flung open, ignoring the traffic roaring by, and slammed shut as he stomped off into the brush on the side of the road. Even from inside the Impala, Sam could see the lines of pain and concentration, knew he was trying to force, whatever the heck it was, back so that his own wings didn't come ripping out into the open. Sam didn't have the luxury of walking away. Not when everyone on the busy highway would be able to see the new appendages attached to his back. Instead he had to sit and wait for Dean to cool down, trying to ignore his own frantic thoughts.
Sam reached out, fiddling with the radio, switching out AC/DC for his own battered REM cassette that he'd found at the bottom of the box. Closing his eyes and leaning against the window, Sam tried to relax, repeating the lyrics to 'Losing My Religion,' in his head, attempting to drown out his own thoughts. The music was soothing, and eventually he drifted off, never noticing the large black truck that pulled in front of the Impala or the approaching figure.
A sharp rap on the window startled him, and he blearily looked around, wondering if Dean had locked himself out. It took a second before his head cleared and he stared out the window, eyes catching on a face that he knew as well as his own. Sam opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again, words getting stuck in his throat.
Finally, his numb fingers found the door handle, and he shoved it open, nearly taking out the other man in the process. Sam stood shakily, white knuckled grip on the hood of the Impala holding him upright, and reached out an unbelieving hand as he whispered, "Dad?"
A/N: How's that for a mean, nasty cliffy? (Whistle's innocently while sidling out the side door). Reviews will feed my hungry belly, and flames will nuke my dinner!! (How exciting). Let me know what you like/dislike so I can continue to improve the story!
Much love,
~Ocean-Born-Mary