CHAPTER TWO

DEAN WINCHESTER

Any pub in any village of respectable size and population attracted the attention of the Protectorate. In fact, they'd become known as the default meeting place for seeing any member of the small, lonely faction. If one didn't wander within the confines of local pub, one may not ever set eyes upon a Protectorate member. Not once.

On this particular evening, there were two in Carbondale's pub—a thatched, wood-planked and withering building that perpetually reeked of someone else's vomit. Dean Winchester hunched over a small glass of something clear and potent. If he drank it, the beverage would knock him back for quite a while, even with his level of acclimation to moonshine. Just a whiff sent him reeling. Sam bowed awkwardly on a stool next to his brother; the stool was a bit small for someone of his height.

"So, what are we going to do about this whole demon thing?" Sam asked aloud, "I'm thinking we should spread the word, get out to a bunch of barkeeps and tell them to let any member know what's coming. I mean, Dean, this is huge. If the demons are coming back, anything could be out there."

"I know," Dean nodded a solemn agreement, "I know, Sammy."

"So, what?"

"You know what," He scathingly said in a hushed tone, "I have to go out there and find mom's killer, Sam."

Sam shot Dean a withered glance. "Dean," He began, but he didn't finish. Instead, Sam chuckled to himself and shook his head, pressing his lips together in knowing distaste.

Swiveling in his seat, Dean faced his younger brother wholly. Anything to make him understand. Anything.

"Sammy," He explained, "You can't stop me. This is something I have to do. If you don't wanna tag along, fine. But I'm going to find out where those damned feathery asses are and kill every last one of them, you hear me? Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam sighed, tired, "Yeah. But you can count me out, Dean."

"Where are you going to go?"

"I'll probably just stay around the junkyard, maybe travel to the next village over by foot. You're going to need the motorcycle, so take it. I'll be fine on my own."

Dean let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. Fiddling with the hem of his glass, he straightened his back and examined the ceiling with careful attention. Warped beams bent where the water and acid rain had leaked through the thatched roof. A lantern hung from a fraying wire directly above, creaking gently.

"You'll be alright?"

Sam nodded. "I'm twenty-two, Dean. I can handle myself. And, when you figure out that this whole revenge thing and finding the angels is all a huge pile of festering crap," He raised a glass of water to his own words, taking a sip before continuing through a swallow, "You know exactly where to find me."

…

He left before the sun peeked over the unbroken crest of the horizon. Dean piloted the bike Northeast—after talking around the pub and the interrogating a few stray beasts on the outskirts of town, it had been determined that the last known place Angels had been spotted was just north of Founder's City, the shining capital of civilization herself. By consequence, that was where he headed.

Founder's City lay nearly sixty miles away from Carbondale, about a day's travel by bike, maybe a week's travel by foot. While Dean navigated easily over the rowdy terrain, he straddled his only map—a withered, water-warped, colorless piece of paper that had been reduced to little more than glorified tissue paper over the years—between the handlebars. The land was a swath of faded sea-green, cut through the center by a squiggly white river, The Great Serpent. Black dots in permanent marker signified the pubs. White squares symbolized towns; the more squares, the bigger the town. There were a few along the river, not many farther away from it. Carbondale was a special case, as it was closer to the Crystal Pools than the river. The Block, too, lay a little south of The Serpent.

To the North, the territory had yet to be charted, as Dean and Sam had never been much farther than the outer bounds of The Great Serpent before. Founder's City was as far as he'd ever wandered—on the edge of his map, it just barely broke the edge of The Serpent, a large crescent, cut through by a tiny offshoot of the larger river, with a reservoir directly south and a forest labeled abruptly SHADOWLANDS directly north.

Enraptured by the map, Dean nearly lost his balance on the uneven ground. His bike veered off course before he could correct it, the map tangling around the handlebars. Dean tried his best to refold the map and shove it back into the bag slung off the side of the engine. He bit his hand into the clutch, and the bike shot off like a bullet across the plains.

…

The sun had half-set by the time Dean rolled into town at the southern tip of Founder's City. A small motel rented rooms for the price of three rolls of bread, which thankfully Dean could afford, and he rented a first-floor room with a window that faced the plains. He leaned his bike against the wall by the door and emptied his duffle onto one of the twin-sized beds, throwing his jacket on the other. He packed with him three bags of bread, a small silver pistol, one bottle for carrying water, a spare change of clothes, ammunition, a sackful of silver coins, and his shorty shotgun. This was, of course, in addition to his map and his father's old leather journal, emblazoned with an insignia that he didn't know the meaning of.

Dean sighed and organized everything obsessively before throwing it all back in the duffle and reclining on the other bed, his jacket crushed beneath him. He stared absently at the ceiling with his hands under his head and his ankles crossed at the bottom. The formation of lanterns used to light the room were unlit, and rocked gently with the motion of Dean's settling. They reminded him of a different time.

Once, when his father had been present and his brother was no more than a toddler, he had taken Dean and Sam to a large, stretching dining hall in the heart of Founder's City. They'd been invited by the governor for taking care of a particularly bad morph infestation on the western edge of the city. The food had been exquisite, all they could eat, warmed to perfection, dripping in sauces Dean couldn't name the colors to. Still, all dad ever cared about was finding the Angels. And something called a Phoenix. He obsessed over it.

The Phoenix, he said, could bring one person back to life, and one person only. It could torch entire villages, kill entire populations, heal multitudes more. Dad wanted to use the fiery bird to resurrect Mary, their mother. But he'd never found it. He always used to claim that, if that sort of power got into the wrong hands, the rest of humanity would be doomed. Dean never believed a word of it. Chasing the Phoenix was like chasing a myth. It was a story book. Running in circles. And it had destroyed his father. Or, rather, sent him in a crazed journey across the plains from which he still hadn't returned.

Dean wondered briefly if Sam was okay on his own. Then, turning over so that he faced the small door leading to the washroom, he decided suddenly not to worry too much about Sammy. He could take care of himself. They always had.

Dean drifted into an unsettling slumber—he found himself stuck in a dream full of fire and ashes. Ashes rained from the sky and blanketed the ground, and the trees of the forest, and the sky; everything shed ashes. The whole landscape burned with the glow of a thousand embers, as if someone hand-stoked the forest and puffed billows into the sky. Yet, it was only mildly warm. Pleasant, even.

He shot out of bed to the sound of whistles—a curfew carriage. Citizens would be darting into their houses and pulling the curtains shut. For the Protectorate, however, the day was just about to begin. They, along with any other graveyard-shifters, were excused from curfew. Sweating and shot-through with adrenaline, Dean rolled off the mattress, pulled on his leather jacket, grabbed a few coins and the pistol from his duffle, and headed outside. The midnight air was crisp and refreshing, tinted with cold for the coming seasons. Winters were harsh in the plains, and Dean wasn't looking forward to their return. He shivered habitually and jammed his hands in his jean pockets, hunching his shoulders upwards.

Clouds wisped across the eastern front, caressing the moon, casting shadows down to Earth. Founder's City, however, was absolutely alight with the lampstands of humanity—unlike its lesser village counterparts, Founder's City had brick sidewalks and roads, stone houses, outdoor lamps to light the way for nighttime passers-through. All roads revolved around a city circle, set with a constantly-running water fountain that got its water from the nearby river. Dean could hear it running now, but he steered clear of the main-ways. Instead, he dodged behind a horse stable and used the back alleys to reach the local pub. He ducked inside the doorless opening and arrived within a dim brick building. A line of empty barstools marched along the bar, where a middle-aged woman in blonde wiped down the tabletop with a red bandana. The wrinkles on her face told of her potential for laughter, yet the look she wore now read of a completely different story. A girl sat on the liquor mixing table behind her, swinging her legs back and forth. She was the carbon copy of the woman, probably her daughter. At Dean's entry, they both looked up.

Dean held up his hand in a silent wave. The older woman stopped her work and smiled in deep-seated humor.

"Well, howdy there," She greeted loudly, "You're new in town, aren't you? Protectorate?"

Dean nodded and grinned, pulling out a stool near the end of the bar and folding his hands where everyone could see them. "Yes, ma'am," He responded respectably, "All my life. Name's Dean Winchester."

"Ellen," She introduced, already pouring a freshly-cleaned shot glass full of a honey-yellow liquor. She jabbed a thumb at the girl behind her, still swinging her legs and throwing superior-looking glances around the room, "And that's my daughter, Jo. So, what brings you here, Dean?"

He took a swig from the golden glass Ellen passed him, grimacing and coughing, before responding hoarsely, "I was on a routine hunt down in Carbondale when I got wind of something strange. So, here I am."

"Something strange, huh?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me," Ellen dared.

"Angels," Dean spat admittance, "I've caught wind of…angels."

Ellen glanced up at him incredulously. "And who in Founder's name told you that?"

"Demons."

"Demons?" Ellen skeptically repeated, "You gotta be kiddin' me, son."

"Demons," Dean sighed wearily in affirmation, "I wouldn't have believed it myself—my brother even tried to talk me out of it, and he was there—but I pumped those sons of bitches full of silver buckshots and they didn't even flinch. We were near the Crystal Pools hunting morphs when they attacked. Their leader—I think she said her name was Meg—wouldn't shut up about angels and this hunt they were on…something big." Tactfully, Dean left out the part about his necklace and the fact that the demons were actually looking for him. Who knew what sort of bad attention that would draw. "Good thing, though, the demons sink like lead."

Ellen nodded, taking up her bandana again and dragging it in lazy circles around the counter.

"I'll spread the word," She gravely mumbled.

Dean drank to that. With every sip, the honey-rich liquid became more and more tolerable. "I was hoping you'd say that."

Ellen retired to the storage room out back for a while, and Jo moved up to replace her at the bar, smirking in blatant teenage bliss. Dean downed two more glasses of liquor and rose out of them in a buzz; he paid Jo in three silver coins and she pocketed them immediately, a grimaced slipping onto the carelessness on her smooth features. Her blonde waves touched the counter when she leaned in closer, he back arching in an attractive curve.

"Dean," She muttered lowly, "Dean, right?"

"Yeah," He swallowed tightly.

Jo leaned in ever closer, whispering now, "My mom won't tell you this, but, there's been some activity around the Shadowlands up north.. An influx of beasts. Influx of protectorate." She paused contemplatively, then pushed the issue further, "I know this place…I've been scouting it out lately with some friends. A lot of weird stuff is goin' on down there."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "What kind of place? And, aren't you just a civilian? What are you doing beyond the city?"

Jo snorted, "I'm going to be in the protectorate someday. And, it's just for fun. I'll show you the cave tomorrow afternoon if you take me with you."

Sparing her a sarcastic grin, Dean pushed out of his seat and nodded jerkily. "Of course," He blandly stated, "I'd loved to babysit you. Then, we can all head back here when we're done, and you can watch your mother gank me by the dirt dishes. No, I don't think so, Jo. I'll find it on my own."

Jo looked cross. "You'll never find it," She argued, "Not without me! I can help you! I'll stay out of the way, promise."

"I'll try my luck," Dean backed slowly out of the door, waving a single goodbye on his way out, "Thanks for the drinks."

New friends and tasteless binging aside, Dean felt infinitely glad that he'd woken up and stopped at that pub. If nothing else, he now had the direction he'd previously lacked. In the morning, Dean would leave the inn and comb through the forests in the north. But, not until then.

For now, he busied himself enjoying the quiet splendors of the sleeping city. Dean headed back to his room using the main roads he neglected before. Wooden doors creaked and curtains fluttered as he passed. The whole city had a slightly unsettling, yet calming feel to it. Deep in the pit of his stomach, Dean knew that he didn't belong here, but he couldn't help but think of the 'ifs'. If things had been different, he and his father and mother and Sammy might have lived here. In a little brick house with a fireplace and a dining room table. And on nights like this, they would gather around and eat dinner together. Warm bread and maybe a meat, if they were lucky.

Still, something was missing. He stopped in front of an overgrown, circular stone fountain and sighed, relaxing with the push and pull of the reflections in the water. Reflections of the stars, which still looked fewer. Dean suddenly coughed in rough discomfort. Maybe it was just the alcohol, but things were starting to spin.

His hand cramped up at his side. Dean turned away from the fountain and shook it out tentatively, but the ache increased. Shot up his arm and through his chest. He backed against the fountain and took a seat on the pavement. This had never happened before.

His chest burned. He craned his neck upward as if heaven might hold the answer, but no such revelation came to him. Instead, the pain vanished from his arm and concentrated in his chest. A single point, a thin line. Tolerable.

Dean glanced down at the point, expecting to find nothing, but instead discovering the little vial of ashes around his neck. He held it up uncertainly, narrowing his eyes.

The ashes were humming.

Shaking his head to clear it, Dean pushed himself back onto uncoordinated legs and stumbled out of the square. Whatever Ellen had shoved down his gullet at the pub, it must have been really something. He had no time to retrace his way back to the inn using alleyways. He stumbled and sprinted down main streets, following crooked signposts and his naturally sharp instincts. Ten minutes later, he crashed through the door to his room and collapsed to the dirt floor.

Can you hear me?

An unfamiliar voice drummed loudly in his ears, thrumming at the base of his neck where the vial of ashes burned fiery hot. They glowed unevenly, pulsating. The room shook, too. Shook and spun and revolved as if the spin and tilt of the Earth suddenly decided to reveal itself all at once.

Then…

Nothing.

Pure blackness.

An overwhelming and oppressive darkness ripped at the seams of the world.

…

Dean woke in a fervor, uncertain of the time or place in which he had come to rest. The walls of the Inn stretched unusually high, its stone roof cast strange, mid-morning shadows over the fixtures. He sat up and pulled himself onto the bed, running a hand experimentally through his hair. What a weird night. He couldn't remember ever coming home from the bar; he couldn't remember anything but his conversation with Jo and Ellen. Whatever he'd drank at the pub must have been strong. He could still taste it on his breath.

Letting go of a tired groan, Dean pulled himself up to his feet and prepared for the day. A new pair of jeans, a new shirt, same jacket. He checked the clip of his pistol, but all the rounds were still there where he'd left them. The bag of silver remained in his pocket. He retrieved his map, shoved everything back into his green duffle, strapped it onto his bike, and rolled his belongings into the sunlight. The day was warm and eager, and he was eager to get into it. First things first, he had to hide his bike so it wouldn't get stolen. After a few minutes of lugging it through back alleys and bartering with Ellen, Dean stowed it safely in her storage room, presided over by a wild-looking man by the name of Ash, and was on his way.

A few protectorates had stopped at the bar sometime between Dean's leaving last night and his arrival in the morning, so he decided it best to start there. After all, the people who hunted the beasts would probably be the best people to ask when looking for them. He entered the dim premises and placed himself around a mucky green pull table with a muddle of other people, all wearing badges like his. Dean tried to ignore the dirty looks Jo threw him as he passed—she burned holes into his back with her eyes.

A scruffy, stocky man in a baseball cap was the first to greet Dean—it occurred to him then that they'd met before, working a case with his father.

"Bobby?" Dean grinned from ear-to-ear, pleased with the company, "Nice to see you, man. It's been a while."

They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. Bobby tipped his cap slightly and laughed to himself.

"Well, if it isn't Dean Winchester," He chuckled, "I've missed you, kid. Your father stopped visiting a while ago, and it's gotten a little lonely around the house."

"You still living in that old shack on the plains?"

Bobby shrugged noncommittally. "More or less. Protectorate bonds pass through every now and then, and I pick up an odd job or two. It's pretty peaceful."

"Ah, well," Dean said, "You never did like the city. So, what brings you here?"

Bobby widened his eyes in mild disbelief, and both men turned back to the rough game of pool that slowly erupted around the moldy table. A woman in a black jacket faced off with a different woman in a slightly less promiscuous outfit; bending over the cue ball politely, the first woman started the game with a triple-scoring serve. Bobby yelled encouragement before responding, "Pamela, don't heckle the woman!" He turned back to Dean with frustration glowing softly in his eyes. "Well, boy, I could ask you the same thing. But, if you must know, I'm working a case with a couple of friends. Specials that lost their hunters, hunters that lost their specials. I don't know what's going on, really. All I know is that somebody's been abducting certain halves of bonds, and all trails lead here."

Dean shifted on his crooked knees speculatively, narrowing his eyes in thought. A bond was a hard thing to break—most protectorates traveled in bonds. It was the classic way of doing things. When a hunter—that is, a human who hunted beasts—ran in with a special—or a supernatural-turned-good, who also hunted beasts—and they were both protectorates and could work together easily, they usually formed a bond. Most bonds were magically created. Any old hag in a spell shop could manufacture one. But they were tricky when it came to breaking. If one side of the bond died, it sometimes took years for the other side to recover. They usually died together. It was considered a mercy thing. Dean had never been in a bond, as he preferred to work alone, but he knew from his brother's experience that it wasn't exactly pleasant.

He muttered, half to himself, "I wonder if we're after the same thing."

"What would that be?" Bobby inquired. Dean kept his voice down when replying, checking to make sure that no one else was listening.

"A demon told me that the angels were back, and they're looking for something. All of 'em are."

Instead of questioning the validity of angels or demons, Bobby turned pensively and bit the inside of his cheek.

"That can't be good."

"No," Dean muttered, "I heard they were in the Shadowlands, but…hell, I don't even know if they're real. Angels, I mean."

"Oh, they're real," Bobby confided earnestly, "New to the world, but real. You don't know half the things that are real."

"How do you figure?"

"Boy, you keep forgettin' how young this world is. I was here before it was just grass and dust; I think I know a thing or two. And your daddy was one of the founders—I'm disappointed that he didn't teach you more."

"You and me both," Dean sighed. Jo brushed his shoulder as she passed by with a tray of shot glasses, setting them pointedly down in the center of the pool table in the middle of the game. The woman named Pamela launched the six-ball straight into the arrangement, and the whole thing clattered over. There was a collective groan from the bystanders; Jo broke out into an argument with another man, and dean decided that it was well past his time to leave. He nodded at Bobby, shooting him an exasperated glance.

"Well," He beamed understatedly, "You keep in touch, Bobby. I'll be in town a few more days, I think. So, we'll have to see if we can get together again when this is all over and exchange stories."

"Definitely," Bobby agreed, "You be safe, Dean."

"Of course."

…

Dean wandered around the crescent-shaped city for hours on end, asking in nearly every friendly shop he could find. When pressed about the topic of a cave in the forest, most older shopkeepers threw him out or demanded that he leave. Others shut down and refused to talk. The younger people responded with rumors and myths, eager to spread more stories. One boy, only ten years old, conveyed to Dean in ecstatic tones that there were ghosts haunting the caves in the Shadowlands. Another girl, two years older, scoffed at that and claimed it wasn't ghosts, but the tortured spirit of the phoenix itself. Then they skipped off to complete the remainder of their afternoon chores and Dean sat beside the fountain in the city square, no closer to any answers than he had been that morning.

Fifteen minutes or so later after his encounter with the rambunctious children, a familiar face came up and joined Dean on the stone cusp of the water. She perched on the barrier gingerly, a smile teasing on her lips, watching the statues on their ascending levels as they spat out fresh-smelling creek water.

"Dean, right?" The woman purred, "Bobby told me about you at the pub. Name's Pamela."

Dean nodded. He remembered. "I know. Bobby said something about you, too."

"So, what brings you to Founder's City?"

"Ah," Dean gruffly said, "I've been looking around for these caves the barkeeper's daughter told me about. But, no juice. You?"

Pamela shrugged; the tight half-jacket she wore ruffled in protest. "I actually live here," She responded, "I own a supply shop for you crazy protectorate bastards about ten minutes down Campbell Street. Business is always booming, at least."

"I bet."

Pamela dusted herself off and, dipping her hands in the undulating water briefly, flicked Dean with pungent drops. The sun caught each molecule neatly, turning them to liquid fire. They quickly cooled on the side of Dean's face—another sign of the coming season.

"Well," She sighed, "I better get going. My break's almost up and I'm sure some idiot is waiting outside my doors already. Catch you around, Dean. Stop by if you need ammo, charms, a séance…" Pamela ran her damp left hand roughly over Dean's cheekbone, throwing him a wink. Slightly discomforted, Dean inched away and shot her a confident smile. Sometimes, civilians creeped him out. Even if they were in on the gig, like Pamela was.

"…Maybe, a temporary bond," She smirked, her teeth painfully white. Dean swallowed a sarcastic reply.

"We'll have to see about that. Bye, Pamela."

"Bye-bye, Dean!"

Pamela sauntered down a main road, still walking with flirt in every step. Dean watched her go. Not out of interest. Of course, not out of interest.

Sighing, Dean stood up and circled around the fountain once or twice. When he figured there was really no point in staying, he headed back to the pub. Oh, well. He had tried. And, despite every fiber in his body warning against it, and every ounce of pride telling him not to, it looked as if he was going to have to ask Jo for help anyway.

On the way in the pub, Dean collided with a young, gangly man with more hair on his head than there was muscle in his body. He had a crooked, arching nose; it contrasted his undaunting demeanor. Once, that nose had been broken in a fight.

"Oh, sorry, friend!" The man clapped both hands around Dean's shoulder and sidled around him, rushing the exit, "I gotta go throw up!"

Dean threw the man a quizzical look. Was he protectorate, or just a confused, drunken, sad little civilian who'd seen one two many bar fights and way too many drinks?

One thing was for sure—Dean wanted to get out of this city and back to Sam as fast as he possibly could.