Author's Note: Here's part two, folks! Thanks to everyone who read/faved/commented on the first part! It helps so much to stay motivated, really. Hope you enjoy!
"Drop it, Sam."
Sam stomps after his brother, trailing after him from the library and into the kitchen. "Damn it, Dean! Be reasonable!"
Dean scoffs, the sound amping Sam's anger up several notches. "Reasonable? Reasonable ? Tell you what, you try saying something reasonable, and I'll respond in kind. Sound good?"
"How is rescuing Mom not reasonable?!"
"When all we'll be rescuing is a corpse!" Dean's gaze is hard, cold. It makes something in Sam seize up to see that look on his brother's face.
"You don't know that, Dean."
Dean turns away and yanks open the door to the fridge. When he slams it shut, there's a six pack of beer in his hand that Sam knows he has no intention of sharing. "She's dead, Sam. How many times we gonna have this conversation before you get that through your head?"
The answer is - apparently - at least one more.
And probably another dozen or so after that, if Sam's honest.
It's been weeks now that they've been going round and round, and even after all that time, Sam can't think of a single thing that Dean could say to convince him to just... give up.
He won't.
So he keeps trying. Every few days. In between scouring the news for any signs that Jack hasn't just blinked out of existence. (Because of course he hasn't. In no universe anywhere would they be that lucky. He has to be somewhere.) Or searching the lore in a fruitless effort to find anything that could mean Cas isn't just gone, he broaches the topic of finding a way to reopen the portal, so that they can search for their Mom.
But so far he thinks he'd have more success breaking through a brick wall by hurling cotton balls at it then he will at getting Dean to budge.
So, same old same old.
The sad part is, as frustrating and unproductive as the arguments may be, Sam prefers them over the oppressive melancholy that settles whenever they have half a minute to really think about how screwed up everything is, and how they aren't any closer to fixing any of it now, then they were when they started.
Neither of them want to say it, but they both know that they aren't going to find a way to bring Cas back. They've always known that when an angel dies...that's it. Cas...Cas was always very clear about that. But still, they look. They search. They hope. And Sam. Sam prays. Every night. A constant refrain, just in case.
Just in case.
And even though they don't talk about it, he knows Dean's prayed too. The evidence present in empty bottles scattered over tables, dark-rimmed eyes, and raw bloodied knuckles the morning after.
Which is why Sam is so adamant about going back. Short of Jack popping up to say 'hi' without warning (because they've got nothing on that front - and Sam never thought he'd miss having an easy ally with one foot in hell capable of doing just about anything with the snap of his fingers, but damned if he doesn't now) he figures returning to the alternate universe and finding their Mom is the one chance they may have of something going right.
And man, do they need a win right about now.
So he keeps trying to convince Dean. Staying up hours beyond what his body and mind can handle, digging through the Men of Letters lore, and even making some ill advised calls to what few contacts in the hunter community they can still count on to try and find a way to get back there. So they can save her.
Because they can't win if they don't try.
"What if she's not, Dean? What if she's fighting back and surviving, looking for a way out? Are we supposed to just sit here and do nothing to help her?"
Dean holds Sam's gaze for a minute, and Sam thinks there may be a crack in his resolve, when his brother's mouth turns down at the edges.
"Okay. Let's say - for the sake of argument - that Lucifer didn't gank her the minute that gate closed. And she managed to put enough distance between them, and any one of the thousands of other immediate threats, and she's still kicking around that hellscape. We're gonna, what? Crack the world open like an egg and hope to find her before the yolk spills out? How?"
"There are spells that we could-"
"Yeah, sure. Those never fail. She'd only survive if she was warded, right? It'll be a bitch gettin' a locator spell to work around those."
"I'm not saying it won't be hard-"
"Hard ? Try impossible. But even if we could find her, we gotta get there first. You got something in your pocket that's gonna tear the fabric of space and time for us?"
"No. Not yet, but I've been researching, and-"
"And even if you do find a way, we'd be chancing unleashing the apocalypse here on our world again. Hell, we'd be handing Lucifer a handwritten invitation! And what if we can't close the portal this time? Crowley-" Dean's rant cuts off with a swift shake of his head. "We can't risk it."
"I know what the risks are, Dean! I know what a shitty situation it is, and what we'll have to figure out to stand a chance. And you're right, the odds aren't in our favor. But she's our mother."
"Which is how I know she'd understand."
Sam sucks in a mouthful of bitter air, and says the one thing he's held back during all their previous arguments. "Like you understood my not going after you in purgatory?"
Dean doesn't flinch, but Sam can see that the words hit him like a punch even so. "Not the same."
"No. You're right. It isn't. Because you going to purgatory was a hell of a lot more clear cut on the 'dead or not dead' scale, and no matter how hard you try to convince yourself, or me, the last time we saw Mom she was alive. And if we don't do something, then she's as a good as dead. And it'll be our fault. And I can't- I can't be the reason she's dead, Dean. I can't. Not again."
His voice breaks at the end, and Sam finds himself - unexpectedly - blinking back tears. He's had so little time with his mother, and the idea that she may be lost to them again, it's more than he can handle.
The hard cast on Dean's face wavers, his eyes softening and the frown on his face shifting to one of concern. "...Sammy-"
"Please, Dean."
Dean looks away, his throat moving with a swallow as he shuts his eyes, exhaling a long thin wisp of air. "Fine. But you've gotta promise me. You promise me, Sam that we don't do anything; and I mean anything, until we've got a hundred percent foolproof way of opening and closing that portal on demand, you hear me? Because as much as you don't want Mom's death on your conscience? I can't have the whole planet's on mine, alright?"
The nod Sam gives is over-enthusiastic, but his emotions are bordering on childish glee mixed with a hefty dose of disbelief, and he can't quite control the muscles in his neck as a result. "Yeah. Yes. Of course. Absolutely. One hundred percent."
"Great. Now, can we can back to those reports on strange energy surges happening outside of Little Rock I was telling you about? Maybe try handling some shit that's more our speed. Like taking down the antichrist?"
~~~\/~~~
Mary rolls her eyes and huffs out an exasperated breath as Crowley's unconscious body folds over and hits the packed earth with a thud. She's debating whether or not it's worth it to try and wake him, or if her and this Bobby Singer should beat a hasty retreat before Lucifer returns, when an ear-piercing shriek echoes from the other side of the hill. A thunderous pounding noise follows in its wake.
"Shit." Bobby's back straightens out as he turns towards the sound, pulling the semi-automatic strapped to his chest down and checking the magazine.
Mary narrows her eyes in the direction of the sound. "What was that?"
"Black-eyed bastards, that's what. Bunch of 'em by the sound of it." He clicks the safety off the gun and grabs a pistol from a holder at his thigh, tossing it to Mary.
"Here. Devil's trap bullets. Won't kill 'em, but it'll put 'em down long enough that you can sever their heads from their bodies." He gives her a grim, hollow smile. "That usually does the trick. And if it don't, well, we got bigger problems."
Mary nods, checking the gun over and turning off her own safety. She takes the last few seconds before the horde arrives (damn, does she hope that isn't an accurate description, for all it sounds like it may be by the sound) to scan over their surroundings. Looking for any areas of cover, or ambush points.
There's a few, but not enough to make a difference.
The demons crest over the swell of the hill a moment later. Mary wants to feel relieved that the number can't be much more than a dozen, but the size, shape, and just otherworldliness of the motley crew precludes that emotion.
And then the fight is on. The... creatures... barreling down on them so fast that neither of them have a chance to squeeze off more than a few rounds before they are forced into close quarters combat instead.
The hunter that she's never met, but that knows her all the same, falls into step with her like it's second nature. And she supposes it may be for him. It doesn't take the two of them long to find a rhythm, her ducking a swing from a strange, horned beast is paired with Bobby sweeping a machete out and severing its head. Mary covers his flank with a brass-knuckled fist to the jaw of a squat, boiled-faced thing that bears only a passing resemblance to a man, while Bobby lets off a quick spray of bullets at something the size of an elephant with six legs.
She has no idea when Crowley wakes up, or when he joins in the fray, but at some point he does. A wicked looking, long-bladed knife in his hand that he uses to take the head off another horned creature held down by one of the devil's trap bullets. He catches her eye from over the dead, tucking his chin in a nod of acknowledgement that she has no time to return before he is spinning on his heel and lunging after the one at his back, and she is forced to do the same.
Between the three of them, they're able to take down the small (ish) horde. When they're done, they are exhausted, and covered in blood and bile, but with minimal damage to their persons.
It's a short haul from there to Bobby's base of operations - a heavily warded and repurposed auto-garage that's buried under so much rubble that Mary is surprised it hasn't collapsed in on itself.
Of course that level of surprise is made microscopic in comparison to what she feels when Bobby puts both her and an oddly subdued Crowley through a thorough series of tests to ensure that neither of them is a snake in the grass preparing to bite his ass as soon as his back is turned.
A thorough series of tests that they both pass.
That was a month ago.
At the time, Mary'd been half convinced it was a trick on the crafty bastards part, and had insisted that Bobby do the tests a second time.
And then a third. Just to be sure.
But now, the fact that Crowley's mortal - she hesitates to call him human because really, who the hell knows what he is at this point, especially as none of them have been able to figure out how he's even alive again in the first place - is becoming easier to accept the more times he gets injured in a fight, and doubly so with how much he continues to whine about it.
"Ow! Watch what you're doing, woman!"
"For the love of- Stop flinching and this'll go a whole lot faster, Crowley."
"I'll stop flinching if you stop stabbing me."
Mary arches a brow, but doesn't lift her eyes from her task, pinching the skin along his wound closed so she can slide the needle through. "Kinda hard to stitch you up if I don't stab you at least a little."
Crowley winces as the needle slides through the other side and she tugs on the thread, pulling it tight. "Bloody hell! That hurts."
"Don't be such a baby. We've all had worse. A dozen more stitches and it'll be over."
"Because I'm gonna pass out from blood loss."
"Maybe next time you'll remember to dodge."
Despite her focus on the task at hand, Mary doesn't miss the range of emotions that flitter across Crowley's face. Confusion and annoyance, endcapped with a scowl highlighted by an angry flush. "Dodge? I- Well excuse me for saving your bloody life!"
"Is that what you call it? I thought it was you being an idiot and getting in my way."
"You- If I hadn't stepped in when I did, you'd be short a head right now! If this is the kind of thanks I can expect every time I help, I may stop bothering!"
"I didn't ask for your help!" Mary tugs a little harder than necessary on the thread as her own anger rushes to the front, the next stitch pulling on the flesh enough to make a fresh bead of blood well up.
"Of course you didn't! Winchesters. All the same. Rather be gutted than ask for a little help from a demon - only I'm not a demon anymore am I?! So maybe next time, you could swallow your pride and remember that I'm on your bloody side!"
Mary inhales through her nose, counting down from five as she releases the air again in an effort to not ruin all her hard needlework by tearing open his wound with her bare hands. "You're right. You're not a demon anymore, Crowley. You can get sliced and diced just like the rest of us now. And throwing yourself in front of a set of six-inch claws is a fast way to end up dead. Again."
"Believe me, I know."
The heat of the argument dies down at his admission. His jaw clenching against the pain as Mary finishes the next stitch.
She tries to avoid voicing the question that's been plaguing her since he took the brunt of an attack that Mary knows would have cleaved her in half, focused as she'd been on the demon in front of her, and unprepared for the one at her flank. (There's no such thing as a simple supply run in this place.) But it weasels its way up and out without her permission; her mind desperate to figure out the barest smidge of what's motivating Crowley's behavior these days.
"Why'd you do it?"
Crowley rolls his eyes. "Why do you think? If you're not going to exhibit the most basic of self-preservation skills someone has to. At least until the cavalry arrives."
"Cavalry?" He looks at her like she's an idiot when she pauses her stitching to ask the question.
"Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum? Those unfortunate fashion victims you gave birth to? Ring any bells?"
Despite herself, Mary snorts. "Sam and Dean aren't going to come after me. It'd be too risky and they know it." She turns back to her needle and resumes her work.
"Please. If you think for one single second that those boys of yours aren't working on a way to rip open reality so that they can whisk you back to Kansas, Dorothy, then you're not half as intelligent as I've given you credit for."
Mary doesn't respond, just ties off the thread at the last stitch and reaches for the gauze and tape. The idea that her boys would even try to come after her had honestly not crossed her mind. It'd be an idiotic move of epic proportions. Surely, they'd know better than to try?
Right?
Uncertainty filling her, she finishes bandaging the wound and steps away from Crowley, heading off to clean the blood from her hands. When she's done, Crowley is leaning back in his chair, eyes closed. He's tugged his dirty shirts back into place over his side, one hand pressed to where the wound she just repaired lies. Even in the dim lighting, she can clearly see the bloom of blue and purple bruises across his cheek and chin.
Mary stares, baffled by the former demon. (A state of emotion that is fast becoming perpetual when she's in his presence.) Try as she might, she can't figure out his angle. "Say they are planning a rescue mission. How's getting yourself killed before they arrive supposed to help you any?"
Crowley cracks his eyes open, leveling a glare at her that she's sure he's used for centuries to intimidate countless minions into doing his bidding.
Mary just finds it frustrating.
"It helps if it means you're still alive when they show up."
Mary's not sure what she was expecting him to say, but that wasn't on the list at all. The idea that he'd put her life above his doesn't make any sense. She may not have known Crowley well before they were trapped here together - and lord knows he hasn't exactly been forthcoming since then - but her boys had told her enough stories about him that she feels like she's developed a pretty clear picture of the kind of person he is. And she can't fathom that after somehow surviving being killed by Lucifer, he'd be more interested in protecting her hide then in covering his own. "Why?"
His glare subsides, and he turns to look out the single boarded up window in the room, as if he can see through the wood and metal plate to the world beyond. His voice almost wistful when he speaks.
"You know, maybe I would have found this place cozy, quaint, once upon a time. I could have done wonderful, monstrous things here. Back before I ever heard the name Winchester." There's a thread of annoyance mixed with what Mary thinks may be resignation in his tone. "But I'm running a little low on demonic ability these days, and seem to be chock full of feelings, and I'm not too proud to say that this place scares the piss out of me.
"Do I want a ride out of this nightmare? Of course I do. But when your boys arrive - and they absolutely will arrive - I'll be damned, again, if all they're gonna find is me standing next to your corpse."
This time when Crowley pins her with his glare it's much more effective.
"So do us both a favor, and stay alive."
Speechless, Mary just nods.