Chapter 11
"This is stupid."
Dean stood in the middle of Bobby's lot, a thick blanket wrapped around his shoulders and another at his feet. If it was cold in New Jersey, it was ten times worse in North Dakota. His body shook as a reminder, and he breathed out, suppressing the gentle nudge of the invisible wings hidden inside him.
Note to self: Leave spare clothes at Bobby's. And never change out of pants. Ever.
"You think everything is stupid."
Bobby leaned against one of his junk cars, across from Dean, with his arms crossed and a grimace that would make Oscar the Grouch jealous. He was bundled under a few extra layers, as dawn hadn't quite broken yet, and managed to look colder than Dean, if that were possible.
Dean shrugged his shoulders. "Well, this is the worst."
"Oh, quit your bellyaching. Do you wanna try it in the Panic Room?"
"I'm not going in that room." Dean didn't have anything against the Panic Room in principle. In fact, he thought it was pretty damn awesome. But he'd seen firsthand how it had repelled ghosts and demons alike. He didn't want to take a chance to see if it would repel him, too.
Plus, it was too small, though he didn't tell Bobby that part.
"And you ain't doing it in my house. So buck up, sweetheart."
After giving Bobby a crash course in his new weird reality, the two had decided he needed to get a grip on these unwelcome abilities fast. There was no easing into this problem. More hunters like Connor would get wind of the news soon, and the longer Dean was at the mercy of the wings, the more likely he would become the hunted, Sam included.
No way did he want other hunters going after Sam.
"So, how does it work? You just think of a place and…sayonara?"
"I dunno," Dean admitted. "I told you. I just end up some place else and the wings are out. I don't know if they're supposed to do that or if they're supposed to start that way. None of the angels' wings just pop out whenever they bounce around the universe."
Castiel had taught him some meditation techniques or other New Age crap to keep the wings at rest. He hadn't taught him how to actively use them, which, at the time, had been fine with Dean. While he wasn't sold on Bobby's idea of making the wings work for him, he knew he had to do something. The whole India affair made sure of that.
"Any time now," Bobby said with a sigh.
"Can't rush it," Dean snapped. "This ain't no show."
Bobby just glared at him. "Make sure you got your phone. You best be givin' me a ring."
"Yeah, yeah." His fingers curled around his cell.
He wasn't sure what to do. Was he supposed to let the wings out and then think of where he wanted to go? Was he just supposed to think of the place? Was there something else he'd done the other two times that he'd forgotten?
This was stupid. Figuring out how to teleport wasn't supposed to be part of his life. It was supposed to be part of Star Trek.
Screw this.
"Can't I borrow a car?"
"And what happens if you disappear while driving? You wanna be responsible for that mess?"
Images of wounded people, cars engulfed in flames, and bewildered bystanders popped into his mind. He quickly chased them away. No way was he going to have that on his hands. No way was he going to increase his chances of popping somewhere like that, either.
Exhaling slowly, Dean closed his eyes and tried to focus on the motel. The outline popped into his head, long connected rooms near a pool. Maybe. To be honest, he hadn't really paid much attention when Sam had driven him there. The exterior could have been green, pink, or lemon for all he knew. The design was definitely like those cheap places unsuspecting families stayed at or where teens went to hook up after a prom. All he knew was the vending machine was out of service.
Dean cracked an eye open to find Bobby still in front of him, still leaning on a beat up sedan, and still wearing a sour expression.
"Nadda?" Dean asked.
"Nadda. Next time, try giving it some effort."
Dean scowled. "What do you expect me to do? This isn't like learning to ride a bike."
"It's exactly like learning to ride a bike. And if I recall, you stunk at that, too."
"Thank you for the support. It gets me right here." He motioned to his heart under the blanket.
"Stop being a wiseass and concentrate. If you don't want it, it ain't gonna happen."
Dean supposed there was some truth to those words. Emotion was powerful. Hell, emotion was the reason he and Sam got into trouble half the time.
After readjusting the blanket, Dean closed his eyes once again and concentrated. When he had stepped out of the Impala, there had been a strong smell, one that hit his stomach, and made him think of breakfast. Pancakes. With maple syrup. Thick, but light, and buttery.
An IHOP was across the street.
He screwed his eyes tighter, forcing himself to look beyond the IHOP.
In his mind's eye, the vacancy sign was the first to materialize, followed by the L-shaped stretch of motel rooms. Pale gray paint deepened into a faded pink, and the lines of the parking lot sharpened. Even the air shifted, changing from a cold, dry snap to a chilly, humid one. Dean licked his lips, tasting the mix of maple and moisture in the air.
Sam had to pick a place that looked like it belonged to Barbie's skanky cousin. No wonder he was itching to hit the road. Dean hoped he was doing okay at the mall…
No, not Sam. The motel. He had to concentrate on the motel.
The edges blurred, then sharpened, like a lens coming into focus. The waves made him dizzy, forcing Dean to throw out his hands for stability.
A cold gust smacked him in the face.
Dean's eyes snapped open.
Bobby was staring at him.
Damn. He was still in Sioux Falls.
When Bobby didn't speak, Dean frowned. "What?"
Bobby blinked a few times, as if trying to figure out what to say. A hollow pit formed in Dean's stomach. Bobby don't spook easy.
"You kinda faded there for a minute."
Dean pursed his lips and nodded. That sounded like progress.
But Bobby's face said anything but progress. He was transfixed on a car to Dean's right.
The old Ram truck had nearly been cleaved in two, the passenger side door the only part holding both halves together. The cut itself was clean and sharp, like a hot knife passed through butter.
The pit in his stomach grew.
"I saw 'em. Briefly, just a shadow, or maybe light. Hell, I dunno exactly, but they cut clean through that old lemon."
The wings could slice cars now?
Dean went to readjust the blanket when he realized it was gone. Glancing down, he counted the shreds that lay around his feet. Figures. He wanted to look away, but couldn't bring himself to look at the truck again. "So, what are you saying? I left?" Talking about teleporting seems much safer. That was saying something.
"You were here, but not quite. Not like a spirit, just different." He swallowed hard. "What on earth did they do to you?"
His shoulders sagged as Bobby continued to stare. So Bobby thought he was a freak. Awesome. Getting pulled from Hell was supposed to be a blessing, not a curse. Whoever had the stones to mess around with his body was going to staring down the barrel of his gun, sooner or later.
"Well, this has been fun," Dean muttered with a slight shiver. "Maybe next time I can demolish a house."
"Sorry," Bobby said, his voice soft. "At least you still got your phone."
Dean glanced down before he shot Bobby a glare.
"How you feeling?"
"Super."
"That's helpful."
Dean rubbed his face. "What do you want me to say? That I'm freaked? That I don't have a clue what to do?"
Bobby unfolded his arms and marched up to Dean, staring him straight in the eyes. "These things, they don't define you. Never. Just like how all the crap Sam's got don't define him. You boys are better than that, ya hear? So start acting like it."
He let himself linger in Bobby's intense glare. His eyes were filled with determination, but not anger, only compassion. Despite everything, only compassion.
Dean took a step back, moving away from Bobby and the cleaved vehicles. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before letting it go. Letting it all go.
The earth shifted, the frozen mud and grass smoothing into cold pavement. Dean stumbled as the ground changed, and for a microsecond, thought his hand brushed against the remains of an old Ford pickup. Dean focused harder, reaching out to the faint outline of the motel, as it disappeared and reappeared into the fog.
He wouldn't let the wings keep him from the motel. He wouldn't be stuck useless at Bobby's. He had a job to do.
The lines of the parking lot reemerged, first fuzzy and uneven, before snapping into sharper focus. The aroma of bacon mingled with the lingering scent of snow, filling him simultaneously with warmth and the cold, but it was the promise of his motel room that grounded him. In the distance, he clearly saw the door to his room, the empty spot where the Impala had once been, and the faint glow of the lights Sam must have left on in his haste.
It seemed like a dream, distance, hazy, and soundless.
He wasn't going back to Bobby's. He needed to be here.
As the scene wavered back and forth, vibrating like a rubber band that had been struck, Dean grabbed onto the nearest solid object - a street light. The metal numbed his hand, but he refused to let go.
He felt light, as if on air. The rush of warmth and security hovered behind him.
Everything snapped into place.
Dean blinked twice and swallowed down a wave of nausea. The world was no longer dipping like a ship on choppy waters. Everything around him stilled.
An audible pop reverberated in his head, a thousand sounds rushing in at once.
He winced and covered them, hearing the birds above, the bustle of morning business at the IHOP, and the growing traffic from just around the corner.
It was then he realized he wasn't at the motel exactly. Sunset Paradise was across the street.
Dammit. Close enough.
Dean called upon the meditation techniques Cas had taught him to clear his head. The wings, which had sprung the moment he'd landed, folded back and disappeared, almost without Dean making it a conscious effort. Who'da thunk. He never thought he'd see the day. Maybe there was something to all this New Agey nonsense.
He shook off his moment of weakness and jogged across the street toward the motel.
He gave a nervous wave to a woman who was bundled and waiting outside her door, her shrewd eyes passing more than just judgment.
"Nothing like a morning jog," he muttered, reaching the door.
She said nothing as she walked away.
A hardy shake of the handle confirmed the room was locked. Since Dean hadn't planned on taking flight, he didn't have a copy of the key on him, and God knew where Sam was at this point. Even if he were still at the mall, no way would he come back around to let Dean in.
He glanced at the ground and smiled. A bobby pin would do.
He never would regret learning how to pick locks. After securing the phone with his teeth, he went to work on the door. The motel lock popped open with ease.
When Dean entered the motel and looked around, he could tell Sam had left in a rush. One of the beds was scattered with clothes. The maps littered the table top, untouched. The TV, having long passed news segments, blasted some annoying morning show. Disgusted, Dean switched off the TV.
Bobby would want to know he made it back.
He started to call when he happened to glance at the bed. His duffel was still there, half open. He tossed the phone onto the bed beside the bag and poked through.
Bobby was right. He wasn't going to let this problem define him.
Keeping those words in mind, Dean pulled his clothes out of the bag. There were only a few shirts, the rest tucked away in the car, but this would do. He brought them to the table after clearing off the maps Sam had been using.
Next came the remains of the shirt he was wearing. He peeled it off and looked at the disaster. The wings had sliced right through from when he'd teleported to Bobby's, leaving too uneven, shredded holes. He'd never seen the wings emerge -thankfully-but imagined it must be like a set of knives hacking their way through all at once. Giving them some breathing room might be the quick fix.
He laid out his shirts, lining them up with the destroyed one. He managed to get them centered, more or less.
Then came the scissors.
It only took a few minutes for Dean to estimate where the holes should be. He made quick work of the shirts, while tossing the ruined one in the trash. Now it was time to test it.
He pulled on one of the modified shirts. The straight openings felt weird on his back, like being naked, but it saved him some headaches in the long run, so be it.
Dean focused on letting the wings free.
Swirls of light tumbled out effortlessly, pouring through the slits along his back. As the light lengthened and expanded into solid wings, a wave of relief hit, leaving him with a slight buzz. He didn't know why he hadn't thought of this earlier.
"Enjoying yourself a little too much, it seems."
Dean whipped around, scissors drawn. Across the room stood a looming figure, bulky and powerful.
The wings lengthened and arched in response.
Uriel.
Dean didn't bother to hide them. Cat was out of the bag now. Odd, he supposed, that he didn't care.
They arched higher as he straightened his back. "Good to know you angels are consistent in your douchery."
Uriel scoffed, the smugness on his face unwavering. "If only you knew how insignificant you are. It'd teach you some manners."
"You come all this way to teach me angel etiquette?"
"If only." Uriel rocked back, hands in his pockets, as he appraised Dean. "I came to see this abomination for myself."
Dean clenched his jaw, but remained firm. Uriel's words meant squat. It didn't matter what the angels thought. What mattered was that Uriel knew. How many other angels knew? He could have an army hunting him down. An army on his back meant an army on Sam's back.
He glared at the angel and the wings shook. Castiel had promised.
Uriel chuckled. "You humans look so ridiculous when you're angry. Did you think I wouldn't know?"
"So, what? You're here to kill me?"
"Kill you?" Uriel snorted. "I wouldn't dream of killing you. I'd rather let time run its course."
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
"Do you know what happened to the others?"
"Others?"
"Read the Bible. It's there. Angels mingling with humans. Disgusting. Barbaric. What do you think happened to them, the nephilim?"
Dean wasn't up for Bible study. He didn't care what supposedly happened millennia ago. He cared about the here and now.
"And? Am I supposed to be impressed?"
"You ignorant monkey. If offspring are exterminated, and fallen angels are eliminated, what do you think will happen to some misguided angel's experiment gone wrong?"
Like hell he was some experiment. "Ever heard of accidents? Or are you all too perfect for that?"
"You really believe Castiel is some kind of savior? Is it just an accident that his grace is thriving inside of you? That there just so happens to be this grand conspiracy?" Uriel took a few steps forward, meeting Dean eye to eye. "You're a problem, Dean Winchester. Castiel's problem." He pressed his finger into the front of Dean's shoulder. "What better way to tame you?"
Dean shrugged off Uriel.
The angel just laughed. "Resigned to your fate, I see. Though, the question you should ask is why didn't Castiel tell you?"
Dean's jaw clicked. "I ain't buying what you're selling."
"As you humans say, the simplest answer is usually the correct one." He narrowed his eyes, searching Dean, before offering a sly smile. "Even now, I can feel his grace pumping through you, growing and expanding. How much of you is even left in there?"
As the muscles in Dean's throat tightened, the wings stretching higher.
"Thought so. I tell you this. I won't stand by and let Castiel's misguided empathy destroy him. Nor will I let some eyesore interfere with our mission. Disappear and stay out of our path. You've done enough damage. We'll figure out how to discreetly take care of your problem when our job is done."
"Because you're such a saint."
"Despite his flaws and lack of judgment, Castiel is one of my own. I'll protect him. I'd worry about yourself."
Uriel waved his hand across the TV screen, snapping it to life.
Once again one of the local stations displayed a mixed crowd of reporters and onlookers, reporters, all hovering around the site of the homeless man's ill-gotten shrine. People continued to hold posters, signs, and religious paraphernalia like crosses. Through the gaps in the crowd, Dean noticed the altar was still set up in the alley, but there was no sign of the homeless man.
In fact, the frenzy and excitement from earlier had died. A somber, heavy tone washed over the weary faces of the crowd.
A sense of foreboding hollowed Dean's stomach.
"Like I said, worry about yourself."
Dean turned to the angel, but he was already gone.
This wasn't good. It wasn't good at all.
Dean willed the wings away and snapped off the TV. After taking a quick inventory of the room and packing up, he grabbed one of his undamaged jackets and the overstuffed duffel before walking out the door. Not Uriel or Castiel or Sam were going to keep him locked up anymore. No angels were going to try to manipulate or intimidate him. He was going to take care of things himself.