Author's/Underhill's Note: ...When the hell did I get a life that interfered with writing? Unacceptable, that's what it is. Unacceptable! So this is late (even though I don't have a set schedule, I probably should), and a little shorter than I wanted, but it was a good stopping place. Also, I read through this from chapter 1 and was like, "holy shit, this is why I should not have written half of this while half asleep." When I am someday done with this fic, I am so rewriting it. Like, seriously, I'm kind of embarrassed. But, nevermind that! Chapter 33 YEAAAAAH! As always, disclaimers disclaimers, I don't own anything Supernatural because if I did I would buy a private island and write fics all day long. Thanks readers for putting up with all the inconsistencies and stuff in this, because even though I try and edit I apparently suck at it. Reviews, as always, much appreciated. And... stuff. Always stuff. Okay, I'm gonna go sleep now. Like, sleep. ZZZZzzzzzz.
April 27, 4 AM, 15 miles from Niveus Pharmaceuticals
"There's going to be an outbreak."
Adam's in the middle of a ghost hunt - - not that he'll tell Claire that, as she gave him strict orders (Jesus, a fourteen year old giving him orders) to stay out of harms way - - and has his phone balanced between cheek and shoulder; he's reloading and has no spare hands.
"Really. You don't say. Of what?"
"Do you know what Croatoan is?"
He recalls his history lessons. "An island off of Roanoke?"
"… Uh." Pause. "Maybe? But it's also a demonic disease - - highly contagious, spread by blood, and causes extreme aggression in the infected."
Demonic disease. That's a new one, Adam thinks. "Where?" Maybe after this Hunt…
"Niveus Pharmaceuticals. I hear you're in the city next over."
Adam rolls his eyes, switching the now loaded gun to one hand and the phone to the other. "You heard this from the angels?" He knows she didn't, and imagines her scowling on the other end of the line.
"No. You know I didn't. They still don't know where you are. Though I do, and I know you're not laying low like I told you to."
"Laying low is for suckers, Claire," he says. He sits down at the table and puts the gun down and grabs up another. She must hear him loading this one because he swears he can hear her growl. "Loosen up, kid. You're way too young to be worrying this much."
"And you're way too young to be Hunting monsters," she snaps back.
"So, why are you telling me this?" he asks, switching back to the real topic at hand. "You want me to take care of it?"
Her angry snort speaks to the contrary. "Yeah. That's why I called. To tell you to run towards danger. No, moron, you're supposed to run the opposite goddamn way! Ditch the Hunt and head east, got it?"
Adam hmms, but has no intention of leaving a Hunt unfinished.
"…You're not going to go, are you?"
"Nah, probably not."
She sighs. "You're an idiot. You barely know what you're doing and you think you can take down a demonic PLAGUE - - "
"I know what I'm doing."
"You are infuriating!"
"I still know what I'm doing." He can hear a deep breath being taken on the other side of the line. Undoubtedly Claire trying to calm down. He decides to take pity on her. "Okay, okay, I'll go. Right after I finish this Hunt, I'll head for the next state over. Happy?"
A relieved sigh. "Yeah. Good. Thank you."
"Now, if you'll excuse me…"
"By the way, before you hang up? It's a buruburu." Now there's a grin in her voice. "Have fun."
"Hey! No spoilers!" he yells, but she's already hung up.
April 27, 4 AM, Chuck's house
Chuck finishes the last page of the latest prophecy. Like he told Sam and Dean, he never stopped writing the books - - he never stopped having the dreams - - and he hasn't stopped now, despite… circumstances. Circumstances being the end of the world.
Things aren't turning out how Chuck expected; if he weren't just a ghost writer, he would make the plot go a lot differently. For instance: way too many Winchesters running around out there. Good God, two were enough, but now FOUR? He shudders just thinking about it.
He holds the pages up to the light, examining the last lines. He shakes his head. Seriously, not at all what he expected. He lights a match then, and burns the page.
Said I had to keep writing them, he thinks to himself. Didn't say what I had to do with them.
The last few months have been hard for Chuck. He's had to get tougher, cleverer. He's learned to keep secrets, even from angels. He's learned how to protect himself, and to protect others.
Protect others. He snorts. He's never had to do that before. Hell, he barely knew how to take care of himself. Now he's at the center of something big, trying to balance too many plates at once. The angels are counting on that; they're counting on the fact that Chuck can't hold under the pressure to manage to change things despite knowing the outcome. Chuck's weak, they think.
Fuckers don't know who they're dealing with.
He watches the last of the pages burn before he heads back to the living room. He takes a swig of Daniels before laying his head down on the cushions.
He's tired, god he's always tired. He takes a bracing breath and closes his eyes.
He wakes with a yell.
"Jesus." He grabs for the phone and falls off the couch. From the ground he manages to wrestle it one handed off the coffee table. "Jesus," he mutters again, and dials.
April 27, 4 AM, Sioux Falls, South Dakota
Cas paces, sawed off in his hand. He can't seem to stay still.
Bobby looks up at him, clearly annoyed. "What's your problem?"
Castiel looks heavenward. Heavenward, he thinks. Somewhere I'll never we again. Everything is bleak. It's… "This is what they mean by the eleventh hour, right?"
"Pretty much."
Castiel doesn't respond. Gabriel comes up behind him and pats him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, little bro. You can stay home. We need someone to coordinate movement anyway." He takes the sawed off from unresisting hands. He points it at his face and asks, "So, how does this thing work anyway?"
Bobby shakes his head. "I don't want to know if you're kidding."
"He is," Castiel says dully. "He's walked earth for longer than any of us; he knows how to fire a gun."
Gabriel scowls. "Spoilsport."
It grows quiet though when Rufus and Sam come out of the house. They come to stand face to face, several feet across from each other.
"Well," Rufus says. "Good luck stopping the whole… 'zombie apocalypse.'"
"Yeah," Sam responds. "Good luck killing Death." He makes an awkward face when he says that.
"Yeah."
Sam huffs a little laugh suddenly, breaking the tension of the situation, because goddamn, taking a step back, he can see how ridiculous it is. "I remember when we used to just… hunt wendigos. How simple things were." He doesn't need to say who 'we' is. Dean's ghost hangs between them. Sam misses him. The world is ending, and Sam still aches. Rufus slaps him on the back, a comforting yet gruff gesture.
"Things were never simple, Sam."
Sam laughs. "Well, um." He pulls out a familiar knife, once given to him; now he's giving it to Rufus. "You might need this."
"Keep it." He flinches internally. God, he hates Crowley, always popping up out of nowhere, ruining the moment. The demon keeps on though, handing Rufus a small scythe. "Dean's covered. Death's own." Sam's eyes widen. "Kills, golly, demons and angels and reapers and - - rumor has it - - the very thing itself."
Castiel's eyes narrow. "How did you get that?"
Both Crowley and Gabriel roll their eyes as one. "Hello," they say, unconsciously one echoing the other, "King of the Crossroads." They double take when they realize what happened, and Castiel smiles - - not a strong smile, but a smile. Crowley coughs, and continues, "So, shall we? Bobby, you just gonna sit there?"
"No," Bobby says in a disgusted tone. "I'm gonna river dance."
"I suppose, if you want to impress the ladies. "Bobby, Bobby, Bobby. Really wasted that Crossroads Deal," Crowley says. "Fact: you get more if you phrase it properly. So, I took the liberty of adding a teeny little sub-a clause on your behalf." This earns him a funny look and the demon shrugs. "What can I say? I'm an altruist. Just gonna sit there?"
Bobby doesn't blink. Carefully, he nudges one foot off the chair. Then the other. To the Hunters' shock, he stands. "Son of a bitch," he whispers.
"Yes, I know," Crowley says. "Completely worth your soul. I'm a hell of a guy."
…Castiel thinks it has a lot less with altruism and being a 'hell of a guy' and more to do with certain other angel watching on. Bobby doesn't seem to notice or care though. "Thanks," he breathes.
"This is getting maudlin. Can we go?"
"Hell, yes," Rufus says. "Enough gabbing. Let's go kill something."
5 AM
Dean and Sam will never know that Castiel was at the 'first annual Supernatural convention.' He wasn't in the seats, and he wasn't in the back with the Winchesters. No, Castiel sat in the rafters, where no one could see him. Having wings definitely has its advantages.
"Welcome to the first annual Supernatural convention. At 3:45 in the Magnolia room we have the panel, 'Frightened little boy, the secret life of Dean.'" He looks down at Dean and back up at the podium. He thinks maybe that might be a useful… 'panel' … to attend. "And at 4:30, there's the 'Homoerotic subtext of Supernatural.'" While one boy's eyebrows raise into his hair, the other one's scrunch into bewildered embarrassment. Castiel's cheeks pink.
The thoughts he's had of Dean have been getting stronger and more… detailed. It's confusing, God it's confusing, but the more confusing his thoughts get, the clearer what he wants becomes.
"…And of course, the big hunt starts at seven pm sharp!"
The fans below him cheer, and Cas swings his legs. He should probably leave soon before someone sees him.
"But right now, right now I'd like to introduce the man himself. The creator, the writer of the Supernatural books. The one, the only, Carver Edlund!"
More cheering, but Cas barely notices. He stares at Dean with a hungry look. Then, before he decides to stay, he disappears again.
Sitting at home - - and when did Bobby's become home? - - Castiel relives that day and his chest hurts.
Sometimes… Sometimes he almost wishes the world would end. He just wants it to be over. He's tired, Dean's gone, and to Cas? What else is there? He can't see a future for himself, and he can't bring himself to care about the world's future either.
That's why he's here instead of with Sam, Bobby, and Gabriel. Gabriel knows; he could sense outside Bobby's that Cas's heart isn't in it. Castiel wants nothing to do with this fight, wants as far away from it as humanly possible.
Sitting by the phones, Cas stares at nothing.
3 PM, Chicago, Illinois
Rufus enters the pizza joint with a wariness he hasn't felt in a long time. Don't get him wrong, Rufus is a paranoid bastard, but Death? This is insane, even for him. Someone has to do it, though, and good god, at least it's not Sam.
Crowley told him to use Death's own scythe against the Horseman, but Rufus ain't stupid. Take on Death? He snorts gently to himself. He might as well try and crush the universe with one damn hand. Instead, he approaches carefully, arms straight by his sides, nonthreatening as a Hunter can be. It's a good thing he's not TRYING to be sneaky, or else his pride might be hurt when the scythe's handle goes red hot in his hands and he drops it to the ground with a clatter.
"Thanks for returning that." Rufus sees the instrument reappear besides Death on the table. Well, that's one way of returning it, he supposes. "Join me, Rufus. The pizza's delicious. Sit down." The man - - except he's not a man, not really, is he - - gestures for Rufus to take a seat. To any outside observer they might be two friends sitting down to dinner, two older men getting on in years, shooting the shit. Except for the corpses. The corpses that surround them kind of spoils the effect. "Took you long enough to find me. I've been wanting to talk to you." Rufus has definitely got mixed feelings on that one. "But, I didn't expect it to be you."
"And who did you expect?"
"I rather thought it would be Dean."
"Dean's a demon and in HELL. Don't think they give out Apocalypse Leave"
"Demon? Hell? Whatever gave you THAT idea?"
Things halt for a moment, at least for Rufus. Because… "You mean he isn't?"
"I mean maybe you shouldn't believe everything you hear from monsters. Maybe you should do a little… independent research. But that's not what we're here for today, is it?"
"No," Rufus says. His mind is whirring a million miles a minute now - - Dean's what? - - but he forces it back into quiet. He's here for a purpose. "I'm here for that." He points right at Death's finger, to that heavy-looking ring on his hand.
"You're here to take it?"
Rufus snorts. "I'm not STUPID." Who the hell thinks they can fight DEATH?
"…No, I suppose you aren't. I am curious as to what your plan was, though."
He leans forward slightly, and says with utter sincerity. "Ask nicely."
Death blinks before turning back to his pizza. He cuts a bite and gestures for Rufus to take a bite. "Eat. Good, isn't it?" Rufus isn't here for the pizza, but eats anyway because he figures if he doesn't want to get squashed, he should at least put forth the minimum effort in being polite.
"Sensible," Death agrees, and Rufus realizes that goddamn, the thing just read my goddamn mind. "Of course I can, if I wish. Usually, though, it's quite boring, what you creatures think about."
"And if you can hear what I'm thinking, why am I not dead yet?" Because Rufus hasn't been thinking the most flattering things.
"Oh trust me, I don't think that much of you either. You see, the leash around my neck, I want it - - off. Lucifer has me bound to him. Some unseemly little spell. He has me where he wants, when he wants. That's why I couldn't go to Dean, I had to wait for one of you to catch up to me. Like I said though, you… you're unexpected."
"Yeah, yeah."
"…And it took you long enough. Lucifer has made me his weapon. Hurricanes, floods, raising the dead. I'm more powerful than you can process and I'm enslaved to a bratty child with a temper tantrum."
Rufus doesn't say anything. What CAN he say? Sense says that Rufus? Rufus himself can't solve this. Death's gotta have a game plan, so he might as well wait to hear what it is.
"You see, there you go again, being sensible. I had a whole speech planned out for Dean. I suppose I won't be able to use it now." If Rufus didn't know better, he'd say the Horseman was a little disappointed.
"You could lay it on me anyway."
"No, no. Nice of you to offer though, but it wouldn't be the same. I suppose someone else will have to knock some sense into the protozoan when the time comes. Anyway, this ring?" He lifts his hand back towards Rufus so he can see it. "I'm inclined to give it to you."
Rufus raises his eyebrows. "Give it to me."
A nod. "Give it to you."
"Just like that."
"Just like that."
"And Chicago?" he asks.
Death's lip twitches up in what Rufus imagines is his equivalent of a smile. "Chicago? I suppose it can stay. I like the pizza." His eyes grow harder. "There are conditions."
"Knew there would be."
"You have to do whatever it takes to put Lucifer in his cell."
Rufus rolls his eyes (probably the only mortal who's dared to in front of Death and will live to tell about it). "Of course."
"WHATEVER it takes."
"Yeah, that's the plan."
"No. No plan. Not yet. Your young Winchester friend, Sam. He's the one that can stop Lucifer. The only one."
"Yeah…" Rufus says softly. "Yeah, I know."
"So, I need a promise. You're going to let Sam Winchester jump right into that fiery pit. Well, do I have your word?"
If he were Bobby, or Cas, or Dean, his answer would be different. Or hell, the same, but he probably wouldn't mean it. But Rufus knows.
"You have my word."
"Good, because you know you can't cheat Death. Now, would you like the instruction manual?"
Oh, Rufus has GOT to see this.
He ends up taking a to-go box.
April 27, 11 PM, Lawrence, Kansas
Not so deep down, Dean has never believed he should be saved. He doesn't think he deserves it. When it comes down to it, he doesn't think anyone else truly believes he should be either. Except Bela, but she's different. She sees something in him that he doesn't even see in himself. She is the exception. But his family...
Sam never thought much of him, he knows. He loved him, sure; Dean was his older brother. But there was always judgement there. Dean went along with orders too readily ("You have no mind of your own!"), slept around too much ("Seriously, you're a manwhore"), and then, yeah, the Hell thing (no way could Sam respect someone who broke, tortured people, no way Dean knows).
His father… he knows also that his father loved him too. But Dean was never an innocent, and his father knew that. Dean wasn't Sam. For all that they fought, Sam was his dad's pride and joy. Smart, fiercely independent, with a bright future, where Dean was a high school dropout, a follower, who'd never amount to anything more than being a Hunter. It was fine for John, sure, but he expected better from his sons.
The only people who accepted him unconditionally, he believes, are Castiel and Bela, and Castiel… Well. It turns out Castiel changed his mind. Dean can't even say he blames him.
It still hit as a shock though. Sometimes even now, when he wakes up out of a dream, it takes him a moment to realize that Cas left him. After everything, Cas left him to rot in a field, never even tried to find him.
Dean isn't good enough to be saved. He's not worth it.
Bela rolls over in her sleep, as if sensing his sleepless thoughts, and ruffles his hair. "Go t'sleep Dee," she mutters. She curls into his side and sighs contentedly.
Dean smiles and pulls her closer. As a sibling, he's not ashamed to say Bela fills the hole much better than Sam does.