Chapter 15
Whitefish, Montana
Dean stared down at the cup in his hands. He would've preferred whiskey, to push the demon's images further away, but he couldn't take that way out. He needed to be sharp. Needed to be all there, nothing dulled down. He would kill Crowley, with his bare hands if need be.
"You okay?" Sam asked, setting a second mug of coffee on the table and taking the chair opposite.
Glancing up at him, Dean drew in a breath and nodded, seeing the question his brother wasn't asking in Sam's worried expression. He couldn't tell him what the demon had planted in his mind. Lifting the cup and swallowing a mouthful of the hot, black coffee, its heat filling his throat and stomach, chasing out the residual chill, he knew he wouldn't be able to tell anyone about it. Some things were better forgotten, locked up in the dark.
"He tell you what he wanted?" he asked, and he heard Sam's sigh, keeping his eyes on the cup.
"Yeah," Sam said after a moment, pulling the paper sheet from his pocket and reading it before he passed it to his brother. "He wants us to take Cas to Sunrise, Wyoming. Gave us two days."
Dean put the cup down and took the paper, brows knitting up as he read. "Grant Street, Sunrise. Wyoming. Six p.m. May 21." He looked at his brother. "Colt's trap? The hell he wants to meet there for?"
Sam shrugged. "No idea. He can't use that gate without the key and the tracks wouldn't be an advantage to him, even broken."
Dean nodded slowly. The railway tracks, almost pure iron, had kept the gate safe for a long time. Most demons couldn't cross them. He wasn't sure if Crowley would find them impossible to cross as well. The demon's increased powers were still a big fat unknown.
The key was the gun. Gone now. Maybe lost for good. He wondered absently if it would kill Crowley.
There are only five things in Creation that gun cannot kill, Lucifer had told his brother, on a hill in Carthage. Because Lucifer was, well, Lucifer? Fallen archangel? Or because Lucifer had been the ruler of Hell?
Didn't matter, he reminded himself impatiently. They didn't have Colt's gun and had run out of ideas years ago on finding it. When Ellie'd looked for it, it hadn't been on this plane.
He ducked his head, closing his eyes as the thought occurred. Had that been one of the reasons she'd tried to get into Hell?
"Tracks are still there, ain't they?" Bobby asked, pulling his attention back.
He nodded. "S'far as I know."
"We could use 'em, you know," the ghost said. "Repair the section that got torn up and –"
"Trap Crowley in there?" Sam asked, brows rising.
"No," Bobby said, pushing his cap higher on his brow. "Create a diversion, somethin' to hold the King of Hell's attention while you two dive in Hell and find Ellie, get her out."
"Think that'd work?"
"I think there's a reason Crowley picked Sunrise," the ghost countered. "Maybe he thinks you two'll try to bargain with him there, Cas on one side of the tracks, Ellie on the other? I don't know, but he's not a poker player."
Dean's brows drew together as he looked at the dead hunter. Crowley wasn't. He relied on people doing what he expected them to, he didn't take into consideration alternative strategies.
"Crowley keeps his deals," he said.
Bobby's gaze didn't waver. "Only if he gets what he wants. He puts you in a position where you're thinking about double-crossing him and you know what he'll do."
Dean swallowed, dropping his gaze. Yeah, he knew.
"So, uh …" Sam looked from Bobby to Dean. "What do we do that gets his attention?"
"He's gonna have eyes on you boys, an' anyone you involve, right?" Bobby said.
"Right," Dean agreed. The sonofabitch had probably already tracked them here.
"So we give him somethin' to watch."
"Rebuild the pentagram," Dean said, lifting one brow at Sam. "He thinks we're gonna try to trap him there …"
"… he might be watching Wyoming harder than he's watching his own back door," Bobby finished, nodding.
Sam looked at him. "We're gonna need a few people."
"Yep," Dean said. "We'll start calling around."
Hell. Second Level.
Her nervous system was registering a load of pain, most of it sharp but minor and she breathed deeply, letting it wash through her until she could block it away from conscious thought. When it'd receded to somewhere in the middle distance, Ellie opened her eyes, looking under her lashes and through the curtain of her hair without moving her head.
Crowley had gone, taking his servant with him.
She could hear Frank's laboured breathing a dozen yards away, but there was no other sound in the cavern.
"Frank?"
He was still bound to a chair, sitting where Crowley'd left him, his eyes widening as he looked up and met her gaze. New bruising was coming up over the old and blood had dried to a rusty-stain in the gray stubble over his jaw and throat.
"Ellie? Are you – stupid question – but are you alright?" Frank's voice sounded strained.
"I'm okay," she said automatically.
She looked at the mirror, sitting opposite her on the rock. Crowley had the other one, the receiver. She knew what he'd done with it. She shut out the emotion that pushed at her with that knowledge, diverting it elsewhere to be dealt with when this was over. She was hoping Dean would do the same.
The sulphurous air stung in the cuts on her arms and legs. They were superficial mostly, designed for maximum visual effect. The demon'd done more damage to her clothes than to her body. She wasn't sure why Crowley wasn't doing this for real; she couldn't imagine what further purpose he might have for her, but it gave her more time, and with time, there would be chances, better opportunities.
Her shoulders were screaming with her weight resting on the twisted joints, and the heavy shackles were scraping the skin off her wrists, leaving them raw, but she'd had worse and she thought if she kept moving, those injuries wouldn't stop her from being able to get them out.
"Frank, they still using the cable ties to bind you?" she asked him.
"Yeah."
"Those ties have a bit of give in them. The plastic will stretch some. Can you work against them? See if you can loosen them up?" She drew in a lungful of air and started coughing as the dry, acidic taste filled her throat.
"I'll try."
She needed him loose. The shackles were a close fit around her wrists and flesh would give but not bone. She had nothing to slick her skin with; even her blood was drying too fast in the arid heat of the cavern.
Below her, Frank grunted as he twisted his hands against the ties. There was nothing more she could do to help him, she thought. Or herself. Except rest.
Closing her eyes, she pulled the symbol from memory, visualising it in greater and greater detail until it shut out everything else. Her body relaxed, her heart slowing along with her breathing as the long-practised meditation took hold. In her mind's eye, behind the detailed ideogram, she envisaged a small, dark room, away from the pain and anxiety, away from everything, safe enough to sleep in.
Five a.m. May 20, 2012. Whitefish, Montana
Sam put the cell on the table, stretching out the kinks and stiffness in his neck. He turned to look at his brother. Dean was sitting on the couch, the gear bag open at his feet, four weapons lying on the low table in front of him and his hands full of his disassembled automatic.
"We've got Garth, Dwight and Trip, Marcus and Twist. They'll meet us at Rapid City tonight," he said, watching Dean pick up a brush. "Still not getting an answer from Meg."
Dean grunted an acknowledgement, working the brush through the barrel.
Getting to his feet, Sam tucked the notepad into his shirt pocket and walked to the kitchen. The coffee pot'd run out an hour ago. Filling the glass jug and pouring the water into the reservoir, the relief he'd felt at seeing his older brother out of Crowley's spell was being undermined by his brother's refusal to talk about what it'd entailed, and a growing awareness that the tight restraint Dean was exerting on himself was paper thin. That underneath, Dean was ready to detonate. He wasn't sure if his brother would explode or implode.
He spooned ground coffee into the filter.
If you ever mention Lisa and Ben to me again, I will break your nose.
The spoon slid from his fingers, clattering softly on the timber counter as he rested his forehead against the cupboard door. At the time, he'd known it was primarily guilt that'd been driving Dean's grief. Guilt and fear about putting two people he'd cared about into the line of fire. Guilt he'd believed the angel instead of trusting his instincts. Guilt and more guilt that without the angel, Lisa would've died and that would've been on him as well. It'd only been a couple of months ago Dean'd let out something of what he'd been going through, the two years between Ellie disappearing and her return to Sioux Falls.
"Why didn't you say something?" he'd demanded when his older brother had told him the truth about going to Cicero and living there, trying to be normal.
"Tell you what?" Dean'd snorted. "You were about to take the devil back to the Cage for good, Sammy. Forever." He'd shaken his head. "I was gunna get pissy about your last request? No."
He'd thought Dean was over Ellie when he'd told him to go find Lisa. Had thought his brother had wanted a family – had needed a family – and he'd thought he'd done the right thing. When he'd said those things, Dean'd given him a wry look.
"When she didn't come back, I figured it was her choice, y'know?" he'd said, his gaze cutting away. "You think I was gonna tell you about it?"
No, Sam'd allowed reluctantly.
No, he'd known Dean wouldn't've admitted he was in love, or that his heart was breaking, or that he'd lost what he'd wanted … not to him, anyway.
"I waited for a while at Bobby's," Dean'd added. "Thought she had to know, about, uh, the cage closing and what'd happened. I really thought she'd come back then, when you were gone."
Under the prosaic tone, he'd heard something else. The old hurt, not, maybe, yet healed up the way it should've. Ellie hadn't come back.
After checking that Dean had settled in Cicero, Sam had gone to Sioux Falls to see Bobby, to tell him to make sure everyone knew that Dean was to be left alone. Bobby'd told him what Ellie's no-show had done to his brother, the way Dean'd withdrawn, pretending it didn't matter, telling them he was going to honour his brother's last request. He hadn't believed it then.
Putting the jug on the burner and flipping the machine on, Sam leaned against the counter, watching Dean clean the barrel and chamber with solvent, oil, wipe, reassemble and load the automatic in his hands, setting it aside and picking up the next handgun, going through the same process of pulling it down.
You know, I wanted you to be out. Get married. Have kids. Be, uh, happy, you know? But I never saw that for myself. And that was okay – I mean, I understood that, I was okay with that … until I … uh … when she … well, until I figured maybe it was possible for me too.
Behind him, the coffee pot burped and gurgled to itself and Sam straightened when that memory, so much more recent, replayed in his mind. Dean hadn't been thinking like that with Lisa, he knew. Hadn't gotten near it. But the way his brother always dealt with fear and tension was to keep it bottled up, for as long as he could, or until something do-able let him release it with controlled fury.
His brother's attention on the guns was meticulous, and Bobby's yard popped into his mind, the black car up on blocks, the sunlight spearing off the battered chrome.
We've got nothing, Sam. Nothing, okay? So you know the only thing I can do? I can work on the car.
The only thing he could do right now was to make sure all their gear was ready to go, Sam thought, turning away from the sight and staring at the rising level of the coffee as it dripped into the glass jug. He wouldn't talk to anyone, couldn't think about what could be happening.
He didn't think it was guilt. He was pretty sure it was self-preservation.
Bobby sat by the window, the high magnification lamp over the parchment, transcribing the spell laboriously. The language was Akkadian. He'd found the key in Pritchard's Ancient Near East Texts,Writings of the Ancient World and Hallo & Younger's Context of Scripture lay open nearby.
He'd worked through the list of ingredients required, frowning periodically as a word refused to be modernised. It had taken him an hour and a half to discover the bitterwood required by the spell was actually Tamarix aphylla, a well known desert plant, easily available.
While Sam'd been grabbing a couple of hours sleep, Dean'd told him about Ellie's plans to develop a database for hunters, cross-referencing everything in the supernatural world with the experiences and accounts she could find, the texts she'd accumulated.
"Don't know what she thinks it's gonna do," the younger man'd said, with a baffled shrug. "Most hunters wouldn't know one end of a computer from the other, even for research."
"Oh, I don't know," Bobby'd told him, thinking of all the times he'd gotten stuck on jobs, not recognising what he'd been hunting, making mistakes. Even Rufus had made a few not-insignificant mistakes through not checking on the lore closely enough. "Make figurin' out what's around easier. Maybe even help to track 'em before they start killin'. Can't rely on personal experience in this life. Too much out there."
Would'a made this job a helluva lot easier, he thought, grateful that at least all this hunching over couldn't give him the back pain he'd had when he was alive. The pros of being in this state were few and far between but that was one he was glad of.
He'd been relieved Dean could talk about her, had wanted to talk about her. In the past, the good, the bad and the indifferent had all been bagged up together, Dean refusing to acknowledge any of it when he'd been scared of the end game, keeping his mind fixed on a single goal. The ghost recalled the conversations he and Ellie'd had about Dean, when he'd been out of their lives, and he wondered if the same process applied. They'd just wanted to feel close to him again, even if briefly.
7.00 a.m.
"When do you want to leave to get Cas?" Sam asked, glancing at his watch as he stifled another yawn. They'd worked through half the night, taking shifts to crash for a couple of hours. He didn't think his brother had slept at all. Every weapon they had was cleaned, oiled and loaded, packed into bags to go into the four-wheel drive. Dean'd spent a couple of hours going through the cabin from top to bottom, seeing what Rufus and Bobby'd had in the way of some of the ingredients they needed to open a hell gate.
Dean finished packing away the bags and small boxes of herbs and bone into the gear bag before he looked up.
"We're not getting Cas," Dean said, getting to his feet, his voice a little deeper than usual but steady and absolutely certain. "We'll meet up with the others tonight, then you and me'll go to the gate at Sioux Falls."
"Dean, that's a big risk –" Sam argued.
Dean's expression was implacable as he cut his little brother off. "She doesn't have two days, Sam. If he leaves her like that, for that long … in Hell's time …"
He trailed off, turning away. Sam saw his throat working as he swallowed whatever it was he'd been unable to get out.
He didn't need to say it, Sam thought. The list of damage would be extensive without the demon laying another finger on her. Torn ligaments, torn muscle, bones out of alignment and the strain on her body immense.
"We're hitting that gate tonight," Dean said, turning back and reaching for the bag. "We'll take care of Crowley afterwards."
Sam watched him as he carried the bag to the cabin's door and dropped it there. Dean stopped and glanced back at Bobby. "You about done?"
Bobby nodded. "Yeah, I think so."
"What d'we still need to get?"
The ghost looked down at the list he'd made. "Aconite, blind worm's sting, adder's fork, hemlock - root and stem, powdered cat bones, yew - dried, goldenrod, bitterwood, rowan ash, bat spleen, dried lizard tongue, Jimson weed, wolfberry, mandrake – root, murderer's semen, umbilicus blood, horn of innocence."
He looked up, catching Dean's expression. "Tricky part ain't finding it. Some of it's easy an' I'm pretty sure I know where we can get hold of the rest. But I gotta have one of you along 'cause I haven't figured out how to carry anything worth a damn yet."
"Alright," Dean said, his doubts clear in his voice. "Sam, copy out the crap you recognise and can get. That place Dad had in the journal in Billings is still there.
Sam nodded, taking the list and skimming over it. He pulled out his notebook and started writing, brow wrinkling up as he tried to imagine where Bobby was going to find murderer's semen or umbilicus blood in time to meet up.
Dean picked up the flask, tucking it into his pocket. "We'll meet you in Rapid City when we're done."
He picked up the bag, and hesitated at the doorway. Sam glanced at him, straightening as he saw the expression on his brother's face.
"What?"
"If, uh, the place in Billings is missing anything, Ellie … uh, she had a supplier in Lincoln," he added. "Uh, Golden Dawn Imports."
Sam snorted. "Yeah, I'll try it. Poetic justice for Crowley."
"How's that?"
"Golden Dawn?" Sam raised a brow. "It was a society for occult practitioners, uh, founded by Aleister Crowley."
"Huh." Dean's gaze dropped. "Okay. You, uh finished with that list?"
"Yeah," Sam said, checking his copy. Bobby was right, he thought, handing Dean the ghost's original list. Most of it wouldn't be that hard to find. Ingredients to open a Hell gate. A faint shiver trembled through him.
"Dean?"
His brother stopped halfway out the door. "What?"
"You certain about this?"
"Yeah." Dean turned and walked out and Bobby vanished.
Swallowing his misgivings, Sam grabbed his satchel, picking up the maps and files and the laptop and shoving them in. It'd take him about seven hours to get to Billings. Allowing an hour or so to get the spell's ingredients, he thought he'd be in Rapid City by seven or eight at the latest. Patting his pocket for phone, wallet and the list, he opened the cabin door and headed for his car.
Hell. Third Level.
Ellie felt the change as Crowley entered the cavern, her subconscious prodding her to wakefulness when the demon spoke.
"Get her down."
The brusque command surprised her. She kept her eyes closed, her body limp as she heard footsteps approaching. The shackles were loosened and taken off her ankles. She was held by a pair of strong arms and lifted and another pair of hands undid and removed the metal cuffs around her wrists.
Freed from her weight and the bindings, her arms dropped to her sides and she needed every ounce of self-control she possessed to stop from screaming as the stretched tendons and muscles were released, the blood flow quickening to nerve and tissue. The demon holding her let her fall and she twisted as her knees hit the ground, rolling onto her side.
Breathe, she told herself, trying to ignore the waves of pain spiking out from her joints. Breathe through it, it'll get better, don't tense up, just breathe.
She heard the demon's footsteps approaching, tensing as she felt him loom over her, the polished black leather shoes stopping a couple of inches from her head. A hand fisted in her hair and pulled her head up and back, Crowley leaning in close.
"Surprised you're off the hook?" he asked, smirking at her. She stared back at him, and he shrugged, the smile disappearing.
"Promised you back in reasonable condition, if Dean does what he's told," he said. "And I always keep my deals. If, however, the Winchesters don't deliver, it'll be a different story. You'll be back up there and then, my dear, it won't be for show."
He let go and rose from the crouch. "Lock 'em up."
One of Crowley's men grabbed her shoulder and hauled her upright and Ellie let out a whimper, catching a glimpse of Crowley's smile as he turned away. The demon half-carried, half-dragged her behind him as the second one cut Frank loose and shoved him in front.
They made slow progress back to the elevator, the demon holding her cursing as Ellie tripped and stumbled, twice falling to the ground.
"Just carry her," the second demon snarled at the first when she collapsed again, still fifty yards from the open lift. "It'll take all day at this rate!"
Grunting, the possessed man glared at her as he pinned her forearms together in one meaty hand, hoisting her over his shoulder and gripping her ankles. She cried out and let herself slump over him. From behind the curtain of her hair, she saw Frank glance back worriedly. She'd have to explain when they got to wherever they were going, she thought, and were alone.
The ride up was shorter. The realisation kicked in as the doors opened, and the demon carrying her stepped out into a plain, featureless corridor. Somewhere near the top of the third level, she thought. The rock walls were smoothed but without the institutionalised look that characterised the levels Crowley'd changed. The floor was flat but not smooth, the rough cuts still visible. Along its length, plain barred doors stretched out on both sides. Holding pens, she thought. Not for souls, but for recidivist demons, or mortals who had something Crowley wanted.
The demons walked twenty yards down the corridor and stopped in front of an open cell. The demon carrying her walked in and dumped her onto the stone floor, backing out past Frank. Ellie stayed on the floor, lying still as the door clanged shut. She listened as the demons footsteps receded down the corridor, then rolled carefully onto her back, sitting up and turning her head to look at Frank.
"How're you doing?"
His eyes widened at her, and he shook his head. "That was my question. Thought you were ready to pass out."
Shaking her hair back from her face, she rocked awkwardly from side to side until she was sitting cross-legged, grimacing as she forced her arms to lift and rest on her knees.
"I'm alright," she said, adding, "It's, um, just habit to convince an enemy that you're in worse shape than you are."
She gently rotated her wrists, flexing her fingers in small increments. "My shoulders aren't great, but they'll work with a bit of help," she said a moment later, feeling his eyes on her. She smiled, feeling the swelling over her cheekbone pull with the gesture. "The rest is pretty superficial, Frank. Crowley wanted it to look bad. He used that mirror to - to show Dean."
"Yeah, that much I figured out on my own," Frank said, scratching at one brow. "D'you think Dean'll play ball?"
"I don't know," she said. Lifting a hand cautiously, she gestured at the barred door. "Bottom line? I'd rather he wasn't put into that position."
"You think we can get out of here?"
"Yes." She glanced at him, smiling at the doubt in his face. "I've, um, been here before. If we can get up to the first level, there's a gate we can go through. Opens in Ohio."
"Sounds like a plan," he conceded. "Uh, don't take this the wrong way, but given your … er … condition, was it a good idea to push that demon so hard?"
"No, probably not," she said, ducking her head as she tried to roll her shoulders. "He's not all that fond of me to start with, but I wanted to know what he was trying to achieve."
"Did you find out?"
"Not conclusively. He wants – he wants Dean to give up a friend," she said, deciding against going into more detail. The entire history between Dean and the angel was too complicated to be summarised. "It could be for revenge, or it might be something more – something the friend is currently holding. I was hoping he'd clarify that."
"Uh huh," Frank said. He rubbed a hand over his jaw. "Are you in – uh – any kind of shape to – uh – handle a running battle to get out of here? I mean, don't get me wrong, I want out, but maybe, in your case, it might be, uh, safer, to let Dean make the exchange?"
"Crowley keeps his deals," Ellie said, shaking her head. "But he likes to find ways to twist the letter of them to his advantage. It would be a big mistake to wait around and see what happens."
A mistake she couldn't afford to make, she thought, flexing her fingers into fists. The demon had too much leverage over her and he'd use it, one way or another.
"Besides," she added, wincing a little as an incautious movement pulled at the muscle of her arms. "I'm more of a sneaker, not a fighter. With any luck at all, we won't see anyone on the way out and no one'll be the wiser as to where we went."
"Ah, uh … okay."
"Don't worry so much," she told him. "I need to get some mobility back but it's all do-able."
"I – uh," he started to say, stopping and clearing his throat self-consciously. "Did a shiatsu course three years ago. If that … would help?"
Ellie wondered why he seemed embarrassed to admit to it. "Uh, yeah. That would be a big help," she said.
Getting to his knees, Frank shuffled across the stone floor to sit behind her.
"It was – uh – well, you know," he mumbled to her back as he lifted her hair over her shoulder. "A lady friend – at the time – recommended it."
Ah, Ellie thought, ducking her head and repressing a smile.
Frank started with a very light pressure, probing delicately along the muscles and around the joints. When she didn't make a sound, he applied more pressure, teasing the muscles and soothing the tendons, helping her circulation to carry fresh blood to the inflamed areas.
Closing her eyes, Ellie continued to flex her fingers carefully as she felt the gentle massage taking the sharp edge from the pain. It wouldn't do much, she thought. She'd been strung up for too long, there would be swelling and deep bruising that nothing but rest was going to fix, but she didn't need much movement or pain relief, just a little.
Behind her, she felt Frank lifted the tattered cloth – all that remained of the tee shirt she'd been wearing – and let it drop down her arms. From the corner of her eye, she watched him look over the damage the demon'd done, his face screwing up as he took it in.
The joints would be rapidly swelling, probably surrounded by discolorations surrounding the collarbone, shoulder and scapula. The bruising was already running down her upper arms. Over and around the tissue damage, small cuts and grazes had already begun to scab over, black dried blood flakes and surface bruising leaving hardly a square of smooth skin. She was a fast healer, under normal conditions, and most of the cuts and grazes would be gone in a week or two.
"It looks worse than it is."
"Does it?" he asked, sighing. "This isn't going to help much, y'know."
"I know," Ellie said. "If you can relax the tension and keep it from stiffening, it'll be enough."
Gillette, Wyoming
Dean slid the pick through the wards, and over the tensioner. He lifted the pins and heard the lock click. The interior of the store was pitch black, and he flashed his penlight around the doorway, gaze following the beam's path as he looked for a silent alarm, letting out his breath when he spotted the small grey box screwed low down on the wall. He set the mirror in front of it, and pushed the door open, closing it again and leaving the mirror on the floor.
The store proclaimed itself a new age specialist, according to the gushing blurb under the name painted on the windows. Bobby'd told him that part of it was a front. The owners actually specialised in hard-to-get ingredients for a thriving Western population of Wiccans, witches and dabblers. Glancing around the interior, Dean hoped he was right. All he could see in the main area was the reflected flashes of hanging crystals, wrought into chimes, dream-catchers and decorated mirrors; and bookcases and tables filled with the sort of titles that made him wince inwardly, the same knee-jerk reaction he had whenever his little brother wanted to talk about his feelings.
Real stuff'll be in the back rooms, Bobby'd said, and he picked his way around the floor baskets and Everything Must Go! reduction tables to the doorway behind the cash register.
It was also locked, and he put the penlight between his teeth, pulling out his picks again. The lock was simple and he twisted the knob a moment later, pushing the door open. Shelving rose from floor to ceiling in the narrow store room, packed tight with cardboard boxes, each labelled, some about shoe-box-sized, most of them much smaller. The room was thick with an exotic mix of smells, pungent and dry. To one side, another open doorway showed a second store room.
That was a lotta boxes, he thought sourly, tucking the picks back in his pocket and letting the flashlight drop from his teeth into his hand. Shining the narrow beam from box to box, he let out a deep exhale and turned left, starting at the top and working his way across the labels and down.
"Weird, freaking people around," he muttered as the light picked out labels of rhino horn and dried tiger penis, turtle belly and seahorse skin, ginseng, myrrh, goji berry, aconite, powdered centipede … Bobby's list needed ten ingredients from here, he remembered, rummaging through his coat pocket with his free hand. He squinted at the spidery scribble.
Aconite, blind worm's sting. Adder's fork. Hemlock, root and stem. Powdered cat bone …
He shook his head and shone the flashlight along the shelf.
By the time he'd reached the halfway point around the first room, he had everything but the powdered cat bone and slip of yew. If there was a system to the shelves, he didn't know what it was. He repressed a spurt of impatience and lifted the light to shine on the top shelves, moving along and then down as he'd been doing for the last thirty minutes.
Yew, dried. The words leapt out at him from the second-highest shelf and he leaned closer. Yew, berries, dried. Yew, berries, preserved in alcohol. Yew, bark. Yew, powdered bark.
He swore silently, moving the light along the stacked box ends. Yew, preserved in vinegar. Yew, leaf and stem. That would have to do, he decided, reaching up and grabbing the box. One left and he was running out of time.
The powdered cat bone was nestled between boxes of newt eyes and lizard legs, in the last corner. He'd already resigned himself to searching the second room when the flashlight lit up the label and he snatched it from the shelf. He was sorely tempted to leave a note for the proprietor, something to the effect of advising some kind of fucking filing system. A glance at his watch made him scowl. He'd have to haul ass to get to Rapid City in time now.
Retracing his steps out of the store, he walked back to the car quickly. He felt the temperature drop as Bobby materialised in the back seat.
"Took yer time."
"Cat bone?" He glanced at the ghost through the rearview mirror.
"Half-in, half-out anyway." Bobby shrugged. "Let's get going."
2009. Carthage, Missouri
The field was empty, save for the dead who lay scattered across it. Where the land rose slightly, black earth and torn sod were piled beside a deep hole. The moon had long set and the night sky was dark with cloud. Around the field, the stands of trees tossed restlessly, and the wind moaned through their trunks.
It was partly buried in the soft, turned earth, partly hidden by low-growing shrubs, the long barrel hardly visible. He crouched above it, staring down at it. This was a thing that couldn't touch him. But it still had power and there was still a need for it. He picked it up, brushing the dirt from the smooth metal, the wooden grip. It was heavier than he'd thought it would be.
He stood up and smelled the blood and charred flesh on the freshening breeze. It had been a bad place for a long time, and he had no doubt that bad things would continue to happen here. He'd already found some places were like that.
The field was empty, save for the dead who lay scattered across it. The boy had gone.
Rapid City, South Dakota
Sam pushed his sleeve up and looked at his watch again. Eight-forty-five. He picked up his beer, his gaze restlessly circuiting the bar's main room as he tried not to think about what might've been holding up his brother's arrival.
He could see why Dwight'd suggested the place. Garth was nursing a colourful tall glass, two seats to the right of him at the counter. Dwight, Trip and Twist had taken a table between the bar, door and single pool table, the three men talking in low tones. There were only two other customers in the place, both sitting on the other side of the room in a narrow booth and conducting some kind of business that didn't look entirely legal.
The bartender, a big man in his fifties, stood polishing glasses at the other end of the bar, watching a football game disinterestedly on the set screwed high on the wall in the corner of the room. Quiet, unpopular and with the sort of clientele that preferred to keep their business to themselves, it was near ideal.
Another glance at his watch showed the time to have crept forward by five minutes. Sam sighed.
He'd gotten everything on the list from Billings, packed into the back seat of the used SUV he'd bought a couple of months ago. A smile tugged at his mouth as he remembered his brother's scoffing at the purchase. Even with ready cash, Dean preferred to steal his transport. The clean ID Ray'd sent them wouldn't trip the levis' notice. At least, he amended with a fleeting scowl, not for a while anyway.
"So, uh, Sam," Garth said, turning to look at him. "What's the skinny?"
Good question, he thought, wondering how to compress what they needed into twenty-five words or less. "Uh, we'll get into the detail when Dean gets here."
"Right." The scrawny hunter nodded, catching the straw in his drink with his teeth and slurping up another mouthful. The concoction was blue and Sam didn't want to know what it contained. "Just checkin'."
The door opened and Sam turned around to see his brother walk in, sweep the room with a fast glance, and head for the bar. Someone who didn't know him might've thought he was at ease and relaxed, Sam thought with an internal sigh. They'd be wrong.
"Any problems?" Dean slid on to the bar stool beside him and cocked his head at the bartender.
"No. Got everything." Sam leaned forward a little. "You?"
Dean shook his head. "Took a bit longer than expected, but yeah, we're good to go."
The bartender stopped in front of him. "Whaddya want?"
"Beer."
"Hey, amigo." Garth leaned forward on the bar to grin at Dean. "I'm glad you called. We should make this a regular thing."
Sam froze at the ill-considered remark, bracing himself for his brother's response. It bucked the law of averages Garth was still alive, he thought.
Dean took the beer the bartender brought, tipping it up and swallowing a mouthful before he looked at Garth. "Uh, this isn't a social get-together, Garth."
"Yeah," Garth bent over his drink, shrugging at the mild rebuke. "No, I know."
It'd come as a surprise the first time, Sam recalled, and it was no less surprising now, watching Garth from the corner of his eye. His brother's tolerance for different people seemed to fluctuate according to their competence and relative levels of innocence. He picked up his beer. Anyone else would've gotten roasted for the comment Garth'd made. He wasn't sure if it was an aspect of the protective instinct in Dean, or if his brother just didn't regard anyone less competent than he was as a fair target.
"It's going to take us five hours to get to Sioux Falls," Dean said in a low voice, dragging his attention back. "It'll take them nearly four to get to Sunrise."
"Yeah, we'll have to leave earlier." Sam's gaze skimmed the room again. "Marcus called an hour ago, said he'd be here by ten. You want to get it straight with these guys and let them tell him?"
His brother nodded, and Sam saw the tension in his shoulders, hard and bunched up under his coat. "We need to get on the road as soon as we can."
Catching Dwight's eye as they got to their feet, Sam led his brother to a larger table at the back of the room, Garth picking up his drink and following them.
"Dean, anything we can do, man." Twist said as he sat down. Beside him Dwight and Trip nodded in accord as they pulled out chairs and sat down.
"Uh, yeah," Dean said, his gaze cutting to the side. "Sam's – uh – Sam's got all the details."
Sam pulled his laptop and the file he'd put together from his satchel, setting them on the table. He opened the file. "Sunrise, Wyoming. You know it?" he asked, looking at the hunters.
"Heard of it. Samuel Colt built a railroad there," Dwight said, leaning forward. "It's a gate?"
"A big one," Sam confirmed. "But that's not our problem."
He walked them through the plan, glancing occasionally at his brother. Dean sat at the end of the table, drinking his beer, adding a brief comment only when asked.
When he'd laid out the general idea, Sam looked around the table, searching their faces for doubt or questions. None of them seemed worried, but they all wore thoughtful expressions as they reviewed the possibilities.
Twist turned to Dean, raising an eyebrow. "Think we can pull this off?"
"I don't know." Dean returned the other man's gaze steadily. "If the tracks are all intact, and you only have to replace the one section, then yeah."
"Gate can't open, right?" Dwight asked. In his late forties, the hunter wasn't a tall man, but he was broad-shouldered and heavily muscled, the years of experience under his belt visible in a laconic demeanour and the contradictory watchfulness of his gaze. A long, twisting scar cut from one side of his face to the other. He'd been nicked by a werewolf when he'd been a boy, he'd told Sam. The wound had become infected and left him with a permanent reminder.
"Not without the key," Sam told him. "And that key's been missing for a long time."
"We'll be in Sioux Falls by three." Dean looked around at them. "So long as you're working on it by three-thirty, the timing should be fine. But you'll need the basic stuff done by then."
"Why?" Trip asked. At twenty-eight, he was the youngest there by several years, the shock of dirty blond hair falling over his forehead and into his eyes reinforcing the impression of youth.
"'Cause if Crowley shows up –"
"Or sends some of his demons to take a look," Sam interjected.
"– you'll have to keep their attention for at least another two hours," Dean finished.
Garth glanced between Sam and Dean quizzically. "What happens after two hours?"
Dean's gaze swung away, and Sam said, "If we haven't done what we have to by then … chances are, uh, we've failed."
"Oh."
Silence dropped over the table. Twist tossed back the bourbon in his glass and pushed it to one side.
"Let's see this map then."
Dean walked out through the back door at a quarter past nine, rolling his shoulders as he walked unseeingly through the empty and silent alley behind the bar. He was wound up too tight and he needed to shed some of that before they got going, he thought. The drive across the state was not likely to be relaxing.
The men inside knew what they were doing. And it would draw Crowley's attention, he was certain of that. He was hoping they wouldn't be spending too long in Hell, but where they were going was an unknown variable of gargantuan proportions and he was leery of making too many decisions based around it. His memories weren't going to help, he knew.
He was too conscious of time, seconds and minutes ticking away into hours. Ellie had been down there for thirty-four hours. It equated to roughly a week of Hell's sped-up time. She was resourceful and strong. She was also a little over three months pregnant. And from the reading he'd been doing, mortals weren't healed or renewed every twenty-four hours in Hell. Whatever injuries she had weren't going to be improving the longer she spent there.
He stopped and leaned against the brick wall of the back of the building, his mouth suddenly dry, his stomach heaving. Sweat coated his skin as he tried to shut out the clamour of his suppressed thoughts and emotions.
"It's Dean, right?"
Swinging around, his gaze raked the alley. A tall, skinny boy stood a few feet away, dressed in a tee shirt, colourful board shorts and sneakers.
"Yeah." Dean stared at him in the dim light, his fingers on the automatic under his jacket. "Who're you?"
"I'm Jesse."
Dean took a step closer to the kid, eyes narrowing as he looked more closely at him. The boy's eyes plucked a chord of memory. They were steady and serious, just as they'd been when the kid'd been younger. "Jesse … Turner?"
"Yeah, right." The boy scanned the alley. "Where's your brother?"
"Uh, Sam's in there." Dean threw a glance over his shoulder to the rear door of the bar. "Man, you – uh – grew fast."
"I'm fourteen." The corner of Jesse's mouth lifted. "What'd you expect?"
"Fuck, I don't know." Dean's mouth tucked in to one side as he shook his head. "Not to see you again, I guess."
The half-grin faded from Jesse's face. "You're angry."
"Yeah." Understatement but in the ballpark, he thought.
"And scared."
Dean took a breath, shrugging in acknowledgement. "Yeah, that too."
Jesse walked up to him, his hand disappearing behind his back. "I found this. I thought I'd better keep it until you needed it."
He drew out a long-barrelled revolver. The light shining from the windows facing onto the alley picked out the engravings on the dark barrel, showed the five-pointed star crudely carved into the wooden grip. Dean felt his brows rise involuntarily as he looked down at the antique revolver.
"Where'd you get this?"
"A field," the teenager told him, waving his hand vaguely behind him. "A couple of years ago. It was full of dead people. Not, uh, a good place."
He held it out to Dean. "It'll kill the demon you're hunting."
Dean took the Colt, running a hand along the barrel, his thumb finding the catch that released the barrel and cylinder from the grip. There were three bullets in the cylinder. He remembered using one on the hellhound, and one on Lucifer. It carried six in the cylinder but one chamber was usually left empty, to prevent the gun from firing if it was dropped or knocked.
"You sure about that?" He looked back at the boy. "The demon I'm hunting is the King of Hell."
Jesse shrugged that off. "Not really. He's still just a demon. He's not like the other ones."
"The other ones?" Dean pushed the barrel into the grip again, the click as the two pieces joined loud.
"The … I don't know what they're called," Jesse said, his brows knitting together as he stared at the ground. "They were there first. Like the devil. They're, uh, trapped at the moment. But they're not demons, not really."
The archdemons, Dean thought. What Ellie'd called The Fallen. He filed away the information for later consideration – and discussion with his brother and Bobby – as he slid the long barrel of Samuel Colt's gun through his belt. Bobby'd known – once – how to make more bullets for it. He hoped it would be one of the things the spirit could remember.
Jesse watched him, as relaxed and carefree as a half-demon, half-human kid in board shorts could be, he thought. "Where've you been?"
"Around." The boy lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug and smiled at him. "I was, uh, y'know, scared at first."
Dean nodded. He could too easily imagine that. "You got it figured out pretty quick."
"I was living in Alaska for a while. It was pretty good, had a cabin. But I got lonely," Jesse admitted. "I can't spend too much time in one place. People notice."
"Yeah." Dean ducked his head. As kids, they'd been noticed some of the time as well. Social Services had butted in, from time to time. Things had found them, from time to time. It was safer to keep moving.
"I've been down in Baja, the last few months," Jesse said, his tone brightening. "Surf's pretty good."
"That explains the threads," Dean remarked, pushing his memories aside. "You okay? Anything been after you?"
"No." The teenager's gaze shifted away and Dean thought it was close to a lie. Maybe Jesse'd had a few close calls.
"I can see stuff like that coming from a long way," Jesse added. "I've gotten good at that."
"Not much of a life for a kid."
Jesse tilted his head to one side, a derisive half-smile lifting one side of his mouth. "You kidding? It's awesome. You should see my girlfriend. She looks like Jessica Simpson."
The comment, and the accompanying mental image, surprised a laugh from him. "You're not lonely?"
"Not really. Not anymore," the boy told him. "I don't stay around very long. There are a lot of places to go, to see. But it's not hard making friends."
Dean sighed. "Yeah. Just hard losing them."
"I'll see them again." The boy shrugged. Under the alley's patchy lighting, Dean could see the kid's freckles, over nose and cheeks, and a patch of peeling sunburn on the bridge of his nose.
Jesse's gaze slid away, dropping to the trash-strewn ground. "I – uh – didn't want to fight, y'know? So I have to keep moving. Sooner or later, some demon or angel figures out who I am. They want something, want to put me in a box, like a toy. It's better to go someplace else before that happens."
For a moment, Dean saw a compressed snapshot of the boy's life, fun in some ways with all that power, but underneath the same rootless wandering that'd tortured him. "I'm glad you figured it out, Jesse."
Jesse nodded. "The devil's back up here, you know."
Stiffening at the words, he asked, "How d'you know that?"
"I can feel him," Jesse said. "Not as strong as he was. He's living inside something, not a person. But he's hungry. Greedy. He wants it all back, y'know?"
Ellie'd been right, he thought, looking at the boy's face.
"That won't help you with him." Jesse waved his hand at the gun. "But there is something that will."
Dean's eyes narrowed as he considered that. Something that could kill Lucifer? For good? "You know what it is, Jesse? Where it is?"
Jesse nodded. "Yeah, I think so."
He turned, looking over his shoulder up the alley. "Hey, look, I gotta go, but, uh, I'll come back. When you need me. Okay?"
Dean's gaze followed the boy's. He couldn't see anything in the alley. Didn't mean there wasn't something the kid could sense he couldn't. He looked back at the teenager and felt his chest tighten.
"Jesse? Come back whenever you want to," he said. "Anytime, alright?"
A smile flashed across the boy's face. "Yeah, that'd be cool."
Dean felt the soft whisper of air across his face as it rushed to fill the space where Jesse had stood. He looked down at the gun, resting against his hip.
Oh, Crowley, he thought with a deepening trickle of dark satisfaction, I am so going to kill you.
I-90 East
"He just showed up?" Sam looked down at the Colt, turning it over his hands. "And gave you this? Why? I mean, how'd he even know what was going on? Or that we needed it?"
"I don't know," Dean said with a shrug. "He said he found it, in a – a not-good place."
"Carthage?" Sam's brows shot up. "That's why we couldn't find it when we went back for the cars?"
"Yeah, maybe." Dean stared at the road. "Said he could feel stuff, hellspawn, angels – maybe he gets some kind of weird signals about what's going on."
The boy'd had no trouble in picking up his emotions, he thought. Had nailed them straight away.
"How's he doing?"
"Seemed okay." Dean watched the road, the speedometer sitting steady on eighty. He'd swapped the Pacer for a neglected two-door Plymouth in Rapid City and the engine was not disappointing.
"He, uh, said he'd been moving around a lot, but he – uh – didn't seem to mind. Said he could feel it when something was comin' for him and he'd split before it got there."
"Doesn't sound like much of a life." Sam shook his head. "I didn't think we'd ever see him again."
Dean glanced at him. "Yeah, me either." He looked back at the road. "He, uh, also said there were other things in Hell, things like the devil, but they're trapped. Figured he was talking about fallen angels."
"Not just fallen, but the Fallen." Sam put the Colt back on the seat between them. "You think that's how Crowley got the top job? He trapped them somehow?"
Dean's eyes narrowed as memory flashed into his mind, a small motel room in Richmond, the books he'd bought from The Hidden Door. Nine angels, shorn of their wings, cast down with the archangel. Each of them had ruled a level of Hell.
"That's some pretty big mojo to put under lock and key."
Sam snorted. "Yeah, makes me wonder how Crowley pulled it off."
"He's a sneaky, self-serving sonofabitch," Dean said, glancing sideways. "Gives him an advantage."
"Over you, maybe," Sam said. "Over archdemons?"
"How many d'you think he locked up?"
Sam leaned back against the seat. "Uh, there were nine, originally, I think."
Dean nodded. "Yeah. Each one got a different level of Hell to play with."
"Where'd you find out about that?" Sam turned to look at him.
"Uh, well, I was looking through some stuff," Dean hedged uncomfortably. "While I was, uh, in Cicero."
Sam's brows shot up. "Looking for stuff on Hell?"
Dean's mouth twisted to one side. "I told you I'd been looking for a way to get you out."
For a moment, he thought his brother was going to reopen that argument but Sam huffed impatiently, his head turning to the passenger window.
"In any case, uh, Azazel was one of 'em," he added.
Sam blinked, the conversation he'd had with Ellie, back when he'd first met her, coming back to him. The Fallen are supposed to have yellow eyes. No other kind of demon had them.
"Yeah, I – I, um, heard that. So, uh, that leaves eight?" he asked, biting his tongue to stop himself from mentioning Ellie.
The air temperature in the car dropped, their breath changing to a white fog as it came out of their mouths.
"You two really need to spend some time reading up on this stuff," Bobby said without preamble from the back seat. "There were nine. Belial. Pythius. Moloch. Astaroth. Mammon. Azazel. Baal. Asmodeus and Merihem. Cas told me Moloch and Baal were killed by the angels when they were tryin' to get you out, Dean."
Dean's fingers tightened involuntarily on the wheel. Raised from Hell. It was a memory he tried not to revisit.
"So, there are six fallen angels still rotting in Hell somewhere?" Sam looked over the back of the seat at the ghost.
"Six archdemons," Bobby corrected him, his tone sour. "Lucifer didn't have anyone else to play with before he got Lilith, and word has it he was pretty pissed at being down there at all, so he spent his time torturing them. There's nothing left of the angel part of them now, by all accounts. Cas didn't know what happened to the others. But yeah, you got Azazel, so that leaves six of them."
"Well. There's a happy thought," Dean said.
"Yeah," Bobby agreed. "Did the kid tell you how they were trapped? Or why?"
"No, I don't think he was looking at that too closely." Dean shook his head. "He's, uh, got a connection to Hell. He knew about Crowley, knew the gun would kill him – King of Hell or not – 'cause he was a 'just a demon'."
"What's that mean?" Sam's brow furrowed. "Just a demon? Aren't they all demons?"
"I'm thinkin' he means Crowley's a human-born soul," Bobby said, leaning forward. "He'd be susceptible to whatever kills any human-born demon. Whereas the Fallen … they got the power of angels and the power of demons. Different ballpark altogether."
You think something like that works on something like me?
Sam remembered the demon's amusement when he'd asked about the holy water they'd used on their father. Ellie'd said something similar; something about the power of the Church … the Fallen weren't vulnerable to it.
"Jesse didn't seem all that interested in them," Dean said diffidently. "Think what he can do could kill 'em?"
Sam wondered about that. The boy – the cambion, he thought, recalling the term for what Jesse was – could do anything, anything he could imagine.
"Maybe."
"No," Bobby contradicted. "Cambion are strongest when they're very young. They lose their power as they mature. Same as the nephilim."
"How do you know that?" Sam turned around and looked at the ghost.
"S'in the lore, Sam," Bobby said, his tone mild. "You got the gun. I can show you how to make more bullets, s'one of the memories I got back. Crowley trapped the archdemons somehow, and how probably ain't important right now. What we don't want to do is let 'em loose."
"I'm on board with that," Dean said, his foot going down on the accelerator a little more.
Sam turned to Bobby again. "How'd you know there's a gate in Sioux Falls, Bobby?"
Bobby's gaze shifted away. "Gate's the one Azazel got through," he said gruffly. "Thought you read Jim's journals?"
"I did," Sam protested, belatedly realising he hadn't been through all of them yet. "Most of them."
"Your dad, Jim and Bill shut it once, back in '86. Should've been locked up tight, but something opened it again two years later."
"Something?"
"Probably one of the god squad," Dean said, his gaze flicking to the rearview mirror. "Jim thought Yellow Eyes was gettin' help."
Sam flicked a look at his brother. "You know about this?"
"It's in Jim's journals," Dean said with a shrug.
"What happened in '88?" Sam turned back to Bobby.
"Sam –" Dean's voice held a soft warning.
"Gate opened," Bobby said. "A few demons got out. One of 'em possessed Karen."
A chill slid through Sam. He'd known that. How could he've forgotten? "Bobby, I'm – I'm sorry –"
"S'alright, Sam. Done is done."
He flickered for a moment then disappeared, the car's interior slowly warming.
Sam turned to look at his brother. "I didn't mean –"
"He knows, man," Dean said. "Rufus tried sealing the gate again. Must've done a reasonably good job, 'cause nothing else has come out since."
Sam thought about that. "If every archdemon has a different level, and Azazel used that gate, does that mean it was on his level?"
"Probably." Dean shrugged. "Maybe. If it is, it'll get us onto the fourth level, no diversions."
He turned to look at his brother. "When we get back to Whitefish, you got some reading to do."
"Yeah."
They'd had the journals, not just Jim's but Bobby's too, for a few months now. He never got the time to look through them, to really read them. There was always something, hounding them, driving them on. He wondered when Dean'd found the time to read through Jim's.
"Not that I'm, uh, questioning your, uh, scholarly ability, or anything," he said to his brother. "But when did you read Jim's journals?"
He saw Dean's mouth twist slightly, his brother's gaze remaining fixed on the road. "2007."
Sam waited for more information and after a moment, Dean shrugged. "Jim wrote down what happened with Dad and Bill, in Pasadena, right after Dad told him about it."
"Jim's account was different to Ellen's?" Sam asked. In 2007, Ellen had told Jo their father had gotten hers killed.
"Very," Dean said. "Dad – apparently Dad lied to Ellen about what happened. He made a promise to Bill."
"What?" Sam tried to remember what Jo had said, when she'd banged out of the roadhouse, angry and taking it out on them.
"You can read it for yourself," Dean said with a one-shouldered shrug, his fingers flexing around the wheel. "Better that way."
"Okay." Sam thought he'd be pulling out those books the second they got back. "But how'd you know to even look?"
Silence filled the car interior, the rumble of the tyres and engine somehow muted. Dean's profile had hardened, Sam thought, staring at him.
"Dean?"
"Ellie told me," Dean said, and the car surged forward, their speed increasing to ninety.
Sioux Falls, South Dakota
It'd taken five minutes to switch cars again, at a fill up in Kennebec. He was already missing the Plymouth, but the Ford was more inconspicuous and not being seen was the priority. The four-door sedan bounced and jolted up the narrow gravel road, the headlights swinging wildly up and down as Dean negotiated the ruts and holes and washouts. He came to a stop when the road petered out, a narrow dirt track leading on over the ridge.
"You ready?"
"Sure."
Sam picked up the satchel and slid Ellie's long, slim knife through his belt. Dean had Ruby's knife sheathed behind his right hip, the Colt tucked into his jacket. Getting out of the car, they walked over the ridge and down into the narrow valley that sat like a three-pointed cup between the junction of three hills, pulling out their flashlights and switching them on as they reached the valley floor.
"You see anything?" Sam found himself whispering, and cleared his throat.
"Nope," Dean said, looking around. "You sure this is the place?"
"Yeah," Sam answered, his light picking out the skeletal trunks of dead trees. "I'm sure."
The small valley was still and completely silent, not so much as a cricket's chirrup disturbing the quiet of the night. It felt … quiescent, Sam thought, waiting for something. Or watching them.
In front of them, forming one side of the narrowing valley, a smooth rock slab thrust out of the earth. The shift might've occurred millennia ago, he thought, his light playing over the weathered surface. It seemed seamless, the base a loose slope of gravel scree and packed dirt.
Opening his bag, he pulled out a notebook. Bobby'd given him a description for the location of the gate and the instructions for opening it. Along with the notebook, the leather satchel held a beaten brass bowl and precisely-measured sachets of the ingredients they'd spent most of the day collecting.
"Dean? Try shining the light across the wall," he said.
Dean picked his way across the scree to the rock, swinging the flashlight up when he reached the side. Shadows leapt out, showing cracks and fissures, and a slight bulge in the rock face.
"There," Sam said, holding his flashlight up and glancing down at the sheet in his hand. "Where the rock's sticking out."
"All right. Let's get started."
Hell. Second Level.
"Thanks, Frank."
Ellie lifted her arms cautiously. They hurt, the muscles and tendons had taken a beating and the bruising was deep, but they were responsive, at least. Her wrists were a mess, several layers of skin had been scraped off and they stung continuously in the open air. But all told, the damage was pretty minor considering that Crowley could be a vindictive bastard.
She rolled onto her knee and climbed to her feet, her breath whistling slightly in her throat. Everything felt shaky, but moving around would help with that, she thought, turning to look carefully around the stone-hewn cell. There was a single door, outward opening, next to the wall, thick iron bars with enough room between them to get her arm through.
Walking slowly to it, she leaned against the bars and studied the large old-fashioned lock. Another thing Crowley hadn't changed. The cells weren't for souls. The only thing they would hold were flesh-and-blood mortals and demons.
The mythology of Hell went back almost as far as the beginnings of the species. Every race and culture had their beliefs about a place that existed purely for the punishment in the afterlife of sins committed by the living. Which came first, she wondered? Chicken or the egg? Closing her eyes, Ellie smiled derisorily at herself, pushing the questions aside.
"Well, the good news is we can get out of here," she said, half-turning to look at Frank. "But I'm gonna need your help again."
"No problem." Frank levered himself to his feet. "Just tell me what to do."
Ellie smiled and turned her back to him. "Undo my bra."
"Eh?"
"Need the wire," she told him, gesturing toward the lock. "And I can't reach it. My arms won't bend that way right now."
"Oh."
She heard him shuffle up behind her. "Did, uh, were you and Dean –?"
Ducking her head, she drew in a breath. "In a relationship?"
Behind her, Frank fumbled with the remains of her shirt, pushing the shredded material aside. "Mmmm."
"Yeah," she said. "For a couple of years."
"And he – uh –?"
"Yeah."
"Sorry to hear that." Frank found the mangled clasp and tried to ease the fastenings apart. "Uh, these don't seem to want to come loose."
Ellie turned her head, regretting it as her neck sent lances of pain into the back of her skull. "Just tear it, Frank."
His fingers slid under the band and she felt his hands tighten into fists, knuckles digging into her back. He yanked laterally and there was a ripping sound, the band loosening at once.
"So, what you said to Crowley, uh, that was all true?" He let go of the bra and stepped back.
Ellie slid one strap down her arm and then the other, pulling the undergarment from beneath her shirt. She knotted up the bottom of the remains of the shirt under her ribs and looked at the undergarment, forcing the wire out through the material of the cup.
"Mostly," she told Frank, examining the curved metal. It was strong, and high tensile. It would do the job.
"Mostly?"
"Get the other one out, would you?" she said, passing him the bra. "Dean's the father, but he doesn't know."
Leaning against the bars, she slid the blunt end of the wire into the lock, closing her eyes as she felt through the mechanism. It was simple warded lock, but heavy and stiff. She turned the wire through the wards, feeling it catch the locking lever. It slipped before she could lift it, and she withdrew the wire to try again.
She couldn't think of Dean right now. Couldn't think of what Crowley had done or what Dean might be doing in response. She had the distinct impression they were on a tight timeline and the only way to help both of them would be to remove Crowley's leverage and get the hell out of Dodge.