Hello, hello. I'm finally back! Here's the long awaited chapter 13. Which did not come out as I originally planned, but I actually like this version better. Enjoy!
Chapter 13
After the lights went on, the four proceeded to exchange information on what had happened that day. Dean's news that the three grandfathers might have arranged for Jim and Blair to meet was not that much of a surprise to Jim, as it had been all but confirmed to him in the spirit world. The fact that Henry Winchester had also played a part was something new and upsetting.
"Can you tell me what gave your family the right to play God?" he asked.
Dean and Sam exchanged glances, and Jim suddenly realized that he did not want to know.
"Forget it. I'm sure you'll give me some claptrap about being chosen and making sacrifices and all that."
Dean glared at him.
"Hey, pal, for your information, Sam and I also got the short end of the stick. Actually, we got the even shorter end, compared to you. No, wait, actually, the end of the stick was so short you could practically see no stick."
Sam placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.
"Dean…" he began, in his usual pacifying manner.
Dean pulled away from his grasp.
"I'm just saying, when it comes to having outsiders decide our fate, you and me can win the Olympics, Sammy. Several times in a row."
Sam looked amused by that, but he did not try to contradict Dean.
Jim supposed they had a point. After the case with Cerberus and the second time he had met the Winchesters, Blair had let slip that something big had been about to go down and the Winchesters had stopped it. Blair had been vague, and Jim had felt he really did not want to know more, but he got that the mystical and supernatural side existed, even if he did not want to acknowledge it.
What surprised – and slightly annoyed Jim, too, if he was being honest with himself – was the way Blair reacted. Or rather, did not react. Apparently the idea that the three grandfathers had somehow planned for Blair and Jim to meet and bond (for lack of a better word) in order to take care of the demons in the box didn't bother him one bit.
"Oh well," he said. "That's that."
Jim turned to frown at him.
"What do you mean, that's that? Doesn't it bother you one bit, Sandburg?"
Blair's eyes were clear.
"Why exactly should it bother me? What does it change, Jim?"
Everything, Jim had wanted to say, but he was afraid Blair would think he was dismissing their friendship altogether. He shook his head instead.
"You were being used, Blair," he said. "We both were. None of this seemed to have been our choice."
Blair's smile was yet another unexpected surprise.
"That's where you're wrong, Jim," he said calmly. "I do not think like this. Yes, there was a plan for us. There still is. Maybe you and I meeting was not chance. But me choosing to stay with you, me choosing to be your friend and stand by your side through thick and thin – that was all me. My choice and no one else's. I'm sure – I hope – it's the same with you."
Jim caught the uncertainty in Blair's voice. If they were alone, he would have done his best to put a stop to it and tackle the obvious lack of confidence he had recently discovered Blair sometimes still faced. But he was not Sandburg. He could not bring himself to bare his heart in front of strangers – especially not in front of someone like Dean. He would just have to wait for a moment when he and Sandburg were on their own. Then he'd set Blair straight.
Sam cleared his throat.
"The most important thing is to figure out why you were chosen," he pointed out. "What are you supposed to do with boxes when you have all of them?"
Jim was relieved by the change of subject, although Blair still looked slightly uncertain.
"We only have one box," Jim pointed out. "We need the other two."
"One of them has to be in that warehouse," Blair said. "I'm willing to bet anything on that."
Sam nodded.
"Probably. We will have to look into that warehouse tomorrow."
"What's wrong with tonight?" Dean asked.
Sam shook his head.
"I don't want to leave the safety of the Bunker at night. Not with the demon still out there, especially now that we've thwarted all his attempts to get to us."
"He's attacked in the daytime, too," Blair pointed out.
Sam nodded.
"He has. But he'd be much more powerful at night. There's a whole stretch of road between us and the warehouse. We'd be too vulnerable. I don't think we should risk it."
He looked at Dean, who finally agreed.
"Right. Of course. We'll wait until tomorrow. First thing."
Sam shook his head.
"Maybe not first thing. First thing, we should summon a demon."
Jim sat up straighter when he heard that.
"Come again?" he asked.
He noticed Dean did not look too pleased, either, and this time he agreed with him. Sandburg, on the other hand, had that mad glint in his eyes – but, then again, Jim sometimes tried not to think about the things that could get Sandburg to feel enthusiastic.
"You mentioned that before," Dean told Sam. "What exactly are you trying to tell us, Sam?"
Sam sighed, looking suddenly tired.
"Cas told me a demon has one of the boxes. Only he isn't a regular demon."
"You mean he's like the fox?" Blair asked.
But Sam shook his head.
"No. I mean he usually keeps out of demon politics."
Demon politics. Jim was sure he had passed "do not want to know" several hours back and was now in some bizarre and twisted version of reality that he really did not want to think about.
"His name is Gwydion," Sam went on. "He has a lot of dark objects which is what gives him leverage over Crowley."
"I'm starting to like this less and less," Dean commented. "And for the record, I did not even think I was capable of liking it any less. How are we supposed to get the box from him?"
Sam bit his lips.
"He'll give it to me," he said. "If I pass his tests."
Dean stiffened.
"No," he said coldly.
Sam sighed.
"Dean…" he began, but Dean cut him off.
"No, Sam. If you think you'll be playing his game…"
"Dean, someone has to get the box from him."
Dean straightened his shoulders.
"Yeah, Sam, someone. I'll do it."
"No, you won't," Sam snapped.
The words seemed to have an instant effect on Dean, who sprung up.
"And why's that, Sam? You think I can't handle it? You seem to think that a lot."
Sam snorted.
"You're one to talk."
Dean stiffened.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"The way you're always on my case," Sam told him. "Like I'm about to fall to pieces any minute now."
Dean huffed.
"Well, Sam, that's because you are," he insisted stubbornly.
Jim had no idea what the two were talking about, but the bickering reminded him of the fights he sometimes had with Sandburg and the thought made him incredibly uncomfortable. He banged his hand against the table.
"Alright!" he exclaimed. "Alright, let's tone down on the oversharing a bit. How about we leave the soap opera parts for later and focus on what's important for us. That demon thing you mentioned…whatshisface…."
"Gwydion," Blair said helpfully. "From Celtic mythology, right?"
"Maybe," Sam said. "The only lore I know on Gwydion is that he was human. Sort of a king. Either that, or he was a trickster."
"Charming," Dean muttered.
Sam ignored him, and Jim could not blame him for doing so.
"Any chance someone other than you two could deal with it?" Jim asked.
Dean frowned, the concept of delegating responsibility obviously something foreign for him.
"Like who?" he challenged. "You? Because we can't let civilians start summoning demons. That always ends bad."
Jim rolled his eyes.
"I haven't been a civilian since you were still chasing after girls in pigtails, Winchester," he snapped.
"And Sam and I have been dealing with demons since before you started playing cops and robbers," Dean retorted. "And that includes the time I was chasing girls in pigtails."
Jim was starting to wonder if they really needed Dean alive, when Sam intervened.
"I wouldn't risk either you or Sandburg," he said. "Since you were obviously meant to deal with the three boxes, I think you should keep aside until then."
Jim wanted to point out that he had no intention of dealing with any boxes. But that was obviously out of his hands and had been since before he and Blair were born.
"We'll have to summon Gwydion and leave it up to him," Sam finally said. "Maybe he'll choose who he wants to deal with."
Jim did not like this one bit.
"We're supposed to let a demon choose?" he asked disbelievingly.
Sam shrugged.
"He might not give us any alternative."
And what if he chose Sandburg? What was Jim supposed to do then? He guessed he could always object, despite Sam's advice.
"Fine," he finally said. "Let's do this, then."
But Sam shook his head.
"I think we should regroup," he said. "We all need rest. Tomorrow morning would be better."
Dean was nodding. They all looked exhausted, Jim noticed, and he himself had been left rather weakened by his stint in the spirit world. Perhaps putting it off for one night until they were all back at full strength was not a bad idea. After all, the fox could not harm them inside the Bunker, not if the Winchesters were to be believed.
"Fine," he agreed. "We'll do it tomorrow."
The quicker they were done, the sooner he and Blair could go home. Although he wondered how the two of them were supposed to return to their old lives after finding out that much of the existence they took for granted might have been pre-ordained.
xxxXXXxxx
Jim couldn't sleep. He kept wondering what would have happened if Blair had not gotten that call from his grandfather's lawyer. They would have been back in Cascade, living their own lives, and they would not have cared about all the weirdness of the boxes and the demons and grandfathers who used future generations for their own purposes. Only…would they? If this had already been preordained, did it matter what he and Sandburg actually wanted to do? Or were all their actions nothing more than someone else's plan?
It's funny, he thought. I didn't even know the man. And he's been making plans for me before he even knew I would exist.
He heard a door opening in the corridor and tensed. Heavy footsteps passed by his room. Jim did not recognize Sandburg's heartbeat, so it had to be one of the Winchesters. And whatever they wanted had nothing to do with him. At least, he hoped not.
The footsteps were heading for the library. Maybe Sam wanted to check something out on Gwydion. Maybe he wanted to read more about what his grandfather had done. If Jim had been Blair, he would have thought about joining him and helping him. But Jim had always been a man of action more than one of words. And he had already reached his weirdness quota for the day.
Jim grumbled and turned on his other side, hoping he could get some sleep. It was more than his racing thoughts and all the revelations of that day. It was the place he was in. The Bunker, as the Winchesters called it. There was something about it. Some hidden force, some personality that Jim could hardly explain. It should have been nothing more than a place. Yet, in many ways, it wasn't. There were things inside it that Jim could not understand. And it made him terribly uncomfortable.
The sound of harsh coughing reached his ears. It was coming from the library. Sam. Sam was coughing again and trying to stifle the sound. Jim frowned. He was no doctor, but he was sure no healthy person was supposed to cough like that.
He hesitated only for a second. Sam obviously did not want an audience to whatever this was, and it wasn't Jim's business anyway. But he could not just sit by and pretend someone did not need help. He was not wired like that.
He pulled himself up and left the room. He stopped briefly outside. Sandburg was sleeping in the room next to his. Extending his hearing, Jim could hear the steady, even breathing. He smiled. Good. At least Blair was getting some rest.
He made his way to the library and stopped dead in the threshold. Sam was bent over the table, coughing harshly. There were several tissues scattered on the table, all covered in blood. The smell of blood was so strong to Jim's sensitive senses that it nearly made him gag.
"Jesus!" he exclaimed.
Sam tensed at the sound of the unexpected voice. He swung round, breathing harshly. It seemed to take a while for him to recognize Jim, and when he did, he did not look pleased.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Ellison?" he asked.
The words might have had their desired effect if Sam did not seem to be fighting for every breath. Jim strode to the library, heading towards him.
"What's wrong with you?" he asked. "Is this from the accident?"
Sam shook his head. He looked irritated.
"Of course not. It's not the accident, it's not the demon. I told you it's something else."
He doubled over, coughing so hard it sounded as if he was being torn apart from the inside. Jim extended his hearing. He frowned, not liking this one bit.
"You know your heart's racing, right?" he asked. "It can't be healthy."
Sam frowned.
"I'd appreciate it if you granted me some privacy, Detective."
He straightened up, gathering the bloody tissues.
"Does your brother know?" Jim asked.
Sam huffed.
"I should think everyone knows by now."
Jim did not know what to say.
"You're dying," he finally declared, because he had heard that kind of heartbeat before and knew what it meant.
If he expected any surprise from Sam – or denial – he did not get any.
"You're good," Sam said.
Jim watched him carefully.
"You knew."
Sam shrugged.
"I suspected – yeah."
"And there's nothing you can do?" Jim asked.
Sam looked amused.
"Funny. Blair asked me the same thing."
Of course, Sandburg would already know. Now that Jim thought better, Blair had actually tried to tell him he suspected something was wrong.
"Listen," Sam said. "The price is worth it. I'm doing this for you. For all of you."
Jim did not like the sound of that. He never asked people to sacrifice themselves for him.
Sam sat down. He took one of the journals that was on the table.
"I think I know how our grandfathers did it," he said. "Made sure that you and Sandburg would meet and respond to each other in the future."
Jim sat next to him.
"How?" he asked harshly.
Sam pointed to the journal.
"It was a plan by my grandfather and yours. I don't think Aaron Sandburg even knew about it."
Well, that's a relief, Jim thought. Or, at least, it would be for Blair.
"Alright, I'll bite," Jim said. "What do you think happened?"
In answer, Sam pushed the journal to Jim.
"Have a look," he said getting up.
Jim noticed he was swaying slightly.
"Really, Sam," he felt the need to say. "Maybe you should look at a different solution to whatever it is you're doing before you decide to throw yourself off the precipice."
Sam smiled tightly.
"I don't want to die, if that's what you're trying to say," he admitted. "And if there was another solution, I'd look for it."
"But there isn't." Jim guessed.
Sam nodded.
"There isn't," he insisted.
Jim thought the answer came too quickly.
"What about your brother?" he asked. "What does he have to say about this?"
In truth, Jim did not know why he kept insisting. He rarely stuck his nose into other people's business. Maybe this was one of the many ways Blair was rubbing off on him.
Sam stiffened.
"He'll learn to live with it," he said cooly. "He has to."
Sam walked away, out of the library. Jim shook his head.
"You know very well he won't."
He wouldn't. If something like that had been hanging over Sandburg, he would have done everything in his power to prevent it – or undo it.
Jim shrugged, turning his attention to the journal. He had enough messes of his own to try to solve the Winchesters' emotional problems.
xxxXXXXxxxx
Henry Winchester had realized two things: one, however much he did not like Arthur Ellison, he understood that the signs were there. One of Arthur's descendants was supposed to control and maybe even permanently defeat the demons in the boxes. How that was supposed to happen, Henry had no idea. But he was certain that it would be with the help of one of Sandburg's descendants. The two of them were bound to each other in ways that were beyond Henry's comprehension. Their destinies were united, perhaps they had always been. And it was something no one should try to change. If they did, Henry was sure that the rest of the world would suffer.
This brought to mind the second thing Henry was certain of: Aaron Sandburg would never go along with this plan. In fact, he would do anything in his power to make sure he severed whatever bond tied him to Ellison – and he would keep his descendants away from Ellison's family in any way that he could. Henry did not know why Aaron was so vehemently against the bond. He got his aversion to Arthur Ellison – even shared it. But there was no way to tell if the son or any future children of his would be just as unpleasant. Perhaps they would not be.
Henry suspected there was something more to Sandburg's aversion. A fear he had not shared with him. It was no secret that Sandburg only marginally trusted Henry. Well, there was nothing Henry could do about that. Except go around Sandburg's back and deal with Ellison directly. His conscience prickled at that, but sometimes one needed to do unpleasant things for the good of all. The Men of Letters knew this.
After Sandburg and Ellison's visit to Lebanon, where they secured the warehouse and where Sandburg had confessed that Ellison needed him to steal the box he had given to the Men of Letters, Henry set his plan in motion. With the help of some trusted Hunters, he managed to get what he needed. Then, he bid good-bye to his wife and son, took one of his frequent business trips (that were almost always errands from the Men of Letters), and drove to Cascade.
It was not hard for him to find Arthur Ellison's house even though he had never been there before. Ellison was the type to let everyone know he came from "old money" (some research done by Henry showed it was not really like that, but that was none of Henry's business). He lived in a large multi-storied house with a huge garden and two luxury cars parked in the front yard. The knocker on the front door, shaped like a wild cat, was gilded and glittered in the evening sun.
Arthur was not surprised to see him.
"Let me guess," he said. "Sandburg complained about me."
Henry hesitated. He was not going to give away Aaron Sandburg's plan of dealing with Ellison. He knew it was necessary.
"This isn't about Sandburg," he said. "Or, well, it is, but not in the way you think."
Ellison raised his eyebrows.
"Now I'm intrigued. Come right in."
"Come right in" turned out to be "come and stay for dinner". Mrs. Ellison clearly did not enjoy having Henry there, and her young son William (probably John's age) hag glared at him all the way through dessert. Still, Arthur seemed to be trying to make a point – although Henry did not really know what that was. The only conclusion he was able to draw from the insight he got into the Ellison family's domestic life was that they did not get on with one another.
After dinner, Arthur took Henry into his study.
"The wife is not allowed in here," he said with a smirk. "We can discuss business now."
Henry took a deep breath. He could not really judge Ellison that much. His own wife had no idea about the Men of Letters. John wouldn't either, not until he turned eighteen.
"So, what's this about?" Arthur asked lazily.
"The future," Henry said.
"Sounds ominous," Arthur commented.
Henry tried to ignore how bored Arthur sounded.
"Listen to me," he said. "I know you don't care about whatever your descendant is meant to do…"
"The Guardian," Arthur said. "I've thought about him. I have sources telling me a lot of Native American tribes had these Guardians. Maybe other cultures as well. I don't know what it means though, but I think they're supposed to be important. Well-respected. Which is a good thing. No descendant of mine is ever going to become a nobody."
Of course not, Henry thought uncharitably. He cleared his throat.
"Whatever he is going to become, he will do something connected to the boxes."
Arthur shrugged.
"So you say."
"So I know," Henry corrected. "Only a Guardian can control or destroy the demons from the boxes, that is what my research says, although it is not clear what a guardian is. But if your child or future grandchild is going to be one…"
Arthur nodded impatiently.
"Yes, yes, you've already mentioned all this before, Winchester. Take it up with Sandburg. He's the one most likely to be interested in this stuff."
Henry sighed.
"I'm afraid Mr. Sandburg might try to make sure this does not happen."
Arthur frowned.
"What do you mean? Sandburg knows the bond is real. It cannot be stopped."
Henry nodded reluctantly.
"The bond between you two, yes. That cannot be stopped. But any bond between your descendants has not yet been formed. And I am afraid Mr. Sandburg might think that if he acts quickly, he might avoid whatever fate awaits your descendants."
Arthur's eyes narrowed.
"I don't like what you're trying to say one bit, Winchester. I should have a talk with Sandburg. Remind him his place in the grand scheme of things."
Henry took a step forward, suddenly panicked that this was not going as he wanted it to go. He had forgotten Ellison's need to throw his weight around. If he was not careful, this could very well be the thing that toppled off Henry's entire plan.
"Listen to me," he said hurriedly. "You don't have to do this. I have a plan."
Arthur's look was skeptical.
"You?"
Henry nodded quickly.
"One that is going to work – if you agree to cooperate with me, of course, and not tell Sandburg. If you tell Sandburg, he might find a way to stop it."
Arthur was interested, he could see that. Probably what intrigued him most was Henry's deviousness. Quite likely, he had never pegged Henry Winchester as the devious type. Henry laughed inwardly. It just went to show.
"Why, though?" Arthur asked suspiciously. "I thought your opinion of me was just as low as Sandburg's. Maybe even lower."
Henry did not see any reason to hide this. The truth might make his plan more convincing.
"True. But if someone from your family is to deal with the demon, I have to keep you close. With or without Sandburg's help."
Ellison smirked.
"Smart man."
Henry looked away. A compliment from the likes of Arthur Ellison made him feel like he needed a long shower.
"So," Arthur said, noticing Henry's discomfort and enjoying it tremendously. "What devious plot have you come up with?"
In answer to that, Henry started rummaging through his suitcase.
"A blood ritual," he said.
"Excuse me?"
Arthur did not sound pleased anymore. Henry experienced a brief stab of satisfaction at the thought.
"A blood ritual," he repeated. "You mingle your blood with Sandburg's. Like this your descendants will be connected."
Arthur's suspicion seemed to intensify.
"Connected how? Like soulmates?"
Henry shrugged.
"The concept of the soulmate has been misleadingly associated only with romantic love," he said. "In truth, anyone can be soulmates – it does not matter if their relationship is romantic or parental or whatever. But if you are uncomfortable with the term, you can call it blood brothers. The ritual I propose would be similar."
Arthur tapped his hands against the mahogany desk.
"The problem with all this, of course, is that if what you told me about Sandburg is true, he would never give us his blood."
Henry grinned, taking out a vial of red liquid from his suitcase and placing it on the table.
"I had a Hunter steal this from the hospital Mr. Sandburg works at. Apparently, he's quite the regular donor."
He did not enjoy the admiration in Ellison's eyes. He knew what he had done was highly unethical and if Aaron Sandburg ever found out, he would be within his right to seek whatever kind of retribution he saw fit. But it could very well be that the world needed the Guardian and its Guide, for the demons in the boxes and maybe not only. Sometimes, compromises needed to be made.
"So what are you saying?" Ellison asked. "You have this blood…"
Henry nodded quickly.
"I have Aaron Sandburg's blood. I need some of yours. Then I'll perform a ritual that will bind those of your blood to those of his."
"Like family?" Ellison asked.
Henry pushed the vial towards him.
"In many ways, much more," he said. "Because no matter how far apart the two will be or who will try to separate them, they will always be destined to meet."
Arthur's eyes glittered as he reached for the vial. Henry tried not to think how much this felt like he had just made a deal with the devil.
xxxXXXXxxx
Sam barely slept that night after his talk with Jim. He remembered Jim's question: was there something he could do to stop what was happening to him? Sam had no idea, but it could have been that there was still time. Before the Second Trial, before the second part of the spell, he might still be able to call a halt, and he would feel crappy for a while, but he would eventually get better. At least, Kevin had told him so.
The conversation had taken place during one of Sam's supply runs to Kevin's hiding place. Kevin had seemed pleased to see him alone.
"I wanted to talk to you without Dean," he confessed.
Sam had initially felt a stab of indignation at the statement.
"And what exactly do you have against Dean?"
Kevin raised his hands quickly.
"Wait, no, no. It's not like that. Only…this is a decision you should make on your own. If Dean was here, he might force the issue.
Sam frowned, indignation turning to unease.
"What issue exactly?"
Kevin hesitated, and Sam got the impression that he did not really want to tell Sam, either.
"Kevin," he prompted. "Whatever it is you can tell me."
Kevin looked at him long and hard, then nodded.
"Yeah, I think I can. And I should, anyway. Not doing it would be…well, a dick move."
Sam nodded encouragingly, trying to hide his growing concern.
"You might not make it through the Trials, Sam," Kevin stated bluntly.
Sam blinked.
"Oh," he said, not really knowing how to react. "Well, there's always the risk…"
He stopped when Kevin quickly shook his head.
"No," he said. "I mean, there is information on the tablet – very sketchy and vague – that the more you advance in this process, the more your chances decrease of getting better. If you do all three Trials, I'd say there's about ten per cent chance of you surviving."
"Oh," Sam repeated.
He understood now why Kevin had wanted to talk only to him and not to Dean – Dean would have instantly pulled the plug and insisted on doing the Trials himself.
"And if I stop now?" Sam asked. "Or after the second one?"
Kevin hesitated. Sam could not blame him. Kevin wanted the Gates of Hell shut. It was the only way he could get back to his normal life. Maybe he wanted this badly enough to sacrifice Sam – and Sam understood.
"It's all academic, Kevin," Sam hastened to assure him. "I'm not gonna stop, I just want to know what would happen if I did."
Kevin was wearing a guilty flush on his face.
"Right. Sorry. The choice should be yours anyway. I mean, I want to survive, but not at that cost, you know?"
Sam nodded encouragingly. Kevin took a deep breath.
"I don't know about your chances if you stop after the second Trial. It could be that you won't die, but you won't be the same either. You'll be weak and in pain, like you were suffering from some chronic illness."
Sam definitely did not want that. He would be a burned to Dean. His brother had given up enough for him already. Sam did not want him to give up more.
"And if I stop after the first?" he wanted to know.
Kevin shrugged.
"This is all hypothetical. No one has done this before, right? But if you stop now, it could be that you'd feel crappy for a long time, but eventually recover. At least in part."
So Sam knew the stakes. He had not shared them with Dean and had no intention of ever doing so. No one was going to know he could still stop.
xxxXXXxxx
Sam walked into the library, where Dean was already setting up a devil's trap.
"Were you going to start without me?"
Sam knew he was being snarky, but Dean had a way of doing things behind his back.
"Who? Me?" Dean asked smirking. "Would I do that to you?"
"Yes."
Dean had the grace to blush.
"Sam, I don't even know how to summon Gwydion. I assume it won't be like dialing up a garden variety demon."
"I did some research last night," Sam announced. "Apparently, you need alcohol."
Dean raised his eyebrows.
"I always need alcohol, Sam," he quipped.
Sam rolled his eyes.
"To get Gwydion to come," he specified.
"Huh," Dean said. "I'll get the beers."
Sam grimaced. He was already rummaging through their drinks cabinet.
"No, you'll get the good stuff," he said sternly. "Gwydion needs to be in a good mood."
He could already hear Dean's protests: Sam, the good stuff's not gonna last forever. And true, with the way Dean was going through the drinks the Men of Letters had left behind, it would not. Well, maybe giving something to Gwydion would be a good thing. Dean was already drinking too much – had been drinking too much for longer than Sam could remember, and would probably start drinking even more after the Trials – if Kevin and Castiel was right, and Sam was indeed doomed…
Sam straightened up abruptly. He glanced at Dean who was watching him without saying a word, an uncharacteristically thoughtful look in his eyes.
"What?" Sam asked, self-conscious.
Dean shrugged.
"Nothing, I guess." He hesitated, then asked. "You alright, Sammy?"
Sam drew in a sharp breath at the unexpected question. It was not like Dean to be so direct.
"Why wouldn't I be?" he quipped.
He instantly regretted the flippant words when Dean's face became closed off. He cleared his throat.
"Look, nothing of what's been happening to me has been fun," he stated honestly. "And sometimes it scares the hell out of me. But I can do this, alright?"
Dean looked him straight in the eye.
"Alright," he said.
Sam saw only trust in his brother's face, and he dearly hoped that it was not faked.
"So," he said, changing the subject. "Gwydion."
Dean frowned.
"I will be dealing with Gwydion," he said. "Just like we talked about last night."
Sam tensed.
"We didn't really talk last night, Dean. Talking implies an exchange of opinions."
Dean was going to hold his ground, though. Sam could see that.
"Not with us it doesn't," he said through clenched teeth. "With us, it means you do as I say and don't complain."
Dean was having some pretty far-fetched fantasies this morning, Sam thought uncharitably.
"Or," he proposed, "We could let Gwydion himself decide."
Dean reached out and placed a hand on his forehead before Sam could pull away.
"What are you doing?" Sam asked suspiciously.
"Checking for fever," Dean quipped. "Cause it seems to me your brain's boiling. Did you seriously suggest we let the demon make decisions for us?"
Sam shrugged.
"We might have no choice," he pointed out.
Dean, however, was not going to allow any compromises, no matter how reasonable.
"Not as long as I'm in charge," he said.
Sam kept his mouth shut. He did not think Dean was in charge. Dean was barely holding it together since Purgatory – since Bobby's death and Cas's release of the Leviathan's, maybe. At first, he had tried to pretend for Sam's sake, and while Sam had caught on pretty quickly – he knew his brother better than Dean gave him credit – he had respected Dean's need to seem on top of things. It was getting harder and harder for Dean to do that, and Sam could not, in good conscience, pretend for much longer. The only thing he could do was hope that the Trials would end their worries and would give Dean a final way out of hunting.
Jim and Blair's arrival in the library put a stop to their squabble. Jim, Sam noticed, was looking straight at him. Sam wondered if he was monitoring heartbeat and other things that showed things were not good in Sam's body. Sam pointedly turned his back on him, muttering the word "privacy", hopefully for Jim's ears alone. He did not want Dean to be brought up to speed with the discussion Sam had with Ellison the night before.
Blair was in fine form, as if he had not been tripping through his own nightmares in the spirit world only the previous day. Although, knowing Sandburg, maybe that was something he would find exciting and fascinating looking back.
"What's up with you?" Den could not stop himself from asking.
Blair shrugged, grinning from ear to ear.
"First demon summoning," he explained, as if that was answer enough.
Dean rolled his eyes, but Sam could remember a time when all things hunting would get Dean happy and enthusiastic. He swallowed the pang of sorrow. So much had happened that Dean had stopped enjoying his job a long time ago. Sam even remembered with some guilt how much he had resented the joy Dean took from hunting, considering it unnatural and one of the reasons that kept them tied to the life. Now, he would have given anything to see that glint in Dean's eyes again.
Sam lit the candles and placed them around the Devil's Trap. He filled a glass of scotch and put it in the middle.
"It's good you're not giving him the whole bottle," Dean commented.
"We might have to," Sam pointed out. "This is just the first incentive."
"And how many incentives will he need?" Dean commented.
Sam ignored him. He took a step back and recited a summoning in Gaelic that he had found during his first days exploring the Men of Letters Bunker. He did not doubt Gwydion would be compelled to answer a Latin summons just as quickly, but Sam remembered one of the things he had learned during a Business Negotiations course he had taken at Stanford. People were more receptive to you when you approached them in their native language. He hoped that applied to demons as well.
He had barely finished the summons when black smoke filled the room. Sam coughed and heard Jim sneezing. The smell of sulfur was probably wreaking havoc with his heightened senses. He heard Blair move closer to Jim but did not turn to check if they were alright. He concentrated only on the devil's trap.
When the smoke cleared, the room had gained another occupant. Sam gaped at him. Gwydion was not what he had imagined. He had thought he would come face to face with a giant Celtic warrior with face paint. Instead, Gwydion was about Crowley's size. He was dressed in lavish clothes that would not have been out of place at a Jane Austen ball. His hair was neatly combed and he wore a golden pinch-néz.
Sam heard Dean giggle beside him and turned to glare at him. Now was not the time to antagonize anyone, and Gwydion might have looked innocent, but Dean of all people should have known how looks could be deceiving in demons.
Gwydion tried to take a step forward, but was stopped by the Devil's Trap. He stiffened and looked around him. His eyes fell on Sam and Dean. There was no mistaking the recognition in his face – or the annoyance.
"Oh no," he muttered. "And here I was hoping I would be fortunate enough to avoid you two for the rest of your miserable lives."
Yes, I know I promised you Gwydion in this chapter – and he is, sort of. In truth, I got sidetracked with some Sam-angst, and I wanted to see how Jim would react if he realized something was wrong with Sam (since he's got enhanced senses, it wouldn't probably be hard for him to diagnose that Sam was undergoing something nasty, with how he was coughing up his lungs). The scene with Kevin was a surprise, but during the last part of season 8 Sam always gave me the impression that he knew he wasn't going to make it.
Next chapter will be posted next Sunday, as we resume our regular schedule. Thanks for reading and for waiting patiently for this update.