A/Ns: Guuuuuuuys. I'm having a slight crisis. Do you all remember when I fell down the stairs and sprained my hand last year? Whelp, I also broke my phone that day (in HALF. With my BUTT.) And do you know what was on that phone? Every idea for this story that I had while not within arm's reach of paper or computer for three years. So far, I've made do without those notes because most of them were broad thoughts I remember or written down elsewhere in more detail. However, I just hit a part of the story I've had planned out for months. Like, down-to-the-dialogue planned out. Guess where those plans are? That's right. On my butt-broken phone.
Now I'm sitting here like…Okay, you…you're a good writer, Silence. You can write this dream sequence without your notes. It doesn't matter that it's literally the dream sequence half your audience requested after you told them chest!Cas and present!Cas could talk to one another. It's- it's fine. It's totally fine. You- you don't need those notes. You got this.
In short: I so do (maybe) not got this. I have gone to a tech store and haven't yet decided if I'm going to give them money on the promise of 'we'll try but we might no be able to get you anything'. Right now I'm trying to convince myself that I got this. Anyway, if I announce a switch to two-week posting schedule several weeks from now, this mini-crisis will be why. (But I won't do that until after this arc and the last of cliffhanger row, so no stressing.)
Last time on TRSF… Gordon told Sam he'd seen Dean dealing with a demon, and that was why he needed to be taken out. Sam had laughed coldly, told Gordon he was an idiot, and then stepped into the room, shooting at him. Gordon took one in the thigh but got a return shot on Sam, somewhere in his chest. The hit spun Sam around and he fell back into the livingroom.
Chapter Warnings: We've got a whirlwind of a chapter ahead of us. Sam's having all the things thrown at him (bullets, knives, punches, bodies), Gordon's clearing some things up that no one asked for (rabid, drugged up raccoons), Dean's still stuck waiting but this time it's on a certain mulleted genius (who needs to get a new clock), and Angela shows up with relationship advice (no time like the present crisis!) Oh, and it's another cliffhanger, but for once it's on a positive note! ;)
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The Road So Far (This Time Around)
Season 2: Chapter 64
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
Dean was dead. His brother was dead.
Sam didn't want to believe it, but the truth was, outside of Dean's promise of a future that required both of them alive, Sam had no real reason to think Gordon was lying. The proof was on the phone he held in his hand, his brother's sightless eyes staring up at him from a grainy photograph. Dean was dead, Gordon had killed him, and now, standing a room away from the murdering bastard, Sam was going to murder the hunter that had taken his brother from him.
Dust was still settling in the air from shaking walls and distressed wood. Sam's eyes were dark in the dimly lit kitchen, so indiscernible from the pure black they'd been only minutes before.
"I saw it myself," Gordon said from the other room. "He was with a woman. A woman who disappeared in the blink of an eye."
Sam thumbed the menu button on the phone again, re-awakening the dimmed screen before it could go dark and the phone permanently lock. He stared at the picture as it lit fully once more. His brother's bloody face and dead eyes. Dean said he was going to call an angel, but he'd used male pronouns (for what that was worth).
Had his brother lied to him? Could he have gone to summon a demon instead? Is that why he'd left Sammy behind, chickened out of their deal with a half-assed note and snuck away in the middle of the night?
No. It didn't make any sense. Not only had the two of them been making some progress on the trusting-one-another and not-lying fronts (to the point where Sam felt fairly confident his brother hadn't lied about this), but summoning a demon to help them get Cas back didn't make sense. What could a demon do? Summoning an angel, however, did. And that's what Dean wanted: Cas back, safe. Sam had no doubt about that. Angels took whatever gender their vessel happened to be, so it wasn't like the fact that it was a woman who met with Dean meant much. And angels disappeared in the blink of an eye just like demons.
Dean had found something willing to help: an angel. And Gordon had killed him because he was so damn sure Dean, a psychic, an 'other', must be evil because he wasn't purely human.
The close-minded, racist, thoughtless bastard.
Sam laughed aloud, the sound bitter and cold. Gordon killed his brother over meeting with an angel. The 'good guys', or what should have been considered a good guy to anyone not up to speed with the coming Apocalypse. But Gordon Walker was one of those types of hunters. A black and white, human and other, son of a bitch hunter.
Who had just killed Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man, for meeting with an angel.
The young hunter's overwhelming, uncontrollable anger was taking second place. He was still filled with rage, but it was a hard thing. Cold and sharp. Gordon's words were helping to ground him of all things. Sam looked down at the gun in his hand. The grip was hot – unnaturally hot – from his terrifying tight hold and he released his fist with a breath. The gun sat, steady, in his open palm.
If he was going to kill Gordon – which Sam told himself he wouldn't – he was going to do it with a gun. Not with Azazel's power. Not with demon blood. That was what the Yellow Eyed Demon wanted. To build up those powers, to deplete his supply, to leave him in withdrawal and desperate for more. To be a slave to what Azazel could (and happily would) give him.
No. Sam wouldn't give that bastard the satisfaction. He wouldn't give Gordon what he wanted, either. He would not prove the son of a bitch right about psychics or Winchesters.
And maybe, just maybe, Dean would come back. Sam was less than comfortable with the concept of returning from the dead, but his brother had told him of enough instances of it happening that Sam had the distinct feeling it could. It might. Maybe it would. When Cas came back, maybe the angel could bring his brother back.
Sam just had to be patient and have faith.
Dean wouldn't want him to kill Gordon. Oh, the older Winchester would probably kill the man himself happily, but he wouldn't want his little brother doing it. Especially not with that buzz beneath his skin. No, if Sam was going to do this, if he was going to take care of Gordon, it would be his way. The younger Winchester way.
He pressed the menu button on Gordon Walker's phone again, this time closing the photo gallery application and pulling up the device's settings, gun tight in his other hand and ready to fire one last time.
-o-o-o-
Sam sat up in the living room with a grunt and gritted teeth, that same gun still in hand now three bullets lighter, and free hand pressed to his bleeding chest. Shit. That hadn't been part of the plan. He knew he'd probably take a bullet, he'd factored that much into his gamble, but the hit had been way too close. And on his dominant side too.
The younger Winchester left his gun in his lap, eyes on the kitchen doorway in case Gordon got any quick ideas, and reached up to the right breast pocket of his flannel. He winced, biting down to keep from making any noise as he removed his phone and the folded note from Dean, bits of plastic and paper left behind in bruised and bleeding skin. Sam stared at the device, which had taken the brunt of Gordon's shot, thank God.
Of course, a .308 bullet from a hunting rifle at close range meant that thing had kept right on going.
Sam was damn lucky. Without that phone, he'd be as dead as his brother. The bullet had been slowed by the thick plastic, enough so that its trajectory skewed. It kept going, right into Sam, but through his side – in and out between his ribs, maybe clipping one on the way – rather than his lungs or the more movement-deterring collarbone or shoulder blade.
Still hurt like hell, though. His chest was on fire and lifting his arm to aim was going to hurt more still. Enough to compromise his shot, maybe. Sam slipped the now-useless phone into the pocket on his left side instead, bloody note tucked right along with it. Left-handed, he picked his gun back up, splitting his gaze between the hole in the wall to his right and the kitchen entrance to his left. But Gordon hadn't followed him through and Sam didn't think he would.
He knew his shot had landed as well, somewhere in the hunter's leg. He could hear Gordon huffing on the other side of the wall. So Sam took the time to climb to his feet – quietly and carefully – so he could reposition himself more securely in the larger room. He was low on ammo; he knew his count and only had a single bullet left. With his right arm tucked tight to his chest, Sam reconned the room with a quick scan. There were two handguns sitting on the table and the young hunter moved over to them, keeping an eye as his line of sight into the kitchen changed. But he couldn't see Gordon, so he grabbed one of the guns and checked its clip.
He didn't like using someone else's guns – much preferred the weapons he was familiar with and trusted – but desperate times called for desperate measures. It hurt like hell, but Sam managed to tuck his own gun into his waistline along his back, the first of Gordon's tucked to the side, and cocked the second. The hammer hadn't finished sliding into place when its owner let out a low, rolling chuckle from the kitchen.
"Got me in the leg, Sammy," Gordon said, the grin obvious in his words as well as the pain. Sam knew a thing or two about the latter, but there wasn't shit about this that was remotely funny to him. "Don't suppose you want to call it a draw?"
As if Sam couldn't tell from the tone alone that Gordon Walker was anything but ready to walk away from this. Hunters didn't walk away and Sam was getting the feeling this particular hunter didn't even know the meaning of the word.
Or other words. Honor, decency, family. Sanity. Just to name a few.
"Sure," Sam answered, voice cold. He might be keeping that buzzing back by a dam made of pure will and moral resilience, but that didn't make him any less angry. Any less murderous, even while promising himself he wouldn't murder anyone that night. Sam eyed both entrances to the kitchen, fingers curling again and again around the grip of Gordon's gun. "Just throw that rifle out here, first."
He got another chuckle for that one and Sam ground his teeth against the sound.
"Yeah…don't think that's gonna work out for me, Sammy."
Sam closed his eyes, jaw clenched so tight it hurt, and told himself he would not kill Gordon Walker just for calling him Sammy. He would not kill Gordon Walker for a stupid nickname. He said it again and again, like writing lines on a school chalkboard in after-school detention until it stuck. Not that he was actually old enough to have suffered that form of punishment, but cartoons used it often enough still.
"What guarantee do I have that you won't just shoot me first chance you get?" In the kitchen, Gordon leaned his head back against the cabinet, a dark smile playing on his lips. "And after I killed your brother. Yeah. Somehow I don't see us walking out of here hand-in-hand, Sammy. Singing 'Kumbaya.'"
This was all entirely a game to the man, the younger Winchester knew. Gordon had no intention of laying down arms, so all of this? Nothing but fun for the sick bastard. Sam shouldn't answer him. Sam should be the better man, the stronger man.
Except he'd never been all that good at being good. There was demon blood in his veins as proof enough of that.
"I can guarantee that you're wrong about me. And my brother." Sam eyes locked on the gun in his hand and he repeated his mantra. I will not kill Gordon Walker. The itch beneath his skin grew like a flurry of bees, but Sam did his best to ignore it. He would not kill Gordon Walker. Not with those powers, not with the man's own gun. He wouldn't. "And I'm going to prove it to you."
Those deep brown eyes locked on the kitchen, dangerous and absolutely deadly despite any mantra in his head. He had a plan, Sam reminded himself, the first steps of which were already in action. Now he just had to stick to it.
-o-o-o-
Dean was just beginning to worry when Cas finally came back. It had been eight minutes. Eight. Cas was usually gone and back in under one. The hunter managed not to jump when the angel – back in Angela Garrett's trench-coated body – popped into existence in the backseat. The sudden breathing, moving presence of another living being coming out of nowhere was always somewhat of a surprise, no matter how used to the phenomena you got. A cell phone – Bobby's, he would put good money on – popped up in his peripheral vision and Dean grabbed it without even looking, already putting the car back into drive and peeling out.
"Thanks, Cas," the hunter muttered, flipping the device open and dialing Sam. He pressed the phone to his ear, eyes catching Cas's in the rear view mirror. Dean had to split his attention between the road and those blue eyes as his gut flared, instincts immediately set on red alert.
Something was different.
Cas was breathing raggedly, like a human who'd run a marathon. And her face was a myriad of emotion – exhaustion, fear, pain, confusion, terror – so much so that she looked…human. Incredibly human. And not at all like the angel he knew.
"Hi, Dean," Cas said and the hunter realized immediately that was not his angel in the backseat. Even before she offered a weak, trembling smile. "Nice to officially meet you."
The Impala screeched to a halt in the middle of the road as Dean did a double take, then spun around to stare at the woman in the back of his car. "Angela!?"
"In the flesh," the woman joked, or at least attempted to. She winced, a hand curled around her torso. Everything about her posture screamed uncomfortable. "Sorry. Terrible joke."
Still pressed to his ear, Bobby's phone abruptly switched directly from a dialing tone to Sam's voicemail. The automated messaging system was audible in the quiet car and Dean distractedly ended the call, snapping the flip phone shut. His brother's phone hadn't even rung. Just straight to voicemail. Shit, that was so not good. If Sam's phone wasn't on, Dean couldn't even use the phone company to track it, which had been his Plan B if Sammy didn't pick up.
Shit!
"Are you…" Dean physically shook his head, trying to rattle his brain back into gear. He glanced at the road over his shoulder, then Bobby's phone, then the angel – not angel? – in his backseat. Crap, he so did not have time for this right now. "Are you hurt? Is Cas okay? What-"
"He's okay," Angela interrupted, realizing the man in front of her was about as frantic as he was confused. Given the bits and pieces Castiel had managed to relay, Angela could understand why. "Just hurting and needs to…uh…rest. Guess I'm in the driver's seat till then."
Dean looked down at the phone again, fingers white around the plastic casing. Damnit…Sam's phone was dead, which meant getting a GPS lock on it was out. And now it looked like their immediate ride to that location he didn't have a chance of getting anymore was also out.
Shit. Shit!
"Cas says…he can get us to Sam if he has a location." Angela said, like she'd read his mind. Doubtful, given Cas's condition. At least Angela seemed okay. Well, -ish. The woman's breathing was labored but at least it was steady. Even. Probably not gonna give out anytime soon, which Dean hadn't even realized was a concern until the damn thought popped into his head. "Might have to leave B-baby behind, though."
Okay… Okay, okay, okay. Dean slammed his eyes shut, forcing his brain to focus on one thing at a time. If Cas was offering transport, than he was going to be fine. Hurting, yes, out of the game for the foreseeable future, (coughing up blood for three days, maybe), but fine. Angela was probably freaking the hell out about all this and Dean was sure she'd need some serious trauma therapy by the end of it, but she seemed to be holding her own as well. Which meant Sam was the one he needed to focus on. Find Sam.
How?
Dean flipped the phone back open and started searching through Bobby's contacts, knowing Ellen Harvelle wouldn't be far down the list.
-o-o-o-
Ellen made it to the phone – an old landline hanging off one of the support pillars behind the bar – by the second ring. It was late, 'bout a half-hour passed closing time, and she'd been just about ready to call it a night. But the only people who called that number this late were hunters who needed help.
"Yeah, who is this and what do you need?"
"Ellen."
The bar owner straightened, back going rigid at Dean Winchester's voice. He sounded like shit. She gripped the phone with her other hand, eyes darting back and forth as her mind raced with possible scenarios. "Dean. Honey, what's wrong?"
"Get Ash. I need him to run a trace on Gordon Walker's number."
"Whoa, Dean…" Ellen was speechless. Far as she knew, Dean Winchester was a good kid, and a damn fine hunter. Which meant he should know better than to ask that. "Look, I'm happy to help however I can and I'm no fan of Gordon's, but we don't do that to fellow hunters, Dean. You know that-"
"He tried to take me out, Ellen!" Dean snapped down the line and Ellen froze, widening in disbelief. "Now he's after Sam, and I gotta get there first."
"He what?" The barkeep turned around, phone pressed hard enough to her ear to hurt. Gordon Walker was bad news – always had been – but Ellen never thought he'd go that far. She hadn't even known the boys knew him. What the hell could have possibly possessed Gordon to go after two of their own?
"Ellen, if he kills my brother, I swear to god-"
She spun towards the pool tables, searching the darkened back of the bar for a passed out figure atop one of them. "Ash! Get your ass over here now!"
-o-o-o-
Four and a half minutes. That's how long Ash said he'd need to hack Gordon's phone company and turn the GPS in his device on.
"That creep?" Ash scoffed when Dean asked if he could trace Gordon Walker's location through his phone. "Hell's yes, my man, I can do that for ya. There's something seriously off about that dude. Oh, by the way, I had some major breakthroughs with your father's research, amigo. You're not gonna believe this-"
"Yeah, later, Ash," Dean all but snapped, lucky he hadn't broken Bobby's phone in two with the death grip he had on it.
"'Course, my friend, of course."
Ellen took the phone back by that point, realizing the Winchester was as likely to turn his murderous sights on Ash if he couldn't turn them on Gordon. And Ash wasn't the best with social cues or hints.
"We'll call you back as soon as we have something, hun."
That had been one whole minute ago, according to Baby's dash clock. A whole minute of aimless driving, quite literally spinning his wheels. Dean was heading towards the motel for lack of anywhere better to go, but it irked him. His fingers were wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel his joints ached. With nothing more he could actually do and hating feeling so damn useless, Dean kept glancing in the rear view mirror at his back passenger, who wasn't looking so hot.
"You okay?"
"Oh, you know. Peachy." Angela's eyebrows waggled and Dean huffed, shaking his head. She was pale and winced on occasion with some unseen, internal distress, but Dean didn't push. It was clear the woman wasn't interested in chatting about it. Instead, she inched forward on the seat, taking her time to avoid falling over completely. Her muscles weren't in complete atrophy, but it turned out that, without Cas's usual healing of her body, she was pretty much at newborn-faun status over here. It sucked big time. The pins and needles alone.
"So…I gotta ask." Angela curled weak fingers along the top of the front seat. The leather was cool beneath her trembling touch and she took a moment just to appreciate the feel of something again. "Because, honestly, I didn't think I'd ever get to talk to you face to face."
Green irises eyed her in the mirror, one eyebrow raised in question. Angela slapped on her best smile. The one that always had Mark insinuating cat-related, canary-eating analogies.
"You gonna tap that, or what?"
The Impala definitely swerved for a second and Angela was completely torn between holding on for dear life and bursting out laughing. Since she was kind of too weak for either, what came out was a pathetic conglomeration of both.
Dean spun his head to look at her, then corrected the car, then tried to turn again, thought better of it, gripped the steering wheel, and glanced between the road and rear view mirror a number of times at a truly epilepsy-inducing speed. Angela was rather enjoying the performance.
"What? What?"
Righting herself took more strength than she really had, and the muscles in Angela's arms twitched and spasmed with the effort, but she did manage to remain upright. She shrugged in response to Dean's bafflement, in part to flex and stretch those attention-starved muscles. It was a terrible idea, resulting in one hell of a heinous neck cramp on her left sie. She worked through it with a grimace, distracting herself with Dean's adorable cluelessness. "I know, I know: not really the right time. But, like I said, I probably won't get another chance and I've been dying to ask you since, like, day three."
Silence reigned in the car, then Angela let out a little huff of air that was too close to a laugh for Dean to ever be comfortable with it. She smiled to herself. "'Dying'. Heh."
"I- what...what are you talking about?"
The Dragon Lady in his rear view mirror shrugged again. "You and Cas."
"Me and Cas…what?"
Piercing blue eyes narrowed under a furrowed brow and Dean got the distinct impression that Angela Garrett would have made a fantastical mom. She had the look down pat. Dragon Lady Mom. Beats out Mama Bear every damn time (roasts mama bear on a spit, more like).
"You know."
"No," Dean argued, shaking his head with one big, exaggerated sweep. "No, I most definitely do not know."
Despite the fact that Sam was in danger, Dean was stuck driving to a motel he knew was empty, Gordon Walker had successfully murdered him, and there was an injured angel riding shotgun inside a mother effing Dragon Lady Chatty Kathy in his backseat, it was the look Angela pinned him with that sparked the most fear in Dean yet. Which was utterly ridiculous. So ridiculous Dean wanted to pull over, call it quits, and tell whoever had concocted this god damn charade: congrats, they won, they could just kill him now.
"You're being stupid on purpose and, despite what Sam says, it's doesn't really suit you."
"Okay, you know what-"
"Is it the guy thing? Cuz…I mean, right now he's not really a 'guy'," the woman said with exaggerated air quotes, and oh yeah, that's definitely where Cas had learned them from. "Pretty sure he's never actually a guy, but, you know. Details." Angela flapped her hand dismissively like being a genderless Angel of the friggin' Lord was unimportant and instead gestured to herself. "Right now he's a pretty hot chick. Not that I'm bragging. Okay, I'm bragging a little bit. I know I'm a catch. So what's the holdup? It's obvious you're interested."
Between the flapping of her hand, the pinched fingers to demonstrate just how much she wasn't bragging, and the rapid-fire speech, Dean's head was spinning. And most of that was still just from the damn topic.
"I'm not having this conversation with you." Dean faced the front stoically, keeping his eyes determinedly on the road, not matter how difficult a task that actually was. It lasted all of about fourteen seconds. "And really? Now? You're bringing this up now? That's your go-to?"
Angela shrugged again, this time more cautiously. She had her right foot in the grave and about six of the eight inches of her left alongside it. There were no regrets to be had here. Dean, on the other hand, seemed to be having plenty. Like opening up a line of conversation at all with the Dragon Lady in his backseat. There was another beat of defensive, frustrated silence in which knowing blue eyes just stared patiently (evil, not patient. Evil.) and Dean avoided meeting them at all costs. He was not having this conversation.
"I am not interested, damnit. What is it with everyone and me and Cas, huh?"
Okay, apparently he was.
Green eyes flashed to his passenger completely against his will and Angela, who was quite smug with the very short time she'd had to wait for him to break down, seemed genuinely surprised by the question. Her shoulders went up and down in a little, innocent shrug yet again. (Nothing about this woman was innocent, Dean thought. Nothing.)
"It's the way you look at him. Her. I mean me. Us?"
Once more – despite the ridiculous stress in the car, the tension of a situation that could likely end in his brother's death and had ended in his death, along with this mother effing conversation – Dean was oddly relieved to know he wasn't the only one struggling with the pronouns.
"I don't look at him- her- you-" Damnit, he hadn't even meant to do it that time- "in any way."
"Oh, yes you do!" Angela laughed, then immediately stopped laughing when she realized Dean wasn't. He was serious. Oh dear lord, he was serious. Big, blue eyes stared at him in shock. "Wait, you really don't know?"
Oh shit. She hadn't meant to- Okay…well, this conversation just got awkward.
"Um…oh…well, you really should know, because if you don't meant to be doing it-"
"Doing what?" the hunter barked from the front seat even as he pulled off the main highway back into town. They were only about two minutes from the motel. And where the hell was Ash with a location and the blessed end to this conversation?!
"Let me ask you something first," Angela said, her tone much quieter now and (if Dean was one to even consider something so feely where this woman was concerned) more respectful. "You and the Cas from the other time- your time. Did you…ever…?"
Her eyebrows were suggestive enough that Dean's forehead smoothed out and he got that really scary look usually reserved for ghosts and vamps and Gordon Fucking Walker.
"No!"
"Okay, but was it the guy thing?"
He was gonna kill the woman in his backseat. It wouldn't even be murder, because he was a hunter and she was the god damn devil.
"It was the Cas thing!" he yelled, way above indoor voice level. Dean could feel his entire face growing red. From embarrassment, sure, but more so from anger and barely contained murder rage. Of course, he probably couldn't murder Angela without hurting Cas at this point, or at least making the guy go find another vessel…. Dean went rigid as that thought – more of a dalliance than anything serious – made him realize something entirely else. Something that definitely made his face go red with embarrassment. "Can he hear this?"
Shit. This conversation was ridiculous. So much so that Dean was contemplating eating his own gun just to get out of it. But he also didn't need his best friend hearing it. Not only for the pure mortification factor, but more so because Dean had never been good at policing his words when he was angry or, even worse, emotional. He didn't need Cas hearing something that might sound…wrong out of context. Hurtful.
Angela paused, turning her head to the side and eyes darting back and forth as she obviously talked with someone Dean couldn't hear. She righted her head soon enough, shaking it instead, waves of dark hair tossing back and forth and being so stupidly distracting that Dean was able to cling right back onto the anger over the embarrassment.
"He isn't answering, so I don't think so."
Yeah…alright, this timeline's Cas wasn't comfortable enough with deceit yet (never, Dean corrected harshly) to be faking. The human wrung his hands along the steering wheel, his breathing speeding up for completely and utterly ridiculous reasons. Even so, some of the tension eased out of his shoulders, which had been stiff and climbing up, up, up around his ears the longer this conversation went on.
"Look…" Dean cut himself off, shaking his head again. He couldn't believe he was having this conversation. "Cas is my best friend, alright? I love him, I do. But it's a brother thing. Sister, in this case."
Green eyes darted to the mirror, but couldn't hold Angela's gaze for long.
In the back, Angela bit her lip to keep back the automatic laugh. She was starting to know the man in front of her pretty well, from lots of observation and internal chatter with her angel. Laughing at him when he was attempting to open up – however poorly he was succeeding at doing that – would only shut him down faster.
Plus (and she really was shocked by this) Dean honestly didn't seem to know.
"The way you look at me, at Cas, is definitely not sisterly."
Oh, but the way the tips of his ears turned red, so much so that she could tell even in the dark car, was adorable. Those shoulders inched back up towards covering those ears and it made Angela want to laugh even more because, yeah, what a horn dog. He'd been so laughably bad for those first couple days.
Angela stifled her amusement and kept her tone far more serious – far more gentle, too – as she continued, "It's not the way a guy looks a girl because he's got the hots for her, either, you know."
Dean glanced her way almost hesitantly, but once again couldn't hold her gaze. She didn't insist he try, instead looking at the back of his head and hoping it might help him, at the very least, listen to her words. "You look at me like Mark does. You look at me like you know me, Dean. Like…everything about me, and expect…just, everything from me, too. It's…"
Angela blew out a breath, eyebrows going up in that expectant way all girls seemed to have.
"It's intense. And terrifying. If I were not a happily taken woman and also about one step shy of being completely dead-" In the front seat, Dean made a choking noise and Angela had to bite her lip again- "I'd have fallen for that look by day two."
The woman allowed a genuine smile – soft and sweet and maybe even a little sad, like she could be when she wanted – and knew Dean was watching her in the mirror. She chanced a glance up and the hunter held her gaze this time for as long as he could while driving.
"I'm not saying you don't know how you feel, Dean. You know that way better than me. If you say you don't like Cas that way, then okay. You don't." Angela shrugged, eyes going from the mirror to the black asphalt and yellow lines stretching out into the night. "But maybe you should know what Cas sees when you look at him. What everyone else sees, too, cuz that look is not subtle."
In the front, Dean swallowed past the giant-est damn frog on the friggin' planet stuck in his throat and cursed Ash's name with every cuss word he knew. Four minutes his ass. "I don't mean to look at him…like…that…okay?"
He was looking at the mirror again before he could stop himself, but Dragon Lady didn't look particularly judgmental. Dean didn't want to be having this conversation, damnit, but even he could admit it helped that she was…just trying to help, he supposed. She wasn't teasing him anymore, not since she'd realized…shit. Did he really put off some kind of gay-for-an-angel vibe that badly? Sure, there'd been the couple of assholes over the years who liked to comment on it (Crowley and Balthazar, for starters) but Dean had always thought they were just…you know. Assholes.
Baby's leather creaked beneath his tightening grip. He didn't mean to. He didn't. Better yet, he wasn't. It wasn't like that between him and Cas. But if that 'look' really was a thing he did…if the way he looked at Cas really was, somehow…uh…misleading certain people (assholes and Dragon Ladies), then….
Shit. Shit. How long had that been going on for? And how the hell did he not do it going forward? He supposed he could just not look at Cas ever again. Bigger sacrifices had been made in the name of manliness.
Dean shook his head and tried to focus. They had so many other world-ending crises to deal with, here, goddamnit.
"We've been through a lot together, alright? Cas knows me better than anyone else. Maybe even better than Sam. But that doesn't mean we're…in…that I- and this Cas-"
Angela raised a sardonic eyebrow in the rear view mirror as Dean went on stuttering and stumbling. The corner of her lips twitched up and it looked like the nice, helpful, and (dare-he-say) friend sitting in his backseat had been gobbled back up by the Dragon Lady.
"Don't hurt yourself."
"Shut up." There wasn't even heat in it and for that Dean cursed himself. Then Ash again just because he fucking could.
It was right at that moment that Bobby's phone started ringing and thank Christ. Dean grabbed it off the seat like a friggin' lifeline and answered just a little too desperately. Luckily, Ellen didn't think twice about the squeak in his voice. Pure worry for Sam, she probably thought, and Dean was more than happy to let her keep right on thinking that.
"You got something for me?"
It was Ash, yelling in the background on what was clearly a speakerphone call, who answered. "5637 Monroe Street!"
"Thanks." Dean was about to hang up and flip the car back around for the highway when Ellen's voice stopped him. He still put on his blinker and spun the car, but he kept the line open.
"Bring him home, Dean."
If that frog was back in his throat, choking him up for entirely different reasons, well…Dean blinked through it, telling the damn amphibian to fuck off. "Yeah. Sure thing, Ellen."
He snapped Bobby's phone shut and met Angela's eyes in the rear view mirror. "You ready to go?"
Angela nodded even as she closed her eyes. "I'll wake Cas up."
-o-o-o-
Gordon kept his rifle trained on the entrance to the kitchen. It was hard not to keep glancing to his left, to the hole in the wall that led to the same room on the other side. But if he split his focus like that, he was going to wind up dead. Sam was a good shot; he only needed a fraction of a second to fire first.
Question was, why hadn't he?
He knew Sam's count; the kid should have one more bullet in the chamber. Not to mention Gordon's two hand guns he'd left in that room. Given the amount of time Sam had been quiet while Gordon had tied a makeshift tourniquet around his thigh, the other hunter had surely reconned the space and found both weapons.
So what was he waiting for?
Gordon supposed he could ask himself the same question. He had the firepower to shoot clean through the wall separating him and Sammy. But he didn't have the kid's location on the other side of that wall, and unlike the Heckler and Koch SL8 that he'd killed Dean with, this rifle wasn't semi-automatic. He could definitely lay down some cover fire and hope to kill the kid with luck, but Gordon had always preferred to make his kills more…personal.
Which was why he was waiting on Sammy to give him an opening.
Maybe the baby Winchester needed a little extra incentive, was all. 'Course, the last time he'd done that, the kid had made the whole house shake. Still…Gordon had never exactly prided himself on been the overly-cautious type.
"You know…given all the things I'd heard about Dean Winchester being this…amazing hunter, just like his old man…" Gordon settled back against the far cabinets, knees up, rifle poised, yet the picture of relaxed. "He didn't really live up to the hype."
Last time Sammy had done…whatever it was he'd done to the walls, Gordon could have pinpointed his location down to an inch. The way the surface had bent wasn't unlike an explosion in extreme slow motion. The focal point had been obvious. Gordon tightened his grip on the rifle, eyeing the length of wood that would tell the same story a second time. He just had to get Sammy to use those powers.
"My brother was a good hunter," Sam barked back, and Gordon grinned at the anger in his voice. And the past tense.
"Yeah, maybe he was. But he had a leg up on the rest of us, didn't he? He was a psychic."
In the living room, Sam clenched his teeth, eyes sliding shut against every instinct. Gordon threw the word out like it ought to have saved Dean, when he was the one who killed him with a cowardly sniper shot in the dark. It made Sam's blood boil.
"You know, I almost thought setting up that bogus hunt to get you two here wouldn't work? If Dean was psychic and all that, I thought…for sure he'll figure it out right outta the gate. But he didn't have a clue."
On the other side of the wall, Sam straightened, back rigid from the new information. What? The case they'd come here on… A man stabbed with a silver tipped blade and a lot of coincidences to make it look like he was a werewolf.
"The guy in the parking lot…. That was you?" Sam asked, voice hollow with a second death, more blood, on this hunter's hands. But how could Gordon have set up the animal attacks? Sam remembered – vividly, thank you very much – being chased by a damn rabid raccoon.
"Yeah. I came to this town looking for someone else. One of you psychics," Gordon drawled with a dark, humorless chuckle. "Kid by the name of Scott Carey. Could fry a person from the inside out with just a touch. Imagine that."
Sam's breath caught at the name. The young hunter found himself rigid in the other room. Frozen. Oh, his gun was still trained and ready to fire, but his brain was a couple hundred miles away, with Andy Gallagher.
"He was 'bout your age, actually, Sammy." Gordon was still talking, but Sam wasn't listening. "'Course, he was already gone by the time I got here. His old man was real torn up about it, thought the boy skipped town. Depression, or some shit like that. But if you ask me? Someone got to him before I could."
Scott Carey was from Lafayette? Sam closed his eyes again, something he knew he shouldn't do, but God. Suddenly, the younger Winchester was a million times more grateful that they hadn't brought Andy with them on this case.
"How do you even know any of that?" Sam asked through clenched teeth, brown eyes flashing back open angrily.
"Same way I know about you, Sammy."
The younger hunter clenched his fist around the grip of his borrowed gun and reminded himself he wasn't going to kill this man just for calling Sammy. At this point, he might kill him for plenty of other reasons, but it wouldn't be just that one. Slowly, Sam started moving towards the hole on the far end of the wall. He was pretty sure Gordon was closer to the kitchen entrance.
"I was doing this exorcism down in Louisiana. Teenage girl, seemed routine, some low-level demon." Gordon remembered the way the thing had hissed and seethed and burned. The human shell it was wearing had once been pretty. Bright future, Gordon was sure. But by then she was nothing but a used up demon condom. Death was 'bout the only thing he could offer her. "Between all the jabbering and the head-spinning, the damn thing muttered something. About a coming war."
In the living room, Sam stopped in his silent shuffling, eyes locked on that door into the kitchen. Gordon knew about the Apocalypse? That…might actually explain why he'd taken out Dean and tried to take out Sam. But everything he'd spewed so far…it didn't make any damn sense. Why not just say that? Why not just say he'd killed Dean to stop the damn Apocalypse?
(Not that it would make Sam any less willing to kill him, of course, but at least then Dean's death wouldn't be because of a damn lie and Gordon's racist paranoia.)
"I don't think it meant to," Gordon continued and Sam quietly resumed his movements towards the far wall, telling himself to stay focused. "It just kind of…slipped out. But it was too late. Piqued my interest. And you know…you can really make a demon talk, you got the right tools."
Sam had to draw in a calming breath, then about six more just to keep his voice steady. I will not kill Gordon Walker. I will not kill Gordon Walker.
"What happened to the girl?"
"Hm?"
"The girl," Sam repeated through gritted teeth, loathing every falsely nonchalant bone in that asshole's body. "The one the demon was possessing."
"Oh…she didn't make it."
Sam let that breath right back out. I will not kill Gordon Walker…quickly. I will kill him slowly, and painfully, and-
"Anyway. This demon tells me there are soldiers to fight in this coming war. Even said I knew one." From the kitchen, Gordon laughed again and Sam took the opportunity to press his back against the wall separating them, confident Gordon couldn't pinpoint his location over the sound of his own voice. "I figured Dean's name was the one it would drop, but no. It was yours. Our very own, Samuel Winchester."
Yeah, that sounded about right from Dean's recount of events. His brother hadn't gone into detail about Gordon's vendetta against Sam, but what he was hearing now made more sense than the hunter going after Dean. Sam could see this chain of events going down in the timeline Dean came from. Dean's lie about being psychic in this one seemed to be the root of Gordon's changed behavior.
"With a little more…incentive, I got a couple other names, too. Still nothing 'bout Dean, but…I did my research. So I figured when the one the demon named here didn't pan out…" Gordon shrugged against the cabinets, finger tapping a repetitive rhythm against the rifle's trigger. "I knew it wouldn't take much to get you two here. Set up what looked like a hunt, place the right calls. See, I got friends at the Roadhouse, too, Sammy. Turns out, it's not too hard to get a hold of Bobby Singer."
The younger Winchester's entire left side of his face ached from the tension in his jaw, but he held it all in. There was still dust in the air from his last temper tantrum; he couldn't afford another. Reminded of that, Sam reached up, clamping his hand around that damn injection site in his trapezius. The buzz was strongest there and, he was pretty sure, entirely psychosomatic. He just had to get his brain – and his temper – to remember that.
"You killed someone just to get us here?" Sam said instead, forcing the change in topic, original goal back in mind. At least, as firmly as he could make it stick past the buzzing and rage. He just needed to stall long enough to incapacitate Gordon and get out. Before he did something he'd regret later.
Inside the kitchen, his adversary audibly scoffed. "A low-life drug dealer. Not worth the air he breathed."
Well, that was just wonderful. Sam flexed his fingers around the gun, closing his eyes. Gordon wasn't just 'Human and Other', he was flat out playing God. Another person – good or bad, which wasn't their right to judge – dead and gone. Sam was so damn tired of being the reason people kept dying.
"You son of a bitch. You-"
Bullets ripped through the wall between him and the kitchen, way too damn close for Gordon not having a lock on his location. Sam had to hit the floor to avoid getting ventilated. The rifle Gordon had wasn't automatic, Sam knew that from sighting it in the kitchen, but that didn't mean the other hunter couldn't fire off a round as fast as the gun could reload and his finger could pull the trigger.
"Shit," Sam muttered, scrambling in an army crawl further down the length of wall. He'd taken one to the arm in that barrage. Luckily, it was only a flesh wound, cut through fabric and enough layers of skin to bleed pretty decently, but that was about it.
"That's my mama you're talking about," Gordon called from the kitchen before he came charging through the gap in the wall, which Sam had unfortunately army crawled right towards to get away from the hail of bullets coming through the wood. Gordon's plan, no doubt.
Sam managed to clamber to his feet in time to block the butt of the rifle coming right at his jaw, but he had to drop his gun to do it. The block saved his face and probably one hell of a headache, but it cost him a brutal hit to his collarbone instead as the rifle landed at the junction of neck and shoulder. Sam cried out, hitting the ground hard, pain flaring up his neck.
At least his collarbone was still intact, the muscles taking the brunt of the hit.
The younger hunter rolled to the side, just in time to miss Gordon's rifle again as it slammed into the floorboards hard enough to crack the old wood. Desperate and only slightly disoriented, Sam swept his leg out, kicking at the base of that gun. His food landed solidly, knocking the rifle out of Gordon's grip and taking it to the floor. Another frantic kick knocked it out of reach.
Unfortunately, Gordon was a decent hunter, and any hunter worth their salt was quick to adapt. He drew his knife from his hip, the Buck 119 Cocobola a good six inches of promised death as Sam got one knee under him. The younger Winchester grunted with the force of Gordon's tackle, tumbling over backwards. Dust scattered back into the air with their landing, long arms and Sasquatch strength the only thing keeping Gordon's knife from sinking into his chest.
With gritted teeth and a straining grip on Gordon's wrists, Sam brought his knee up as much as he could between the man half-straddling his side, and slammed the side of his foot into Gordon's bleeding thigh, right below the tourniquet. The hunter cried out involuntarily, strength temporarily failing him as he doubled over the intense flare of pain up and down his thigh. Sam rolled out from under the knife, throwing Gordon to the side as much as he could with the move, and scrambled back to his feet a half dozen feet away.
"Damnit," Gordon hissed, kneeling on his good leg, one hand clamped down on the bad thigh, the other still holding the knife. He got back to his feet, keeping most of his weight off of his bleeding leg. He grinned at the other hunter, who so far hadn't gone for that gun he knew was tucked in his waistline. "Low blow. What's wrong, Sam? Don't got it in you to shoot me?"
A real hunter – a real man – wouldn't have hesitated.
Dark brown eyes, so dark they almost seemed all pupil, no iris, regarded Gordon coldly. With a grin, the hunter tossed his knife from hand to hand, an open invitation for Sam to come and take it from him if he was too good for a gun.
"What are you waiting for, Sammy?"
"I told you," the younger Winchester panted angrily, breaths coming in big, deep huffs. "It's Sam."
Gordon didn't wait for the hunter to finish. He threw the knife while Sam was busy correcting him. The Winchester's eyes widened, body turning to the side instinctually to avoid the hit. But Gordon had lied (well, sort of) when he told Sammy all he had on him was a knife. He actually had two knives. The hunter drew a smaller blade – a thing, delicate thing built into his belt-buckle – even as he flung the first. Gordon immediately followed the first attack with a second he knew the Winchester wouldn't have the time or speed to dodge.
"No!" Sam yelled out on pure instinct, flinging his hand out, body still turned, shoulder dropped and no other way to defend himself. The first blade flew past him, so close Gordon wouldn't be surprise if he managed to snip a button off the Winchester's jacket. But the second was a golden hit, straight for the chest.
It never made it. Gordon stared, eyes intense and murderous, at the blade as it hovered in midair, inches from its target. Sam's hand was still raised, just beyond the tip of the blade, fingers spread wide and trembling with strain. Gordon's eyes left the knife, tracking to the hunter's pain-crinkled features and the trail of blood, dark and thick, pouring from Sam Winchester's nose.
"I knew it," Gordon sneered.
The knife clattered to the ground and Sam joined it a second later. He managed to catch himself on all fours, but the young hunter's breath came in labored heaves. His head was pounding so fiercely he couldn't hear past the buzzing in his ears.
Shit. He should have known he didn't have the supply to do that, no matter what that itch beneath his skin thought. All he'd gotten this time was an injection and some spilled blood. He wasn't at his peak, like he'd been after that first jar. If only he'd had more. He needed more.
Realizing what he was thinking – how annoyed he was at his own weakness and the lack of demon blood in his system – Sam's stomach clenched in disgust and fear. He shook his head with a jolt, and, with it, tried to shake free those thoughts. Thoughts that he needed it. That he wanted it. If only he had it, he could do this. Could do anything.
That was exactly what Azazel wanted, damnit. Sam's skin crawled with that buzz, weak and feeble, and his head pounded dangerously, in a way it hadn't since last year. Since he'd passed out in a bathroom and woken up in a hospital. Damnit, if Dean wasn't dead – or he somehow came back – the older Winchester was going to be so pissed at him.
"You're not human, Sam."
The younger Winchester lifted his head to glare at the other hunter standing a half dozen feet away. Gordon was looking at him like something in need of extermination. The sad part was, Sam couldn't even really blame him for that. He didn't agree with it – screw that and screw this bastard – but he knew what he looked like. Blood pouring down his face, pushing himself hard enough to cause internal damage. And unlike Gordon Walker, he knew the source of that power.
Damnit, he was better that this. He had to be.
Sam grabbed the knife with a clumsy hand. He was just getting his legs back under him, Gordon apparently waiting (the man seemed to have a weird, macho desire to fight him hand-to-hand like a hopped up idiot), when a vibration and a ping broke the tense silence and labored breaths.
Both hunters looked over to a phone – Gordon's phone – laying on the ground just a couple feet away. It must have fallen out of Sam's pocket when he'd dove to the floor or when Gordon had tackled him. The screen was lit with an alert and from his kneeling position on the ground, Sam was able to read it.
Someone had just activated the GPS on Gordon's cell phone.
Huh.
A grin, exhausted and silly with relief, lit Sam's face as he realized what that meant.
There was only one person in the world who'd go to any length to find him, wherever he was. Sam's phone was shot, Gordon had taken Dean's, which meant there was only one place his older brother could possibly turn to in order to do that. Gordon Walker's phone. If that photo the murdering hunter had shown him was authentic – which Sam was pretty sure it was and Dean really had been dead – than there was only one way his big brother could be back. And she came with a pair of wings.
The younger Winchester started to laugh.
"What the hell's so funny?" Gordon asked, both angry and wary. He couldn't read the message on his phone from where he was standing, but he couldn't imagine what would cause that reaction. Especially in Sam's current state.
"Nothing," the younger hunter replied, grin still wide and white teeth shining in contrast to the dark blood staining his upper lip. He lifted his hand, wiping the edge of his jacket sleeve across his face. "Just your face in about…thirty seconds, I'm guessing."
It didn't even take that long.
Gordon charged, a basic wariness of the unknown driving him into action (was it possible Sam Winchester had a trick up his sleeve after all?). Sam blocked his first punch, not even using the knife clenched in his hand. Gordon didn't have a chance to land a second hit or Sam to block it before there was a displacement of air, a sound like wingbeats, and then two more bodies joined the fray.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
A/N's: Ugggghghghghghgh guys. Sam and Gordon could not have cooperated with me less this chapter. Like pulling teeth getting those boys to face off against one another. At first they wouldn't talk, then they wouldn't shut up, and all I needed them to do was friggin' fight. Good God Gertrude!
(Part of it was that, in all my note taking and planning for this arc, which was particularly detailed and heavy, I boiled this scene down to, and I quote, "then they fight" ._. Planning-Me kinda dropped the ball on this one.)
Drugged-Up Raccoons: I had to cut it from the story due to flow, but there was originally a part where Sam realized Gordon used the drug dealer's stash to drug the wildlife and make them go crazy enough to attack humans. Which would have given us this golden line:
"New plan: Sam was going to not-murder Gordon Walker slowly, then hand him over to his brother when Dean came back (because he was coming back), and together they were going to hand his ass over to PETA."
XD
Destiel: You all may have noticed from Angela's choice of conversation, that we are finally starting to pick up pace in the Destiel category (in case Andy and gay Heaven orgies weren't hint enough). Lolz, not that this can be described as anything speedy in the slightest (wouldn't want to let Jane down), but we are officially in the 'hints/hinting' stage. From here on out, I'll begin picking out things from the canon timeline that could go either way on Destiel, like the way Dean looks at Cas, and start pushing them towards the realization/revelation of a potential relationship while attempting not to break character or canon (meaning, Dean just generally freaking out with no idea why this keeps happening, and Cas oblivious that anything is actually happening at all).
For those of you who are not Destiel Fans but have made it this far, I sure hope you can continue on this journey with the rest of us. If nothing else, I do try to keep such moments amusing as possible (poor Dean :D) and never the main point of the story. I like romance as a natural part of stories, but never the plot or driving factor of where the story goes (if I did, I think these two would have gotten together already, GOOD GRIEF).
Reviews: I've been so busy lately that I'm slacking on review responses something major. Not just individual responses, but acknowledging big ideas that keep popping up in reviews! I meant to do it last chapter, so I wanna take a minute to do that now :) Feel free to skip if you're not into behind the scenes stuff.
Also, on that note, you guys have AMAZING IDEAS. More than once I got tripped up, thinking 'gosh, maybe *that* idea is better than the route I chose…* XD There were several late-night, emergency meetings with the Muse.
Dean Serving as a Vessel to Cas: Several people thought that Dean would offer himself as a vessel to Cas back at the gas station when the angel was unconscious. That is an awesome idea, but obviously not the route I went with, and here are two reasons why: One, Cas has been in danger several times on the show before where one of the boys offering to be a vessel might have helped, and neither have. I think this is two fold. One, it is ingrained in their brains that being vessel = bad! Two, I don't think it's something that occurs to them as an out. Let's be honest; neither Winchester is particularly good at actually remembering Cas is an angel. They treat him more like a super strong human (Which I think can be pretty tough on our angel, who's like…but I'm not human. Why do the boys only remember that when it's a bad thing? Poor Cas). The second reason, Numero B, is that Cas was unconscious so I don't think Dean saying yes would have made a difference. Pretty sure Cas has to be awake to possess a human. But, cool idea, guys!
How Did Sam Survive that Grenade?! I don't know, either! Hahah, probably not the answer you wanted but honestly, I borrowed from the show on this one. We don't get to see how Sam deals with either of the trip wires. Whether he found the second and triggered it on purpose, or whether he tripped it and managed to survive. Grenades have a four second delay on average, which actually makes them pretty crappy traps for a hunter trained by John Winchester :P Sam had plenty of time to dive as far away from that thing as possible, and the cricket-long legs to make that a pretty long distance :P Anyway, I liked keeping the vibe of the show, where sometimes the Winchesters pull miracles out of their asses and we don't get to know how XD Keeps them mysterious badasses.
Up Next: Uh, let's see. Dean has some choice words for Gordon, Cas is back for as long as he can stay not-passed out (and he's a little testy at being mistaken for a demon), Sam's a clever one who sticks to the timeline, and the boys wrap the night up with an Uber. (I'm just kidding. It's a taxi. Uber doesn't exist yet!)