The pain was at least tolerable.
Not to mention being inevitably mauled by Meg one last time, he seemed to have kept himself together— except for Sam being baffled at Dean's show of skills, and Bobby's suspicions. It was once again a latter, a chain of events that all made Dean, Dean. If none of these events happened, he would've ended up like those snobs from that alternate dimension-timeline thingy.
The trio had recuperated at Bobby's, healing up quickly enough to bounce back in the same day. Yes, it would be a pain to accomplish, but Dean was determined as hell to speed up the doomsday clock. He'd already given Cas enough information on the risks, what straws he is so tediously pulling to not screw up this second chance.
His brother breezed past him, scratching the peach fuzz he called a beard. "So, they're all people we know?" He pondered, eyes half-glazed from the shock.
No, it was the damn easter bunny in Meg's body. "Just a hunch, Sam, but I think they're the people we couldn't save." Oh like that was worded any better. His brother's vulnerability diminished with that sentence and hardened to a stone face of anguish. It didn't take long for Dean to realize how angered he sounded, how annoyed he was. Yes, it was fun and all, but having to do all that dying work (literally) wasn't something he was planning on doing for a second time around. Even Bobby noticed the snark in Dean's tone, a sour expression towards his treatment visible in the many eyebags he had.
Bobby cleared his throat and leaned forward from his stoop (it was just a fancy cherrywood chair, but it felt like a damn throne). "Alright, alright," The bickering between the brothers instantly diminished. "See anything valuable?" His attention shifted to Dean, who cocked his shotgun.
"Yeah, actually," Dean's head perked up, "I saw somethin' on Meg, like a brand. Right on her hand." He explained, not having to recall the image as if it was already permanently engraved inside his brain. As well as many other markings he didn't want to talk about; like a crammed storage unit full of women, demons, angels, and— things in his subconscious.
Sam's face instantly brightened, and his quiet grudge shoved down for the time being. It was the beginning of the end, and in a minute, Bobby was going to drop the news of a lifetime. "I think I saw something similar. On Henriksen." His brother looked weary, cautious of what unknown territory they'd just set foot in, and yanked a piece of blank paper slipped inside one of Bobby's books; flipping it over to the blank side.
Dean scooted over, rising from his chair, and hunching over to vaguely draw the symbol. A perfect copy, down to the intricate and symmetrical lines. A breathless silence overtook the house, only the groaning of the hardwood making any sound, with Dean presenting the little piece of proud artwork. "Like this?" He boasted with a grin.
"Yeah," Sam scoffed in mild awe. "Identical."
Bobby grabbed the piece of parchment from the hunter as he passed it around, "Did Hell make you an artist?" He mused, scoffing in disbelief. Of course, it was Dean Winchester after all, he was full of surprises… even the unexplainable ones. He analyzed the marking a little bit more, "I may have seen this before." He added flatly, breezing with a few long strides to the side shelves. Littered with books dating from the Renaissance to the Common Era, pre and post-Biblical, Greek, Egyptian, you name it, he had it.
Dean missed that old Bobby, the one who could run a mile just to kill a demon, one who had such tight friends, everlasting hope, and determination. That was the hunter Dean cared for the most, and would hopefully never change now that he had a second chance.
His reminiscent memories that felt to only be feet away were lurched back by the sound of a tuning radio. Behind him, the radio squealed, the red arrow moving erratically.
"We need to move!" Bobby ordered, his mellow tone heightening to worry. He grabbed a handful of thick, dusty books, and shoved them to Dean's brother without a second glance.
Sam stumbled in place of the overwhelming weight thrown at him, lurching forward and legs sliding to stay upright. 'W-what? Where are we— going?"
Bobby continued to make trips back and forth from the shelf to Sam, and Dean grabbed the second shotgun next to him, patiently waiting to shoot.
"Someplace safe ya idjit." One novel later, he shoved the small volume into a bag and hoisted it over his shoulder. "Follow me,"
"What—" Sam's head whipped around, confused and a little rattled. Dean prowled past, offering a little help; lifting a book of his already heavy load. "From what?" His question was sadly left unanswered.
"Just follow 'em, Sammy," Dean reassured, trying to be just a little softer this time around after snapping at him. It was such a drilled-in habit to pick on his brother, that's what big brothers did— but he wanted to bring them closer, not tear each other apart.
Sam simply nodded, blinking a few times to compose himself, and followed aimlessly behind his brother.
Bobby stalked the basement door, gripping the weathered piece of metal, and twisting it open. It groaned open, the hinges ready to snap off and peace out to Heaven. Trudging down the thick slabs of plywood, and entering the lowest level of the hunter's house.
The basement was littered with normal things— paint, nails, old radios, books.
Oh so… SO many damn books.
To the back of the dusty room, a thick, pure steel door awaited them. "Woah," Sam gasped under his breath, reading the imprinting: Premiere, Steel Works Co. 1927.
The valve was a foot thick of pure iron, coated in and out with salt, a little Bobby TLC, and a weekend.
Rust covered it, flaking the coppery thin layers underneath the hunter's palm. Brittle, but sturdy enough to stand an invasion.
Dean grinned from behind, marveling at Bobby's 'ol 'Weekend Free Time' project. It was such a shame his house was destroyed, that the world lost such a pivotal landmark, as well as others.
Inside, darkness swept the trio up, the solid salt-coated door creaking open. Dean hadn't stepped foot inside of the place for a handful of years— guess that's what making a time travel deal with Zachariah did.
Damn the benefits.
The three of them got settled; stacks of dust brushed off by Bobby, Sam thinking hard and compacting more silver bullets. The racks of weapons to the back of him were silent, swinging with any slight gust of wind from the overhead opening. The fan swished in a constant rotation, the only sound in or out minus their heartbeat and exhausted breaths.
The silence was deafening— and the look his brother was eyeing him on… he was going to bring it up. One way or another. Though Dean's mind did wander, the heaviness of the angel blade was the only thing cleaving him from sinking into the new reality. As well as the AA coin he flipped around inside of his pocket, the ridges and bumps under his fingertips. The intricate print in the center.
"An AA trinket? Really?"
"Just a reminder…once you meet me, flash it, and I'll know right away."
When was that going to be, Zach?
The memory faded, and a shark pain edged his temples, forcing him to snap his eyes shut. He shuttered, tilting his head to the side in an uncomfortable arc, and resetting his upright posture to a half slouch.
Sam perked up in his direction and scooted over. "Dean? You… alright?" That soft voice, that caring brother, his brother. It was real, all real. Nothing was fake, this wasn't Hell or Heaven, this was Earth, and this was him. A worried hand squeezed his left shoulder, lurching back, he blinked out of the daze.
"Yeah, yeah— I-I'm okay, thanks," Dean nodded, and centered himself, squaring his shoulders. He sat down the small presser, and his hands fell limply to his sides. He kept that habit, the one Sam knew too well. That look.
"You sure?" Sam prodded softly, "If it's something you want to talk about—"
Dean's half-lidded eyes perked up. He was stuck between a rock and a hand place: Tell them that he was the future, and expect another Croatoan virus, or: Stay quiet, and assemble a team under their noses until there was no option of hiding. Dean was leaning toward the second option. He knew that Crowley was wandering around, bored, waiting. And Cas knew, so he had possible connections over to Gabriel; who also was just wandering around. So many of his people and angels he called friends were just wandering around, weren't they? Waiting for Chuck to pick up the pieces and play with them, unknowingly crossing paths.
Dean scoffed to himself, pressing down his last bullet mold, "Thanks, Sammy. But I'm good, nothing I can't handle." He held out a compassionate hand, resting it along the crease of Sam's shirt. "And nothing you should worry about." The reassurance, the act— it was all part of his master Save the world and not give two fucks of a plan. Yes, he had to play his brother, his friend who was a second dad to him, and many others they will come by— but it'll all be worth it. He's saving them from their prolonged deaths…
Right?
"Found it," Bobby's voice echoed off the walls, tapping the number two pencil to a pad of paper beside him. A big, rouphoused book beside him.
The brothers turned in unison to face him, "What?" Sam asked, resting his head on his hand. His elbow braced along the edge of the table.
Bobby continued, "The symbol you saw—the brand on those ghosts?"
"Yeah," Sam agreed, and Dean went jaw tight, not blurting out a single word. Leg bouncing in the background.
"Mark of the Witness," he concluded, flipping another page, littered with symbols, markings, and sigils.
"Witness? Witness to what?" Sam tilted his head.
"It's unnatural. I mean, none of them died what you would call a 'natural death'." Bobby deadpanned, fidgeting with his pencil before glancing back to the book. Another page flips, "See, these ghosts were forced to rise. They woke up in anguish… like rabid dogs. It ain't their fault." He huffed through his nose, eyes locked with the texts, "Someone rose them on purpose."
"Who? Li—" Dean stuttered to a stop with the word, and shut his mouth. Averting his line of sight back to Bobby, taking in every detail he'd missed the last time he'd seen him. The thick stubble of hair, the thinner and minimal wrinkles hooded along his withered eyes.
"Do I look like I know?" Bobby scoffed halfheartedly, folding his hands outwards towards the brothers, "Whoever or whatever it was used a spell so powerful it left a mark, a brand on their souls."
Dean never noticed the way his brother looked at him after that was said. How he eyed his hand mark given by Castiel along his shoulder. Did he really think I was raised by the same person who raised the Witnesses?
Sam got up, taking in his brother one last time before strutting over to Bobby, hoving over his left shoulder whilst he continued, "Whoever did this has big plans, it's called the Rising of the Witnesses. It figures into an ancient prophecy."
Dean huffed from his seat, grabbing the sides and hoisting him upright, strolling to the right side of his brother and Bobby. "Revelations," Dean mumbled to himself, but Bobby caught it within earshot; so did Sammy.
"Revelations?" Sam looked his brother up and down, lips parted and mind stalling.
Bobby slowly nodded to Dean's accurate assumption, "Yeah, book of Revelations." He didn't stray too long on his sudden guess, and continued his lecture, "This is a sign, boys."
"A sign of what?" Sam parried, arms crossing in place of his brother.
A heavy pause held the room captive, and Dean's lips curled into a frown. Let Bobby say it, let Bobby say it…
"The Apocalypse." There it is.
The rest of the remaining day went smoothly, with no hiccups. Dean, Sam, and Bobby all took care of the remaining vengeful spirits without a problem or a second thought or hesitation. Dean didn't trip up or use the angel blade comfortably resting inside of his jacket, and no major damage was done. Sam and Bobby were a little traumatized, and he had to put up an act of being startled the rest of the night.
Until night time had come around.
The salt ring around Bobby's study was spread out, books and blankets disheveled while his brother snored, sleeping. His brother was sleeping. Good for him, because for the next two years, sleep was a last resort, a last need.
Slinking out of the house, Dean slipped into the impala and drove off. The moonlight guided him into the deadly wilderness, thick brush and trees passing the window. A quiet rumble entered the back of his subconscious and stared at the road. Pulling into the shoulder, his car slowed to a screeching halt.
It was like thunder erupted inside of his mind. That's when he knew Cas was trying to pinpoint his location. And a predictable moment later, "What are you doing?" the angel, how beside him in the passenger's seat, arms to his side, eyes forward droned.
Dean grinned, the expression not meeting his eyes, "Working my plan," he droned back, hopping out of the impala, and the door shut behind him. Loud against the eerie thicket of nothing surrounding them. He turned to Cas, who poked his head out as well. Watching him like a hawk with every jitter, every fumble of words.
"I thought you said you don't make plans."
"I don't," Dean reached into the backseat, a Bestbuy bag filled with items crinkled under his calloused hands. "I do it on the fly."
Cas' eyes darted to the bag, then back to the hunter, "You aren't—"
His head snapped to the angel, "Yep," he wasn't proud of what he was going to do, or how the demon was going to react to him, but if he wanted to fulfill his end of the bargain with Zachariah, he had to break a few present rules (never said he could, never said he couldn't). "The only thing the bastard wanted me to do was stop Sammy from breaking the Seals, not how."
Castiel followed behind him as they approached the line of trees and bushes, squeezing between them, Cas' trenchcoat hissing, "This is a risky move, Dean."
"I'm practically made of risks, Cas." he opened up his arms, spinning around and walking backward to face him. "How do you think I'm here talking to you now? Dumb luck?" he chortled, "I'm walking on a curved line here." Dean turned around, finding the clearing he was looking for, and sat the plastic bag about to tear down. Dark dirt crunching and mushing under his feet, whilst he bent down and dug up a handful of brown. He threw the top layer of spoil to the side, a canister designed with reindeer and Santa Clause thrown into the pit. Castiel gave him an odd look, "What? It was the only thing they had available."
The angel took a step back in defense, and they both waited.
"Are you sure it will work?" Castiel asked, an eyebrow raised with the occasional head tilt.
"Oh yeah, Crowley'll take the offer of cigars and Tate cookies any day," Dean rested his hands on his hips.
"And you know this, how?" The angel protested.
"Because I wouldn't."