The compass was lighter than it looked, fragile and out of place in Dean's battleworn hand. It was an antique, which of course it was. It was a magical object, or whatever.
One did not simply imbue magic into something that coulda been plucked outta Dick's Sporting Goods clearance basket. No, you'd pour that shit into a friggin' priceless vintage nautical compass-and-sundial thing, made out of glass, brass, and whatever bodily fluids Sam's ex-girlfriend used when she'd turned the compass into Dean's personal quest item.
"I hope you find him," the witch had said, sympathy overflowing her pretty brown eyes. She'd been a decent person, the whole 'sex cannibal' thing notwithstanding.
Of course, activating the spell required even more body fluids. Specifically, Dean's. Specifically, Dean's blood. It was all 'something something, lovelorn blood, something something, hallowed ground' yada yada.
Dean's blood wasn't lovelorn, thank you very much, even if the spell seemed to like it. And whaddayaknow, here he was holed out in a church. Couldn't get more hallowed than that.
He hardly felt the sting anymore. Blood trickled down the sundial's protruding wedge to the compass' glass face underneath. He swallowed a gasp at the sudden pressure in his chest, almost like his heart was being squeezed by an invisible hand. As always, the sensation passed after a few brief moments. Impatient, Dean thumbed the blood off the glass.
"Give us a spin, sweetheart," Dean muttered. The compass' needle quivered, fighting to remain northbound. Then it began to turn; slowly at first, then faster and faster and faster, until its shape was lost in a blur.
He felt a sudden, sharp pull in his gut just as the needle snapped into place, its little arrow pointing in a direction that wasn't north. It was more than a direction. Dean's veins thrummed, overflowing with the absolute certainty that wherever he was, whatever he was up to, Cas was close.
Only Dean was here, stuck in a creepy old church waiting for his dumbass little brother to come back from an unnecessary supply run, with a hole in his leg and a fuckload of spiders for company.
Oh, and that other guy.
Now that he knew what to expect, he wasn't as startled by the man's near silent appearance. "Damn it, Daryl," he grumbled anyway, snapping the compass shut. "Wear a friggin' bell or something, Jesus."
He was getting better at interpreting Daryl's communication cues, which mainly involved side-eyed glances and/or grunts of alternating tones and durations. If Dean was reading the manual correctly, this particular grunt either spelled "Hello" or "I'mma 'bout to get stabby." Daryl was a nuanced guy, Dean was finding out.
"Come on, man," Dean grumbled as he shoved the compass into the safety of his pocket. "I thought we were past this."
"Your brother ain't back."
"No, he ain't," Dean sighed, shifting to ease the tension in his injured leg.
As a hunter, he had a duty of trust toward his partner – Sam was a big boy, he could handle himself. As a big brother, he was doing his best to quell the little voice in the back of his head, the one that sounded an awful lot like his father, telling him to get off his ass and make sure Sammy was safe.
"Where the hell have you been, anyway?" Dean wondered. Too late, he noticed his sleeve was still bunched around his bicep, displaying his shredded arm in all its glory. He shoved it down with a scowl, bloodstains be damned.
Daryl followed Dean's every movement with a suspicious glare.
"You got somethin' to say?" Dean snapped. Then he noticed what Daryl had strapped to his back. He'd thought it was a weapon Daryl had picked up somewhere, but no, it was an aluminum crutch. A bit old, but still in decent shape, with only a small blooming of rust under the handle.
"That for me?" Dean asked. Keeping the weight off his injured leg seemed like an inspired idea.
Daryl, however, made no move to hand it over. Instead, he tossed one of the hex bags onto the desk.
"It don't work," Daryl grunted, wearing a narrowed-eyed glare that was a few shades frownier than seemed warranted for a dirty freakin' thief.
"'Cause you didn't activate it, dipshit," Dean grunted in annoyance, snatching the hex bag from the desk. "Second of all – this is my magic thingamajig. You don't touch another man's thingamajig without asking. Who the hell raised you?"
Daryl stiffened.
Oh, hit a nerve, did I?
Dean hesitated, fingers itching for his handgun. This is what you get for picking up strays, you dumb asshole, he told himself.
Under his sunken cheeks and sallow skin, Daryl was clearly a capable fighter. It didn't take a genius to see that he wore violence on his sleeve like a shackle. But… he didn't lash out. And he had gone out of his way to pick up a crutch for Dean. That was a nice gesture, wasn't it?
"Fine," Dean sighed, making up his mind. "You wanna see a magic trick? Let's see a magic trick."
He got to his feet, managing to suppress a pained groan with moderate success. He was a fast healer, which he knew was a lingering effect from Cas' magic fingers working him over all these years, but fucking Christ, getting shot sucked.
He stopped to swing his duffel bag over his shoulder and was halfway to the door when the crutch was shoved in his path with a wordless glare. "Thanks," Dean muttered, accepting the offer.
The church was no less creepy in the light of day than it was at night. The old wooden pews creaked with every gust of wind, and the stained glass windows cast eerie, fragmented shadows on the walls. Straining to listen for any signs of trouble, Dean hobbled outside, his crutch firmly rooted under his armpit.
He scanned the surroundings, squinting in the sunlight. Seeing no immediate lurkers nearby, he dropped the duffel bag to the ground and turned to Daryl. "Lesson number one: magic makes you bleed. A lot." He rolled his eyes and sighed. "I don't know why, man. My brother's the one who's good with this crap. Anyway, watch this."
He rolled up his sleeve – the cut on his arm was still bleeding sluggishly – and shook a few drops across both hex bags. He smirked as Daryl's eyes glazed over, the spell taking effect.
"What the fuck?" Daryl startled, jerking his head like a dog shaking off water. He blinked rapidly, fighting to look at Dean even though his gaze kept sliding away. "Stay still, asshole."
Dean caught Daryl's hand, causing him to flinch violently. "You touch somebody, it wears off," he explained as Daryl's startled gaze focused on him. He turned Daryl's palm upward and dropped the second hex bag into his hand. "It doesn't make you invisible, but people ain't gonna wanna look at you. They'll still feel you out there, and it'll freak 'em out."
Releasing Daryl's hand, Dean took a step back. He snapped his fingers and added, "Kinda like Swayze in Ghost."
"I can still see you," Daryl grunted, squinting at him.
"Yeah, 'cause we're spell buddies now." Dean looked around, deciding on another demonstration. "It works on the dead, too. See the guy up ahead, the one that kinda looks like Tarantino?"
The creature lumbered by the road, striking an awkward figure with its wide shoulders and hunched stance. The thing stared blankly into space, empty and listless.
Dean rolled his eyes and cupped a hand over his mouth. "HEY, ASSHOLE! YEAH, YOU!" he yelled, making the creature flinch. "PULP FICTION IS OVERRATED!"
The dead Tarantino twitched, its head swiveling in their general direction. It gave a low, low, moan and began to stumble their way, its movement slow and sluging.
"You're part of the scenery," Dean explained, gesturing at the creature. "It can hear us, but it can't lock in. It's like we're background noise to it." He watched as the creature continued to wander forward aimlessly, never quite focusing on them. "See? No threat."
Dean cleared his throat, feeling a sudden bout of anxiety. "By the way, you know I didn't really mean that, right? Pulp Fiction's a masterpiece."
Daryl grunted in affirmation.
"Cool." Dean cleared his throat. "HEY, QUENTIN!" he shouted at the dead creature, "KILL BILL SHOULD HAVE BEEN ONE MOVIE!"
Tarantino got close enough that Dean could hear its teeth snapping. He clicked his fingers next to the creature's right ear, snatching them back just as it tried to bite them. The creature's jaws clamped down on empty air, its focus still unfixed.
"You know what," Dean mused, peering closely at the undead creature. "I think this might actually be Tarantino."
"This thing works on herds, too?" Daryl asked, waving his hand in front of its face, but the creature's eyes remained glassy and unfocused, as if he were just a shadow in its peripheral vision.
Dean shrugged. "Yeah, but it's risky. The minute you accidentally touch one of 'em–" he tapped the dead creature's forehead. Instantly, it gave a sharp growl and lunged at Dean. He shoved it back with his crutch. "Poof. You're just another club member." He wiped his hand on his pant leg. "Eugh, gross."
"You use it all the time?" Daryl wondered, shoving a knife through Tarantino's eye.
"Nah. The effect only lasts about four hours, give or take a piss break. Second, you overuse this shit, you can get addicted. Trust me, you don't wanna go there. Third, ingredients ain't exactly easy to come by. I've only got a few of these babies left."
Frowning, Daryl studied the hex bag in his hand.
"I know what you're thinking," said Dean with an easy grin, "feels like cheating, don't it? Like you're playing on easy mode. Well, to tell you the truth: I agree." He shrugged with a sniff. "But seeing what those Savior assholes are up to, I'm not so sure they deserve a fair fight. And it just so happens that I'm on the clock; I've got my own business to take care of. So, I wanna finish this quickly and be on my merry way."
He made to pick up his duffel bag, but Daryl beat him to it, throwing it over his shoulder. "You said four hours?" Daryl asked.
Dean's mouth stretched into a slow smile. "I think I know just the place."
There was no denying the assholes had nice toys.
Dean had his eye set on one of the Saviors' bases: an auto repair shop turned safehouse. It was going to be his and Sam's next target after they realized the workshop was still in use. The place wasn't as heavily guarded as it should've been, probably because the assholes figured the freaking turret guns stationed on the rooftop – capable of reducing a human body into fine mist – were enough of a deterrent.
If Dean happened to shed a few tears while rigging them to explode, well, no one needed to know.
One thing was clear, though – Sam had never set a single gigantic foot in this place. This left far too many possible pathways for Dean's comfort.
Dean knew why Sam was so hell-bent on destroying the Saviors. He got it, okay? Contrary to popular belief, Dean's head wasn't always stuck up his own asshole.
Cas was Sam's friend too, but finding his fine feathered ass had always been Dean's quest. It hadn't been Sam who'd dragged them across a death-infested country, chasing one shaky lead after another. Except for a brief respite of happiness with the witch – and that had ended badly for everyone involved – Sam had lived his life as if he'd been relegated to a supporting character in Dean's angst-riddled love story.
So, really, Dean couldn't blame Sam for wanting a cause of his own. The Saviors sure as hell deserved the beatdown, but it was never about them, not really. They represented more than just an enemy; they were a chance for Sam to forge his own path and make a stand for something he believed in.
But Christ, the timing. Now Dean had two missing-person cases on his hands.
At least Daryl was getting some well-deserved payback. He dropped the hex bag the minute they were past the base's defenses, catching the enemy off guard in increasingly creative – and destructive – ways. Dean had never seen anyone crushed by a tire avalanche before, but really it was the Saviors' own fault for stacking them so high in the first place. Goddamn OSHA violation, it was.
"Got that outta your system?" Dean asked, double-tapping a corpse that was in the process of reanimating. "You got 'em all?"
Breathing hard, Daryl flung a wiry arm in the direction of the toilets. "Sonuvabitch ran."
"I got it," Dean said, limping to the closed door.
As monstrous as the Saviors were, Dean couldn't bring himself to kill a man on the toilet. Some lines just weren't meant to be crossed. He had left his crutch outside, finding it easier to limp around now that his adrenaline was kicking. Positioning himself against the wall – there was always a chance the guy was gonna start blastin' – he dropped the hex bag on the ground and knocked.
"Occupied?" he called out.
There was a pause. The voice on the other end was shaky, filled with anxiety. "Any chance you'll take my word that I'm on your side?"
Dean glanced at Daryl, eyebrows raised. Teeth flashing, Daryl shook his head. That was all the confirmation Dean needed.
"Sure," he called, all pleasant-like.
An audible sigh came through the door. "Please don't shoot me."
The flimsy lock clicked open, and a young man stepped out with his hands raised, a knife held loosely in surrender. With a snarl, Daryl flung the young man around and into the wall, taking the knife and patting him down for more weapons. Once finished, Daryl spun him back and pressed a pistol to his temple, keeping him pinned against the wall.
Dean watched the Savior closely. He was on the scrawny side, with a scraggly half-beard that probably made him look older than he really was. "Talk," Dean said sternly.
The young man swallowed hard as he felt the cold metal of the pistol against his temple. "My name is Alden," he managed through a wince, "I work for the Widow."
Judging by Daryl's angry little huff, that didn't ring any bells for him either. Dean rubbed his forehead tiredly. "Okay, I'll bite – that's supposed to mean something?"
Alden's breaths came in shallow, rapid bursts, but despite his fear, he managed to muster a shaky, disarming smile. "Probably not to you, but maybe to Daryl?" His smile turned to a gasp when Daryl shoved him harder into the wall.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Daryl demanded furiously, pressing the pistol harder against Alden's temple.
"I never met her in person, only a few people do," Alden said quickly, wincing as the pistol dug into his skin. "We work in teams; it's too dangerous otherwise, in case someone gets caught. The Widow had a plan to free Daryl – fake his death so the Saviors don't come looking, and nobody gets the iron."
Dean frowned. "Tall tale, kid."
"I swear, it's the truth. I was part of the rescue team." Alden's gaze swept past Daryl's shoulder, as if only noticing the bodies strewn about the floor for the first time. "That was my team," he choked.
Dean followed his gaze, mouth drying. Ah, shit.
Breath stuttering, Daryl loosened his hold on Alden. "That's bullshit," he said in a low, dangerous tone.
"I'm not lying," Alden insisted, voice firmer now that the pistol wasn't digging a hole in his skin. "The Widow gives people hope. They say she's got a baby on the way, so she's –"
Daryl socked the kid right across the jaw. "Shut up!"
"Hey," Dean stepped in before Daryl could land another punch. "Who's he talking about?"
"Nobody, it's a trick," Daryl growled, struggling to get past Dean. He was shaking violently.
Holding his jaw, Alden shook his head. "Beth," he groaned.
Daryl froze. "What'd you say?"
"I was – I was supposed to tell you, 'Beth', so you'd trust me." He dropped his hand with a wince, working his jaw. "Maybe I should've led with that?" he joked half-heartedly.
Daryl's expression crumbled, a mix of shock and raw emotion washing over his gaunt face. He staggered back, struggling to maintain his composure. Moving unsteadily, he grabbed for his dropped hex bag, hiding behind the spell. Of course, Dean could still see him – they were spell buddies! – but it was probably pretty disconcerting for Alden.
Dean's chest swelled with pride. "Atta boy, Daryl. Catching on quick."
"What just happened?" Alden asked, blinking.
"He just needs a moment," Dean said, his tone reassuring. "Where do we find this Widow of yours, kid?"
Alden hesitated. "I don't know," he admitted, "but… I overheard someone say Simon's crew is headed for the Hilltop Colony. I heard they're looking for someone."
Dean frowned, recalling their first encounter with the Saviors. "Mustache man?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Never mind," Dean said, letting out a long exhale. As his adrenaline faded, the wound in his leg began throbbing like a bitch. "Hilltop Colony, that's the one with the big house, right?"
He and Sam had passed by the place before. It was a small farming community a day's ride away. They'd left it alone when they realized it was occupied by a different group, not the Saviors.
Now that Dean knew there was a secret rebellion in the works, this whole sidequest business was getting interesting. Plus, Dean was beginning to get an inkling of where Sam was headed – didn't he always try to steer them toward people? Sentimental idiot.
"Okay, kid, here's what we're gonna do," Dean started, bending with a groan to pick up Alden's knife. "I've got this place rigged to blow in about twenty minutes." He slipped the knife into the holster on Alden's belt, startling him slightly. "The way I see it, you've got two choices: you can take a ride with us or you run home to that loser Negan and keep doing your whole Spy Kid thing. I ain't judging; must be exciting." He gave his best disarming smile. "Either way, you can't stay here. It's about to get hot."
He shook his head. "I can't come with you. I'm – "
Dean thumped Alden's shoulder. "Just try not to get yourself killed." He was about to turn away and collect his own hex bag but then paused. "By the way," he said, "I'm looking for someone. Blue eyes, brown hair, kind of frowny, like this–" he squinted in his best Castiel fashion. "Likes to give people the heebys. Ring any bells?"
Alden frowned, thinking. "Not really, but I'll keep an eye out," he offered.
Dean smiled sadly. "Thanks, kid."