Chapter VIII

Decisions

Sitting at the table near the window in their motel room, Sam tried to take his mind off the early morning events by reading a random lore book. Only after skimming the same paragraph for the fifth time, he realized that it didn't help at all. With a sneer, he shoved the book away from himself and it flew off the table and into the opposite wall.

Sam heaved a heavy sigh as he scrubbed his face with his hands, then glanced at his phone, zeroing in on the time.

Past midday already.

Dean still wasn't back.

Sam couldn't get the last sight of his face out of his head.

He didn't look furious to the point where Sam imagined he would have wanted to punch him. He didn't look infuriated at all. Not even slightly. No, it went beyond just his appearance. Dean wasn't angry back then, Sam could tell. All he had seen on his brother's face was—

—sadness.

So overwhelming, Sam almost tasted it in the air, so thick and cloying it felt like he could choke on it. And it unsettled him more than any other reaction ever could. He simply never expected it. He could deal with anger, could deal with disappointment, hurt, and even betrayal, but this kind of sadness? No one prepared him to deal with that.

God, he screwed up, didn't he? Screwed up so badly.

Sam jumped when his phone rang. Quickly grabbing it, he pressed the answer button without even looking at the caller ID. "Dean?" was his immediate question as he brought the phone to his ear.

"No, Sam, it's Travis. Remember me? Used to hunt with John back in the day."

"Oh." Sam couldn't even pretend that he wasn't disappointed. "Hey, Travis."

"Sorry to disappoint, kid, but it's good to hear your voice."

"It's good to hear your voice too, Travis." He paused, mind working a mile a minute. Dean might be calling him, so he didn't want to keep exchanging pleasantries and keep his phone busy. "Um, look, it's not really a good time right now. Besides Dean's not here—"

"I gathered. I thought I heard you two have been hunting together lately. Did he skip town to work a case on his own?"

Sam's jaw tightened. Travis was an old family friend, but they hadn't heard from him in probably a decade. He had no right to know what happened between the two brothers. "Yeah, something like that, so it's not the best timing right now."

"Well, I'm not calling you just to say hi. I broke my arm, some nasty ghost, and now I need help with a case. It's a time-sensitive one, so it can't wait until I get better."

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a soft sigh. He didn't want to deal with this.

"Nothing hard, it'll be quick and simple, I promise. Help this old man once, huh? For old time's sake."

But sitting here and waiting for Dean was driving him insane. Maybe a case could work as a distraction.

"Yeah, okay," Sam murmured, straightening up and reaching for a pen and a piece of paper. "Just, uh, give me the details."

"Carthage, Missouri. Look for Jack Montgomery. Keep an eye out for anything weird."

Sam frowned. Anything weird? What did he mean by anything weird?

"I'll meet you there as soon as I arrive."

"Okay, see you there." Sam ended the call, but stayed seated for a few minutes. Clicking his tongue at his hesitancy, he dialed Dean's number once again. His heartbeat picked up as he waited, but once again, there was no answer and he left a quick message on Dean's voicemail about going to Carthage, Missouri to help Travis out with a case.

He called Bobby next.

"'ello."

"Hey, Bobby. Is Dean at your place?"

"No?" the old man sounded genuinely confused. Dean wasn't with him then. "I thought ya boys were hunting together?"

"Yeah, we, uh, we are, just…" Sam trailed off, chewing on his lower lip as Dean's expression of overwhelming sadness came to the forefront of his mind again. "Did he call you? Said anything?"

"No," Bobby replied, a bit more sternly now. "Sam, what happened?"

"He, um, he left very early in the morning and I haven't heard from him since."

"What do you mean by Dean left?"

"We had a, uh, a disagreement and now he's neither picking up his phone nor coming back to the motel."

"Disagreement? What kind of disagreement?"

"It's nothing, Bobby, don't worry about it." Sam winced at his own words. He probably just made him worry with this call. "But it seems that Dean's really pissed about it. I don't know where he went."

Bobby groaned, and Sam could imagine him rubbing his face in frustration. "What's up with you two? You let another trickster come in between you?"

Despite this whole shitty situation and festering guilt, Sam's lips twitched up. "No. God, no. Thankfully, we haven't met any tricksters since the last one," he replied. His mirth died as soon as it appeared. "Just… let me know if he ends up at your place or calls you or anything, okay?"

There was a slight pause, just long enough for anxiety to tighten its grip on Sam's heart. "Sure thing, Sam," Bobby finally replied, his voice steady and reassuring. "But give me a heads-up if Dean returns, so I can stop worrying about you idjits."

"Okay."

"And keep yourself out of trouble, wouldya?"

The gruff concern in Bobby's tone was almost enough to break the dam holding back Sam's bottled-up emotions, and for reasons he couldn't quite pinpoint, his eyes began to sting. His, "Thanks, Bobby," came out a bit choked, the words catching in his throat. Thankfully, Bobby didn't mention it, either not noticing it or out of understanding.

After ending the call, Sam sniffed and took a deep breath, trying to pull himself together.

He kept telling himself that everything was fine. He was fine. Dean was fine. He would find a way to make everything right, no matter what it took. He just didn't know how yet, but he had to believe he could do it. Somehow, some way, he would fix this. He had to. Even if it meant abandoning the path he was on now, even if it meant giving up what he thought was the right thing to do. He would do it because the alternative was unthinkable. He wouldn't be losing his brother. Not again. Not when he barely survived losing him the first time.

Dean climbed out of the Impala, eyes sliding over all the luxury cars parked in the parking lot before settling on the grand estate in front of him. People in expensive-looking clothes were milling around on the terrace with waiters darting around them, carrying trays with champagne and light snacks.

Inevitably, Dean's gaze shifted toward the second floor of the estate. He started to feel it from miles away already, but standing here, only a few feet away, he couldn't stop his excitement rising.

The piece of his grace was truly here.

It buzzed and pulsated, so eager to reunite with its owner. It reached out, resonating with the grace inside Dean and making it twirl and surge out. He clamped down on all the excitement and forced himself to calm down.

Soon. Soon he would get another piece of his true essence and be one step closer to becoming whole again.

Of course, he could call that piece in the estate from the distance and it would come to him—he wasn't as powerless as he was before he gained the first one—but people would see it. The grace by itself wasn't dangerous to their physical well-being, but it would cause chaos and panic, and Dean couldn't let it happen. Not when he had angels and demons running around, searching for the edge against each other.

It would be disastrous if either side learned about his existence. The Archangel Michael inside flesh and blood, with clipped wings and barely a shadow of his true powers? He would only be a piece of juicy meat on the market for the hungry crowd. Better be careful and patient.

Dean rubbed his chest when it ached with the phantom feeling of emptiness. Not as strong as it had been when he had no grace at all, but it made him equally uncomfortable and feeling hollow.

With an irritated grunt, Dean pried his hand from his chest, fixed his tie, and walked toward the entrance. He left his usual duffle bag back in the motel with Sam, but at least he had his formal wear in Baby's trunk and this auction seemed exactly like a perfect event to use it.

However, a step away from the entrance, a burly man with a sour look on his face blocked Dean's way in. "Invitation, please," the man grumbled, suspiciously eyeing him up and down.

Dean plastered his best businessman's smile and smothered the urge to punch him. "I'm a plus one and my lady is already inside, waiting for me," he lied smoothly.

The guard snorted, puffing his chest like a peacock readying itself for a fight. "No invitation—no entry."

"Look, pal, you really don't want to get on her bad side by stopping me here," Dean insisted, then leaned closer, lowered his voice, and muttered, "She gets irritated when I'm not around."

"Look, pal," the man spat the word out like it was a curse. "No invitation," he made a dramatic pause, "no entry."

That was damn rude, Dean thought. He looked around. In the garden on his left beside the couple busy behind the trees, there was no one else there. The parking lot behind him was empty. Lastly, if he angled it correctly, no one from the terrace on the right would see a thing.

He turned back to the guard with a sigh, balling his hand into a fist. "I didn't want to do this, but I'm in a hurry, so—"

"Dean."

Dean stiffened hearing his own name.

A woman in a black gown emerged from inside, favoring him with a big, friendly smile. "I thought I heard your voice," she said. "It's been a while."

It took Dean a moment, but eventually, he recalled who she was. The young woman who had a thing for Sam and he for her in that haunted painting case years ago. "Sarah," he said, relaxing his posture. "Long time no see."

Sarah's smile widened, clearly happy about him remembering her. "He's with me, Julian," she told the guard. Noticing his less than pleasant expression, she raised an eyebrow. "Unless it's somehow a problem? Do I have to inform Mr. Hanover about this?"

The man sucked in a breath. "No, no, Miss Blake," he quickly denied. "This gentleman can enter, of course, there is no problem."

Before he could even finish, Dean was already moving forward. He paused when he passed by the guard and smirked at him. "I told you my lady is inside, chuckles," he said, voice tilting in a clear mockery, "and that she's impatient."

The guard's lip curled up into a sneer, but he couldn't insult a legit guest, so he stayed silent.

Dean winked at him as the last jab and strode inside. "You came just in time, thanks," he said to Sarah waiting for him. "I don't know what crawled up his ass, but it's nothing good for sure."

Sarah let out a short laugh. "It seemed like you were ready to punch him, so I had to intervene."

"I was ready to punch him," Dean admitted with a nonchalant shrug.

"Then it's lucky that I heard you." Sarah shook her head, amused, stepped closer to loop her arm through his, and started leading him towards the stairs. "I hope Sam's doing fine as well?"

"Yeah, he's, he's fine." If Sarah noticed his slight hesitation in wording, she didn't say anything. "We're, uh, working on different cases this time, so me is all you have, sorry."

"It's good to see you, Dean. Unexpected, but good," Sarah assured, then hesitated. "Don't get me wrong when I ask you, but should I be concerned about seeing you here?"

"Nah," Dean dismissed her worries with a little wave of his hand. "This time it's not anything dangerous. This thing, it would never hurt anyone."

Sarah hummed under her breath, dipping her head and smiling at the older man as the two of them passed him on their way to the second floor. "Actually, I came here after hearing all these stories about this. It's not every day you have a chance to see a painting that is known to perform miracles. And after… our adventures last time, I figured I should at least see it once." They climbed the stairs as they talked, and Sarah pointed at one of the rooms in the middle of the hallway. "It's in there."

They stopped as soon as they entered the room.

Sunlight poured through high windows, decorated with antique luxury curtains, and created a warm and soothing atmosphere in the spacious, empty room. And in the middle of it stood a single easel with the painting.

It depicted a dramatic scene of the Archangel Michael dressed in armor with his wings flaring behind him and holding a sword that was poised to strike the defeated Devil and throw him out of Heaven and into Hell. Swirling clouds filled the background with light and shadows, casting Michael in a divine light while Lucifer's twisted form was left engulfed in darkness.

Dean's previous excitement suddenly wilted and died. He knew that humans exaggerated Lucifer's bad traits in their art, because, well, no one wanted to see the Devil beautiful and charming like he was in reality. No, they warped and perverted his image just like Lucifer did when he turned human souls into demons.

How ironic. Maybe it was a glimmer of poetic justice?

"Mr. Hanover holds this painting in very high regard. He paid a hefty price to import it from Europe," Sarah said, pulling her arm away from Dean's and walking closer to the easel with the canvas, carefully looking over it. "The work of an unknown artist, depicting the Archangel Michael vanquishing the Devil, the scene from the book of Revelation that was popular during the Late Middle Ages and Renaissance. It was found in an abandoned Romanian abbey's storeroom and put on display in the local church. People say that if you pray to the Archangel Michael in the proximity of this painting, you can get healed of your ailments." She turned back to Dean, curious. "With things that you see on your job, do you believe in miracles?"

"Miracles? No, I don't," Dean replied as he also approached the painting. "The healing of this painting is not a miracle, it's a side effect."

Sarah knitted her brow. "I don't think I understand your words fully, but are you saying that the healing part is true?"

"Yeah," Dean muttered as he lifted his hand to gently touch the painting's surface. "It has a piece of Michael's powers embedded into it, so, of course, it'll respond to someone praying to its owner." He could feel his grace reaching out, impatient and yearning. Some of its golden glow breached the surface and shone underneath his finger. "Do you believe in angels, Sarah?"

"Umm…" Sarah eyed the glow suspiciously, but seeing Dean not reacting to it, chose not to comment on it, probably trusting him to know what he was doing. "If you'd asked me before you and Sam proved that ghosts exist with that murder ghost business last time, I'd have said no, but now, I guess I wouldn't be so against it."

Dean traced the figure of Lucifer in the painting, letting the light of his grace illuminate it. "Humans portray Lucifer as this ugly, twisted creature, but did you know that he used to be the most beautiful angel in Heaven? He was loved and admired by every angel, even more so than Michael."

Lucifer in the painting, cast in shadows and twisted beyond recognition, was a far cry from the radiant being he truly was. Contrary to the angels who followed him out of Heaven and were left to rot in Hell or Earth, the Cage protected him from the corruption that tainted the others. His form, though feared and despised now, remained unblemished by time or decay. The irony wasn't lost on Dean—Lucifer, the most reviled of them all, was still the most perfect in appearance, preserved in his divine glory by the very prison meant to punish him.

But he got locked up there all alone for eternity with no hope for forgiveness or reprieve. No one, not even Lucifer, deserved that.

"Do you think he deserves redemption?" Dean asked, his voice quiet, barely above the whisper.

Sarah's eyes followed his hand gliding across the painting's surface, leaving traces of soft golden glow behind. "I'm… not sure about the Devil," she started with careful hesitance, clearly feeling out of her depth, "but I at least believe that every person has some good in them, and those who stray away, with the right guidance, can sometimes find their way back."

"Right guidance," Dean echoed. The words rolled off his tongue as a possibility he hadn't fully considered until now.

He wanted to stop the Apocalypse, no doubt. Sam, Bobby, and the others lived in this world and wanted to save it. Dean didn't wish to see it destroyed either. Besides, Sammy deserved the best life he could have, free from the chains of destiny that had bound him for so long, and Dean would make sure to break them, one way or another.

And if he succeeded, if he managed to stop the Apocalypse, Dean could find Father and beg him to forgive Lucifer, to set him free without destroying the Earth, to take him back, to talk with him. And if that wasn't possible, maybe to allow him to take Lucifer's place, or at least accompany him in the Cage. He wasn't quite sure just yet how exactly he would convince Father or what even he would say to Him, but one thing he knew for sure—he refused to leave Lucifer alone in the Cage any longer.

But if Sam couldn't resist the darkness within him, couldn't fight against the gears of destiny that were in full motion already, and Dean failed to stop the Apocalypse, he would refuse to fight Lucifer. He wouldn't be following the orders Father left for him. Not this time. Not again. How he would stop his brother, he didn't know yet, but he would think of something. He wouldn't let Lucifer take Sam either, his true vessel or not.

"Right guidance," Dean repeated, the words taking on a new weight as they settled in his mind.

He wasn't sure if he was the right person to take on the role of a guide in this scenario, but he also believed that Lucifer wasn't beyond saving, even after all that he had done, and all the pain he had caused. If there was a chance, even a slim one, to change the course of things, to steer his brother away from his path of destruction, then maybe, just maybe, Dean would succeed. Lucifer didn't have to be the monster everyone thought he was.

This wasn't just about stopping the end of the world. It was about redemption, not just for Lucifer, but maybe for Dean—for Michael—too. Even if he didn't feel like he deserved one. Regardless, it was about time he stopped running away like a coward.

The grace inside Dean blossomed out like a slowly rising sun. The piece in the painting resonated with it, shining brighter and brighter until Dean covered it with his palm to avoid illuminating an entire room.

"Dean," Sarah called out as she backed off, "you—this—whatever you're doing, it's starting to scare me."

"It's alright, Sarah, no harm will come to you, trust me," Dean said as he turned to her with a small smile. "Close your eyes for a moment."

He waited until she shut her eyes before coaxing the piece of his grace out of the painting. It surged out, showering the room in a divine aureate light for a split second, and then immediately rushed toward him.

Instinctively, Dean gripped the edge of the painting's frame when already familiar scorching pain seared through his every vein like liquid fire. But this time, it was bearable and lasted much shorter. A minute, maybe two, and he straightened up, rolling his shoulders. The pieces of his grace merged without any complications, settling back in the usual spot next to his soul.

A luxurious chandelier above lit up and then all but exploded, raining tiny shards of glass on their heads. His green eyes glowing almost fully golden, Dean waved a hand and swiped the debris away from Sarah and himself.

He felt good. Better than he could ever remember. He missed the feeling of his powers coursing through his very being and having them at his fingertips. No wings yet, but he was so much stronger now. Next time he would see Ruby, Dean would make that skunk feel pain.

A second set of whispers appeared at the corner of his mind too. It had been so long since Dean heard it, it took him a moment to realize what it was—prayers. The second piece of his grace gave him back the ability to hear human prayers that they sent to the Archangel Michael.

"Is—is it finished?" Sarah stammered out where she stood with her hands over her eyes. "Can I open my eyes now?"

Dean let his grace retreat into its hiding spot, molten gold fading from his eyes as it did so. "Yeah, it's done. It's safe now."

Blinking, Sarah looked around, gasping at the broken glass in a circle around them. "What happened?"

Dean also glanced at all the rubble. A sheepish smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Yeah, sorry, my bad." He could fix it, he had enough juice now, but it seemed it was too late for that, because people were starting to crowd the entry door. "I need to go, Sarah, Sam's waiting for me. Thanks for everything," he said as he approached the woman and placed a goodbye kiss on her cheek. Still standing close to her, he whispered, "If you ever need help, try praying to the Archangel Michael." He flashed a cheeky grin at her confused gaze. "Who knows, he might hear you even not in close proximity to this painting."

Sarah opened her mouth to argue, but immediately closed it. "Okay," was the only thing she finally uttered. "Bye, Dean. No offense, but I hope to never see you again."

Dean laughed. He didn't take any offense and only hoped that she wouldn't get into a situation where she would need to pray to him either. "Bye, Sarah."

"Get out."

Sam learned how to read other people early in life. It was a skill born out of necessity of their circumstances, but it was a valuable asset in the line of work they did. So he could clearly see that this man in front of him—Jack Montgomery, a potential rougarou—while looking furious, he also felt terrified.

He could relate. Sometimes… He didn't want to admit it, but sometimes he also felt terrified. What he wouldn't give for that to not be true, but just like Jack, he had this disease pumping through his veins and no matter how hard he wished that it was gone, that it was out of him, it wasn't going to happen. He had to live with it, control it somehow, and try to use it to save people instead of making something good come out of it. That was the only option he had left.

Dean never understood that.

If Jack could resist, it would be proof. Proof that neither Jack nor Sam had to be monsters, that they were more than just the curse that plagued them. Proof that they had a choice, that they were worthy of salvation.

But first, Sam had to convince this man to listen to him.

"Jack—"

"Get out now, or I'm gonna call the police."

Sam wanted to grab this stubborn man by his shirt's lapels and shake him until he understood, but he set his jaw and didn't say anything else. As he turned to leave, he could only hope that Jack would eventually change his mind and would keep himself in check now that he knew about his rougarou genes.

Sliding in the driver's seat of the rented car he was using, Sam checked his phone. No missed calls or messages. Neither from Dean nor from Bobby. With a sigh, he rested his forehead on the steering wheel. Nothing was going his way recently. Dean was who knew where, Jack Montgomery refused to listen to him, and Travis was adamant about killing the monster that didn't exist yet.

Would he also turn into a monster if he continued this road he had chosen? Turn into something they hunted? He wished to prove that he wouldn't, that he knew what he was doing, and what he was getting into. But did he really?

The shard tower Dean made on the coffee table that day suddenly came to his mind. Sam frowned. 'And that, Sammy, is how demons are made.' Completely broken, twisted, and barely resembling the soul that they once were—that was how Dean described demons.

But Ruby was different, right? She was a demon, sure, but she came to him when he needed someone the most, took care of him in Dean's stead, and taught him so much about his abilities. She never asked anything of him. The only thing she insisted strongly on was killing Lilith, but it aligned with Sam's goals too. She wasn't like the other demons.

His phone rang.

Sam jolted from his thoughts. Grabbing his phone, he glanced down at the caller ID. His eyes widened upon seeing the name and he fumbled with his phone in his rush to answer it. "Dean!"

"Heya, Sammy."

Sam's heart thumped at the use of the affectionate version of his name. "Dean, listen, I can explain, okay?" He sounded so desperate even for his own ears, but at this moment he didn't care. He tasted hope for once and he wasn't about to let it go. He wanted his brother back. "So, please, just listen to me."

"Well, first, I, uh," Dean paused to clear his throat, "I'm sorry that I left without a word. I had to clear my head, gather my thoughts. What I saw back there scared me, Sam."

He expected something like this, prepared to hear it during these few last days without any contact from Dean. Honestly, he thought it would be worse, much worse, and while he didn't know if he could have survived his brother saying that he hated him now, even this small admission made his stomach twist itself into knots.

"I—" Sam tried to force words out past his throat, but they caught like hooks. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he took a moment to collect himself. "I'm sorry, Dean, I just… let me explain, please."

"I'll listen. In return, can you also listen to me? Don't shut me down just because you think that I can't understand what you're going through. Do we have a deal?"

Sam could feel the weight being lifted from his shoulders, chest welling with relief. "Yeah," he breathed out, letting his head drop against the driver's seat. It was only fair that they listened to each other. "Yeah, Dean, it's a deal."

"Great, Sammy! It's a good start!"

His brother sounded so enthusiastic, even Sam smiled at that.

"But this isn't a phone talk, so where are you at right now? Still in Minnesota? I'll come pick you up."

"No, I'm in Carthage, Missouri," Sam replied. Dean must have called him without listening to his voicemail first. "Travis—remember Travis, the old hunting friend of Dad's?—he called me and asked for help with a case. Said it's time sensitive and he broke his arm in a previous case, so I came to help."

"Travis, Travis…" The Impala's engine revved in the background of the call. Dean didn't waste any second to start driving. "Yeah, I remember him. What kinda case?"

"Rougarou."

"Rougarou? Why does it sound so made up…" A pause. "Wait, is that the thing that turns into a monster after eating human flesh for the first time?"

"Yeah, but..."

"But what?"

"The guy's still human, Dean, he hasn't turned yet." Sam unconsciously tensed, steeling himself for the possible outburst. "So I, I tried talking with him."

"And?" Dean urged when Sam didn't say anything more. "How did it go?"

Sam thought his brother would immediately call him an idiot for wasting time, for trying to reason with a monster, but then, he didn't. It was so unexpected, he felt speechless.

"Sam? Did something happen while you were talking with the guy? Did he, I don't know, flip out or something?"

"No, no…" Sam trailed off. "I just thought you'd be against talking with him and be all gank first, ask questions later. Like Travis."

There was silence on the other end of the call. It wrapped around Sam, tense and suffocating, and he regretted saying those words now.

"Didn't you say he's still human?" Dean wondered. Not angry or annoyed, he sounded merely confused. "If he never ends up munching on some manburger helper, he should stay human."

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it. Not like his brother never agreed with him, but he couldn't help but get a little excited at his support this time. "Yeah, that's exactly what I'm thinking, so I talked with the guy, and," his shoulder dropped in resignation, "it didn't go well. The guy's totally in denial."

Dean hummed on the other side. Sam could hear stray music notes coming from the radio and Impala's engine rumbling as he sped up. "I'm on my way to Missouri, should be there in, uh, in the evening probably. We'll figure it out when I arrive, alright?" he said. "So, sit tight, Sammy, and don't do anything dangerous."

Sam's chest warmed at the brotherly concern he could hear in Dean's voice. At the same time, his vision blurred, so he shut his eyes and pressed his fingers over them, forcing back unexpected tears. "Yeah, okay, Dean," he muttered, pushing down his emotion and trying to sound natural. "Call me once you're in the city."

"Will do."

The call ended. Sam slumped against the seat again, staring at the car's roof. This went well. Dean was more understanding than he could have ever hoped him to be. His brother extended his trust to him, even after finding out he lied, and so Sam was ready to tell him everything about Ruby and what happened after his death.

He straightened up.

Well, almost everything. Some things he would still keep a secret. No matter how understanding Dean had become recently, he would not understand this.

Sam could live with others calling him a freak, an abomination, a monster, but hearing those words from his brother? It would destroy him. So, he would lock that part of his past away to never be seen or talked about. He was done with that anyway, regardless of how displeased Ruby would be once she heard about it.

A/N

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