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ohsamTitle: The Apotheosis of Wile E. Coyote
Author: nwhepcat
Fandom: Supernatural, gen;
Rating R
Spoilers: Set shortly after S3 "Mystery Spot," but spoilery for S4 "Heaven and Hell"
Summary: Even with the clock ticking toward death and hell, Dean insists on taking on a routine job. It's anything but routine when he finds something he's not meant to discover, and things get a great deal more complicated, while Sam tries very hard not to break.
Disclaimer: So not mine, and it is a sadness.
Warnings: Language, h/c, psychosis, extreme Sam angst
Previous parts are here.
The spaghetti claw clatters to the floor, flipping a clammy strand of pasta against Dean's leg.
"Dean. Jesus, what -- did they find something when you were in the hospital?"
"No, it's not --" He rakes a hand through his hair. "I guess it's not accurate to say I'm dying. It's not my health. I'm going to die, though, and I don't have that long."
Pulling up a chair close to him, she drops into it and takes his hand. "I don't understand."
"I'm not surprised. It's --" He lets out a breath. "It's pretty fucked-up, I guess." Both her hands are curved around his, but he can't give in to this comforting pressure, can't return it. She's going to let go. She always does. "I made this deal."
"Deal?"
"Sammy --" Breathe, Dean. "Sam died. Not quite a year ago. I'd already lost -- I guess you didn't know this, but Dad died a few months before that. I couldn't lose Sam too. I made a deal. My life for his."
She tightens her hands around his. "Dean, it doesn't work that way."
"It does when you're dealing with a crossroads demon," he snaps. "I didn't bargain with God, Cassie. I didn't say, 'I'll never curse or get drunk or look at porn again if you just give me Sammy back.' I sold my soul, and I got a year."
Watching her expression, Dean pulls his hands out of hers. Better to be the one to pull away first. A flash of fierce crosses her face, and she leans in to grab his hand again.
"How long do you have?"
"I'm not even sure," Dean says. "I lost time. It's weeks, I think."
"What happens then?" she asks.
He scratches at his neck with his free hand. "Hellhounds get a new chew toy."
Irritation flashes across her face. "Why do you always do this?"
"What, exactly, am I doing?"
"That thing where you're talking about something serious, and suddenly it's a big joke."
Again he pulls his hand away. "Well, that's how it's done in my world, Cassie. Something knocks you down, you rub a little dirt on the hurt places, get up and go on. Because people need you, and being emo about it isn't going to get you shit." Something tells him to let it drop there, but fuck it. He's been nursing this for a long damn time. "It's especially how it's done when you try it the other way and you get shot down in flames. I told you something serious a few years back, and you gave me the boot. You were the first woman I ever told who I really was, and you can be damn well sure you were the last."
"You know I thought --"
"I know what you thought. Well, it's easy believing in someone who tells you something believable, isn't it? Believing in someone who's telling you something that sounds crazy, but they're being as straightforward as they know how to be -- that's the definition of 'something serious,' sweetheart, and I thought we had that."
Her eyes glitter. "I hate it when you call me sweetheart. You use sweetheart for every waitress who brings you a piece of pie."
True enough. He'd called her that the night they first met, and when he was packing up his shit to leave, but not in between, not when he thought she was the one he'd love like Dad had loved his mom. "Yeah, well." Picking the cold piece of spaghetti off his jeans leg, he drops it onto the table, a silent, pointed reminder that at least a waitress can be counted on to bring him food when she promises it.
Any fucking time now, he thinks to his passenger. I don't know why you dragged me here in the first place.
Standing up and stepping away from the table, he announces, "I have to go." He realizes how that sounds. "Leave. I'm leaving." Just his fucking luck that this is when his passenger decides he's had it with the comings and goings, and leaves him standing there looking like a jackass. "Now."
You can't tell me the fucking Trickster isn't behind this. Because this is just a step below getting splatted by a desk.
"You're a little better dressed for it, but you still don't have any shoes," Cassie points out.
In response, he holds out his hand. "Let me borrow your phone again."
Before she can comply or argue, Glowerpuss Angel makes an abrupt appearance in the kitchen.
"I hate people who drop in at dinnertime," Dean says.
The stranger walks around Dean, making a full 360 as he sizes him up. Dean keeps his eyes on Castiel's, flexing his hands, waiting for the asshole to make a move.
By the time Cassie yelps, "Hey, what are you doing?" and Dean sees the flask, it's too late. Castiel has poured some kind of oil in a circle around Dean. Just as Cassie yanks on his sleeve, he turns and gently touches his fingertips to her forehead, and she slips to the floor as noiselessly as the blanket had fallen to Dean's feet.
"What the fuck did you do to her?" Dean makes a move for Castiel, but before he can cross the circle of oil, the bastard drops a match onto it. As a low flame springs up, Dean slams against some kind of invisible barrier.
Putting up a hand to push at the barrier, he finds it extends all the way around him, as if there's a glass wall circling him. "Great," he mutters. "It's not bad enough I'm a cartoon, now I'm a mime. This is the goddamn limit."
Then this Castiel starts to glow like he's going all Chernobyl, and Dean falls to his knees, burying his face in his hands.
***
Seriously? Dean thinks. His passenger who has the power to teleport finally wakes up, and this is what it comes up with? Kneeling?
Suddenly glass showers over him from the overhead light, the kitchen windows and the glass-fronted cabinets. It must be making a helluva noise, but it's swallowed by the sound of Castiel's voice.
Holy shit, he's never heard anything like it.
But he has.
It's complex and beautiful and terrifying, almost like music, but no kind of music he's ever heard.
Like home.
The voice calls a name he knows must be his, but it's not in any human language, because he is not human. He folds in on himself, low to the ground to signify his submission, palms pressed flat on the floor, heedless of the broken glass. He cries out for mercy
and that just pisses Dean off. He raises his head and feels his face go slack with terror. This thing has as much in common with the sweet and girly Christmas tree angels as Godzilla has with Michigan J. Frog.
If Godzilla were made of light and beautiful in an otherworldly way.
Fighting his passenger's attempt to compel him to grovel, Dean feels a thread of blood trickle from his nose. He nods toward the circle of flame. "Nice Johnny Cash impression. What else have you got?"
His passenger doesn't think much of that. He hurls Dean back into an impossibly small space, this time allowing him -- forcing him -- to witness his interview with the angel.
Bowing his head once more, he begs for forgiveness and mercy, knowing he will never be permitted to ask these of the Father he has offended.
"You know there is no forgiveness for what you have done," the other answers. "You placed your will above that of our Father. Was it worth it to walk among men for a handful of decades? Was it worth abandoning your post and your brethren? Turning your back on your garrison?"
"Begging your forgiveness, but it has been but a few days since I awakened. I woke when you touched me, and found myself in this body." Allowing himself a glimpse at the presence before him, he whispers, "Is this what I was?"
Grief and shame surge through him like flood waters, even before the affirmative answer.
"You do not remember?"
"I was torn from my home," he says, and the savage pain of that violation sears him along with the memory. "I was torn ... in two." Horror and desolation and then nothingness. "It was not my choice, but if --" Tears streak his face. "If you are here to kill me, I submit freely. It would be an act of mercy."
***
Forcing his voice past the cramped space he occupies, Dean struggles to raise his head to glare at the angel. "Whoa whoa whoa. No submitting! He is not speaking for me. I've got a few crappy weeks left, but I'm not letting anyone give them away." All that light and the enormous presence -- and holy fuck, wings! -- surge and coalesce until they're contained in the body Castiel was wearing before. And then he's just, to all appearances, a man.
Dean doesn't even notice the ring of fire has extinguished until Castiel leans in to loom over him, taking Dean's jaw in an iron grip, eying him with an intensely curious expression.
"Hey now, you're gonna leave a mark."
"You are not Anna," he says, as if there were something surprising in this.
"That seems kind of obvious, pal."
Frowning in puzzlement, Castiel adds, "And yet you are." He lifts two fingers as he did with Cassie, and as he extends them toward Dean, he tries to pull back, but is caught, paralyzed.
The width of Castiel's hand obstructs most of Dean's vision as his fingers alight on his forehead. A stab of fear accompanies the touch, but it's soon swept up in a storm of memories and feelings, including the time he'd lost before and after the meteor tree, the flash and roar that filled his head when he'd put a hand to the rough bark.
But that's not all.
Dean feels the weight of Sam in his arms, and it's simultaneously the compact weight of a baby, so heavy for a four-year-old to carry, and the dead weight of a young man who's breathed his last. He sees fire -- the one that took his house, the one where Jess died, his father's funeral pyre. He feels another weight, wholly unaccustomed, at his shoulder blades, the extension and flexion of enormous wings, the heft of a sword in his hand, battling things the likes of which he's never seen. He sees the death throes of every demon he's ever ganked.
He sees his own death -- one hundred and one of them, all playing in his head at once. Sees Sam's desperate grief at each and every one of them. He feels a wrenching pain more agonizing than all of these combined, something that tears at the fibers of his spirit and he falls into exile, into a cold, silent, dark place.
And then nothing.
And then Dean opens his eyes, reeling. Still kneeling, he finds himself staring right at Castiel, who is on his knees now too, looking as pole-axed as Dean feels.
"You are a true vessel," Castiel says, with something like wonder in his voice.
"I have no idea what that means." Dean's voice sounds rusty to him, as if he hasn't spoken in a week. "But if it means you won't kill me, yay." And then he slumps forward.
***
Castiel takes his shoulders and holds him upright. "I would not slay you," he says, and Dean gets the feeling that this is a new development.
And he so doubts that angel smiting would be an anvil he'd be accordioning up from.
He so does not feel good at that thought. Swaying, he puts a hand on the angel's arm to steady himself.
"This cannot continue," Castiel says. Intones, really. In fact, every damn thing he's said has been a flat pronouncement.
Belatedly, he drops the offending hand. "I'm not getting fresh here, I'm just a little woozy."
"You must relinquish this vessel, Anna. It does not belong to you."
"It? Thanks a helluva lot, pal." Though he thinks maybe he's referred to his passenger as it. "So this angel that's been possessing me is a chick? Is she hot?" Shit, had he said that out loud?
Castiel fixes Dean with a look that says, Stop interrupting; the grown-ups are talking. But he answers, just as you might a four-year-old tugging at your pants leg. "Angels do not have genders as humans do. And it is not precisely Anna who has usurped your body, but the --" a flicker of a frown crosses his face -- "the closest I can come in your language is to call it Anna's grace. It's this Anna tore away in order to renounce Heaven and fall to earth."
"You do this a lot? Hijack a body for a little slumming with the locals?"
"Falling and walking among humans are two entirely different acts. Both, fortunately, are rare," Castiel says pointedly.
"So you, that body, that belongs to some poor bastard who's stuffed in his own box?"
"He consented to this. He prayed to be of service to the Lord, and when he was needed, he was asked for his assistance."
"Maybe you think you asked," Dean snaps, "but I can tell you, no one asked me squat."
"What happened to you was an accident," Castiel insists. "Anna's grace recognized a viable vessel, and its longing to rejoin its kin overwhelmed its judgment. The seizure and coma, these occurred because of the violence of your joining."
"You make it sound like rough sex," Dean says, which earns him a scowl. "So what's this grace? Am I like the walking angel brainstem, while somebody else got Anna's memories and the undoubtedly charming personalityf?"
"Without the grace, Anna would have no memories. These are veiled from the human Anna has become, just as Anna's human form is veiled from us."
"This is giving me a headache," Dean says.
"No doubt," Castiel says. "This is a consequence of Anna's grace inhabiting a vessel that is stolen, however inadvertently."
Dean considers telling Castiel not to be so damn literal, that the headache is figurative, but decides it's not worth the effort.
"This is only the beginning," Castiel goes on. "Vessels are not interchangeable. If Anna's grace remains within you, you will shatter and die."
***
Dean levels a look at Castiel. "Shatter? Like explode? Time things right, and I can take some hellhounds with me."
The forehead rumples in that your human ways are strange to me way that he keeps trotting out. "Why do you make light of such matters?"
"Because I've watched too much damn TV since I was a kid. It's what the hero does." Even though it's a joke, calling himself a hero makes Dean feel like a big fraud. "Because it's not going to change a damn thing if I go all glowerpuss. Not that it doesn't look good on you."
Castiel sticks with the puzzled, though. "Why did you consign yourself to hell for all eternity?"
Sincerity launches a sneak attack, and Dean finds himself saying, "Because Sammy's my brother. I couldn't face him being gone."
"Yet you have ensured that he will suffer the same fate."
"I know. I honestly thought he could handle it better." He'd seemed fine enough with going off to Stanford, cutting off all contact. Dean had thought he wasn't that necessary to Sam. The highlights reel that just ran though his head proves he'd been wrong. None of the deaths Sammy had witnessed -- and he wasn't spared a single one of them -- had seemed less than real to him because it was just another click in the Trickster's slide show of stupid death tricks.
"I'm sorry about that, I am," Dean admits. "If I'd known then what I know now --" The claim that he'd do things differently gets stuck sideways in his throat. Even knowing what he knows, he can't say in all honesty that he'd let Sam die. He's too selfish for that. "The angels who fall. Like Anna." He doesn't even know what he means to ask.
"We grieve for them, yes. I spent many thousands of years fighting by Anna's side."
"Yet you came here to kill her. Him. It."
"I have my Father's orders."
"Yeah. Me too. But if push comes to shove, I know I can't. I made a promise to my dad, but I'm gonna break it."
And it's gonna break me.
Something in Castiel's steady gaze changes. Though Dean can't say what it is, for the first time he doesn't feel like something that's pinned on a dissection board for study. It's not sympathy. Recognition, maybe. Dean suspects that for an angel that's something akin to an emotional breakthrough.
"What are you going to do about Anna's grace?" he asks.
"I must go for guidance. It must be removed from you without harming you, but beyond that, I do not know."
"Yeah, well," Dean begins, but by the time he gets to "hurry up" he's speaking to the air.
***
When the angel's gone, Dean sways on his knees and reaches for a table leg to steady himself. "Cassie?" He looks around for her, his head swimming, relieved to see a subtle movement from her sprawled form. She's in a slanting rectangle of light from the next room, her hair glittering. "Cassie, are you okay?"
Shuffling to her on his knees, he reaches her just as she starts to stir.
"Yeah, I --"
"Careful. There's glass everywhere. There's a lot in your hair."
She starts to reach a hand toward her head, but he intercepts her hand.
"You'll cut yourself. Keep your head down and your eyes closed."
"What broke?" she asks from behind the curtain of hair.
"Just about every piece of glass in the room. Are you all right?"
"Yes, but I want to get up. It's freezing."
"Don't move. Not yet. Tell me where I can find a broom and a comb." Following her directions, he comes up with both and a floor lamp from the living room, and starts to sweep the fragments off the floor. Dean dampens a dish towel and wipes off a chair seat, then hands her a clean towel. "Okay, cover your face with this and keep your eyes closed." Backing off, he turns away and tells her to shake her head. He makes another pass with the broom, then takes her hand and helps her up, settling her into a kitchen chair. Gingerly he pulls her hair back from her forehead, mindful of the glass bits sparkling like water droplets, and she lowers the towel from her face.
He always loved Cassie's hair. The weight of it, the smell of the coconut oil she used to condition it. The rippled curtain it made around his face as she straddled him and bent forward for a kiss. Stop that. It's ancient history now. Seating himself behind her, Dean takes the comb to a section of her hair, working his way upward, combing out the glass.
"What happened while I was out?" she asks. "What broke all the glass?"
"It's not that much more believable than 'My dad and me, we hunt werewolves and shit.'" He'd tried for joking, but it hit a little too close to the bone. "Our angel friend forgot to use his indoor voice."
"Dean --"
"No, don't. It's okay. Water under the bridge."
"It's not. I really hurt you, and I'm trying --"
"Try not to piss off the guy with the comb," Dean snaps. He used to say practically the same thing to Sammy about scissors, back when Dean was his barber. It's such a weird mixture of memories, sexy Cassie and cranky Sammy, who always hated having his hair cut. It makes Dean's chest ache. He slides his left hand farther up the section of hair he's working on, holding it as he combs so he won't tug at her scalp. "This could hurt a whole lot worse than it is."
"You're very good at this."
"I used to cut Sam's hair." He flicks a larger piece of glass off a curl with the comb, but still gets a sliver when he slips his hand higher up. "Though considering how he wears it down to his ass, I must've traumatized him."
"Did you fight?"
"Yeah, sometimes. But he was small enough then that I could sit on him."
"Not Sam," she says as if Dean's dense or something. "The ... angel."
"No. He just left. I think he's coming back, so don't let it throw you."
She jerks away from his reach, looking back over her shoulder at him. "And your only weapon is a comb? Are you crazy?"
"If he wanted me dead, I'd be dead. And your hair is still full of glass. You'll get that shit in your eyes, if you're not careful." Taking her shoulder and drawing her back toward him to resume combing her hair, he's struck by the intimacy of this, in a way more striking than anything they shared in the short time they were a couple. "Turn back around."
It's slow going, but Dean works with the same patience he'd use if he were sewing up a gash on Sam's cheek. Cassie asks for stories about where he and Sam have been in the last two years, what they've been doing.
He has no heart for it. If she'd given a shit, she would have used the damn phone number and asked once in a while.
"The usual," he says, his tone slamming the door on any further questioning. "How about you, what brought you to Philly?"
Continuing his work, he listens for the sound of her voice, but not the content. He's not halfway through his task when Castiel reappears, making them both jump.
"You must come with me," Castiel says.
"I can't leave Cassie with all this glass in her hair. She --"
The angel flicks a hand in her direction. Her hair blows back slightly in a non-existant wind, looking for all the world like a girl in a soft-core porn mag or fashion ad (same thing, really). When the movement subsides, there are no more pulverized bits of glass on her or the floor, and no more cold air pushing through the blank window by the sink.
"There is no time to lose," Castiel intones.
And then Dean's standing in the cold night air, the skeleton of an oak looming over him.
***
"Dean!" Sam shouts.
Turning toward the sound of his voice, Dean reels at the sudden movement. He reaches out a hand to steady himself against the tree, but Sam yells, "No!" and Castiel intercepts it, steadying him with an iron grip.
"You want to get your hands off that boy right now," Bobby growls, and the absurd thought sails through Dean's head that he probably has a slightly different vocal tone depending on the weapon he's holding, and if Dean spent any amount of time with Bobby he'd be able to --
Don't go losing your shit now, he tells himself sternly.
"Bobby, stand down," Dean says. "He brought me here to help."
"Now why do I have a hard time believing that," Bobby says.
It's not a question, but Dean answers anyway. "Well, probably because he's all wrath-of-God looking, even when he's not in smite mode."
Castiel offers a free sample. "This does not concern you," he tells Bobby and Sam.
"It sure as hell does," Sam says. "He's my brother."
"And he is mine, to put it in a way that you might understand," Castiel says, and the idea of this angel treating Stanford honor-roll Sam like he's a remedial almost makes Dean laugh.
"Look," Dean says, "I picked up a hitchhiker by accident. I can't carry it around much longer, and Castiel's going to get it out."
"So it is an angel," Bobby says.
"It's part of an angel," Dean clarifies. "The shiny parts."
"Fine, so get it out," Sam says. "But I'm staying."
"No," Castiel says. "Humans cannot gaze upon my true form. To do so would burn your eyes from your head."
"But --" Dean says.
"You are a vessel," Castiel tells him. "You were protected by Anna's grace."
He thinks of Cassie and shivers, grateful that she was sprawled unconscious on the floor. "Take the Impala," he tells Sam and Bobby. "Go cruise the main drag in Union or something. I don't want her windows busted out."
"Dean --"
"I'll be safe, Sammy. These guys want me alive."
Sam puts on the bitch-face, but he and Bobby do as Dean asked. As the Impala rumbles down the quiet rural road, Dean looks at Castiel. "So one of these days I'm going to get hijacked by my real passenger? Walk around like you, all wrathy and smitey and inhuman?"
"That knowledge is held by my Father alone. But we have not walked among humans for two thousand years. Once my mission has been completed, this vessel will be released."
"Catch and release? Or do you mean flopping on the deck of the boat released?"
"He will return to his life, just as you will." All three weeks or whatever he has left.
"And Anna's grace?"
"It will be received with joy by its brethren."
"But what about your orders?"
Castiel holds his gaze, but the intensity this time isn't creepy. "They pertain only to Anna's will, that which instigated this rebellion."
Dean lets out a breath. "All right then. Let's do this. Let's get your lost lamb home."
***
Producing a small bowl of some kind of oil, Castiel dips a finger in it and draws a sigil on Dean's forehead.
Nose wrinkling, he blinks furiously. "Dude. This has some serious funk. It smells like hour four of a Phish concert." The fact that he even knows what that's like shows there is such a thing as going too far to get laid, and Dean has been there. Once.
Castiel pauses, his finger resting in the small pool of oil. "Do you make light of everything?"
"Only the important stuff."
Castiel regards him for a long moment, and Dean wishes fiercely that he had some kind of read on angelic expressions.
"Open your shirt."
It takes an enormous effort of will not to make a joke about that, but Dean manages to keep the wisecracks at bay.
The angel paints another sigil on Dean's chest, leaving behind a sensation of faint warmth along its lines. "When I tell you to close your eyes, you must do so without delay."
Dean nods.
Castiel begins speaking in some language Dean's never heard. Slow, rough-sounding syllables that sound less like chanting than like the sound of slogging through a muddy field with the gunk sucking at your shoes with every step. For the next round, Castiel puts a palm against each of the sigils he's drawn, repeating the syllables.
Heat builds within Dean's forehead and chest. Light pours from Castiel's hands into Dean -- or maybe it's pouring from Dean into Castiel's hands. The radiance envelops them both, and he sees Castiel's wings unfurling. There's a hum in the air that he's never heard before, that has always been there, and it's like the song/not song that he heard in Cassie's kitchen, multiplied by thousands. Terror and joy shudder through him, and he sways against Castiel's hands. Some kind of energy surges into him, holding up upright, and it loops through him and returns to Castiel.
Castiel's in full angel mode now, sound and fury and music and light. The presence within Dean moves toward him, hesistant as a shy child at first, then rushing forward to greet its kindred and be welcomed home.
"Close your eyes," Castiel says, in English and in angel at the same time, and Dean complies.
The heat and light and sound he's been bathed in become suddenly too much, forcing Dean to sag back from Castiel's touch and hide his face in the crook of his arm.
And now the sound of Castiel's voice is nothing but screech and hiss and pain, the sound of tectonic plates heaving and grating against each other.
So long, and thanks for all the fish, Dean imagines Castiel saying, just before he blacks out.
***
When Dean comes to, he's a lot warmer than he'd expected to be. It's dark again, and the angel noise has toned it down to a throaty roar. There's an odd feeling of motion too, like he can suddenly feel the movement of the earth.
"Whoa. That was a hell of a thing," he says to the starless sky.
And then he's nearly pitched off the ground, which -- he belatedly realizes -- is not the ground. There's the screech of tires and fishtailing, and Sam yelping "Dean!"
Fuck, did I just teleport myself here? He prods the corners of his mind, but doesn't feel another presence there, or any sense of confinement.
"Dean, did you just do that?" Sam asks.
"I don't think so. I think maybe it was Castiel."
"Your hitchhiker," Bobby says. "Is it --"
"Gone. I guess Castiel took it home." He thinks about sitting up, but realizes he likes lying on the back seat just fine. The Impala's rumble vibrates through his muscles. Best Magic Fingers in the world. Dean pats the upholstery. Sorry I didn't recognize you at first, baby.
Switching on the dome light, Sam peers at him. "Are you all right?"
"Tired. Call Cassie, will you? Tell her I'm okay."
And he lets his baby lull him to sleep.
***
Dean surfaces a few times, finding himself in a room that's a helluva lot nicer than the motel room he remembers. Every damn time he finds Sam watching him. Sometimes he's quietly conversing with Bobby, sometimes he's by himself.
"Dude," Dean finally says. "Get some fucking sleep. You look like crap on a stick."
Of course Sam ignores that. "Do you want anything? Coffee? Something from room service?"
Letting his eyes drift closed, he mutters. "'Nother few minutes."
"Dean. You're sleeping your life away."
Is he? He shifts, sits up. "How long since I had my angelectomy?"
"About eighteen hours."
Doesn't seem all that excessive, considering he's been hopscotching all over the country, freeballing and barefooting it in the dead of winter. "Bobby still around?"
"Yeah. He's getting in some rack time. You want him? He said to wake him up anytime."
"Naw, let him -- well, actually yeah. Maybe he'd sit here with me while you go grab me something to eat. Of all the damnedest things, I'm suddenly craving some of that crazy chili. With the cinnamon."
"I thought you thought it was the most disgusting thing in the known world."
Well, uh, yeah. He'd figure out what he'd do with the shit once Sammy brought it back. Dean shrugs. "Cravings. Who knows why."
Sam eyes him for a long moment, then finally nods. "Sure. I'll get Bobby. How do you want it? One-way, five-way, something in between?"
"Huh? Oh. The chili. Call me when you get there."
Lingering just long enough to make Dean feel like there's something he's leaving unsaid, Sam finally nods and leaves the room. Bobby's at his door quick enough that it's clear he's been sleeping in his clothes.
"Decided to join the waking world, huh?" Bobby says. "How are you feeling?"
"We can get to that later. There's something I need to know, Bobby, and I need you to tell me the truth." Dean lets that hang there until he gets a minute nod in response. "I need you to tell me how Sammy's doing."
***
Bobby sits on the edge of the bed Sam just vacated. "Dean, now's not the time to be worrying about anyone else."
"Bullshit, Bobby. Now's just about all the time I've got. Nothing's going to change what happens to me, but Sam's still going to be here. How is he holding up?"
"Not good," Bobby admits.
"We went through some shit down in Florida. Ran into that Trickster we thought we killed."
"Sam told me about that," Bobby says.
"It fucked him up, Bobby. I didn't realize how much, but I do now. Castiel ... he showed me every damn death, and every reaction. He's gonna do something stupid or crazy or both."
"Like you did?"
Dean rubs at his jaw, still tender in spots from Castiel's iron grip. "Yeah, well. Guess that makes me the perfect poster boy for Stop the Madness. It's just -- how much are we dealing with?"
"When I first got here, you were still in the coma. I won't lie, that boy was at the end of his rope, and then some. I was worried as hell. And yeah, I still am."
"Me too, Bobby. You know how goddamn single-minded he can be at the best of times. I'll do what I can to keep him reined in, but when I'm dead --" The word seems to jam sideways in his throat, scraping his insides raw as it emerges. "When I'm gone, keep an eye on him."
"I'll do my best. You know that."
Yeah. He also knows -- they both know -- that Sam might make it damn hard for him.
"Thanks. And thanks for coming out here for Sammy while all this was going on."
"I came for you too, chucklehead."
Unexpectedly, it's the insult that hits Dean hard, sending him straight into chick-flick mode. Throat tightening, he looks away from Bobby, his burning eyes settling on the blank TV screen. "You've been --" Dean's throat closes, and he knows if he forces one more word, he'll break.
In two strides, Bobby is on him, yanking him off the bed and into a bone-crunching hug. "Goddammit, son. Goddammit."
"Yeah, Bobby. I goddammit you, too."
With that, Bobby snorts a laugh and releases Dean.
Dean drags his sleeve across his eyes. "We'd better cut the emo crap before Sam gets back. Hell, you should get back to sleep. We'll all have breakfast before we blow town."
"Look, I'll stick around and deal with the wampus cat," Bobby says. "You boys do whatever you need to."
"We'll sort that out in the morning." Dean's cellphone, which Sam has fished out of his clothes and set on the nightstand sometime in the 18 hours that Dean was out, shrills Sam's ringtone.
Great. Now I get to decide if I want to eat nasty shit plain or with onions, cheese and shit crackers.
Bobby gives Dean's shoulder a manly squeeze and takes his leave while Dean flips open his phone.
"Yeah, Sammy."
***
Sam's not alone when he comes back with the Skyline. There's an older black guy with him wrapped in a nice looking coat, not the cheap imitation grownup clothes he and Sam wear on a job. Too well dressed to be a cop.
Dean hopes like hell it's not another angel.
"Dean, hey. Do you remember Dr. Moultrie?"
"Can't say I do."
"He was just coming by to check on you when I ran into him," Sam says.
Getting to his feet, Dean says, "Seriously? You make hotel calls?"
The doctor smiles, offering his hand. "You're a hard man to keep in one spot."
"You have no idea," Sam says fervently.
"I hate to keep a man from his chili," Dr. Moultrie says, "but I'd really like to do a quick exam." He gestures to the bed Dean's been occupying. "Have a seat."
"Here?"
Moultrie's smile quirks up into a grin. "Like there's the slightest chance you'll walk across the street for an appointment?" Without waiting for Dean to comply, he pulls the room's desk chair over to face the bed.
There's something about the guy's manner that Dean likes, but he flicks a look over to Sam, who nods.
"You can trust him, Dean." The fact that Sam says this at all indicates a level of trust that's extremely rare for outsiders. What Dean can't figure out is whether Dr. Moultrie knows some things, or everything.
Settling on the edge of the bed, Dean directs another look at Sam. This guy can't be a hunter's doctor, not with the pricey coat he's shucking out of and folding onto the other bed. The clothes beneath are just as expensive.
"Dr. Moultrie's actually the chief of neurology at the hospital," Sam informs him. "He took your case after they moved you out of the ER."
The doctor shines a small flashlight beam into Dean's eyes, then flicks it away. "Your brother mentioned the possibiity that this episode might've been caused by something you encountered on the job."
Deer, meet headlights. Well, flashlight. "Uhh..."
"Possibly a toxic substance from crawling around in ductwork," Sam hastily adds. "I was thinking about that old factory a month or so back."
"Huh," Dean says. "Could be. That place was a wreck."
"I'd like to do some bloodwork, if you'd consent to going back to the hospital."
"Aw, no," Dean blurts. "I hate bloodwork."
"We're self-employed, doctor," Sam says smoothly. "We're already backed up on our schedule. And to tell you the truth, we'd rather spend the money on improving our protective gear." There's something about this doctor that seems to smooth Sam's jagged edges, even if just slightly. Considering Sam's recent state of mind, it's pretty remarkable.
"Well, I'd be in favor of that," Moultrie says. "But I'd still recommend finding out what it was that affected you. I don't want to be an alarmist, but you could have another episode, or other effects."
"I appreciate that, doc," Dean says. "But the jobs are stalled and the bills aren't."
"I understand." He moves on with the exam, checking Dean's reflexes, asking him questions, some of which Sam answers with a smooth lie before Dean has a chance to stumble over a response.
This doctor's a smart one -- Dean can see him registering every time Sam leaps in to answer a question. He knows something doesn't add up, Dean's sure of it. Turning Dean's head, he eyes the cluster of bruises on his jawline. The scrutiny reminds him of Castiel's, which of course is where he got the marks in the first place.
"Do you remember where these bruises came from?"
"Nope," he says.
After regarding him for a long moment, Dr. Moultrie settles back in his chair. "As far as I can tell from this level of examination, you seem to have bounced back from this." He turns toward Sam. "You're the expert, though, Sam. I never met him before the coma and psychotic reaction. Does your brother seem like himself?"
***
Sam regards him for a long moment as Dr. Moultrie waits for an answer and Dean's stomach begins to knot.
"Well, he hasn't made nearly enough inappropriate remarks or crass jokes," Sam finally says, "but I'm chalking it down to what he's gone through."
"Oh, very fucking funny," Dean says. He shares an eyeroll with the doctor. "Baby brothers."
Dr. Moultrie laughs. "Then I'm going to say whatever this is, it's passed. I'll write an official discharge, and you can get to your next job."
"No additional tests?" Sam asks, prompting Dean to shoot him a dark look.
Offering a shrug, Moultrie says, "They all came out normal the first time around, apart from some unusual brain activity during the coma. But if you'd like--"
"Thanks, but no thanks," Dean says hastily.
"If you notice any after-effects or problems, make an appointment." Producing a card from his pocket, he hands it to Dean. "Rose is my scheduler. Just tell her I said to put you on the fast track, and she'll get you in as soon as she can."
"Thanks, doc," Dean says, and this time it's sincere.
Getting to his feet, Dr. Moultrie reaches for his coat. "It's been one of the most intriguing cases I've ever seen. I don't have any anwers, but I'm pleased with the outcome." He offers Dean his hand, then shakes Sam's in turn. "Take care, and be a little more cautious on the job, will you?"
"You bet," Dean says. When Dr. Moultrie's gone, he says, "Decent guy for a doctor."
"Yeah, I like him. You and Bobby get things settled?"
Frowning, Dean says, "What things?"
A shrug. "Whatever it was that you wanted to say badly enough that you sent me running out for cinnamon chili instead of calling room service or sending me downstairs."
Dean scratches at his neck. "Oh yeah. I keep forgetting that you're not stupid."
"Hilarious."
"I am starving, so hand it over." Starting to open the paper bag Sam hands him, he changes his mind and sets it on the nightstand. He looks up at Sam, who has a Was I right? smirk on his face. "I did want to talk to Bobby. About you."
The smirk takes a southward turn. "Me?"
"This has been rough on you."
"Look, you're the one who's had it the worst," Sam says. "I lost some sleep and did some worrying, but I didn't have an angel riding me. Like you said, you're starving. Let me pitch that shit out and we'll call room service." Starting toward the hotel phone, he halts as Dean throws up a hand.
"Sammy. That's not what I'm talking about." Pointing toward the chair Dr. Moultrie had pulled up to the bed, he says, "Sit."
Instead Sam settles himself on the other bed, putting a couple more feet of distance between them.
"Look, I know I've been blowing off the whole Trickster thing, making jokes, saying insensitive shit."
The corner of Sam's mouth quirks up. "When you put it that way, it sounds just like you being you."
"Well, it is, you know. It's wisecrack like an asshole, or shut down and never talk at all. You were too young to remember now, but I did that for a while after ... after Mom." Sam takes a breath to speak, but Dean gestures for him to hold up. "That whole Trickster thing was more like some crazy story than something that happened to me -- to us. It was easy to make jokes. But all those memories got unlocked at the end of all this. I saw every single float on the shit parade of death."
Sam looks up, stricken. "Dean --"
"It wasn't that bad, Sam. It didn't traumatize me. But I got to see how you reacted, every single time. It hadn't occurred to me to think what it would be like on your end. Man, a hundred times watching me die -- if it was me in your place -- I don't know how you're still walking around. You're one tough sonofabitch, and I mean that in the nicest possible way."
This, at least, teases a small smile from Sam. "I'm flattered." Sobering, he adds, "That's what you saw, the hundred Tuesdays?"
"Yeah. That and some some other memories, ones that weren't lost. I guess Castiel was giving me the full angel brain scan -- that's when he said I'm a vessel."
"Vessel?"
"Yeah, a potential meatsuit for an angel. That's why the tree put the whammy on me, but no one else. But that's not the angel I was made for. I guess vessels are custom-tailored to one particular angel." An idea blooms in his head, so clear and unexpected that it makes him draw in a breath.
"Dean?"
He rubs his forehead. "I thought I'd told you all this. I guess I dreamed it."
"Yeah, you must have, because it's news to me."
"Did I tell you the other part? About my deal?"
His brows crowding together, Sam says, "No, what about your deal?"
***
"Wait," Sam says before Dean can answer. "Are you talking about something new? A deal with this angel? Did you agree to be possessed again?" His voice rises on a note of tension, and Dean hurries to reassure him.
"No. He said -- I think -- that they have to get consent from a vessel. And he said it's been 2000 years since the last time Michael Landon came and slummed with us human types. Me getting possessed, that was an accident."
"So, what deal -- that deal? The crossroads demon?"
"Yeah." Dean hesitates. Once he steps off this cliff, there's no going back. It's wrong and he knows it, but goddammit, he can't watch Sammy suffer like this for the time he's got left. He'll take fake happiness over true torment. For Sammy. He hopes Sam will forgive him once it all falls apart. "Castiel told me this whole temporary vessel thing changes everything. Hell can't take me now."
Sam's jaw drops, his breath whooshing out. "Dean? For real?"
Clap for Tinker Bell, baby. Keep this bullshit alive. "Hell, Sammy, would an angel lie to me?"''
The corners of Sam's mouth twitch as if he's afraid to smile, or has forgotten how. "Dean, that's -- god, I don't know --" He launches himself up and bounds toward Dean, hauling him up just as Bobby had done and pulling him into a crushing hug. "Dean, that's fucking fantastic."
"I know, right?" A laugh bubbles out of him, half hysterical at the fucking audacity of this.
Sammy's answering laugh is just as shaky. "Idon'tbelieveitIdon'tbelieveit!" He howls like a drunken hockey fan, lifting Dean in the air. "Fuck, yeah!"
By the time he's back on his feet, Dean has rearranged his face, managing to approximate the lunatic joy he sees on Sam's. "Shit, yes!"
"You're totally off the hook?"
"Off the hook, contract ripped into confetti. I'm golden, Sammy."
Then Sam is laughing and crying at the same time like a big damn girl. Before Dean can point this out, he feels moisture tracking down his own face, and he laughs too, strangely giddy. This is why he sold his soul, for this Sam, whom he thought he'd destroyed by making the deal.
Letting go of his fistfuls of Dean's shirt, Sam raises both arms in the air and whoops, and Dean sets up a wolfpack harmony. In about thirty seconds there's a thump at the door which is too terrifying to be mere hotel security.
"Yeah, Bobby," Dean says, swinging the door open.
"What the holy hell is going on in here?" he hollers. Wearing his hat and a terry robe that no doubt has a gun in the pocket, he levels the glower of doom at them.
"Dean just told me," Sam says.
"Told you what?" Bobby aims an I better be wrong about this glare in Dean's direction.
"He doesn't know yet," Dean says to Sam. "I was waiting to tell you first." Wetting his lips, he goes on. "I'm clear, Bobby. The hellhounds can't get me now. Because I had an angel riding around in here."
Please just go with it, he silently pleads. It's hard to do without the face too, but Sammy's watching them both closely.
"Damn, son," he says after a stunned pause.
"That's pretty much how Sam was, too. Speechless."
"That's damn good news." Bobby pulls Dean toward him, fingers like iron against the back of his neck as he hauls Dean close. "You stupid sonofabitch," he whispers into Dean's ear, "I oughta beat the snot out of you."
"You said it, Bobby," Dean says, louder. "A bona fide miracle."
Ducking his head, Bobby uses his hand and his hat to shield his face from Sam, making a good show of being overcome and gruffly trying to hide it. He comes up with a lame excuse and makes his escape
"I don't think I've ever seen Bobby like that," Sam says.
"He's not so comfortable with the sentimental shit, is he?" Dean suspects the moment Bobby can pry him loose from Sam, he's in for a major ass-chewing. So, it's worth it, if he can give Sammy two or three weeks of peace of mind.
Tangling his long fingers into the front of Dean's shirt, Sam pulls him into another hug. "Jesus, Dean." He laughs again, less shaky this time. When he pulls back, it looks like ten years have rolled off him. Seeing that makes Dean feel the same way. When he grins back, it's no longer an effort.
"What d'you say we check out of here and go get that damn wampus cat," Sam suggests.
"Well, here's the thing," Dean says. "When you were out getting the chili, Bobby offered -- this was before he knew my deal is null and void -- he offered to take over the hunt. I'm inclined to say yes. It's been a helluva few days, and I just want to --" Rest is what he's about to say, but that's not what he wants at all. "I want to travel."
That yanks a crazy laugh out of Sam, and Dean finds himself laughing too.
"No, I mean really travel. See stuff. Go where we want to, pick up every damn tourist brochure on the rack at the first gas station we come to, and see every single tourist trap. The fucking Spam Museum, and the House on the goddamn Rock. Look in the papers for the nearest hokey small-town festival, instead of flipping past any story that's not full of death. One month, Sammy. Just for ourselves, then we get back to into the hunt. Shit, we've both been through a meat grinder the past few weeks. It'll do us good, and then we'll do more good for other people when we're back."
The shine in Sam's eyes get brighter as Dean rattles on, convincing him that this is right, whatever the cost later on. When Sammy is back in the hunt, but Dean is not. Bobby will be there for him, no matter how pissed he is at Dean at the moment.
"One month," Dean repeats. "We've earned it, Sam. We've been at this for two and a half years, and the only break we've had is when one of us lands in the hospital. What d'you say?"
"You had me at 'the fucking Spam Museum.'"
They laugh like lunatics, with more hugs and back thumping.
Dean can't remember when he's felt this happy. The hellhounds might take him, but they can't have these weeks. These are his and Sammy's, and they're going to be pure and untainted.
He thumps Sam on the arm. "Let's get our shit packed up and in the car. We're on vacation time now."
The End
Author: nwhepcat
Fandom: Supernatural, gen;
Rating R
Spoilers: Set shortly after S3 "Mystery Spot," but spoilery for S4 "Heaven and Hell"
Summary: Even with the clock ticking toward death and hell, Dean insists on taking on a routine job. It's anything but routine when he finds something he's not meant to discover, and things get a great deal more complicated, while Sam tries very hard not to break.
Disclaimer: So not mine, and it is a sadness.
Warnings: Language, h/c, psychosis, extreme Sam angst
Previous parts are here.
The spaghetti claw clatters to the floor, flipping a clammy strand of pasta against Dean's leg.
"Dean. Jesus, what -- did they find something when you were in the hospital?"
"No, it's not --" He rakes a hand through his hair. "I guess it's not accurate to say I'm dying. It's not my health. I'm going to die, though, and I don't have that long."
Pulling up a chair close to him, she drops into it and takes his hand. "I don't understand."
"I'm not surprised. It's --" He lets out a breath. "It's pretty fucked-up, I guess." Both her hands are curved around his, but he can't give in to this comforting pressure, can't return it. She's going to let go. She always does. "I made this deal."
"Deal?"
"Sammy --" Breathe, Dean. "Sam died. Not quite a year ago. I'd already lost -- I guess you didn't know this, but Dad died a few months before that. I couldn't lose Sam too. I made a deal. My life for his."
She tightens her hands around his. "Dean, it doesn't work that way."
"It does when you're dealing with a crossroads demon," he snaps. "I didn't bargain with God, Cassie. I didn't say, 'I'll never curse or get drunk or look at porn again if you just give me Sammy back.' I sold my soul, and I got a year."
Watching her expression, Dean pulls his hands out of hers. Better to be the one to pull away first. A flash of fierce crosses her face, and she leans in to grab his hand again.
"How long do you have?"
"I'm not even sure," Dean says. "I lost time. It's weeks, I think."
"What happens then?" she asks.
He scratches at his neck with his free hand. "Hellhounds get a new chew toy."
Irritation flashes across her face. "Why do you always do this?"
"What, exactly, am I doing?"
"That thing where you're talking about something serious, and suddenly it's a big joke."
Again he pulls his hand away. "Well, that's how it's done in my world, Cassie. Something knocks you down, you rub a little dirt on the hurt places, get up and go on. Because people need you, and being emo about it isn't going to get you shit." Something tells him to let it drop there, but fuck it. He's been nursing this for a long damn time. "It's especially how it's done when you try it the other way and you get shot down in flames. I told you something serious a few years back, and you gave me the boot. You were the first woman I ever told who I really was, and you can be damn well sure you were the last."
"You know I thought --"
"I know what you thought. Well, it's easy believing in someone who tells you something believable, isn't it? Believing in someone who's telling you something that sounds crazy, but they're being as straightforward as they know how to be -- that's the definition of 'something serious,' sweetheart, and I thought we had that."
Her eyes glitter. "I hate it when you call me sweetheart. You use sweetheart for every waitress who brings you a piece of pie."
True enough. He'd called her that the night they first met, and when he was packing up his shit to leave, but not in between, not when he thought she was the one he'd love like Dad had loved his mom. "Yeah, well." Picking the cold piece of spaghetti off his jeans leg, he drops it onto the table, a silent, pointed reminder that at least a waitress can be counted on to bring him food when she promises it.
Any fucking time now, he thinks to his passenger. I don't know why you dragged me here in the first place.
Standing up and stepping away from the table, he announces, "I have to go." He realizes how that sounds. "Leave. I'm leaving." Just his fucking luck that this is when his passenger decides he's had it with the comings and goings, and leaves him standing there looking like a jackass. "Now."
You can't tell me the fucking Trickster isn't behind this. Because this is just a step below getting splatted by a desk.
"You're a little better dressed for it, but you still don't have any shoes," Cassie points out.
In response, he holds out his hand. "Let me borrow your phone again."
Before she can comply or argue, Glowerpuss Angel makes an abrupt appearance in the kitchen.
"I hate people who drop in at dinnertime," Dean says.
The stranger walks around Dean, making a full 360 as he sizes him up. Dean keeps his eyes on Castiel's, flexing his hands, waiting for the asshole to make a move.
By the time Cassie yelps, "Hey, what are you doing?" and Dean sees the flask, it's too late. Castiel has poured some kind of oil in a circle around Dean. Just as Cassie yanks on his sleeve, he turns and gently touches his fingertips to her forehead, and she slips to the floor as noiselessly as the blanket had fallen to Dean's feet.
"What the fuck did you do to her?" Dean makes a move for Castiel, but before he can cross the circle of oil, the bastard drops a match onto it. As a low flame springs up, Dean slams against some kind of invisible barrier.
Putting up a hand to push at the barrier, he finds it extends all the way around him, as if there's a glass wall circling him. "Great," he mutters. "It's not bad enough I'm a cartoon, now I'm a mime. This is the goddamn limit."
Then this Castiel starts to glow like he's going all Chernobyl, and Dean falls to his knees, burying his face in his hands.
***
Seriously? Dean thinks. His passenger who has the power to teleport finally wakes up, and this is what it comes up with? Kneeling?
Suddenly glass showers over him from the overhead light, the kitchen windows and the glass-fronted cabinets. It must be making a helluva noise, but it's swallowed by the sound of Castiel's voice.
Holy shit, he's never heard anything like it.
But he has.
It's complex and beautiful and terrifying, almost like music, but no kind of music he's ever heard.
Like home.
The voice calls a name he knows must be his, but it's not in any human language, because he is not human. He folds in on himself, low to the ground to signify his submission, palms pressed flat on the floor, heedless of the broken glass. He cries out for mercy
and that just pisses Dean off. He raises his head and feels his face go slack with terror. This thing has as much in common with the sweet and girly Christmas tree angels as Godzilla has with Michigan J. Frog.
If Godzilla were made of light and beautiful in an otherworldly way.
Fighting his passenger's attempt to compel him to grovel, Dean feels a thread of blood trickle from his nose. He nods toward the circle of flame. "Nice Johnny Cash impression. What else have you got?"
His passenger doesn't think much of that. He hurls Dean back into an impossibly small space, this time allowing him -- forcing him -- to witness his interview with the angel.
Bowing his head once more, he begs for forgiveness and mercy, knowing he will never be permitted to ask these of the Father he has offended.
"You know there is no forgiveness for what you have done," the other answers. "You placed your will above that of our Father. Was it worth it to walk among men for a handful of decades? Was it worth abandoning your post and your brethren? Turning your back on your garrison?"
"Begging your forgiveness, but it has been but a few days since I awakened. I woke when you touched me, and found myself in this body." Allowing himself a glimpse at the presence before him, he whispers, "Is this what I was?"
Grief and shame surge through him like flood waters, even before the affirmative answer.
"You do not remember?"
"I was torn from my home," he says, and the savage pain of that violation sears him along with the memory. "I was torn ... in two." Horror and desolation and then nothingness. "It was not my choice, but if --" Tears streak his face. "If you are here to kill me, I submit freely. It would be an act of mercy."
***
Forcing his voice past the cramped space he occupies, Dean struggles to raise his head to glare at the angel. "Whoa whoa whoa. No submitting! He is not speaking for me. I've got a few crappy weeks left, but I'm not letting anyone give them away." All that light and the enormous presence -- and holy fuck, wings! -- surge and coalesce until they're contained in the body Castiel was wearing before. And then he's just, to all appearances, a man.
Dean doesn't even notice the ring of fire has extinguished until Castiel leans in to loom over him, taking Dean's jaw in an iron grip, eying him with an intensely curious expression.
"Hey now, you're gonna leave a mark."
"You are not Anna," he says, as if there were something surprising in this.
"That seems kind of obvious, pal."
Frowning in puzzlement, Castiel adds, "And yet you are." He lifts two fingers as he did with Cassie, and as he extends them toward Dean, he tries to pull back, but is caught, paralyzed.
The width of Castiel's hand obstructs most of Dean's vision as his fingers alight on his forehead. A stab of fear accompanies the touch, but it's soon swept up in a storm of memories and feelings, including the time he'd lost before and after the meteor tree, the flash and roar that filled his head when he'd put a hand to the rough bark.
But that's not all.
Dean feels the weight of Sam in his arms, and it's simultaneously the compact weight of a baby, so heavy for a four-year-old to carry, and the dead weight of a young man who's breathed his last. He sees fire -- the one that took his house, the one where Jess died, his father's funeral pyre. He feels another weight, wholly unaccustomed, at his shoulder blades, the extension and flexion of enormous wings, the heft of a sword in his hand, battling things the likes of which he's never seen. He sees the death throes of every demon he's ever ganked.
He sees his own death -- one hundred and one of them, all playing in his head at once. Sees Sam's desperate grief at each and every one of them. He feels a wrenching pain more agonizing than all of these combined, something that tears at the fibers of his spirit and he falls into exile, into a cold, silent, dark place.
And then nothing.
And then Dean opens his eyes, reeling. Still kneeling, he finds himself staring right at Castiel, who is on his knees now too, looking as pole-axed as Dean feels.
"You are a true vessel," Castiel says, with something like wonder in his voice.
"I have no idea what that means." Dean's voice sounds rusty to him, as if he hasn't spoken in a week. "But if it means you won't kill me, yay." And then he slumps forward.
***
Castiel takes his shoulders and holds him upright. "I would not slay you," he says, and Dean gets the feeling that this is a new development.
And he so doubts that angel smiting would be an anvil he'd be accordioning up from.
He so does not feel good at that thought. Swaying, he puts a hand on the angel's arm to steady himself.
"This cannot continue," Castiel says. Intones, really. In fact, every damn thing he's said has been a flat pronouncement.
Belatedly, he drops the offending hand. "I'm not getting fresh here, I'm just a little woozy."
"You must relinquish this vessel, Anna. It does not belong to you."
"It? Thanks a helluva lot, pal." Though he thinks maybe he's referred to his passenger as it. "So this angel that's been possessing me is a chick? Is she hot?" Shit, had he said that out loud?
Castiel fixes Dean with a look that says, Stop interrupting; the grown-ups are talking. But he answers, just as you might a four-year-old tugging at your pants leg. "Angels do not have genders as humans do. And it is not precisely Anna who has usurped your body, but the --" a flicker of a frown crosses his face -- "the closest I can come in your language is to call it Anna's grace. It's this Anna tore away in order to renounce Heaven and fall to earth."
"You do this a lot? Hijack a body for a little slumming with the locals?"
"Falling and walking among humans are two entirely different acts. Both, fortunately, are rare," Castiel says pointedly.
"So you, that body, that belongs to some poor bastard who's stuffed in his own box?"
"He consented to this. He prayed to be of service to the Lord, and when he was needed, he was asked for his assistance."
"Maybe you think you asked," Dean snaps, "but I can tell you, no one asked me squat."
"What happened to you was an accident," Castiel insists. "Anna's grace recognized a viable vessel, and its longing to rejoin its kin overwhelmed its judgment. The seizure and coma, these occurred because of the violence of your joining."
"You make it sound like rough sex," Dean says, which earns him a scowl. "So what's this grace? Am I like the walking angel brainstem, while somebody else got Anna's memories and the undoubtedly charming personalityf?"
"Without the grace, Anna would have no memories. These are veiled from the human Anna has become, just as Anna's human form is veiled from us."
"This is giving me a headache," Dean says.
"No doubt," Castiel says. "This is a consequence of Anna's grace inhabiting a vessel that is stolen, however inadvertently."
Dean considers telling Castiel not to be so damn literal, that the headache is figurative, but decides it's not worth the effort.
"This is only the beginning," Castiel goes on. "Vessels are not interchangeable. If Anna's grace remains within you, you will shatter and die."
***
Dean levels a look at Castiel. "Shatter? Like explode? Time things right, and I can take some hellhounds with me."
The forehead rumples in that your human ways are strange to me way that he keeps trotting out. "Why do you make light of such matters?"
"Because I've watched too much damn TV since I was a kid. It's what the hero does." Even though it's a joke, calling himself a hero makes Dean feel like a big fraud. "Because it's not going to change a damn thing if I go all glowerpuss. Not that it doesn't look good on you."
Castiel sticks with the puzzled, though. "Why did you consign yourself to hell for all eternity?"
Sincerity launches a sneak attack, and Dean finds himself saying, "Because Sammy's my brother. I couldn't face him being gone."
"Yet you have ensured that he will suffer the same fate."
"I know. I honestly thought he could handle it better." He'd seemed fine enough with going off to Stanford, cutting off all contact. Dean had thought he wasn't that necessary to Sam. The highlights reel that just ran though his head proves he'd been wrong. None of the deaths Sammy had witnessed -- and he wasn't spared a single one of them -- had seemed less than real to him because it was just another click in the Trickster's slide show of stupid death tricks.
"I'm sorry about that, I am," Dean admits. "If I'd known then what I know now --" The claim that he'd do things differently gets stuck sideways in his throat. Even knowing what he knows, he can't say in all honesty that he'd let Sam die. He's too selfish for that. "The angels who fall. Like Anna." He doesn't even know what he means to ask.
"We grieve for them, yes. I spent many thousands of years fighting by Anna's side."
"Yet you came here to kill her. Him. It."
"I have my Father's orders."
"Yeah. Me too. But if push comes to shove, I know I can't. I made a promise to my dad, but I'm gonna break it."
And it's gonna break me.
Something in Castiel's steady gaze changes. Though Dean can't say what it is, for the first time he doesn't feel like something that's pinned on a dissection board for study. It's not sympathy. Recognition, maybe. Dean suspects that for an angel that's something akin to an emotional breakthrough.
"What are you going to do about Anna's grace?" he asks.
"I must go for guidance. It must be removed from you without harming you, but beyond that, I do not know."
"Yeah, well," Dean begins, but by the time he gets to "hurry up" he's speaking to the air.
***
When the angel's gone, Dean sways on his knees and reaches for a table leg to steady himself. "Cassie?" He looks around for her, his head swimming, relieved to see a subtle movement from her sprawled form. She's in a slanting rectangle of light from the next room, her hair glittering. "Cassie, are you okay?"
Shuffling to her on his knees, he reaches her just as she starts to stir.
"Yeah, I --"
"Careful. There's glass everywhere. There's a lot in your hair."
She starts to reach a hand toward her head, but he intercepts her hand.
"You'll cut yourself. Keep your head down and your eyes closed."
"What broke?" she asks from behind the curtain of hair.
"Just about every piece of glass in the room. Are you all right?"
"Yes, but I want to get up. It's freezing."
"Don't move. Not yet. Tell me where I can find a broom and a comb." Following her directions, he comes up with both and a floor lamp from the living room, and starts to sweep the fragments off the floor. Dean dampens a dish towel and wipes off a chair seat, then hands her a clean towel. "Okay, cover your face with this and keep your eyes closed." Backing off, he turns away and tells her to shake her head. He makes another pass with the broom, then takes her hand and helps her up, settling her into a kitchen chair. Gingerly he pulls her hair back from her forehead, mindful of the glass bits sparkling like water droplets, and she lowers the towel from her face.
He always loved Cassie's hair. The weight of it, the smell of the coconut oil she used to condition it. The rippled curtain it made around his face as she straddled him and bent forward for a kiss. Stop that. It's ancient history now. Seating himself behind her, Dean takes the comb to a section of her hair, working his way upward, combing out the glass.
"What happened while I was out?" she asks. "What broke all the glass?"
"It's not that much more believable than 'My dad and me, we hunt werewolves and shit.'" He'd tried for joking, but it hit a little too close to the bone. "Our angel friend forgot to use his indoor voice."
"Dean --"
"No, don't. It's okay. Water under the bridge."
"It's not. I really hurt you, and I'm trying --"
"Try not to piss off the guy with the comb," Dean snaps. He used to say practically the same thing to Sammy about scissors, back when Dean was his barber. It's such a weird mixture of memories, sexy Cassie and cranky Sammy, who always hated having his hair cut. It makes Dean's chest ache. He slides his left hand farther up the section of hair he's working on, holding it as he combs so he won't tug at her scalp. "This could hurt a whole lot worse than it is."
"You're very good at this."
"I used to cut Sam's hair." He flicks a larger piece of glass off a curl with the comb, but still gets a sliver when he slips his hand higher up. "Though considering how he wears it down to his ass, I must've traumatized him."
"Did you fight?"
"Yeah, sometimes. But he was small enough then that I could sit on him."
"Not Sam," she says as if Dean's dense or something. "The ... angel."
"No. He just left. I think he's coming back, so don't let it throw you."
She jerks away from his reach, looking back over her shoulder at him. "And your only weapon is a comb? Are you crazy?"
"If he wanted me dead, I'd be dead. And your hair is still full of glass. You'll get that shit in your eyes, if you're not careful." Taking her shoulder and drawing her back toward him to resume combing her hair, he's struck by the intimacy of this, in a way more striking than anything they shared in the short time they were a couple. "Turn back around."
It's slow going, but Dean works with the same patience he'd use if he were sewing up a gash on Sam's cheek. Cassie asks for stories about where he and Sam have been in the last two years, what they've been doing.
He has no heart for it. If she'd given a shit, she would have used the damn phone number and asked once in a while.
"The usual," he says, his tone slamming the door on any further questioning. "How about you, what brought you to Philly?"
Continuing his work, he listens for the sound of her voice, but not the content. He's not halfway through his task when Castiel reappears, making them both jump.
"You must come with me," Castiel says.
"I can't leave Cassie with all this glass in her hair. She --"
The angel flicks a hand in her direction. Her hair blows back slightly in a non-existant wind, looking for all the world like a girl in a soft-core porn mag or fashion ad (same thing, really). When the movement subsides, there are no more pulverized bits of glass on her or the floor, and no more cold air pushing through the blank window by the sink.
"There is no time to lose," Castiel intones.
And then Dean's standing in the cold night air, the skeleton of an oak looming over him.
***
"Dean!" Sam shouts.
Turning toward the sound of his voice, Dean reels at the sudden movement. He reaches out a hand to steady himself against the tree, but Sam yells, "No!" and Castiel intercepts it, steadying him with an iron grip.
"You want to get your hands off that boy right now," Bobby growls, and the absurd thought sails through Dean's head that he probably has a slightly different vocal tone depending on the weapon he's holding, and if Dean spent any amount of time with Bobby he'd be able to --
Don't go losing your shit now, he tells himself sternly.
"Bobby, stand down," Dean says. "He brought me here to help."
"Now why do I have a hard time believing that," Bobby says.
It's not a question, but Dean answers anyway. "Well, probably because he's all wrath-of-God looking, even when he's not in smite mode."
Castiel offers a free sample. "This does not concern you," he tells Bobby and Sam.
"It sure as hell does," Sam says. "He's my brother."
"And he is mine, to put it in a way that you might understand," Castiel says, and the idea of this angel treating Stanford honor-roll Sam like he's a remedial almost makes Dean laugh.
"Look," Dean says, "I picked up a hitchhiker by accident. I can't carry it around much longer, and Castiel's going to get it out."
"So it is an angel," Bobby says.
"It's part of an angel," Dean clarifies. "The shiny parts."
"Fine, so get it out," Sam says. "But I'm staying."
"No," Castiel says. "Humans cannot gaze upon my true form. To do so would burn your eyes from your head."
"But --" Dean says.
"You are a vessel," Castiel tells him. "You were protected by Anna's grace."
He thinks of Cassie and shivers, grateful that she was sprawled unconscious on the floor. "Take the Impala," he tells Sam and Bobby. "Go cruise the main drag in Union or something. I don't want her windows busted out."
"Dean --"
"I'll be safe, Sammy. These guys want me alive."
Sam puts on the bitch-face, but he and Bobby do as Dean asked. As the Impala rumbles down the quiet rural road, Dean looks at Castiel. "So one of these days I'm going to get hijacked by my real passenger? Walk around like you, all wrathy and smitey and inhuman?"
"That knowledge is held by my Father alone. But we have not walked among humans for two thousand years. Once my mission has been completed, this vessel will be released."
"Catch and release? Or do you mean flopping on the deck of the boat released?"
"He will return to his life, just as you will." All three weeks or whatever he has left.
"And Anna's grace?"
"It will be received with joy by its brethren."
"But what about your orders?"
Castiel holds his gaze, but the intensity this time isn't creepy. "They pertain only to Anna's will, that which instigated this rebellion."
Dean lets out a breath. "All right then. Let's do this. Let's get your lost lamb home."
***
Producing a small bowl of some kind of oil, Castiel dips a finger in it and draws a sigil on Dean's forehead.
Nose wrinkling, he blinks furiously. "Dude. This has some serious funk. It smells like hour four of a Phish concert." The fact that he even knows what that's like shows there is such a thing as going too far to get laid, and Dean has been there. Once.
Castiel pauses, his finger resting in the small pool of oil. "Do you make light of everything?"
"Only the important stuff."
Castiel regards him for a long moment, and Dean wishes fiercely that he had some kind of read on angelic expressions.
"Open your shirt."
It takes an enormous effort of will not to make a joke about that, but Dean manages to keep the wisecracks at bay.
The angel paints another sigil on Dean's chest, leaving behind a sensation of faint warmth along its lines. "When I tell you to close your eyes, you must do so without delay."
Dean nods.
Castiel begins speaking in some language Dean's never heard. Slow, rough-sounding syllables that sound less like chanting than like the sound of slogging through a muddy field with the gunk sucking at your shoes with every step. For the next round, Castiel puts a palm against each of the sigils he's drawn, repeating the syllables.
Heat builds within Dean's forehead and chest. Light pours from Castiel's hands into Dean -- or maybe it's pouring from Dean into Castiel's hands. The radiance envelops them both, and he sees Castiel's wings unfurling. There's a hum in the air that he's never heard before, that has always been there, and it's like the song/not song that he heard in Cassie's kitchen, multiplied by thousands. Terror and joy shudder through him, and he sways against Castiel's hands. Some kind of energy surges into him, holding up upright, and it loops through him and returns to Castiel.
Castiel's in full angel mode now, sound and fury and music and light. The presence within Dean moves toward him, hesistant as a shy child at first, then rushing forward to greet its kindred and be welcomed home.
"Close your eyes," Castiel says, in English and in angel at the same time, and Dean complies.
The heat and light and sound he's been bathed in become suddenly too much, forcing Dean to sag back from Castiel's touch and hide his face in the crook of his arm.
And now the sound of Castiel's voice is nothing but screech and hiss and pain, the sound of tectonic plates heaving and grating against each other.
So long, and thanks for all the fish, Dean imagines Castiel saying, just before he blacks out.
***
When Dean comes to, he's a lot warmer than he'd expected to be. It's dark again, and the angel noise has toned it down to a throaty roar. There's an odd feeling of motion too, like he can suddenly feel the movement of the earth.
"Whoa. That was a hell of a thing," he says to the starless sky.
And then he's nearly pitched off the ground, which -- he belatedly realizes -- is not the ground. There's the screech of tires and fishtailing, and Sam yelping "Dean!"
Fuck, did I just teleport myself here? He prods the corners of his mind, but doesn't feel another presence there, or any sense of confinement.
"Dean, did you just do that?" Sam asks.
"I don't think so. I think maybe it was Castiel."
"Your hitchhiker," Bobby says. "Is it --"
"Gone. I guess Castiel took it home." He thinks about sitting up, but realizes he likes lying on the back seat just fine. The Impala's rumble vibrates through his muscles. Best Magic Fingers in the world. Dean pats the upholstery. Sorry I didn't recognize you at first, baby.
Switching on the dome light, Sam peers at him. "Are you all right?"
"Tired. Call Cassie, will you? Tell her I'm okay."
And he lets his baby lull him to sleep.
***
Dean surfaces a few times, finding himself in a room that's a helluva lot nicer than the motel room he remembers. Every damn time he finds Sam watching him. Sometimes he's quietly conversing with Bobby, sometimes he's by himself.
"Dude," Dean finally says. "Get some fucking sleep. You look like crap on a stick."
Of course Sam ignores that. "Do you want anything? Coffee? Something from room service?"
Letting his eyes drift closed, he mutters. "'Nother few minutes."
"Dean. You're sleeping your life away."
Is he? He shifts, sits up. "How long since I had my angelectomy?"
"About eighteen hours."
Doesn't seem all that excessive, considering he's been hopscotching all over the country, freeballing and barefooting it in the dead of winter. "Bobby still around?"
"Yeah. He's getting in some rack time. You want him? He said to wake him up anytime."
"Naw, let him -- well, actually yeah. Maybe he'd sit here with me while you go grab me something to eat. Of all the damnedest things, I'm suddenly craving some of that crazy chili. With the cinnamon."
"I thought you thought it was the most disgusting thing in the known world."
Well, uh, yeah. He'd figure out what he'd do with the shit once Sammy brought it back. Dean shrugs. "Cravings. Who knows why."
Sam eyes him for a long moment, then finally nods. "Sure. I'll get Bobby. How do you want it? One-way, five-way, something in between?"
"Huh? Oh. The chili. Call me when you get there."
Lingering just long enough to make Dean feel like there's something he's leaving unsaid, Sam finally nods and leaves the room. Bobby's at his door quick enough that it's clear he's been sleeping in his clothes.
"Decided to join the waking world, huh?" Bobby says. "How are you feeling?"
"We can get to that later. There's something I need to know, Bobby, and I need you to tell me the truth." Dean lets that hang there until he gets a minute nod in response. "I need you to tell me how Sammy's doing."
***
Bobby sits on the edge of the bed Sam just vacated. "Dean, now's not the time to be worrying about anyone else."
"Bullshit, Bobby. Now's just about all the time I've got. Nothing's going to change what happens to me, but Sam's still going to be here. How is he holding up?"
"Not good," Bobby admits.
"We went through some shit down in Florida. Ran into that Trickster we thought we killed."
"Sam told me about that," Bobby says.
"It fucked him up, Bobby. I didn't realize how much, but I do now. Castiel ... he showed me every damn death, and every reaction. He's gonna do something stupid or crazy or both."
"Like you did?"
Dean rubs at his jaw, still tender in spots from Castiel's iron grip. "Yeah, well. Guess that makes me the perfect poster boy for Stop the Madness. It's just -- how much are we dealing with?"
"When I first got here, you were still in the coma. I won't lie, that boy was at the end of his rope, and then some. I was worried as hell. And yeah, I still am."
"Me too, Bobby. You know how goddamn single-minded he can be at the best of times. I'll do what I can to keep him reined in, but when I'm dead --" The word seems to jam sideways in his throat, scraping his insides raw as it emerges. "When I'm gone, keep an eye on him."
"I'll do my best. You know that."
Yeah. He also knows -- they both know -- that Sam might make it damn hard for him.
"Thanks. And thanks for coming out here for Sammy while all this was going on."
"I came for you too, chucklehead."
Unexpectedly, it's the insult that hits Dean hard, sending him straight into chick-flick mode. Throat tightening, he looks away from Bobby, his burning eyes settling on the blank TV screen. "You've been --" Dean's throat closes, and he knows if he forces one more word, he'll break.
In two strides, Bobby is on him, yanking him off the bed and into a bone-crunching hug. "Goddammit, son. Goddammit."
"Yeah, Bobby. I goddammit you, too."
With that, Bobby snorts a laugh and releases Dean.
Dean drags his sleeve across his eyes. "We'd better cut the emo crap before Sam gets back. Hell, you should get back to sleep. We'll all have breakfast before we blow town."
"Look, I'll stick around and deal with the wampus cat," Bobby says. "You boys do whatever you need to."
"We'll sort that out in the morning." Dean's cellphone, which Sam has fished out of his clothes and set on the nightstand sometime in the 18 hours that Dean was out, shrills Sam's ringtone.
Great. Now I get to decide if I want to eat nasty shit plain or with onions, cheese and shit crackers.
Bobby gives Dean's shoulder a manly squeeze and takes his leave while Dean flips open his phone.
"Yeah, Sammy."
***
Sam's not alone when he comes back with the Skyline. There's an older black guy with him wrapped in a nice looking coat, not the cheap imitation grownup clothes he and Sam wear on a job. Too well dressed to be a cop.
Dean hopes like hell it's not another angel.
"Dean, hey. Do you remember Dr. Moultrie?"
"Can't say I do."
"He was just coming by to check on you when I ran into him," Sam says.
Getting to his feet, Dean says, "Seriously? You make hotel calls?"
The doctor smiles, offering his hand. "You're a hard man to keep in one spot."
"You have no idea," Sam says fervently.
"I hate to keep a man from his chili," Dr. Moultrie says, "but I'd really like to do a quick exam." He gestures to the bed Dean's been occupying. "Have a seat."
"Here?"
Moultrie's smile quirks up into a grin. "Like there's the slightest chance you'll walk across the street for an appointment?" Without waiting for Dean to comply, he pulls the room's desk chair over to face the bed.
There's something about the guy's manner that Dean likes, but he flicks a look over to Sam, who nods.
"You can trust him, Dean." The fact that Sam says this at all indicates a level of trust that's extremely rare for outsiders. What Dean can't figure out is whether Dr. Moultrie knows some things, or everything.
Settling on the edge of the bed, Dean directs another look at Sam. This guy can't be a hunter's doctor, not with the pricey coat he's shucking out of and folding onto the other bed. The clothes beneath are just as expensive.
"Dr. Moultrie's actually the chief of neurology at the hospital," Sam informs him. "He took your case after they moved you out of the ER."
The doctor shines a small flashlight beam into Dean's eyes, then flicks it away. "Your brother mentioned the possibiity that this episode might've been caused by something you encountered on the job."
Deer, meet headlights. Well, flashlight. "Uhh..."
"Possibly a toxic substance from crawling around in ductwork," Sam hastily adds. "I was thinking about that old factory a month or so back."
"Huh," Dean says. "Could be. That place was a wreck."
"I'd like to do some bloodwork, if you'd consent to going back to the hospital."
"Aw, no," Dean blurts. "I hate bloodwork."
"We're self-employed, doctor," Sam says smoothly. "We're already backed up on our schedule. And to tell you the truth, we'd rather spend the money on improving our protective gear." There's something about this doctor that seems to smooth Sam's jagged edges, even if just slightly. Considering Sam's recent state of mind, it's pretty remarkable.
"Well, I'd be in favor of that," Moultrie says. "But I'd still recommend finding out what it was that affected you. I don't want to be an alarmist, but you could have another episode, or other effects."
"I appreciate that, doc," Dean says. "But the jobs are stalled and the bills aren't."
"I understand." He moves on with the exam, checking Dean's reflexes, asking him questions, some of which Sam answers with a smooth lie before Dean has a chance to stumble over a response.
This doctor's a smart one -- Dean can see him registering every time Sam leaps in to answer a question. He knows something doesn't add up, Dean's sure of it. Turning Dean's head, he eyes the cluster of bruises on his jawline. The scrutiny reminds him of Castiel's, which of course is where he got the marks in the first place.
"Do you remember where these bruises came from?"
"Nope," he says.
After regarding him for a long moment, Dr. Moultrie settles back in his chair. "As far as I can tell from this level of examination, you seem to have bounced back from this." He turns toward Sam. "You're the expert, though, Sam. I never met him before the coma and psychotic reaction. Does your brother seem like himself?"
***
Sam regards him for a long moment as Dr. Moultrie waits for an answer and Dean's stomach begins to knot.
"Well, he hasn't made nearly enough inappropriate remarks or crass jokes," Sam finally says, "but I'm chalking it down to what he's gone through."
"Oh, very fucking funny," Dean says. He shares an eyeroll with the doctor. "Baby brothers."
Dr. Moultrie laughs. "Then I'm going to say whatever this is, it's passed. I'll write an official discharge, and you can get to your next job."
"No additional tests?" Sam asks, prompting Dean to shoot him a dark look.
Offering a shrug, Moultrie says, "They all came out normal the first time around, apart from some unusual brain activity during the coma. But if you'd like--"
"Thanks, but no thanks," Dean says hastily.
"If you notice any after-effects or problems, make an appointment." Producing a card from his pocket, he hands it to Dean. "Rose is my scheduler. Just tell her I said to put you on the fast track, and she'll get you in as soon as she can."
"Thanks, doc," Dean says, and this time it's sincere.
Getting to his feet, Dr. Moultrie reaches for his coat. "It's been one of the most intriguing cases I've ever seen. I don't have any anwers, but I'm pleased with the outcome." He offers Dean his hand, then shakes Sam's in turn. "Take care, and be a little more cautious on the job, will you?"
"You bet," Dean says. When Dr. Moultrie's gone, he says, "Decent guy for a doctor."
"Yeah, I like him. You and Bobby get things settled?"
Frowning, Dean says, "What things?"
A shrug. "Whatever it was that you wanted to say badly enough that you sent me running out for cinnamon chili instead of calling room service or sending me downstairs."
Dean scratches at his neck. "Oh yeah. I keep forgetting that you're not stupid."
"Hilarious."
"I am starving, so hand it over." Starting to open the paper bag Sam hands him, he changes his mind and sets it on the nightstand. He looks up at Sam, who has a Was I right? smirk on his face. "I did want to talk to Bobby. About you."
The smirk takes a southward turn. "Me?"
"This has been rough on you."
"Look, you're the one who's had it the worst," Sam says. "I lost some sleep and did some worrying, but I didn't have an angel riding me. Like you said, you're starving. Let me pitch that shit out and we'll call room service." Starting toward the hotel phone, he halts as Dean throws up a hand.
"Sammy. That's not what I'm talking about." Pointing toward the chair Dr. Moultrie had pulled up to the bed, he says, "Sit."
Instead Sam settles himself on the other bed, putting a couple more feet of distance between them.
"Look, I know I've been blowing off the whole Trickster thing, making jokes, saying insensitive shit."
The corner of Sam's mouth quirks up. "When you put it that way, it sounds just like you being you."
"Well, it is, you know. It's wisecrack like an asshole, or shut down and never talk at all. You were too young to remember now, but I did that for a while after ... after Mom." Sam takes a breath to speak, but Dean gestures for him to hold up. "That whole Trickster thing was more like some crazy story than something that happened to me -- to us. It was easy to make jokes. But all those memories got unlocked at the end of all this. I saw every single float on the shit parade of death."
Sam looks up, stricken. "Dean --"
"It wasn't that bad, Sam. It didn't traumatize me. But I got to see how you reacted, every single time. It hadn't occurred to me to think what it would be like on your end. Man, a hundred times watching me die -- if it was me in your place -- I don't know how you're still walking around. You're one tough sonofabitch, and I mean that in the nicest possible way."
This, at least, teases a small smile from Sam. "I'm flattered." Sobering, he adds, "That's what you saw, the hundred Tuesdays?"
"Yeah. That and some some other memories, ones that weren't lost. I guess Castiel was giving me the full angel brain scan -- that's when he said I'm a vessel."
"Vessel?"
"Yeah, a potential meatsuit for an angel. That's why the tree put the whammy on me, but no one else. But that's not the angel I was made for. I guess vessels are custom-tailored to one particular angel." An idea blooms in his head, so clear and unexpected that it makes him draw in a breath.
"Dean?"
He rubs his forehead. "I thought I'd told you all this. I guess I dreamed it."
"Yeah, you must have, because it's news to me."
"Did I tell you the other part? About my deal?"
His brows crowding together, Sam says, "No, what about your deal?"
***
"Wait," Sam says before Dean can answer. "Are you talking about something new? A deal with this angel? Did you agree to be possessed again?" His voice rises on a note of tension, and Dean hurries to reassure him.
"No. He said -- I think -- that they have to get consent from a vessel. And he said it's been 2000 years since the last time Michael Landon came and slummed with us human types. Me getting possessed, that was an accident."
"So, what deal -- that deal? The crossroads demon?"
"Yeah." Dean hesitates. Once he steps off this cliff, there's no going back. It's wrong and he knows it, but goddammit, he can't watch Sammy suffer like this for the time he's got left. He'll take fake happiness over true torment. For Sammy. He hopes Sam will forgive him once it all falls apart. "Castiel told me this whole temporary vessel thing changes everything. Hell can't take me now."
Sam's jaw drops, his breath whooshing out. "Dean? For real?"
Clap for Tinker Bell, baby. Keep this bullshit alive. "Hell, Sammy, would an angel lie to me?"''
The corners of Sam's mouth twitch as if he's afraid to smile, or has forgotten how. "Dean, that's -- god, I don't know --" He launches himself up and bounds toward Dean, hauling him up just as Bobby had done and pulling him into a crushing hug. "Dean, that's fucking fantastic."
"I know, right?" A laugh bubbles out of him, half hysterical at the fucking audacity of this.
Sammy's answering laugh is just as shaky. "Idon'tbelieveitIdon'tbelieveit!" He howls like a drunken hockey fan, lifting Dean in the air. "Fuck, yeah!"
By the time he's back on his feet, Dean has rearranged his face, managing to approximate the lunatic joy he sees on Sam's. "Shit, yes!"
"You're totally off the hook?"
"Off the hook, contract ripped into confetti. I'm golden, Sammy."
Then Sam is laughing and crying at the same time like a big damn girl. Before Dean can point this out, he feels moisture tracking down his own face, and he laughs too, strangely giddy. This is why he sold his soul, for this Sam, whom he thought he'd destroyed by making the deal.
Letting go of his fistfuls of Dean's shirt, Sam raises both arms in the air and whoops, and Dean sets up a wolfpack harmony. In about thirty seconds there's a thump at the door which is too terrifying to be mere hotel security.
"Yeah, Bobby," Dean says, swinging the door open.
"What the holy hell is going on in here?" he hollers. Wearing his hat and a terry robe that no doubt has a gun in the pocket, he levels the glower of doom at them.
"Dean just told me," Sam says.
"Told you what?" Bobby aims an I better be wrong about this glare in Dean's direction.
"He doesn't know yet," Dean says to Sam. "I was waiting to tell you first." Wetting his lips, he goes on. "I'm clear, Bobby. The hellhounds can't get me now. Because I had an angel riding around in here."
Please just go with it, he silently pleads. It's hard to do without the face too, but Sammy's watching them both closely.
"Damn, son," he says after a stunned pause.
"That's pretty much how Sam was, too. Speechless."
"That's damn good news." Bobby pulls Dean toward him, fingers like iron against the back of his neck as he hauls Dean close. "You stupid sonofabitch," he whispers into Dean's ear, "I oughta beat the snot out of you."
"You said it, Bobby," Dean says, louder. "A bona fide miracle."
Ducking his head, Bobby uses his hand and his hat to shield his face from Sam, making a good show of being overcome and gruffly trying to hide it. He comes up with a lame excuse and makes his escape
"I don't think I've ever seen Bobby like that," Sam says.
"He's not so comfortable with the sentimental shit, is he?" Dean suspects the moment Bobby can pry him loose from Sam, he's in for a major ass-chewing. So, it's worth it, if he can give Sammy two or three weeks of peace of mind.
Tangling his long fingers into the front of Dean's shirt, Sam pulls him into another hug. "Jesus, Dean." He laughs again, less shaky this time. When he pulls back, it looks like ten years have rolled off him. Seeing that makes Dean feel the same way. When he grins back, it's no longer an effort.
"What d'you say we check out of here and go get that damn wampus cat," Sam suggests.
"Well, here's the thing," Dean says. "When you were out getting the chili, Bobby offered -- this was before he knew my deal is null and void -- he offered to take over the hunt. I'm inclined to say yes. It's been a helluva few days, and I just want to --" Rest is what he's about to say, but that's not what he wants at all. "I want to travel."
That yanks a crazy laugh out of Sam, and Dean finds himself laughing too.
"No, I mean really travel. See stuff. Go where we want to, pick up every damn tourist brochure on the rack at the first gas station we come to, and see every single tourist trap. The fucking Spam Museum, and the House on the goddamn Rock. Look in the papers for the nearest hokey small-town festival, instead of flipping past any story that's not full of death. One month, Sammy. Just for ourselves, then we get back to into the hunt. Shit, we've both been through a meat grinder the past few weeks. It'll do us good, and then we'll do more good for other people when we're back."
The shine in Sam's eyes get brighter as Dean rattles on, convincing him that this is right, whatever the cost later on. When Sammy is back in the hunt, but Dean is not. Bobby will be there for him, no matter how pissed he is at Dean at the moment.
"One month," Dean repeats. "We've earned it, Sam. We've been at this for two and a half years, and the only break we've had is when one of us lands in the hospital. What d'you say?"
"You had me at 'the fucking Spam Museum.'"
They laugh like lunatics, with more hugs and back thumping.
Dean can't remember when he's felt this happy. The hellhounds might take him, but they can't have these weeks. These are his and Sammy's, and they're going to be pure and untainted.
He thumps Sam on the arm. "Let's get our shit packed up and in the car. We're on vacation time now."
The End
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Date: 2010-03-10 01:38 pm (UTC)Thanks for the read!
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Date: 2010-03-13 02:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-03-10 10:30 pm (UTC)This was an awesome story, well captured characters and an interesting twist on Anna's grace. Loved it.
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Date: 2010-03-13 02:35 pm (UTC)Oh, I love Bobby and their relationship with him.
I'm glad you enjoyed this; I bought a photo of a tree in the middle of a field during the local art walk, and this whole story sprang up in my head, kinda like the meteor tree. It's my first SPN longfic that's not a crossover -- the training wheels are OFF!
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Date: 2010-03-10 10:33 pm (UTC)The end, though. Oh my god, the end was intense and just so damn sad.
Wonderful job!
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Date: 2010-03-13 02:37 pm (UTC)Poor Dean. He will never not sacrifice himself for Sammy, it seems.
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Date: 2010-03-14 03:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-03-21 12:34 pm (UTC)