To the day we burned maps [2/3]
2. and singing bones
“You fucker, you didn’t say a single thing!”
“Sorry for the wait,” Castiel says, but doesn’t pretend to be any more apologetic than she tries to sound. You’d think the dead croats had hardened Dean enough against the pain of absence, she thinks, the croats and the people who have died under his watch. They’ve lost enough people over the years.
(She cannot remember the last time they saw Sam.)
The Fearless Leader of Camp Chitauqua drops his arms, the act of an embrace aborted, and sits down heavily on his bed. The springs under the mattress squeak in pain, rust and age eating away at the metal. “Could’ve given me a heads up earlier, you know,” he mutters. “When you told me to leave you to die.”
“I never said that. I said the body would not survive.” Cas twirls a strand of hair around her finger, but it slips out of her grip. She keeps to the door; wonders if she should approach him and sit, or rest a hand on his shoulder. But Dean always speaks of personal space, and it would be stranger still with Castiel now in a new vessel. She is no longer sure of the protocol of behavior; she has never worn a young girl before. “I didn’t realize it would take so long, or if I could make it in the first place. She agreed-she was alone, and she just wanted to bury her father first. And... I am slower to travel, these days.”
Dean lifts his head again to look at her-a smear of ash tracks across his forehead, blending in with the sweat and oils of his skin.
If only it were truly Ash Wednesday.
“It’s already been three days,” he says, his eyes shuttered and red. He’s been drinking again. “What am I gonna tell everyone? ‘Hey, this is actually Cas-yeah, you know, the guy who just died, and I let it happen. He looks like a girl now, but remember Cas can still take you down in a fight?’ Why didn’t you say anything to me?”
Castiel levels her gaze at his face till Dean glanced away, uncomfortable under her newly alien scrutiny. “Just in case I failed,” she murmurs. “I didn’t want you to hope, and to destroy your hope.”
“Cas, you’re a total bastard, you know that?” Dean laughs, a short bark that strangles and dies in his throat, and the derision in the sound strikes Castiel harder than any blow.
“I try to please.”
*
Faint clattering from the hallway, barely audible, but Sam blinked awake and his brain kicked into gear. Next to him, Jess still breathed on in slumber, so he sat up as quietly as he could. No need to wake her, and no need to let the intruder know he’d heard
His phone started vibrating in the middle of lecture, but the professor was a sworn enemy of cell phones and would’ve swooped down like a vulture eager for confiscation. Half an hour later, Sam slung his bag onto his shoulder and flipped open his phone in the hallway, and stared at the screen. A missed call from -- he pressed the button, held the phone to his ear so tightly that his earlobes were mashed against his head. “Why you calling now?” he muttered, but the only answer that greeted him was voicemail: “Hey. This is Dean. Call me later.”
Jess opened the door. “Brady!” she exclaimed, and he grinned sheepishly at
i need a DRINK DAMN IT. and some goddamn aspirin. WHERE IS MY FUCKING BEGINNING FUCKITY FUCK I CAN’T SLEEP
WHAT IS THIS SHIT
MY HEADACHE
FUCK
[Microsoft Word, restore from saved draft 22 October 2005, Chuck Shurley]
*
“Fifteen minutes. Fifteen. I was going to fossilize right here.”
Jess shrugged; snapped the elastic band of her lab goggles with a twang before she settled them on her forehead, twin plastic discs blindly staring upward. Early morning lab work was rarely rejuvenating, and today was no exception, not even with Sam’s teethy wake-up call. This was the first day their waking order had been reversed; she hoped he’d made it to work in time. “Says you. I’ll bet you got here five minutes ago. You still smell like the fertilizer they’re pushing up outside.”
And felt a bit sorry as the words left her mouth. Her old labmate was doing her the favor, after all. But Brady was-had become-the kind of guy who could get a rise of sarcasm out of anyone, sleep-deprived Jess in that category.
Brady resembled a dog when he bristled, she thought. A little show of teeth, more rigidity in his neck and shoulders. And yet uncanny timing. Coffee when she needed it, from the resident coffee dealer. The luxury of money, he had it in spades, and a sleeping schedule which guaranteed he was awake whenever anyone called.
“Fucker. Who else is going to give you your morning drug?”
… she really didn’t get Brady, sometimes. “Hello? Boyfriend?” Jess wagged a finger at him.
“Yeah, but Sam would come with that goddamn swill from Starbucks. I’m beginning to have second thoughts about-”
Jess snagged the bag of ground coffee beans. “Thanks, Brady Bunch,” she chirped, barreling past Brady’s half-hearted scowl. She teased the top open and sniffed-the smell went straight to her brain, the caffeine jolt and the sharp bitter twist. It certainly made up for the smell of rotting eggs which had been coming from the dumpster next to their apartment for the past week or so. Must’ve been a really disgusting cooking experiment. Jess suspected it was Sam’s work. “Why are you up so early?”
“Distracting you with my sheer brilliance to sabotage your experiments. You’ll think so much about getting your caffeine and hanging out with me you’ll forget to check on your cultures.”
“You’re a terrible spy. You should’ve stayed on so for closer proximity.”
Brady waggled his eyebrows. “I have better ways, Miss Pipette.”
“I’ll pipette you out of this lab if you call me that again.” Jess tapped the door handle, wondered if she should ask again. It was seven in the morning, after all. Why are you up so early? But Brady never answered any question head-on.
“Yes, ma’am. Whatcha working on?”
“You have nothing better to do than pester me?” Jess pressed the back of her hand to her forehead and rolled her eyes dramatically, but slid Brady a smile. For all the ways he grated on her, she couldn’t forget the boy who’d opened a door and smacked it right into her face on her first day at Stanford, before offering to carry all her luggage.
"I like to stalk you, my dear Jess," Brady said in a singsong voice.
"You are such a creeper," she told him.
"Never denied it." Brady tilted his chin down, a shadow over his face-so dark, she couldn't even see the light pupils of his eyes. A chill shivered its way up her spine; the lab's awfully cold, she thought to herself. Smells a little too.
"Whatever," she said hastily. "Got to get to work now. You want to grab lunch with Ming and Rebecca and the others later?"
"I'll always be there." Brady made her a mock salute before he turned on his heel. "I'll see you then!"
*
Dean slid down in his seat as the truck whizzed innocently by a police cruiser on the side of the highway. “Hey,” he said dispiritedly. “Cas. Maybe we should... switch seats or something. Since they can see me better up here.” A terrible day, the day when he was giving up shotgun. Sometimes he couldn’t believe himself. But they’d been traveling yesterday and all today so far, taking the small roads and taking a lot more time than necessary to get to Manning, Colorado. They wouldn’t be so road shy if it weren’t for the proliferation of cop cars all along the freeways.
“They’re only watching out for speeding,” Cas said. She had slipped her shoes off again, shedding dirt on the floor and digging her toes like claws into the side of her seat. How the hell had she gotten her feet dirty? Good thing this was the truck, Dean thought, because he would’ve ripped into her if it were the Impala. “But if you prefer-”
“Good idea, Dean.” His dad twisted the steering wheel to the side as they rounded the next curve. “We can take a quick exit in a few miles-you two switch there. Cas, I need you to grab some food from the convenience store. Dean, call Bobby and ask him about the cops for us, will you? He’s less likely to chew your head off than mine.” He dug his hand into his pocket, driving one-handed; tossed his cell phone.
Dean caught it easily. “Got it,” he said. I know what you mean.
The gas station and convenience store was a small affair; Cas took the wad of cash that Dad handed her and trotted off, kicking up dust as her shoes scuffed at the dirt. No more credit cards for them-they had to keep a clean trail.
His dad kept the truck idling in place, with a trucker cap blocking his upper face from the sight of others. Dean sprawled out over the back seat, his head propped up against the armrest, and waited for Bobby to pick up on the other end. And considering it was Dad’s cell phone he was using, more likely than not Bobby would start with a curse.
He wasn’t proven wrong. “What are you calling me for now?” Bobby sounded almost bored at first, but his voice sharpened suddenly. Must’ve caught sight of the caller ID; and it was probably a slow news day which kept his wall of phones quiet, so Bobby was free to concentrate all his energies on denigrating John Winchester. “Last time I saw you I would’ve been happy to give you a taste of buckshot, you ass.”
“Hey Bobby,” Dean said. “You definitely got out of the wrong side of bed this morning. Miss me too?”
“Dean!” Bobby’s voice changed, a bit warmer and slower. “Well, good to hear you got out of custody for now, though I’ll be damned if I put together an ID for you, if they trace it back to me. Idiot. What do you need?”
“What, I can’t call you up just to say hi?”
“No one calls me up just to say their damn hello good mornings, so cut the bullshit, Dean.”
Hunters always returned to the ultimate topic of conversation in the end: their hunts. Dean just happened to be on the hunted end. “I want you to look someone up. There’s a psychic who’s saying Sam’s in danger, so we’re going to Palo Alto.” It sounded like such a load of crap-of course this was the kind of thing that only a hunter would say, and yet mean it in all seriousness. “Her name’s Castiel. She hasn’t said much about her background other than that her parents are dead, she goes by Cas, and she looks like she’s... I’m not sure, fifteen, sixteen years old? But small for her age, she doesn’t eat a lot.” We don’t have much food, he thought. And she doesn’t even complain.
“Cas-tee-how does she spell it?”
“C, a, s. That’s Cas. Then t, i, e, l.”
“Gotcha,” Bobby said. “Huh. Weird name.” Dean heard him tapping away at his keyboard on the other end, in the silence of a house inhabited by a lone man. Dean didn’t know how often he had guests. “You going to Stanford? You should tell Sam. You know that the law’s probably got its eye on him too, because of you.”
“I know that. We gotta go anyway to make sure he’s okay.” No details for Bobby-we’re going after Mom’s killer. We don’t need to drag him into this. Dad said we should let him alone, especially since he wanted out--”
“He wanted out, he’s out,” Dad said gruffly from the front seat, and clammed up.
“Dean. I’m not sorry to tell you this, ‘cause your father’s an idiot. Period. It’s the plain and simple truth. Sam’s your brother, and he ought to know.”
“Well.” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah.” Bobby might as well say it to John himself, but Dean was pretty certain his father wouldn’t budge on the issue.
“Yeah, if you actually follow my words then I’ll be damned honored.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You figure it out yourself, I ain’t telling you squat. Anyway. Castiel. All I can find here right away is that Castiel’s supposed to be the angel of Thursday. Angel’s slackin’ off on the job, because today’s Friday and my yesterday sure was shitty as hell. The sheriff came nosing around like usual, then I burned my dinner on the stove.”
“What was it?”
“What was-oh, shut up.”
“Yeah, sorry about your pot roast. I was in the truck with my dad trying to get away from the goddamn law.”
“Well, Dean, sucks to hear that, because it doesn’t sound fun to have that kind of company.”
Would be Bobby to say it like that-whether it was Dad or the police as bad company wouldn’t be something he would say outright. Dean snorted. “That’s it? Castiel’s an angel? That doesn’t help any since angels don’t even exist. Her family must have been super religious to pull out obscure names like that.”
“I got nothing to say about family naming conventions,” Bobby said. “She got a brother named Michael, what’s that matter to any of us? Her family’s not interfering with this, are they? She doesn’t have wings, she’s one hundred percent human, she eats and pisses and breathes like the rest of us all.”
“No,” Dean said impatiently. “I mean, her name’s not a big deal.”
“Then there you have it. You want me to dig up some more dirt on her, give me some time and I’ll get back to you later.”
“All right. Let me know what you got. What are the cops saying about me?”
“Eh. It’s not exactly pleasant stuff. Not much, but what they’re saying is a load of crock about how you and John do all sorts of petty crime, and that you’re prime suspect. And they know you’re going west.”
Dean didn’t say anything for a moment. Prime suspect, what a load of shit. Sure, they would talk all that language about innocent before proven guilty, but in the end they were aiming to get him for good. “Fuck,” he said finally. “We weren’t sure... We’ve been staying off the big roads, it’s been a damn pain trying to make good time with that. Cas has been getting all the food for us, we sleep in the truck at night--”
“Wait. Castiel’s traveling with you?”
“Guess I wasn’t clear--yeah, she is. She’s the one who hid me first before Dad came to get me.”
“... Shit. Cops know you’re traveling with her too. People know about that, it won’t fool the FBI for long. I saw the reports but I was thinking they got it wrong--didn’t think you two would be taking along a random civilian. Makes sense though, if she’s a psychic. They’re not all that bad. I can tell you what the cops know. Didn’t even have her name--she got out of a hospital, they called her Jane Doe. Tracked her scent and yours to a motel, and the dogs pointed their noses west like damn statues. So they know you’re headed that way. And no picture of her, just a description, so people won’t catch on so quickly.”
“Hospital?”
“I can try breaking into their records, or at least ask someone else who’s better at it than I am.”
“Nothing else we can do about it. Thanks, Bobby.”
“Take care of yourself, and tell your dad he’s a bastard.” There was little sting in Bobby’s words though. “And that he should take care too.”
“Yeah. We’ll call you later.” Dean flipped the phone closed.
*
I want beef jerky. And Snickers. And-
That’s enough, Claire. This is enough.
She blinks at the aisle of food in front of her. It never fails to blind her, the gaudy packaging and the sheer smell of availability, and the acid turns over in her stomach sickeningly. Claire is always hungry. Castiel is never hungry.
Say that again.
This is enough.
No. The-the one before.
That’s enough, Claire.
She puts the food down at the register, hands the money to the boy manning the register with a curt nod. The corners of her eyes begin to prickle with wetness-but though Castiel can’t inhabit the body as well as she used to, the power slowly wrung out of her by each passing day, Claire cannot cry.
Claire. You know I will always know your name.
You promised, after this was all over-
After this is all over. Then I will take you to your family, Claire. Claire, you understand, don’t you? she says to herself; takes the bag and walks out of the store, kicks at a rock on her way to the truck. John rolls down the window and grunts at her. “Get in, Cas.”
Cas lets her mouth curve downward, a polite smile. Looks at Dean in the back, Dean the Fearless Leader. Bobby will not know who I am. He won’t find Claire, because Claire is here with me.
And when we take care of Azazel, it won’t matter.
The universe presses down on her like soil over an unmarked grave, tucked away, forgotten.
*
He bit down on his tongue and felt the taint clicking against his gums. It reminded him distantly of the dream he’d had, the day before yesterday. “I-I don’t understand,” Sam said. “What’s wrong with my brother?” He ticked off the possibilities: there were only two. Caught for impersonation, or caught for hunts seen as crimes.
Either was better than the third, the impossibility that-
The FBI agent who had introduced himself as Agent Henriksen didn’t smile, although the lines of his face had smoothed into a softer mask, no longer a wall of official posturing-though it was a mask still. He just didn’t know that Sam could do one better than he could. “You hit the nail on the head, Mr. Winchester.”
He’s not dead. Sam turned the start of his relieved sigh into a grimace. He couldn’t afford his face to betray himself just yet. “He got caught up in gang turfwars or something? That’d be like him, he’s kind of... wild like that. Trouble just finds him. Look, I haven’t talked to my family in ages-we had a falling out-so-”
“Mr. Winchester-”
“Call me Sam, please. Want to come in?”
Henriksen inclined his head and quirked his mouth. Must be pleased to be on more familiar terms, Sam thought. Especially since I gave it to him.
The FBI agent said, “I appreciate it, but no thanks. I’d like to ask you to come to the station with us. Your brother Dean’s been involved in an investigation of mine as a suspect, and we like to be as thorough as we can.”
“What happened?”
Henriksen’s face remained perfectly blank as he said, “I can give you more details in a bit, if you could come to the station with me? Procedure, as you understand.”
Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly. Sam blinked, twitched his mouth into a wan smile he didn’t feel at all. Nicely done, Dean. Dad. Fuck. “Sure, I’ll come with you,” he said. “Just let me get my keys and leave a note for my girlfriend.”
“We can do that,” Henriksen said, watching him very closely.
Sam turned away, his face rigid and composed. This was of course routine, he thought to himself, of course the authorities would want to talk to family of suspects. But he had to concentrate to keep his hand from shaking as he made chicken scratch on a scrap of paper-something came up, be back soon, love you-and tucked it into the wrapping on the cookies he’d made. He and Jess had been planning a quiet movie night, but hopefully he’d be back before she came home for dinner and could forestall any questions.
He didn’t try to prod conversation into existence on the car ride over, short as it was. Let bewilderment write itself all over his face, quizzical eyes, a musing mouth. He knew squat, of course, and made sure Henriksen knew that too. Don’t be intimidated. Be quick on your feet. They’re going to pin all their attention on you like you’re a butterfly in their collection, watch your face for your reaction.
Don’t give Dean away.
If they were going to concentrate on him, he was going to give them the same and more. The black sheep of the family, more than willing to help, and giving as good as he got. God knew Henriksen was trying to make him feel at ease, too-driving a nondescript car, making small talk about California weather. “Sunny like hell here,” Henriksen commented. “Been to the beach here?”
“Few times,” Sam replied, squinting through the windshield as they drew up to the station. “Colder than Florida, though.”
“In that case, sorry in advance for the air conditioning.” Henriksen scrunched up his shoulders briefly as he opened the door. The indoor AC hit them both full-blast like the breath of a frost giant. “Guess you’d rather be enjoying the weather,” Henriksen added as he led Sam to a clean, bare room. Not even a window for distraction, just a table and chairs-if it weren’t for Henriksen’s relaxed demeanor, Sam would have thought he was going to be interrogated as a suspect himself.
“Nah, don’t worry about it. If you could tell me what’s going on...”
“Right.” Henriksen gestured for him to take a seat, and did likewise. “I’ve been investigating a cluster of murders in Illinois,” he began. “Three high-school-age girls in the same school district were killed one by one, all in different ways. Your brother happened to be near the scene, but he left town and has been missing ever since. I was hoping you could talk to us about him?"
He came out of the station with the one mantra running through his head: Be composed. Be composed. Be composed. It took an inordinate amount of effort for him to keep himself from clenching his hands into fists, keep his muscles from trembling-but he had had practice before, long ago on the hunts as a young boy trying to look like he knew what was happening, so the sensation was not as unfamiliar as it could have been. He strolled down the street, coming to a small cafe and ducking in to calm and organize his nerves.
He sat down in the seat with a relieved huff, tucked away in the corner far away from the window, just in case the agents would pass by and see him. Not that the sight of them would mean anything, except that he just needed to get away from someone who would bring the subject up again, Dean and Dad-on the run for some kidnappings and murders that they definitely had not done because no matter how long they had remained out of contact, Sam Winchester was no fool, and his family certainly was not either.
He ordered a small green tea, thought, maybe some flowers for Jessica, should I tell her the news about Dean and Dad-it was probably best to do so. Or maybe not. He’d wanted to keep Jessica out of this-not fair, really, that she should get dragged into it at all, Sam thought to himself.
He pulled out his phone and scrolled down. Dean, said the display, and his fingers lingered over the call button before he took a deep breath and pressed down. The line rang, and rang again, and-
He waited. It went to voicemail: “Hey, this is Dean. Call me later.”
Sam rang up before the beep. There were others he could call. There was one other he could call. But Dad was unlikely to pick up, surely, especially after Sam’s departure from their temporary home of the time-it was unnerving that even Sam could not remember it properly. He remembered where the table had been, of course, where Dad had slammed down his glass so hard that it cracked and the surface had a small permanent dent in it; that there had been a little dream catcher hanging from the opposite wall because he had stared solidly at that the entire time while being harangued by his father; that the door had squeaky hinges because they shrieked like a banshee gone even madder when he slammed the door closed behind and stormed to the nearby bus station for the first bus on the route to Palo Alto. But he couldn’t remember-an apartment or house, or had it been a trailer? Whatever it was, the door had made a very conclusive impression of the whole matter.
He had seen Dean since then, once during his freshman year which had resulted in a huge fight and left his then roommate freaked out about living with Sam (no wonder, really, that he decided to move off campus), and he had seen his father not at all.
Dad, said the display.
He pressed the call button. The line rang once, and then a neutral, disinterested bland voice took over: “The number you are trying to reach has been disconnected. Please contact-”
He hung up. It made him feel better; he had tried, after all. His father was the one who had disconnected. Not him. You walk out that door, don’t you ever come back. And John Winchester was the kind of person who meant to keep his word.
He looked down at his tea, as if the tea leaves which had settled to the bottom of the cup like miniature clusters of anchors could somehow divine the true origin of this crisis and all that would come from it, a second sight that could open up his mind to realities beyond the one in which he lived. The tea was tinged red-drip drop drip went the blood into the cup, spurting forth like blossoms of crimson peonies on a grave.
It’d been dripping like that, he thought tiredly. All that red on the ground. As tears would-as if he were crying blood-
He blinked. Fucking hell, I need more sleep.. Raised the mug, and drank the perfectly unbloody tea.
*
Victor turned the cell phone display around to show Reidy. “And there you go,” he said. “One missed call: Sam Winchester.”
“You were really expecting it, weren’t you?” Reidy perched on the chair, methodically peeling an apple. The blade of the knife flashed silver, lithe as a minnow, under the glaring bright lights of the police station. He had placed himself in just the right spot so that the peel dropped easily into a garbage can to the side.
“You weren’t there when I first told Winchester the news. His face changed, sure, but not quite enough. He definitely didn’t hear about the news from anyone else before I told him, but he wasn’t surprised enough. And he agreed to come to the station before I told him anything at all. No one does that, they always work up a storm about being informed and all. Not a peep from him. Like he could imagine them doing it.”
“Or that he knew they could do it.”
“That’s not the same thing,” Victor said, “but you get my drift.” He massaged his eyebrows, feeling an incipient headache come on. It’d gotten worse in the last few years, and sometimes he had days where he could feel a migraine coming on, though it never quite hit him. The stress would boil up like a tea kettle, stored inside until he vented it-by running, by gun training, by tracking criminals down. About time he needed stress relief. “We’ll have to talk to him again, to get some more insight into them, if he’ll be talkative enough.”
“He lives with his girlfriend,” Reidy commented. “We should talk to her too, in case he’s talked to her some about his family.”
“Noted,” Victor mumbled. He propped his elbows on the table and stared at the far wall. It was speckled in patches where paint had flaked off, and someone had doodled in the corner a tiny little stick man being hanged-or was he hanging himself? Perhaps they were one and the same. The price of failure, Victor thought darkly. They wouldn’t be able to hide for long.
“Apple for your thoughts?” Reidy asked. Victor raised his head-Reidy flung a half-peeled apple slice at him. The sliver of red arced through the air like a pearl diver, heading for the bridge of his nose, between his eyes, till Victor leaned back as quick as lightning and caught it in his teeth instead. “Mmph,” he said around the apple piece. “Thanks.”
The apple burst into flavors on his tongue, strangely sweet and sour all at once. He crunched down on it, felt the peel catch between his canines. Honeycrisp apples, Reidy’s great indulgence. Victor was more than content with the side benefits.
He swallowed it, said: “We’ll have to monitor Sam Winchester and his movements too. He may be more sympathetic than we thought.”
“Yeah. He did cut off all communications with them before now, though...”
“And so? Family is family, and for most people that makes all the difference.”
*
Dude, Dean thought to himself, he could at least turn the lights on.
They had gotten directions from a neighbor several miles back-“Yes, the old guy’s about most always in, he doesn’t leave unless it’s groceries or the museum changes its exhibit, something like that”-but the house was dark and lifeless when Dad pulled the truck up in the gravel-laden driveway.
“Guess it was grocery time,” Dean said, poking his head out the window.
“Not grocery time,” Cas said baldly. She narrowed her eyes. “He’s certainly in there. I think the neighborly grapevine sent him warning.”
“... Okay then.” Dean opened his hands palms up, empty and bare. “What’s he got in store for us, a damn ambush?”
“Elkins always was the original suspicious bastard,” his dad said. “He taught me a lot about what I know of hunting these days.”
Dean eyed his dad. If John Winchester wasn’t the original suspicious bastard, then...
“Let’s get the Colt,” Cas said, and hopped out.
The Colt, Dean thought, as they trudged upward to the bleak house in a line. He’d heard nothing of it, neither hide nor hair, and yet his father had known of its existence all this time, had not even bothered to impart this knowledge to him. Some gun supposed to kill anything with its bullets, like a magic wand. It didn’t sit quite right with him at all, this instrument of destruction based solely on belief and not proof-but surely if it was a total fluke and a dud then Elkins could have easily destroyed it instead of choosing to guard it.
To kill demons-because Cas had told them it was a demon who had killed Mary Winchester, “A yellow-eyed demon named Azazel, one of the higher-ups, you know, but I don’t know what he was doing in that room,” and she turned her face away from them, as if she were sorry for that distant death, two decades ago. Demons, demons, demons-he was so rusty on knowledge of demons that when John asked him he could not have even said how to exorcise one. The expression of disappointment on his father’s face had been almost unbearable.
He said to himself, again and again in his mind: Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica, in nomine et virtute Domini Nostri Jesu Christi, eradicare et effugare a Dei Ecclesia, ab animabus ad imaginem Dei conditis ac pretioso divini Agni sanguine redemptis.
If he repeated it enough times, it might even make up for all the time that it had never even come up. If demons are so important, then dad should’ve told me earlier, Dean mused. Why shouldn’t he have? Did he think I was never going to run into them at all?
There are usually only one or two demonic occurrences each year, Dad had said with grim eyes and a set mouth. It hadn’t been a huge consideration before, but...
We exorcise you, Dean went over the translation, every impure spirit, every satanic power, every incursion of the infernal adversary, every legion, every congregation and diabolical sect. Every satanic power, but didn’t that imply some opposite? It seemed unfair to have a hell and not a heaven-that demons could infiltrate the earth and possess people, but that people should not have the aid of another force-how patently unbalanced it was. So the world would always be biased against hunters, Dean decided bitterly, but there was no reason for them to stop fighting. Else the evil would come for them, and who would be there to protect the innocent?
(He wondered, too: And who would be there to protect the protectors?
At any rate, they were used enough to protecting themselves: that was the only thought of consolation.)
The porch gave them away almost immediately-the wooden planks creaked like an old man’s groans, creak creak creak creak when Dad, first in the line, set his foot on the lowest step.
“How creative,” Cas mused, her gaze traveling over the wood with a scrutiny that Dean thought was a bit overboard. “There’s no reason for you two to be sneaky,” she said to John Winchester. “You two are hunters-you should feel free to go straight on in. I’ll wait elsewhere.”
Dean blinked. “Wait, where are you-“
(“I went through all the databases I can access,” Bobby had said over the phone. “Did some different search key phrases, the whole round. And not a single person who goes by the name of Castiel popped up in results. You sure that’s her birth name?”
“I’m not sure about anything, Bobby. That’s what she said her name was. But if she’s lying, how the hell am I supposed to be able to read her mind and know the truth? That’s the kind of stuff she would pull off.”
“… You don’t let her out of your sight, Dean.”)
“Let her go,” Dad said bluntly. “Dean, come with me.” He waited until Cas had walked back down a ways, behind a cluster of trees and out of sight, before he knocked on the door-creak creak creak creak went the door-and bawled out, “Danny Elkins! Winchester here, stopping by. You’re home, aren’t you?”
Dean could hear some noise from inside, before Elkins pulled the door open. Damn, he’s a real downer, was his first thought. Elkins had a face which was drawn long and lean, his cheekbones harsh under his skin. The skin around his eyes was wrinkled, with his mouth curved in a permanent scowl and his jaw thrust out pugnaciously. He looked like he’d had a hard life, and made of it what he could with a frown and a grimace out of necessity.
“Elkins,” Dad said, tipping him a nod. “This is my son, Dean. We were passing through and just figured I’d stop by to say hi.”
“Winchester,” Elkins said. His voice grated like the sound of wheels on gravel-you’d think he would drink more to smooth out his throat, thought Dean, or maybe he already does it and it’s not enough. All this last name business, too-Caleb, Pastor Jim, Bobby, they all had the honor of being addressed by the first name, even Bobby who had threatened to run John off his property so long ago and since then insulted him as a professional would-but this Elkins, who Dad said he had learned from as a mentor, still went by Elkins and not Daniel. It didn’t seem all that warm of a greeting.
Of course, Dean thought, shooting a quick glance at his dad. He’s the original. Just passing it down the line here.
Elkins seated them on a rather old sagging couch in the living room; came out from the kitchen with a tray and three glasses placed on top, each filled with liquid. When Dean took one of the glasses, said, “Thanks, looks good,” and took a swig, the warm burn of bourbon crawled down his throat and into his stomach, happily purring there.
“Whoa, this is pretty good,” he said. “What kind?”
“Ten High,” Elkins grunted. “But not the new stuff. I’ve got the old kind all stacked up in the back. That new swill they call bourbon’s watered down-disgusting-and they scam you out of your money like there’s no tomorrow.”
“You heard from Rufus Turner recently? Johnny Walker fanatic.” John Winchester sagged back into his seat, just like the couch itself; and said, “Says he ran into a rogue vampire or two a few weeks back, who were feeding off animal blood instead of humans.”
“That’s horseshit,” Elkins scoffed.
“Well, you’re the vampire specialist,” Dad conceded. Dean frowned, looked to the side-it was so rare he ever saw his father buttering up someone else (as much as he could) that the very hint of it was surprising. Last time he’d seen it happen, the woman (also, in fact, a young shifter who apparently wasn’t all that clever) had ended up dead as a rock, and just as cold. It hadn’t made her body any harder to destroy, though.
“So I was wondering,” Dean broke in, “you specialize in demons too?”
When Elkins turned his attention upon Dean it was calculating, like a predator eyeing its prey. “And what kind of demon are you thinking of?”
“Kind?”
“John, you need to talk to your son more,” Elkins grumbled.
“Elkins, we’re not here to quarrel,” Dean heard his dad say-and wasn’t that always a precursor to a move. Dean showed his hands, empty-said, “Dude, we just need the Colt, okay? You keep saying you don’t have it, but it’s not like you’re that good of a liar. We already know when and where this demon’s gonna hit, and you aren’t letting us use it just because-”
“And if you fail, the Colt goes to the demons,” snapped Elkins. He leaned forward, agitated; even in the half-lit room Dean could see the knuckles whiten. “Good job there, Winchester. As if you succeed in all your cases-"
“You think I’d let that demon live?” Dad spat demon like a curse, and surely he meant it.
“It’s not about what you let happen,” Elkins said, his eyes two pinpricks of light. “It’s what you make happen, and truthfully, Winchester, I don’t think-"
The staff clouted him in the head so forcefully that he went spinning to the side, crashed into the shelf, and collapsed like a puppet cut from its strings.
Dad remained unmoved.
“What the fuck, Cas!” Dean started forward and snagged her wrist, pulling her over. “He was gonna say yes sooner or later, we could’ve worked on him longer-"
“He wouldn’t have said yes. He lacked faith.” Cas didn’t even look at Dean, did not meet his eyes at all; instead, she looked past him to Dad and addressed him like an accomplice. “You can crack the safe easily.”
“Can’t just pull the combination number out of his head, can you?” But then Dad smiled, his lips bloodless and set hard. No mirth at all, only the grimness that came with ugly satisfaction. “We shouldn’t have much trouble with that. Good job, Cas.”
“We needed to save time,” she said simply; still didn’t look at Dean, though he had her by the bony spindles she presumed to call wrists and hadn’t let go. Her face was flushed from exertion, and though once Dean would’ve joked about a crush he had discovered by now that there was something about him which Cas truly could not stand for long, so it could only be the physical effort of her swing. He couldn’t tell if it was accompanied by shame.
It was discomforting, Dean thought, the ends to which Cas went. He hadn’t fully realized till now that his father was fine with it that way.
And oh, fuck, he remembered-Cas turned her head up and focused on him, finally, and she was bloody psychic and touching her was definitely not blocking her out-he released his hold like he’d been branded by a hot iron.
Cas looked at him, but as always Dean was never sure she was seeing him. “You must understand, Dean,” she told him. “It’s for your brother, and for you. Worse things could happen,” and it sounded like neither a threat nor a warning.
It sounded, rather, like she already knew.
*
Sam dreamed:
And there--the jugular going flutter flutter. The demon dipped his knife in the blood and drew all over his homework for shits and giggles. Lovely picture, said Lucifer; hummed and continued, but you should show off your art, it’s a pity you didn’t plan ahead. My bad, he replied shamelessly. Waggles his fingers, slick with fluid. I got impatient and started off with the eyes this time.
Lucifer watched, and smiled. Sam screamed. The lizards in his stomach were biting each others’ tails off now, just a chomp and--
Don’t worry, Sam, you really shouldn’t worry so. We’ll have a great time together.
1. carved into arrows | 2. and singing bones | 3. out of our flesh
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