[FIC] Decipher Reflections from Reality (1 of 2) for nightrider101
Gift type:Fanfic
Title: Decipher Reflections from Reality
Author: blaanidblaanid
Recipient: nightrider101
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 12,851
Warnings: alcohol abuse, swearing
Spoilers: 5.22
Summary: A casual investigation rises emotions out of Dean that had never been graced the light of day. One rash decision sets the course of his undoing, but is he alone with regret or does someone else feel the same?
Author notes: I crashed and burned trying to incorporate the second prompt, so that’s why you won’t be seeing that much of it! haha A shout out and thank you to my lovely beta, quovadimus83, for the speedy and insightful comments. This fanfic got longer that I’d anticipated, but oh well! :]
*
In the playground of a nondescript town in the heart of America, a seesaw tilted and tipped in the wind, rainwater from earlier that afternoon dripping from the metal handlebars onto slivers of tanbark. A faded yellow slide spiraling into the air was scuffed black with the remnants of little boys chasing little girls up the slippery slope. Cigarette butts clogged corners in the walls near a tic-tac-toe board and rickety bridge. Placing one tiny foot before the other in a slow, cautious stride, a little girl with braided pigtails and a bright red jacket walked with determination across the lone blue balance beam on the far edge of the playground. As she reached the end of the balance beam, she glanced toward a park bench where her father sat reading a novel.
“Daddy,” she said, voice hoarse. She cleared her throat and called across the playground, “Daddy! Daddy!”
Her father glanced at his wristwatch before rising and jogging toward her. He skipped over the wooden fence sheltering the tanbark and slowed to a walk as he neared the little girl. He crouched until she could peer down at him.
“What’s wrong?” he said, rubbing her arms. “Are you tired?”
“No, I am not tired,” she said, enunciating each word carefully, as her mother had explained to her the vital importance of proper grammar and pronunciation that morning over oatmeal and orange juice. She glanced over her father’s shoulder toward the vacant seesaw that rose and fell in the wind as though children were riding it.
“I want to go home,” she explained, catching her father’s eye.
He fingered the novel perched on his knee. The bookmark tucked in the center pages fluttered as a breeze brushed past the balance beam.
“We can’t leave until Mommy picks us up. She called me just a moment ago and said she’ll be here any minute.”
Her face constricted. “But I want to go now.”
“She’ll be here soon, don’t worry.” Catching sight of the seesaw, his eyes flickered with excitement. He bounced on his knees. “Hey, would you like to play with me?”
She frowned, but nodded. “Okay.”
He tucked the book in his inside coat pocket and scooped his daughter into his arms, grunting at her growing height and weight. He went to the seesaw in a pace between jogging and walking, keeping enough speed to distract the girl from wandering her gaze to shadowed trees and empty streets.
The moon hung full in the sky and illuminated the park so much that the lampposts served mediocre lighting. The father caught sight of the moon and paused near the spiraling slide. He extended an arm and pointed toward the black sky.
“See that? Some people say a man lives in the moon.”
“Nobody lives in the moon,” said the girl simply. “There’s no air in the moon.”
“That’s not true! A man lives in the moon and his home is made of cheese.”
“No, he doesn’t live on the moo-Daddy.”
The father was so caught in their banter that he failed to acknowledge the upward climb of fear and urgency in her voice. He rattled off spindling claims of a man on the moon, his house of cheese, and the notion that the entire moon was composed of cheese. He only stopped talking once his daughter squeezed both his shoulders hard and painfully.
“Daddy,” she choked, eyes round and widening further.
“What’s the matter, darling? Are you cold? You can wear my coat.”
Her grip on his shoulders tightened, the flesh under her nails turned a ghostly white-as did the color of her face. “Daddy,” she whispered, “behind you.”
*
The sweet taste of flapjacks and fried sausages scented the air of a roadside diner. A portly woman with a bubbly laugh poured freshly brewed coffee into half-full mugs. Bells rang as an order was filled, and the sharp ding could be heard through the stretch of the restaurant. In the booth farthest from the entrance and register, two men sat with an unattended plate of bacon and eggs accompanying them. One man hunched his shoulders over the table and the other wore a comically out-of-place trench coat.
“Must be real tough running Heaven all by yourself,” said Dean, spooning a liberal amount of pie into his mouth. Sitting directly across him, Castiel frowned at a plate of French fries. Sam was occupied in the restroom, disposing bodily wastes.
“I am not alone,” replied Castiel. “Anna is working hard, in addition to others from my garrison you have not met.”
Swallowing caramelized apples and buttery, flaky crust, Dean edged forward and rested his hand near the napkin dispenser Castiel was absently stroking. “I bet you don’t find much time to relax.”
“It’s my duty while God is away. I really have no choice.”
“I’m glad you came to see me-and Sam. Me and Sam. Sam and I.”
“Sam and me,” murmured Castiel.
“Right.”
Courage swelled inside his chest, and Dean reached his hand forward to close the gap between Castiel and himself. Entwining their fingers, Dean gazed at Castiel with soft eyes, unable to hide his smile at the sharp intake of air from the angel seated across the table.
“Dean,” Castiel gasped, “I find you sexually gratifying.”
“As do I, Cas,” said Dean, tracing his thumb over Castiel’s wrist. “As do I.”
“Dean!”
One atrociously loud honk later and Dean snapped to attention, eyesight bleary, and discovered he sat in the passenger seat of the Impala. He witnessed no spoonfuls of apple pie or Castiel in his grasp. There was only Sam behind the wheel looking smug. Dean groaned and turned toward the passenger window.
“Dean, has anyone ever told you that you talk in your sleep?” said Sam. Dean couldn’t see it, but he could feel the insidious grin Sam wore.
“What’d I say?”
“Oh,” drawled Sam, “nothing much.”
“Sam.”
“Something we both know. Or, shall I say, someone.”
Dean’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second and his heartbeat quickened. In moments such as this, Dean saved himself from undesirable conversation through swift change of subject matter.
“We’re parked at a motel?” he said, swiveling around to spy Sam’s reaction.
Sam narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, and the gears in that massive, Stanford-educated brain visibly turned and switched. Sam directed an obnoxious knowing look at Dean-or perhaps Sam was unknowing. Or perhaps he wasn’t. Dean hoped the words uttered as he slept had not betrayed him, but he could not be positive. A digression in conversation was the only sure course of action. And so Dean repeated himself, “We’re at a motel? Any reason?”
“Yeah, actually. I found a case for us while you were sleeping.”
Sam tapped an uncapped pen against the steering wheel, and it was then that Dean noticed the newspapers littered over Sam’s lap. The laptop rested on the dashboard, a light flashing on and off indicating the power was still running, despite the monitor being clamped shut.
Dean rubbed his neck, blowing out a sigh. “When’d we get here?”
“Not too long ago. Maybe one or two hours. Got something to eat while you were knocked out. Read the paper.”
Dean huffed, but gestured for a newspaper. Sam handed him a page with red circles and notes jotted in the margins. As Dean dove into the chicken-scratch, a vibration in his pocket stung his thigh. He dug for his cell phone, flipped it open, and grew intrigued at the sight of an incoming text message to his inbox. At first notice of the sender, he shrank into his seat and raised the newspaper to shelter him from Sam’s curious glances.
Hello. Where are you? - Castiel
Dean grumbled and found himself replying in an instant.
everywhere and anywhere. why? do you need me?
He stared at his blue jeans as he sent the reply, cursing the moment text messaging had first given him more of a thrill than waitresses with short skirts and nylon pantyhose. Not too long ago Sam had shown Castiel how to send a text message to facilitate keeping in contact. Since then Castiel sent Dean random texts and always signed with a signature at the end. Castiel constantly sent messages, and each time Dean felt like the text was meant for his eyes only, a specialized message. But the messages were for Sam and him, not only Dean. He shoved his phone back in his pocket and settled into Sam’s notes. His phone vibrated a moment later with a message, but he ignored it-and the jump in his chest.
“Father murdered and child gone without a trace?” A crease formed between his brows. “Isn’t there another case like this in a town nearby?”
“And the town we just left,” Sam added. “The first two cases mentioned the parents’ hearts were missing from the bodies. Same with this one.”
“Got an address?”
“To the park or the father’s body?”
“Either.”
“Got both.”
“Great.” Dean folded his newspaper and tossed it in the backseat. “Now get away from the wheel.”
After a pit stop for a hearty lunch, the Winchesters found themselves donning translucent plastic gloves while a tiny, copper-haired medical examiner rattled off the information gathered of the recently deceased man in the body bag in front of them.
“He has claw marks all over his chest and arms, which is…weird.” The medical examiner hugged a clipboard closer to her chest and pursed her lips into a tight, nervous smile. “His clothes were torn to shreds. It’s almost like he was mauled by a large bear.”
Elbowing Sam in the ribs, Dean raised his eyebrows, muttering, “ ‘Mauled by a large bear.’ ”
“Shut it,” shot Sam.
“Oh!” piped the medical examiner. “Something the matter?” She slid her wire-framed glasses up her nose, magnified eyes blinking thrice.
Pulled out from the wall cabinets of the deceased, forty-year-old Jason Nichols lay with white lips and a pallid discoloration to his face and skin. Scratches littered his arms and exposed the bones of his forearm and wrists. Chest unrecognizable, a chasm dove into his ribcage, a dark, empty hole where his heart should have rested. Sam squatted to be leveled with the body, straining to observe as much of the body as possible without prompting the medical examiner to suspect his motives.
“When was the body found? Do you know?” Sam asked.
“I’m not really authorized to tell you that, though it’s not like you’re going to go off and do anything criminal. You are Inspectors, after all.”
She beckoned them to come closer, and the three of them leaned over the corpse like grey-haired spinsters chuckling over biscuits and tea.
“The mother had swung by the park to pick up the father and daughter after her nursing class. When she called the father but he never picked up, she decided to head into the park and check it out. Got to the playground, noticed a trail of blood leading near the slide. She went over to check it out, and then”-she tapped the metal bed on which the man rested-“she found this guy all bloodied and mangled. Daughter’s been kidnapped. No one knows where.”
Dean felt sick to his stomach. He turned to look at Sam, who mirrored his movements, expression grim.
“Oh, wait, you wanted to know the time of death, right?” The examiner reached for the zipper to seal the body bag. “The father was found around ten past nine, but he died around eight-thirty.”
She zipped over the man’s face, muttering as the zipper nearly caught on the tip of his nose. Once she pushed the corpse back into its slot, she dusted her hands on her lab coat and gazed at the brothers with her round eyes magnified behind her wire-framed glasses. Flakes of various hues colored her irises, drawing the brothers into her like a seagulls to reflecting glass, vultures to rotting flesh.
“Anything else you’d like to know? We don’t get many cases like this being a small town and all.”
Dean inhaled sharply and shook himself awake, feeling the start of a headache beginning. “No, that would be all. My partner and I have all we need.”
“Well, I’m glad to have been a help to your investigation,” she told them, smiling brightly.
*
In the forgotten moments between night and morning, Dean and Sam parked on the block of the playground where the missing daughter had last been seen. Their hypothesis was the werewolves might return to scout for more victims. They had few leads as to where the hideout for the werewolves was located. Or if the werewolves even knew they were werewolves. Or if there was even more than one werewolf, for that matter. The ideal scenario was a werewolf would show its face and lead them back to wherever it lived, but the stakeout seemed to be business as usual. The brothers waited in the car for a sign, prepared to run to the trunk for ammunition at moments’ notice.
Despite occasional cooing birds and melodic chirps of crickets, the only noise to pierce the still night air was the patters and pings from beneath the hood of the Impala. Dean tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and Sam flicked his attention across the pages of a worn text. Exhalations froze in the air after each breath they drew, and Dean had an itch in his stomach to crank the radio and fill the car with hot-tempered noise. Yet he kept watch and stayed vigilant. Sam glanced up from his book every other thirty seconds. For a while neither saw a suspicious movement, then a noise pitched clear through the gentle silence-a smooth, hungry howl.
Sam chucked his book at the back seat and the brothers shot open their doors and swung their feet outside. Dean crossed along the Impala in three long strides, unlocked the trunk, and set a shotgun to keep the divider suspended over the weaponry. He grunted a greeting when Sam arrived, and loaded a handgun with silver bullets. He snapped the barrel back in place and passed the gun to Sam before loading three more. Sam dug through the collection of silver knives and placed blades in his shoes, belt loops, over his wrists. In less than a minute, the brothers wordlessly armed themselves, slammed shut the trunk, locked the doors, and stepped onto the sidewalk and through the park entrance.
The police had cleared the yellow tape guarding the playground earlier in the day, but had gone door-to-door and warned people from venturing around the park at night. A gust of wind swept through the winding path leading to the playground. Dean rolled his shoulders against the wind while Sam quickened his pace.
“How many do you think there’ll be?” asked Sam.
Dean shrugged. “Enough.”
A howl followed by an echoing chorus cut through the silence. By the time the brothers neared the light blue balance beam alone at the edge of the playground, growls and the grinding of teeth were as present in the air as the crickets chirping into the quiet of night. Dean gestured for Sam to cover the east side. At Sam’s confirming nod, they separated.
Dean flicked his gaze left to right, clicking in place the bullets in his gun. At the first sight of a werewolf, he was going to shoot. A mantra in his head repeated over and over: Shoot first, questions later. Shoot first, questions later. Shoot-
Sam shot first. Dean swerved around toward the direction the fire originated, but he never made a full turn because clawed fists pounded onto his back. He soared through the air and crashed onto the tanbark, narrowly missing bashing his head onto a metal support beam.
He rolled over, splinters littering the back of his signature leather jacket, to be met with honey yellow irises and saliva dripping onto his cheek. A person that was no longer a person but transformed into a werewolf dug their claws into his chest, keeping him grounded. Dean slithered his hand with the gun up as far as he could manage. Cocking a brow, he slipped on a smirk.
“Nice entrance,” he said. “Hope you like the exit.” He pulled the trigger and relished in the feel of the bullet’s momentum pushing back on him.
The werewolf’s eyes flashed a burning yellow before losing focus. Muscles limp from the absence of life, the werewolf collapsed onto Dean, who rolled it onto the tanbark.
Jumping upright, Dean scanned the park and counted the heads of the werewolves closing in on him. Including the wolf he just killed, the total was thirteen. “Sam!” he shouted. “I’m seeing twelve of them. What’ve you got?”
“Same!”
Twisting his back to crack the knuckles along his spine, Dean arched a brow and let a chuckle pass his lips. “All right, guys! Come at me.”
He stabbed and shot and punched his way through as many wolves as he could until a wolf larger than Sam approached from behind and wrestled Dean into a headlock. From the noise of whoops and hollers around him, he predicted Sam was facing a similar predicament. The werewolf squeezed the breath out of Dean and an arm wrapped around his waist to pin down his arms. Dean kicked his legs, and succeeded in smacking his ankle on a support beam. The arm suffocating him tightened around his neck. Dean’s vision faded in and out, his lips prickling.
A thought popped into his head-so ridiculous that he doubted it would work, but no more useless than useful. With all the air left in his lungs, he tightened the muscles in his diaphragm and bellowed: “Now’s the time, Cas!”
He blinked, and then the werewolf choking him dropped to the ground. Dean stumbled, reached for a figure to cling to, and wound up grabbing a warm, solid mass. As he opened his eyes, he promptly shut them again.
“Another nice entrance.”
“You’ve never called me under such pretenses,” commented Castiel, gazing at Dean’s hand clutching his forearm.
Catching sight of a werewolf about to tackle Castiel, Dean grabbed his gun and aimed. A bullet sliced through the air and the werewolf dropped dead. Dean indulged himself with looking Castiel over, partially ashamed at the warmth in his stomach ignited by the sight of that tax accountant trench coat.
Castiel’s blue eyes were intent on an action in the distance. Castiel stepped around the spiraling slide and toward the sight capturing his undivided attention. When a werewolf came, he outstretched his hand and pressed his fingertips to their forehead, and with a soft groaning howl, the werewolf collapsed onto the tanbark. Dean guarded his back, shooting down the werewolves forced into sleep.
When Dean dove into hunting, he tended to block out the rest of the world. There was his gun and him and that exhilarating euphoria after eradicating evil from the world. At times Dean felt overwhelmed by how much evil existed, but then he remembered that good existed as well.
Castiel, thought Dean, gazing at the angel, whose face was hard in concentration. Dean shot down a werewolf he saw out the corner of his eye darting across the seesaw that moved on its own accord. He remembered from his dream the touch of Castiel’s wrist under his fingertips, yet more vividly recalled the strength in that arm he clutched when Castiel saved him from the abnormally large werewolf. Though his hands clutched a gun, Dean swore he saw himself reach out with quivering fingers and trace the threadwork on that trench coat-that damn trench coat.
When sound returned to his ears Dean stumbled at the magnitude. He pressed his palms on the sides of his head; eyes squeezed shut. A howl seeped through the cracks of his fingers and pounded inside his ears. He dropped his gun by accident, and had not noticed until he opened his eyes at saw a snarling werewolf approaching Castiel from behind. Dean wondered how Castiel had not seen the werewolf after he had charged through the others without drawing a sweat. He shook himself awake because in moment such as this there was no time to wonder. He swiped his gun from the ground, dragging with it splinters from the tanbark, and aimed at the werewolf’s skull. He pulled the trigger only to hear a hollow click.
Castiel was looking at something at the other side of the playground, near the balance beam and endless stretch of tanbark. Dean looked from Castiel to the werewolf, frantically pulling the trigger. Why hadn’t Castiel noticed the werewolf? What if it killed him? Dean would have no one but Sam. What if Sam deserted him like their father? Dean had to stop it.
Castiel paused, too close to that werewolf, and raised his hand. He narrowed his eyes, tilting his head. Unless Dean acted, Castiel was going to die.
Dropping his empty gun, Dean curled his fingers into fists and charged, crying out to gain the werewolf’s attention. The werewolf swerved around and snarled at him. Dean leaped in the air and tackled the werewolf, who dodged his attack and shoved him toward Castiel. He crashed into Castiel’s shoulder, knocking them both to the ground.
Dean banged his head on the wooden barrier separating the playground from the park. The last he remembered before the world turned black was Castiel shouting a word, a very familiar word.
*
Blinds clattered against the windowpane, stirring Dean from sleep. He tried sitting up, but his body was heavy and hurt to move. He smashed his face into a pillow, breathing deeply, and beside his fingers he felt a chocolate mint under the pillow. His head was pounding and the area behind his right eye throbbed. The bed he rested upon sunk at the corner. Dean had no need to turn his head and see who sat on the edge. Pressing his face harder into the pillow, he waited for Castiel to speak, as Castiel seemed to spend the time waiting for Dean to awake by conjuring food for thought.
Castiel shifted and touched his hand to Dean’s leg. “How are you feeling?”
“Like shit,” croaked Dean. Grimacing, he rolled over onto his back and rubbed his hands over his face. “When’d we get to the motel? Don’t remember much of last night.”
“You had a concussion. Luckily I was able heal you.” He glanced down to Dean, frowned, then looked away. “What do you last remember?”
“It’s a little fuzzy, but I recall being-Where’s Sam?”
Castiel rose from the edge of the bed and paced across the room. “I see you have conveniently forgotten the more pivotal moments. Your brother, Dean, has become the werewolves’ next victim, but had you not crashed into me, your brother might be with us in this room.”
“Whoa, whoa. Wait, what?”
The memories returned, images of a werewolf coming from behind Castiel, ready to attack; Dean getting chucked at Castiel; the vague cry of a single syllabic word. Dean swerved around to spy about the room, noticing it was a single with a king sized mattress. Knots formed in his stomach and he fell back onto the bed, nursing a hand over his forehead.
“Had you not crashed into me-”
“What was I supposed to do? A werewolf was coming in on you. It could have killed you.”
“A werewolf isn’t going to kill me, Dean. It’s far too weak and insignificant. You’ve placed your brother into their hands. You worry about me dying, but Sam may be dead right now.”
“Okay! Okay!” Dean shrunk away from Castiel on reflex. “Relax, will ya? It’s okay. We’ll just track down the werewolves’ hide out, figure out a way to break in, get Sam, and torch the place.”
“You’ve neglected to remember you are at a dead end. You have no way to find out where their lair is.”
“Dude. Could you chill with the negativity? That’s not going to help finding Sam.”
“Whatever.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, as you humans so eloquently put it, ‘Whatever.’ ”
Castiel flew away with a single beat of his wings, leaving Dean to lie alone in the room, glaring at the spot from where he had flown.
*
Wrought iron bars crisscrossed to form a cage in the center of a murky basement. A leaky faucet dripped one drop after another in the sink in an unlit corner. Miniscule glass windows were caked in years of accumulation of dust, rays of light streaming through cracks under the glass. In the center of the cage stood a wicker chair. A man sat on the chair, his ankles tied to the back legs and his hands behind his back. Rope burns plagued his wrists from repeated pulling and tugging. The man’s head hung low. An innocent onlooker might steal a glance at him and assume he was asleep or even dead, but he was merely listening to the shuffle of feet approaching the basement door.
The doorknob turned, creaking from lack of grease, and footsteps entered. Click, clack. Click, clack. The man cracked open his eyes and regarded the wooden staircase leading from the basement door. Two pitch-black high heel boots strolled down the stairs. The boots came to pause before the cage, and the man lifted his head. His eyebrows shot into his forehead.
“You?” he said, surprised.
“Oh, Sam Winchester,” said the woman. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth. He licked his lips and shook his head. “But you’re-You-”
“Just a day job, Sam. But let’s not worry about me,” she said, hooking her fingers around the bars and twisting her mouth into a smile. “You definitely have some other things to bounce around in that big ol’ noggin’ of yours.” She leaned onto the cage, whispering through the bars, “Best be careful who you talk about dead bodies with, Sam. You never knew who’s holding the scalpel.”
*
For a good, long hour, Castiel’s parting words fermented in Dean’s brain. Dean lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, straining to remember Sam in imminent danger. A Trickster could be messing with Dean’s brain, making him believe in a reality where Sam had been kidnapped-or dead-and where Castiel seethed hatred at him. Absently, Dean retrieved the chocolate mint from beneath the pillow and let it melt in his mouth. The dull ache in his abdomen subsided for a brief moment, and Dean closed his eyes, feeling a rejuvenating lift.
Then the door to his room shot upon, a young college-aged couple stumbling into the room, mouths and tongues devouring their faces. Dean shot up from the bed, accidentally swallowing the chocolate before all could melt. The couple sprang away from each other, eyes wide, and Dean stared back at them, brows high in his forehead. The redness of their swollen lips was visible all the way from the bed.
“I’m just,” he said, inching off the bed, “gonna go now.”
Of course Castiel would zap him into a random motel room without bothering to pay the bill.
Safe in the Impala, Dean searched through Sam’s notes for a link, a clue they had not noticed pointing to the location of the werewolf’s lair. He dusted through the clippings and drove to a diner to scrounge up the day’s paper, but the answers were so bleak and unapparent, he crushed the newspapers into crumpled balls in his fists and chucked them to the backseat. He collapsed onto the steering wheel, shaking his head until his thoughts swam.
He drove to the playground and circled the block twice before parking and taking a stroll through the park. He crossed over onto the tanbark and retraced his movements from last night, cringing at the red stains on the wooden divider where his head must have crashed. He rubbed a hand on the side of his head, keeping on eye on the red stain as he traveled toward the balance beam.
Tanbark had been kicked around and the soft, moist ground beneath exposed. Must have been the struggle from capturing Sam, deduced Dean. He crouched and splayed his fingers over the footmarks, envisioning a recreation of the scene in his mind. The larger foot impression must have been Sam’s. By the abruptness of his marks, the werewolves must have come from behind. Circles of impressions surrounded the larger footprint. He had been ganged up, overthrown.
How could I have missed it?
The footprints then headed past the balance beam and out of the playground. Dean scratched his jaw, alternating his attention from the footsteps in the tanbark to the exiting footprints. Whether a possible lead or another dead end, Dean rose to a stand, then kicked tanbark over the footprints to hide the evidence from townsfolk. He made toward exiting the playground, but before he stepped foot over the dividers, he noticed a yellow substance nestled against a leg of the balance beam. He bent down and tapped the substance, sniffing his fingertip.
“Well, what do we have here?” he huffed, quirking a brow. “Sulfur.”
*
Dean took a breather at a bar and relaxed into a barstool at the counter, beer in hand and hypotheses brewing. A demon had been at the playground the entire time. It may have recognized Sam and him, ordered the werewolves to attack, and achieved in getting Sam, possibly for the street cred of having captured a Winchester. Sipping his beer, Dean dipped his brows into his eyes and pursed his lips-his thinking face, but the bartender kept glancing at him like Dean would throw back his chair and pick a fight.
He still had no leads, only more questions. The most important being why would a demon join forces with werewolves. Swigging his beer, Dean figured shouldn’t avoid the inevitable and dug through his pocket, pulling out his phone and flipping it open. Two new text messages greeted him like a slap in the face.
We need to talk - Castiel
Where are you? - Castiel
He deleted them without regret and dialed Bobby’s number.
The phone was ringing, but Bobby was taking his sweet old time picking up the phone. Dean drummed his fingers on his beer bottle, watching the cold air exiting the neck. After the third ring, a flicker of doubt filtered into his thoughts and his face mellowed into a blank expression.
Bobby was unlikely to take kindly at the news of Sam’s whereabouts. The exact reaction Dean predicted would sound an awful lot like: You what? Idgit, how the hell did you manage to get your own brother held hostage by a bunch of Goddamn werewolves with a personal vendetta against the world? No, I am not finished talking, ya’ nincompoop. Do you have any idea how stupid you are? And worthless? You sold your soul, Dean-your soul-and now you manage to get Sam killed anyway? You’re so Goddamn stupid, I-
He swigged his beer and snapped the phone shut, sucking in a haggard breath. He set the phone on the counter and kept it there. He trained his sights on the bowl of mixed nuts to his left, noticing out the corner of his eye that the bartender was edging toward him. “Great,” he muttered, bringing the beer to his lips. “Crying drunk.”
He tried calling Bobby a few minutes later, but drew blank as soon as he heard that voice again.
Well, no wonder John left you. You can’t even work a case by yourself. What the hell are you calling me for? You’re a hunter, so hunt. But then again, you never did graduate high school. Not exactly the brainiac of the family. No, that’s Sam. You’re the stupid one.
He hung up before he heard even the first ring and downed the rest of his beer. He jerked his hand and the bartender sauntered over with another bottle. Dean waved it away.
“Vodka, please,” he said.
He pulled the bowl of nuts closer to him and grabbed a handful. He threw his head back, slapped his hand over his mouth, and ground the nuts between his teeth. When he swallowed the clear, pure liquor in the shot glass awaiting him, he slapped his hand onto the counter for another, and swallowed in one go as soon as the glass arrived.
Then he dialed Bobby again.
I don’t understand why those angels even saved you. What did you do to end the apocalypse? Make Sam into Lucifer’s meat suit? Got Sam thrown in hell? You’re a good for nothing, Dean. You had a chance with Lisa to leave this life, but you weren’t even good enough for her to want to keep you. You’re worthless.
He requested several more shots, and as he swallowed he noticed the strength had started to taste watered down.
You’re a drunkard. You’re a fraud. You sleep in motels. Your only real home is a car. You once told me I’m the closest thing you have to a father, but I would never be proud to call you my son.
He hiccupped, running his fingers over the condensation on the walls of the new beer bottle he’d ordered. He took a sip. A pressure lodged in his throat. He tried reading the brands on the bottles of liquor on display, but found his vision to be blurred. He focused his attention on the counter. The lightening of the bar and finish of the counter was dark enough that he didn’t have to look too hard to see the countertop.
If you died today, it’d probably take a week to find the body. You’ve got no friends, and any friends you’ve got have a home of their own, and their worlds, as much as you’d wish otherwise, don’t revolve around you. No one would even want to attend your funeral because no one gives a shit if you live or die. That’s what you get, Dean, for being a hunter. Shame you’re not even that good of one.
*
Woken from sleep by an abrupt noise, Sam raised his head, squinting his eyes at the figure standing before the cage. It was the woman, the medical examiner, tapping her knuckles on the bars.
“Glad you’re up, sleeping beauty. Are you hungry?”
She paused, waiting for Sam to pass comment. He glowered at her through the strands of his hair obstructing his vision.
“Well, too bad. Those infants are taking up almost all of our reserves. You know, sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to set one of them on my examination tables. But no! The Master says we have other plans for them.” She walked around the perimeter of the cage, running her fingers over the bars.
“The Master was so glad to hear that we’ve managed to get you, Sam,” she said, stopping her walk somewhere behind him. “He’s a big buddy with a mutual friend of yours, a yellow-eyed guy. Ring any bells?”
Sam pulled at the rope tying his wrists, biting his lips as the burns in his skin chaffed.
“Getting a little anxious, there, huh, Sam? Don’t worry, I’m not a demon. Apparently I’m a werewolf. But wouldn’t know myself. Don’t exactly recall those moments when I’m changed. But I’m sure you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Sam? After all, didn’t you shoot one of my kind? And I’m not talking about my family you and your halfwit brother killed last night.”
She clicked her tongue at the increase of struggle. Circling around the cage, she came to a halt in front of him. She tapped her nails on the wrought iron bars. A smirk snaked its way onto her face.
“You know, speaking about your brother,” she perked her voice at the change of subject, “I was told he and a man wearing a trench coat were there at the playground last night. Seeing as you seem close to your brother and all, I figured I’d update you on what happened after you were dragged away.”
She glanced around the room and noticed a vacant chair abandoned against a wall. Pulling it up to the cage, she took a seat, crossing one leg over the other.
“Now, I wasn’t there last night. I finished up at the lab and then came home. But I did hear the gossip, of course, especially since I’m the one put in charge of keeping you company. Anyway, about last night… Apparently after you left, everyone got really excited, and figured, ‘Hey! Why not two for the price of one?’ Your brother picked a nice fight, but apparently not nice enough. He’s currently in one of those black body bags in my lab. Thought you’d like to know.”
Sam shook away the hair hanging over his face. “Well, don’t you like the sound of your own voice?”
“Touchy, touchy,” she teased. A beep came from her wristwatch. “Oh, shoot! I’m running late for work.”
She rose from the chair. Her high heel boots clacked on the cement basement floor as she strode to the stairs.
“What are you planning with the children?”
She spun around, lips curved. “Say something, Sam?”
Sam crooked his jaw. “The children. What do you want with them?”
“Nice question!” She stepped toward the cage. “Now I really shouldn’t answer that, but seeing as you’re just going to die of thirst and starvation, I really don’t see the harm. So what do you, Sam, as a hunter, see wrong with the picture of children that are raised as werewolves, trained to live as werewolves, made aware that they are werewolves, and shown how to blend under radar with humans in society?”
“You sound a little too confident with that grand plan of yours,” spat Sam. “And you know what they say about getting cocky.”
“What, Sam? What do they say?”
“That’s when you start making mistakes.”
She laughed. “Coming from the man tied to a chair inside a cage!”
“I call bullshit.” Sam leaned forward and lowered his voice. “My brother, Dean? Yeah, he’s not dead. And I don’t even have to bet you to know for a fact that not only does he know where your little hideout is, but he has a foolproof plan for breaking in here and killing those mutts you call family.”
“He’d have to kill the children, too, wouldn’t he?” She turned toward the stairs, shooting over her shoulder, “And I think we both know how easy killing all those little babies is going to be for a strong man like Dean.”
Her black boots disappeared up the stairs. The click of the door shutting echoed around the basement.
Part Two
Title: Decipher Reflections from Reality
Author: blaanidblaanid
Recipient: nightrider101
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 12,851
Warnings: alcohol abuse, swearing
Spoilers: 5.22
Summary: A casual investigation rises emotions out of Dean that had never been graced the light of day. One rash decision sets the course of his undoing, but is he alone with regret or does someone else feel the same?
Author notes: I crashed and burned trying to incorporate the second prompt, so that’s why you won’t be seeing that much of it! haha A shout out and thank you to my lovely beta, quovadimus83, for the speedy and insightful comments. This fanfic got longer that I’d anticipated, but oh well! :]
*
In the playground of a nondescript town in the heart of America, a seesaw tilted and tipped in the wind, rainwater from earlier that afternoon dripping from the metal handlebars onto slivers of tanbark. A faded yellow slide spiraling into the air was scuffed black with the remnants of little boys chasing little girls up the slippery slope. Cigarette butts clogged corners in the walls near a tic-tac-toe board and rickety bridge. Placing one tiny foot before the other in a slow, cautious stride, a little girl with braided pigtails and a bright red jacket walked with determination across the lone blue balance beam on the far edge of the playground. As she reached the end of the balance beam, she glanced toward a park bench where her father sat reading a novel.
“Daddy,” she said, voice hoarse. She cleared her throat and called across the playground, “Daddy! Daddy!”
Her father glanced at his wristwatch before rising and jogging toward her. He skipped over the wooden fence sheltering the tanbark and slowed to a walk as he neared the little girl. He crouched until she could peer down at him.
“What’s wrong?” he said, rubbing her arms. “Are you tired?”
“No, I am not tired,” she said, enunciating each word carefully, as her mother had explained to her the vital importance of proper grammar and pronunciation that morning over oatmeal and orange juice. She glanced over her father’s shoulder toward the vacant seesaw that rose and fell in the wind as though children were riding it.
“I want to go home,” she explained, catching her father’s eye.
He fingered the novel perched on his knee. The bookmark tucked in the center pages fluttered as a breeze brushed past the balance beam.
“We can’t leave until Mommy picks us up. She called me just a moment ago and said she’ll be here any minute.”
Her face constricted. “But I want to go now.”
“She’ll be here soon, don’t worry.” Catching sight of the seesaw, his eyes flickered with excitement. He bounced on his knees. “Hey, would you like to play with me?”
She frowned, but nodded. “Okay.”
He tucked the book in his inside coat pocket and scooped his daughter into his arms, grunting at her growing height and weight. He went to the seesaw in a pace between jogging and walking, keeping enough speed to distract the girl from wandering her gaze to shadowed trees and empty streets.
The moon hung full in the sky and illuminated the park so much that the lampposts served mediocre lighting. The father caught sight of the moon and paused near the spiraling slide. He extended an arm and pointed toward the black sky.
“See that? Some people say a man lives in the moon.”
“Nobody lives in the moon,” said the girl simply. “There’s no air in the moon.”
“That’s not true! A man lives in the moon and his home is made of cheese.”
“No, he doesn’t live on the moo-Daddy.”
The father was so caught in their banter that he failed to acknowledge the upward climb of fear and urgency in her voice. He rattled off spindling claims of a man on the moon, his house of cheese, and the notion that the entire moon was composed of cheese. He only stopped talking once his daughter squeezed both his shoulders hard and painfully.
“Daddy,” she choked, eyes round and widening further.
“What’s the matter, darling? Are you cold? You can wear my coat.”
Her grip on his shoulders tightened, the flesh under her nails turned a ghostly white-as did the color of her face. “Daddy,” she whispered, “behind you.”
*
The sweet taste of flapjacks and fried sausages scented the air of a roadside diner. A portly woman with a bubbly laugh poured freshly brewed coffee into half-full mugs. Bells rang as an order was filled, and the sharp ding could be heard through the stretch of the restaurant. In the booth farthest from the entrance and register, two men sat with an unattended plate of bacon and eggs accompanying them. One man hunched his shoulders over the table and the other wore a comically out-of-place trench coat.
“Must be real tough running Heaven all by yourself,” said Dean, spooning a liberal amount of pie into his mouth. Sitting directly across him, Castiel frowned at a plate of French fries. Sam was occupied in the restroom, disposing bodily wastes.
“I am not alone,” replied Castiel. “Anna is working hard, in addition to others from my garrison you have not met.”
Swallowing caramelized apples and buttery, flaky crust, Dean edged forward and rested his hand near the napkin dispenser Castiel was absently stroking. “I bet you don’t find much time to relax.”
“It’s my duty while God is away. I really have no choice.”
“I’m glad you came to see me-and Sam. Me and Sam. Sam and I.”
“Sam and me,” murmured Castiel.
“Right.”
Courage swelled inside his chest, and Dean reached his hand forward to close the gap between Castiel and himself. Entwining their fingers, Dean gazed at Castiel with soft eyes, unable to hide his smile at the sharp intake of air from the angel seated across the table.
“Dean,” Castiel gasped, “I find you sexually gratifying.”
“As do I, Cas,” said Dean, tracing his thumb over Castiel’s wrist. “As do I.”
“Dean!”
One atrociously loud honk later and Dean snapped to attention, eyesight bleary, and discovered he sat in the passenger seat of the Impala. He witnessed no spoonfuls of apple pie or Castiel in his grasp. There was only Sam behind the wheel looking smug. Dean groaned and turned toward the passenger window.
“Dean, has anyone ever told you that you talk in your sleep?” said Sam. Dean couldn’t see it, but he could feel the insidious grin Sam wore.
“What’d I say?”
“Oh,” drawled Sam, “nothing much.”
“Sam.”
“Something we both know. Or, shall I say, someone.”
Dean’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second and his heartbeat quickened. In moments such as this, Dean saved himself from undesirable conversation through swift change of subject matter.
“We’re parked at a motel?” he said, swiveling around to spy Sam’s reaction.
Sam narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, and the gears in that massive, Stanford-educated brain visibly turned and switched. Sam directed an obnoxious knowing look at Dean-or perhaps Sam was unknowing. Or perhaps he wasn’t. Dean hoped the words uttered as he slept had not betrayed him, but he could not be positive. A digression in conversation was the only sure course of action. And so Dean repeated himself, “We’re at a motel? Any reason?”
“Yeah, actually. I found a case for us while you were sleeping.”
Sam tapped an uncapped pen against the steering wheel, and it was then that Dean noticed the newspapers littered over Sam’s lap. The laptop rested on the dashboard, a light flashing on and off indicating the power was still running, despite the monitor being clamped shut.
Dean rubbed his neck, blowing out a sigh. “When’d we get here?”
“Not too long ago. Maybe one or two hours. Got something to eat while you were knocked out. Read the paper.”
Dean huffed, but gestured for a newspaper. Sam handed him a page with red circles and notes jotted in the margins. As Dean dove into the chicken-scratch, a vibration in his pocket stung his thigh. He dug for his cell phone, flipped it open, and grew intrigued at the sight of an incoming text message to his inbox. At first notice of the sender, he shrank into his seat and raised the newspaper to shelter him from Sam’s curious glances.
Hello. Where are you? - Castiel
Dean grumbled and found himself replying in an instant.
everywhere and anywhere. why? do you need me?
He stared at his blue jeans as he sent the reply, cursing the moment text messaging had first given him more of a thrill than waitresses with short skirts and nylon pantyhose. Not too long ago Sam had shown Castiel how to send a text message to facilitate keeping in contact. Since then Castiel sent Dean random texts and always signed with a signature at the end. Castiel constantly sent messages, and each time Dean felt like the text was meant for his eyes only, a specialized message. But the messages were for Sam and him, not only Dean. He shoved his phone back in his pocket and settled into Sam’s notes. His phone vibrated a moment later with a message, but he ignored it-and the jump in his chest.
“Father murdered and child gone without a trace?” A crease formed between his brows. “Isn’t there another case like this in a town nearby?”
“And the town we just left,” Sam added. “The first two cases mentioned the parents’ hearts were missing from the bodies. Same with this one.”
“Got an address?”
“To the park or the father’s body?”
“Either.”
“Got both.”
“Great.” Dean folded his newspaper and tossed it in the backseat. “Now get away from the wheel.”
After a pit stop for a hearty lunch, the Winchesters found themselves donning translucent plastic gloves while a tiny, copper-haired medical examiner rattled off the information gathered of the recently deceased man in the body bag in front of them.
“He has claw marks all over his chest and arms, which is…weird.” The medical examiner hugged a clipboard closer to her chest and pursed her lips into a tight, nervous smile. “His clothes were torn to shreds. It’s almost like he was mauled by a large bear.”
Elbowing Sam in the ribs, Dean raised his eyebrows, muttering, “ ‘Mauled by a large bear.’ ”
“Shut it,” shot Sam.
“Oh!” piped the medical examiner. “Something the matter?” She slid her wire-framed glasses up her nose, magnified eyes blinking thrice.
Pulled out from the wall cabinets of the deceased, forty-year-old Jason Nichols lay with white lips and a pallid discoloration to his face and skin. Scratches littered his arms and exposed the bones of his forearm and wrists. Chest unrecognizable, a chasm dove into his ribcage, a dark, empty hole where his heart should have rested. Sam squatted to be leveled with the body, straining to observe as much of the body as possible without prompting the medical examiner to suspect his motives.
“When was the body found? Do you know?” Sam asked.
“I’m not really authorized to tell you that, though it’s not like you’re going to go off and do anything criminal. You are Inspectors, after all.”
She beckoned them to come closer, and the three of them leaned over the corpse like grey-haired spinsters chuckling over biscuits and tea.
“The mother had swung by the park to pick up the father and daughter after her nursing class. When she called the father but he never picked up, she decided to head into the park and check it out. Got to the playground, noticed a trail of blood leading near the slide. She went over to check it out, and then”-she tapped the metal bed on which the man rested-“she found this guy all bloodied and mangled. Daughter’s been kidnapped. No one knows where.”
Dean felt sick to his stomach. He turned to look at Sam, who mirrored his movements, expression grim.
“Oh, wait, you wanted to know the time of death, right?” The examiner reached for the zipper to seal the body bag. “The father was found around ten past nine, but he died around eight-thirty.”
She zipped over the man’s face, muttering as the zipper nearly caught on the tip of his nose. Once she pushed the corpse back into its slot, she dusted her hands on her lab coat and gazed at the brothers with her round eyes magnified behind her wire-framed glasses. Flakes of various hues colored her irises, drawing the brothers into her like a seagulls to reflecting glass, vultures to rotting flesh.
“Anything else you’d like to know? We don’t get many cases like this being a small town and all.”
Dean inhaled sharply and shook himself awake, feeling the start of a headache beginning. “No, that would be all. My partner and I have all we need.”
“Well, I’m glad to have been a help to your investigation,” she told them, smiling brightly.
*
In the forgotten moments between night and morning, Dean and Sam parked on the block of the playground where the missing daughter had last been seen. Their hypothesis was the werewolves might return to scout for more victims. They had few leads as to where the hideout for the werewolves was located. Or if the werewolves even knew they were werewolves. Or if there was even more than one werewolf, for that matter. The ideal scenario was a werewolf would show its face and lead them back to wherever it lived, but the stakeout seemed to be business as usual. The brothers waited in the car for a sign, prepared to run to the trunk for ammunition at moments’ notice.
Despite occasional cooing birds and melodic chirps of crickets, the only noise to pierce the still night air was the patters and pings from beneath the hood of the Impala. Dean tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and Sam flicked his attention across the pages of a worn text. Exhalations froze in the air after each breath they drew, and Dean had an itch in his stomach to crank the radio and fill the car with hot-tempered noise. Yet he kept watch and stayed vigilant. Sam glanced up from his book every other thirty seconds. For a while neither saw a suspicious movement, then a noise pitched clear through the gentle silence-a smooth, hungry howl.
Sam chucked his book at the back seat and the brothers shot open their doors and swung their feet outside. Dean crossed along the Impala in three long strides, unlocked the trunk, and set a shotgun to keep the divider suspended over the weaponry. He grunted a greeting when Sam arrived, and loaded a handgun with silver bullets. He snapped the barrel back in place and passed the gun to Sam before loading three more. Sam dug through the collection of silver knives and placed blades in his shoes, belt loops, over his wrists. In less than a minute, the brothers wordlessly armed themselves, slammed shut the trunk, locked the doors, and stepped onto the sidewalk and through the park entrance.
The police had cleared the yellow tape guarding the playground earlier in the day, but had gone door-to-door and warned people from venturing around the park at night. A gust of wind swept through the winding path leading to the playground. Dean rolled his shoulders against the wind while Sam quickened his pace.
“How many do you think there’ll be?” asked Sam.
Dean shrugged. “Enough.”
A howl followed by an echoing chorus cut through the silence. By the time the brothers neared the light blue balance beam alone at the edge of the playground, growls and the grinding of teeth were as present in the air as the crickets chirping into the quiet of night. Dean gestured for Sam to cover the east side. At Sam’s confirming nod, they separated.
Dean flicked his gaze left to right, clicking in place the bullets in his gun. At the first sight of a werewolf, he was going to shoot. A mantra in his head repeated over and over: Shoot first, questions later. Shoot first, questions later. Shoot-
Sam shot first. Dean swerved around toward the direction the fire originated, but he never made a full turn because clawed fists pounded onto his back. He soared through the air and crashed onto the tanbark, narrowly missing bashing his head onto a metal support beam.
He rolled over, splinters littering the back of his signature leather jacket, to be met with honey yellow irises and saliva dripping onto his cheek. A person that was no longer a person but transformed into a werewolf dug their claws into his chest, keeping him grounded. Dean slithered his hand with the gun up as far as he could manage. Cocking a brow, he slipped on a smirk.
“Nice entrance,” he said. “Hope you like the exit.” He pulled the trigger and relished in the feel of the bullet’s momentum pushing back on him.
The werewolf’s eyes flashed a burning yellow before losing focus. Muscles limp from the absence of life, the werewolf collapsed onto Dean, who rolled it onto the tanbark.
Jumping upright, Dean scanned the park and counted the heads of the werewolves closing in on him. Including the wolf he just killed, the total was thirteen. “Sam!” he shouted. “I’m seeing twelve of them. What’ve you got?”
“Same!”
Twisting his back to crack the knuckles along his spine, Dean arched a brow and let a chuckle pass his lips. “All right, guys! Come at me.”
He stabbed and shot and punched his way through as many wolves as he could until a wolf larger than Sam approached from behind and wrestled Dean into a headlock. From the noise of whoops and hollers around him, he predicted Sam was facing a similar predicament. The werewolf squeezed the breath out of Dean and an arm wrapped around his waist to pin down his arms. Dean kicked his legs, and succeeded in smacking his ankle on a support beam. The arm suffocating him tightened around his neck. Dean’s vision faded in and out, his lips prickling.
A thought popped into his head-so ridiculous that he doubted it would work, but no more useless than useful. With all the air left in his lungs, he tightened the muscles in his diaphragm and bellowed: “Now’s the time, Cas!”
He blinked, and then the werewolf choking him dropped to the ground. Dean stumbled, reached for a figure to cling to, and wound up grabbing a warm, solid mass. As he opened his eyes, he promptly shut them again.
“Another nice entrance.”
“You’ve never called me under such pretenses,” commented Castiel, gazing at Dean’s hand clutching his forearm.
Catching sight of a werewolf about to tackle Castiel, Dean grabbed his gun and aimed. A bullet sliced through the air and the werewolf dropped dead. Dean indulged himself with looking Castiel over, partially ashamed at the warmth in his stomach ignited by the sight of that tax accountant trench coat.
Castiel’s blue eyes were intent on an action in the distance. Castiel stepped around the spiraling slide and toward the sight capturing his undivided attention. When a werewolf came, he outstretched his hand and pressed his fingertips to their forehead, and with a soft groaning howl, the werewolf collapsed onto the tanbark. Dean guarded his back, shooting down the werewolves forced into sleep.
When Dean dove into hunting, he tended to block out the rest of the world. There was his gun and him and that exhilarating euphoria after eradicating evil from the world. At times Dean felt overwhelmed by how much evil existed, but then he remembered that good existed as well.
Castiel, thought Dean, gazing at the angel, whose face was hard in concentration. Dean shot down a werewolf he saw out the corner of his eye darting across the seesaw that moved on its own accord. He remembered from his dream the touch of Castiel’s wrist under his fingertips, yet more vividly recalled the strength in that arm he clutched when Castiel saved him from the abnormally large werewolf. Though his hands clutched a gun, Dean swore he saw himself reach out with quivering fingers and trace the threadwork on that trench coat-that damn trench coat.
When sound returned to his ears Dean stumbled at the magnitude. He pressed his palms on the sides of his head; eyes squeezed shut. A howl seeped through the cracks of his fingers and pounded inside his ears. He dropped his gun by accident, and had not noticed until he opened his eyes at saw a snarling werewolf approaching Castiel from behind. Dean wondered how Castiel had not seen the werewolf after he had charged through the others without drawing a sweat. He shook himself awake because in moment such as this there was no time to wonder. He swiped his gun from the ground, dragging with it splinters from the tanbark, and aimed at the werewolf’s skull. He pulled the trigger only to hear a hollow click.
Castiel was looking at something at the other side of the playground, near the balance beam and endless stretch of tanbark. Dean looked from Castiel to the werewolf, frantically pulling the trigger. Why hadn’t Castiel noticed the werewolf? What if it killed him? Dean would have no one but Sam. What if Sam deserted him like their father? Dean had to stop it.
Castiel paused, too close to that werewolf, and raised his hand. He narrowed his eyes, tilting his head. Unless Dean acted, Castiel was going to die.
Dropping his empty gun, Dean curled his fingers into fists and charged, crying out to gain the werewolf’s attention. The werewolf swerved around and snarled at him. Dean leaped in the air and tackled the werewolf, who dodged his attack and shoved him toward Castiel. He crashed into Castiel’s shoulder, knocking them both to the ground.
Dean banged his head on the wooden barrier separating the playground from the park. The last he remembered before the world turned black was Castiel shouting a word, a very familiar word.
*
Blinds clattered against the windowpane, stirring Dean from sleep. He tried sitting up, but his body was heavy and hurt to move. He smashed his face into a pillow, breathing deeply, and beside his fingers he felt a chocolate mint under the pillow. His head was pounding and the area behind his right eye throbbed. The bed he rested upon sunk at the corner. Dean had no need to turn his head and see who sat on the edge. Pressing his face harder into the pillow, he waited for Castiel to speak, as Castiel seemed to spend the time waiting for Dean to awake by conjuring food for thought.
Castiel shifted and touched his hand to Dean’s leg. “How are you feeling?”
“Like shit,” croaked Dean. Grimacing, he rolled over onto his back and rubbed his hands over his face. “When’d we get to the motel? Don’t remember much of last night.”
“You had a concussion. Luckily I was able heal you.” He glanced down to Dean, frowned, then looked away. “What do you last remember?”
“It’s a little fuzzy, but I recall being-Where’s Sam?”
Castiel rose from the edge of the bed and paced across the room. “I see you have conveniently forgotten the more pivotal moments. Your brother, Dean, has become the werewolves’ next victim, but had you not crashed into me, your brother might be with us in this room.”
“Whoa, whoa. Wait, what?”
The memories returned, images of a werewolf coming from behind Castiel, ready to attack; Dean getting chucked at Castiel; the vague cry of a single syllabic word. Dean swerved around to spy about the room, noticing it was a single with a king sized mattress. Knots formed in his stomach and he fell back onto the bed, nursing a hand over his forehead.
“Had you not crashed into me-”
“What was I supposed to do? A werewolf was coming in on you. It could have killed you.”
“A werewolf isn’t going to kill me, Dean. It’s far too weak and insignificant. You’ve placed your brother into their hands. You worry about me dying, but Sam may be dead right now.”
“Okay! Okay!” Dean shrunk away from Castiel on reflex. “Relax, will ya? It’s okay. We’ll just track down the werewolves’ hide out, figure out a way to break in, get Sam, and torch the place.”
“You’ve neglected to remember you are at a dead end. You have no way to find out where their lair is.”
“Dude. Could you chill with the negativity? That’s not going to help finding Sam.”
“Whatever.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said, as you humans so eloquently put it, ‘Whatever.’ ”
Castiel flew away with a single beat of his wings, leaving Dean to lie alone in the room, glaring at the spot from where he had flown.
*
Wrought iron bars crisscrossed to form a cage in the center of a murky basement. A leaky faucet dripped one drop after another in the sink in an unlit corner. Miniscule glass windows were caked in years of accumulation of dust, rays of light streaming through cracks under the glass. In the center of the cage stood a wicker chair. A man sat on the chair, his ankles tied to the back legs and his hands behind his back. Rope burns plagued his wrists from repeated pulling and tugging. The man’s head hung low. An innocent onlooker might steal a glance at him and assume he was asleep or even dead, but he was merely listening to the shuffle of feet approaching the basement door.
The doorknob turned, creaking from lack of grease, and footsteps entered. Click, clack. Click, clack. The man cracked open his eyes and regarded the wooden staircase leading from the basement door. Two pitch-black high heel boots strolled down the stairs. The boots came to pause before the cage, and the man lifted his head. His eyebrows shot into his forehead.
“You?” he said, surprised.
“Oh, Sam Winchester,” said the woman. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth. He licked his lips and shook his head. “But you’re-You-”
“Just a day job, Sam. But let’s not worry about me,” she said, hooking her fingers around the bars and twisting her mouth into a smile. “You definitely have some other things to bounce around in that big ol’ noggin’ of yours.” She leaned onto the cage, whispering through the bars, “Best be careful who you talk about dead bodies with, Sam. You never knew who’s holding the scalpel.”
*
For a good, long hour, Castiel’s parting words fermented in Dean’s brain. Dean lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, straining to remember Sam in imminent danger. A Trickster could be messing with Dean’s brain, making him believe in a reality where Sam had been kidnapped-or dead-and where Castiel seethed hatred at him. Absently, Dean retrieved the chocolate mint from beneath the pillow and let it melt in his mouth. The dull ache in his abdomen subsided for a brief moment, and Dean closed his eyes, feeling a rejuvenating lift.
Then the door to his room shot upon, a young college-aged couple stumbling into the room, mouths and tongues devouring their faces. Dean shot up from the bed, accidentally swallowing the chocolate before all could melt. The couple sprang away from each other, eyes wide, and Dean stared back at them, brows high in his forehead. The redness of their swollen lips was visible all the way from the bed.
“I’m just,” he said, inching off the bed, “gonna go now.”
Of course Castiel would zap him into a random motel room without bothering to pay the bill.
Safe in the Impala, Dean searched through Sam’s notes for a link, a clue they had not noticed pointing to the location of the werewolf’s lair. He dusted through the clippings and drove to a diner to scrounge up the day’s paper, but the answers were so bleak and unapparent, he crushed the newspapers into crumpled balls in his fists and chucked them to the backseat. He collapsed onto the steering wheel, shaking his head until his thoughts swam.
He drove to the playground and circled the block twice before parking and taking a stroll through the park. He crossed over onto the tanbark and retraced his movements from last night, cringing at the red stains on the wooden divider where his head must have crashed. He rubbed a hand on the side of his head, keeping on eye on the red stain as he traveled toward the balance beam.
Tanbark had been kicked around and the soft, moist ground beneath exposed. Must have been the struggle from capturing Sam, deduced Dean. He crouched and splayed his fingers over the footmarks, envisioning a recreation of the scene in his mind. The larger foot impression must have been Sam’s. By the abruptness of his marks, the werewolves must have come from behind. Circles of impressions surrounded the larger footprint. He had been ganged up, overthrown.
How could I have missed it?
The footprints then headed past the balance beam and out of the playground. Dean scratched his jaw, alternating his attention from the footsteps in the tanbark to the exiting footprints. Whether a possible lead or another dead end, Dean rose to a stand, then kicked tanbark over the footprints to hide the evidence from townsfolk. He made toward exiting the playground, but before he stepped foot over the dividers, he noticed a yellow substance nestled against a leg of the balance beam. He bent down and tapped the substance, sniffing his fingertip.
“Well, what do we have here?” he huffed, quirking a brow. “Sulfur.”
*
Dean took a breather at a bar and relaxed into a barstool at the counter, beer in hand and hypotheses brewing. A demon had been at the playground the entire time. It may have recognized Sam and him, ordered the werewolves to attack, and achieved in getting Sam, possibly for the street cred of having captured a Winchester. Sipping his beer, Dean dipped his brows into his eyes and pursed his lips-his thinking face, but the bartender kept glancing at him like Dean would throw back his chair and pick a fight.
He still had no leads, only more questions. The most important being why would a demon join forces with werewolves. Swigging his beer, Dean figured shouldn’t avoid the inevitable and dug through his pocket, pulling out his phone and flipping it open. Two new text messages greeted him like a slap in the face.
We need to talk - Castiel
Where are you? - Castiel
He deleted them without regret and dialed Bobby’s number.
The phone was ringing, but Bobby was taking his sweet old time picking up the phone. Dean drummed his fingers on his beer bottle, watching the cold air exiting the neck. After the third ring, a flicker of doubt filtered into his thoughts and his face mellowed into a blank expression.
Bobby was unlikely to take kindly at the news of Sam’s whereabouts. The exact reaction Dean predicted would sound an awful lot like: You what? Idgit, how the hell did you manage to get your own brother held hostage by a bunch of Goddamn werewolves with a personal vendetta against the world? No, I am not finished talking, ya’ nincompoop. Do you have any idea how stupid you are? And worthless? You sold your soul, Dean-your soul-and now you manage to get Sam killed anyway? You’re so Goddamn stupid, I-
He swigged his beer and snapped the phone shut, sucking in a haggard breath. He set the phone on the counter and kept it there. He trained his sights on the bowl of mixed nuts to his left, noticing out the corner of his eye that the bartender was edging toward him. “Great,” he muttered, bringing the beer to his lips. “Crying drunk.”
He tried calling Bobby a few minutes later, but drew blank as soon as he heard that voice again.
Well, no wonder John left you. You can’t even work a case by yourself. What the hell are you calling me for? You’re a hunter, so hunt. But then again, you never did graduate high school. Not exactly the brainiac of the family. No, that’s Sam. You’re the stupid one.
He hung up before he heard even the first ring and downed the rest of his beer. He jerked his hand and the bartender sauntered over with another bottle. Dean waved it away.
“Vodka, please,” he said.
He pulled the bowl of nuts closer to him and grabbed a handful. He threw his head back, slapped his hand over his mouth, and ground the nuts between his teeth. When he swallowed the clear, pure liquor in the shot glass awaiting him, he slapped his hand onto the counter for another, and swallowed in one go as soon as the glass arrived.
Then he dialed Bobby again.
I don’t understand why those angels even saved you. What did you do to end the apocalypse? Make Sam into Lucifer’s meat suit? Got Sam thrown in hell? You’re a good for nothing, Dean. You had a chance with Lisa to leave this life, but you weren’t even good enough for her to want to keep you. You’re worthless.
He requested several more shots, and as he swallowed he noticed the strength had started to taste watered down.
You’re a drunkard. You’re a fraud. You sleep in motels. Your only real home is a car. You once told me I’m the closest thing you have to a father, but I would never be proud to call you my son.
He hiccupped, running his fingers over the condensation on the walls of the new beer bottle he’d ordered. He took a sip. A pressure lodged in his throat. He tried reading the brands on the bottles of liquor on display, but found his vision to be blurred. He focused his attention on the counter. The lightening of the bar and finish of the counter was dark enough that he didn’t have to look too hard to see the countertop.
If you died today, it’d probably take a week to find the body. You’ve got no friends, and any friends you’ve got have a home of their own, and their worlds, as much as you’d wish otherwise, don’t revolve around you. No one would even want to attend your funeral because no one gives a shit if you live or die. That’s what you get, Dean, for being a hunter. Shame you’re not even that good of one.
*
Woken from sleep by an abrupt noise, Sam raised his head, squinting his eyes at the figure standing before the cage. It was the woman, the medical examiner, tapping her knuckles on the bars.
“Glad you’re up, sleeping beauty. Are you hungry?”
She paused, waiting for Sam to pass comment. He glowered at her through the strands of his hair obstructing his vision.
“Well, too bad. Those infants are taking up almost all of our reserves. You know, sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to set one of them on my examination tables. But no! The Master says we have other plans for them.” She walked around the perimeter of the cage, running her fingers over the bars.
“The Master was so glad to hear that we’ve managed to get you, Sam,” she said, stopping her walk somewhere behind him. “He’s a big buddy with a mutual friend of yours, a yellow-eyed guy. Ring any bells?”
Sam pulled at the rope tying his wrists, biting his lips as the burns in his skin chaffed.
“Getting a little anxious, there, huh, Sam? Don’t worry, I’m not a demon. Apparently I’m a werewolf. But wouldn’t know myself. Don’t exactly recall those moments when I’m changed. But I’m sure you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Sam? After all, didn’t you shoot one of my kind? And I’m not talking about my family you and your halfwit brother killed last night.”
She clicked her tongue at the increase of struggle. Circling around the cage, she came to a halt in front of him. She tapped her nails on the wrought iron bars. A smirk snaked its way onto her face.
“You know, speaking about your brother,” she perked her voice at the change of subject, “I was told he and a man wearing a trench coat were there at the playground last night. Seeing as you seem close to your brother and all, I figured I’d update you on what happened after you were dragged away.”
She glanced around the room and noticed a vacant chair abandoned against a wall. Pulling it up to the cage, she took a seat, crossing one leg over the other.
“Now, I wasn’t there last night. I finished up at the lab and then came home. But I did hear the gossip, of course, especially since I’m the one put in charge of keeping you company. Anyway, about last night… Apparently after you left, everyone got really excited, and figured, ‘Hey! Why not two for the price of one?’ Your brother picked a nice fight, but apparently not nice enough. He’s currently in one of those black body bags in my lab. Thought you’d like to know.”
Sam shook away the hair hanging over his face. “Well, don’t you like the sound of your own voice?”
“Touchy, touchy,” she teased. A beep came from her wristwatch. “Oh, shoot! I’m running late for work.”
She rose from the chair. Her high heel boots clacked on the cement basement floor as she strode to the stairs.
“What are you planning with the children?”
She spun around, lips curved. “Say something, Sam?”
Sam crooked his jaw. “The children. What do you want with them?”
“Nice question!” She stepped toward the cage. “Now I really shouldn’t answer that, but seeing as you’re just going to die of thirst and starvation, I really don’t see the harm. So what do you, Sam, as a hunter, see wrong with the picture of children that are raised as werewolves, trained to live as werewolves, made aware that they are werewolves, and shown how to blend under radar with humans in society?”
“You sound a little too confident with that grand plan of yours,” spat Sam. “And you know what they say about getting cocky.”
“What, Sam? What do they say?”
“That’s when you start making mistakes.”
She laughed. “Coming from the man tied to a chair inside a cage!”
“I call bullshit.” Sam leaned forward and lowered his voice. “My brother, Dean? Yeah, he’s not dead. And I don’t even have to bet you to know for a fact that not only does he know where your little hideout is, but he has a foolproof plan for breaking in here and killing those mutts you call family.”
“He’d have to kill the children, too, wouldn’t he?” She turned toward the stairs, shooting over her shoulder, “And I think we both know how easy killing all those little babies is going to be for a strong man like Dean.”
Her black boots disappeared up the stairs. The click of the door shutting echoed around the basement.
Part Two