[FIC] Decipher Reflections from Reality (2 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! :]
Part One
Dean was mildly aware of the hot tears spilling down his cheeks. He gulped the last of his beer and kept the motion of gulping even after draining the last drops from the bottle. His phone vibrated with an incoming message. He swiped the phone off the counter and flipped it open.
Dean, where are you? - Castiel
Fumbling with the numbered buttons, he replied to Castiel with I’n noowhre spdific what boutt you.
A breath after he pressed send the phone vibrated with a reply.
Where are you? - Castiel
come finnd me
Dean never sent that message because he collapsed onto the counter before his thumb grazed the button. He dragged the empty beer bottle to his lips and inhaled the alcohol-scented air, mumbling incoherent clips and phrases until a semi-audible series of, “Cas, Cas, Cas,” bubbled out his lips. The men’s restroom door banged open. Moments later a disgruntled Castiel placed a hand on his shoulder. Dean didn’t flinch.
“Hel-lo,” hiccupped Dean.
Castiel furrowed his eyebrows. “What happened to you?”
“Called Bobby. Dude never answered. I drank.”
Castiel flicked his gaze to the beer bottle perched on Dean’s mouth. He took a seat on the barstool to the right of Dean and reached to remove the beer bottle, but Dean growled and swatted his hand away, curling in on himself and sucking on the lip of the bottle. Castiel kept a hand on Dean’s shoulder.
“Is this about Sam?” he said.
Dean whimpered and cut himself off as soon as he realized he had whimpered.
“Dean, I want to apologize,” said Castiel. He rubbed Dean’s shoulder, which made Dean hum as his back had several knots due to hunching over the counter. “I was perhaps a little too harsh earlier. However pointless it was to try and save me, I am grateful you did. I’m also sorry about saying you allowed Sam to be kidnapped. I was too swept up in the moment.”
Dean set the beer bottle upright. “Dude, don’t be sorry. You’re right. I’m useless and a sucky hunter.”
Castiel tilted his head at the usage of “sucky” and the motion of his hand on Dean’s shoulder slowed a fraction. “Dean, you are not useless.”
“Sam’s dead ‘cause of me.”
“We have reason to believe Sam is not dead.”
At that new, insightful information, Dean turned his attention away from staring blankly at the countertop to Castiel. “Sam’s dead. Bobby said so.”
“I thought Bobby never answered your calls.”
Dean harrumphed.
“You are not useless, Dean. To me, you have….” Castiel frowned, his hand on Dean’s shoulder stilled. “You have a lot of worth.”
“But you’re just one person.”
Castiel pulled his bottom lip into his mouth and chewed on it, which fascinated Dean to no end. Dean rationalized it was the alcohol, but the limited lighting of the bar illuminated Castiel’s head and created a halo above his crown. It was so beautiful Dean wanted to touch it. He extended his hand to where he believed the halo to be, only to comb his fingers through Castiel’s hair. The black hair felt soft under his skin, so he continued running his fingers over it.
“Has anyone ever told you how blue your eyes are?” he murmured.
Castiel looked torn between wanting to relax into Dean’s hand or run away from the bar.
“Technically these are Jimmy’s eyes.”
“I guess so. Jimmy has nice hair. Soft.”
“I can see that.”
Dean stretched his jaw for a loud yawn. “Well, I’m spent. Zap me to the Impala? It’s a long walk to the parking lot.”
The space of time when Castiel contemplated the request and fulfilled it went unnoticed by Dean. By the time he realized he was in the backseat of the Impala, leaning into Castiel’s side, Dean was more preoccupied with finding a comfortable position for sleeping. He rubbed his cheek on Castiel’s arm, smacking his lips, and yawned a final time.
“Don’t tell Bobby,” he mumbled, “like anything. Especially….”
Castiel never heard Dean’s concluding thought.
Not knowing the course of action one should take when a drunken person falls asleep on one’s shoulder, Castiel settled with folding his hands in his lap and passing the hours Dean slept with waiting for him to wake up.
*
Ripples in the water extended from the focal point of the lake to the graveled shore. The wooden dock housed the chair Dean occupied. Pebbles of different sizes and varying hues gathered in Dean’s lap. He selected a burgundy pebble he suspected was actually a stone and chucked it out toward the center of the lake. He skipped stones with the first few pebbles, but found more satisfaction in throwing and viewing the grand explosion of water.
Castiel stood behind him-Dean had been aware since the first pebble was thrown-but neither spoke a word. The silence was comforting for the moment. But soon Dean felt somewhere in his heart of hearts that Castiel had a thought to voice. He waited until the last pebble sunk into the water to lean his head back and look at the angel. Castiel lowered his gaze from the trees bordering the lake to Dean.
“You know where Sam is,” said Dean, unquestioning.
“Yes, he is trapped in a basement. I have seen the house.”
Castiel’s eyes were always an unnerving shade of blue, but Dean could peer into his eyes as long as he wanted when they spoke at the lake. He felt centered, invincible here. Castiel’s penetrating stare lost its intimidation when at the lake.
“Why didn’t you try to save him?”
“It was not my job to save him.”
“It’s mine.”
“It’s only yours.”
Dean looked out past the lake, beyond the trees, and into the sky. A free bird stretched its wings and soared into the horizon.
“Take me there.”
*
Extraneous effort was required, yet Sam succeeded in loosening the rope tying his wrists. Light from the setting sun seeped through the cracks under the cramp, grimy windows. The woman had not visited him since morning. She had arrived for a brief exchange of information.
“Tonight is the night we pay respect to the Master,” she had said. “He will turn the last of the children and their initiation into the pack will begin. You’re invited, Sam.”
She developed a twitch in her neck and found difficulty in staring at Sam for too long. Her excited grin was wide and broad on her face. “You’ll be moving into the main room at dusk. I won’t be there to move you.”
Pulling a chair over to the cage, she took a seat and crossed her legs, setting her hands in her lap.
“We may have some guests tonight,” she said, neck twitching. “People close to you. You think you’ll be seeing a ghost, but if you don’t try anything, maybe the Master will let them live.” Her face became somber as she gazed at Sam.
“Last night, the last of the children who could be turned were. The unfit ones will have to be taken care of. I know it will be hard for you to witness their killings, but I promise we’ll kill them after we kill the guests. I’m sure our guests’ death will have a great impact on you.” A beep came from her wristwatch. She frowned, rising from the chairs. “It seems I’m running late for work again.” She smiled. “Goodbye, Sam. We’ll be seeing each other later tonight, but I can’t promise I’ll be myself.”
As she left, a parchment fell from her pocket and managed to soar through the bars and land a hand reach away from Sam. At first he glared at it, but ceased as soon as he felt the rope around his wrists slip from its slack. He waited until the basement door clicked shut and tried persistently hours after she left to pull a hand free. He acquired sufficient wiggle room, but the rope burns screamed anytime he moved. Squeezing his eyes closed, he counted to three, sneaking no spare seconds between numbers, and ripped a hand out from the rope. He gasped, unable to vocalize the pain lest he wanted to attract attention, and scooted the chair toward the parchment, reaching with shaking fingers. He exposed a wrist, dabbed a finger on the blood dripping from ripped skin, and wrote a message.
*
At night the walls were paper-thin. She heard voices through the walls, cries and screams, low whines. She huddled in the corner of an unfurnished, windowless room with two other girls. Time was static in the room, but one of the girls had a wristwatch with the hour and date. Two days had passed outside of the room since that night in the park. She wanted to hug her father, but his blood stained the front of her shirt and thought of him reminded her of his final moments.
Occasionally the door was opened and loaves of bread and bruised fruit tossed into the room. The girls dove for them and scampered back to the corner for they felt safer far from the door and with a solid surface behind their backs.
Her body was tired. Her muscles ached. The weight of knowledge pressed down on her. She wanted a hug, but the other girls had been kept in the room longer and forgotten the significance of touch.
*
“Not too shabby, huh?”
Dean peered out the window beside Castiel, killing the engine with a turn of his wrist. A steep, narrow house sat unlit on the corner of a silent street with tall, looming trees visible from the sidewalk bordering the backyard-a warning that kept joggers and dog walkers from lingering around in daytime for longer than necessary.
“So he’s in the basement, right?” said Dean.
Castiel nodded. “Yes.”
As they had favored stealth and inconspicuousness, they exited the car already armed, without requiring a trip to the trunk. Dean clutched a shotgun loaded with silver bullets while Castiel kept his sword tucked under his sleeve. Castiel, graced with the ability to discern the condition of everything and anything with the casual shift in his gaze, mapped out the weak points of the house and pinpointed the safest route to enter the basement. When the best path was discovered he placed his hand on Dean and zapped them out of the street.
“What the-don’t do that,” hissed Dean, distancing from Castiel.
He collided the crook of his elbow against the wrought iron cage; his eyes screwed shut and the muscles of his cheek pinched as he let out a steady breath. He shook himself to stand alert and fixed Castiel with a glare that suggested a great error in Castiel’s ways had occurred. Castiel peered at him, titling his head, and opened his mouth to pass comment, but his attention was prompted away from Dean and through the darkness of the basement. He disappeared in the blink of an eye. Dean barely had a moment to register the empty place as Castiel soon reappeared beside him, a piece of paper in his grasp.
“Blood,” he muttered. “It’s Sam’s.”
He passed the paper to Dean, who walked to the filthy windows streaming slivers of light. A message in maroon was scrawled across the paper, evidence of weariness and pain shadowing every quiver in the strokes. Across the paper a concise message was written:
I’m alive. So are the children. They’ve been turned. Watch your back.
Castiel was reading over his shoulder, so it came as no surprise when he stated, breathing down Dean’s neck, “It seems what we feared the most has finally happened.”
“Yeah, but Sam’s alive. Well, at least when he wrote this note he was.” Stuffing the paper in his pocket, Dean gestured with his shotgun toward the wooden staircase leading to the ground floor. Castiel nodded in approval, and they ventured up the creaking wooden steps, Dean leading.
The door was ajar and a cold, dusty draft leaked through the crack. Dean grasped the knob, urging the door open, and stuck his head out, then turned back inside, pulling the door shut.
“Okay, so here’s the plan,” said Dean. “We look around. There’s probably a room they’re keeping the kids and they’ve moved Sam, so-”
Heavy metal sounded from his pocket. Castiel darted his gaze toward the general direction and Dean slapped his hand on his thigh, retrieving the phone. He flipped it open and answered the call without glancing at the caller ID.
“What?”
“What do you mean, ‘What’? You’re the one that called me a million times earlier and didn’t bother to wait for me to pick up the damn phone. It’s me that should be saying ‘what.”’
Dean froze. “Bobby?”
“Who else, ya’ idgit? ‘Course it’s me. Now why the hell did you call so much? Something happen?”
Dean switched the phone to his other ear, blowing out a breath. “Um, yeah. I guess you could say something happened.”
The silence on the other line was soaked with suspicion. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Jeez, Bobby, can’t you have more faith-”
Castiel tore the phone from his hand, swerving to survey the basement walls as he spoke. “We are at a werewolf den where Sam has been held hostage. Dean tried earlier to ask for assistance, but was unable at the time. The children have apparently been turned into werewolves.” He furrowed his eyebrows as Bobby responded. “No, we are nowhere near the coastline, but it is nightfall in the East Coast, so I assume the coast is clear.” He paused, listening and nodding, then passed the phone to Dean. “He wishes to speak with you,” he said, expression earnest.
Dean snatched the phone and had yet to press it to his ear before Bobby screeched, “Don’t you ever let that lunatic on the phone again.”
“Too late, he already has unlimited talk and text.” Dean chuckled, but the humor died off at Bobby’s stern silence. “So we were just about to dive in before you called.”
“Figures,” said Bobby. “Now, Dean, about the children. You realize you need to kill them, right?”
Dean slumped against the wall. “Bobby, they’re just kids.”
“Not anymore, they aren’t. ‘Fraid you’re going to have to, well, you know.”
“But they’re kids. They have their whole lives ahead of them.”
“Look, just find Sam, get yourselves out, torch the place, then get pissed drunk out of your mind and forget this ever happened.”
Dean snapped the phone closed and shoved it in his pocket. Leaning into the wall, he shook his head and glanced to Castiel, whose face was solemn and open.
“They’re just kids, Cas,” said Dean. “I-I can’t-”
Castiel reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, which spoke more words than Dean had ever heard in a lifetime. He leaned into the touch, feeling his worries smooth out. He let out a breath and found that when he gazed into those blue eyes, he felt at peace.
*
A key fitted into the knob and the locked was turned. The door breezed open and never closed. One of the girls took a tentative step forward and crawled toward the door. As she neared the wooden frame and peered into the hallway, no shadowed figure appeared and pounced down on her. She pattered outside and never returned, which the remaining two girls took as a good sign.
A little girl with braided pigtails and a bright red jacket was last to leave the room. She was halfway down the hallway when a callused hand latched onto her wrist and whipped her against the wall.
In the dark she could only see the whites of their eyes. Hot breath steamed her cheeks and she wrinkled her nose at the stench. A switchblade was placed her palm. It was cold, heavy, and foreign in her hand. Had she been given it a week prior, she wouldn’t have understood the significance and necessity. She curled her fingers around it, drawing it to her chest.
Like a whisper in the wind, the figure let her go and ran away.
*
From his position in a corner, Sam suspected the area he occupied was originally intended as a living room.
He sat in his chair, hands behind his back but no longer tied. He kept the act of restraint by clutching the ropes, aiding to the illusion that his wrists were tied together. How he managed to keep that act while being transferred from the basement, he could not recall and chose not to dwell on it. He was placed in a corner a perfect view of the windows with the moon shining brightly in the sky.
“We’ve released the children, sir,” said a man to the werewolf in charge. Neither were transformed, nor the other werewolves lounging in the gathering room.
“Not the ones in the southern room, though, right?”
The man faltered. “They were not meant to be released?”
“We have direct orders from the Master to release only the ferals. You realize they’ll kill the normal children on sight, don’t you?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “We can’t even inform her. She left the house. Send some scouts out to find….”
As he dictated orders to the man, Sam felt a cool metal press into his hand. He wanted to look over his shoulder, but feared alerting the werewolves’ attention.
“Don’t be afraid,” whispered the soft, childlike voice of a little girl. “You need this more than me.”
A blade scrapped over his wrist, breaking the skin, but was gone as soon as it came. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that,” said the girl. “I’m not sure how to use this thing.” The knife eased its way into Sam’s hands, cradled among his fingers. The ropes fell into piles on the floor. He cursed mentally, darting his eyes around the room to check if anyone had seen.
“I’m going to leave now.” She squeezed his hands hesitantly. “I don’t know what will happen to me tonight, but I want you to know that I loved my daddy very much.” She squeezed his hands one more time, then left in the same quiet fashion with which she had arrived.
“You either find those children before the ferals do, or go out tonight and gather more.”
“But the Master said no one is to leave tonight.”
“You find those children. End of discussion.”
*
The house was a labyrinth of narrow hallways and sudden corners. Dean swung open doors and nudged his shotgun into lightless closets and abandoned rooms, but Castiel could sense with little difficulty that the road to Sam was growing farther even as they neared him. He kept this knowledge to himself, as he knew that Dean enjoyed the hapless search as it gave him a task to complete while his mind jumped from one disconcerting thought to another. Opening doors into vacant rooms soothed Dean in ways telling him the truth could not. Castiel would wait two more doors before guiding Dean in a direction he believed Sam to be.
Giggles and patters of feet came from down the hall. Dean pulled out of the empty room and chased down the noise, leaving Castiel in his wake to shut the open door and zap down the hallway. As he appeared by Dean’s side, he strained his hearing, making out wisps of breath leaving lungs and the faint sigh of eyelashes brushing across swollen cheeks.
“They’re here,” said Dean, pointing out his gun.
Castiel slid out his sword from beneath his sleeve.
The hallway was pitch black and as quiet as crickets. Castiel sensed the blood rushing through the children’s veins, but no other indication of a presence was detectable. Dean walked ahead with a hardened look, aiming his shotgun, finger ready at the trigger.
A door down the end of the hall popped open. Castiel titled his head and Dean nudged him with his shoulder. Dean pointed to Castiel and gestured wildly at the floor, then pointed to himself and waved his arm across the hall. He jerked his head up and down in a harsh nod. Castiel lifted the corners of his mouth, hoping that conveyed his response well enough.
Dean started down the hallway, inching along the wall, with that same hardened expression and his gun aimed out to the world as he advanced. Pausing by the door, he pressed his back to the wall and grasped the knob, shooting one last glance at Castiel. Not knowing exactly what was prompted of him, Castiel lifted his mouth into a warmer smile. Dean returned the gesture with the quick rise and fall of a grin, then threw open the door stuck his gun in what appeared to be another empty closet.
“Fuck, not again!” Dean lowered his gun to his side, waving his arm for Castiel to come. Castiel zapped over out of pure laziness than necessity, but Dean was too aggravated by the empty closet to comment. “For peace of mind,” said Dean, lunging his hand into the black air, “just going to turn on the light and laugh this off.”
He groped the air for a good moment before catching the metal string hanging from a light bulb. He pulled it down, prepared for brooms and dusty boxes, only to be acquainted with seven pairs of bloodshot eyes.
“Holy shi-”
Castiel grabbed his arm and hugged him to his chest, then zapped them to the end of the hall. The children hidden in the closet ran out, snarling and gnashing teeth, and swarmed down the hallway. Dean brought his gun forward and fired twice, shooting one child dead. It was a boy, no older that ten or twelve years of age, that collapsed on the old battered rug extending down the hallway. The rest of the children paused and looked down at their feet toward the dead body. Their heads raised in unison. The one nearest to the front licked their lips.
“We should probably run right now,” said Dean, swerving around and bolting around a corner. Castiel raised his sword out before him, but never had occasion to strike as Dean grabbed a handful of his trench coat and dragged him away. “Normally I’d stick around,” he explained, “but there are just some battles you have to run from.”
“Is it because you killed a child?”
Dean averted his eyes and quickened his pace.
The children chased after them like a stampede of mustangs. Their bare feet pounded into the ground and collectively made the floor quake. Castiel got into the habit of zapping Dean and himself further down the hallway when the children neared too close.
As Dean and Castiel passed by the doorway to the basement, they turned sharply into a hallway with a glimmer of light at the end. They shared a sideways glance, and as the children turned into the hallway, Castiel zapped them before the light-
-and right into the main room.
*
Werewolves.
Castiel had zapped him into a room chock-full of werewolves. People that were not people but werewolves lounged on chairs and sofas, legs stretched out and arms sprawled across sofa headrests. “We had been told to expect some guests,” humored a man the werewolves gathered around, “but we had thought we would need to search you out.”
“May we change now?” inquired a werewolf.
The man flicked his wrist. “Go ahead.”
First their jaws dislocated and grew out of their skulls, teeth falling out to make way for sharp, pointed canines and incisors, then their nails shrunk and split into putrid yellow claws. Ribs broke and mended into mangled, inhuman shapes.
To his right, Dean heard a strained cough.
“Sam,” he fell to his knees, “Sammy.”
Sam had kept his head hung low, but jolted with life once Dean shook his shoulder. As he stared into his brother’s pale green eyes, a wave of emotion flickered over his face. “Dean,” he said. “You’re really here.”
“I’d never let my little brother go out of my sight for too long,” chuckled Dean.
Sam scared Dean half to death when he swung the arms Dean believed to be restrained from behind his back and wrapped them around Dean’s neck. “Dean, I was worried for a moment you had died back there-”
“Me? Dead?” Dean patted a hand on Sam’s back. “Did they shoot you up with anything?”
“No, they-fuck, the wolves.” San shoved Dean off him and darted up from the chair. A switchblade was in his hand, but the blade was not silver, and therefore useless. Dean dug out one of the blades from his boot and handed it to Sam. Sam kept the switchblade but placed the silver knife in his dominant hand.
Castiel met Dean’s eye, and with a carefree shrug from Dean, the three advanced, circling the wolves congregated in the center of the room.
And this time, Dean was going to keep a better eye on everyone.
The werewolf in the center swung its head back and let out an earsplitting howl. Another bared its teeth. Before the werewolf stepped a claw out of formation, Dean aimed his gun and shot straight through its skull.
A cacophony of yelps and snarls echoed down the hallway, and Castiel disappeared in the blink of an eye. Dean shot at the werewolves in the main room and reloaded after every shot, cursing his choice of weapon. As he reloaded, a werewolf broke out of the cluster and came a hairs’ width from mauling him. Sam hurled into the beast, crashing with it to the floor. He directed the silver knife to its neck, but the werewolf grabbed his wrists and kept the knife a short distance from the bob of its throat.
More werewolves broke out as Dean reloaded, but he rolled with the punches and greeted the werewolves with the butt of the gun to their skulls. Castiel reappeared in the middle of the cluster, plunging his bloody sword into the chest of an unsuspecting werewolf. As Castiel pulled out the sword, he extended his arm behind him and pressed two fingers to the temple of a werewolf’s head. Dean flipped his gun around in his hands and shot the wolf dead before it hit the floor.
The werewolf under Sam bucked and twisted, resorting to curling its fingers and digging its claws into his wrists. He glowered down at it, but cultivated all his strength into the knife, pushing through the werewolf‘s strength and driving the blade into its throat. Its eyes grew wide, and its grip on his wrist tightened for a brief moment before growing limp. Sam extracted the claws from his flesh, covering the wounds with his flannel shirtsleeves to staunch the blood.
From the doorway leading to the hallway, Dean saw a movement and flash of red. Eyeballing that spot, he pounded his gun into a werewolf’s head, grunting in acknowledgment as Sam arrived beside him. A werewolf crept behind their backs, but before either brother could notice, Castiel snaked an arm around the werewolf’s shoulders and drove his sword straight through spine and punctured a lung.
Dean turned to Sam, gesticulating a course of action, then advanced toward the doorway, Sam covering his back.
The light from the main room filtered into the hallway, yet the length of the hall remained blackened with shadows. The tip of the shotgun tasted the first smell of the musky air as Dean exited the main room. Once Dean was in the hallway, all noise seemed to have evaporated, leaving him with nothing but his gun, the darkness, and the unsettling belief that something was watching him. He chose the darker half of the hall and edged along the wall. His eyes squinted at the lack of light and his heart hammered against his ribcage. His index finger fidgeted against the trigger. From habit Dean licked his lips, stiffened his eyebrows.
A flutter of air tickled his neck. From the corner of his eye, he spied a tan trench coat soaking up the minimal light. From Castiel’s mere presence, Dean guessed the fight in the main room ended with victory. Sam came jogging down the hall, stopping to match their pace, and the three ventured further, sneering at every deceiving creek under the floorboards.
At the end of the hall, a light suddenly appeared, but it was out before it had a chance to illuminate anything. At its wake, another light appeared, but too went out a moment later. Matchstick smoke drifted past the men. Castiel placed a hand on Dean’s arm, stilling their advance. “The demon,” Castiel whispered into the shell of Dean’s ear. Dean shivered, not realizing Castiel had been so close.
“I underestimated you,” came a feminine voice.
Dean rubbed his finger over the trigger. “Gonna show yourself or hide your sissy ass in the dark?”
“Wait, Dean,” said Sam, pressing a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I know that voice.”
A match was lit, and the flame closed in on them, the stench from the smoke flooding their nostrils. As the flame came closer, a mouth with puckered lips was revealed. Then the match was blown out, the hallway descending into darkness once more.
Castiel flew away-a sting shot through Dean’s chest, but he shoved that thought away. He turned his head, muttering out the corner of his mouth, “Friend of yours?”
“Sort of,” answered Sam, “but I was under the impression she was a werewolf.”
“Demon with an agenda,” said Dean, facing forward. “Great.”
“You know, I can hear you.”
“Glad to hear it, sweet cheeks!” Dean sent her the most charming grin he could muster, ignoring that she couldn’t see it. “Now, personally I’m not a big fan of small talk, so how about you haul your demented little ass over her so we can all go home?”
She chuckled. “No.”
“No?”
Somewhere Dean heard a silent flutter of wings. Sam made no movement at the sound, and the demon kept talking as if she hadn’t heard it either.
“There’s a nice reward down in Hell for getting your heads-the righteous man and the lucky bastard who had the honor of dragging Lucifer back down. So I think I’m just going to keep you standing like idiots in the dark, then drag you both back to Hell myself.”
“Sounding a bit confident there, huh? Wouldn’t you think it’d take a bit more than a blackout to outsmart the almighty Winchesters?” He bounced on his heels at the last portion and Sam punched him between his shoulder blades. Dean kicked Sam’s shin, grinning at the replying grunt. In the darkness ahead of him, he caught a glimpse of light reflecting on metal.
“That question seems to have you stumped, so let’s try a new one,” said Dean.
“Sure, I got one,” she fired back. “How many seconds will it take for me to rip your stomach out from your throat and shove it up Sam’s ass?”
“Unfortunately I don’t have the answer to that one, but I do know how many seconds it’ll take for you to die tonight.”
“You filthy son of-”
Beams of amber light shot out her gaping mouth and hollowed eye sockets. Flashes from the light splashed behind her to reveal Castiel glaring at his hand stabbing the sword into her back. The demon grew limp in his arms, the light dimming as life left the vessel. Soon the hallway plunged into darkness. The air was black and thick with tension, but Dean found himself trudging through it and kneeling as he reached Castiel. Sam hung back near a wall, but Dean could imagine the wounded expression that must have been in his brother’s eyes. Dean strained his vision to make out the features of Castiel’s face.
Castiel splayed his fingers over the dead woman’s forehead, but shook his head. “The soul had long left the body before this moment,” he said gravely. He traced his fingertips over the woman’s face, as though memorizing every detail of her beauty and life.
A distant howl cut through the quiet.
Messing with the knife in his hand, Sam asked, every word heavy on his tongue, “What about the children?”
“Sam, no,” said Dean, swerving around. “I’m not going to kill a whole bunch of innocent children with entire lives ahead of them.”
“But, Dean, they’re not children anymore. They’re…monsters.”
“Sam-”
“I will do it.”
Sam and Dean tore their attention away from each other to look at Castiel, who was setting the woman on the floor and rising to a stand.
“Cas, you don’t have to do this,” spoke Dean.
“Yeah, we’ll take care of it,” added Sam.
“It’s all right. I already know where most of them are. It will be quick and efficient if I did it. Not to mention they may have a chance at redemption.”
“Redemption? But-” Sam stumbled toward Dean, grasping his arm. “Dean, what about Madison. Did she-?”
Dean squeezed his eyes shut. “Cas, we’ll meet you at the car.”
He wrapped an arm around Sam’s shoulder, ignoring Sam’s pointed stare, and scrambled through his memory for a pathway to the exit.
*
Sam went straight for the backseat, curling in a ball with his back to Dean, who was hunched over, tapping his fingers along the steering wheel. For a while Sam said nothing, the last words being those in the werewolves’ den, and Dean was startled with Sam took a deep breath and spoke as clear as day, “Please tell me something happened between you guys because the last I heard was you moaning his name in your sleep.”
“Damn it, Sam,” snapped Dean. “Just fall asleep before I make you fall asleep.”
“So you’re telling me that the entire time I was shacked up in that Hell hole, nothing happened.”
“That’s right.”
“Nothing at all.”
“That’s what I said,” spat Dean.
“And all those longing looks a few minutes ago, that was just me reading too much into things?”
A chuckle rumbled deep in Dean’s chest. “Well, you always were the smart one.”
Dean stole a look in the rearview mirror in time to see Sam twisted onto his back, face scrunched in disbelief. Dean smiled at the reflection, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
Sam pinched his lips into a thin, white line. “Whatever. Just keep it PG up there when Cas gets back.”
Dean started formulating a wisecrack reply, but by the time he figured out a good one, Sam had turned around, arms crossed, and let out a loud snore.
Castiel appeared in the passenger seat a moment later, forcing a smile when Dean jumped in surprise.
Switching on the ignition, Dean cranked up the heater, warmth returning to his fingertips, took his foot off the brake pedal, and drove away from the curb.
Perhaps it was Sam as a chaperone in the backseat, but Dean never felt more aware of Castiel being less than a breath away. The heater had made the car toasty and his fingers and toes tingle with warmth. There was so much he wanted to tell the angel sitting next to him, but words were petty and actions prohibited while driving. He settled with stepping on the gas and running a red light.
“Hey, I was-”
“May I-”
Dean feathered the break. “Y-you go ahead.”
“No, I insist. You go.”
An abrupt snore came from the backseat that had Dean tightening his grip on the steering wheel. “I was-” he coughed “-was just going to ask if it was, uh, too hot in here for you? I mean, with the heater and all….”
Castiel hummed in consideration. “No, my body temperature is adequate.”
“That’s great. So what were you-”
Castiel extracted a cassette tape from the radio and reached inside his pocket for a replacement cassette he had apparently tucked away in his coat the entire evening. The soft whispering from the radio as the cassette tape settled in place numbed Dean’s adolescent panic.
“I went to one of these music stores,” said Castiel, and a sound resembling rain pattering on window glass filtered through the speakers, “and heard this song playing. It reminded me of you.”
Despite the racket flooding the car, Dean felt touched, and he said so. “I’m honored, Cas.”
“It’s not your usual taste,” Castiel blew out a wary sigh, “but I hope you like it.”
“Cas,” said Dean, looking away from the road to Castiel, whose hands were knotted in his lap. He waited until Castiel met his gaze. “Cas, don’t worry. I like it, too.”
My parachute didn’t open. And when my backup failed the pixie dust prevailed, and I woke up next to you. All I wanted was to hold you.
“What happens now?” said Castiel.
“With what?”
“With us.”
If anything were to happen, Dean seriously needed to introduce Castiel to new music. “What would you like to happen?”
“You fe-” Castiel hesitated, and with a quick glance, Dean noticed his eyebrows were drawn together. “You see our relationship as I do.”
“Yeah. I guess you could say that.”
“What happens now?”
Dean blew out a breath, and the warm air in the heater flew past his cheeks, warming his face until a sneeze tickled its way out his nose. Recovering from that unprecedented display of vulnerability, Dean leaned back into his seat, steering the wheel as he drove the Impala into a highway. “Well, whenever Heaven gets too dramatic for you to handle, you can always come down to Earth and say hello. Or, if you ever just want to pop in and say hello, you can do that, too.”
“Would you like that?”
Dean was pulling a smirk before he even realized it. “Hell, I’d love it.”
He stole a peek out the corner of his eye, spying Castiel gazing out onto the road with a blissful expression. He turned up the volume on the radio until that nonsensical song took advantage of the base boost, and pressed a little bit more on the gas.
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! :]
Part One
Dean was mildly aware of the hot tears spilling down his cheeks. He gulped the last of his beer and kept the motion of gulping even after draining the last drops from the bottle. His phone vibrated with an incoming message. He swiped the phone off the counter and flipped it open.
Dean, where are you? - Castiel
Fumbling with the numbered buttons, he replied to Castiel with I’n noowhre spdific what boutt you.
A breath after he pressed send the phone vibrated with a reply.
Where are you? - Castiel
come finnd me
Dean never sent that message because he collapsed onto the counter before his thumb grazed the button. He dragged the empty beer bottle to his lips and inhaled the alcohol-scented air, mumbling incoherent clips and phrases until a semi-audible series of, “Cas, Cas, Cas,” bubbled out his lips. The men’s restroom door banged open. Moments later a disgruntled Castiel placed a hand on his shoulder. Dean didn’t flinch.
“Hel-lo,” hiccupped Dean.
Castiel furrowed his eyebrows. “What happened to you?”
“Called Bobby. Dude never answered. I drank.”
Castiel flicked his gaze to the beer bottle perched on Dean’s mouth. He took a seat on the barstool to the right of Dean and reached to remove the beer bottle, but Dean growled and swatted his hand away, curling in on himself and sucking on the lip of the bottle. Castiel kept a hand on Dean’s shoulder.
“Is this about Sam?” he said.
Dean whimpered and cut himself off as soon as he realized he had whimpered.
“Dean, I want to apologize,” said Castiel. He rubbed Dean’s shoulder, which made Dean hum as his back had several knots due to hunching over the counter. “I was perhaps a little too harsh earlier. However pointless it was to try and save me, I am grateful you did. I’m also sorry about saying you allowed Sam to be kidnapped. I was too swept up in the moment.”
Dean set the beer bottle upright. “Dude, don’t be sorry. You’re right. I’m useless and a sucky hunter.”
Castiel tilted his head at the usage of “sucky” and the motion of his hand on Dean’s shoulder slowed a fraction. “Dean, you are not useless.”
“Sam’s dead ‘cause of me.”
“We have reason to believe Sam is not dead.”
At that new, insightful information, Dean turned his attention away from staring blankly at the countertop to Castiel. “Sam’s dead. Bobby said so.”
“I thought Bobby never answered your calls.”
Dean harrumphed.
“You are not useless, Dean. To me, you have….” Castiel frowned, his hand on Dean’s shoulder stilled. “You have a lot of worth.”
“But you’re just one person.”
Castiel pulled his bottom lip into his mouth and chewed on it, which fascinated Dean to no end. Dean rationalized it was the alcohol, but the limited lighting of the bar illuminated Castiel’s head and created a halo above his crown. It was so beautiful Dean wanted to touch it. He extended his hand to where he believed the halo to be, only to comb his fingers through Castiel’s hair. The black hair felt soft under his skin, so he continued running his fingers over it.
“Has anyone ever told you how blue your eyes are?” he murmured.
Castiel looked torn between wanting to relax into Dean’s hand or run away from the bar.
“Technically these are Jimmy’s eyes.”
“I guess so. Jimmy has nice hair. Soft.”
“I can see that.”
Dean stretched his jaw for a loud yawn. “Well, I’m spent. Zap me to the Impala? It’s a long walk to the parking lot.”
The space of time when Castiel contemplated the request and fulfilled it went unnoticed by Dean. By the time he realized he was in the backseat of the Impala, leaning into Castiel’s side, Dean was more preoccupied with finding a comfortable position for sleeping. He rubbed his cheek on Castiel’s arm, smacking his lips, and yawned a final time.
“Don’t tell Bobby,” he mumbled, “like anything. Especially….”
Castiel never heard Dean’s concluding thought.
Not knowing the course of action one should take when a drunken person falls asleep on one’s shoulder, Castiel settled with folding his hands in his lap and passing the hours Dean slept with waiting for him to wake up.
*
Ripples in the water extended from the focal point of the lake to the graveled shore. The wooden dock housed the chair Dean occupied. Pebbles of different sizes and varying hues gathered in Dean’s lap. He selected a burgundy pebble he suspected was actually a stone and chucked it out toward the center of the lake. He skipped stones with the first few pebbles, but found more satisfaction in throwing and viewing the grand explosion of water.
Castiel stood behind him-Dean had been aware since the first pebble was thrown-but neither spoke a word. The silence was comforting for the moment. But soon Dean felt somewhere in his heart of hearts that Castiel had a thought to voice. He waited until the last pebble sunk into the water to lean his head back and look at the angel. Castiel lowered his gaze from the trees bordering the lake to Dean.
“You know where Sam is,” said Dean, unquestioning.
“Yes, he is trapped in a basement. I have seen the house.”
Castiel’s eyes were always an unnerving shade of blue, but Dean could peer into his eyes as long as he wanted when they spoke at the lake. He felt centered, invincible here. Castiel’s penetrating stare lost its intimidation when at the lake.
“Why didn’t you try to save him?”
“It was not my job to save him.”
“It’s mine.”
“It’s only yours.”
Dean looked out past the lake, beyond the trees, and into the sky. A free bird stretched its wings and soared into the horizon.
“Take me there.”
*
Extraneous effort was required, yet Sam succeeded in loosening the rope tying his wrists. Light from the setting sun seeped through the cracks under the cramp, grimy windows. The woman had not visited him since morning. She had arrived for a brief exchange of information.
“Tonight is the night we pay respect to the Master,” she had said. “He will turn the last of the children and their initiation into the pack will begin. You’re invited, Sam.”
She developed a twitch in her neck and found difficulty in staring at Sam for too long. Her excited grin was wide and broad on her face. “You’ll be moving into the main room at dusk. I won’t be there to move you.”
Pulling a chair over to the cage, she took a seat and crossed her legs, setting her hands in her lap.
“We may have some guests tonight,” she said, neck twitching. “People close to you. You think you’ll be seeing a ghost, but if you don’t try anything, maybe the Master will let them live.” Her face became somber as she gazed at Sam.
“Last night, the last of the children who could be turned were. The unfit ones will have to be taken care of. I know it will be hard for you to witness their killings, but I promise we’ll kill them after we kill the guests. I’m sure our guests’ death will have a great impact on you.” A beep came from her wristwatch. She frowned, rising from the chairs. “It seems I’m running late for work again.” She smiled. “Goodbye, Sam. We’ll be seeing each other later tonight, but I can’t promise I’ll be myself.”
As she left, a parchment fell from her pocket and managed to soar through the bars and land a hand reach away from Sam. At first he glared at it, but ceased as soon as he felt the rope around his wrists slip from its slack. He waited until the basement door clicked shut and tried persistently hours after she left to pull a hand free. He acquired sufficient wiggle room, but the rope burns screamed anytime he moved. Squeezing his eyes closed, he counted to three, sneaking no spare seconds between numbers, and ripped a hand out from the rope. He gasped, unable to vocalize the pain lest he wanted to attract attention, and scooted the chair toward the parchment, reaching with shaking fingers. He exposed a wrist, dabbed a finger on the blood dripping from ripped skin, and wrote a message.
*
At night the walls were paper-thin. She heard voices through the walls, cries and screams, low whines. She huddled in the corner of an unfurnished, windowless room with two other girls. Time was static in the room, but one of the girls had a wristwatch with the hour and date. Two days had passed outside of the room since that night in the park. She wanted to hug her father, but his blood stained the front of her shirt and thought of him reminded her of his final moments.
Occasionally the door was opened and loaves of bread and bruised fruit tossed into the room. The girls dove for them and scampered back to the corner for they felt safer far from the door and with a solid surface behind their backs.
Her body was tired. Her muscles ached. The weight of knowledge pressed down on her. She wanted a hug, but the other girls had been kept in the room longer and forgotten the significance of touch.
*
“Not too shabby, huh?”
Dean peered out the window beside Castiel, killing the engine with a turn of his wrist. A steep, narrow house sat unlit on the corner of a silent street with tall, looming trees visible from the sidewalk bordering the backyard-a warning that kept joggers and dog walkers from lingering around in daytime for longer than necessary.
“So he’s in the basement, right?” said Dean.
Castiel nodded. “Yes.”
As they had favored stealth and inconspicuousness, they exited the car already armed, without requiring a trip to the trunk. Dean clutched a shotgun loaded with silver bullets while Castiel kept his sword tucked under his sleeve. Castiel, graced with the ability to discern the condition of everything and anything with the casual shift in his gaze, mapped out the weak points of the house and pinpointed the safest route to enter the basement. When the best path was discovered he placed his hand on Dean and zapped them out of the street.
“What the-don’t do that,” hissed Dean, distancing from Castiel.
He collided the crook of his elbow against the wrought iron cage; his eyes screwed shut and the muscles of his cheek pinched as he let out a steady breath. He shook himself to stand alert and fixed Castiel with a glare that suggested a great error in Castiel’s ways had occurred. Castiel peered at him, titling his head, and opened his mouth to pass comment, but his attention was prompted away from Dean and through the darkness of the basement. He disappeared in the blink of an eye. Dean barely had a moment to register the empty place as Castiel soon reappeared beside him, a piece of paper in his grasp.
“Blood,” he muttered. “It’s Sam’s.”
He passed the paper to Dean, who walked to the filthy windows streaming slivers of light. A message in maroon was scrawled across the paper, evidence of weariness and pain shadowing every quiver in the strokes. Across the paper a concise message was written:
I’m alive. So are the children. They’ve been turned. Watch your back.
Castiel was reading over his shoulder, so it came as no surprise when he stated, breathing down Dean’s neck, “It seems what we feared the most has finally happened.”
“Yeah, but Sam’s alive. Well, at least when he wrote this note he was.” Stuffing the paper in his pocket, Dean gestured with his shotgun toward the wooden staircase leading to the ground floor. Castiel nodded in approval, and they ventured up the creaking wooden steps, Dean leading.
The door was ajar and a cold, dusty draft leaked through the crack. Dean grasped the knob, urging the door open, and stuck his head out, then turned back inside, pulling the door shut.
“Okay, so here’s the plan,” said Dean. “We look around. There’s probably a room they’re keeping the kids and they’ve moved Sam, so-”
Heavy metal sounded from his pocket. Castiel darted his gaze toward the general direction and Dean slapped his hand on his thigh, retrieving the phone. He flipped it open and answered the call without glancing at the caller ID.
“What?”
“What do you mean, ‘What’? You’re the one that called me a million times earlier and didn’t bother to wait for me to pick up the damn phone. It’s me that should be saying ‘what.”’
Dean froze. “Bobby?”
“Who else, ya’ idgit? ‘Course it’s me. Now why the hell did you call so much? Something happen?”
Dean switched the phone to his other ear, blowing out a breath. “Um, yeah. I guess you could say something happened.”
The silence on the other line was soaked with suspicion. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Jeez, Bobby, can’t you have more faith-”
Castiel tore the phone from his hand, swerving to survey the basement walls as he spoke. “We are at a werewolf den where Sam has been held hostage. Dean tried earlier to ask for assistance, but was unable at the time. The children have apparently been turned into werewolves.” He furrowed his eyebrows as Bobby responded. “No, we are nowhere near the coastline, but it is nightfall in the East Coast, so I assume the coast is clear.” He paused, listening and nodding, then passed the phone to Dean. “He wishes to speak with you,” he said, expression earnest.
Dean snatched the phone and had yet to press it to his ear before Bobby screeched, “Don’t you ever let that lunatic on the phone again.”
“Too late, he already has unlimited talk and text.” Dean chuckled, but the humor died off at Bobby’s stern silence. “So we were just about to dive in before you called.”
“Figures,” said Bobby. “Now, Dean, about the children. You realize you need to kill them, right?”
Dean slumped against the wall. “Bobby, they’re just kids.”
“Not anymore, they aren’t. ‘Fraid you’re going to have to, well, you know.”
“But they’re kids. They have their whole lives ahead of them.”
“Look, just find Sam, get yourselves out, torch the place, then get pissed drunk out of your mind and forget this ever happened.”
Dean snapped the phone closed and shoved it in his pocket. Leaning into the wall, he shook his head and glanced to Castiel, whose face was solemn and open.
“They’re just kids, Cas,” said Dean. “I-I can’t-”
Castiel reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, which spoke more words than Dean had ever heard in a lifetime. He leaned into the touch, feeling his worries smooth out. He let out a breath and found that when he gazed into those blue eyes, he felt at peace.
*
A key fitted into the knob and the locked was turned. The door breezed open and never closed. One of the girls took a tentative step forward and crawled toward the door. As she neared the wooden frame and peered into the hallway, no shadowed figure appeared and pounced down on her. She pattered outside and never returned, which the remaining two girls took as a good sign.
A little girl with braided pigtails and a bright red jacket was last to leave the room. She was halfway down the hallway when a callused hand latched onto her wrist and whipped her against the wall.
In the dark she could only see the whites of their eyes. Hot breath steamed her cheeks and she wrinkled her nose at the stench. A switchblade was placed her palm. It was cold, heavy, and foreign in her hand. Had she been given it a week prior, she wouldn’t have understood the significance and necessity. She curled her fingers around it, drawing it to her chest.
Like a whisper in the wind, the figure let her go and ran away.
*
From his position in a corner, Sam suspected the area he occupied was originally intended as a living room.
He sat in his chair, hands behind his back but no longer tied. He kept the act of restraint by clutching the ropes, aiding to the illusion that his wrists were tied together. How he managed to keep that act while being transferred from the basement, he could not recall and chose not to dwell on it. He was placed in a corner a perfect view of the windows with the moon shining brightly in the sky.
“We’ve released the children, sir,” said a man to the werewolf in charge. Neither were transformed, nor the other werewolves lounging in the gathering room.
“Not the ones in the southern room, though, right?”
The man faltered. “They were not meant to be released?”
“We have direct orders from the Master to release only the ferals. You realize they’ll kill the normal children on sight, don’t you?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “We can’t even inform her. She left the house. Send some scouts out to find….”
As he dictated orders to the man, Sam felt a cool metal press into his hand. He wanted to look over his shoulder, but feared alerting the werewolves’ attention.
“Don’t be afraid,” whispered the soft, childlike voice of a little girl. “You need this more than me.”
A blade scrapped over his wrist, breaking the skin, but was gone as soon as it came. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that,” said the girl. “I’m not sure how to use this thing.” The knife eased its way into Sam’s hands, cradled among his fingers. The ropes fell into piles on the floor. He cursed mentally, darting his eyes around the room to check if anyone had seen.
“I’m going to leave now.” She squeezed his hands hesitantly. “I don’t know what will happen to me tonight, but I want you to know that I loved my daddy very much.” She squeezed his hands one more time, then left in the same quiet fashion with which she had arrived.
“You either find those children before the ferals do, or go out tonight and gather more.”
“But the Master said no one is to leave tonight.”
“You find those children. End of discussion.”
*
The house was a labyrinth of narrow hallways and sudden corners. Dean swung open doors and nudged his shotgun into lightless closets and abandoned rooms, but Castiel could sense with little difficulty that the road to Sam was growing farther even as they neared him. He kept this knowledge to himself, as he knew that Dean enjoyed the hapless search as it gave him a task to complete while his mind jumped from one disconcerting thought to another. Opening doors into vacant rooms soothed Dean in ways telling him the truth could not. Castiel would wait two more doors before guiding Dean in a direction he believed Sam to be.
Giggles and patters of feet came from down the hall. Dean pulled out of the empty room and chased down the noise, leaving Castiel in his wake to shut the open door and zap down the hallway. As he appeared by Dean’s side, he strained his hearing, making out wisps of breath leaving lungs and the faint sigh of eyelashes brushing across swollen cheeks.
“They’re here,” said Dean, pointing out his gun.
Castiel slid out his sword from beneath his sleeve.
The hallway was pitch black and as quiet as crickets. Castiel sensed the blood rushing through the children’s veins, but no other indication of a presence was detectable. Dean walked ahead with a hardened look, aiming his shotgun, finger ready at the trigger.
A door down the end of the hall popped open. Castiel titled his head and Dean nudged him with his shoulder. Dean pointed to Castiel and gestured wildly at the floor, then pointed to himself and waved his arm across the hall. He jerked his head up and down in a harsh nod. Castiel lifted the corners of his mouth, hoping that conveyed his response well enough.
Dean started down the hallway, inching along the wall, with that same hardened expression and his gun aimed out to the world as he advanced. Pausing by the door, he pressed his back to the wall and grasped the knob, shooting one last glance at Castiel. Not knowing exactly what was prompted of him, Castiel lifted his mouth into a warmer smile. Dean returned the gesture with the quick rise and fall of a grin, then threw open the door stuck his gun in what appeared to be another empty closet.
“Fuck, not again!” Dean lowered his gun to his side, waving his arm for Castiel to come. Castiel zapped over out of pure laziness than necessity, but Dean was too aggravated by the empty closet to comment. “For peace of mind,” said Dean, lunging his hand into the black air, “just going to turn on the light and laugh this off.”
He groped the air for a good moment before catching the metal string hanging from a light bulb. He pulled it down, prepared for brooms and dusty boxes, only to be acquainted with seven pairs of bloodshot eyes.
“Holy shi-”
Castiel grabbed his arm and hugged him to his chest, then zapped them to the end of the hall. The children hidden in the closet ran out, snarling and gnashing teeth, and swarmed down the hallway. Dean brought his gun forward and fired twice, shooting one child dead. It was a boy, no older that ten or twelve years of age, that collapsed on the old battered rug extending down the hallway. The rest of the children paused and looked down at their feet toward the dead body. Their heads raised in unison. The one nearest to the front licked their lips.
“We should probably run right now,” said Dean, swerving around and bolting around a corner. Castiel raised his sword out before him, but never had occasion to strike as Dean grabbed a handful of his trench coat and dragged him away. “Normally I’d stick around,” he explained, “but there are just some battles you have to run from.”
“Is it because you killed a child?”
Dean averted his eyes and quickened his pace.
The children chased after them like a stampede of mustangs. Their bare feet pounded into the ground and collectively made the floor quake. Castiel got into the habit of zapping Dean and himself further down the hallway when the children neared too close.
As Dean and Castiel passed by the doorway to the basement, they turned sharply into a hallway with a glimmer of light at the end. They shared a sideways glance, and as the children turned into the hallway, Castiel zapped them before the light-
-and right into the main room.
*
Werewolves.
Castiel had zapped him into a room chock-full of werewolves. People that were not people but werewolves lounged on chairs and sofas, legs stretched out and arms sprawled across sofa headrests. “We had been told to expect some guests,” humored a man the werewolves gathered around, “but we had thought we would need to search you out.”
“May we change now?” inquired a werewolf.
The man flicked his wrist. “Go ahead.”
First their jaws dislocated and grew out of their skulls, teeth falling out to make way for sharp, pointed canines and incisors, then their nails shrunk and split into putrid yellow claws. Ribs broke and mended into mangled, inhuman shapes.
To his right, Dean heard a strained cough.
“Sam,” he fell to his knees, “Sammy.”
Sam had kept his head hung low, but jolted with life once Dean shook his shoulder. As he stared into his brother’s pale green eyes, a wave of emotion flickered over his face. “Dean,” he said. “You’re really here.”
“I’d never let my little brother go out of my sight for too long,” chuckled Dean.
Sam scared Dean half to death when he swung the arms Dean believed to be restrained from behind his back and wrapped them around Dean’s neck. “Dean, I was worried for a moment you had died back there-”
“Me? Dead?” Dean patted a hand on Sam’s back. “Did they shoot you up with anything?”
“No, they-fuck, the wolves.” San shoved Dean off him and darted up from the chair. A switchblade was in his hand, but the blade was not silver, and therefore useless. Dean dug out one of the blades from his boot and handed it to Sam. Sam kept the switchblade but placed the silver knife in his dominant hand.
Castiel met Dean’s eye, and with a carefree shrug from Dean, the three advanced, circling the wolves congregated in the center of the room.
And this time, Dean was going to keep a better eye on everyone.
The werewolf in the center swung its head back and let out an earsplitting howl. Another bared its teeth. Before the werewolf stepped a claw out of formation, Dean aimed his gun and shot straight through its skull.
A cacophony of yelps and snarls echoed down the hallway, and Castiel disappeared in the blink of an eye. Dean shot at the werewolves in the main room and reloaded after every shot, cursing his choice of weapon. As he reloaded, a werewolf broke out of the cluster and came a hairs’ width from mauling him. Sam hurled into the beast, crashing with it to the floor. He directed the silver knife to its neck, but the werewolf grabbed his wrists and kept the knife a short distance from the bob of its throat.
More werewolves broke out as Dean reloaded, but he rolled with the punches and greeted the werewolves with the butt of the gun to their skulls. Castiel reappeared in the middle of the cluster, plunging his bloody sword into the chest of an unsuspecting werewolf. As Castiel pulled out the sword, he extended his arm behind him and pressed two fingers to the temple of a werewolf’s head. Dean flipped his gun around in his hands and shot the wolf dead before it hit the floor.
The werewolf under Sam bucked and twisted, resorting to curling its fingers and digging its claws into his wrists. He glowered down at it, but cultivated all his strength into the knife, pushing through the werewolf‘s strength and driving the blade into its throat. Its eyes grew wide, and its grip on his wrist tightened for a brief moment before growing limp. Sam extracted the claws from his flesh, covering the wounds with his flannel shirtsleeves to staunch the blood.
From the doorway leading to the hallway, Dean saw a movement and flash of red. Eyeballing that spot, he pounded his gun into a werewolf’s head, grunting in acknowledgment as Sam arrived beside him. A werewolf crept behind their backs, but before either brother could notice, Castiel snaked an arm around the werewolf’s shoulders and drove his sword straight through spine and punctured a lung.
Dean turned to Sam, gesticulating a course of action, then advanced toward the doorway, Sam covering his back.
The light from the main room filtered into the hallway, yet the length of the hall remained blackened with shadows. The tip of the shotgun tasted the first smell of the musky air as Dean exited the main room. Once Dean was in the hallway, all noise seemed to have evaporated, leaving him with nothing but his gun, the darkness, and the unsettling belief that something was watching him. He chose the darker half of the hall and edged along the wall. His eyes squinted at the lack of light and his heart hammered against his ribcage. His index finger fidgeted against the trigger. From habit Dean licked his lips, stiffened his eyebrows.
A flutter of air tickled his neck. From the corner of his eye, he spied a tan trench coat soaking up the minimal light. From Castiel’s mere presence, Dean guessed the fight in the main room ended with victory. Sam came jogging down the hall, stopping to match their pace, and the three ventured further, sneering at every deceiving creek under the floorboards.
At the end of the hall, a light suddenly appeared, but it was out before it had a chance to illuminate anything. At its wake, another light appeared, but too went out a moment later. Matchstick smoke drifted past the men. Castiel placed a hand on Dean’s arm, stilling their advance. “The demon,” Castiel whispered into the shell of Dean’s ear. Dean shivered, not realizing Castiel had been so close.
“I underestimated you,” came a feminine voice.
Dean rubbed his finger over the trigger. “Gonna show yourself or hide your sissy ass in the dark?”
“Wait, Dean,” said Sam, pressing a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I know that voice.”
A match was lit, and the flame closed in on them, the stench from the smoke flooding their nostrils. As the flame came closer, a mouth with puckered lips was revealed. Then the match was blown out, the hallway descending into darkness once more.
Castiel flew away-a sting shot through Dean’s chest, but he shoved that thought away. He turned his head, muttering out the corner of his mouth, “Friend of yours?”
“Sort of,” answered Sam, “but I was under the impression she was a werewolf.”
“Demon with an agenda,” said Dean, facing forward. “Great.”
“You know, I can hear you.”
“Glad to hear it, sweet cheeks!” Dean sent her the most charming grin he could muster, ignoring that she couldn’t see it. “Now, personally I’m not a big fan of small talk, so how about you haul your demented little ass over her so we can all go home?”
She chuckled. “No.”
“No?”
Somewhere Dean heard a silent flutter of wings. Sam made no movement at the sound, and the demon kept talking as if she hadn’t heard it either.
“There’s a nice reward down in Hell for getting your heads-the righteous man and the lucky bastard who had the honor of dragging Lucifer back down. So I think I’m just going to keep you standing like idiots in the dark, then drag you both back to Hell myself.”
“Sounding a bit confident there, huh? Wouldn’t you think it’d take a bit more than a blackout to outsmart the almighty Winchesters?” He bounced on his heels at the last portion and Sam punched him between his shoulder blades. Dean kicked Sam’s shin, grinning at the replying grunt. In the darkness ahead of him, he caught a glimpse of light reflecting on metal.
“That question seems to have you stumped, so let’s try a new one,” said Dean.
“Sure, I got one,” she fired back. “How many seconds will it take for me to rip your stomach out from your throat and shove it up Sam’s ass?”
“Unfortunately I don’t have the answer to that one, but I do know how many seconds it’ll take for you to die tonight.”
“You filthy son of-”
Beams of amber light shot out her gaping mouth and hollowed eye sockets. Flashes from the light splashed behind her to reveal Castiel glaring at his hand stabbing the sword into her back. The demon grew limp in his arms, the light dimming as life left the vessel. Soon the hallway plunged into darkness. The air was black and thick with tension, but Dean found himself trudging through it and kneeling as he reached Castiel. Sam hung back near a wall, but Dean could imagine the wounded expression that must have been in his brother’s eyes. Dean strained his vision to make out the features of Castiel’s face.
Castiel splayed his fingers over the dead woman’s forehead, but shook his head. “The soul had long left the body before this moment,” he said gravely. He traced his fingertips over the woman’s face, as though memorizing every detail of her beauty and life.
A distant howl cut through the quiet.
Messing with the knife in his hand, Sam asked, every word heavy on his tongue, “What about the children?”
“Sam, no,” said Dean, swerving around. “I’m not going to kill a whole bunch of innocent children with entire lives ahead of them.”
“But, Dean, they’re not children anymore. They’re…monsters.”
“Sam-”
“I will do it.”
Sam and Dean tore their attention away from each other to look at Castiel, who was setting the woman on the floor and rising to a stand.
“Cas, you don’t have to do this,” spoke Dean.
“Yeah, we’ll take care of it,” added Sam.
“It’s all right. I already know where most of them are. It will be quick and efficient if I did it. Not to mention they may have a chance at redemption.”
“Redemption? But-” Sam stumbled toward Dean, grasping his arm. “Dean, what about Madison. Did she-?”
Dean squeezed his eyes shut. “Cas, we’ll meet you at the car.”
He wrapped an arm around Sam’s shoulder, ignoring Sam’s pointed stare, and scrambled through his memory for a pathway to the exit.
*
Sam went straight for the backseat, curling in a ball with his back to Dean, who was hunched over, tapping his fingers along the steering wheel. For a while Sam said nothing, the last words being those in the werewolves’ den, and Dean was startled with Sam took a deep breath and spoke as clear as day, “Please tell me something happened between you guys because the last I heard was you moaning his name in your sleep.”
“Damn it, Sam,” snapped Dean. “Just fall asleep before I make you fall asleep.”
“So you’re telling me that the entire time I was shacked up in that Hell hole, nothing happened.”
“That’s right.”
“Nothing at all.”
“That’s what I said,” spat Dean.
“And all those longing looks a few minutes ago, that was just me reading too much into things?”
A chuckle rumbled deep in Dean’s chest. “Well, you always were the smart one.”
Dean stole a look in the rearview mirror in time to see Sam twisted onto his back, face scrunched in disbelief. Dean smiled at the reflection, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
Sam pinched his lips into a thin, white line. “Whatever. Just keep it PG up there when Cas gets back.”
Dean started formulating a wisecrack reply, but by the time he figured out a good one, Sam had turned around, arms crossed, and let out a loud snore.
Castiel appeared in the passenger seat a moment later, forcing a smile when Dean jumped in surprise.
Switching on the ignition, Dean cranked up the heater, warmth returning to his fingertips, took his foot off the brake pedal, and drove away from the curb.
Perhaps it was Sam as a chaperone in the backseat, but Dean never felt more aware of Castiel being less than a breath away. The heater had made the car toasty and his fingers and toes tingle with warmth. There was so much he wanted to tell the angel sitting next to him, but words were petty and actions prohibited while driving. He settled with stepping on the gas and running a red light.
“Hey, I was-”
“May I-”
Dean feathered the break. “Y-you go ahead.”
“No, I insist. You go.”
An abrupt snore came from the backseat that had Dean tightening his grip on the steering wheel. “I was-” he coughed “-was just going to ask if it was, uh, too hot in here for you? I mean, with the heater and all….”
Castiel hummed in consideration. “No, my body temperature is adequate.”
“That’s great. So what were you-”
Castiel extracted a cassette tape from the radio and reached inside his pocket for a replacement cassette he had apparently tucked away in his coat the entire evening. The soft whispering from the radio as the cassette tape settled in place numbed Dean’s adolescent panic.
“I went to one of these music stores,” said Castiel, and a sound resembling rain pattering on window glass filtered through the speakers, “and heard this song playing. It reminded me of you.”
Despite the racket flooding the car, Dean felt touched, and he said so. “I’m honored, Cas.”
“It’s not your usual taste,” Castiel blew out a wary sigh, “but I hope you like it.”
“Cas,” said Dean, looking away from the road to Castiel, whose hands were knotted in his lap. He waited until Castiel met his gaze. “Cas, don’t worry. I like it, too.”
My parachute didn’t open. And when my backup failed the pixie dust prevailed, and I woke up next to you. All I wanted was to hold you.
“What happens now?” said Castiel.
“With what?”
“With us.”
If anything were to happen, Dean seriously needed to introduce Castiel to new music. “What would you like to happen?”
“You fe-” Castiel hesitated, and with a quick glance, Dean noticed his eyebrows were drawn together. “You see our relationship as I do.”
“Yeah. I guess you could say that.”
“What happens now?”
Dean blew out a breath, and the warm air in the heater flew past his cheeks, warming his face until a sneeze tickled its way out his nose. Recovering from that unprecedented display of vulnerability, Dean leaned back into his seat, steering the wheel as he drove the Impala into a highway. “Well, whenever Heaven gets too dramatic for you to handle, you can always come down to Earth and say hello. Or, if you ever just want to pop in and say hello, you can do that, too.”
“Would you like that?”
Dean was pulling a smirk before he even realized it. “Hell, I’d love it.”
He stole a peek out the corner of his eye, spying Castiel gazing out onto the road with a blissful expression. He turned up the volume on the radio until that nonsensical song took advantage of the base boost, and pressed a little bit more on the gas.