SUPERWHO BIG BANG - PART SIX.
Part Six
It was over, so why were they still trying? Lucifer had his brother. Dean was staring at the bottom of an empty glass. Again. It had been a stupid idea - why had he agreed to let Sam try? He’d always been a gambling man, but never had he ever diced with his own brother’s life. The one and only time he did, and he lost. Everything. The stakes had been too high, and he’d been crazy to even consider it.
“He knew.” Dean’s voice sounded scratched, like he’d been dragged through miles and miles of thistles and brambles. His eyes, dark shadows smudged underneath from lack of sleep, were slightly bloodshot. “About Dad dying. Bobby being in a chair. About Cas. He knew, and never said a damn word.”
Bobby’s living room. Bobby looked up, exchanged glances with Castiel, who was looking stiff, uncomfortable in the presence of The Doctor, who seemed to be polishing a contraption made entirely of cogs and gears, but didn’t seem to do anything. Whatever it was, or wasn’t, he was inspecting it between polishes with a monocle fixed in his left eye. When the room went silent, he looked up, eyebrows raising when he found everyone - except Dean - watching him, expectantly. The monocle fell out.
“What? Oh. No, he didn’t.” he focused very hard on his...gadget, thing, again.
“Excuse me?” Bobby asked, disbelievingly.
“When I took him back to his own time,” The Doctor replied, impatiently, as if he’d already explained a million times already (which he hadn’t). “I put a kind of...” he waved one hand, vaguely. “...filter on his mind.”
“What do you mean by filter?” Bobby asked, eyes narrowing.
The Doctor shook his head, and put the gadget thing down.
“I mean certain things are blurry. They’re still in his head, but if he tried to focus on them they evade him. Move to a hidden cortex in his brain. On the tip of his tongue, until it happens again for him. Well. I say I did it - the TARDIS did. For his own protection. Nobody should know too much about their own future.”
“One Doc quoting another! Brown!!” Dean snickered to himself, still holding his empty glass.
“Are you sure that being intoxicated is a wise idea, given the circumstances?” Castiel asked, looking unsure, but concerned.
“Cas.” Dean replied, then seemed to forget what he was going to say.
“...Yes?” Castiel prompted, after a few seconds of silence passed, everyone else staring at him as if he had been the one about to speak.
“...” Dean stared, blankly, then exclaimed “CAS!” again. “Being intox...toxy....in a tux...being drunk is always a good idea. Always. Especially given the circumstances.”
Nobody argued. They couldn’t, really. In a way, Dean was right. Although nobody would say it out loud, a drunk Dean was safer than a Dean capable of going out and wreaking revenge on anyone or anything that crossed his path.
Dean’s eyes focused on The Doctor.
“What the hell are you doing? Why are you even still here? You-you know what? I don’t even wanna see your stupid face. It’s...stupid.”
“I’ve had worse.” The Doctor replied, and suddenly stood up. He looked to Castiel. “You. Sober him up.”
“Why?” Castiel asked, reluctant to do anything the Doctor asked of him.
“Because this thing,” The Doctor held up his gadget, and despite apparently being made of brass and copper, it was flashing a green light, “is telling me where we can find Sam in a few hours time”
“It’s telling prophecies now?” Bobby asked, skeptically. “Don’t we have a shabby drunk in a dirty robe already doing that for us?”
“Chuck is not shabby-” Castiel interrupted, defensive. “He-”
“Fascinating.” The Doctor replied. “But we really ought to be going. We have...a bit of a long flight ahead of us.”
Castiel stared, hard, before relenting, and moving towards Dean, hand outstretched. Dean shook his head and backed away.
“Hey! No! Get away from me!” he growled, his face screwing up when Castiel planted his palm on the drunk hunter’s forehead. Everyone looked. Dean scowled, one hand going to his head.
“Ow.” was all he said.
“He’s sober, now. Where is the battle going to take place?” Castiel asked.
“I thought you would know. All the angels are talking about it.” The Doctor replied, in a tone as close to snarky as he would get. Castiel’s eyes widened, just a little, and he looked the tiniest bit hurt, but mostly just resentful.
“Clearly not all of them.” he replied, shoulders tense, hands curled under his too-long sleeves.
“Don’t listen to him, Cas.” Dean replied, rubbing his temples, eyes closed, before opening them to glare at the Doctor, his green eyes angry.”Besides - we ain’t flying anywhere. He can give us the co-ordinates, and we’ll drive.”
“I could just--” Castiel offered, but Dean shook his head.
“NO! Uh. I mean...no, it’s okay. I don’t really wanna be...I mean...every time you zap us someplace, I gotta eat my own weight in Bran Flakes just to be able to poop again.”
“You hate Bran Flakes.” Bobby frowned.
“Yeah, exactly.” Dean winced. He turned to The Doctor. “Where’re we going?”
The Doctor was looking amused.
“Cardiff, Wales.” he replied. “Good luck in driving.”
*
Castiel had been unfazed by the large internal spacing of the TARDIS. Bobby had raised his eyebrows, and given a “huh”, but Dean figured the old hunter had seen weirder things in his time, so didn’t really give it the time of day.
It still fascinated Dean. Not that he would let it show.
The Doctor was edging around his console, pulling levers, hitting buttons, twisting dials. He stopped by a computer, and typed into a keyboard.
“Cardiff.” he was muttering to himself. “What is it about Cardiff? Everything seems to go down there.”
“Perhaps there’s a tear in the continuum.” Castiel suggested, stoically.
The Doctor scoffed to himself, then added, quietly, after a pause;
“You may just be right.”
He looked up, and grinned. “Hold on tight.”
*
“If all the roads in England were laid end to end...” The Doctor announced, to a green-in-the-face Dean, a rumpled-looking Castiel, and a Bobby who, sat in his chair, was clinging to a handrail to stop himself rolling all over, “it would make it very difficult to get to Wales.”
Neither the two men or the angel laughed. The Doctor let it pass, and his eyes fell on Bobby.
“Why’re you holding on to that rail?” he asked, as if he’d only just noticed the wheelchair.
Bobby stared in disbelief.
“My legs get tired.” he replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. “So I thought maybe I could just wheel myself everywhere.”
The Doctor reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, producing his sonic screwdriver.
“I knew aliens had probes.” Dean muttered, still feeling nauseous from the less-than-smooth flight.
“I shan’t be probing you; sorry to disappoint.” The Doctor grinned, advancing towards Bobby, who was looking alarmed, as a sour look passed over Dean’s face.
“I’m not--” he began, but was cut off by a loud, high-pitched, monotone wail. The end of the probe was glowing green, and it was pointed right at Bobby’s chest.
“There.” the Doctor said, after fifteen seconds or so had passed. “Now we can get going.”
“.......what did you do?” Bobby asked. The Doctor just smiled.
“You’re welcome.”
Which wasn’t really an explanation, but it was enough to make Bobby and Dean lock their gazed on each other, looking hopefully, amazed, dubious and stunned all at once. Slowly, Bobby gripped the edges of his chair, and moved his feet from the stirrups to the floor, and pushed down with his arms, listing himself to a standing position, slowly taking a few shaky steps.
Even Dean’s mouth fell open with awe. Bobby turned to the Doctor, his eyes brimming with gratitude.
“Thank you.” he said, voice gruff, emotional.
The Doctor continued to smile. “Now. We have a battle to stop. I’ll warn you now - it rains in Wales.”
*
It was raining. Not heavily - just a light, grey drizzle. But nevertheless, it seemed to be soaked through Dean’s multiple layers one at a time, just moments after he stepped out of the TARDIS, and it stung his face as he pulled his coat on, wrapping it tighter around himself as he folded his arms and looked around, taking in his surroundings. ahead of him, he could see bars and restaurants facing out towards the expanse of water which was to his left. To his right was a large, open, oval plaza, low in the ground, steps leading down to it, railings around the edges, tall posts lining the edges of this area at the other end, where there was a large water tower that looked like it was made of mirrors, water cascading down it, and a building with a rounded front, with words written in a language Dean didn’t think was possible to pronounce.
He rounded on the Doctor.
“I thought Wales was full of hills, sheep and red dragons?” he asked, tone demanding and a little disappointed.
The Doctor seemed to be the faintest bit amused by this, and he gestured behind them.
“That complex...it has a cinema, restaurants...the building right behind you.”
Dean turned, and looked at it. “...what’s your point?”
“It’s called The Red Dragon Centre.” The Doctor chuckled, seemingly to a joke only he understood. When nobody else laughed, his face reformed to look serious again.
“Right!” he clapped his hands together. “It’s rather wet here, isn’t it?”
“Forget about that!” Dean interrupted. “Where’s Sam? And...Adam?”
Michael taking Adam just days before Younger Sam and the Doctor had shown up had been a real kick in the balls for Dean. Who knew that the angels would have had a contingency plan?
Dean looked around, using a hand to keep the fine rain from stinging his eyes as he scouted across the Bay. In the gloomy weather, he couldn’t see any land across the water. Then again, his knowledge of the geography of Wales was poor. He didn’t know if he was facing England or Ireland.
“I think I found ‘em.” Bobby said, raising a hand to point across the large expanse of space between the railings they were stood by, and the tower.
Dean spun on his heel, and felt his stomach hit the floor. His brothers were there, alright. Facing each other, shoulders squared, stood fifteen feet apart.
They seemed to be talking, but with the rain and wind, Dean couldn’t pick up on the words.
A white hot anger flushed through him, though, and he started forwards.
“Stay here.” he commanded the other three, using his best, pissed, don’t-fuck-with-me tone of voice. “I gotta talk to Sammy.”
“Dean, there’s little point. He--” Castiel started, but Dean wasn’t listening. He was already descending into the expanse. He briefly saw a plaque on the wall, declaring the place was named “Roald Dahl Plass”, and some smaller text below that he didn’t stop to read.
Neither Lucifer nor Michael seemed to notice Dean’s approach, and he decided to take it at a saunter. He walked until he turned their face-off into a perfect isosceles triangle, when the other two seemed to notice him for the first time, looking up, surprise evident on both Sam and Adam’s features.
“Mae'n ddrwg gennyf, rwyf yn torri ar draws rhywbeth?
Dean had meant to say sorry, am I interrupting something? But what came out sounded more like an elaborate series of sneezes.
Lucifer and Michael exchanged glances, and were silent for a long, tense few seconds.
“You speak Welsh now? Cute. He’s gone native.” Michael said, finally.
Lucifer shook his head.
“It’s that forsaken spaceship. It brought him here - I can smell it on him.” he curled his lip. “What’s cute is he clearly thinks he’s going to be able to capture me this time.”
Dean shook his head, ignoring the cruel laugh that Michael gave, save for shooting him a glare.
“I want to speak to my brother.”
“Dean, how many times-” Michael started, but Dean silenced him with a glare double in intensity than before.
“Adam...” he said, sounding almost hopeless, apologetic. He’d never wanted it to come to this. Even if he didn’t really see the kid as his proper brother, they shared blood.
“Adam’s not home right now.” Michael gave a smug smirk that made Dean want to crush every bone in his body, meatsuit or not.
“In that case, take a number, I’ll deal with you next. But right now? I’m speaking to Sam. Five minutes. That’s all I need.”
Lucifer gave an exasperated sigh and melodramatic roll of his eyes.
“Dean, we’ve been over this. More than once. On, and on, and on...you’re like a stuck record.” He stretched, cracked his, or rather, Sam’s knuckles. “And I gotta say...I’ve had just about enough.”
He broke the perfect triangle, taking a step towards Dean. Michael repaired it, by taking an even step in the same direction. “Michael and I are going to to fight, Dean. And if we have to first squash you to do so, then so be it. We no longer have a use for you.”
Dean looked between them, eyes widening slightly. This had not been part of his plan.
“Goodbye, Dean Winchester.” Michael said, looking at Dean with a contempt and disgust that Dean had never seen in Adam’s eyes in the entire short time he’d known him. Michael’s hand raised, when there was a gravelly shout from behind them.
“Hey! Assbutt!”
The archangels both turned to face Castiel, who immediately through a glass bottle with a rag poking out of the top at Michael. It exploded on contact with his chest, and Michael immediately burned up, throwing his head back and screaming in agony. Eventually, the flames licked out, and Michael was gone.
Dean stared at Castiel. “...assbutt?”
Castiel shrugged. “He’ll be back. And upset. But you’ve got your five minutes.”
Lucifer stared at Castiel. Hard. If he’d looked angry before, it was nothing compared to now.
“Castiel. Did you just....molotov my brother with holy fire?” he demanded, words coming out almost staccato as he emphasised each one.
“Uh. No.” Castiel replied, guiltily.
“Nobody dicks with Michael...but me.”
He snapped his fingers, and before Dean could even shout out, or do something - anything - to help, Castiel was gone.
Exploded. A bloody pile on the floor. Well. Mostly on the floor. Parts of him were on Bobby, who had come over when Castiel had. The Doctor, however, was nowhere in sight.
Lucifer ignored Bobby, and stepped towards Dean, clearly intending to finish the job.
Dean, however, was not so quick to give up.
“...Sammy?” he asked, voice tentative.
Lucifer rolled his eyes. “I’ve tried. Tried, and tried to be nice. For Sam’s sake, more than anything. But you, Dean Winchester...” he closed his hands around the lapel’s of Dean’s jacket. “Have become such a pain in my-” his face tightened. “Plass...” he pushed Dean back, seeming to use hardly any force, but it was enough to send Dean crashing shoulder-first into one of the pillars at the side of the plaza, cracking it right to the top. He recoiled, trying to recover from the pain, especially as Lucifer was advancing, and he had limited time...
BANG.
Gunshot. Lucifer turned.
BANG.
Blood dripped down the front of Sam’s chest as Bobby fired another round into him. Lucifer didn’t look in pain - he looked merely like there was a fly in the room that needed swatting.
He didn’t even speak; just raised his hand, Vader-style, and twisted his wrist; Bobby’s neck twisting and snapping simultaneously.
Bobby crumpled to the ground, fallen. Dead.
“NO!!!” Dean yelled, half-managing to get up.
“Yes.” Lucifer replied, pulling Dean up from the cracked pillar, immediately sending him flying again with another punch.
Blood dripped from Dean’s mouth, staining the light sandy colour of the stone floor of the plaza. His breathing was heavy; his mouth hurt, and grief was eating at him. He’d just lost two friends. Two of his best friends. But he couldn’t afford to mourn them. Not yet. He forced himself to straighten up, blood still dripping.
“Sammy?” he tried, again. “Are you in there?”
Lucifer’s eyes were cold, devoid of any emotion. The way angels were supposed to be, but in such a wrong way.
“Oh, he’s in here, alright.” Punch. “And he’s gonna feel the snap of your bones.” Punch. “Every single one.”
Dean had fallen to the stone floor again after the last punch, and Lucifer walked towards him again. He picked him up, held him against a pillar. “And we’re going to take our time.”
The next set of punches were swift, delivered with both right and left hooks, constant, unrelenting. Dean’s face was broken. His eyes were swollen, lips barely able to speak, already. His nose was broken twice, and yet he did little more than grunt a little in pain. When Lucifer paused his attack and glared down at him, Dean met his eyes.
“Sammy. It’s okay.”
The look in Lucifer’s eyes was confusion - as if he wondered why the Winchester maggot wasn’t begging for mercy.
“It’s okay - I’m here. I’m here. I’m not gonna leave you.”
The devotion, the love. It was too much for Lucifer. He had never felt that love. Never. Not even from his own Father. Face screwed up, bitter, jealous, he punched Dean again, pounding that pretty-boy face. He’d taken away Dean’s family - now he was going to make sure nobody would ever want to look at him again, let alone love him.
And yet still, Dean held on to that. That silver thread, connecting him to Sam, his brother. That same silver thread that all brothers have - the same one that Michael severed with a lazy flick of his wrist, all those years ago. WHY SHOULD THE WINCHESTERS HAVE WHAT LUCIFER COULDN’T?
“I’m not gonna leave you.” Dean repeated, thickly, through his busted lips. It was all Lucifer could do not to let out an anguished scream of hatred. Instead, he pulled his fist back, ready to deliver the fatal blow.
The rain continued, and the wind whipped about them, the open space of the oval plaza having nothing to shield them from the elements. There was nothing but the sound of Dean’s broken breathing, blood bubbling from the corner of his mouth...there was a carosel running somewhere nearby, even in the dismal weather. There was a squawk of seagulls fighting over someone’s abandoned fish’n’chips. And...
It came from across the water. The fine rain wasn’t enough to wash away the mist that hovered above the choppy, grey, ink-like liquid that was beyond the railings. And from that mist came...a song.
Only, it was so much more than music. Everything sad, if it could make a sound, would be orchestrated into what Lucifer, and Sam, heard. Captivity. Oppression. Torture. Death. Grief. They sang to him from across the water. Everyone Sam had ever lost - he could hear their voices, all singing together. Giving him strength. His pupils dilated, and Lucifer had to battle harder to keep control of the body he was in, feeling something tug in the pit of Sam’s stomach.
There was more. Familiarity. Dean’s voice, singing a tune he recognised, but couldn’t quite place. His face screwed up. The music hurt. It felt like it was burning his soul, and as for Lucifer? His angelic core was boiling, bubbling over.
The song had a rumble of a forty-year old engine, and although the Impala was still in South Dakota, thousands of miles away, Sam could smell engine oil, leather seats. He pushed harder to free himself.
And then he recognised the song. One Dean would sing to him as a kid, once that their mother used to sing. her favourite. Hey Jude. The song coming across the water clearly wasn’t that, but it’s what Sam heard. Someone else in his position would have heard something else.
Memories flashed through Sam’s mind, starting with one he didn’t even remember - a blonde woman, singing down to him in his crib. Then Dean, peering down at him, curiously. Sam himself being sick, in bed, running a fever, and Dean mopping his forehead, waiting for the fever to break, humming Hey Jude to pass the time. Then, that time Sam fell out of a tree, damn near scraped most of knee off. The disinfectant stung, and he was gripping his leg tightly, focusing on Dean’s song as his big brother cleaned the wound. More and more, his memories jumped, changed, becoming a blur, focusing on the last one - driving through dark, wet country lanes, Dean thinking he was asleep, keeping the music down quiet in the Impala. Sam had listened to his brother softly crooning along to the old, worn Beatles tape, and Sam had smiled, watching the dark fields flash by.
Finally, with a final burst of strength, as the song reached a crescendo, he broke free of Lucifer’s grip, and let go of Dean, who fell back.
The music was drowned out by the roaring WOOSH-WHOOP of the TARDIS as it started to materialise around them. It was fading into existence, when suddenly, Michael was there.
“No, Sam!” he yelled. “I have to fight my brother! It’s my destiny!” he nodded, as if that would change Sam’s mind. By the time the TARDIS was fully there, it was around Sam, Dean, and Michael. The Doctor didn’t seem to notice, and he pulled another lever, the TARDIS on the move again, having barely stopped.
“Sam, now!” the Doctor yelled, and the TARDIS doors flew open, revealing what could only be described as the ink nightmares were made of; the time vortex, the void...all of it, a swirling, horrible mess that Dean could barely stand to look at.
“Dean.”
Dean looked up at his brother, who nodded, and gave a small smile.
“I’ve got him, Dean. It’s going to be okay.”
Sam closed his eyes, the last thing he’d seen being Dean, and stepped back towards the open doors.
Michael ran forwards, grabbing Sam. “NO!” he roared. Sam stumbled slightly, but continued his fall, pulling Michael with him. They fell, arms and legs splayed, into the time vortex.
Gone.
Forever.
*
Dean knelt at the bloodied part of the floor in Roald Dahl Plass, Cardiff Bay, head hung, shoulders drooping. The doctor had returned them there, to allow Dean to mourn.
There was a touch on his shoulder, and he looked up.
Castiel.
Castiel healed Dean with a touch of his hand. Shell-shocked, Dean didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t wanted to be saved, for a start.
Castiel didn’t speak; just walked to Bobby’s fallen body, and with another touch, brought him back, too.
“Cas, how--?” Dean managed.
The Doctor walked out of the TARDIS, which had been parked nearby.
“Little help from some old friends.” he said, nodding towards the water tower, which made no sense to Dean whatsoever. “I went back to the precise moment Castiel was, well, exploded, and used this;” he held up a metal-looking device, and pulled it away again before Dean could look properly. “Borrowed it only, mind you. I’m not supposed to interfere. I’m not even supposed to have met them, not looking like this. It’s...complicated. Time travel stuff. I should just....take this back....”
He turned, to leave the two men and the angel to talk, and to return the borrowed gadget to the unseen rooms below the water tower.
“Doctor.” Dean called.
A smile spread over the Doctor’s face, as if he’d been expecting that, and turned back.
“Yes, Dean?”
“That music...that song. I mean...what was..?”
“The Ood. Helpful little devils, excuse my turn of phrase, when it comes to executing fate.”
“...right.” that made no sense whatsoever to Dean, but he didn’t really care.
He didn’t care at all, in fact.
Sam was gone. And all Dean wanted to do was die.
PART SEVEN
It was over, so why were they still trying? Lucifer had his brother. Dean was staring at the bottom of an empty glass. Again. It had been a stupid idea - why had he agreed to let Sam try? He’d always been a gambling man, but never had he ever diced with his own brother’s life. The one and only time he did, and he lost. Everything. The stakes had been too high, and he’d been crazy to even consider it.
“He knew.” Dean’s voice sounded scratched, like he’d been dragged through miles and miles of thistles and brambles. His eyes, dark shadows smudged underneath from lack of sleep, were slightly bloodshot. “About Dad dying. Bobby being in a chair. About Cas. He knew, and never said a damn word.”
Bobby’s living room. Bobby looked up, exchanged glances with Castiel, who was looking stiff, uncomfortable in the presence of The Doctor, who seemed to be polishing a contraption made entirely of cogs and gears, but didn’t seem to do anything. Whatever it was, or wasn’t, he was inspecting it between polishes with a monocle fixed in his left eye. When the room went silent, he looked up, eyebrows raising when he found everyone - except Dean - watching him, expectantly. The monocle fell out.
“What? Oh. No, he didn’t.” he focused very hard on his...gadget, thing, again.
“Excuse me?” Bobby asked, disbelievingly.
“When I took him back to his own time,” The Doctor replied, impatiently, as if he’d already explained a million times already (which he hadn’t). “I put a kind of...” he waved one hand, vaguely. “...filter on his mind.”
“What do you mean by filter?” Bobby asked, eyes narrowing.
The Doctor shook his head, and put the gadget thing down.
“I mean certain things are blurry. They’re still in his head, but if he tried to focus on them they evade him. Move to a hidden cortex in his brain. On the tip of his tongue, until it happens again for him. Well. I say I did it - the TARDIS did. For his own protection. Nobody should know too much about their own future.”
“One Doc quoting another! Brown!!” Dean snickered to himself, still holding his empty glass.
“Are you sure that being intoxicated is a wise idea, given the circumstances?” Castiel asked, looking unsure, but concerned.
“Cas.” Dean replied, then seemed to forget what he was going to say.
“...Yes?” Castiel prompted, after a few seconds of silence passed, everyone else staring at him as if he had been the one about to speak.
“...” Dean stared, blankly, then exclaimed “CAS!” again. “Being intox...toxy....in a tux...being drunk is always a good idea. Always. Especially given the circumstances.”
Nobody argued. They couldn’t, really. In a way, Dean was right. Although nobody would say it out loud, a drunk Dean was safer than a Dean capable of going out and wreaking revenge on anyone or anything that crossed his path.
Dean’s eyes focused on The Doctor.
“What the hell are you doing? Why are you even still here? You-you know what? I don’t even wanna see your stupid face. It’s...stupid.”
“I’ve had worse.” The Doctor replied, and suddenly stood up. He looked to Castiel. “You. Sober him up.”
“Why?” Castiel asked, reluctant to do anything the Doctor asked of him.
“Because this thing,” The Doctor held up his gadget, and despite apparently being made of brass and copper, it was flashing a green light, “is telling me where we can find Sam in a few hours time”
“It’s telling prophecies now?” Bobby asked, skeptically. “Don’t we have a shabby drunk in a dirty robe already doing that for us?”
“Chuck is not shabby-” Castiel interrupted, defensive. “He-”
“Fascinating.” The Doctor replied. “But we really ought to be going. We have...a bit of a long flight ahead of us.”
Castiel stared, hard, before relenting, and moving towards Dean, hand outstretched. Dean shook his head and backed away.
“Hey! No! Get away from me!” he growled, his face screwing up when Castiel planted his palm on the drunk hunter’s forehead. Everyone looked. Dean scowled, one hand going to his head.
“Ow.” was all he said.
“He’s sober, now. Where is the battle going to take place?” Castiel asked.
“I thought you would know. All the angels are talking about it.” The Doctor replied, in a tone as close to snarky as he would get. Castiel’s eyes widened, just a little, and he looked the tiniest bit hurt, but mostly just resentful.
“Clearly not all of them.” he replied, shoulders tense, hands curled under his too-long sleeves.
“Don’t listen to him, Cas.” Dean replied, rubbing his temples, eyes closed, before opening them to glare at the Doctor, his green eyes angry.”Besides - we ain’t flying anywhere. He can give us the co-ordinates, and we’ll drive.”
“I could just--” Castiel offered, but Dean shook his head.
“NO! Uh. I mean...no, it’s okay. I don’t really wanna be...I mean...every time you zap us someplace, I gotta eat my own weight in Bran Flakes just to be able to poop again.”
“You hate Bran Flakes.” Bobby frowned.
“Yeah, exactly.” Dean winced. He turned to The Doctor. “Where’re we going?”
The Doctor was looking amused.
“Cardiff, Wales.” he replied. “Good luck in driving.”
*
Castiel had been unfazed by the large internal spacing of the TARDIS. Bobby had raised his eyebrows, and given a “huh”, but Dean figured the old hunter had seen weirder things in his time, so didn’t really give it the time of day.
It still fascinated Dean. Not that he would let it show.
The Doctor was edging around his console, pulling levers, hitting buttons, twisting dials. He stopped by a computer, and typed into a keyboard.
“Cardiff.” he was muttering to himself. “What is it about Cardiff? Everything seems to go down there.”
“Perhaps there’s a tear in the continuum.” Castiel suggested, stoically.
The Doctor scoffed to himself, then added, quietly, after a pause;
“You may just be right.”
He looked up, and grinned. “Hold on tight.”
*
“If all the roads in England were laid end to end...” The Doctor announced, to a green-in-the-face Dean, a rumpled-looking Castiel, and a Bobby who, sat in his chair, was clinging to a handrail to stop himself rolling all over, “it would make it very difficult to get to Wales.”
Neither the two men or the angel laughed. The Doctor let it pass, and his eyes fell on Bobby.
“Why’re you holding on to that rail?” he asked, as if he’d only just noticed the wheelchair.
Bobby stared in disbelief.
“My legs get tired.” he replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. “So I thought maybe I could just wheel myself everywhere.”
The Doctor reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, producing his sonic screwdriver.
“I knew aliens had probes.” Dean muttered, still feeling nauseous from the less-than-smooth flight.
“I shan’t be probing you; sorry to disappoint.” The Doctor grinned, advancing towards Bobby, who was looking alarmed, as a sour look passed over Dean’s face.
“I’m not--” he began, but was cut off by a loud, high-pitched, monotone wail. The end of the probe was glowing green, and it was pointed right at Bobby’s chest.
“There.” the Doctor said, after fifteen seconds or so had passed. “Now we can get going.”
“.......what did you do?” Bobby asked. The Doctor just smiled.
“You’re welcome.”
Which wasn’t really an explanation, but it was enough to make Bobby and Dean lock their gazed on each other, looking hopefully, amazed, dubious and stunned all at once. Slowly, Bobby gripped the edges of his chair, and moved his feet from the stirrups to the floor, and pushed down with his arms, listing himself to a standing position, slowly taking a few shaky steps.
Even Dean’s mouth fell open with awe. Bobby turned to the Doctor, his eyes brimming with gratitude.
“Thank you.” he said, voice gruff, emotional.
The Doctor continued to smile. “Now. We have a battle to stop. I’ll warn you now - it rains in Wales.”
*
It was raining. Not heavily - just a light, grey drizzle. But nevertheless, it seemed to be soaked through Dean’s multiple layers one at a time, just moments after he stepped out of the TARDIS, and it stung his face as he pulled his coat on, wrapping it tighter around himself as he folded his arms and looked around, taking in his surroundings. ahead of him, he could see bars and restaurants facing out towards the expanse of water which was to his left. To his right was a large, open, oval plaza, low in the ground, steps leading down to it, railings around the edges, tall posts lining the edges of this area at the other end, where there was a large water tower that looked like it was made of mirrors, water cascading down it, and a building with a rounded front, with words written in a language Dean didn’t think was possible to pronounce.
He rounded on the Doctor.
“I thought Wales was full of hills, sheep and red dragons?” he asked, tone demanding and a little disappointed.
The Doctor seemed to be the faintest bit amused by this, and he gestured behind them.
“That complex...it has a cinema, restaurants...the building right behind you.”
Dean turned, and looked at it. “...what’s your point?”
“It’s called The Red Dragon Centre.” The Doctor chuckled, seemingly to a joke only he understood. When nobody else laughed, his face reformed to look serious again.
“Right!” he clapped his hands together. “It’s rather wet here, isn’t it?”
“Forget about that!” Dean interrupted. “Where’s Sam? And...Adam?”
Michael taking Adam just days before Younger Sam and the Doctor had shown up had been a real kick in the balls for Dean. Who knew that the angels would have had a contingency plan?
Dean looked around, using a hand to keep the fine rain from stinging his eyes as he scouted across the Bay. In the gloomy weather, he couldn’t see any land across the water. Then again, his knowledge of the geography of Wales was poor. He didn’t know if he was facing England or Ireland.
“I think I found ‘em.” Bobby said, raising a hand to point across the large expanse of space between the railings they were stood by, and the tower.
Dean spun on his heel, and felt his stomach hit the floor. His brothers were there, alright. Facing each other, shoulders squared, stood fifteen feet apart.
They seemed to be talking, but with the rain and wind, Dean couldn’t pick up on the words.
A white hot anger flushed through him, though, and he started forwards.
“Stay here.” he commanded the other three, using his best, pissed, don’t-fuck-with-me tone of voice. “I gotta talk to Sammy.”
“Dean, there’s little point. He--” Castiel started, but Dean wasn’t listening. He was already descending into the expanse. He briefly saw a plaque on the wall, declaring the place was named “Roald Dahl Plass”, and some smaller text below that he didn’t stop to read.
Neither Lucifer nor Michael seemed to notice Dean’s approach, and he decided to take it at a saunter. He walked until he turned their face-off into a perfect isosceles triangle, when the other two seemed to notice him for the first time, looking up, surprise evident on both Sam and Adam’s features.
“Mae'n ddrwg gennyf, rwyf yn torri ar draws rhywbeth?
Dean had meant to say sorry, am I interrupting something? But what came out sounded more like an elaborate series of sneezes.
Lucifer and Michael exchanged glances, and were silent for a long, tense few seconds.
“You speak Welsh now? Cute. He’s gone native.” Michael said, finally.
Lucifer shook his head.
“It’s that forsaken spaceship. It brought him here - I can smell it on him.” he curled his lip. “What’s cute is he clearly thinks he’s going to be able to capture me this time.”
Dean shook his head, ignoring the cruel laugh that Michael gave, save for shooting him a glare.
“I want to speak to my brother.”
“Dean, how many times-” Michael started, but Dean silenced him with a glare double in intensity than before.
“Adam...” he said, sounding almost hopeless, apologetic. He’d never wanted it to come to this. Even if he didn’t really see the kid as his proper brother, they shared blood.
“Adam’s not home right now.” Michael gave a smug smirk that made Dean want to crush every bone in his body, meatsuit or not.
“In that case, take a number, I’ll deal with you next. But right now? I’m speaking to Sam. Five minutes. That’s all I need.”
Lucifer gave an exasperated sigh and melodramatic roll of his eyes.
“Dean, we’ve been over this. More than once. On, and on, and on...you’re like a stuck record.” He stretched, cracked his, or rather, Sam’s knuckles. “And I gotta say...I’ve had just about enough.”
He broke the perfect triangle, taking a step towards Dean. Michael repaired it, by taking an even step in the same direction. “Michael and I are going to to fight, Dean. And if we have to first squash you to do so, then so be it. We no longer have a use for you.”
Dean looked between them, eyes widening slightly. This had not been part of his plan.
“Goodbye, Dean Winchester.” Michael said, looking at Dean with a contempt and disgust that Dean had never seen in Adam’s eyes in the entire short time he’d known him. Michael’s hand raised, when there was a gravelly shout from behind them.
“Hey! Assbutt!”
The archangels both turned to face Castiel, who immediately through a glass bottle with a rag poking out of the top at Michael. It exploded on contact with his chest, and Michael immediately burned up, throwing his head back and screaming in agony. Eventually, the flames licked out, and Michael was gone.
Dean stared at Castiel. “...assbutt?”
Castiel shrugged. “He’ll be back. And upset. But you’ve got your five minutes.”
Lucifer stared at Castiel. Hard. If he’d looked angry before, it was nothing compared to now.
“Castiel. Did you just....molotov my brother with holy fire?” he demanded, words coming out almost staccato as he emphasised each one.
“Uh. No.” Castiel replied, guiltily.
“Nobody dicks with Michael...but me.”
He snapped his fingers, and before Dean could even shout out, or do something - anything - to help, Castiel was gone.
Exploded. A bloody pile on the floor. Well. Mostly on the floor. Parts of him were on Bobby, who had come over when Castiel had. The Doctor, however, was nowhere in sight.
Lucifer ignored Bobby, and stepped towards Dean, clearly intending to finish the job.
Dean, however, was not so quick to give up.
“...Sammy?” he asked, voice tentative.
Lucifer rolled his eyes. “I’ve tried. Tried, and tried to be nice. For Sam’s sake, more than anything. But you, Dean Winchester...” he closed his hands around the lapel’s of Dean’s jacket. “Have become such a pain in my-” his face tightened. “Plass...” he pushed Dean back, seeming to use hardly any force, but it was enough to send Dean crashing shoulder-first into one of the pillars at the side of the plaza, cracking it right to the top. He recoiled, trying to recover from the pain, especially as Lucifer was advancing, and he had limited time...
BANG.
Gunshot. Lucifer turned.
BANG.
Blood dripped down the front of Sam’s chest as Bobby fired another round into him. Lucifer didn’t look in pain - he looked merely like there was a fly in the room that needed swatting.
He didn’t even speak; just raised his hand, Vader-style, and twisted his wrist; Bobby’s neck twisting and snapping simultaneously.
Bobby crumpled to the ground, fallen. Dead.
“NO!!!” Dean yelled, half-managing to get up.
“Yes.” Lucifer replied, pulling Dean up from the cracked pillar, immediately sending him flying again with another punch.
Blood dripped from Dean’s mouth, staining the light sandy colour of the stone floor of the plaza. His breathing was heavy; his mouth hurt, and grief was eating at him. He’d just lost two friends. Two of his best friends. But he couldn’t afford to mourn them. Not yet. He forced himself to straighten up, blood still dripping.
“Sammy?” he tried, again. “Are you in there?”
Lucifer’s eyes were cold, devoid of any emotion. The way angels were supposed to be, but in such a wrong way.
“Oh, he’s in here, alright.” Punch. “And he’s gonna feel the snap of your bones.” Punch. “Every single one.”
Dean had fallen to the stone floor again after the last punch, and Lucifer walked towards him again. He picked him up, held him against a pillar. “And we’re going to take our time.”
The next set of punches were swift, delivered with both right and left hooks, constant, unrelenting. Dean’s face was broken. His eyes were swollen, lips barely able to speak, already. His nose was broken twice, and yet he did little more than grunt a little in pain. When Lucifer paused his attack and glared down at him, Dean met his eyes.
“Sammy. It’s okay.”
The look in Lucifer’s eyes was confusion - as if he wondered why the Winchester maggot wasn’t begging for mercy.
“It’s okay - I’m here. I’m here. I’m not gonna leave you.”
The devotion, the love. It was too much for Lucifer. He had never felt that love. Never. Not even from his own Father. Face screwed up, bitter, jealous, he punched Dean again, pounding that pretty-boy face. He’d taken away Dean’s family - now he was going to make sure nobody would ever want to look at him again, let alone love him.
And yet still, Dean held on to that. That silver thread, connecting him to Sam, his brother. That same silver thread that all brothers have - the same one that Michael severed with a lazy flick of his wrist, all those years ago. WHY SHOULD THE WINCHESTERS HAVE WHAT LUCIFER COULDN’T?
“I’m not gonna leave you.” Dean repeated, thickly, through his busted lips. It was all Lucifer could do not to let out an anguished scream of hatred. Instead, he pulled his fist back, ready to deliver the fatal blow.
The rain continued, and the wind whipped about them, the open space of the oval plaza having nothing to shield them from the elements. There was nothing but the sound of Dean’s broken breathing, blood bubbling from the corner of his mouth...there was a carosel running somewhere nearby, even in the dismal weather. There was a squawk of seagulls fighting over someone’s abandoned fish’n’chips. And...
It came from across the water. The fine rain wasn’t enough to wash away the mist that hovered above the choppy, grey, ink-like liquid that was beyond the railings. And from that mist came...a song.
Only, it was so much more than music. Everything sad, if it could make a sound, would be orchestrated into what Lucifer, and Sam, heard. Captivity. Oppression. Torture. Death. Grief. They sang to him from across the water. Everyone Sam had ever lost - he could hear their voices, all singing together. Giving him strength. His pupils dilated, and Lucifer had to battle harder to keep control of the body he was in, feeling something tug in the pit of Sam’s stomach.
There was more. Familiarity. Dean’s voice, singing a tune he recognised, but couldn’t quite place. His face screwed up. The music hurt. It felt like it was burning his soul, and as for Lucifer? His angelic core was boiling, bubbling over.
The song had a rumble of a forty-year old engine, and although the Impala was still in South Dakota, thousands of miles away, Sam could smell engine oil, leather seats. He pushed harder to free himself.
And then he recognised the song. One Dean would sing to him as a kid, once that their mother used to sing. her favourite. Hey Jude. The song coming across the water clearly wasn’t that, but it’s what Sam heard. Someone else in his position would have heard something else.
Memories flashed through Sam’s mind, starting with one he didn’t even remember - a blonde woman, singing down to him in his crib. Then Dean, peering down at him, curiously. Sam himself being sick, in bed, running a fever, and Dean mopping his forehead, waiting for the fever to break, humming Hey Jude to pass the time. Then, that time Sam fell out of a tree, damn near scraped most of knee off. The disinfectant stung, and he was gripping his leg tightly, focusing on Dean’s song as his big brother cleaned the wound. More and more, his memories jumped, changed, becoming a blur, focusing on the last one - driving through dark, wet country lanes, Dean thinking he was asleep, keeping the music down quiet in the Impala. Sam had listened to his brother softly crooning along to the old, worn Beatles tape, and Sam had smiled, watching the dark fields flash by.
Finally, with a final burst of strength, as the song reached a crescendo, he broke free of Lucifer’s grip, and let go of Dean, who fell back.
The music was drowned out by the roaring WOOSH-WHOOP of the TARDIS as it started to materialise around them. It was fading into existence, when suddenly, Michael was there.
“No, Sam!” he yelled. “I have to fight my brother! It’s my destiny!” he nodded, as if that would change Sam’s mind. By the time the TARDIS was fully there, it was around Sam, Dean, and Michael. The Doctor didn’t seem to notice, and he pulled another lever, the TARDIS on the move again, having barely stopped.
“Sam, now!” the Doctor yelled, and the TARDIS doors flew open, revealing what could only be described as the ink nightmares were made of; the time vortex, the void...all of it, a swirling, horrible mess that Dean could barely stand to look at.
“Dean.”
Dean looked up at his brother, who nodded, and gave a small smile.
“I’ve got him, Dean. It’s going to be okay.”
Sam closed his eyes, the last thing he’d seen being Dean, and stepped back towards the open doors.
Michael ran forwards, grabbing Sam. “NO!” he roared. Sam stumbled slightly, but continued his fall, pulling Michael with him. They fell, arms and legs splayed, into the time vortex.
Gone.
Forever.
*
Dean knelt at the bloodied part of the floor in Roald Dahl Plass, Cardiff Bay, head hung, shoulders drooping. The doctor had returned them there, to allow Dean to mourn.
There was a touch on his shoulder, and he looked up.
Castiel.
Castiel healed Dean with a touch of his hand. Shell-shocked, Dean didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t wanted to be saved, for a start.
Castiel didn’t speak; just walked to Bobby’s fallen body, and with another touch, brought him back, too.
“Cas, how--?” Dean managed.
The Doctor walked out of the TARDIS, which had been parked nearby.
“Little help from some old friends.” he said, nodding towards the water tower, which made no sense to Dean whatsoever. “I went back to the precise moment Castiel was, well, exploded, and used this;” he held up a metal-looking device, and pulled it away again before Dean could look properly. “Borrowed it only, mind you. I’m not supposed to interfere. I’m not even supposed to have met them, not looking like this. It’s...complicated. Time travel stuff. I should just....take this back....”
He turned, to leave the two men and the angel to talk, and to return the borrowed gadget to the unseen rooms below the water tower.
“Doctor.” Dean called.
A smile spread over the Doctor’s face, as if he’d been expecting that, and turned back.
“Yes, Dean?”
“That music...that song. I mean...what was..?”
“The Ood. Helpful little devils, excuse my turn of phrase, when it comes to executing fate.”
“...right.” that made no sense whatsoever to Dean, but he didn’t really care.
He didn’t care at all, in fact.
Sam was gone. And all Dean wanted to do was die.
PART SEVEN