World Gone Wild | SPNJ2BB 2015 | Part III
Part I
Part II
Warnings: Canon-typical blood & gore, non-major character death, slightly hand-wavey science
Summary: Season 2 AU. When a virus is released from a facility in Oregon that turns roughly 1/3 of the population of the world into mindless beasts, known only as Wilds, and affects the other 2/3 in ... other ways, Sam and Dean are caught right in the middle. Suspecting demonic influence on the catastrophe, they pause their hunt for Yellow-Eyes to track down the culprit and kill as many Wilds as they can. As the world dissolves into chaos around them, they must watch each other's backs as their bodies change against their will, under the thrall of the virus.
They were staying in Lebanon, Kansas when a big storm hit. The wind shrieked and the clouds had turned the hazy blue-green that, to every Midwesterner, meant hail, and lots of it. Rain sheeted against the Impala’s windshield and lightning illuminated Dean’s hard-set face every other second.
Sam fidgeted. He hated being on the road in storms, even more so now than before. Before, he could rely on an ambulance, or even just a police officer, to help them if they were hurt. Now they were on their own, and a falling hailstone didn’t make distinctions like that.
“Dean,” he ventured, “Are you sure we should be out in this?”
Dean gritted in reply, “Gotta find shelter for Baby, Sam, before the hail gets here. I don’t have a good hammer to straighten out all the dents anymore. It was at … at Bobby’s.”
“Right,” Sam said, shrinking back slightly in his seat as the rain only seemed to intensify.
“What, Sammy, you afraid of a little sprinkle?” Dean quipped, eyes still laser-focused on the pavement in front of the Impala’s wheels.
Sam looked to the side and hissed in a breath, hand grabbing for Dean’s arm. “Um, Dean?” he began, and the tentative terror in his brother’s voice had Dean paying attention. Sam continued, “If this is a sprinkle, then that tornado on the left of us is a dust devil.”
“Holy fucking shit!” Dean exclaimed, seeing what Sam had been staring at for the last few seconds. “What the fuck! Holy Christ, we’re in its path.”
Sam white-knuckled the door handle as Dean spun the car onto what appeared to be an opening to a dirt road, apologizing under his breath to Baby all the while: “Hey, girl, I know it hurts, I’m sorry, but that thing was spinning tree branches and tin roofs and all sorts of shit that would really put a dent in you, so forgive me, yeah?”
They squealed to a stop as an overhang appeared, sheltering the Impala just enough for them both to be able to watch as the tornado swept a path of destruction not a half-mile away, right where they had just been driving. Hail started to fall, and Dean muttered a quiet thank-you to the overhang, which sheltered his beloved car.
Within five minutes, the storm had petered off. “Holy shit,” Sam muttered as he got his first good look around in the light of dusk. “This isn’t natural. Someone constructed this.”
Dean glanced around, noticing what Sam had as well: a door like a garage door, sunk into the bedrock and loam of the hill and overhang they were sheltering in. “Huh,” Dean muttered. “I wonder if anyone’s home?”
-*-*-*-
Apparently, the underground complex was huge, because it took both of them slogging through rain and mud for a good five minutes to find another door.
This door, unlike the other, had a keyhole and a handle, even if it looked like a pipe cover from a distance. Sam tried and failed to pick the lock, and stepped aside to let Dean attempt.
After another five minutes of fiddling, Dean was also forced to admit defeat. “Looks like it needs a special key, Sam,” he muttered. “Let’s go see what the Internet has to say about a bunker hidden on the outskirts of Lebanon, Kansas, yeah?”
Sam muttered something about provenances and sale records as they trudged back to the car. They’d already had an unspoken agreement to just live out of the Impala until they found a way to open the bunker; motels had become more questionable as owners returned unexpectedly to police squatters. (They didn’t look kindly on a Oncer having the balls to tell them that their security sucked, apparently. Dean learned that the hard way.)
When they go back to the car, Sam plopped himself into the passenger seat and plugged in his satellite-wifi stick. It didn’t take Sam long to make a noise of success, fingers clacking on the keys.
Dean turned to his little brother. “You get the scoop on this place?”
“Most of what I’ve got so far is off of conspiracy websites, but it looks solid, especially considering the accuracy of details that we already know, like the location of the place and the need for a special key. But get this: that star on the doors? It’s the sign of a secretive organization, according to this guy. It was called the Men of Letters. Apparently they went dark in the fifties, for reasons unknown. But this guy says he traced the provenance of this land to a man named ‘Albert Magnus.’”
Dean muttered, “Well that sounds very secret-society, all right.” He shook his head. “Anyway, we got a location on this Magnus dude?”
Sam shook his head. “That’s the thing. That’s where the trail ends. Apparently, there’s no one by the name of Albert Magnus recorded as being anywhere around here, ever. But this guy obviously didn’t do a thorough search, because I just found one Albert Magnus buried in a cemetery not far from here.” He paused to give Dean a puckish look. “You ready to go dig up this dude?”
Dean grinned. “Hell yeah.”
The old cemetery was deserted, except for a few Wilds, which Sam took out summarily from afar while Dean began to dig into Magnus’ grave. The gunshots didn’t attract any others, so Sam figured that the pack hadn’t gotten too large just yet. He grabbed a shovel and jumped in to help dig.
The soil was wet from the torrential rains of the storm the day before, so progress went slightly faster than it normally did. When they hit the coffin lid and cracked it open, they found … nothing. Just a skeleton. No key, no note, no secret map.
Dean cursed and kicked the padded sides of the coffin, crushing the corpse’s femur. Sam looked on, bemused, as his brother proceeded to salt and burn the corpse in what he would call a disappointed tantrum.
He went to inspect the other graves with the star of Aquarius engraved on them. He stopped at one Larry Ganem’s grave, staring at a second engraving.
“Dean!” he called, excitement bleeding into his voice. “Looks like we had the wrong grave!”
“What the hell do you mean? This is the Magnus bastard’s grave!” Dean growled back , filling in the grave furiously.
Sam looked up. “Well,” he wheedled, tone getting Dean’s attention, “This one has the sigil to talk to the dead engraved on it. I don’t think that’s a coincidence, do you?”
Dean crowded over. “Ha! Of course. I knew it all along. Those Men of Letters are a damn cryptic bunch, but we’ve got them pinned, don’t we, Sammy?”
Sam grinned. “Whatever you say, Dean.”
Dean seemed to ignore any aches that had started up (or maybe he didn’t have any). Sam, on the other hand, could feel every shovelful of mud he’d pulled up from the ground in his shoulders and back. He begged off of the dig, and Dean eyed him speculatively before nodding.
It took Dean about twice as long to dig down, but any exhaustion he was beginning to harbor was overcome by the discovery of an empty coffin. “Well, what do you know, Sam,” Dean said, staring at the decomposing silk batting. “Looks like old Larry’s still kicking.” He tilted his head. "Or, he was before Gemini rolled through anyway."
Sam started to head back to the Impala and his laptop. He had a Man of Letters to find.
-*-*-*-
Finding Larry Ganem was as easy as plugging his name into Google. Soon, they had a solid address to investigate.
When they got there, knocking on the door got no response, except for the gurgling growl of a Wild. Dean raised his shotgun, filled with rock salt on one side and an iron rod on the other, while Sam hefted his machete. Sam kicked down the door, confident that any neighbors wouldn’t give a shit, and they slid inside.
The body of Larry Ganem lay, sightless eyes glaringly open, in front of an armchair. Surprisingly, the Wild hadn’t chewed it to bone and sinew yet.
Sam yelled for Dean as the Wild in question, an older woman wearing a fifties-style dress and the black eyes of the demon-possessed, appeared around the corner. Dean fired both barrels as Sam spun to avoid the projectiles, and then ducked as Sam whirled to lop off the head of the Wild.
A loud scream echoed through the room as black smoke fled the host body, now thoroughly dead. Sam drew in a breath, then steeled himself to look in the dead man’s pockets for the key.
Dean moved to the bedroom, and hummed in success when he found the box inscribed with the Aquarian Star. “Sam, I got it!” he hissed, moving back to where Sam knelt over the corpses. Sam stood and nodded, leaving the bodies where they’d fallen.
They’d burn the house as they left. Nothing else was close enough to catch fire, and the man and his wife deserved to be put to rest.
The flames crackled behind them as Dean gunned the Impala’s engine, pointing them toward the mysterious bunker once again.
-*-*-*-
The Bunker was amazing. (They’d already given it capital-letter status.) That was all Dean had to say. A fully-functioning generator, enough hot water to last them forever and a day due to the underground spring they apparently sat over, a kitchen … Dean was in heaven. Finally, for the first time, he could see himself settling down, here, with Sammy and maybe some other unbigoted survivors to fill the empty rooms.
As soon as they realized how huge the Bunker was, Sam went back out to buy, as he said, “the whole damn unperishable foods section, and a damn huge chunk of the perishables, too.” After all, they had a fridge. Not only that, they had a huge fridge, and a freezer besides. They had a whole pantry to fill with food, and some old cans still sat on the shelves, even. They could house a small army out of this bunker and still not strain the resources, not really.
Right after Sam discovered the pantry, he discovered the library, and Dean knew Sam was sold. Books piled on books, all apparently organized according to some code the Men of Letters had written down in their files. (Those Sam had raided first.)
While Sam went wandering through the stacks, Dean found himself standing in another huge, dusty room, this one filled to the brim with curse boxes and boxes of old files marked with such weird titles as “The Mating Tendencies of Naga: a Comprehensive Study” and “The Remedying of the Penile-Diminishing Totem.” He looked around, one hand covering his crotch, after reading that one. He wasn’t going to touch anything.
He wandered through the rows of shelves until he discovered the honest-to-God dungeon hidden away in the back.
“Damn, this place is awesome,” he muttered, going back to find Sam and cook themselves a real supper for the first time in … ever.
-*-*-*-
Dean practically had to drag Sam away from the archives to get him to eat his food. Even as Sam walked away, his feet dragged and he kept glancing back forlornly at a certain shelf.
“What, Sam,” Dean griped good-naturedly, “The promise of a homemade meal not enough to drag you away?”
Sam jerked. “Huh? No, no. It’s great that you’re cooking, really. Can’t wait. But … I was so close to a breakthrough…”
“About what?”
“A way to bring the demon to the surface of a host, keep them from sinking below the surface, intentionally or not.” Sam stared at Dean, eyes widening. “Dean,” he urged, “Do you realize what that could mean?”
Dean fidgeted. “Well, yeah, so we’d be able to talk to demons again. So? You can take a food break, dude.”
“No, Dean!” Sam hissed, pulling away. “We could figure out where Yellow-Eyes is. We could end this, finally!”
Dean shook his head, grabbing Sam’s arm. “Whoa, there, dude, chill. I promise, the books will be there after you eat.”
Sam plopped down on the chair. “Fine. Where’s the food?” He glanced around. “Let’s make this fast.”
“Whatever, bitch,” Dean griped. He made for the kitchen, bringing out the burgers he’d put together. Hell, he’d even spruced Sam’s up with lettuce and tomatoes and crap, and left off the bacon and American cheese. Sam’s was as healthy as a home-grown American burger could reasonably be.
Dean slid the plate down to where Sam sat, gazing over at the archives again. “Eat up,” he commanded, sitting down to follow his own orders.
Sam eyed the burger, picking up the bun. Dean saw the honest surprise in his face. “What?” he asked. “You thought I forgot that you were a health nut, Sammy? ‘Course not. Don’t doubt me. Now, seriously, eat.”
He watched Sam take the first bite, small smile on his face. Sam’s eyes widened, and his smile grew as well. When Sam made a small noise of happiness, Dean grinned full-out. “What’d I tell you, Sammy,” he said, “Books can wait.”
Sam didn’t even seem to hear him, taking bite after bite out of the burger. Dean dug into his own, too. He had a dungeon to explore.
-*-*-*-
Immediately after eating, Sam returned to the stacks. Dean hung around, turning on Sam’s laptop to see what was going on outside the Bunker.
Turned out, that one scientist from way back when the whole deal with the virus started was right. The virus had already spread through the ocean currents to the European coastline, and it was moving inward hourly. Asia, with its crowded populations crammed into small spaces, was having major problems with Wild containment, too.
Surprisingly, Africa was doing the best out of everywhere when it came to Wild density. Different sites speculated as to why: different genetics, different culture, less interbreeding, more diversity of genes. Even with the “advantage,” though, the continent was still being slowly overrun. They just were able to keep their cities mostly intact.
Dean closed the laptop. Enough depressing shit for one day. Time to go look at the dungeon.
He was just walking away when Sam shouted, “Dean! I found it!”
He turned back around on a dime. “Really?” he returned.
“Yeah!” Sam said, coming out of the stacks, book in one hand, box of files under his other arm. “The Men of Letters even have records of their experiments.”
“Huh,” Dean replied. “Well, lay it on me. How do we chat up a demon in this day and age?”
Sam’s mouth flattened out, but Dean could see the smile peeking through. “It’s not that difficult,” Sam continued. “We should have everything we need, except maybe the owl feathers plucked under a new moon.”
Dean mused, “You know, I think I saw some box with a label like that on it in the storage room. I’ll go check, you see what else we’d need.”
“Right,” Sam agreed. “I’ll grab the other stuff from our bags and the storage closet I saw when I was digging through this place.”
Dean almost ran to the dungeon, feet light. They could actually have a chance at this! Finally, they’d be able to find Yellow-Eyes when he was at a disadvantage, trapped within a Wild’s mind. Finally, they could exact their revenge on the bastard who killed both Mom and Dad. Dean skidded to a stop inside the storeroom, already glancing around for the label. Sure enough, there it was: “Owl Feathers: New Moon.”
Dean just grabbed the whole box and headed back to the archives. He found Sam hunched over the book he’d brought over, muttering to himself.
“We got everything?” he asked, “I’ve got the feathers here.”
Sam nodded absently. “Great,” he muttered, “That’s good. I’ve got everything else.” He looked up. “Now all we need is the demon.”
Dean grinned. “Hell yeah,” he cheered quietly. “Wild-wrangling time!”
-*-*-*-
Wild-wrangling was as difficult as it sounded. Even Dean had aches and pain surfacing by the time they had a Wild with black eyes securely trussed up and stuck in the back of the Impala, centered directly under the devil’s trap in the trunk as an extra precaution.
“Okay,” Dean sighed. “One demon down. Now what?”
Sam sighed, trying to stretch out an ache in his shoulder where the Wild had landed a hit. “Now we get back to the Bunker. I’ll need to set this ritual up, preferably with the Wild in a devil’s trap, since it sounds like they still work.”
Dean grinned. “I’ve got the perfect place, Sammy. You’ll love it.” He led him down to the storeroom and opened the dungeon doors.
“Holy shit,” Sam breathed, staring around at the dungeon Dean led him to.
Dean huffed a laugh behind him, dragging the drugged-out-of-its-mind Wild into the trap and then stepping out as quickly as he could. “So you like?” he asked.
“This is amazing,” Sam replied.
“Yep,” Dean replied, finding the spell ingredients and setting them up in order. “Now, c’mon. Let’s get this show on the road.”
Sam refocused, bending down next to him. “Okay,” he began. “You’ll need to do the ingredient-adding at the exact intervals I marked in the chant. I need to focus on this pronunciation.”
“Cool,” Dean replied, sitting down by the bowl. “So just I just sprinkle it in when you get there and then burn it all as soon as you’re done?”
“Exactly,” Sam answered, already refreshing himself on the chant. “I even drew you pictures of what needs to happen when.”
Dean eyed the squiggles. “Uh huh. Well, ah, thank you for the … pictures. Very informative.” He eyed a particularly enigmatic scrawl in the center of the page. “Is … that an eye?”
“Yeah. Eye of a toad. Needs to be whole, so don’t squish it, okay?”
Dean wiped his hands on his jeans. “Man,” he whined, “I really hate witchcraft. Why couldn’t they use less nasty ingredients, like, I dunno, leaf of grass?”
Sam sighed. “Just put the ingredients into the bowl in the exact order and at the exact times I wrote down.” He started to chant.
Dean listened with one ear to what sounded like archaic Latin, waiting for his cues. He kept his eyes on the Wild, which had already begun to stir.
He shouldn’t have worried about missing a cue. Every time Sam got close, he’d nudge Dean’s knee with his foot. Hard. Dean ended up glaring at Sam, and missed the final climax of the chant.
He whipped back to the Wild when a voice, hoarse and gurgling, spoke. “Why, hello, Winchesters,” the demon greeted, eyes coal-black. “Fancy meeting you two here. You’re not dead yet.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. Dean got the shivers just glancing at him; he’d hate to have been the demon. “No, we’re not,” Sam agreed, voice falsely light. “Is that a problem?”
“Oh no,” wheedled the demon. “Not at all. In fact, it’s almost humorous, that you two have managed to survive everything thrown at you, even something so … mundane.”
Dean stepped in. “So your kind didn’t have anything to do with the outbreak?”
The demon grinned. “Nasty piece of work, that. Such glorious destructive power, all encased in one little particle of protein and genetic material. I think I’m in love with whoever came up with that.”
“Did you have a hand in it?” Sam demanded, voice low.
“Well, I didn’t,” the demon replied. “I’m just a lowly little minion. All I had to do topside was hang around, kill a few humans, gather a few souls. The higher-ups wouldn’t have told me anything. But I wouldn’t be surprised if someone did. Hell, this is almost Raum’s style.”
Sam growled, “Do you have anything useful to say? Besides useless speculation?”
Dean put a hand on Sam’s arm. “Hey, we have a name,” he said. “Raum. We can try summoning him, see what happens.”
The demon giggled. “Oh, that won’t work,” he interrupted. “Raum’s too smart to be summoned. He’ll not leave Hell. He hates up top now, being trapped in his meatsuit.”
“Then how do we talk to him?” Sam hissed.
“You don’t,” the demon answered. “All you can do is run around in circles, chasing your own tail, trying to fix a world that’s long past fixing. I wish you luck, you two. If you want to get to the bottom of this mess, you’ll damn well need it.”
Dean saw the demon’s hand, nails ragged, moving. He jumped forward, even as Sam lunged for him. His foot landed square on the line of the painted devil’s trap, scuffing the old paint. The demon drove its own hand into its chest, grabbing the Wild host’s heart and tugging until it pulled free.
The demon’s essence flowed out, and the host died, face screwed up in the demon’s final, triumphant laugh.
Dean looked down at his feet. “Well, fuck.”
-*-*-*-
They repainted the entire devil’s trap in the basement floor, and coated it with a sealant mixed with ground-up rock salt just to give it some extra oomph.
After the first demon, and subsequent quasi-failure, Sam started to follow demon-signs again. Any time a major anomaly cropped up, he’d poke Dean into loading up the Impala and driving them out there. “C’mon, Dean,” he’d wheedle. “Maybe this time it’s one that was close to Raum before the virus got free.”
Months passed, and a new demon graced the dungeon practically every week. They all said different things.
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard that Raum definitely had a hand in it.”
“What are you talking about? Raum hasn’t been topside in centuries. He loves his racks too much. I’d bet Baal had a hand in it, though. Much more his style.”
“Baal? Ha! No, no way. I’ve met him; he’s a smarmy douche, even for a demon, and he hasn’t been topside since there were sacrifices to his name.”
“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Demons had nothing to do with this. This was all human stupidity.”
In the end, Sam always exorcised the meatsuit before killing the Wild, still left with no useful information, and no real possible leads.
He trudged back up the stairs to the archives, cleaning the machete blade. “Dean?” he called. “This one was a bust, too. You have anything better?”
Dean came around the corner, laptop in hand. “I may not have any huge signs, but I’ve got video of one very familiar-looking Wild with black eyes. Come over here, Sammy.”
Sam walked over, perking up a bit. He peered at the screen. A flash of short blond hair, smudged eyeliner, a very familiar profile. “Meg?” Sam breathed.
Dean grinned up at him. “Yep! Looks like we have someone who could actually have some real information, Sam. You know she’s Yellow-Eyes’ right-hand-woman. She probably knows exactly what went down.”
“Well then what are you waiting for?” Sam asked, breathless at the possibility that they could be getting closer to finally finding the reason for the outbreak. “Let’s go grab Meg.”
Dean moved toward the garage. “I’ve already got holy water, salt shells, and iron rounds loaded. I even repainted the devil’s trap in the trunk. Let’s get on the road.”
Sam followed him, and soon after they were driving toward Lawrence, Kansas, where they’d last seen Meg’s meatsuit.
-*-*-*-
When Dean pulled into Lawrence, it was dead quiet. Nothing moved.
Suddenly, a flurry of movement caught his eye. He nudged Sam, and made to start the car to get out of there.
There was a pack of thirty or so Wilds chasing something. At first, Dean thought it was a large animal of some kind, so he was perfectly all right with leaving it to its fate.
Then, as the whole group moved closer, Dean tore his hand away from the Impala’s key, grabbed his shotgun, and made to step out of the car.
Sam, who’d been watching him more than he’d been watching the Wild pack, jumped and asked, “What the … Dean?”
Dean cursed as his jacket got caught on the door. “Sam,” he hissed, “That’s a person out there! C’mon, we gotta help!”
Sam noticed what Dean had already seen, and jumped into action as well. He grabbed for his shotgun, before he remembered that it had been loaded with rock salt. Instead, he took his pistol and his machete. Iron rods would do more damage.
“Dean,” he reminded, “Rock salt!” Dean cursed again at the reminder and dropped the shotgun on his seat, picking up his own pistol and machete. In the process, his jacket came free from the snag, and they both sprinted for the oncoming pack of Wilds.
“Hey!” Sam shouted, “You!” The running person looked up, and Dean could see the surprise on her face. “Yeah, you!” Sam waved his pistol. The girl blanched and ducked as Sam leveled the gun, shouting, “Get down!”
Shots rang out from both Dean and Sam’s guns as they advanced, taking out as many Wilds as they could before they had to fight in close. The girl they’d saved hunkered down inside an abandoned car with unlocked doors; she’d crawled there as the projectiles flew over her head.
Dean was just glad that she was out of the way. There were a lot of Wilds out. He needed as few distractions as possible.
As he shot, reloading frantically while the still-living Wilds turned to eat the ones he’d just downed, Dean made sure to try and watch for Meg’s face. With every Wild downed, it seemed, another rose in its place, but none of them had the short blond crop of Meg’s meatsuit.
Sam stood directly behind him, their shoulders almost pressed together. They’d learned the hard way that getting separated never ended well for either of them, so they always stuck close.
Finally, the Wilds’ numbers diminished, and Dean felt comfortable with leaving Sam to clean up the stragglers while he checked on the girl. He walked slowly over to the car, shoulders relaxed, gun held loosely at his side.
“Don’t come any closer!” the girl cried, shoving what looked like a blunt piece of piping out the broken car window. “I know how to use this!”
Dean almost laughed, but the serious look on her face had him tone it down to a smirk. “Hey, now,” he replied. “Is that any way to treat your rescuers?”
Her wavering voice filtered out of the car. “I had it covered.”
“Right,” Dean chuckled; he couldn’t help it. “And that’s why you were being chased by upwards of thirty Wilds, looking absolutely beat, with no weapon in hand. You definitely had it covered.”
“Shut up,” the other replied, voice petulant. “And go away. I don’t need your help. I’ve made it this far on my own.”
Dean sighed. “Hey, man, me and my brother just wanted to help out. Hell, I know what it’s like to be outnumbered and outgunned. It sucks. You gotta admit that maybe you bit off a bit more than you could chew.”
A head covered in fine red hair poked up from where she’d been sheltering behind the door. “That’s your brother?”
“Yeah,” Dean answered. “My little bro, Sammy. You better call him Sam, though; he gets tetchy about things like that.”
A hand was pushed out the window. It was covered in the dirt and grime of a long time on the road without access to a shower. The head surfaced fully, showing off a bright smile and elven eyes. “I’m Charlie. Thanks for, well, for saving my bacon back there.”
Dean took the proffered hand, ignoring the dirt it got on his own. “And I’m Dean, and I’m glad we got here in time to save your bacon.”
Charlie opened the door, glancing around. “So, you’re sure they’re all gone?”
Sam walked over, ignoring Charlie’s mutter of “Goodness, you’re tall.”
“No Meg out here, Dean. We’ll have to come back later.” He looked down at Charlie, who seemed to be gazing at him with some slight hero-worship. “Who’s this?”
Charlie started. “Oh! Right! Um, I’m Charlie, and you’re Sammy - um, I mean Sam. Sorry. Um. Thanks for saving me.”
Sam smiled. “It’s what we do, Charlie. You want to come back to our base, maybe get a shower? Or do you have somewhere to be?”
Dean saw her shoulders slump, and almost scolded Sam. Sam looked worried enough for both of them, though, so he held off and paid attention to what Charlie was saying.
“I don’t have anywhere to be. You know how it is. Us Oncers …” she nodded at Dean “… well, I guess we’re having a rough time of it, huh?” She shook herself. “But whatever! Anyway, what’s this I heard about a home base? Sounds intriguing.”
Dean smiled. “Well, I tried to get Sam to call it the Batcave, but he insisted on just calling it the Bunker. Boring, if you ask me.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Dean, just because you have an unholy fascination with Batman does not mean that I will cater to that obsession.”
“Hey now, don’t lie, Batman’s pretty awesome,” Charlie interrupted. “I don’t know if I can get behind the manpain and angst of the recent adaptations, but overall, Batman’s cool.”
Dean raised his arms in success. “See, Sam?” he exulted, “Someone else who knows the awesomeness of Batman.”
Sam was about to come back with another jab at Dean’s tastes when a growl echoed toward them from an alleyway. “Right,” Charlie whispered, suddenly quiet. “Wilds like the smell of blood. There’s … a lot of blood. So, um, about that bunker?”
Dean followed her as Sam led them back to the Impala, muttering, “Batcave, c’mon. You gotta call it the Batcave or I’ll never hear the end of it from Sam.” Charlie had to stifle a slightly hysterical giggle, even as she sped up her pace once the car came into view.
They all piled into the car and Dean gunned it back to the Bunker. He could’ve sworn, though, as he swung the car around, that he caught sight of a blond head moving their way.
The drive back to the Bunker was quiet, although Charlie did occasionally have questions like “How do you still get gas for this thing?” and “Are these real silver?”
Dean answered the gas question while Sam removed the silver bullets from Charlie’s possession. He had to admit that maybe he’d thrown those back there on purpose when they were loading up, just to make sure that Charlie wasn’t some kind of non-demonic supernatural monster. They were still hunters, after all.
When they pulled up to the garage and triggered the doors, Charlie opened gawked. “Wow,” she hushed. “This really is like the Batcave, isn’t it?” Sam ignored Dean’s smug look and inspected the garage, making sure that nothing had been moved since they’d been gone. Who knew what ghosts lurked in that place.
Charlie stepped out of the car and looked down at herself. “Um,” she began, “Any chance you guys have a shower?”
Dean nodded, saying, “Yeah, but it’s a communal one. We’ll let you go first. You need it more than us. Nothing like awesome water pressure and actual hot water to make you feel more human, am I right?”
Charlie nodded sheepishly and headed in the direction Dean pointed before turning around. “I … guess you guys don’t have any spare clothes, huh.”
Sam stepped in. “We’ll dig around. For right now, let me go get you a bathrobe. I’ll hang it on the hook on the inside of the door, okay? Promise I’ll keep my eyes closed.”
Charlie smiled. “Thanks, Sam,” she threw over her shoulder as she headed to the shower.
Sam moved to get the bathrobe, noticing Dean moving toward the kitchen. It was a good idea. Charlie looked like she hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks, let alone something as good as Dean’s cooking. He did need to remind Dean of one thing, though: “Dean, nothing too rich, okay?”
An affirmative yell was his only answer, and Sam found the bathrobe in short order. He hung it on the shower door, eyes tightly shut, noting the sound of water running. He smiled when he heard Charlie singing “Walking on Sunshine.” It was the perfect song for her.
After he found the bathrobe, Sam went on the hunt for actual clothes for a person Charlie’s size. (He didn’t care if they were meant for a guy or a girl, as long as they looked like they fit. He knew what ill-fitting clothes felt like, and he wanted to spare her that if at all possible.) He picked through closet upon closet in almost every bedroom the Bunker sported before he found the motherlode: a room obviously meant for some Man of Letter’s girlfriend, with long-wilted flowers in a vase and tons of fifties-era clothes hanging, somewhat mustily, in the closet. He had a feeling that Charlie wouldn’t want a dress, so he searched until he found the stash of casual pants and shirts in the back.
He hoped Charlie wasn’t bothered by the smell of their detergent, because he really needed to wash these outfits before he gave them to her.
Charlie was long out of the shower, looking slightly uncomfortable in her borrowed bathrobe that came down to her ankles, by the time Sam emerged from the laundry room. She’d obviously managed to overcome her discomfort enough to eat, though, because a plate with only crumbs left sat in front of her.
She hiccupped. “Oops, too much food,” she sighed. “Oh well. It was delicious, though.”
Sam grinned. “Never fear, I come bearing gifts of real clothing.”
“Oh thank God,” Charlie sighed. “I mean, not that I hate the robe, because it’s nice, but …”
Sam continued when her voice trailed off and her face pinked. “But you feel really underdressed. I hear you. That’s why I leave the old-man-robe wearing to Dean. He seems to like it.”
She shuddered, taking the clothes from him. “Bully for him then. As for me, I’d like to be wearing actual clothes.”
She emerged from the bedroom-hallway a few minutes later, wearing her “new” clothing. “So, how do I look?”
Sam grinned. “Like you stepped straight out of the fifties. All you need is a new hairstyle and some pearls.”
“Shucks,” Charlie muttered, “I was trying to get away from that.”
“Well, we can always go raid a department store later, get you some more modern clothes,” Sam offered. “It’s not like anyone really is around to care anymore.”
Charlie looked at him strangely for a short time before smiling. “You know,” she mused, “No one’s offered to rob a department store for me before.”
Dean walked in on the tail end of that statement. “What?” he interrupted. “No one’s robbing anyone without me, you hear?”
All three of them broke into giggles.
After a few minutes of giggling, Sam sighed and tried to get his breathing back to normal. “Charlie,” he tried, “Hey. So, you can stay here if you want.”
Charlie looked up, and Sam wasn’t sure if the sudden shininess in her eyes was tears of mirth or of mourning. “Well, it’s not like I have anywhere to go back to. My parents are dead and my foster parents tossed me out when the whole Neo-Oncer thing started getting big,” she stated seemingly carelessly. Sam could hear the wobble in her voice, but decided not to call her on it.
“You can trust me when I say that we won’t do that to you, Charlie,” he soothed. “See, me and Dean are Neo and Oncer, I guess. It doesn’t really matter to us. We’re still brothers.”
Dean cut in, insisting, “And just because you’re smaller than some beefed-up dude doesn’t mean you’re weak. I’d bet you a million bucks that no damn Neo could’ve done all the running you must’ve to get clear of those Wilds. They would’ve folded.”
Sam smiled sheepishly. “We know that from the bitter experience of yours truly.”
Charlie glanced back and forth. “You mean … I can actually stay?”
“Of course!” Dean exclaimed. “Hell, maybe you’ll help me get Sammy over here to admit - finally - that this is the Batcave, and that nothing he says refutes that!”
Charlie grinned. “I’d be honored. But first … you mentioned something about getting me some clothes?”
Sam got up and grabbed the Impala keys from Dean’s hand. “I’ll drive you out to Lebanon. There’s a mall up there, nothing too big, but then again it’s the big structures that pull Wilds in. Dean will be looking at the thing we were looking for in Lawrence when we found you. Won’t you, Dean?” Dean rolled his eyes, but nodded, grabbing the laptop and starting it up.
They left the Bunker behind quickly, Charlie fidgeting in her hand-me-down clothes and Sam trying to remember the face of the blond Wild he’d seen out of the corner of his eye.
Maybe they still had a chance at bagging Meg.
-*-*-*-
Charlie returned to the Bunker with Sam behind her, lugging bag after bag of technically-stolen clothing. (Sam had left all of the cash left in his long-forgotten wallet on the counter. It wasn’t much, and he was sure that no one would ever be returning to that store, but it never hurt to be sure.)
When Sam stumbled into the archives, arms still a little sore from lugging so many bags such a long way, Dean was already waiting. “She asleep?” he asked.
“I dunno,” Sam answered, “Go ask her yourself.”
Charlie’s voice from behind him made both of them freeze. “Ask me what?”
Dean stuttered, “Oh! Um, well, you see …”
Sam talked over his idiot of a brother. “We’re going back to Lawrence. No, you can’t come. Yes, it will be dangerous. Why? There’s something we really need out there.”
Charlie asked, “How did you know what I would say?” She continued before Sam could answer. “Never mind, rhetorical. What do you need so badly? And why can’t I come? Why does this feel like some super-spy thing?”
Dean chuckled. “No, nothing like that. We just need to collect something and bring it back here. The thing we’re getting is really dangerous, so when you hear the car, stay in whatever room you’ve picked out, okay? Sam will come get you when we’re done.”
Charlie eyed them both. “Right … and I should do this … why?”
Sam sighed. “Look, Charlie, have you ever seen a Wild with black eyes? Like, completely black?”
Charlie nodded hesitantly. “I thought that was just a rare side effect.”
“Nope. The eyes are a sign of demon possession. But the demon is trapped in the Wild, due to some change in brain chemistry from the virus. So they don’t have any control. But we need to talk to a certain demon, whose host we’ve seen hanging around Lawrence.”
Charlie cut him off. “Wait, hold your horses. You’re saying demons are a thing?”
“Yep,” Dean answered, nodding.
“Oh God.” Charlie sat down slowly at the table, then rested her head on her folded arms. “Okay. Hold on. Rebuilding my worldview, give me a few.”
Sam patted her shoulder. “It’s okay. They can’t intentionally harm anyone anymore, since they’re stuck inside the Wilds. So you don’t have to worry about that.”
Charlie looked up. “I’m not as worried about that, Sam. I’m trying to reconcile the fact that demons exist with the fact that society has gone to hell in a handbasket. Are they connected?”
Sam shrugged. “We’re not sure. That’s what we’re trying to find out. We know this demon we’re looking for-” he ignored Charlie’s startled squeak at that statement “-and we’ve seen her meats- host around. So we’re going to bring her in, bring the demon to the forefront, and ask her some questions.”
Charlie looked faintly queasy as she replied, “Right. I’ll just … be in my room then.” Sam felt kind of bad, just dumping the reality of the darker side of the world on her like that. But it had to be done. Otherwise she’d get a rude awakening.
They left Charlie behind, instead heading to the Impala, shotguns and pistols in hand, ready to finally get Meg.
-*-*-*-
After all of the build-up, fighting off hordes of Wilds to save Charlie and almost spotting her meatsuit several times, capturing Meg really wasn’t all that difficult. All Dean had to do was shoot the host in the chest with a round of rock salt, and Meg went down like a sack of potatoes.
Sam had to wonder if that was contrived. If Meg was more aware, and more in control, than other demons.
They’d soon find out.
Sam chanted through the ritual from memory now, having performed it so often that he practically spoke it in his sleep. He let Dean mix the ingredients now mostly because he knew that his brother wanted some part in it, and would get testy if left to stand there holding his gun while Sam practiced a milder form of witchcraft.
When the mixture in the bowl lit up in flames, noxious smoke, more than normal, rose, and a voice echoed from behind the cloud.
“Hello again, boys,” Meg said, sounding just as put-together as she had before the whole mess.
“Meg,” Sam growled.
“Sam,” she hummed, the smile on her face becoming apparent as the smoke cleared. “Thank you ever so for letting me talk to you two. Dare I say it? I missed you clowns.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Cut the crap, Meg. We aren’t best buds, never will be. So shut up.”
Meg turned to him. “Oh, Dean,” she mused lightly, “So confrontational. You haven’t loosened up at all, have you?”
Sam moved toward her with a flask of holy water. “Ah, ah, ah!” she cried, eyeing the flask. “I know what you want, but I’m not saying one word unless you put that water and salt away.”
Sam looked to Dean, seeing a slight nod. He tucked the closed flask back into his jacket.
“Good boy, Sammy,” Meg purred. His hand moved back to the flask, but she stopped him with a glance to Dean. Sam fumed as she purred, “Now, why can’t we be friends?”
He hissed, “Because you possessed me, made me kill, made me shoot Dean. You sent the daevas after us. You think that’s friendship?”
Dean put a hand on his shoulder. Sam turned to his brother, outraged at what he saw as capitulation, before he noticed the fury hiding in the hard lines of Dean’s face. “Easy, Sammy,” Dean whispered. “We need her info.”
Meg laughed lightly. “Oh, yes you do, you two. You’ve been barking up the wrong tree all along.”
“What do you mean?” challenged Sam.
“Raum and Baal haven’t be topside in millennia. And they don’t have the power, or the will, to make what happened go through. No, boys. If any demon had a hand in the Gemini virus, it was Azazel.”
Dean cocked his head. “Who?”
“For the love of hell,” Meg groaned, “You two are hopeless. Azazel. The demon with yellow eyes who burned your mommy and doomed your daddy to hell. The one whose blood runs in Sammy’s veins.”
Sam froze. “You mean … Yellow-Eyes’ name is Azazel?”
“That’s right, Sammy. You’re making connections.”
“What, Sam?” Dean asked, staring at the facial expressions that flickered over his brother’s face: incredulity, fear, awe, horror.
“Dean,” Sam began, “Azazel was Lucifer’s general, if you believe the texts. He’s older than dirt, and almost as powerful as the devil himself.”
Dean threw up his hands. “Okay then! Whatever. So what. The Colt will still kill him, right?”
Meg spoke up. “But your daddy gave him the Colt as part of his deal to save your life, Dean. You don’t have the Colt anymore.”
Sam cursed. He’d wondered where the gun had disappeared to. It made sense. John Winchester logic: if all else fails, give up every-damn-thing to save Dean.
“Fuck this,” he fumed. “Look, Meg, thanks for the heads-up. Do you have anything else to say before we send you back to where you belong?”
Dean eyed Sam warily, but let him take the lead. He knew how the topic of their dad had the tendency to bring out Sam’s fury.
Meg tilted her head, as if in thought. “Well,” she purred, “I guess I have one last request.”
She paused. Sam growled, “And what’s that?”
She smiled slowly, a predator’s grin, all teeth. “Don’t send me back. End the spell, knock out this meatsuit, and let it run wild.”
Dean stared at her. “But … you’ll have no control.”
“Nope,” she stated, eyes bright with something manic. “And it’s glorious. All that carnage, all that destruction, and I don’t have to lift a single finger. I’m just along for the ride.”
Sam lifted the bowl, ready to dump it and end the spell. Dean readied the shotgun. “You sure?” Sam checked.
“Do it, Sammy. Don’t be a damn wimp.”
Sam flipped the bowl, and ashes and half-burned bits of char spilled across the floor. Dean fired the shotgun, and the Wild sank to the floor.
They had to scratch out a small section of the trap, but they managed. When the Wild lumbered away after they dropped it in Lawrence, Sam could’ve sworn he heard Meg laugh.
They drove back to the Bunker, forgetting about her.
They had to find Yellow-Eyes … Azazel.
-*-*-*-
Part IV
Part II
Warnings: Canon-typical blood & gore, non-major character death, slightly hand-wavey science
Summary: Season 2 AU. When a virus is released from a facility in Oregon that turns roughly 1/3 of the population of the world into mindless beasts, known only as Wilds, and affects the other 2/3 in ... other ways, Sam and Dean are caught right in the middle. Suspecting demonic influence on the catastrophe, they pause their hunt for Yellow-Eyes to track down the culprit and kill as many Wilds as they can. As the world dissolves into chaos around them, they must watch each other's backs as their bodies change against their will, under the thrall of the virus.
They were staying in Lebanon, Kansas when a big storm hit. The wind shrieked and the clouds had turned the hazy blue-green that, to every Midwesterner, meant hail, and lots of it. Rain sheeted against the Impala’s windshield and lightning illuminated Dean’s hard-set face every other second.
Sam fidgeted. He hated being on the road in storms, even more so now than before. Before, he could rely on an ambulance, or even just a police officer, to help them if they were hurt. Now they were on their own, and a falling hailstone didn’t make distinctions like that.
“Dean,” he ventured, “Are you sure we should be out in this?”
Dean gritted in reply, “Gotta find shelter for Baby, Sam, before the hail gets here. I don’t have a good hammer to straighten out all the dents anymore. It was at … at Bobby’s.”
“Right,” Sam said, shrinking back slightly in his seat as the rain only seemed to intensify.
“What, Sammy, you afraid of a little sprinkle?” Dean quipped, eyes still laser-focused on the pavement in front of the Impala’s wheels.
Sam looked to the side and hissed in a breath, hand grabbing for Dean’s arm. “Um, Dean?” he began, and the tentative terror in his brother’s voice had Dean paying attention. Sam continued, “If this is a sprinkle, then that tornado on the left of us is a dust devil.”
“Holy fucking shit!” Dean exclaimed, seeing what Sam had been staring at for the last few seconds. “What the fuck! Holy Christ, we’re in its path.”
Sam white-knuckled the door handle as Dean spun the car onto what appeared to be an opening to a dirt road, apologizing under his breath to Baby all the while: “Hey, girl, I know it hurts, I’m sorry, but that thing was spinning tree branches and tin roofs and all sorts of shit that would really put a dent in you, so forgive me, yeah?”
They squealed to a stop as an overhang appeared, sheltering the Impala just enough for them both to be able to watch as the tornado swept a path of destruction not a half-mile away, right where they had just been driving. Hail started to fall, and Dean muttered a quiet thank-you to the overhang, which sheltered his beloved car.
Within five minutes, the storm had petered off. “Holy shit,” Sam muttered as he got his first good look around in the light of dusk. “This isn’t natural. Someone constructed this.”
Dean glanced around, noticing what Sam had as well: a door like a garage door, sunk into the bedrock and loam of the hill and overhang they were sheltering in. “Huh,” Dean muttered. “I wonder if anyone’s home?”
-*-*-*-
Apparently, the underground complex was huge, because it took both of them slogging through rain and mud for a good five minutes to find another door.
This door, unlike the other, had a keyhole and a handle, even if it looked like a pipe cover from a distance. Sam tried and failed to pick the lock, and stepped aside to let Dean attempt.
After another five minutes of fiddling, Dean was also forced to admit defeat. “Looks like it needs a special key, Sam,” he muttered. “Let’s go see what the Internet has to say about a bunker hidden on the outskirts of Lebanon, Kansas, yeah?”
Sam muttered something about provenances and sale records as they trudged back to the car. They’d already had an unspoken agreement to just live out of the Impala until they found a way to open the bunker; motels had become more questionable as owners returned unexpectedly to police squatters. (They didn’t look kindly on a Oncer having the balls to tell them that their security sucked, apparently. Dean learned that the hard way.)
When they go back to the car, Sam plopped himself into the passenger seat and plugged in his satellite-wifi stick. It didn’t take Sam long to make a noise of success, fingers clacking on the keys.
Dean turned to his little brother. “You get the scoop on this place?”
“Most of what I’ve got so far is off of conspiracy websites, but it looks solid, especially considering the accuracy of details that we already know, like the location of the place and the need for a special key. But get this: that star on the doors? It’s the sign of a secretive organization, according to this guy. It was called the Men of Letters. Apparently they went dark in the fifties, for reasons unknown. But this guy says he traced the provenance of this land to a man named ‘Albert Magnus.’”
Dean muttered, “Well that sounds very secret-society, all right.” He shook his head. “Anyway, we got a location on this Magnus dude?”
Sam shook his head. “That’s the thing. That’s where the trail ends. Apparently, there’s no one by the name of Albert Magnus recorded as being anywhere around here, ever. But this guy obviously didn’t do a thorough search, because I just found one Albert Magnus buried in a cemetery not far from here.” He paused to give Dean a puckish look. “You ready to go dig up this dude?”
Dean grinned. “Hell yeah.”
The old cemetery was deserted, except for a few Wilds, which Sam took out summarily from afar while Dean began to dig into Magnus’ grave. The gunshots didn’t attract any others, so Sam figured that the pack hadn’t gotten too large just yet. He grabbed a shovel and jumped in to help dig.
The soil was wet from the torrential rains of the storm the day before, so progress went slightly faster than it normally did. When they hit the coffin lid and cracked it open, they found … nothing. Just a skeleton. No key, no note, no secret map.
Dean cursed and kicked the padded sides of the coffin, crushing the corpse’s femur. Sam looked on, bemused, as his brother proceeded to salt and burn the corpse in what he would call a disappointed tantrum.
He went to inspect the other graves with the star of Aquarius engraved on them. He stopped at one Larry Ganem’s grave, staring at a second engraving.
“Dean!” he called, excitement bleeding into his voice. “Looks like we had the wrong grave!”
“What the hell do you mean? This is the Magnus bastard’s grave!” Dean growled back , filling in the grave furiously.
Sam looked up. “Well,” he wheedled, tone getting Dean’s attention, “This one has the sigil to talk to the dead engraved on it. I don’t think that’s a coincidence, do you?”
Dean crowded over. “Ha! Of course. I knew it all along. Those Men of Letters are a damn cryptic bunch, but we’ve got them pinned, don’t we, Sammy?”
Sam grinned. “Whatever you say, Dean.”
Dean seemed to ignore any aches that had started up (or maybe he didn’t have any). Sam, on the other hand, could feel every shovelful of mud he’d pulled up from the ground in his shoulders and back. He begged off of the dig, and Dean eyed him speculatively before nodding.
It took Dean about twice as long to dig down, but any exhaustion he was beginning to harbor was overcome by the discovery of an empty coffin. “Well, what do you know, Sam,” Dean said, staring at the decomposing silk batting. “Looks like old Larry’s still kicking.” He tilted his head. "Or, he was before Gemini rolled through anyway."
Sam started to head back to the Impala and his laptop. He had a Man of Letters to find.
-*-*-*-
Finding Larry Ganem was as easy as plugging his name into Google. Soon, they had a solid address to investigate.
When they got there, knocking on the door got no response, except for the gurgling growl of a Wild. Dean raised his shotgun, filled with rock salt on one side and an iron rod on the other, while Sam hefted his machete. Sam kicked down the door, confident that any neighbors wouldn’t give a shit, and they slid inside.
The body of Larry Ganem lay, sightless eyes glaringly open, in front of an armchair. Surprisingly, the Wild hadn’t chewed it to bone and sinew yet.
Sam yelled for Dean as the Wild in question, an older woman wearing a fifties-style dress and the black eyes of the demon-possessed, appeared around the corner. Dean fired both barrels as Sam spun to avoid the projectiles, and then ducked as Sam whirled to lop off the head of the Wild.
A loud scream echoed through the room as black smoke fled the host body, now thoroughly dead. Sam drew in a breath, then steeled himself to look in the dead man’s pockets for the key.
Dean moved to the bedroom, and hummed in success when he found the box inscribed with the Aquarian Star. “Sam, I got it!” he hissed, moving back to where Sam knelt over the corpses. Sam stood and nodded, leaving the bodies where they’d fallen.
They’d burn the house as they left. Nothing else was close enough to catch fire, and the man and his wife deserved to be put to rest.
The flames crackled behind them as Dean gunned the Impala’s engine, pointing them toward the mysterious bunker once again.
-*-*-*-
The Bunker was amazing. (They’d already given it capital-letter status.) That was all Dean had to say. A fully-functioning generator, enough hot water to last them forever and a day due to the underground spring they apparently sat over, a kitchen … Dean was in heaven. Finally, for the first time, he could see himself settling down, here, with Sammy and maybe some other unbigoted survivors to fill the empty rooms.
As soon as they realized how huge the Bunker was, Sam went back out to buy, as he said, “the whole damn unperishable foods section, and a damn huge chunk of the perishables, too.” After all, they had a fridge. Not only that, they had a huge fridge, and a freezer besides. They had a whole pantry to fill with food, and some old cans still sat on the shelves, even. They could house a small army out of this bunker and still not strain the resources, not really.
Right after Sam discovered the pantry, he discovered the library, and Dean knew Sam was sold. Books piled on books, all apparently organized according to some code the Men of Letters had written down in their files. (Those Sam had raided first.)
While Sam went wandering through the stacks, Dean found himself standing in another huge, dusty room, this one filled to the brim with curse boxes and boxes of old files marked with such weird titles as “The Mating Tendencies of Naga: a Comprehensive Study” and “The Remedying of the Penile-Diminishing Totem.” He looked around, one hand covering his crotch, after reading that one. He wasn’t going to touch anything.
He wandered through the rows of shelves until he discovered the honest-to-God dungeon hidden away in the back.
“Damn, this place is awesome,” he muttered, going back to find Sam and cook themselves a real supper for the first time in … ever.
-*-*-*-
Dean practically had to drag Sam away from the archives to get him to eat his food. Even as Sam walked away, his feet dragged and he kept glancing back forlornly at a certain shelf.
“What, Sam,” Dean griped good-naturedly, “The promise of a homemade meal not enough to drag you away?”
Sam jerked. “Huh? No, no. It’s great that you’re cooking, really. Can’t wait. But … I was so close to a breakthrough…”
“About what?”
“A way to bring the demon to the surface of a host, keep them from sinking below the surface, intentionally or not.” Sam stared at Dean, eyes widening. “Dean,” he urged, “Do you realize what that could mean?”
Dean fidgeted. “Well, yeah, so we’d be able to talk to demons again. So? You can take a food break, dude.”
“No, Dean!” Sam hissed, pulling away. “We could figure out where Yellow-Eyes is. We could end this, finally!”
Dean shook his head, grabbing Sam’s arm. “Whoa, there, dude, chill. I promise, the books will be there after you eat.”
Sam plopped down on the chair. “Fine. Where’s the food?” He glanced around. “Let’s make this fast.”
“Whatever, bitch,” Dean griped. He made for the kitchen, bringing out the burgers he’d put together. Hell, he’d even spruced Sam’s up with lettuce and tomatoes and crap, and left off the bacon and American cheese. Sam’s was as healthy as a home-grown American burger could reasonably be.
Dean slid the plate down to where Sam sat, gazing over at the archives again. “Eat up,” he commanded, sitting down to follow his own orders.
Sam eyed the burger, picking up the bun. Dean saw the honest surprise in his face. “What?” he asked. “You thought I forgot that you were a health nut, Sammy? ‘Course not. Don’t doubt me. Now, seriously, eat.”
He watched Sam take the first bite, small smile on his face. Sam’s eyes widened, and his smile grew as well. When Sam made a small noise of happiness, Dean grinned full-out. “What’d I tell you, Sammy,” he said, “Books can wait.”
Sam didn’t even seem to hear him, taking bite after bite out of the burger. Dean dug into his own, too. He had a dungeon to explore.
-*-*-*-
Immediately after eating, Sam returned to the stacks. Dean hung around, turning on Sam’s laptop to see what was going on outside the Bunker.
Turned out, that one scientist from way back when the whole deal with the virus started was right. The virus had already spread through the ocean currents to the European coastline, and it was moving inward hourly. Asia, with its crowded populations crammed into small spaces, was having major problems with Wild containment, too.
Surprisingly, Africa was doing the best out of everywhere when it came to Wild density. Different sites speculated as to why: different genetics, different culture, less interbreeding, more diversity of genes. Even with the “advantage,” though, the continent was still being slowly overrun. They just were able to keep their cities mostly intact.
Dean closed the laptop. Enough depressing shit for one day. Time to go look at the dungeon.
He was just walking away when Sam shouted, “Dean! I found it!”
He turned back around on a dime. “Really?” he returned.
“Yeah!” Sam said, coming out of the stacks, book in one hand, box of files under his other arm. “The Men of Letters even have records of their experiments.”
“Huh,” Dean replied. “Well, lay it on me. How do we chat up a demon in this day and age?”
Sam’s mouth flattened out, but Dean could see the smile peeking through. “It’s not that difficult,” Sam continued. “We should have everything we need, except maybe the owl feathers plucked under a new moon.”
Dean mused, “You know, I think I saw some box with a label like that on it in the storage room. I’ll go check, you see what else we’d need.”
“Right,” Sam agreed. “I’ll grab the other stuff from our bags and the storage closet I saw when I was digging through this place.”
Dean almost ran to the dungeon, feet light. They could actually have a chance at this! Finally, they’d be able to find Yellow-Eyes when he was at a disadvantage, trapped within a Wild’s mind. Finally, they could exact their revenge on the bastard who killed both Mom and Dad. Dean skidded to a stop inside the storeroom, already glancing around for the label. Sure enough, there it was: “Owl Feathers: New Moon.”
Dean just grabbed the whole box and headed back to the archives. He found Sam hunched over the book he’d brought over, muttering to himself.
“We got everything?” he asked, “I’ve got the feathers here.”
Sam nodded absently. “Great,” he muttered, “That’s good. I’ve got everything else.” He looked up. “Now all we need is the demon.”
Dean grinned. “Hell yeah,” he cheered quietly. “Wild-wrangling time!”
-*-*-*-
Wild-wrangling was as difficult as it sounded. Even Dean had aches and pain surfacing by the time they had a Wild with black eyes securely trussed up and stuck in the back of the Impala, centered directly under the devil’s trap in the trunk as an extra precaution.
“Okay,” Dean sighed. “One demon down. Now what?”
Sam sighed, trying to stretch out an ache in his shoulder where the Wild had landed a hit. “Now we get back to the Bunker. I’ll need to set this ritual up, preferably with the Wild in a devil’s trap, since it sounds like they still work.”
Dean grinned. “I’ve got the perfect place, Sammy. You’ll love it.” He led him down to the storeroom and opened the dungeon doors.
“Holy shit,” Sam breathed, staring around at the dungeon Dean led him to.
Dean huffed a laugh behind him, dragging the drugged-out-of-its-mind Wild into the trap and then stepping out as quickly as he could. “So you like?” he asked.
“This is amazing,” Sam replied.
“Yep,” Dean replied, finding the spell ingredients and setting them up in order. “Now, c’mon. Let’s get this show on the road.”
Sam refocused, bending down next to him. “Okay,” he began. “You’ll need to do the ingredient-adding at the exact intervals I marked in the chant. I need to focus on this pronunciation.”
“Cool,” Dean replied, sitting down by the bowl. “So just I just sprinkle it in when you get there and then burn it all as soon as you’re done?”
“Exactly,” Sam answered, already refreshing himself on the chant. “I even drew you pictures of what needs to happen when.”
Dean eyed the squiggles. “Uh huh. Well, ah, thank you for the … pictures. Very informative.” He eyed a particularly enigmatic scrawl in the center of the page. “Is … that an eye?”
“Yeah. Eye of a toad. Needs to be whole, so don’t squish it, okay?”
Dean wiped his hands on his jeans. “Man,” he whined, “I really hate witchcraft. Why couldn’t they use less nasty ingredients, like, I dunno, leaf of grass?”
Sam sighed. “Just put the ingredients into the bowl in the exact order and at the exact times I wrote down.” He started to chant.
Dean listened with one ear to what sounded like archaic Latin, waiting for his cues. He kept his eyes on the Wild, which had already begun to stir.
He shouldn’t have worried about missing a cue. Every time Sam got close, he’d nudge Dean’s knee with his foot. Hard. Dean ended up glaring at Sam, and missed the final climax of the chant.
He whipped back to the Wild when a voice, hoarse and gurgling, spoke. “Why, hello, Winchesters,” the demon greeted, eyes coal-black. “Fancy meeting you two here. You’re not dead yet.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. Dean got the shivers just glancing at him; he’d hate to have been the demon. “No, we’re not,” Sam agreed, voice falsely light. “Is that a problem?”
“Oh no,” wheedled the demon. “Not at all. In fact, it’s almost humorous, that you two have managed to survive everything thrown at you, even something so … mundane.”
Dean stepped in. “So your kind didn’t have anything to do with the outbreak?”
The demon grinned. “Nasty piece of work, that. Such glorious destructive power, all encased in one little particle of protein and genetic material. I think I’m in love with whoever came up with that.”
“Did you have a hand in it?” Sam demanded, voice low.
“Well, I didn’t,” the demon replied. “I’m just a lowly little minion. All I had to do topside was hang around, kill a few humans, gather a few souls. The higher-ups wouldn’t have told me anything. But I wouldn’t be surprised if someone did. Hell, this is almost Raum’s style.”
Sam growled, “Do you have anything useful to say? Besides useless speculation?”
Dean put a hand on Sam’s arm. “Hey, we have a name,” he said. “Raum. We can try summoning him, see what happens.”
The demon giggled. “Oh, that won’t work,” he interrupted. “Raum’s too smart to be summoned. He’ll not leave Hell. He hates up top now, being trapped in his meatsuit.”
“Then how do we talk to him?” Sam hissed.
“You don’t,” the demon answered. “All you can do is run around in circles, chasing your own tail, trying to fix a world that’s long past fixing. I wish you luck, you two. If you want to get to the bottom of this mess, you’ll damn well need it.”
Dean saw the demon’s hand, nails ragged, moving. He jumped forward, even as Sam lunged for him. His foot landed square on the line of the painted devil’s trap, scuffing the old paint. The demon drove its own hand into its chest, grabbing the Wild host’s heart and tugging until it pulled free.
The demon’s essence flowed out, and the host died, face screwed up in the demon’s final, triumphant laugh.
Dean looked down at his feet. “Well, fuck.”
-*-*-*-
They repainted the entire devil’s trap in the basement floor, and coated it with a sealant mixed with ground-up rock salt just to give it some extra oomph.
After the first demon, and subsequent quasi-failure, Sam started to follow demon-signs again. Any time a major anomaly cropped up, he’d poke Dean into loading up the Impala and driving them out there. “C’mon, Dean,” he’d wheedle. “Maybe this time it’s one that was close to Raum before the virus got free.”
Months passed, and a new demon graced the dungeon practically every week. They all said different things.
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard that Raum definitely had a hand in it.”
“What are you talking about? Raum hasn’t been topside in centuries. He loves his racks too much. I’d bet Baal had a hand in it, though. Much more his style.”
“Baal? Ha! No, no way. I’ve met him; he’s a smarmy douche, even for a demon, and he hasn’t been topside since there were sacrifices to his name.”
“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Demons had nothing to do with this. This was all human stupidity.”
In the end, Sam always exorcised the meatsuit before killing the Wild, still left with no useful information, and no real possible leads.
He trudged back up the stairs to the archives, cleaning the machete blade. “Dean?” he called. “This one was a bust, too. You have anything better?”
Dean came around the corner, laptop in hand. “I may not have any huge signs, but I’ve got video of one very familiar-looking Wild with black eyes. Come over here, Sammy.”
Sam walked over, perking up a bit. He peered at the screen. A flash of short blond hair, smudged eyeliner, a very familiar profile. “Meg?” Sam breathed.
Dean grinned up at him. “Yep! Looks like we have someone who could actually have some real information, Sam. You know she’s Yellow-Eyes’ right-hand-woman. She probably knows exactly what went down.”
“Well then what are you waiting for?” Sam asked, breathless at the possibility that they could be getting closer to finally finding the reason for the outbreak. “Let’s go grab Meg.”
Dean moved toward the garage. “I’ve already got holy water, salt shells, and iron rounds loaded. I even repainted the devil’s trap in the trunk. Let’s get on the road.”
Sam followed him, and soon after they were driving toward Lawrence, Kansas, where they’d last seen Meg’s meatsuit.
-*-*-*-
When Dean pulled into Lawrence, it was dead quiet. Nothing moved.
Suddenly, a flurry of movement caught his eye. He nudged Sam, and made to start the car to get out of there.
There was a pack of thirty or so Wilds chasing something. At first, Dean thought it was a large animal of some kind, so he was perfectly all right with leaving it to its fate.
Then, as the whole group moved closer, Dean tore his hand away from the Impala’s key, grabbed his shotgun, and made to step out of the car.
Sam, who’d been watching him more than he’d been watching the Wild pack, jumped and asked, “What the … Dean?”
Dean cursed as his jacket got caught on the door. “Sam,” he hissed, “That’s a person out there! C’mon, we gotta help!”
Sam noticed what Dean had already seen, and jumped into action as well. He grabbed for his shotgun, before he remembered that it had been loaded with rock salt. Instead, he took his pistol and his machete. Iron rods would do more damage.
“Dean,” he reminded, “Rock salt!” Dean cursed again at the reminder and dropped the shotgun on his seat, picking up his own pistol and machete. In the process, his jacket came free from the snag, and they both sprinted for the oncoming pack of Wilds.
“Hey!” Sam shouted, “You!” The running person looked up, and Dean could see the surprise on her face. “Yeah, you!” Sam waved his pistol. The girl blanched and ducked as Sam leveled the gun, shouting, “Get down!”
Shots rang out from both Dean and Sam’s guns as they advanced, taking out as many Wilds as they could before they had to fight in close. The girl they’d saved hunkered down inside an abandoned car with unlocked doors; she’d crawled there as the projectiles flew over her head.
Dean was just glad that she was out of the way. There were a lot of Wilds out. He needed as few distractions as possible.
As he shot, reloading frantically while the still-living Wilds turned to eat the ones he’d just downed, Dean made sure to try and watch for Meg’s face. With every Wild downed, it seemed, another rose in its place, but none of them had the short blond crop of Meg’s meatsuit.
Sam stood directly behind him, their shoulders almost pressed together. They’d learned the hard way that getting separated never ended well for either of them, so they always stuck close.
Finally, the Wilds’ numbers diminished, and Dean felt comfortable with leaving Sam to clean up the stragglers while he checked on the girl. He walked slowly over to the car, shoulders relaxed, gun held loosely at his side.
“Don’t come any closer!” the girl cried, shoving what looked like a blunt piece of piping out the broken car window. “I know how to use this!”
Dean almost laughed, but the serious look on her face had him tone it down to a smirk. “Hey, now,” he replied. “Is that any way to treat your rescuers?”
Her wavering voice filtered out of the car. “I had it covered.”
“Right,” Dean chuckled; he couldn’t help it. “And that’s why you were being chased by upwards of thirty Wilds, looking absolutely beat, with no weapon in hand. You definitely had it covered.”
“Shut up,” the other replied, voice petulant. “And go away. I don’t need your help. I’ve made it this far on my own.”
Dean sighed. “Hey, man, me and my brother just wanted to help out. Hell, I know what it’s like to be outnumbered and outgunned. It sucks. You gotta admit that maybe you bit off a bit more than you could chew.”
A head covered in fine red hair poked up from where she’d been sheltering behind the door. “That’s your brother?”
“Yeah,” Dean answered. “My little bro, Sammy. You better call him Sam, though; he gets tetchy about things like that.”
A hand was pushed out the window. It was covered in the dirt and grime of a long time on the road without access to a shower. The head surfaced fully, showing off a bright smile and elven eyes. “I’m Charlie. Thanks for, well, for saving my bacon back there.”
Dean took the proffered hand, ignoring the dirt it got on his own. “And I’m Dean, and I’m glad we got here in time to save your bacon.”
Charlie opened the door, glancing around. “So, you’re sure they’re all gone?”
Sam walked over, ignoring Charlie’s mutter of “Goodness, you’re tall.”
“No Meg out here, Dean. We’ll have to come back later.” He looked down at Charlie, who seemed to be gazing at him with some slight hero-worship. “Who’s this?”
Charlie started. “Oh! Right! Um, I’m Charlie, and you’re Sammy - um, I mean Sam. Sorry. Um. Thanks for saving me.”
Sam smiled. “It’s what we do, Charlie. You want to come back to our base, maybe get a shower? Or do you have somewhere to be?”
Dean saw her shoulders slump, and almost scolded Sam. Sam looked worried enough for both of them, though, so he held off and paid attention to what Charlie was saying.
“I don’t have anywhere to be. You know how it is. Us Oncers …” she nodded at Dean “… well, I guess we’re having a rough time of it, huh?” She shook herself. “But whatever! Anyway, what’s this I heard about a home base? Sounds intriguing.”
Dean smiled. “Well, I tried to get Sam to call it the Batcave, but he insisted on just calling it the Bunker. Boring, if you ask me.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Dean, just because you have an unholy fascination with Batman does not mean that I will cater to that obsession.”
“Hey now, don’t lie, Batman’s pretty awesome,” Charlie interrupted. “I don’t know if I can get behind the manpain and angst of the recent adaptations, but overall, Batman’s cool.”
Dean raised his arms in success. “See, Sam?” he exulted, “Someone else who knows the awesomeness of Batman.”
Sam was about to come back with another jab at Dean’s tastes when a growl echoed toward them from an alleyway. “Right,” Charlie whispered, suddenly quiet. “Wilds like the smell of blood. There’s … a lot of blood. So, um, about that bunker?”
Dean followed her as Sam led them back to the Impala, muttering, “Batcave, c’mon. You gotta call it the Batcave or I’ll never hear the end of it from Sam.” Charlie had to stifle a slightly hysterical giggle, even as she sped up her pace once the car came into view.
They all piled into the car and Dean gunned it back to the Bunker. He could’ve sworn, though, as he swung the car around, that he caught sight of a blond head moving their way.
The drive back to the Bunker was quiet, although Charlie did occasionally have questions like “How do you still get gas for this thing?” and “Are these real silver?”
Dean answered the gas question while Sam removed the silver bullets from Charlie’s possession. He had to admit that maybe he’d thrown those back there on purpose when they were loading up, just to make sure that Charlie wasn’t some kind of non-demonic supernatural monster. They were still hunters, after all.
When they pulled up to the garage and triggered the doors, Charlie opened gawked. “Wow,” she hushed. “This really is like the Batcave, isn’t it?” Sam ignored Dean’s smug look and inspected the garage, making sure that nothing had been moved since they’d been gone. Who knew what ghosts lurked in that place.
Charlie stepped out of the car and looked down at herself. “Um,” she began, “Any chance you guys have a shower?”
Dean nodded, saying, “Yeah, but it’s a communal one. We’ll let you go first. You need it more than us. Nothing like awesome water pressure and actual hot water to make you feel more human, am I right?”
Charlie nodded sheepishly and headed in the direction Dean pointed before turning around. “I … guess you guys don’t have any spare clothes, huh.”
Sam stepped in. “We’ll dig around. For right now, let me go get you a bathrobe. I’ll hang it on the hook on the inside of the door, okay? Promise I’ll keep my eyes closed.”
Charlie smiled. “Thanks, Sam,” she threw over her shoulder as she headed to the shower.
Sam moved to get the bathrobe, noticing Dean moving toward the kitchen. It was a good idea. Charlie looked like she hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks, let alone something as good as Dean’s cooking. He did need to remind Dean of one thing, though: “Dean, nothing too rich, okay?”
An affirmative yell was his only answer, and Sam found the bathrobe in short order. He hung it on the shower door, eyes tightly shut, noting the sound of water running. He smiled when he heard Charlie singing “Walking on Sunshine.” It was the perfect song for her.
After he found the bathrobe, Sam went on the hunt for actual clothes for a person Charlie’s size. (He didn’t care if they were meant for a guy or a girl, as long as they looked like they fit. He knew what ill-fitting clothes felt like, and he wanted to spare her that if at all possible.) He picked through closet upon closet in almost every bedroom the Bunker sported before he found the motherlode: a room obviously meant for some Man of Letter’s girlfriend, with long-wilted flowers in a vase and tons of fifties-era clothes hanging, somewhat mustily, in the closet. He had a feeling that Charlie wouldn’t want a dress, so he searched until he found the stash of casual pants and shirts in the back.
He hoped Charlie wasn’t bothered by the smell of their detergent, because he really needed to wash these outfits before he gave them to her.
Charlie was long out of the shower, looking slightly uncomfortable in her borrowed bathrobe that came down to her ankles, by the time Sam emerged from the laundry room. She’d obviously managed to overcome her discomfort enough to eat, though, because a plate with only crumbs left sat in front of her.
She hiccupped. “Oops, too much food,” she sighed. “Oh well. It was delicious, though.”
Sam grinned. “Never fear, I come bearing gifts of real clothing.”
“Oh thank God,” Charlie sighed. “I mean, not that I hate the robe, because it’s nice, but …”
Sam continued when her voice trailed off and her face pinked. “But you feel really underdressed. I hear you. That’s why I leave the old-man-robe wearing to Dean. He seems to like it.”
She shuddered, taking the clothes from him. “Bully for him then. As for me, I’d like to be wearing actual clothes.”
She emerged from the bedroom-hallway a few minutes later, wearing her “new” clothing. “So, how do I look?”
Sam grinned. “Like you stepped straight out of the fifties. All you need is a new hairstyle and some pearls.”
“Shucks,” Charlie muttered, “I was trying to get away from that.”
“Well, we can always go raid a department store later, get you some more modern clothes,” Sam offered. “It’s not like anyone really is around to care anymore.”
Charlie looked at him strangely for a short time before smiling. “You know,” she mused, “No one’s offered to rob a department store for me before.”
Dean walked in on the tail end of that statement. “What?” he interrupted. “No one’s robbing anyone without me, you hear?”
All three of them broke into giggles.
After a few minutes of giggling, Sam sighed and tried to get his breathing back to normal. “Charlie,” he tried, “Hey. So, you can stay here if you want.”
Charlie looked up, and Sam wasn’t sure if the sudden shininess in her eyes was tears of mirth or of mourning. “Well, it’s not like I have anywhere to go back to. My parents are dead and my foster parents tossed me out when the whole Neo-Oncer thing started getting big,” she stated seemingly carelessly. Sam could hear the wobble in her voice, but decided not to call her on it.
“You can trust me when I say that we won’t do that to you, Charlie,” he soothed. “See, me and Dean are Neo and Oncer, I guess. It doesn’t really matter to us. We’re still brothers.”
Dean cut in, insisting, “And just because you’re smaller than some beefed-up dude doesn’t mean you’re weak. I’d bet you a million bucks that no damn Neo could’ve done all the running you must’ve to get clear of those Wilds. They would’ve folded.”
Sam smiled sheepishly. “We know that from the bitter experience of yours truly.”
Charlie glanced back and forth. “You mean … I can actually stay?”
“Of course!” Dean exclaimed. “Hell, maybe you’ll help me get Sammy over here to admit - finally - that this is the Batcave, and that nothing he says refutes that!”
Charlie grinned. “I’d be honored. But first … you mentioned something about getting me some clothes?”
Sam got up and grabbed the Impala keys from Dean’s hand. “I’ll drive you out to Lebanon. There’s a mall up there, nothing too big, but then again it’s the big structures that pull Wilds in. Dean will be looking at the thing we were looking for in Lawrence when we found you. Won’t you, Dean?” Dean rolled his eyes, but nodded, grabbing the laptop and starting it up.
They left the Bunker behind quickly, Charlie fidgeting in her hand-me-down clothes and Sam trying to remember the face of the blond Wild he’d seen out of the corner of his eye.
Maybe they still had a chance at bagging Meg.
-*-*-*-
Charlie returned to the Bunker with Sam behind her, lugging bag after bag of technically-stolen clothing. (Sam had left all of the cash left in his long-forgotten wallet on the counter. It wasn’t much, and he was sure that no one would ever be returning to that store, but it never hurt to be sure.)
When Sam stumbled into the archives, arms still a little sore from lugging so many bags such a long way, Dean was already waiting. “She asleep?” he asked.
“I dunno,” Sam answered, “Go ask her yourself.”
Charlie’s voice from behind him made both of them freeze. “Ask me what?”
Dean stuttered, “Oh! Um, well, you see …”
Sam talked over his idiot of a brother. “We’re going back to Lawrence. No, you can’t come. Yes, it will be dangerous. Why? There’s something we really need out there.”
Charlie asked, “How did you know what I would say?” She continued before Sam could answer. “Never mind, rhetorical. What do you need so badly? And why can’t I come? Why does this feel like some super-spy thing?”
Dean chuckled. “No, nothing like that. We just need to collect something and bring it back here. The thing we’re getting is really dangerous, so when you hear the car, stay in whatever room you’ve picked out, okay? Sam will come get you when we’re done.”
Charlie eyed them both. “Right … and I should do this … why?”
Sam sighed. “Look, Charlie, have you ever seen a Wild with black eyes? Like, completely black?”
Charlie nodded hesitantly. “I thought that was just a rare side effect.”
“Nope. The eyes are a sign of demon possession. But the demon is trapped in the Wild, due to some change in brain chemistry from the virus. So they don’t have any control. But we need to talk to a certain demon, whose host we’ve seen hanging around Lawrence.”
Charlie cut him off. “Wait, hold your horses. You’re saying demons are a thing?”
“Yep,” Dean answered, nodding.
“Oh God.” Charlie sat down slowly at the table, then rested her head on her folded arms. “Okay. Hold on. Rebuilding my worldview, give me a few.”
Sam patted her shoulder. “It’s okay. They can’t intentionally harm anyone anymore, since they’re stuck inside the Wilds. So you don’t have to worry about that.”
Charlie looked up. “I’m not as worried about that, Sam. I’m trying to reconcile the fact that demons exist with the fact that society has gone to hell in a handbasket. Are they connected?”
Sam shrugged. “We’re not sure. That’s what we’re trying to find out. We know this demon we’re looking for-” he ignored Charlie’s startled squeak at that statement “-and we’ve seen her meats- host around. So we’re going to bring her in, bring the demon to the forefront, and ask her some questions.”
Charlie looked faintly queasy as she replied, “Right. I’ll just … be in my room then.” Sam felt kind of bad, just dumping the reality of the darker side of the world on her like that. But it had to be done. Otherwise she’d get a rude awakening.
They left Charlie behind, instead heading to the Impala, shotguns and pistols in hand, ready to finally get Meg.
-*-*-*-
After all of the build-up, fighting off hordes of Wilds to save Charlie and almost spotting her meatsuit several times, capturing Meg really wasn’t all that difficult. All Dean had to do was shoot the host in the chest with a round of rock salt, and Meg went down like a sack of potatoes.
Sam had to wonder if that was contrived. If Meg was more aware, and more in control, than other demons.
They’d soon find out.
Sam chanted through the ritual from memory now, having performed it so often that he practically spoke it in his sleep. He let Dean mix the ingredients now mostly because he knew that his brother wanted some part in it, and would get testy if left to stand there holding his gun while Sam practiced a milder form of witchcraft.
When the mixture in the bowl lit up in flames, noxious smoke, more than normal, rose, and a voice echoed from behind the cloud.
“Hello again, boys,” Meg said, sounding just as put-together as she had before the whole mess.
“Meg,” Sam growled.
“Sam,” she hummed, the smile on her face becoming apparent as the smoke cleared. “Thank you ever so for letting me talk to you two. Dare I say it? I missed you clowns.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Cut the crap, Meg. We aren’t best buds, never will be. So shut up.”
Meg turned to him. “Oh, Dean,” she mused lightly, “So confrontational. You haven’t loosened up at all, have you?”
Sam moved toward her with a flask of holy water. “Ah, ah, ah!” she cried, eyeing the flask. “I know what you want, but I’m not saying one word unless you put that water and salt away.”
Sam looked to Dean, seeing a slight nod. He tucked the closed flask back into his jacket.
“Good boy, Sammy,” Meg purred. His hand moved back to the flask, but she stopped him with a glance to Dean. Sam fumed as she purred, “Now, why can’t we be friends?”
He hissed, “Because you possessed me, made me kill, made me shoot Dean. You sent the daevas after us. You think that’s friendship?”
Dean put a hand on his shoulder. Sam turned to his brother, outraged at what he saw as capitulation, before he noticed the fury hiding in the hard lines of Dean’s face. “Easy, Sammy,” Dean whispered. “We need her info.”
Meg laughed lightly. “Oh, yes you do, you two. You’ve been barking up the wrong tree all along.”
“What do you mean?” challenged Sam.
“Raum and Baal haven’t be topside in millennia. And they don’t have the power, or the will, to make what happened go through. No, boys. If any demon had a hand in the Gemini virus, it was Azazel.”
Dean cocked his head. “Who?”
“For the love of hell,” Meg groaned, “You two are hopeless. Azazel. The demon with yellow eyes who burned your mommy and doomed your daddy to hell. The one whose blood runs in Sammy’s veins.”
Sam froze. “You mean … Yellow-Eyes’ name is Azazel?”
“That’s right, Sammy. You’re making connections.”
“What, Sam?” Dean asked, staring at the facial expressions that flickered over his brother’s face: incredulity, fear, awe, horror.
“Dean,” Sam began, “Azazel was Lucifer’s general, if you believe the texts. He’s older than dirt, and almost as powerful as the devil himself.”
Dean threw up his hands. “Okay then! Whatever. So what. The Colt will still kill him, right?”
Meg spoke up. “But your daddy gave him the Colt as part of his deal to save your life, Dean. You don’t have the Colt anymore.”
Sam cursed. He’d wondered where the gun had disappeared to. It made sense. John Winchester logic: if all else fails, give up every-damn-thing to save Dean.
“Fuck this,” he fumed. “Look, Meg, thanks for the heads-up. Do you have anything else to say before we send you back to where you belong?”
Dean eyed Sam warily, but let him take the lead. He knew how the topic of their dad had the tendency to bring out Sam’s fury.
Meg tilted her head, as if in thought. “Well,” she purred, “I guess I have one last request.”
She paused. Sam growled, “And what’s that?”
She smiled slowly, a predator’s grin, all teeth. “Don’t send me back. End the spell, knock out this meatsuit, and let it run wild.”
Dean stared at her. “But … you’ll have no control.”
“Nope,” she stated, eyes bright with something manic. “And it’s glorious. All that carnage, all that destruction, and I don’t have to lift a single finger. I’m just along for the ride.”
Sam lifted the bowl, ready to dump it and end the spell. Dean readied the shotgun. “You sure?” Sam checked.
“Do it, Sammy. Don’t be a damn wimp.”
Sam flipped the bowl, and ashes and half-burned bits of char spilled across the floor. Dean fired the shotgun, and the Wild sank to the floor.
They had to scratch out a small section of the trap, but they managed. When the Wild lumbered away after they dropped it in Lawrence, Sam could’ve sworn he heard Meg laugh.
They drove back to the Bunker, forgetting about her.
They had to find Yellow-Eyes … Azazel.
-*-*-*-
Part IV