Fic: Epiphany [2/9]
Sam's up at first light the next day, waiting with their bags packed and ready in the back of the Impala, holding out a cup of coffee for Dean. It's cool still, the sun not high enough to make everything muggy and hot, and the Impala gleams under a coat of dew. Bobby sends them off with a handwave from the front porch and an extra set of iron rounds each.
"Think he's going to let us back in?" Sam asks as they drive under the Singer's Salvage sign, Zepp chasing after them until Dean honks the horn. His face is about ready to split in two with the force of his grin, and Dean feels the tight ball of worry in his gut start to unravel.
"Probably not."
Sam shakes out the newspaper he folded in his duffel and examines it along with the online articles he printed out. "We'll hit the national park in about six hours. That'll give us plenty of time to start tracking the chupacabra and hike in before it gets dark."
"If it is a chupacabra," Dean counters, "and the first diner I see I'm stopping and getting pie." Sam doesn't argue, doesn't care, just smacks Dean's thigh with his papers and puts his hand out the window for the wind to thread through his fingers.
They stop for Dean's pie, then again an hour later for gas and to stock up on Cheetos and jerky. Dean tosses a bag of M&Ms on the counter and Sam rolls his eyes, adding a pack of Starburst and heading to the bathroom. Dean is waiting by the pump, the sheaf of articles folded in his hand, and fixes Sam with a scowl when he comes back. "Are we sure this is our kind of gig?"
Sam takes one of the online articles from Dean and reads, "Mike Fergusson's body was found two miles from his campsite. Authorities are baffled not only by Fergusson's reason for planting his campsite so far from a sanctioned camping area, but also by the amount of blood lost in an animal attack which seemed to draw few injuries."
"So a cougar got hungry and was neat about it."
"Or Fergusson was a hunter that got taken out by his prey," Sam counters.
Dean's head rears back. "There were no weapons found, no silver, no salt, no holy water. What makes you think this guy was a hunter?"
Sam shrugs. "Call it a hunch."
Dean's eyebrows climb. "We're out here on a hunch?"
Sam slides into the car, tossing their snacks into the backseat. "Wouldn't be the first time."
It's true and Dean doesn't really have a reason to argue, but something about the tightness around Sam's eyes makes him want to prod at Sam's reasons. Sam flips through the articles again, then puts on a pair of sunglasses and falls asleep. He jerks awake an hour later, then grimaces, opening the glovebox and rummaging around for the bottle of pills they keep in there.
"It empty?" Dean asks when Sam finds it. "Check in the backseat, I think I saw--"
"It's fine. I don't need anything," Sam says.
Dean takes in the pale pallor of Sam's face, the way he's wincing at the sunlight. "Maybe we did this too soon."
Sam straightens from where he's slumped in his seat. "Why?"
"I dunno, man, are you sure you're ready for this?"
"I'm fine."
"Yeah, but maybe you're body's not. Y'know, maybe you're still--"
"I said I'm fine," Sam snaps.
Dean shakes his head and turns the music up, ignoring Sam's wince.
-
They arrive an hour later, and Dean's about ready to head up to the main gate, pay the fifteen bucks for a campsite that they won't be using, but Sam says, "Keep going," and directs him around a bend, twenty minutes past the camp entrance.
"Okay. Right here," Sam says and Dean slows but doesn't stop.
"If you think we're going to stash the car here overnight with a 'gone for gas' sign, you're dreaming."
"This is where-- This is the best place to get in. Turn in just ahead. There's a bunch of trees, you can park there."
Dean sees the slight break in the trees and pulls off the side of the road, easing under the canopy formed by low-hanging branches--and pulling alongside a brown Ford Pinto.
"Sam," Dean says and points.
"Probably just a homeless guy." Sam gets out of the car and starts pulling their duffels from the trunk. "Lock the car, it'll be fine."
Dean stands up and gapes at Sam over the hood. "Are you serious?"
"Dean." Sam holds out the bag with the guns. "Trust me on this one, okay?"
Dean takes the bag and Sam starts walking up the wooded slope where the trees grow less dense. "There something you're not telling me?"
Sam doesn't answer.
-
They hike through the woods and Dean, angry and confused, lets Sam lead the way. Sam has a map out and a compass but squints at the trees around them like there are markers blazed on the bark. They're working toward the place where Mike Fergusson set up camp, Dean guesses, but then Sam finds something that makes him stuff the map away and plunge into the thicker part of the trees.
"You been here before or something? Sam?" Dean follows, jogging to keep up, when Sam abruptly stops and swings out an arm to keep Dean from moving past him, eyes searching the trees.
"Wait a second," Sam says in a low voice. "I think--"
A figure moves from behind a tree, hands raised before Dean can pull a gun on him. "Hi there. You lose your way?"
Dean pulls Sam back a few steps, not lowering his gun. "What's it to you?"
"Nothing." The man shrugs and Dean takes the moment to do a quick catalog. Calloused hands, weathered face, iron gray at his temples. Not unfamiliar with being on the business end of a gun. The pieces start falling into place.
"We saw your Pinto back by the road," Dean says, flicking the safety on his gun. "Don't usually run into many hunters on the job."
The man lowers his arms and extends a hand. "Same here. Name's Martin. Lucas Martin, but most call me Bowie."
"Like the knife?"
The man chuckles, teeth flashing white. "Cliché, but yeah. I'm thinking the two of you are more familiar with guns, though, am I right? Rifles?" he says, eyes narrowed, and ice freezes in Dean's gut, Sam stiffening beside him.
"We don't want any trouble," Sam says, voice measured.
"And I'm not offering any. There's more fable than fact spinning out there about the two of you, and none of it makes a lick of sense, but that's not what I'm interested in right now. Right now, I'm on a hunt, and this isn't a monster I've seen before. I've checked out the campsite and I think I've got a bearing on its den. Bobby Singer's mentioned your names once or twice, old coot in South Dakota."
"We know him," Dean says.
"Yeah, he knows you too, to hear him talk." Martin folds his arms across his chest and surveys them both. "Now, I like to work alone but I'm not stupid. I trust my gut and the opinion of a few good men. I don't take crap and I'm not looking for handouts, but if Singer still deals with you and if you want to stay on this hunt, I wouldn't mind having a couple extra eyes on my back. What do you say?"
-
In the end, they say yes. Dean would rather play it safe and leave Martin to it, but Sam is dead-set on this hunt for reasons that he refuses to explain. They check Martin's rep with Bobby, Sam moving a few feet away to make the call while Martin checks the edge of his knife and waits patiently until Sam gives Dean the go ahead.
"Ready?" Martin says when Sam nods. "I've got a trap up ahead I want to check on, see if it's been disturbed at all."
They move forward, Martin in the lead this time, Sam taking up the back. They have an hour until it's completely dark, by Dean's guess, and the tree cover makes the dusky shadows darker when they finally stop. Martin uses a stick to set off the metal spring trap on the ground, barely visible in the gloom, then flicks on a flashlight and bends down to examine it, Sam and Dean following suit.
"This thing must be smaller than I thought. This could hold it?" Dean asks, indicating the size of the metal jaws.
Martin shakes his head. "I was just trying to get a read on whether it's nocturnal or not. Doesn't look like." He turns the trap from side to side. "This was baited when I left." He straightens. "One thing we do know: it likes meat."
"And it's fast," Sam says.
"Faster than I want to face alone," Martin agrees.
"We were thinking chupacabra," Dean says. "But no chupacabra I've ever heard of is that fast or that smart."
"Were-something?" Martin suggests. "Could be more sentient than we're expecting."
"Wendigo?" Sam puts in quietly.
"Great. Awesome," Dean mutters.
Martin starts gathering up the trap, glancing around them as he does so, and Dean feels a warm presence at his elbow, Sam's fingers pulling at his sleeve. "Hey. Stick close, okay?" Sam says. His face is shadowed blue in the dying light.
"Sam," Dean says in a low voice, "I don't know what the hell is going on but you can't keep stringing me along. I want some answers." He casts a glance behind him to where Martin is eyeing them curiously and pitches his voice lower. "Did you know about him?"
"Not exactly. Dean, I swear, I'll explain everything later, but right now--"
"So help me, Sam, if you give me the 'trust me' crap, I will hit you in the face."
"Dean, please." Sam's eyes skip from Martin to the trees around them, agitated in the growing dark. "I will tell you everything, I promise, but until we get somewhere safe, I need you to follow my lead or there's a good chance nobody's going to get out of here alive."
Dean's jaw clenches and then he straightens, hand going to his gun. "Okay," he says. "What's the plan?"
"Get to camp. Light a fire. We need to get out of the woods."
Dean nods sharply. "Hey, Martin. You ready?"
"Yeah." Martin looks between the two of them, trap slung over his shoulder.
Then all hell breaks loose.
A chittering yowl sounds above them, just before something dark streaks from the trees--not a chupacabra or a wendigo, something else, something bigger, with sharper claws and longer teeth. Martin yells, twisting under the black shape, then there's another howl and the thing draws back, hissing at the long knife in Martin's hand. Three rapid shots from Sam has it back in the trees, crossing overhead on the branches so quickly that Dean can only catch glimpses of it: cat eyes, patches of fur.
He doesn't even know it's behind him until a dense weight hits his back, driving all the air from his lungs. He grunts, dirt in his mouth, and Martin is shouting something and it's dark, too dark to see anything. Something drags it off and he scrabbles in the gloom: root, dirt, dirt, stick, where's his gun? Then it's back, sharp claws pricking his skin, hot breath at his neck. He turns with a pained grunt, catches a glimpse of Sam's panicked face, and then--
White light explodes from Sam's palm. Dean closes his eyes against the brightness and throws his arms over his head, the monster writhing on the forest floor a mere three feet from him. When he opens his eyes, the monster is a pile of ash and Sam is kneeling on the ground with blood running down his chin, looking down the barrel of Martin's gun.
"I don't want to," Martin says evenly, "but it's not right."
"Martin," Dean says, getting to his feet and pitching his voice low, "put the gun away."
"I've got no quarrel with you." He gives Dean a quick look and adjusts his grip on the gun. Sam's flashlight is on the ground, casting eerie shadows over their faces. "But I can't let your brother go."
"Look, neither of us are new to the business, Martin. There's a boatload of crazy stuff out there and it's not all black and white. You know it and I know it."
"You're right," Martin says, "I've seen a thing or two. More often than not from people who mess with things too big for them." He nods at Sam. "People asking for more power than they can handle."
"That's not what this is, all right?" Sam says. "I can explain."
Dean edges forward. "You live this life long enough and you learn to trust your gut, I get that, but I'd bet my car that neither of us would be here to have this conversation if it wasn't for Sam, so how about we just hear him out, see what he's got to say?"
Sam waits on his knees as Martin considers. Then Martin shakes his head minutely. "I'm sorry, Dean."
His finger slips inside the trigger guard and Dean lunges. The gun flies from Martin's hand and he stumbles back a step, Dean's fingers locked around his throat. "I wouldn't," Dean says when Martin reaches for the knife at his hip. He meets Sam's eyes and jerks his chin. "Pick up the gun, Sam."
Sam gets to his feet, wavering just a moment before he picks up the flashlight and finds the gun a few feet away, returning to stand at Dean's back. Martin's eyes are wide but not surprised when Dean leans in close.
"This never happened and you were never here," Dean says. "You can handle that, we're good. If that's too much, we've got other ways of dealing with things."
"It's not all black and white, you said," Martin grinds out, mouth twisted in a smile. "You've lived in the gray too long. Nothing human can do that." He looks over Dean's shoulder at Sam and Dean pinches his fingers tighter.
"Two choices, Martin: save your breath or lose it."
He loosens his grip enough for Martin to drag in a whistling breath, letting it out in a half-laugh. "I should've listened to the rumors. Everything that's been said about you two..." He digs his nails into Dean's wrist and Dean lets go of his throat, nods at Sam to keep the gun trained on Martin's chest. Martin coughs, eyes watering but steady. "You're playing a losing game here. Even if I don't talk, word'll get out. It always does."
"That's our problem. All I expect you to do is watch your mouth."
The muscles in Martin's jaw, his temple, clench as he thinks. Then he nods, a short jerk, and it doesn't mean much, not even an exchange of words, but it's enough for now. Martin doesn't move as they sweep the clearing, scuffing the pile of ash and slinging the duffels over their shoulders.
They get to the car without incident. Sam's nose is still bleeding sluggishly, and he presses a bandana to the lower half of his face, hesitating before getting in the car like he expects Dean to drive off without him. And for a brief moment, that's all Dean wants to do--leave the secrets and the craziness and whatever the hell is going on behind. He tosses the duffels in the trunk, then slides behind the wheel. Sam's waiting outside, hand wrapped around the door handle. Dean shakes his head.
"Get in."
-
They get on the highway without a word. Sam spends the first hour staring at the dash, the second staring at Dean. His face is back to its normal color, the blood wiped away. Purple shadows linger under his eyes like he hasn't slept in ages, giving his face a haunted look.
He has his back to Dean, forehead pressed to the glass, when Dean breaks the silence.
"How long?" he asks. Sam stiffens, lifting a hand to his chin like he still expects to feel the wash of blood there, but Dean doesn't wait for an answer. "What else can you do?"
"I don't know."
"You sure about that?"
"Dean, I--"
"There was a reason you didn't want to talk about your nightmares," Dean says. "Because they weren't nightmares, were they? You were having visions.
Sam grimaces. "I wasn't sure."
Dean curses quietly, shaking his head. "I should've known. Bobby told me, he told me you were in your old body. He knew." He shakes his head again, a self-deprecating smile on his face. "It wasn't the flu, was it? God, I am so blind."
"Dean," Sam says brokenly.
"You knew you were back in your old body and Bobby knew and the only one who couldn't put two and two together was me." He straightens his shoulders, flexes his fingers on the steering wheel. "So. Give me the rundown. What can you do?"
"Visions." Sam clears his throat. "Whatever...happened back there. That's it so far."
"That's it, nothing else?"
"I, uh, I'm not sure yet."
Dean cuts a glance over, barely catches Sam's profile in the dark. "But you think there might be."
"Maybe," Sam says quietly. "I don't know." He picks at a loose string on his jeans, glancing at Dean. "Are you mad?"
Dean barks a laugh, caught between the white lines of paint dividing the road. "I don't know, man. Maybe. A little. But I don't know what the hell anymore."
Sam looks at him for a minute in silence before letting the air leave him on a sigh. "That makes two of us."
-
The house is dark when they pull up, and Bobby greets them with a shotgun because it's 3:46 and they didn't say they were on their way back.
"What's wrong? What happened?" he asks but Dean shakes his head and says, "In the morning."
In the morning doesn't happen, though, because there's the flutter of wings, the faint smell of ozone, and Castiel says, "What did you do?"
"Castiel," Sam says, in an awed voice. "You're alive."
"I am," Castiel says, "despite Lucifer's attempts otherwise."
"Oh, hello to you to," Dean says, shouldering in with enough force that Castiel takes a step back. "So all it takes to get a little customer service from Heaven is to burn something to a crisp with your mind?"
"I heard your prayers, Dean."
"And my phone calls," Dean says. "And the general 'Here I am, come get me' I sent out to whatever would listen."
"Despite appearances, Heaven has not been disinterested. Other matters held our attention--Sam, specifically."
"What about him?" Bobby asks, shotgun still at the ready.
"Heaven has had him on our radar, so to speak, but we were waiting to make contact until the opportune moment."
"Opportune moment for what exactly?" Bobby asks.
Castiel turns to Sam. "To tell you why we raised you from the Cage."
"You raised me," Sam repeats. "I don't have a handprint--"
"--and we were forced to leave you in your former state, sadly, yes."
"Which means what?" Dean asks.
"Only that Heaven is far weaker than it should be," Castiel says. "I am sorry, Sam. I wish we could have healed you, in gratitude for what you did, but our current resources are such that only one cleansing could take place. We were able to heal your abilities, but not your body."
"My abilities?" Sam says. "You mean my powers?" His gaze skips from Bobby to Dean. "You told me not to use them. I was an abomination, you said--"
"When you relied on drinking demon blood to fuel them, yes," Castiel says, "but inherently they're not evil, Sam. Azazel gave them to you and turned them to his will, but now that they're purified..."
"You want Sam to use them," Dean concludes, eyes narrowed.
Sam folds his arms, taking a step back. "That's why you raised me. It wasn't because you were trying to save me, you wanted to use me."
"That's not the--"
"The next words out of your mouth better be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help you God, Cas," Dean says.
Castiel takes a breath, looking between the three of them. "Heaven wants Sam as a rallying point."
"A rallying point," Sam echoes.
"What, like a mascot?" Dean asks.
"Like a weapon. What you did today in the woods was something close to a nuclear explosion. It's unconventional to recruit soldiers this way, but Heaven could use a power like that."
"Use it how?" Bobby asks.
"If we are correct, Sam has the benefit of angelic powers without the detriment of angelic form. He would be accepted where we would not."
"You mean like in demon central," Dean says.
"There," Castiel agrees, "and elsewhere. The wards that hold out an angel would not affect him. Traps that would be triggered when an angel nears would allow him to pass. Essentially, he'd be a human with an angel's abilities--very valuable, very rare."
"So because Heaven's weak, you need me as a super soldier?" Sam says. "I'm still human, Cas. I can't just march into battle and expect to survive."
"I agree. It is my belief that Heaven doesn't need your strength, Sam; it needs your presence. We're fractioned and divided, without a leader or a purpose. But if we had something to rally behind, something in common that we all agree on, our strength would be united and we would be restored to our former glory."
There's a long moment of silence, broken when Bobby scrapes a hand across his beard and says, "And everybody up there agrees with you."
Castiel hesitates before saying, "Sam is free to make his own choice."
"According to you, maybe." Bobby folds his arms. "I'm going to go out on a limb, though, and say that not all your cronies up there would agree."
Castiel sighs. "The different garrisons rarely agree over anything. Some believe the other factions won't pay attention unless Sam is put in a more central role. That...would be detrimental, I think. I believe it would be in everyone's best interest if Sam's role is mainly symbolic, that of a spy rather than a soldier."
"I bet that went over like a lead balloon," Bobby says. "We've had a taste of what Heaven's free will is like. You might think that Sam can do what he likes, but I'm willing to bet that the rest of your pals decided James Bond isn't their cup of tea and that Sam doesn't get a say-so. That if they're going to rally behind a soldier, he'd better be a damn good one and not just a figurehead. Am I close?"
Dean huffs a mirthless laugh and shakes his head. "God, Cas, it's the same old song and dance. Heaven sent you to tell Sam he can choose to come quietly or you'll smite him. You're tossing him to the wolves because Heaven can't keep itself together and decided it needs a Special Ops unit."
"I know what it seems," Castiel says, looking at Sam, "but it was the only way you could be saved. Given the choice, I would do it again--Lucifer's Cage is a worse hell than anything that could be devised on earth. But you have to know, your powers and the amount of demon blood you consumed to take Lucifer in... Those things leave scars."
"What are you talking about?" Dean says, eyes narrowed.
Castiel drops his head. "Even I'm not sure," he admits. "One of the reasons I thought it best if Sam was simply a figurehead is that we don't know how he'll respond to his powers."
"You don't want me to use them," Sam says. "You think I'll go darkside? That I didn't learn my lesson?"
"I know that you are well-intentioned, Sam. I don't doubt that you have learned from your mistakes. But sometimes the force overtakes the enforcer. It's not you I don't trust, it's what you possess and what kind of payment it might take from you."
"Payment," Bobby echoes.
"Headaches, nosebleeds," Sam says. "Nothing I haven't handled before."
"For now," Castiel says. "I hope that's all you have to face."
"Well, we'll keep you in the loop if Sam grows an extra arm or something, and we promise to use the Force wisely."
"That's all I ask," Castiel says, smiling a little. He glances around the room, taking in the innocuous wards and symbols hidden in corners or scratched in the wood. "You might want to refresh those, reinforce with what you can. I can't pretend that Heaven will be pleased to hear your answer, but I'll do my best to keep the others from trailing you."
"What do you think they'll do?" Sam asks.
"I don't know. A great amount of effort was expended to rescue you. Most think you should be grateful."
"For letting you use Sam as a guinea pig without his permission?" Dean says. "Yeah, thanks a million, and tell your pals."
Castiel smiles, then offers his hand to Sam. "I'm glad you're doing well, Sam," he says. He turns to Dean and Bobby, shaking their hands in turn. "I wish I could have brought better news."
"Yeah, well. If you do ever get better news, swing by," Dean says. "It'd be good to see you."
Castiel smiles. "I'll find you."
He's gone as silently as he came.
-
They get a few hours of sleep and fuel the rest of the day with coffee. Bobby puts them to work with a list of chores, says he has some errands to run in town. Sam scans the list and Dean rolls his eyes but they get to it, hauling old tires, painting the shed, stripping cars of their useable parts. It's easy for Dean to get lost in the work and lose track of time, numbed to everything but the here and now of what's in front of his hands. He's surprised when Sam tosses his sweat-stained shirt at Dean's head and tells him it's time for lunch. They make sandwiches and eat chips on the porch, Sam peeling an orange and tossing the skin down the steps where the dog noses at it experimentally.
"Think you could float it?" Dean asks.
Sam turns over a piece of the peel, considering, and shrugs. "Dunno. Want me to try?"
Dean mirrors Sam's shrug and gets up, thwapping Sam's shoulder. "C'mon. Back to it. You drag the tires behind the shed, I'll get the carburetor out of that Ford?"
-
Bobby comes back with buffalo wings from a place in town and Dean heats up a frozen pizza, cracks open beers for the three of them. They're mostly quiet until Bobby says, "All right. Give me the scoop," and what happened comes out in bits and pieces: the hunt, finding Lucas Martin, the creature, the kill.
"You knew where we were going," Dean realizes. Sam had been pulling apart his pizza crust but lets it fall from his hands now. "You told me where to park, you barely even needed the map."
"I'd had a vision," Sam says. "Before we left."
"You saw the thing go after Martin?"
Sam grimaces. "I saw it go after you. It was only visions, until..." He ducks his head a little. "I didn't know about anything else."
"I'm surprised you let Martin see your little show," Bobby says, leaning back in his chair. "Bowie's a fair man, but he's got no reason to keep secrets for you."
"Keeping secrets isn't hard; all you have to do is not open your mouth. Which is what he's going to do if he knows what's good for him."
"Still, word'll get out. It might be easier if we split up," Sam offers. "You can keep hunting, I can--"
"Not happening," Dean interrupts.
"Hear me out," Sam says. "Just for a while," but Dean shakes his head sharply.
"I'm not doing it, Sam. I spent this summer at the bottom of a bottle. Ask Bobby; it wasn't pretty. I hate to say it, but you're stuck with me. Whatever we're doing, we're doing it together."
Some of the tension eases from Sam's shoulders, but he still presses, "Hunting isn't going to be easy."
"Hunting with the FBI on our backs wasn't easy. Hunting with Gordon thinking you'd be a tasty snack wasn't easy. This?" Dean shrugs. "Piece of cake. I mean, it's not like we haven't done the whole powers trip before, right? We're pros at this kind of thing."
"I don't want to be the one to rain on your parade," Bobby says, leaning his arms on the table, "and it's not like I hate the company, but Martin's right, word'll get out. Unless you want to open the door and find yourselves blinking at the bullet holes between your eyes, you boys need to hunker down somewhere until this all blows over. In the meantime," Bobby tosses a set of keys on the table, "here."
Dean picks the keys up with a raised eyebrow. "I hate to break it to you, but you're about fifteen years too late."
"I figure you can keep the Impala here," Bobby says as if Dean hadn't said anything. "Put her out back, tarp her up. No one'll go looking back in the salvage yard; it'd be like looking for a needle in a stack of needles."
Dean's jaw drops. "You're crazy if you think I'm leaving my car."
"It's a marker that you can't afford," Bobby says firmly.
"We've flown under the radar with the Impala before," Sam says, cutting Dean off. "We'll be careful. I'll call in on the hunts we take, see if there's anybody around that you know of."
"Is this your roundabout way of asking me to do more legwork?" Bobby gripes, but he takes the keys back and Dean breathes easier. "I'll expect you boys to keep your heads down. I catch wind of you, you'll wish I hadn't."
"So we go to ground?"
"We go to ground."
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