Humble Pie [13/20]
It’s now, in the silence following Castiel’s simple and yet terrifying statement, that Gabriel draws his brother off to one side, careful not to touch him as he’s still not sure where he lies. Castiel might hate him. Castiel probably does hate him. If he were Castiel, he would definitely hate him.
“Dmitri …” he begins, voice low. “Why are you doing this?”
“I don’t understand.” Castiel doesn’t even pretend to lower his voice - he knows full well that this is just a pretense of privacy, as everyone in the room can hear what they’re saying with ease and are making it no secret that they’re listening. Of course they are. “Doing what?”
“You know what I’m talking about,” Gabriel hisses, exasperated. “This! All of this... Helping them. And after what they’ve done to you!”
Castiel’s eyes harden. “I hardly think you have any right to judge, brother.”
That hurts. All the more so because Gabriel knows it’s true. But he presses on, because this isn’t about him and his sore feelings, this is about his brother not making a decision that he will come to regret for the rest of his life. Gabriel knows what that feels like, and he wouldn’t wish it on anybody, least of all his little brother. “What have they ever done for you?”
“More than you have. You had your chance, Gavriil. You lost the right to care a long time ago.”
Gabriel swallows, and tries again, slipping almost unconsciously into their own, shared language, tasting the letters on his tongue like some forbidden fruit. The apple in Eden. It’s been so long. He’s almost forgotten how, except he knows he never could. He grew up speaking Russian. He could never forget.
“Please. Dmitri, please. I know I did wrong, and you have every right to hate me, but I’m still your brother - and I still love you. Please just let me help you. Let me do this for you, please.”
Castiel’s eyes are like deep pools of some unfathomable depth, the emotion lying far down among the murky waters. They used to be so clear. Gabriel always used to be able to read his little brother, his face like an open book, with every joy and every despair painted vividly upon it. But now ... The paints have faded, the artist aged, everything is closed down and jaded. And somehow, this hurts far more than any insults Castiel could throw at his brother. Because it shows Gabriel what he’s done to little Dimi, who used to follow him so trustingly, eyes wide, who delighted in the smallest things, whose laugh was carefree and easy, bubbling up inside him like a brook that could never be dammed. Gabriel always knew how to make Dmitri laugh.
He doesn’t know this person in front of him, though. And it looks like Castiel doesn’t want to know him, either.
“Look,” he says, and finds himself back in English, the words dull and heavy, stones in his mouth. “You never need see me again - just let me get you out of here. Let me give you back what was taken from you. That’s all. Then I’ll leave.” His voice nearly breaks, but he reigns it in. “For ever.”
Everyone in the room understands how much pain Gabriel is putting himself in by uttering those two words.
The Winchesters imagine a life without each other, imagine a life where the other is dead, or worse: a life where the other no longer wants them, where they have to strike out truly alone, and when they finally meet again, they go down their separate roads with only words of hate to speed them on their way.
Ellen imagines a life without her daughter, without the home they’ve built in each other, imagines the day when Jo no longer wants to hang around with her old ma, the day when she finally flies the coop.
Jo doesn’t have to imagine, because Ash is already dead.
Bobby lost his wife, he lost his parents, he lost any chance he ever had of having kids, but now he imagines losing Sam and Dean, and the thought kills him inside.
Crowley has already lost more than any of us will ever know.
And Castiel?
Castiel shares Gabriel’s pain, and everyone knows that, too.
“I’m sorry, Gavriil,” Castiel says finally. “Nothing can give back what was taken. I lost far more than just my freedom.” He swallows slightly, and that’s the only thing that betrays the depth of the emotions he’s feeling, how close they are to overwhelming him. For a second, it’s like looking back in time as Gabriel stares at his brother’s face where he can see the feelings played out like some Greek tragedy; but then the door snaps shut, although for a moment, a second, a fleeting heartbeat, the pause between blinks, it looks as though Castiel might say something more, begin to fill in the innumerable blank spaces of his life, and the room holds its breath-
But then it passes, dust on the wind, and as Castiel turns back to the others there is nothing about his face that gives him away; the tears that moments ago sparkled in his eyes are gone, the brightness dulled, and he is all professionalism. He has had to learn how to hide his feelings, just to survive.
“We’re wasting time,” he says, and the brittle firmness of his voice breaks Gabriel’s heart.
”So, this grand plan of yours, what exactly does it entail?” Crowley asks with unusual diplomacy, smoothing over the silence with his slick British tones. “Other than all of us getting killed, of course.”
“We would need some time when there’s a large number of ... slaves present,” Sam muses, sending Castiel an almost apologetic look with the use of the term. “Something public? I don’t know. I mean, this is ideal scenario we’re talking about here - ’cause breaking into one of their buildings wouldn’t exactly be a good plan ...”
“There’s the convention this weekend,” chips in Jo, and all eyes turn to her. “You know, where all the main suppliers get together and show off their merchandise?”
Dean shrugs. “That’d certainly be public. Think we could come up with a plan between now and then?”
“It’s pretty soon,” says Ellen with a frown. “We’d have the better part of six days to get ready.”
“That should be enough,” replies Castiel calmly. “I need to find some way of getting a message to Balthazar and Inias.”
“Is that even possible?” Sam’s brow furrows. “I mean, the security’s pretty high, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“So … What were you thinking of doing?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Dean shakes his head tiredly - this is getting more complicated by the minute. “Okay, fine, you do some thinking then. In the meantime ...”
“I hope you boys know what you’re doing,” Bobby says from behind his desk with a shake of the head. “’Cause I wasn’t born yesterday, and I can tell this plan of yours is going to be dangerous. Hell, probably more dangerous than ya think.”
It’s a good question. Do they know what they’re doing? Dean certainly doesn’t feel like he does. Because, what, he’s trying to come up with a plan to bring down a major multi-million-dollar company with the help of an ex-slave?
C’mon, who is he kidding?
I mean, he’s only got Castiel’s word that a) the slaves will help, and b) any illegal stuff is going on - and even if it is, why should he care?!
Except he does. He does care, that’s his damn problem.
It would just help if they knew what the hell Ash had found when he called them up.
He doesn’t realize he’s said it out loud until Jo replies, slightly tentatively: “Well... He kept all his stuff in one of those off-site backup drives. An ethernet server, or stream, or whatever. Something like that, anyway.” Blank faces. “Look, I don’t speak techie, okay? Imagine an online memory stick. Ash taught me how to access it remotely, just in case.” She doesn’t need to add anything to that sentence, ’cause everyone knows what happened to Ash back at the Roadhouse.
Dean glances at his brother, and Sam shrugs. “Worth a try, I guess.”
Ten minutes later, and they’re clustered around Bobby’s desk where Jo sits with Sam’s laptop open before her, tapping away at the keys and entering a long string of unintelligible computer-code into the command box. Dean has no idea what she’s doing, so he’s quite content to stand at the back.
It takes ages, and I mean ages. Every now and then Jo will make a noise of mild frustration and try something else, or Sam will lean forwards to give her a suggestion of his own (geek). Before long (and we’re talking about 30 seconds here), Dean’s so bored he allows his eyes to wander lazily around the room, this room he knows inside out, as well as the lines on his own father’s face, until they come to rest on Castiel. Of course.
He can’t see the other man’s face, just the back of his head, the slightly ragged neck of his baggy cotton shirt brushing the black line that is Castiel’s collar. His shoulder blades press into the light-blue fabric, and Dean finds himself remembering something his mother once told him, back when he was just a kid and everything was alright. Mary said that your shoulder blades are where your wings would be, if you were an angel, spreading out like phantom shadows from your back to envelop you in a world of feathers and soft down.
Castiel is an angel, he thinks idly. Not the type Mary was talking about, perhaps. But still. He wonders what she’d say if she could see what’s been done to him. Castiel. The angel.
Dean doesn’t like thinking about his mom, or Castiel, for that matter, so all in all he’s pretty relieved when Jo finally throws her hands up in the air and cries out in frustration.
“Oh, you bastard!”
“What is it?” Sam asks, peering over her shoulder at the computer screen.
“There’s a password on the server, and I just can’t get round it.’
“So? I thought Ash told you how to do this, in case of emergency?”
“Yeah, but he changes the password every week ’cause he’s a paranoid freak.” She pauses for a moment, before correcting herself quietly. “Was. He was a paranoid freak.”
Dean’s thankful that Gabriel and Crowley have enough sense to stay quiet, give Jo this moment to acknowledge the death of someone who obviously meant a lot to her.
“He might have left something at the Roadhouse,” Jo says finally, because she’s a strong woman and she can’t afford to give up now. Ash is dead. She has to get over that. It’s not like they were even dating or anything. “The latest password, I mean. On a slip of paper, or something.”
“I thought you said he was paranoid?” Dean cuts in. “So, why would he just leave something like that lying around?”
“It’s reverse psychology,” Sam supplies.
“What?”
“Y’know - leave something important lying in full view, no one will ever think it’s important. They think you’ll hide it, right? Reverse psychology. Seems like Ash was into that kind of thing.”
That or he was just damn lazy. But Dean shrugs anyway. “If you say so.” Trust Sam to know everything. It’s not that Sam’s more intelligent than Dean, just that he’s more of a, well, bookworm. He’s more scholarly, you might say. He reads and retains knowledge like a normal person eats food. Dean picks up information (most of it pretty useless, actually, like quotes from random Western movies) in other ways, especially after he got taken aside one day in school when he was ten and told he was dyslexic.
That had been a bad day. Then again, it had explained a hell of a lot.
But he’s getting off track, so he does his best to reign in his brain and force it to think about something actually remotely useful. Like “What’s the plan, then? You just gonna up and leave for the Roadhouse in the hopes that Ash left something useful lying around?”
Jo shrugs. “It’s a chance, right? I mean, if Ash found something important then we’d better know before we run into something dangerous.”
She has a point. She always has a point. That’s something Dean’s learnt about the Harvelles from his years of experience: they’re always right.
“Okay. Fine.”
Jo smiles at her victory and stands, closing Sam’s laptop with a click before grabbing her jacket from the back of the seat and checking the time on her mobile. “It’s 1:27. If I leave now, I can make it back before too late - 9, maybe.”
In actual fact, Jo doesn’t leave until more like 1:40, and if you have to ask why, then you know literally nothing about Ellen Harvelle.
Ellen is a good woman. A strong, dependable, respected woman - who can also be damn stubborn when she has a mind to be. And she certainly has a mind to be when it comes to Jo. ’Cause she’s Jo’s mom, and Jo’s her baby, and who cares about the fact that Jo is actually perfectly capable of taking care of herself and has no need of being - and certainly no desire to be - mollycoddled.
Enter Ellen’s stubbornness.
So it wasn’t until Ellen and Jo had undergone a shouting match that lasted 15 minutes (everyone else wisely vacated the room while this was happening, but no matter where they went they could still hear the shouting), that Ellen finally came out with a very disgruntled Jo in tow.
“Dean, you’re going to the Roadhouse with Jo,” Ellen said, and the tone she used left very little room for argument. Plus Dean knew he’d get his ass handed to him if he didn’t agree.
Hence the fact that, now, at nearly 2:00, he’s riding shotgun in the Harvelle’s truck, his gun in the glove compartment and Jo’s hand on the steering wheel.
Of course, there’s also Castiel in the back, who insisted on coming. Partly because this was his plan, but also (Dean suspected) partly because he couldn’t face being in the same room as Gabriel for too long.
He wonders what the brothers did to make them hate each other so much. He can’t imagine hating Sam, can’t imagine anything that would ever make him hate Sam. Sure, his brother’s fucked up in the past, more than once, and sometimes so badly Dean didn’t know how to fix it at first, and sure, he’ll do it again, but they always pull through, and they always end up together. It’s probably because they’re all each of them has. Losing the other would mean losing everything.
Gabriel must’ve done something pretty bad for Castiel to dislike him as much as he does. Dean thinks he probably shouldn’t want to know. Curiosity and cats, and all that.
But that doesn’t stop him catching Castiel’s eye in the wing-mirror and wondering.
The drive is long and boring, and I have literally nothing of any interest to tell you about it, so instead I suggest we do this nifty little thing where I fast-forward to the moment they arrive at the Roadhouse. (I’m the author. I can do things like this.)
Jo gets out first, sliding out of the truck and walking around to the back to retrieve her shotgun. It’s not as small and neat as a pistol would be, but it sure packs a punch, and she likes to remind people how badass she is. ’Cause her mom certainly hasn’t seemed to get the message yet.
Dean retrieves his own gun from the glove compartment and checks it’s loaded correctly and the safety is on before tucking it into the back of his jeans, where he can reach it easily if need be but it’s not too obvious to onlookers (not that there are any), and, more important, it leaves both his hands free.
Dean’s not sure what he had been expecting, because at first glance, the Roadhouse looks exactly the same - large, wooden and welcoming, not unlike Ellen herself, the red neon sign above the door, now flickered out of use, but still promising good beer and better company. The bar’s lively nature and accepting stance had made it right on for just about every possible emotion and mood.
He doesn’t realize he’s staring until Jo punches him lightly on the arm. “You gonna stand there all day?” She cants her hip to one side, resting the barrel of her gun on her shoulder. “Thought you were coming to come with.”
Dean cracks a grin. “Ask me nicely, and I might.”
All he gets is another punch and a warning of ass-kicking, but he dodges out the way and laughs with a light-heartedness he doesn’t feel.
“So … What exactly are we looking for?”
“Ash was disorganized when it came to anything not on a screen, but he was also a techie, which means by default he was pretty paranoid. He’s probably got some kind of hiding place - maybe a drawer or box, although that seems a bit obvious - where he kept a memory stick with all his passwords, I mean. And maybe some other stuff, too. But it’s got to be somewhere most people wouldn’t think of looking, but not some hidden compartment or anything either - like Sam said, reverse psychology.”
Dean sighs, because this was totally how he wanted to spend his day.
“We have to find it,” Jo says with a slight glare, and damn, but one day she’ll be as scary as her mom, and Dean makes a mental note to be several states over when that day comes. “’Cause if we don’t, we’ll never be able to access all the stuff he found on the Morgensterns.”
“Easier said than done,” he mutters as he looks around the jumble of papers, wires and drinks cans that is Ash’s ‘office’. The trash covers every surface, strewn across the floor, piled on the desk, overflowing from the shelves. There are a few gaping holes in the clutter where the police confiscated his computer and other main electronics, but it looks like they either decided the papers weren’t useful or they couldn’t be bothered to sift through all the crap, because everything else is still here. It looks like a whirlwind passed through and wasn’t too forgiving about it either, because, believe it or not, it’s even messier than usual, and Dean’s heart sinks at the sight, although whether that’s down to the prospect of looking for the proverbial needle in this huge crapstack or because it reminds him too much of a friend now lost, he doesn’t know. But, knowing Dean like I do, I’d be willing to bet it’s just a little bit of both.
Jo had been all for leaving Castiel outside to wait in the car (old habits die hard I suppose), but Dean was having none of that, and now they’re both glad of the extra pair of hands. It certainly makes what would have been a pretty soul-destroying job into more of a just soul-damaging job. Even so, they’ve been at it for an hour and a half before anything actually happens. And even then, it’s not finding the elusive memory stick that starts the party - it’s the arrival of some people who I shan’t name name for fear of ruining the surprise.
You’ll just have to wait and see like everyone else. (This is called ‘building suspense’.)
Suck it, bitches.
“Dmitri …” he begins, voice low. “Why are you doing this?”
“I don’t understand.” Castiel doesn’t even pretend to lower his voice - he knows full well that this is just a pretense of privacy, as everyone in the room can hear what they’re saying with ease and are making it no secret that they’re listening. Of course they are. “Doing what?”
“You know what I’m talking about,” Gabriel hisses, exasperated. “This! All of this... Helping them. And after what they’ve done to you!”
Castiel’s eyes harden. “I hardly think you have any right to judge, brother.”
That hurts. All the more so because Gabriel knows it’s true. But he presses on, because this isn’t about him and his sore feelings, this is about his brother not making a decision that he will come to regret for the rest of his life. Gabriel knows what that feels like, and he wouldn’t wish it on anybody, least of all his little brother. “What have they ever done for you?”
“More than you have. You had your chance, Gavriil. You lost the right to care a long time ago.”
Gabriel swallows, and tries again, slipping almost unconsciously into their own, shared language, tasting the letters on his tongue like some forbidden fruit. The apple in Eden. It’s been so long. He’s almost forgotten how, except he knows he never could. He grew up speaking Russian. He could never forget.
“Please. Dmitri, please. I know I did wrong, and you have every right to hate me, but I’m still your brother - and I still love you. Please just let me help you. Let me do this for you, please.”
Castiel’s eyes are like deep pools of some unfathomable depth, the emotion lying far down among the murky waters. They used to be so clear. Gabriel always used to be able to read his little brother, his face like an open book, with every joy and every despair painted vividly upon it. But now ... The paints have faded, the artist aged, everything is closed down and jaded. And somehow, this hurts far more than any insults Castiel could throw at his brother. Because it shows Gabriel what he’s done to little Dimi, who used to follow him so trustingly, eyes wide, who delighted in the smallest things, whose laugh was carefree and easy, bubbling up inside him like a brook that could never be dammed. Gabriel always knew how to make Dmitri laugh.
He doesn’t know this person in front of him, though. And it looks like Castiel doesn’t want to know him, either.
“Look,” he says, and finds himself back in English, the words dull and heavy, stones in his mouth. “You never need see me again - just let me get you out of here. Let me give you back what was taken from you. That’s all. Then I’ll leave.” His voice nearly breaks, but he reigns it in. “For ever.”
Everyone in the room understands how much pain Gabriel is putting himself in by uttering those two words.
The Winchesters imagine a life without each other, imagine a life where the other is dead, or worse: a life where the other no longer wants them, where they have to strike out truly alone, and when they finally meet again, they go down their separate roads with only words of hate to speed them on their way.
Ellen imagines a life without her daughter, without the home they’ve built in each other, imagines the day when Jo no longer wants to hang around with her old ma, the day when she finally flies the coop.
Jo doesn’t have to imagine, because Ash is already dead.
Bobby lost his wife, he lost his parents, he lost any chance he ever had of having kids, but now he imagines losing Sam and Dean, and the thought kills him inside.
Crowley has already lost more than any of us will ever know.
And Castiel?
Castiel shares Gabriel’s pain, and everyone knows that, too.
“I’m sorry, Gavriil,” Castiel says finally. “Nothing can give back what was taken. I lost far more than just my freedom.” He swallows slightly, and that’s the only thing that betrays the depth of the emotions he’s feeling, how close they are to overwhelming him. For a second, it’s like looking back in time as Gabriel stares at his brother’s face where he can see the feelings played out like some Greek tragedy; but then the door snaps shut, although for a moment, a second, a fleeting heartbeat, the pause between blinks, it looks as though Castiel might say something more, begin to fill in the innumerable blank spaces of his life, and the room holds its breath-
But then it passes, dust on the wind, and as Castiel turns back to the others there is nothing about his face that gives him away; the tears that moments ago sparkled in his eyes are gone, the brightness dulled, and he is all professionalism. He has had to learn how to hide his feelings, just to survive.
“We’re wasting time,” he says, and the brittle firmness of his voice breaks Gabriel’s heart.
”So, this grand plan of yours, what exactly does it entail?” Crowley asks with unusual diplomacy, smoothing over the silence with his slick British tones. “Other than all of us getting killed, of course.”
“We would need some time when there’s a large number of ... slaves present,” Sam muses, sending Castiel an almost apologetic look with the use of the term. “Something public? I don’t know. I mean, this is ideal scenario we’re talking about here - ’cause breaking into one of their buildings wouldn’t exactly be a good plan ...”
“There’s the convention this weekend,” chips in Jo, and all eyes turn to her. “You know, where all the main suppliers get together and show off their merchandise?”
Dean shrugs. “That’d certainly be public. Think we could come up with a plan between now and then?”
“It’s pretty soon,” says Ellen with a frown. “We’d have the better part of six days to get ready.”
“That should be enough,” replies Castiel calmly. “I need to find some way of getting a message to Balthazar and Inias.”
“Is that even possible?” Sam’s brow furrows. “I mean, the security’s pretty high, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“So … What were you thinking of doing?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Dean shakes his head tiredly - this is getting more complicated by the minute. “Okay, fine, you do some thinking then. In the meantime ...”
“I hope you boys know what you’re doing,” Bobby says from behind his desk with a shake of the head. “’Cause I wasn’t born yesterday, and I can tell this plan of yours is going to be dangerous. Hell, probably more dangerous than ya think.”
It’s a good question. Do they know what they’re doing? Dean certainly doesn’t feel like he does. Because, what, he’s trying to come up with a plan to bring down a major multi-million-dollar company with the help of an ex-slave?
C’mon, who is he kidding?
I mean, he’s only got Castiel’s word that a) the slaves will help, and b) any illegal stuff is going on - and even if it is, why should he care?!
Except he does. He does care, that’s his damn problem.
It would just help if they knew what the hell Ash had found when he called them up.
He doesn’t realize he’s said it out loud until Jo replies, slightly tentatively: “Well... He kept all his stuff in one of those off-site backup drives. An ethernet server, or stream, or whatever. Something like that, anyway.” Blank faces. “Look, I don’t speak techie, okay? Imagine an online memory stick. Ash taught me how to access it remotely, just in case.” She doesn’t need to add anything to that sentence, ’cause everyone knows what happened to Ash back at the Roadhouse.
Dean glances at his brother, and Sam shrugs. “Worth a try, I guess.”
Ten minutes later, and they’re clustered around Bobby’s desk where Jo sits with Sam’s laptop open before her, tapping away at the keys and entering a long string of unintelligible computer-code into the command box. Dean has no idea what she’s doing, so he’s quite content to stand at the back.
It takes ages, and I mean ages. Every now and then Jo will make a noise of mild frustration and try something else, or Sam will lean forwards to give her a suggestion of his own (geek). Before long (and we’re talking about 30 seconds here), Dean’s so bored he allows his eyes to wander lazily around the room, this room he knows inside out, as well as the lines on his own father’s face, until they come to rest on Castiel. Of course.
He can’t see the other man’s face, just the back of his head, the slightly ragged neck of his baggy cotton shirt brushing the black line that is Castiel’s collar. His shoulder blades press into the light-blue fabric, and Dean finds himself remembering something his mother once told him, back when he was just a kid and everything was alright. Mary said that your shoulder blades are where your wings would be, if you were an angel, spreading out like phantom shadows from your back to envelop you in a world of feathers and soft down.
Castiel is an angel, he thinks idly. Not the type Mary was talking about, perhaps. But still. He wonders what she’d say if she could see what’s been done to him. Castiel. The angel.
Dean doesn’t like thinking about his mom, or Castiel, for that matter, so all in all he’s pretty relieved when Jo finally throws her hands up in the air and cries out in frustration.
“Oh, you bastard!”
“What is it?” Sam asks, peering over her shoulder at the computer screen.
“There’s a password on the server, and I just can’t get round it.’
“So? I thought Ash told you how to do this, in case of emergency?”
“Yeah, but he changes the password every week ’cause he’s a paranoid freak.” She pauses for a moment, before correcting herself quietly. “Was. He was a paranoid freak.”
Dean’s thankful that Gabriel and Crowley have enough sense to stay quiet, give Jo this moment to acknowledge the death of someone who obviously meant a lot to her.
“He might have left something at the Roadhouse,” Jo says finally, because she’s a strong woman and she can’t afford to give up now. Ash is dead. She has to get over that. It’s not like they were even dating or anything. “The latest password, I mean. On a slip of paper, or something.”
“I thought you said he was paranoid?” Dean cuts in. “So, why would he just leave something like that lying around?”
“It’s reverse psychology,” Sam supplies.
“What?”
“Y’know - leave something important lying in full view, no one will ever think it’s important. They think you’ll hide it, right? Reverse psychology. Seems like Ash was into that kind of thing.”
That or he was just damn lazy. But Dean shrugs anyway. “If you say so.” Trust Sam to know everything. It’s not that Sam’s more intelligent than Dean, just that he’s more of a, well, bookworm. He’s more scholarly, you might say. He reads and retains knowledge like a normal person eats food. Dean picks up information (most of it pretty useless, actually, like quotes from random Western movies) in other ways, especially after he got taken aside one day in school when he was ten and told he was dyslexic.
That had been a bad day. Then again, it had explained a hell of a lot.
But he’s getting off track, so he does his best to reign in his brain and force it to think about something actually remotely useful. Like “What’s the plan, then? You just gonna up and leave for the Roadhouse in the hopes that Ash left something useful lying around?”
Jo shrugs. “It’s a chance, right? I mean, if Ash found something important then we’d better know before we run into something dangerous.”
She has a point. She always has a point. That’s something Dean’s learnt about the Harvelles from his years of experience: they’re always right.
“Okay. Fine.”
Jo smiles at her victory and stands, closing Sam’s laptop with a click before grabbing her jacket from the back of the seat and checking the time on her mobile. “It’s 1:27. If I leave now, I can make it back before too late - 9, maybe.”
In actual fact, Jo doesn’t leave until more like 1:40, and if you have to ask why, then you know literally nothing about Ellen Harvelle.
Ellen is a good woman. A strong, dependable, respected woman - who can also be damn stubborn when she has a mind to be. And she certainly has a mind to be when it comes to Jo. ’Cause she’s Jo’s mom, and Jo’s her baby, and who cares about the fact that Jo is actually perfectly capable of taking care of herself and has no need of being - and certainly no desire to be - mollycoddled.
Enter Ellen’s stubbornness.
So it wasn’t until Ellen and Jo had undergone a shouting match that lasted 15 minutes (everyone else wisely vacated the room while this was happening, but no matter where they went they could still hear the shouting), that Ellen finally came out with a very disgruntled Jo in tow.
“Dean, you’re going to the Roadhouse with Jo,” Ellen said, and the tone she used left very little room for argument. Plus Dean knew he’d get his ass handed to him if he didn’t agree.
Hence the fact that, now, at nearly 2:00, he’s riding shotgun in the Harvelle’s truck, his gun in the glove compartment and Jo’s hand on the steering wheel.
Of course, there’s also Castiel in the back, who insisted on coming. Partly because this was his plan, but also (Dean suspected) partly because he couldn’t face being in the same room as Gabriel for too long.
He wonders what the brothers did to make them hate each other so much. He can’t imagine hating Sam, can’t imagine anything that would ever make him hate Sam. Sure, his brother’s fucked up in the past, more than once, and sometimes so badly Dean didn’t know how to fix it at first, and sure, he’ll do it again, but they always pull through, and they always end up together. It’s probably because they’re all each of them has. Losing the other would mean losing everything.
Gabriel must’ve done something pretty bad for Castiel to dislike him as much as he does. Dean thinks he probably shouldn’t want to know. Curiosity and cats, and all that.
But that doesn’t stop him catching Castiel’s eye in the wing-mirror and wondering.
The drive is long and boring, and I have literally nothing of any interest to tell you about it, so instead I suggest we do this nifty little thing where I fast-forward to the moment they arrive at the Roadhouse. (I’m the author. I can do things like this.)
Jo gets out first, sliding out of the truck and walking around to the back to retrieve her shotgun. It’s not as small and neat as a pistol would be, but it sure packs a punch, and she likes to remind people how badass she is. ’Cause her mom certainly hasn’t seemed to get the message yet.
Dean retrieves his own gun from the glove compartment and checks it’s loaded correctly and the safety is on before tucking it into the back of his jeans, where he can reach it easily if need be but it’s not too obvious to onlookers (not that there are any), and, more important, it leaves both his hands free.
Dean’s not sure what he had been expecting, because at first glance, the Roadhouse looks exactly the same - large, wooden and welcoming, not unlike Ellen herself, the red neon sign above the door, now flickered out of use, but still promising good beer and better company. The bar’s lively nature and accepting stance had made it right on for just about every possible emotion and mood.
He doesn’t realize he’s staring until Jo punches him lightly on the arm. “You gonna stand there all day?” She cants her hip to one side, resting the barrel of her gun on her shoulder. “Thought you were coming to come with.”
Dean cracks a grin. “Ask me nicely, and I might.”
All he gets is another punch and a warning of ass-kicking, but he dodges out the way and laughs with a light-heartedness he doesn’t feel.
“So … What exactly are we looking for?”
“Ash was disorganized when it came to anything not on a screen, but he was also a techie, which means by default he was pretty paranoid. He’s probably got some kind of hiding place - maybe a drawer or box, although that seems a bit obvious - where he kept a memory stick with all his passwords, I mean. And maybe some other stuff, too. But it’s got to be somewhere most people wouldn’t think of looking, but not some hidden compartment or anything either - like Sam said, reverse psychology.”
Dean sighs, because this was totally how he wanted to spend his day.
“We have to find it,” Jo says with a slight glare, and damn, but one day she’ll be as scary as her mom, and Dean makes a mental note to be several states over when that day comes. “’Cause if we don’t, we’ll never be able to access all the stuff he found on the Morgensterns.”
“Easier said than done,” he mutters as he looks around the jumble of papers, wires and drinks cans that is Ash’s ‘office’. The trash covers every surface, strewn across the floor, piled on the desk, overflowing from the shelves. There are a few gaping holes in the clutter where the police confiscated his computer and other main electronics, but it looks like they either decided the papers weren’t useful or they couldn’t be bothered to sift through all the crap, because everything else is still here. It looks like a whirlwind passed through and wasn’t too forgiving about it either, because, believe it or not, it’s even messier than usual, and Dean’s heart sinks at the sight, although whether that’s down to the prospect of looking for the proverbial needle in this huge crapstack or because it reminds him too much of a friend now lost, he doesn’t know. But, knowing Dean like I do, I’d be willing to bet it’s just a little bit of both.
Jo had been all for leaving Castiel outside to wait in the car (old habits die hard I suppose), but Dean was having none of that, and now they’re both glad of the extra pair of hands. It certainly makes what would have been a pretty soul-destroying job into more of a just soul-damaging job. Even so, they’ve been at it for an hour and a half before anything actually happens. And even then, it’s not finding the elusive memory stick that starts the party - it’s the arrival of some people who I shan’t name name for fear of ruining the surprise.
You’ll just have to wait and see like everyone else. (This is called ‘building suspense’.)
Suck it, bitches.