FIC: "Thou Art Not Alone" (3a/6) (SPN, Nephilim'verse)
Return to Chapter Two, or the Nephilim'verse
III. Change and Stasis
They did end up at Bobby’s eventually, and dragged him along on a new hunt. Ghost sickness, Bobby’d called it before things got too crazy, and it had sounded pretty nasty. When it was all over and done with, Dean still couldn’t say how bad it was from personal experience.
Turned out he was immune to more than just some witchy mojo.
Bobby, on the other hand, was still one hundred percent normal human.
Snow fell as they drove down I-80 to Omaha and then turned north to Sioux Falls and Singer Salvage. They teased Bobby all across Nebraska, enumerating the older man’s many fears, some rather comical, and Bobby gave it back pretty good, remembering everything stupid or silly he’d witnessed the two of them doing, back to when they’d first met in 1991. The word ‘idjit’ factored heavily into it. The familiarity of it all was strangely comforting - to Dean, at least.
They crashed at the house for another week, enjoying home-cooked meals - the fact that most of it started out in a can, box or frozen package didn’t matter much - and sitting still for once. They helped Bobby with some things like they always did - scrounging in the junk yard for specific parts someone had ordered over the Internet, repairing a fence, preparing the piping for winter, re-salting the panic room in the basement. The last of these Dean did on his own, leaving Sam to the library, and as he sat down, taking a moment’s break and staring at the aging poster of Bo Derek, he realized how quiet and calm it was in the room. It was relaxing. And then -
He set down the container of salt and looked around. It was the oddest feeling, as though he was being watched, but not in the menacing way he was accustomed to with spirits and things. He frowned. He wasn’t used to something dead being non-threatening. “Hello?” he called out softly. “Someone there?” No one answered. He didn’t feel like an angel was there, and whatever it was, it definitely wasn’t evil. He could tell the difference.
Dean shrugged his shoulders and picked up the salt again, sprinkling a handful of grains along the edge of the floor, but after a moment that feeling of being watched returned and he gave up. Nothing was going to come into the panic room, not the way it was fortified against that very thing, so if he wanted to know what was going on, he’d have to get out. He walked to the doorway and took a deep breath. He was unarmed; he’d even left the salt on the table again.
He stepped through the opening into the basement. “Hello?” he called again, a little stronger than before.
“Hello, young man.”
It was a woman - the spirit of a woman; she was a little faint, flickering slightly, but bright and colorful - wearing a matronly dress from the Sixties. She was about forty, maybe a little older, with hints of grey in her dark hair. She turned and a shaft of light showed ruddy highlights. Something about her face was vaguely familiar but Dean couldn’t quite place it. He’d never really met a spirit that wasn’t bent on attacking him. “Um, hi,” he finally managed.
“Such manners,” the spirit said sadly, shaking her head a little. “You’re a bit rough around the corners, aren’t you, honey?”
“Uh, yes, ma’am,” Dean replied, not sure what to say.
The spirit stepped closer and gave him a measured look. “You’re one of my Bobby’s friends, aren’t you? You look familiar.”
My Bobby. This wasn’t Bobby’s wife - he’d seen her a year or so ago, a pretty brunette, when Bobby had been trapped in his dreams. No, now he realized why she looked a little familiar: she must’ve been Bobby’s mom. He swallowed. “Yes, ma’am, Mrs. Singer,” he said. “Dean Winchester, at your service.”
“There we go,” the spirit said approvingly. “You chase the dark things like he does, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Such an unfortunate business, but someone has to do it, I suppose,” Mrs. Singer said, sighing. “And you do glow rather nicely, young man. It’s good to keep some light in the darkness.”
‘You glow rather nicely.’ What the hell? “Uh, yes, ma’am.”
She gave him an odd look and he half expected her to call him an idiot like Bobby would. But she simply put her hands on her hips and asked, “I don’t suppose you know anything about reading Latin?”
Sam caught him searching for the right book. He was muttering under his breath the directions Mrs. Singer had given him, claiming to have noticed the ritual once when Bobby had read the book years ago, and either she had the color wrong or Bobby had rearranged his shelves since she saw it last. “Uh, Dean?” Sam asked, coming up behind him.
Dean jumped. “Dude, don’t do that!”
“Uh, okay,” Sam said slowly. “What are you looking for?”
“A book, what else?” Dean replied sarcastically. He frowned at the shelf; maybe she meant the fourth book from the right.
“Aren’t you supposed to be salting the panic room?”
“Got interrupted.” He smiled; he wouldn’t have called this shade of orange on the cover ‘brown’ in a hundred years, but there was the ritual; she even had the page number right. It was just an incantation; no holy water, no candles, no incense or anything. Easy.
“By what?” Sam asked incredulously.
“Ghost of Bobby’s mom,” Dean replied without thinking. He was already walking away, his head on the incantation, but he stopped suddenly, not even realizing that Sam had gotten in front of him until he ran into him. “Dude, what?”
“Are you kidding me, Dean? Bobby’s mom?” Sam exclaimed. “Are you serious?” He grabbed the book out of Dean’s hands, turning it around to see what was written on the open page.
Dean yanked it back, shutting it in the hopes that nothing would get ripped if Sam tried to grab it back, and stepped aside. “Yes, I am serious,” he said flatly.
“You got interrupted from salting the panic room by the spirit of Bobby’s mother,” Sam repeated.
“I think I already said that.” Dean walked towards the door to the basement. Behind him, Sam shouted: “Bobby!”
“Jeez, why’d you have to do that?” Dean hissed. “You think he’s going to be happy about this?”
“No,” Sam replied, darting in front of him, blocking the door. “But there’s got to be some way to figure this out. There’s no way his mom’s been haunting this place all this time and Bobby didn’t know about it, Dean. He’s a hunter; this is what he does.”
“She’s not haunting, not like we think of. She’s more like…” Dean searched for the right words. “Like a guardian spirit. Guardian angel sort of deal.”
“But you said that Michael said-”
Bobby emerged from the kitchen, his hat off for once. “What’re you two on about this time?” he demanded, crossing his arms over his chest. “I swear, you’re still like a pair of grade-schoolers sometimes…”
“It’s nothing,” Dean tried to assure him. “Sam just got a little excited about what he was reading.”
“Dean,” Sam hissed. “Tell him.”
Bobby gave them both a look. Dean crossed his own arms in response, tucking the small book under his arm. “Dean, don’t try to bullshit me,” Bobby finally said. “What’s going on?”
Dean sighed and took a moment before answering. “Bobby, your mother is in the basement.”
Bobby blinked. “The hell kind of stunt are you trying to pull, kid?”
“It’s the truth. She’s some kind of spirit. Said she’s been stuck in the house since 1964. That every year you bless the place, freshen up all your charms and stuff to keep evil crap out, but she’s rather disappointed that you’ve never thought to check that something good might be stuck in here,” Dean told him.
“Are you on something, Dean Winchester?” Bobby demanded angrily. “I swear-”
Dean closed his eyes and began to recite the history Mrs. Singer had so happily provided for him. “She died when you were fourteen, just an aneurysm, nothing supernatural, and she was worried about you, so she decided hang around and keep an eye on you. The day you married Maggie, she figured you were going to be okay and tried to leave, but she never could. Then when Maggie died and you started hunting, she kept hoping you’d finally manage to exorcise her from the house, either by accident or because you’d finally be open enough or sensitive enough or something to actually notice her and do what she wants. She’s never been comfortable enough with Pamela on the three occasions Pamela’s visited to let her know she was there, and since she’s stuck here, she can’t exactly find a psychic she’s more comfortable with on her own.” He opened his eyes. “She, uh, really doesn’t like Pamela. At all.” He figured Bobby wouldn’t want to know that his mom knew those sorts of words. It hadn’t been pleasant. He’d had to keep his mouth shut; his behavior the last fifteen years or so hadn’t been too different from some of Pamela’s ‘loose morals’ that Mrs. Singer had objected to.
Bobby looked skeptical; Sam was simply frowning. They hadn’t told Bobby about Dean’s special senses yet; it had been hard enough for Dean to tell Sam. “Son,” Bobby started, his tone a little warning and a lot uncertain. “Dean, are you sure?” he finally continued.
Dean pressed his lips together. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I’m sure. She’s not evil or upset or anything; she’s just stuck.”
Bobby stared at him. “And that book you’ve got there?”
Dean uncrossed his arms and looked at the cover of the book. “There’s an incantation to free an untainted spirit in here.”
“Show me.”
Dean opened it up and showed him the page. Sam watched silently. Finally, Bobby looked up and said, “Get to it, son. Lunch’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
“Don’t you, I don’t know, want to say good-bye to her or something?” Sam asked in a confused tone.
Bobby looked at them each in turn before speaking. “Boys, I lost my mama a hell of a long time ago. I’ve said my good-byes.” And then he disappeared back into the kitchen.
Dean looked at Sam, who still stood blocking the basement door. “I’m coming with you,” Sam said.
Mrs. Singer was pacing when they got to the bottom of the stairs. “Oh, thank goodness,” she said. “I was getting worried that you’d forgotten me, Mr. Winchester.”
“Uh, no, ma’am,” Dean said, trying to sound reassuring. He gave her his charm-‘em-into-telling-him-everything smile. “Just had a little excitement upstairs, is all.”
Sam gave him a strange look.
“And who’s this young fellow?” Mrs. Singer asked, walked up to them and giving Sam a long, considering look. Sam shivered but still scanned the room. Did he really not see her? “This is my brother, Sam, ma’am,” Dean told her. “Say hello to Mrs. Singer, Sam.”
Sam stared at him like he’d gone crazy. “Dean, there’s no one here,” he whispered.
“Just do it.”
Sam coughed, shaking his head. “Hello, Mrs. Singer.”
“I’m so glad my Bobby has such pleasant friends,” Mrs. Singer said approvingly. “It does my heart good.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dean replied. “Thank you.”
Sam just shook his head again and went to sit down on the steps.
“Do you have the book, Mr. Winchester?” Mrs. Singer asked hopefully.
“Yes, ma’am. Is there-” Dean bit his lip. “Is there something you’d like us to say to Bobby for you?” Behind him, Sam sounded like he was choking, trying to not laugh. Dean just smiled all the more charmingly, trying to ignore how embarrassing it must seem to be talking to thin air in front of his brother.
“Oh, I don’t know,” the spirit said, a little flustered. “It’s been so long, and he’s so much older now. If he wanted something from me, he would have come downstairs with you, don’t you think?” She sighed. “No, no, he’ll be fine. Let’s get on with it, if you don’t mind, Mr. Winchester.”
“Why are you so eager to leave, if you don’t mind me asking, ma’am?” Dean asked.
Mrs. Singer frowned a little. “Well, I was supposed to leave so long ago already, dear, and - well, he doesn’t need me, does he?”
“I suppose not, ma’am.”
“And - well, I’m sure you boys know more about this than I do, but there’s something coming, isn’t there? I feel it from time to time - something bad’s about to happen.” She wrung her hands nervously as she paced. “Oh, I could never do what you young men do - fighting things and such like? No, I’m sure I couldn’t. But surely there’s something I could do if I were free, isn’t there - if it’s a war that’s coming, I’m sure they need some ladies to tend the wounded, don’t they? Why, even if all I do is darn socks and sew on buttons, that would help a little, wouldn’t it? It’s the little things that count.”
Dean blinked. “Uh, yes, ma’am, I’m sure you’re right,” he said, but his own thoughts were scattered. How bad were things getting if a little lady ghost could tell something was up? Was Michael holding out on more than just what was happening to him? He shook his head. “Are you ready?”
Mrs. Singer stopped pacing and drew herself up tall and poised. “I am.”
“All right, then, ma’am.” He opened up the book and before long, the incantation was said. Before him, Mrs. Singer suddenly smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Winchester,” she said - and then began to glow.
Behind him, Sam whispered, “What the hell?”
The spirit glowed even brighter as the seconds passed and finally seemed to burst into sparks that rose up and away instead of falling. Dean stood there a few moments, silent, feeling her presence dissipate. Finally, he sighed and turned around. Sam was still there, but at some point he’d stood up and now he was simply staring at Dean. He spoke: “Dean-”
Dean held up a hand. “Dude, what have I told you? No chick-flick moments, ‘kay?”
Lunch was on the table - fish sticks, oven French fries, boiled vegetables Normandy, typical Bobby fare, fresh from the freezer - when they got into the kitchen a few minutes later. Even the table was set, which was usually their job, complete with ketchup, mustard and tartar sauce at the ready. Bobby was sitting at his usual place, an unopened bottle of beer next to his empty plate. There was beer at each of their places, too, though they usually didn’t drink at lunch.
Bobby looked up. His expression was stern. “Sit. Eat. Spill.”
They sat. Sam ate. Dean spilled.
It is burned into your DNA.
I don’t know what you are.
There is a bit more to it than knowing our true forms and sensing evil.
You do glow rather nicely.
When all was said, Bobby leaned back in his chair and narrowed his eyes at both of them. “I wouldn’t envy any of you damn Winchesters for all the beer in Portland,” he said. “A single one of you, and that includes your long-departed mama.” Then he stood up and went into the front room; Dean took the opportunity to scarf down cold, greasy fish sticks and fries. When Bobby returned, he carried a stack of books. “Start reading, boys,” he said. “Those damn angels might be all right letting you run around like headless chickens, without a clue what’s going on with you, but I sure as hell aren’t.”
Dean and Sam saluted him with nearly empty bottles. Bobby pulled out his stash of fine sipping whiskey and returned the salute before downing a single shot.
That was the end of the day’s alcohol consumption.
“Could be some kind of special psychic power. We could-”
“No. We’re not bothering Pamela. I’m not bringing her more angel trouble.”
“But Dean, what about Missouri-”
“No, Sam.”
“Don’t know why I bother with the two of you boys. You’re both idjits.”
“Thank you ever so much, Bobby. You know you’re just the bright spot in our day.”
“Get back to work.”
“Maybe you’re an oracle. Like at Delphi. Have you had any visions? Heard the gods talking? Maybe not gods - the angels? Anything?”
“Dude, no.”
“There was this special I watched once - the Discovery Channel. Or maybe it was PBS? Anyway, there were these fumes or something. Made the women at Delphi hallucinate. Maybe if you, like, meditated and we burned some incense-”
“Oh, hell, no.”
“Gods sometimes took mortal form and mated with human women. I mean, Zeus alone-”
“Dude. So. Not. Going. There.”
“We’ve met demi-gods before. I mean, the Trickster is just one of a bazillion different kinds.”
“Sam-”
“Mom might not have even known - he could have taken Dad’s form, like a shapeshifter. Some legends even say that’s what happened when King Arthur was conceived, that Merlin did this spell for Uther Pendragon - well, just think about it.”
“I did, and now I want to bleach my brain.”
“You’ve been spending too much time on the Internet.”
“Says the guy who’s glued to Google.”
“For research.”
“And now I’m reminded of why your daddy was always so keen on leaving the two of you with me from time to time. Could drive a sober man to drinking.”
“Hey, you’re the one with the beer collection.”
“From my travels, you idjit. Man’s got to have a hobby.”
“Sam, it’s three o’clock in the morning. What the hell?”
“Dean, I had a crazy thought.”
“Spit it out. Please. So I can go back to sleep sometime this century.”
“Nephilim.”
“What?”
“Well, why are the angels so keen on you? And Michael said it was in your DNA, so it has to do with your parents.”
“Our parents, Sammy.”
“Maybe not, Dean. I mean, come on - something must have happened. Angels need human vessels, same as demons. Maybe an angel possessed Dad for a night or something. Maybe it wasn’t a shapeshifting kind of thing.”
“Dude. Bleach. Brain.”
“Dean-”
“Shut up, Sam. There is no way on Earth that I’m half angel, for crying out loud.”
“I mean, wouldn’t that kind of make sense? In a destiny or fate or prophecy kind of way? I was the one Azazel wanted for whatever reason. So the universe needs balance. One of us almost a, uh, almost a demon, and one of us - well, almost an angel.”
“One of us has seemed to have forgotten just who spent four months in Hell. I’m the last candidate on the planet for angelhood, dude.”
“Nature versus nurture, jerk.”
“Bitch.”
“The only other thing coming to mind is you being some kind of changeling. We’ve exhausted just about everything else.”
“I’m not a changeling.”
“Then what, Dean? Because quite frankly I don’t think either one of us is entirely human anymore. Don’t you want to know?”
“Find me something that doesn’t mean Mom was unfaithful to Dad in any way, shape or form. She was a hunter, Sam. She knew stuff. Anything would have tipped her off, and I just don’t see her ignoring it. She loved Dad. I saw her, Sam - it’s not fair or right or whatever that you didn’t get to see her like I did, but trust me. Please. Mom would’ve known. She would never have done that to Dad.”
“Mind control. Amnesia.”
“Fuck. Off.”
“Would you two idjits shut the hell up! Let an old man get some sleep!”
Ruby finally showed up Thanksgiving weekend in a bar in Larchwood, Iowa, about twenty miles from Singer Salvage. Bobby had thrown them out for the evening, claiming he needed a rest from their arguing, but to be honest Dean welcomed the change. He was sick of all the theories Sam kept coming up with and sick of thinking about what was happening to him and just plain tired of being cooped up. It had snowed again, but not too heavy, so they ventured out of town.
They were low on cash anyway.
Sam was playing drunk pretty well - Dean smiled to himself over his brother’s performance; it had taken years but the lessons had finally sunk in, and the floppy hair and puppy eyes and SAT words had fooled many a redneck in bars across the country - and was about to make a serious killing at pool when suddenly he stood up straight, frowned, and said, “Keep the money.”
“Keep the money?” Dean exclaimed. “What?” He watched Sam leave the pool table, saw how he seemed to be zeroing in on a brunette on a bar stool. Shit, Sam. Now’s the time to be thinking with the big brain in your head, you idiot, not the other one. He followed Sam, calling his brother’s name, demanding - maybe a little too loudly - to know what was going on -
And then it hit him. That feeling. He’d let himself relax, he was off guard. Yeah, Michael would be real proud of his development now. He stared a moment and then the realization sunk in. Not just any demon: Aw, fuck. Ruby. He didn’t recognize the girl she was wearing, but there was definitely a demon in the room, and Sam had twitched that night when he’d mentioned a brunette, hadn’t he? Who else could it be?
“Hey,” Sam said in a gentle tone and something was off about that. It was almost - like he had missed her. But Sam had told him the truth; had he managed to leave something out? Dean tried thinking back - it had been almost two months, and so much had happened since then that he just couldn’t remember.
“Sam,” Ruby said in the place of a hello, setting down her drink. Dean had to admit she made a nice picture, pretty girl in a leather jacket at the bar. No one would’ve suspected she was a demon. “And Dean,” she continued, looking at him. “How’s life above ground treating you?”
“Do you really care?”
Her mouth twitched. “Indulge me.”
He supposed there wasn’t much harm in it. “I do all right.”
“Glad to hear it,” she said and to be honest he wasn’t really sure if the sincerity was fake or not. She tilted her head and squinted at him. “Something’s changed about you,” she added, sounding puzzled.
Sam shot him a concerned look, but Dean shrugged it off. “I’ve been getting that a lot,” Dean replied. “Why are you here?”
Ruby gave Sam an odd look. “I just have some intel, if you’re interested. I don’t have to stay if I’m not welcome.”
“No, it’s just-” Sam started. Dean wanted to throw up his hands in exasperation; clearly, Sam was too involved to be objective. He took the lead: “Just tell us what you know.”
She gave a half-hearted nod. “I’ve been hearing some whispers.”
“Whispers?”
“What, you expected a five-page analysis of the ad the demons aired during the Macy’s parade two days ago? Come on, they’re keeping things quiet for a reason.”
“That being?”
“A girl named Anna Milton escaped from a locked ward yesterday,” Ruby finally said. “The demons seem pretty keen on finding her. Apparently some real heavy hitters turned out for the Easter egg hunt.”
It did not escape Dean that Ruby was saying ‘the demons’, ‘they’, separating herself from the rest of the evil hordes. He wondered what she was up to, to be acting like this - like she was just another source of information. Another hunter, almost. One of the good guys. The rest of the conversation was a little unclear in his memory, but he still remembered Sam’s promise to find out the truth. Something wasn’t quite right.
Sam had finally found his voice again: “Why?” he asked. “Who is she?”
“No idea,” Ruby replied. “But I’m thinking she’s important. The order is to capture her alive, guys. I just figured that whatever the deal is, you might want to find this girl before the demons do.”
“Hm.” Dean reached for her drink and gave it a good sniff. Coca-Cola. “Well, you’re not drunk,” he said, surprised.
“Dean!”
“Sam,” he said, looking back at his brother, “something isn’t right. Why would a demon help us out?”
“Because that’s what she’s done for months, Dean,” Sam replied, a little exasperated.
“And I suppose I appreciate that,” Dean said, flashing Ruby a hint of a charming but fake smile and a wink. Her hand, resting on the bar, twitched like she wanted to punch him. He didn’t blame her. He reached out and grabbed her hand, holding it still, and leaned in. “Why don’t you tell us what you’re really up to, Ruby.”
She gasped and breathed hard, her eyes going wide and black.
And then - he knew her. He could feel, all around him, her darkness, a milk chocolate kind of evil as evil went, really, and in the center of all the swirling hatred and ill-will, there was a tiny spark of light. A tiny seed of goodness, tainted slightly with selfishness. It tasted like honest concern and regard and affection and the smallest hint of hope.
He let go and took a step back.
“What the hell are you?” she whispered.
He took a breath. “I could say the same about you.”
She grunted and cradled her hand against her chest.
“What just happened here?” Sam hissed. But neither of them spoke and finally Sam grabbed Ruby’s hand, dwarfed in his paw, and looked at it. “What the hell?”
Dean looked. There was a faint brand, a burn in the shape of his own hand where he had touched her. “Fuck.”
“Dean?”
He took a moment, still trying to breathe properly. “Uh, yeah. So. Let’s, um, let’s check out that Anna girl.”
“Okay,” Sam said slowly. Ruby pulled her hand away from him, still staring at Dean suspiciously. “Okay,” Sam repeated. “I don’t suppose you know the name of that hospital, Ruby?”
She looked away from them, behind the bar. Dean followed her gaze and for a half-second he thought he saw her true, demonic face in the mirror. “The Connor Beverley Behavioral Medicine Center. I think it’s in one of the Carolinas.”
Continue to Part B