Chapter seven
Chapter Seven
Dean wasn’t surprised and only felt a little sick to his stomach when, after Bobby had gone inside to pay for gas and he had gotten out to stretch his legs, he turned to find Ruby leaning against the Impala with her arms crossed over her chest and a guarded, smug look on her face.
“The hell do you want,” Dean demanded, refusing to be polite. “And get your skanky ass off my damn car.”
Ruby didn’t move a muscle. Probably figured it was one more way to annoy him.
Why’d she have to be right all the time, anyway?
“I take it Bela didn’t have the Colt? I figured as much.” She placed one finger over her lips, pausing as though deep in thought, and then shrugged. “Oh well. Guess I’ll just have to look for it myself.”
“I told you, we’re done. I don’t need your kind of help.”
Her blue eyes narrowed, and the black ones behind them flashed in annoyance. “Ok, fine. Go after Lilith on your own. You can even take this.” She held out her hand to him, and without looking he knew what it would hold. He shoved his hands into his pockets and backed away an extra step, eyeing her with fresh suspicion.
“Why?” Dean was getting tired of all of these plot twists. In fact, he was pretty sure he’d seen a movie like this once. No way would Ruby ever give up the knife. He knew that for sure.
Ruby shifted the hilt of the knife back and forth, a methodic, practiced motion. “Why? Because I could never get close enough to use it, that’s why. Because he’s guarding her, you idiot.”
Dean thought of the cards in his back pocket. The fool is above the game. “And you think I can get close enough?”
She shook her head, dark hair cascading in tight ringlets over her shoulders. “Not really, no. But you have a better chance than anyone else.”
Dean eyed the knife again, considering. Sam always knew what he was thinking, even before he became a psychic. If he got the chance to talk to Sam, he didn’t think coming into that conversation with murder on his mind would be the best way to go.
If the cards were right, then Sam wasn’t lost just yet. Dean would have to convince him to choose. To choose Dean. As much as he hated it, he’d have to go in armed with nothing but his faith in his brother.
Dean shook his head. “No.”
Ruby’s hand dropped slackly to her side, and her mouth worked silently in disbelief. “No?” she choked. “Dean, if you don’t kill Lilith you’ll never get back your soul.”
“I know. That’s not what I’m worrying about right now.”
“You’re not … why the hell not?”
“Because it’s none of your business, that’s why.” Dean retorted. In his periphery, a flash of light caught the door of the gas station store, and Bobby emerged, squinting against the glare.
She looked furious, but for once she didn’t argue. “Fine. It may interest you to also know that the Colt won’t work on Sam. Because I’m such a saint, I found a way for you to get a hold of someone who may be able to get you a weapon that might stand a chance.” She handed him a folded piece of paper, and he took it. “Feel free to use that, if you ever grow a pair and decide to embrace reality.”
Dean looked at the paper and tried to decipher the symbols there. “What is this suppo-” he started to ask, but when he looked back up to her, she was already gone.
~*~
“It’s a summoning ritual.”
“For who? I mean, for what?”
“I dunno, but it looks complicated. I reckon we can cheat a little with the blood part, but if you wanna be the one to talk to the thing, it’s gotta be your blood.”
“Of course it does.”
“This ain’t a good idea.”
“We need help, Bobby.”
“You don’t know what you’re gettin’ into!”
“It can’t be worse than what’s comin if we don’t check it out!”
“Fine. Just … be careful.”
~*~
Dean stood alone in the abandoned warehouse and wondered why these things always had to happen at midnight, and if he was the only one who thought that rituals were the only thing warehouses were good for.
Dean had a hard time quelling the uneasy feeling in his gut as he drew the cryptic symbols and lit the candles. The small voice in his head that kept assuring him he had no choice in this was being outshouted by a much more insistent voice that kept calling him an idiot.
Good thing he’d always been good at ignoring the voice of common sense.
Dean was completely detached as he drew the knife’s blade across his palm and let the large, bright drops of blood fall onto the arcane symbols. He didn’t have to wait very long.
“Well, if it isn’t Lazarus himself,” came an oddly familiar voice. “What can I do for you, Dean?”
Dean spun to look behind him and gaped just a little at who he’d called for help.
The Trickster looked offended. “What? Not who you were hoping for?”
Dean wanted to laugh. Suddenly it all made sense. Here was a creature that could create anything out of thin air. Leery of bargaining with the thing, he kept his voice neutral. “You know what’s goin’ on with m’brother?”
The Trickster nodded, smiling wide. “I do. Went and got a bit of the devil in him, did he? Serves him right. He was always an arrogant bastard.” Dean ground his teeth in an effort to keep his tongue in check.
"Well, I need to stop him. And I think maybe you're the only one that can help me," Dean said. He didn't want to say it; he didn't want it to be true. He didn't trust this ... creature, and he was already indebted enough. But he had no other choice, and nowhere else to turn.
"Wow, I'm flattered. I mean, really." The Trickster nodded as though he wanted Dean to know he was being serious for a change. "But here's the thing. Yes, I do have power," he paused in his pacing to echo back Dean's patented self-righteous smirk, "a lot of it, by the way ... But even I can't do everything."
Dean blanched at that. "But I thought you were a God!"
The trickster shrugged. "Sorry. Little 'g'."
"What?" Dean asked.
The trickster sighed, rolled his eyes, and made air quotes with his fingers right in Dean's face. "Little 'g', dude. This mess you chumps are in? That's BIG 'G' stuff. All of it is - the human race, the demon war, Heaven, Hell and all that?" He dropped his hands, looking overly concerned. "Any of this makin' sense to ya there pal?" He crossed his arms, rocking back on his heels as he waited for a response.
Debt or no debt, Dean was finding it really difficult to squash the urge he was having to just stake the thing so this conversation would be over. "Ok, if you're so awesome, tell me how to take him down. I mean, there's got to be something, a weapon, an exorcism, something! I mean, are you saying you can't help me?" He stopped ranting at the sudden smug look on the Trickster's face. "What?"
"Oh, I already did. More than you know." He replied.
"What do you mean? When?" Dean stepped back, eyeing the Trickster cautiously.
"I already helped you with Sam. You see, I thought something like this might happen. I hear things, you know. I keep up on all the news - gossip of the realm, and all that. I heard about your little deal the minute it went down. I've been watching you boys for a long time. So yeah, I already helped you out with Sam. All you need to do now is take advantage."
"How?"
"Little place called The Mystery Spot ring any bells?" The Trickster smiled a patronizing smile, leering towards Dean like he was a little kid. Dean could almost feel him taunting, come on, figure it out, Sammy can't have gotten all the brains ...
Dean choked back a frustrated sigh. "Yeah, but what does that have to do with -"
The Trickster cut him off. "I take it Sam never told you what really happened there, did he?" At the guarded look in Dean's eyes, he nodded confidently. "Ah." He shook his head, making a tsk tsk noise in Dean's general direction. "I should have known he wouldn't. So many secrets, so little time to live." He narrowed his eyes at Dean, appraising him. "Didn't you ever ask? Didn't you wonder what changed him, why he was so different after?"
"He wasn't different, he was just upset from it, that's all. You put him through hell!" Dean spat, old anger resurfacing.
"Really." The Trickster asked, sarcasm practically dripping off of every word. "He was the same to you? Let me ask you a question, Dean. Does being 'upset' make you a better hunter?" Dean just looked back blankly. "Come on! Didn't you sense it? How we went from 'pretty good' to a 100% kill rate overnight? The way he stopped showing pain? Fear?"
The Trickster cocked his head to one side, gauging Dean's reaction. "Emotions?" He leaned towards Dean, driving the words home. "Didn't you notice how steady his hands are when he pulls the trigger?"
Dean shook his head, a disjointed motion that made it seem like he was trying to clear his mind of static. "I don't understand," He whispered.
"Then let me draw you a map. You died, Dean. You died on Wednesday morning, and Sam tracked my ass like the freaking Terminator until I brought you back." He revealed the secret with none of his usual glee. Instead there was a kind of dark memory in his voice. "It took him six months to find me, but man, he was right behind me all the way."
Dean flinched. One hundred Tuesdays plus six months alone equaled the better part of a year for Sam. Remembering how he felt without his brother shook him to the core, even now. He hadn't even lasted a week. How did you do it? He thought, and then, I always knew you were the strong one, Sammy. He tried to ask why, how, but he choked on his own words. "He ..."
The Trickster fixed him with a steady glare. "He was brutal, Dean. Better than you, better than your old man ever was. Anything that got in his way?" He pulled his finger across his throat, conveying the message. "Pft. Gone."
Dean's heart clenched. He knew it was true. Worse, it scared him. "Why would you do that? How does that help me now?" He demanded. I just want Sammy back, the one who always fights with me over wrong and right, the one who likes to argue in the car and never eats his dinner and is just ... Sammy. The one I went to Hell for.
The Trickster answered swiftly, surely. "Because I needed him to know what life was like without you. He needed to learn that you are his one true weakness. It's why I pulled you out of Hell, Dean. It's in him now, that drive, that unstoppable anger that'd do anything to keep you safe."
He walked in close, put both hands firmly on Dean's shoulders, gripping tight. "You want to know the secret? You want to separate Sam from Samael? Here it is, listen close."
Dean found himself holding his breath, hoping beyond hope that this wasn't some sort of game.
"Now you're Samael's greatest weakness, too. And more important than that, you are Sam's greatest power. You, Dean. You'll be the only one who can get close enough to him to end all this." He stood back, familiar smirk playing across his face once again. "The answer you seek was with you all along, Dorothy. Don't worry about finding him - he'll find you." He held up his hand. "Now, get out of here and go save the world."
The snap of his fingers echoed around the empty room.
And then he was gone.
~*~
Bobby was still awake when Dean wearily pushed open the door to their room and dragged himself inside. He’d been going over what to say, but he couldn’t really think of anything brilliant, so it just came out, “Trickster. Killed me, before. Messed with Sammy.”
Bobby’s jaw damn near hit the ground as he stared, speechless.
Dean tried again, scratching the back of his neck distractedly. “Look, uh - point is, he didn’t have any weapons or anything, and … he says I’m the only one has a chance gettin’ close to Sam. So, we just gotta wait for him to come for me.”
“Dean -“
Dean threw out a hand, waving any further questions away. “Look, Bobby, I’m beat, can we talk about it tomorrow? Please?”
He knew Bobby wouldn’t deny him a few hours honest sleep. He probably looked like death warmed over. He huffed softly at the thought.
Bobby nodded reluctantly and Dean heaved a grateful sigh and headed for the bathroom. He’d think about it more tomorrow. For now, all he wanted was a few hours of blissful unconsciousness.
~*~
It came without warning in the middle of the night, the searing, ripping pain in his head, the sweaty shaking in his muscles. Dean's hands clenched and his knuckles turned white as they clutched the thin bed sheets. His body thrashed and moaned against the pain, struggling to break the grip of the images flitting through his mind.
The voices in his head radiated one feeling; urgency. Sammy's afraid. Sammy needs me. Blood. Death. A nursery. A voice. 'Dean, help me!' Sammy's in trouble ... "Sam!" Dean sat up too fast, gasping for air as he called out his brother's name. He stood, stumbling over the bedside table. He just knew he had to go, to get to Sam, but he didn't know where that was.
"Dean!" Bobby was by his side in an instant, bracing him against the motel room wall. "Dean, are you with me?" Dean clutched his temples, choking out a scream. He reached for Bobby, his hands frantically grabbing the other man's shoulders for support, bruising flesh with the intensity of his grip.
"Sam," He gasped, still clutching Bobby as he fell to his knees. Flashes, flashes of death and violence fell over him like a tidal wave. Screaming in agony, Dean rode with the wave until the flashes slowed to scenes, and the scenes to frames. Dimly he could hear Bobby calling his name, feel him shaking him by the shoulders, but he couldn't focus on Bobby. The blinding pain stopped so suddenly that Dean felt like he was rushing upwards; and suddenly he knew exactly where Sam had brought him.
Salvation.
Dean stared blankly as the images vanished, straining to catch a glimpse of anything that would help him know the devil’s plan. “Salvation,” he said.
“What?” Bobby eased Dean down onto the edge of the bed, where Dean reached shakily for his shirt, ready to get on the road. Bobby shook his head in confusion. “Now ain’t exactly the time to be getting’ all spiritual on me, boy.”
“Sam ha - sent me a vision. They’re headed for Salvation, Iowa. Come on. We gotta go.” Dean finished pulling on his shirt and reached for his jeans and boots. Bobby hadn’t moved, he was just staring at Dean with concern in his eyes. “Now!” Dean shouted.
Bobby moved.
Chapter eight