Chapter Text
“A nexus of weird, you said?”
Sam and Dean exchanged a look. Sort of like old times. They weren't exactly back in the swing of things, not yet: Dean had been, to be quite blunt, dead as a doornail just a week ago. Due to a bargain with a crossroads demon, Sam's brother had been torn limb from limb by a hellhound six months ago. Still reeling with shock and and half mad with grief, Sam and Bobby had buried what was left of him (not much) deep underground, his immortal soul dragged even deeper, into the pits of hell.
That is, until seven days past when someone or something (and smart money was on the latter) had thrown his sorry-ass soul back into his miraculously reassembled body, and Dean had dug himself out of his own grave and stumbled back into the land of the living, with its ice cold beer and many episodes of Dr. Sexy MD piled up on the DVR.
It was all kinds of weird.
But being here at Bobby's house, sitting on his ratty old couch, dusty books piled everywhere, the smell of something plain but tasty baking in the oven, that felt right.
At least as right as Sam had felt in a long time. He hadn't seen Bobby in a while. He had lit out almost immediately, trying to find a way to save his brother. And he had utterly, catastrophically failed. And now come to find out, while Dean was dead and Sam was otherwise occupied, the world had evidently piled itself into a handbasket and started marching towards hell, or at least the end times. Bobby wasn't exactly the type to mask his opinions, but Sam had never seen the old man quite so overwrought. Seemed there were signs and portents everywhere, being reported from every corner of the globe.
Sam side-eyed over to where Bobby was holding up newspaper clippings – still couldn't get the old bastard to go online, so Sam was hunched over his laptop, trying to tease some information out of the tiny aircard he had plugged in. Dean still had a long-necked beer bottle poised halfway to his lips, where it had been when he'd asked the question.
“Is 'Night Vale' one word or two, Bobby?” Sam asked, delicately pecking keys with his thick fingers.
“Two,” said the old man. “And, yeah, Dean, the place is a goddam a nexus of weird.”
“What flavor weird?” asked Dean, after a careful sip of his beer. “Weird good or weird bad?”
“Well, looks like it's pretty evenly balanced between catastrophe and genuine class A-1 fucking miracles. They got mysterious apparitions, inter-dimensional portals, mystical fogs, blinking lights-”
“Mystery Spot?” asked Dean, and Sam stifled a shiver. “We're not talking another Trickster, are we?”
“Not unless there's a whole damn migratin' flock of Tricksters,” Bobby shot back.
“And anyway,” said Dean, leaning back and grabbing up the TV remote, “what the fuck does that have to do with us? Unless you think the thing that dug me out of my grave is based in.... Where did you say this place was again? Arizona? New Mexico?
“Bobby,” said Sam. “Night Vale. They have angels.” He turned around the laptop so the others could see the screen. “They live in back of the used car lot.”
Bobby crossed his arms and nodded sagely. He was good at that. In the meantime, Dean had clicked on the TV, and was flicking through the channels. “So, it's all a bunch of bullshit,” he mumbled.
“What?” asked Sam.
“Sammy. I'm sorry, but there's no such thing as angels,” Dean said, waving the beer bottle for emphasis.
Bobby was red-faced. “Boy,” he scolded Dean, “you tell me you just spent half a year in hell, getting' wailed on by demons, and you don't believe in angels?”
“Nope,” Dean insisted, glaring at the television.
Sam spread out large hands. “Dean, it's a lead. This is something big and scary that pulled you out, and we gotta track it down.”
“We're not running down every crazy ass story. I don't have time for that shit.” Dean put his boots up on Bobby's scarred coffee table and took a long pull of his beer, staring at a college football game.
“But Dean, what about the apocalypse?”
“Fuck the apocalypse. I just got outta jail, and I wanna watch some cheerleaders.”
“Dean,” said Bobby, his tone a warning. “Boy, I think you oughta reconsider.”
“Bobby, I can't see any reason why I'm getting off my ass to go out to-”
Quick as a flash, quicker than you'd ever expect for someone his age, the old hunter had snatched away the TV remote, and was standing like a mighty wall between Dean and images of the Jayhawk pep squad. “Because if you don't get your lazy ass off my couch right fucking now, I'm gonna personally stuff your body back into that grave. Now move it, both of you!”
Sam had his laptop closed and was halfway out the door before Bobby had even finished the sentence, Dean hot on his heels.
“Idjits,” muttered Bobby, watching the Impala screech out of his dusty driveway.