Chapter Text
It wasn’t a dark and stormy night.
Despite popular opinion, when the really evil stuff is going down, it rarely is. No self-respecting demon really wants to draw unnecessary attention to himself by poncing about under lightning-filled skies and voluminous rainclouds when he could stay inside, put his feet up and watch a few re-runs of Sex and the City.
Crowley liked to think he was a very, very self-respecting demon. He also liked to think that he was most like Charlotte, but that’s a story for chapter 7.
However much the traditionalists liked to go in for a bit of fire and brimstone on a Friday night, there wasn’t much that could top ice and a slice, generously doused in Archers and lemonade, in front of his favourite box set. There wasn’t a hen night on the whole of planet earth who wouldn’t vouch that the true essence of hell lurked in those innocent peachy notes. People could blame the devil for the evils of the world all they wanted, but Lucifer had never enticed anyone to don a set of L-Plates and fall backwards from the roof of a ghastly pink Range Rover. You had to be human to think of something that atrocious.
Or Miley Cyrus. Crowley had never been sure about that one.
What he was sure about, however, is that there was some evil afoot.
Afoot his feet, to be precise.
Yes, Crowley really had something this time, and that ‘something’ was going to be worth an apocalypse-worth of gold stars on his ninth-circle reward chart by the time he was finished. This was, of course, afoot Crowley in a metaphorical sense only. His actual footwear had very little to do with it. (Fuzzy crocs, despite many opinions to the contrary, have never been proven as a particularly strong conduit for dark forces)
The item in question was innocuous-looking enough. They generally were since hell’s art and design department had started sub-contracting to Topshop a few years earlier and Crowley couldn’t help missing a little theatricality to immerse himself in. Books, even impressively bound leather tomes with suspicious red splatters all about the pages, were very seldom scary. The journal of Sam Winchester didn’t even have the benefit of being old or bound in ancient animal skins, though the half-faded sale sticker almost made up for it :“Bye one get one free”, Crowley flinched away in horror whenever his eyes lingered too long.
It had been easy enough to lift from the bunker. Whenever Castiel was around Sam made something of a habit of moving in the opposite direction to anything possibly construed as a suspicious noise whilst Dean and the angel himself had long ago decided that sneaking down the corridors of the bunker, armed only with a flashlight, was only asking for trouble. It wasn’t even as if any of them knew what the book contained. That little annotation had been made by Crowley himself, in neat black marker:
The nice and accurate prophecies of Sam Winchester: Hunter.
* * *
Contrary to any buggery-related beliefs Sam may have held, there was very seldom any reason to avoid Dean’s room on the basis of protecting your virtue. Dean could count on one hand the number of vaguely interesting things he and Cas got up to when the Angel dropped by for a visit, and none of them involved much in the way of bad touching. Or good touching, depending on who you asked.
One of said things did sort of involve marriage and babies, but unfortunately not in the ‘saying “I do” and then making them’ sort of way. Which, as the elder Winchester would have told anyone who cared to ask (and all of those who frequently did), was not something he was even vaguely interested in pursuing with his friend anyway, so he didn’t know why they all insisted on bringing it up all the time.
If he’d even thought about it for long enough to consider whether or not he was interested.
Which he hadn’t.
He hadn’t even got as far as considering whether or not he’d even considered it in the first place. Not until everyone kept asking him, anyway.
There was no denying that there was something incredibly endearing about how Cas let himself get completely sucked into the game each time, though. Dean wouldn’t ever admit it to himself but a nagging voice in his head often ridiculed him for spending evening after evening cross-legged on his bed, watching their plastic cars trek their way around the garish cardboard squares.
It was important to give Cas all the help he could in understanding how humans did things, that was all. It was really extra training, in a way.
Where Cas had even picked up a copy of “The Game of Life – Vampire and Werewolf Edition” was anybody’s guess, which was probably lucky for the supplier on the nights that the elder Winchester found himself firmly trounced by an Angel in possession of six plastic pins and a stack of “great kill!” cards. Not that he cared about being beaten at some dumb parlour game. He was a real hunter, he didn’t need to prove anything to anyone and he certainly didn’t need to prove it by collecting more plastic counters than his companion.
“You have rescued a great beauty from a nest of Vampires, add one peg.” The Angel paused and frowned.
Dean could hear Cas pondering over the contents of the card as he read it out, his fingers toying with the pile of pins that lay in the discarded cardboard lid. “Why does the great beauty get in the car? It’s foolish, considering I am a stranger to them.” He frowned in thought. “It would be safer to go home. Perhaps I should…” he tailed off, picking up a blue peg and settling it into his red, plastic car beside the ‘Cas’ pin in the driving seat.
Dean sighed and held out his hand, offering up a pink peg. “I think they meant a girl, Cas. A girl great beauty.”
Cas studied the card in earnest, searching for some such clue. “It doesn’t say.”
“Yeah, but… it’s the whole marriage card thing. It’s a wife, really.”
The look of confusion on his friend’s face didn’t abate, but he took the pink peg without further question and disposed of the blue beside his pile of ‘transylvanian dollars’. Dean rubbed his neck awkwardly and reached for the dice, relieved that he seemed to have avoided any further interrogation over the exact nature of the pink peg and its implications. He wasn’t in the mood to discuss what might and might not happen between a vampire hunter and a great beauty once the rescue was over. It was probably safest not to give Cas any ideas of what Dean had got up to after rescuing girls from demons and monsters in the past. Or worse, what Cas might be expected to get up to the next time he pulled someone from the fiery pits of hell.
“Right, so that’s a five…” Dean pushed all of his concentration into manoeuvring the tiny black car around the board, avoiding eye contact for the moment to ensure that this particular thread of conversation died its natural death as quickly as possible.
There had been something of a row the first time it had come to choosing their player colours, although Dean blushed now to think that he had got himself so worked up over a piece of moulded plastic. Still, at least these days Cas always let him be the black car. It was out of an acceptance that it simply made logical sense that Dean should get the counter that resembled Baby, he hoped, rather than any fear on Castiel’s part that Dean might flip the board over and storm out again.
Which of course he wouldn’t. Once was quite enough.
Well, twice, but he’d been having a really bad day the second time and he shouldn’t be expected to sit up and play board games with a bored angel after nearly having his arm broken by some vengeful poltergeist in the first place.
“You get a great beauty too, Dean.”
Dean tried not to roll his eyes as Cas eagerly deposited a peg in his outstretched palm. When he finally worked up the nerve to glance down he exhaled a slow breath of relief – it was a pink one this time. Perhaps they were getting somewhere after all.
Fixing his new “wife” in place in the tiny black Impala (it looked more like a crummy Ford Focus, but hey, he was allowed to embellish a little, wasn’t he?) Dean dropped the dice back in front of the angel and waited to see what monsters waited their next throw.
“Dean?”
“Hmm?” Dean lifted his head to study Cas’s expression, steeling himself for a searching question on something horribly awkward. Last time it had been a query on whether Hunters ever collected little pink ‘children’ pegs in real life, followed by the sort of kicked puppy expression that made Dean feel like the world’s worst human when he realised the bad memories he’d dragged up. No, growing up with a hunter for a father wasn’t something that Dean was in a hurry to inflict on anyone else, and no, he didn’t want to talk about it. He bit his lip, wondering what it would be this time.
“The door is shut.”
Dean blinked. “Yeah?”
As far as Cas’s penchant for seemingly random comments went, it wasn’t all that strange. He just couldn’t figure out what had drawn Cas’s attention to the-
“It was open when we began.”
He was right. All at once the cozy, relaxed mood that had crept over him throughout the evening evaporated. His eyes locked onto Cas’s and for a moment, neither moved. They didn’t need to speak, they both knew the drill at times like these. Well, they thought they did, and that was what counted.
Should we arm up? The set of his companion’s jaw seemed to ask.
Can’t hurt. Let’s check it out.
Okay, I’m right behind you.
Simple. It was as if he could read the Angel’s mind sometimes.
Of course, the problem with reading each other’s expressions, is that things can sometimes end up being interpreted a little bit differently.
Or a little bit more than a little differently.
Whilst Dean was already reaching for his bag, tucked just within reach as always, ready to burn and salt whatever might be lurking in the corridor, Castiel’s version of the conversation had indeed gone what we might describe as a little differently.
Dean’s eyes were fixed on his, a sudden tension setting about his frame.
The door is shut? His eyes seemed to say.
Yes, Sam has obviously gone to bed and shut it to ensure that he does not get woken.
So we’re alone then?
Yes, we’re alone.
So… what he said earlier about hydrogenated fat and additive intake and not letting us have any more nachos, that no longer applies?
Correct, dear Angel. Better yet, he left us the whole block of cheese to go with them.
It would later occur to Castiel that he was guilty of letting his human feelings interfere with his priorities in what could only be described as a post-human hangover of sorts. At that moment, however, he could think of no sensible reason why nachos should not be the first and most important thing on Dean’s mind. Or anyone else’s mind, come to think of it. Nachos were, quite simply, phenomenally important.
Despite regaining grace of some variety, some aspects of his human nature were proving more and more difficult to shake. Fortunately, Dean seemed to be unperturbed by his penchant for late-night carb binges, even offering to help when it came to rustling up something satisfying at short notice. Food was a safe enough territory with the hunter, it seemed. He wasn’t so sure about mentioning any of his other new cravings to his friends.
The pair regarded each other a moment longer before nodding and each grabbing their weapon of choice. A short-handled, double bladed axe for Dean and a long, serrated knife for the angel. Cutting through the molten cheese that cemented the nachos together could be a tough job, it wouldn’t do to be poorly armed.
Dean climbed slowly to his feet, nodding to Cas to follow him and crept toward the door, one hand hesitantly reaching for the handle. It one swift movement he flung it open, rushing forward to confront any intruder that might have been stupid enough to stand directly behind a heavy, flying object. To his relief, there was no one there.
Tentatively, Castiel peered around the doorframe and sniffed cautiously in the direction of the kitchen. He wasn’t entirely sure why Dean was intent on making quite so much noise in pursuit of a quick midnight snack but wasn’t about to let a little thing like Dean Winchester’s behaviour being incomprehensible stop him from reaching his goal.
As a general rule, if you let the fact that Dean Winchester was behaving oddly get in the way of whatever you were doing, you would most likely never get anything done at all.
Instead, he reached out and took hold of Dean’s free arm. Mostly because it was closest, but also because it wasn’t carrying anything that Dean might accidentally stab him with if he was startled, and that was always a plus. Now he wasn’t quite as indestructible it seemed sensible to place “not being stabbed” a little higher up his list of priorities than previously. Plus, these days it kind of hurt a lot worse too.
Dean stiffened under his touch, keeping his gaze fixed at the far end of the corridor. It was sensible enough – anything that had entered the bunker through the front and passed by their door would logically be down the far end by now. Unless of course it had already been inside for longer than they suspected and was already making its way back to the entrance, armed with Chuck-knows-what.
“You hear anything?” he rasped, leaning closer to hear the angel’s reponse.
“No. I don’t hear anything. I think it’s safe.”
Dean frowned. Sure, they couldn’t see any evidence of an intruder and yeah, maybe they had shut the door and just forgotten about it, but surely that was no reason for Cas to be shoving one hand in his trench coat pocket, the other around the hunter’s elbow and nonchalantly sidling off in the direction of the kitchen before they’d even had a cursory look around.
He waited for the grip on his arm to relax but instead found himself forced to take a few steps after his friend, sneaking a backwards glance toward their bedroom door. Okay, so maybe Cas could hear something he couldn’t. Hell maybe he could sense it or smell it or whatever – that didn’t mean that they shouldn’t at least check the other side of the bunker.
Cas, meanwhile, was being spurred kitchenwards by an angry growl from the direction of his stomach. How humans ever got anything done when they had to keep stopping to eat and drink and sleep all the time, he couldn’t even fathom. Maybe after a while they learned to be like Dean, subsisting on four hours a night and a hurried sandwich from the nearest Gas ‘n’ Sip every now and then. It seemed a terrible shame, given how much he enjoyed sleeping. Eating too, for that matter.
He wished he could do the same – although the existence of nachos made his predicament a little more bearable. He just hoped that Sam hadn’t finished all the guacamole this time.
Dean allowed himself to be led into the kitchen, covering Cas’s back (as that was surely the intention of tugging Dean so close to him – Cas couldn’t exactly see out of the back of his head any more and should probably have someone behind him to keep an eye out. Hanging onto his arm like that would slow Dean down considerably when it came to actually dealing with any monster that tried to get the jump on them, though. Maybe he’d talk to Cas about that a little later.) He shielded his eyes as they stepped into the kitchen and the light switch flooded the room in a white glow, making him squint away.
Someone had definitely been in here. Well, either that or Sam had been pottering about in here and had suddenly developed a keen interest in interior design of the seriously macabre variety.
Dean really hoped that wasn’t the case. He didn’t think he could stomach an argument over redecoration with someone whose idea of ‘interior sculpture’ involved etching ominous prophecies all over the kitchen counters.
Or smearing a chilling warning in blood over the doorway.
Jesus Christ, what on earth had happened in here.
Whoever had broken in had at least been considerate of the various bits of crockery that lay about the room, undisturbed and Dean was thankful for that at least. The floor was covered in a slowly congealing puddle of some sort of slime that he couldn’t quite place and footprints led from there to the fridge, where a knife sat buried into the door.
At this point, Dean was too distracted by the rest of the mess to wonder who on earth would bother stabbing a refrigerator – etched in spikey capitals along his favourite chopping board were the words:
AND WHEN THE ANGEL OF DARKNESS VISITS UPON THY MARKETPLACE
KNOW THAT ALL THAT CAN BEAT HIM BACK
IS THE COMBINED POWER OF THOSE WHOSE CLOAK BELIES THEIR INNER NATURE
FOR INSIDE LIES A HEART THAT KNOWS NO DIFFERENCE
FROM ITS BROTHERS
Various emotions warred inside the elder Winchester – not least annoyance that someone would ruin a perfectly good bread knife and chopping board when he’d gone to the trouble of buying one of those magnetic notepad thingies to stick to the fridge door. There was even a pen attached, for God’s sake – and he’d liked that chopping board. Dean made a mental note to ensure that the demise of the demon who’d done this was slow and painful.
Not that slow, he didn’t want to spend all day about it, but probably slow enough that he could teach him a lesson on just how difficult it was to get a proper oak chopping board at a decent price in a state that wasn’t all that renowned for its cookware stores. Then he’d kill him.
Then there were the other, possibly more pressing issue of the fact that someone, probably an evil someone, had broken into the bunker undetected and had left this message for them. A really lame message, actually. The kind of prophecy a demonic twelve year old might come out with whilst trying to sound impressive.
At least he hoped this message had been “left”. The alternative was that the author was still somewhere in the vicinity, and Dean would certainly rather that wasn’t the case right now.
“Good job Cas,” he muttered under his breath, “we wouldn’t have known about this ‘til morning if you hadn’t…”
He sighed.
“God, Cas. We need to find Sam. That thing didn’t need to go near our room to get in the kitchen – what if it’s…”
“-Our room?”
Trust Cas the miss the point entirely.
“My room”
“Oh. right.”
“Cas!”
“What?”
“Sam!”
Cas nodded, finally catching onto Dean’s train of thought. He sighed and ran his finger idly through the pile of wood shavings that had built up around the mutilated surface of the chopping board. So much for a quick, late night snack and an evening spent with Dean and his favourite board games to look forward to. Knowing his luck, Dean would want to get straight to work on whatever case had just fallen out of sky onto them and wouldn’t be in the sort of mood that occasionally saw him joining Cas for a late night snack. Castiel enjoyed those nights. If Dean was in a good enough mood he’d sometimes make some chilli or melt some cheese over the nachos under the grill for him.
If he was in a good mood.
Nothing put Dean in a bad mood faster than having his stuff messed with by dark forces.
“I could check on him for you. If you want to look around here.” He offered.
Dean didn’t miss the plaintive glance he threw toward the refrigerator door.
Dean shook his head. “No, I’m coming with you.”
Castiel opened his mouth to argue but seemingly, for once, thought better of it. “Okay.”
* * *
Sam Winchester was not having the best day.
First off, someone had played some stupid prank on him and made him forget to buy beetroot and mozzarella, his new notebook had gone missing, then someone had scrawled graffiti all over his bedroom mirror in what looked like lipstick and now when he was trying to sleep and get rid of the pounding headache that had been bugging him since he left the shops some idiot was pounding on the door and shouting his name.
“SAM!”
The younger Winchester groaned and pulled his pillow firmly over his head. Whatever his companions wanted, he hoped they would give up and wait until morning if he ignored them long enough. He could put up with being roused for a life threatening emergency, if absolutely necessary, but last time it can been to answer a query on where the sour cream was. The time before that it had been to mediate a dispute over some crazy board game that Cas had brought over (“But he’s cheating, Sam!”) and the time before that it had been to borrow a hairbrush.
He was still none the wiser on that one – neither Cas nor his brother had enough hair to warrant running a brush through it, but it was generally safest not to ask with those two. Knowing his luck, Cas would blurt out something inappropriate that would make him decide to burn the offending item the moment it was returned and Dean would glare at him for apparently making him do it. No, it was generally safer not to enquire over anything slightly strange that his brother and the Angel were getting up to at any given moment.
“SAM!”
His eyes snapped open, finally abandoning any attempt at sleep.
“What?” He replied, half muffling his response into his pillow. On the other side of the door he heard the conversation continuing:
“I think he’s okay. Do you think we should go in and check?”
“Cover me, okay?”
With an almighty crash, Sam’s bedroom door flew open, the harsh light of the hallway adding a brand new layer of pain to his headache. Sometimes, he could happily murder both of his cohabiters. Sometimes they had tried to murder him as well, of course, but the difference was that Dean and Cas really, really deserved it.
“Sammy?”
“Hmmph?”
Now the pair were exchanging sheepish glances, as if experiencing a terrible sense of anti-climax mixed in with a couple of tablespoons of embarrassment, liberally sprinkled with the sense that one might just have accidentally partaken in what was colloquially known as the act of being an utter douche.
“Are you… okay?”
I would be, if you two morons could just get back to whatever weirdo sex games you play with that freaky Game of Life board and left me alone.
“Yes. I’m fine.”
Another sheepish glance. “Right, well…”
“Don’t go in the kitchen.”
Sam took a deep, long-suffering breath and raised his head to meet his brother’s gaze. “Okay.”
The door slowly creaked shut, taking its sadist friend “light” with it. Sam breathed a deep sigh of relief and rolled onto his side. He needed his sleep tonight. He was so tired he was having trouble even remembering what he’d done, most of the evening.
He’d been….in the kitchen. Yes, that was it. He was going to hide the rest of the nachos, so they wouldn’t mysteriously disappear in the middle of the night, as they were often wont to do. And then…
Then he wasn’t sure.
He wasn’t as bothered as he perhaps should have been about the patchy memories surrounding his evening. Given that they’d been rather overworked lately, it wasn’t completely unfathomable that he might be a little stressed out and not thinking too clearly. After all, if the bunker wasn’t actually on fire it was unlikely that he’d done anything of note whilst drinking his coffee.
If only he could remember where he’d put his notebook, he might have some kind of idea what he’d been working on before he’d gone to get the damned coffee in the first place. Either way, it couldn’t have been very interesting or particularly important if he could remember absolutely nothing about it.
Falling into a doze, Sam pushed all thoughts of notebooks and kitchens out of his mind as he stretched his aching limbs out to starfish across the bed. It could wait until tomorrow. It could all wait until tomorrow.
Even better than that, it could wait until he’d slept properly, eaten breakfast and drunk his second cup of coffee.
Yes, it would all be fine in the morning.
Meanwhile, in the darkest recesses of the kitchen, a bottle of Hoi Sin Sauce was slowly going off.
* * *