Chapter Text
February 15th, 2012
Hughes Residence, Searcy, Arkansas
Dean’s head hit the wall before the rest of his body did, popping stars like shiny bubblewrap behind his eyes.
The rest of him came crashing down after that: shoulders, spine, tailbone, legs, shooting synapses of one-by-one pain up into the back of his skull. The rock-salt gun yanked back, popping his wrist and sending the weapon skidding in circles across the floor. And it kept spinning—then it picked up and aimed straight for him.
Dean heaved himself up, shooting pains racing through his limbs. “You think that’s gonna do any good, ugly? Then you go ahead and pull the trigger!”
A burst of gunfire echoed through the room, launching Dean back against the wall, his head punching a hole in the plaster. For one, two, three seconds he felt his heart stop after the impact, his lungs emptying.
Then he started sucking in air, gasping, rolling up onto one elbow. Felt like he could stay laying down for a lot longer than that, but with the shotgun racking for another go, he didn’t have a choice other than move, move, freaking move! The next round discharged in the wall next to his head as Dean piled down the hallway with the last Purity Bag in hand, heading for the north corner of the house.
A corded phone ripped out of the wall and went whizzing past his nose; Dean dodged it, sliding across the wood-paneled floor in the kitchen and making a dive for the wall. He put his back against it, slid down and yanked his dad’s journal out of his pocket.
“Sacerdos ab Ordinario delegatus, rite confessus, aut saltem corde—” An electric can opener came flying for his head and Dean threw himself down on his shoulder. “Son of a bitch! Peccata sua detestans, peracto, si commode fieri posit…”
The next flying object caught him across the forehead, some kind of mixing bowl. It opened a gash that dripped hot blood into his eyes. Rocking back upright, Dean pressed his shoulders into the groove of the drawer behind him and continued the Rite.
Cabinet doors started banging open and shut, light flickered and the air conditioning and heat were flashing on and off in gusts and roars. But Dean kept going; didn’t have any other way out of this.
He managed to get through the Rite, crossed himself, and crammed the bag into the corner of the wall.
A bright, sizzling flash erupted through the house, searing the backs of his eyes. Dean threw up an arm to shield his face, and when the jagged patterns of light faded from behind his eyelids, he lowered his arm and looked around.
Everything had gone dead quiet and still, the cabinet doors easing shut on their hinges. The air conditioning unit hummed upstairs.
“Yeah.” Dean hauled himself to his feet, limping a little bit on his sprained ankle. “Yeah, take that, you psycho freak.” He shut the journal and ran a hand down his face, then pulled out his phone and punched in the number.
It picked up after half a ring. “Hello?”
“Larry? It’s Dean.”
“I know. How’d it go?”
Dean looked around at the broken dishes, rutted walls and exposed livewires, wincing. “Super. Listen, you’re gonna want an electrician out here. Thing didn’t wanna go down without a fight.”
“So this, this, uh…”
“Poltergeist.”
“Yeah, the poltergeist, it’s gone?”
“Looks like it.”
Larry whooshed out a breath. “Hey, thanks, Dean. If you hadn’t come to town when you did—”
“Hey, it’s my job.” Dean wasn’t really in the mood for having his back patted. “Listen, this thing comes back, you lemee know, all right?”
“Sure. Sure thing.”
Dean disconnected the call and headed for the door.
Something clattered and shifted at the top of the staircase to his right.
Dean froze, scalp prickling, adrenaline starting to pool in his chest again. He turned his head slowly, catching sight of a flickering shadow at the top of the stairs.
“Great.” He scooped up the shotgun off the floor, racked it one-handed and headed up the stairs as quietly as he could, boots stirring up old flecks of dried paint from every step.
At the top of the landing, Dean squinted against the glare of light falling through the window at the end of the hallway. Wind stirred open the door up ahead on his left, and Dean prowled toward it, shoulders pressed to the wall. He eased his head around to look inside.
There was a long, rumbling sigh of sound coming up out of the floor, like someone had cranked on a furnace. It was getting deeper, rattling in Dean’s feet. And the floor looked like it was shifting—just one spot of it. Flicking in and out of focus in a widening circle, right smack in the middle.
Everything went quiet for a second.
Then roared back into life as the floor caved in, a howling, sucking wind careening through the room, yanking at Dean’s jacket. He pulled his head back around the corner, fear thudding into his throat, then looked again.
Someone was standing on the edge of that pit in the floor, arms loose at his sides. His dark hair whipped around his face in the hurricane-force winds.
“Hey!” Dean barked.
The guy looked over his shoulder, big, soulful eyes glassy, terrified.
“Dean.”
Dean lowered the shotgun, gripped with uncertainty. “Sam?” He stepped forward. “Dude, what’s goin’ on? I thought you were in Memphis.”
“I’m scared, but…” Sam turned a reluctant stare on the pit. “I have to do this, Dean.”
The floor was getting sucked down into that hole, one inch at a time. Dean looked at it, too, hearing things, sounds he never wanted to remember: screams, like souls dying on the rack. The laughter of demons watching them suffer. The endless yakking shrieks of thunder in tune with the lightning.
“Sam, this place is gonna go—c’mon!”
“Sorry, Dean…”
“Sam!”
“I can’t.”
“No—no! Sam!”
Sam spread his arms out wide and stepped back.
Dean jerked awake, lying flat on his back, the gonging whistle of a train blaring into his dreams, dragging him back to the present. Shirtless, the cold air of the motel room bit into his skin. The only warm spot was on his neck, where the amulet rested in the hollow of his throat. Dean loosened the string it was on, tucked one arm behind his head and closed his eyes.
He wasn’t much for nightmares; in this line of work you dug holes around everything, Buried bodies and dead friends and everything you were feeling. Capped it, corked it, did whatever you had to so you could sleep with a clear head every night, or every other night. Whenever you could grab the time for some shut-eye.
The problem was, the case at Larry Hughes’ place had really happened. Well. Not exactly like in that dream. Dean had never gone upstairs, he’d cleansed the house, banished the Poltergeist and motored out of that town a week ago. He’d been hunting for a new case ever since, letting his sprained ankle heal up and checking his phone fifty times a day.
Six weeks. It’d been six weeks since he’d pulled out of Bobby’s salvage yard, alone in the front seat of the Impala. Six weeks since Balthazar had died in front of them, kicking Castiel into some mission about the weapons of Heaven. Six weeks since Sam had taken off for Memphis, and Dean hadn’t heard word one from his brother.
Sam hadn’t just asked Dean not to follow him; he’d told him flat-out not to call. Told him he didn’t know what was going on, but he needed to clear his head. Which Dean was fine with, Sam was his own man. But six weeks was a pretty long time for radio silence, even from Sam. When their dad had been on a hunt for a few days without getting in touch, Dean had driven all night to pick Sam up and go hunt their dad down. So taking the back burner while Sam did his little Maverick stunt in Memphis was like cramming half his instincts into a cardboard box and throwing them up on a shelf.
So he did cases. A lot of cases. He’d already salted and burned six bodies and taken out a poltergeist in the last three weeks. Before that it had been monsters—just a couple of them, tough cases. Tough enough to wire his head into the game, so he wasn’t worrying too much about Sam.
The last couple days, though—they’d been hell. So hopped up he couldn’t think straight. Worried about everything and everyone, something he’d been hiding from Sam for years. The fact that he didn’t just brush this stuff off and forget about it. More and more it just kinda sat on his chest. Waiting for him to be alone so it could start munching into his mind. And it didn’t help when he’d gotten a weird phone call that dropped as soon as it picked up, and then some stupid voicemail with just a lot of static on the other end. He’d tossed around the idea of changing his number, but too many people needed it. So he just stacked that weirdness on top of every other weird thing, and let it slide.
Dean sat up, shoving his hands back through his hair. It was starting to get long again—annoying. He’d have to cut it pretty soon. Probably yell at Sam about getting his cut, too. Kid was looking pretty scruffy.
The amulet thumped against Dean’s bare chest; he pulled it out and looked at it, letting it catch the glint of the sunlight through the window. Didn’t feel right, wearing it again. Knowing what it was supposed to do, and how it’d let them all down. But it wasn’t like he could take it off. Because Sam was right—it did mean something other than the Easter Egg Hunt for God.
“This is crap.” Dean scruffed his hair up again, then swung up onto his feet. He grabbed his shirt off the back of the chair beside the bed, tugged it on, and snatched the keys off the counter by the door on his way out.
It was a little after daybreak, so he’d only gotten four, maybe five hours of sleep. Most of the night he’d been looking for cases, but all of the obits he’d sifted through looked clean, and there hadn’t been monster sightings nearby any time recently. For the paranormal, it was like an off season. Which was a good and a bad thing. Worse when Sam wasn’t around for Dean to use as an outlet for his boredom. Annoying his brother was a great way to let off steam.
Dean slid into the Impala, cranked on the radio and pulled out. He knew where he was heading—same keg-and-barrel, hole in the wall he’d been shacking up in every night since he’d motored into town. Thought he’d had a case of a spirit haunting a highway nearby; hadn’t panned out. But man, this place had everything: chicks, good beer, a jukebox with some excellent hits.
And enough pool and poker to satisfy a man.
Five hours later and over a hundred bucks richer, Dean walked out of that bar with a smirk on his face. Wasn’t the healthiest distraction in the world, but, hey, it was something. He counted up his winnings, drove back to the motel, and sat with his head rocked back against the headrest, staring at the roof of the car.
Ever since Sam had come back from the cage, he’d been worse than stingy with money. Like he thought it would disappear if he loosened up his grip on the wallet for two seconds. So they’d been hoarding like crazy on everything, and man was it a pain in the ass. Low-level poker didn’t scrape in much cash.
And that was when it hit Dean, like a ton of freaking bricks. A great way to earn money. A distraction from wondering where the hell Sam was. And something to do before another case poked its ugly head out of the water. Not to mention—one of the places Sam had never let him go when they were hunting. Purely on principle.
There were a couple things you just didn’t do in life. Let a cannibal come to a cocktail party. Invite a vampire to a blood drive. Take Dean Winchester to Las Vegas.
Well, screw that. He was bored and he needed money.
He headed back to the motel, packed up the duffle bag, Sam’s laptop, and headed out. He’d restocked his weapons’ cache when they’d stayed at Bobby’s over New Year’s, replenishing the stash they’d lost in a house fire in Palo Alto a couple months ago. So he was pretty much set for anything, working alone or with someone watching his back.
But he’d had his own back for six weeks. So. He was getting back into that habit.
Dean couldn’t honestly count how many times he’d wanted to call Lisa up this week. Like with Sam gone, some part of him just wanted to slither back into that white-picket life for as long as he could. Wasn’t like he’d made a promise this time, or anything. Bobby still had his feelers out, but the enemy was laying low. Not much Dean could do to track that girl and the Rakshasa, at this point. No cases, either. So he could’ve gone back to Lisa for a few weeks, tried to patch things up.
Right. And get himself caught in a tug-of-war whenever Sam decided to get in touch again and wanted to get back on the hunt.
Dean flipped his phone on and dialed while he was driving.
“Y’ello?”
“Bobby, it’s me.” Dean said. “You got any leads?”
“Hold on a second.” Dean heard a thumping scuffle as Bobby covered the receiver with one hand. “Come on you, you piece of junk—!” He came back on the line. “Sorry.”
“What’s goin’ on?” Dean asked.
“Spring cleaning.” Bobby said with a little sarcasm. “Wanna help?”
“Yeah, lemee get my apron on.” Dean rolled his eyes. “You got a case for me, or not, Bobby?”
“Not.” Bobby sounded frustrated. “That sugar-plumb faerie your brother talked to ain’t gonna make this easy on us, Dean. Whatever she’s planning, she’s keeping it underground.”
“All right, what about normal stuff? Y’know, spirits, ghosts? ’Cause I got nothin’.” Dean said.
“Nothin’ sounds like about what I got, too.” Bobby sighed. “You’re just gonna have to wait this one out, Dean.”
“Yeah.” Dean growled out a sigh. “Yeah, speaking of waiting, Bobby. You hear anything from Sam?”
“Not since he got to Memphis.” Bobby replied. “Same thing I told you when you asked me two days ago, Dean. You’d probably be the first person he’ll call, anyway. So sit tight and don’t get your panties in a bunch.”
“I dunno, Bobby. I just got this really bad feeling in my gut about this.” Dean admitted. “Six weeks? Kind of a long time for a case.”
“Dean, we talked about this. We stopped babyin’ the kid when you gave him the green light to jump into that cage. You can’t be stalking every step he takes now that he’s got his soul back. You gotta let him be his own man.”
“Yeah, well, if that Sasquatch-man gets himself ass-deep in trouble, guess who’s gotta bail him out?” Dean shifted lanes smoothly and changed the phone to his other ear. “I keep having these dreams about him, Bobby.”
“Well, that ain’t creepy at all.”
“Would you just hear me out?” Dean snapped. “I think we should call him.”
“Why? You goin’ Neo on us now? Next thing we know you’re gonna start flyin’.” Bobby said. When Dean didn’t answer, he huffed a sigh. “Dean, look. I’m worried to. This ain’t normal, even for Sam. But we made the kid a promise and we’re stickin’ by it. If he needs us, he’ll get in touch.”
“Yeah.” Dean agreed sullenly. “Listen, Bobby, I’m takin’ the weekend off. So, if you need me…just leave a voicemail.”
“Where’re you headed?”
Dean smirked. “Land of Lights and Love.” When silence answered that little statement, Dean rolled his eyes. “Vegas, Bobby. Vegas.”
“The hell you goin’ there for?”
For money. For something to take his mind off of his brother. And the lack of cases. And the storm cloud hanging over his head.
“Uh…no reason. Look, can’t a guy just go have fun?”
“You really got the money for that kinda cheap thrill, ya idjit?”
“Aw, you bet.” Dean grinned. “Anyway. Need me, you know where to find me.”
“Yeah, all right. And Dean?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Sam gets a hold of you…you let me know.”
Dean swallowed, glancing at the empty passenger seat. “You got it.”
He hung up, popped in a Metallica tape, and hit the road for the ultimate Pleasure City: Las Vegas, Nevada.
Okay. Vegas with Sam would’ve been a blast. Mostly because watching little brother squirm a hundred ways with all the half-naked girls running around, trying to pawn off the alcohol forced on him and hustling pool like a pro, the way Dean had taught him—that woulda been hilarious. He probably coulda made a winning at poker, too. Then there’d be the whole fight about which cheap, skanky motel to stay in, how much they’d bet on every table, tops, and why the hell had they even come here in the first place?
And Dean would get annoyed. Sam would get bitchy. And they’d have a blast doing it, too.
Being in Vegas alone, sucked.
Dean had to choose his own seedy roadside motel to hitch up in, booked a room with two beds just by force of habit, flung the duffle on one and then sat on the other bed, rubbing his face in his hands.
Six miles outside of Vegas still felt like the opposite side of the States. But gambling after a day and a half stone-cold un-caffeinated driving would be like pawning his money off for free, so he figured hitting the strip right now wasn’t a good idea.
Dean flopped down on his back, staring at the cracked, ribbed-in ceiling.
Who knew a solo road-trip for some time off could be this boring? Didn’t feel all that different from any other case. Except with less to do, and more free time to do it.
Actually.
Now that Dean thought about it, there was one other person he could bother for company. Not his first choice, but since his first choice was out chasing tail somewhere in Tennessee…
Dean rocked back up, clapped his hands together and rubbed them slowly. “Dear Castiel, who art probably floating around like a piece’a lint out in the atmosphere,” He paused. “Uh, I could use some help.”
He cracked one eye open, peeked around the empty room, then opened the other one. He pulled a face, licked his lips and frowned.
“Thanks for nothin’, friggin angel.” He leaned back toward the headboard.
Thumped off something solid.
“Dean?”
“Holy—!” Dean jumped onto his feet, spinning around.
Castiel was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at him quizzically.
“Dude!” Dean snapped. “Stop it with the damn ninja thing!”
“My apologies.” Castiel got to his feet. “You requested my assistance. What predicament have you landed yourself in now?”
Dean bristled. “What, a guy can’t have a friend over for a couple beers?”
“It was nice of you to think of me, but I’ve given up the consumption of alcohol.” Castiel looked around the room, frowning. “Where is Sam?”
“Out doing geek-boy stuff.” Dean said as flippantly as he could, sitting on the other bed. “Actually, that’s kinda why I called you.”
“You need my assistance to find him.” Castiel’s eyes traveled over to Dean, and he looked a little concerned.
Dean hesitated. “No.”
“No?” Castiel tilted his head. “You mean you aren’t searching for him?”
“I mean, he’s a grown man. He can go wherever the hell he wants.” Dean replied, shrugging. “It’s not really about Sam.”
“Then what, Dean?” Castiel demanded, this time with a trace of impatience. “I have important matters that require my attention.” He paused. “Does this have something to do with Raphael?”
Dean frowned. “No! Why? That asshat on the move?”
“Not that we can tell. And that is what worries me.” Castiel looked out the front window of the room, then back at Dean. “What did you need from me, Dean?”
Dean spread his arms wide and shrugged. “I’m bored.”
Castiel raised an eyebrow. “Bored.”
“Yeah, Cass, I’m losing my mind over here. No cases, nothin’. So I came to Vegas for a couple days off.” He smirked “Not as fun when you don’t have someone to pick on, believe me.”
“I do not understand how I can help you. Boredom is not an ailment that I have any remedy for. Though I can try my best.” He reached out to Dean.
“Whoa!” Dean arched away. “No, no, no! None of that freaky angel mojo crap!”
“Then, Dean. Why did you call me?”
“I just wanted some company, all right, Cass?” Dean looked away, narrowly, brooding—Sam probably woulda called it pouting. Freaking empath. “Sam’s been gone for six weeks. Gets kinda….”
“I understand.” Castiel said quietly. “But Dean, you should know that I have responsibilities that overshadow your emotional pitfalls.”
“Gee, thanks, ray of sunshine.” Dean snapped. Castiel looked away. “Ah, c’mon, Cass. When was the last time you took a vacation from all this ‘war-in-heaven’ crap?”
“War is not something you can vacation away from, Dean. It’s a complex machine, and without my assistance to keep the gears oiled—”
“Dude. Analogies. Seriously?” Dean spread out his hands. “You need some man time. Off the job.” He paused. “You told me and Sam you’d rather be down here with us then up there playin’ Judge Roy Bean. Here’s your chance.”
“Dean.” Castiel said flatly. His shoulders hunched inside his trenchcoat and he sighed. “For how long do you require my presence?”
Dean grinned. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” He stretched. “Two days, Cass. That’s all I’m askin’.”
“I suppose Ciel can manage the garrison for two days.”
“Damn right she can.” Dean flopped on his back on the bed. “All right. Gimmie four hours and then we’ll hit the strip.”
Castiel frowned. “I do not understand. You call on me to cure your loneliness, and now you intend to sleep?”
“You lulled me.” Dean let his eyes settle at half mast, arms crossed. “You wanna keep watch?”
Dean felt Cass looking at him. “Did you call me because you feel more comfortable when someone is guarding your blindsides, as Sam normally does?”
Dean cracked out eye open. “Bite me, Cass.”
The angel almost smiled. “I will gladly keep watch for you, Dean.” He stood up and walked to the window, easing the blinds aside. “As an angel of the Lord, I can assure you, you will have no better guardian.”
“Good to hear.” Dean tucked his chin to his chest. “But dude…stay away from me while I’m sleeping.”
“Very well, Dean.”
Grinning, Dean let himself sleep.