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Dean wouldn’t sleep. It was the first time that the four-month-old had had any trouble drifting off, but Cas said that it made perfect sense—it was also about the time that they felt comfortable letting him sleep in his crib instead of slumped in either one of their arms.
Dean as an infant had taken a lot of adjustment, and in many ways, they still hadn’t made the transition. But hovering over him like he might spontaneously combust at any moment should they look away was now a worry of the past, thank God.
Unfortunately, that also came with its drawbacks.
“Cas,” Sam muttered into his pillow, knowing his friend would have his radio on. “Cas, Dean’s cryin’ again.” The older Winchester had recently found it very useful that his angel friend never slept. Dean was never without company, should he want it, and Sam never needed to wake up in the middle of the night in order to provide it.
But this time, for some reason, Dean just kept crying.
Groaning, Sam reluctantly dragged his head away from its pillow.
“Cas,” he yelled. “Baby. Tears. Get the lead out.”
Nothing.
The sound of Dean’s cries soon became too much for the newly older brother, who resigned himself to the fact that he would have to play the cliché baby daddy for one night and drag himself out of bed.
They had moved Dean’s crib to his own room, since Cas was usually the one to take care of him in the middle of the night, and it was more convenient if he didn’t have to go in and out of Sam’s room to do so. It also meant that he was only a couple of doors down, so Sam shuffled there through the darkened corridors of the bunker, feet never fully leaving the floor.
“You and me are gonna have words when I wake up,” the hunter mumbled to his absent friend. Cas still hadn’t made an appearance by the time Sam made it to his brother’s door, the wailing louder than ever when he pushed it open. It was actually quite unusual for Dean to sound—
Sam froze. His heart followed suit. His body turned to wood and his feet grew roots through the floor as he took in the image of a shadow next to his brother’s crib.
Mom, walking through the door of his nursery.
“It’s you,” she breathed in horror.
“Hello, Sam.”
The voice jarred the hunter back to the present with a jolt and unlocked his voice.
“Crowley,” he realized. His tone shook with rage and fear as the demon turned to him and Sam was suddenly hyper-aware that Dean was not, in fact, inside the crib.
“How did you get in here?” he demanded.
Crowley smiled. “I have my ways. I am the King of Hell, after all.”
“Put him back,” the hunter snarled. “Or I swear to God—”
“Now don’t go all Mother Bear on me, Sam. I’m merely here to say hello to the little fellow—quite a little fellow now, isn’t he? The last time I saw him, he was taller than I.” Crowley bounced him a little in imitation of a comforting gesture, and Sam’s heart jumped in his chest.
“I said put him back, Crowley!”
“Now, now, don’t yell,” the demon tutted as Dean continued to wail in earnest. “You’ll frighten the little one. Honestly, Sam, I’m shocked. Truly. You didn’t feel that you could share this tiny piece of vital information with me? The Mark is gone, after all—what reason would I have to want your brother dead now?”
Sam’s heart was pounding so fast that he felt as though he might pass out. Swallowing past his panic, he forced himself to take a slow step into the room.
“You’re right,” he said carefully. “The Mark is gone—Dean isn’t a threat to anyone anymore. Put him back, and we’ll talk. It’s not like he can contribute to the conversation.”
Crowley chuckled. “I don’t suppose he can, at that. But consider this, Sammy: as long as I have him, what can’t I ask of you?”
“Nothing,” Sam rushed to say. “Ask anything. You don’t have to have him—I’ll listen.”
“The funny thing is, I’m still getting a hint of Dean from this little one,” Crowley mused, glancing down at the red-faced baby in his arms. “Funny how all those little important parts seem to have stayed intact… but I’m sure your angel friend has already told you that.”
Sam stopped again. “Cas,” he breathed. “What’ve you done with Cas?”
“I’m supposed to be asking the questions, remember?”
Cas? You alright? He swallowed and hoped that the angel was at least hearing his prayers.
“Alright… so ask.”
“Metatron,” Crowley said without hesitation.
Sam frowned. “What about him? I didn’t think he was bothering the demons.”
“Perhaps not now. His attentions seemed to be wrapped up in conquering Heaven, taking over as God, blah, blah… blah. But as soon as he’s finished that, I assure you, he’ll turn his sights to Hell the same as every other Heavenly prick who’s ever sat on the pearly throne. I’ve rather liked Heaven without a leader. It’s been… quiet.”
Sam clenched his jaw. “So what the hell can I do about it?”
Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Stop him. Of course.”
Despite himself, Sam felt an incredulous laugh start to bubble up in his throat. “Me?” he repeated. “Oh, sure, Crowley. Let me just pop down into the basement for a jar of Angel Repellant, I’ll be right back.”
Uncertainly, Crowley frowned. “You… don’t… have one of those, do you?”
“I can’t just stop Metatron, Crowley!” Sam shouted in leu of answering. “He’s an angel, and he’s got backing. Gadreel, for instance!” He spat the name like venom, visions of Kevin briefly flitting through his mind.
“He has been making quite a nuisance of himself,” Crowley agreed. Then, he smiled. “You Winchesters… shoot first. Ask questions later. Yada. Yada. Yada. No finesse, you lot.”
“Get to the point, Crowley.”
“It’s not a war, you moron,” the demon snapped, spurring a fresh wave of tears from the baby in his arms. Sam tensed. “It’s a campaign. If you can’t fight him, you beat him. Then maybe you can let this little one finally see the light of day.”
Sam tightened his lips into a thin, furious line. Crowley was only right insofar as he and Cas had decided that it was safer to keep Dean inside of the bunker until they could figure out what to do about Metatron—and Crowley.
“I won’t let you hurt him, Crowley,” the Winchester growled.
“Hurt him?” he repeated incredulously. “I quite like him like this, Sam. It’s very satisfying, watching the infamous Dean Winchester break down in tears in the face of danger. It isn’t something I’d expected to see outside my wildest dreams.”
Sam huffed, his fear starting to recede as the tide of his anger washed in.
“But I do have one, small, caveat,” Crowley resumed.
Breathing around his rage, the hunter forced himself to ask, “What is that?”
“CYA, Mr. Winchester. If you raise little Dean here to be a hunter, I will send every demon in Hell to make sure he goes down and stays down. We can’t have a repeat of the last thirty years, now, can we?” When he smiled, a shudder fell down Sam’s spine.
He shook his head. “No hunting,” he agreed. It wasn’t a hard response; he and Cas had already agreed that Dean had done more than his share. They both wanted him to start thinking of what he wanted, for a change.
Still smiling, the demon nodded. “Excellent. We’ll be back after you’ve seen to Metatron.”
Sam’s eyes blew wide. “Wai—”
Crowley vanished.
Dean still in his arms.
“No!”
Sam shot upright, his brother’s name on his lips. Darkness surrounded him, broken only by the faintest glow of light from underneath the closed door.
His room. He was in his own room.
Sweat made his shirt cling to him like a second skin. The covers were twisted around his legs like they were trying to bind him as he tried to stand, tripped, and toppled over with an almighty thud.
“Dean!” he yelled into the silence, manically kicking at his blankets until they released him.
Scrambling to his feet, the hunter staggered out of his room and down the hallway. As soon as he had regained his balance, he was sprinting towards his brother’s bedroom. He didn’t pause to open the door. Slamming into it with his shoulder, he stumbled inside, wood splintering and scattering across the floor around his bare feet.
Instantly, Dean started to cry.
To Sam, it sounded like music.
Rushing towards the crib, he gripped the rail to stop his hasty approach, leaning over his sobbing brother.
Dean was red-faced and bleary-eyed from being awoken so abruptly, but he was there, right where he was supposed to be.
Sam almost collapsed under the weight of his own relief.
“Hey, buddy,” he whispered breathlessly. “Hey, c’mere.” Reaching down into the crib, he gently extricated Dean from the tiny mattress and into his trembling arms, almost lightheaded as he breathed prayers of thanks and gratitude, over and over, to anyone who would listen.
Dean quieted quickly as Sam shushed him and spoke to him softly to soothe him. His eyelids drooped, still heavy from not enough sleep, and Sam bounced and rocked him gently until he finally dropped off again.
But the older brother didn’t put him back in the crib.
“Sam?”
Startling, he swiveled towards the open doorway, where Castiel was taking in the scene—the door lying on the ground amidst its own splinters; Sam, hair flying in every direction, shirt rumpled and sweaty, barefooted, sweatpants twisted from his fight with the blankets; Dean, sleeping soundly in his arms.
The angel frowned. “What’s going on?”
In a panic, Sam quickly explained what had happened, gripping Dean tighter as he progressed until the baby whined his disapproval. Instantly, Sam relented, but his fear remained like a rock in his stomach.
“It couldn’t be real, could it?” he demanded. “The bunker is warded—Crowley couldn’t reach me, even in my dreams, right? It was just my imagination?”
Cas was still frowning even after he finished the story. “It seems most likely,” he admitted.
“Most likely?” Sam hissed. “What’s that supposed to mean? You mean it’s possible?”
“I don’t know, Sam. I don’t know all of the bunker’s warding, and I don’t know all of Crowley’s resources. I am an angel of the Lord, I am not the Lord, do you understand the difference?”
In the face of Cas’s rare annoyance, Sam receded a little. Cas only ever snapped in one unusual circumstance: when he was afraid. It almost helped, knowing that Sam wasn’t the only one.
“So you can’t say for sure, one way or the other.”
Cas shook his head. “No.”
“So what do we do?”
A long pause followed the loaded question. Sam knew that he was putting a lot on his friend, but it was hard to stop himself; they were out of balance without Dean there—adult Dean—to throw in his two cents worth.
“Crowley was right about one thing,” Castiel said at length, stealing Sam’s attention from his brother’s resting face. “We can’t beat Metatron with brute strength.”
“So what, then?” Sam asked. “We have to turn the angels against him?”
“I’ve attempted it before.”
And look how that turned out.
“But the angels need to believe that Metatron has to be stopped,” Cas continued. “They are desperate for a leader. Desperate enough to accept him, if they aren’t enlightened—and if we don’t get the angel tablet.”
Sam’s eyebrows shot into his hairline. “So… what? You want to burglarize Heaven? This isn’t an Ocean’s movie, Cas.”
Unexpectedly, his friend actually smiled a bit. “I understood that reference.” Then he shook his head. “I don’t know exactly how to do it, but Metatron is too powerful as long as he has that tablet.”
After a moment of thought, Sam nodded his agreement. He was still too rattled to think too deeply about strategy, unconsciously bouncing his brother to keep him asleep. The weight in his arms was a silent comfort, but for some reason, the feeling of loss still lingered in his chest—a holdover from the nightmare, or the vision, or whatever the hell it was.
“You should rest,” Cas said suddenly, and Sam blinked at him. “You look terrible.”
“Thanks for that.”
“Do you want me to take him?” The angel was already holding his arms out, but Sam recoiled instinctively, startled by the sudden threat that wasn’t a threat.
Thankfully, Cas lowered his arms without comment.
“Thanks, Cas, but I think I’ll stay in here for a while,” he said softly. “To keep him calm.”
A knowing look passed over his friend’s face like a cloud. “Whatever you think. Goodnight, Sam.”
“’Night, Cas.”
As the angel left, Sam slumped down on the edge of the bed that Dean no longer used, releasing a long, shuddering breath. He looked down at his brother, who seemed none the wiser for the heart attack he had nearly given the older Winchester. His tiny mouth was barely open, tongue peeking out just slightly against his lower lip, humming softly as he breathed. The cadence slowly started to calm Sam’s racing heart.
“No hunting,” he whispered after a while. “But no one said anything about learning to kick Crowley’s demonic ass.”