The 24th pair: Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
He was no stranger to an autopsy room. In fact, Dean had lost count of the number of times he had stepped into one of those sterile places that try so hard to hold on to the illusion of medicine and health but had always reminded Dean more of a slaughter house rather than a hospital.
Never once did he stop to wonder what it would feel like to lie on top of one of those metallic tables, staring up at a bright light, waiting for a guy in blood stained apron to start cutting into you.
Dean knew exactly how it felt now. It was cold. The soulless metal bit into his flesh like a vampire, leeching life away.
He could feel goosebumps rising like stalactites from his skin, could smell the disinfectant in the air, could hear his own heart beating, wildly inside his ears.
What Dean couldn't do, was move. Nothing obeyed him, not even a single muscle. He couldn't even blink.
From the corner of his eye, Dean could see a set of surgical instruments on top of a side table, shiny and lined up, waiting to be put to use.
He couldn't flinch away, couldn't speak, couldn't do a damn thing to prove that his body had no right to be in an autopsy table. The living didn't belong in there. He wasn't dead.
Sweat broke out on his skin, a strange feeling of being hot and cold at the exact same time. Corpses didn't sweat.
Dean was sure that the man with the bloody apron would notice that before he started to cut him open. He hoped the man would notice.
Dean was still hoping when the scalpel started to cut into his spine, splitting him in half. The sound of the alarm's siren call going off at a distance was no match for the hammering of Dean's panic.
Dean opened one eye and peered at the alarm clock on the nightstand. It took several blinks for the red blur to finally dissolve into more discernible numbers. Six thirty.
He rolled to the right, staring at the white ceiling; bed sheets tangled around his sweat covered body as his hand searched the empty, cold space, beside him. It had been empty for years now, but he couldn't help but check one more time.
It had been four years since the accident and still the thoughts and memories of that night haunted Dean. Every morning when he woke, he reached blindly, afraid to look but hopeful that he'd feel her warm flesh and dispel the events of the past as nothing but a horrific nightmare. A brush of his fingers over the cold sheet and his nightmare was once again his reality.
His eyes landed on the wheel chair by the other side of the bed. Encased in black leather and gleaming stainless steel wheels, his personal boogieman stared back at him, daring him, yet again, to end his misery today.
Dean did the same thing he always did when the darkness threatened to swallow him whole: he pulled his useless legs out of bed, made sure that the chair's brakes were solidly locked and heaved himself onto it. An aluminum throne for the lame king.
It was time to start another day. Get himself ready for work and make sure that Ben was ready for school.
Once the hectic day started, Dean would be okay. When he was too busy to even stop and take a breath, he could almost forget about the day he had killed Lisa.
≪◇≫
"We're here," Sam said as he slipped the car in park and cut the engine.
"You sure this is the right place?" Bobby asked for what felt like the hundredth time.
Sam exhaled an exasperated sigh and bent forward to get a better look at the house. It had been a long, mostly sleepless week and he rolled his shoulders, in an attempt to force his muscles to relax before he answered.
It wasn't Bobby's questioning that prompted such response. In fact, Sam couldn't have agreed more with the uncertainty coloring Bobby's question. He just wasn't sure how to answer the older man.
It was a big house, perfectly kept. The two circular towers, peeking from each end of the construction and crowned by ceramic blue tiles that glinted in the sun, gave it a fake old look, like a castle made of brick instead of stone. The perimeter of the residence was surrounded by well maintained, tall hedges; their placement was, no doubt, strategic as they allowed for little to no view of the lower portion of the house. The security cameras, however, perched on top of the walls and alongside the house, like metallic gargoyles, were easy to spot.
Sam looked at the piece of paper where he had scribbled the address their contact had given them, making sure that he hadn't made a wrong turn. It was the right house. But whether this was the right place... that fact remained to be seen.
"Only one way to find out," Sam whispered, not sure if he was answering Bobby or just trying to convince himself to get out of the car.
It was the only lead they had left, their last hope before having to face the hard truth: Dean was gone.
There were more cars parked in front of the house, maybe a dozen or more. Clearly, he and Bobby had not been the only ones answering the call of money. This was exactly what they'd feared would happen. The more hunters there were around, especially in a well-lit house, the greater the chances of one of them recognizing them.
"Maybe you should wait here," Bobby offered, apparently his thoughts traveling a similar path to Sam's.
"They'll recognize you too," Sam offered almost petulantly. This was his brother they were looking for. He would not take kindly to being left out of that search.
Bobby gave him a look and Sam sagged in his seat. It was one thing to be identified as Sam Winchester, reportedly dead and rumored to having opened the gates of Hell that one time; it was another completely different to be Bobby Singer, researcher extraordinaire and all around grumpy guy that helped a lot of hunters. Given the reason why they were all there, Bobby was expected to show up. Sam, not so much.
"You're right," Sam conceded. "I'll just... wait here."
Bobby got out of the car and straightened his cap before bending down to meet Sam's eyes across the car. "We'll get him back, son," he added with the familiar endearment. "I promise you that."
Sam nodded, more to show his gratitude for Bobby's support than because he believed the man's words.
It had only been a week, but with Castiel ready to open the gates of Purgatory and Crowley after their blood, one week was too long. Dean was missing, taken by an unknown entity, for reasons that they couldn't even begin to guess.
And here they were. Grasping at straws.
≪◇≫
"We still on for tonight's meeting?" Ben asked around a mouth full of toast. "The one about the school?" he added, seeing Dean's blank stare.
"About the school... right," Dean nodded absent-mindedly. "What time was that again?"
"Dude... you totally forgot about it," Ben said with an eye roll. "I only mentioned the thing about twenty times this week."
Dean remembered. He'd just been overly hopeful that Ben had forgotten. "I'm still not so sure this is a good idea, Ben," he said as he picked up their breakfast empty dishes, put them on his lap and rolled to the kitchen sink. "I mean, this ain't X-Men and I'm certainly no Professor Xavier... besides, I have a bunch of papers to grade tonight..."
Even with his back turned, Dean could feel the heat of Ben's gaze on him. "You promised."
Dean sighed. Ever since Lisa's death, Ben had been pushing for this idea of opening up a place where people could go and learn about the supernatural things of the world. A place to learn how to recognize evil things, how to avoid them, how to kill them. It was his not-so-subtle way of working around Dean's refusal to teach him about hunting himself.
The last thing Dean wanted was for Ben to follow in his footsteps, but he had to give the kid extra points for ingenuity. And persistence.
Dean had gladly supplied the young man with a list of hunters, along with his blessing in trying to convince any of them to join in and share their knowledge. The idea of spreading the hunting world's knowledge to those who sought it was a good one, an idea that Dean himself had even entertained a few times in the past. Something for others to do. Not Dean.
The list of hunters he'd given Ben had been, however, depressingly short. Between those already dead and those who wanted nothing to do with Dean Winchester, Ben had ended up with only three hunters.
The most important name, however, Ben was still working on getting.
"You promised that you would at least give it a try," Ben went on. "We already have ten people ready to sign in and this guy who is willing to finance us-"
"What guy?" Dean asked, suspicious of such generosity.
Ben rolled his eyes, something that told Dean that, like the meeting conversation, this too was something that Ben had told him more than once. "The new teacher? Jacob Michaels?"
Dean tensed. Right, Jacob Michaels... the Third.
Ben had told him about the substitute history teacher at his school. Apparently, the guy was loaded with money to his eyeballs, working as a teacher just because he liked it, or so Ben had relayed.
Dean had never met the guy, but he had checked up on him the second he'd invited Ben to some sort of history club that he was forming at the school. The guy checked out, though, as far as Dean could dig up; old money, had lost his wife to 'unusual' circumstances some five years before.
When the matter of supernatural creatures had come up for discussion and the new teacher had implied that monsters might not be as mythical and unreal as history books had lead people to believe, Ben had been the one to figure out that the new teacher probably knew a thing or two about the supernatural. And Dean had finally understood what sort of 'unusual circumstances had killed Jacob's wife.
After that, it came as no surprise to Dean that the new teacher would be interested in funding a 'hunters' school'. He knew all too well the feeling of easing one's pain by making sure others didn't go through the same. After all, that and revenge were the two main reasons for most hunters to start in the life.
Still, something about the guy rubbed Dean the wrong way.
"You already have Joshua, Johnson and Oliver," Dean pointed out, reserving his judgment of the man for when he finally got to meet him. "They'll do a fine job."
"We still need you-"
"No," Dean said sadly. "You need someone like Bobby... someone like Sam. They were teacher material. Not me."
"Well, they're dead," Ben pointed out, his eyes taking on a defiant glint that was always there when he mentioned Dean's dead brother. It looked foreign on Ben's face "Besides, you area teacher."
Dean sighed, sensing another losing battle. "I teach math to twelve year olds... hunting is a hell of a lot different."
"A promise is a promise, dad," Ben added with a pleading look.
For someone who had had so little contact with Sam, the kid had mastered the puppy-dog look even better than Dean's dead brother.
"Come on, now... we'll be late for school!" Ben said, taking off at a run to the truck parked outside.
≪◇≫
"Is he awake?"
The security guard sporting a blooming black eye turned and faced him squarely, a nervous twitch in his neck betraying the coolness of his stance. He was paid to behave like a protective wall, tall, strong and emotionless. He knew perfectly well that harboring thoughts of retribution towards the one who had given him that black eye would only get him fired. Still, it was clear from the current condition of his face that yes, the prisoner was awake.
"We have him secured to a chair, sir," the tall man said, red stained teeth peeking out between each word.
The prisoner had clearly put up a fight, as Marcus had expected him to.
"Good. Open the door."
The room was being kept in complete darkness. It was both a necessary measure to keep the prisoner confused about his surroundings and to make it easier for the infrared cameras and sensors scattered about to do their readings.
Light flooded the room as Marcus entered.
The man tied to the chair in the middle of an otherwise empty room, blinked furiously in attempt to adjust his sight. Canting his head to the side, he made abortive attempts to wipe at his eyes with his shoulders as the tears from the sudden and harsh change in brightness, rolled down his face.
"Who the fuck are you?" he growled.
Marcus stopped at a distance, clutching the weapon in his hand. Even bound, he would not risk everything by underestimating his prisoner.
"My name is Marcus Finnegan, the third."
The man on the chair finally squinted in his direction with a somewhat unfocused gaze. His lip was split and there was a red bruise forming on his chin. Rather than mar his face, the bruises seemed to enhance the man's fierceness, like they belong there and were just as much of a permanent feature as the man's green eyes.
"Good for you," the prisoner said dryly, devoid of all mirth. "Now do you mind letting me know why I was attacked by your King Kong buddy outside and why THE FUCK AM I TIED TO A CHAIR?" he asked, voice rising in tone as his anger grew. The chair, heavy as it was, scrapped across the floor as the man bucked in his seat, struggling against his bindings.
Marcus took a step back, eye on the ropes. He was sure that, if it weren't for those, the prisoner's hands would now be around his neck right now. "You are here because you have answers to questions that few other hunters even know how to ask," he said, trying to keep his voice steady, reminding himself that he was the one in charge. He was the one to be feared.
The man on the chair quieted at the mention of other hunters, just like Marcus knew he would.
This was like any other hostile takeover that he'd done in the past. And the man strapped to that chair was the smaller company that Marcus was going to tear apart for his own profit. They always fought, bared their teeth, but in the end, Marcus had always gotten what he wanted.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," his captive said, his eyes darting around not for the first time, looking for a weak spot that would allow him his freedom. "Never liked hunting all that much, to be honest," he went on, matter of factly. "Don't like my steak looking at me with condemning eyes when I eat it, if you know what I mean."
"Oddly enough, almost every hunter that I've met knows of you," Marcus went on, ignoring the man's words. "Or at least of your family. And they have a lot to say about you and your supposedly dead brother."
The man on the chair tensed, his rigid muscles betraying the fact that Marcus' words were getting closer.
"You and I, Dean," Marcus went on, taking special pleasure in confirming that he had in fact the right man in his possession, "we can learn a lot from each other. And I, for one, am looking forward to it."
"You got the wrong guy, pal," Dean offered casually, an almost bored look on his face. "Never liked teachers all that much and the one time I tried to be one, one kid ended up in the infirmary with a broken nose," he added with a smirk.
It was almost too easy to believe that Dean was telling the truth, that all of what Marcus had learned about him was nothing but lies and rumors. And yet, the words sounded almost like a threat coming from Dean's lips.
"Who is the man in the trench coat?" Marcus asked, unable to stop himself. There were so many questions to be answered and the one person with answers was right there, at his mercy. But right now, Marcus would settle for just one. "What is he?"
Dean looked up, meeting Marcus' eyes, gazing deeper than skin, into Marcus' soul. They had assured him that Dean was just a man, human like him, and yet, under his gaze, Marcus had his doubts. He found himself taking a step back, despite himself.
"People tend to wear clothes, trench coats included," Dean finally said, his lips curling into a smile. "You'll have to be a bit more specific than that."
Marcus extended his hand, revealing the weapon between his fingers. It didn't look like much, a simple square of black plastic with blue tips. Usually, Marcus used them to train his dogs. Today he would be training a different kind of animal.
"Tall guy, black hair, emotionless expression," Marcus elaborated. "The angel that seems to follow you everywhere," he ventured, hoping that Dean would confirm his guess.
Dean's eyes widened for half a second before he regained his uninterested, casual stance. "You're smoking the wrong meds, buddy. There's no such thing as angels."
Dean was lying through his teeth, Marcus knew that. He had to be.
Marcus drew the taser closer to Dean's face, making sure that he got a good look at what was coming. Surely the hunter knew how much one of those hurt close range like that. Answering a few simple questions could not be worth that kind of agony.
To Marcus' bafflement, Dean started to laugh.
"Really? A taser? What, no water hosing or whipping before?" Dean said between chuckles. "That's lame, dude... gotta do better than that."
When Marcus flicked the taser on and pressed the blue tip of the taser against Dean's neck, he realized that the man's unconcerned remarks about his weapon of choice hadn't been a bogus façade or even inflated hubris.
The only reaction the taser got from Dean was the physical one, the one that he could not help. His muscles tensed and spasmed. The smile turned into a rigid rictus that would not slip from Dean's face even as his teeth tinged red, probably from biting his own tongue.
If Marcus didn't know better, he would say that the man was enjoying it.
"Angels don't exist, you idiot," Dean let out as soon as Marcus removed the taser and allowed him the chance to catch his breath enough to speak. "Whatever it is you're searching for, you better search for it someplace else, cupcake."
Marcus dug his nails deep into his palms. He was feeling like a kid, playing with grown up toys. A man tied to a chair and being torture by him was making him feel incompetent and lacking... inept.
Marcus hated that more than anything.
≪◇≫
After losing the use of his legs and in need of transportation, Dean hadn't dared to 'mutilate' the Impala in order to make his poor car fit to be driven by a disabled person. Instead, he had gotten a new one, a bland Ford pickup, already built with paraplegics in mind, with a swiveling driver's seat and all.
The Impala was stored away, hidden from sight until the day Ben would decide to take the car for his own. Since it couldn't go to Sam, he'd be proud to have the boy take her.
That day, however, seemed not to be in the near future as Ben was more of a motorcycles kind of kid. Completely infatuated with the idea, he'd already begun saving up to buy one for himself, as soon as he turned eighteen. Until then, and since Dean taught at the same school Ben attended, they made the drive together.
Dean would've sold the Impala already if not for the fact that the mere thought of getting rid of the car made his chest grow tight. Just passing a similar model on the street made his heart beat faster.
That car had been more than a means of transportation for the Winchesters; it had been the glue that bonded two generations of hunters, the blood that had kept them going even when one of them was missing or dead. It was the symbol of a life that Dean would never get back.
Dean bit his bottom lip. There was a reason why he was out of the hunting life and the last thing that Dean wanted was to get involved in it again. Even so, seeing how excited Ben was about this, there was no way he could back out now.
As his arm reached out to grab the car keys, an electric jolt coursed through Dean's spine. The pain was so sharp and consuming that he almost fell off his chair as he tried to curl on himself. "Sssh... it!"
The world warped, turned white and, for a few seconds, Dean was in some other place, amid a swarm of tubes and whirling machines, helpless to move or even breathe on his own, surrounded by strange faces looking down on him.
Dean gripped the rails of the chair, nails digging in, grasping for something, anything to hold on to, anything that would ground him. The brightness dulled and he could finally blink, concentrating on taking one deep breath after another until he could control his body once more. Until he could see straight again. Slowly, the hall of his house took shape and colors returned.
"Son of a bitch…" Dean panted and pushed back until he was upright in his chair once more.
No matter how many times the same thing happened to him, Dean could never quite shake off this particular side effect of the accident. It always set his teeth on edge and left him feeling off somehow, like the world wasn't quite right.
Looking down, Dean saw the car keys. He had probably dropped then when the jolt had hit him. They seemed impossibly far away, on the floor.
Dean leaned over to one side, stretching his arm to reach the ground. His fingers brushed against the keychain, pushing it away instead of nearer and he cursed in frustration.
"Here, lemme get those for you," Ben's voice sounded from above. Before Dean could move further, the keys were grabbed off the ground, disappearing before his watery vision.
Dean looked up, eyeing Ben. "Thanks," he murmured and grabbed the keys from his kid. Some days, he wondered who exactly was taking care of whom in their crazy, fucked up family.
Grabbing the sidebars of his wheel chair, Dean pulled the door closed and went to the car where Ben was waiting. Dean guessed that the least he could do was give this school idea a try.
The screech of burning tires stole Dean from his thoughts just in time for him to see the black car swerving in his direction.
There was no time to escape, no time to react. He could only grab hold and hang on, fingers digging in a, claw like grasp on his wheelchair, as if the leather and metal could protect him from the coming impact. This was it.
Dean Winchester, hunter of demons and Heaven's pain in the ass, was going to die in his front lawn, sitting on his chair, too scared shitless to move.
And yet, everything was happening in slow motion around Dean. He could see the gravel, exploding from under the black car tires, as it raced in his direction; he could hear Ben's scream from inside the truck, all the while praying that the kid remained there rather than make some wild attempt to rescue Dean; he could see the car's license plate as it drove toward him, coming closer and closer. It was an odd plate.
The car was less than ten feet away and closing fast; the front grill was aimed straight at his chest. Then, just as quickly, the driver miraculously regained control of the car's steering. After a quick, sharp turn, the car was once again headed back to the road.
A second later, barely time for Dean to register that he was still in one piece and not splattered all over the dried up grass that neither he or Ben ever bothered to water, Ben's arms were around him. The kid was breathing hard, muttering hairy enough swear words that Dean should've probably rebuked him for using if he hadn't been so stunned by what had just almost happened.
"DICK! What sort of fucking asshole almost runs over a guy in a wheel chair and doesn't even stop?" Ben yelled by his side, furious at a nameless driver that was already long gone. "Are you okay?" The tone was gentle, almost a whisper, the kid's mood changing at a dizzying speed.
Dean nodded, world still playing catch up inside his head. He knew he should be angry at the fact that he had almost died, that he should be scared that Ben would have no one else to care for him if Dean had died. The license plate, however, was the one thing that he couldn't shake off.
A license plate that read like a tombstone. His tombstone. 'DW 1979-2012'
≪◇≫
Dean spat a mixture of saliva and blood on the floor. "You can keep using your tingly toy all day long, for all I care," he went on, panting breathlessly but not flinching as he gazed daggers at Marcus. "But from where I come from, that doesn't even register as torture, you ass."
Marcus grinded his teeth, tossing the taser away. He had to admit, his prisoner was right. Clean methods were just not cutting it. His foot flew out and hit Dean square in the chest, sending him and the chair crashing backwards.
Stunned by the fall, Dean's attitude lost some of its bite as he cried out in pain. With his hands tied behind the chair, Marcus supposed that some of the hunter's fingers might've broken when they took the brunt of Dean's weight in the fall. Served him right.
"Now... we're talking," Dean teased, his words casual even as he gasped in pain. "Even... if you hit like a... pre-school girl."
Marcus crouched by the man's side and grabbed Dean by his short, sweat soaked hair. "The answers I need are inside that head of yours," he hissed between clenched teeth, jerking Dean's head around. "And I'm getting them one way. Or. The. Other," he said, banging Dean's head against the floor with each word out of his mouth.
Dean was finally silent, no more blistering words coming out of his mouth. His accusing eyes had lost their bite as well, unfocused and half closed.
There was blood on his fingers when Marcus let go of Dean's head. He looked at it detachedly before wiping them clean on the man's shirt. Dean's blood looked black against the grey tee-shirt he was wearing, darker than the sweat stains.
It would've been too easy to get the information he needed just by asking Dean. Deep down, Marcus had known that all along.
It was time for more exertive options. "You can come take the samples now," Marcus said to one of the cameras, knowing that Dr. Art was on the other side, waiting for his say so.
The click of the door unlocking echoed through the empty room, nervous footsteps walking hurriedly towards the center. Bound and secured as the prisoner was, the doctor, barely out of school, still approached with care, like he would a cornered, wild animal. In his hands were two syringes; one filled with a slightly yellow liquid, the other one larger, empty.
"Brian, John, get over here," Marcus called out to the guards outside; two large men entered the room immediately. "Pick him up."
Both guards grunted as they picked the chair and its occupant from the floor and settled him upright. Dean was already coming around. His eyes zeroed in almost immediately on the young man in the white lab coat and the sharp needles in his hands.
Dean pulled hard against his restraints again, grunting and stressing the knots in hope for some kind of give from his previous struggles. Finding that there was no physical escape, the steady stream of screamed obscenities and threats to kill them all only increased in volume.
With one nod from Marcus, Brian moved in and threw one meaty arm around Dean's neck. His black eye, barely opened, glinted in satisfaction and there was a smug look on his face.
Barely able to keep on breathing and utterly immobilized, Dean had no choice but to hold still as the trembling young doctor finally managed to plunge the needle into the crook of his arm. Red blood rushed up, filling the container in a matter of seconds. The first sample of many, meant to give some answers that Marcus was sure Dean couldn't provide even if he'd wanted.
The second syringe was easier. Brian moved his arm barely an inch aside, giving room for the young doctor to press the sedative to Dean's neck.
He was out in a matter of seconds.
"Get the van ready. We're moving him to the medical quarters," Marcus ordered. "Dr. Stein will be waiting on him to start the tests."
≪◇≫
"Welcome, gentlemen," a short man with thick brown hair and a green polo shirt greeted them.
The room was big, a conference room of some sorts, something that Bobby had seen in the big, fancy hotels, but never in a private house. The decoration on the wall was about as personal and revealing as that of a hotel as well. Generic black and white photographs of landscapes and indigenous wild animals lined the upper walls at identical intervals. Their silver frames over the magenta walls made it look like a police lineup, rather than art.
There were no windows in that room and from the sounds he could hear on the other side, it was part of some bigger room. It had a certain cavernous feeling about it. It made Bobby shiver, despite the amount of people gathered there.
The place was filled with hunters and a few 'procurers of rare objects', the likes of Bela Talbot, that he'd crossed paths with before. Bobby had given up on any kind of exact head count but of those present, he recognized at least twenty of them. Of those, half he knew to be good and fairly trustworthy; the other half, he wouldn't turn his back on, knowing a knife would find its way there. They exchanged polite nods, before each taking a seat.
All the chairs, covered with soft material that matched the color on the walls, were facing a white screen. And in front of it, under a carefully planned spotlight, their host.
"Gentlemen." The curious crowd quieted almost immediately as he called their attention. "You are all here because I need someone with your level of expertise to find something for me," the man began as the room was plunged in darkness. "Something very rare."
Bobby took advantage of the dark to take a better look around, figure his chances of slipping away unnoticed. There was only one door to get in or out of that room. Through the opening, Bobby could glimpse the entry hall from where they'd come and the start of a flight of stairs that led to a second floor. Silhouetted against the dark, Bobby could still see the two security guards posted there, making sure that no one wandered very far from that room.
Bobby slid down into his comfortable chair. He had no other choice but to hear what that fool had to say.
Up ahead, an old picture torn around the edges filled the white screen. A sepia toned image of a rusty iron spike, about four inches in length with a rounded head, quickly sending the large gathering of hunters into a crescendo murmuring.
Their host eyed the crowd with a smirk. "I trust you all recognize what this is?"
The first image was replaced by the inside of a church. In the center of the picture, there was a glass box on display. Inside, sitting on a green velvet pillow, rested a similar spike to the one on the first image. Two more glass boxes were shown, one with a golden crown laden with precious stones and the last one with a horse's bridle.
"You want one of the Holy nails?" one the hunters asked, speaking above the whispered conversations.
"Precisely," the man said, signaling someone in the back of the room to turn the lights back on. "Helena, mother of Constantine the Great, was rumored to have found the True Cross, after which she took all four Holy nails to her home, in Constantinople. The crown, initially a royal helmet that she ordered to be made, and the bridle, were the result of the melting of two of these nails."
There were a couple of nervous coughs in the room and one badly disguised chuckle. Bobby looked around, searching the faces of the other hunters.
He knew what they were all thinking. Every hunter worth his salt knew about the lore surrounding the Holy nails, about how Constantine had used them to turn the tide of war. The nails used at the crucifixion held great power. Something like that, in today's world, would be like the ultimate weapon of mass destruction. Even if all the lore around them was nothing but crap, the mere fact of possessing the genuine article could move mountains, as faith often did.
It wasn't even a question of them, any of them, falling in to the wrong hands... there were no right hands for that sort of power.
The good news was that every hunter also knew that every Holy nail on display to the general public was as fake as Santa's beard.
"Those are all fakes," Bobby informed the man, just to be sure. After his little speech, even if this guy had nothing to do with Dean's disappearance, they would still need to keep an eye on him. Crap.
As if they didn't have enough to do keeping the world from ending at the hands of angels and demons...
"I know," he said, looking in Bobby's direction, carefully analyzing him.
Bobby held his ground. There was no way for the man to know who he was or what Bobby was really doing there, but he couldn't help but feel uncomfortable under the other man's careful scrutiny. In fact, if Bobby didn't know better, he would say that their host knew exactly who he was.
"However," the man went on, raising his voice to capture the attention of all in the room. "The money I offer to the first among you who can bring me the authentic one…" his gaze fell back on Bobby as he finished, "is very real, I assure you."
The room was suddenly alive with anxious chatter. Bobby could already see the glinting eyes of the rest of the hunters, thinking about the easy money that could be made at that poor sucker's expense.
Bobby, however, wasn't so sure that was the case. He had stumbled across too many people with more money than sense and all of them insisted on treating the supernatural things of this world like toys and trinkets, objects of fun and curiosity.
This man's interest in the matter was nothing like that. And he appeared to be far too well informed.
"And how will you recognize the real deal?" Bobby felt compelled to ask. He was truly curious because, honestly, old, rusty nails was something he had all over his house. If any would do, he'd be happy to supply a few.
Their host smiled, knowing perfectly well the effect that his next words would have. "I know of someone who will recognize the genuine item."
Bobby arched an eyebrow. As far as he knew, the only experts in the matter were hunters, and none that he knew of gave the Holy Nails that much importance. Sure, the man could call in some dusty old college professor to tell him whether a specific piece of metal was from the right year and model, but to say for sure which nail had been used on Christ's body and which had been used on some fish stand at the market place? It was impossible.
"You got Jesus Christ on your payroll too?" one of the other hunters threw in, apparently coming to the same conclusion as Bobby.
The others sniggered. Just as Bobby had suspected, not a single one of them was taking this request seriously.
"Better, an angel," Marcus said matter of factly. "And I have an... expert on the matter."
Bobby's eyes met Marcus' as he said those words. Judging by the smug look the man's face, Bobby knew exactly of whom he was talking about.
≪◇≫
They had picked a factory warehouse, closed for the day, to have the meeting. 'Money' guy, Jacob, owned the place and had offered it so that they could have some privacy.
It lent a level of secrecy and clandestinity to the whole thing that gave Dean's skin goosebumps.
He and Ben had been the first ones to arrive. Old habits died hard and there was no harm in either being careful of your surroundings or being prepared for all eventualities.
Before either of them set foot outside the car, as an extra measure of caution, Dean drove the perimeter of the warehouse, slowly, taking in the piled boxes and abandoned machinery. The factory seemed to be dedicated to furniture construction, the cheap kind, made primarily of soft woods like pine and particle board, that roles off assembly lines at the rate of hundreds per hour, not built to last. Outside, there were mostly empty delivery trucks.
Parking at the back, Dean turned off the truck's lights and sat in the dark for awhile, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the anorexic moon light that shone that night. They were in the middle of nowhere, nothing but the sound of cicadas for company.
In his old life, Dean would have been certain that this whole set up had been a trap. Trusting his instincts, he'd have walked into that warehouse armed to his teeth; ready to face whatever fugly thing lay in wait and trying to kill him. But this wasn't that life and he worked hard to push those instincts down, to silence them.
Now, he wasn't walking anywhere.
Now, Dean pulled his chair from behind the driver's seat and maneuvered his half-working body into it, as he waited for Ben to lift up the heavy folding doors so that he could roll inside.
The lights had been left on for them. An open invitation to make themselves at home.
Inside, the place was packed with construction materials on one side and closed boxes with finished furniture on the other. Row upon row of wooden boxes and metal structures lined the inside of the building, each creating several corridors. From above, Dean was sure the place would look like a maze.
Their destination was easy to guess. It was the only room in the place, three walls raised at the far left corner of the warehouse. Outside, on the door, a silver plate read 'Board Room' in black letters. Someone had crossed the 'R's and replaced the 'A' for an 'E' so that it read 'Boredoom' instead.
Looking inside, Dean could understand why the workers there would think that. It was obviously the place were staff meetings were held. Tall, grey file cabinets, like dull guardians surrounded the tables lined up in a crooked circle in the middle. The walls were decorated with self-achievement and encouragement posters, mixed with candid pictures of several different people. The workers, Dean could only assume.
The white board hanging at one end of the room had a scribbled message of 'Get your call sheets in by 5!'' in hurried handwriting; an unfinished game of tic-tac-toe and a couple of choice words decorated the rest of the board.
"Depressing enough," Dean assessed, earning a chuckle from Ben.
"Yeah, well, it's what was available," Ben explained. Out of habit, he went around making room for Dean's chair, so that he could roam freely across the interior. There wasn't that much space for maneuvering anyway.
"'Money' man owns this?" Dean asked, still assessing his surroundings.
Ben nodded. "He's working on a more permanent place, but says that for the time being, we can use the warehouse after working hours."
"Very generous of him," Dean muttered. It wasn't quite sarcasm, just... healthy distrust. He wondered how the man would feel if he knew that most of hunting training involved destroying things messily.
In his life, Dean had encountered very few people genuinely interested in helping others just for the sake of it. If he was to be honest with himself, Dean would say that he hadn't met any outside of family and friends.
There was always an angle, always a catch, always some profit to be made at the end of the run. This mysterious millionaire turned temporary teacher who had serendipitously turned up at Ben's school could prove to be the exception to the rule. But Dean seriously doubted that.
≪◇≫
To the general hunting community, angels were like fairies or flying horses: cute stories that people who knew nothing about reality told their little kids when they went to sleep. There were very few who had dealt with angels in their lives, fewer still that even knew that they existed. And none of those were in that room. Except for Bobby.
"You're an id'jit," Bobby couldn't help saying. Unlike the other hunters, he knew that the real reason of the man's idiocy wasn't believing that something that didn't exist was real and capable of being summoned. It was the fact that he, like so many idiots with more money than sense before him, believed that powerful beings were toys that he could use at his own fashion and whim. Sam and Dean had told him about the preacher's wife who had tried to control a reaper with some base-level spell and a pretty cross. This guy was even a bigger idiot if he thought he could try the same with an angel.
The man's fake smile dropped, face turning stormy and dangerous. Bobby could see that this was not a man used to having people pointing out his mistakes to his face.
"That might be so," their host eventually said, turning his back on the rest of the hunters and effectively dismissing them. "But that is not of your concern. Bring me a true Holy nail... or don't bother coming back."
Bobby looked around one more time. The meeting had been too quick, and the house was too big for him to have any inkling as to whether or not Dean was there. He needed more time; he needed a chance to slip away unnoticed by the ever present guards. This could be their only chance of looking for Dean in there.
There weren't that many ways to summon an angel. In truth, there wasn't even a single one that didn't depend on the angel's willingness to show up. Hell, Pamela had aid a hefty price for forcing one to show up. And even for any kind of summoning, whoever did it needed to know the angel's exact name in order to call him.
Back in the day, when Dean still had no idea of what or who Castiel was, Bobby had helped him 'summon' the angel. But Castiel had only showed up at his own pace, when he had managed to procure himself a vessel. And even then, Castiel had come because he had wanted to talk to Dean.
So, no, as far as Bobby knew, there was no guaranteed way to get any face-to-face time with just any generic angel. You had to either be a person of interest for those feathery fellas, or you'd have to have a personal link with one of them.
If there was anyone on Earth that could claim to have both, that person was Dean. And if this guy was this sure that he could get himself an angel, as easily as ordering pizza... well, two plus two was an easy enough add.
And that was why Bobby knew that he and Sam had come to the right place. Because this man was certain that he could get himself an angel; because he had in his possession the one person who could get him an angel. One specific angel.
Now, all Bobby and Sam needed to find was where that bastard was keeping Dean and find a way to-
The cold feeling at the back of his neck was not something that Bobby would easily dismiss. A lifetime as a hunter had taught him to trust that feeling; it had saved his life many times. He turned to find their host's eyes nailed on his back, carefully examining him. A tall security guard, dressed all in black and wearing an earpiece, was whispering something to his boss's ear. Whatever he said, it made Marcus smile, a vicious twist of his mouth that gave Bobby goosebumps.
Bobby was about to follow the procession of hunters out of the room when he heard his name. "Mr. Singer," Marcus called out. "A word, if you may."
Bobby looked around, accessing his any possible escape route. With only one exit out of that room and every security guards' eyes on him, he had little choice but stay put and face whatever was coming his way. Who knows? Maybe he'd get lucky and they would grab him and put him in the same place where they were keeping Dean. The fact that Marcus knew his name hardly surprised the older hunter.
"Please, tell Sam that he's free to come inside with you next time you drop by," Marcus said with a knowing smile that screamed sarcasm with every pearly tooth. "It's always better than walking around aimlessly around other people's private properties without their consent, wouldn't you say?"
The nerve on the man's balls was churning its way through Bobby's stomach, enough to make the older hunter forget all about caution and specific goals and just rip the man's throat out. To his credit, he merely nodded and walked out. Inside his chest, his heart was hammering like a racehorse on ecstasy. He fully expected to arrive to an empty car.
≪◇≫
Dean looked at the watch on his wrist and cleaned his palms on his jeans, feeling the cut on the center of the left one sting with the contact. His hands were sweaty, his heart hammering harder as the appointed hour drew nearer. Dean hadn't been around other hunters since Sam's death. He'd left the life behind and, with it, most of the contacts he'd made in that world.
When Bobby too had died, Dean Winchester and the hunting world had stopped crossing paths entirely.
Sound echoed through the tall building, magnified by the industrial concrete floors and metal walls, alerting Dean and Ben to the first arrivals of the evening. Dean didn't recognize any of them, but from the way the three boys and four young girls waved at Ben, Dean figured those were the would-be students.
"They're all so young," Dean whispered before they were within hearing range. "You didn't tell me this was going to be kindergarten class."
Ben threw him a look. Dean knew that look well; he remembered that look from Sam's teen years, when he'd started to confront their father.
"They're all older than me, you know?" he let out, heading out to greet the new arrivals. Which... really didn't make Dean feel any more comfortable with Ben's presence.
Dean knew Ben was trying to grow up fast, that he was tired of being a kid, of being treated like a kid; he figured all teens went through that, only, in Ben's case, his goals were a little more risky than just getting a car or banging his first chick.
Ben was fascinated with the hunting world. Where Dean saw nothing but pain, blood and loss, Ben saw heroes, guts and glory.
The large door to the parking lot screeched as it opened one more time, admitting familiar faces this time around.
David Joshua, with his large frame and baldhead, was easy to spot at a distance. Always larger than life itself, the man hadn't aged a day since Dean had last seen him.
Anne Oliver was walking beside him, chatting animatedly, fiery red hair that went well with her fiery disposition.
Daniel Johnson, always the recluse, walked behind them, head turning and assessing the place, much like Dean himself had done, hands stuffed deeply inside his leather jacket, fingers probably playing over the edge of his knife.
"Dean Win-motherfucking-chester," Joshua greeted as soon as he spotted Dean. "Long time no see man," he said, throwing a heartfelt arm forward and grasping Dean by the wrist. A warrior's greeting, even though Dean had long stopped being one.
Dean was just glad the man's eyes hadn't lingered more than five seconds on his wheelchair.
Not like Anne was doing.
"I... I didn't know," she offered, crouching in front of Dean to meet him eye to eye.
He hated when people did that. It served only to remind Dean that he could no longer get up to meet them back in equal terms.
"Was it... were you hunting when it happened?" she asked, despite the cold look that Dean was giving her. The woman was a terrific hunter, but clueless when it came to human skills.
"Polo accident," Dean supplied dryly, turning to greet Johnson even as Joshua dragged Anne inside, hastily telling her to 'shut the fuck up!'. "Daniel."
The other man nodded, shortly, curt and dry, barely stopping as he went inside. Dean smirked. Silent and efficient, just the way a hunter should be. Just like his father had been.
Dean followed him into the office, watching the packed room. There was a certain feeling of anxiety, or baited breath just before something outstanding happened.
Dean blinked and suddenly he was someplace else.
A house. No… smaller than that, something barely standing on its own. An old shed that smelled of gun oil and stale air.
Dark.
There were cracks on the wooden walls, big enough to allow some light from outside to sneak in. There was someone sitting in one of the darker corners of the room, elbows resting on bony knees, barely moving.
Sam.
Dean shook his head, the 'boredom' room materializing again around him. This was not the time and place for his mind to wander off on him like that, even if it seemed like he couldn't stop it lately. And the oddest part was that he couldn't even pinpoint where or when these images that came to his mind had happened, or if they'd happened at all. Maybe he was imagining things… maybe he was starting to lose his mind.
Finding Ben's face in middle of the small crowd, Dean relaxed. He wasn't sure what was supposed to happen now, but he couldn't help but smile back at the beaming grin that Ben threw his direction. The boy's excitement over this was contagious. "Guess we should get started then," Dean muttered, reluctantly taking his spot at the front of the small crowd.
"Not waiting for your host? I'm wounded," a male voice, filled with mirth, sounded from the door Dean had left open.
Dean looked up, watching the new arrival. Judging from his words, Jacob Michaels, the Third.
"Dean Winchester," the man went on, ignoring all others to clasp Dean's hand. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you."
Dean shook the man's hand. It was all he needed to confirm what he had already suspected as soon as the 'man' had walked over the line of salt that Dean had spread over the threshold, pass the devil's trap drawn in invisible ink on the floor and into the room. He wondered if the others could see it as easily as Dean did.
"Ben has told me all about you," Jacob went on, one arm thrown around Ben's shoulders, in a gesture of far too much familiarity.
Dean's eyes hardened, his hands itching to pull Ben away from that man's touch. "Can't say the same about you," Dean said quietly, reassessing the situation. "But then again, Ben doesn't really know all about what you are, does he?"
It wasn't exactly a hostile greeting, but it was a challenge of sorts, and everyone, hunter and amateur alike, got the message. All casual conversation died until the most tangible silence descended. From the corner of his eyes, Dean could see the other hunters tensing, ready to go for whatever weapons he was sure they had concealed on their persons.
Ben was looking at Dean pointedly. Unlike the others, who had learned to be cautious of the things they did not know, the only thing that Ben could see was Dean, being rude to the man responsible for making his dream possible. "Deeean..."
"He never asked," Jacob said with a smile, not even bothering to deny Dean's claim.
In a matter of seconds, all three hunters in the room had their weapons out, two guns and a crossbow, all trained on Jacob.
"None of that is gonna work on something like him," Dean warned them, his eyes never leaving Jacob. He was too close to Ben, too within reach, too easy for one stray shot to hit the kid rather than the intended target.
"And none is necessary," Jacob said, his arms spread to the side, looking as harmless as he could muster. "I mean harm to no one in this room. My kin are not monsters."
"What kin is yours again?" Joshua hissed, ignoring Jacob's claim of being harmless.
"I am an angel of the Lord," Jacob said solemnly, eliciting stunned gasps from just about everyone in the room. It was all Dean could do to not roll his eyes.
Angels did seem to have a penchant for overly dramatic entrances.
≪◇≫
The older hunter had no memory of making the trip back to the car. One look inside, however, and he was able to put his worries at rest. Sam was waiting for him, sitting in the driver' seat, holding something to his face.
"Couldn't stay put, could you?"
Sam looked up, still holding the bandana that was soaking up the bleeding gash in his forehead. "What gave it away?" he asked with no mirth.
"The asshole who owns the place, Marcus somethingoranother, 'the third'," Bobby said dryly, opening the door and pushing Sam over to the passenger' side. "He made sure to lemme know that the only reason why you weren't dog food at this point was because he didn't want it."
Sam looked ahead, furious. "The place has more security than a fucking prison," he confessed. "I thought that maybe I could catch some suspicious coming and goings from the guards, or maybe a structure that stood out, some place where he could keep Dean."
"And?"
"And I found out that the security people in this place like their taser guns way too much and have no problem in kicking a guy when he's already down," he added with a wince, pressing the cloth harder against his forehead. "What about you? Did you manage to find anything?"
Bobby shook his head, starting the car. He couldn't wait to put that place in his rearview mirror. "He knew who I was, and I bet you he knows we're looking for Dean," Bobby let out through clenched teeth. "He knows everything."
Sam blinked. "How?"
"He has Dean," Bobby said.
≪ ◇≫