Return to Oz, Part Three
It was almost five when Dean pulled into the visitor’s parking lot of the D.C hotel. It wasn’t the same place he’d stayed in last time; though he doubted they’d remember him, he wanted to maintain some semblance of anonymity.
Castiel in tow, he made his way to reception, credit card bearing the name “Eric McCreary” in hand. Eric McCreary was in town on business with colleagues, and required two double rooms. The card processed without drama, which was something of a relief - with everything that was going on, he didn’t want “arrested for credit card fraud” thrown into the mix.
Dean passed one of the spare keycards over to Castiel, who stared at it with some confusion.
‘It works the same way as a key,’ Dean told him. ‘You just shove it in the slot, and then “whammo!”’
He was more than happy to step back and let the angel take care of opening the door - Castiel was frustrated at first, then pleased when the door opened, though anyone who didn’t know him would have probably missed the signs of emotion.
The first room was of a decent size - larger than the ones they usually got at nameless, side of the road motels, but at the same time, it seemed more stifling. The first thing he did was break out the salt and run a line across the door, and underneath the windows. They were fifteen stories up, but he sure as hell wasn’t taking any chances.
While waiting for Emily to call, Dean decided that the most useful course of action would be to test the mattress. Five points for comfort. Two for springiness.
It was almost six o’clock when she finally did call, and her voice was both tired and melancholy.
‘Hey, Garcia and I are grabbing dinner - what did you want?’
What he wanted was roast beef with potatoes and carrots. Sunday dinner was always a big event at the Braeden house, and Ben would always make sure they had apple pie and ice-cream afterwards.
‘Subway,’ he settled on, because burgers every freaking night got a bit boring, and if he lived past forty, then he wanted to make sure he wasn’t going to die of high cholesterol.
Here’s to a normal, apple pie life, Sammy.
He’d broken that promise, ten times over. The life he was living now seemed just as strange - if not stranger - than the life he’d had with Sam. Things got confusing when you started working the other side of the line.
‘Garcia should stay here tonight,’ Dean said, and he heard Emily relaying the suggestion.
‘You think someone might be after her?’
‘I don’t want to take any chances.’
‘She wants to know if she can bring her boyfriend.’
Dean paused. Sure, let’s turn it into one giant demon-hunting party. That won’t attract any attention.
‘If demons are responsible, then he too could be a target,’ Castiel provided. Dean rolled his eyes.
‘Sure, bring the whole gang along.’ He was glad that they’d booked two rooms now, because if Garcia was bringing her boyfriend along, things would probably get crowded. Not to mention awkward. “Happy families” wasn’t a game that Dean was good at. Sam was the one that had wanted a normal life. Dean had his chance, and he’d walked away.
Anyone else and they’d have to attach a freaking side-car to the Impala. Washington D.C. was seriously cramping his style. Too many people, too many problems.
While they waited, he set up Sammy’s old laptop. The news sites still had pitifully little information, but then, Dean usually left the database hacking to other people.
Here, the murder of a diplomat was pretty big news; the journalists didn’t seem particularly happy about the tight-lipped attitude of the police.
‘What do you think?’ he asked Castiel, who was standing by the window, staring out over the city.
‘There is much darkness in this city.’
Dean grunted. ‘They call that politics. Freaking monsters are easier to understand.’
‘Humans are…strange creatures.’
‘You’re just figuring that out now?’
‘Lucifer’s plan is flawed in its execution, but his ideals-’
Dean cut the angel off before he could speak any further. ‘This is not “sympathize with the devil” day, alright?’
There was a pause.
‘I was not attempting to justify his actions; I was questioning God’s.’
‘Oh.’ That was better. Maybe.
‘There are some who are able to provide me with information, but it may take some time.’
‘I get the feeling we’ll be here for a while anyway,’ Dean said. Castiel nodded, and then teleported out.
It felt strange, being alone in the hotel room, but then, he wasn’t alone for long. It was twenty minutes later when Emily sent him a message, asking to meet them down in the lobby. He was a little suspicious for a minute, before he remembered that you needed a keycard to use the elevator. That didn’t preclude the possibility of a demon attack, though, so he tucked his gun into the back of his pants, hoping that the cut of the jacket would hide the bulge.
He was hoping to avoid attention, but apparently that wasn’t on the books - Penelope Garcia was wearing a lime green bubble skirt, with a ridiculously flowery blouse, and the man who he assumed to be her boyfriend wasn’t much better. In jeans and a t-shirt, Emily was the least conspicuous, but already they were attracting stares from other hotel guests.
Garcia gave him an enthusiastic greeting, introducing him to the boyfriend - Kevin Lynch, also a technical analyst with the FBI, apparently. He was hanging out with way too many FBI agents lately.
Emily gave him a grim smile, but said nothing, as they made their way back to the bank of elevators.
‘How did it go?’ he asked, in a low voice, falling into step beside her.
She shrugged. ‘As well as could be expected. They don’t have any leads yet, but they didn’t arrest me and toss me in a prison cell either, so that’s something.’ She sighed. ‘On top of that, I need to co-ordinate with my mother’s assistant to sort out funeral arrangements…’ Her face twisted into a frown. ‘You don’t mind staying in D.C. for a few more days?’
‘We’re staying until we find out what happened,’ he replied. ‘If there was a demon involved, we need to know.’
‘Why would a demon kill my mother?’ she asked, her voice weary. ‘There are easier ways to get my attention.’
Dean shook his head.
He didn’t know that answer to that one.
…
Dinner was a mostly silent affair, Garcia and Kevin both setting up their laptops. The hotel room was starting to look like a computer store.
Emily leaned back into the pillows of the bed, closing her eyes. It was so damn tempting to sleep, but if she did, she knew that the nightmares would come. The trouble was, staying awake seemed just as uninviting.
Logically, it made sense that they’d have to look into this. Thanks to the incident in the bar, they knew that there were demons on the prowl. Emily had never met a demon that used bullets to kill someone, but then, the only demon she’d really met was the one that had attacked them just yesterday. Dean was the expert, here.
If the murderer were human, then they’d be on Emily’s turf. She didn’t know which outcome she preferred.
Her mind was pushing through the same thoughts over and over again. She’s dead, Emily. You could have saved her. You could have told her what was out there. No amount of rationalization, no amount of logical rebuttal would stop those voices.
‘I’m gonna go have a shower,’ she muttered, grabbing her bag, and the keycard to the other room. It wasn’t particularly late, but it had been a long day for all of them. She could already see Kevin starting to yawn.
‘We might go to bed,’ Garcia said in agreement. ‘If we get some sleep now, we can keep working tomorrow.’
Dean didn’t seem particularly overjoyed about being stuck in the room with them, but Emily wasn’t in the mood for caring.
The hot water stung like a bitch.
Castiel had healed all of her bar fight injuries, but when you had the water running as hot as it would go, it tended to sting no matter how uninjured you were.
She let her mind melt away.
Easier said than done.
She put on her dress pants, and the one shirt she had that would be actually suitable for a hotel bar; most of her more sophisticated clothes were still in her closet at the condo, probably musty as anything by now. She didn’t have any heels with her, but then, the amount of drinking she planned on doing, flats were probably better anyway.
Emily walked softly to the elevators; letting Dean on to where she was going was more trouble than it was worth. Tonight was about blocking everything out.
The first drink she ordered was a White Lady; her mother’s drink. Emily herself preferred her alcohol neat or straight up.
The second drink she ordered was scotch. It burned on the way down, but that was the whole idea.
The third drink she ordered was scotch again, but before she had the chance to drink it, she felt the shadow looming over her.
…
‘What do you want?’ Emily muttered, not turning around. Dean watched as she turned the glass on the table, fingers trailing through the ring of moisture.
‘You could have told me where you were going,’ he said.
‘And what would you have done? Handcuffed me to the towel rack?’
‘Made sure you didn’t drink yourself into a coma, for starters.’
‘No offense, Dean, but when you met me, I was drinking myself to sleep most nights.’
‘How’d that work out for you?’ he asked, shaking his head. ‘We should go back upstairs - it’s not exactly safe down here.’ Especially not with her trying to drown her sorrows, he added mentally.
Emily shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I am sick of this bullshit; you can go back to your cozy little duprass with Mr. “I only have one facial expression” and leave me the hell out of it.’
Dean sat down on the stool beside her, flagging the bartender down. ‘Could I get some water, please?’ He turned to face Emily. ‘First of all, we both know that God doesn’t give a crap about what any of us do. Secondly, if I have a duprass with anyone, it’s S…It’s not Castiel. Thirdly, if you really want to take Bokononism seriously, then we can go upstairs and pretend that we’re happy.’
The bartender passed him the glass of water, which he gave to Emily. She stared at him for several seconds before downing the glass in one gulp.
‘Isn’t that what we’re always doing?’ she said, and for a moment, Dean wasn’t quite sure whether she was talking to him. ‘Pretending that we’re happy?’ She paused. ‘Which is your favorite?’
Dean frowned. ‘My favorite what?’
‘Vonnegut, genius. You like Cat’s Cradle?’
‘I like Mother Night.’
She nodded. ‘Mother Night is awesome. Here’s to fighting that fight without anyone ever realizing it, right?’
‘Right.’
‘It’s funny…most people usually say Slaughterhouse-Five.’
‘I guess I don’t like being told that there’s no such thing as free will.’
‘Is there?’ She stared at him, an utterly forlorn look in her eyes.
He shook his head. He didn’t know that answer to that question. Once upon a time, he would have said “yes, absolutely,” but there had been a general air of hopelessness to things lately. ‘Come on. Let’s get back.’
Emily was a little wobbly on her feet, but she refused any help walking to the elevator. Not as drunk as she seemed, apparently.
She started crying the moment the doors shut. Loud, wracking sobs that would probably have embarrassed her if she had the capacity to care. The events of the day were finally coming to a fruition.
Dean pulled her into a one-armed hug.
‘I’m sorry,’ Emily murmured. ‘It’s just…she’s dead, Dean. My mother is dead.’
‘I know,’ he said, feeling a little awkward. She was looking to him for comfort, and he wasn’t quite sure he could give it.
Dean Winchester was no stranger to death. Really, he had a more intimate knowledge of what it was like than most people, having died no less than three times now. He didn’t count Broward County, though, which probably would have put the tally up into the hundreds. He could, with some accuracy, tell Emily just what awaited her mother in the afterlife, but that wasn’t what she wanted to hear.
What she wanted to hear was that everything was going to be okay.
So Dean Winchester lied.
He let a hand brush the tears from her cheek. ‘Everything’s going to be okay,’ he said, and it didn’t take a genius to realize that she didn’t believe him.
Their lips were hovering, just inches apart, and Dean knew it was a bad idea, but he’d never really been one for doing the smart thing. It had been months since they’d first kissed, and he still remembered how it felt
This kiss tasted like salt and whiskey. Salt from the tears, and whiskey from the sorrows that she’d been drowning down in the hotel bar.
They pulled apart as the elevator stopped at their floor.
‘Emily…’
‘I’m a big girl, I can take no for an answer,’ Emily told him, the fierceness in her voice belying the melancholy in her eyes.
There was a long silence.
Finally, Dean said, ‘What if I don’t want to say no?’
She gave a wavering smile. ‘I can take yes for an answer too.’
‘Good.’
Castiel was still out on his information-gathering mission, and Penelope and Kevin were both asleep in the room next door, which meant that they had a hotel room to themselves.
The first thing Dean did was draw a new line of salt across the door; he would be really, really pissed if a demon decided to burst in on them tonight, of all nights.
He shucked his clothes quickly, and Emily did the same, their actions interspersed by intense, rapid-fire kisses. Tonight wasn’t about romance - it was about passion, and maybe a little bit of stress relief. Dean liked and respected Emily a lot, but he knew - and he was pretty sure that she knew too - that he could never do the whole romance thing.
It had barely lasted a few months with Lisa, and even if Emily was a hunter rather than a housewife, he couldn’t exactly imagine them still hunting together in ten years, he taking down a djinn, or a vampire, or a wendigo while she took the kids to school.
Really, though, that wasn’t something he was trying to think about. He was trying to think about the woman whose throat he was kissing. Foreplay wasn’t exactly on the books; it was hard, fast, and immensely satisfying, but Dean was still content to wrap an arm around her, dark hair splayed across his chest.
Sometimes it was nice to have and to hold, without all that extra stuff. For all they knew, the world would go to hell tomorrow. Sometimes, Dean wondered if the world had gone to hell a long time ago, and the forces of good and evil were just catching up.
The question was, how long would it take?
…
Emily’s phone rang at a ridiculously ungodly hour the next morning. Her head was pounding, even though she hadn’t exactly had that much to drink, and her body was pleasantly aching in all the right places. She rolled off of Dean, who started to stir, and reached over to the nightstand.
The Caller I.D. read “Detective Stapledon,” and if it was anyone else, she would have been pretty damn pissed.
‘Hello?’
‘Ag…Miss Prentiss? Detective Stapledon here. I just thought you’d want to know that we just arrested Peter Straczynski for your mother’s murder.’
Emily blinked.
‘Peter?’ she asked, a little incredulous. The man had been her mother’s assistant, and while she’d only met him a few times, he didn’t seem the murdering type. But then, some of them never did.
‘He’s already confessed - there were some altercations, and according to several of your mother’s associates, she was on the verge of firing him.’
‘Okay…’ She heard the shakes in her own voice. It all seemed so anticlimactic, so purposeless. Her mother’s death had absolutely nothing to do with the damn apocalypse. It was simultaneously a weight off her shoulders, and a knife to the gut.
She felt kind of empty, as she hung up the phone. That the case was solved gave some kind of closure, but the fact remained that her mother was dead. She would never be coming back.
‘Whozat?’ Dean asked, his voice a mumble.
‘Detective Stapledon,’ she told him. ‘They made an arrest.’
He sat up suddenly. ‘No demon?’
‘No demon,’ she confirmed. ‘We can rest easy. At least for today.’
Dean gave a hollow laugh. ‘Somehow, I doubt it.’
‘Yeah…’ she agreed. ‘I guess I should probably find a funeral home.’ She shook her head. ‘You know, I don’t think I even have any clothes for something like this.’
‘You want to make a run back to your condo?’ he asked. ‘Pick up a few things.’
It was almost pathetic how much those words made her feel better. There were a few things that she’d left behind that she wanted to grab.
Breakfast came first - with Castiel still not back, it was just the four of them. Emily was hyperaware of the suggestive looks that Garcia kept shooting her way. She rolled her eyes. There was no way in hell she was going to discuss the situation with Dean still in the room, so it would just have to wait until later.
Kevin and Garcia stayed at the hotel, while Dean and Emily made the drive to her condo. It wasn’t a long drive, but the Metro wasn’t a particularly appealing option to either of them. Even the elevator ride up was a more comforting experience than she was willing to admit. Out of all the places Emily Prentiss had lived, this was the one that felt most like home.
It took less than five seconds between opening the door and realizing that there was something very, very wrong.
They both drew their weapons simultaneously, sharing a glance.
The man came out of nowhere, flinging Dean across the room. He fell to the ground, unconscious. At least, she hoped like hell that he was unconscious, because she really, really didn’t know what she’d do if he ended up dead too.
Her finger squeezed against the trigger, firing half a dozen bullet’s into the creature’s chest, each having as little effect as the last. Demon, her mind said, with the addendum of fuck.
She had no salt, no iron, and a ridiculously small amount of hunting experience. Dean might have been able to get out of this one. Emily didn’t have a chance.
But the demon didn’t do anything. It just stared.
She kept her feet firmly planted on the ground as it took a single step towards her, its eyes blood red with a black pupil. ‘What do you want?’ she asked, determined not to let the fear enter her voice.
The demon grinned. ‘I want to make a deal.’
…
When Dean woke, it was with a splitting headache, and the sinking feeling that the world had gone to hell.
He remembered Pennsylvania, and the long drive to D.C., and Emily…
Emily.
He stood quickly, the world spinning around him. Blood was trickling down the side of his face, but none of that was important. What was important was grabbing Emily, and getting the hell out of there.
He saw the blood before he saw her. Just a small pool of it - his heart sunk a little, but not too much. Not until he saw the wound in her chest, and the stillness of her form. He put a hand to her cheek; her skin was soft and cold.
No, please no.
She wasn’t breathing.
It seemed almost pointless to check for a pulse, but he did anyway, hoping like hell that he would feel even just a soft, slow, beat.
There was nothing.
The demon had killed her, and left him.
Why?
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, voice choked with tears.
He heard the distinctive sound of a door being kicked in, but he didn’t move.
He heard the distinctive sound of cuffs being clicked around his wrists, but he didn’t move.
The cop dragged him to his feet, and he couldn’t quite take his eyes of the body.
Another person dead, because of him.
The world really had gone to hell.
Castiel in tow, he made his way to reception, credit card bearing the name “Eric McCreary” in hand. Eric McCreary was in town on business with colleagues, and required two double rooms. The card processed without drama, which was something of a relief - with everything that was going on, he didn’t want “arrested for credit card fraud” thrown into the mix.
Dean passed one of the spare keycards over to Castiel, who stared at it with some confusion.
‘It works the same way as a key,’ Dean told him. ‘You just shove it in the slot, and then “whammo!”’
He was more than happy to step back and let the angel take care of opening the door - Castiel was frustrated at first, then pleased when the door opened, though anyone who didn’t know him would have probably missed the signs of emotion.
The first room was of a decent size - larger than the ones they usually got at nameless, side of the road motels, but at the same time, it seemed more stifling. The first thing he did was break out the salt and run a line across the door, and underneath the windows. They were fifteen stories up, but he sure as hell wasn’t taking any chances.
While waiting for Emily to call, Dean decided that the most useful course of action would be to test the mattress. Five points for comfort. Two for springiness.
It was almost six o’clock when she finally did call, and her voice was both tired and melancholy.
‘Hey, Garcia and I are grabbing dinner - what did you want?’
What he wanted was roast beef with potatoes and carrots. Sunday dinner was always a big event at the Braeden house, and Ben would always make sure they had apple pie and ice-cream afterwards.
‘Subway,’ he settled on, because burgers every freaking night got a bit boring, and if he lived past forty, then he wanted to make sure he wasn’t going to die of high cholesterol.
Here’s to a normal, apple pie life, Sammy.
He’d broken that promise, ten times over. The life he was living now seemed just as strange - if not stranger - than the life he’d had with Sam. Things got confusing when you started working the other side of the line.
‘Garcia should stay here tonight,’ Dean said, and he heard Emily relaying the suggestion.
‘You think someone might be after her?’
‘I don’t want to take any chances.’
‘She wants to know if she can bring her boyfriend.’
Dean paused. Sure, let’s turn it into one giant demon-hunting party. That won’t attract any attention.
‘If demons are responsible, then he too could be a target,’ Castiel provided. Dean rolled his eyes.
‘Sure, bring the whole gang along.’ He was glad that they’d booked two rooms now, because if Garcia was bringing her boyfriend along, things would probably get crowded. Not to mention awkward. “Happy families” wasn’t a game that Dean was good at. Sam was the one that had wanted a normal life. Dean had his chance, and he’d walked away.
Anyone else and they’d have to attach a freaking side-car to the Impala. Washington D.C. was seriously cramping his style. Too many people, too many problems.
While they waited, he set up Sammy’s old laptop. The news sites still had pitifully little information, but then, Dean usually left the database hacking to other people.
Here, the murder of a diplomat was pretty big news; the journalists didn’t seem particularly happy about the tight-lipped attitude of the police.
‘What do you think?’ he asked Castiel, who was standing by the window, staring out over the city.
‘There is much darkness in this city.’
Dean grunted. ‘They call that politics. Freaking monsters are easier to understand.’
‘Humans are…strange creatures.’
‘You’re just figuring that out now?’
‘Lucifer’s plan is flawed in its execution, but his ideals-’
Dean cut the angel off before he could speak any further. ‘This is not “sympathize with the devil” day, alright?’
There was a pause.
‘I was not attempting to justify his actions; I was questioning God’s.’
‘Oh.’ That was better. Maybe.
‘There are some who are able to provide me with information, but it may take some time.’
‘I get the feeling we’ll be here for a while anyway,’ Dean said. Castiel nodded, and then teleported out.
It felt strange, being alone in the hotel room, but then, he wasn’t alone for long. It was twenty minutes later when Emily sent him a message, asking to meet them down in the lobby. He was a little suspicious for a minute, before he remembered that you needed a keycard to use the elevator. That didn’t preclude the possibility of a demon attack, though, so he tucked his gun into the back of his pants, hoping that the cut of the jacket would hide the bulge.
He was hoping to avoid attention, but apparently that wasn’t on the books - Penelope Garcia was wearing a lime green bubble skirt, with a ridiculously flowery blouse, and the man who he assumed to be her boyfriend wasn’t much better. In jeans and a t-shirt, Emily was the least conspicuous, but already they were attracting stares from other hotel guests.
Garcia gave him an enthusiastic greeting, introducing him to the boyfriend - Kevin Lynch, also a technical analyst with the FBI, apparently. He was hanging out with way too many FBI agents lately.
Emily gave him a grim smile, but said nothing, as they made their way back to the bank of elevators.
‘How did it go?’ he asked, in a low voice, falling into step beside her.
She shrugged. ‘As well as could be expected. They don’t have any leads yet, but they didn’t arrest me and toss me in a prison cell either, so that’s something.’ She sighed. ‘On top of that, I need to co-ordinate with my mother’s assistant to sort out funeral arrangements…’ Her face twisted into a frown. ‘You don’t mind staying in D.C. for a few more days?’
‘We’re staying until we find out what happened,’ he replied. ‘If there was a demon involved, we need to know.’
‘Why would a demon kill my mother?’ she asked, her voice weary. ‘There are easier ways to get my attention.’
Dean shook his head.
He didn’t know that answer to that one.
…
Dinner was a mostly silent affair, Garcia and Kevin both setting up their laptops. The hotel room was starting to look like a computer store.
Emily leaned back into the pillows of the bed, closing her eyes. It was so damn tempting to sleep, but if she did, she knew that the nightmares would come. The trouble was, staying awake seemed just as uninviting.
Logically, it made sense that they’d have to look into this. Thanks to the incident in the bar, they knew that there were demons on the prowl. Emily had never met a demon that used bullets to kill someone, but then, the only demon she’d really met was the one that had attacked them just yesterday. Dean was the expert, here.
If the murderer were human, then they’d be on Emily’s turf. She didn’t know which outcome she preferred.
Her mind was pushing through the same thoughts over and over again. She’s dead, Emily. You could have saved her. You could have told her what was out there. No amount of rationalization, no amount of logical rebuttal would stop those voices.
‘I’m gonna go have a shower,’ she muttered, grabbing her bag, and the keycard to the other room. It wasn’t particularly late, but it had been a long day for all of them. She could already see Kevin starting to yawn.
‘We might go to bed,’ Garcia said in agreement. ‘If we get some sleep now, we can keep working tomorrow.’
Dean didn’t seem particularly overjoyed about being stuck in the room with them, but Emily wasn’t in the mood for caring.
The hot water stung like a bitch.
Castiel had healed all of her bar fight injuries, but when you had the water running as hot as it would go, it tended to sting no matter how uninjured you were.
She let her mind melt away.
Easier said than done.
She put on her dress pants, and the one shirt she had that would be actually suitable for a hotel bar; most of her more sophisticated clothes were still in her closet at the condo, probably musty as anything by now. She didn’t have any heels with her, but then, the amount of drinking she planned on doing, flats were probably better anyway.
Emily walked softly to the elevators; letting Dean on to where she was going was more trouble than it was worth. Tonight was about blocking everything out.
The first drink she ordered was a White Lady; her mother’s drink. Emily herself preferred her alcohol neat or straight up.
The second drink she ordered was scotch. It burned on the way down, but that was the whole idea.
The third drink she ordered was scotch again, but before she had the chance to drink it, she felt the shadow looming over her.
…
‘What do you want?’ Emily muttered, not turning around. Dean watched as she turned the glass on the table, fingers trailing through the ring of moisture.
‘You could have told me where you were going,’ he said.
‘And what would you have done? Handcuffed me to the towel rack?’
‘Made sure you didn’t drink yourself into a coma, for starters.’
‘No offense, Dean, but when you met me, I was drinking myself to sleep most nights.’
‘How’d that work out for you?’ he asked, shaking his head. ‘We should go back upstairs - it’s not exactly safe down here.’ Especially not with her trying to drown her sorrows, he added mentally.
Emily shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I am sick of this bullshit; you can go back to your cozy little duprass with Mr. “I only have one facial expression” and leave me the hell out of it.’
Dean sat down on the stool beside her, flagging the bartender down. ‘Could I get some water, please?’ He turned to face Emily. ‘First of all, we both know that God doesn’t give a crap about what any of us do. Secondly, if I have a duprass with anyone, it’s S…It’s not Castiel. Thirdly, if you really want to take Bokononism seriously, then we can go upstairs and pretend that we’re happy.’
The bartender passed him the glass of water, which he gave to Emily. She stared at him for several seconds before downing the glass in one gulp.
‘Isn’t that what we’re always doing?’ she said, and for a moment, Dean wasn’t quite sure whether she was talking to him. ‘Pretending that we’re happy?’ She paused. ‘Which is your favorite?’
Dean frowned. ‘My favorite what?’
‘Vonnegut, genius. You like Cat’s Cradle?’
‘I like Mother Night.’
She nodded. ‘Mother Night is awesome. Here’s to fighting that fight without anyone ever realizing it, right?’
‘Right.’
‘It’s funny…most people usually say Slaughterhouse-Five.’
‘I guess I don’t like being told that there’s no such thing as free will.’
‘Is there?’ She stared at him, an utterly forlorn look in her eyes.
He shook his head. He didn’t know that answer to that question. Once upon a time, he would have said “yes, absolutely,” but there had been a general air of hopelessness to things lately. ‘Come on. Let’s get back.’
Emily was a little wobbly on her feet, but she refused any help walking to the elevator. Not as drunk as she seemed, apparently.
She started crying the moment the doors shut. Loud, wracking sobs that would probably have embarrassed her if she had the capacity to care. The events of the day were finally coming to a fruition.
Dean pulled her into a one-armed hug.
‘I’m sorry,’ Emily murmured. ‘It’s just…she’s dead, Dean. My mother is dead.’
‘I know,’ he said, feeling a little awkward. She was looking to him for comfort, and he wasn’t quite sure he could give it.
Dean Winchester was no stranger to death. Really, he had a more intimate knowledge of what it was like than most people, having died no less than three times now. He didn’t count Broward County, though, which probably would have put the tally up into the hundreds. He could, with some accuracy, tell Emily just what awaited her mother in the afterlife, but that wasn’t what she wanted to hear.
What she wanted to hear was that everything was going to be okay.
So Dean Winchester lied.
He let a hand brush the tears from her cheek. ‘Everything’s going to be okay,’ he said, and it didn’t take a genius to realize that she didn’t believe him.
Their lips were hovering, just inches apart, and Dean knew it was a bad idea, but he’d never really been one for doing the smart thing. It had been months since they’d first kissed, and he still remembered how it felt
This kiss tasted like salt and whiskey. Salt from the tears, and whiskey from the sorrows that she’d been drowning down in the hotel bar.
They pulled apart as the elevator stopped at their floor.
‘Emily…’
‘I’m a big girl, I can take no for an answer,’ Emily told him, the fierceness in her voice belying the melancholy in her eyes.
There was a long silence.
Finally, Dean said, ‘What if I don’t want to say no?’
She gave a wavering smile. ‘I can take yes for an answer too.’
‘Good.’
Castiel was still out on his information-gathering mission, and Penelope and Kevin were both asleep in the room next door, which meant that they had a hotel room to themselves.
The first thing Dean did was draw a new line of salt across the door; he would be really, really pissed if a demon decided to burst in on them tonight, of all nights.
He shucked his clothes quickly, and Emily did the same, their actions interspersed by intense, rapid-fire kisses. Tonight wasn’t about romance - it was about passion, and maybe a little bit of stress relief. Dean liked and respected Emily a lot, but he knew - and he was pretty sure that she knew too - that he could never do the whole romance thing.
It had barely lasted a few months with Lisa, and even if Emily was a hunter rather than a housewife, he couldn’t exactly imagine them still hunting together in ten years, he taking down a djinn, or a vampire, or a wendigo while she took the kids to school.
Really, though, that wasn’t something he was trying to think about. He was trying to think about the woman whose throat he was kissing. Foreplay wasn’t exactly on the books; it was hard, fast, and immensely satisfying, but Dean was still content to wrap an arm around her, dark hair splayed across his chest.
Sometimes it was nice to have and to hold, without all that extra stuff. For all they knew, the world would go to hell tomorrow. Sometimes, Dean wondered if the world had gone to hell a long time ago, and the forces of good and evil were just catching up.
The question was, how long would it take?
…
Emily’s phone rang at a ridiculously ungodly hour the next morning. Her head was pounding, even though she hadn’t exactly had that much to drink, and her body was pleasantly aching in all the right places. She rolled off of Dean, who started to stir, and reached over to the nightstand.
The Caller I.D. read “Detective Stapledon,” and if it was anyone else, she would have been pretty damn pissed.
‘Hello?’
‘Ag…Miss Prentiss? Detective Stapledon here. I just thought you’d want to know that we just arrested Peter Straczynski for your mother’s murder.’
Emily blinked.
‘Peter?’ she asked, a little incredulous. The man had been her mother’s assistant, and while she’d only met him a few times, he didn’t seem the murdering type. But then, some of them never did.
‘He’s already confessed - there were some altercations, and according to several of your mother’s associates, she was on the verge of firing him.’
‘Okay…’ She heard the shakes in her own voice. It all seemed so anticlimactic, so purposeless. Her mother’s death had absolutely nothing to do with the damn apocalypse. It was simultaneously a weight off her shoulders, and a knife to the gut.
She felt kind of empty, as she hung up the phone. That the case was solved gave some kind of closure, but the fact remained that her mother was dead. She would never be coming back.
‘Whozat?’ Dean asked, his voice a mumble.
‘Detective Stapledon,’ she told him. ‘They made an arrest.’
He sat up suddenly. ‘No demon?’
‘No demon,’ she confirmed. ‘We can rest easy. At least for today.’
Dean gave a hollow laugh. ‘Somehow, I doubt it.’
‘Yeah…’ she agreed. ‘I guess I should probably find a funeral home.’ She shook her head. ‘You know, I don’t think I even have any clothes for something like this.’
‘You want to make a run back to your condo?’ he asked. ‘Pick up a few things.’
It was almost pathetic how much those words made her feel better. There were a few things that she’d left behind that she wanted to grab.
Breakfast came first - with Castiel still not back, it was just the four of them. Emily was hyperaware of the suggestive looks that Garcia kept shooting her way. She rolled her eyes. There was no way in hell she was going to discuss the situation with Dean still in the room, so it would just have to wait until later.
Kevin and Garcia stayed at the hotel, while Dean and Emily made the drive to her condo. It wasn’t a long drive, but the Metro wasn’t a particularly appealing option to either of them. Even the elevator ride up was a more comforting experience than she was willing to admit. Out of all the places Emily Prentiss had lived, this was the one that felt most like home.
It took less than five seconds between opening the door and realizing that there was something very, very wrong.
They both drew their weapons simultaneously, sharing a glance.
The man came out of nowhere, flinging Dean across the room. He fell to the ground, unconscious. At least, she hoped like hell that he was unconscious, because she really, really didn’t know what she’d do if he ended up dead too.
Her finger squeezed against the trigger, firing half a dozen bullet’s into the creature’s chest, each having as little effect as the last. Demon, her mind said, with the addendum of fuck.
She had no salt, no iron, and a ridiculously small amount of hunting experience. Dean might have been able to get out of this one. Emily didn’t have a chance.
But the demon didn’t do anything. It just stared.
She kept her feet firmly planted on the ground as it took a single step towards her, its eyes blood red with a black pupil. ‘What do you want?’ she asked, determined not to let the fear enter her voice.
The demon grinned. ‘I want to make a deal.’
…
When Dean woke, it was with a splitting headache, and the sinking feeling that the world had gone to hell.
He remembered Pennsylvania, and the long drive to D.C., and Emily…
Emily.
He stood quickly, the world spinning around him. Blood was trickling down the side of his face, but none of that was important. What was important was grabbing Emily, and getting the hell out of there.
He saw the blood before he saw her. Just a small pool of it - his heart sunk a little, but not too much. Not until he saw the wound in her chest, and the stillness of her form. He put a hand to her cheek; her skin was soft and cold.
No, please no.
She wasn’t breathing.
It seemed almost pointless to check for a pulse, but he did anyway, hoping like hell that he would feel even just a soft, slow, beat.
There was nothing.
The demon had killed her, and left him.
Why?
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, voice choked with tears.
He heard the distinctive sound of a door being kicked in, but he didn’t move.
He heard the distinctive sound of cuffs being clicked around his wrists, but he didn’t move.
The cop dragged him to his feet, and he couldn’t quite take his eyes of the body.
Another person dead, because of him.
The world really had gone to hell.