Fic: Hallelujah, Act II/III
Hallelujah
Act II
Master post of all chapters and art here.
“No!” Sam shouted as Lucifer gestured for the body of Joe Colburt to be removed and the next prisoner to be brought forward-this time a woman in her thirties with a
Act II
Past
“No!” Sam shouted as Lucifer gestured for the body of Joe Colburt to be removed and the next prisoner to be brought forward-this time a woman in her thirties with a paisley print blouse and clean khaki slacks.
“Name and occupation,” Lucifer said calmly as he blotted the blood off his face with his sleeve.
“Eileen Chang, cement plant manager,” she replied, gazing up at Lucifer with quiet defiance. “And I know who you are.”
“I’m glad we can skip the introductions then,” Lucifer smiled warmly, as if she wasn’t the next one up on the chopping block. “Such a bright future ahead of you-a fiancé, a new house, a promotion-all the trappings of a good life. Maybe you should tell Sam here about it.”
Sam was staring at the ground where a pool of Joe’s blood remained, seemingly in a daze, and Dean yelled out, “You’re nothing but a coward.”
Lucifer glanced up as if he’d forgotten Dean was even there. “Ah yes, Dean. Enjoying the show?”
“You’re a sick fucking bastard,” Dean snapped.
“Well, I am the Devil.” Lucifer chuckled. “Really though, you ought to be glad that it’s not you I’m making kneel on this floor in front of Sam. If I’m not mistaken, the ground is quite hard and hell on your knees.”
The implied threat seemed enough to jerk Sam out of his trance. “Eileen, I’m so sorry. So sorry…”
“It’s not your fault,” Eileen replied, and her voice was shaking, only a little. “Lucifer is lying-I don’t have a future, not any more. But if you say yes, it’s going to be everyone who-my fiancé, my friends, my family-they’re all gonna-" She stopped, and tears leaked out of the corner of her eyes. “You have to be strong. You have to keep saying no.”
Sam’s face twisted. “I’m so sorry.”
“So what’s it gonna be?” Lucifer asked, as if he didn’t already know the answer.
“No,” Sam said, but it was barely a whisper.
Dean shuddered and looked away from the brave resignation on Eileen’s face, closed his eyes when the shot fired and more blood filled the air, body hitting the ground with a wet thump. Sam let out a low, terrible moan, and Dean heard the Eileen’s body being dragged away while the next hostage, already sobbing and pleading, took her place.
6 weeks after the war
Agatha’s words ring in his ears until he can’t take the silence anymore, and he calls Sam. The phone doesn’t even ring before going to voicemail, and Dean opens his mouth to say something, but ends the call instead.
He calls a few more times over the next few days, while he’s driving or while he’s stopped at a diner and chowing down on a burger. Eventually he leaves a message saying, “Hey, it’s me. Call me back.”
But days pass and Sam doesn’t call.
Past
The death roulette continued, with Lucifer presiding over the affairs with the genial air of a game show host, asking the inevitable questions like he knew that given enough time and patience, Sam would finally win the grand prize. But every round Sam said no, and every round ended with a gunshot and blood.
Some of the people died screaming or crying for mercy, while others died silently, courageously. The only constant after the third round was the sound of Sam’s sobbing as the horror continued.
7 weeks after the war
Dean wakes up in the morning, wipes the crust from his eyes, and gets up to go to the bathroom. Sometimes he fixes himself a drink after he’s finished brushing his teeth and pissing, but other times he’ll wait till breakfast. It all depends on how vivid his nightmares from the previous night were. Most nights, they’re pretty bad, and Dean spends a long time trying to scrub the memories from his skin.
During breakfast, Dean checks his voicemail (nothing from Sam, nothing from Bobby, nothing from Castiel), and maybe has a first or second drink. He picks up a few newspapers on the way back to the motel to skim for leads. After the newspapers, he goes to the news sites online he’s got bookmarked; Sam had set up a Google alert system for tracking weird activity but Dean doesn’t trust it, not since all it’s come up with is stuff like, ‘Infant mortality rates at an all time low’ and ‘Homicide rates drop in major cities across America.’
These days, there’s nothing in the news, nothing online, nothing on TV. Nothing nothing nothing.
Dean eventually gives up searching for leads and moves on to checking his email. There are no new messages except for the ones that promise him twelve inches of dick for the low, low price of ninety-nine dollars, and that inspires Dean to start surfing for porn. The porn trawling gets old pretty fast, and Dean usually puts his cock away after an hour or so in order to get up and pour himself a drink.
Sometimes Deans goes out for lunch, explores whatever backwater town he’s in-not that there’s ever much to see. Usually just a few cheap restaurants, a bar, a rinky-dink movie theater, and not much else.
Dean doesn’t really like watching movies. He used to, once upon a time, but now it reminds him too much of being ridden, of staring out at the world but being unable to move, unable to interact with it no matter how hard he tries.
TV is better. TV comes with a remote control, a way to change channels whenever he wants to. Dean watches TV for hours and hours every afternoon, and is an equal opportunity viewer-he’ll just as gladly watch a thrilling medical drama as he will a middle-aged lady trying to hock a faux sapphire bracelet on QVC. In the end, it’s all the same to him: a soothing set of sounds and pictures and things to focus on while he sips a cold beer.
Dean almost always has to venture out of his motel room for dinner, unless he remembered to pick up a bag of chips and soda earlier. He likes to go to the local pub or dive bar if they have one, sit and eat wings while he watches more TV (usually sports) and flirts just enough with the bartender to score free drinks.
When people start showing up, Dean shifts into hustling mode, playing pool or darts or whatever other games drunk people never have the coordination to play. Dean’s a master of playing the drunken sucker by now; he can be ten drinks in and still have the reflexes of the soberest person in the bar.
After Dean makes himself a tidy sum, he goes back to his motel room and either tries for sleep or, more likely, watches more TV. He checks his voicemail and email again even though there’s never anything new--especially this late at night. If it’s really late and Dean managed to wrangle a few decently strong drinks from the bartender, he debates calling Castiel and inviting him over.
Dean still has Castiel’s number programmed into his phone-although they don’t really have any reason to use it ever since the apocalypse ended. But Dean likes to think if he needed to, he could still call Castiel, somewhere up in Heaven. Maybe.
When Dean can’t take the eye strain of staring at the TV anymore, he flops onto the bed and sips from his bottle of whiskey. He likes to go to bed with a whole bottle because glasses tend to tip over and soak him or the bed, and after some experimentation, he’s found that whiskey is the liquor least likely to cause him to wake up with the need to vomit.
In any case, Dean drinks until the familiar fog of fatigue settles in, alcohol soaking into his mind like a soothing caress. Half the time he has the presence of mind to cap the bottle before he drifts off-if not, then he’s wasted a bottle of truly cheap whiskey on either the floor or the bed; either way, it’s something housekeeping is going to be pissed about.
As Dean sinks into unconsciousness, he wonders about the last time he fell asleep easily, naturally. He doesn’t remember exactly when it was last, but he suspects it was sometime when he was with Castiel.
8 weeks after the war
“Bobby,” Dean says as he browses the magazine rack at a convenience store. “You heard from Sam lately? He hasn’t called me back I’m starting to get worried.”
Bobby’s voice crackles on the phone, “Yeah, Dean, he’s fine.”
“Fine?” Dean pauses in leafing through a copy of Busty Asian Beauties he's already seen before. “What do you mean?”
There’s a silence before Bobby says, “He called yesterday. Wanted me to let you know that he was doing okay, and not to worry.”
Dean puts down the magazine. “And he couldn’t tell me this himself?”
Bobby sighs into the receiver. “He’s down in New Mexico participating in a purification ritual or some shit-said he has to cut all contact for a month or so with the draining forces in his life.”
“Draining forces,” Dean repeats. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Beats me. I told Sam it was all a bunch of hooey but you know how he is when an idea gets in his head.” Bobby’s voice softens. “Don’t take it personal, Dean. Sam said he’s just trying to work some things out.”
“Oh yeah, that’s fucking reassuring. Sam goes all new age on me and I’m supposed to be okay with it?” Dean lowers his voice when he notices a few customers in the store staring at him. “He’s in New Mexico, you said?”
“Yeah, but you’re never gonna find him, ” Bobby replies. “He’s out in the middle of nowhere-desert for miles, no cell phone reception, no nothing. And Sam told me specifically to tell you not to go looking for him.”
“Fuck what Sam said,” Dean hisses. “What if someone has him again? What if some demon or angel is making him do this?”
“He can take care of himself. And if you’re still not convinced, Sam said you should talk to Cas.”
“Cas?” Dean takes an involuntary step back and nearly knocks over a display case full of diapers. “What’s he got to do with this?”
“He’s keeping an eye on Sam while he’s out in the desert, apparently. So he can step in and get him if Sam falls over from heat exhaustion or something.”
“Well, fuck,” Dean says, tasting something bitter in his mouth. Doesn’t that just figure.
Past
After the ninth murder, Sam managed to slip his bonds long enough to throw himself in front of one of the bullets. Dean screamed as he watched his brother’s body hit the bloody floor, but he needn’t have bothered; Lucifer waved a careless hand and the bullet popped out of Sam’s chest like a sick jack in the box, wound healing immediately.
“I told you I’d bring you back,” Lucifer said with a scolding wag of his finger.
The lackeys bound Sam to his chair again-this time with handcuffs and chains-and shot victim number nine (Dana McLamb, Vice President of Marketing for a fast local fast food franchise), who had been busy trying to make a break for freedom in the meantime.
They continued like this for another one (Earl Hines, partner at Hines and Dervish), two (Imelda Esposito, high school student), three (Jared Simpson, nurse) before someone finally caved.
Dean said yes, in the end, so Sam wouldn’t have to.
8 weeks after the war
“Come on, come on, pick up.” Dean taps his fingers against his thigh impatiently as the phone rings and rings. “Where the fuck are you, Cas?”
When the call goes to the automated voicemail message, Dean throws the phone onto the bed in disgust. “You’re not gonna do Sam much good if you’ve already fucked off to Heaven,” Dean says to the phone.
“Dean.”
Dean turns around. “Why the hell aren’t you answering your cell?” Dean demands. “Actually, forget it, whatever. Where’s Sam?”
“New Mexico,” Castiel replies slowly, as if he’s uncertain as to why Dean is asking.
“Yeah, that’s what Bobby said too.” Dean bounces his leg up and down against the bed. “Do you know exactly where in New Mexico?”
A pause. “Yes.”
Dean waits for more, but it doesn’t come. “Care to share with the class?”
“Sam didn’t tell you?” Castiel asks, as if it’s not glaringly obvious right now.
“No, I’m just quizzing you for fun.” Dean grips the edge of the bedspread tightly, feeling the scratchy, pilled up fabric crumpling easily. “Bobby told me you knew where he was.”
“Sam asked me to be his… insurance policy,” Castiel says. “In case of an emergency I could extract him immediately.”
“Well then, time to strap in.” Dean gets up and looks at Castiel expectantly. “Hop to it.”
Castiel frowns and looks down at the ground. “Sam was very specific about the circumstances under which he-"
“Since when have you and Sam been best buds, anyway?” At Castiel’s pained expression, Dean snorts softly. “Right. Ever since I exited the building and Mikey took over. But I’m back now and you guys are still keeping me out of the loop.”
“You were gone for half a year,” Castiel says quietly, as if that explains everything.
“Fine, whatever. Take me to Sam then.”
“I can’t, Dean.”
“You what?” Dean stares at Castiel, confused. “What do you mean, you can’t? I thought you knew where he was? Is it because of those sigils you put on his ribs?”
“No, we removed those long-" Castiel stops, and then shakes his head. “But you don’t remember that either. Suffice it to say, locating both of you is not a problem for me anymore.”
“Great. You saying all of Heaven’s got a bulls-eye on me again?”
“Now that your destiny has been fulfilled, Heaven has no interest in you or your brother anymore,” Castiel replies. “The angels are concerned with other matters.”
“Oh yeah, sure, that puts me totally at ease,” Dean mutters. “Are you gonna take me to see Sam now or not?”
“Dean,” Castiel says carefully. “Sam wished for some time alone to-to think. Didn’t he tell you this?”
“Yeah, but I thought he meant for like, a week or two with a couple of calls to check in to let me know he’s still alive.” Not over a month with no contact, Dean adds internally. “Is he still alive?”
“He’s fine.”
“That’s great and everything, but he should be here, with me--not fucking around in some desert somewhere.” Dean runs an exasperated hand through his hair. “You know what happened the last time we split up.”
“The world’s not ending, anymore,” Castiel says gently. “The future you saw will never come to pass, thanks to your actions.”
“Right, because when we got rid of Lucifer, we got rid of all the other creepy crawlies out there too,” Dean scoffs.
“Not all of them, but many.”
“And, what, the rest have taken a vacation? Cashing in their sick days?” Dean raises an eyebrow, but as soon as he says the words he’s reminded of the empty headlines in the newspapers, the weird lack of… anything.
“They’re not gone forever. But since Lucifer’s fall my brethren have been hunting the last vestiges of his army. Those that escape will likely stay in hiding for the next few years, until Heaven’s eye turns elsewhere.”
“And, what? Now that all the big bad demons are in hiding, all the other bit players are gone too? No more spooks or ghosts or witches?”
“Not gone, but… being discreet. Lucifer’s fall has caused ripples throughout the entire world.” Castiel shrugs. “It is why you have had no success locating new hunts.”
Dean’s eyes narrow. “And what would you know about my hunts?”
Castiel looks away quickly. “Nothing. I… I predicted that there would be nothing to hunt.”
Dean goes to pour himself a drink. “You come here to tell me Heaven can spy on me again, you can’t give me any hunting leads, and you know where Sam is but you won’t take me to him. What exactly are you good for, anyway?” Dean hopes Castiel can’t see the way his hand shakes as he pours his whiskey into the half-cleaned motel glass.
“I…” Dean downs half the whiskey before Castiel starts again. “I should go.”
Dean finishes the glass and pours himself another.
Past
When Michael took Dean, it was with no fanfare, no drama, and no freaking trumpets ringing. It was quiet, fast, and as efficient as Dean could have hoped for.
One second Dean was pinned up against the wall by Lucifer’s will alone, watching as Sam shook pieces of skull and brain from twelve different people out of his hair, and the next, Dean was on the ground, burning all the demons in the room to a crisp.
Castiel was beside him in a flash, apparently taking advantage of the ensuing confusion to escape the holy fire with the aid of a strategically placed corpse. “Dean,” Castiel said urgently. “Did you-"
But Lucifer recognized Michael instantly. “Welcome back, big brother,” he drawled mockingly. “Come to finish me off yourself?”
Dean-Michael-vaulted towards Lucifer, burning hand outstretched, but Lucifer only laughed and disappeared with a few parting words, “Now is not the time. But soon, Michael, soon.”
And Dean-Michael-roared with frustration, shaking the building all around them and knocking Castiel and Sam (who Castiel had freed from his chains) off their feet.
In the stillness that followed, Michael became aware of Dean’s lingering consciousness in his mind, and snuffed it out as easily as one pinches out a candle’s flame.
9 weeks after the war
Dean wakes up with the cold, sharp steel of a blade against his throat.
“Don’t move,” a harsh, unfamiliar voice above Dean says. “I want to kill you, but not yet.”
Dean doesn’t open his eyes, but quietly checks his position. The knife he keeps under his pillow is gone, and if his attacker was capable enough to swipe a knife from under Dean’s head, then he definitely got to the gun on the nightstand.
His hands and legs are free while his unknown attacker-male, deep voice, probably late forties-is straddling his chest with what feels like a very sharp knife at his neck. Dean briefly wonders how he got into the room and onto the bed without Dean waking up, and why he’d be pulling such an amateur move in sitting on Dean when he could have bound and restrained him six ways to Sunday, but now’s not really the time to be wondering such things.
So Dean throws an arm up to shove the knife away (nicking his right forearm in the process, but better his arm than his neck) and rolls in the opposite direction with all his might.
The attacker is thrown off balance, and Dean lands on the floor painfully, slamming his right shoulder into the ground in the process. But after a second to gather his bearings, Dean forces himself up to face his attacker.
He’s a big guy, with sunken brown eyes and the look of ex-military. He laughs as he slides off the bed. “Very good, very good,” he says with an eager smile that stretches the skin across his face tight. “And here I thought you’d put up no fight at all.”
“Who are you?” Dean asks, scanning the room for anything he can use as a weapon but finding nothing. The bastard must have cleaned out the place before he’d woken Dean up.
“My name is Miles,” he says, shifting into a defensive stance as he circles Dean. “And you, Dean Winchester, are a pain in the ass to hunt down and kill.”
“Christo,” Dean says, but the guy’s eyes don’t flicker. “What are you? What do you want?”
“I’m human, if that’s what you’re asking.” Miles smiles again, and it’s a horrible thing. “Not a demon, not a monster, just another human.”
“Then what do you want with me?”
“I knew you’d come to Deanville,” Miles says silkily. “All that attention, all that worship-you couldn’t resist, could you? I saw you that day in the crowd with all those pathetic people clamoring for your attention-you didn’t even notice me, but I saw you. I saw you.”
“I didn’t ask for any of that,” Dean says, wondering if he can use any of the furniture against Miles-probably not, as most of it looks too heavy to shove easily, or else it’s bolted to the floor. “Those people, that place-I fucking left, okay? So you can just go back to your territory, or whatever.”
“You misunderstand me, Dean,” Miles replies, eyes glinting. “I have no interest in Deanville-I’ve been tracking you.”
Dean eyes the knife and tries to think of a way to get at it. “Do we know each other?”
Miles laugh, a brittle thing that rasps in Dean’s ears. “Oh no, of course not. I’m nobody-not a special, world-saving hero like yourself.”
“Then what the fuck are you doing here? Because all this creepy cryptic bullshit you’re spewing makes me think you’re just another stalker fan like all those weirdos in Deanville.”
Miles’ nostrils flare and he lowers his knife to charge at Dean in pure fury, throwing him up against the wall. “You killed her!” Miles yells right in Dean’s face, features mottled with rage. “My Roberta, my beautiful Roberta!"
“What?” a series of faces flashes before Dean’s eyes, but he can’t begin to guess at which one might be Roberta, which one Miles cared about; there have been so goddamn many. “Was she possessed? Was she-"
“No.” Miles throws Dean back against the wall so hard his teeth rattle. “She was innocent, and sweet, and good, and you left her to die on the battlefield like a soldier. She was a fucking civilian, and if anyone had to die for the cause it should have been-it should have been me.”
“I-" Dean chokes when Miles jams his arm against his windpipe, spots beginning to appear in the edges of Dean’s vision. “I didn’t know. When Michael took control I couldn’t-I didn’t know anything about what he did, I couldn’t stop-"
“Stop making excuses,” Miles whispers, face still red with rage, but eyes cold and hard. “It was you, your body, your consent. You killed the love of my life and I’m just supposed to-what? Let you walk away?”
Dean stares dully back into Miles’ eyes, and a vision of his father flashes before him. “No,” Dean says, feeling his consciousness beginning to slip away as the oxygen deprivation continues. “No. I expect you to hunt me until one of us is dead.”
Miles doesn’t say anything more-or maybe he does, but Dean can’t hear him. In fact, Dean can’t concentrate on anything but the twitching of his fingertips, the way his feet are thrashing helplessly, weakly, against Miles’ shins, and the fading, graying sensation in his mind.
This is it, a part of Dean’s brain registers. This is the end of the line, finally.
Past
Dean sometimes found himself aware in his body at the strangest moments. In the middle of a heated battle, or at the tail end of a conversation that Michael had ended by walking away (the prick). One time, Dean managed to hide his consciousness well enough to avoid detection for a whole ten minutes as Michael strode through a deserted town-searching for what, Dean could not divine.
But whether it was a matter of seconds or minutes, Michael always found Dean out and put him back under again-back to a sort of mindless oblivion Dean had once thought death might be like.
9 weeks after the war
Instead of opening his eyes to a bright light, or pearly gates, or even the familiar stench of Hell, Dean opens his eyes to find Castiel hovering over him.
“What were you thinking?” Castiel growls, right in his face, and Dean jerks back to his senses. “You were going to let him kill you?”
“I wasn’t letting anyone-" Dean groans and touches his bruised neck. “I had him right where I wanted him. I was-I was waiting for the perfect strategic moment.”
“You’re lying,” Castiel says, and the cold fury there makes Dean recoil slightly. “You were dying and not even fighting it.”
“I wasn’t-" Dean shakes his head and winces, because that fucking hurts too.
“Look at me, Dean,” Castiel commands, and Dean stares down stubbornly at the plain white comforter instead. “Look at me,” Castiel repeats, and grabs Dean’s chin, forcibly taking back eye contact. After a moment, Castiel drops Dean’s chin and takes a step back. “You wanted to die.”
“Whatever,” Dean mutters, not looking to confirm or deny. “What’s it to you?”
Castiel goes pale, tense. “Dean. If you die, I don’t know where you’ll go. I don’t know where any human-and I won’t be allowed to come get you again.”
Dean lets out a bitter laugh as he swings his stiff legs over the side of the bed. “Yeah, sure. You mean you don’t know if it’s back to the coal mines in spite of my community service.”
“You are a good man,” Castiel says, but there’s a note of uncertainty in his voice. “You should-"
“Should have stopped my mom from making a deal. Should have lived a normal life. Should have said yes to Mike sooner. Should have saved a hundred more lives.” Dean rubs his neck again, and it throbs. “You promised me, Cas. You promised you’d stop me-my body-before Michael did any fucked up shit with it.”
“I tried,” Castiel whispers, and Dean looks at him. “I tried to stop him, Dean, but he was-he was a force of nature. And he would not be swayed.”
“Of course not.” Dean closes his eyes, a flood of pins and needles all over his body, as if all his limbs had been asleep. “I know. I know it wasn’t-you couldn’t stop him. No one could.”
"I spoke to my brothers and sisters." Castiel turns away. “They confirmed that they have no more plans for you, and that they have finished almost all of their work eradicating Lucifer's forces. The demons that survived the purge have all been driven into hiding, along with all the other major forces of darkness.”
“You’re telling me it’s a brave new world out there?” Dean stares at the defeated curve of Castiel’s back.
“For now. For the next few years, at least.” Castiel straightens up. “This time is yours to do with as you wish. You’re free.”
“Free?” Dean laughs, and Castiel turns around. “I’m a monster hunter in a world with no fucking monsters. I’m not free, I’m just… obsolete.”
Castiel says nothing, and Dean closes his eyes to the pity in his gaze. “Hey,” Dean says wearily, because what the hell does he have to lose? “You wanna fuck?”
But when Dean opens his eyes again, Castiel is gone.
Poll FB Hallelujah Act II
Onto Act III
Act II
Master post of all chapters and art here.
“No!” Sam shouted as Lucifer gestured for the body of Joe Colburt to be removed and the next prisoner to be brought forward-this time a woman in her thirties with a
Act II
Past
“No!” Sam shouted as Lucifer gestured for the body of Joe Colburt to be removed and the next prisoner to be brought forward-this time a woman in her thirties with a paisley print blouse and clean khaki slacks.
“Name and occupation,” Lucifer said calmly as he blotted the blood off his face with his sleeve.
“Eileen Chang, cement plant manager,” she replied, gazing up at Lucifer with quiet defiance. “And I know who you are.”
“I’m glad we can skip the introductions then,” Lucifer smiled warmly, as if she wasn’t the next one up on the chopping block. “Such a bright future ahead of you-a fiancé, a new house, a promotion-all the trappings of a good life. Maybe you should tell Sam here about it.”
Sam was staring at the ground where a pool of Joe’s blood remained, seemingly in a daze, and Dean yelled out, “You’re nothing but a coward.”
Lucifer glanced up as if he’d forgotten Dean was even there. “Ah yes, Dean. Enjoying the show?”
“You’re a sick fucking bastard,” Dean snapped.
“Well, I am the Devil.” Lucifer chuckled. “Really though, you ought to be glad that it’s not you I’m making kneel on this floor in front of Sam. If I’m not mistaken, the ground is quite hard and hell on your knees.”
The implied threat seemed enough to jerk Sam out of his trance. “Eileen, I’m so sorry. So sorry…”
“It’s not your fault,” Eileen replied, and her voice was shaking, only a little. “Lucifer is lying-I don’t have a future, not any more. But if you say yes, it’s going to be everyone who-my fiancé, my friends, my family-they’re all gonna-" She stopped, and tears leaked out of the corner of her eyes. “You have to be strong. You have to keep saying no.”
Sam’s face twisted. “I’m so sorry.”
“So what’s it gonna be?” Lucifer asked, as if he didn’t already know the answer.
“No,” Sam said, but it was barely a whisper.
Dean shuddered and looked away from the brave resignation on Eileen’s face, closed his eyes when the shot fired and more blood filled the air, body hitting the ground with a wet thump. Sam let out a low, terrible moan, and Dean heard the Eileen’s body being dragged away while the next hostage, already sobbing and pleading, took her place.
6 weeks after the war
Agatha’s words ring in his ears until he can’t take the silence anymore, and he calls Sam. The phone doesn’t even ring before going to voicemail, and Dean opens his mouth to say something, but ends the call instead.
He calls a few more times over the next few days, while he’s driving or while he’s stopped at a diner and chowing down on a burger. Eventually he leaves a message saying, “Hey, it’s me. Call me back.”
But days pass and Sam doesn’t call.
Past
The death roulette continued, with Lucifer presiding over the affairs with the genial air of a game show host, asking the inevitable questions like he knew that given enough time and patience, Sam would finally win the grand prize. But every round Sam said no, and every round ended with a gunshot and blood.
Some of the people died screaming or crying for mercy, while others died silently, courageously. The only constant after the third round was the sound of Sam’s sobbing as the horror continued.
7 weeks after the war
Dean wakes up in the morning, wipes the crust from his eyes, and gets up to go to the bathroom. Sometimes he fixes himself a drink after he’s finished brushing his teeth and pissing, but other times he’ll wait till breakfast. It all depends on how vivid his nightmares from the previous night were. Most nights, they’re pretty bad, and Dean spends a long time trying to scrub the memories from his skin.
During breakfast, Dean checks his voicemail (nothing from Sam, nothing from Bobby, nothing from Castiel), and maybe has a first or second drink. He picks up a few newspapers on the way back to the motel to skim for leads. After the newspapers, he goes to the news sites online he’s got bookmarked; Sam had set up a Google alert system for tracking weird activity but Dean doesn’t trust it, not since all it’s come up with is stuff like, ‘Infant mortality rates at an all time low’ and ‘Homicide rates drop in major cities across America.’
These days, there’s nothing in the news, nothing online, nothing on TV. Nothing nothing nothing.
Dean eventually gives up searching for leads and moves on to checking his email. There are no new messages except for the ones that promise him twelve inches of dick for the low, low price of ninety-nine dollars, and that inspires Dean to start surfing for porn. The porn trawling gets old pretty fast, and Dean usually puts his cock away after an hour or so in order to get up and pour himself a drink.
Sometimes Deans goes out for lunch, explores whatever backwater town he’s in-not that there’s ever much to see. Usually just a few cheap restaurants, a bar, a rinky-dink movie theater, and not much else.
Dean doesn’t really like watching movies. He used to, once upon a time, but now it reminds him too much of being ridden, of staring out at the world but being unable to move, unable to interact with it no matter how hard he tries.
TV is better. TV comes with a remote control, a way to change channels whenever he wants to. Dean watches TV for hours and hours every afternoon, and is an equal opportunity viewer-he’ll just as gladly watch a thrilling medical drama as he will a middle-aged lady trying to hock a faux sapphire bracelet on QVC. In the end, it’s all the same to him: a soothing set of sounds and pictures and things to focus on while he sips a cold beer.
Dean almost always has to venture out of his motel room for dinner, unless he remembered to pick up a bag of chips and soda earlier. He likes to go to the local pub or dive bar if they have one, sit and eat wings while he watches more TV (usually sports) and flirts just enough with the bartender to score free drinks.
When people start showing up, Dean shifts into hustling mode, playing pool or darts or whatever other games drunk people never have the coordination to play. Dean’s a master of playing the drunken sucker by now; he can be ten drinks in and still have the reflexes of the soberest person in the bar.
After Dean makes himself a tidy sum, he goes back to his motel room and either tries for sleep or, more likely, watches more TV. He checks his voicemail and email again even though there’s never anything new--especially this late at night. If it’s really late and Dean managed to wrangle a few decently strong drinks from the bartender, he debates calling Castiel and inviting him over.
Dean still has Castiel’s number programmed into his phone-although they don’t really have any reason to use it ever since the apocalypse ended. But Dean likes to think if he needed to, he could still call Castiel, somewhere up in Heaven. Maybe.
When Dean can’t take the eye strain of staring at the TV anymore, he flops onto the bed and sips from his bottle of whiskey. He likes to go to bed with a whole bottle because glasses tend to tip over and soak him or the bed, and after some experimentation, he’s found that whiskey is the liquor least likely to cause him to wake up with the need to vomit.
In any case, Dean drinks until the familiar fog of fatigue settles in, alcohol soaking into his mind like a soothing caress. Half the time he has the presence of mind to cap the bottle before he drifts off-if not, then he’s wasted a bottle of truly cheap whiskey on either the floor or the bed; either way, it’s something housekeeping is going to be pissed about.
As Dean sinks into unconsciousness, he wonders about the last time he fell asleep easily, naturally. He doesn’t remember exactly when it was last, but he suspects it was sometime when he was with Castiel.
8 weeks after the war
“Bobby,” Dean says as he browses the magazine rack at a convenience store. “You heard from Sam lately? He hasn’t called me back I’m starting to get worried.”
Bobby’s voice crackles on the phone, “Yeah, Dean, he’s fine.”
“Fine?” Dean pauses in leafing through a copy of Busty Asian Beauties he's already seen before. “What do you mean?”
There’s a silence before Bobby says, “He called yesterday. Wanted me to let you know that he was doing okay, and not to worry.”
Dean puts down the magazine. “And he couldn’t tell me this himself?”
Bobby sighs into the receiver. “He’s down in New Mexico participating in a purification ritual or some shit-said he has to cut all contact for a month or so with the draining forces in his life.”
“Draining forces,” Dean repeats. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Beats me. I told Sam it was all a bunch of hooey but you know how he is when an idea gets in his head.” Bobby’s voice softens. “Don’t take it personal, Dean. Sam said he’s just trying to work some things out.”
“Oh yeah, that’s fucking reassuring. Sam goes all new age on me and I’m supposed to be okay with it?” Dean lowers his voice when he notices a few customers in the store staring at him. “He’s in New Mexico, you said?”
“Yeah, but you’re never gonna find him, ” Bobby replies. “He’s out in the middle of nowhere-desert for miles, no cell phone reception, no nothing. And Sam told me specifically to tell you not to go looking for him.”
“Fuck what Sam said,” Dean hisses. “What if someone has him again? What if some demon or angel is making him do this?”
“He can take care of himself. And if you’re still not convinced, Sam said you should talk to Cas.”
“Cas?” Dean takes an involuntary step back and nearly knocks over a display case full of diapers. “What’s he got to do with this?”
“He’s keeping an eye on Sam while he’s out in the desert, apparently. So he can step in and get him if Sam falls over from heat exhaustion or something.”
“Well, fuck,” Dean says, tasting something bitter in his mouth. Doesn’t that just figure.
Past
After the ninth murder, Sam managed to slip his bonds long enough to throw himself in front of one of the bullets. Dean screamed as he watched his brother’s body hit the bloody floor, but he needn’t have bothered; Lucifer waved a careless hand and the bullet popped out of Sam’s chest like a sick jack in the box, wound healing immediately.
“I told you I’d bring you back,” Lucifer said with a scolding wag of his finger.
The lackeys bound Sam to his chair again-this time with handcuffs and chains-and shot victim number nine (Dana McLamb, Vice President of Marketing for a fast local fast food franchise), who had been busy trying to make a break for freedom in the meantime.
They continued like this for another one (Earl Hines, partner at Hines and Dervish), two (Imelda Esposito, high school student), three (Jared Simpson, nurse) before someone finally caved.
Dean said yes, in the end, so Sam wouldn’t have to.
8 weeks after the war
“Come on, come on, pick up.” Dean taps his fingers against his thigh impatiently as the phone rings and rings. “Where the fuck are you, Cas?”
When the call goes to the automated voicemail message, Dean throws the phone onto the bed in disgust. “You’re not gonna do Sam much good if you’ve already fucked off to Heaven,” Dean says to the phone.
“Dean.”
Dean turns around. “Why the hell aren’t you answering your cell?” Dean demands. “Actually, forget it, whatever. Where’s Sam?”
“New Mexico,” Castiel replies slowly, as if he’s uncertain as to why Dean is asking.
“Yeah, that’s what Bobby said too.” Dean bounces his leg up and down against the bed. “Do you know exactly where in New Mexico?”
A pause. “Yes.”
Dean waits for more, but it doesn’t come. “Care to share with the class?”
“Sam didn’t tell you?” Castiel asks, as if it’s not glaringly obvious right now.
“No, I’m just quizzing you for fun.” Dean grips the edge of the bedspread tightly, feeling the scratchy, pilled up fabric crumpling easily. “Bobby told me you knew where he was.”
“Sam asked me to be his… insurance policy,” Castiel says. “In case of an emergency I could extract him immediately.”
“Well then, time to strap in.” Dean gets up and looks at Castiel expectantly. “Hop to it.”
Castiel frowns and looks down at the ground. “Sam was very specific about the circumstances under which he-"
“Since when have you and Sam been best buds, anyway?” At Castiel’s pained expression, Dean snorts softly. “Right. Ever since I exited the building and Mikey took over. But I’m back now and you guys are still keeping me out of the loop.”
“You were gone for half a year,” Castiel says quietly, as if that explains everything.
“Fine, whatever. Take me to Sam then.”
“I can’t, Dean.”
“You what?” Dean stares at Castiel, confused. “What do you mean, you can’t? I thought you knew where he was? Is it because of those sigils you put on his ribs?”
“No, we removed those long-" Castiel stops, and then shakes his head. “But you don’t remember that either. Suffice it to say, locating both of you is not a problem for me anymore.”
“Great. You saying all of Heaven’s got a bulls-eye on me again?”
“Now that your destiny has been fulfilled, Heaven has no interest in you or your brother anymore,” Castiel replies. “The angels are concerned with other matters.”
“Oh yeah, sure, that puts me totally at ease,” Dean mutters. “Are you gonna take me to see Sam now or not?”
“Dean,” Castiel says carefully. “Sam wished for some time alone to-to think. Didn’t he tell you this?”
“Yeah, but I thought he meant for like, a week or two with a couple of calls to check in to let me know he’s still alive.” Not over a month with no contact, Dean adds internally. “Is he still alive?”
“He’s fine.”
“That’s great and everything, but he should be here, with me--not fucking around in some desert somewhere.” Dean runs an exasperated hand through his hair. “You know what happened the last time we split up.”
“The world’s not ending, anymore,” Castiel says gently. “The future you saw will never come to pass, thanks to your actions.”
“Right, because when we got rid of Lucifer, we got rid of all the other creepy crawlies out there too,” Dean scoffs.
“Not all of them, but many.”
“And, what, the rest have taken a vacation? Cashing in their sick days?” Dean raises an eyebrow, but as soon as he says the words he’s reminded of the empty headlines in the newspapers, the weird lack of… anything.
“They’re not gone forever. But since Lucifer’s fall my brethren have been hunting the last vestiges of his army. Those that escape will likely stay in hiding for the next few years, until Heaven’s eye turns elsewhere.”
“And, what? Now that all the big bad demons are in hiding, all the other bit players are gone too? No more spooks or ghosts or witches?”
“Not gone, but… being discreet. Lucifer’s fall has caused ripples throughout the entire world.” Castiel shrugs. “It is why you have had no success locating new hunts.”
Dean’s eyes narrow. “And what would you know about my hunts?”
Castiel looks away quickly. “Nothing. I… I predicted that there would be nothing to hunt.”
Dean goes to pour himself a drink. “You come here to tell me Heaven can spy on me again, you can’t give me any hunting leads, and you know where Sam is but you won’t take me to him. What exactly are you good for, anyway?” Dean hopes Castiel can’t see the way his hand shakes as he pours his whiskey into the half-cleaned motel glass.
“I…” Dean downs half the whiskey before Castiel starts again. “I should go.”
Dean finishes the glass and pours himself another.
Past
When Michael took Dean, it was with no fanfare, no drama, and no freaking trumpets ringing. It was quiet, fast, and as efficient as Dean could have hoped for.
One second Dean was pinned up against the wall by Lucifer’s will alone, watching as Sam shook pieces of skull and brain from twelve different people out of his hair, and the next, Dean was on the ground, burning all the demons in the room to a crisp.
Castiel was beside him in a flash, apparently taking advantage of the ensuing confusion to escape the holy fire with the aid of a strategically placed corpse. “Dean,” Castiel said urgently. “Did you-"
But Lucifer recognized Michael instantly. “Welcome back, big brother,” he drawled mockingly. “Come to finish me off yourself?”
Dean-Michael-vaulted towards Lucifer, burning hand outstretched, but Lucifer only laughed and disappeared with a few parting words, “Now is not the time. But soon, Michael, soon.”
And Dean-Michael-roared with frustration, shaking the building all around them and knocking Castiel and Sam (who Castiel had freed from his chains) off their feet.
In the stillness that followed, Michael became aware of Dean’s lingering consciousness in his mind, and snuffed it out as easily as one pinches out a candle’s flame.
9 weeks after the war
Dean wakes up with the cold, sharp steel of a blade against his throat.
“Don’t move,” a harsh, unfamiliar voice above Dean says. “I want to kill you, but not yet.”
Dean doesn’t open his eyes, but quietly checks his position. The knife he keeps under his pillow is gone, and if his attacker was capable enough to swipe a knife from under Dean’s head, then he definitely got to the gun on the nightstand.
His hands and legs are free while his unknown attacker-male, deep voice, probably late forties-is straddling his chest with what feels like a very sharp knife at his neck. Dean briefly wonders how he got into the room and onto the bed without Dean waking up, and why he’d be pulling such an amateur move in sitting on Dean when he could have bound and restrained him six ways to Sunday, but now’s not really the time to be wondering such things.
So Dean throws an arm up to shove the knife away (nicking his right forearm in the process, but better his arm than his neck) and rolls in the opposite direction with all his might.
The attacker is thrown off balance, and Dean lands on the floor painfully, slamming his right shoulder into the ground in the process. But after a second to gather his bearings, Dean forces himself up to face his attacker.
He’s a big guy, with sunken brown eyes and the look of ex-military. He laughs as he slides off the bed. “Very good, very good,” he says with an eager smile that stretches the skin across his face tight. “And here I thought you’d put up no fight at all.”
“Who are you?” Dean asks, scanning the room for anything he can use as a weapon but finding nothing. The bastard must have cleaned out the place before he’d woken Dean up.
“My name is Miles,” he says, shifting into a defensive stance as he circles Dean. “And you, Dean Winchester, are a pain in the ass to hunt down and kill.”
“Christo,” Dean says, but the guy’s eyes don’t flicker. “What are you? What do you want?”
“I’m human, if that’s what you’re asking.” Miles smiles again, and it’s a horrible thing. “Not a demon, not a monster, just another human.”
“Then what do you want with me?”
“I knew you’d come to Deanville,” Miles says silkily. “All that attention, all that worship-you couldn’t resist, could you? I saw you that day in the crowd with all those pathetic people clamoring for your attention-you didn’t even notice me, but I saw you. I saw you.”
“I didn’t ask for any of that,” Dean says, wondering if he can use any of the furniture against Miles-probably not, as most of it looks too heavy to shove easily, or else it’s bolted to the floor. “Those people, that place-I fucking left, okay? So you can just go back to your territory, or whatever.”
“You misunderstand me, Dean,” Miles replies, eyes glinting. “I have no interest in Deanville-I’ve been tracking you.”
Dean eyes the knife and tries to think of a way to get at it. “Do we know each other?”
Miles laugh, a brittle thing that rasps in Dean’s ears. “Oh no, of course not. I’m nobody-not a special, world-saving hero like yourself.”
“Then what the fuck are you doing here? Because all this creepy cryptic bullshit you’re spewing makes me think you’re just another stalker fan like all those weirdos in Deanville.”
Miles’ nostrils flare and he lowers his knife to charge at Dean in pure fury, throwing him up against the wall. “You killed her!” Miles yells right in Dean’s face, features mottled with rage. “My Roberta, my beautiful Roberta!"
“What?” a series of faces flashes before Dean’s eyes, but he can’t begin to guess at which one might be Roberta, which one Miles cared about; there have been so goddamn many. “Was she possessed? Was she-"
“No.” Miles throws Dean back against the wall so hard his teeth rattle. “She was innocent, and sweet, and good, and you left her to die on the battlefield like a soldier. She was a fucking civilian, and if anyone had to die for the cause it should have been-it should have been me.”
“I-" Dean chokes when Miles jams his arm against his windpipe, spots beginning to appear in the edges of Dean’s vision. “I didn’t know. When Michael took control I couldn’t-I didn’t know anything about what he did, I couldn’t stop-"
“Stop making excuses,” Miles whispers, face still red with rage, but eyes cold and hard. “It was you, your body, your consent. You killed the love of my life and I’m just supposed to-what? Let you walk away?”
Dean stares dully back into Miles’ eyes, and a vision of his father flashes before him. “No,” Dean says, feeling his consciousness beginning to slip away as the oxygen deprivation continues. “No. I expect you to hunt me until one of us is dead.”
Miles doesn’t say anything more-or maybe he does, but Dean can’t hear him. In fact, Dean can’t concentrate on anything but the twitching of his fingertips, the way his feet are thrashing helplessly, weakly, against Miles’ shins, and the fading, graying sensation in his mind.
This is it, a part of Dean’s brain registers. This is the end of the line, finally.
Past
Dean sometimes found himself aware in his body at the strangest moments. In the middle of a heated battle, or at the tail end of a conversation that Michael had ended by walking away (the prick). One time, Dean managed to hide his consciousness well enough to avoid detection for a whole ten minutes as Michael strode through a deserted town-searching for what, Dean could not divine.
But whether it was a matter of seconds or minutes, Michael always found Dean out and put him back under again-back to a sort of mindless oblivion Dean had once thought death might be like.
9 weeks after the war
Instead of opening his eyes to a bright light, or pearly gates, or even the familiar stench of Hell, Dean opens his eyes to find Castiel hovering over him.
“What were you thinking?” Castiel growls, right in his face, and Dean jerks back to his senses. “You were going to let him kill you?”
“I wasn’t letting anyone-" Dean groans and touches his bruised neck. “I had him right where I wanted him. I was-I was waiting for the perfect strategic moment.”
“You’re lying,” Castiel says, and the cold fury there makes Dean recoil slightly. “You were dying and not even fighting it.”
“I wasn’t-" Dean shakes his head and winces, because that fucking hurts too.
“Look at me, Dean,” Castiel commands, and Dean stares down stubbornly at the plain white comforter instead. “Look at me,” Castiel repeats, and grabs Dean’s chin, forcibly taking back eye contact. After a moment, Castiel drops Dean’s chin and takes a step back. “You wanted to die.”
“Whatever,” Dean mutters, not looking to confirm or deny. “What’s it to you?”
Castiel goes pale, tense. “Dean. If you die, I don’t know where you’ll go. I don’t know where any human-and I won’t be allowed to come get you again.”
Dean lets out a bitter laugh as he swings his stiff legs over the side of the bed. “Yeah, sure. You mean you don’t know if it’s back to the coal mines in spite of my community service.”
“You are a good man,” Castiel says, but there’s a note of uncertainty in his voice. “You should-"
“Should have stopped my mom from making a deal. Should have lived a normal life. Should have said yes to Mike sooner. Should have saved a hundred more lives.” Dean rubs his neck again, and it throbs. “You promised me, Cas. You promised you’d stop me-my body-before Michael did any fucked up shit with it.”
“I tried,” Castiel whispers, and Dean looks at him. “I tried to stop him, Dean, but he was-he was a force of nature. And he would not be swayed.”
“Of course not.” Dean closes his eyes, a flood of pins and needles all over his body, as if all his limbs had been asleep. “I know. I know it wasn’t-you couldn’t stop him. No one could.”
"I spoke to my brothers and sisters." Castiel turns away. “They confirmed that they have no more plans for you, and that they have finished almost all of their work eradicating Lucifer's forces. The demons that survived the purge have all been driven into hiding, along with all the other major forces of darkness.”
“You’re telling me it’s a brave new world out there?” Dean stares at the defeated curve of Castiel’s back.
“For now. For the next few years, at least.” Castiel straightens up. “This time is yours to do with as you wish. You’re free.”
“Free?” Dean laughs, and Castiel turns around. “I’m a monster hunter in a world with no fucking monsters. I’m not free, I’m just… obsolete.”
Castiel says nothing, and Dean closes his eyes to the pity in his gaze. “Hey,” Dean says wearily, because what the hell does he have to lose? “You wanna fuck?”
But when Dean opens his eyes again, Castiel is gone.
Poll FB Hallelujah Act II
Onto Act III