Ringwall (2/3)

[bellatemple]

West stared down at Andy, sprawled across the beaten up, patched old couch in the common room, the same way he'd stared at Dean in the storage room when he first grabbed him.

Dean was really starting to believe the kid had no idea what was going on.

"What --" West swallowed, brushing at the spilled beer on his shirt as though he could wipe it off. "What's wrong with him?"

Andy jerked on the couch again, his hand fisting in the cushions on the back as he hissed through his teeth. He hadn't had another full blown seizure, yet, but Dean knew it was only a matter of time.

"OD," Jo said softly behind him. She'd been the one to pull Dean off the kid in the storage room. Seemed West did fine with a holy water beer, which meant he wasn't a total government stooge, yet. She'd also reminded Dean that he was the one who brought West in in the first place.

Dean hated it when Jo had a point. Much less when she had two of them.

"On what?" West asked. He was keeping his distance -- wisely, Dean allowed -- and still pawing at his shirt. Dean caught Nance's eye across Andy's prone form and tilted his head. Nance, bless her, had already pulled the dishtowel out of her back pocket to offer to the kid.

"Blood," Dean said.

West took the dishtowel with a nod and started rubbing at his shirt with it instead of his hand. It didn't seem to make much of a difference. "He's a greaser?"

"Was," Dean said. He had trouble getting the word out through his clenched teeth. "This is more than just a batch of street grease, though."

West gave him some sort of confused puppy look that somehow both simultaneously made Dean want to pat him and pissed him off further. "What do you. . . ?" He trailed off as Andy's eyes cracked open.

The whites glowed.

"He's on grace," West breathed. "You've got gracelings here?"

Dean shook his head, crouching down next to the couch as Andy started to convulse again, wrapping a loose arm over his chest to keep him from falling off the cushions. "No. We don't."

"No, of course not." West shook his head. He was still a few steps behind, but Dean could see him working to catch up. "Gracelings all get housing stipends." His eyes went wide. "Dude, no way would I have brought grace in here. I don't even have the clearance to go near the stuff!"

"Andy couldn't afford the street prices on something this pure," Jo said softly. "Government's the only source."

Dean flinched as Andy slammed up against his arm, his back arching, his eyes wide open and bright, now.

Well. At least they weren't on fire.

"You honestly telling me you didn't bring this shit into my house?" he asked, breaking Andy's back-lit gaze to look back at West. Kid was wringing the dishtowel, now.

"Do you want to search me?" West shot back. "I wouldn't carry that shit around, what if I dropped it? Sweet Mike."

Dean flicked his gaze over to Jo, who shrugged. He looked up at Old Jim. "Padre?"

Jim shook his head. "Boy's been off all day. Been twitchy since before that. He swore he wasn't using again."

Dean nodded, looking back down at Andy. The convulsions were dying down again, and his hands were starting to move with more intent, fingers slipping and catching against the buttons on Dean's shirt. "Yeah. He told me, too." He'd really wanted to believe Andy's flashback story. Andy was the great success story, greaser gone clean. "What about the pot? Could it be . . . tainted or something?"

"He's smoking blood?" West asked. Dean kind of wanted to smack him.

Old Jim shook his head. "I don't think so, Dean."

Andy's hand made contact with Dean's shirt again, this time finding purchase. Dean looked down and caught his eye. "It's okay, kid, just relax, it'll all be okay."

Andy shook his head. "Dean." His voice developed the echoing undertone that had always accompanied his mind control commands when he'd hit bottom last time. "Sam."

Dean yanked himself away and made it to his feet. He felt sick, the bile actually backing up in his throat. "I've had enough of this," he said. "We've got to cut this shit out at the source."

"How?" Jo asked.

"Actually," West said. He was staring down at Andy with an expression Dean couldn't read, though the intensity of it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He looked up and caught Dean's eye, and it was as though the air had been sucked out of the room. "I think I can help with that."

*

Dean made Sam wait until the worst of Andy's seizures had passed, until they got him settled into his room upstairs (the Mercy House had an upstairs, Sam wasn't sure why, but for some reason this surprised him). Then he led Sam and Jo into what he called his office. Sam assumed it was a joke until he actually saw the space, which did in fact look startlingly like an actual office, complete with a desk and a haphazard stack of papers bearing the official seal of Perdition.

"Lucy and Mike," Sam swore. "You're a lawyer?"

"Bite your tongue," Dean said.

"He's more of a social worker," Jo offered. She didn't seem fazed in the least by the glare Dean shot her way. "What? That's what Uncle Bobby calls you."

"Uncle Bobby can call me anything he damn well pleases. The new guy doesn't need to hear about it."

Sam sighed, reaching back to close the door. He didn't even have to stretch, though he was practically standing on top of the desk. Dean's office was tiny. "Look," he said. "It seems to me we all have a choice, here."

Dean, clearly not used to anyone else doing the gruff, ordering around voice, looked up sharply from the rolls of paper he was sifting through. "Yeah, Westie? And what choice is that?"

Sam straightened, consciously rolling his shoulders back and crossing his arms, making full use of his height for the first time -- well, since the playground at Billy's. "We have to decide whether or not we're going to trust each other."

Jo and Dean exchanged one of their little telepathic conversation glances. Sam had only known Jo for all of maybe two hours, now -- Dean for barely longer, really -- but he was already a little tired of those. "Okay," Dean said, straightening up himself, a paper roll held in both hands. He dropped his chin a little, and Sam wondered if he was trying to make a point of not looking up at Sam. "I trust you."

Sam blinked. He hadn't really expected it to be that easy. "You do?"

"There a reason I shouldn't?"

"No," Sam said. He shifted his weight, then realized he didn't have anywhere to go and just sort of ended up recrossing his arms. "Just . . . you barely know me."

"You let me blindfold you and shove you in the back of a cargo bike with Jo driving, then followed me into a dumpster." He shrugged. "I'd say that earns a little bit of trust."

"Huh," Sam said. "Well, then."

"I don't trust you," Jo offered. Sam tried to turn his head to acknowledge her, but for some reason he was having trouble breaking Dean's eye contact.

"You don't count," Dean said, his lip quirking up as Jo smacked him on the arm. "What about you, West? You trust us?"

"I let you blindfold me and followed you into a dumpster," Sam said.

But he still wasn't telling them his real name.

"Okay then." Dean thwacked the paper roll against his right palm a few times, then swept some of the papers on the desk aside and started to unroll it. Sam leaned in and saw it was a map of Perdition, one of the official ones put out by City Hall, but with a number of extra markings in seemingly innocuous spots. Supply points, Sam guessed, or maybe other safe houses. "Let's get back to work. You said you knew where the grace supply's coming from?"

Sam nodded, then shrugged. "Yeah. I mean, maybe. It's not really my department. I work with the Mayor." Dean and Jo both raised their eyebrows, as though to say 'yeah, and?' "But I hear things. Perdition's all human on the surface, but every side ends up with its prisoners of war, right?"

"So it's true?" Jo asked. "You guys have your own pet angel, locked up and bleeding out somewhere?"

"Is it really that hard to believe?"

"Not even a little," Dean said. "Question is: where's it being kept? City Hall owns half the buildings in town, it could be in any one of them."

Sam leaned over the map, resting his elbows on a stack of -- huh, work placement forms. Dean really was a social worker. It fit, even as the Angel of Mercy, his main job was finding kids places to stay.

More and more, it was looking like this was what the dreams had been trying to tell him. He was supposed to help Dean, help stop the supply of blood getting out onto the street. And then, if Sister Margaret was to be believed, he was going to save the world.

And to think, just a few days ago, his biggest concern was making sure banners got printed for the Mayor's anniversary gala.

"Okay, City Hall's here," he said, thinking out loud in order to derail the whole world savior train. He traced his finger along his usual route home. Fog aside, his dreams had been surprisingly literal -- it wasn't hard to find the spot where he'd turned off into the alley, or the block where he'd run into Dean in the balaclava. "We're going to want to look in this area," he said, circling the block with his fingertip. "A little to the north of -- there." He poked at a long rectangular building just past what he'd determined was the alley where dream!Dean had covered him from the blast. "The angel's being held there." He looked up to see Jo and Dean staring at him, eyebrows still raised, this time with a distinctly incredulous tilt. "What?"

"The Penney building? There's nothing there," Jo said. Sam looked back down at the map.

"It's a city owned building."

"With nothing in it," Dean said. "It's been on the books to get torn down for something like five years."

Sam shook his head. "How do you even know that?"

"Dude," Dean said. "We live in an abandoned building. We try to keep track of what the city's looking to tear down."

Sam shook his head. "That's the perfect cover, then, isn't it? Empty government building, all tied up in bureaucratic red tape. What better place to hide their secrets?"

"I dunno," Jo said. "I still say it's gotta be City Hall. That place gives me the creeps."

"Buildings with four complete walls give you the creeps," Dean said. "What makes you pick that one?" he asked. "It's not the only one slated for demolition."

"It's that one," Sam said. "You just -- have to trust me."

No real name. No real explanation. Yeah, Sam was totally trustworthy.

Dean nodded. "Okay. We'll stake it out, check the Guard situation. If you're wrong, though --"

"You'll kill me, or do something more creatively unpleasant," Sam said. "But I'm not."

*

"I'm telling you, man." Dean lifted his lit cigarette, flicked at the entirely non-existent accumulated ash, and lowered it again. He'd gone through a whole cigarette already, never once taking a drag. He'd said it gave him an excuse to be out on the street. Sam was pretty sure that at best all it was doing was making them both smell bad. He coughed not entirely discretely into his hand. Dean ignored it, like he had every other time Sam coughed. "This place looks deserted."

"It's supposed to," Sam said. "You know, like how you're supposed to look like you're smoking. Which you don't, by the way."

"I totally do," Dean said, ashing the cig again. The glowing red embers wobbled for a moment, then broke off, dangling from the end of the paper by a long strand of not-yet-burning tobacco. "Crap."

Sam gave him a pointed look.

"Shut your smug little government face," Dean said.

"Civil service is nothing to be ashamed of."

"You're servicing a civil that likes to maim the people and get them hooked on drugs that literally burn out your insides."

Sam opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again. "Fuck."

Dean laughed once. He knocked the lit embers off the end of the cigarette and stomped them out on the ground.

"No," Sam said. "Really. Fuck. I can't even -- I can't even say I didn't know. The brands and blood are common knowledge. I just never. I never thought about it."

Dean shrugged, studying the ragged end of the cigarette for a moment before flicking it away. "Not like you're alone, man. Like you said, common knowledge. Hell, I joined the Guard, once upon a time, and they're the ones who do half the shit that goes down in this town. Most people just don't think about it."

"You quit, though. You ditched out, even knowing they'd. . . ." Sam trailed off, running his finger around his own right eye. Dean raised his hand to his scars, then shook his head.

"I needed a wake up call, same as anyone."

"What was it?"

"They offered me a place in the Corps."

"You were a graceling?"

"Never made it that far." Dean stared out into the darkness, hand still hovering by the scar. "They give you a test dose, you know, before you make the final decision. See if it kills you, or if you get fancy powers." He smiled faintly. "It's a helluva hit, man, I tell you what. Knocked my ass right out. They thought I was going to bite it, had the fire extinguishers all set. I came to in the dark with the things pointed at my face." He coughed into his hand, then grimaced. Sam wasn't sure if it was the cough, the story, or the smell of cigarette still clinging to his skin. "Found out later I'd knocked out power for the whole block. So, you know, no question if I qualified."

Sam frowned. "So what happened?"

"I didn't want it. That shit messed up my system like crazy, and -- well. None of it was any good. Thing is, once you pass that first test, you don't get to back out. It was ditch or get trapped." He shrugged, looking like he was holding another cigarette. "So, you know, I'm not actually the hero they like to make me out to be."

Sam was staring. He knew he was, but he couldn't stop it. "Why the hell did you stay?" he finally said. "Jo said you've known her family forever. You could have ditched out with them and just gone roaming."

"Don't think I didn't think of that."

"So why? I mean, that seems at least a little bit on the 'hero' side, to me."

Dean shook his head. "You really want to know?"

"I've asked you, like, three times now."

"I got a kid brother." Dean smiled faintly. "Okay, probably not much of a kid any more. I haven't seen him in more than twenty years, but he's around here, somewhere. I'm not leaving Perdition until I find him." He looked up at Sam then, and he looked older than he ever had since Sam had met him, but also . . . softer. It occurred to Sam that this was the first time he was seeing the real Dean Winchester. "And when I do, I'd like to be able to look the guy in the eye."

Sam found himself smiling back. Something niggled at the back of his head, pieces of some puzzle on the very edge of fitting together. "Dean," he started. "Your brother --"

Dean cut him off, his head snapping to the side as the sound of footsteps came from the alley across the street. "Later, man," he hissed. "Something's happening."

Sam bit his lip, but obligingly fell silent. He wasn't sure how he was going to ask what he wanted to, anyway. It was all a little too orphan pipe dream, really, and it wasn't like he and Dean looked anything like each other.

Still, he couldn't deny that it added up. And if Sam were going to have a brother, he was pretty sure he could do worse than the Angel of Mercy.

*

"Houston, this is the angel, do you copy?" Dean pressed his thumb down on the button on the side of his walkie-talkie, resisting the urge to push the mic on his headset closer to his mouth.

"Loud and Clear, AOM," Jo responded. "Told you these were a good investment."

Dean snorted. "Three years ago, Houston. We're lucky the batteries still work." He put his hand over the mic, looking over at West. "Seriously, at the time we so didn't have a need for these things." He realized what he was doing and dropped his hand, rolling his eyes at himself. The things were going to take some getting used to.

"Luck's my middle name," Jo said. "Mom just pretends it's Beth so she doesn't give away my secret weapon." The line went silent for a few moments. West stared at Dean expectantly.

"We'll get you a headset of your own next time an electronics scrounger shows up with one," Dean told him. "I promise."

Static popped in his ear as Jo came back online. "Okay, second Guard shift is on the move. If they keep up like they did last night, you've got two minutes to get through the door before third comes on."

"Roger that," Dean said, futzing with the handset attached to his belt. "Switching to VOX."

"Oh goody."

Dean flipped the switch on the side of the handset and was rewarded with another burst of static. Yeah, that was going to be fun. "Hey, no sass on the line. We're on a job, here."

"Uh huh. Get your cute little ass moving, AOM."

Dean smiled, glancing back at West again, then realized he couldn't see the expression, seeing as they were both wearing ski masks. "She called me cute."

"Just your ass."

Right. Voice activated transmission. Dean cleared his throat. "You ready to move, Compass Boy?"

West rolled his eyes -- which, well, was at least a visible expression -- and sighed. "That's a terrible code name."

"Shoulda thought of that before you were named," Dean said cheerfully.

"Less chatter, more B&E."

"You're bossy, Houston."

"Don't make me come down there."

"Promises, promises." Dean grinned again, then refocused himself. They only had a limited window, here. As much fun as he was having getting to tease both Jo and West at the same time, they really did have to get moving. "On the move."

"Roger that. No sign of third Guard yet."

Security was pretty lax on the outside of the building -- the better to seem as deserted as possible, Dean supposed. They didn't really have much of an idea of what it would look like on the inside -- West had managed to get his hands on some schematics at the office, but since even to most of City Hall, the place was just an old empty department store, he hadn't been able to locate any indication of what it was being used for or where it was being kept. Or what kind of security it'd have inside.

The door they'd picked was a former fire exit, a single thick metal door set off alone on the side of the building, far enough away from the old loading bay not to be immediately visible to anyone coming and going from that end. Surveillance the night before had shown that most of the activity going in and out was by the loading bay. A well-placed street urchin with a rock had taken care of the light over the fire exit. As Dean had predicted, the Guard hadn't bothered to go in and fix it yet. Which meant less likelihood of him and West getting spotted, but also meant there wasn't exactly a lot of light to pick the lock on the door by.

Dean did his best not to curse out loud as his pick slipped again, well aware that anything he said sent pops and bursts of static into Jo's ears along with his actual words. He didn't quite manage to bite back the expletive that came out when West suddenly pushed him to the side and grabbed the picks, though.

"What?" Jo demanded. "What's he doing?!"

"Dude," Dean hissed, but his protest was cut off when the door cracked open. West handed him back his picks, and though Dean couldn't see it under the ski mask, he was sure the kid was giving him his little prissy-lipped smug face. "When did you learn how to pick locks?"

"What exactly do you think we did for fun at Billy's?" West asked.

"I don't know," Dean admitted. He pushed past, leaning into the hallway beyond the fire door to make sure the path was clear before gesturing West in after him. "Tea parties and shit."

"Sister Margaret makes a mean cup of tea," West said, sticking rather closer behind Dean than was strictly necessary. The door swung shut and they found themselves in darkness. "And worked as an assistant to a performing escape artist before the war." He patted Dean on the back between the shoulder blades. "I'll have to introduce you two, some day."

"Sure," Dean muttered. "Meg the escapist nun. Can't wait."

Jo, apparently, had nothing to add.

They made their way slowly down the hallway, Dean keeping one hand lightly on the wall to make sure they didn't accidentally walk into it. They reached a junction after several feet, and Dean glanced back, waiting for signal from West on which way to go.

"Offices to the left," West muttered. "Main showroom is past those. Warehouse is straight ahead."

Dean nodded. "Straight first. We'd see a light if they were working in the warehouse right now."

They came to the double doors leading into the warehouse after another twenty feet or so. Each door had a single round window. When Dean peered in, he could see the shapes of shelves by the dim illumination of an emergency light at the far side of the room. He didn't spot any movement. "Looks clear," he said. "But it's hard to say for sure. Too many shelves."

"Gives us places to hide too, right?" West asked.

Dean shrugged. "Sure." He pressed his shoulder into the door, feeling it give easily. It was double-hinged, which would make it easy to make a quick escape if they needed to, though it also made it harder to secure it against anyone coming in. "Loading dock opens into here, right?"

"Far corner," West confirmed. "We'd better stick close to the shelves."

Dean led the way into the warehouse, slipping quickly and quietly across the open space in front of the doors and making his way over to the first set of shelves, his back against it as he listened for any other movements. West followed, proving himself to be pretty light on his feet as well, for a freaking giant. Dean wouldn't say it to his face -- not yet, anyway -- but West actually made a pretty good partner in crime. When he decided he was in on something, he gave it his all, and he was proving quite capable when it came to planning and executing a heist.

Now, if only they could work out what they were stealing.

There was a faint clank as West poked at the items on the shelves they were hiding next to. "Mike and Lucy," he hissed. "It really is an armory."

Dean twisted around. "The armory's on the other side of -- holy mother of crap."

West was holding the largest, fanciest gun Dean had ever seen. The Guard was issued short range weapons and riot control gear -- bean bag guns, tear gas bombs and the like. Firearms were strictly controlled by the government. The Guard wasn't allowed to kill humans any more than anyone else was, and they didn't work that well on angels or demons. Those working the gates might have a rifle or two on hand for croats -- which hadn't been an issue in years -- or more mundane monsters, but no one within the walls was allowed to carry even an old revolver, much less a giant automatic weapon like the one West had picked up.

"The government has a secret stockpile of banned weapons," West said. "I can't even be surprised any more."

"Really?" Dean asked. "'Cause I am." West looked over at him and he shrugged. "I mean, in retrospect, sure, of course they've got enough firepower to wipe out the whole town. But if they do that, who are they going to order around for shits and giggles?"

"I'm really starting to hate this place," West said.

"Hate to interrupt," Jo said, bursting into the conversation on a wave of static so thick it took Dean a moment to work out what she was saying. "But third Guard just made it to the loading bay."

Dean signalled for West to put the gun down. "We've got incoming," he said. "Let's get moving."

He didn't mention that they were maybe losing their signal with their eye in the sky. No need to worry the kid.

"You don't want to check the rest of this place?"

Dean shook his head. "We can head back over later. You can't get blood from a stone -- or from a stockpile of weapons. Well, not while they're actively stockpiled, anyway."

Sam nodded. "Offices?"

"Worth a shot."

They ducked back out the double doors just as the lights in the warehouse came on full, giving Dean a momentary eyeful of just how many racks of weapons the Guard had been hiding. There was enough firepower in that room to take down a small country. You know, if countries were still a thing out there in the world, somewhere. Human life was considered so sacrosanct that the government wouldn't even exile someone for fear of being thought murderers.

Just who were they expecting to use all those guns on?

*

The first two offices were empty. West spent several moments with his ear pressed to each door to listen for any movement before they tried opening them. Dean would've done it, but the headset made it hard to get as close as he needed to to the door to listen effectively, and besides, he was kind of hoping Jo would give them another update any moment now. They contained only dusty desks and scattered paperwork. Dean looked over a few -- with the doors closed behind them, he figured they could risk a flashlight -- but they dated back before the war, showing itemized lists of stock and prices, employee schedules, department store stuff. Dean took a moment to wonder at the idea of having one single merchant offering everything you could possibly need to get by in life -- no haggling, no worrying that the roamer troop that sells you your blankets won't make it back from their latest round of the other human strongholds.

It'd been a different world.

The third door didn't look any different from the first two, but when West put his head against the door, he flinched back.

"What?"

"It's hot."

Dean reached over and rested his palm against the wood. West was right, it felt warm against his hand. Which meant either someone had just recently been leaning against it, or --

He put his hand to the door knob, feeling the same warmth on the metal, and gave it a test turn. Locked. "Can you work your magic?"

West nodded. Dean kept watch while he worked the picks into the lock. He had it open in a matter of seconds, and Dean stuck close behind him as he eased the door inward.

The first thing he noticed was the ring of low flames burning on the floor, heating the tiny room enough for it to seep through the wood and metal of the door. The second thing was the man in a ragged suit slumped chained to a chair in the middle of that ring, an IV sticking out of the side of his neck. Dean sucked in a soft breath between his teeth.

Looked like they found the source of the grace.

West slipped into the room, with Dean fast on his heels. He eased the door closed behind them, but left it cracked enough to let some of the cooler air of the hallway in behind them -- and let in enough sound for them to hear if someone was coming. There was barely enough room between the circle of flames and the wall for the two of them to stand.

The man in the chair stirred, his chin lifting a few inches before sagging back down. His dark hair by all rights should have been slicked to his head with sweat -- Dean could feel moisture soaking his ski mask, and he'd only been in the room a few moments, so far -- but it stuck up at odd angles.

Right, angels didn't sweat, did they?

". . . Do we kill it?" West asked, his voice low and almost reverent. Dean shot him a wide eyed look.

"You got a fancy angel sword on you, G-boy?"

The angel stirred again, this time lifting his head all the way up and opening his eyes. He squinted past the flames at them for a moment, and then Dean saw his shoulders sag. He'd've thought they couldn't get any lower than they already were.

"Dean," the angel said. Dean shivered despite the heat. The man's gaze moved from Dean to West. "You found him."

Uh, okay. "Yeah, man. We found you." Dean eased his way around the circle, taking in the chains that held the angel down. They were inscribed with enochian sigils, adding an extra line of defence to the ring of holy fire.

"You don't recognize me," the angel said, talking almost more to himself than to Dean. "No, of course you don't. I've changed vessels since then."

"You can't keep doing this, Dean." Dad's friend crouched down, reaching out to put his fingers on the head of the baby in Dean's arms. Sammy sucked in a breath, the blue on his skin disappearing as he started to cry. "I can't keep bringing him back for you."

Dean froze. The angel stared at him, looking tranquil as you please, even with the dark circles under his eyes, the constant flow of blood from his neck into the IV bag hanging on a pole behind him. The vessel was young, Dean saw, no older than West was. He hadn't shaved before the angel had taken him, or maybe the angel had never bothered to learn how. Dean wasn't exactly sure how all that worked; most folks in Perdition only learned as much about angels as they needed to keep them out. "We know each other?"

The angel nodded, looking resigned. "It was a long time ago. I forget how fragile your memories can be."

"You need to get help, Dean."

"Please," Dean sobbed. He clutched Sammy harder to his chest. "I didn't mean it. He wouldn't stop crying. I didn't mean it."

"You can't keep doing this."

The air was too close in here, with all the fire and the heat. Dean couldn't catch his breath. West -- wisely -- was keeping out of it all, sticking close to the door even as Dean made his way around the circle of holy fire.

It was right on the edge of Dean's mind, hiding behind a wave of panic and the shape of his father's chin.

"Castiel."

The angel smiled. "I knew you'd find us."

Dean's brain latched on to the tiny details, not quite up to looking at the larger ones, just yet. "Us?"

"Myself," Castiel nodded towards West. "And your brother."

Dean's head snapped up to look at West, who was now exactly halfway across the ring of fire from him. The ski mask and the odd shadows cast by the fire hid the other man's expression completely.

It wasn't possible.

"Sammy?"

*

Sam couldn't actually see Dean's eyes. His cheekbones, lit from beneath, shadowed them into pits. It was eerily reminiscent of his dreams, strange enough to make him shiver.

"Is your name Sam?" Dean demanded. Sam swallowed.

"Yes."

"Why did you lie?"

It was a quiet sort of anger, completely different than what Sam had seen back at the Mercy House, when Dean had thought Sam had slipped Andy drugs. That had been a boiling rage. This didn't even quite simmer, just glowed, red hot and yet somehow fragile, like molten glass.

"I didn't," Sam said, pitching his voice low. "My full name is Sam West."

"West. Sam West." It came out breathless, and Dean reached up, yanking his balaklava up off of his face. The movement knocked his headset askew, but he didn't seem to notice. "Your name is Sam West."

Sam reached up and pulled his own mask up, hoping that actually being able to see each other's faces might make this conversation easier. "The sisters at Billy's called me that," he explained. "There was a name stitched into the back of my clothes: Sam W."

"You were a foundling."

"I was left in a box on the steps." Sam had to look away, Dean's gaze -- or at least the direction of those dark, shadowed eyes -- was too intense. "By the Angel of Mercy."

The angel, still sitting in the chair in the center of the circle, straightened. "Angel of Mercy?"

"Relax, Cas," Dean said. The angel frowned at the diminutive, but didn't say anything. "It's just the name they use for me."

"Who?" Castiel asked. "Who gave you that title?"

Dean shrugged and shook his head. "I don't know, it just kinda evolved."

"Sister Margaret," Sam said, then resisted the urge to shrink back when both Dean and Castiel looked at him at the same time. "At Billy's. I don't know if she came up with it, but she was the first one I heard use it. By the time the third or fourth kid got dropped off, it kind of stuck."

"In Judaism and Islam, the term 'Angel of Mercy' most often refers to one specific being," Castiel said, his face utterly serious. "The archangel Michael."

"You mean Michael Michael," Dean said. "As in 'Lucifer and Michael'."

"Yes."

Sam shook his head. "We didn't cover that bit in school," he said.

"You went to school?" Dean asked, surprised. Sam looked back at him, eyebrows going up.

"You didn't?"

Dean stared at him for a few beats, then shook his head. "Okay, nicknames and all that aside, can we get back to the part where you're my little brother?"

"I thought you knew," Castiel said. He sounded apologetic. Sam hadn't realized angels could sound that way.

He was beginning to think that for all he'd learned about angels back at Billy's, and from the government PSAs about them, he didn't actually know much more than how to keep them out.

"Yeah, well, I didn't," Dean said, the anger from earlier having given way into a more garden variety irritation. He looked back across the circle at Sam. "Did you?"

"I, uh." Sam went for sheepish, and hoped it translated despite the low light. "I was kinda starting to wonder. But only just tonight." He heard a sound out in the hallway and stiffened. "Crap. We may have incoming."

Dean nodded once, then stepped over the low burning flame and knelt behind Castiel's chair. Sam heard metal clanking on metal.

"What are you doing?!" Sam hissed, at the same time that Castiel said "Dean, you have to go."

"You're the reason Sam and I are still alive," Dean said. "We're getting you out of here."

Sam edged up to the door and tried to peer out through the crack. The darkness of the hallway outside was only compounded by the afterimages of flames at the bottom of Sam's vision. He couldn't see a damned thing. He held his breath and listened.

Voices, but faint. Somewhere down at the other end of the hall, maybe from the warehouse.

There was more clanking behind Sam, and then the sound of a chair being cast aside. Down the hall, the sound of a door swinging open and shut. Sam squinted, but still couldn't see anyone in the hall. There was a short rush of breeze and the sound of feathers. Dean cursed.

When Sam looked back, the chair interrupted the ring of fire, and the angel was gone.

"Some gratitude," Dean said, and under his anger Sam could hear hurt feelings. He wondered just how well Dean had known the guy.

Were angels guys?

"We need to move," Sam reminded him, reaching up to pull his mask back down. Dean nodded, adjusting his own and shifting the headset back into place. He flinched, holding the ear piece slightly away from his ear.

"I read you, Houston," he said. "We had some interference -- how many? The whole alley? . . . Are there any clear exits? . . . Roger that." He looked up at Sam. "Guard's closing in. We're going to need to go out the front."

Through the showroom, Sam thought. There were a few double doors on that side, though they were pretty well boarded up. There was one with enough of an opening left for him and Dean to slip through, but it was clear across the building from the offices where they stood now.

"Let's go, then," he said, and he slid the door open as gentle as he could and stepped out into the hallway. Dean crossed the room in just a few steps, fire be damned -- it didn't take much flame to keep an angel in check, apparently -- and came out after him.

"You there!" someone shouted from the other end of the hall, maybe fifty or sixty feet away.. Sam froze. The beam of a flashlight switched on and hit his face, making him squint. "Stop right where you are."

"You know, we'd love to," Dean said. His hand came down hard on Sam's shoulder, pulling backward. "But we're on a bit of a schedule." He bolted, dragging Sam after him.

The doors to the showroom were closer to the office where Castiel had been held than the guards at the hallway t-junction were to Sam and Dean. They made it through the doors and out onto the showroom floor before Sam heard the doors to the offices slam open. Someone shouted about the angel being missing, another about a superior officer.

Sam just barely made out the word "cauterize" before he was too far away to hear any more.

The showroom floor hadn't been repurposed or kept up the way the warehouse had. It was still filled with glass cases and metal racks that had been used to display merchandise when the store was still in operation. None of the goods remained, and most of the cases were broken open and the racks twisted and collapsed, evidence of the looting and panic that had descended on the town in the early days of the war, before Perdition was established and order brought back to the people. Stealth abandoned in favor of speed now that they had been caught, Dean led the way by barging right through the mess, shoving debris to the side almost in an afterthought as he went. Sam grabbed what he could and threw it behind him, hoping that it'd trip up and slow down their pursuers.

If, you know, there were any pursuers. He could hear the pounding of countless feet on linoleum, but it was all distant, back in the hallway and maybe the warehouse. It didn't seem like anyone had followed them out into the showroom, yet.

"Dean," Sam gasped. He wasn't used to running this much. "Dean, something's --"

And then the world exploded.

*

Dean woke up with his brother on top of him.

Sam was massive. He'd known that much since the first time he laid eyes on him, of course; Sam tended to slouch a bit, like he was almost embarrassed by his height, but it wasn't exactly the sort of detail one missed.

Dean hadn't realized that a beanpole could weigh this much, though.

"Sam," he grunted, pawing at the kid's shoulder. "Dude." Sam didn't stir. Dean couldn't get the leverage to push the kid off with his hands, so he twisted, trying to wriggle out from underneath him, instead.

A bolt of pain shot up his left leg, starting somewhere low in his calf and pressing up past his hip until it reached the side of his jaw. Dean just barely managed to hold back a scream. He squeezed his eyes shut and just breathed through clenched teeth for several moments, trying to hold it together. The pain didn't subside when he held still, but he could at least pretend he could handle it better.

Some extra shock would be nice right now, though. He liked broken bones much better when he could be blissfully unaware that they'd happened.

"Sammy," he squeezed out. "I really need you to wake up right now."

No response. When Dean opened his eyes again, he could see flames over his brother's shoulder.

"Yeah," he gasped. "That's no good. We're not doing that." He grit his teeth and held his breath and without biting back the wrenching scream this time, forced his way out from under Sam and promptly collapsed.

"I'm good," he whispered when he came to again. He knew he'd blacked out, because the flames had jumped forward. "I'm good, just give me a minute." He groped across the floor with one hand until he found a nice long metal pole, and then was inordinately proud of himself when he managed to pull himself to his uninjured knee without crying or throwing up.

His injured leg stretched out next to him, not pointing in entirely the right direction. If he didn't look at it, he could pretend it didn't exist.

Or, you know, maybe he'd just go ahead and throw up, after all.

"Sammy." He used the pole to drag himself back over to where Sam lay prone. "Shit, man, I seriously cannot get you out of here, like this. You have to wake up." Sam still didn't move. Dean couldn't tell if he was breathing. "Fuck. Fuck, tell me I didn't find you just to get you killed again. Tell me I didn't."

Yeah. Apparently he was going to cry after all, too.

"Dean."

He thought for a moment Sam had said it, but his brother was still prone. He looked up and saw Castiel standing over them both, his suit still rumpled and torn. He wasn't wearing any shoes.

Dean choked out a laugh. "Deja fucking vu."

Castiel shook his head. "Sam's not dead." He crouched down, reaching over to press his fingers to Sam's head. "He will only have a minor concussion, now. It may have been much worse, if you hadn't broken his fall."

That forced another laugh up Dean's throat. And some bile. "Oh. Goody."

"I'm sorry," Castiel said. "My captivity has drained me more than I anticipated. I thought to go for assistance, but found I could only fly as far as the street outside. Your friend Jo was rather startled."

"I'll make it up to her," Dean said. His fingers started to ache where they were clenched around the pole. It distracted him from the pain in his leg, so he squeezed it harder. "Just get us out of here."

"I fear I will only be able to transport one of you at a time."

Dean's brain just -- blanked. Emptied out and hit pause on all but his most vital functions for a full five seconds. Only one of them. One at a time. They were trapped in a fire in a secret government armory, surrounded by the guard, his brother was unconscious, his leg was broken, and the angel who saved him as a child only to ditch him on the streets of this godforsaken town could only save one of them at a time.

"Sam," Dean said. "Take Sam."

"Your leg," said Castiel.

"Will still be broken when you come back for me. Now get moving."

Castiel stared at him for a moment longer, his eyes clear blue and piercing. They used to be brown, Dean thought, though he couldn't be sure. "Okay."

And then he and Sam were gone. Dean sank back down to the floor, letting out a pained squeal when the motion set off sirens in his leg all over again. He breathed through it as best he could and waited for Castiel to come back.

Deja fucking vu.

"Over here!" Someone shouted. A moment later, Dean was looking up into the muzzle of a non-lethal beanbag-firing guard-issue weapon.

"Oh," he said, hoping they didn't want him to raise his hands. "Goody."

*

Waking up seemed to take an eternity.

Sam caught consciousness in glimpses: a fevered breath on his cheek; snatches of a man and a woman shouting; fingers digging into sore muscles. The feeling of movement, his limbs tangled into awkward shapes; a few syllables of Latin. Sam tried, but he couldn't make the pieces work together into a narrative. Still, it seemed to take less effort than opening his eyes, so Sam contented himself with constructing dreams out of smoke and mental ephemera.

He was finally driven to full consciousness by, of all things, the fullness of his bladder.

"Woah, kid," a woman's voice said as he forced himself to roll over and shoved up out of the deep mattress he was lying on. "Not so fast."

"Gotta go," Sam muttered, his eyes cracked open only just wide enough to make sure he didn't walk into a wall. The light, faint as it was, hurt. He made it maybe three steps before two things occurred to him: first, his head was spinning, not the room itself, and second, he actually had no idea where the bathroom might be.

Two sets of hands caught him by his upper arms as his knees buckled. They guided him backward until he sat on the edge of the bed he'd just been lying in (he had to assume, he still hadn't gotten his eyes open wide enough to see if there were any other beds in the room).

"Sit down, son." A male voice, this time. "You took a bit of a beating."

Sam huffed, shrugging away from his grip. He tried to come up with a clever euphemism, but his headache had paralyzed the wit centers of his brain. "Have to pee."

"Ah," the woman said. "Jim?"

"I'll attend," said the man, and after a brief, quiet pause during which Sam really hoped the woman had left the room, he did, with a brisk professionalism that Sam had to respect. "There we are," he said, when the task was finished and Sam had let himself slump backwards onto the bed, sinking down into the feather mattress, not entirely sure he'd be able to get back up again. "Better?"

Sam grunted what he hoped was intelligible as a "yes". The light on the other side of his eyelids dimmed a bit, and Sam sighed softly under his breath, using the reprieve from the pounding of his head to review what he could remember before all the floaty and disjointed bits.

He jackknifed back up right, only to be caught by the arms again. "Dean," he said. "Where's Dean?"

Jim, who if Sam had the right person, was the older man with a gray goatee who helped Dean attend to Andy when he overdosed, eased Sam back down. "I'm afraid we're still working on that, just now."

Sam didn't resist the mattress again -- couldn't if he'd wanted to. He swallowed, saliva rushing to fill his mouth. He'd never felt this terrible, not even as a child when he came down with a vicious sinus infection that had knocked him out of commission for days and sent the nuns into a flurry. He missed his small apartment across town, his own familiar bed and his own familiar bathroom. He wished Sister Margaret were there, to press cool cloths to his head and lecture him teasingly about being lazy.

He wanted his family.

"Did you know?" he asked Jim, cracking his eyes open wide enough to make out a blurry impression of the man's face. He was sitting by the edge of the bed, his hands folded in his lap. He wore a black turtleneck, the sort that hadn't been popular among anyone but the Guard since before the war.

"Know what?" Jim asked.

Sam shook his head and immediately regretted it. "No, you wouldn't. We didn't even know."

Jim leaned forward further. "West. What didn't you know?"

Sam felt himself smile a little. "That's not my name," he said. He realized a moment too late that he maybe shouldn't be sharing this with the old man, though he seemed to be one of Dean's friends. Sam didn't know how the hierarchy of the Mercy House worked, who knew how much about Dean's history.

"I'm sorry," Jim said, with a practised lack of judgement that Sam most associated with the more serious nuns at Billy's. Sam remembered hearing mention of a padre somewhere in Mercy House, and wondered if Jim still took confession. "What name would you prefer?"

"Sam."

"Well, Sam. It's nice to properly meet you. I'm James Murphy, though most around here call me Old Jim."

"Mean," Sam noted.

"Gentle teasing, that's all." Sam watched his expression and thought he still saw curiosity burning behind the mask of a professional counselor.

"Did you know," he asked, choosing to test the waters a bit, "that Dean had a brother?"

"Still does, we hope," Jim said. "Do you know of him?"

"Sure," Sam said with an abbrieviated laugh that nonetheless managed to light up the back of his skull. "He's kind of an ass."

"Well," Jim said fondly. "He would be Dean's brother, after all."

The laugh came out in full this time, devolving into a groan at the end as Sam tried to hold his head on. "How'd I get out?" he asked, deciding not to press the brother angle, for now.

"The angel Castiel," Jim said. "He transported you from the fire, he says at Dean's request. He was quite upset when he returned for Dean and found him missing."

"Missing?" Sam frowned. "He didn't -- he's not --"

"The angel seems to think he'd be able to tell if Dean had been killed." Jim didn't sound terribly confident. Once upon a time, Sam understood, angels had been mystical, beautific creatures, full of mystery and near omniscience. The reality had made bitter cynics of much of the former clergy. "I'm afraid we haven't managed to learn much more, as of yet."

"If the Guard has him," Sam said slowly, "we'll probably find out soon enough. He'd get a public trial."

"Such as they are," Jim said, sounding disgusted. "And that's assuming they wouldn't simply kill him outright."

"They wouldn't." For everything else Sam had learned to question over the last week or so, that he was still certain of. "Human life is too precious to waste. Even a criminal one."

"So they say," Jim said. "What would you say the likelihood is that they'd simply lock him secretly away?"

"Yeah," Sam said, after several moments. "That they might do."

"It's too bad we've all been so thorough in warding our buildings," Jim said. "Perhaps otherwise we might have put your benefactor to use finding our wayward leader."

"Yeah," Sam said, closings his eyes. "Too bad."

*

Well, Dean thought. At least they splinted my leg.

They had him tied to a chair, not locked into one of the cells in the basement of Guard HQ, where he'd spent the first several days after his desertion. In fact, as far as he could tell -- though he'd admittedly not been able to pay that much attention, considering that they hadn't splinted him until after they'd dragged him out to the paddy wagon and driven him across town -- he was in City Hall. One of the upper floors, well away from the public court rooms and offices Dean had spent his time in in his capacity as social worker or felon.

It was an enormous room, full to the brim of pre-war opulence. A large computer took up one side of the desk at the far wall, and the leather chair behind it was worn, but clearly expertly cared for. A large painting hung on the wall opposite an entire bank of widows, an abstract piece full of bright color blocks and jagged dashes of black. A full size refrigerator/freezer combo stood prominently along the wall to Dean's left along with a marble countertop with a gleaming sink and an almost obscene number of electrical appliances, including what Dean finally managed to identify as a microwave. It took him awhile -- he hadn't seen a clean and operational one since he was tiny. Even the chair Dean was roped into was all polished wood and clean rattan.

Smart money put him in the office of the Mayor himself.

So, you know, Dean was screwed.

If things had been going even a little bit his way, the moment after he realized whose office he was trapped in would be the moment that the Mayor would come in, possibly cackling wickedly and full of a blustery confession of all his evil plans. Nothing had ever gone Dean's way, though, so he was stuck sitting in the chair, his broken leg stuck awkwardly into the air supported only by the splint digging into the back of his thigh, for pretty much the entire night, of which there'd been plenty left after his and West's -- Sam's, fuck -- raid. He did his best to stay focussed on what he knew about the Mayor's operations, the layout of City Hall, hell, even some rather creative and biology-defying ways he could have gotten himself out of the fire before the Guard had shown up, but no matter what he tried, his mind always came back to Sam's alive and Sam's a government stooge and I fucked it all up, even without being there, I still managed to fuck him up.

It made for a pretty terrible night.

The sky out the windows was just beginning to gather a lighter tint around the edges when the door behind Dean finally opened, and he heard soft footsteps approach on the damn deep pile carpet.

"Dean Winchester," a familiar, saccharine voice said. A bald, pallid man in a sharply pressed black suit that probably cost more than everything in Mercy House put together circled the chair, his fingertips just brushing Dean's shoulder. Dean made a point of not flinching away, holding firmly still in the chair and appearing unaffected. "So nice to see you again."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "We met?"

"Well of course!" The Mayor plucked a chair -- upholstered in red paisley -- from in front of his desk and set it down across from Dean. "I don't suppose you'd remember, though. You had, ah, other things on your mind." He ran a finger around his right eye and winked. "Ruben Buckner, Mayor of Perdition."

"Yeah," Dean said, unimpressed. "I know who you are."

"Yes, certainly, certainly." The Mayor brushed this off with an actual sweep of his hand. "Now, Dean -- can I call you Dean?"

"Sure, Rube."

"Now, Dean. I thought we got all of your anti-establishment urges out of the way with that whole leaving the Guard fiasco a few years ago, but now I hear you've been engaging in espionage! I have to say, I'm disappointed."

Dean studied the Mayor's bland expression for several moments. As much time as he'd spent in City Hall over the years, first as a member of the Guard, then later as a representative for Jo and her community, he'd never actually managed to get up close and personal with the man before. He'd been running Perdition as long as Dean could remember. There'd been a handful of elections, each one won in a landslide, and several election cycles that were cancelled due to lack of opposition. It'd taken years of comparing notes with the other "unsavory types" frequenting Mercy House before they'd come up with a theory of just how the Mayor had managed everything he'd accomplished in the last twenty years, and now, at last, Dean had a chance to test it.

"Christo," he said.

The Mayor hissed, his eyes flicking to full black.

Perdition, the so-called human capital of the former United States of America, if not the entire world, a community nominally created by humans, for humans, with no angels or demons allowed within the bounds of its massive, thickly warded wall, was a total sham. Even having basically known that, all these years, Dean still found himself disappointed.

"Cute," the Mayor said, all hint of the cloying, jolly persona falling away. "You think you're pretty clever, don't you?"

Dean smirked. "I think I'm adorable."

He expected to get slapped. Instead, the Mayor sat back, crossing one leg fastidiously over the other. "You found our pet angel, so I can't say I'm surprised. I would have thought you were too clever to let on that you knew, though."

"I've never really known when to keep my mouth shut."

"We've noticed." The Mayor folded his hands in his lap and fixed his eyes on Dean. "So here's the thing, Dean. We know you've found your brother."

Dean frowned. "What brother?"

"Really? Now you decide to dissemble?"

"What?" Dean smirked, deciding not to let on that he wasn't totally sure what 'dissemble' meant. "You just made fun of me for not even trying, right?"

The Mayor just sighed. "Really, you kids these days. We know you've found Sam. And you know that we have access to him." He smiled. "He's just about the best assistant I've ever had. Well, right up until the part where you convinced him to turn on everything he's worked for since you dropped him off at our orphanage. I tell you, the plans for the big 20th anniversary celebration have stalled out completely. Perdition needs that celebration, Dean. The world is very hard and scary, right now, and the people need someone to hold their hand and tell them it's all okay. Do you honestly think they care if it's technically the enemy who's doing the handholding?"

"Since you people are actually trying to end the world?" Dean said. "Yeah, I think people might have a problem with that."

"You may be surprised," the Mayor said. "Now, you've put us in a bit of a tight spot, here, Dean. Your former CO is recommending you be locked up for the rest of your life. First desertion, and now treason?" He shook his head. "You know, we haven't even invented a brand for treason, yet. Most folks who've tried it don't have as many friends as you, who would put up a fuss if we just quietly put you to death."

"Gosh," Dean said, voice as dry as his throat had become. "Sorry to be such a hassle."

"We considered taking your leg," the Mayor said, casual as you please, as though crippling a man was simply par for the course. Which, yeah, okay, demon here. It kind of was. "But that would just put an undue burden on the poor citizens of Perdition who'd have to pick up your slack and medical bills. That doesn't sound fair, does it?"

"Can we skip right to the part where you reveal your whole evil plan to me, already?" Dean said. "Because my ass went to sleep, like, three hours ago."

"Fine," the Mayor said. "We'll cut to the chase. We're going to give you a choice, Dean. You can either complete the process you started before you left the Guard and join the Graceling Corps -- to be instated in full once we've confirmed you've become fully addicted to the blood, of course. Or you can help us out with a little ritual we've been just dying to try out."

"Well, let's see," Dean said. "How bout neither?"

"In that case, we'll arrest Sam as well, then interrogate you both. Do you remember interrogation, Dean?"

Dean's right eye squeezed shut, an ache forming around and behind it as he remembered just what the interrogation after his arrest for desertion had entailed. "Yeah, 'cause I'm sure if I play your game you'll just let Sam off."

"Of course we will," the Mayor said. "Sam has a lot of potential, you know. I'd really hate to see it wasted."

Dean actually considered that. He didn't know why Sam was so valuable to the Mayor. Most of the higher ups in City Hall were confirmed blood addicts -- demon blood was as vicious as angel, just slightly less likely to kill you outright first time you took it -- but he had no way of knowing how many actual full demons there were in the ranks. What reason did demons have to be so interested in his brother?

For that matter, what reason did an angel like Castiel have to help out Dean?

"You know what?" the Mayor said, when Dean had apparently been quiet too long. He got to his feet and clapped his hands. "We don't really need any more gracelings. I vote ritual, what do you say?"

"What?" Dean had to lean back to look the Mayor pretty much anywhere other than the crotch.

"Yeah," the Mayor said. "I was pretty much going to make you do the ritual no matter what you chose. And I got bored. Guards!" Two men in uniform came in and flanked Dean's chair. "Go get Mr. Winchester prepped, and let me know when the stage in the market square's been completed."

"It'll be finished this morning, sir," the guard on the left said.

"Excellent." The Mayor wiggled his fingers at Dean, who worked against his bonds, trying to dodge the grip of the guards. "Have fun, Dean. I'll see you tonight!"

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