fic: with rail yards and clovers
Um. This is me not procrastinating on my BB. 4462 words that were actually going to be a response to pkwench's prompt over at ohsam's hurt/comfort meme. I guess it still kinda fits, and I'll probably post it over that way, but...I don't know. My brain is kinda just WTF? at the moment and it won't stop making me write. I'm mostly just kind of confused by it. Hm.
In other, book related news: I ordered Lynn Flewelling's fourth book, as well as the last Deverry book (I'm so, so sad this series is ending, omg), AND Michelle West's House Wars book. I don't know why I picked the last. I hate Jewel. She's a whiny brat, who - at the time of the Sunsword series - is, like, 30 and needs to grow up some. Also, she treats Avandar (spelling might be wrong, it's been years since I read those books, ha) like crap and that makes me angry >:| Fine, I just don't have high hopes for it. But YAY! BOOKS.
Now, for the more important things:
OMGWTF: unbeta'd; gen, Dean-POV; possible spoilers for epi The End; this is as disjointed as most of my other stories. That's actually on purpose; angst, kinda.
with rail yards and clovers
When Dean finds him, he's not even Sam anymore. He's clumps of meat strung up in the air. He's blood splattered against the walls (and Dean knows it's his, all his, because it's weird but it smells distinctly Sam). He's already rotting.
Dean says, "Fix him," and it laughs.
**
It's a stupid plan. Anything that starts off with, "we say yes and hope to god your asshole angel beats mine," is going to be a stupid plan, and when it comes out of Sam's mouth it's no exception.
He says, "you've finally fuckin lost it, Sam. Jesus Christ."
But Cas is making inquisitive noises, again, doing that baby bird head check thing he always does when he wants more information but doesn't want to ask. Sam sees it, too, and turns away from Dean, shoulders stiff and tense.
Of course, of-fuckin-course, Sam's going to ignore anyone who doesn't agree with him; of course he's going to focus on the one person that'll urge him to do what he wants to do.
Fuckin Sam. Fuckin Sam with his stupid kill-me-now faces and suicide complex.
Cas says, "I see," and Dean can almost feel the nail drive itself into Sam's coffin.
**
Christ, he can't believe this is his brother. Where's the face, he thinks, where the hell's the skin or the hair. It's just meat and blood, and when something oozes from the shadows, it sticks a too-sharp finger into the mess and Dean hears it - Sam, it's Sam, it's Sam - mewl.
"You won," the thing poking his brother says, and it's a whisper-groan, like old stairs, maybe.
"Why would," it's hard to look anywhere. The surroundings don't change or shift, but everything feels fake, like it's just sitting over the real deal, holding it back. "Why would you do this to - to Lucifer's vessel?"
It lets out a long stream of air. "It was too weak."
No, no he wasn't. He did everything he said he'd do. Jesus, Sam, how the fuck are we gettin out of this one?
Dean decides to start with simple. Tries, "He's mine. I want him back."
It laughs again, and Dean wants to bury his fingers in his ears and block the sound out. "You won, Dean Winchester, but that does not change things here. Samuel still lost. Samuel damned himself."
**
"I do not know why you won't at least entertain Sam's idea." Cas's voice is smooth, untroubled, and Dean really, really wants to punch him in the throat.
Dean's arms kinda just flap to the sides, though. "What happened to doing this our way, huh?" There's few times Cas looks ashamed; this could be one of them, Dean thinks. "What happened to fighting all of them?"
He'd been standing outside, pressed against the Impala, when Cas found him. Now it's heading toward night and over in the corner a street light buzzes and flickers to life. It's a tiny pool of light and it blends everything into the same pale shades. "Isn't this giving them exactly what they want?"
Cas's head dips. "Perhaps, Dean. But you would be doing so on your own terms." Then, as if in answer to Dean's incredulous look, "It may be the best you can hope for in this situation."
It's ridiculous, if Dean thinks about it. Here they are, outside of one of Illinois's run of the mill crap motels, two of the most wishy washy fucks around - an angel who can't pick sides and his weepy, emo hunter. God damn, and when did Sam become the definition of macho out of all of them? "Jesus." At Cas's look, Dean shakes his head. Not important. "What does Michael even want?"
"Where Lucifer desires the enslavement of mankind," Cas says, and it's in the same voice that talks about being brothers with a pagan deity and treasure hunting for god. "Michael would simply see to its total obliteration."
Wow, so those are their current choices. Great. "What about you?"
Cas looks at him a minute, and Dean can tell the angel almost doesn't understand. "I...have grown fond of you and your brother."
It might be the truth, but he knows that's not an answer.
**
"You cannot."
Dean's feet are moving forward, trying to get closer to the wall (to his brother, for fucksakes, his brother), when the thing's stick arm flicks out, across his path.
He's pretty sure the thing doesn't have anything on him, physically, but who knows what makes a promise or violates the rules in this place. He stops.
"Sam," he says instead, and it's choked and breathless. "Sam, I'm here, okay? I'm here." Nothing happens, nothing changes. The chunks of meat stay still, congealed blood holding everything together. Is he breathing, Dean thinks, is he alive anymore? Who could be? He's been in fuckin hell, and Dean knows what that is, what that can mean, but then again he hadn't failed as a vessel, either.
But Sam moved. Sam moved. He saw it, that flinch, and he heard his brother's voice, even wordless, when the thing touched him. "I'm not leaving you, hear me? I'm here, I'm gonna be here 'til we get you out." There's too much amusement radiating from the weird little thing in the corner, but Dean says, "We're gonna get you out. I promise you." Hold on, he thinks, hold on a few more minutes.
**
He tries one more time with Sam. "Swear to god, little brother - "
"Don't try that with me now." Sam's tone is final, sure. "I say yes, Dean. It's what I do, what I always do. I do all the dumb stuff even when I don't want to."
"So, what? Pack it all in? Game over?" He can't look, if all he's going to see is Sam's face, closed off and empty, like he doesn't even need Dean's approval. "This is a fuckin idiotic plan that's gonna fail as soon as Lucifer gets within ten feet of you! Don't you get that?"
"It's not - "
"Yeah, Sam, it really is." He runs his hand over his face. Too old for this, end of the world and final battles. He wants a good ol haunting so bad he can taste it. "I bet you this shit would have found a way to start with or without us, Sam. There'd be more than one innocent man in hell given time. There wouldda been somebody out there, hunting Lillith. But this, Sam," and he's begging, or close to, but it has to mean something. "This will be on you. Not fate or destiny or any of that bullshit. Just you."
**
"What is this place?"
"Hell."
Dean knows hell, this isn't hell. It's too...nice. "No, it's not."
The thing hums. "It's what he wants you to see of it. He can't magically make himself not in hell to save you that torment, so he makes it as nonthreatening as he can."
"I've been to the pit before."
It hums again, and maybe that ripple is what passes for a shrug. "I would not know. I am aware of things only as they concern him."
Dean watches the thing out of the corner of his eye. It just stands and talks, not much else, but something's familiar, or feels like it. Dean wants to scream, yell, ask what the fuck is going on. He can't, though, he has to be reasonable. Has to gain time and figure this out. "How? How can he?"
"Don't you know how you got here?" And Dean can't say that the picture's real clear, no. Gabriel had just booted him down when Dean'd complained enough, smug smirk and a you Winchesters are all the same, aren't you? comment. "You followed his humanity. It's nothing special, it binds everyone together. You just received. Help, in sensing it, and now that you have, it gives him some control over you. At least, enough for a harmless illusion or two."
"He doesn't have to do that." And Dean doesn't know why he's telling this thing that, but it's the only thing halfway to what Dean'd expect to see in hell, so maybe it's closer to the reality he needs to reach.
"It is not up to me to decide. My job is not to force, Dean Winchester. Besides, I believe that he is...happy doing you this kindness. It reminds him he is still human."
"He is." It's a statement, a fact, has to be.
"Yes," the thing agrees, turning its head on what seems like a stiff neck to look at him squarely. "Or you would not be here now."
**
I've seen this all before, he almost says, and he doesn't know what holds it back this time, he just knows something does. People die, and the world goes down the shitter, and you don't fight, Sam. You're not strong enough. You won't be.
Dean can't see it even now, with Sam looking small and kind of broken. He can't see how his brother thinks he could bend the devil to his will. "What did you think," Dean asks, "what did you think I'd say?" Sam's head whips to the side, and Dean can see his mouth work soundlessly. "We can't do this, do you understand? We. Will. Lose."
"Well, I don't see that we have much of a choice." There's that line, that sharper edge hiding in the guilt. It's always at the wrong person, Dean thinks. I'm not your enemy.
"I'll stop you." It sounds as weak as every other time he's said it, and Sam laughs.
"Right, Dean. 'Cause your track record is so great with that."
There's a weird sensation, like his breath is drawn out between his ribs, through his back, and he turns when Sam's eyes are locked on something behind him.
Gabriel.
"Why, hello, there." There's that damn lopsided smirk. Stupid fuckin bastard of an archangel. "Someone ask for me?"
Dean says, "no," and hears Sam's quiet, "yes."
"No, dammit," but when he turns to face his brother, Sam's already gone. He's left with a too-short Trickster, all dark hair and hard eyes.
"See ya in Detroit, Dean," and then he's alone.
**
He knows his brother had to have screamed. "Right," he says, because he wants to know, wants to share it or take it on. Let me take his place, he'd asked before, didn't even have to see the thing shake its head. Let me take his place, whatever that is.
He can't. He can just stand here and look and think where's your face, Sammy? Can I see it, can I see you?
"I am a Keeper," the thing says into the lull Dean leaves open. "I have always been."
Dean wonders exactly what they did to his brother, what lies they told him, how many times they broke him. He can't see individual damage, just the sum of it, if this is what it actually is, and not just the best picture Sam could send his way.
He has to work at not heaving his guts up at that thought.
"I am in charge of the soul, when the others do not want it too damaged."
What? "What?"
The thing oozes closer, one of the few movements it's made, and Dean doesn't flinch. He doesn't. There's really nothing there, just black air and an outline of a shape, a twisted mockery of a person. "That is Samuel Winchester's body, capable of feeling every emotion humans possess and expressing them. It is not, however, him, at least as you know your brother."
"He's."
"Safe, for the time being," the thing says, "with me." And Dean wouldn't really equate the two, but maybe it's better than what Dean thought Sam had, and Christ, that's sad even for them.
It's surreal, that a thing in hell, demon or whatever, would try to make him feel better, but for the first time, Dean can close his eyes against the body in front of him. It's not him, he thinks. It's not Sam.
At least not yet.
**
"Bobby, Jesus, Bobby, Sam's gonna do it. Gabriel's taking him to Lucifer."
"Alright, son, alright. Just stay put, okay? It'll take me a while to get to there, so don't do nothin dumb in the mean time, got me?"
"Shouldn't we meet - "
"No! Stay there; we can't go rushin off without knowing what we're getting in to."
"Dean."
No sound, no signs the angel had whooshed in, but Dean doesn't jump. "Not now, Cas." Then, to Bobby, "Fine. Okay."
"You just hang on. I'm comin."
Dean's phone clatters against the table when it falls, and he sees the back fly off, land on the stained carpet beside the t.v. stand. "What happens now?"
Cas stays quiet, still, behind him.
**
"It is a very tricky thing your angels are trying to do."
"What does Sam feel like?" And, okay, that came out odd, Dean thinks, so he tries again. "Can you tell what he's feeling?"
"Hmm," the thing says, and it drifts over to Sam's body. Dean wants to stop it, tell it no, no stay away, but the thing doesn't touch, just moves in half circles where Sam's bound and strung up. "Good, you remember. It must be difficult." It paces back and forth, back and forth, and not for the first time Dean's wondered what the Keeper really looks like. "He...feels like a broken thing. He feels like every soul I have ever known, after the others had them, except his love for you, or his picture of you. He's aware of it." One stick arm swings out again, waves like it's encompassing the room. "You."
He doesn't feel much of anything, right now. Maybe if he could it'd be horror, too much of it. Sam, he thinks, it's okay. It'll be okay.
"The angels imbued you with grace."
The thing's on an arc dragging it back to Dean, and Dean's eyes are glued to it. It does its ripple-shrug and slows to a stop in front of him. "That's why they wanted you here, Dean Winchester. Like calls to like when things are desperate. You follow your brother, but you would have been lost as soon as you entered the gates. They made you a part of them also, so they could find you when the time came. If they are allowed."
"How do you know?"
It moves again, slips back into its corner, and it's eerie and expected when the shadows merge with it until it's almost like Dean's alone. "They are the antithesis of everything I am, and it burns."
**
So now it's Bobby, Cas, and Dean sitting around clueless.
"Well, I don't come pre-programmed with all the answers, boy. I just know you and this ain't the time to be makin deals!" Dean flinches. "I figure," Bobby taps the covers of the books stacked in front of him. "We'd just have better luck together."
"I do not see how congregating in a motel room will change the outcome at all."
Bobby actually growls. "Angel or not, shut your yap. You ain't helpin."
Cas looks at Dean uncertainly. "Of course, it is worth a try."
**
"What else do you know?"
The shadows sway around the Keeper, movement that Dean can't identify. "Not the question I was expecting. One I cannot answer, either. The only thing I can tell you is that the others have to grant your angels permission. Only then can I release this soul." Dean opens his mouth, but the Keeper cuts him off. "If anyone killed me, or attempted to, it would, of course, jeopardize the soul I carry." The shadows swirl, deep black against gray for a moment. "Heed that warning."
It's not like he has a choice. There's nothing to do here, nowhere to look except at the shadows his brother's mind hides or the broken lump that, if they're lucky, will house him again. He's stuck, waiting, and he trusts Cas, he does. Maybe the angel, out of anyone yet, has lost more in the effort to help them. But Gabriel's strong, and if their descent into TV land is any indication, a helluva lot more unreliable.
It's what they've got to work with, though. Dean knows that. Both Cas and Gabriel had made it clear that only the archangel, still somehow in heaven's good graces, had the ability to do anything for Sam.
The thing's waiting, as blank and patient as when Dean first landed here. "What did you think I was going to ask?"
"Oh, yes," the thing chuckles, it oozes along the edge of the room they're in, like it doesn't know where to go, but can't stop moving. "I would have thought you'd ask to speak to your brother."
"You - you can?"
"It has happened, once or twice before." There's a sudden commotion by his brother's body, and Dean's suddenly aware of...ignoring it. Him. Whatever. He's looking at Sam now, and that old familiar fear, the voice, is back in his head. The thing creeps closer to the slumped almost corpse, reaches out and stabs at the nearest lump of flesh. Sam (his body, maybe, only his body) shrieks like a rabid thing, and Dean's suddenly trying to the push the thing away, shouting, "stop it, don't fuckin touch him!"
Things blink in and out as soon as Dean touches the Keeper crouched beside his brother. Green and orange swirl around him, and there's something slick and murmuring under his hands; the smell of rot is thicker now, almost alive.
Look up, his mind screams, look up look up look up, and when he does he sees unending black, convulsing and throbbing around him, until it's almost like a spiral he can see only when his eyes go wide and vague. He's aware of his mouth opening, of a long, low droning that he can't control.
"I would not recommend it," the thing says, and it's the catalyst Dean needs to pry his hands off the arm, what he thinks is the arm, and fall away onto his ass. He tips his head back, breathing fast and heavy, and wonders how being a foot away from his brother's body (decomposing, it's decomposing, and doesn't that mean it's dead?), in hell, is suddenly safer than anything else he could be doing.
"Your brother's soul," the thing says, easy, like nothing happened.
**
"Okay," Dean says, and he leans away from the rickety table they're all hunched over. "So there's about...jack squat we can actually do."
"Besides allowing Michael access to his vessel's body," Cas replies. Then, catching Bobby's glower (and man, Dean's surprised the bill on his hat doesn't catch fire), "No, we have relatively few options at the moment."
"Yeah," Dean says. He catches Cas's eye, and the angel looks back, steady. Unblinking.
**
"We're going to put him back in his body." Dean's still sitting, knees bent, arms dangling between. He doesn't know if the Keeper knows what to do with that. It's been stiff and quiet for a while now.
"You demanded I fix him."
"Yeah," he dips his head, and it's only the sight of his cracked hands and smooth floor. "You're not, are you? Going to fix him, I mean."
"No," the thing says. "That is not my concern."
**
Bobby's sleeping in the bed closest to the bathroom. It's late and quiet; Dean and Cas sit close on the other bed, the angel's trench coat brushing stiff against his shoulder. "If Michael wants to destroy the world, why would you be willing to go along with it?"
"No," Cas says, and he does his awkward touching thing, more like a spasm than an attempt at comfort. Cas's hand hits his thigh and rebounds off. Dean just shakes his head. "I would not. Michael will fight Lucifer. If he loses, our plans do not much matter. If he wins, however, he will be weak enough for Gabriel to control."
"To stop."
"Yes, Dean." Cas straightens, looks forward, and Dean catches their blacked out shadows in the edge of the mirror across from them. "We will stop Michael before it's too late. You will get your body back, as well. I will make sure of it."
"And Sam?"
"I..." don't know, can't say.
Dean's ring is cold on his lips when his hand brushes over his face. "What do I need to do?"
Cas doesn't play coy, Dean'll give him that. "I need a few days, so that I may talk with my brothers. Then...then he will come for you."
Dean doesn't have to look up to know when Cas leaves. The spot beside him is cold, bleeds into his chest.
**
"Do you think it is kind?"
Dean's head whips around to where the thing's lurking. He's not sure, but he thinks he sees more of a face in the swirl of darkness. Something crooked and shattered, charred into a black shape to match the color that leaks all around it. "What are you talking about?"
Now that he thinks about it, maybe it's the whole room. Everything's changing, or the illusions are...thinner, where the walls drop away into the hints of orange and green he saw earlier. It's an endlessness hiding behind the cramped confines of the room, and it's noise riding underneath the enforced silence, the thick air.
"Look at him," the thing says, and this time when it drifts closer, Dean can hear something old and deep under its words. The power threads through him, oily and garbled, prickling the hair on his arms and slipping down his spine. "The others will not be kind, they will not help you when your angels get their way. Look at him." The order's too strong, and Dean jerks his eyes to his brother.
"It's the only thing we can do." I can't leave him here. I won't leave him here.
"He knows," the Keeper says, and Dean can almost feel the breath the words take, the air forming around the sounds. "I can feel his fear."
**
When Michael comes, he rides a little girl, pink one piece swimsuit bright and wild, her hair tangled with wetness, and Dean can smell the chlorine even from here.
Her eyes are blue and too sharp. The twist of her lips is sardonic. "My brother says you wish to tell me something."
"She's a baby. Can she even consent?"
"Children are as innocent as the lamb. Their very existence is a blessing, one that calls to us. We do not have to ask."
He grits his teeth. "Yes," he says, "you sick little fucker."
He has just long enough to see the girl's small body slumped on the concrete in front of his door, blood seeping from her eyes and mouth, before he's packed up and spun away.
**
Sam's body moves more often, now. It's torturous and more like aborted movements to get away from something than anything else Dean could name. And there's always a sound - a yelp, a whine, a shriek - whenever it happens. Beyond that, beyond that Dean tries to focus on the Keeper or on the body in front of him, because everywhere else moves too fast, it's not safe.
"Where's Sam's face?" It's what's been bothering him for a long time now, or at least what feels like a long time. He can't tell through all the blood which way is front or back, now, or what's what.
"Ah," it says, and the sound's knowing, smug. "I believe it is a remnant from Samuel's researching, an idea found among...some of your people?" Dean jerks his head, and the Keeper swirls around the room, too fast for Dean to keep track of. "It's a way, I believe, to trap the spirit, keep it from haunting those it remembers. He might have. Taken it to extremes. I do not think you will find his face."
"His way of protecting me again?" Because if you can't identify it, you don't have to deal with it. Grieve for it.
"Well," it says and Dean turns back to his vigil.
**
It's white, that's what he's aware of. Once he felt burning heat, but it's gone now, and he's spinning in parts he can't see or feel.
There's nothing. Nothing here, and he wonders if Cas will remember his promise. Will remember Dean.
**
The Keeper paces. Dean looks between it and his brother, tries to forget the bleeding landscape around him, the light that flickers in and out, and it's easy, it's simple. He can do it.
Then it starts. It's low, loud, bone deep, and it rattles through him, breaks his heart and blinds his eyes.
"The damned," the Keeper says over the cries and the dry whoosh of his movements. "It is almost time."
**
Cas and Gabriel are there. Cas is the first, the one that kneels before him, says, "your brother, Dean. He is in hell."
Dean wants to scream, to cry or kill something. Michael, the fucker. But he croaks, "please, please help him," and sees Gabriel roll his eyes.
"Then do everything I say, you stupid fool. Maybe we'll have a chance."
**
"Your angels have made their deals." Dean wants to ask what? What does that mean? But the Keeper comes close, abruptly tall enough to tower over Dean. Its voice is stone, chill. "Prepare yourself."
**
Suddenly he's...up, under a bright blue sky, shapes and colors too real, too sharp, and he blinks against them, trying to rid himself of the inverted images riding the insides of his eyelids. It's real, the smell of damp earth and burning sun, and he fights back his laughter until his breath comes out in pants.
His brother's there, heavy weight across his legs and in his arms. He shifts his grip and he can feel the unconnected flesh, the sharp bite of uncovered bones; he can smell the crust of too much death. Where's Bobby? Dean thinks, tucking his chin and watching Sam's torn face for any signs of life. Fuck fuck fuck, where's Cas or Gabriel?
Then, between one breath and the next, his brother's eyes flicker, hinted-at hazel between matted lashes. Dean whispers, "hold on," while Sam screams and screams and screams.
In other, book related news: I ordered Lynn Flewelling's fourth book, as well as the last Deverry book (I'm so, so sad this series is ending, omg), AND Michelle West's House Wars book. I don't know why I picked the last. I hate Jewel. She's a whiny brat, who - at the time of the Sunsword series - is, like, 30 and needs to grow up some. Also, she treats Avandar (spelling might be wrong, it's been years since I read those books, ha) like crap and that makes me angry >:| Fine, I just don't have high hopes for it. But YAY! BOOKS.
Now, for the more important things:
OMGWTF: unbeta'd; gen, Dean-POV; possible spoilers for epi The End; this is as disjointed as most of my other stories. That's actually on purpose; angst, kinda.
with rail yards and clovers
When Dean finds him, he's not even Sam anymore. He's clumps of meat strung up in the air. He's blood splattered against the walls (and Dean knows it's his, all his, because it's weird but it smells distinctly Sam). He's already rotting.
Dean says, "Fix him," and it laughs.
**
It's a stupid plan. Anything that starts off with, "we say yes and hope to god your asshole angel beats mine," is going to be a stupid plan, and when it comes out of Sam's mouth it's no exception.
He says, "you've finally fuckin lost it, Sam. Jesus Christ."
But Cas is making inquisitive noises, again, doing that baby bird head check thing he always does when he wants more information but doesn't want to ask. Sam sees it, too, and turns away from Dean, shoulders stiff and tense.
Of course, of-fuckin-course, Sam's going to ignore anyone who doesn't agree with him; of course he's going to focus on the one person that'll urge him to do what he wants to do.
Fuckin Sam. Fuckin Sam with his stupid kill-me-now faces and suicide complex.
Cas says, "I see," and Dean can almost feel the nail drive itself into Sam's coffin.
**
Christ, he can't believe this is his brother. Where's the face, he thinks, where the hell's the skin or the hair. It's just meat and blood, and when something oozes from the shadows, it sticks a too-sharp finger into the mess and Dean hears it - Sam, it's Sam, it's Sam - mewl.
"You won," the thing poking his brother says, and it's a whisper-groan, like old stairs, maybe.
"Why would," it's hard to look anywhere. The surroundings don't change or shift, but everything feels fake, like it's just sitting over the real deal, holding it back. "Why would you do this to - to Lucifer's vessel?"
It lets out a long stream of air. "It was too weak."
No, no he wasn't. He did everything he said he'd do. Jesus, Sam, how the fuck are we gettin out of this one?
Dean decides to start with simple. Tries, "He's mine. I want him back."
It laughs again, and Dean wants to bury his fingers in his ears and block the sound out. "You won, Dean Winchester, but that does not change things here. Samuel still lost. Samuel damned himself."
**
"I do not know why you won't at least entertain Sam's idea." Cas's voice is smooth, untroubled, and Dean really, really wants to punch him in the throat.
Dean's arms kinda just flap to the sides, though. "What happened to doing this our way, huh?" There's few times Cas looks ashamed; this could be one of them, Dean thinks. "What happened to fighting all of them?"
He'd been standing outside, pressed against the Impala, when Cas found him. Now it's heading toward night and over in the corner a street light buzzes and flickers to life. It's a tiny pool of light and it blends everything into the same pale shades. "Isn't this giving them exactly what they want?"
Cas's head dips. "Perhaps, Dean. But you would be doing so on your own terms." Then, as if in answer to Dean's incredulous look, "It may be the best you can hope for in this situation."
It's ridiculous, if Dean thinks about it. Here they are, outside of one of Illinois's run of the mill crap motels, two of the most wishy washy fucks around - an angel who can't pick sides and his weepy, emo hunter. God damn, and when did Sam become the definition of macho out of all of them? "Jesus." At Cas's look, Dean shakes his head. Not important. "What does Michael even want?"
"Where Lucifer desires the enslavement of mankind," Cas says, and it's in the same voice that talks about being brothers with a pagan deity and treasure hunting for god. "Michael would simply see to its total obliteration."
Wow, so those are their current choices. Great. "What about you?"
Cas looks at him a minute, and Dean can tell the angel almost doesn't understand. "I...have grown fond of you and your brother."
It might be the truth, but he knows that's not an answer.
**
"You cannot."
Dean's feet are moving forward, trying to get closer to the wall (to his brother, for fucksakes, his brother), when the thing's stick arm flicks out, across his path.
He's pretty sure the thing doesn't have anything on him, physically, but who knows what makes a promise or violates the rules in this place. He stops.
"Sam," he says instead, and it's choked and breathless. "Sam, I'm here, okay? I'm here." Nothing happens, nothing changes. The chunks of meat stay still, congealed blood holding everything together. Is he breathing, Dean thinks, is he alive anymore? Who could be? He's been in fuckin hell, and Dean knows what that is, what that can mean, but then again he hadn't failed as a vessel, either.
But Sam moved. Sam moved. He saw it, that flinch, and he heard his brother's voice, even wordless, when the thing touched him. "I'm not leaving you, hear me? I'm here, I'm gonna be here 'til we get you out." There's too much amusement radiating from the weird little thing in the corner, but Dean says, "We're gonna get you out. I promise you." Hold on, he thinks, hold on a few more minutes.
**
He tries one more time with Sam. "Swear to god, little brother - "
"Don't try that with me now." Sam's tone is final, sure. "I say yes, Dean. It's what I do, what I always do. I do all the dumb stuff even when I don't want to."
"So, what? Pack it all in? Game over?" He can't look, if all he's going to see is Sam's face, closed off and empty, like he doesn't even need Dean's approval. "This is a fuckin idiotic plan that's gonna fail as soon as Lucifer gets within ten feet of you! Don't you get that?"
"It's not - "
"Yeah, Sam, it really is." He runs his hand over his face. Too old for this, end of the world and final battles. He wants a good ol haunting so bad he can taste it. "I bet you this shit would have found a way to start with or without us, Sam. There'd be more than one innocent man in hell given time. There wouldda been somebody out there, hunting Lillith. But this, Sam," and he's begging, or close to, but it has to mean something. "This will be on you. Not fate or destiny or any of that bullshit. Just you."
**
"What is this place?"
"Hell."
Dean knows hell, this isn't hell. It's too...nice. "No, it's not."
The thing hums. "It's what he wants you to see of it. He can't magically make himself not in hell to save you that torment, so he makes it as nonthreatening as he can."
"I've been to the pit before."
It hums again, and maybe that ripple is what passes for a shrug. "I would not know. I am aware of things only as they concern him."
Dean watches the thing out of the corner of his eye. It just stands and talks, not much else, but something's familiar, or feels like it. Dean wants to scream, yell, ask what the fuck is going on. He can't, though, he has to be reasonable. Has to gain time and figure this out. "How? How can he?"
"Don't you know how you got here?" And Dean can't say that the picture's real clear, no. Gabriel had just booted him down when Dean'd complained enough, smug smirk and a you Winchesters are all the same, aren't you? comment. "You followed his humanity. It's nothing special, it binds everyone together. You just received. Help, in sensing it, and now that you have, it gives him some control over you. At least, enough for a harmless illusion or two."
"He doesn't have to do that." And Dean doesn't know why he's telling this thing that, but it's the only thing halfway to what Dean'd expect to see in hell, so maybe it's closer to the reality he needs to reach.
"It is not up to me to decide. My job is not to force, Dean Winchester. Besides, I believe that he is...happy doing you this kindness. It reminds him he is still human."
"He is." It's a statement, a fact, has to be.
"Yes," the thing agrees, turning its head on what seems like a stiff neck to look at him squarely. "Or you would not be here now."
**
I've seen this all before, he almost says, and he doesn't know what holds it back this time, he just knows something does. People die, and the world goes down the shitter, and you don't fight, Sam. You're not strong enough. You won't be.
Dean can't see it even now, with Sam looking small and kind of broken. He can't see how his brother thinks he could bend the devil to his will. "What did you think," Dean asks, "what did you think I'd say?" Sam's head whips to the side, and Dean can see his mouth work soundlessly. "We can't do this, do you understand? We. Will. Lose."
"Well, I don't see that we have much of a choice." There's that line, that sharper edge hiding in the guilt. It's always at the wrong person, Dean thinks. I'm not your enemy.
"I'll stop you." It sounds as weak as every other time he's said it, and Sam laughs.
"Right, Dean. 'Cause your track record is so great with that."
There's a weird sensation, like his breath is drawn out between his ribs, through his back, and he turns when Sam's eyes are locked on something behind him.
Gabriel.
"Why, hello, there." There's that damn lopsided smirk. Stupid fuckin bastard of an archangel. "Someone ask for me?"
Dean says, "no," and hears Sam's quiet, "yes."
"No, dammit," but when he turns to face his brother, Sam's already gone. He's left with a too-short Trickster, all dark hair and hard eyes.
"See ya in Detroit, Dean," and then he's alone.
**
He knows his brother had to have screamed. "Right," he says, because he wants to know, wants to share it or take it on. Let me take his place, he'd asked before, didn't even have to see the thing shake its head. Let me take his place, whatever that is.
He can't. He can just stand here and look and think where's your face, Sammy? Can I see it, can I see you?
"I am a Keeper," the thing says into the lull Dean leaves open. "I have always been."
Dean wonders exactly what they did to his brother, what lies they told him, how many times they broke him. He can't see individual damage, just the sum of it, if this is what it actually is, and not just the best picture Sam could send his way.
He has to work at not heaving his guts up at that thought.
"I am in charge of the soul, when the others do not want it too damaged."
What? "What?"
The thing oozes closer, one of the few movements it's made, and Dean doesn't flinch. He doesn't. There's really nothing there, just black air and an outline of a shape, a twisted mockery of a person. "That is Samuel Winchester's body, capable of feeling every emotion humans possess and expressing them. It is not, however, him, at least as you know your brother."
"He's."
"Safe, for the time being," the thing says, "with me." And Dean wouldn't really equate the two, but maybe it's better than what Dean thought Sam had, and Christ, that's sad even for them.
It's surreal, that a thing in hell, demon or whatever, would try to make him feel better, but for the first time, Dean can close his eyes against the body in front of him. It's not him, he thinks. It's not Sam.
At least not yet.
**
"Bobby, Jesus, Bobby, Sam's gonna do it. Gabriel's taking him to Lucifer."
"Alright, son, alright. Just stay put, okay? It'll take me a while to get to there, so don't do nothin dumb in the mean time, got me?"
"Shouldn't we meet - "
"No! Stay there; we can't go rushin off without knowing what we're getting in to."
"Dean."
No sound, no signs the angel had whooshed in, but Dean doesn't jump. "Not now, Cas." Then, to Bobby, "Fine. Okay."
"You just hang on. I'm comin."
Dean's phone clatters against the table when it falls, and he sees the back fly off, land on the stained carpet beside the t.v. stand. "What happens now?"
Cas stays quiet, still, behind him.
**
"It is a very tricky thing your angels are trying to do."
"What does Sam feel like?" And, okay, that came out odd, Dean thinks, so he tries again. "Can you tell what he's feeling?"
"Hmm," the thing says, and it drifts over to Sam's body. Dean wants to stop it, tell it no, no stay away, but the thing doesn't touch, just moves in half circles where Sam's bound and strung up. "Good, you remember. It must be difficult." It paces back and forth, back and forth, and not for the first time Dean's wondered what the Keeper really looks like. "He...feels like a broken thing. He feels like every soul I have ever known, after the others had them, except his love for you, or his picture of you. He's aware of it." One stick arm swings out again, waves like it's encompassing the room. "You."
He doesn't feel much of anything, right now. Maybe if he could it'd be horror, too much of it. Sam, he thinks, it's okay. It'll be okay.
"The angels imbued you with grace."
The thing's on an arc dragging it back to Dean, and Dean's eyes are glued to it. It does its ripple-shrug and slows to a stop in front of him. "That's why they wanted you here, Dean Winchester. Like calls to like when things are desperate. You follow your brother, but you would have been lost as soon as you entered the gates. They made you a part of them also, so they could find you when the time came. If they are allowed."
"How do you know?"
It moves again, slips back into its corner, and it's eerie and expected when the shadows merge with it until it's almost like Dean's alone. "They are the antithesis of everything I am, and it burns."
**
So now it's Bobby, Cas, and Dean sitting around clueless.
"Well, I don't come pre-programmed with all the answers, boy. I just know you and this ain't the time to be makin deals!" Dean flinches. "I figure," Bobby taps the covers of the books stacked in front of him. "We'd just have better luck together."
"I do not see how congregating in a motel room will change the outcome at all."
Bobby actually growls. "Angel or not, shut your yap. You ain't helpin."
Cas looks at Dean uncertainly. "Of course, it is worth a try."
**
"What else do you know?"
The shadows sway around the Keeper, movement that Dean can't identify. "Not the question I was expecting. One I cannot answer, either. The only thing I can tell you is that the others have to grant your angels permission. Only then can I release this soul." Dean opens his mouth, but the Keeper cuts him off. "If anyone killed me, or attempted to, it would, of course, jeopardize the soul I carry." The shadows swirl, deep black against gray for a moment. "Heed that warning."
It's not like he has a choice. There's nothing to do here, nowhere to look except at the shadows his brother's mind hides or the broken lump that, if they're lucky, will house him again. He's stuck, waiting, and he trusts Cas, he does. Maybe the angel, out of anyone yet, has lost more in the effort to help them. But Gabriel's strong, and if their descent into TV land is any indication, a helluva lot more unreliable.
It's what they've got to work with, though. Dean knows that. Both Cas and Gabriel had made it clear that only the archangel, still somehow in heaven's good graces, had the ability to do anything for Sam.
The thing's waiting, as blank and patient as when Dean first landed here. "What did you think I was going to ask?"
"Oh, yes," the thing chuckles, it oozes along the edge of the room they're in, like it doesn't know where to go, but can't stop moving. "I would have thought you'd ask to speak to your brother."
"You - you can?"
"It has happened, once or twice before." There's a sudden commotion by his brother's body, and Dean's suddenly aware of...ignoring it. Him. Whatever. He's looking at Sam now, and that old familiar fear, the voice, is back in his head. The thing creeps closer to the slumped almost corpse, reaches out and stabs at the nearest lump of flesh. Sam (his body, maybe, only his body) shrieks like a rabid thing, and Dean's suddenly trying to the push the thing away, shouting, "stop it, don't fuckin touch him!"
Things blink in and out as soon as Dean touches the Keeper crouched beside his brother. Green and orange swirl around him, and there's something slick and murmuring under his hands; the smell of rot is thicker now, almost alive.
Look up, his mind screams, look up look up look up, and when he does he sees unending black, convulsing and throbbing around him, until it's almost like a spiral he can see only when his eyes go wide and vague. He's aware of his mouth opening, of a long, low droning that he can't control.
"I would not recommend it," the thing says, and it's the catalyst Dean needs to pry his hands off the arm, what he thinks is the arm, and fall away onto his ass. He tips his head back, breathing fast and heavy, and wonders how being a foot away from his brother's body (decomposing, it's decomposing, and doesn't that mean it's dead?), in hell, is suddenly safer than anything else he could be doing.
"Your brother's soul," the thing says, easy, like nothing happened.
**
"Okay," Dean says, and he leans away from the rickety table they're all hunched over. "So there's about...jack squat we can actually do."
"Besides allowing Michael access to his vessel's body," Cas replies. Then, catching Bobby's glower (and man, Dean's surprised the bill on his hat doesn't catch fire), "No, we have relatively few options at the moment."
"Yeah," Dean says. He catches Cas's eye, and the angel looks back, steady. Unblinking.
**
"We're going to put him back in his body." Dean's still sitting, knees bent, arms dangling between. He doesn't know if the Keeper knows what to do with that. It's been stiff and quiet for a while now.
"You demanded I fix him."
"Yeah," he dips his head, and it's only the sight of his cracked hands and smooth floor. "You're not, are you? Going to fix him, I mean."
"No," the thing says. "That is not my concern."
**
Bobby's sleeping in the bed closest to the bathroom. It's late and quiet; Dean and Cas sit close on the other bed, the angel's trench coat brushing stiff against his shoulder. "If Michael wants to destroy the world, why would you be willing to go along with it?"
"No," Cas says, and he does his awkward touching thing, more like a spasm than an attempt at comfort. Cas's hand hits his thigh and rebounds off. Dean just shakes his head. "I would not. Michael will fight Lucifer. If he loses, our plans do not much matter. If he wins, however, he will be weak enough for Gabriel to control."
"To stop."
"Yes, Dean." Cas straightens, looks forward, and Dean catches their blacked out shadows in the edge of the mirror across from them. "We will stop Michael before it's too late. You will get your body back, as well. I will make sure of it."
"And Sam?"
"I..." don't know, can't say.
Dean's ring is cold on his lips when his hand brushes over his face. "What do I need to do?"
Cas doesn't play coy, Dean'll give him that. "I need a few days, so that I may talk with my brothers. Then...then he will come for you."
Dean doesn't have to look up to know when Cas leaves. The spot beside him is cold, bleeds into his chest.
**
"Do you think it is kind?"
Dean's head whips around to where the thing's lurking. He's not sure, but he thinks he sees more of a face in the swirl of darkness. Something crooked and shattered, charred into a black shape to match the color that leaks all around it. "What are you talking about?"
Now that he thinks about it, maybe it's the whole room. Everything's changing, or the illusions are...thinner, where the walls drop away into the hints of orange and green he saw earlier. It's an endlessness hiding behind the cramped confines of the room, and it's noise riding underneath the enforced silence, the thick air.
"Look at him," the thing says, and this time when it drifts closer, Dean can hear something old and deep under its words. The power threads through him, oily and garbled, prickling the hair on his arms and slipping down his spine. "The others will not be kind, they will not help you when your angels get their way. Look at him." The order's too strong, and Dean jerks his eyes to his brother.
"It's the only thing we can do." I can't leave him here. I won't leave him here.
"He knows," the Keeper says, and Dean can almost feel the breath the words take, the air forming around the sounds. "I can feel his fear."
**
When Michael comes, he rides a little girl, pink one piece swimsuit bright and wild, her hair tangled with wetness, and Dean can smell the chlorine even from here.
Her eyes are blue and too sharp. The twist of her lips is sardonic. "My brother says you wish to tell me something."
"She's a baby. Can she even consent?"
"Children are as innocent as the lamb. Their very existence is a blessing, one that calls to us. We do not have to ask."
He grits his teeth. "Yes," he says, "you sick little fucker."
He has just long enough to see the girl's small body slumped on the concrete in front of his door, blood seeping from her eyes and mouth, before he's packed up and spun away.
**
Sam's body moves more often, now. It's torturous and more like aborted movements to get away from something than anything else Dean could name. And there's always a sound - a yelp, a whine, a shriek - whenever it happens. Beyond that, beyond that Dean tries to focus on the Keeper or on the body in front of him, because everywhere else moves too fast, it's not safe.
"Where's Sam's face?" It's what's been bothering him for a long time now, or at least what feels like a long time. He can't tell through all the blood which way is front or back, now, or what's what.
"Ah," it says, and the sound's knowing, smug. "I believe it is a remnant from Samuel's researching, an idea found among...some of your people?" Dean jerks his head, and the Keeper swirls around the room, too fast for Dean to keep track of. "It's a way, I believe, to trap the spirit, keep it from haunting those it remembers. He might have. Taken it to extremes. I do not think you will find his face."
"His way of protecting me again?" Because if you can't identify it, you don't have to deal with it. Grieve for it.
"Well," it says and Dean turns back to his vigil.
**
It's white, that's what he's aware of. Once he felt burning heat, but it's gone now, and he's spinning in parts he can't see or feel.
There's nothing. Nothing here, and he wonders if Cas will remember his promise. Will remember Dean.
**
The Keeper paces. Dean looks between it and his brother, tries to forget the bleeding landscape around him, the light that flickers in and out, and it's easy, it's simple. He can do it.
Then it starts. It's low, loud, bone deep, and it rattles through him, breaks his heart and blinds his eyes.
"The damned," the Keeper says over the cries and the dry whoosh of his movements. "It is almost time."
**
Cas and Gabriel are there. Cas is the first, the one that kneels before him, says, "your brother, Dean. He is in hell."
Dean wants to scream, to cry or kill something. Michael, the fucker. But he croaks, "please, please help him," and sees Gabriel roll his eyes.
"Then do everything I say, you stupid fool. Maybe we'll have a chance."
**
"Your angels have made their deals." Dean wants to ask what? What does that mean? But the Keeper comes close, abruptly tall enough to tower over Dean. Its voice is stone, chill. "Prepare yourself."
**
Suddenly he's...up, under a bright blue sky, shapes and colors too real, too sharp, and he blinks against them, trying to rid himself of the inverted images riding the insides of his eyelids. It's real, the smell of damp earth and burning sun, and he fights back his laughter until his breath comes out in pants.
His brother's there, heavy weight across his legs and in his arms. He shifts his grip and he can feel the unconnected flesh, the sharp bite of uncovered bones; he can smell the crust of too much death. Where's Bobby? Dean thinks, tucking his chin and watching Sam's torn face for any signs of life. Fuck fuck fuck, where's Cas or Gabriel?
Then, between one breath and the next, his brother's eyes flicker, hinted-at hazel between matted lashes. Dean whispers, "hold on," while Sam screams and screams and screams.