Fic: A Step Beyond Logic (1/4)
Masterpost
“No!” yelled Dean, unsuccessfully straining every muscle in a desperate effort to move.
He fought Sam's-no, that wasn't Sam, it was not his brother standing there, but duplicitous Gadreel--Gadreel's angelic force as it kept him firmly pinned against one of the bunker's marble columns. Kevin stood before Sam, his face confused as he looked between the Winchesters, clearly realizing something was wrong but unsure as to what it was. Dean flexed every muscle, but couldn't budge from his position. He could only stand and watch.
Watch how Sam's big hand spread wide to land heavily on Kevin's short black hair.
Watch as Kevin's jaw dropped in shock and his body trembled under that terrible touch.
Watch his eye sockets blister and scorch, gouts of flame consuming those soft, dark orbs.
Watch Gadreel's grace burn Kevin's life out of his body, until brilliant blueish-white light erupted from his empty eye sockets and open mouth; a light so powerful it forced Dean to look away or else risk blindness himself.
Watch as, that dread light now extinguished, Kevin's empty husk slumped to the library's cold tile floor, his head lolling to face Dean full on; his blackened, gaping sockets forever imprinted in Dean's mind, horribly paired with Kevin's soft mouth, lax lips looking like he was about to ask a question even now.
Dean barely registered Sam-Gadreel-departing the bunker. Released from his invisible bonds, he ran to Kevin, dropping down next to him and desperately searching for a sign of life. He knew there would be none, that it was over and done already, but he searched anyway. This was so wrong; Kevin was an innocent. Hell, Kevin was a fucking Prophet-angels should be protecting him, not snuffing out his life as casually as extinguishing a cigarette.
That it had happened, Dean knew, was entirely his fault. He hadn't figured things out in time; hadn't deduced Gadreel's true identity--hadn't been quick enough, strong enough, to protect Kevin. Another death laid at his doorstep, part of the ever-growing trail of Dean's failures. And that didn't even address what he'd done to his own brother in the first place by stuffing a renegade angel inside Sam's trial-wracked body, just so that Dean wouldn't have to live without Sam.
Which action had now led to this catastrophe.
Dean's body sagged, sitting crumpled next to Kevin's corpse. Everything converged to overwhelm him--who to save next, how to save them, what action to take. He shook his head--could he really save anyone?
And what was he going to do about Sam? How was he going to get his brother back?
The answer of what to do about Gadreel's possession of Sam was convoluted and painful. Every time Dean tried to warn Sam about the interloper angel, Gadreel stepped in and thwarted him, threatening Sam's well-being. Oddly enough, it turned out to be Crowley who saved the day; by breaking Sam's demon protection tattoo, Crowley was able to enter him and warn him of Gadreel's sinister intent.
Dean waited anxiously next to Sam's body, desperate to see his brother return as himself. The thought that he'd have to deal with an angry brother paled next to the urgency of having Sam back in his right mind, whole and sound. When he saw Crowley's crimson smoke emit from Sam's mouth, followed by Gadreel's angelic white, Dean's heart rejoiced even as the guilt of his action weighed on him.
“Dean, we have to do something. Kevin's getting worse every day.” Sam stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on Dean. “Don't try to excuse his behavior. He's turning into an angry spirit, and you know it. It's just like Bobby and Dick Roman all over again.”
Dean poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table. “It's not that bad, Sam.” He avoided his brother's eyes in an effort to deny Sam's words. As happy as he was that Sam had been fully restored to himself after the Gadreel debacle, sometimes Dean rued Sam's directness.
Sam huffed. “It is that bad, Dean! He's mixing up magical ingredients so we don't know what's sage and what's ground mandrake root! Half of our incantations fizzle now, you know it's only a matter of time before things start backfiring more explosively! I'm constantly finding knives floating in the air. Important books and papers are disappearing.” He ran an agitated hand through his hair. “It sounds like small shit, but it's really not. Just the knives alone-when will they start doing more than floating, like with Max Miller? What if tomorrow it's guns? Or fucking with the wiring so the whole bunker burns up? Or the air pumps stop working?”
Dean drank his coffee, feeling Sam's words buffet him. Part of him knew Sam was right; Kevin had become an angry spirit, and he was deteriorating rapidly. They needed to make him move on before his anger started expressing itself by hurting them. He thought about Bobby. Bobby had been a hell of a fighter--persistent, resilient, tenacious. He'd also been blunt and gentle and loving, in his own gruff way. He'd been pretty calm as a spirit at first, still focused on the good fight, but his anger had started to curdle during the fight with Dick Roman; it had pooled in Bobby, filled his veins, and he'd finally started lashing out recklessly. Dangerously. He'd finally admitted it to himself when he'd caused Charlie to break her arm, and he'd told the boys to melt down his flask and take him out of the game. Dean still missed the grumpy son of a bitch.
Setting his coffee cup down, Dean sighed and nodded. “You're right. I've just been postponing the confrontation.” Man, he didn't want to face Kevin's cranky-ass spirit and tell it it was time to move on. He rubbed the back of his neck before turning to face his brother. “Fine. Only thing is, what is he tethered to? His bones are already burned, so what is the object holding his spirit here?”
Sam sat down across from Dean, long legs folding under the table. He leaned on his elbows as he thought, his forehead wrinkled with concentration. “Well, we can go through his room, see if anything looks like it could be his anchor? I don't think we've been in there since...” His voice trailed away.
Dean snorted. “Or just fucking burn everything.” He was only half-kidding. Pawing through the sad remnants of Kevin's existence sure didn't sound like a fun way to spend the morning.
They walked down the hall to Kevin's room, pausing when they got to the door. Dean could see the patina of dust that coated the furniture and books, there was a pile of crumpled laundry in the corner, and the sheets were still rumpled like Kevin had just gotten up that morning. His stomach twisted, but when he turned to look at Sam, he forgot his own dismay. Sam's face was pale, he was biting his lips, and his breathing was short and fast. “Jesus, Sam, breathe! You're going to pass out,” Dean exclaimed, rubbing Sam's back briskly. He hadn't really thought about Sam freaking out about being in Kevin's room, but obviously Sam was majorly affected. Dean kicked himself for not thinking about how Sam would feel about dealing with Kevin's things. Even though Sam knew it had been Gadreel's action, being the angel's vessel at the time of Kevin's murder still left him filled with guilt.
“Come on, buddy. It's okay. Just breathe.” Dean smoothed Sam's hair and squeezed his arm. “You want to go back to the kitchen? I can take care of this.”
Sam gave a little shudder and shook his head. “No,” he said with a tense jaw. “I'll be okay. Let's just get this over with.”
After an hour's work sifting through the contents of Kevin's room, there was a small pile of items on the bed that had been deemed likely anchor candidates. “Okay, let's go through these before we shake the rest of the room down. Maybe we've already hit pay dirt,” said Dean, sitting down on the mattress. Sam nodded and sat on the other side. One-by-one, they took turns picking up each item for examination.
It was not a large pile. A few pictures of Mrs. Tran, both alone and with Kevin. Dean noted how Sam's eyes skittered away, and he turned the pictures face down on the blanket. Kevin's wallet, with his driver's license, school ID, and eight dollars in it. A flash drive that looked like Pikachu. His cell phone, which was dead. His high school ring-topaz set in yellow gold-and another ring, white gold set with a round onyx.
“What's that ring?” Sam nodded toward the onyx one. “I don't remember him ever wearing that.”
Dean picked it up and examined it. It was clearly an old ring, the metal dull and adorned with small scratches. As he turned it in his hand, something caught his eye. Inside the ring, a name was engraved. “Hey, Sammy-it says 'David Tran' inside.”
“Think that's his father? Didn't he die when K-Kevin was a little boy?” Sam's voice falter but then he cleared his throat and spoke firmly. “I'd say that's the top contender for Kevin's tether.”
“Yeah, you could be right. We could just torch the whole pile--”
Wind swirled around them, setting all the papers to fluttering madly, along with Sam's hair. Dean felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, and there was the sharp tang of ozone.
“Sam! Get out!” he yelled as he dove for the items on the bed. The pile of laundry rose up and smacked him in the face, blinding him with flailing empty sleeves. He scrabbled at the fabric, cursing when he heard Sam yell in pain. “Sam!”
“Books-hitting me-ow!” Sam ripped the clothing off Dean's face, hauling him toward the door.
“Wait! Gotta get the stuff!” Dean turned back and scooped the small pile up in his hands. “Okay--”
The wind blew stronger, and they could hear the unearthly sobbing whine that was less from air and more from Kevin. The door slammed shut, and both men cursed, hauling uselessly on the knob. More things hit Sam; a couple of them clipped Dean, but Sam was clearly receiving the brunt of the attack. While it started with books and clothes, Dean saw that other objects were joining the fray: pencils, a protractor, the throwing knives Kevin had started practicing with before his demise. At the current wind-speed, all of these escalated from merely annoying to downright dangerous.
“Sam, get down!” Dean yelled, falling to his knees and lying down himself. “Sam! Down!”
The mirror over the sink shattered, the pieces of glass joining in the flotsam swirling in the invisible current. Dean cursed and ducked, but not before he saw a few shards hit Sam, drawing blood. “Shit!” yelled Sam, trying again to yank the door open. He batted at the objects that continued to assault him.
Dean jumped up to deflect some of the arsenal. He received a few blows, but the bulk of the flotsam seemed to flow around him and zero in on Sam. Dean called out, “Sam, why you? We're both trying to destroy his anchor! Why is Kevin aiming this all at you?”
Sam shook his head. “Really, Dean?” He protected his face from the circling mirror shards, the backs of his hands becoming ribbed with trickles of blood. “I killed him. Me.”
Anger suffused Dean. “That's bullshit! You didn't kill him! That fucking angel-slime Gadreel did!” He tried making his way over to Sam, but the wind held him back, keeping them apart. It felt like he was in quicksand. “It wasn't you! Did you hear me, Kevin? It wasn't Sam!”
Sam's eyes were sad as he looked back at Dean. “I guess he's not making that distinction.” The same force that held Dean in place now pushed Sam against the door, hands flat on the wood as his arms and legs were pinned.
They stared at each other, the desperation of their situation sinking in. Lulled by the protections of the bunker, neither man had carried any weapon into the room with them. Clearly they'd underestimated Kevin's power and wrath, and now they both were pinioned, vulnerable. Ever his brother's protector, Dean raged to break free and do just that, but he was unable to move at all. Sam looked at him sorrowfully, his face resigned, his eyes full of love.
“Dean, I--”
“No!” Dean twisted his body back and forth in an effort to break free. “This is not happening!”
“Don't ever give up, Dean. You're the best hunter out there...the best man I know. Thank you--”
“Shut up, Sam! Shut up!” Dean felt moisture on his face and refused to think about why his vision was cloudy.
“I love you, big brother. Always.”
Sam's head cracked the wooden door as it was slammed against it. He grimaced, and Dean could see pressure from invisible fingers squeezing Sam's throat. He roared in anger, but it was useless. Sam's throat compressed visibly, his face purpling, while a horrid wheezing sound came from his aborted attempts to breathe. Dean couldn't bear to watch, but he could not look away; he felt the need to witness for his brother, to stand by Sam even as he endured the agonies of Kevin's fury. He could scarcely see, but he refused to close his eyes.
And then the wind stopped, all of the flying flotsam falling abruptly to the floor in a clatter, the mirror bits tinkling. Dean's tensed limbs jerking his body forward. He ran to the door, to--
To Sam.
Slumped now, half against the door, legs crumpled on the floor. Face still ruddy, eyes blank and staring, the hazel irises a horrible contrast to the now-crimson whites. Laxly curled fingers that still felt warm in Dean's palm.
Dean knew what he'd hear, but he put his ear to Sam's chest anyway. Nothing. No reassuring thump, the steady rhythm of life until now, no swish of circulating blood carrying oxygen throughout that ginormous, Sasquatch body.
He sat there for an unknown time, leaning against the wall and pulling Sam's body-Sam--into his arms and wetting that stupid, floppy hair with his tears.
Kevin was quiescent after he killed Sam. Dean ran into no further interference when he took the half-a-dozen items of Kevin's that they'd found to one of the furnaces and threw them in to be incinerated. While he couldn't confirm that Kevin was gone, it was clear that no more knives were floating around the bunker. Dean took that as a win, empty as it was.
As far as Sam's death went, Dean knew he had no real options, but he tried anyway. There wasn't much point in talking to a crossroads demon--the days were long past that one of them would consider making a deal with a Winchester-but he tried the ritual anyway. Burying a tin filled with dirt, bones, and an old fake ID of Sam's at an appropriately isolated crossroads, Dean scrabbled gravel over it and waited, first just standing and then pacing restlessly. Finally he sat down right on the gravel over Sam's tin, whereupon he pulled out a pint of whiskey and drank it while the sun rose. “Shoulda cut through the bureaucratic crap and talked directly with Crowley,” he mumbled. “This is what I get for following the rules.” He stood up and kicked through the gravel to retrieve the tin. “Fuck you! Keep your crappy deals! I'm talkin' to your boss, ya asswipes!” He sniffled some whiskey-flavored tears as he walked back to Baby.
After returning to the bunker and passing out for a couple of hours, Dean pondered his next move. He decided to call Crowley-what could it hurt? He also called Castiel, first by cell, then by grudgingly going to his knees and muttering a few curt phrases that could be loosely interpreted as a prayer.
Neither entity answered. Dean waited eight or ten hours before foraging in the larder and finding a bottle of Jose Cuervo. He didn't bother with salt or limes.
Dean waited for that hangover to pass before moving on to his next idea. He thought he would see about meeting with a reaper; maybe that was still a viable avenue. Dean figured he had nothing to lose-he'd already lost it all. He barked a laugh at his own morbid humor before he got busy.
He assembled his materials, letting his hands and mind work while memories of Sue-Ann LeGrange, wife of the reverend who'd saved Dean after his heart trauma, wandered around his head. She'd perverted the reapers' purpose with the use of dark magic in order to give her blind husband special powers, but Dean was hoping to make a legitimate deal of some kind, or even just appeal to the reaper's mercy. Whatever worked.
And it was Tessa who appeared to Dean's plea. Of course. Untold numbers of reapers out there, and he got Tessa again. On the other hand, Tessa knew him. Knew Sam. Maybe it was better this way after all.
“Dean.” Her voice was smooth and calm as always. “What's this about? Summoning a reaper is not to be done lightly.”
“I didn't do it lightly. I needed to talk to one of you.” Dean tried to match her tone, firm but unruffled.
“What is it?” Where a normal person might be fidgeting, Tessa was unnaturally still and composed.
“It's Sam. He--”
“Ah, yes. He was reaped as the ghost killed him, and then his body burned as is your custom. What of it?”
“He has to come back. He's needed here.” Dean heard the urgency slip into his voice. “I-we need him.”
Tessa's large, dark eyes surveyed Dean. “Dean, you know how this goes. I remember telling it to you many years ago. The warrior has to lay down his weapons; the fight will carry on without him. So it must be with Sam.”
“But--”
“Dean, your chances are over. You both have more than used them up already. I have no extra to give you, and I would not give them even if I had. The natural order has already been bent and twisted for the Winchesters many times, but it will do so no more.”
Dean's throat closed on the lump of grief stuck in it.
Tessa's face softened. “Dean, I am truly sorry for your loss. I know how deep the bond between you and Sam was. But I cannot and will not alter the natural order for it.”
Dean stood motionless in the empty room while tiny wisps of spent spell-smoke meandered in the air.
It was only a couple of mornings later that Dean turned around in the kitchen and almost spilled his freshly-poured coffee down Castiel's trench-coat. “Dammit, Cas!”
Castiel's blue eyes regarded him steadily. “Dean.”
Dean sat down, grabbing a napkin to wipe his wet mug off. “What's up? You here on a mission or as a free agent?” He closed his eyes as the first gulp of coffee went down, warming him inside. When he opened them back up, Cas was still standing there stiffly. “Sit down. Why are you here?”
The angry words Where were you when Sam died? Or when I called? bounced around in Dean's head, but he refused to say them aloud. There was no point.
Castiel sat down across from Dean. “I...just recently became aware of Sam's death. I came to see how you are doing.”
Dean placed his cup on the table very carefully, exerting great control so that he wouldn't fling it across the kitchen and watch it shatter against the tiled wall. “Well, I'm glad our little doings make it into Heaven's gossip column. Good to know. As for me, I am doing just fucking fabulous, thank you ever so much for asking.”
Castiel tilted his head, his forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. “You sound angry. Have I done something inappropriate?”
Gritting his teeth, Dean stared at Castiel. “How about nothing? You've done nothing. My brother died weeks ago, and you show up now? Where were you when it happened? Why didn't you answer my call? For that matter, why the fuck aren't you bringing him back right the fuck now?” He slammed his fist on the table.
“I cannot bring him back, Dean, as much as I might want to. I do not have that power, and even if I did, I cannot go--”
“Yeah, yeah, against the natural order, I got it.” Dean poured a slug of whiskey into his coffee. “I heard the whole party line already.”
“Ah, your conversation with Tessa.” Castiel shook his head. “I can understand your desire to restore your brother, but--”
“I said I got it!” Dean swallowed his spiked coffee down and threw the empty mug, control now abandoned. It shattered into shards, falling onto the floor. “If you don't have anything useful to offer, then get the hell out of here! I don't need you!”
Dean ran a hand over his eyes; when he looked again, Castiel was gone.
Dean pushed his foot down onto Baby's parking brake, uttering a fatigued sigh as he opened the door and got out. The bunker's garage looked as it did when he left; half a dozen vintage motorcycles, the same number of cars, all neatly parked in their concrete slips. He walked around to the trunk and popped it, reaching in to retrieve his duffle, the weapons bag, and the cursed object box. The box was making some little chirruping sounds when he lifted it, but he ignored that.
God, he was tired. He'd driven to Wisconsin for this hunt, and when he'd gotten there, it had taken three days to lure this little magic nugget out and trap it. Then the drive back, and...well, it wasn't like there was anyone to split the driving with. Or the hunting. Or a meal. Or...yeah.
Funny to think he missed being on the road with Sam. Hell, with Sam and their father both. Even with the way Sam and John would fight, had fought--yet now Dean felt positively misty-eyed about those endless hours in the car, John blasting music, Dean and Sam sharing snacks and squabbling in the back seat. The Impala seemed so large then; not that it was small now, but to two kids, those long bench seats were huge. They were everything: life raft, playground, home.
Now it was just Dean driving. Just Dean hunting. The seat all to himself. No big deal.
This hunt had just been a fucking cursed object. A mink wrap that didn't consider itself dead, so it flapped around and freaked people out and had wicked sharp teeth. Dean rubbed the bandage over his hand ruefully. At least it didn't have rabies.
So yeah, not even a real hunt, like a werewolf or a vamp, a black dog or a poltergeist. Those hunts were even more fun nowadays, with no one to watch his back or toss him a weapon, no one to confer with or come up with stupid ideas from hours of boring research.
Stashing the box in the designated cursed object warehouse room once he was back at the bunker, Dean trudged up to his own room. He'd moved into a new hallway-walking down the same hall as Sam's room had been was... Without really formulating his thoughts about that, Dean simply decided that this hallway was closer to the kitchen and the garage, and therefore more convenient. He'd dragged all of his stuff over, including his memory foam mattress, set it all up just the same, but it didn't feel the same. He barely even looked over at his photos anymore, and the nights he went to sleep free from being whiskey-sodden were rare.
Traveling was the same; long miles eaten up by Baby's powerful engine and purring wheels, scored by battered rock Casettes, and yet-it wasn't the same. It took him two and a half months to stop getting a room with two beds. He justified it by the rationale that two beds gave him more room for weapons and such, but in the end, the extra bed seemed to just mock him with its pristine spread and cool, unrumpled sheets. Facing a single room ended up entailing less pretense that everything was okay, besides saving some bucks.
Kicking his dirty clothes into the corner, Dean walked down to the shower room with clean clothes in hand. He never worried about a robe, because there was no one around with delicate princess sensibilities to squawk at him. He stopped by the kitchen to grab a beer. No one there to complain about his burping or nude drinking. Pretty much he could do anything the fuck he felt like.
Woo fucking hoo.
Sometimes, he wished he couldn't. That someone-someone--was there to complain, to yell “Dean!” and bitch about his dirty clothes or his unwashed dishes. Someone he could gently antagonize and then run away giggling. Someone to trade well-worn jibes and insults with.
But there wasn't.
After the shower, he cracked open a second beer and sat back to check messages.
“Great job on that ---”
“Hey, heard you cleared--”
“Winchester, nice work. Call me, I might have a Rugaru case.”
“Something funky's happening over at Bellows Lake. Know you iced a kelpie recently, thought you could help. Call me.”
Dean slapped the machine off, finished his beer, and decided to go hit the Mexican place in Lawrence. It was tasty, fast, and cheap, and hey-no one would complain later if he ate too many beans and tooted up the place.
Sometimes, he wished someone would.
“Dean, it's Garth, call me back. Got a--” **beep**
“Winchester! Think your machine is full--” **beep**
“Hey, it's Anna from the bar--” **beep**
“Um, hi, you gave me your number--” **beep**
“Dean, it's Charlie, call me b--” **beep**
“It's Charlie, call me back, doof--”**beep**
“Call me or it's the flying monkeys!” **beep**
Dean felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Three messages from Charlie, each one clearly more aggravated than the one before. He could just picture her big, sweet smile, her bouncy red hair, the goofy, nerdy t-shirts. She'd called several times back when-Dean had always meant to call her back, it just never...was the right time.
He pulled out his phone. Clicking away, he texted her back. It was easier than talking. If it weren't for interrogating some dick during a case, Dean thought idly, he wouldn't have to use his voice for days. He was torn when she replied that she'd be swinging by the bunker this week; Charlie was warmth and love and hugs in a snarky, brilliant package, but she also meant interaction on a level Dean had almost given up on. He wasn't sure he was even capable of that at this point.
The phone beeped with Charlie's itinerary. Dean sighed and got up. Time to do some laundry and dishes. A drink or three wouldn't go amiss either.
Charlie arrived four days after her phone call. During that time, Dean managed to catch up on laundry, restock the pantry so it didn't look like he was surviving on chips and peanuts and Slim Jims, and collect all of the empty bottles and fast food wrappers. He found himself pacing impatiently outside the bunker, waiting for the rattle of her crappy little car and the joy of her smile.
“Dean!” Charlie burst out from her car and wrapped her arms tight around Dean. He hugged her tight, closing his eyes and burying his nose in her softly scented hair. The warmth and pressure of her arms were a balm to his chapped soul; he hadn't even realized, much less admitted to himself, how affection-deprived he was.
They stood several moments, until finally Charlie loosened her grip enough to look up at Dean. “Dean, how are you?” He opened his mouth to say something glib, but she put a finger on his lips. “Really. The truth. Don't give me some easy fib-I promised Sam a long time ago that I wouldn't let you fake me out or fool me on the important stuff.”
That robbed him of words for a moment-learning that Sam had thought about a life where he'd departed, Dean's life alone. He blinked hard, feeling a pricking in his eyes that he preferred to deny, and said, “I'm...I'm getting by. I hunt. I drink. I do what I have to.”
“And is that enough? Are you okay?” Her eyes alertly searched his, and he could not muster his defenses.
“I...it's...” He broke off and shook his head shortly, unable to speak for fear the words would come out with the tears he'd blocked since that dreadful day.
Her arms enclosed him again. “Okay. I got you for now. Let's go inside.”
On to Part 2