A Womb of His Own - 15/21
Masterpost
The Louisville rawhead was easily enough taken care of, and nobody ended up having a heart attack and having to go to a faith healer, so Dean considered it a major victory for team Winchester. They were refueling - them, not the car - when they overheard a conversation that put them onto their next case.
“I know it sounds crazy, Louise,” the woman in the booth across from them said, “but I swear to you, the noises are not coming from the house. And I’d chalk it up to the dog, but he was in the room with me and Al all night. And the noises were coming from downstairs.”
“Maybe it was just the house settling?”
“Does the house speak English and throw things across the room?”
Sam and Dean looked at each other.
Louise frowned. “What did it say?”
“Mostly it was a jumble, but I definitely heard ‘John Wilkes Booth.’ You tell me that’s normal. And don’t say it was the neighbors’ TV because nobody was home, and TVs don’t just repeat the names of assassins over and over.”
Sam and Dean looked at each other again.
When Louise and their ghost victim got up to leave, Dean rose as if he was going to the bathroom. Then he plowed into the women. The ghost victim’s purse spilled open, and Sam leapt to his feet to help her put everything back inside.
“I’m so sorry,” Dean apologized. “I should have been paying more attention.”
Sam dropped the last tube of lipstick back in the purse - seriously, who carried three lipsticks? - and handed the black bag to the woman. “My brother’s a klutz. Sorry.”
“No problem, thanks for your help.” She and Louise turned to leave without a second thought.
Sam and Dean slid back into their booth, and Sam waved the blank check he’d swiped from the woman’s checkbook.
“Nice job, Leverage,” Dean praised. Sam grinned.
Using the address on the blank check, they researched the history of the house. There had been a murder, a gunshot to the owner’s head forty-five years earlier. A few hours in the library, and they had the location of the body and were just waiting for night so they could dig up the bones.
“You want to get a beer while we wait?” Dean suggested. They hadn’t done that together since the night Dean got his fangs, and even then happy hour had been too short.
Sam frowned. “I think I’m going to take a nap. But you should go. Drink one for me.”
“It’s called ‘resting up,’” Dean corrected. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have given a second thought to ditching Sam for a frosty cold one, but he felt some obligation to stay and make sure he was all right.
“Dean, really,” Sam urged. “It’s fine. Really. I could use some time to decompress.”
“You kicking me out?” Dean asked before he could hold his tongue.
“Actually, I am. Just remember to bring me coffee when you come back, okay?”
The whole kicking Dean out and making him errand boy thing was starting to become a pattern, which was downright obnoxious, but Dean told himself he owed it to Sam to cut him some slack. “I’m sick of your face, anyway,” he said with his rotten little boy smile. “I’ll be back in a few hours.” He grabbed his keys and headed out.
There was a perfectly fine (as in, perfectly dirty and cheap) bar only a few blocks from their motel, but once he was in the parking lot, Dean couldn’t bring himself to go in. Beer just didn’t sound that good. Neither did whiskey. He wondered if he was coming down with something.
Before he realized what he was doing, he summoned Cas, who appeared in the passenger seat, trenchcoat rumpled as always and squinty face looking straight out the windshield.
“We gotta stop meeting like this,” Dean quipped.
“Why are you still in Louisville? I thought you took care of the rawhead.”
“You spying on us? That’s not pervy at all.”
“I’m keeping an eye on you because Sam is in a special predicament. Would you prefer I just leave the two of you to your own devices? History has shown us how well that’s panned out for you.”
“Well, don’t mince words, Cas.”
“Was there something you wanted?”
Dean shrugged. There wasn’t, as far as he knew. He just wanted someone to talk to. “You want to get a beer?”
“Dean - ”
“No, I know. Civil war. Raphael. It’s cool.” He gave Cas a tight smile. “So go ahead, fly away. I mean, just because you’ve been secretly watching us doesn’t mean you have time to sit around with me like a real friend. I get it.” Complete inability to shut the fuck up sometimes. His number one bad quality.
“Dean…”
“But tell me something. Do you even care about us anymore?”
“Of course I care about you.”
“You didn’t even heal Bobby! He almost died, and then he spent weeks all patched up, and you didn’t do anything!”
“You never asked me to,” Cas retorted. “You’re so selfish you spent the entire time thinking about Sam.”
“Man, what is going on with you?” He gave Cas a hard stare, but Cas could give as good as he could get when it came to that. After a few seconds, Dean broke eye contact. “Whatever.” He turned to face the entrance to the bar. Beer was starting to sound a lot more delicious. A freezing cold beer with two fingers of whiskey on the side. He wondered if he had enough money to order something good. Rufus had spoiled him from being able to stomach cheap liquor.
He wasn’t surprised that when he turned back, Cas was gone.
Drinking alone just wasn’t that much fun anymore. The bar was playing loud country music, which was annoying, and Dean was the youngest person in the joint, which was uncomfortable. A woman with bleach-blond hair, shriveled skin, a sagging rack, and overpainted fuschia lips kept trying to buy him shots. “I used to be a dancer,” she purred, putting one foot on the rung of his stool and swiveling her hips.
“Yeah, and there’s a reason that’s ‘used to,’” Dean muttered under his breath. It was time to go. He took one final pull of his beer and thunked the bottle down on the bar. “My pregnant brother is waiting for me,” he told her. “Sorry.” He couldn’t help chuckling at Stripper Betty White’s confused look as he walked away.
When he got back to the motel room with two large coffees and two pastries that were half-price because it was after four, Sam gave him a bone-crushing hug. Dean tried to keep the coffee tray steady while his brother squeezed away. “Okay, okay, it’s just coffee. You’re welcome.”
Sam pulled back, noticed the tray, and put it down on the table. He gripped Dean’s shoulders and looked squarely into his eyes. It looked like he had been crying. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t - of course, you couldn’t tell me, and I’ve been such an asshole, and - I just - it wasn’t your fault.”
“You’re not making sense. What wasn’t my fault?”
“I didn’t know you had been turned into a vampire,” Sam explained.
Dean was glad he’d set the coffee down because he would have dropped it otherwise. “How do you know that now?”
Sam bit his lip. “Which one is mine?”
“They’re both black. Sugar and cream in the bag. Got you a cookie, too.” He watched Sam rifle around. “Sam? Vampire?”
“Don’t be mad,” Sam began, which was like how saying, Not that I’m a racist, but… was always followed by something totally racist. Don’t be mad didn’t mean don’t be mad. It really meant I’m giving you a three-second warning that you’re about to blow a gasket.
“Sam?”
“Cas told me. About you being turned into a vampire, and about how that’s when it happened.” He shook his head. “I’ve been so awful to you, Dean. I mean, we both keep excusing me for not being me, but I didn’t know you weren’t you, you know? And, of course, you didn’t tell me because you were worried about the hell-wall, so you just kept letting me…And that’s what happened with Lisa and Ben? And, God, I tried to…at Bobby’s house.” Sam ran a hand through his hair. “What the hell is wrong with me?”
Dean sank down on the nearest bed, trying to separate the many thoughts and feelings he was having. Watch out for Sammy won. “How is the wall holding? You found out, and nothing happened?”
Sam took a seat near him. There was enough distance that it wasn’t uncomfortable, but enough proximity that it felt important. Like Sam wanted to be near him now. “No, not even a blip. He told me, and then I started remembering…” His voice trailed off, and he stared at the carpet and blushed, and then he ate a bite of a black and white cookie to stall. “I pushed you into it,” he said finally. “And it’s not like you could help it. You were a vampire. I’m lucky you didn’t kill me.”
Dean wanted to say, I wouldn’t have, even then, but that sounded awfully Harlequin, so he kept his mouth shut. “Okay, well, the most important thing is that you’re okay. No thanks to Cas. Who, by the way, should be grateful he’s junkless because the next time I see him I’m going to castrate him. Fucking baby.”
“I pressured him, Dean. Don’t be angry at him.”
“You know he’s been following us? Spying on us?”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. He’s probably watching us right now.”
Sam took a thoughtful sip of his coffee. Dean realized his was on the table, getting cold, and reached for it. “What’s going on with him?” Sam asked. “He seems different.”
“I know.”
“But you said he helped you try to get my soul back?”
“Sam, are you really sure we should be talking about this?”
Sam nodded. “I think - I think the soul is helping. Like, healing me. Reinforcing the hell-wall as it gets stronger.”
Dean took a tentative sip of his coffee. It was past scalding, quickly heading into tepid. The problem with coffee was that there was only a thirty-second window when it was an appealing temperature. He took a big, long drink before the window passed. “Yeah, Cas was right there with us when we went after Crowley. He burned Crowley’s bones when we found out he’d been lying the whole time about being able to get your soul out of the cage. One of the team.”
Sam set his coffee down on the nightstand and shifted one knee up on the bed so he was facing Dean. “As much as I want to hear about that, I really think we need to talk about that night.” He held up a palm to forestall any protest. “I’m not asking for details. I remember enough, trust me. I just - I’ve been angry at you for months, and it wasn’t even your fault. I’m so, so sorry.”
A tear escaped Dean’s eye before it even registered that he was ready to cry. Probably the result of holding back his emotions for so long. He wanted to tell Sam that he had nothing to apologize for, because it hadn’t just been that one night, and that Dean really should have known better and put a stop to it all much sooner. He wanted to tell Sam he was forgiven and pretend the rest of the story didn’t exist, so they could be right again.
In the end he chose the easier path. “It’s okay, Sammy.” Sam hugged him again. “I’m sorry it happened.”
“I’m sorry you got turned,” Sam whispered over his shoulder. “You have to tell me all about how we got you back because that’s amazing, but I - it must have been awful for you, and I’m sorry if I pushed you into doing something with me you didn’t want to do.”
The appropriate duration for a brotherly hug had come and gone. Dean pulled away, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his jacket. “Where’s my cookie?”
Sam laughed and tossed him the brown bag.
It was morning by the time they finished in the graveyard. They headed back to the motel to shower and sleep. Once it was night again, they went to the house to make sure Casper was really gone.
It was a good thing, too, because around 11:30, they heard the sound of smashing glass coming from inside. When the car radio flickered off and on, they rushed into the house with shotguns in their hands. Sam got off the first shot, but instead of disappearing, their ghost screamed, and his eyes went black.
“What the -” Dean didn’t get a chance to finish the thought because he was thrown against the wall, stuck there a foot above ground.
“Well, who do we have here?” the demon asked, hoisting Sam up by the throat. “I like breaking things that are bigger than me.”
Dean hated being helpless, but he was proud that Sam was surreptitiously straining to reach the knife he had tucked into his boot. Not that the knife would kill the demon, but if Dean could keep him distracted long enough for Sam to stab him, it would slow him down. “Why are you pretending to haunt these people?”
The demon’s head spun around in supernatural time. “Why not?” he asked. “Less mess, less chance of getting in trouble for leaving bodies. Last place I haunted, the family moved out and left everything behind. I got a Blu-Ray player.”
If he weren’t stuck to a wall with a family portrait jabbing him in the spine, Dean might have found that funny.
It was enough of a lull for Sam to grab the knife, and he quickly thrust it into the demon’s abdomen. Dean couldn’t help picturing him doing that to Bobby a few months earlier. But he didn’t have time to dwell because it made the demon release him. He slid to the floor and grabbed Ruby’s knife out of his belt. Meanwhile, Sam got thrown into the china cabinet along the far wall.
“Sammy!”
“Dean!”
“Is the soul okay? Is the soul okay?” He tried to rush forward, but one palm extended from the demon had him thrown again.
“Yeah, I think so,” Sam reported as he scrambled to his feet. “I think it’s healing me.”
“Soul?” the demon asked. Its head whipped around toward Sam. “Sam and Dean? Winchester?”
“I see our reputation precedes us,” Dean said, advancing slowly with Ruby’s knife in front of him.
“Hold on, don’t kill me,” the demon pleaded. “If you’re the Winchesters, then that rumor about the soul is true?”
“What rumor?” Dean asked, just as Sam asked, “What soul?”
The demon crossed his arms over his chest. “Word in hell is that Sam here sprung from the cage to turn into our very own soul factory. An incubator in the flesh.”
“How do you know that?” Sam asked. “Only the angels know.”
The demon rolled his eyes. “Well, this is a red-letter day for me. Turns out, the rumors about how smart the Winchesters are also true. Hello, Brainiac, everything the angels know, the demons know. Crowley’s not going to let them have an unfair advantage.”
Sam and Dean looked at each other. “Crowley?” Dean repeated. “Crowley’s dead.”
“Since when?”
“Since December.”
The demon furrowed his brow. “No, he’s not. I gave him an iPod I scored two weeks ago. We listened to Barry Manilow while we ate fettuccine.”
Dean blinked a few times because wow. “Okay, Mandy, if everybody knows about the soul, how come no one’s trying to take it?”
“Who’d want it now?” The demon gestured at Sam’s body. “It’s still tartare. We’re waiting for it to get nice and well done. You might as well enjoy hunting in the meantime, Sam, because come D-Day, all hell’s gonna break loose.”
Dean moved forward and thrust the knife into the demon’s back. The demon crackled with electricity and roared and then keeled over.
“We could have gotten more information out of him,” Sam pointed out.
“I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”
In many ways it was a relief that Sam was sleeping all the time because it was such a shift from those months when he was always awake and staring. That night he barely made it out of the shower and into a clean t-shirt before he conked out. Dean’s back was killing him - he was definitely getting too old for the daily thrown-against-a-wall routine - but he was wide awake. He didn’t want to watch Sam sleep because he knew firsthand how that felt. And he didn’t really want to be alone with his thoughts because he couldn’t stop thinking about Cas risking the hell-wall and Crowley still being alive.
It didn’t make sense. Cas had burned his bones. They’d watched Cas burn his bones.
The only explanation was that Cas had the wrong bones.
Somewhere in a deep corner of Dean’s mind, a voice said, Cas doesn’t make mistakes.
Frustrated by the growing suspicion that Cas was lying to him, Dean rooted around his duffel until he found the duck book. He opened it up to the bookmark on chapter eight and continued reading. Sam might have dismissed the book, but it wasn’t like all those dumb religious texts had offered them any helpful information. The duck book, by contrast, was currently enlightening Dean about how having a baby after forty increased the risk of miscarriage to thirty-three percent. After some consideration he decided that probably wasn’t true for souls. He was willing to bet that a soulless dude at fifty could still get gay-pregnant. Assuming there was anyone soulless at fifty who had gay sex. And bottomed.
Somewhere into the chapter about lactose intolerance and alternative protein sources for vegetarians, Dean drifted off.
He dreamed they were hunting vampires in Transylvania, which was a suburb of Chicago. They found the nest in a modest two-story house that had a Blu-Ray player in every room. Right before Sam went to chop the head off one of the vamps, it begged for its life by claiming to be a vegetarian. Then Castiel beamed in and told them the vampire was his to deal with. He transported Sam and Dean to Portland, where they ran into that hot chick in the red dress from Battlestar Galactica. She and Dean were all set to make the mattress bounce when she said she wanted to be the one who’d be hiding the salami. He was willing to go along with it when she produced a neon green dildo, but then she turned into Crowley, and Dean forced himself to wake up.
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