Fic: Set the fire to the third bar = episode 14
Fic: Set the fire to the third bar = episode 14
Author: Seraphim Grace
Fandom = Supernatural
Pairing = Castiel x Dean (god is love in all its forms)
Rating = NC17
spoilers = yes for season 4, set between Great pumpkin and the one after that I've forgotten the name of
AUish - set in the world of american gods and sandman but also the spn universe, I just stretched it a little
prompts - Dean wonders how much is too much when you've already past that line and just how changed he is from being in hell.
suggested by keire_ke
betaed by bellajayd who deserves more praise than me for this - she's certainly doing more work
Not enough coffee in the world
In the hotel dusk
tea with thrones
The House of Five aspects
The Banshee in the Bathroom
Time is never time enough
let the bodies hit the floor
I could sleep forever
The smell of hospitals in winter
Here be dragons
The Queen of Sheba
You can't count on me
with my spear and mighty helmet
Episode 14
In which Dean breaks down and makes the call.
Soundtrack:
Pardon me - incubus
-----------------
The cabin by the lake is colder than Dean could have imagined because the place has been shut up for the winter and the manager sure as Hell didn't want to open it up for him and the strange huge grey dog, an Irish Wolf Hound, that appeared in the back seat of the anti-Impala.
Dean hasn’t been annoyed enough yet by the dog to shoo it off, though it looks kinda familiar and unlike everything else it listens when he talks. He is pretty sure that it’s one of those big bads but after the fire he is feeling mellow, like after really good sex, all loose limbed and indulgent. So the dog, who pretty much just sits in the back seat with its tongue lolling out and listens no matter what Dean says, can stay.
It doesn’t call him a stupid monkey either.
When the cabin manager asks about the dog in the back seat, the one that hadn’t been there a minute before with a collar and a black stone hanging from it that looks like the one on his bracelet, Dean just looks at the dog and says “It’s going to be okay, right?” The man just shrugs and unlocks the cabin.
The dog answers to Sammy. He’s big, dopey, and kinda floppy haired so he looks like a Sammy. He quickly becomes New Sammy.
New Sammy curls up beside him on the couch and Dean can bury his fingers in the dog’s coat. He doesn’t complain when the food is greasy or nasty, he just eats it regardless. He also knocks over half-empty bottles of beer and laps up the spill.
It’s an easy friendship. When Dean talks, and sometimes he finds himself just talking and talking and talking, like Wayne at his best, New Sammy just lies there on his knee like a big donkey. The dog doesn't matter, it’s loyal, it’s friendly, and it has breath like chilli cheese fries in the morning.
The first day passes with a quiet lassitude, Dean contemplates the fire that he started, the way it erupted from his skin and how good it felt. He has a brief but pleasant fantasy of setting the entire world on fire just to see it burn down and refuses to acknowledge that he is lonely and scared. The cabin just happened to be where he didn’t want to drive anymore.
The second day he goes around the lake, New Sammy loping at his heels, and wanders down to the small town for food. He tries to blot out the image of a burning tree in a field half a day’s drive from here.
The third day the rage and the fire starts to creep back in when he is in the diner, New Sammy tied up outside and using big brown eyes to beg food, and he sees a mother and her son. The kid is maybe four, she’s blonde and pregnant. It’s too much.
Dean breaks the coffee mug in his hand.
White porcelain, black coffee, and red blood streaks the table. The waitress is there with napkins and a new table cloth over her shoulder apologising and shaking her head. She’s saying things like emergency room, and might need stitches but all Dean can think about is the image of a blue eyed, impossible blue eyes, angel licking the wound and it receding into his skin.
It doesn't even hurt.
Dean tells her it’ll be fine and she takes him through to the rest room to wash it clean. “It looks worse than it is,” he assures her and makes sure she doesn't see when he pulls out the last piece of the cup. No stitches needed, just a really big band aid and some peroxide.
She thinks it’s because the cup was faulty and he lets her, because it’s easier than explaining that a lady with her little boy reminded him of his mom and he couldn’t deal with it.
It's easier to clean up blood and coffee than another explosion of fire.
When Dean gets back to the cabin, he phones Sam because he needs to hear another human voice. New Sammy is lying by the fireplace happily gnawing on a plastic bottle he’s found, he’s wedged it between his front paws and is chewing away at the lid. Dean doesn't care anymore.
Sam doesn't answer but he gets his voicemail, just the sound of his recorded voice helps.
The fourth day it snows so hard that the dog doesn’t want to leave the cabin, only goes out far enough to crap, and is back in, shaking snow everywhere. Dean doesn't blame him. If not for the dog he’d stay in bed all day, instead he pulls the quilt down to the couch with the fire built up and sits there, the dog beside him, and drinks beer. He wonders if he has enough to last him through the day as he watches the fire in the grate.
The fifth day he’s decided the apocalypse can happen without him. Everyone and everything is a bastard out to get him except for New Sammy.
New Sammy sits there and listens. When Dean finds himself crying, and he can't help himself, hung over drunk and strung out the dog just licks his face and pins him to the couch.
The sixth day he forgets he’s hurt his hand when he tries to jerk off, standing awkwardly over the toilet when the bandage catches and then there is no mark on his hand. He goes to snark but there is no one to hear him except the dog and that's just pathetic.
He phones Bobby on the seventh day, just to hear someone else, anyone else, even Bobby calling him an idjut. Bobby answers quickly and then Dean is stuck for something to say so he asks him about looking after the dog and he can hear Bobby rolling his eyes and it makes him feel safe. “Ever hear of a demon called Reigert?” He asks suddenly and Bobby hasn’t but he says he’ll look him up.
“Bobby,” he asks after a very long pause, “did you know my Mom?
“Nah, kid. I heard about her, from yer Dad, of course, and then from other hunters, it’s legacy stuff. Yanno, you’re smart enough not to listen to what demons tell ya, they lie.”
“I know,” Dean says sadly and wants to tell Bobby everything that he knows, but he knows nothing and what do you say?
“And angels aint better, kid, they don’t lie, but they don't tell the truth either,” Dean knows that’s true because Castiel tells him outright nothing. Just enough platitudes to keep him hanging on like a damn fish on a hook. “You can’t trust ‘em.”
“I know,” Dean says. He wants to continue: I know stuff now, Bobby, I know how to kill them, I don't know how, but I do, and the fire, Bobby, it was glorious and I have this dog with me and I don't know where the fuck it came from and it listens and I watched a woman vomit a bird pellet, giblets and all, but the fire, Bobby, the fire.
He doesn't say anything.
“You still there, kid? You can come here, if you want, you and yer strange friends.” Dean wants to smile because for Bobby this is like a huge admission of family, of wanting him to be there.
“I’m good, Bobby, sorry to call you so late.”
Bobby snorts an answer about the apocalypse waiting for no man, and says he’ll look up the demon for him which Dean has already forgotten that he’d even asked about. “You need to call yer brother, he’s going mad with worry.”
“I will. . . it’s just . . .” He doesn't want to say it out loud because if he says it then it’s real and if it’s real he can’t go back.
“Yeah, I know, kid. Don't be a stranger.” Then Bobby is gone and Dean's back in the empty cabin with the dog who has drunk the last of his beer.
He doesn’t even look at the time when he calls Sam again, New Sammy lying heavily on his chest with hot beer breath and his tail idly waggling between Dean’s knees. He likes this dog. It's been more of a friend to him this last week than anyone. He’s also convinced himself that it’s just a stray and it’s not the dog from his bracelet, although he suspects it’s the kind of lie you tell yourself to keep yourself sane.
Sam sounds rough when he answers the phone, too much coffee not enough sleep rough, or the end of a nasty head cold, not right, not like his Sammy. “Sam,” Dean says and with it, he says everything and nothing.
“Dean? Oh god, Dean,” and the relief is palpable, something Dean can reach out and touch, “Where are you?”
“Do you know what?” Dean says, “I don’t know, I’m somewhere. I’m a little lost.”
“Do you need me to come and get you?” Sam says and that's the Winchester answer, ride in to the rescue.
“I don't know yet,” Dean answers and he’s surprised at how honest it is. “I just, well, yeah.”
“Are the angels there?” Sam sounds so distrustful, so angry, like it’s bile in his throat and not phlegm.
“No, I’m on my own.” Dean responds quickly, too quickly perhaps. “Well apart from the dog.”
“Where did you get a dog?” Sam asks. It’s the first time he sounds like himself, like the Sammy Dean knows.
“That's a really long story, Sammy,” he knows that Sam will listen.
“I've got time.” That’s it, that’s the world, that Sam would freeze time, he’d let the world go to Hell to listen to him.
“There’s a storm coming, Sammy,” it’s sad and poignant and it hurts, “Run.”
“Is that a warning from the angels?” The vitriol is back.
“They couldn’t care about you, Sam. They don’t give a shit about anything, they’re all dicks, to a man. Maybe not Cas, but he’s just a stooge, he doesn’t know shit, and it’s all bull, Sam, it’s all crap piled on shit piled on crap, and you just scratch just a little bit and . . .” he trails off and Sam listens.
He waits. “Man, I’ve seen stuff. I’ve seen things, I’ve seen,” he stops feeling naked, exposed, skinless, “C-beams glittering off the Tannhäuser Gate, that’s . . .” the words are gone, even cloaked in familiar snark.
“Sam, Mom made a deal,” he is surprised at how quiet and broken he sounds, “She,” Sam is silent on the other end of the phone, “She,” and he trails off again, “Sam,” he says finally, “are you still there?”
“Yeah, Dean, I’m here.”
“I’m sorry,” and Dean doesn’t even know why, “I’m so sorry.” The tears are there, “I’m so sorry.”
“Are you drunk?” That’s his Sammy.
“A little. Yes. Maybe, I don’t know.”
New Sammy breaks the moment with wind, it’s a soft whistling sound and then the foulest stench Dean has ever encountered and he’s been around, because Sam after a burrito is just toxic but this smells warm and nasty and the dog is lying over him. “Oh god. Oh that’s just -- ”
“What?” Sam asks worried.
“Damn dog farted,” Dean says pulling faces, “Oh that’s just wrong.” He can hear Sam laughing on the other end, “Don’t laugh, it’s so thick I can chew it.” Sam just laughs harder and even New Sammy, slinking off the sofa in the longest body slide that Dean has ever seen because the dog is huge, probably taller than Sam stretched out, covers his snout with his paws. “You have no idea, dude, that’s just.”
But it made Sam laugh and Dean would cope with a million of these dog farts for this moment. He doesn't remember the last time he heard Sam laugh. When the charge on the cell phone runs out it’s to the sound of Sam laughing.
---------
The eighth day is Christmas Eve so he leaves New Sammy at the cabin, chewing on an old shoe someone else left behind, to go to the store. The anti-Impala is reliable, whatever else it is.
Wal-Mart is Wal-Mart everywhere and he gets what he wants: pre-packaged microwave meals, Cheetos, whiskey, Twinkies, beer, nuts, Skittles, bread, and a tin of biscuits. He’s probably got enough to get him through until the shops open again on the 26th. The coffee is pretty much the only important thing on the list. He snags a bag of dry dog food and some treats when he thinks about it.
He’s pushing the cart, half full, out of the antiseptic Wal-Mart lighting into the carpark just in time before it closes.
A tall dark haired man in a long wool coat, Reigert, is standing there and almost obscured by him is another man. Deciding that the angel isn’t there for him Dean puts his groceries, such as they are, in the car. When he looks over his shoulder to check on the angel, he sees the gun.
The angel is getting mugged.
Dean doesn’t know why he intervenes because the angel can sure as hell take care of itself, but he does. He crosses the carpark and stands behind Reigert just in time for the mugger to raise his gun level, eyes perfectly calm, and fire - into his own skull.
There is a moment when Dean stands there, aghast, coated in blood and brain matter and Reigert simply turns to him. “The timing could be better,” Reigert says quietly, and from his pocket pulls a tissue to dab at the splatter on his face, “but I would suggest you call the authorities.”
Dean stands there for perhaps one minute before he fumbles for his phone. He’s seen many atrocities in his life, he’s even perpetrated one or two, but this, he’s never seen this before. The mugger literally just shot himself in front of Dean.
Dean is wearing a healthy portion of the would-be criminal on his face, it’s cooling in the winter air and he kind of wants to be sick, the other part of him, the soldier, is telling him to cope now, deal later.
It’s what Dean does, what he’s good at. He copes now, deals later.
His fingers are clumsy on the phone’s buttons but he calls 911 and tells them there’s been a shooting.
The police don’t take long, Reigert is sitting down on a concrete divider and from his pocket he pulls a Twinkie, opening the wrapper and consuming it before the police come.
When the police do arrive, the EMT is covering the body and offering them wet wipes. The angel shows them a badge and introduces himself as John Reigert, of Interpol. He tells them that the mugger threatened to shoot himself if he didn’t give him his wallet, not taking him seriously he told him to do it.
Reigert tells them he was just waiting for Dean outside, having a smoke, when the mugger came.
The ambulance driver treats them for shock, because after all it’s terrible, and not the kind of thing people should have to see, “Tweakers these days, you don’t know what they’re capable of. It all looks very straight forward. Can we take a number just in case?”
And that’s it.
The police let them go.
Reigert gets into the car and Dean, sure he’s shocky, just gets into the driver’s seat beside him.
The angel opens another Twinkie, running it under his nose like a Cuban cigar. “Sorry that you had to see that,” he pauses and takes a bite, “it was an unplanned inconvenience.” He waves the Twinkie to Dean, “Would you like some? I find myself drawn to these things.”
“Must be the angel food cake,” Dean says before he even thinks about it.
Reigert is silent for a moment before he turns his face to look at Dean, “God forbid.”
Dean thinks it might be a joke, more proof of just how far removed from Castiel Reigert actually is.
Dean doesn’t laugh.
He imagines he can feel the mugger’s blood in his hair. Wedging the wheel between his knees he brings both hands and up and just scratches because his scalp feels like it’s alive with insects.
“You left your lighter with me,” Reigert says, polishing off the last of the twinkie and putting the wrapper into the door’s side ashtray. “I don’t want to owe you a favour, even an accidental one.” It’s a cheap lighter from a highway service station, nothing worth travelling over. It’s probably empty anyway, Dean thinks.
The banality of the thought helps him deal with what he just saw.
There was no hesitation in the mugger, he just raised the gun and fired.
“It’s nothing.”
“No,” Reigert corrects him, “It’s a token, and I want the air clear between us. I want to owe you nothing. I don’t need your worship like the gods in your bracelet. I don’t need your love like your shining little grigori bead. You interest me only because you interest Lilith and you will be doing me a great favour when you rid me of her. I have no care for the games of angels.”
Dean can’t resist pushing, because that’s what he does. “And what does interest you?”
“The lost souls are mine,” Reigert says, “those that fall between the cracks, those are mine, all else are no longer amusing.” He has his hands between his knees, palms pressed together, fingers outstretched and thumbs crossed like a child at prayer. “If Lilith frees Lucifer it will be to kill him and take his place with your precious Colt. That will free the Corruption sealed with him and all of this will be consumed. That disturbs me, for without humanity I will have no more amusement.”
“So you want me to kill her.”
Reigert’s eyes narrow when he smiles. “Now you’re thinking like an angel.”
“I thought you didn’t want anything from me,” Dean presses.
Reigert licks the last of the Twinkie crumbs from his lips, “You are going to do that anyway. I am not telling you anything that will make the job easier. Some of us,” he shifts his hands between his thighs, “prefer the status quo, not all of us want it to go back to the way it was.”
“So if I kill Lilith and save the world I’ll be doing the Devil’s work.”
Reigert’s grin is cruel and sharp, “A bitter life lesson, young one - that the aims of Hell and Heaven very often coincide.” Then with his voice lingering in the car, Twinkie wrapper uncrinkling itself in the passenger side ashtray, the angel is gone.
When Dean gets back to the cabin he finds Castiel sitting on the couch with New Sammy beside him and the angel is pissed enough that the lights are flickering.
Next Episode
Author: Seraphim Grace
Fandom = Supernatural
Pairing = Castiel x Dean (god is love in all its forms)
Rating = NC17
spoilers = yes for season 4, set between Great pumpkin and the one after that I've forgotten the name of
AUish - set in the world of american gods and sandman but also the spn universe, I just stretched it a little
prompts - Dean wonders how much is too much when you've already past that line and just how changed he is from being in hell.
suggested by keire_ke
betaed by bellajayd who deserves more praise than me for this - she's certainly doing more work
Not enough coffee in the world
In the hotel dusk
tea with thrones
The House of Five aspects
The Banshee in the Bathroom
Time is never time enough
let the bodies hit the floor
I could sleep forever
The smell of hospitals in winter
Here be dragons
The Queen of Sheba
You can't count on me
with my spear and mighty helmet
Episode 14
In which Dean breaks down and makes the call.
Soundtrack:
Pardon me - incubus
-----------------
The cabin by the lake is colder than Dean could have imagined because the place has been shut up for the winter and the manager sure as Hell didn't want to open it up for him and the strange huge grey dog, an Irish Wolf Hound, that appeared in the back seat of the anti-Impala.
Dean hasn’t been annoyed enough yet by the dog to shoo it off, though it looks kinda familiar and unlike everything else it listens when he talks. He is pretty sure that it’s one of those big bads but after the fire he is feeling mellow, like after really good sex, all loose limbed and indulgent. So the dog, who pretty much just sits in the back seat with its tongue lolling out and listens no matter what Dean says, can stay.
It doesn’t call him a stupid monkey either.
When the cabin manager asks about the dog in the back seat, the one that hadn’t been there a minute before with a collar and a black stone hanging from it that looks like the one on his bracelet, Dean just looks at the dog and says “It’s going to be okay, right?” The man just shrugs and unlocks the cabin.
The dog answers to Sammy. He’s big, dopey, and kinda floppy haired so he looks like a Sammy. He quickly becomes New Sammy.
New Sammy curls up beside him on the couch and Dean can bury his fingers in the dog’s coat. He doesn’t complain when the food is greasy or nasty, he just eats it regardless. He also knocks over half-empty bottles of beer and laps up the spill.
It’s an easy friendship. When Dean talks, and sometimes he finds himself just talking and talking and talking, like Wayne at his best, New Sammy just lies there on his knee like a big donkey. The dog doesn't matter, it’s loyal, it’s friendly, and it has breath like chilli cheese fries in the morning.
The first day passes with a quiet lassitude, Dean contemplates the fire that he started, the way it erupted from his skin and how good it felt. He has a brief but pleasant fantasy of setting the entire world on fire just to see it burn down and refuses to acknowledge that he is lonely and scared. The cabin just happened to be where he didn’t want to drive anymore.
The second day he goes around the lake, New Sammy loping at his heels, and wanders down to the small town for food. He tries to blot out the image of a burning tree in a field half a day’s drive from here.
The third day the rage and the fire starts to creep back in when he is in the diner, New Sammy tied up outside and using big brown eyes to beg food, and he sees a mother and her son. The kid is maybe four, she’s blonde and pregnant. It’s too much.
Dean breaks the coffee mug in his hand.
White porcelain, black coffee, and red blood streaks the table. The waitress is there with napkins and a new table cloth over her shoulder apologising and shaking her head. She’s saying things like emergency room, and might need stitches but all Dean can think about is the image of a blue eyed, impossible blue eyes, angel licking the wound and it receding into his skin.
It doesn't even hurt.
Dean tells her it’ll be fine and she takes him through to the rest room to wash it clean. “It looks worse than it is,” he assures her and makes sure she doesn't see when he pulls out the last piece of the cup. No stitches needed, just a really big band aid and some peroxide.
She thinks it’s because the cup was faulty and he lets her, because it’s easier than explaining that a lady with her little boy reminded him of his mom and he couldn’t deal with it.
It's easier to clean up blood and coffee than another explosion of fire.
When Dean gets back to the cabin, he phones Sam because he needs to hear another human voice. New Sammy is lying by the fireplace happily gnawing on a plastic bottle he’s found, he’s wedged it between his front paws and is chewing away at the lid. Dean doesn't care anymore.
Sam doesn't answer but he gets his voicemail, just the sound of his recorded voice helps.
The fourth day it snows so hard that the dog doesn’t want to leave the cabin, only goes out far enough to crap, and is back in, shaking snow everywhere. Dean doesn't blame him. If not for the dog he’d stay in bed all day, instead he pulls the quilt down to the couch with the fire built up and sits there, the dog beside him, and drinks beer. He wonders if he has enough to last him through the day as he watches the fire in the grate.
The fifth day he’s decided the apocalypse can happen without him. Everyone and everything is a bastard out to get him except for New Sammy.
New Sammy sits there and listens. When Dean finds himself crying, and he can't help himself, hung over drunk and strung out the dog just licks his face and pins him to the couch.
The sixth day he forgets he’s hurt his hand when he tries to jerk off, standing awkwardly over the toilet when the bandage catches and then there is no mark on his hand. He goes to snark but there is no one to hear him except the dog and that's just pathetic.
He phones Bobby on the seventh day, just to hear someone else, anyone else, even Bobby calling him an idjut. Bobby answers quickly and then Dean is stuck for something to say so he asks him about looking after the dog and he can hear Bobby rolling his eyes and it makes him feel safe. “Ever hear of a demon called Reigert?” He asks suddenly and Bobby hasn’t but he says he’ll look him up.
“Bobby,” he asks after a very long pause, “did you know my Mom?
“Nah, kid. I heard about her, from yer Dad, of course, and then from other hunters, it’s legacy stuff. Yanno, you’re smart enough not to listen to what demons tell ya, they lie.”
“I know,” Dean says sadly and wants to tell Bobby everything that he knows, but he knows nothing and what do you say?
“And angels aint better, kid, they don’t lie, but they don't tell the truth either,” Dean knows that’s true because Castiel tells him outright nothing. Just enough platitudes to keep him hanging on like a damn fish on a hook. “You can’t trust ‘em.”
“I know,” Dean says. He wants to continue: I know stuff now, Bobby, I know how to kill them, I don't know how, but I do, and the fire, Bobby, it was glorious and I have this dog with me and I don't know where the fuck it came from and it listens and I watched a woman vomit a bird pellet, giblets and all, but the fire, Bobby, the fire.
He doesn't say anything.
“You still there, kid? You can come here, if you want, you and yer strange friends.” Dean wants to smile because for Bobby this is like a huge admission of family, of wanting him to be there.
“I’m good, Bobby, sorry to call you so late.”
Bobby snorts an answer about the apocalypse waiting for no man, and says he’ll look up the demon for him which Dean has already forgotten that he’d even asked about. “You need to call yer brother, he’s going mad with worry.”
“I will. . . it’s just . . .” He doesn't want to say it out loud because if he says it then it’s real and if it’s real he can’t go back.
“Yeah, I know, kid. Don't be a stranger.” Then Bobby is gone and Dean's back in the empty cabin with the dog who has drunk the last of his beer.
He doesn’t even look at the time when he calls Sam again, New Sammy lying heavily on his chest with hot beer breath and his tail idly waggling between Dean’s knees. He likes this dog. It's been more of a friend to him this last week than anyone. He’s also convinced himself that it’s just a stray and it’s not the dog from his bracelet, although he suspects it’s the kind of lie you tell yourself to keep yourself sane.
Sam sounds rough when he answers the phone, too much coffee not enough sleep rough, or the end of a nasty head cold, not right, not like his Sammy. “Sam,” Dean says and with it, he says everything and nothing.
“Dean? Oh god, Dean,” and the relief is palpable, something Dean can reach out and touch, “Where are you?”
“Do you know what?” Dean says, “I don’t know, I’m somewhere. I’m a little lost.”
“Do you need me to come and get you?” Sam says and that's the Winchester answer, ride in to the rescue.
“I don't know yet,” Dean answers and he’s surprised at how honest it is. “I just, well, yeah.”
“Are the angels there?” Sam sounds so distrustful, so angry, like it’s bile in his throat and not phlegm.
“No, I’m on my own.” Dean responds quickly, too quickly perhaps. “Well apart from the dog.”
“Where did you get a dog?” Sam asks. It’s the first time he sounds like himself, like the Sammy Dean knows.
“That's a really long story, Sammy,” he knows that Sam will listen.
“I've got time.” That’s it, that’s the world, that Sam would freeze time, he’d let the world go to Hell to listen to him.
“There’s a storm coming, Sammy,” it’s sad and poignant and it hurts, “Run.”
“Is that a warning from the angels?” The vitriol is back.
“They couldn’t care about you, Sam. They don’t give a shit about anything, they’re all dicks, to a man. Maybe not Cas, but he’s just a stooge, he doesn’t know shit, and it’s all bull, Sam, it’s all crap piled on shit piled on crap, and you just scratch just a little bit and . . .” he trails off and Sam listens.
He waits. “Man, I’ve seen stuff. I’ve seen things, I’ve seen,” he stops feeling naked, exposed, skinless, “C-beams glittering off the Tannhäuser Gate, that’s . . .” the words are gone, even cloaked in familiar snark.
“Sam, Mom made a deal,” he is surprised at how quiet and broken he sounds, “She,” Sam is silent on the other end of the phone, “She,” and he trails off again, “Sam,” he says finally, “are you still there?”
“Yeah, Dean, I’m here.”
“I’m sorry,” and Dean doesn’t even know why, “I’m so sorry.” The tears are there, “I’m so sorry.”
“Are you drunk?” That’s his Sammy.
“A little. Yes. Maybe, I don’t know.”
New Sammy breaks the moment with wind, it’s a soft whistling sound and then the foulest stench Dean has ever encountered and he’s been around, because Sam after a burrito is just toxic but this smells warm and nasty and the dog is lying over him. “Oh god. Oh that’s just -- ”
“What?” Sam asks worried.
“Damn dog farted,” Dean says pulling faces, “Oh that’s just wrong.” He can hear Sam laughing on the other end, “Don’t laugh, it’s so thick I can chew it.” Sam just laughs harder and even New Sammy, slinking off the sofa in the longest body slide that Dean has ever seen because the dog is huge, probably taller than Sam stretched out, covers his snout with his paws. “You have no idea, dude, that’s just.”
But it made Sam laugh and Dean would cope with a million of these dog farts for this moment. He doesn't remember the last time he heard Sam laugh. When the charge on the cell phone runs out it’s to the sound of Sam laughing.
---------
The eighth day is Christmas Eve so he leaves New Sammy at the cabin, chewing on an old shoe someone else left behind, to go to the store. The anti-Impala is reliable, whatever else it is.
Wal-Mart is Wal-Mart everywhere and he gets what he wants: pre-packaged microwave meals, Cheetos, whiskey, Twinkies, beer, nuts, Skittles, bread, and a tin of biscuits. He’s probably got enough to get him through until the shops open again on the 26th. The coffee is pretty much the only important thing on the list. He snags a bag of dry dog food and some treats when he thinks about it.
He’s pushing the cart, half full, out of the antiseptic Wal-Mart lighting into the carpark just in time before it closes.
A tall dark haired man in a long wool coat, Reigert, is standing there and almost obscured by him is another man. Deciding that the angel isn’t there for him Dean puts his groceries, such as they are, in the car. When he looks over his shoulder to check on the angel, he sees the gun.
The angel is getting mugged.
Dean doesn’t know why he intervenes because the angel can sure as hell take care of itself, but he does. He crosses the carpark and stands behind Reigert just in time for the mugger to raise his gun level, eyes perfectly calm, and fire - into his own skull.
There is a moment when Dean stands there, aghast, coated in blood and brain matter and Reigert simply turns to him. “The timing could be better,” Reigert says quietly, and from his pocket pulls a tissue to dab at the splatter on his face, “but I would suggest you call the authorities.”
Dean stands there for perhaps one minute before he fumbles for his phone. He’s seen many atrocities in his life, he’s even perpetrated one or two, but this, he’s never seen this before. The mugger literally just shot himself in front of Dean.
Dean is wearing a healthy portion of the would-be criminal on his face, it’s cooling in the winter air and he kind of wants to be sick, the other part of him, the soldier, is telling him to cope now, deal later.
It’s what Dean does, what he’s good at. He copes now, deals later.
His fingers are clumsy on the phone’s buttons but he calls 911 and tells them there’s been a shooting.
The police don’t take long, Reigert is sitting down on a concrete divider and from his pocket he pulls a Twinkie, opening the wrapper and consuming it before the police come.
When the police do arrive, the EMT is covering the body and offering them wet wipes. The angel shows them a badge and introduces himself as John Reigert, of Interpol. He tells them that the mugger threatened to shoot himself if he didn’t give him his wallet, not taking him seriously he told him to do it.
Reigert tells them he was just waiting for Dean outside, having a smoke, when the mugger came.
The ambulance driver treats them for shock, because after all it’s terrible, and not the kind of thing people should have to see, “Tweakers these days, you don’t know what they’re capable of. It all looks very straight forward. Can we take a number just in case?”
And that’s it.
The police let them go.
Reigert gets into the car and Dean, sure he’s shocky, just gets into the driver’s seat beside him.
The angel opens another Twinkie, running it under his nose like a Cuban cigar. “Sorry that you had to see that,” he pauses and takes a bite, “it was an unplanned inconvenience.” He waves the Twinkie to Dean, “Would you like some? I find myself drawn to these things.”
“Must be the angel food cake,” Dean says before he even thinks about it.
Reigert is silent for a moment before he turns his face to look at Dean, “God forbid.”
Dean thinks it might be a joke, more proof of just how far removed from Castiel Reigert actually is.
Dean doesn’t laugh.
He imagines he can feel the mugger’s blood in his hair. Wedging the wheel between his knees he brings both hands and up and just scratches because his scalp feels like it’s alive with insects.
“You left your lighter with me,” Reigert says, polishing off the last of the twinkie and putting the wrapper into the door’s side ashtray. “I don’t want to owe you a favour, even an accidental one.” It’s a cheap lighter from a highway service station, nothing worth travelling over. It’s probably empty anyway, Dean thinks.
The banality of the thought helps him deal with what he just saw.
There was no hesitation in the mugger, he just raised the gun and fired.
“It’s nothing.”
“No,” Reigert corrects him, “It’s a token, and I want the air clear between us. I want to owe you nothing. I don’t need your worship like the gods in your bracelet. I don’t need your love like your shining little grigori bead. You interest me only because you interest Lilith and you will be doing me a great favour when you rid me of her. I have no care for the games of angels.”
Dean can’t resist pushing, because that’s what he does. “And what does interest you?”
“The lost souls are mine,” Reigert says, “those that fall between the cracks, those are mine, all else are no longer amusing.” He has his hands between his knees, palms pressed together, fingers outstretched and thumbs crossed like a child at prayer. “If Lilith frees Lucifer it will be to kill him and take his place with your precious Colt. That will free the Corruption sealed with him and all of this will be consumed. That disturbs me, for without humanity I will have no more amusement.”
“So you want me to kill her.”
Reigert’s eyes narrow when he smiles. “Now you’re thinking like an angel.”
“I thought you didn’t want anything from me,” Dean presses.
Reigert licks the last of the Twinkie crumbs from his lips, “You are going to do that anyway. I am not telling you anything that will make the job easier. Some of us,” he shifts his hands between his thighs, “prefer the status quo, not all of us want it to go back to the way it was.”
“So if I kill Lilith and save the world I’ll be doing the Devil’s work.”
Reigert’s grin is cruel and sharp, “A bitter life lesson, young one - that the aims of Hell and Heaven very often coincide.” Then with his voice lingering in the car, Twinkie wrapper uncrinkling itself in the passenger side ashtray, the angel is gone.
When Dean gets back to the cabin he finds Castiel sitting on the couch with New Sammy beside him and the angel is pissed enough that the lights are flickering.
Next Episode