fic: Worlds In Collision [3 cont'd/12]
It burns in the back of his mind and the back of his throat. He swallows hard to push the bile back down and takes a deep breath to relieve the tightening in his chest. He grimaces when his lungs rattle.
“If Bill murdered Peter Sweeney and Peter’s spirit got its revenge, then case closed. The spirit should be at rest,” Sam insists.
Jessica sits in the back, arms crossed and frowning deeply. It’s been on her face since the sheriff shoved his finger in their faces and told them to scram. Every now and then she'd muttered something like, “I want to kick his ass,” until they reached the intersection and Dean turned back to Lake Manitoc.
“So what if we take off and this thing isn’t done,” Dean says. “What if we missed something? What if more people get hurt?”
“But why would you think that?”
He knows he’s going to sound stupid but he says it. “Because Lucas was really scared.”
He thinks there are bruises on his arm from where the kid grabbed him. He clung to that arm like a lifeline, and to be honest it scared Dean. The kid’s too young to get himself tangled up in this awful mess; he shouldn’t have to see his father drown and then spend all his time drawing images from Peter’s life. Dean just knows this isn’t over, that Peter won't surrender his hold on Lucas, and if his business is to save people then he’s going to save Lucas. The kid deserves a normal life and Dean’s going to give it to him.
Sam leans back against the window, staring at him. He feels the skepticism burrowing into the side of his head. “That’s what this is about?”
“I just…don’t want to leave town until I know he’s okay,” he says. Eyes on the road, he reminds himself. Don’t give Sam more blackmail material about him being a softy at heart. Dean raises his head and sees Jessica grinning at the back of their heads in the rearview mirror. How embarrassing. He just blew his image.
“Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?” Sam finally asks and Jessica bursts out laughing.
“Shut up,” Dean mutters. His ears burn. “Screw you both.”
Their only connection to Peter’s spirit is Lucas, so they head straight to the Sheriff Jake Devins’ house. Jessica leans over the front bench and says, “Is this really the smartest move? Going to the sheriff’s house at night?”
“Lucas is all we got left,” Dean says as they pull to the curb in front of the two-story building. There’s only one car in the driveway. “Plus it looks like the sheriff’s not home. Must be my lucky day.”
Sam snorts as they get out of the Impala. Knowing how big a risk it is they don’t waste time and run up the walkway to the door.
“It’s pretty late,” Sam says as Dean rings the doorbell.
Just as the first chime starts the door flings open and Lucas appears, panting heavily. His eyes are wide and wild, and while he says nothing Dean already knows what he’s trying to say.
“What's wrong-Lucas! Hey!”
Lucas darts back inside and Dean follows him up the stairs, two at a time, and down the hallway to a door. Light streams out along with water and something thrashes on the other side. Lucas starts pounding on the door, and then Sam looms into view from the corner of Dean's eye. Dean pushes Lucas to Sam and kicks down the door. He gets a glimpse of the overflowing tub and then grabs Lucas when he tries to run inside the bathroom.
“Hang on! Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay,” he says, holding him close, keeping him away from the scene. Sam nearly slips on the wet floor but regains his balance, lunges forward and reaches into the murky water for Andrea. Jessica appears at the top of the staircase, staring at the water coming towards her.
“Where’s Sam? What's going on?” she demands and Dean nods towards the bathroom.
Then Andrea’s head emerges from the water, sputtering and gasping, and Lucas opens his mouth in a scream. Air hisses out as he tries to twist away and escape to the bathroom. Dean just holds him tighter as Sam fights with Peter’s spirit for Lucas's mother; Sam wins and they collapse on the floor, Andrea choking and coughing up water while Sam just lies on the wet tiles and wheezes for air. Andrea curls into herself as she cries and Jessica suddenly appears in the bathroom, grabbing a large towel from a nearby rung and falling to her knees next to her.
“It’s okay,” she says, gently pulling her away from Sam and wrapping the towel around her. “You’re safe.”
Andrea nods once, and then leans over and sobs into Jessica’s shoulder. Then Dean lets Lucas go and he flings himself at his mother, wrapping his arms around her, shaking with relief. Sam sits up and slides back to give them space; he looks at Dean, breathless and stunned.
“C’mon,” Dean says, walking over on unsteady feet and holding out a hand. He doesn’t feel like bragging about his instincts right now and instead glances down at the muddy film on the floor. Sam grips his arm and the edge of the tub and pulls himself to his feet.
“Let’s clean up this mess.”
* * *
They spend the night with Andrea and Lucas. Lucas kept grabbing Dean’s hand whenever he walked near the front door and Andrea looked so small and terrified that no one could bear the thought of leaving them alone, even with the risk of the sheriff coming home and pulling his handgun on them. They take turns sitting up with them, making sure they're okay and that they'll live to see the morning. Right now Sam is sprawled out on the couch in the living room, snoring. Jessica’s sitting with Andrea in the kitchen, talking quietly, and Dean’s snooping around in the study, looking for something to tie this family to Peter.
He’s missing something. There’s a reason why Lucas’s father died, a reason why he can “commune” with Peter’s spirit, and it’s buried in this house somewhere. There’s more to the silence around the drowning deaths in the past thirty-five years, and Sheriff Devins might know something about it. It'll explain his silence, for one.
“Come on,” he mutters under his breath, pulling out notebooks and skimming the covers in the lamplight before shoving them back in or on another shelf. He’s found a few albums, a few notebooks, a few novels, a few magazines, but nothing useful, nothing to highlight and underline the connection.
The displacement of air and the strange tingling sensation on his left shoulder tells him he’s not alone. Dean doesn’t break pace, continuing his frantic search for answers to save the family, but he starts planning his move. There's no water here so it can't be Peter and if the sheriff came home he'd have heard it. Unless Sheriff Devins never left... Dean decides to find something and pretend to be interested in it, slow his pace long enough to quietly and quickly pull his handgun tucked under his-he’s unarmed. The gun’s back in the Impala’s glove compartment because they didn’t think they needed firearms for the late night visit. Shit.
He still grabs a notebook and flips through the pages, takes careful deep breaths as he prepares to get the jump on whoever's behind him. Can't be Peter. Can't be Sheriff Devins. Can't be Sam, Lucas, Andrea, or Jessica. So who-
His heart starts beating wildly as he realizes that it’s the burns on his shoulder that’s creating the sensation, not the prickle of fear and anticipation at being caught unawares and defenseless. He doesn’t want to know what it means, but he does and he almost drops the notebook.
It can’t be. It’ just can’t-no, no way. No freaking way.
Pages turn but they’re not from the notebook in his hands. He swallows, and then closes the notebook, thinking maybe he can punch whatever's behind him and make a quick getaway. The air is suddenly maple syrup thick and it takes everything in his power to turn around and face the presence in the study.
“You gotta be kidding me,” he says hoarsely. The notebook falls on his boots.
Castiel tilts his head as he shuts the old photo album in his hands. His eyes gleam in the lamplight and his mouth…Dean coughs and looks down at the album proffered to him. The yellowing label reads “Jake - 12 years old”. Then he sweeps his eyes over Castiel, at the slender frame shrouded in the large tan trench coat and the crooked tie he suddenly wants to straighten. He almost expects to see the shadowed wings but there’s none. It’s just a man from his dream materializing out of thin air with an old album in hand.
There are so many things he can say, and so many more things he can do, but he’s paralyzed by the sheer impossibility of something from his dream standing in front of him. He tries for something rational and ends up blurting out the first thing on his mind.
“You’re real.”
The man-the angel-no, the man pushes the album into his hands. His face doesn’t change from its stoic expression but his eyes seem to light up with an inner fire.
“I am,” and his voice is just as deep and rough as in the dream weeks ago. Dean shivers as he wraps his fingers around the album. “You need this.”
Dean opens the album, glances up at Castiel to make sure he's not hallucinating, and starts flipping through the thick pages. “I don’t…did he know Peter?”
Castiel doesn’t reply. He lifts his head and finds empty space. The man-the angel is gone, and Dean didn’t even notice.
“The fuck?”
No one's there. Shaking his head and deciding he's too tired and in need of a catnap before continuing the search, he looks down at a page dedicated to a Boy Scouts troop. He can’t see their faces, though, with his vision blurring; he shuts the album and leans against the bookcase, pressing his forehead against the hard cover. He takes a shaky breath and holds it in.
It wasn’t a dream walker or some fucked up post-sex dream. The man-the thing in his head who called itself an angel just showed up to hand over a photo album of the sheriff as a twelve-year-old boy. And then it disappeared before Dean could properly react, vanished before he could immobilize it and call Sam for help. Why? What the hell's going on? What does it want from him? Why does it even care?
Dean lowers the album and looks up but he’s still alone in the study. Nobody else knows. Maybe he’s hallucinating. Maybe he’s exhausted. Maybe he's going crazy.
“Later,” he tells himself out loud. He needs to hear the words. “Think about this later. We have work to do.”
He opens the album back to the photographs of a Boy Scouts troop and studies the faces, eyes tracing their lively, innocent youth. Then his eyes fall on one and he stares at it, trying to put a name to it. Then he shuts the album abruptly, coughing when it forces dust up into his breathing space. Waving it away, he leaves the study and heads to the kitchen, where Jessica and Andrea are sitting with a very sleepy Sam. They look up as he barrels over and elbows Sam aside to set the album down before Andrea. He has his thumb on the page with the troop and flips the book to it.
“Do you recognize the kids in these pictures?”
* * * * *
Later, things happen so insanely fast that Jessica is still breathless and on an adrenaline high when they roll into the nearest town not Lake Manitoc to tuck in for the night.
It starts when Lucas leaves the house and gives them a tour of the wilderness Lake Manitoc sits at the edge of, right until he stops at a patch of ground. He stares down at it, and then up at Dean as though he’s communicating telepathically with the older Winchester.
“Get back to the house and stay there, okay?” he tells the Barrs. Then, “Sam, get the shovels.”
They brush back the moss and layers of leaves covering the ground with their hands and feet until he returns with three and they start digging. Whoever buried something here did a shabby job, because despite the years it spend under the growing layers of decay Sam’s shovel hits it in five minutes. She crouches down and sinks fingers into the damp dark earth, pushing it away from metal piping. Then Sam joins her and they slowly pull out an old metal bicycle while Dean tosses aside the shovels.
“Peter’s bike,” Dean says, and then the sheriff appears, gun in hand.
“Listen to yourselves,” he says desperately, when Dean finally tells him and Andrea the truth about the lake, Peter’s death, and the sheriff’s hand in it. “You’re insane.”
“I don’t really give a fuck what you think of us,” Dean retorts, “but there’s an angry spirit out there that's been killing people and if we’re gonna bring it down we need to find the remains, salt them, and burn them to dust. That’s the only way all the drownings are going to end. Now tell me you buried Peter somewhere. Tell me you didn’t just let him go in the lake.”
The answer’s written on Sheriff Devins’ face. He’s terrified, not that his thirty-five year old secret’s finally been uncovered, but that what’s been drowning everyone connected to Peter’s death is Peter. Like Andrea he’s teetering on the edge between the ordinary and the supernatural, and he’s looking to his daughter, looking for answers in her horrified face.
“Dad,” she whispers. “Is any of this true?”
He presses his lips together, giving the four of them a nervous sweep with his eyes. His arms shake as he points the handgun between them. “No. Don’t listen to them. They’re liars and they’re dangerous and-”
“Something tried to drown me, in my bathtub. Chris died at that lake, and you know he could swim. All the Carltons…Will drowned in the kitchen sink. And all those people over the years…Dad, look at me,” she says desperately and Jessica wants to close her eyes and turn away from this. “Tell me you-you didn’t kill anyone. Tell me it wasn’t you.”
“What happened?” Sam asks, pitching his voice low, trying to be the sympathetic, understanding one.
The sheriff glances at them, eyes never resting on each face for more than a second, before flickering down to his left. “Peter was..." A deep breath, lips pressed tightly together. "He was the smallest kid in town. Billy and I always bullied him but this time…it got rough. We held him underwater like you-like you do with school toilets, and we…he drowned.”
Andrea sobs and covers her face with her hands. Sheriff Devins flinches and takes an involuntary step back from her. Jessica shifts closer, watching him carefully, but he doesn't look like he's going to run. He looks more and more tired as the years-old guilt spills out in his confession.
“We let the body go, buried the bike, and ran. We were just kids, you know? We were so scared. It was a mistake, an accident, we didn’t mean to. But I…I didn’t have anything to do with Chris and Billy and his kids and…" He looks up at them, despairing. "It's not because of some 'ghost'. It’s…it’s not rational. Not possible.”
Her heart sinks at the revelation and the enormity of what they're facing. Hunters always hope for the best and prepare for the worst, but they’re not prepared to deal with a vengeful lake that runs through the town's plumbing. The only way to protect this family is to make them leave town until the lake is drained, and even then they might not be safe. Someone might have to go back, find any remains of Pete, and burn them. This whole area might have to burn if Andrea and Lucas want to stay in Manitoc.
“Rational or not, we need to get you out of here,” Sam says, gesturing towards higher ground. “You have to leave town until that lake is gone and you have to do it right-”
“Lucas!” Andrea screams and they whirl around to see him walking along the shore towards the dock yards away.
“Oh shit,” Jessica says and then Dean blows by her, running down the slope to Lake Manitoc. They chase after him, shouting at Lucas to get back - Jessica wants to yell at him to stop being so fucking stupid but barely holds it in because that won't help and he's just a kid - and sees a clammy gray hand reach out of the water and pull Lucas in.
Sheriff Devins stops somewhere behind them but they keep running, shedding jackets and added weight as they reach the dock. Dean dives in and then Sam.
“Oh my god!” Andrea starts taking off her jacket to jump in after them but Sam resurfaces quickly and waves at them.
“Stay there! Jess, make sure she doesn’t go in. We’ll find him!”
He dives under just as Dean resurfaces, spitting water and gasping as he looks at them. Andrea stands at the edge, paralyzed; the only reason why she hasn't tipped into the lake is because Jessica's holding onto her upper arm, keeping her from where Peter's spirit can take her and drag her down after her son and husband. Jessica stares at the surface, waiting for Sam and Dean to resurface; she knows Sam can hold his breath underwater for long periods of time, but he never had to do it while a spirit lurked underneath, holding Lucas prisoner.
Then Andrea cries out, trying to tug out of her grip, and Jessica sees Sheriff Devins wading into the water.
“Peter!” he calls out over Andrea’s pleas for him to turn back. “Please, not my grandson, not Lucas. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for what I did to you. Just don’t take him. He’s just a little boy; it’s not his fault. Give him back, Peter. Take me instead-”
“Get out of the water!” Jessica shouts as Sam and Dean resurface. They turn their heads to see the sheriff disappear underwater, his “Just let it be over!” ringing out into the midmorning air.
Andrea collapses, bringing Jessica down with her while Sam and Dean dive back in. She doesn’t know if they’re going to try to save the sheriff, too, but the odds are against them; what Peter's spirit wants is the sheriff who killed him, not Lucas. She wonders if Andrea knows this is the last time she'll ever see her father, and then her heart thuds against her chest when only Sam returns to the surface, shaking his head.
“No,” she whispers. Not Lucas. Not after everything-
Then Dean erupts from the water, Lucas in his arms, and Andrea sobs in relief, crawls over Jessica in an attempt to reach her son. Dean paddles over to the dock and Jessica lets Andrea go. Sam hauls himself out of the lake and she stands up, pulls him into a wet hug.
“We’re good,” he says, his chest heaving from exertion. “We’re okay. Couldn’t…couldn’t find the sheriff.”
“Nobody will,” she says. “Peter took him. Next time, don’t go swimming where angry spirits might pull you under because if you do I will personally murder you-”
Sam laughs and kisses her.
At the house Lucas hands Sam and Dean towels while Andrea tries to set a kettle on the stove. She’s jittery, hands shaking as she fills the stainless steel pot, and Jessica tosses the towel in Sam’s face to join her in the kitchen.
“Here, let me,” she says, taking the pot from her and setting it on one of the burners while Andrea looks for teabags. Jessica glances at the table behind her; Andrea left her father’s jacket hanging off the back of one of the chairs, sand still stuck to it in patches. Somewhere in the living room Sam and Dean’s voices are joined by a third one, young and high-pitched. Lucas’s. He’s talking again.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Andrea murmurs as she sets several mugs on the counter.
“And I don’t know how to tell you how sorry I am for your losses,” she replies, watching her drop a teabag in each mug. To lose her husband and father, and Lucas’s godfather and his family in the span of two weeks…Jessica shakes her head and crosses her arms tightly as she leans against the counter.
“You saved my son,” Andrea says quietly. “You saved Lucas.”
“We were…we were lucky Dean was able to get through to him,” Jessica says, thinking again on Dean’s persistence with Lucas after his “kids are the best” line.
“Yeah. I didn’t know what he saw. Thought he was trying to impress me.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I never got to ask, not with all of...this. Are you…are you cousins? Siblings?”
“They are. Brothers, I mean. Sam’s the younger one, and my boyfriend,” she says.
“Well I was going to say, Dean’s story about their mother…is that what drives them to do this? To stop these ghosts and spirits from hurting other people?”
Jessica muses on her answer as the kettle starts to whistle. Most hunters don’t hunt because they want to. If it’s not passed down through the family it’s because of some sort of personal tragedy. She strongly suspects, knows that Sam and Dean didn’t grow up with the tradition, that they were a happily oblivious family until their mother died. The conversation in the car after Dean talked to Lucas is testament enough; Sam’s hesitance as he said he never knew this about Dean told her that the family business is a recent tradition and the Winchesters still suffer from the raw pain of losing her.
“Sometimes we hunt because it’s the right thing to do,” she says, accepting her cup of chamomile with a nod. “Sometimes it’s because we lost someone and we want revenge, or to make sure nobody else suffers the same way. I grew up with it - Mom and Dad were hunting before and after I was born.”
Andrea places the other mugs on a tray and carefully picks it up. “And you chose to follow it? To stop these spirits from hurting other people?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I know what’s out there. Why shouldn’t I do something about it?”
“I guess that's a good point.”
“If you’re worried about Lucas,” Jessica says, breathing in the aromatic steam, “don’t. He’s still young. He still has a chance at a normal life.”
“But he knows-I know what’s out there now. How am I supposed to sleep after today?”
“That’s why we hunt,” Jessica says. “So that you can sleep. So that he can have a normal life again. It’s what we do. Don’t feel so bad for us. Even revenge doesn’t make a hunter. We choose it.”
Some of the lines disappear from her face, and Andrea smiles a little more freely as they join Sam, Dean, and Lucas in the living room. Lucas is talking, albeit haltingly, but it brings out Andrea’s rosy glow as she listens to him chat with Sam and Dean - mostly Dean - about life at Lake Manitoc.
“She wasn’t lying when she said he used to be hard to keep up with,” Jessica murmurs to Sam as they watch him talk with both Dean and Andrea. She tilts her head, narrowing her eyes - they make an almost picture-perfect couple, even though Dean’s interest in Andrea has clearly passed…or maybe it was never there. She can’t tell with him.
“Kids,” Sam says, setting his mug down on the table to wrap an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close. “You can’t assume anything about them. Not even when you think you know everything.”
His eyes drift towards his brother as he speaks, looking at him like he’s a mystery.
“Hey,” Jessica says and he glances down at her. “Later on, tell me what happened.”
“What happened?” Sam echoed slowly.
“Your mother. Tell me what happened to your mother.”
He hesitates. She feels him stiffen and try to pull away but she follows him. The pain is locked up tight except in the thin red line of his mouth and the furrowed eyebrows as he mulls over this request. She’s not pushing him - the personal loss and pain that drives some people to hunt can remain buried under for years - but she wants to know if he’s ready to talk about it now, or in the near future. Brady tried to reenact their mother’s death using her, after all.
“I’ll tell you,” he finally says, “but not here.”
That’s good enough for her. She nods, tilts her head up, and kisses him, then laughs into his mouth when Lucas makes a disgusted noise at them.
* * * * *
They get two rooms. The entire drive to the next town over Jessica’s dangling her arm over the back of the front bench, her hand on Sam’s shoulder, and he’s wrapped his hand around her wrist, anchoring her. Dean knows by now what that means, and as soon as they pull into the parking lot of the nearest Motel 6 he lets them know.
“You have fun, kids,” he tells them when he returns with their room keys. He tosses one to Jessica. “Don’t keep the neighbors up.”
“Jerk,” Sam says, making a face at him while he pulls his and Jessica’s bags out of the trunk.
“Bitch,” Dean says, grabbing his bag. “Use protection.”
He laughs at the bird sent his way as they separate.
Dean needs a shower; he doesn’t like thinking about all the dead bodies in Lake Manitoc and how unclean he felt after hauling himself out of the lake. He imagines himself taking a very long, very hot shower to scrub it all off; at least he won’t have Sam waiting for his turn and banging on the door to stop using up all the shampoo. And there was that one time when Sam got so fed up he actually kicked down the door, catching Dean in an…embarrassing situation. Neither of them talked about it since, and they’re keeping it that way.
He also needs a night out to drive away all the memories threatening to surface after Lucas and Lake Manitoc, maybe at the bar he spotted as they drove to the motel. Maybe he’ll meet someone there to spend the night with. He should see if Sam and Jessica are interested in joining him at the bar. Or maybe he’ll just go it alone and let the youngsters have their fun.
After he scrubs his skin raw and towels himself off he sits on the bed in a tee and boxers, flipping through John’s journal and looking for more coordinates, more entries, more notes, more clues. He spends an hour adding a couple lines to the Wendigo entry and then a half-page entry about Lake Manitoc's angry spirit, then reads the articles pasted in the pages. He stares at the “I went to Missouri and found the truth” line for the billionth time since the journal was first bestowed to him at Jericho. Then Dean realizes he’s chewing on his pen and removes it from his mouth immediately.
“Right,” he mutters when he glances at the large cheap digital clock on the bedside table. “Time to go.”
It’s a brisk, cold evening and Dean welcomes the wave of warmth that washes over him when he walks into the bar. It’s a small, old establishment that glows orange and yellow thanks to the old light bulbs and the lacquered walls. The locals pay no attention to him beside the one or two who appraise him, size him up, and then turn back to their drink or conversation.
Dean heads for the bar, sliding onto one of the tall stools and waiting for the bartender to take his order.
“What can I get you?” he asks from behind the counter as he uncaps two bottles of beer.
“Whiskey on the rocks,” Dean says. He drums on the sticky surface and then looks left and right at the other people. On his left are two empty seats and three middle-aged men; to his right is an empty seat and four young people about Sam’s age, holding fruity cocktails. Beyond are two occupied pool tables, several booths, and a few old men playing darts.
He studies the pool tables, considers joining for a game or two, and then notices one of the four people giving him a look. She’s a round-faced redhead, nose bridge and cheeks dusted with freckles, and she’s not shy about her staring. Dean grins into his tumbler; he likes people who are upfront about what they want.
Someone slides into the stool next to him but he ignores the newcomer until the redhead suddenly raises an eyebrow and looks away. Frowning, he swallows some whiskey and turns to his left.
“The hell?”
Castiel gives his tumbler a studious look. He sits on the stool stiffly, elbows braced on the counter and fingers laced together. He looks grave and world-weary, shoulders slumped and mouth grim; Dean idly wonders if he knows how to smile.
“Hello, Dean Winchester,” Castiel says. His eyes are still on the whiskey so Dean pushes it towards him. “I do not require sustenance.”
“You’re still looking at it. You sure? Could do with some booze in you. Maybe loosen you up some.”
Castiel looks affronted and Dean shakes his head. “Never mind. So, what are you doing here? Are you even allowed in here?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be allowed here?”
Dean spares a quick glance at the redheaded girl but she’s turned back to her three friends. He sighs, disappointment sinking heavily in his stomach. He leans on the counter, propping his head up as he watches the angel stare down the amber whiskey. Then Castiel looks up at him, eyes wide and unblinking. They shine in the warm smoky glow of the bar.
“So, uh.” Dean sits up, clearing his throat and glancing around, but nobody’s watching, lost in their little worlds, unaware of the supernatural creature sitting just a few feet away “There a reason why you guys don’t want Sam finding Dad?”
Castiel tilts his head to the side and Dean fights not to squirm. It’s a human-shaped body and a human-shaped face but the eyes, the weight of the gaze boring into his head, are definitely something else.
“Mary Campbell was a hunter,” Castiel says quietly.
He freezes. Something cold and paralyzing crawls through his body; his ears ring as they try to push out the impossible words. Denial. That’s not possible. Their mother has nothing to do with this life.
“Liar,” he says.
“Angels do not lie. What I am telling you is the truth. Your mother was a hunter. She wasn’t by the time she married your father, but-”
“You’re-”
“I am not. Believe me when I say this-Mary Campbell was a hunter and that is the reason for the nursery fire that killed her.”
This is Dean being knocked sideways and trying to right himself. This is Dean scrambling for something he’s familiar with. “So…that night…”
He frowns when Castiel draws back. “We don’t know for certain, but we are aware of how deeply involved your family is in this. That is why I am here. This is bigger than you think.”
His hand curls around the tumbler, shaking so hard the melting ice knocks into the glass and against each other. It’s there, the answer that they’ve been looking for. The answer to his long life on the road with his broken family sits next to him with an impassive face, and in this moment the world starts rearranging in his head.
“So you know what it was?” he finally says. His voice grates in his throat and comes out hollow. He refuses to look at him, deciding instead to focus on the play of light on the rim of the tumbler. “You know what killed my mom?”
Castiel is quiet. Dean looks up, half-expecting him to disappear again but he’s still sitting on the bar stool. He’s no longer so stiff; he leans against the counter on his left elbow, at ease with his surroundings.
Suddenly, incredibly human.
“Not exactly.”
“Then what good is it?” he grits out. “Why are you telling me this if you can’t even answer one simple question? Does Dad know? Have you seen him?”
“John Winchester will find the answers on his own terms,” Castiel says evenly, his eyes hardening as he sits up. “He is not who we want-”
“Want? What the hell does that mean?”
Castiel says nothing. Furious, Dean lifts the tumbler to his mouth and drains the whiskey. While cold and diluted it still burns hot but he shuts his eyes and swallows everything down. When the melting ice cubes hit his upper lip he lowers it and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. He glances up at Castiel, who remains expressionless, eyes stormy in the dimmed light.
“I apologize,” Castiel says. “I said too much.”
He slides off the stool and walks away. Dean stares after him, then fishes in his pocket and pulls out a small wad of bills. He slaps a twenty down on the counter and runs out after him.
Castiel is gone. Dean stares to his right, his left, behind him, in the spaces between the cars in the lot, under the lights and in the lamppost shadows, in the shade of trees, but Castiel has vanished into thin air. It’s only the bar on a mostly empty street, pedestrians on the sidewalk, a late-night shuttle pulling up at a bus stop, and an airplane flying far overhead.
“Son of a bitch,” he growls, whirling around to stalk back to the parking lot. He doesn’t like being left behind like that, fed a tantalizing bit of information that has him salivating for more by a source he can’t trust.
Mary was a hunter? His mother with the long blonde curls and the sweet scent of cinnamon apples and the tomato rice soup he hadn't eaten since? His mother who once threw his father out of the house, hummed songs by English rock bands, and told him angels were always watching over him? His mother hunted ghosts, demons, and monsters, too? She died because that life caught up to her, sending her family down the same road that she once walked?
And the only other thing that son of a bitch tells him is that this is what killed her. That this life he leads now is what ripped him away from the normal life he could’ve had. Bastard didn’t even tell him why his mother stopped hunting.
Castiel’s lucky he's an angel who can disappear and reappear whenever and wherever he wants, or else Dean would’ve shoved him against the wall and pummeled the answers out of him. As it is he settles for staring up at the sky - because isn’t that where Heaven’s at? - and swears him out before getting into the Impala, his night thoroughly ruined.
“Son of a bitch.”
Part 1
2 [Guilt] || 4 [Purify]