Chapter nine
Chapter Nine
Bobby called Dean for what felt like the hundredth time before the kid finally answered the phone. The first thing Dean said was “Bobby, you ok?” which was flat out irritating considering the stomach ulcer he had brewing over worrying if Dean was ok.
“Fine. Got Charlie and his family out of town, just like ya said. Sam show?” He heard Dean’s sigh of relief clear as a bell on the other line.
“You give them those hex bags I gave you?” Odd, Dean actually sounded nervous. Bobby’s stomach tightened at the sound. He mentally added pick up more antacids to his list of things to do.
“Yeah.” Stop avoidin’ the subject, boy. “Did he?”
“What?”
“Damn it, Dean! Did Sam show! Did you talk to him? Are you ok? Don’t make me ask you again!” Another sigh, more resigned this time.
“Uh - yeah, he was here.” A thrill of adrenaline surged through Bobby, and he bitterly wished he wasn’t so damn old.
“And?”
“He’s - he …” Deep breath. “He’s still Sam, Bobby. Just, it’s harder to … get to him, is all. But he’s still Sam. We still have time.” Bobby didn’t think he was supposed to hear the whispered I still have time that followed.
He cringed. “I hope you’re right, Dean. You come on and meet me now, like we talked about, and you watch your back, you hear me?”
“Yeah, ok. I hope so, too. Hey - I’ll meet you later, there’s something I wanna do first.” Dean sounded back on track, determination in his voice, but something else as well. Fear, maybe. Despair.
“Dean,” he warned, pitching his voice low.
“Later, Bobby.”
And then the line went dead.
~*~
Dean walked into the sanctuary just as most of the members were walking out. He hung in the shadows, watching them. Most of them were milling around, talking to friends and neighbors about what to bring to the potluck dinner or what time the carpool was coming in the morning to take the kids to school.
But a few of them sat in tiny groups of two or three, huddled quietly together in the dim light, speaking in low tones with earnest concern in their voices. Even through all of the happy chatter echoing around him, Dean clearly heard one of the women whisper as she reached out to hug her friend, "I'll pray for you."
I'll pray for you. As the people filed slowly out the door and into the moonlit parking lot, Dean wiped the sweat from his shaking palms onto the thighs of his jeans. Sammy was the one that prayed. Sammy was the one who had faith. Dean walked softly down the thickly carpeted isle, worn thin in the center by long years of lost souls treading its path, seeking redemption. If there was ever a lost soul in the world, it was Dean.
He reached the altar steps and glanced around reluctantly, heart hammering in his chest. Why is this so hard? He was relieved to find that he was alone save for one man who was gathering up the last of the offering plates. He suppressed a nervous curse when the man caught his eye; he didn't want to talk, he barely had the resolve to do this as it was. The Deacon just smiled gently. "Don't worry,” he said, and for a split second Dean wasn't worried anymore. "Stay as long as you like. I'll leave the door unlocked for you." Without awaiting a reply the man picked up the plates, turned, and walked away.
Dean stood at the base of the steps for a long moment. He jumped when the lights went out, but a glance back towards the door showed the silver light of night filtering in through the parking lot. The man had kept his word; Dean was safe.
The darkness of the sanctuary made him feel better as he slowly breathed in and out, calming his racing heart. What he had come to say needed to be said, and there was no one else to do it. I'll pray for you. No one else in this dying world would dare to pray for Sam. No one else thought he could be saved. His heart heavier than perhaps it had ever been, Dean curled in on himself, dropping to his knees at the bottom of the altar. The silence of the sanctuary surrounded him, cutting him off from all other thoughts; erasing his mind of everything but this moment, this one crucial moment where he may find the answer he so desperately needed, or he may lose all hope for good.
The only light came from above him, the backlit stained glass window streaming silver-blue and golden beams down around his shoulders. A picture of the cross - the ultimate sacrifice. He bowed his head, looking at his calloused hands, feeling the threadbare carpet through the rips in his worn out jeans. Suddenly, he felt so unworthy.
"I, uh ..." He whispered. Great start. His hands trembled again, and he curled them into fists, resting them on the steps. He cleared his throat. Come on Dean, you can do this. "I guess I haven't really ... talked to you before ..." the halting words came out one by one, and Dean winced at how much he sounded like a child. "See, the thing is, uh ..." He laughed, shook his head. Out with it already. "The thing is, my brother, he, uh..." Dean went completely still, concentrating so hard on the words that his eyes clenched tight.
"Well, I lost him, and I know, I know I don't deserve it, but ..." his throat began constricting as a lump began to form. Sammy. "but my brother, he believes in you, see, and he's - he's a good person, better than anyone. I mean, anyone." As one by one the tears began to fall, Dean leaned over the steps, dropping his head into his forearms like he could shield himself from the truth. "I thought that I could keep him safe on my own. I couldn't. I did everything I knew to do, I made a deal with the devil, I went to Hell and Sam still turned, Sam's still gone, I couldn't protect him and it's all my fault. I promised, I promised and I couldn't keep my promise."
The tears were flowing freely now, but so were the words, and Dean just let it all loose. "I don't even know if you're real. I don't know if you care, or if you're watching us. When Mom died, I didn't understand why, and I still don't. But Sammy told me once that he wanted you to care, he needed a higher power to care about his destiny; he said I was just one person and he was right, I am just one person and I couldn't save him, I couldn't save him." Dean gasped for air, shoulders shaking in the dim light of the glow coming from the cross.
"I need help," he cried. "I don't deserve it, I'm a killer and a selfish bastard, and when I made that deal I knew it didn't matter, it didn't matter because Sam would live, and the way I am, I always figured I'd be going to Hell anyway, you know? But I'm not asking for help for me, really - I'm not."
Dean was pleading now, but it just wasn't in him to care. "My whole life I've always just thought if I could see some hard proof, that I'd believe in you. Well, I still haven't seen it. But I know what I have seen; I've seen Lucifer, I've seen Hell and I've seen the end of the world coming like a tidal wave and if you really are out there - if you ever cared about Sammy, please, please ..."
His voice was a broken whisper, he'd never felt this vulnerable, or maybe this crazy, talking to thin air like it could help him keep the world from ending. But maybe he was wrong. Maybe the words had power in this place. I'll pray for you. "Please, just help me save him. Show me the way. Help me end this. Please." He finished.
Slowly he rocked back into a kneeling position, hands limp on the floor as he raised his tear-stained eyes to the cross. He didn't know what he was waiting for.
Nothing happened.
Dean bit back a sob of frustration. He'd poured out his heart; would've poured out his soul too, if he still had one to claim, and all it gave him was a headache, a backache, and enough disappointment to choke a blue whale. He stiffened, hunter's instincts raising the hairs on the back of his neck as he heard a soft creak and footsteps from the church entrance. But then he relaxed as he recognized the Deacon's voice.
"Greater love hath no man than this - that he would lay down his life for his friend," he said softly. He approached Dean quietly and from the side, at an angle where Dean was sure the man couldn't see his face, and plainly showed he meant no harm. Dean turned his head to get a better look at the man, his face still wet with tears. Somehow, the tears seemed unimportant.
The Deacon wasn't looking at him. He was gazing with something like wonder in his eyes up at the softly glowing cross. The man's words slowly sunk in for Dean.
"Yeah, but ..." his voice was raspy, his throat ached from the abuse he had put it through. "What if it didn't make a difference? What if it doesn't count for anything? What good is love when you lose everyone you ever cared about?" I'll pray for you. Layla had said those words, too. Now she was just another casualty.
The man just smiled a sad smile. His eyes were compassionate, and it was like he knew Dean very well, even though they had never met before. "How do you know it didn't count?" It wasn't a patronizing question, it was a simple inquiry, but it made Dean's head spin.
"Because ... because my brother's gone, he's gone anyway and I don't think I can get him back alone." Dean responded weakly. I'll pray for you. "And I don't know what to do, and there's no one left to help me." Dean gestured to the shining cross. "Does he ... if he really loved like that, then why would he let this happen? Why couldn't he step in and stop it?"
The Deacon moved sit apart from Dean on the higher steps, the clear light bathing his shoulders as he looked down to the younger man. "Because He doesn't interfere with free will. He lets us make our own choices." He regarded Dean closely, as though he could see the fragile state of his torn spirit. "Sometimes our choices, even if they are the wrong ones, can work for the better good if they are made with a pure heart." He smiled again, and this time the smile echoed encouragement and warmth.
Dean knew that this man didn't know what he'd done, but the words hit home all the same. He looked again to the cross. A feeling of peace was slowly spreading through his numb body, relaxing him. Making him feel whole. "But he didn't answer me. What did I do wrong? What do I have to say?"
The man shook his head. "He has said, 'If My people, who are called by My name, will humble themselves and pray, and seek My face, and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from Heaven, and heed their call, and I will heal their land.'" He paused. "You don't have to say anything, Dean. He already knows your heart."
Dean blinked. The light behind the man was growing stronger. I'll pray for you. "How did you ..."
The man smiled again and stood, towering over Dean's kneeling form. "I came to tell you something, child. He has heard your prayer. He wants you to know that you have a purpose in this world. He wants you to know that you have value. He tells you to trust Him. To have faith in things unseen. He has a calling for you. Will you answer it?"
Dean looked down, away from the angel's bright face, trembling in awe and fright at the power of the being standing before him. He could barely breathe, but he managed to get out the words, "What does He want me to do?"
"The appointed time has not yet come for this world. You are one of the few who recognizes the peril. Will you fight this battle, Dean Winchester, for the Lord, and for your brother's soul? Will you go wherever it takes you, no matter what the cost?"
The words were simple; go do your job. To Dean, that was all he had ever done. But there had never been so much riding on him as there was now. I'm not ready, I can't do this, he thought. But there was no one else. You're his greatest weakness. No one else could get close enough. You're also Sam's greatest power.
"Yes," he said, and the promise fell from his lips like the weight of the world; it bound him to this new fate. He knew there was no turning back. He was ok with that. Whatever it takes, Sammy. With his admission he felt strength and warmth; hope flow through his veins. "But I don't know where to go from here."
"You will have power when you listen for the Holy Spirit, and you will know your direction. Do not be afraid. The Lord of hosts is watching over you." The angel held out his hand, and a long, shining golden sword appeared there. He shifted it and handed it to Dean hilt first.
“This is the sword that first struck down your adversary. Wield it wisely.” Dean took the sword reverently, a thousand partial thoughts spinning through his mind. It was light but strong, and it pulsed softly with an inner light.
Dean raised his eyes just in time to see the angel begin to vanish, melting into the glow of the glass.
"Wait!" He called, "who are you?"
Almost as if it was on the wind, a voice whispered back from across Heaven's plane ...
Michael.
And then Dean was alone in an empty church, a dark stained glass window and an open creaking door his only company, only this time, he didn't feel alone anymore.
~*~
The motel door clicked softly shut behind Dean. He glanced at the glowing numbers on the face of the clock; it was past midnight, but somehow Dean wasn’t surprised to see Bobby sitting in the room’s only chair, shotgun resting lazily across his knees. His eyes were closed, but Dean knew better.
“Where you been?” came the gruff enquiry.
“Uh … I,” Dean faltered. He wasn’t sure how exactly to break the latest news. Bobby opened his sleepy eyes to regard Dean suspiciously, and when his hands tightened around the shotgun and he blew a hissed curse through his lips, Dean saw that he wasn’t going to need to.
“What happened?” Bobby all but shouted, leveling the shotgun instantly in Dean’s general direction. Dean threw out his hands in protest.
“Woah, easy, alright? It’s me, dammit. Put the gun down!” Dean took a step backwards nonetheless. He’d seen Bobby on the business end of a shotgun plenty of times, and he wasn’t about to push his luck.
“You …” the older man sputtered, “you’re … glowing.”
That wasn’t what Dean had expected to hear at all.
“What?”
“Go see for yourself!” Bobby pointed a shaking finger towards the mirror.
Dean crossed the room in two steps, feeling the shotgun at his back the whole way, tracking him. He stopped short at the sight of his reflection, tingling sensations in his back all but forgotten. His fingers raised up slowly to ghost across his face.
“Woah.” He wasn’t so much projecting the glow as he was containing it. Dean’s eyes shone bright, his skin was almost luminescent, as if his body was trying to hold back a brilliant show of colors.
“Dean, what did you do?” Bobby’s voice barely registered in the background as Dean continued staring.
“I hope this isn’t permanent.” He whispered.
“Dean!”
“Seriously. This would not go over well in public.”
“DEAN!” Bobby’s voice finally broke through the fog, and Dean jumped a little, surprised to see the older man still sitting awestruck in the chair, still aiming the shotgun.
“What?”
“Where the HELL have you been?” Bobby’s eyes widened with exasperation, and Dean figured he’d better answer before the next thing that came out of his mouth resembled something to the effect of it’s like talkin’ to a brick wall.
“I, uh - I went to church.” Dean lowered his hands to his sides and raised his eyebrows in anticipation of Bobby’s response.
“You …” the shotgun lowered, and confusion flashed across Bobby’s face. “You went … you went to church? What the …”
Suddenly Dean couldn’t wait anymore for Bobby to figure it out on his own. He felt like the inner light he’d gained was bursting out, rushing to share the news.
“Bobby - you won’t believe me man, but … Bobby - I saw an angel.”
He was prepared for more shocked silence, maybe a disbelieving laugh; he certainly wasn’t expecting Bobby to throw the gun to the bed, cross the room faster than Dean would have ever thought possible, grab him roughly by the collar and start yelling Latin into his face.
In retrospect, he probably should have been expecting that last reaction, because, hello, Bobby.
“Hey! M’not possessed, you bastard, get off me!” Dean yelled, and he shoved Bobby, hard. Bobby stepped back, staring at Dean liked a caged animal. Dean had had enough emotional overload for one night, and he welcomed the return of anger like an old friend. Anger, he could do. “I’m tellin’ you, I saw an angel. He came when I prayed. Brought me this.”
Reverently, carefully, Dean unwrapped his jacket from around the sword. Bobby’s eyes shifted to the sword and widened. Dean couldn’t fault the guy for not noticing before; he was glowing, for the love of -
“Is that what I think it is?” Bobby croaked.
Dean blinked. “Y - you knew about this sword?” Months they’d been looking for a weapon they could use, months. Months that bitch had her creepy, spindly-fingered hands on his brother. He tried to reign in his sudden rush of rage. Logically he knew there was no way Bobby would have known the sword was something they could get their hands on. Still … “Michael’s sword! You knew?”
Bobby slumped down onto the edge of the bed, face radiating wonder and disbelief. “I never would have thought … not in a million years …”
Dean felt his hurt feelings evaporate. “Hey, you’re not gonna pass out on me, are ya?”
“How’d ya get it?”
Dean smirked. “I asked.”
Bobby laughed out loud at that, and Dean laughed at Bobby laughing, and maybe they both were just laughing because they’d completely lost it, but hey - Dean had just seen an angel, he was standing in a motel room with a mythic sword that he was supposed to somehow use to stop his brother - the devil - from taking over the world, and he was friggin glowing.
Everyone deserves a little insanity here and there. Dean figured at this point, he’d earned it.
~*~
One month after Dean received the sword, Dean and Bobby reluctantly agreed to split up. Ever since Salvation, Sam’s demons had been busy, moving around the country quickly. Their victims seemed too unconnected to each other, and the pattern was too widespread for cops to catch wind of what was really going on.
Hunters knew different.
Bobby began to hear from contacts he’d lost track of years ago. Old rumors had resurfaced quickly in the wake of the earthquake, and the small community of warriors was on high alert. Dean could almost hear their whispers on the air.
Sam Winchester, remember? A few years back, he opened up the Devil’s Gate and let the bastards loose; runnin’ with ‘em now, I hear. We gotta band together. We gotta take him out.
“Being around me is dangerous, Bobby.” Dean had said one night after the older man closed his phone, eyes tight with worry at the suspicious tone of the voice on the other end. “If they decide you’re on our side, they’ll come after you. Look - we haven’t even been able to catch up to him one time,” he added, bitterness in his voice. “I’ll call you if I get a lead, a real lead, ok?”
Bobby had frowned, but he nodded sharply. “I’ll try to throw ‘em off the trail a little; give ‘em something they can chase.” He promised.
Dean nodded, wordless appreciation brimming in his gaze. They’d packed in silence and gone their separate ways.
Now, Dean sat in the lobby of the Holiday Inn, Sam’s laptop perched across his knees, thinking. Everyone who’d ever known or come into contact with their mother was dead or missing. All of the psychic kids Dean had known of had died in Cold Oak, with Sam. He’d tried to track their families with little success.
He thought of warning hunters he knew, but Bobby had taken care of Ellen and Jo first thing, and Dean didn’t know anyone else to call. Being the brother of the man that was the Antichrist probably wasn’t going to make him the popular kid in school, anyway.
Sam’s laptop felt odd underneath his fingertips as he typed. If he closed his eyes, he could see Sam sitting moodily at the computer, talking about some scientific fact he’d uncovered, or trying to hide his porn.
Instead, Dean used Sam’s laptop, and it showed him picture after picture of victims who had fallen to Sam’s army. More bodies were discovered all the time. As the weeks ticked on, the death toll grew higher and higher.
Dean spoke with Bobby often, and he was relieved to find that Bobby had connected with the underground; a small group of hunters spaced across the country. When a demonic sign appeared, whoever noted it first would call the rest, and the person closest would respond.
Sometimes they got there in time to save somebody.
Most of the time they got there just in time to watch the light go out in the victim’s eyes and clean up the mess.
Sam was never there when they arrived, Bobby told Dean. Neither was Lilith, and the hunters didn’t seem to know too much about her.
“The less they know the better. I’ll keep you posted on where everybody is.” Bobby told him one afternoon.
“Thanks, Bobby.” Dean said. He’d really meant it.
“Figure out the sword yet?”
Dean made a sarcastic face at the phone before he remembered Bobby couldn’t see him. “Well, I know how to swing it if that’s what you mean.”
“No more glowing?” Bobby sounded really damn amused.
Dean laughed. “No glowing. Guess I have to talk to him in person.”
“Whatever MacLeod, you just watch yourself, you hear me?” Dean had laughed and promised that he would.
Dean sighed in frustration and shut the laptop, feeling like he should go eat. He looked restlessly at the calendar, his mind ticking off the days. October now. They were never going to find Sam if he didn’t want to be found, and he felt like he was running out of time.
~*~
Safely back inside his room, he hid from the world and sat on the bed, staring blankly at the cool metal of the sword resting next to him. He didn’t know what to do or where to go. He didn’t think he could catch up with Sam. He was going to have to head him off - somehow.
He reached out and brushed the handle of the ancient sword with reverence. It was light and fast, and the blade never dulled. Idly he wondered if he could keep it after everything was over.
As his skin made contact, a warm sensation ran up his spine, like tingling power. Now Dean, it said. Go. Go now.
He gasped and withdrew his hand, but the feeling remained. “Go where?” he asked. Deep inside him, the conviction grew.
Home.
Dean blinked. You will have power when you listen for the Holy Spirit, and you will know your direction, the angel had said. Certainty formed solid in his gut and he grabbed up the sword and reached for his duffel.
It was the first solid lead he’d had in months, and whether it came from a non-voice he was hearing didn’t matter to him. He finally knew where to catch up to Sam.
He packed quickly, loaded the Impala, and gunned the car towards Lawrence.
Chapter ten