Chapter 10
THE END
The sudden movement and the weight of the Ark send Dean crashing to his knees as soon as he touches solid ground. The Ark clatters to the earth with a heavy huff that almost sounds like a sigh.The floor beneath his knees has gone from hard cement to crusty dirt. Dean can hear it crumble and shift when he moves around.
“What the hell just happened?” Dean gasps, forcing his fingers to unclench from around the poles’ handholds. He groans as he gets up, shakily. “Sam? Cas?”
“We’re here,” Sam calls out, sounding out of breath. “You okay?”
Gone is the moldy smell of the place where they were before. Gone are the sounds of hundreds of people dying while they stood by and did nothing. ‘Okay’ is not a word Dean’s too fond of right now.
He almost jumps when the phone inside his pocket starts vibrating. There is only one person who would be calling them.
Fumbling for the right button, Dean finally hits ‘receive’. On the other side of the connection is the same voice as before, talking before Dean can even open his mouth to say anything.
“Congratulations... I knew you and your brother would succeed getting the Ark” the man says as a greeting. His voice sounds disgustingly pleased. “You know... for a small moment, I feared you would abandon your good friend Bobby... I am... happy you found your senses.”
Dean grinds his teeth, barely feeling it when Sam touches his shoulder to let him know that he’s listening in too.
“Cut the crap... I wanna talk to Bobby,” Dean demands. “You won’t get squat unless I’m sure Bobby’s alive.”
The man on the other side laughs. Actually laughs at Dean’s words. Both he and Sam tense at the man’s reaction, remembering all too well what happened the last time that they provoked Bobby’s kidnapper’s anger.
The laughter dies as fast as it had begun, cut short by the man’s crispy words.
“I am not some ‘bad guy’ in a movie story, Mr. Winchester. If anything, I am the ‘good guy’... and you have no stand to bargain with me.”
“I have the Ark, you motherfucker,” Dean hisses before he can control himself.
The silence on the other side is filled with possibilities and Dean shudders as a couple of them cross his mind. He bites his tongue, one step away from going against everything he believes in and offering an apology.
To the fucker who is holding Bobby in a hole slowly filling with sand.
To the lousy piece of dirt working with demons, bending over so that Lucifer can win.
“You come to me, with Ark, in exactly twenty minutes. You make yourself visible by performing summoning ritual and you not cause trouble to the beings that appear to transport you,” the man says, very calmly, quietly listing the set of instructions. “Understand?”
“Demons, you mean,” Dean clarifies. Might as well let the prick know that they aren’t as clueless as before.
“Associates,” the man corrects. “I suggest you hurry... Mr. Singer not very pleased with current... accommodations.”
The connection breaks with an ominous dial tone and Dean almost drops the phone.
“Fuck!”
The curse is ripped from deep inside. It’s pointless though. No amount of swearing will ever come close to what Dean really wants to do to the man on the other side of the phone.
Sam’s hand, squeezing his shoulder, is enough for Dean to know that the sentiment is mutual.
“How could he even know that we have the Ark already?” Sam points out. “We just got it like... five minutes ago.”
“Fucker probably has spies under every rock in this place,” Dean guesses. “Where are we, by the way?”
“We’re--” Sam starts. He pauses, feet shifting around. “I have no idea where we are.”
“Cas?” Dean calls. The angel has been suspiciously quiet since they’ve arrived, but then again, Castiel is not one of the most talkative people Dean knows.
The lack of answer, however, is an answer in itself. Back in the basement of the church, as he held Castiel up, supporting most of his weight, Dean could feel the tremors running through the angel’s borrowed body. Whatever mixture Zachariah had come up with for those shells, it had done a number on the rebel angel.
“Can you see him?” Dean asks when Sam takes too long to speak. “Is he alright?”
A wet cough that Dean can’t recognize as being Sam’s answers him. Not caring how stupid it looks or the odds of planting his face on the floor, Dean holds his hands out, patting the empty air ahead of him, feet dragging through the ground as he moves forward, towards the noises of Sam’s hushed tones and Castiel’s gasps of pain.
“He doesn’t look good,” Sam finally says when Dean is close enough for him to grab an arm and pull him down, near to where Sam is crouching in front of the angel.
“Is he even conscious?”
When Sam first sees Castiel, slumped against a rock formation that sticks about twenty inches above the ground, he thought the angel was already gone. Or at least his vessel.
There was a string of bloody foam dripping from Castiel’s mouth and his chest didn’t look like it was moving at all. Of course, with an angel, that means very little.
When Sam lays a hand on the angel’s shoulder, pushing him into a more upright position, Castiel starts coughing, puffs of blood sprinkling all over Sam’s shirt.
“Hey... Cas... you okay?”
Castiel nods, but Sam figures it’s more like the weight of gravity pulling his head down and pure stubbornness pushing it up than an actual affirmative action.
The angel looks worse than after their little trip to the seventies, pale and sweaty under the setting sun.
“Is he conscious?” Dean asks, hands following the yellowish rock until he touches fabric.
Castiel swallows, turns his unfocused stare to Dean. “I’m... fine,” he whispers, looking anything but that. “The bullet... it’s inside me... I can feel it... it’s weakening me.”
“We need to take you to the nearest city... there’s nothing we can do here,” Sam says. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
Castiel is shaking his head even before Sam stops talking.
“I don’t think I can move anywhere. The holy oil in the bullet... it’s trapping my powers. I’ve all but used up the last of them to get us here.”
“We need to take that out,” Dean voices.
Sam knows what they have to do. What he needs to do, since Dean can’t see and Cas has no idea how to do it. It’s not going to be pleasant.
“I’ll do it,” Dean goes on.
“Wha-what? But-” Sam stutters. The words ‘but you can’t see!’ almost escape his mouth.
“You don’t need to see to fish out a bullet, Sam,” Dean tells him, easily guessing what his brother was about to say. “And I’ve done this enough times to actually do it with my eyes closed.”
Sam nods. Dean does have a point. In their messed up family dynamics, Sam was always the one better at sewing. Dean, however, took the lead when it came to pulling stuff that shouldn’t have been there out of their bodies.
The fact that Dean lacks the pair of sterilized tweezers he would normally use to do it concerns Sam more than the fact that he’ll do it blind.
Castiel, the one that should be worried about all of this, says nothing, patiently waiting for them to figure out who will stick his fingers inside that wound and pull the bullet out.
“Okay,” Sam says, even though he shouldn’t be the one giving the consent. “You want me to--?”
Dean nods almost imperceptibly and Sam swallows dryly before he takes Dean’s hand and guides him to the wound. It’s stopped bleeding, but the skin around it looks angry and slightly blackened.
“This is gonna hurt,” Dean warns just as his index finger disappears inside Castiel’s chest.
Sam tries holding the angel down as best as he can, but even so Castiel’s body arches in the air, teeth gritting against each other.
Any one else, any human else would’ve been unconscious by now.
Dean has his eyes closed, as if the movements of his eyelids help with finding the piece of metal sooner. The sweat gathering above his eyebrow tells Sam how hard Dean is concentrating to do this.
Finally, with a sickening ‘plop’ wet, sound, Dean removes his fingers, a small, round bullet between his bloody fingertips.
“Got it!” he announces in triumph, relief.
Castiel slumps back in a boneless heap, breathing ragged and short.
“That was... unpleasant,” he manages to say, hand moving to his own chest, fascination written all over his face.
“Is that better now?” Sam asks. Has to ask, because, if anything, the angel looks worse.
“Yes, I believe now I can-“
Castiel gets up, but the motion is short lived. He doubles over in pain and only Sam’s quick actions save him from doing a face plant to the ground. The sight of the angel gagging and throwing up what Sam can only define as blood is not what the younger Winchester considers a sign of ‘being better’.
“I think you should take it easy for awhile... then maybe we can go the nearest city and-“
“We are near Kom Ombo,” Castiel says, spitting more blood to the floor. “The city is just over that hill.”
Dean wipes his hand on his jeans, leaving one more bloody trail on them. He looks like he’s collecting the blood of everyone they encounter on those jeans.
“Why here?” Dean asks. “Why did you bring us here specifically?”
Sam catches a glimpse of Castiel’s face before the angel turns his eyes away from Dean and towards the desert. He could swear that it’s guilt he sees in them.
Still, Dean has a point and they do need answers. Weakened as he is, Castiel could’ve picked a much closer spot to drop them safely.
“Why here, Castiel?” Sam reinforces the question.
If it’s bad enough for Castiel to hesitate-
“This is where they are keeping Bobby,” Castiel finally whispers.
Dean jumps back, as if Cas’ words stung him. “You knew? You knew all this time where they were keeping Bobby and... and... You knew all along?”
“I did.”
“Then why the hell didn’t you say anything? Why make us chase the Ark and waste Bobby’s time if you knew?”
“Because you needed the Ark... you need to take it to them.”
“Why?” Sam asks, finally finding his voice. They’d been so close to Bobby when Castiel found them... why the detour? To put the Ark into the hands of demons?
“Because it is the only way to make God intervene,” Cas whispers, broken.
There is a moment of silence that not even the desert animals dare to break. The implications of what the angel is saying sinks like a sack of bricks in Sam’s stomach.
“So, what? We’re... we’re bait, is that it?” Dean asks, words heavily laced with the harsh tones of betrayal.
Sam knows that, of all the angels they’ve met, Castiel is the only one who has managed to gain Dean’s trust. They had traveled half way across the Earth because of that trust, because Dean will do anything for a person, once he lets someone inside those walls of his.
Castiel was right to look guilty.
“I looked every where, above and below this reality. God is nowhere I can find Him... this is the only way to bring Him to us,” Castiel goes on, his blue eyes alight with the fervor of his belief. “He will never allow the Ark to fall into the wrong hands. My Father will manifest Himself before that comes to pass.”
Dean starts to walk away, stumbling on the uneven ground and Sam is divided between going after his brother and getting the rest of the answers out of Castiel. The angel is fading fast and Sam guesses that it won’t be talking for much longer before the human body Castiel is in demands some repairing rest.
“You must understand... you two are the only way to make the threat real, even if I was not the one placing you in this position in the first place,” the angel reminds them. Sam can see that he’s not trying to make excuses for his actions, just stating facts. “I am sorry that my... identity was used to lure you here to this place... but it would be foolish of us to not take advantage of this strategic opportunity.”
“So, the monk was right after all,” Dean says without turning to look at them. “We just stole the Ark to use it for our own purposes.”
“No,” Castiel corrects. “We took the Ark so that it may serve its own purpose, so that the end unfolds as it must.”
“I thought the end was supposed to happen in Detroit,” Sam offers. Castiel had already been there, listening in the shadows when Lucifer said it, and Sam had made sure that Dean knew what had transpired while he was unconscious. The certainty with which the first of the fallen angels had divulged this information made Sam believe beyond any doubt that he was right.
“It ends in Detroit if you say yes, if Lucifer wins... this is our best chance of stopping that.”
Sam finds himself nodding. The Colt had failed and Castiel looks like he’s lost all hope of finding God on his own. They can do this. They need to do this.
“Cas is right,” Sam finally says, his words for Dean alone. “If we can make this work... if we bluff God into coming to play-“
The look in Dean’s eyes when he turns in their direction tells Sam exactly how much hope he’s putting in that plan.
“We need to get a move on then. Clock’s ticking... you’ll be okay on your own?” Dean asks, back to business.
The angel eyes him with a bit of sadness in his face. Nods. “Yes. I will join you two as soon as I can restore enough of my strength. They are holding Bobby in the temple, on the north side of the city,” the angel explains. “It is no more than two miles, maybe less.”
Dean shakes his head. “Don’t worry... we’re not walking.”
The only summoning ritual that they can perform in the middle of the nowhere is one that requires the use of their own blood.
It wasn’t a ritual that they were familiar with, one from Castiel’s ‘private stash’. It was the last thing the angel managed to tell them before finally passing out.
They leave him in the shade of a lonely looking Acacia heavy with thorns, feeling slightly guilty for being forced to abandon him there. But they can’t take the risk of the demon coming for them and the Ark and getting a whiff of the wounded angel.
“So,” Sam starts as his finger moves effortlessly, drawing the sigils on the yellowish dirt, just as Castiel instructed him before they left him. “Do we even have a plan?”
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it again without uttering a word.
“Dean... we can’t just march in there and hand over everything to this demon. We can’t give him both the Ark and the means to use it.”
“So, you believe Cas... you really think that we’re-that we can-“
Sam runs his hands through his hair, fingers getting tangled in the dust-covered strands.
“I guess... I mean, after everything, do you think we can afford to risk it?”
Dean shakes his head. Despite what Castiel thinks, despite his plan of trying to force some kind of action from God, Dean knows that they can’t show all the cards. But, right now, his priority is Bobby. Everything else, is all a big bag of maybes... an Ark that might be all that was advertised; a God that might exist; a bluff that they might be able to pull off.
Dean plays one mean game of poker, but when the stakes are other people’s lives... he’d rather cover all his bets.
“We could just try to open it now... see what’s what,” Dean ventures. “Cas did say that all it takes is the both of us to get it open, right?”
“What about the blood ritual?”
Dean scratches his head, sand falling off his hair. “Hell... I don’t want to ‘make a call’,” he says, fingers quoting the air, “I just... wanna see if this is the real thing or not before we go off risking everything on it.”
Sam’s silence stretches on for long enough that Dean wonders if his brother has fallen asleep or something. “Sam?” he pokes.
“Humm... yeah... about that,” Sam stammers, “I don’t really think I’ll be able to touch the Ark.”
Dean bites his lip, stopping himself from agreeing. “And why’s that?”
The movement of Sam’s arms through the air is harsh enough for Dean to hear it. “Come on, Dean! I started damned Armageddon! Don’t you think that’s the kind of thing that might just make me the sort of person that the Ark would see as unworthy?”
Dean pauses. Sam’s mouth asks one question, but Dean can easily hear all the others behind it. He knows Sam blames himself for freeing Lucifer, for being the one setting the clock ticking for the end. Sam thinks that his actions make him all the more flawed, make him a bad person. Evil.
What Sam fails to see is that he’s blaming himself for the wrong thing. Yes, he was at fault and played a part in freeing Lucifer. But that wasn’t the action that should fall on his conscience. That’s just the reaction. Sam’s true fault was to believe that he could do it alone.
Even if he agrees, on principle, that a 3000 years old artifact can tell good from bad, Dean is certain about one thing. Sam’s not evil.
“Sam... making a mistake doesn’t make you a bad person,” Dean starts, “it just makes you human-“
“That-“
“No, hear me out,” Dean insists, raising one bloody hand to stop Sam’s words. He already knows what his brother is about to say anyway. It’s the same argument he’s heard ever since that day at St. Mary’s convent. “Bad people do the wrong thing because they want to, because they don’t give a damn about the consequences... Hell! The consequences are what gets their rocks off. But good people, Sam... good people will always do what they think it’s best, what they think is the right thing to do-even if sometimes the consequences come back to bite them in the ass.”
Sam sighs. Chuckles.
Dean would give anything to see his brother’s face right now and figure out how sincere those two sounds really are.
“So... you’re saying that the apocalypse is just something coming back to bite me in the ass?” Sam asks.
Dean smirks. “Hey, didn’t say it was a small bite. This is like, the most epic ass-chewing ever-but it’s not something some old wooden ark gets to judge you for, Sam.”
Dean feels Sam’s hand on his shoulder, fingers squeezing his skin in a gentle gesture. Their Braille for the regular ‘I hear you, brother’ expression that, any other time, Dean would easily read in Sam’s eyes.
“For the record, I don’t think I’ll be able to touch the thing either,” Dean confesses with a shrug.
“But you just said-“
“I said that a old-as-fuck wooden chest doesn’t get to judge you for your actions,” Dean cuts in, his voice softening, hoping that his brother understands what he’s saying. “But, Sam... you and I both know how supernatural things work. There’s no gray or attenuating circumstances. Just black and white.”
He pauses, allows for Sam to draw his own conclusions, steeling himself to put to words what was still painful for him to even remember. “You broke the final seal that set Lucifer free... and I was there to break the first one, right before I spent ten years tort... torturing souls. As far as the Ark goes, we’re probably as black as coal,” Dean ends with a forced chuckle.
“Cas seemed to believe we could touch it,” Sam points out.
“Cas has been wrong before,” Dean adds dryly. “Either way, I’d feel more at ease if we just test the thing now, while we still can. I’ll do it.”
“No. I think we should keep it close,” Sam finally says, hand shooting out to grab Dean before he can move closer to the Ark. “If this is the real deal, it will come in handy when we’re near Asmodeus and his gang... but if it’s a bust, it will at least serve to get us close to Bobby and possibly get him free. Even if we can’t touch it, we can use it.”
Dean stops. Sam has a point there. Their main goal is to get Bobby out of there, alive and safe. If they get to gank a few evil sons of bitches along the way-all the better. There’s just one small glitch in Sam’s plan.
“No, we can’t,” Dean says, his face turning up. The sun is almost gone, its familiar warmth dissipating towards the west. “I’ll do the summoning ritual, take the Ark with me... give you a head start so that you can get to that temple, find out where they’re keeping Bobby and-“
“No,” Sam is quick to cut in. “No way in hell I’m letting you go off in some asinine, suicide mission. We’re doing this together, Dean!”
“No, Sam... we’re doing this smart. Doing this together is what got Jo and Ellen killed.”
And there it is again, the underlying guilt that Dean hasn’t been able to shake off and that Sam can no longer ignore. The fact that sticking together had ended disastrously last time, doesn’t make this alternative plan any better.
Sam just shakes his head. He wants to argue this from so many different angles that he feels at a loss as to which one to start with. Dean seems to guess that he is having doubts even without being able to see Sam’s shaking head.
“Sam... you know they won’t let us both show up there without the Ark, and if I’m the one staying behind, you know that there is no way I’ll be able to-“
“Yeah, I know,” Sam chimes in, hanging his head in defeat. “But for the record... this is a lousy plan. I don’t want you going there on your own.”
“I’m not going alone,” Dean points out. “You’re going too. Cas will be there too. We’re just... not going at the same time.”
“Bad pl-“
“-plan... yeah, I know,” Dean says with a sigh. “But it’s the only one we have.”
Sam leaves his belt on the ground. The extension of leather signals to Dean the place where he drew the sigils on the ground. Now, all that Dean needs to do is add a few drops of blood and the summoning ritual is complete.
Ruby’s knife, the only weapon between the two of them, and the only thing they have at hand sharp enough to make the necessary cut in Dean’s skin, is gone, alongside with Sam.
Dean insisted that his brother be the one to hang on to it. Sam, after all, was the one who’d be free enough to still use it.
So, the cut needed be made before Sam left.
It’s funny how fast blood clots when you’re trying to keep a wound bleeding. The heat helps the flow, to some extent, but still Dean needs to keep shoving a finger inside the gash in his palm to keep the blood flowing for long enough to give Sam a decent head start.
He stopped feeling the pain in his hand a while ago. About the same time his thoughts started running off on him.
Dean feels like he’s about to jump off an airplane without a parachute, and for someone who hates getting inside planes, that’s saying a lot.
The brave and determined face that he’d put up for Sam is slowly slipping away, replaced by all the doubts that Dean can’t shake off.
They’re banking all their bets on Cas’s plan, the word of a demon and a 3000 year old wooden box . The odds of that turning into anything but pain and bloodshed...
Dean pushes his right index finger into the palm of his left hand, feeling the nail slip on fresh blood and rub against raw skin.
The only thing about this plan that Dean still trusts are Cas’s motives. But Cas is cashing all his chips on a father that Dean can’t bring himself to believe in, much less put that amount of blind faith in.
And yet, here Dean is, banking Sam’s life, Bobby’s, his and lord knows how many more, on the odd chance that a promise made centuries ago to Moses still holds.
Blind faith.
Dean almost laughs out loud at that one. Sam had once told Dean that he couldn’t understand the Dean’s blind faith in their father. Sam was right then, even if it had taken John’s death and a trip to Hell for Dean to open his eyes and realize that. And now, here he was again. Different father, same shit.
There’s a joke somewhere in all of this, but Dean fails to see the humor in it right now. He’s sure that the people who died in Axum didn’t get the joke either.
Crouching down, Dean pokes around the floor carefully until his fingers brush against the edge of the belt. He figures Sam has had enough time to, at least be out of sight and he knows that they’ve left Cas far enough behind them to ensure that the demon won’t be able to sense the wounded, vulnerable angel. Bobby’s time is running out and so are the twenty minutes that the prick on the phone gave them. It’s time to get the show on the road.
Certain that he has the right spot, Dean extends his hand and makes a fist, squeezing the gash in his palm, feeling the blood drip through his fingers. Now, all he has to do is wait and keep himself alive for long enough for Sam to get Bobby out and Cas to come to the rescue.
The wait is short. The air changes around him and Dean knows that he’s no longer alone. The demon is silent is his motion, but the hunter can still feel it, circling him, studying him.
“Dean Winchester,” it finally whispers, words rolling off his tongue like honey. “Do you know how painful it is for me to not just kill you where you stand?”
Dean tries not to flinch. Truth is, if this demon's intent were to do just that, there wouldn’t be a whole hell much that Dean could do to stop him.
“Can’t though... boss’s orders,” it says with a sad sigh. “So, unclench, will ya?” the demon adds with a chuckle, smacking Dean’s behind with the back of his hand to punctuate his words.
Dean turns sharply, not even bothering to hide the anger and contempt from his face. “You fuc-“
“Doesn’t mean I can’t have my fun, does it?” the demon goes on, ignoring Dean’s reaction. His voice already moved from the last place Dean heard him, making it impossible to track the demon’s position.
Dean tries though, arms extended, circling the air space around him.
“I mean... how many times,” he says, slapping the back of Dean’s exposed neck, “can one find himself,” flick to the ear, “face to face with Dean-fucking-Winchester,” slap in the ass, “blind as a bat?” he finishes with a kick to the back of Dean’s knees.
Dean’s sweating under the hot sun, muscles tense and senses painfully alert, as he tries to guess - and fails - where the demon will strike next.
Unlike the men at the temple, however, Dean finds it impossible to do anything as the demon moves like a ghost around him, teasing and hitting him. The last kick sends Dean crashing to his knees, palms scrapping against rubble as he tries to catch himself and avoid hitting his face on the ground.
“Though, I must say,” the demon goes on, “not the first time I’ve had the pleasure, you know.”
Dean tenses, fingers clawing at the gravel floor, small grains of sand finding their way under his fingernails, like tiny needles that ground him, give him something real to hold on to. He recognizes the feeling in the demon’s voice. The nostalgia. Like a speeding train heading for a broken bridge, Dean knows exactly where this is going and he can’t help but hold on for the ride.
“You don’t remember me, do you? Don’t worry, I’m not gonna take it personally... after all, there were a lot of us taking pieces out of you then,” it adds with a small laugh. “Funny how, even though you were nothing but a pathetic little soul in Hell, you still believed that you needed your eyes to see us then. You were clinging so pathetically hard to your humanity that you actually lost the ability to see when we pulled your eyes out,” the demon recalls, fondly. “Oh, the fun we had, making you run all over the place for close to a decade, searching a pair of eyeballs that existed nowhere but in your head!”
The kick to Dean’s stomach is as unnecessary as it is brutal, but it serves the purpose of snapping Dean out of his Hell-memories to the here and now. He remembers this demon now. Asmodeus had been there. One of the first in line, as Lucifer’s right hand man. He’d taken first blood.
“Pathetic,” the demon hisses in his ear. “And this is the great Michael’s vessel?” he laughs. “Might as well hand over the keys to the place now, because, pal... Lucifer’s got no competition on this one!”
“Really?” Dean coughs as he pushes to his feet slowly, expecting another blow at every step of the way. The demon, Dean figures, seems content with just watching him struggle to his feet. “Is that why you’re slobbering all over the Ark?” Dean growls, dusting his hands on dirty jeans, lungs scrapping for a breath as his stomach muscles spasm. “Because you’re all so... sure of winning?”
Dean doesn’t have to wait for an answer. The blow that sends him flying backwards until Dean’s back collides painfully with a sharp outcrop of rocks, is enough for him to know that he’s pissed the demon off.
“Lucifer couldn’t care less about some old Ark of tricks and treats,” the demon barks, his voice close, too close. Dean can feel fetid breath and spit hitting his cheek at every word out of the demon’s mouth. Trying to turn his face away only urges the demon closer, bruising fingers grabbing Dean’s chin and further trapping him into place. “There is, however, something inside that box that Lucifer is interested in,” the demon continues. “Something like poetic justice, you might say. And you’re gonna give it to him.”
Teeth on edge, Dean focuses his unseeing eyes on the demon in front of him. He can’t see the face of the poor bastard that Asmodeus is possessing, but he can see deeper than that without his eyes. He’s seen enough demons in their natural form to have a pretty good mental image as to what this one really looks like. In truth, he can probably see the bastard better blind than most sighted people looking at the demon right now. “What... what can Lucifer possibly want from this Ark?”
The demon’s laughter raises every hair on Dean’s arms.
“Funny you, of all people, should ask that,” the demon tells him. “I really can’t wait to see the faces on those pricky angels when you hand over the prize to Lucifer.”
“I’m not giving him squat,” Dean hisses, eyes centered in what he hopes is the demon’s face. “And your boss can bite my ass while he waits for me do anything for him.”
The invisible pressure that pushes Dean harder against the rock makes it impossible to breath, like a block of cement pressing harder and harder against his chest. It feels like his body and the rock are trying to fuse themselves into a single entity.
Dean can’t see the demon’s face, can’t read his expression. Usually, when he’s pissed off one of these black eyed, sons of bitches, he can tell how far to push, how far the demons are willing to go to show him his place. Dean knows that this demon needs him alive, but as he feels his ribs starting to give under the building pressure, Dean’s sure that this demon is not going to stop before he hears a crack.
Then, as suddenly as it started, the pressure is gone.
“You know... I can do you a huge favor,” the demon goes on, resuming the conversation despite the fact that Dean is gasping in front of him, barely paying attention to what he’s saying. “A sort of ‘I’ll scratch yours if you’ll scratch mine’ kind of deal”.
Dean coughs, the dry air rushing too fast into his chest, filling his lungs with dust. “Fuck you and -cough- your itch!”
The fingers that entwine themselves in Dean’s scalp are viperously cold and strong, giving his hair a hard pull that effectively jerks his head back to the point of bringing fresh tears to Dean’s eyes. “Now, now... don’t go pissing all over my itch before I tell you what I can do for you.”
Dean clenches his teeth, tamping down on his retort. There isn’t absolutely nothing this demon can say that will make Dean cooperate with him in any way, shape or form-
“I can give you your sight back.”
The air leaves Dean’s chest for entirely different reasons this time. No matter how fast he’s been running from one point to another, trying to get to Bobby in time, Dean’s new condition has never really left his conscious thought. Always there, like a shadow looming over all the other problems, making them bigger and all the more impossible to face.
Dean can’t fight Lucifer and help Sam without his eyes. He needs them to look out for trouble, to look out for his brother, to have a frigging chance of doing something to stop this whole mess.
For a moment, Dean entertains the idea of taking the demon’s offer. Whatever is inside the Ark, if anything at all, Dean doubts it will be of use for them. The thing was built centuries before, when people still walked everywhere, when people still died for their beliefs.
Take the uncertainty of what might be inside the Ark for the certainty that Dean can do more if he can use his eyes.
“What do you say, hum Dean? Wouldn’t it be great to see them blue skies again?”
Dean steels his face, cleaning any emotion or doubt that might escape his control. Sweet as the demon’s offer sounds, Dean knows he can’t take it. If the contests of the Ark are important enough for Asmodeus going through all this trouble... as hard as he wants to regain his sight, Dean knows he can’t do that. He can’t take this offer and potentially risk something that might decide which way the war turns. “Like I said,” Dean says, steel determination shoring his decision, ”... bite me!”
The demon snorts, puffs of wet air hitting Dean’s cheek and mouth, making him wish he could use his hands to wipe it away.
The hand on Dean’s hair moves to the back of his neck, grabbing him in a tight vice grip. “Fine,” he snaps, shoving Dean forward. “Come on then, you sorry piece of dust. Time to go.”
A group of people that arrive moments later to collect the Ark, local habitants of the city near by, have no idea what took place on the small, desert hill just moments before, or who the two men who disappeared into thin air were.
They have their orders; grab the wooden box left in the desert and take it to the temple in the city. The first four who attempt to touch it don’t get very far, their bodies quickly turning into one continuous sore. Lesions eat quickly at their flesh, like locusts, spreading unstoppably until bone can see the sun. Five more die on the walk to Kom Ombo.
Despite the fear that makes their every step tremble, they do not stop, they do not give up. Cruel and painful as those deaths have been, they are far more merciful than what awaits them in the city. And that is the one place they can’t run away from.
The donkey they’ve strapped the box to is the only one left unaffected by the object’s power.
Master Post
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