Unfinished Business [Long Live the King], for spn_summergen
Title: Unfinished Business [Long Live the King]
Recipient: spn_summergen (When a recipient has withdrawn, the fic becomes a gift to the community.)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Gore, but nothing beyond what's in the show. Slight angst.
Word Count: ~6,300
Summary: From Prompt 2: Older Sam and Dean - what does their life look like in 15 or 20 years time?
“Why do you allow this?”
“What?”
“These ... guys.” Bobbie waved her hand over the counter at the threesome in sweat stained baseball caps and dusty jeans hunched at a table by the window. Sam raised an eyebrow.
“The older you get, the more you look and sound like your mother,” he replied, continuing to wipe the beer glasses. “Have you tried talking to them?”
Bobbie shrugged and pretended to be distracted by her homework.
“Why not?” Sam asked.
“I have, you know,” Bobbie motioned at the math textbook, “stuff to do.”
“Do they scare you?” said Sam, picking up a new glass.
“Why would I be scared?”
“Why do they bother you?”
Bobbie squirmed in her seat, uncomfortable.
“You run a clean house. You don't look for trouble. You shouldn't let it come to you.”
Sam snorted.
“What?”
“Nothing. You're right, but they're not trouble.”
“They look like it.”
Sam shrugged, “Even people who look for trouble need a place they can leave it at the door.”
“Cryptic much?”
Sam just shrugged again, placing the last of the glasses with a soft clink on top of its brothers. He had that faraway look in his eyes, the one Bobbie's mom hated because it meant her dad would get quiet and distant and pretend everything was okay when it obviously wasn't. He leaned back to rest on the counter, rubbing his leg and wincing.
“You want me to get you something? Some Tylenol?” Bobbie asked, back in the present. Sam declined with a shake of his head.
“Its no worse than usual. Won't help.” He flexed the stiff joint, pretending not to wince. “What do you want for dinner tonight?”
Bobbie considered the question, but not for very long.
“Macaroni and cheese. With the jalapenos.”
“I think we're out of jalapeno,” said Sam. “Can you go get me some? And a couple bags of peanuts and pretzels?” He leaned over, opened the cash and took out a twenty dollar bill. “Get yourself a treat while you're at it.”
Bobbie took the bill from her father with a practised flick of the wrist, folding it into her pocket, and pecked him on the cheek.
“Thanks Daddy.”
Sam ruffled her short curls, “Only the best for you, kid.”
***
The grocery store on the corner was owned by a Chinese couple and open twenty-four seven. In the scant few years her father had been living above his bar down the street, Bobbie had only ever witnessed either the wife or husband behind the counter. Once there was a skinny boy in a Mickey Mouse shirt playing his Gameboy on the front steps that she took to be their son. He had not looked up from the screen as she passed, and she had not seen him since. The inside of the store was lit in that particular shade of old fluorescent green that made the colours on the packages brighter and the imperfections on skin and fruit all the more noticeable. As she picked through a pile of dilapidated peppers there came from the street the unmistakable purr and growl of an old combustion engine. Bobbie perked up with interest; it wasn't a sound one heard very often since the price of gasoline drove most older, non-electric models off the road. It meant whomever was driving it was either crazy or rich, most likely the former considering the kind of neighbourhood they were in. Boring and poor, without even a whorehouse to attract anyone interesting.
Still beat the suburbs anyhow.
The lights flickered as they guys who owned the car sauntered in. He didn't look crazy, just indeterminately aged and out of date in his dress. He went straight for the shelves at the back, grabbed two large bottles of Jack. Bobbie watched him with the pretence of deciding over Twizzlers or a Mars Bar. The lights in the refrigerator flickered. Bobbie ducked her head before he could catch her staring. She fixed her eyes on the candy as the stranger placed the bottles on the counter.
“That's an interesting mark you have.”
Bobbie froze. Shit. She withdrew her hand from the candy rack and rubbed the red oval on the back of her hand.
“It's just a birthmark,” she protested. “Nothing special. People like to point it out like I don't know its there. My godfather always says I was kissed by an angel. I think he just makes stuff up though. Anyway,” this guy was making her nervous, “That's an interesting car you have.”
The man smiled, a small, thin, amused thing.
“Sixty-seven Chevy Impala. Most beautiful car in the world.”
“It must cost you a fortune to drive.”
“More than you think. But she's worth it.”
As he handed the owner her money, Bobbie watched the little tableaux on security camera feed behind the counter. For a moment the screen went static, and where there was a handsome face there were now rows of black eyes and a mouthful of pointed shark's teeth stretched into an endless scream. . .
Bobbie dropped her Mars Bar, blinked, and it was gone. The stranger gave her a smile before sauntering back out to his car, the door chime ringing in her silence.
***
The stranger slid himself behind the wheel of the old car, settling into the leather like there was no other space on Earth his body was meant to be. Tossing a bottle of Jack Daniels in the back seat, he opened the other and took a good long pull. Wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and the bottle joined its twin on the backseat. The engine rumbled to life, even though the stranger never touched the ignition. The dash lit up, but the fuel meter showed the tank was empty. It hadn't been filled in nearly twenty years.
***
Bobbie came home through the back door, depositing the jalapenos in the kitchen and gathering the snacks for the bar. She could hear men talking in low voices just beyond the door that separated Sam's apartment from the bar downstairs.
“I saw Dean,” one of them was saying. “Last week, just outside of Lincoln.”
“What, buying souls at a whorehouse?” Sam grunted. Bobbie peeked through the glass in the door. He was leaning on the counter, speaking to the shifty looking trio that so bothered Bobbie earlier.
“At a bar,” the man admitted.
“Did he recognize you?”
“Why would he? I burn ghosts and ghouls, I'm no demon hunter.”
No one replied to this information.
“He looked good,” the first man supplied, trying to sound lighthearted.
“Dude, no,” said the woman.
Looked good? Dean? The only Dean Bobbie knew of was her uncle, and he had been dead for twenty years.
***
Curiosity crept up on Bobbie and hovered over her shoulder for the rest of the weekend. She pretended to be absorbed in her homework, chewing on the end of her pen and watching her father work around the Roadhouse, limping from table to table, collecting glasses and wiping tables. He said a wild dog took a chunk out of his leg saving the life of an old flame, her mother, and once they had been reunited there was no stopping them. A fairy tale with a predictable ending.
“You can't stay married to a man who doesn't trust you,” her mother often sighed.
“Do you trust mom?” Bobbie had asked Sam once, in her ten year old innocence.
“With my life. Why?”
“Then why won't you talk to her?”
She overheard them arguing later; Why don't you trust me? Bobbie harboured a little ball of guilt over that one. No matter how many people assured her - with every honest right - that the separation was never in any way her responsibility or her fault, she still wondered if she had let slip a secret she had been trusted with, if she had forayed with too much naivete into web of little white lies that tied the adult world and broken the strands that held together her parent's marriage.
“I forgot to tell you,” she mentioned on the drive back to her mother's Sunday evening. “When I was at the store on Friday this guy drove up in a really old car. Like the ones you like that nobody drives anymore.”
“Yeah?” Sam smiled. “What kind of car was it? Like, rich jerk car or collector car?”
“Collector car, def,” Bobbie replied. “He said it was an old Chevy. An Impala maybe? Like, older than you old.”
“I'm not that old.”
“This car was old.”
“How old?”
“Sixties old.”
Sam's hands tightened on the wheel, “Sixty-seven?”
“Yeah, um-”
“Lucky guess,” Sam intervened. “It's a great car. My brother used to drive one.”
“And after he died?”
“Stolen,” he said simply. And there it was again, the million mile stare. It made him look old.
***
There were two people in the bar when Sam got home, eating the free peanuts and watching the sports channel. He waved to Yan Mei, his bartender, an ex-hunter from Seattle who had retired when a ghoul took her left hand. She scared the shit out of the regular clientele, and loved every minute of it. It was quiet in the apartment without Bobbie, even if it was just the scratching of her pencil or the flip of pages. Sam wondered if he should go back downstairs, just to be where the people were. Maybe Yan Mei had picked up some gossip, some news. Maybe baseball would be worth watching for once. Instead, he grabbed his laptop and a beer from the fridge, and settled at the kitchen table to search for demonic omens in the area.
***
On the other side of town there was a blackout. A block of warehouses got dark, one after the other, spreading from the centre until there is a small corner of the city the night claimed completely. Against the walls and between the shelves the shadows moved, coiling between shafts of moonlight. Across the street a pack of vampires eyed the black building with lazy, self centred interest. From the driver's seat of the Impala, Dean watched them with impatience. Dean had left Kansas in the Impala some twenty years ago, and drove her for nearly a month before realizing she was running just fine on an empty tank. The gasoline engine stink and the carbon monoxide cloud were just for show, just enough to wrinkle people's sensibilities. Fuckin self righteous eco-freaks, happy to burn through the atmosphere until there was no fuel left. It was only a matter of time, really, until the world caught onto alternative power, because it was only a matter of time until the pressure was too great on too many wallets, and then it was all “ooh, we have to do something for the environment”. Not like it wasn't already too late. Just last summer a hurricane had near flattened Miami, and Dean caught a glimpse of Castiel on the news directing a cadre of angels through the rubble of some low rent neighbourhood, and he laughed well and hard to himself as he watched humanity's heavenly babysitters. Some people called the hurricane an act of God, and he laughed even harder. When the bartender enquired roughly as to what was so damn funny, he took a swig of his drink and said:
“God's only hand in that was giving people free will,” and then he left the bar without paying his tab.
“I told you they were lousy good for nothings,” muttered Ukobatch from where he was slouched in the passenger seat.
“Get your slimy hooves off the dash,” Dean replied, still watching the vampires. Ukobatch retracted his feet guiltily, sure that Dean hadn't seen him put them up there. Ukobatch was a little shit, even by the worst of standards, but it only ever amounted to being an incompetent troublemaker; most of his energy was spent escaping Hell and doing things like planting bags of pot in cop cars and making sure important packages got lost in the mail. He claimed to be responsible for the firecracker in the toilet that caused the heart attack of the late Pope, but there were very few who actually believed him. Dean kept him around because he genuinely hated Crowley and remained loyal as long as Dean let him stay topside. Ukobatch knew what was good for Ukobatch, and it just happened to work in Dean's favour.
“Eeh, there the little leeches go.” He grinned as the vampires spread out to cover the various entrances. “I think I found some smart ones this time.”
Dean ignored him on principal, bringing a walkie talkie up to speak.
“Bloodsuckers are going in, how's the progress with Padre?” Dean was answered by an unnecessary amount of static and a female demon replied,
“I have no idea what you just said, but the holy man is finished and teams one through five are in position.” Dean sighed. Electronics and demons just did not mix.
“Roger, I'm on my way to rendezvous with team four.” Dean stowed the walkie talkie and extracted his blade from the recesses of his jacket.
“Mind if I stay back?” asked Ukobatch. “I'm a lover you know, not a fighter.”
“Right,” Dean grunted. “Just keep your ugly feet on the floor.”
Ukobatch leaned back and pulled out a cigarette, which Dean snatched from his mouth before he could light it.
“That was my last one,” he pouted. Dean stuck the cigarette in his mouth and the end glowed cherry red.
“I know,” he replied, letting a cloud of smoke out into the night air. He strode casually to the back of the building where team four lingered next to a large portable stereo carrying rifles and sporting the kind of ear protection usually found on a construction site or a gun range. Dean accepted a pair of earmuffs from the team leader, but he didn't put them on, not yet. Crowley always boasted that the one thing Dean lacked was proper resources. Dean didn't need resources, he needed ingenuity. Demons didn't like being treated like tools. They were freelancers. Well, he let them think that way anyhow.
From the inside of the warehouse, the vampires began to scream.
“Showtime,” Dean declared, donning his earmuffs. There was the unmistakable tinkle and woosh of a molotov cocktail, quickly followed by a dozen more as team five broke through the security entrance. The makeshift firebombs wouldn't do shit in such a large building, but they didn't need to. All they needed was to set off the fire alarm. That was when the real fun began, because not half an hour before, their good friend Father Killean had consecrated the fire suppression system.
Ah, who needed to torture human souls when demons were so easy? There were five exits on the warehouse, and five teams armed with semi-automatic rifles and bullets they spent three days decorating with devils' traps. Just peg them where they stand, hit the sound system and let the sweet sound of Padre's voice send them back to Hell, or meet God at the end of Dean's blade. And when the fun was over, they had a whole shipment of Crowley's toys to play with. Traceless cellphones, one of those swanky ID printers that even did microchips, and sweet, sweet fully automatics.
Dean didn't need resources, he had Crowley's.
His team leader hit the stereo after the third full recitation of the exorcism, and Dean took a moment to survey the damage. The vampires they hired had been demolished, but the distraction had given his squad enough time to get in proper flanking position and pick off the rest of Crowley's goons as they fled the holy water inferno. The rest of his squad was busy picking over the corpses and roughing up a pair or survivors. Dean looped around back to where an ancient Ford was parked on the street. A man in the uniform of a priest rolled down the window as he approached.
“Thanks Padre,” said Dean, before the priest could open his mouth and ask any questions. He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and tossed them through the open window.
“I don't-”
“I don't care,” said Dean. “It doesn't matter what you do with it. Just take it, otherwise I'll leave it on the street for some junkie to find and OD themselves on.” The priest fingered the roll of bills before pocketing them. Father Killean was a religious doubter and a true selfless do-gooder, meaning he would probably give the money away. He worked with hunters, had been for a quarter century. All Dean told him was they were hunting demons, he didn't need to mention that the good Father would be working for one.
“You should get a move on,” Dean mentioned. Father Killean nodded.
“You should know,” he said not looking at Dean, “your brother is doing well.” He quickly rolled up the window without any further remark, and drove off.
Well then.
Dean went straight back to the Impala, sliding into the driver's seat.
“Sounds like a good party,” Ukobatch remarked.
“Yeah,” Dean grunted, “you should probably go help the interrogation before they beat those poor fucks so hard they can't talk.”
“Mm,” Ukobatch opened the passenger door and stretched, “nothing like a good old fashioned shakedown. By the way boss, you got a business call while you were enjoying the wine and cheese soire.” He smiled, and when Ukobatch smiled it was almost like the devil himself, “Seems there's royalty coming to town.”
***
Sam got a call on Tuesday night that froze his blood. It was around eight, and things were beginning to pick up for the night, meaning there were maybe half a dozen customers all nursing beers, chatting, and watching the news with vague disinterest.
“Is Roberta at your place?”
It was his ex-wife, and she sounded worried. Bobbie was not at his place.
“Shit,” he muttered instead of replying. “Is she answering her phone?”
“No,” Amelia replied. Sam shook his head, even though she couldn't see him.
“I'm sorry. Have you called the police yet?”
“I'm just about to,” said Amelia, “unless you can think of anywhere else she would be.” If Amelia was calling Sam, then she had probably already tried the school and whatever friends she knew of. “Jesus,” she continued, “I should have called earlier, what if its too late? She always tells me if she's going to be home for dinner but I thought no, you know? Teenagers need their space she needs to learn. God. . .”
Sam debated asking if she wanted him to come over, but not until he had a chance to check the neighbourhood before the police swarmed in, messed up any tracks and made the neighbours suspicious.
“Call them then, and stay at home. I have a few things that need doing and then I'll be right by.”
***
It took a few minutes for the situation to fully settle in.
At first there was awareness, the knowledge that one is awake. Cognizance of consciousness, and pain. After that there is recognition, or lack thereof. Bobbie was used to waking up in her bed or on her couch, nice and horizontal, not tied up in a chair. That triggered fear, which only escalated upon the discovery that she couldn't move her arms or legs, that she was immobile, and that her view was limited to rotten plaster walls and a buckled wooden floor. No windows, no doors that she could see, no indication of where she may be. A flurry of expletives spilled from her lips upon the final realization that she was in fact abducted, and that she was in fact helpless. Her eyes darted frantically around her decrepit and poorly lit surroundings. Underneath the panic, the whole thing seemed oddly cliché.
There are voices coming from behind her, from what must have been, by the sound, the hallway.
“The point,” one of them was saying, “is not to die. If you eat a piece, we will die.”
“I'm not going to kill her,” said another.
“Doesn't matter. He'll kill you. You know what, fuckit, you watch the door, give me that.”
There was a noise of protest followed by the sound of a door opening, just a plain old household door. A guy appeared in Bobbie's vision and smiles unconvincingly. He took the cap off a water bottle, and then proffered it to her, inviting Bobbie to drink.
“The fuck is this shit,” she said instead.
“Nothing you need to worry about, love. All you need to do is make sure you stay in one piece, and everything will turn out for the better.”
Bobbie considered her options.
“I want a straw,” she said. The guy frowned.
“What?”
“I don't want you pouring water all over my face. I want a straw.” The guy's frown spread to his brow, but before he could say or do anything further the second voice from the hallway hissed,
“Captain on deck!”
The bottle was placed on the floor by Bobbie's feet. She heard a third person enter the room, and shut the door behind them.
“They treating you well, love?” the third person asked. It was a man's voice, rough in the throat and bearing some sort of Scottish accent.
“The man outside wants to eat me,” Bobbie replied.
“Oh?” said the new arrival. “He would. I shall have to speak to him about that. I'm glad you told me. Have they told you why you're here yet?”
“Clue me in,” said Bobbie. The Scottish voice chuckled. It took a few steps forward, and a short, middle aged man in a well tailored suit stepped into view.
“As much as I would like to be the one to tell you that story love, we're going to have to wait until a few more of our guests arrive. Until then,” he circled back around, and Bobbie heard the snick of a blade being released. Panic surged into her chest, but the man did nothing more than cut her bonds. “I want to trust you, love,” he said as he did so. “Now you know these two fine fellows are under orders not to hurt you. I, on the other hand, have nothing against breaking your legs if you try to run. Capiche?”
Bobby nodded, rubbing her arms to get some circulation back into them.
“Excellent. I like it when people are on the same page. Now drink up, the show will start in no time.” He smiled, and it was convincing, and it was scary. The well tailored Scottsman turned on his heel with a practised move, but Bobbie stopped him before he could leave.
“Hey,” she called. “What do I do if I have to, you know, pee?”
***
Sam left the bar with Yan Mei to comb the neighbourhood where he used to live with Amelia and Bobbie. Old enough that the houses still had spaces between them, and yards. He should get a dog, he thought. They hadn't had one since the old pup passed, just a pair of entitled, needy cats that Sam thought of as The Angels, because they were dicks.
Bobbie was taken on her way home from school, so he immediately ruled out a vampire attack. In fact most creatures tended to hunt at night, so whomever took her was planned, or desperate, or human. He checked out the park between her house and the school, asked anyone walking the streets if they saw anything. A mother of one of Bobbie's classmates recognized him, commented on his beard and his uncut hair and told him he took to being a bachelor too easily. Sam was short with her, not in the mood for being self conscious.
“So no one saw anything?” he asked. “Nothing strange at all?”
She shrugged, “I did see something odd earlier, an old car. A big old car like our parents would have driven. Black and stinky and loud.”
“A Chevy?” asked Sam, without thinking.
“Hm, maybe. Why, do you think its someone you know? They say that is the most common, don't they? For kids to be taken by someone they know?”
“It's what they say,” said Sam, turning away. He left the woman to walk her dog, dropping by to check on Amelia. She looked okay; no tears, no hysterics. But she was still in her work clothes, and Sam noticed there were dishes in the sink and food gone cold on the stove. They barely talked these days, just light banter Friday and Sunday evenings. Sam blames himself for the failure of his married life. He'd thought that getting his leg torn up was a sign: quit hunting, you're done. There's nothing left for you here, but there are good things elsewhere. Stay and you'll find nothing but pain. But, of course, there was still one thing tying him to his old life. Even as he kept his nose clean and tried to be a good dad, he couldn't help but turn his head at certain rumours, go looking for certain people when they came to town. And every time it was a reminder that he had a job left half finished, like he was procrastinating, hiding, for years and years. And of course Amelia had wanted to know, and Sam had told her a few things, about the monsters, the wendigo that took a bite out of him, but she knew, she always knew there was more, and Sam had not wanted to open those floodgates.
Hadn't he deserved a good life? Shouldn't he have been happy?
Amelia offered to let him stay the night in case they got any word, but he declined. She looked so worried and nervous, but Sam pushed down his guilt because he know he can do a lot more than offer comfort. He excused himself to the bathroom, washed the sweat from his face and stole a few of the hairs off Bobbie's brush.
“Why don't you go to your mum's?” he suggested. Amelia hesitated, as if realizing, then nods.
“It's not, you know,” she speaks quietly even though its just the two of them, “something dangerous? Something unnatural?”
“I don't know yet,” Sam admitted. “But I need to be on this if it is.”
“And if it's not? Do you still need to be on it?”
Did he trust himself over the police?
“Yes.”
Amelia let him go. He stopped by the Chinese grocer on the way home for supplies, and acquired some of the more uncommon ingredients from a hunter from south Texas who was more than happy to trade for a couple of free beers and a basket of chili fries. Sam took everything to the kitchen of his apartment, ground the ingredients together, dumped the lot onto a map of the city and surrounding towns, and set it on fire. He waited patiently with the fire extinguisher while the paper was consumed, leaving a square block maybe an hour's drive from the Roadhouse, on the outskirts of a nearby town. A knot of unease settled in his gut. It shouldn't be this easy. Maybe it wasn't Dean. Maybe it was just some natural creep. Maybe she was already dead. Maybe whatever took her wanted her to be found. Wanted her to be found by him. Maybe it wasn't Dean? Anyone could drive an old car. It was just a coincidence.
“You want a hand?” the hunter from south Texas called out as Sam swept back to the parking lot through the bar.
“I'm fine,” Sam replied.
“Can I have your shotgun if you die?”
Yan Mei shot a killing look at the hunter from south Texas.
“Sure,” said Sam, pressing a hand against the door. And then he was off.
***
Sam didn't hunt much more. Not much needed to be said on the subject- he was missing a good chunk of his leg and he needed glasses even though Bobbie and Yan Mei were the only two people in the world to see him wear them. His business these days was beer and tales. Yan liked to tease him, she said he was like everyone's aunt, forcing them with food and gossip. Sam didn't deny it. He wanted to help, but he didn't want to die either. So he networked, he bandaged wounds, he handed out free meals and car repairs. He did research and made fake ID's, though that was getting harder and harder with the technology these days when badges needed to be programmed and driver's licenses scanned. An older hunter had slipped once and called him Bobby, which sent a pang through his chest but he just smiled and accused the other guy of calling him a crazy old coot.
He slowed when he finally reached the neighbourhood indicated by the spell, rolling along with the lights off in search of an old black car. He found it parked in front of a boarded up house; a classic Bentley. Crowley.
He tried to tamp down the sense of relief.
***
The stranger from the grocery store looked at Bobbie, then back at the Scotsman and raised an eyebrow.
“Seriously? You just kidnap some random kid and what, expect there to be enough of the good old goody two shoes in me to spare her life?”
“Drop the act, Winchester.”
The stranger whipped out a long hunting knife from his belt and held it under Bobbie's chin.
“She'll be well looked after in Heaven.”
“Oh shit, please no,” Bobbie whimpered.
“Don't worry kid, Uncle Cas would only have the best for you.”
***
“Cas!” Sam hissed. The angel was standing at the back door next to a couple of bodies, regarding the house with a calculating expression. “What are you doing here?”
“Hello Sam,” said Castiel, without looking away. “I heard Roberta's call for help. Why did you not tell me?”
“I would if I knew it was Crowley,” he joined the angel at the door. “I haven't seen that fucker in years.”
“Has he made any demands as of yet?” Cas asked, still examining the side of the house for things that Sam couldn't see.
“Nope.”
“As I suspected.” Castiel withdrew his blade from his sleeve, and held it out to Sam. “There are four demons left inside; two on the top floor, two in the basement.”
“Shite,” muttered Sam. “Alright. I'll take the two upstairs. When you're done, go straight for Bobbie, okay?”
“I understand.”
Sam took two steps before he stopped and turned.
“Before I forget, do you want to come for Thanksgiving this year? Just you, me, and the Colonel's secret recipe? Its been a long time.” He smiled encouragingly, drawing a small twitch of the lips from Castiel in return.
“Wouldn't miss it for the world.”
***
Sam moved slowly into the house, the angel's blade at the ready. He could hear the demons Cas had spoken of, pacing and chatting on the upper floor. The house, being abandoned, was smothered in small graffiti, and he worried absently that he wouldn't be able to find the wards in the chaos.
Top of the stairs, and to the left, a light on at the end of the hall. Well, first things first. He stepped lightly to the door, but could see nothing in the room but a sliver of wall. He could hear them though, chatting quietly. The light in the room flickered. Sam stepped back, and with no more preamble burst through the door, aiming straight for the sound of the voices and running smack dab into the television. Shit.
***
Bobbie barely caught the sound of a a muffled thump echo down from above.
“We both knew the moose would come for her,” said Crowley, “So I took a few precautions.”
***
The railing broke halfway down the stairs, making the trip to the ground floor a little bit faster if a little bit more painful. Sam might have sprained his arm, it hurt like hell, but he couldn't be bothered to check. He just scrambled to his feet and booked it out back, hollering for Cas as he smashed through the screen door. Castiel caught the first demon by the face, stopping it dead and burning it out. The shock stopped the second demon long enough for Sam to launch Cas' sword, end over end, so it buried itself in the demon's chest.
“Are you alright?” asked Castiel.
“Yeah yeah,” Sam panted. He rubbed his leg and visibly winced. “Give me a minute. Not as young as I used to be.”
“Take all the time you need. I will go on ahead.”
And Castiel was gone.
***
It was like reality snagged. One moment, you're huddled in a locked room while two strangers argue cryptically. The next your godfather is there, holding a wicked knife and looking like he's ready to beat the shit out of someone. The guy in the suit blanched.
“You shouldn't even be able to find this place.”
“I couldn't,” Castiel replied. “But I can find her anywhere, Crowley, you should know that.”
“How-” Bobbie began, but the stranger from the grocery store caught her eye and winked.
“Kissed by an angel,” he said, sliding closer to the door while her kidnapper's eyes were still on Castiel.
“It wont matter for much longer anyway,” said Castiel. He lunged at Crowley, who seemed to anticipate the attack and slid away. Before he could make another move the room was filled by the deafening BANG of a pistol being discharged. Crowley fell to the floor, unharmed but unable to move.
“You are such a cheater,” he growled as the stranger stood over him.
“All's fair,” he quipped. There was a club in his hand, or a blade by the way he held it. The jawbone of some beast. He leaned down, and with one swift motion sliced off Crowley's head. Bobbie slapped a hand to her mouth, trying not to scream.
“Jesus Christ,” she squeaked, her voice all panic.
“The king is dead,” said Castiel. The stranger smiled.
“Long live the king.”
“Oh my god,” said Sam from the doorway. Three sets of eye turned to him. “Oh my god,” he said again, “what did you do?”
“What did I do?” Dean spread his arms, “Sam, as of a minute ago, I'm the King of Hell!”
“You what?” Sam spluttered. “Are you nuts?”
The question was automatic, not intelligent. Sam had watched his older brother fall off the deep end two decades ago.
“Sammy, Sammy. It's what we've always wanted! The apocalypse is over, it doesn't matter who wins and who looses anymore. There is just hell, and heaven, and justice.” He smiled.
“No rules, no destiny,” said Cas,. “Just utter and complete freedom.”
Sam's eyes went wide, “You knew?” he asked Castiel.
“It is all for the best,” said Castiel. “Crowley kidnapped Roberta to draw Dean out, counting that he would not come in force, fearing her safety. He was prepared for one demon, not an angel. You know I would never let any harm come to Roberta.”
“You're working with him?”
“Dean and I are working together to make Earth safe.”
Sam held up Castiel's blade, “I should kill both of you!” he roared. “I don't care about Hell's squabbles any more. Keep. My. Family. Out!”
Dean snorted, “You're missing the point Sammy. You want to help people? You want to make a difference? We were weak, we had nothing. I have power now, Sammy, and I can make real changes.”
“Because ripping off Crowley and his goons is really world shattering stuff,” Sam sneered.
“And what the hell have you been doing?” Dean retorted. “Playing house, playing bartender? Trying to fill the shoes left empty because we were too weak to stop it?”
Sam moved fast. He shoved Bobbie at Castiel and lunged at Dean with the angel's blade. Dean only moved to catch Sam's arm, stopping him dead. He plucked the blade from his hand, like they were kids again wrestling over the remote.
“One day Sammy,” he said quietly, “but today is not a good day to die. We still have work to do.”
“Bull shit,” growled Sam. “You are just going to kill, and kill until there's no one left.” He tried to jerk his arm from his brother's grasp, but Dean and Castiel were already gone.
“Um, Dad?” Bobbie asked softly, when Sam's breathing had calmed. “I know you need some time, but, can we do it outside of the house full of dead bodies? Please?”
Sam looked to his daughter, shaken but unharmed. He reached over and drew her into a one armed hug.
“'+++Course sweetie. Don't feel bad, you're right. You shouldn't have to deal with this crap.” He kissed her on the forehead. “Lets get you back to your mom's. A shower and some hot chocolate, you'll be right as rain.”
He lead her away from the house, back to the car in silence. It wasn't until they hit the road that either of them spoke.
“I can have a shower and hot chocolate at your place,” said Bobbie.
“Your mom is worried about you,” said her father.
“I'm worried about you,” Bobbie replied. Sam didn't respond but pulled his cell from his pocket while driving, handing it to his daughter.
“Whatever you like. You should call her either way.”
Bobbie took the phone from him but she made no moves to turn it on, just turned it over and over in her hand, feeling the smooth edges slide along her fingers. When she spoke her voice was quiet, and scared.
“I just, you know, I don't think I can pretend everything is normal.”
Sam nodded. He knew. He knew very well.
Recipient: spn_summergen (When a recipient has withdrawn, the fic becomes a gift to the community.)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Gore, but nothing beyond what's in the show. Slight angst.
Word Count: ~6,300
Summary: From Prompt 2: Older Sam and Dean - what does their life look like in 15 or 20 years time?
“Why do you allow this?”
“What?”
“These ... guys.” Bobbie waved her hand over the counter at the threesome in sweat stained baseball caps and dusty jeans hunched at a table by the window. Sam raised an eyebrow.
“The older you get, the more you look and sound like your mother,” he replied, continuing to wipe the beer glasses. “Have you tried talking to them?”
Bobbie shrugged and pretended to be distracted by her homework.
“Why not?” Sam asked.
“I have, you know,” Bobbie motioned at the math textbook, “stuff to do.”
“Do they scare you?” said Sam, picking up a new glass.
“Why would I be scared?”
“Why do they bother you?”
Bobbie squirmed in her seat, uncomfortable.
“You run a clean house. You don't look for trouble. You shouldn't let it come to you.”
Sam snorted.
“What?”
“Nothing. You're right, but they're not trouble.”
“They look like it.”
Sam shrugged, “Even people who look for trouble need a place they can leave it at the door.”
“Cryptic much?”
Sam just shrugged again, placing the last of the glasses with a soft clink on top of its brothers. He had that faraway look in his eyes, the one Bobbie's mom hated because it meant her dad would get quiet and distant and pretend everything was okay when it obviously wasn't. He leaned back to rest on the counter, rubbing his leg and wincing.
“You want me to get you something? Some Tylenol?” Bobbie asked, back in the present. Sam declined with a shake of his head.
“Its no worse than usual. Won't help.” He flexed the stiff joint, pretending not to wince. “What do you want for dinner tonight?”
Bobbie considered the question, but not for very long.
“Macaroni and cheese. With the jalapenos.”
“I think we're out of jalapeno,” said Sam. “Can you go get me some? And a couple bags of peanuts and pretzels?” He leaned over, opened the cash and took out a twenty dollar bill. “Get yourself a treat while you're at it.”
Bobbie took the bill from her father with a practised flick of the wrist, folding it into her pocket, and pecked him on the cheek.
“Thanks Daddy.”
Sam ruffled her short curls, “Only the best for you, kid.”
***
The grocery store on the corner was owned by a Chinese couple and open twenty-four seven. In the scant few years her father had been living above his bar down the street, Bobbie had only ever witnessed either the wife or husband behind the counter. Once there was a skinny boy in a Mickey Mouse shirt playing his Gameboy on the front steps that she took to be their son. He had not looked up from the screen as she passed, and she had not seen him since. The inside of the store was lit in that particular shade of old fluorescent green that made the colours on the packages brighter and the imperfections on skin and fruit all the more noticeable. As she picked through a pile of dilapidated peppers there came from the street the unmistakable purr and growl of an old combustion engine. Bobbie perked up with interest; it wasn't a sound one heard very often since the price of gasoline drove most older, non-electric models off the road. It meant whomever was driving it was either crazy or rich, most likely the former considering the kind of neighbourhood they were in. Boring and poor, without even a whorehouse to attract anyone interesting.
Still beat the suburbs anyhow.
The lights flickered as they guys who owned the car sauntered in. He didn't look crazy, just indeterminately aged and out of date in his dress. He went straight for the shelves at the back, grabbed two large bottles of Jack. Bobbie watched him with the pretence of deciding over Twizzlers or a Mars Bar. The lights in the refrigerator flickered. Bobbie ducked her head before he could catch her staring. She fixed her eyes on the candy as the stranger placed the bottles on the counter.
“That's an interesting mark you have.”
Bobbie froze. Shit. She withdrew her hand from the candy rack and rubbed the red oval on the back of her hand.
“It's just a birthmark,” she protested. “Nothing special. People like to point it out like I don't know its there. My godfather always says I was kissed by an angel. I think he just makes stuff up though. Anyway,” this guy was making her nervous, “That's an interesting car you have.”
The man smiled, a small, thin, amused thing.
“Sixty-seven Chevy Impala. Most beautiful car in the world.”
“It must cost you a fortune to drive.”
“More than you think. But she's worth it.”
As he handed the owner her money, Bobbie watched the little tableaux on security camera feed behind the counter. For a moment the screen went static, and where there was a handsome face there were now rows of black eyes and a mouthful of pointed shark's teeth stretched into an endless scream. . .
Bobbie dropped her Mars Bar, blinked, and it was gone. The stranger gave her a smile before sauntering back out to his car, the door chime ringing in her silence.
***
The stranger slid himself behind the wheel of the old car, settling into the leather like there was no other space on Earth his body was meant to be. Tossing a bottle of Jack Daniels in the back seat, he opened the other and took a good long pull. Wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and the bottle joined its twin on the backseat. The engine rumbled to life, even though the stranger never touched the ignition. The dash lit up, but the fuel meter showed the tank was empty. It hadn't been filled in nearly twenty years.
***
Bobbie came home through the back door, depositing the jalapenos in the kitchen and gathering the snacks for the bar. She could hear men talking in low voices just beyond the door that separated Sam's apartment from the bar downstairs.
“I saw Dean,” one of them was saying. “Last week, just outside of Lincoln.”
“What, buying souls at a whorehouse?” Sam grunted. Bobbie peeked through the glass in the door. He was leaning on the counter, speaking to the shifty looking trio that so bothered Bobbie earlier.
“At a bar,” the man admitted.
“Did he recognize you?”
“Why would he? I burn ghosts and ghouls, I'm no demon hunter.”
No one replied to this information.
“He looked good,” the first man supplied, trying to sound lighthearted.
“Dude, no,” said the woman.
Looked good? Dean? The only Dean Bobbie knew of was her uncle, and he had been dead for twenty years.
***
Curiosity crept up on Bobbie and hovered over her shoulder for the rest of the weekend. She pretended to be absorbed in her homework, chewing on the end of her pen and watching her father work around the Roadhouse, limping from table to table, collecting glasses and wiping tables. He said a wild dog took a chunk out of his leg saving the life of an old flame, her mother, and once they had been reunited there was no stopping them. A fairy tale with a predictable ending.
“You can't stay married to a man who doesn't trust you,” her mother often sighed.
“Do you trust mom?” Bobbie had asked Sam once, in her ten year old innocence.
“With my life. Why?”
“Then why won't you talk to her?”
She overheard them arguing later; Why don't you trust me? Bobbie harboured a little ball of guilt over that one. No matter how many people assured her - with every honest right - that the separation was never in any way her responsibility or her fault, she still wondered if she had let slip a secret she had been trusted with, if she had forayed with too much naivete into web of little white lies that tied the adult world and broken the strands that held together her parent's marriage.
“I forgot to tell you,” she mentioned on the drive back to her mother's Sunday evening. “When I was at the store on Friday this guy drove up in a really old car. Like the ones you like that nobody drives anymore.”
“Yeah?” Sam smiled. “What kind of car was it? Like, rich jerk car or collector car?”
“Collector car, def,” Bobbie replied. “He said it was an old Chevy. An Impala maybe? Like, older than you old.”
“I'm not that old.”
“This car was old.”
“How old?”
“Sixties old.”
Sam's hands tightened on the wheel, “Sixty-seven?”
“Yeah, um-”
“Lucky guess,” Sam intervened. “It's a great car. My brother used to drive one.”
“And after he died?”
“Stolen,” he said simply. And there it was again, the million mile stare. It made him look old.
***
There were two people in the bar when Sam got home, eating the free peanuts and watching the sports channel. He waved to Yan Mei, his bartender, an ex-hunter from Seattle who had retired when a ghoul took her left hand. She scared the shit out of the regular clientele, and loved every minute of it. It was quiet in the apartment without Bobbie, even if it was just the scratching of her pencil or the flip of pages. Sam wondered if he should go back downstairs, just to be where the people were. Maybe Yan Mei had picked up some gossip, some news. Maybe baseball would be worth watching for once. Instead, he grabbed his laptop and a beer from the fridge, and settled at the kitchen table to search for demonic omens in the area.
***
On the other side of town there was a blackout. A block of warehouses got dark, one after the other, spreading from the centre until there is a small corner of the city the night claimed completely. Against the walls and between the shelves the shadows moved, coiling between shafts of moonlight. Across the street a pack of vampires eyed the black building with lazy, self centred interest. From the driver's seat of the Impala, Dean watched them with impatience. Dean had left Kansas in the Impala some twenty years ago, and drove her for nearly a month before realizing she was running just fine on an empty tank. The gasoline engine stink and the carbon monoxide cloud were just for show, just enough to wrinkle people's sensibilities. Fuckin self righteous eco-freaks, happy to burn through the atmosphere until there was no fuel left. It was only a matter of time, really, until the world caught onto alternative power, because it was only a matter of time until the pressure was too great on too many wallets, and then it was all “ooh, we have to do something for the environment”. Not like it wasn't already too late. Just last summer a hurricane had near flattened Miami, and Dean caught a glimpse of Castiel on the news directing a cadre of angels through the rubble of some low rent neighbourhood, and he laughed well and hard to himself as he watched humanity's heavenly babysitters. Some people called the hurricane an act of God, and he laughed even harder. When the bartender enquired roughly as to what was so damn funny, he took a swig of his drink and said:
“God's only hand in that was giving people free will,” and then he left the bar without paying his tab.
“I told you they were lousy good for nothings,” muttered Ukobatch from where he was slouched in the passenger seat.
“Get your slimy hooves off the dash,” Dean replied, still watching the vampires. Ukobatch retracted his feet guiltily, sure that Dean hadn't seen him put them up there. Ukobatch was a little shit, even by the worst of standards, but it only ever amounted to being an incompetent troublemaker; most of his energy was spent escaping Hell and doing things like planting bags of pot in cop cars and making sure important packages got lost in the mail. He claimed to be responsible for the firecracker in the toilet that caused the heart attack of the late Pope, but there were very few who actually believed him. Dean kept him around because he genuinely hated Crowley and remained loyal as long as Dean let him stay topside. Ukobatch knew what was good for Ukobatch, and it just happened to work in Dean's favour.
“Eeh, there the little leeches go.” He grinned as the vampires spread out to cover the various entrances. “I think I found some smart ones this time.”
Dean ignored him on principal, bringing a walkie talkie up to speak.
“Bloodsuckers are going in, how's the progress with Padre?” Dean was answered by an unnecessary amount of static and a female demon replied,
“I have no idea what you just said, but the holy man is finished and teams one through five are in position.” Dean sighed. Electronics and demons just did not mix.
“Roger, I'm on my way to rendezvous with team four.” Dean stowed the walkie talkie and extracted his blade from the recesses of his jacket.
“Mind if I stay back?” asked Ukobatch. “I'm a lover you know, not a fighter.”
“Right,” Dean grunted. “Just keep your ugly feet on the floor.”
Ukobatch leaned back and pulled out a cigarette, which Dean snatched from his mouth before he could light it.
“That was my last one,” he pouted. Dean stuck the cigarette in his mouth and the end glowed cherry red.
“I know,” he replied, letting a cloud of smoke out into the night air. He strode casually to the back of the building where team four lingered next to a large portable stereo carrying rifles and sporting the kind of ear protection usually found on a construction site or a gun range. Dean accepted a pair of earmuffs from the team leader, but he didn't put them on, not yet. Crowley always boasted that the one thing Dean lacked was proper resources. Dean didn't need resources, he needed ingenuity. Demons didn't like being treated like tools. They were freelancers. Well, he let them think that way anyhow.
From the inside of the warehouse, the vampires began to scream.
“Showtime,” Dean declared, donning his earmuffs. There was the unmistakable tinkle and woosh of a molotov cocktail, quickly followed by a dozen more as team five broke through the security entrance. The makeshift firebombs wouldn't do shit in such a large building, but they didn't need to. All they needed was to set off the fire alarm. That was when the real fun began, because not half an hour before, their good friend Father Killean had consecrated the fire suppression system.
Ah, who needed to torture human souls when demons were so easy? There were five exits on the warehouse, and five teams armed with semi-automatic rifles and bullets they spent three days decorating with devils' traps. Just peg them where they stand, hit the sound system and let the sweet sound of Padre's voice send them back to Hell, or meet God at the end of Dean's blade. And when the fun was over, they had a whole shipment of Crowley's toys to play with. Traceless cellphones, one of those swanky ID printers that even did microchips, and sweet, sweet fully automatics.
Dean didn't need resources, he had Crowley's.
His team leader hit the stereo after the third full recitation of the exorcism, and Dean took a moment to survey the damage. The vampires they hired had been demolished, but the distraction had given his squad enough time to get in proper flanking position and pick off the rest of Crowley's goons as they fled the holy water inferno. The rest of his squad was busy picking over the corpses and roughing up a pair or survivors. Dean looped around back to where an ancient Ford was parked on the street. A man in the uniform of a priest rolled down the window as he approached.
“Thanks Padre,” said Dean, before the priest could open his mouth and ask any questions. He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and tossed them through the open window.
“I don't-”
“I don't care,” said Dean. “It doesn't matter what you do with it. Just take it, otherwise I'll leave it on the street for some junkie to find and OD themselves on.” The priest fingered the roll of bills before pocketing them. Father Killean was a religious doubter and a true selfless do-gooder, meaning he would probably give the money away. He worked with hunters, had been for a quarter century. All Dean told him was they were hunting demons, he didn't need to mention that the good Father would be working for one.
“You should get a move on,” Dean mentioned. Father Killean nodded.
“You should know,” he said not looking at Dean, “your brother is doing well.” He quickly rolled up the window without any further remark, and drove off.
Well then.
Dean went straight back to the Impala, sliding into the driver's seat.
“Sounds like a good party,” Ukobatch remarked.
“Yeah,” Dean grunted, “you should probably go help the interrogation before they beat those poor fucks so hard they can't talk.”
“Mm,” Ukobatch opened the passenger door and stretched, “nothing like a good old fashioned shakedown. By the way boss, you got a business call while you were enjoying the wine and cheese soire.” He smiled, and when Ukobatch smiled it was almost like the devil himself, “Seems there's royalty coming to town.”
***
Sam got a call on Tuesday night that froze his blood. It was around eight, and things were beginning to pick up for the night, meaning there were maybe half a dozen customers all nursing beers, chatting, and watching the news with vague disinterest.
“Is Roberta at your place?”
It was his ex-wife, and she sounded worried. Bobbie was not at his place.
“Shit,” he muttered instead of replying. “Is she answering her phone?”
“No,” Amelia replied. Sam shook his head, even though she couldn't see him.
“I'm sorry. Have you called the police yet?”
“I'm just about to,” said Amelia, “unless you can think of anywhere else she would be.” If Amelia was calling Sam, then she had probably already tried the school and whatever friends she knew of. “Jesus,” she continued, “I should have called earlier, what if its too late? She always tells me if she's going to be home for dinner but I thought no, you know? Teenagers need their space she needs to learn. God. . .”
Sam debated asking if she wanted him to come over, but not until he had a chance to check the neighbourhood before the police swarmed in, messed up any tracks and made the neighbours suspicious.
“Call them then, and stay at home. I have a few things that need doing and then I'll be right by.”
***
It took a few minutes for the situation to fully settle in.
At first there was awareness, the knowledge that one is awake. Cognizance of consciousness, and pain. After that there is recognition, or lack thereof. Bobbie was used to waking up in her bed or on her couch, nice and horizontal, not tied up in a chair. That triggered fear, which only escalated upon the discovery that she couldn't move her arms or legs, that she was immobile, and that her view was limited to rotten plaster walls and a buckled wooden floor. No windows, no doors that she could see, no indication of where she may be. A flurry of expletives spilled from her lips upon the final realization that she was in fact abducted, and that she was in fact helpless. Her eyes darted frantically around her decrepit and poorly lit surroundings. Underneath the panic, the whole thing seemed oddly cliché.
There are voices coming from behind her, from what must have been, by the sound, the hallway.
“The point,” one of them was saying, “is not to die. If you eat a piece, we will die.”
“I'm not going to kill her,” said another.
“Doesn't matter. He'll kill you. You know what, fuckit, you watch the door, give me that.”
There was a noise of protest followed by the sound of a door opening, just a plain old household door. A guy appeared in Bobbie's vision and smiles unconvincingly. He took the cap off a water bottle, and then proffered it to her, inviting Bobbie to drink.
“The fuck is this shit,” she said instead.
“Nothing you need to worry about, love. All you need to do is make sure you stay in one piece, and everything will turn out for the better.”
Bobbie considered her options.
“I want a straw,” she said. The guy frowned.
“What?”
“I don't want you pouring water all over my face. I want a straw.” The guy's frown spread to his brow, but before he could say or do anything further the second voice from the hallway hissed,
“Captain on deck!”
The bottle was placed on the floor by Bobbie's feet. She heard a third person enter the room, and shut the door behind them.
“They treating you well, love?” the third person asked. It was a man's voice, rough in the throat and bearing some sort of Scottish accent.
“The man outside wants to eat me,” Bobbie replied.
“Oh?” said the new arrival. “He would. I shall have to speak to him about that. I'm glad you told me. Have they told you why you're here yet?”
“Clue me in,” said Bobbie. The Scottish voice chuckled. It took a few steps forward, and a short, middle aged man in a well tailored suit stepped into view.
“As much as I would like to be the one to tell you that story love, we're going to have to wait until a few more of our guests arrive. Until then,” he circled back around, and Bobbie heard the snick of a blade being released. Panic surged into her chest, but the man did nothing more than cut her bonds. “I want to trust you, love,” he said as he did so. “Now you know these two fine fellows are under orders not to hurt you. I, on the other hand, have nothing against breaking your legs if you try to run. Capiche?”
Bobby nodded, rubbing her arms to get some circulation back into them.
“Excellent. I like it when people are on the same page. Now drink up, the show will start in no time.” He smiled, and it was convincing, and it was scary. The well tailored Scottsman turned on his heel with a practised move, but Bobbie stopped him before he could leave.
“Hey,” she called. “What do I do if I have to, you know, pee?”
***
Sam left the bar with Yan Mei to comb the neighbourhood where he used to live with Amelia and Bobbie. Old enough that the houses still had spaces between them, and yards. He should get a dog, he thought. They hadn't had one since the old pup passed, just a pair of entitled, needy cats that Sam thought of as The Angels, because they were dicks.
Bobbie was taken on her way home from school, so he immediately ruled out a vampire attack. In fact most creatures tended to hunt at night, so whomever took her was planned, or desperate, or human. He checked out the park between her house and the school, asked anyone walking the streets if they saw anything. A mother of one of Bobbie's classmates recognized him, commented on his beard and his uncut hair and told him he took to being a bachelor too easily. Sam was short with her, not in the mood for being self conscious.
“So no one saw anything?” he asked. “Nothing strange at all?”
She shrugged, “I did see something odd earlier, an old car. A big old car like our parents would have driven. Black and stinky and loud.”
“A Chevy?” asked Sam, without thinking.
“Hm, maybe. Why, do you think its someone you know? They say that is the most common, don't they? For kids to be taken by someone they know?”
“It's what they say,” said Sam, turning away. He left the woman to walk her dog, dropping by to check on Amelia. She looked okay; no tears, no hysterics. But she was still in her work clothes, and Sam noticed there were dishes in the sink and food gone cold on the stove. They barely talked these days, just light banter Friday and Sunday evenings. Sam blames himself for the failure of his married life. He'd thought that getting his leg torn up was a sign: quit hunting, you're done. There's nothing left for you here, but there are good things elsewhere. Stay and you'll find nothing but pain. But, of course, there was still one thing tying him to his old life. Even as he kept his nose clean and tried to be a good dad, he couldn't help but turn his head at certain rumours, go looking for certain people when they came to town. And every time it was a reminder that he had a job left half finished, like he was procrastinating, hiding, for years and years. And of course Amelia had wanted to know, and Sam had told her a few things, about the monsters, the wendigo that took a bite out of him, but she knew, she always knew there was more, and Sam had not wanted to open those floodgates.
Hadn't he deserved a good life? Shouldn't he have been happy?
Amelia offered to let him stay the night in case they got any word, but he declined. She looked so worried and nervous, but Sam pushed down his guilt because he know he can do a lot more than offer comfort. He excused himself to the bathroom, washed the sweat from his face and stole a few of the hairs off Bobbie's brush.
“Why don't you go to your mum's?” he suggested. Amelia hesitated, as if realizing, then nods.
“It's not, you know,” she speaks quietly even though its just the two of them, “something dangerous? Something unnatural?”
“I don't know yet,” Sam admitted. “But I need to be on this if it is.”
“And if it's not? Do you still need to be on it?”
Did he trust himself over the police?
“Yes.”
Amelia let him go. He stopped by the Chinese grocer on the way home for supplies, and acquired some of the more uncommon ingredients from a hunter from south Texas who was more than happy to trade for a couple of free beers and a basket of chili fries. Sam took everything to the kitchen of his apartment, ground the ingredients together, dumped the lot onto a map of the city and surrounding towns, and set it on fire. He waited patiently with the fire extinguisher while the paper was consumed, leaving a square block maybe an hour's drive from the Roadhouse, on the outskirts of a nearby town. A knot of unease settled in his gut. It shouldn't be this easy. Maybe it wasn't Dean. Maybe it was just some natural creep. Maybe she was already dead. Maybe whatever took her wanted her to be found. Wanted her to be found by him. Maybe it wasn't Dean? Anyone could drive an old car. It was just a coincidence.
“You want a hand?” the hunter from south Texas called out as Sam swept back to the parking lot through the bar.
“I'm fine,” Sam replied.
“Can I have your shotgun if you die?”
Yan Mei shot a killing look at the hunter from south Texas.
“Sure,” said Sam, pressing a hand against the door. And then he was off.
***
Sam didn't hunt much more. Not much needed to be said on the subject- he was missing a good chunk of his leg and he needed glasses even though Bobbie and Yan Mei were the only two people in the world to see him wear them. His business these days was beer and tales. Yan liked to tease him, she said he was like everyone's aunt, forcing them with food and gossip. Sam didn't deny it. He wanted to help, but he didn't want to die either. So he networked, he bandaged wounds, he handed out free meals and car repairs. He did research and made fake ID's, though that was getting harder and harder with the technology these days when badges needed to be programmed and driver's licenses scanned. An older hunter had slipped once and called him Bobby, which sent a pang through his chest but he just smiled and accused the other guy of calling him a crazy old coot.
He slowed when he finally reached the neighbourhood indicated by the spell, rolling along with the lights off in search of an old black car. He found it parked in front of a boarded up house; a classic Bentley. Crowley.
He tried to tamp down the sense of relief.
***
The stranger from the grocery store looked at Bobbie, then back at the Scotsman and raised an eyebrow.
“Seriously? You just kidnap some random kid and what, expect there to be enough of the good old goody two shoes in me to spare her life?”
“Drop the act, Winchester.”
The stranger whipped out a long hunting knife from his belt and held it under Bobbie's chin.
“She'll be well looked after in Heaven.”
“Oh shit, please no,” Bobbie whimpered.
“Don't worry kid, Uncle Cas would only have the best for you.”
***
“Cas!” Sam hissed. The angel was standing at the back door next to a couple of bodies, regarding the house with a calculating expression. “What are you doing here?”
“Hello Sam,” said Castiel, without looking away. “I heard Roberta's call for help. Why did you not tell me?”
“I would if I knew it was Crowley,” he joined the angel at the door. “I haven't seen that fucker in years.”
“Has he made any demands as of yet?” Cas asked, still examining the side of the house for things that Sam couldn't see.
“Nope.”
“As I suspected.” Castiel withdrew his blade from his sleeve, and held it out to Sam. “There are four demons left inside; two on the top floor, two in the basement.”
“Shite,” muttered Sam. “Alright. I'll take the two upstairs. When you're done, go straight for Bobbie, okay?”
“I understand.”
Sam took two steps before he stopped and turned.
“Before I forget, do you want to come for Thanksgiving this year? Just you, me, and the Colonel's secret recipe? Its been a long time.” He smiled encouragingly, drawing a small twitch of the lips from Castiel in return.
“Wouldn't miss it for the world.”
***
Sam moved slowly into the house, the angel's blade at the ready. He could hear the demons Cas had spoken of, pacing and chatting on the upper floor. The house, being abandoned, was smothered in small graffiti, and he worried absently that he wouldn't be able to find the wards in the chaos.
Top of the stairs, and to the left, a light on at the end of the hall. Well, first things first. He stepped lightly to the door, but could see nothing in the room but a sliver of wall. He could hear them though, chatting quietly. The light in the room flickered. Sam stepped back, and with no more preamble burst through the door, aiming straight for the sound of the voices and running smack dab into the television. Shit.
***
Bobbie barely caught the sound of a a muffled thump echo down from above.
“We both knew the moose would come for her,” said Crowley, “So I took a few precautions.”
***
The railing broke halfway down the stairs, making the trip to the ground floor a little bit faster if a little bit more painful. Sam might have sprained his arm, it hurt like hell, but he couldn't be bothered to check. He just scrambled to his feet and booked it out back, hollering for Cas as he smashed through the screen door. Castiel caught the first demon by the face, stopping it dead and burning it out. The shock stopped the second demon long enough for Sam to launch Cas' sword, end over end, so it buried itself in the demon's chest.
“Are you alright?” asked Castiel.
“Yeah yeah,” Sam panted. He rubbed his leg and visibly winced. “Give me a minute. Not as young as I used to be.”
“Take all the time you need. I will go on ahead.”
And Castiel was gone.
***
It was like reality snagged. One moment, you're huddled in a locked room while two strangers argue cryptically. The next your godfather is there, holding a wicked knife and looking like he's ready to beat the shit out of someone. The guy in the suit blanched.
“You shouldn't even be able to find this place.”
“I couldn't,” Castiel replied. “But I can find her anywhere, Crowley, you should know that.”
“How-” Bobbie began, but the stranger from the grocery store caught her eye and winked.
“Kissed by an angel,” he said, sliding closer to the door while her kidnapper's eyes were still on Castiel.
“It wont matter for much longer anyway,” said Castiel. He lunged at Crowley, who seemed to anticipate the attack and slid away. Before he could make another move the room was filled by the deafening BANG of a pistol being discharged. Crowley fell to the floor, unharmed but unable to move.
“You are such a cheater,” he growled as the stranger stood over him.
“All's fair,” he quipped. There was a club in his hand, or a blade by the way he held it. The jawbone of some beast. He leaned down, and with one swift motion sliced off Crowley's head. Bobbie slapped a hand to her mouth, trying not to scream.
“Jesus Christ,” she squeaked, her voice all panic.
“The king is dead,” said Castiel. The stranger smiled.
“Long live the king.”
“Oh my god,” said Sam from the doorway. Three sets of eye turned to him. “Oh my god,” he said again, “what did you do?”
“What did I do?” Dean spread his arms, “Sam, as of a minute ago, I'm the King of Hell!”
“You what?” Sam spluttered. “Are you nuts?”
The question was automatic, not intelligent. Sam had watched his older brother fall off the deep end two decades ago.
“Sammy, Sammy. It's what we've always wanted! The apocalypse is over, it doesn't matter who wins and who looses anymore. There is just hell, and heaven, and justice.” He smiled.
“No rules, no destiny,” said Cas,. “Just utter and complete freedom.”
Sam's eyes went wide, “You knew?” he asked Castiel.
“It is all for the best,” said Castiel. “Crowley kidnapped Roberta to draw Dean out, counting that he would not come in force, fearing her safety. He was prepared for one demon, not an angel. You know I would never let any harm come to Roberta.”
“You're working with him?”
“Dean and I are working together to make Earth safe.”
Sam held up Castiel's blade, “I should kill both of you!” he roared. “I don't care about Hell's squabbles any more. Keep. My. Family. Out!”
Dean snorted, “You're missing the point Sammy. You want to help people? You want to make a difference? We were weak, we had nothing. I have power now, Sammy, and I can make real changes.”
“Because ripping off Crowley and his goons is really world shattering stuff,” Sam sneered.
“And what the hell have you been doing?” Dean retorted. “Playing house, playing bartender? Trying to fill the shoes left empty because we were too weak to stop it?”
Sam moved fast. He shoved Bobbie at Castiel and lunged at Dean with the angel's blade. Dean only moved to catch Sam's arm, stopping him dead. He plucked the blade from his hand, like they were kids again wrestling over the remote.
“One day Sammy,” he said quietly, “but today is not a good day to die. We still have work to do.”
“Bull shit,” growled Sam. “You are just going to kill, and kill until there's no one left.” He tried to jerk his arm from his brother's grasp, but Dean and Castiel were already gone.
“Um, Dad?” Bobbie asked softly, when Sam's breathing had calmed. “I know you need some time, but, can we do it outside of the house full of dead bodies? Please?”
Sam looked to his daughter, shaken but unharmed. He reached over and drew her into a one armed hug.
“'+++Course sweetie. Don't feel bad, you're right. You shouldn't have to deal with this crap.” He kissed her on the forehead. “Lets get you back to your mom's. A shower and some hot chocolate, you'll be right as rain.”
He lead her away from the house, back to the car in silence. It wasn't until they hit the road that either of them spoke.
“I can have a shower and hot chocolate at your place,” said Bobbie.
“Your mom is worried about you,” said her father.
“I'm worried about you,” Bobbie replied. Sam didn't respond but pulled his cell from his pocket while driving, handing it to his daughter.
“Whatever you like. You should call her either way.”
Bobbie took the phone from him but she made no moves to turn it on, just turned it over and over in her hand, feeling the smooth edges slide along her fingers. When she spoke her voice was quiet, and scared.
“I just, you know, I don't think I can pretend everything is normal.”
Sam nodded. He knew. He knew very well.