((Supernatural Wincestiel Big Bang)) Something Worth Protecting (Part II)
Previous Part
Sam had wanted to wait until the next day to leave to give Dean a chance to rest, but Dean was anxious, so that afternoon, one shower and a change of clothes later, Dean nursed his third cup of coffee as they started to pack the Impala for their trip.
“Aw, my baby!” Dean exclaimed, fondly patting the hood of the car. “Sam did take good care of you!” He turned toward his brother. “You did, didn't you? Didn't gut her or give her a hybrid engine or some shit, right?”
“I doubt that's even possible,” said Sam. “And of course I took care of it. It was my car after all.”
“Was, Sammy. You got your turn, but she'll always be my baby.” Sam chuckled fondly, hands on his hips. He looked down at his feet, scuffing his boots against the gravel.
“Speaking of what's yours, Dean,” he said, reaching under his collar. “I figure...you'll want this back.” Dean watched as Sam removed the amulet from around his own neck, placing it in Dean's open palm. Dean stared down at it for a moment, running a thumb over the smooth surface, feeling himself get just a bit misty-eyed.
Of course, he'd never admit that, and he cleared his throat and willed his eyes dry before looking back up at Sam as he replaced the cord around his neck.
“You kept this old thing?” he teased. “Getting sentimental on me, Sammy?”
“Well I wasn't exactly going to throw it away, was I?” Bobby reappeared a moment later, holding a duffel bag and handing it to Sam.
“The journal's in there, along with another flask of holy water in case you run into any trouble on the way,” he said. “And I threw in a couple of sandwiches for the road.”
“Sweet of you, old man,” Dean quipped.
“Yeah, well don't get used to it, ya hear? You boys eat me out of house and home every time you come by. Reckon you owe me at least a small fortune for what it costs me to restock the fridge and pantry. I should start you two on a tab.”
“Nah, you love us too much for that, don'tcha, Bobby?”
“Don't test me,” Bobby said, trying to sound icy - but there was a warmth hidden just under the surface of his tone, and as Sam put the bag in the car, Bobby clapped both hands on Dean's shoulders, holding him there in front of him at his eye level as he sighed. The joking edge was gone from his words as he said, “It's good to have you back, boy.”
Dean smiled, the skin around eyes crinkling. “Not going soft on me, are you Bobby?”
“Shuddup, ya idjit.” Bobby pushed him toward the car where Sam was waiting, leaning against the hood, arms crossed and eyes practically bursting with emotion that Dean really hoped wasn't going to lead to some long, heartfelt talk about their feelings in the car on the way to Kansas.
It really said something about his upbringing, he thought somewhat sadly, that even now, even after rising from the goddamn dead, all this emotion still made him uncomfortable to a point; he still had to hide behind his “no chick-flick moments” rule. But of course, as wrong and messed up as he knew it had to be after a while, it had worked for him so far, so how could he stop now?
“You be careful,” Bobby said, and then he turned his gaze square on Dean. “The both of you. And you treat Missouri right, ya hear?”
“We don't really have any choice,” Sam pointed out with a smirk as he opened the driver's side door of the Impala. “She'll smack us upside the head if we don't.” Dean winced and rubbed the back of his neck at the memory of Missouri's infamous head-swipes before shooing Sam away from the car.
“Don't even think about it, Sammy. I'm driving.”
Sam's expression softened considerably until he was right on the verge of giving Dean that puppy-eyed stare that he couldn’t stand. It just wasn't right for a grown man to go all doe-eyed like that. “You look exhausted, Dean,” he said. “You drove all the way here from Pontiac, and I know you didn't sleep on the way. You've been chugging caffeine like there's no tomorrow-”
“I drove here in a junker with a rusty tailpipe,” Dean barked. “My baby and I are long overdue for some bonding time, so I'm driving.” When Sam didn't look eager to acquiesce, Dean sighed. “I'm fine, okay? We'll stop at a motel on the way, get some shut-eye.”
“Fine,” Sam said with a fond roll of his eyes. Dean couldn't help a jolt of excitement that energized his system as he got in the car, sitting behind the wheel of his beloved Impala once more.
“Aw, did you miss your daddy?” he crooned as he stroked the steering wheel.
“That's just creepy, Dean.”
“Sam, maybe one day you'll understand the holy bond between man and car. But until then- What is that?” He stared icily at the plastic contraption stuck to the car's dashboard.
“What's what?” His brother was the picture of innocence.
“That.”
“It's an iPod dock.”
“A what?”
“An. iPod. Dock,” Sam emphasized. It was almost as if Sam were trying to talk to Dean like he was talking to a half-deaf old man.
Dean glared.
“It was my car for four months, Dean.”
“Was.”
“Dean-”
Dean glared some more. Finally, Sam sighed and detached the dock, tossing it in the back seat.
“Oh, wait a minute,” Dean said, hauling himself out of the car again.
“What did you forget?” Sam called. He sounded like a doting mother, Dean thought, and he didn't say anything in reply. Bobby watched from the porch with one eyebrow cocked as he marched off. He was gone only a moment, and half-waved at Bobby as he plopped down into the driver's side again, throwing the copies of Busty Asian Beauties that he'd nicked from the gas station into the back seat with a smirk.
“Old habits die hard?” Sam asked fondly.
“Hey, I was out of it for four months, Sammy. Man's gotta keep up with his basic needs, doesn't he?” Sam grimaced in disgust.
“Ew...Dean...”
Dean cut his brother off as he turned the key in the ignition, the Impala roaring to life beneath them, and he smiled widely. The familiar purr of his precious car soothed him to the bone. He couldn't have possibly realized fully how much he'd missed the feel of the leather steering wheel under his hands, or the car's mighty engine rattling his frame, until it was all right here again. Back in his beloved car, getting ready to head out with his brother in the passenger seat next to him...it was like coming home.
“One of the perks of being alive, Sam,” he said, and with one last wave to Bobby, the peeled out of the driveway of Singer Salvage and onto the open road.
-
Dean's eyes were dry and his body felt too heavy for his bones, and even though he was doing his damnedest not to let Sam see, he knew his brother could tell he was exhausted from the way Sam wouldn't stop pouting as he stared at him from the passenger's seat. Dean was accustomed to driving for long stretches; he was doing a pretty good job of staying on his side of the small, two-lane highway, but he supposed it was lucky that there were no other cars around at this time of night.
“We should find a motel,” Sam suggested: a nice way of saying “We need to get you out from behind the wheel before you run off the road and kill us both.”
“Yeah, soon,” said Dean, the response almost automatic. “It's still pretty early. We can go another sixty miles at least. Any more coffee left?”
“It's almost midnight, and you're dangerously close to falling asleep at the wheel.”
“Course I'm tired. Crawling out of the fire and brimstone really takes a lot out of you.” Dean set his jaw and stared out at the road, grip on the steering wheel tightening. Hell was definitely not on his list of topics he wanted to discuss right now - or ever, to be perfectly honest.
He remembered bits and pieces, and they came and went like a halfway forgotten nightmare, but with every passing hour, those memories seemed to have been rebuilding themselves, rising up to the front of his mind from the shadows where they'd silently lurked before. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw flashes of blood and darkness, jerking him back into reality with a sharp stab of terror to the chest.
He was worried - no, he was horrified - that eventually those memories would come back full-force, that he'd be overcome by Hell and crumple under its unmanageable weight.
But of course, he wasn't going to tell Sam that. Not now.
So when Sam asked, tentatively, “Are you sure you can't remember...anything?” he lied and said, “Not a thing.”
“That's probably a blessing if ever there was one,” Sam said with a dry, tired chuckle.
“Yeah, I'm not really big on believing in blessings,” Dean said. “But I guess it's as close as we'll ever get.”
After a moment's thought, Dean spoke again: “I guess...there was one thing.” Sam shifted in his seat, sitting up straighter, attention immediately focused on Dean.
“What?”
“Not about Hell, but...when I pulled myself out, there was this...this figure. I saw him down the road.”
“What did he look like?”
Dean shrugged. “Dunno...Just a guy. My head wasn't exactly screwed on straight, and I couldn't really see that far. But then later, I saw him again...in my rear view mirror.”
“He was in the car with you? Following you or something?”
“Look, I really don't know. I just saw a glimpse of his eyes in the mirror and then...nothing. And I haven't seen him since. It was hot, and my mind was all over the place, Sam. It could easily just have been a hallucination or something.”
“And why didn't you mention this to Bobby?” Sam asked, voice tense with annoyance. Dean huffed.
“What good would it have done? Even if it does mean something, we don't know what.”
“You don't know that. Every bit of information helps, Dean. Do you think it could have been a demon?”
“I don't think so...” Dean found himself saying.
“You don't think so?”
“No, Sam. It...he didn't...feel like a demon is all.” Even as he said it, Dean realized how idiotic it sounded. Sam stared at him a moment before letting out a disbelieving laugh.
“He didn't feel like a demon?”
“After all these years and after everything I've been through...I dunno, I just don't think he was a demon.” Sam didn't seem convinced. “Look, if the dude shows up again and tries anything we can fill him full of rock salt. But for now, let's just concentrate on getting to Missouri's so maybe we can get some goddamn answers. Hell, maybe she'll even know if it means anything.”
“Alright,” Sam agreed, albeit grudgingly.
They traveled about ten miles in silence before Sam piped up again: “There's a motel just off the next exit, Dean.” Dean would have rolled his eyes had he not been the slightest bit concerned that he would be too tired to re-focus them on the road ahead afterward.
“Alright, alright,” he relented. “I guess we can call it a night.” As he pulled off at the ramp, he added, “But we're heading out bright and early tomorrow morning. No sleeping in.”
-
Room 214 of the Indigo Dreams Motel was plain; it was the only word Dean could use to describe it. After a long time on the road, motels started to blend together like highways and country back roads. He did notice however, that there was a startling lack of indigo in the color scheme, and its place was taken up instead by the dark green of the sunken chairs, which clashed magnificently with the absolutely vomit-worthy gold bedspreads. The wooden paneling on the walls gave it a slightly outdoorsy, close-to-nature feel - ironic, given that the highway was visible from their window when they pulled back the shades.
“I'm beat,” Sam said as he made a big show of flopping down on the bed nearest the door. “I might even be able to sleep through your snoring.”
“Hey, maybe I'll be able to sleep through yours,” Dean jabbed. It required a good amount of effort - that he was surprised he was able to expend - to make the comment sound lighthearted when he was almost certain he wouldn't be able to sleep uninterrupted, and that had nothing to do with his brother's snoring. The most he could hope for was for Sam not to notice; this was Dean's burden to bear and he didn't want to drag Sam into it any more than he already had.
If it got too much worse, he might not have any choice, of course, but for now, he could spare Sam that just a little longer.
“I'm getting the shotgun out of the car,” Dean said as he headed out the door again. Sam turned his head to look at him, face half-sunken into the pillow.
“You thinking we're going to need it?”
“I may not have been a Boy Scout, Sam, but I live by their motto.” He jokingly threw up the Boy Scout hand symbol. “Always be prepared.” He was about to leave when Sam stirred, getting up off the bed and unzipping the duffel he'd brought in with them. After rifling through a few shirts and pairs of socks, he pulled out a long, sleek knife, shooting Dean a pleased smirk.
“Well look at you,” Dean said with a smile. “My little brother's not so helpless after all.”
He ducked out the door before Sam could get the chance to throw a pillow at him.
-
Dean was just storing the shotgun - loaded with rock salt rounds - between the mattress pads when the first clap of thunder rattled the motel down to the foundation. The intensity of it took both him and Sam by surprise, and Dean barely had time to ask, “Storm?” before they were both leaning against the window sill.
There was no rain, but the wind was already starting to pick up, lightning flashing and thunder shaking the window under their fingers. It was right on top of them already, despite neither of them having noticed it coming in. That was enough to worry them both.
“Sure came in fast,” Sam mused.
“You got your knife?” Dean asked. Sam glanced at him.
“Think it might not just be a storm?”
“Damn right I do. There wasn't a cloud in the sky a minute ago. It's too weird to be a coincidence with everything else going on...” Sam nodded, moving swiftly to his bag and taking out the knife, clutching it in his fist at the ready.
A torrent of rain poured down over the motel, sloshing over the window pane in a thick curtain; it distorted their view of the outside. Lightning flashed, making them wince at its brightness; thunder rolled so loudly that they could feel the motel itself quiver around them. Dean's knuckles were white against the glass; with every bolt of lightning came a momentary recollection of the Pit, blinking in and out of existence in his mind just as quickly as the flashes did outside. He set his jaw set so tightly that his molars ached.
And then it began to subside, more slowly than it had arrived. The rain lapsed from a torrential downpour into a heavy drizzle and the thunder became distant and echoing.
“Huh...” Sam breathed. “Maybe sometimes it is just a storm...”
“I still don't like it,” Dean said, voice hoarse.
“Yeah...me neither.”
“Thought you said it was just a storm,” Dean pointed out, quirking an eyebrow at his brother.
“I said maybe...but after everything that's happened to us, a little bit of paranoia is obligatory, don't you think?”
In spite of himself, in spite of everything, Dean smirked. “Only paranoia if it's not justified, Sammy.”
The room rippled with a rush of air, and the mark on Dean's shoulder prickled as if charged with some kind of electric current. The two brothers turned and froze. Standing there at the foot of the nearest bed was a man, and Dean realized, startlingly enough, that he recognized him: messy black hair, stoney expression, dirty tan trench coat, and those blazing, Arctic-blue eyes.
It took him two seconds to reach for the shotgun between the mattresses, and Sam had the knife ready in his hand in even less time. “Who are you?” Dean barked, readying the shotgun in record time and aiming it straight at the man's head, right between those familiar eyes.
“It would not be wise to discharge that firearm here, Dean,” the figure said in a voice that sounded like gravel on sandpaper. “It could cause a panic, and I mean you no harm.”
“'We come in peace,' huh?” Dean challenged. “That's your angle?” The man cocked his head slightly to one side and furrowed his eyebrows, as if he didn't understand. “I saw you in Pontiac. You were practically stalking me. What do you want?”
“I want you safe.” That statement did throw Dean off-kilter a bit, but he held his gun steady. The man said no more, but held out a hand, palm toward Dean, and the weapon was ripped from Dean's grasp, skidding across the carpet toward the door. Sam lunged, knife in hand, but his attack was deflected with terrifyingly little effort on the dark-haired man's part. He landed on the floor, the knife just inches from his hand. The man stepped toward Dean, but did not advance more than a few inches.
“What are you?” Dean growled. “Demon?”
“I am no demon. My name is Castiel, and I am an angel of the Lord.” Dean scoffed at that.
“Angel, huh?” he asked, keeping Sam in his peripheral vision as his brother grabbed the knife again and silently pushed himself up. “Haven't believed in those in a long time.”
Sam took the chance when he received Dean's silent signal, throwing himself at the supposed angel and plunging the knife into his back, right between the shoulder blades. Castiel didn't so much as flinch, shooting Sam a sidewise glance of mild disapproval over his shoulder, and Sam stumbled back.
“You have little faith for someone who was just raised from Hell, Dean,” he said, and the lights flickered. The air sparked with energy as behind him a pair of midnight black wings rose up like twin predators looming over them. They shimmered like ebony and stretched across the room, huge and intimidating. Dean and Sam could only stare, completely aghast at what they were seeing.
The knife fell to the carpeted floor with a dull clatter, and Castiel turned back to Dean.
“How do you know...” Dean breathed, trailing off into stunned silence.
“Because I am the one who pulled you out. I am the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.”
“You're...” Castiel took a step forward, wings flaring out, and Dean caught himself glancing down at his own shoulder, where the hand print scar still tingled under his shirt. Castiel nodded, as if understanding Dean's unspoken question: “You're the one that left me with this?”
Castiel looked down at the knife on the ground and knelt, picking it up and studying it. “This weapon is very powerful,” he remarked. “You would do well to keep it safe.” He held it out to Sam, and Sam could merely stare at it. “I trust that you will not try to use it on me again. As I said before, I am no demon. Take it, Sam.” After a moment, Sam did, and Castiel folded his wings in tight against his back, covering up the hole that the knife had left in his coat.
“Bullshit,” said Dean, and both Castiel and Sam looked up at him.
“Pardon?” Castiel asked.
“Okay, so maybe you're not a demon, but an angel? Please.”
“Dean...” Sam said warningly.
“Sam, an angel? Really? I've seen plenty of shit. We both have. Too much to think that angels are actually watching over us.” He took a brave step toward Castiel, looking him square in the eye. “Maybe you're the one who pulled me out. Maybe I could believe that much. But an angel? Try again.” Castiel's feathers rustled as if an invisible wind blew through them.
“Surely if Hell exists, Heaven must also,” he offered.
“Somehow I think that's even less likely,” Dean scoffed. Castiel sighed, stepping back a bit and putting some distance between himself and the Winchesters.
“Your lack of faith makes no difference,” he said, although he sounded somewhat disappointed. “The facts remain the same.”
“And what facts are those?” Dean asked.
“That I have known you for a long time.” He nodded at Sam. “You both.”
“We've never even met before,” Dean said. “The first time I saw you was right after I'd crawled out of the ground.”
“Is that really him?” Sam asked, looking at Dean with an urgency that was reflected in his gaze. “That's the guy you saw in Pontiac?”
“I was there, Dean,” Castiel said. “I told you, I'm the one that raised you from Hell, the one that rebuilt your body as my Father intended. I felt it prudent to...as you might say, keep an eye on you.” He paused a moment, shifting in place as if to gather his own thoughts. “Years ago, I was charged with a task. I was given a duty, a purpose, to watch over the Winchester brothers. To keep you safe. To be your guardian.”
“Guardian?” Sam repeated. “You mean like a...a guardian angel?” Castiel nodded. Dean let out a bitter laugh.
“Guardian angels?” he scoffed. “Now I really know you're shitting me.”
“Surely you know what kind of power it took to raise you, Dean. It was only thanks to the connection we've shared since your birth that I was able to bring you back.”
“Well now I just feel violated,” Dean quipped.
Castiel moved so quickly that neither Dean nor Sam saw clearly what he was doing until he was already reaching for Dean, placing his hand directly on top of the mark on Dean's shoulder, fingers fitting perfectly over those of the scar, even through the fabric of Dean's shirt. The rush of energy at the point of contact felt like fire sweeping through his veins, and Dean screwed his eyes shut and screamed.
Flashes of memory overtook him: of writhing in agony in the Pit, of a flash of pure light that surrounded him and soothed him like a mother's lullaby, of a tight grip on his soul as he was pulled up out of the darkness. It all happened in the span of a few seconds, and afterward, Dean's legs buckled, and he fell back on the bed, vaguely aware of Sam calling out his name and rushing toward him.
When his eyes fluttered open again, Sam was leaning next to him yelling at Castiel, demanding to know what he'd done. The knife was still clutched in his hand, his knuckles white from his tight grasp on the hilt.
“Dean? Dean?!” he repeated when he noticed Dean coming to. Dean reached out and clutched at his brother's shirt, needing something to anchor himself as the room spun.
“He will be alright,” Castiel said. “I merely needed to show him the truth. It was not harmful.”
“You son of a-”
“Sam...” Dean was aware of the roughness of his own voice, and it startled him. “Sam, I'm okay.” He really wasn't, but the response was practically a reflex by now.
Castiel waited patiently as Dean got his head together again, but echoes of the things Castiel had shown him still made his head ache and his ears ring.
“So you pulled me out...” he relented. “Why?”
“I told you, I was charged with being your guardian. I was driven to save you.”
“If you were so driven, why didn't you just stop those Hellhounds from ripping me a new one in the first place?”
“I could not interfere with a deal made with a crossroads demon. As difficult as it was, I had to wait until the deal was already carried out before I could intervene.”
“Well some guardian angel you are,” Dean scoffed bitterly. “And what about Sam?”
“What about me?” Sam asked curiously.
“What kind of shit has he gone through already? You said you were supposed to guard both of us...Where were you when he was stabbed in the back? Why did I even have to make that damn deal in the first place?”
Castiel regarded them both carefully. Sam said nothing, but the questions sparked a curiosity in his eyes as well. “It is...not that simple,” the angel finally said.
“Yeah, of course it's not,” Dean said bitterly. “A guardian angel? After everything we've been through? That's not happening. I stopped believing in that kind of shit when I was four.”
Castiel sighed. “You should have more faith, Dean. Your brother, he believes.” He nodded at Sam, and Dean turned to look in turn. Sam seemed flustered by both gazes promptly being turned on him.
“You can't seriously buy this, can you?” Sam let out an exasperated breath.
“You were raised from Hell, Dean...and hey, we didn't have any idea what did it before. Maybe sometimes we just can't explain things...”
“You sound like a preacher's daughter, Sam!” Dean barked. “What are you gonna say next? That the Lord works in mysterious ways? This isn't about whether or not we can explain what happened. It's been explained, and the explanation is a big load of crap!”
“In time, Dean,” Castiel said, “You will understand. But for now, you two should rest.”
“What are you ta-” Dean was cut off when Castiel approached them so quickly they didn't even see him move, pressing two fingers of one hand against Sam's forehead and of the other to Dean's. Before either of them could get a chance to react, the world faded to black nothingness, and they collapsed onto the bed.
Next Part