Never Come Back
14. Penance
Dean jerks awake to Alastair's pillow talk like he always does, his teeth gnawing the back of his hand and the fabric under his head soaked with his tears and sweat.
He hears the sound of laughter from outside, blinks at his wristwatch, close to four in the afternoon and Sam still isn't back from scaring the town hookers. He rubs his eyes, gritty because he's still exhausted. He thinks abstractedly that it might take years to catch up on his lost sleep, years he doesn't have.
Noise again, the crashing sound of garbage cans sent flying, and Dean rockets off the bed by reflex, crouches down on the floor, his heart racing and his eyes drawn to the salt line he sprinkled in front of the motel room door as he stumbled tiredly through it before flopping on the bed. It's every which way, haphazard and gappy, and he grabs his brother's pack, digs feverishly through it for the salt drum, crabs over and lays a true line of white. Once done, Dean breathes out his panic and disorientation for a long few moments, then rams his hands in his hip pockets as he rises, so that he won't have to feel them shake.
He backs over to the bed, sits down heavily, and stares at nothing until he focuses on his brother's jacket, hanging on the chair. He reaches over to snag it, slips his fingers into the inside pocket. Hexbags, the new ones, and somewhere Sam might be concealing one that's angel-proof. He eases them out gingerly, like they might bite him, studies them, bites his lip. If I knew where the other one was I could walk, he thinks. I could take it and walk. Lilith would never find me, and Cas wouldn't either. And fuck the demon hordes, fuck the angels, fuck the seals, fuck the six billion, because at least he'd have company if the devil sent the world to Hell. As opposed to lonely torture in perpetuity.
"I don't want to do this," he breathes. "I don't want to go back."
He stares at the small fabric pouches, thinks about the extra-crunchy version, his salvation even if it means damnation for the rest of mankind. "Please," he whispers. "Take this cup from me." And Christ, what a fuckin' idjit it makes him, spouting words he doesn't believe in from a book he still thinks is fiction, when he knows no one is listening, and he knows he can't duck this one, it's his and his alone to fix.
The noise outside is louder, a clamor, and something slams against the door, Dean yelps before he can bite the sound back, nearly jumps out of his skin. Kids, outside. Not demons. He pants his way back to something approaching calm, steels himself to walk to the window and peer out into the parking lot. "Little brats," he mutters, frowning as the football bounces too close to his baby for comfort, and he hammers on the window before he can stop himself. "Jesus," he admonishes himself then. "I'm turnin' into my own grandpa."
A half-hour later there's still no sign of his brother and Dean has worked himself up to a decent warm glow playing viciously intense crush-the-carrier in the parking lot with a bunch of four-foot high grade-schoolers who run him off his feet and tackle him with aplomb, so that by the time he catches sight of Bobby leaning up against the doorjamb of the motel room, he's buried under a mountain of hooting, howling Children of the Corn. He cries uncle, shakes them loose one by one as he stumbles over to the old man, filthy, bruised, grazed, and limping.
"Enjoying yourself?" Bobby inquires dryly. "Your nose is bleeding. Not the smartest thing you ever did a week after getting the shit kicked out of you, boy."
Dean wipes his face with the back of his hand and it comes away bloody. He smiles. "S'all relative, Bobby. These days I aspire to just a broken nose." He calls back as he heads into the room. "And it was fun. I deserve some fun." He strips off his shirt, groans as he stretches, and reaches for his bottle to gulp a mouthful before offering it over.
Bobby takes a swig, studies Dean with knowing eyes. "How did you sleep last night?"
"Like a baby," Dean returns blandly, as he toes off his boots. "Woke up every two hours crying for the breast, and took a dump at oh-dark-thirty." He pulls his tee over his head, and Bobby grimaces.
"What the hell happened?"
"Kathleen shot me."
The old man gapes. "Why the heck did she do that?"
"Same reason you tried to gut me when I first showed up," Dean tells him, peering down at his red-peppered skin. "She thought I was a revenant or a zombie. Being as you never told her I was alive."
Bobby flushes. "Yeah, that. I tried to warn you but you took off like a bat out of hell." He sighs. "It, uh. Wasn't easy. You know that. Lot of stuff slipped my mind back then."
Dean nods, pulls out a clean tee from his backpack. "Yeah, I got that," he says. "It can't happen next time, Bobby. You need to keep on top of things after it goes down this time, because-"
"Just - stop. Right there." Bobby snaps it out, raising up his hand like he's trying to hold something off. "Nothing's going down, Dean. We're all three of us in this, and like your brother says, we can do this together. So. Nothing's going down. Not on my watch."
Smiling, Dean shakes his head, and he feels strangely serene though doesn't know why. "Bobby, I'm the one. I'm the one who has to do it. I don't have a clue how, but you and Sam aren't in the equation as far as Cas is concerned."
Bobby splutters in frustration. "Who the fuck put him in charge?" he finally says, and he rubs at his beard. "What the hell does it matter what he says?"
Dean chuckles humorlessly. "Well. It is the word of God."
The old man takes his cap off, fists it nervously, sits down on the bed. "Dean," he broaches. "Sam told me what you said. About how you think you're going back." He looks up and his face is white, his eyes bleak. "I'm not about to let that happen, son. Neither is Sam. Now I know you have issues about what he's doing with Ruby, but-"
It amazes Dean how it can still hit so hard, that feeling of betrayal, even though it doesn't really matter in the scheme and he knows without a fraction of a doubt that Bobby means well and will never let him down. "What exactly do you know about what he's doing with Ruby?" he snaps. "Did you know all along? Even when I was down there? Did you let him go because you knew he'd-"
Bobby's expression darkens. "No, I damn well did not. Don't forget, boy. I wanted to burn you."
Dean stares down at the old man, spins and snatches up the Jack again, hands it over as he wipes his mouth. "You know she's got him using his shining. Using it to gank demons."
Bobby takes another slug. "I didn't know for sure. But I had a feeling it might be something more than just bumping uglies."
"You know it's a slippery slope," Dean challenges.
"Maybe he can handle it."
"He can't. And I can't believe I'm hearing this. From you."
Bobby crashes his fist down on the table and his voice is harsh. "Well, the fuckin' alternative don't bear thinking about, boy."
"What is the alternative, Bobby?" Dean slices back.
Bobby's fist is still clenched on the table. "Going back," he says, quieter now. He shakes his head. "I'm not sitting for that, and neither is your brother. And I don't care what it-"
"Does to him?" Dean cuts in sharply. "Is this you making a choice, Bobby? Between me and him?" He stares at Bobby, and he can read him like an open book, as the old man's eyes flick down and away and a muscle jumps in his cheek.
After a few beats of tense silence, Dean sits down opposite, leans forward onto his knees. "This is my responsibility," he says, softer now. "Cas says it has to be me or the world ends. And Sam, I know he has good intentions but what he's doing, it's all wrong." He had to suppress the shiver that runs through him as he thinks of the arctic chill he sees in his brother's eyes, the barely concealed irritation that emanates from Sam. "You said it yourself, he's mad as a cut snake a lot of the time. He's fuckin' arrogant. It's changing him, it'll destroy him. I know how it works, Bobby. And so help me, I'm not about to let that happen to my brother. Jesus, I went to the Pit so it wouldn't."
The old man looks down at his boots and his voice is faint. "But you said he's been doing good with it. Exorcising demons."
Dean huffs out derision. "I said he was using it to gank demons. I didn't say it was a good thing." He has to pause again, to quell the twist in his guts. "Christ knows, it didn't do me much good when I was downstairs."
Bobby looks up, quizzical. "You're going to have to elaborate, boy, because I don't see the conflict."
"Okay," Dean says, and who knows, maybe getting it out there, spilling this as well as everything else might help him. "But you aren't going to like it." His mouth gone suddenly dry, he takes a mouthful of whiskey before he continues. "Just before the deal came due, we caught this one demon in a devil's trap and Sammy got it in his head to give this guy the ninth degree, maybe find out something about Lilith. He didn't know anything. Obviously. And Sam sent him back the good old-fashioned way, and while he was doing it, this guy spat out all he was going do to me once I joined him down there. And then I joined him down there." He trails off as he sees Bobby swallow hard. "I wouldn't be telling you this if it wasn't important," he says gently. "Thing is, it was a free for all down there a lot of the time, like a fuckin' bar brawl… endless, like an orgy of pain and… in every possible way, Bobby." Dean stops, breathes deep. "And every so often one of those monsters would say to me, Sammy sends his love. I didn't think too much on it at the time… I had-other distractions. And then I came back and found out Sam wasn't using the knife any more, and it all came clear to me."
Dean sees it dawn on the old man's face, sees him blanch, and he nods in confirmation as he hands the bottle across. "The knife kills them, Bobby. Sammy's little mind-trick just sent them back. And the first thing they did when they unpacked was stop by my cell to say howdy."
Bobby doesn't speak for a minute, takes another draught of the whiskey, hands it back. "And you need me to make sure he don't do that again," he mutters. "If it don't go the way we hope."
Dean nods. "Damn right. But that's not all, Bobby, because it's gone way beyond smoking out garden-variety demons. Fuck…" He leans on to his hand, heavy, rubs at his brow again, hard. "Wish I could rub it out of my head," he murmurs.
The old man reaches out, grips his wrist. "Spit it out, son," he says steadily. "You know it does you no good to keep it in there."
"Okay, but this is eyes-only," Dean tells him. "You absolutely cannot tell Sam I know this."
Bobby nods, and Dean takes a deep breath, fists his hands and then spits the rest of it out, baldly.
"Sam killed Alastair. Cas wasn't strong enough. Sam was. Cas said he barely broke sweat doing it, and we're talking upper upper-tier demon management, Bobby. Corner office material. Not just some fuckin' drone."
Bobby's eyes narrow, suddenly speculative, and he clears his throat, turns it into a cough as he rubs at his jaw. "That kind of power…" the old man grates out. "It could be the key to this whole mess."
It hangs in the air between them for a minute, that indirect confirmation Dean didn't really need, that Bobby is choosing. "Look, Bobby," Dean says then, softly. "I didn't tell you this so you'd think Sam was the solution if this all goes south. I told you because - no good can come of that which was born of Hell."
It stretches the tautness out of the air, and the old man goggles at him for a second. "Say what?"
"Castiel said it. Unto me." Dean air quotes for effect. "Or something like that. I think he might have even done that weird let us pray hand thing Jesus does in all those movies with Chuck Heston in them. You know. Ben-Hur. Fuckin' great chariot race in that movie, when Messala gets it… ouch…" Dean knows he's rambling, avoiding, deflecting, and when he fixes his gaze back on Bobby, the old man looks baffled. "The powers," Dean says firmly. "They're from Hell, Bobby, you know that. They're demonic. No matter what Sam does with them, they're evil. It'll turn bad in the end even if he means well. They'll corrupt him. Heck they already are, he's like Courtney fuckin' Love with PMS."
Bobby swallows, gets that same calculating gleam in his eyes again "But if he's that strong maybe he could get you out," he ventures. "Assuming you go back and your angel loses interest once you've served your purpose."
Dean scowls and something flares inside him, a feeling of defensiveness, protective almost, and he knows his voice is snappish when he replies but he doesn't give a damn. "Cas can't go against what his God tells him, Bobby. He follows orders, he's a soldier. It isn't anything to do with him losing fuckin' interest." And he's sure of that, full sure, one hundred percent certain that if he burns in hellfire for eternity, it will be to Castiel's eternal regret even if the angel doesn't have the cojones to defy Heaven. And eternal regret might not grip him tight and raise him from perdition a second time, but maybe it'll be some comfort until Dean loses himself down there again. And then it won't matter any more.
Heavenly Desire has to crane her neck to look up at Sam. She stares at him, avid, and something is shining out of her eyes although Sam can't decide whether it's admiration, lust, or something more calculating, because it's like she's doing arithmetic or something and he's the answer, her own personal eureka moment.
"Agent Roth," she preens at him, flicking her hair back. She rests a bony hand on his arm, clutches the suit fabric, her knuckles ridged, digs the tips of her fingers in, so that Sam is reminded of bats suspended upside down in caves, hanging on for dear life with their claws.
"Don't you G-men come in pairs?" The girl is peering beyond them, around him, up to the mouth of the alley. "You got a partner, maybe? I can do a two-fer if you have, twenty bucks more is all, and it won't-"
Sam shakes off her arm, steps back, stammers through the unsettled feeling. "He's uh… following up another lead," he says, keeps scribbling in his notepad, mind on the job. "And this was two in the morning?" he continues. "And you'd seen the guy before but this was the first time he picked anyone up?"
"What guy?" the girl says, her voice sing-song.
"Come on, Mel," Hudak cuts in. You know what he means."
"Well, no I don't, lady cop," teases out of the kid. "Are we talking that purty boy who got himself sliced up, or the big monster guy who walked out of the shadows and plucked that boy off the tree?"
"Monster guy," Sam says, and it trips his internal radar, because it wouldn't be the first time a civilian stumbled on what really lurks unseen in the shadows. "Why do you think this man was a monster?"
Her face closes down and her voice is flat. "All big guys are monsters, Mister," she says distantly, and then it's like she snaps back. "I mean big guys as wide as they're tall," she adds. "Fat guys. Not guys like you. All… you know. Muscle. That ain't bad at all." She smiles. "I bet you got real purty muscles under that suit, Mister. What about your partner? He got muscles like yours? He real tall like you?"
Sam falters, thrown off track by the naked lust gleaming in the kid's eyes, because for a split second it's like he knows her. He wonders if it's some unbidden memory of Jessica staring up at him even though the hooker isn't really anything like Jess, must be the blonde hair, same color eyes, Maybelline eyes, the look she directs at him, the want-need of it. It unsettles him all over again, but he makes himself regroup. "Uh. No. Shorter. Slighter. Look, Ms Desire, this - monster guy. You didn't notice anything off about his eyes? Did you get that close?"
The girl digs in her pocket, pulls out a half-smoked cigarette butt, lights it up. "You know, now you mention it there was something weird about that guy's eyes," she puffs out. "They were… real dark. Forbidding. All, like… shadowed."
It's what Sam needs to break the spell of her, and he spins, walks away, flipping his phone open as Hudak trots to catch up, leaving the kid in her wake.
"Sam it might not mean anything," she says breathlessly. "When she described the guy before she said he was standing right under the streetlamp just there… if his eyes were black she'd have noticed. She's jerking your chain."
Sam ignores her for the moment. "Bobby, is he there? He isn't picking up." He covers the phone as the old man grunts back at him, hisses down at Hudak, "Then why did she say dark? Shadowed?" He turns back into the phone, his jumpy feeling only building at what he's hearing come back at him, and unbidden, his other hand finds its way into his jacket pocket. His fingers brush over the metal of his flask, and his mouth is suddenly parched at the thought of the warm coppery liquid inside it, at how a sip might settle him, help him concentrate. Even the thought of it sharpens his focus. "Gone where? And do you know if he has one of the new hexbags?" The answer is non-committal, and damn. "Yeah, I left them on the nightstand. We need to make sure he switches it for one of the new ones before tonight."
Hudak hovers there next to Sam as he slips his phone back in his pocket and frowns over at the girl where she's leaning up against the wall a few yards back down the alley, staring back at him.
"Sam, to be honest, you kind of walked her into it with the whole eyes thing," Hudak remarks. "You led her."
"I didn't lead her, Kathleen," he says curtly, stepping around the woman and changing the subject. "I need to track Dean down. He won't be far from the motel if he's walking. What time does your shift start?"
"Ten…" Hudak starts doubtfully. "But if you're this spooked, are we still going through with this?"
Sam hadn't even thought not to, and he doesn't consider it now. "Yep. You'll meet us at the motel, yeah?"
"Yeah, around nine forty-five I guess," Hudak replies, not all that enthusiastically if Sam is honest, but he ignores her flat tone, starts walking towards the Impala.
"Hey, Sam," she hails from behind him. "What motel are you guys at?"
Sam glances back over his shoulder. "EconoLodge," he calls back. "Room 12."
Dean sees Sam push through the door, and his brother dwarfs everyone else in the bar as he squints through the miasma of blue cigarette fumes and scopes the place. Dean is in a corner booth, and he debates sliding himself down under the table but it's too late, because Sam has a gimlet eye pinning him in place and he's already threading his way through the yokels.
Dean downs the rest of his shot as Sam drops into the seat opposite, pushes an empty glass over towards his brother and sloshes a couple of fingers in there.
"How much have you had?" Sam sharply.
Shrugging, Dean doesn't rise to it. "Just the one as it happens," he says neutrally.
"Glass or bottle?"
"Handle, actually." Dean smirks as Sam's eyebrows shoot up in anger, disgust, whatever. "Chillax, man. Glass. Give me some fuckin' credit." Though he reasons he'll damn well have a couple more to warm him up for later, and not for the first time Dean sends warm thoughts out to his guardian angel for the brand-new liver, because if he was still relying on the old one he'd be on the transplant list by now.
"Kathleen's picking me and Bobby up at nine forty-five," Sam says, more carefully, and he taps his fingers on the table. "And when we spoke to the hooker, she said the guy who picked up this Garner dude had really dark eyes. Shadowed."
"Well, it was dark," Dean suggests, even though his gut is twisting uncomfortably at the vision the revelation provokes. "Maybe they were literally shadowed. As in, in the shadows. You know, of the night."
"But before she said he was standing right under the streetlamp."
Dean flaps a dismissive hand, affects a lack of concern that's totally at odds with his racing heart. "I guess we'll find out if the guy turns up." He pours himself another glass, studies his brother for a minute, and Sam is utterly composed. "You know, the easiest way to get this moving would be for me to take off the hexbag," Dean offers again, and maybe it's a test, he doesn't know.
Sam's doesn't blink. "No. No way, Dean. I told you, we're not taking that risk."
"Not your risk to take, Sam," Dean pushes further. "And you know it's a longshot it's even her."
"But if it is her, it's-" His composure suddenly ruffled, Sam huffs out in frustration. "You against her, it's not a fair fight. I don't care what Cas told you, Dean, you don't have the-"
"Guts?" Dean cuts in. "The guts? Or the juice to kill her?"
Sam sets his jaw. "The resources," he snaps. "No one has the resources to go up against Lilith alone."
Dean meets his brother's gaze head on. "Cas might have. He ganked Alastair, didn't he?" He sits and waits then, waits for Sam to cave, waits for his brother to 'fess up, to lay his cards on the table, to explain, to be honest, to tell him the truth about what he's been doing. And it's suddenly the most important thing in the world to be able to look Sam in the eye and know his brother isn't feeding him a line, to know that when Sam tells him he'll stop, has stopped, he can believe it without a shadow of a doubt, so he can know that when Lilith is squeezing the life from him, gutting him, doing whatever she has planned this time, the dying of the light won't hurt quite so bad because Hell isn't having his brother too.
"I guess Cas could have a plan," Sam says.
"Yeah," Dean responds thinly. "That's what I'm hoping for." He finishes his shot, pushes up, glancing down at his mud and oil-patched jeans. ""I need a shower," he says. "And we need to do laundry."
"Bobby said you were playing football with some kids," Sam says as he falls into step alongside Dean as he threads his way through the bar to the door. "He said he thought they might've broken your nose again there for a second."
As Dean leads them out into the dusk, the night air is cool relief against skin that feels too hot and too tight. "Fuckin' violent," he grunts shortly. "Vicious. Man, we were never that vicious."
His brother snorts. "Maybe it's more a case of our violence being more targeted. You know? Controlled? Directed towards a purpose?"
"Yeah," Dean answers. "I guess I felt pretty vicious from time to time, taking out fuglies."
Sam snickers. "I've never seen anything as bloodthirsty as you on the hunt."
It's nothing Dean doesn't already know, but it gives him a chill inside, makes his heart skip a beat. Maybe that's why, he thinks, and he's thought it before, and he says it now, rasping it out past the lump in his throat. "Maybe that's why I enjoyed it."
He feels a hand on his arm, stopping him.
"I will never believe that," Sam says, and the emotion and resolve in his voice sound genuine. "I will never believe you enjoyed it."
Dean shrugs, starts walking again because he can feel his chest tighten and it's too much.
"Dean, I-"
"It's worth it," Dean finds himself saying. "It's all worth it, Sam, whatever happens. I've been thinking about it… something Cas said, after that Samhain mess." He glances to the side, waits for his brother to bristle, but Sam keeps putting one foot in front of the other and there's no vibe of animosity towards the angel that Dean can sense. "He said we're all his father's creations. Works of art." He laughs, and it's real, for the first time in how long he can't even remember. "Those kids… all they could think about was getting that ball back. They were so alive, so much potential, so much to look forward to. And that makes it worth it for me, and I don't care if this is a one-way flight."
Sam chews his lip, doesn't meet his eyes. "But I care," he mutters.
"I know that," Dean says, soft, because how could he ever really have doubted it. "I do, and I know you mean well. But maybe my time is past and it's their time now… so whatever goes down, here or wherever - I'm good with it, as long as it takes her out of the picture and stops this."
Sam wipes a hand across his eyes and his voice is shaky. "But I can't bear to think of you down there. I… Jesus, Dean. You made that deal for me, and I know why you made it, I know why. Dean, you have to let me-"
"No, Sam," Dean interrupts. "You have to let me do this. It's - redemption. For me, for what I did down there-"
"But it wasn't your fault, Dean."
"I still did it. I have sinned, Sam, like you wouldn't believe, and maybe this is my penance or something." Dean swallows hard. "I started this. And I can't let Hell on Earth happen, and you can't either. So maybe you need to let go of this and let it play out like it's supposed to."
"Like Castiel says," Sam follows up faintly, and now there it is, the tinge of bitterness.
"Like Cas says," Dean repeats. "That's the way it is, Sam, the way it has to be. Promise me you'll let it go." And fuckin' mean it this time, he thinks, and there isn't even anger in it, just tiredness and resignation, and doubt.
Sam looks him in the eye, nods. "I promise."
And Dean wonders if his brother might mean it if he asks him to pinkie promise.
Bobby hammers on the bathroom door, Jesusfuck, and Dean has to scrabble for the grab bar to stop his feet skittering out from under him.
"Kathleen's here," the old man calls in. "We're heading out to get settled in. You know where you're going?"
Eyes wide open, despite the burn of shampoo bubbles. "Yeah," Dean sings out. "Be there in twenty or so."
He finishes rinsing, steps out of the shower, towels off and swipes a hand across the mirror to clear away the steam. He stares at himself and Hell is smirking back at him from bruised, red-rimmed eyes. His skin is gray and washed-out, the shadow of stubble patching his jaw. "I should stop drinking," he tells his reflection. "It's ruining my pretty looks. I should stop drinking and go live life."
Sounds like a plan, he thinks, and he remembers turning up on Hudak's doorstep three years or so before, pouring it all out to her. He wonders idly if she's up for it, up for the job of some broken-down old hunter who drinks a tad too much, but man, he's good with his hands, he'll keep the Jeep and the truck running like clockwork, maybe start up his own autoshop, be his own boss and finish early on Fridays so he can pick up the kids at the bus stop and take them to the practice backstop at the local park to hit baseballs, and then on to meet the woman of the house at Beef O'Brady's for burgers and fries. "We're sticking a DVD on and locking the bedroom door on Sunday mornings," he breathes.
And then he lifts the cord with its hexbag up and over his head, drops it in the sink. "Time for Plan B," he says to the man in the mirror. "Fuckin' loser."
He doesn't give himself time to reconsider, dresses swiftly without thinking about it. Outside crickets shrill at him as he strides to the Impala, fishing his car keys from his pocket as he tugs open her door. Her rumble is as reliably throaty as ever as he eases her out of the parking lot onto the approach road, to head up to the top of the street.
The few anemic streetlamps lining the verge flash in the same instant the engine fizzles and dies. Trash is suddenly blowing all around, and the shrubs and trees that line the road are dancing madly in the wind, because demon, Lilith, Hell, and Sam was right.
Dean finds with an electric shock of realization that he changed his mind somewhere between the motel room and here. He fumbles for his phone, heaves himself up and out of his baby and sprints for his life, and all he can think is CasnowpleaseCasnowpleaseCasCasCaspleaseCas.
He hears the roar coming up behind him, and when he turns, the light blinds him and he freezes, too frightened to run any more. The impact sends pain exploding through every nerve ending, and he welcomes the oblivion that follows hot on its heels.
Next
Dean jerks awake to Alastair's pillow talk like he always does, his teeth gnawing the back of his hand and the fabric under his head soaked with his tears and sweat.
He hears the sound of laughter from outside, blinks at his wristwatch, close to four in the afternoon and Sam still isn't back from scaring the town hookers. He rubs his eyes, gritty because he's still exhausted. He thinks abstractedly that it might take years to catch up on his lost sleep, years he doesn't have.
Noise again, the crashing sound of garbage cans sent flying, and Dean rockets off the bed by reflex, crouches down on the floor, his heart racing and his eyes drawn to the salt line he sprinkled in front of the motel room door as he stumbled tiredly through it before flopping on the bed. It's every which way, haphazard and gappy, and he grabs his brother's pack, digs feverishly through it for the salt drum, crabs over and lays a true line of white. Once done, Dean breathes out his panic and disorientation for a long few moments, then rams his hands in his hip pockets as he rises, so that he won't have to feel them shake.
He backs over to the bed, sits down heavily, and stares at nothing until he focuses on his brother's jacket, hanging on the chair. He reaches over to snag it, slips his fingers into the inside pocket. Hexbags, the new ones, and somewhere Sam might be concealing one that's angel-proof. He eases them out gingerly, like they might bite him, studies them, bites his lip. If I knew where the other one was I could walk, he thinks. I could take it and walk. Lilith would never find me, and Cas wouldn't either. And fuck the demon hordes, fuck the angels, fuck the seals, fuck the six billion, because at least he'd have company if the devil sent the world to Hell. As opposed to lonely torture in perpetuity.
"I don't want to do this," he breathes. "I don't want to go back."
He stares at the small fabric pouches, thinks about the extra-crunchy version, his salvation even if it means damnation for the rest of mankind. "Please," he whispers. "Take this cup from me." And Christ, what a fuckin' idjit it makes him, spouting words he doesn't believe in from a book he still thinks is fiction, when he knows no one is listening, and he knows he can't duck this one, it's his and his alone to fix.
The noise outside is louder, a clamor, and something slams against the door, Dean yelps before he can bite the sound back, nearly jumps out of his skin. Kids, outside. Not demons. He pants his way back to something approaching calm, steels himself to walk to the window and peer out into the parking lot. "Little brats," he mutters, frowning as the football bounces too close to his baby for comfort, and he hammers on the window before he can stop himself. "Jesus," he admonishes himself then. "I'm turnin' into my own grandpa."
A half-hour later there's still no sign of his brother and Dean has worked himself up to a decent warm glow playing viciously intense crush-the-carrier in the parking lot with a bunch of four-foot high grade-schoolers who run him off his feet and tackle him with aplomb, so that by the time he catches sight of Bobby leaning up against the doorjamb of the motel room, he's buried under a mountain of hooting, howling Children of the Corn. He cries uncle, shakes them loose one by one as he stumbles over to the old man, filthy, bruised, grazed, and limping.
"Enjoying yourself?" Bobby inquires dryly. "Your nose is bleeding. Not the smartest thing you ever did a week after getting the shit kicked out of you, boy."
Dean wipes his face with the back of his hand and it comes away bloody. He smiles. "S'all relative, Bobby. These days I aspire to just a broken nose." He calls back as he heads into the room. "And it was fun. I deserve some fun." He strips off his shirt, groans as he stretches, and reaches for his bottle to gulp a mouthful before offering it over.
Bobby takes a swig, studies Dean with knowing eyes. "How did you sleep last night?"
"Like a baby," Dean returns blandly, as he toes off his boots. "Woke up every two hours crying for the breast, and took a dump at oh-dark-thirty." He pulls his tee over his head, and Bobby grimaces.
"What the hell happened?"
"Kathleen shot me."
The old man gapes. "Why the heck did she do that?"
"Same reason you tried to gut me when I first showed up," Dean tells him, peering down at his red-peppered skin. "She thought I was a revenant or a zombie. Being as you never told her I was alive."
Bobby flushes. "Yeah, that. I tried to warn you but you took off like a bat out of hell." He sighs. "It, uh. Wasn't easy. You know that. Lot of stuff slipped my mind back then."
Dean nods, pulls out a clean tee from his backpack. "Yeah, I got that," he says. "It can't happen next time, Bobby. You need to keep on top of things after it goes down this time, because-"
"Just - stop. Right there." Bobby snaps it out, raising up his hand like he's trying to hold something off. "Nothing's going down, Dean. We're all three of us in this, and like your brother says, we can do this together. So. Nothing's going down. Not on my watch."
Smiling, Dean shakes his head, and he feels strangely serene though doesn't know why. "Bobby, I'm the one. I'm the one who has to do it. I don't have a clue how, but you and Sam aren't in the equation as far as Cas is concerned."
Bobby splutters in frustration. "Who the fuck put him in charge?" he finally says, and he rubs at his beard. "What the hell does it matter what he says?"
Dean chuckles humorlessly. "Well. It is the word of God."
The old man takes his cap off, fists it nervously, sits down on the bed. "Dean," he broaches. "Sam told me what you said. About how you think you're going back." He looks up and his face is white, his eyes bleak. "I'm not about to let that happen, son. Neither is Sam. Now I know you have issues about what he's doing with Ruby, but-"
It amazes Dean how it can still hit so hard, that feeling of betrayal, even though it doesn't really matter in the scheme and he knows without a fraction of a doubt that Bobby means well and will never let him down. "What exactly do you know about what he's doing with Ruby?" he snaps. "Did you know all along? Even when I was down there? Did you let him go because you knew he'd-"
Bobby's expression darkens. "No, I damn well did not. Don't forget, boy. I wanted to burn you."
Dean stares down at the old man, spins and snatches up the Jack again, hands it over as he wipes his mouth. "You know she's got him using his shining. Using it to gank demons."
Bobby takes another slug. "I didn't know for sure. But I had a feeling it might be something more than just bumping uglies."
"You know it's a slippery slope," Dean challenges.
"Maybe he can handle it."
"He can't. And I can't believe I'm hearing this. From you."
Bobby crashes his fist down on the table and his voice is harsh. "Well, the fuckin' alternative don't bear thinking about, boy."
"What is the alternative, Bobby?" Dean slices back.
Bobby's fist is still clenched on the table. "Going back," he says, quieter now. He shakes his head. "I'm not sitting for that, and neither is your brother. And I don't care what it-"
"Does to him?" Dean cuts in sharply. "Is this you making a choice, Bobby? Between me and him?" He stares at Bobby, and he can read him like an open book, as the old man's eyes flick down and away and a muscle jumps in his cheek.
After a few beats of tense silence, Dean sits down opposite, leans forward onto his knees. "This is my responsibility," he says, softer now. "Cas says it has to be me or the world ends. And Sam, I know he has good intentions but what he's doing, it's all wrong." He had to suppress the shiver that runs through him as he thinks of the arctic chill he sees in his brother's eyes, the barely concealed irritation that emanates from Sam. "You said it yourself, he's mad as a cut snake a lot of the time. He's fuckin' arrogant. It's changing him, it'll destroy him. I know how it works, Bobby. And so help me, I'm not about to let that happen to my brother. Jesus, I went to the Pit so it wouldn't."
The old man looks down at his boots and his voice is faint. "But you said he's been doing good with it. Exorcising demons."
Dean huffs out derision. "I said he was using it to gank demons. I didn't say it was a good thing." He has to pause again, to quell the twist in his guts. "Christ knows, it didn't do me much good when I was downstairs."
Bobby looks up, quizzical. "You're going to have to elaborate, boy, because I don't see the conflict."
"Okay," Dean says, and who knows, maybe getting it out there, spilling this as well as everything else might help him. "But you aren't going to like it." His mouth gone suddenly dry, he takes a mouthful of whiskey before he continues. "Just before the deal came due, we caught this one demon in a devil's trap and Sammy got it in his head to give this guy the ninth degree, maybe find out something about Lilith. He didn't know anything. Obviously. And Sam sent him back the good old-fashioned way, and while he was doing it, this guy spat out all he was going do to me once I joined him down there. And then I joined him down there." He trails off as he sees Bobby swallow hard. "I wouldn't be telling you this if it wasn't important," he says gently. "Thing is, it was a free for all down there a lot of the time, like a fuckin' bar brawl… endless, like an orgy of pain and… in every possible way, Bobby." Dean stops, breathes deep. "And every so often one of those monsters would say to me, Sammy sends his love. I didn't think too much on it at the time… I had-other distractions. And then I came back and found out Sam wasn't using the knife any more, and it all came clear to me."
Dean sees it dawn on the old man's face, sees him blanch, and he nods in confirmation as he hands the bottle across. "The knife kills them, Bobby. Sammy's little mind-trick just sent them back. And the first thing they did when they unpacked was stop by my cell to say howdy."
Bobby doesn't speak for a minute, takes another draught of the whiskey, hands it back. "And you need me to make sure he don't do that again," he mutters. "If it don't go the way we hope."
Dean nods. "Damn right. But that's not all, Bobby, because it's gone way beyond smoking out garden-variety demons. Fuck…" He leans on to his hand, heavy, rubs at his brow again, hard. "Wish I could rub it out of my head," he murmurs.
The old man reaches out, grips his wrist. "Spit it out, son," he says steadily. "You know it does you no good to keep it in there."
"Okay, but this is eyes-only," Dean tells him. "You absolutely cannot tell Sam I know this."
Bobby nods, and Dean takes a deep breath, fists his hands and then spits the rest of it out, baldly.
"Sam killed Alastair. Cas wasn't strong enough. Sam was. Cas said he barely broke sweat doing it, and we're talking upper upper-tier demon management, Bobby. Corner office material. Not just some fuckin' drone."
Bobby's eyes narrow, suddenly speculative, and he clears his throat, turns it into a cough as he rubs at his jaw. "That kind of power…" the old man grates out. "It could be the key to this whole mess."
It hangs in the air between them for a minute, that indirect confirmation Dean didn't really need, that Bobby is choosing. "Look, Bobby," Dean says then, softly. "I didn't tell you this so you'd think Sam was the solution if this all goes south. I told you because - no good can come of that which was born of Hell."
It stretches the tautness out of the air, and the old man goggles at him for a second. "Say what?"
"Castiel said it. Unto me." Dean air quotes for effect. "Or something like that. I think he might have even done that weird let us pray hand thing Jesus does in all those movies with Chuck Heston in them. You know. Ben-Hur. Fuckin' great chariot race in that movie, when Messala gets it… ouch…" Dean knows he's rambling, avoiding, deflecting, and when he fixes his gaze back on Bobby, the old man looks baffled. "The powers," Dean says firmly. "They're from Hell, Bobby, you know that. They're demonic. No matter what Sam does with them, they're evil. It'll turn bad in the end even if he means well. They'll corrupt him. Heck they already are, he's like Courtney fuckin' Love with PMS."
Bobby swallows, gets that same calculating gleam in his eyes again "But if he's that strong maybe he could get you out," he ventures. "Assuming you go back and your angel loses interest once you've served your purpose."
Dean scowls and something flares inside him, a feeling of defensiveness, protective almost, and he knows his voice is snappish when he replies but he doesn't give a damn. "Cas can't go against what his God tells him, Bobby. He follows orders, he's a soldier. It isn't anything to do with him losing fuckin' interest." And he's sure of that, full sure, one hundred percent certain that if he burns in hellfire for eternity, it will be to Castiel's eternal regret even if the angel doesn't have the cojones to defy Heaven. And eternal regret might not grip him tight and raise him from perdition a second time, but maybe it'll be some comfort until Dean loses himself down there again. And then it won't matter any more.
Heavenly Desire has to crane her neck to look up at Sam. She stares at him, avid, and something is shining out of her eyes although Sam can't decide whether it's admiration, lust, or something more calculating, because it's like she's doing arithmetic or something and he's the answer, her own personal eureka moment.
"Agent Roth," she preens at him, flicking her hair back. She rests a bony hand on his arm, clutches the suit fabric, her knuckles ridged, digs the tips of her fingers in, so that Sam is reminded of bats suspended upside down in caves, hanging on for dear life with their claws.
"Don't you G-men come in pairs?" The girl is peering beyond them, around him, up to the mouth of the alley. "You got a partner, maybe? I can do a two-fer if you have, twenty bucks more is all, and it won't-"
Sam shakes off her arm, steps back, stammers through the unsettled feeling. "He's uh… following up another lead," he says, keeps scribbling in his notepad, mind on the job. "And this was two in the morning?" he continues. "And you'd seen the guy before but this was the first time he picked anyone up?"
"What guy?" the girl says, her voice sing-song.
"Come on, Mel," Hudak cuts in. You know what he means."
"Well, no I don't, lady cop," teases out of the kid. "Are we talking that purty boy who got himself sliced up, or the big monster guy who walked out of the shadows and plucked that boy off the tree?"
"Monster guy," Sam says, and it trips his internal radar, because it wouldn't be the first time a civilian stumbled on what really lurks unseen in the shadows. "Why do you think this man was a monster?"
Her face closes down and her voice is flat. "All big guys are monsters, Mister," she says distantly, and then it's like she snaps back. "I mean big guys as wide as they're tall," she adds. "Fat guys. Not guys like you. All… you know. Muscle. That ain't bad at all." She smiles. "I bet you got real purty muscles under that suit, Mister. What about your partner? He got muscles like yours? He real tall like you?"
Sam falters, thrown off track by the naked lust gleaming in the kid's eyes, because for a split second it's like he knows her. He wonders if it's some unbidden memory of Jessica staring up at him even though the hooker isn't really anything like Jess, must be the blonde hair, same color eyes, Maybelline eyes, the look she directs at him, the want-need of it. It unsettles him all over again, but he makes himself regroup. "Uh. No. Shorter. Slighter. Look, Ms Desire, this - monster guy. You didn't notice anything off about his eyes? Did you get that close?"
The girl digs in her pocket, pulls out a half-smoked cigarette butt, lights it up. "You know, now you mention it there was something weird about that guy's eyes," she puffs out. "They were… real dark. Forbidding. All, like… shadowed."
It's what Sam needs to break the spell of her, and he spins, walks away, flipping his phone open as Hudak trots to catch up, leaving the kid in her wake.
"Sam it might not mean anything," she says breathlessly. "When she described the guy before she said he was standing right under the streetlamp just there… if his eyes were black she'd have noticed. She's jerking your chain."
Sam ignores her for the moment. "Bobby, is he there? He isn't picking up." He covers the phone as the old man grunts back at him, hisses down at Hudak, "Then why did she say dark? Shadowed?" He turns back into the phone, his jumpy feeling only building at what he's hearing come back at him, and unbidden, his other hand finds its way into his jacket pocket. His fingers brush over the metal of his flask, and his mouth is suddenly parched at the thought of the warm coppery liquid inside it, at how a sip might settle him, help him concentrate. Even the thought of it sharpens his focus. "Gone where? And do you know if he has one of the new hexbags?" The answer is non-committal, and damn. "Yeah, I left them on the nightstand. We need to make sure he switches it for one of the new ones before tonight."
Hudak hovers there next to Sam as he slips his phone back in his pocket and frowns over at the girl where she's leaning up against the wall a few yards back down the alley, staring back at him.
"Sam, to be honest, you kind of walked her into it with the whole eyes thing," Hudak remarks. "You led her."
"I didn't lead her, Kathleen," he says curtly, stepping around the woman and changing the subject. "I need to track Dean down. He won't be far from the motel if he's walking. What time does your shift start?"
"Ten…" Hudak starts doubtfully. "But if you're this spooked, are we still going through with this?"
Sam hadn't even thought not to, and he doesn't consider it now. "Yep. You'll meet us at the motel, yeah?"
"Yeah, around nine forty-five I guess," Hudak replies, not all that enthusiastically if Sam is honest, but he ignores her flat tone, starts walking towards the Impala.
"Hey, Sam," she hails from behind him. "What motel are you guys at?"
Sam glances back over his shoulder. "EconoLodge," he calls back. "Room 12."
Dean sees Sam push through the door, and his brother dwarfs everyone else in the bar as he squints through the miasma of blue cigarette fumes and scopes the place. Dean is in a corner booth, and he debates sliding himself down under the table but it's too late, because Sam has a gimlet eye pinning him in place and he's already threading his way through the yokels.
Dean downs the rest of his shot as Sam drops into the seat opposite, pushes an empty glass over towards his brother and sloshes a couple of fingers in there.
"How much have you had?" Sam sharply.
Shrugging, Dean doesn't rise to it. "Just the one as it happens," he says neutrally.
"Glass or bottle?"
"Handle, actually." Dean smirks as Sam's eyebrows shoot up in anger, disgust, whatever. "Chillax, man. Glass. Give me some fuckin' credit." Though he reasons he'll damn well have a couple more to warm him up for later, and not for the first time Dean sends warm thoughts out to his guardian angel for the brand-new liver, because if he was still relying on the old one he'd be on the transplant list by now.
"Kathleen's picking me and Bobby up at nine forty-five," Sam says, more carefully, and he taps his fingers on the table. "And when we spoke to the hooker, she said the guy who picked up this Garner dude had really dark eyes. Shadowed."
"Well, it was dark," Dean suggests, even though his gut is twisting uncomfortably at the vision the revelation provokes. "Maybe they were literally shadowed. As in, in the shadows. You know, of the night."
"But before she said he was standing right under the streetlamp."
Dean flaps a dismissive hand, affects a lack of concern that's totally at odds with his racing heart. "I guess we'll find out if the guy turns up." He pours himself another glass, studies his brother for a minute, and Sam is utterly composed. "You know, the easiest way to get this moving would be for me to take off the hexbag," Dean offers again, and maybe it's a test, he doesn't know.
Sam's doesn't blink. "No. No way, Dean. I told you, we're not taking that risk."
"Not your risk to take, Sam," Dean pushes further. "And you know it's a longshot it's even her."
"But if it is her, it's-" His composure suddenly ruffled, Sam huffs out in frustration. "You against her, it's not a fair fight. I don't care what Cas told you, Dean, you don't have the-"
"Guts?" Dean cuts in. "The guts? Or the juice to kill her?"
Sam sets his jaw. "The resources," he snaps. "No one has the resources to go up against Lilith alone."
Dean meets his brother's gaze head on. "Cas might have. He ganked Alastair, didn't he?" He sits and waits then, waits for Sam to cave, waits for his brother to 'fess up, to lay his cards on the table, to explain, to be honest, to tell him the truth about what he's been doing. And it's suddenly the most important thing in the world to be able to look Sam in the eye and know his brother isn't feeding him a line, to know that when Sam tells him he'll stop, has stopped, he can believe it without a shadow of a doubt, so he can know that when Lilith is squeezing the life from him, gutting him, doing whatever she has planned this time, the dying of the light won't hurt quite so bad because Hell isn't having his brother too.
"I guess Cas could have a plan," Sam says.
"Yeah," Dean responds thinly. "That's what I'm hoping for." He finishes his shot, pushes up, glancing down at his mud and oil-patched jeans. ""I need a shower," he says. "And we need to do laundry."
"Bobby said you were playing football with some kids," Sam says as he falls into step alongside Dean as he threads his way through the bar to the door. "He said he thought they might've broken your nose again there for a second."
As Dean leads them out into the dusk, the night air is cool relief against skin that feels too hot and too tight. "Fuckin' violent," he grunts shortly. "Vicious. Man, we were never that vicious."
His brother snorts. "Maybe it's more a case of our violence being more targeted. You know? Controlled? Directed towards a purpose?"
"Yeah," Dean answers. "I guess I felt pretty vicious from time to time, taking out fuglies."
Sam snickers. "I've never seen anything as bloodthirsty as you on the hunt."
It's nothing Dean doesn't already know, but it gives him a chill inside, makes his heart skip a beat. Maybe that's why, he thinks, and he's thought it before, and he says it now, rasping it out past the lump in his throat. "Maybe that's why I enjoyed it."
He feels a hand on his arm, stopping him.
"I will never believe that," Sam says, and the emotion and resolve in his voice sound genuine. "I will never believe you enjoyed it."
Dean shrugs, starts walking again because he can feel his chest tighten and it's too much.
"Dean, I-"
"It's worth it," Dean finds himself saying. "It's all worth it, Sam, whatever happens. I've been thinking about it… something Cas said, after that Samhain mess." He glances to the side, waits for his brother to bristle, but Sam keeps putting one foot in front of the other and there's no vibe of animosity towards the angel that Dean can sense. "He said we're all his father's creations. Works of art." He laughs, and it's real, for the first time in how long he can't even remember. "Those kids… all they could think about was getting that ball back. They were so alive, so much potential, so much to look forward to. And that makes it worth it for me, and I don't care if this is a one-way flight."
Sam chews his lip, doesn't meet his eyes. "But I care," he mutters.
"I know that," Dean says, soft, because how could he ever really have doubted it. "I do, and I know you mean well. But maybe my time is past and it's their time now… so whatever goes down, here or wherever - I'm good with it, as long as it takes her out of the picture and stops this."
Sam wipes a hand across his eyes and his voice is shaky. "But I can't bear to think of you down there. I… Jesus, Dean. You made that deal for me, and I know why you made it, I know why. Dean, you have to let me-"
"No, Sam," Dean interrupts. "You have to let me do this. It's - redemption. For me, for what I did down there-"
"But it wasn't your fault, Dean."
"I still did it. I have sinned, Sam, like you wouldn't believe, and maybe this is my penance or something." Dean swallows hard. "I started this. And I can't let Hell on Earth happen, and you can't either. So maybe you need to let go of this and let it play out like it's supposed to."
"Like Castiel says," Sam follows up faintly, and now there it is, the tinge of bitterness.
"Like Cas says," Dean repeats. "That's the way it is, Sam, the way it has to be. Promise me you'll let it go." And fuckin' mean it this time, he thinks, and there isn't even anger in it, just tiredness and resignation, and doubt.
Sam looks him in the eye, nods. "I promise."
And Dean wonders if his brother might mean it if he asks him to pinkie promise.
Bobby hammers on the bathroom door, Jesusfuck, and Dean has to scrabble for the grab bar to stop his feet skittering out from under him.
"Kathleen's here," the old man calls in. "We're heading out to get settled in. You know where you're going?"
Eyes wide open, despite the burn of shampoo bubbles. "Yeah," Dean sings out. "Be there in twenty or so."
He finishes rinsing, steps out of the shower, towels off and swipes a hand across the mirror to clear away the steam. He stares at himself and Hell is smirking back at him from bruised, red-rimmed eyes. His skin is gray and washed-out, the shadow of stubble patching his jaw. "I should stop drinking," he tells his reflection. "It's ruining my pretty looks. I should stop drinking and go live life."
Sounds like a plan, he thinks, and he remembers turning up on Hudak's doorstep three years or so before, pouring it all out to her. He wonders idly if she's up for it, up for the job of some broken-down old hunter who drinks a tad too much, but man, he's good with his hands, he'll keep the Jeep and the truck running like clockwork, maybe start up his own autoshop, be his own boss and finish early on Fridays so he can pick up the kids at the bus stop and take them to the practice backstop at the local park to hit baseballs, and then on to meet the woman of the house at Beef O'Brady's for burgers and fries. "We're sticking a DVD on and locking the bedroom door on Sunday mornings," he breathes.
And then he lifts the cord with its hexbag up and over his head, drops it in the sink. "Time for Plan B," he says to the man in the mirror. "Fuckin' loser."
He doesn't give himself time to reconsider, dresses swiftly without thinking about it. Outside crickets shrill at him as he strides to the Impala, fishing his car keys from his pocket as he tugs open her door. Her rumble is as reliably throaty as ever as he eases her out of the parking lot onto the approach road, to head up to the top of the street.
The few anemic streetlamps lining the verge flash in the same instant the engine fizzles and dies. Trash is suddenly blowing all around, and the shrubs and trees that line the road are dancing madly in the wind, because demon, Lilith, Hell, and Sam was right.
Dean finds with an electric shock of realization that he changed his mind somewhere between the motel room and here. He fumbles for his phone, heaves himself up and out of his baby and sprints for his life, and all he can think is CasnowpleaseCasnowpleaseCasCasCaspleaseCas.
He hears the roar coming up behind him, and when he turns, the light blinds him and he freezes, too frightened to run any more. The impact sends pain exploding through every nerve ending, and he welcomes the oblivion that follows hot on its heels.
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