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”I'll see you soon.”
I'll see you soon. That's what Michael says, right after he zaps Dean back to the future, thereby ending their futile attempt to change the past. Well. Anna's attempt, really. Either way, neither of them got what they wanted. Full reset, everything rewound back to heaven's preferred status quo.
They stay in the motel for two days, in a new and bigger room, while Cas is recharging his faulty batteries. It's somewhat odd to see him passed out on a ratty bed while he sleeps his aches away. Like he's normal. Like he's human. The only angel they have on their team, and he’s leaking mojo like a broken can.
It's that thought, more or less, that makes Dean drink himself into oblivion the second night. They're screwed. Taking on the armies of Heaven and Hell with nothing but their wit, a few tricks and spells, and determination that borders on stupidity at their disposal.
Dad always did say Dean's stubbornness would be his doom.
And hey, thinking about Dad right after he had a chat with an archangel wearing his father's skin is another thing that's hella weird. Another fifth, Dean decides, and it's time to pass out.
When he opens his eyes and is back in the Campbell cabin, Sam dead on the ground, Mom passed out in corner next to whatever's left of Anna, he's got a horrible second where he's not sure what's real and what's the dream. Did he never make it home? Is it going to end here and now?
“Don't worry, Dean”, Michael says, in Dad's voice at first, then trailing off into one that sounds familiar but isn't quite the same. He's just out of sight, in the shadows. “You're dreaming. I just thought picking a familiar setting would make it easier for your mind to accept my presence. I will reconsider the next time.”
Dean squints, but he still can't make out more than a silhouette. Somehow, it makes this easier. Doesn't trigger the respect that Dad instilled in him so thoroughly and that apparently works no matter what version of him Dean encounters. “Yeah, very thoughtful of you. If you're waiting for a thanks, I gotta disappoint. You ain't gonna get one. What the fuck do you want?”
“You know what I want from you, Dean. What I need you to do.”
Dean opens his mouth to reply, explain at length and in graphic detail exactly where he can shove that, but finds himself silenced by Micheal's held-up hand.
“I know you're not there yet. You don't believe, and it was foolish of me to think you'd just accept your fate. Neither would I, were anyone else than my father to try and give me orders, and you have been made in my image.”
Bullcrap, all of it. Dean feels anger bubble up inside of him. Made in his image. Tailor-made, he means, like a fitted suit. “Listen, you angelic piece of –“
It seems Michael's not in the mood for a tirade, because next thing he knows, Dean's starting awake, his heart racing and his breath coming too fast. He bangs a fist against his bedside table to let off some steam, feeling instantly guilty when the noise makes Sam stir the other bed.
He thinks about saying something. He does. But they're both still asleep, Cas still looks like something ran him over, and Sam...Well, all Sam needs to worry about is not bending over for his own archangel, no use in him worrying about Dean's as well.
Right now, Dean decides, what they all need is something nice and easy to get their minds off this impending doom business. A case, as simple as possible, that can be wrapped up in a day or two. He fires his laptop up and starts digging.
***
Newton, New Jersey, is a small and quiet town. A little too small for Dean's general taste, but it comes with a legendary haunted house that, according to some stories on the internet, became suddenly active a few weeks ago.
As soon as they're settled in their motel room, Dean spreads his printouts from the other night out on a rickety table by the door. "Compton House, an estate that's been abandoned since the Civil War, after a division of Confederates attacked and slaughtered the owners and most of their servants. Didn't do them much good, they got attacked and slaughtered themselves when local troops took revenge.”
“Plenty of deaths in a short period of time, all of them violent. If the bodies remained there, the place must be crawling with ghosts,” Sam says.
“Yep, some of them did,” Dean confirms. ”Records say the bodies were either burnt or buried in a pit nearby, with the exception of the owners. They were relocated and laid to rest in a cemetery in town after the Union claimed the estate back.”
Sam picks up a printed news article and reads it over. ''Some tame reports of whispering voices and distant screams heard while in the house, nothing worth looking into."
“Until six weeks ago, when a couple from out of town opened the house as a museum. It only took a couple of days for the first unsuspecting history geek to bite it from a sudden and inexplicable heart attack. Four others keeled over dead in there, too, since then.'' Dean shuffles his printouts around until he finds another article, this one more recent, and holds it up for Sam and then Cas to read.
Sam nods. "Okay. Do we have the coroner reports yet, or should we suit up?"
A bit more shuffling, then Dean fishes a stack of paper out of the pile and shoves it toward him. "Got it all covered, brother, don't you worry.''
***
Dean leaves to get food while Sam and Cas are reading what he's found. Newton's offerings when it comes to fast food are limited to say the least. Dean finds a Subway and a Sushi place, and is about ready to give up and hit the nearest gas station when he finds an old-fashioned little diner hidden away between a hardware store and a book shop.
He sighs in satisfaction at the used, faded leather benches inside, the chipped paint on the tables, and the smell of grease a day or two past its prime. Sam gets a salad with egg and bacon – the only one they've got – but ordering for Cas gives him pause. Do angels half-drained of their juice eat? Just in case, he orders a second serving of fries.
When he catches his reflection in the diner's window on the way out, Dean finds it distort, briefly morph into his young father's face with glowing blue eyes.
He quickly looks away.
***
The local coroner is a real boy scout. His reports are lengthy and detailed, come with loads of pictures and toxicology reports. The whole nine, and all of it leads to the same conclusion: sudden heart attacks despite no pre-existing heart conditions. No foul play. Once he writes that his best guess is that they died of fear, though he's discarded that thought as unprofessional.
Which, of course, depends on the profession. From where Dean's standing, it’s a sound theory.
Sam keeps scowling at his salad occasionally, even though he’s already eaten half of it. Now he takes another forkful of bacon and cheese with a hint of wilted lettuce, pauses mid-move to glare at it like it personally offended him, before he stuffs it into his mouth anyway. He's still chewing when he says, "Million dollar question is, which of the ghosts has gone homicidal?"
Dean's been done with his own food for a while, has now moved on to the fries Cas didn't even try. "Let's torch them all."
"No." Sam scowls again, but this time it's at Dean. "Don't you think that'd kinda be overkill?"
Obviously, Dean does not, otherwise he wouldn't have suggested it, but he refrains from pointing that out. "Fine. Then lets check out the museum, see what we find out." He grins, reaches out to wipe his greasy fingers on Sam's flannel. "We better go without ya, though, seeing how geeks like you are the ghost's favorite flavor."
Sam abandons his half-assed scowling in favor of a full-on bitchface, and there's something weirdly satisfying in seeing him do that.
Either way, though, that's for tomorrow; it's way too late to interview anybody today. They all need some sleep. As he drifts off, Dean has the thought that maybe, just maybe, Michael's visit to other night in his dream was just that – a dream, brought on by too much whiskey and time-traveling. It's possible, right? Even in their lives, sometimes the simplest solution is actually the right one.
Well, it makes a nice theory anyway.
It's the cabin, again, although this time it lacks the dead angel and unconscious relatives. Doesn't make the setting any more charming or less unsettling, but Dean supposes that's all the empathy he can expect from an archangel. The man himself is hidden in a half-shadow again, and Dean's not sure if that's another clumsy attempt at making him more comfortable, or if Michael's aiming for some kind of dramatic effect.
If it's the latter, it's actually counterproductive; Dean has a much easier time snarking at the shadow of a thing that's wearing his father. “If you think you can eventually monologue me into submission when you just try often enough, I got news for you. It's not going to work.”
“Ah, Dean,” comes the toneless voice, and it makes the hairs on the back of Dean's neck stand on end. “I want to prove to you that I'm not your enemy. I can be useful to you. I can help you.”
Yeah, sure, and no ulterior motives whatsoever. “How?”
“Don't trust the woman with the bird,” Michael says, sounding amused and somewhat mocking. Poster boy for sincerity, right there.
“The what? Is this a riddle? Buddy, if that's you being helpful, I don't wanna know what you spout when you're aiming for confusing.”
And the fucker has the audacity to laugh. Actually laugh, not just a mild chuckle. “It won't make sense to you right now, but it will in time.”
Dean's actively considering punching him in the face, archangel or no, but he wakes up before he gets the chance.
***
They do go without Sam. Dean'd kinda been kidding when he suggested so, but one of the victims was a local, and Dean managed to reroute Sam to interviewing her husband. Just to be safe. He's not taking any chances, not with his brother's life.
Remembering the last time he took Cas on an interview, Dean's got a few ground rules though. "You don't talk. Not a single fucking word, you understand?"
Defiance flickers in Cas's eyes, like he's going to argue, but he doesn't. He nods, solemn and slow.
Satisfied, Dean pats him on the back and then leads the way to the museum's entrance. After all the bad press, there are more employees around than visitors, and it doesn't take them long to locate the owners. Dean flashes his badge, reaching out to stop Cas as discreetly as possible when he sets out to do the same. "We just have a few quick questions, if you don't mind."
The husband peers at the badge like a rabbit at a snake. "Yes, sure, of course. Anything we can do to help. Right, Maureen?"
She shoots him a scathing glare, then directs it at Dean. "I still don't get what you're hoping to find. Heart attacks, all of them, the police already said so. We didn't have nothing to do with that."
Her accent is thick and Southern, a little too reined in to be Hillbilly, but not far off. "We're just making sure. Routine investigation."
She shakes her head with gusto before she whirls around to march away, and that, finally, draws Dean's attention to the dove-shaped pendant on her necklace as it jingles with the harsh movement.
***
They find Sam already back when they return to the motel. His interview with the dead geek lady's husband was rather fruitless and he's frowning something fierce, most likely aware that it was little more than occupational therapy to keep him away from the museum.
That's probably part of why he gets argumentative when Dean suggests that the rude museum owner has something to do with the deaths. He alternately glares at Dean over his closed laptop and looks the other way. “Oh, and why is that? What'd she say?”
"I dunno. Nothing. Got a bad feeling about her, is all," Dean mutters, throwing his jacket onto his bed. "She gives me the creeps."
He's tired of this conversation already, and it's lasted barely two minutes.
Sam sighs. "You didn't find anything that points to her, though? In the museum?"
"Nothing at all. But I'm telling you – "
Sam opens the laptop, lets his thumb dance over the touch pad to bring it back to life. "Alright, okay. Can't hurt to look into her, see what we dig up."
It didn't use to be like this. There had been a time when they went with each others’ intuitions without having to discuss them first. Granted, this isn't intuition at all, but Sam doesn't need to know that. Dean thinks about Michael's voice from his dream, toneless and yet still mocking, and has to suppress a shudder.
"Yeah. You do that," he says, the motel room suddenly too small, too confined, like the walls are about to cave in on him. He can't even say why, the dream certainly wasn't that scary when it happened, but he needs out. It'll probably result in a sour look from Sam, another complaint about how Dean treats him like a kid, orders him around and then bails. Whatever, so be it. "I'm going for a drive."
Sam does make a face, though he seems to know better than to say anything. Cas looks after Dean with a long, concerned glance that burns on Dean's back as he leaves.
He doesn't know how long he's gone, driving around with the windows down and the music turned on high. Unwanted memories poke at his brain – not just Michael, Dean's certainly got quite the collection even without dream-walking archangels. He turns the music up another notch, and keeps on driving.
When he gets back to the motel, Sam's hit the jackpot. He stands the second Dean enters the room, has begun to share the info he's found before Dean's out of his jacket. Been a while since Sam's been this eager, and Dean can't say he minds.
"The couple's not from around here, not even close. Neither of them, actually. He's from Washington, and she's from some small town in Alabama. So, what the hell made them buy an old house up here and open it as a museum, I thought?" Sam's eyebrows go up excitedly, like a dog with a bone.
Dean feels a grin form in response, can't not, really. Sam's moods have always been contagious for him, for better or worse. "I have a feeling you're about to solve that mystery for us."
"Town she's from? Was the hometown to most of the Confederate troops that died here. She's a direct descendant of one of them. Big shot down there, her family owns race horses or something." He pauses to let that sink in. "But that's not all. I found an article from her college, speculating about a sorority holding black masses. And her name's in it."
Dean motions for the computer so he can read it himself, and Sam hands it over to him with an eyeroll.
There she is, with a photo, even. She's younger, and it's black and white and grainy as fuck, but unmistakably her. "A witch out for revenge, huh?"
Sam shrugs. “Looks like it.”
That's when Cas seems to remember that he's not invisible or something, and apparently decides it's time to insert himself in the conversation. “What will we do with her, then? If I remember correctly, you aren't very fond of killing witches.”
Dean doesn't even want to know what Cas's stance on that front is, whether he agrees or not, or doesn't particularly care. “We'll have words with her, try to talk her out of it, put the fear of God into her, some shit like that.”
Cas inclines his head. “And that usually works?”
Of course he'd ask that, and the funny thing is he likely doesn't even mean it to be confrontational; he's probably just curious. Dean sends a look to Sam, seeking assistance, but that doesn't earn him anything more than a shoulder shrug and a gleeful grin. Very helpful. “Mostly. Sometimes. Whatever, we'll improvise.”
***
They drive over in silence, and Dean's all too aware of the gun he's hiding in his jacket. Improvising, he’d said. And he’d meant that. Offing her will be the last resort.
Goddammit, he hates witches.
As soon as they're back at the museum and have found the owners once more, Sam leads the husband away, engaging him in conversation about fuck knows what, so Dean and Cas can talk to the wife alone. Dean'd prefer to have Sam with him, he's more experienced and Dean trusts him more when it comes to judgment calls in cases like this, but then he'd have to send Cas off with the husband, which... Yeah. No. Let's not.
As soon as the two are out of earshot, Dean closes the door to the tiny office and leans against it from the inside. “So, how'd you do it? The ghosts? Some sort of spell, hm?”
Her eyes go wide, then narrow. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Now, see, I think you do. Maureen, was it? We looked into your background. You made quite a name for yourself in college, didn't you?”
She takes in a breath, like she's about to launch into a lengthy denial, but then she puffs it out. “Yeah, okay. You made me. But I won't take it back. They deserve this.”
Of course, that'd be too easy. “Who does? It's been centuries. The people here, and those visiting the museum, they're not responsible for what happened back then.”
“Someone's got to be held responsible. Someone's got to pay,” Maureen says, but it lacks conviction. Dean doesn't think she has serious moral concerns here, or that this is really about exacting revenge for relatives long since dead and buried. She's doing it because she can. Because she wants to. He feels for the gun hidden underneath his jacket again, curses when her eyes fall down to where his hand moves beneath the leather.
Without warning, she turns and throws a chair, which also catches a shelf in the narrow space of the office and brings it down. Dean has to jump to the side to avoid the books tumbling off the wall, drawing Cas with him, and she uses the time to fish something out of her desk that looks suspiciously like a couple of hex bags.
Before Dean has his gun out in the open and ready, she's holding one of them out, a lighter in her other hand. “I'll call them here. You'll be dead before you –“
She doesn't get to finish the sentence, or light the flame. The gunshot sounds too loud in the small room, like it's bouncing off the walls. It wasn't Dean's gun, either; he didn't even know that Cas brought one, or that he was resorting to such earthly weapons.
Cas, on the other hand, doesn't show any reaction, just puts away his gun and starts to dig around in the desk, standing above the body. He raises his eyebrows at Dean. “Will you help me look for her spell book? We need to undo whatever she did to bind the ghosts to her will.”
Yeah, that or return to door number one and roast them all on a slow flame. But whatever, Cas has a point, the ghosts never harmed anyone under their own volition, not until Maureen interfered, and this is probably faster anyway. Attracts less attention too, it's not like they've got much time now that someone's dead.
Right before they beat it, Dean sends a text to Sam to warn him against entering the office, tells him to make a run for it immediately and join them by the car.
***
Dean's got cold sweat running down his back the whole drive back to the motel, and it doesn't ease until they're several miles out of town. They've got to go back at some point, later, to burn her body once the police give up and she's buried. But not anytime soon, not when they could be identified by the husband.
What a damn mess.
It's a long while before he deems it safe to stop and get a bed for the night. He doesn't listen to Cas and Sam as they check out the spell book, talking animatedly from back seat to front seat. They seem to have found the right spell to reverse hers and unbind the ghosts by the time Dean leaves the highway, and Cas leaves to collect the ingredients, or so he says. Looks like the angel express is still in business, at least.
There's no way to know if the counter spell worked, but leaving that thread dangling is better than risking a murder conviction. Sometimes things don't tie up all neat and easy, but that's the job, or at least that's what he tells Cas and Sam after it's all done.
If only he'd believe his own bullshit.
***
”I just want you to understand what you and I have to do.”
Dean's not at all surprised when his dreams take him back to the cabin that night. It's completely dark this time, save for the spot where Dean's standing. He keep spinning around, trying to figure out where Michael is, from which corner his voice will come, but when he does speak, it’s from no direction. It's like Michael’s all around him, in him, resounding in his head. “You caught her. See? I told you I wanted to help.”
They're done with the charade of talking to another human being, then.
“Oh, thanks a bunch.” Dean can't help it, keeps looking around for a point, something to talk at. “We'd have gotten to her anyway. It's our job.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Isn't it good you didn't have to take any more risks, though? It was close enough a call as it was. But don't worry, I'll make this go away. I will make sure no harm comes to you.”
There's no arguing that, sure. But close calls are part of the business. “So that's what this about? Risk-free hunting? No more scratches on your precious vessel?”
“Dean,” Michael says. He draws the word out, makes it sound like Dad would when Dean didn't manage to wrap his head around a new task fast enough. “You have to stop assuming that I'm working against you. I'm not. I want us to work together. The only chance we have at saving the world is if we do it as a joint force. You and me. The body and the spirit.”
And that's a load of crap if Dean ever heard one. “Yeah, you riding my ass totally sounds like teamwork.”
“You don't want to understand.” Dean's not sure if Michael actually sighs, or if his mind adds that by itself, dream and memory superimposing. “This is who you're supposed to be. What you're meant for. It's fate. Your fate, my fate, Sam's and Lucifer's fates. Fighting it will only make things worse. You need to stop, both of you.”
“Not a fucking chance,” Dean says, balling his fists by his side.
“You're not ready. But you will be.”
The light around Dean starts to fade, like the spotlight dying in a theater. It has him terrified of what's going to happen once it's gone completely, but to his immense relief he starts awake before that happens. The remaining light is replaced by the much less intimidating darkness of their hotel room. Only one angel around in here, and that's the one snoring on the bare ground between his own bed and Sam's, after insisting all evening he didn't need to sleep anymore, he's recovering, it will be fine.
Now the sound's a comfort. It shouldn't be, yet another reminder that Cas is running on low battery, not that much more help to them than Bobby or Rufus. But in comparison, Dean'd take him over the unwanted help of an archangel any day.
As if he noticed the attention, Cas stirs. A few times rolling this way or that, and then he's awake, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “You're awake.”
His voice is thick with sleep, and he generally looks like he's five. It's endearing. Sort of.
“Very perceptive,” Dean says. “So're you.”
Cas head does that half-tilt again, like he's trying to look deeper at the person opposite him than the human eye allows. Like he's looking into someone's soul – mostly Dean's, let's be honest – and considering what he is, that might very well be the case. “There's something on your mind.”
A year or two ago, that would have terrified Dean. Hell, if someone'd asked him last week, he'd claimed that it made him uncomfortable. It doesn't, though, he finds now. There's probably not much left to see within him that Cas hasn't laid eyes on at some point or other. That's why Dean doesn't lie. Not much, anyway. “Yeah. I'm just... Cas, when you guys sleep-walk in someone's dreams, is that actually you? Or is it, like. Just an imagination?”
“It's not our physical selves, if you will, although those are more complicated than your language has the words to explain,” Cas replies, sitting up and straightening out his tie. “But it's our grace, so yes. For all intents and purposes, if I were to walk in your dreams again, it would actually be me you'd talk to. Why do you ask?”
There's honesty, and then there's more of it than Dean can stomach. “Nothing, just... Did Sam tell you that Lucifer visited him? Appeared to him as Jess and all?”
“Not with as many words.” Cas's eyes narrow. “Dean, are you sure you're alright? You seem upset.”
“We're in the middle of an apocalypse. I'd say upset is the least I should be.” Dean feigns a yawn of his own, rubs at his eyes even though the last thing he wants is to go back to sleep. But he doesn't like the direction the conversation's taking, and he doesn't care if Cas knows he's faking it. “And you know what else I should be? Asleep.”
“I guess so. And I will resume my search. I feel well rested, and I'm of little use to you here,” Cas says to Dean's back as Dean rolls over. Dean can hear him as he makes to get up, and there's that feeling again, as if his gaze crawls underneath Dean's skin.
He should tell him that's bullshit, he's useful, they need him, and more so, Dean wants him around, because all of that is true. He could also tell him that he knows Cas is lying, that he's not back to full energy yet, might never be. But instead, Dean just grunts, and a few seconds later there's the flapping sound of wings and Cas is gone.
***
Their second horseman is considerably more creepy than their first, and Dean decides then and there that he has little to no interest in meeting the other two. Not that he's got a choice. Which is funny, because the reason they're in this fight in the first place is his – or well, their – insistence that they do have choice. They can choose to say no. They can choose to give Heaven and Hell the finger. They can choose to find their own way out of this mess.
They can choose to end up where they started.
Sam keeps screaming his name. He's begging for help that Dean knows he can't give. They're trying to save the world. A fucking joke, that's what this is. What good is he to the world at large if he can't even help his brother, can't save him from hurting himself?
Cas won't shut up either, doesn't seem to realize that he's not helping right now. Dean knows what they locked in there isn't really Sam. He knows Sam agreed to it this time, and he knows there won't be any resentment when he's out. Well, no more than there already is, at least. That's not the fucking point.
The point is that Dean doesn't know what he's supposed to do. Famine was right; his will to fight comes from an empty place. It's the only thing he still knows how to do. He is going through the motions, hoping to happen upon the solution to all this along the way. He's still fighting because the opposite is unimaginable. The second he gives up on that, he'll fall in on himself like a house of cards.
When Dean goes out into the yard he doesn't realize what he's going to do. He's still not aware of it when he says the words, prays to no one and everyone for help he doesn't actually expect to come.
It's not until he's on his ways back in, eyes sore from crying and clutching an empty bottle with a shaking hand, that he knows who he just called out to.
He lies down on Bobby's couch, closes his eyes, and waits.
***
”It's a plan that is playing itself out perfectly.”
This time it's not the Campbell cabin. Dean doesn't recognize the place. Could be anywhere: a generic long hallway, dirty white walls, no wallpaper. It looks like a hundred buildings he's seen over the years, and like none in particular at the same time.
Michael sits in a corner once more, hidden from view, just the vague shape of him discernible from Dean's angle. He doesn't say anything, but Dean knows he's being looked at. It's different than when Cas does it; here, he feels like he's being evaluated, measured and weighed, and probably about to be declared unworthy.
“No sales pitch today?” Dean asks, made nervous by the silence, needing to hear something even if it's the sound of his own voice.
The figure turns its head. He looks familiar, but Dean can't quite place who he's looking at. The voice, though, when it comes, sounds like his own. Dean chalks that up to it being inside his head. Sort of. “Do I need one? You called out to me.”
That, while true, stops Dean dead. Words, sentences, quips, they wash over his tongue like waves onto a beach but he's choking on them, can't get them out. He doesn't want to be here. He doesn't want to be there either, listening to Sam as he screams and begs.
“Dean, you can't continue to run. You need to make a decision. Sooner or later, Lucifer will be ready, and if we aren't as well, the battle will be lost,” Michael-with-Dean's-voice says. The tone isn't anything like what Dean would ever use, imploring, oozing false sympathy. At least, Dean thinks it's false. He can't be sure.
This is something he can reply to, though, something to run himself raw against, protest and deny. He's good at that. “In case you missed that memo, I already made my decision. And letting you slip inside of me ain't part of it.”
“Ah.” Dean can't make out the lines of his face, but he knows the thing's smiling. “'Is that why you're here right now? Why you called? Because you decided to stay away from me?”
Answering that would mean giving his own intentions a good, hard look, and Dean just can't.
The smile dies, makes room for an expression not unlike what the he imagined for the kind of angel his mother used to tell him bedtime stories about. “I want to help you. And I can. I will give you purpose, I will help you fulfill your destiny, but Dean, you have to let me.”
And suddenly the word is dancing on Dean's lips, without him knowing how it got there. He wants to. Every fiber of his being wants to say it. Give up. Let someone else take over the wheel, just for a little while. He remembers Alastair, telling him yes, and how easy it was. How good it felt. A relief far beyond any other emotion he ever had, surpassing pain and anguish and setting him free.
That's when Michael steps out of the shadows, leaving Dean to stare back at his own face. He lets it sink in, silent, hands in the pockets of a simple black jacket Dean misplaced years ago, a pair of dark-brown wings folded behind him. There's a fresh, bloody handprint on the wall to his right, and yes, Dean remembers now.
The first hunt Dean shouldered completely on his own, while Sam was at Stanford, and it was a complete disaster. A Kappa, a vicious little thing, and way out of his league at the time. He thought he was dealing with a water ghost, expected drownings or the like. Took too long to regroup and adjust when the thing started taking people to fucking eat them. Three dead high school girls later he figured it out, but not before the Kappa treated him to the sight of their bodies torn and bled dry in a decrepit old cellar. This cellar.
He wants to puke. He did, back then. Retched and retched, until his stomach was empty and cramping. Later, he burned the bodies in that exact spot, to get rid of the evidence, not sure if he wanted to hide it from the police or his father.
Michael clears his throat. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. But there's a lesson to be learned, here. You need to understand – “
“The fuck do I need,” Dean rasps, and pinches himself in the arm, hard as he can, twice, three times.
He doesn't think he's ever been so relieved to wake up to Bobby's dusty, messy living room.
***
Dean doesn't go back to the panic room, isn't sure he can stand another round of Sam calling out for him. He relocates to the desk and busies himself with some of Bobby's books – must really be the end of days if he turns to a tome with biblical prophecies for distraction – but he's not alone for long.
Cas doesn't bother to announce himself, he's just suddenly there, peering over Dean's shoulder, making him jump. “Jesus goddamn fucking christ. Don't do that!”
“You're not supposed to use the name of the lord like that,” Cas says, with a completely straight face, and yet Dean's not sure if it's meant as a rebuff, or if Cas actually just tried to crack a joke. He does what he usually does in that case: he ignores it.
“How is he? Sam, I mean.”
Cas cuts his eyes away, sending a glance to the door that leads downstairs. “Not much better. But I noticed you were up, and I figured...” He trails off, ends his sentence with an imploring look instead, first at Dean, then at the bottle still sitting next to the sofa, and back. “But don't worry, I... You might say, I still have an eye out for your brother.”
“What, did you think I'd drink myself to death in the middle of Armageddon?” Dean asks, rubbing his eyes. God, he hopes his angel-infested nap at least made his eyes less bloodshot, erased all evidence of his crying jag out in the yard. “Miss all the fun yet to come?”
Cas doesn't dignify that with a reply, just huffs and inches closer again, like he's trying to read along with the book Dean's got.
Rolling his eyes, Dean closes it and shoves it at him. “Here. All yours.”
They sit like that for a while – Dean on the chair in front of the desk, Cas perched on its surface and reading – until Dean gets fed up with the silence. He thinks he can hear an echo of Sam screaming, even up here, but he's not sure.
“Any luck with finding the old man with the beard? New leads? Something?”
Cas looks up, eyebrows knitting together in either confusion or annoyance, and shakes his head. “God isn't anywhere I have looked so far, if that's what you mean.”
It's kind of admirable, the trust Cas has in his old man. As if he'd just need to find him, and then everything will be okay. He'd take care of things, fix it all. There used to be a time when Dean held a similar belief, and look where it had got them. “Are you really sure that he'll... I dunno. It's his game, the other angels are just following his playbook. Are you sure he's going to stop them?”
There's a pause, then a heavy sigh, before Cas replies. “I know you don't understand faith. It doesn't mean anything to you, but it means everything to me. The God I was taught to love, he may have come up with the plan for the apocalypse, but he wouldn't agree with how it is being executed. There must be a reason why he left. And I believe – no, I know – that he wouldn't want it to happen like this.”
He puts the book away, hand lingering on its cover, and takes to staring out of the window. It must be approaching sunrise now, but the world outside is still dipped into greyscaled darkness. Dean wonders what he sees there, or if he sees anything at all, right now. “You know what? If you believe it, then I believe it too.”
Cas's turns his head slowly. “You do?”
Dean nods. Funny thing is, he really means that. Fuck Michael, fuck Lucifer, fuck the angelic goons. He's not going to bend over for anyone, and he could use a little help from someone who doesn't want him to. “Yeah. I will, from now on. We'll find him, okay? And then he'll fix it. He'll fix this whole goddamn mess.”
For a moment, Dean could swear there's a smile trying to appear on Cas's lips, but then he picks the book back up, resumes reading and Dean can't see his face anymore in the weak light of the desktop lamp.
***
Things sort of go okay for a week or two after that. Sam recovers, and they get back on the road just to hightail it back into town a few days later to investigate a zombie infestation right at Bobby's doorstep. It doesn't take a genius to figure out they're unwanted after Bobby’s burned his wife's body for the second time, though, and no one has to tell them he won't be much in the mood for company that's not blond and named Karen.
They leave shortly after the deed is done, drive aimlessly until Dean books them into a motel that opened in the seventies and got stuck there: faded wallpaper with wavy, psychedelic patterns and cheap plastic furniture with chipped paint in unmatched colors, worn carpet that's down to almost nothing in the spaces between the beds. Dean didn't have the foresight to stock up on booze, but that's fine; he hasn’t planned on falling asleep for long anyway. As he feels himself drift, he wishes that Hell instead of Heaven would visit his dreams.
His eyes blink open way before sunrise to Sam looming over him with that ruffled look that tells Dean he screamed them both awake. Sam stuffs him back into the car with a yawn and insists on driving until at least noon. Dean lets him, digs out his laptop, clicks around without any real motivation to find them a job for most of the rest of the day.
That night, Sam heads him off as Dean takes advantage of their gas station run to stock up on the good stuff. He suggests a deal: if Dean sticks to beer instead of the hard stuff as a sleeping aid, he'll join him. They'll watch TV, get sauced, like back before Sam left for college. He wasn't quite of age yet, but kept nagging at Dean until he got them a six pack or two – the kind of thing that's fun simply because you're not supposed to do it, not even with John Winchester for a father. Dean'd argue, then do it anyway, and laugh his ass off while he accused Sam of being a lightweight.
It's not quite as much fun this time, forced and hollow, but Dean saw that one coming. What he didn't see coming was waking up to have the barrel of Roy Hartford's shotgun shoved into his face.
***
”Free will is an illusion. That's why you're going to say yes.”
Dean comes to sore and hungover, catches himself thinking that Joshua could've at least purged last night's alcohol from his system before sending them back. Thanks for nothing. Then again, what else would he expect of another dickbag angel?
Heaven can go fuck itself, really, though that's kinda old news.
But it's hardly the first time Dean's woken up to an aching body and a twisted stomach, so he'll soldier on. He calls Cas, watches Cas' face fall and his precious faith shatter when he delivers the news: God doesn't care.
Later, back on the road, Sam knows better than to mention the amulet in the trash can, or his joy at flying solo in heaven. He sits in the car, eyes down, hands in his lap, like a beaten dog. Of course he's sorry. Dean knows he is. But this isn't even something he needs to be sorry about; it's something that's inherent to him. Not his fault, in the end. Just the way he's built.
Another motel, generic and cheap, and Dean doesn't even try to fight off falling asleep. He knows what's coming, and Michael doesn't disappoint.
They're in a garden this time, and unlike last time, Dean recognizes it immediately. 2014, another version of him dead around the corner, Lucifer-Sam in a white suit.
He looks around, but he's alone. There's no one else here. “This is kinda lame, don't you think?”
Michael answers as a second voice in Dean's head. “You know this is how it's going to go. You know he will say yes. Lucifer was right about one thing: all roads will lead to the same destination, because Sam will always agree to be his vessel. He's not strong enough to resist, and you know it.”
It should be disturbing, how familiar and right this feels, Michael's presence within him, but Dean can't quite work up enough energy to be upset by it. “I picked him back up. As long as we're together –“
“Do you believe that? Dean, be honest. Do you?”
No. He doesn't. Not anymore, not after the clear picture that Sam's heaven painted. They're not a team, maybe they never were. He doesn't answer out loud, knows he doesn't need to.
“I meant every word I said. This is a partnership. I don't want to work against you, I don't want you empty and dormant while we do what we were both created for. And I'm going to prove it to you one more time.”
The scenery changes, and when his surroundings resettle, he's in a motel room similar to the one he went to sleep in. But the two sleeping figures in the beds are not him and Sam.
“Where are we?” he asks, feeling stupid but unable to shake the habit. “Who's this?”
The room explodes with white light, bright and blinding, until it dims to a level that doesn't hurt Dean's eyes but still illuminates every last corner of the room. Dean walks around the bed closer to him, and yeah, now he recognizes the face of the person sleeping in it, like he doesn't have a care in the world. Roy. He checks the other bed to be sure, and yeah, that's unmistakably Walt.
“Is this real?” The very moment he says it, Dean decides he doesn't even care. Whether or not these are really Walt and Roy or just another sideshow doesn't matter. He's going to off them either way.
“No sideshow, no tricks,” replies the voice, turning Dean's head. “This is really Roy Hartford, and that's really Walt Morgan. I understand. They shot your brother, they shot you. I know what you need to do, and I'll take care of their bodies after.”
Dean has his gun out before Michael's finished that sentence.
***
”You can't fight city hall.”
When all this started, right after the convent and the warehouse and finding out about this whole vessel-of-heaven business, Dean might've bought into a whole town being singled out and protected by heaven. But that's not their style, is it? Heaven hasn't been all that proactive so far, apart from trying to make him bend over so they can get their Celebrity Death Match on the road. There's absolutely no fucking reason why they'd go and save a few people in a no-name town in the middle of Minnesota.
Some people might call that being bitter. Dean calls it being realistic.
Still, hunting in a bigger group has its perks. There's a moment or two when he considers staying, for a while, but that thought's out of the window when they lose the kid. Dylan. He couldn't have been older than seventeen, maybe eighteen, and no matter what the townspeople say, the way they look at Dean and Sam after sends a clear message: he might still be alive if it hadn't been for the two of you. We handed him over to you for all of five minutes, and you got him killed.
They're making it worse, fighting a losing battle, and he doesn't need the advice of a teenage girl with a hotline to heaven to know that. He's known for a while. He just didn't have the balls to face it.
After he talked to Leah-the-prophet, Dean returns to their room to find it empty. He's glad. Saves him from having to pull some bullshit out of his ass to make Sam leave, or have his next little archangel nap in the car. It takes him a while to drift off, not at all tired, laying in the dark with his eyes closed like a kid that got sent to bed too early and tries to be good by willing himself to sleep.
Michael has him come to in the middle of a field. Corn, still young and green, weaving in a breeze, the sun setting on the horizon and painting the sky red and orange; he'd call it idyllic, if he was into shit like that. He'd wonder what the fuck this means, putting him in the middle of a landscape painting, but hey. One thing Michael hasn't proven to be is subtle, so it probably won't be long until he gets clued in.
“You're still not sure,” Micheal says, from within Dean's own mind. “Torn up between what you want and what you know has to be done.”
It's a statement, not a question. The line between the two of them, where Dean ends and Michael starts, has gotten a lot less clear in the past few weeks. Maybe that was the point of this whole exercise, wearing him down, getting him used to it, but even if that's true, he doesn't care. Not right now. Not anymore.
“How many of them are going to die? Just... how bad is it going to be?”
Dean feels his feet move without his say-so, make a half circle so he can overlook the other half of the field. No more than a few seconds have passed, but the sky has gotten darker, hiding a silhouette not far from where he's standing, and Dean has to squint to make out what it is.
It's all him who takes an involuntary step back when he recognizes the shape as a pile of bodies. A huge one, some smaller, some bigger, some wearing foreign dresses, some looking like he could've passed them on the street mere hours ago. Dead men, women, children; and so many of them.
There's the sensation of a hand coming to rest on his shoulder, even though he knows there's no one there, no one but him and the angel inside of his head. “These are the ones that die, but so many more will survive to experience heaven on earth.”
Dean wants to puke. He's crouching down and holding a hand in front of his mouth before he knows it, arm reached out to support his weight when his legs refuse to.
“There's no other way. It's still less than the number of people who'll die if Lucifer's plans are fruitful, and you know it. Dean. You've seen that, too.”
Croatoan, camps, the army cleansing cities, another version of himself shooting a comrade in cold blood as a preemptive measure. Yeah, he's seen it. But he thought he’d stopped it.
“I wish that were true. Even though I know you don't believe me, I do wish there was an alternative. But there isn't. We want the same, Dean. Save the world, not destroy it, and this is the only way.”
He sounds so sorry, so crestfallen, that Dean almost believes him. But it doesn't really matter. Michael might tell the truth or serve him a big, steaming plate of bullshit. The result is the same, and either way, Dean’s made his decision. He did so before he lay down and closed his eyes. “Okay, well then. Yes.”
“You'll need to say it when you’re awa–“
“Yeah, I know. I have some things to take care off first, can't just bail, and I want to...” Dean doesn't even know what it is that he wants. More time. To say goodbye to the few people left that he still cares for, outside of Sam. Something. “But I'll do it. Okay? I'll do it.”
With the next blink, he's back in the real world. He listens to Sam beg him to go on. He tells Cas a thing or two about deadbeat dads. He stabs a whore.
And then he runs.