ten thousand miles [spn][three]
Jul. 5th, 2009 12:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mimblexwimble
On February 3rd, Bela shows up, uninvited.
Dean is surprised. He’s been expecting Ruby, sure, because her supernatural antennae should have started twitching by now with the way she’s been stalking Sam the past few months – but Bela? She doesn’t need them (Sam). She doesn’t just pop up out of nowhere.
I hear you’ve been having problems, she says as she walks in and throws her bag on the bed closest to the door. Nice room, by the way, she adds, eyeing the half-wall by the door and its hex bag motif.
Where’d you hear that? asks Dean, holding the door open in the hopes that something will reach through and pull Bela back into whatever cesspool she crawled out from.
I have my sources, replies Bela. Anyway, coming here wasn’t exactly to my disadvantage.
Let me guess, says Dean, closing the door behind her. You’ve already cased the joint.
Of course, replies Bela smugly. Nothing particularly valuable – one of the talismans in the case behind the reception desk looked interesting though.
She takes off her coat and throws it across a chair, glances at the open laptop on the table. Wasn’t Bobby here with you?
He’s on a hunt, says Dean, not asking how she knows as he walks over to the table and pushes the laptop’s screen down. What do you want, Bela?
Well, says Bela, isn’t it obvious? I want to help you.
Bullshit, says Dean.
I can help you find Sam.
And that’s even more bullshit, but Dean can’t stop the question slipping from his mouth. You know where he is?
No, admits Bela. But we can ask the spirit world. They often have helpful information.
I already called a friend of mine – she had nothing. And she’s a psychic.
Is she? Well, how peachy for her. Bela sits down on the bed, catches sight of the empty whiskey bottle on the bedside table, but doesn’t mention it. Do you want my help or not?
Missouri did a séance a day after Dean called and reported back that she hadn’t managed to contact Sam or anyone who knew Sam. She had hunters in the area on alert. She’d visited their old house, in case Sam had been around. Jenny hadn’t seen him.
Dean doesn’t know that Bela can do better, doesn’t even think she can, but if there’s any hope…
What’s the catch? asks Dean eventually, because there has to be one.
Bela gets a smirk on her face that makes Dean wonder what kind of life she had as a kid, because no one’s born with that kind of smile.
I want what’s in your safe, she says simply.
Dean grins sardonically, feels like his face might crack because he’s so out of practice. There’s nothing in my safe, sweetheart.
What kind of idiot do you take me for, Dean?
Dean stares at her long and hard. How do you even know about the Colt?
Like I said, I have my sources. You should know that by know, after that Gordon business.
Dean shakes his head in disbelief. If whatever spirit that told you this wasn’t already dead…
Yes, yes – you’d rip his head off or some such thing. Let’s skip the violence, shall we?
I’m not giving you the Colt, says Dean. He’s not going to give anyone the Colt. That gun is their only miracle and he’ll keep his Vulcan death grip on it, thank you very much.
Bela cocks an eyebrow. I’m surprised, Dean. I would have thought Sam was more important to you than some gun.
Dean feels fire rise in his throat. He narrows his eyes at Bela, say, Get out.
Have I hit a nerve? Bela’s smirk is too pleased.
Dean walks over to the door, yanks it open.
Bela sighs, rolls her eyes and stands. I’ll give you the night to think it over, then. I’m in room seven.
She picks up her coat and bag and walks out. Dean slams the door behind her.
-
That night he dreams of a river, rushing but still murky and brown. It smells like decaying flesh and drying blood and every piece of vermin ever to walk on Earth. The sky’s a deep shade of red and the sun is nowhere in sight. Sam’s standing next to Dean, staring at the water.
When do you think he’ll get here? Sam asks, and Dean frowns.
When will who get here?
Charon, says Sam, as if Dean should know this already. The ferryman.
Dean looks downriver, the wide, wide river, but sees nothing and nobody. It’s just him and Sam.
Why are we here? he asks Sam though he doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want an answer. His heart is lodged firmly in his throat. It’s radiating cold, painful fear.
Sam looks up at the sky. The wind lifts his hair, until his bangs are whipping back and forth; he looks eerie, unearthly. There are trees on either bank of the river; they have large golden leaves. The jagged peaks of black mountains are visible in the distance. It all makes Dean feel ill.
Waiting for the ferryman, says Sam. Dean hears something like weariness in his voice, and longing. And then Sam turns, looks right into Dean’s eyes. You need to ask me something.
It’s not a question, more of a command.
What? Dean shakes his head, confused. The river laps at his feet. He feels it pulling at him, beckoning to him, come, come. For a moment, he wants to, wants to step in so badly that he finds himself leaning toward the water. His amulet peeks out from behind the lapels of his jacket and glints in the dead glow that surrounds them, light coming from God knows where.
Sam’s fingers curl around his wrist. Dean moves back, looks at Sam.
You need to ask me something, Sam says again, oh so gently, to the rustling of the unearthly trees behind them. He looks expectant, even hopeful, but his eyes are tried and broken.
Dean looks away and shakes his head. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t have anything to ask. His mind is impossibly blank.
Sam opens his mouth to say something else – and right then, Dean wakes up.
The alarm clock on the night stand is glowing. It reads 3:57 AM.
-
Come the fuck on, he says under his breath and it’s more of a prayer than anything he’s said before in his life. It feels like a lifetime’s passed since he buried the little tin box with his picture in it, with a handful of unspeakable things that probably shouldn’t be stashed away in the depths of someone’s duffel bag. It feels like a lifetime and then some.
The arsenal that used to call the Impala’s trunk home is still in the shady back alley storage compound and all Dean has with him at the motel is two pistols (one for regular bullets, one for silver), a shotgun (for salt) an iron knife and, of course, the Colt. There’re also a few bottles of holy water under the bed, but aside from the Colt, which is tucked snugly in his waistband, none of those things are going to be much help here.
It’s freezing and Dean wishes he hadn’t run out of the motel without a jacket, just a box and a photo and a Ziploc full of the occult pushed deep into the pocket of his jeans. He’s wound tight, paces back and forth as the wind hums and the leaves on the nearby trees shiver and the yellow flowers dotting the roadside sway to the tune.
He wants to shout but he doesn’t think he can, doesn’t think he still possess the ability. Not right now, at this moment, at least. He feels drained, but tense at the same time. His heart is fluttering not beating, vague whispers inside his chest that he can’t really feel despite the fact that he’s scared and panicky and edging closer and closer to utter despair. Everything’s vague, dulled; emotions, actions, the people he sees every day, his surroundings. Softer than usual, like someone’s put a damper on them. It’s him, he knows. Only him, and he wonders if this is how a ghost feels, when they’re in pure spirit form and nobody can see them, but they can see everybody; gray and flickering and colorless, always on the brink of volcanic violence, able to feel it under their nails, but never quite there.
He thinks that if he tried, right at this moment, he could probably manage the whole walking-through-walls thing.
Dean Winchester, I presume? comes a voice from behind him, and if Dean wasn’t so well-trained, he’d have jumped out of his skin.
Dean turns to find himself face to face with a man in a crisp black suit, complete with white silk shirt. He’s a little overweight, shining black buttons straining against his stomach. He’s got a beard but not the Grizzly Adams beard-that-ate-my-face kind, more like a thick growth of stubble than anything else, and a mustache Dean would call respectable if he didn’t hate them. He’s bald from the top, with a crown of wispy black curls and he’s gazing at Dean with a look of utter disdain, as if his time would be better spent elsewhere.
He’s not your run-of-the-mill demon host, and Dean thinks that forgives the gaping he does as the demon strolls forward and leans against the signpost stuck on one corner of the crossroads. Dean’s standing three feet away from it and in the blink of an eye, he’s pulled the Colt out of his waistband and is pointing it at the demon’s head.
Unexpected, comments the demon, raising an eyebrow. Dean catches the heavy British accent this time. Especially after what your brother did to my coworker. Very unpredictable, I congratulate you.
What’s with the duke? No good-looking chicks in range? Dean asks, aiming for snarky. His voice, hoarse and low, gives him away.
Well, considering that you aren’t here to make a deal, I didn’t see any reason to get dressed up, says the demon, giving Dean a smile that looks very much like a grimace.
Dean cocks the gun.
Look, continues the demon with a sigh, picking a stray thread off its coat sleeve. You want to talk? Talk. You should be happy I showed in the first place. Fucking essence is being pulled all over the country; deal-making season’s a real kick in the ass. I’ve got places to go, losers to deal with and I don’t have all night. Let’s speed up the thinking, shall we? Or skip it all together – it’s not much help to you anyway.
You answer my questions and I’ll let you go, says Dean, then. It’s what he’s here for: the answers.
Shoot, says the demon. Pauses, smirks and adds, On second thought, don’t. My meat suit likes his brains on the inside.
Where’s Sam? asks Dean, gun trained on the demon’s forehead.
The demon mutters something under his breath that sounds vaguely like Winchesters and then says, Beats me, buddy, with a little shrug. His coat button almost pops off. You should think about investing in a microchip.
That’s bullshit; you know exactly where he is. He’s a part of my deal. You’ve gotta have some sort of demonic GPS honed to his every move.
The demon raises one eyebrow, very slowly. What makes you think that?
I –
Something, some small candle of hope that’s been burning timidly inside him unnoticed until this very moment, suddenly fizzles out into nothing.
Oh my holy devil on a stick, says the demon, looking extremely amused. Am I hearing correctly? The great Dean Winchester was under the illusion that the demons he made a deal with were watching out for his brother? C’mon. Are you completely daft? You asked us to bring Sam back in return for your soul – we did. End of story. Your soul belongs to Hell, Dean, whether Sam’s living and breathing or not. He could have dropped dead seconds after you sealed your fate and you’d still have a valid ticket down under, train due in one year. Don’t kid yourself. I thought you were pathetic under normal circumstances, but you being that optimistic? That’s just sad.
Dean swallows anguish and says, You gotta have some idea—
I don’t.
You expect me to buy that? You fucks know everything.
Not this time, Dean-o. I haven’t the foggiest idea where Sam is. There are possibilities but then, you know them already.
What – ?
My personal favorite is the one in which Sam’s alive – you know, the one where he screams for you everyday like you can hear him, until his throat is ripped raw and he can’t even speak. Funny thing, though – have you ever heard Sam scream? I mean, really scream, the scared-to-hell kind, surrounded-by-sharks, I’m-already-dead kind? Probably not; it’s not something that comes naturally. If he screams anything like most people, though, I’m sure it sounds like music. You’ll get a taste down under. Of course, then it’ll be you doing the screaming, and millions of people you’ve never met and neither of those would hurt quite as much as the sound of Sam, would they?
I’ll shoot you, says Dean through clenched teeth, but he’s bluffing and he knows the demon knows it. Demons lie but they tell the truth too, and more often than not, both in the same sentence and Dean can’t shoot, because what if the bastard says something that matters and Dean doesn’t hear it?
The demon checks his nails, Though he’s probably dead already, like that kid whose body they found – what was his name? Slashed up something terrible, wasn’t he? I’d like to meet the guy responsible, shake his hand. That kind of sadistic care is hard to find these days. I know a couple of demons who could learn a thing or two from him.
Shut up, you son of a bitch. The Colt is wobbling slightly. Dean’s knuckles have turned white.
Of course, it’s just as likely that Sam up and left. Not unheard of – damned souls are such a burden. Especially you, Dean. You don’t even want to be saved. I mean, while Sam was around, you were trying pretty hard to get yourself killed early. Maybe it was all just too much for the kid, having to save your ass from yourself and Hell. I’m actually surprised he lasted as long as he did. Seven months ain’t bad.
Shut the fuck up, snarls Dean, but the demon gives a feral smile, reaches forward, grasps the Colt’s barrel and pushes it down, and they’re standing so close Dean can smell sulfur and the wind rises around them, raising hair and cloth and carrying away hope.
Whatever the case, you weren’t there for him, were you, Dean? In any way, whichever scenario you consider, says the demon. How’re you going to live with that? Oh, I forgot – you’re not. See you in three months, sparky.
Dean’s ears echo with screams as the demon leaves it host.
Confused whispers of Where am I? and How did I get here? trail after Dean as he walks back to the Impala, the Colt dangling loosely at his side.
-
You need to ask me something, says Sam.
Dean jolts awake.
Silver moon beams fall on his blanket through the gap in the curtains.
The soft pitter-patter of rain on the glass keeps him awake, and eventually, he gets out of bed. There’s a chair next to the window and he sits and watches his breath fog on the window, tracing meaningless shapes onto the condensed air. It isn’t until the patch has been saturated that he recognizes the three letters of a name.
-
Two days after the demon, on February 6th, Dean goes to room seven and knocks on the door. Bela answers, as expected.
I thought you were going to give me one night? says Dean and it’s been so hard to string more than two words together and make them intelligible in the past forty-eight hours, that he actually feels a burst of pride.
I realized that your thought process is probably longer than that of the average person, says Bela and opens the door wider. Do you have the Colt?
Dean doesn’t step inside. I want to know what you’re gonna do.
Bela rolls her eyes, lets her arm fall slack, fingers still grasping the doorknob. Talking board, tarot cards, séance. The whole shebang.
Will you –
Dean swallows hard, tires to get rid of the raw, scratchy feeling that’s settled into his throat. Will you know if Sam’s dead?
If one of the spirits knows, why not?
But that’s not good enough. That’s not good enough by miles; Dean needs to know, really know that Sam’s alive, because if he isn’t, there’s a bullet sitting in a pistol in his duffel bag and it’s got Dean’s name on it. He doesn’t know how to convey this to Bela, who probably wouldn’t get it even if he found a way. It probably wouldn’t hold much sway with her, anyway.
Bela’s tired of standing around. Are you in or not? She holds out her left hand, expectant.
Dean takes a breath, feels his face harden as he removes the Colt from his pocket and hands it to Bela.
He steps over the threshold and Bela closes the door with a smile.
Glad to have you aboard.
-
Dean buys bread and beef jerky and HoHo’s and beer from Dennis at the tiny grocery store, and watches the bag boy do a low-key bottle twirl, like a gymnast with a baton, before sticking the bottles into the bag and handing it to Dean with a grin. He says Morning to elderly Mrs. Cleaver when he passes her on the street. He makes small talk with Mark and his latest girlfriend while they wait for the traffic to stop and the Walk sign to come on. He buys the paper from Ahmed, who likes to tell him exactly why Cormac McCarthy’s latest book doesn’t deserve the hype, and Dean always tells him to keep the change, mostly because he hates Cormac McCarthy.
No matter how many people he knows and how much talking he does, it still feels like he’s in the wrong story, pasted into the lives of these people without their permission, much less his own. Read out of his own tale, stolen from his book. It’s worse because he’s alone. Because he sits down on the bus station bench and there’s no one sitting next to him who knows a penny’s worth about him. No one he trusts, who trusts him, who gets up in his space because he can and has all his life, because they don’t know anything different and can’t comprehend anything less.
He buys food and beer for two, but ends up drinking and eating all by himself, in the Impala since he can’t take the silence of the empty motel room.
His life has become the epitome of loneliness, defined by the moments he spends wishing he wasn’t on his own.
-
When Bobby finds out, he’s livid, angrier than Dean’s ever seen him. Angrier than he was when he confronted Dean amongst the trashed cars and trucks in his backyard, almost ten months to the day, about a deal and a brother back from the dead.
What were you thinking, Dean? he asks. What were you thinking?
Dean shakes his head, sitting at the little round table in the motel room. Sam’s laptop is an arm’s reach away, and it’s not hard to imagine that Dean could turn around and find Sam an arm’s reach away too.
Bobby takes off his hat and runs a hand through his hair and then jams the hat back on. You think we can get it back? The hell does she want with it?
And Dean can only shake his head. He doesn’t know. He didn’t ask. They won’t be getting it back though, not a chance.
A deal’s a deal.
Bobby sits heavily on one of the beds and Dean looks at him and says, Dammit, Bobby. I just – I need – I had to. I had to.
Bobby’s eyes seem hollowed by pain.
They sit in silence for a long while, and Dean can hear the rush of passing cars from the open window, the sharp click of a door being closed somewhere nearby and footsteps walking away. A stream of warm sunlight is falling on the bed Bobby’s on, and if Dean went over to the window, he knows he’d smell the start of something warm and new. The world is Spring-bound.
He waits for Bobby to say something, because he has nothing left.
She find anything? asks Bobby eventually.
A spirit saw Sam, early January, says Dean and he sees Bobby straighten up, electric shock running through his spine. It’s the exact reaction Dean had.
It didn’t know anything else, continues Dean, monotonously. Just that it had seen Sam and that he was – he wasn’t too good. And it – that’s it, wouldn’t say anything else. No place, no proof, no descriptions. Nothing.
At least he’s been seen, says Bobby softly.
Dean shakes his head. Bela tracked Gordon for us, while back. It took her ten minutes. None of the spirits have any idea where Sam is right now. Or if they do, they sure ain’t telling.
He stands up and paces to the door, peers out of the peephole as if someone knocked. He hears Bobby let out a huff of breath behind him. The mattress creaks and a bird twitters.
Could Sam hide from a demon? Dean asks abruptly.
There’s a long pause, and Dean turns to face Bobby, who’s gazing at him shrewdly. Why?
He never told Bobby about his midnight visit to the crossroads, because Bobby would probably have used it as an excuse to tie Dean to the bed permanently.
Could he? asks Dean, ignoring the question. Are there ways?
Bobby shrugs, glances on the hex bag motifs on the half-wall and says, There’re ways to stop demons tracking you. But Sam’s ain’t stupid enough to try any of ‘em. Most of it’s the worst kind of magic.
Dean walks back to the table at that, looking around for something to occupy his hands, wishing he had a beer; he really needs to go shopping. Bobby stays on the bed, watching, and after a moment, asks, You gonna tell me why you asked?
Just wondering, says Dean flatly, tone clearly implying that it’s all he’s about to say, as he sits back down at the table. The chair is fucking uncomfortable, the cushioned seat worn-out and flimsy after years of use. Something blunt pokes out from the backrest and into Dean’s spine, and he shifts. Bobby’s still fuming, in his quiet way, but Dean knows he won’t say anything more on the subject of the Colt. He’ll simply move on to other things; what’s done is done.
Dean rubs his eyes. The receptionist is yelling loudly, voice wafting in through the open window, but it just sounds like gobbledygook from up here.
What he needs is someone on the inside. Someone who could to tell him if and how Sam could hide from a demon, a spirit and an essentially fool-proof GPS system. Ways that don’t involve magic, because there are a whole lot of things Dean knows Sam would try, but magic isn’t one of them. It’s dangerous shit, and crack for witches. You head down that road, and there’s no turning back. You’d probably have a hunter on your tail in six months, be calling a cold hole in the earth home in eight. Sam wouldn’t risk it, not this year. He’d stick to the safer stuff.
Dean finds that he’s gazing at the gray cover of Sam’s laptop.
He’d definitely stick to safer stuff.
Dean’s leaning back in the chair, wondering if whatever the hell is poking in his back is hitting any acupuncture spots, because it’s the only way he’s not going to grab the thing and toss it out the window when the motel manager’s passing by, when it comes to him.
Bobby’s got the television on, volume down low. Someone on The Discovery Channel is talking about rubies.
-
After sunset, Dean visits the storage compound where the Impala’s arsenal has been sitting for the past month and a half. It’s quiet in the warehouse. Dean thinks he can hear the skittering of rats’ claws on the cement floors. He’s given the man at the scratched-up wooden front desk enough money to ensure he stays in his squeaky chair until Dean’s finished.
He pushes the key into the padlock and lifts the garage-like door far enough for him to get inside, before pulling it almost all the way back down again. He feels against the right wall for the light switch, flicks it when his fingers find the cool plastic.
The room is brimming with cardboard boxes, most of the stuff Dean and Sam’s. There were a couple of unidentified cartons in the compound when Dean and Bobby rented it out, that the owner said were left by the previous renters. He’d suggested tossing them, but there hadn’t been time and Dean had simply pushed them into their own corner.
There’s a window on the far wall, small and probably only there because of some city regulation. It’s got black tape all across the glass, and Dean wonders why the cops haven’t raided this place yet.
On the floor, just beneath the window is a devil’s trap, matching the one just inside the door. Salt lines the windowsill.
Dean walks over to the nearest box and opens it, dust rising in clouds off the cardboard and peers inside. A couple of sawed-offs and a pistol are right on top, barrels facing down, and Dean itches just thinking about the disrepair they’ve fallen into. He wants to start oiling and cleaning, but that’s not what he’s here for.
He goes over to another box, labeled BOOKS, and sifts through the contents until he finds the one he’s looking for. He has the chalk and everything else he needs in his jacket pocket.
He goes over to the window and wipes the salt off the windowsill. It showers down, sprinkling the devil’s trap and his shoes. After that, he draws the required sigil in the center of the room. The chalk scrapes over the concrete and it’s almost metallic clinking echoes around the room as Dean returns it to its box. He reads the incantation out loud, lights a match and drops it into the small, powder-filled bowl sitting in between his knees. It bursts into flame as Dean gazes up at the florescent lights, eyes narrowed slightly.
When they start flickering, he turns around, a cold chill creeping up his neck.
He’s never met her before and he doesn’t know what he’d been expecting, but his mind immediately goes to the demon possessing Meg Masters. This girl is blonde too, but her gray eyes aren’t as feral as Meg’s were. If she were free to do so, Dean thinks she would probably go right for the kill, whereas Meg might’ve molested him first. She’s slim, arms folded across her leather jacket and her smile is less condescending than most. She’s got a cool, calculating air that immediately raises Dean’s hackles. He doesn’t care what Sam believes – there’s no such thing as a domesticated demon.
Well, well, well – Dean Winchester, I’m surprised, says Ruby, tilting her head slightly and pushing away from the wall she’s leaning against. She walks forward, dusting off her hands as she takes in her surroundings languidly. She pauses at the edge of the devil’s trap, says, And frankly, a little insulted.
So you’re Ruby, says Dean. The urge to pull out a gun and shoot her in the head is overwhelming; this is the skank who’s been filling Sam with lies and misplaced hope, playing him like a pro. He doesn’t care what she knows about their mom or that she helped fix the Colt; she’s a demon, and she’s got to have an agenda. But Dean has nothing aside from a couple of shotguns (rusted, most likely) and those probably won’t even pinch.
No kidding, says Ruby sarcastically, one hip out, standing as close to the edge of the trap as she can get, about six feet from Dean. I always knew you were the brains of the outfit.
She pauses and narrows her eyes. So where’s Sam?
Dean doesn’t answer, feels his face harden. He realizes that Ruby had given Sam her number a long time ago, and that there was someone besides him and Bobby and Ellen who could have made the final documented phone call to Sam.
The question’s out before he can stop it. Did you call Sam a few days after Christmas?
There’s no answer. Ruby stares at him for a long while and eventually, something seems to dawn on her face; surprise, perhaps, and the beginnings of anger, and her eyes cloud over for a moment. Her expression gets under Dean’s skin, and for a brief moment, he thinks, She doesn’t have a clue about any of this. But he’s been raised knowing that demons lie and they’re the best actors, and he quashes the sinking feeling in his heart. Ruby’s brow wrinkles and she looks at Dean again, openly skeptical.
Oh you’ve got to be kidding me, she says. Sam’s missing?
The light above them flickers and Dean’s eyes go to it.
Holy crap, Ruby snarls. I knew you Winchesters were morons, but this really takes the cake.
She’s pacing along the border of the trap now, mouth a thin line, eyes cold with fury. Dean watches her movements, like he would a riled, venomous snake.
How long’s he been gone? she spits, in between clacking footsteps, boot heels loud, echoing around the mostly-empty room.
Long enough, says Dean. I asked you a question – did you call him after Christmas?
Ruby rolls her eyes. Yeah, I called him, but he wouldn’t answer. I thought he was still pissed about the demon stuff, decided to lay low, give him time to mull over my offer.
He wouldn’t answer, repeats Dean. When exactly did you call him?
You expect me to remember?
Yeah, I do.
December 30th.
Dean doesn’t know whether to believe her or not. His stomach is sinking again, leaving behind a sharp feeling of nausea that hits right below his diaphragm. He swallows hard, wonders what good it’d do Ruby to lie about the date. December 30th was two days after Sam disappeared – why wouldn’t she just say January 17th, or something? And then he remembers the call list that Mendel had shown him, months earlier. Remembers there were two unidentified calls – one on the 28th and one on the 30th. They were made from different numbers.
Ruby didn’t call Sam on the night he disappeared.
Christmas? says Ruby, quickly putting things together, and Dean feels the heat of anger rise in his face, for absolutely no reason. Before the 30th of December? Sam’s been missing for two months?
Ruby’s mouth twists and Dean grits his teeth. He wants so badly to kill her, to blame her for whatever happened to Sam. He wishes she’d give him an excuse, but she’s just standing there, looking furious, but not rabid.
You idiot, she says. Sam’s been AWOL for two months and it doesn’t occur to you to tell me until now?
Not rabid yet, at least.
Sweetheart, says Dean, turning around and walking back towards the door, trying to get some feeling into his body. I didn’t summon you to tell you Sam’s missing.
Oh? And what did you summon me for? A nice little chat between friends? Getting lonely enough to mingle with the other side?
Are there ways to hide from demons? asks Dean abruptly, turning back to face her as he lowers himself onto one of the larger cardboard boxes. He’s settling, getting back his composure. He’s transitioning, like waking from a nightmare and shaking off the fear. He can almost feel the rightness of this enveloping him, a warm blanket that says this is where you’re supposed to be, this is where you’re safe. He can do this; it’s like riding a bicycle.
What? asks Ruby, blankly.
Are there ways to hide from demons? Dean repeats. Ways that don’t involve magic? Something a normal person could do?
Ruby’s not stupid, Dean’ll give her that. You think Sam’s hiding from demons? she asks immediately. Why?
Dean weighs his options, decides that giving her answers may get him some in return. Because I went to the crossroads demon and he had no idea where Sam was.
You expected him to? asks Ruby, disdainfully.
Dean decides that’s a moot point and he’s not going into it again. You demons seem to know exactly where we are, whenever you need to – how did you find Sam, the first time? Or second time?
Well, the second time, Sam called me, says Ruby with a shrug. Telephones, a miracle of life. And the first time, I worked my ass off tracking you guys, that’s how. Not like there wasn’t a trail, after the devil’s gate. I just had to follow the scent of exorcisms.
You’re kidding, says Dean. You couldn’t have tracked us, not that easily.
Ruby rolls her eyes. Well, the demonic thing does help a little. That “scent of exorcisms” bit wasn’t a metaphor. You leave wounds when you exorcise a demon, little pockets of Hell, almost. Demons can feel it and they’ll usually steer clear of the area until they’re sure it’s safe.
So if we stopped exorcising you guys, you wouldn’t be able to find us?
Not necessarily. The exorcisms make it easier to find you, that’s all. Demons are like dogs – extra strength senses. It’s easier for them to track you, but it’s not easy. If they wanna keep tabs on your movements, you can be sure that they’ll be trailing your ass across the country.
Dean chews on this silently. It means that the Crossroads Demon wasn’t necessarily lying.
He wasn’t lying, Ruby interrupts and Dean clenches his teeth, glares at her from under his eyebrows. Whoever’s holding your contract doesn’t give a damn about what happens to your brother – they’ll be following you, though. Making sure you don’t get yourself into… trouble. So, no, crossroads demons aren’t going to be much help. In fact, there’s probably only one demon who could help you, and you didn’t bother telling her Sam was missing until now. Way to go, Magnum.
Why the fuck do you care where Sam is? scoffs Dean. Oh, yeah – I forgot. He’s gonna be your weapon, lead you to victory, head your army of jackasses, isn’t that right? Heard it all before, sister, and guess what? It doesn’t do much in the way of endearment, so I don’t see why I’d be asking you to join the search party.
Ruby snorts. This is why you’re such a dick, Dean – you think you know everything about everybody.
Don’t give me that crap. All you demons are the same, every screw loose.
You know, that’s the same attitude you’ve got about Sam, isn’t it? It’s not that you have faith in him, or whatever sappy love story you’ve been telling him and yourself, it’s that you don’t want to believe that something you think might not be the truth.
What the hell are you talking about?
Ruby laughs, a small, mocking breath. I know things about Sam that would blow your mind, Dean. Things you could never imagine. Might put a couple of your more treasured racisms to rest… or it might not. The bad boys down stairs are still betting on whether you’d choose Sam, if you found out. The odds are against you, by the way – not much can beat brainwashing.
You either tell me what you’re talking about, or you shut up, bitch, says Dean, starting to stand.
I mean, the way things are right now, I could name a couple of people who care about Sam more than you – hell, take me. You’re leaving and in a few months’ time, Sam’ll be on his own, fighting this war with the safety still on his gun. At least I’m willing to toughen him up, make sure he’s got at least half of what it takes to fight.
Dean’s on his feet, unfolding a sheet of paper he’s pulled out of his jacket pocket, and says, Last chance. Shut the fuck up now.
Ruby just takes a breath, sneering. And you? What’re you doing for Sam? How’re you helping him prepare for life without you?
Dean starts reading, loudly, trying to drown out her voice, block his ears, willing her to shut up, shut up, shut up. Ruby immediately starts twitching, breathing heavier, but doesn’t back down.
You can’t even admit to him that you’re scared shitless. You stand there, all bravado, but that’s just a perfected mask, isn’t it? Making sure little Sammy never sees you at your lowest – petty protection.
…exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…
Maybe if you stopped trying to protect him, you’d finally see what’s been in front of your eyes for years now, Ruby says, half-screaming. You’d see how useful a hunter Sam is, and not just because of his brains. He doesn’t have your guts, but that’s nothing that can’t be rectified!
…omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion…
But it’s too late now, because you’ve gone and lost him and he’s probably dead, probably died screaming your name! And the one person who could help you was called two months too late!
…infernalis adversarii, omnis legio…
Ruby shrieks again, head twisting in pain. Dean watches her hands jerking towards her hair as if she wants to rip the sleek, pale strands out.
I can still help you, you son of a bitch, fix your dumbass mistakes! You exorcise me, and that’s one more link to Sam lost! How’ll you live with that, if you never find Sam?
And Dean stops, heart pounding in his chest, the last few words fighting to reach his mouth.
Ruby’s watching him, gasping through clenched teeth, hair no longer sleek, fingers bent into claws. There’s hatred radiating from her eyes, and Dean’s every instinct is telling him to keep going.
But he doesn’t.
You’ll try to find Sam? he asks.
Yes, breathes Ruby.
A split second of hesitation, but he’s already made his choice. He goes over to the devil’s trap and scratches away the paint with his nail. If she kills him now, he probably won’t even care.
She doesn’t, though. Dean stands up.
Her eyes narrow, and she swallows and steps back. Says fast, Don’t get your hopes up. He’s probably long dead by now. I got whiff of a demon, Lilith, who wants his pretty little head on a stick. I thought he was safe with you but I guess he wasn’t. Try sleeping with that. And here’s a little tidbit – those things that I know about Sam? He knew them too.
She’s gone before Dean can even think about finishing the exorcism, a gust of icy wind trailing after her.
Dean crouches by the trap and doesn’t get up until his legs are numb, and his cheeks warm once more.
Dean is surprised. He’s been expecting Ruby, sure, because her supernatural antennae should have started twitching by now with the way she’s been stalking Sam the past few months – but Bela? She doesn’t need them (Sam). She doesn’t just pop up out of nowhere.
I hear you’ve been having problems, she says as she walks in and throws her bag on the bed closest to the door. Nice room, by the way, she adds, eyeing the half-wall by the door and its hex bag motif.
Where’d you hear that? asks Dean, holding the door open in the hopes that something will reach through and pull Bela back into whatever cesspool she crawled out from.
I have my sources, replies Bela. Anyway, coming here wasn’t exactly to my disadvantage.
Let me guess, says Dean, closing the door behind her. You’ve already cased the joint.
Of course, replies Bela smugly. Nothing particularly valuable – one of the talismans in the case behind the reception desk looked interesting though.
She takes off her coat and throws it across a chair, glances at the open laptop on the table. Wasn’t Bobby here with you?
He’s on a hunt, says Dean, not asking how she knows as he walks over to the table and pushes the laptop’s screen down. What do you want, Bela?
Well, says Bela, isn’t it obvious? I want to help you.
Bullshit, says Dean.
I can help you find Sam.
And that’s even more bullshit, but Dean can’t stop the question slipping from his mouth. You know where he is?
No, admits Bela. But we can ask the spirit world. They often have helpful information.
I already called a friend of mine – she had nothing. And she’s a psychic.
Is she? Well, how peachy for her. Bela sits down on the bed, catches sight of the empty whiskey bottle on the bedside table, but doesn’t mention it. Do you want my help or not?
Missouri did a séance a day after Dean called and reported back that she hadn’t managed to contact Sam or anyone who knew Sam. She had hunters in the area on alert. She’d visited their old house, in case Sam had been around. Jenny hadn’t seen him.
Dean doesn’t know that Bela can do better, doesn’t even think she can, but if there’s any hope…
What’s the catch? asks Dean eventually, because there has to be one.
Bela gets a smirk on her face that makes Dean wonder what kind of life she had as a kid, because no one’s born with that kind of smile.
I want what’s in your safe, she says simply.
Dean grins sardonically, feels like his face might crack because he’s so out of practice. There’s nothing in my safe, sweetheart.
What kind of idiot do you take me for, Dean?
Dean stares at her long and hard. How do you even know about the Colt?
Like I said, I have my sources. You should know that by know, after that Gordon business.
Dean shakes his head in disbelief. If whatever spirit that told you this wasn’t already dead…
Yes, yes – you’d rip his head off or some such thing. Let’s skip the violence, shall we?
I’m not giving you the Colt, says Dean. He’s not going to give anyone the Colt. That gun is their only miracle and he’ll keep his Vulcan death grip on it, thank you very much.
Bela cocks an eyebrow. I’m surprised, Dean. I would have thought Sam was more important to you than some gun.
Dean feels fire rise in his throat. He narrows his eyes at Bela, say, Get out.
Have I hit a nerve? Bela’s smirk is too pleased.
Dean walks over to the door, yanks it open.
Bela sighs, rolls her eyes and stands. I’ll give you the night to think it over, then. I’m in room seven.
She picks up her coat and bag and walks out. Dean slams the door behind her.
That night he dreams of a river, rushing but still murky and brown. It smells like decaying flesh and drying blood and every piece of vermin ever to walk on Earth. The sky’s a deep shade of red and the sun is nowhere in sight. Sam’s standing next to Dean, staring at the water.
When do you think he’ll get here? Sam asks, and Dean frowns.
When will who get here?
Charon, says Sam, as if Dean should know this already. The ferryman.
Dean looks downriver, the wide, wide river, but sees nothing and nobody. It’s just him and Sam.
Why are we here? he asks Sam though he doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want an answer. His heart is lodged firmly in his throat. It’s radiating cold, painful fear.
Sam looks up at the sky. The wind lifts his hair, until his bangs are whipping back and forth; he looks eerie, unearthly. There are trees on either bank of the river; they have large golden leaves. The jagged peaks of black mountains are visible in the distance. It all makes Dean feel ill.
Waiting for the ferryman, says Sam. Dean hears something like weariness in his voice, and longing. And then Sam turns, looks right into Dean’s eyes. You need to ask me something.
It’s not a question, more of a command.
What? Dean shakes his head, confused. The river laps at his feet. He feels it pulling at him, beckoning to him, come, come. For a moment, he wants to, wants to step in so badly that he finds himself leaning toward the water. His amulet peeks out from behind the lapels of his jacket and glints in the dead glow that surrounds them, light coming from God knows where.
Sam’s fingers curl around his wrist. Dean moves back, looks at Sam.
You need to ask me something, Sam says again, oh so gently, to the rustling of the unearthly trees behind them. He looks expectant, even hopeful, but his eyes are tried and broken.
Dean looks away and shakes his head. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t have anything to ask. His mind is impossibly blank.
Sam opens his mouth to say something else – and right then, Dean wakes up.
The alarm clock on the night stand is glowing. It reads 3:57 AM.
Come the fuck on, he says under his breath and it’s more of a prayer than anything he’s said before in his life. It feels like a lifetime’s passed since he buried the little tin box with his picture in it, with a handful of unspeakable things that probably shouldn’t be stashed away in the depths of someone’s duffel bag. It feels like a lifetime and then some.
The arsenal that used to call the Impala’s trunk home is still in the shady back alley storage compound and all Dean has with him at the motel is two pistols (one for regular bullets, one for silver), a shotgun (for salt) an iron knife and, of course, the Colt. There’re also a few bottles of holy water under the bed, but aside from the Colt, which is tucked snugly in his waistband, none of those things are going to be much help here.
It’s freezing and Dean wishes he hadn’t run out of the motel without a jacket, just a box and a photo and a Ziploc full of the occult pushed deep into the pocket of his jeans. He’s wound tight, paces back and forth as the wind hums and the leaves on the nearby trees shiver and the yellow flowers dotting the roadside sway to the tune.
He wants to shout but he doesn’t think he can, doesn’t think he still possess the ability. Not right now, at this moment, at least. He feels drained, but tense at the same time. His heart is fluttering not beating, vague whispers inside his chest that he can’t really feel despite the fact that he’s scared and panicky and edging closer and closer to utter despair. Everything’s vague, dulled; emotions, actions, the people he sees every day, his surroundings. Softer than usual, like someone’s put a damper on them. It’s him, he knows. Only him, and he wonders if this is how a ghost feels, when they’re in pure spirit form and nobody can see them, but they can see everybody; gray and flickering and colorless, always on the brink of volcanic violence, able to feel it under their nails, but never quite there.
He thinks that if he tried, right at this moment, he could probably manage the whole walking-through-walls thing.
Dean Winchester, I presume? comes a voice from behind him, and if Dean wasn’t so well-trained, he’d have jumped out of his skin.
Dean turns to find himself face to face with a man in a crisp black suit, complete with white silk shirt. He’s a little overweight, shining black buttons straining against his stomach. He’s got a beard but not the Grizzly Adams beard-that-ate-my-face kind, more like a thick growth of stubble than anything else, and a mustache Dean would call respectable if he didn’t hate them. He’s bald from the top, with a crown of wispy black curls and he’s gazing at Dean with a look of utter disdain, as if his time would be better spent elsewhere.
He’s not your run-of-the-mill demon host, and Dean thinks that forgives the gaping he does as the demon strolls forward and leans against the signpost stuck on one corner of the crossroads. Dean’s standing three feet away from it and in the blink of an eye, he’s pulled the Colt out of his waistband and is pointing it at the demon’s head.
Unexpected, comments the demon, raising an eyebrow. Dean catches the heavy British accent this time. Especially after what your brother did to my coworker. Very unpredictable, I congratulate you.
What’s with the duke? No good-looking chicks in range? Dean asks, aiming for snarky. His voice, hoarse and low, gives him away.
Well, considering that you aren’t here to make a deal, I didn’t see any reason to get dressed up, says the demon, giving Dean a smile that looks very much like a grimace.
Dean cocks the gun.
Look, continues the demon with a sigh, picking a stray thread off its coat sleeve. You want to talk? Talk. You should be happy I showed in the first place. Fucking essence is being pulled all over the country; deal-making season’s a real kick in the ass. I’ve got places to go, losers to deal with and I don’t have all night. Let’s speed up the thinking, shall we? Or skip it all together – it’s not much help to you anyway.
You answer my questions and I’ll let you go, says Dean, then. It’s what he’s here for: the answers.
Shoot, says the demon. Pauses, smirks and adds, On second thought, don’t. My meat suit likes his brains on the inside.
Where’s Sam? asks Dean, gun trained on the demon’s forehead.
The demon mutters something under his breath that sounds vaguely like Winchesters and then says, Beats me, buddy, with a little shrug. His coat button almost pops off. You should think about investing in a microchip.
That’s bullshit; you know exactly where he is. He’s a part of my deal. You’ve gotta have some sort of demonic GPS honed to his every move.
The demon raises one eyebrow, very slowly. What makes you think that?
I –
Something, some small candle of hope that’s been burning timidly inside him unnoticed until this very moment, suddenly fizzles out into nothing.
Oh my holy devil on a stick, says the demon, looking extremely amused. Am I hearing correctly? The great Dean Winchester was under the illusion that the demons he made a deal with were watching out for his brother? C’mon. Are you completely daft? You asked us to bring Sam back in return for your soul – we did. End of story. Your soul belongs to Hell, Dean, whether Sam’s living and breathing or not. He could have dropped dead seconds after you sealed your fate and you’d still have a valid ticket down under, train due in one year. Don’t kid yourself. I thought you were pathetic under normal circumstances, but you being that optimistic? That’s just sad.
Dean swallows anguish and says, You gotta have some idea—
I don’t.
You expect me to buy that? You fucks know everything.
Not this time, Dean-o. I haven’t the foggiest idea where Sam is. There are possibilities but then, you know them already.
What – ?
My personal favorite is the one in which Sam’s alive – you know, the one where he screams for you everyday like you can hear him, until his throat is ripped raw and he can’t even speak. Funny thing, though – have you ever heard Sam scream? I mean, really scream, the scared-to-hell kind, surrounded-by-sharks, I’m-already-dead kind? Probably not; it’s not something that comes naturally. If he screams anything like most people, though, I’m sure it sounds like music. You’ll get a taste down under. Of course, then it’ll be you doing the screaming, and millions of people you’ve never met and neither of those would hurt quite as much as the sound of Sam, would they?
I’ll shoot you, says Dean through clenched teeth, but he’s bluffing and he knows the demon knows it. Demons lie but they tell the truth too, and more often than not, both in the same sentence and Dean can’t shoot, because what if the bastard says something that matters and Dean doesn’t hear it?
The demon checks his nails, Though he’s probably dead already, like that kid whose body they found – what was his name? Slashed up something terrible, wasn’t he? I’d like to meet the guy responsible, shake his hand. That kind of sadistic care is hard to find these days. I know a couple of demons who could learn a thing or two from him.
Shut up, you son of a bitch. The Colt is wobbling slightly. Dean’s knuckles have turned white.
Of course, it’s just as likely that Sam up and left. Not unheard of – damned souls are such a burden. Especially you, Dean. You don’t even want to be saved. I mean, while Sam was around, you were trying pretty hard to get yourself killed early. Maybe it was all just too much for the kid, having to save your ass from yourself and Hell. I’m actually surprised he lasted as long as he did. Seven months ain’t bad.
Shut the fuck up, snarls Dean, but the demon gives a feral smile, reaches forward, grasps the Colt’s barrel and pushes it down, and they’re standing so close Dean can smell sulfur and the wind rises around them, raising hair and cloth and carrying away hope.
Whatever the case, you weren’t there for him, were you, Dean? In any way, whichever scenario you consider, says the demon. How’re you going to live with that? Oh, I forgot – you’re not. See you in three months, sparky.
Dean’s ears echo with screams as the demon leaves it host.
Confused whispers of Where am I? and How did I get here? trail after Dean as he walks back to the Impala, the Colt dangling loosely at his side.
You need to ask me something, says Sam.
Dean jolts awake.
Silver moon beams fall on his blanket through the gap in the curtains.
The soft pitter-patter of rain on the glass keeps him awake, and eventually, he gets out of bed. There’s a chair next to the window and he sits and watches his breath fog on the window, tracing meaningless shapes onto the condensed air. It isn’t until the patch has been saturated that he recognizes the three letters of a name.
Two days after the demon, on February 6th, Dean goes to room seven and knocks on the door. Bela answers, as expected.
I thought you were going to give me one night? says Dean and it’s been so hard to string more than two words together and make them intelligible in the past forty-eight hours, that he actually feels a burst of pride.
I realized that your thought process is probably longer than that of the average person, says Bela and opens the door wider. Do you have the Colt?
Dean doesn’t step inside. I want to know what you’re gonna do.
Bela rolls her eyes, lets her arm fall slack, fingers still grasping the doorknob. Talking board, tarot cards, séance. The whole shebang.
Will you –
Dean swallows hard, tires to get rid of the raw, scratchy feeling that’s settled into his throat. Will you know if Sam’s dead?
If one of the spirits knows, why not?
But that’s not good enough. That’s not good enough by miles; Dean needs to know, really know that Sam’s alive, because if he isn’t, there’s a bullet sitting in a pistol in his duffel bag and it’s got Dean’s name on it. He doesn’t know how to convey this to Bela, who probably wouldn’t get it even if he found a way. It probably wouldn’t hold much sway with her, anyway.
Bela’s tired of standing around. Are you in or not? She holds out her left hand, expectant.
Dean takes a breath, feels his face harden as he removes the Colt from his pocket and hands it to Bela.
He steps over the threshold and Bela closes the door with a smile.
Glad to have you aboard.
Dean buys bread and beef jerky and HoHo’s and beer from Dennis at the tiny grocery store, and watches the bag boy do a low-key bottle twirl, like a gymnast with a baton, before sticking the bottles into the bag and handing it to Dean with a grin. He says Morning to elderly Mrs. Cleaver when he passes her on the street. He makes small talk with Mark and his latest girlfriend while they wait for the traffic to stop and the Walk sign to come on. He buys the paper from Ahmed, who likes to tell him exactly why Cormac McCarthy’s latest book doesn’t deserve the hype, and Dean always tells him to keep the change, mostly because he hates Cormac McCarthy.
No matter how many people he knows and how much talking he does, it still feels like he’s in the wrong story, pasted into the lives of these people without their permission, much less his own. Read out of his own tale, stolen from his book. It’s worse because he’s alone. Because he sits down on the bus station bench and there’s no one sitting next to him who knows a penny’s worth about him. No one he trusts, who trusts him, who gets up in his space because he can and has all his life, because they don’t know anything different and can’t comprehend anything less.
He buys food and beer for two, but ends up drinking and eating all by himself, in the Impala since he can’t take the silence of the empty motel room.
His life has become the epitome of loneliness, defined by the moments he spends wishing he wasn’t on his own.
When Bobby finds out, he’s livid, angrier than Dean’s ever seen him. Angrier than he was when he confronted Dean amongst the trashed cars and trucks in his backyard, almost ten months to the day, about a deal and a brother back from the dead.
What were you thinking, Dean? he asks. What were you thinking?
Dean shakes his head, sitting at the little round table in the motel room. Sam’s laptop is an arm’s reach away, and it’s not hard to imagine that Dean could turn around and find Sam an arm’s reach away too.
Bobby takes off his hat and runs a hand through his hair and then jams the hat back on. You think we can get it back? The hell does she want with it?
And Dean can only shake his head. He doesn’t know. He didn’t ask. They won’t be getting it back though, not a chance.
A deal’s a deal.
Bobby sits heavily on one of the beds and Dean looks at him and says, Dammit, Bobby. I just – I need – I had to. I had to.
Bobby’s eyes seem hollowed by pain.
They sit in silence for a long while, and Dean can hear the rush of passing cars from the open window, the sharp click of a door being closed somewhere nearby and footsteps walking away. A stream of warm sunlight is falling on the bed Bobby’s on, and if Dean went over to the window, he knows he’d smell the start of something warm and new. The world is Spring-bound.
He waits for Bobby to say something, because he has nothing left.
She find anything? asks Bobby eventually.
A spirit saw Sam, early January, says Dean and he sees Bobby straighten up, electric shock running through his spine. It’s the exact reaction Dean had.
It didn’t know anything else, continues Dean, monotonously. Just that it had seen Sam and that he was – he wasn’t too good. And it – that’s it, wouldn’t say anything else. No place, no proof, no descriptions. Nothing.
At least he’s been seen, says Bobby softly.
Dean shakes his head. Bela tracked Gordon for us, while back. It took her ten minutes. None of the spirits have any idea where Sam is right now. Or if they do, they sure ain’t telling.
He stands up and paces to the door, peers out of the peephole as if someone knocked. He hears Bobby let out a huff of breath behind him. The mattress creaks and a bird twitters.
Could Sam hide from a demon? Dean asks abruptly.
There’s a long pause, and Dean turns to face Bobby, who’s gazing at him shrewdly. Why?
He never told Bobby about his midnight visit to the crossroads, because Bobby would probably have used it as an excuse to tie Dean to the bed permanently.
Could he? asks Dean, ignoring the question. Are there ways?
Bobby shrugs, glances on the hex bag motifs on the half-wall and says, There’re ways to stop demons tracking you. But Sam’s ain’t stupid enough to try any of ‘em. Most of it’s the worst kind of magic.
Dean walks back to the table at that, looking around for something to occupy his hands, wishing he had a beer; he really needs to go shopping. Bobby stays on the bed, watching, and after a moment, asks, You gonna tell me why you asked?
Just wondering, says Dean flatly, tone clearly implying that it’s all he’s about to say, as he sits back down at the table. The chair is fucking uncomfortable, the cushioned seat worn-out and flimsy after years of use. Something blunt pokes out from the backrest and into Dean’s spine, and he shifts. Bobby’s still fuming, in his quiet way, but Dean knows he won’t say anything more on the subject of the Colt. He’ll simply move on to other things; what’s done is done.
Dean rubs his eyes. The receptionist is yelling loudly, voice wafting in through the open window, but it just sounds like gobbledygook from up here.
What he needs is someone on the inside. Someone who could to tell him if and how Sam could hide from a demon, a spirit and an essentially fool-proof GPS system. Ways that don’t involve magic, because there are a whole lot of things Dean knows Sam would try, but magic isn’t one of them. It’s dangerous shit, and crack for witches. You head down that road, and there’s no turning back. You’d probably have a hunter on your tail in six months, be calling a cold hole in the earth home in eight. Sam wouldn’t risk it, not this year. He’d stick to the safer stuff.
Dean finds that he’s gazing at the gray cover of Sam’s laptop.
He’d definitely stick to safer stuff.
Dean’s leaning back in the chair, wondering if whatever the hell is poking in his back is hitting any acupuncture spots, because it’s the only way he’s not going to grab the thing and toss it out the window when the motel manager’s passing by, when it comes to him.
Bobby’s got the television on, volume down low. Someone on The Discovery Channel is talking about rubies.
After sunset, Dean visits the storage compound where the Impala’s arsenal has been sitting for the past month and a half. It’s quiet in the warehouse. Dean thinks he can hear the skittering of rats’ claws on the cement floors. He’s given the man at the scratched-up wooden front desk enough money to ensure he stays in his squeaky chair until Dean’s finished.
He pushes the key into the padlock and lifts the garage-like door far enough for him to get inside, before pulling it almost all the way back down again. He feels against the right wall for the light switch, flicks it when his fingers find the cool plastic.
The room is brimming with cardboard boxes, most of the stuff Dean and Sam’s. There were a couple of unidentified cartons in the compound when Dean and Bobby rented it out, that the owner said were left by the previous renters. He’d suggested tossing them, but there hadn’t been time and Dean had simply pushed them into their own corner.
There’s a window on the far wall, small and probably only there because of some city regulation. It’s got black tape all across the glass, and Dean wonders why the cops haven’t raided this place yet.
On the floor, just beneath the window is a devil’s trap, matching the one just inside the door. Salt lines the windowsill.
Dean walks over to the nearest box and opens it, dust rising in clouds off the cardboard and peers inside. A couple of sawed-offs and a pistol are right on top, barrels facing down, and Dean itches just thinking about the disrepair they’ve fallen into. He wants to start oiling and cleaning, but that’s not what he’s here for.
He goes over to another box, labeled BOOKS, and sifts through the contents until he finds the one he’s looking for. He has the chalk and everything else he needs in his jacket pocket.
He goes over to the window and wipes the salt off the windowsill. It showers down, sprinkling the devil’s trap and his shoes. After that, he draws the required sigil in the center of the room. The chalk scrapes over the concrete and it’s almost metallic clinking echoes around the room as Dean returns it to its box. He reads the incantation out loud, lights a match and drops it into the small, powder-filled bowl sitting in between his knees. It bursts into flame as Dean gazes up at the florescent lights, eyes narrowed slightly.
When they start flickering, he turns around, a cold chill creeping up his neck.
He’s never met her before and he doesn’t know what he’d been expecting, but his mind immediately goes to the demon possessing Meg Masters. This girl is blonde too, but her gray eyes aren’t as feral as Meg’s were. If she were free to do so, Dean thinks she would probably go right for the kill, whereas Meg might’ve molested him first. She’s slim, arms folded across her leather jacket and her smile is less condescending than most. She’s got a cool, calculating air that immediately raises Dean’s hackles. He doesn’t care what Sam believes – there’s no such thing as a domesticated demon.
Well, well, well – Dean Winchester, I’m surprised, says Ruby, tilting her head slightly and pushing away from the wall she’s leaning against. She walks forward, dusting off her hands as she takes in her surroundings languidly. She pauses at the edge of the devil’s trap, says, And frankly, a little insulted.
So you’re Ruby, says Dean. The urge to pull out a gun and shoot her in the head is overwhelming; this is the skank who’s been filling Sam with lies and misplaced hope, playing him like a pro. He doesn’t care what she knows about their mom or that she helped fix the Colt; she’s a demon, and she’s got to have an agenda. But Dean has nothing aside from a couple of shotguns (rusted, most likely) and those probably won’t even pinch.
No kidding, says Ruby sarcastically, one hip out, standing as close to the edge of the trap as she can get, about six feet from Dean. I always knew you were the brains of the outfit.
She pauses and narrows her eyes. So where’s Sam?
Dean doesn’t answer, feels his face harden. He realizes that Ruby had given Sam her number a long time ago, and that there was someone besides him and Bobby and Ellen who could have made the final documented phone call to Sam.
The question’s out before he can stop it. Did you call Sam a few days after Christmas?
There’s no answer. Ruby stares at him for a long while and eventually, something seems to dawn on her face; surprise, perhaps, and the beginnings of anger, and her eyes cloud over for a moment. Her expression gets under Dean’s skin, and for a brief moment, he thinks, She doesn’t have a clue about any of this. But he’s been raised knowing that demons lie and they’re the best actors, and he quashes the sinking feeling in his heart. Ruby’s brow wrinkles and she looks at Dean again, openly skeptical.
Oh you’ve got to be kidding me, she says. Sam’s missing?
The light above them flickers and Dean’s eyes go to it.
Holy crap, Ruby snarls. I knew you Winchesters were morons, but this really takes the cake.
She’s pacing along the border of the trap now, mouth a thin line, eyes cold with fury. Dean watches her movements, like he would a riled, venomous snake.
How long’s he been gone? she spits, in between clacking footsteps, boot heels loud, echoing around the mostly-empty room.
Long enough, says Dean. I asked you a question – did you call him after Christmas?
Ruby rolls her eyes. Yeah, I called him, but he wouldn’t answer. I thought he was still pissed about the demon stuff, decided to lay low, give him time to mull over my offer.
He wouldn’t answer, repeats Dean. When exactly did you call him?
You expect me to remember?
Yeah, I do.
December 30th.
Dean doesn’t know whether to believe her or not. His stomach is sinking again, leaving behind a sharp feeling of nausea that hits right below his diaphragm. He swallows hard, wonders what good it’d do Ruby to lie about the date. December 30th was two days after Sam disappeared – why wouldn’t she just say January 17th, or something? And then he remembers the call list that Mendel had shown him, months earlier. Remembers there were two unidentified calls – one on the 28th and one on the 30th. They were made from different numbers.
Ruby didn’t call Sam on the night he disappeared.
Christmas? says Ruby, quickly putting things together, and Dean feels the heat of anger rise in his face, for absolutely no reason. Before the 30th of December? Sam’s been missing for two months?
Ruby’s mouth twists and Dean grits his teeth. He wants so badly to kill her, to blame her for whatever happened to Sam. He wishes she’d give him an excuse, but she’s just standing there, looking furious, but not rabid.
You idiot, she says. Sam’s been AWOL for two months and it doesn’t occur to you to tell me until now?
Not rabid yet, at least.
Sweetheart, says Dean, turning around and walking back towards the door, trying to get some feeling into his body. I didn’t summon you to tell you Sam’s missing.
Oh? And what did you summon me for? A nice little chat between friends? Getting lonely enough to mingle with the other side?
Are there ways to hide from demons? asks Dean abruptly, turning back to face her as he lowers himself onto one of the larger cardboard boxes. He’s settling, getting back his composure. He’s transitioning, like waking from a nightmare and shaking off the fear. He can almost feel the rightness of this enveloping him, a warm blanket that says this is where you’re supposed to be, this is where you’re safe. He can do this; it’s like riding a bicycle.
What? asks Ruby, blankly.
Are there ways to hide from demons? Dean repeats. Ways that don’t involve magic? Something a normal person could do?
Ruby’s not stupid, Dean’ll give her that. You think Sam’s hiding from demons? she asks immediately. Why?
Dean weighs his options, decides that giving her answers may get him some in return. Because I went to the crossroads demon and he had no idea where Sam was.
You expected him to? asks Ruby, disdainfully.
Dean decides that’s a moot point and he’s not going into it again. You demons seem to know exactly where we are, whenever you need to – how did you find Sam, the first time? Or second time?
Well, the second time, Sam called me, says Ruby with a shrug. Telephones, a miracle of life. And the first time, I worked my ass off tracking you guys, that’s how. Not like there wasn’t a trail, after the devil’s gate. I just had to follow the scent of exorcisms.
You’re kidding, says Dean. You couldn’t have tracked us, not that easily.
Ruby rolls her eyes. Well, the demonic thing does help a little. That “scent of exorcisms” bit wasn’t a metaphor. You leave wounds when you exorcise a demon, little pockets of Hell, almost. Demons can feel it and they’ll usually steer clear of the area until they’re sure it’s safe.
So if we stopped exorcising you guys, you wouldn’t be able to find us?
Not necessarily. The exorcisms make it easier to find you, that’s all. Demons are like dogs – extra strength senses. It’s easier for them to track you, but it’s not easy. If they wanna keep tabs on your movements, you can be sure that they’ll be trailing your ass across the country.
Dean chews on this silently. It means that the Crossroads Demon wasn’t necessarily lying.
He wasn’t lying, Ruby interrupts and Dean clenches his teeth, glares at her from under his eyebrows. Whoever’s holding your contract doesn’t give a damn about what happens to your brother – they’ll be following you, though. Making sure you don’t get yourself into… trouble. So, no, crossroads demons aren’t going to be much help. In fact, there’s probably only one demon who could help you, and you didn’t bother telling her Sam was missing until now. Way to go, Magnum.
Why the fuck do you care where Sam is? scoffs Dean. Oh, yeah – I forgot. He’s gonna be your weapon, lead you to victory, head your army of jackasses, isn’t that right? Heard it all before, sister, and guess what? It doesn’t do much in the way of endearment, so I don’t see why I’d be asking you to join the search party.
Ruby snorts. This is why you’re such a dick, Dean – you think you know everything about everybody.
Don’t give me that crap. All you demons are the same, every screw loose.
You know, that’s the same attitude you’ve got about Sam, isn’t it? It’s not that you have faith in him, or whatever sappy love story you’ve been telling him and yourself, it’s that you don’t want to believe that something you think might not be the truth.
What the hell are you talking about?
Ruby laughs, a small, mocking breath. I know things about Sam that would blow your mind, Dean. Things you could never imagine. Might put a couple of your more treasured racisms to rest… or it might not. The bad boys down stairs are still betting on whether you’d choose Sam, if you found out. The odds are against you, by the way – not much can beat brainwashing.
You either tell me what you’re talking about, or you shut up, bitch, says Dean, starting to stand.
I mean, the way things are right now, I could name a couple of people who care about Sam more than you – hell, take me. You’re leaving and in a few months’ time, Sam’ll be on his own, fighting this war with the safety still on his gun. At least I’m willing to toughen him up, make sure he’s got at least half of what it takes to fight.
Dean’s on his feet, unfolding a sheet of paper he’s pulled out of his jacket pocket, and says, Last chance. Shut the fuck up now.
Ruby just takes a breath, sneering. And you? What’re you doing for Sam? How’re you helping him prepare for life without you?
Dean starts reading, loudly, trying to drown out her voice, block his ears, willing her to shut up, shut up, shut up. Ruby immediately starts twitching, breathing heavier, but doesn’t back down.
You can’t even admit to him that you’re scared shitless. You stand there, all bravado, but that’s just a perfected mask, isn’t it? Making sure little Sammy never sees you at your lowest – petty protection.
…exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…
Maybe if you stopped trying to protect him, you’d finally see what’s been in front of your eyes for years now, Ruby says, half-screaming. You’d see how useful a hunter Sam is, and not just because of his brains. He doesn’t have your guts, but that’s nothing that can’t be rectified!
…omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion…
But it’s too late now, because you’ve gone and lost him and he’s probably dead, probably died screaming your name! And the one person who could help you was called two months too late!
…infernalis adversarii, omnis legio…
Ruby shrieks again, head twisting in pain. Dean watches her hands jerking towards her hair as if she wants to rip the sleek, pale strands out.
I can still help you, you son of a bitch, fix your dumbass mistakes! You exorcise me, and that’s one more link to Sam lost! How’ll you live with that, if you never find Sam?
And Dean stops, heart pounding in his chest, the last few words fighting to reach his mouth.
Ruby’s watching him, gasping through clenched teeth, hair no longer sleek, fingers bent into claws. There’s hatred radiating from her eyes, and Dean’s every instinct is telling him to keep going.
But he doesn’t.
You’ll try to find Sam? he asks.
Yes, breathes Ruby.
A split second of hesitation, but he’s already made his choice. He goes over to the devil’s trap and scratches away the paint with his nail. If she kills him now, he probably won’t even care.
She doesn’t, though. Dean stands up.
Her eyes narrow, and she swallows and steps back. Says fast, Don’t get your hopes up. He’s probably long dead by now. I got whiff of a demon, Lilith, who wants his pretty little head on a stick. I thought he was safe with you but I guess he wasn’t. Try sleeping with that. And here’s a little tidbit – those things that I know about Sam? He knew them too.
She’s gone before Dean can even think about finishing the exorcism, a gust of icy wind trailing after her.
Dean crouches by the trap and doesn’t get up until his legs are numb, and his cheeks warm once more.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-07-06 05:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-07-18 07:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-07-26 01:19 pm (UTC)Still awesome :)
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Date: 2009-07-31 07:53 pm (UTC)Not, it didn't turn out that way, but Dean would probably have always wondered what the spirits might have told him if he'd decided against giving Bela the Colt.
Thank you!
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Date: 2009-08-18 03:35 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-03-08 05:13 am (UTC)