Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean had traveled in time before. It had actually come to the point where he could just casually suggest travelling a hundred years back in time to for frigging supply run. But all of the previous times he had one big obstacle: fate. He could not change it, no matter how much it hurt to watch his family suffer. This time, however, it would be different. This time he could fix everything.

It was telling that his new solution to everything had become tracking down whatever cosmic entity controlled the issue and threatening them into listening to him. It got easier after he killed Death. None of the Fates had been very happy when he suggested changing the past: in fact they were furious and tried to kill him. They all failed, and the youngest Fate was more willing to help when Dean dropped the bodies of her fallen sisters at her feet. When did it come to this? When did he simply kill and kill and kill everything that got in his way, not caring who were monsters and who were not?

Oh well, at least he could change that too: he couldn’t change himself, but he could create a version of himself that didn’t grow up that way. The last Fate called him insane, insisted he wouldn’t stand a chance and all of those other things that cosmic entities liked to yell whenever he got in their way. He patiently waited for her to get it out of her system. She did, eventually, allowing the changes he needed. They negotiated for a while, laying down ground rules.

The Apocalypse was off the table. That was Dean’s first demand. Fate explained that it didn’t mean it wouldn’t happen, but he would have a better chance at preventing it. He could live with that. Fate had some demands of her own as well. 9/11 still had to happen. Dean wanted to protest that even if it hadn’t occurred to him to change it, but Fate was adamant, and reminded him that he wouldn’t know how to stabilize international politics even if he could change them.

So yeah, most non-supernatural events were also off the table, unless he changed them by accident. Dean did not want to have to tiptoe around all the time. And he made sure he was allowed to make himself rich by investing in stocks, as long as he did not use the money to fund political campaigns or anything like that. With the ground rules set, Dean had pretty much free reign on everything else.

He packed the essentials, but found he had to negotiate there too. The Colt was okay, because it was only a copy of the original. The demon killing knife was not, because the demons still had the other one. He brought an angel blade instead, because there existed so many of those that one more would not make a difference. Most of the other equipment he would need would be readily accessible through the Men of Letters Bunker. Dean brought the key with him, tossing it in a duffel alongside some clothes, his father’s journal and some personal effects. He did not have much that was of sentimental value anymore, except for his car which he obviously couldn’t bring. Other stuff was easy to get. He ordered some fake IDs in the correct style and with the correct dates. The guy he bought them from didn’t bat an eyebrow at his ‘mind-fuck con of the century’ explanation. He sorted out the cash he had with the correct dates on it, printed out some statistics and stock market history that would be useful and gathered whatever information on the 1980’s and 1990’s that he would need.

He’d fucked up this stuff before, mentioning the internet in 1973. That could not happen again if he was planning to stick around. He noted down everything he was supposed to know and not know, just to be sure. This was the single most important thing he had ever done, and he could not afford to be unprepared. Finally, he could not think of anything else to do. He kissed Baby goodbye, and allowed the random angel he had threatened into sending him back to do his job. Dean had planned the first few days in detail. Knowing his own luck, he knew that everything would go to shit very, very quickly, but he could not allow that to happen before Azazel was dead.

As soon as he landed in Lawrence Kansas on November 1st 1983, he got to work getting himself a car and supplies. He found himself a battered black 1966 Pontiac GTO, deciding to stick with it despite the fact that it needed a bit of love to run smoothly. The owner of the salvage yard where he got it was impressed enough that Dean was willing to put in the work on it that he let him have it for cheap. The guy was even willing to hand wave some of the paperwork and allow Dean to modify it using his own tools. Dean got her up and running in a few hours, then modified added a hidden compartment to the trunk, a gun holster hidden to the side of every seat and of course every single type of supernatural ward he could think of.

Turns out there are a lot, he thought, as he added devils traps to the trunk and back seats, disguised enochian wards to the ceiling, ananzi wards to the doors and thin salt lines glued onto every entrance. Nothing would get in there if he didn’t allow it to.

He worked through the night, checking and rechecking his supplies a hundred times and telling himself it was because he was cautious, not terrified of facing his family again or uncertain whether he was doing the right thing. Once Azazel was dead, that was it. The future, the world he knew would be gone, erased from existence. The brother he raised and watched die would be gone, replaced with some little baby. Everything he had ever done, good or bad would be erased, replaced with a blank slate. Dean thought of Sam, torn apart mentally and physically, brought to his breaking point and beyond without any relief. He thought of all the people he had gotten killed: Mom, Dad, Jo, Ellen, Bobby, Benny, Pamela, Viktor Hendriksen, Charlie and so many others, and wondered whether he had the right to erase those people from existence: except he wouldn’t be erasing them, he would erasing their pain, their suffering, their deaths.

He got some sleep the morning of November 2nd, lying in the back of the GTO with his jacket over him. It was a power nap where he forced his eyes closed and his body to relax as much as possible because he needed to be at his best tonight. He forced his bubbling fear and insecurity into detached apathy because that was the only way to handle this mess. He couldn’t afford to mess up, because people were relying on him. His family was relying on him.

He waited until his father had left for work before approaching the front door. The house was so familiar, yet so alien. The last time he had been in her for real it had been as a stranger, a brief guest. He realized that was all he was now: this place would never be his home again. Another boy named Dean Winchester would grow up here with his loving family. It was a bitter sweet thought, but Dean kept it off his face as he knocked on the door.

He kept himself from blanching when his mother opened the door, eyes widening as she remembered the hunter she met ten years ago, on the worst day of her life. He forced himself to smile, but it didn’t feel genuine.

“Hello Mary. Remember me?”

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Mary did remember him. It had been ten years and six months, exactly. Ten and a half years had passed since her parents had died, since she had left the hunter life behind. Ten and a half years had passed since she nearly lost John. And now a hunter was standing at her door, looking ten years older and a hundred years tougher.

His shoulders and arms were bulging more under a forest green jacket, showing the same flannel and jeans look he had all those years ago beneath. He had aged well, with the most noticeable difference the increase of stubble, and the thin lines around his eyes. His nose had been broken a few more times, his hands were more calloused and there were more small white scars scattered over his face, his hands and his neck. But it was his eyes that told the real story. His green eyes had been sad and haunted back when Mary met him the first time. Now they were dull, telling of anger and grief and pain that she could not even imagine.

“Hello Dean.” She said, remembering his name. “What are you doing here?” This was not a courtesy visit, and her pulse was picking up running through the possibilities. This could not be about the yellow-eyed demon. He was supposed to have come six months ago. Exactly six months ago, actually. Oh god. Dean knew something she didn’t, just like he had all those years ago. He had warned her, about this exact day.

“Can I come in?” She nodded mutely, her stomach sinking. He walked past her, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it in the hallway before heading into the living room with Mary. He narrowly avoided stepping on one of little Dean’s toy cars.

“Mom! Who is visiting?” Her eldest son’s voice came from the living room. The elder Dean looked at her with an eyebrow raised, waiting for her to come up with a cover story. Mary thought fast, entering the living room so the little boy and the guest could see each other.

“Dean, this is an old friend of mine, also named Dean.” She turned to the hunter. “This is my eldest son, Dean.” The hunter smiled.

“Heya buddy. How’re you doing?” Everything about him was friendly at that moment, his previously tense shoulders relaxed, and the dullness of his eyes brightened. Little Dean’s eyes widened when they were introduced.

“We have the same name? That’s so cool!” The four year old announced cheerfully. Neither Mary nor the hunter beside her could keep from chuckling.

“That is is, Deano. Do you mind if I borrow your mom for a minute?” The boy nodded, satisfied that he had been consulted, and the elder Dean led Mary into the kitchen, making sure they were far enough away that little Dean and Sam (who was taking a nap) could not hear them.

“What are you doing here?” Mary demanded again, though she knew the answer. Dean knew, too.

“You know why I am here. The yellow-eyed demon you made a deal with is coming.” “He should have been here six months ago.” Mary protested halfheartedly.

“But you weren’t at home, then, were you? You were in the hospital with little Sam.”

“How did you know?” The hunter kept his distance, leaning on the counter next to the unwashed dishes from the pancakes Mary had made for breakfast. Her normal life was coming crashing down. Dean shrugged.

“I’m good at my job and you’re not exactly hiding.” He tilted his head, green eyes looking into hers. They were strangely familiar. “The demon has been going after children, doing something to them. He always comes at the night of their six month birthday. As far as I can see, he has to be invited in, but once he has been he regards it as an open invitation.”

“Like the deal I made for John.” Guilt was churning in her gut.

“Exactly.” The hunter confirmed. “I haven’t been able to help the other children because I didn’t know who they were until it was too late. But now...”

“You think you can stop him.” It wasn’t a question. Dean had that look in his eyes, like a predator that had finally cornered his prey. It was unnerving. “You want to fight a demon in my home!?” Every instinct was telling her to get him out of her house. She had fought too hard for this peaceful life to let some obsessed hunter tear it apart.

“Keep your voice down!” He hissed, nodding in the direction of the living room and her two blissfully oblivious sons. “He is coming whether you want him to or not. You can either help me kill him, or let him do whatever he wants with your baby boy.”

Mary bit back an indignant response and considered his words. He was right. She couldn’t allow that demon to get to Sam. Dean put a hand on her arm, and for some reason she did not want to swat it away.

“Mary. I know you want what is best for your family. That is why you have kept them out of the life so far, and I agree with that decision. They deserve the normal life that we never got. We’ll do this quietly, and there will be no reason to burst their perfect little bubbles.” And there she was won over. She looked up into his sincere green eyes and knew that they were on the same side.

“So, what is the plan?”

The hunter seemed to have planned this rather well. He painted something he called a devil’s trap beneath the rug in front of Sammy’s crib, making sure it was far enough away from the crib that the demon could not reach the sleeping baby. They didn’t know where he was planning to enter the building, so it was not safe to place down salt lines anywhere without alerting him, but they did add another devil’s trap beneath the rug in little Dean’s room and in John and Mary’s room just to be sure he could not get anywhere if he changed his plans.

Dean the hunter (she really needed to learn his last name so she wouldn’t have to call him that in her head forever) had a very simple plan. He would wait, hidden in the closet inside the nursery while John and Dean went to bed. Mary would stay in her room until she heard the demon come, then bring with her the magical Colt that Dean handed her. When she asked him whether he had taken it back from old man Elkins he explained that he had managed to make a new one instead. There was definitely a story there, but Mary let it go for now. Using the Colt would wake the whole house and alert John to the danger, and neither of them wanted that. Dean had only given it to her as a precaution, he had a large dagger that he claimed would work just as well as long as he got close.

“You came prepared, huh?” She commented as he showed her the sleek silver blade. He shrugged noncommittally again.

“He killed my parents.” It was a story she had heard before, from every other hunter she met. Most people who got into the life did so for revenge, though most never got a shot at the thing that killed their loved ones. Most didn’t even know exactly what it was that had torn their life apart, but those who did, who had enough leads to be right on the creature’s tail for years upon years, constantly moving and hurrying to get there and kill that thing, those people ended up far worse than those who didn’t.

One look at Dean told her he had been close for a long time, that he had sacrificed a lot and possibly everything to get to this point. This meant as much for him as it did for her. Crying from downstairs alerted her to the fact that Sam had woken up a few seconds before little Dean ran up the stairs to inform her of the very same thing. Seeing as they were finished with their preparations, Mary led everyone downstairs so she could feed Sammy and then begin making lunch.

The elder Dean offered to help cook, and soon had her eldest son engaged in the activity, cutting up fruit with a deft hand while the boy ran back and forth with bowls to mix in. The hunter had a way with kids, she could tell. He didn’t talk down to little Dean, but kept him engaged without letting him out of his sight. Knives were kept far out of the reach of the toddler, and directions were followed to the t.

Watching the two of them work in with familiar ease she wondered if Dean had a family. She knew his parents were dead, but one does not get this good with children without some practice. She had gotten the impression that he was single the first time she met him, but that was ten years ago. She had gotten married and had two kids in that time, after all.

Little Sammy was hungry. She looked down at her little baby, stroking her hand over the fuzz on his head and looking into his hazel eyes. He was growing fast. She tried to imagine what he would look like all grown up, if he did get the chance to grow up. Yesterday she had been certain he would, and had been looking forwards to it. Now she was no longer sure if a demon wouldn’t show up and take her lovely baby away from her.

Dean said he could protect them, from both the demon and from the horrible truth Mary was running from. She hoped he was right. Dean made a big show out of leaving that day, making sure little Dean saw him walk out the door, and giving the guy a pat on the head on his way out. Little Dean was looking at the man with nothing but wide eyed hero worship and asked when the man would be coming back. The elder Dean shrugged and said he was only passing through, and didn’t know when he was coming back this way.

John came home, and they ate dinner. Mary struggled to force down even a few bites down past the lump in her throat. She gripped her glass so tightly she thought it would break when she took a drink, but John did not notice. He and Mary went upstairs to put Sammy to sleep, little Dean kissing his brother good night before going to sleep as well. John went downstairs to watch some late night tv and probably drink a few more beers than what was healthy, while Mary returned to her room.

The elder Dean had told her not to check on him, and simply trust that he was there. She glanced at the closet before she left, but chose to trust him. They had to keep up the facade. She went back to her room, changing into her nightgown and slipping under the covers, feeling the reassuring handle of the Colt beneath her pillow.

She ran her thumb over the carved inscriptions on the handle. This was supposedly a copy of the original Colt, that Dean had somehow gotten his hands on, and it wasn’t even supposed to be the main weapon. Mary had grown up with obsessed hunters, and she knew they were not beyond deceiving their own allies if it got them closer to the target. Perhaps Dean had given her a fake and was planning to use her as a distraction. She had no doubt the knife would work, though. He would not have come here if he wasn’t certain he could kill him.

She knew it hadn’t been that long, but it felt like an eternity before she Sammy softly crying on the baby monitor. She got up, her heart threatening to beat out of her chest. He was here. The demon that killed her parents, that had possessed her father, was in her home. And she was going to help kill it. She was walking on bare feet, instinctively balancing on the balls of her feet, ready to spring and moving without a sound. She knew this house well enough that she could avoid every spot that creaked. The Colt was held in both hands, lowered so she wouldn’t accidentally shoot her family if someone interrupted her.

“What the hell?” She didn’t recognize the voice, but she did recognize the tone. Even when interred in a devil’s trap, the yellow-eyed demon was bemused, not scared. He thankfully kept his voice low.

“Your invitation has been revoked.” Mary informed him, stepping in the door and raising the Colt. Dean had informed her that the demon could not attack her or leave the trap, but that he might be able to destroy the trap if he had time to concentrate. All Mary had to do was keep him busy and get his back towards the closet so Dean had a clear shot (or stab) at his back. Please God, let Dean be there.

“Mary, Mary, Mary. I told you to stay away, didn’t I?” She didn’t have to fake her shaking hands as she stepped into the room, allowing the door to close behind her and moved to the side, making it appear like she was trying to cut him off from her baby. One look at Sammy told her he was fine. The demon hadn’t gotten to him, and despite the fact that he was crying, he was safe. She just hoped the noise wouldn’t wake John.

“And I am telling you to get the hell out of my house” She bit out, angrily. The demon chuckled, it’s host, a thin, balding middle aged man with a suitably malicious smile gestured at the rug on the floor.

“Sure thing, Mary. Just remove this trap, and I will be on my way.” Was there a hidden message? Did the trap even work, or was that another one of Dean’s bluffs? She tightened her grip on the gun. The demon didn’t look worried staring down the barrel, but then again it made sense that a demon of his caliber would be good at lying.

She took another step to the right, and right there, the demon had his back squarely to the closet, with just a few feet between him and the white double doors.

The demon opened his mouth to taunt her again, when the doors suddenly slammed open, and six feet of muscle uncoiled like a spring. The demon didn’t have time to react before the large hunter was right behind him. His eyes widened in surprise, and his mouth opened in a wordless cry, before his whole body shook and glowed like there was thunderstorm trapped in his chest, fighting to get out.

Mary saw the moment the life left his eyes, and he crumpled to the floor like a sack of flour. Dean wrapped an arm around his belly and caught him so the noise wouldn’t attract any attention. As the meatsack doubled over, Mary saw that the long silver blade had pierced his lower spine, angled upwards to hit the heart. A certain killing blow. Dean had not taken any chances.

Mary dropped the gun shakily and ran to her baby boy, pulling him out of the crib and cradling him to her chest. She shushed him, rocking him gently and trying to keep herself from crying along with him. Dean deposited the body on the floor and looked at her. The wordless ‘are you okay’ in his eyes was answered with a nod, and he slumped in relief. Mary nodded towards the body on the floor.

“Can you take care of that?” He nodded, but hesitated. He looked at the baby in Mary’s arms, and asked softly.

“May I?” Mary looked at the hunter. Her motherly instincts were telling her to cling onto her baby and never let go, but Dean had just saved his life, and he had been safe around her family so far. Carefully, she handed the bundle over to him, glancing at the door and hoping John wouldn’t barge in right now. Her husband was a hothead, and he would not take lightly to the intruders in their house.

Dean took the baby gently, holding him in the crook of his left arm, and holding the little guy’s hand with the other. The hunter smiled, and it was the most genuine expression Mary had ever seen on him.

“Have a good life, little man.” The hunter was careful not to get blood on the baby’s pajamas. Any apprehension Mary had entertained about letting the hunter near her child was washed away in an instant. Again, she wondered whether he had a family, and now she had to ask.

“Do you have kids?” She asked softly. The hunter looked at her with sad eyes.

“I had a little brother.” There was a hundred emotions swirling in his eyes. “I practically raised him myself.” That was all Mary needed to know. He was alone now. He handed the baby back.

“I should take care of this body now. You can go back to sleep.” Mary nodded. She brought the baby with her, resolving not the let him out of her sight for the foreseeable future. “Mary.” She turned as the hunter slung the dead demon over his shoulder.

“Take care of them.” She nodded.

“I will.”

And then she returned to her blissfully normal life, clinging to her baby boy and thanking the stars that Dean had shown up. The next morning, when she looked into the nursery, the body was gone, along with every trace of blood. The devil’s traps had all been washed away. The supernatural was once again gone from her life. She walked down stairs to kiss her husband good morning and making breakfast, with a massive weight lifted off her shoulders.

Chapter Text

Dean poured a rich dose of salt over the body. He recognized this host: it was the same one Azazel had worn the first time he killed him. The poor man had been possessed for thirty years, and Dean felt like he deserved a proper hunter’s funeral. The very least he could do for the man was put his spirit to rest. He had driven far outside of town, until he found a large patch of forest where he could create a pyre. The man had no ID on him, so Dean couldn’t have marked the grave even if he wanted to.

“Sorry, man. I know it sucks.” The only eulogy he could think of. He threw a match at the gasoline-soaked pyre and watched it light up in the night. He leaned against the hood of the GTO and watched the flames lick the canvas covered body, feeling the familiar smell of charring meat and trying to ignore the fact that he knew exactly what kind of sounds the man would make if he was alive right now.

Azazel was dead. It hadn’t even occurred to him to abandon the body when he faced Mary, and Dean took his opening as soon as he saw it. It had felt more satisfying the first time around. Dean had experienced so much revenge and killing that he was getting desensitized to it.

He looked down at the journal to see what he was going to do next. Over the last few years, he had added just as much if not more than what his father had put in the journal in his time. It made sense: John had more years of hunting experience than Dean did when he handed him the journal, but Dean’s hunting career had been far more intense. The pages he had filled in contained stuff most hunters wouldn’t even dream of: khan worms, Jefferson Starships, angels and archangels, Purgatory, fate and destiny and the internal politics of Heaven and Hell. Sam was out of the equation now. Without the demon blood he would not be a potential vessel for Lucifer. Little Dean, John and Dean himself were still potential Michael’s Swords because that was a genetic thing, but Adam would probably never be born, so he was out too. There were other Special Children out there, people Azazel had gotten to before he died. Dean had no idea who or how many there were, or if the ones whose names he knew had been turned yet.

There was nothing he could do about them just yet, but he could keep an eye on the Righteous Man prophecy. He would not sell his soul again, but he had to keep an eye on the other two, to make sure they did not end up in Hell. Perhaps he would have to approach Mary about that, but right now she needed some time to rest in normalcy.

In the meantime, Dean needed more allies. He could not fight the Apocalypse alone. He looked over the list of options.

Crowley - does not benefit from Hell on Earth, wants to be King of Hell. A self serving son of a bitch that cannot be trusted.

Gabriel - kind of likes humans, thinks both Mike and Luci are dicks. Kind of a dick himself.

Kali - still together with Gabe, does not want the Apocalypse to happen, very powerful. Might want to eat me, does not like humans.

Balthazar - fallen angels have no allies. Massive dick.

Bobby - the best. Does not know me yet. The Harvelles - still run the Roadhouse, which is a meeting point for hunters. Might be suspicious of my knowledge, might get killed on account of me.

Pastor Jim - expert on demons. Knows less than me, and might not take well to dealing with Crowley.

Samuel Elkins - owns the original Colt, and knows me from 1973. Old and suspicious.

Missouri Moseley - excellent psychic. Would instantly know when I am hiding something from her.

None of these were perfect options, but he could not do this alone. He resolved to go to Missouri first, mostly because he needed to be honest with someone for a while. He would have to tell her the whole story. He snapped the journal shut.

“Nice of you to give him a funeral.” Shit. Over thirty years of hunting, and he got snuck up on like an idiot. And by demons, no less. He should have smelled the sulfur stink from miles away. But no, here he was, with the gun out of his reach in the car. He had the angel blade strapped to the small of his back, but it was a short range weapon, and demons have really annoying telekinetic powers. He hoped it was at least some super powerful demon. It would be embarrassing as hell to be taken down by some regular joe schmo black eye.

He kept his head high and turned slowly, oozing confidence that he only sort of felt. It was possible that Azazel had told some of his cronies that he was a time traveler after he met him the first time, but he somehow doubted it. Nobody had brought it up in the future, after all. And even if he had told them, they wouldn’t truly know who he was: not in the way future demons would.

“Yeah, well. I needed some light to read by.” Not the best response, but nobody was keeping score. There were two demons, wearing a pair of redheaded twenty-somethings that could only be twins. The woman who had spoken had her long red curls tied back with one of those giant red scrunchies that had been popular in the eighties, standing in a confident stance wearing a pair of denim dungarees over a gray low cut t-shirt.

Most demon chicks Dean had met would prefer to wear something more risque, but he guessed that this one had only just found a host. She must have been in a hurry, if the hatred shining in her blue eyes was anything to go by. The pyre behind him was casting a warm light upon her, the flickering flames reflected in her eyes like hellfire. The young man beside her had the same kind of expression, and was wearing equally casual clothes.

“You know, if you’re here for the funeral you should have brought flowers.” He knew they couldn’t see his face very well with the only light behind him. His flickering shadow was long, reaching far between them.

“We’re not here for the funeral, we’re here for revenge. You killed our father tonight.” Dean was glad they could not see his face. This must be Meg and whatever her brother was named. And of course, Meg wasn’t her real name either. That would definitely get confusing after a while. If either of them made it through the night, of course.

“Yeah, how does that work exactly? Do demons fuck, or what?” Well, if they weren’t pissed before, his flippant tone pushed them over the edge. He knew instinctively that their charging was not the problem. He ducked down behind the GTO, hoping it would take the brunt of the telekinetic blast he knew was coming. It clipped his shoulder on his way down, sending him corkscrewing through the air a few feet. He knew from personal experience that the blast would have broken several ribs, and would either pinned him against a tree or thrown him into the still flaming pyre. Yeah, he’d take these bruises over that any day.

He rolled to his feet and crouched behind the car pulling the sleek angel blade from the sheat on his back. He held it in an icepick grip, barely allowed a second to catch his breath before a pair of legs appeared around the corner of the car and he plunged the blade in right beneath the right kneecap. Meg screamed in rage as Dean hurried to pull the blade out of the wound before she wrenched it from his hands.

He sprung to his feet to giver her the final blow, only for the enraged demon to aim a crushing punch to his jaw. He dodged the accompanying kick and slashed blindly, nicking her above the eye and causing her to step back on her bad knee and go down. He didn’t have time to finish her off, though, because her brother had just come up behind him, and Dean found himself slammed against the hood of the GTO.

The air flew from his lungs, but he kept a tight grip on the knife, knowing full well the battle was lost if the demon got its hands on his only weapon. He twisted and stabbed, getting the demon right in the artery inside his thigh. And then the demon grabbed onto his hand and snapped the wrist. Dean shot up, yelling and trying to headbutt the demon away, but the knife was on the ground now and he couldn’t get to it without leaving himself prone. His fingers tightened around the flask of holy water he kept in his jacket pocket, and he managed to unscrew it with his left hand and fling the contents straight in the demon’s face.

He hissed and stepped back, and Dean decided that now would be a good time to get the hell out of here. He ran around the hood, and flung the door on the driver’s side open. Meg reached up and grabbed his leg, but she was still dazed and Dean poured the last holy water on her and stomped on her hand. She didn’t just let go, she actually left the body entirely. The body convulsed as black smoke poured out of its mouth. Great. One down, one to go. And of course, Meg could be on her way to get reinforcements. That would suck. Dean ignored the pain from his broken wrist (the bone was poking through) and scrambled into the car, starting the engine and pushing the pedal to the floor before the other demon could get fully clear. The demon had tried picking up the angel blade, and got a car in the face for his troubles.

The GTO didn’t have time to accelerate enough for the blow to be more than an inconvenience, but it was still a win in Dean’s book. He couldn’t leave yet. The angel blade could not fall into demon hands. He was trying to think of a plan when the enraged demon appeared at his side and attempted to pull him out of the car. The silver blade stabbed down, and Dean barely got his right hand up to stop it. The blade skidded and pierced his arm, below the already damaged wrist, but it gave Dean time to pull the demon into the car, twisting and depositing the thing in the back seat. It tried to make a lunge for him, but the devil’s traps on the ceiling held him in place.

“Let me go, you son of a bitch!” He yelled once he realized he could not get out. Dean breathed a sigh of relief. His arm was dizzying agony, and he knew that if he pulled the blade out he would bleed to death.

He was about to start the car and get the hell out of here when the woman outside suddenly cried out in pain. Dean remembered Meg leaving her, and suddenly he was out of the car, kneeling by her side. The cut above her right eye was soaking her red hair in blood, but the real worry was the wound below her knee. Dean tore off the bottom of her dungaree leg and used it as a tourniquet, tearing another strip so he could make one for himself, because he was starting to get dizzy himself.

“Oh god! It hurts so much!” Her blue eyes were wide open in panic.

“It’s all right.” Dean hushed her. “I’m gonna get you to a hospital.” He reached down and picked her up with one arm, cursing Meg for not picking a more petite host. The demon in the back seat was still cursing him when he deposited the girl in the front seat. He’d wrap her in his jacket to avoid shock, but the blade was still stuck through it and he did not have time to get it off. Luckily, he knew where the nearest hospital was.

“Shut up!” He yelled at the demon in the back. He was too busy controlling the car to fling more holy water at him.

“Oh god! It’s still inside my brother!” The girl suddenly yelled, horror in her voice.

“Calm down” Dean bit out, swerving the steering wheel as he backed onto the road and headed for the hospital. “I’ll exorcise him before we get to the hospital, but I don’t want him to bleed out before we get there.” There was little he could do to stop the bleeding, and the demon was losing blood too, but the demon was also keeping the host alive, and if the body was going to bleed out he would have a better chance if the demon was removed right outside of the ER. The girl was in shock, and looked ready to pass out. Dean nudged her with his elbow.

“Hey! Don’t pass out on me!” She jerked awake instantly. “What is your name?” He kept one eye on her and one on the dark road. The colour was draining from her fast. He stepped harder on the gas. The road was thankfully empty. “Jackie” She said, weakly. She had calmed a bit and was pointedly not looking back at her brother. She gestured in his direction without looking.

“That’s -- was -- my brother Drew.” “He is still in there.” Dean reassured. He glanced at the demon in the mirror. “And what is your name?” If Azazel’s children were going to be a problem in the future he couldn’t keep calling them ‘Meg and that guy who died instantly last time.’ The demon scoffed, and Dean frowned.

“I’ve got enough holy water in the drunk to give you a frigging bath, so I suggest you start talking.” He said. The demon looked a bit pale. He contemplated lying, but thought better of it.

“My name is Jarl.” He admitted. Dean nodded.

“And your sister?” Jarl seemed a bit more reluctant to reveal information about his family. And he had looked genuinely enraged over his father’s death. Dean thought back to the first time he faced Azazel, and how mad he had been about his dead son then. Apparently this family truly did care about each other. Interesting.

“Her name is Megara.” The demon admitted. Dean’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Her name really was Meg? That seemed like too much of a coincidence, but how could they possibly know that? Well, he guessed he could check that later.

“Well, sit tight for a while and you’ll get to see her again.” He would have preferred to kill him right now, or torture some more information out of him, but he couldn’t do that to Jackie. If he was right, she and Drew had not been possessed for long. They still had a chance. Jackie’s head fell to the side.

“Hey Jackie! Hang in there.” He could see the hospital in the distance now and sped up even more. There were cars on the road here, but he floored it and maneuvered around them, skidding to a halt in front of the ER entrance. He turned to the boy in the back seat and began the exorcism, speaking the Latin incantation as quickly as possible. A doctor and a nurse who had been standing outside the ER presumably on they break had seen his hurry and had already called for stretchers. The demon was out of Drew before the paramedics had gotten the door open. Jackie was pulled out too, and someone pushed Dean onto a stretcher.

He wanted to protest, but he was about to pass out from blood loss and his bruises chose that moment to demand his attention.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-

Jackie Mason woke with a start, staring around her in panic. Where the hell was Drew? Her throat felt parched, and her forehead and leg was agony. It felt like there were razors shaking around in her head as she looked around.

“Shh... Sweetie. You’re okay.” She knew that voice, and calmed down as her eyes fixed on her mother.

“Drew?” She asked, and she had to split open her dry lips to say it. Someone provided her with a styrofoam cup of water, and she was happy to see that her arms woke up sufficiently for her to hold it herself. Someone helped prop her up so she could sit. It was an elderly nurse who smiled at her when she nodded in thanks. Jackie’s mother worked as a nurse as well, so most of them knew Jackie even if she didn’t know all their names.

“Drew will be alright, honey.” She sighed in relief, then remembered the thing (Jarl?) that had been in him, controlling him like a puppet, and the thing that had been in her (Megara?) shoving her into the back seat of her own body, taking her out into the middle of nowhere to kill some guy. She had been certain the guy was dead. The thing, the demon inside her, had been so strong, it could fling him through the air without even touching him. Megara had felt invincible in her rage. Whatever the big man had done to them, it must have been something bad. She had felt Megara’s terror when the man turned the tables on them.

The pain of being stabbed in the leg hadn’t been apparent when it happened, only showing up once the demon left her body, so it was probably a good thing that the man didn’t remove the demon before they got to the hospital. She remembered seeing the black smoke pour out his mouth before the paramedics got her out of the car, but she still wanted to see him to be sure.

“How is he?” She asked. Her throat was feeling a lot better.

“He lost a lot of blood, but they got him a transfusion. He was also stabbed in the leg, and they say there was some muscle damage, but it can be fixed with physical therapy. He is resting right now, but he was awake for a few minutes earlier.” Oh. Okay. That’s good, then.

“I think it is time to talk about you, Jackie.” There was a doctor in the room. Jackie turned to him, wondering if he just walked in or had been standing there the whole time. She was not fully awake yet.

“You have two major injuries: the cut above your eye and the damage to your knee. I suggest we start with the cut. You needed eight stitches, and it might scar, but it was not infected and it should heal cleanly. The damage to your knee is a lot worse. The blade you were stabbed with entered below the knee, breaking the bone, and then shattering the kneecap. We put a metal plate and screws to hold it together during surgery. I am afraid you will have to have a lot of physical therapy, and you might walk with a limp for the rest of your life.”

Jackie nodded, not really caring. She had been certain that she would be a puppet for the rest of eternity, so being told she might walk with a limp felt... surreal. Maybe she would be upset later, but right now she had other stuff to think about. Like that guy. And what to tell her parents about the nightmarish evening she had.

Jackie did not enjoy lying to her parents, but she didn’t think they would believe the truth. So she told them she and Drew had been mugged by two guys with knives. Some guy had come by and helped them. The guy had disappeared soon after he woke up, leaving a note saying he didn’t have health insurance, and the hospital staff, remembering he had saved Jackie and Drew, the kids of one of the nurses, said that nobody could remember what the license plate number on his car was.

Drew wasn’t awake yet. Her mother had put her in a wheelchair and rolled her into his room. Her head still felt like it was filled with cotton. Everything went by in a dreamlike fashion, she hardly caught what people said to her, and she could not tell the passage of time. Her life just didn’t feel real.

Drew woke up after a while, looking pale and small despite being six feet tall. Jackie was very glad she was alone when he came to, so she could soothe his panic and terror. She explained what had happened: that something had possessed them, but that the guy the things had been trying to kill had saved their lives. She filled him in on the cover story, and he was ready by the time their parents and the doctors and the police came by to ask questions.

Drew was as out of everything as she was. She spent as much time with him as she could, even if her knee was really hurting and the doctors kept insisting she stay in her room so they could monitor her. However, the twins were both so freaked out they did not want to spend much time alone.

There was this constant dread that it would happen again: that Jarl and Megara would return and take back control of their bodies. Jackie felt dirty, like some remnant of that black smoke was still inside of her. They talked about it, at night when their parents were gone but Jackie refused to return to her room. Drew was shaken, eyes always fluttering to the windows and doors and vents, expecting to see the swirling blackness returning. It was getting worse, too. Jackie knew he needed therapy, but he was not willing to get help because they would say he had been hallucinating, and they were both certain that they hadn’t.

They were calling them demons. Jackie had never been religious, nor had her family, but they were both inclined to change that opinion now. If there were demons, there had to be angels too. And even if there wasn’t, there were people like the guy who had saved them, who was willing to stand up to those things despite overwhelming odds.

The same hazy feeling was over her when she returned to art school. Her classmates greeted her with love and concern, as usual, but she couldn’t really appreciate it, because like everything else it didn’t feel real. She had so many questions, and she knew she couldn’t go on with her life without answering them.

A few weeks later, when she was good enough on her crutches that her parents let her drive around alone, she drove to the nearest catholic church. She didn’t know much about catholicism, but she did know that baptists did not believe in demons. Maybe she would get her answers here.

Chapter Text

Dean stepped into the Roadhouse and looked around. The place hadn’t -- wouldn’t change much until it was blown to pieces in 2007. The crowd was a bit different: he could usually pick out a few faces among the customers, but now the only person he recognized was Ellen. Damn, she was young. She still had the long blonde hair and the no-nonsense attitude, but it looked more like she was projecting the person she wanted to be, not the confident person she would grow to be.

Dean had planned to go to Missouri Moseley first, but he had just ran away from a massive medical bill in Lawrence, and didn’t want to give anyone the opportunity to point him out before the story had died down. He didn’t have anything that needed to be done urgently, so he figured he would have time to build some hunting connections.

The Roadhouse was quite full that night, and one glance was enough to tell him they were all hunters. He knew the kind of crowd: shabby, armed, paranoid and drinking far too much. Some elderly guy was standing on a table, dramatically recounting a fight against a Black Dog and how he took it down single handedly. His three friends were sitting at a table further away, glaring at him over their glasses of cheap whiskey that they had tried to dull the pain of the deep claw marks across their arms and faces with.

Deans right wrist was in a cast, but it couldn’t cover the wound from the angel blade despite the fact that it had damaged the bone because there was still bleeding and the bandages needed to be changed regularly. The swelling on his left eye had gone down during the long drive, but it was still painting a good chunk of his face in nasty shades of yellow and blue. In any other bar that might have drawn some attention, but this was the Harvelle’s Roadhouse, and in this crowd nobody raised an eyebrow unless you were bleeding out on the floor.

“You look like you need a drink” Ellen informed him as he approached the bar. He grinned.

“That bad, huh?” Ellen had clearly gauged that he was a beer man.

“Not really, but the bar is pretty low.” The grin grew wider. God, he had missed this place. “You’re new around here, aren’t you?”

“New to this place, not to the business.” The hunter bartender nodded.

“I figured. You’ve got that look about you. I’m Ellen Harvelle, by the way.” She held out her hand, and Dean shook it.

“Dean Van Halen. It’s a great place you’ve got here, Ellen.” It just now occurred to him that he was actually older than her. That explained the lack of a maternal tone.

“Great place, less great customers” Ellen joked. She indicated the man on the table, now going into more explicit detail of his epic battle against the Black Dog. “It wasn’t really a Black Dog, by the way. It sounded a lot like a skinwalker, to me.”

“Yeah, well. I’ve never faced a Black Dog, so how would I know?” Ellen shrugged.

“I don’t think anyone who has come through here has actually hunted a real one. That’s how you can tell if a hunter is full of crap.” The phone behind the bar rang, and she excused herself. Dean sipped his beer and looked around again.

A woman slipped onto the barstool beside him. He looked her over. A couple of years younger than him, and what Dean would describe as a ‘busty asian beauty.’ Just his type, but he wasn’t sure if he was in the mood right now.

“Hey handsome.”

“Hello gorgeous.” It felt right to return the compliment. He gave her another look over. She had a knife in her boot and a bracelet with protective charms on it. A hunter wanting to unwind after a long day or week or month or life. He knew the feeling. And he’d had a hard couple of days. He felt the tenseness of his shoulders and wondered if he didn’t need some unwinding himself.

“Haven’t seen you around here before.”

“Haven’t been around.” She was holding a glass of vodka, a glass that was way too full and clearly not her first one that night. Her hands were shaking, but she was trying not to show it. She wanted to fuck her grief away, but Dean had been there too. He wondered if it would be hypocritical to point out that it wouldn’t really make her feel better.

“I’m Cho, by the way.” She emptied the glass in one gulp, and Dean knew that he would not be unwinding with her tonight. Whatever had happened was bad. He tilted his head.

“You okay?” He didn’t want to push, and she didn’t want to be pushed. She nodded feverently and looked at her glass, like she was about to take another swig and was disappointed that it was empty. Her hands were shaking harder, to the point where it was hard to hold the glass. Dean looked around, but most of the other hunters were busy. Ellen had finished her phone call and approached, looking concerned.

“Cho? Barry is on the line for you. He wants you to come pick him up.” Cho’s face suddenly contorted in panic. She had been gradually leaning towards Dean, but now she jumped to her feet with a cry.

She looked like she was about to say something, but it came out as a sob, and then she was running outside. Dean turned to Ellen, a bit unsure.

“Who’s Barry?” Ellen looked just as lost as he was.

“Her hunting partner. They’ve been best friends since childhood.”

“Did she come here alone?” Dean didn’t want to intrude if she had friends here to help her. This seemed like a very personal issue. But at the same time it looked like she was about to get herself hurt. Ellen confirmed that the woman was in fact alone. Dean thanked the stars (he knew better than thanking God or angels) that he had only had one beer, because he needed a clear head for this. Most of these hunters were too busy to even have noticed Cho’s outburst, and the rest looked too drunk to figure out what to do.

He found Cho outside the bar, on the back of a battered pickup truck, crouching and opening a large case. She pulled out a large machete with trembling hands. The cool air appeared to have sobered her a bit. She took a shaky breath and looked at Dean, before slamming the case lid shut and jumping off the bed of the pickup. Her landing was a bit unsteady, but she caught herself before Dean could think to help her.

“Sorry you had to see that.” She attached the machete sheath to her belt. Her serious expression was undercut by her dilated pupils, and the fact that the alcohol was making her worse at handling the very chilly night air. “I’ve had a crappy day and I thought I could keep it together.”

“I’ve been there.” She nodded.

“Look, uh...”

“Dean” He supplied.

“Okay. Look Dean, it's great that you are concerned about me and all, but I’ve got a job to do right now, so...” She gestured with the machete.

“Not alone, you don’t.” He responded. She glared at him. “Look, I know whatever this thing is, it’s personal, and we just met and you don’t want me in the middle of it, but you are in no shape to drive right now.” Cho considered his offer for a moment.

“Ever hunted a vampire before?” If it hadn’t been for the severity of the situation, Dean would have chuckled.

“Just one?”

“Yeah. One. His name is Barry Kerrigan.” Oh. That explains it.

“My car, or yours?” Dean gestured at his GTO. She whistled.

“Yours. Definitely.” Dean popped the trunk open and pulled out a machete and some syringes of dead man’s blood from the basic kit he had brought with him.

“You know where he is?”

“Yeah.”

It was a short, but tense drive to the diner where Cho and Barry had agreed to meet up if they got separated on the job. Cho was fidgeting in her seat, one hand gripping the machete like she was afraid it would disappear into thin air if she let go for even a second. She explained the situation in short sentences and one-word replies. She and Barry had gone after a nest of vampires a few towns over, things had gone bad and she had seen Barry be turned before she ran away.

She asked him to stand back when she entered the diner. She wore a trench coat that covered the machete on her hip, but Barry was not fooled for a second. He was a couple of years younger than Cho, a thin, unassuming man who seemed to fit any job you could imagine. Dean thought Barry would make a good actor. Not an A-list movie star, but the actor that appears in the background, who you’ve seen in a hundred different roles but never noticed.

Barry probably played roles often -- FBI, police, Park Service, janitor etc. -- while Cho would be a journalist or something more accessible when they questioned witnesses. Cho stood out anywhere she went, while Barry blended in. They made a good team that way.

He was sitting in the diner, at a table in the back where he could see everything and the back entrance was a few feet to his right. Dean didn’t think that was something he chose for this particular moment, but an old habit that he didn’t give much thought.

He zeroed in on Dean the moment Dean stepped into the diner. Dean was standing right behind Cho, not really hiding the machete at his thigh, but he did not approach, rather sitting down on the opposite end of the room, calling to the waitress for a cup of coffee.

Cho wanted to talk with Barry before she cut his head off. Dean understood that. For all he knew, Barry wanted her to do it. There didn’t have to be a fight. But whatever they were going to do, it was private.

He was worried that Cho couldn’t keep her cool. Being seen entering with her might not have been the best idea. If the police was called here he would have been caught on camera as an accomplice.

Cho sat down across from Barry, but judging by the obvious tenseness of her neck you could yank away the whole bench and her position would not change. Dean kept a close eye on Barry. The man was fidgeting, eyes wide and nostrils flaring at the proximity to his old friend. He was no more relaxed than she was, and the tension between them was positively electric. Dean recognized every sign from his own short time as a vampire. If Barry slammed his (untouched) coffeecup down too hard it would break the table.

Vampires usually weren’t so high strung unless they were starving, but it might just be the nervousness of facing his friend. Still, it bugged Dean. He studied the vampire’s face intently, looking for any smudge of blood even though Barry would probably wipe it away after feeding.

They didn’t speak for long before they both got shakily to their feet and headed out the front door. Neither looked at Dean as they passed him, but he stood up and followed them a few feet behind anyway.

The two hunting partners walked into the cold November night together. They headed to the left walking out of the parking lot and into the dark forest behind. Dean didn’t feel like it was prudent to point out that this was very suspicious behaviour and that the parking lot had a security camera that had captured them all walking out here. Dean was good at dodging police, but he wasn’t entirely certain about Cho.

They could no longer see the lights from the road and the diner when they finally stopped. There was nothing special about this spot. There wasn’t even a path leading here: they had pushed their way through brush and shrubbery, crossed winding streams and stepped in soaked moss. This spot was not a clearing: there were trees everywhere around them.

Dean leaned against a tree and wondered whether he should speak up as Barry sunk to his knees and bared his neck. It was clear to him that Barry and Cho did not know about the cure, which wasn’t very surprising. It was a Campbell family recipe, and they hadn’t exactly been a sharing family.

“I’m ready, Cho.” Barry said. Cho hefted the machete, and now Dean couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Wait.” Both hunter and vampire spun around to face him, expressions torn between annoyance, confusion and hope. “Have you fed yet?”

“No.”

“Then it might not be too late.” Cho looked confused, like she didn’t dare hope.

“What do you mean?”

“There is a cure.” Dean explained, and by now Cho had lowered the machete and Barry was on his feet. The tension between them was gone as they stood side by side, faces alight in the darkness. “It’s not easy to make, and it is a nasty trip, but it could reverse your condition.”

“What do we need?”

“A whole lot of ingredients I’m sure we could get from the Roadhouse, and the blood of your sire.”

“The blood of my what?”

“The vamp who turned you. We need his blood for this to work.”

“That vamp is in the middle of a giant nest on lockdown. If we couldn’t get in there before, how are we supposed to do it now?” Barry asked in confusion. Dean rolled his eyes. This guy was kind of dense.

“You didn’t have me last time.” Cho scoffed at his bravado. “Also, last time you weren’t bulletproof and equipped with super strength.”

“No, but they still outnumber us eight to one and your arm looks pretty messed up.” Dean glanced at the cast on his right arm. He had completely forgotten about that.

“I’ve fought more with worse.” They looked somewhat doubtful, but then again, they didn’t know him. “Besides, we don’t have to go at it alone. There are plenty of hunters at the Roadhouse that won’t object to a good old fashioned vampire hunt when the research has been done already.”

“They will object to me, though.” Barry pointed out. Dean nodded in agreement. Hunters did not see nuance. For most of his life, Dean would have put Barry down on principle, and certainly would not have agreed to work with him. But Dean had learned. He had learned that if hunters fight like rabid dogs, tearing apart the hostile and the neutral alike they would lose when the real war began.

The other hunters had to learn that too. It was time for a little experiment.

Cho Wing was fairly certain that Dean Van Halen was crazy. Most hunters were more than a little crazy, but Dean stood out from the rest. She had picked him for an attempted one night stand mostly because of his looks. He was one handsome devil, and who gives a shit that he was a bit beaten up and probably as screwed in the head as her? At least she could be honest with someone like that.

She hadn’t expected him to follow her outside when she had her embarrassing breakdown, and certainly hadn’t expected him to offer to help. And now he was offering to help cure her best friend of vampirism -- something that she had always thought was impossible.

Of course, Dean’s plan had some serious flaws. Like the fact that it required getting a bunch of hardened hunters to fight alongside a vampire. Well, technically a vampire hunter... who hunts vampires...  a vampire vampire hunter? Would that make anyone trying to hunt him a vampire vampire hunter hunter?

Cho shook her head. She wished she had drunk less. With her being all woozy, Barry being erratic and also a monster , and Dean having a bad arm they were really not in their best condition for a fight. And this nest was tough.

They had stumbled upon them by accident. Someone in the nest had made a slip, someone had seen the teeth, someone had called a friend of Barry... honestly, the odds of them tracking them to their headquarters were ridiculous, and Cho could easily imagine this not happening, and this nest just going on doing their thing in the shadows for decades to come. And honestly, if it meant that Barry was safe she would be okay with that. Not that she would ever say that out loud.

Dean drove both her and Barry back to the Roadhouse. His arm looked like it should be bothering him. From the cast she guessed it must have been a pretty bad break, and above it there was a bandage wrapped around, with some blood soaking through. He didn’t let it stop him, though. He controlled the muscle car with his left hand on the steering wheel.

He had this glint in his eye, like this right here, helping people and hunting things was the only thing he lived for. She supposed that was true.

They pulled up in the parking lot in front of the Roadhouse, and Dean stopped the engine. Cho took a shaky breath. There was a chance that Barry would be beheaded the moment he stepped into the Roadhouse. Dean had assured them that he wouldn’t let that happen, but nobody there knew him, and he did have a messed up hand.

To say that the hunters of the Roadhouse took the news badly was an understatement. Cho kept Barry behind her, pushed against the door and ready to make a fast exit. Only when Barry whispered that she should take a few steps away and not offer him her neck did she remember that he was not entirely stable right now. The crowd were all on their feet, yelling. Some had already pulled weapons.

Quite a few of the hunters present had not fought vampires before, but they were very quickly informed that decapitation was the way to go. If it hadn’t been her friend they were planning to kill, Cho would have been amused at the two fellows who hadn’t brought machetes or knives into the bar and had picked up steak knives from their platters instead.

A few steps ahead of Cho, Dean was standing like a rock facing a tidal wave. He had his arms crossed and looked entirely unimpressed. Ellen was standing behind the bar, scowling at the crowd, and sending the occasional nervous glance at Barry, but she didn’t look like she was going to cause trouble. That was good. Most hunters listened to Ellen. Dean gave the crowd a minute to get the shock out of their system before he spoke.

He was speaking, not yelling, keeping his voice low and deep, and speaking slowly enough that people could catch every word. The room hushed at the sound.

“I never thought I would see fifty hard-boiled hunters afraid of one rookie vampire.” He said. People began exchanging glances. Dean was prepared to fight them. It was obvious from the way he stood, and what was really unnerving was that he looked entirely confident that he would win. “Now. The way I see it, you’ve got three options.” He took a step forwards, and Cho was amused to see that the crowd actually took one backwards to give him space.

“One: you can ignore us and go back to drinking, while Cho, Barry and I go do what we have to do.” Nobody seemed very interested in that.

“Two: you can decide that a vampire is a vampire, and try to kill Barry. I say try, because I will stop you and it will be a bloody mess that I don’t think Ellen would appreciate having to clean up.” This seemed like a much more attractive idea, even though none of them seemed to like fighting another hunter. People were glancing around at their peers, wondering who were on their side. Were they charging right now?

“Or three, you can decide that the massive vampire nest that had the gall to turn one of our own is the real problem, and join me in cutting them into little pieces.” Now that sounded like an even better idea. There was excited murmuring between the hunters standing around. One man stepped forwards. Cho recognized him as Doug Wakefield, a fifty something hunter that knew the business better than most.

“You say you can cure him.” He gestured at Barry. “I lost a partner to a vampire once. Looked everywhere to see if there was something I could do, but found nothing. If this cure exists, why have I never heard of it?”

“Because Samuel Campbell was kind of a dick.” Cho frowned. The names sounded kind of familiar. Dean elaborated. “For those of you who don’t know, the Campbells are one of the oldest hunting families in America. Somewhere along the line they developed a cure for vampirism, but they don’t really work with other people unless they have to and they certainly don’t share. I only know this recipe because I managed to copy it from old Samuel’s journal before he died. I’ve tested it on myself, and I can guarantee it works.”

“On yourself?”

“Yeah. I screwed up on a job a couple of years back. The cure saved my little brother from having to cut my head off.” Well, that explains why he wanted to help. “I honestly didn’t give the cure much thought back then. I was just happy to be alive and human again. But now I see that I should have thought to spread it around.”

He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. Cho had seen him copy down something from a battered old journal earlier. He handed the paper to Ellen.

“These are the ingredients we’ll need. Do you know where to get them?” The hunter bartender nodded.

“Sure thing.”

“I suggest you keep the list here in case more cases show up. And anyone who wants to copy it into their own journals can feel free to do so at any point. This cure works until the victim has fed on human blood. When that happens it is too late.” He looked around. “Any more questions?” Someone actually raised their hand.

“When do we start?”

Yep. Cho thought. This guy was really something else.

Chapter Text

When Stoker walked from the kitchen to the living room he checked the door one more time to make sure it was barred properly. It was a good door: solid thick oak, not the cheap crap they made these days. This was a good house: one he himself remembered seeing built nearly a hundred and fifty years ago. He’d just been a little boy then, clutching his mother’s dress while they walked past and trying to ignore the fact that he would never live in a mansion like that. Then again, he had never thought he’d be granted the gift of immortality either.

He ran a hand through his hair, noted that it was getting a bit too long and that he would have to get it cut once this bother was over. Stoker had long since decided that hunters must all be insane. What else would compel two people -- two humans armed with nothing but a pair of machetes -- to walk right up to their door and knock? It hadn’t even occurred to the guard not to open the door. He was currently lying on the couch in the living room, unable to move his head properly because of the young lady who had severed part of his neck muscle. It was a miracle that the machete had not simply slit his throat, but Simon did have a very thick neck. Had it been Stoker who took that blow he would be dead by now.

Simon had been the only one of theirs who was injured in the attack. The hunters had made their way in the front door, but when the woman got her machete stuck in Simon’s neck, Simon had time to shout a warning, and the other hunter was tackled as soon as he entered the large stately sitting room. Stoker had been on the fifth floor with Mollie when it happened, and by the time he had gotten down the woman had been tossed out a window and fled, and the man was being held down by Vilho and Kate.

Stoker wasn’t sure whether he had allowed them to turn the young hunter if he had been downstairs when it happened. Well, by the time he got down it was too late.

Stoker viewed immortality as a gift, one given to a lucky few, and one many were jealous of. Hunters were mad with the idea of their own mortality, and so they chose to dedicate their lives to bringing vampires down to their own level. Stoker did not see how turning the young hunter was a punishment. Of course he would take it badly at first, but once he got used to it he would grow to love his long life and the taste of blood. Which was not the kind of reward Stoker would have given him for breaking into his home with murderous intent.

So yes, Stoker had been pretty pissed when he came down and found that he now had to deal with a freaked out new brother to deal with. And of course the fellow would not calm down for even a second, and used his new strength to toss Vilho and Kate away and jump out the same window his partner had left out of earlier.

Hunters talked. Even if Barry decided to end his life, the young woman would definitely return, with friends this time. Mollie had wanted to run, but Stoker was not abandoning this house and all of his work. He would not let other people dictate his existence. The hunters had taken them by surprise the first time around, but now Stoker was ready for them. And he had twenty-two well trained vampires on his side. Even with Simon down they were still a formidable army.

He walked into the living room, tapping Simon on the shoulder as he went. “You should get upstairs.” It was an order, not a suggestion. Simon healed fast, even for a vampire, but he would be out of the fight if the hunters came tonight, and Stoker did not want him in harm's way when he could not defend himself. The bigger vampire nodded weakly, grimacing at the pain from his messed up neck and climbed to his feet. Stoker gave him a hand before handing him over to Kate.

“Hurry up and tuck him in! We don’t have time for a bedtime story!” Vilho called after the pair. Kate flipped him off on the way out. Stoker shook his head in amusement before addressing the room.

“Everything in order?” Mollie broke open the lid of another wooden case with her bare hands. The wood splintered beneath her fingers.

“All the doors and windows are barred.” She pulled out the rifles from the box. They were old: Stoker had ‘borrowed’ them from a military surplus warehouse after the Great War, but they would do the trick. Fighting was a helluva lot easier when you did not have to worry about bullets yourself.

The entire nest armed themselves with both rifles and knives. Stoker was not one of the people so arrogant to assume vampires were above using weapons. Just because they were better than humans with their bare hands did not mean they should take extra chances. Vilho and Pekka each used their sniper rifles, the guns they had been so deadly with back in the Winter War in Finland. Aside from Stoker they were the two eldest in the group. They had both been granted the gift by their commanding officer during a mission gone awry in December 1939.

Vilho had insisted on wearing his old uniform for the upcoming battle. Not the one from the Winter War: that one had long since been riddled with too many bullet holes to be saved, but the one he had gotten while fighting with the Waffen SS during the Continuation War. Oh well, perhaps the Nazi uniform would serve to unnerve the incoming hunters. It certainly unnerved Stoker.

Vilho was a small, thin man with cropped, dark hair and small dark eyes. He had the prominent cheekbones and thin jaw of most of his people, a look that Stoker always thought meant he was tense. In reality, Vilho was never tense. He was almost always entirely relaxed, able to stand or sit or lie still for hours upon hours in any weather, his breath calm and his finger steady on the trigger. He never raised his voice when he was angry, preferring a low, even tone that sent a chill down Stoker’s spine. The man was jovial and happy most of the time, but when he was pissed... Well, Stoker did not envy the hunters.

Pekka was everything Vilho wasn’t: big, beefy, hairy and equipped with a temper that would flare at the slightest provocation. How anyone had thought he would make a good sniper was beyond Stoker. The guy was one helluva shot, but he had the patience of a four year old on crack.

The two snipers made their way to their position, on the roof of the west wing. From there they had a clear view of the courtyard and the main entrance, and could turn to cover the west side of the park.

Stoker was holding the front entrance with ten men (and women, let nobody say that just because he was a man from the 1830’s he was sexist), while Mollie held the servants entrance in the East Wing alongside five. Simon was asleep upstairs alongside the four kids in the group.

Stoker peered through a crack in the boarded window in the living room, well aware that it might not be the best idea to board them up when they had the superior firepower. But he also didn’t want a firefight that would damage the house. Some bullets in the wall inside could be fixed, but broken windows and exterior damage would attract undue attention, and Stoker had worked hard for this place, dammit. The moon was up, illuminating the entire courtyard in stark white light, glittering in the frost on the the ground. He spared a thought to Pekka and Vilho freezing their asses off on the roof, even though they were used to far worse.

“Boss, we’ve got incoming around the corner of the East Wing.” Vilho informed him through the radio. Stoker shifted so he could see that far to the side, and could indeed see a few dark shapes moving along the wall.

“How many?”

“Two, armed with machetes. They’ll be within range in a minute.”

“Is the woman with them?” If she wasn’t it meant there were others coming in another direction.

“No, they are both taller than she was.”

“Alright. Keep an eye out for other groups.”

Soon enough, Stoker could see the two figures moving, or at least their shadows they cast on the wall in the moonlight. They moved quietly, but they were not hunched down or anything comical. It wouldn’t have done them any good when they were so exposed, so they kept their heads high and their steps long and purposeful. If Stoker hadn’t known better he could have mistaken them from members of his own group returning from a night of fun. He sniffed the air. They had done something to disguise their scents, unlike the lady from before. Apparently her reinforcements were more experienced.

Without Vilho pointing them out it would have been hard to spot them. He saw a shadow shift as one of the men turned his head to look up at the West Wing, then suddenly both men veered into the middle of the courtyard with their arms raised.

“Sir? I think they spotted us.” The deep rumble of Pekka pointed out the obvious. Stoker frowned. He had never heard of a hunter surrendering before.

“This looks like a distraction. Are anyone else approaching?” He received negative replies from both Vilho and Mollie. He bit his lip, thinking of what to do next. They were definitely hunters: the machetes and the fact that they had hidden their scents was enough to assure him of that, but hunters never gave up that easily.

“We just want to talk.” The hunter who spoke clearly knew that they could hear him without raising his voice. He had a deep voice, and from what Stoker could tell he was large and well built man. The machete was hanging from his hip, but he was not even touching it. Stoker pressed the button on the radio again.

“If they fucking toe the line, shoot them.”

“Kyllä herra” Vilho responded, and Stoker assumed it was affirmative. Stoker drew a deep breath, shouldered his rifle and approached the door. He was surprised to find that his hand was shaking slightly as he opened the door and stepped out into the cold november night. He walked until he knew the two men would be able to hear him without him having to shout before stopping. From here he could get a faint whiff of smoke, and suspected that was how they had disguised their scents. That was also how he had missed that the second man was one of his own kind.

He was tall, thin and unassuming, though fidgeting from his proximity to the man beside him. From his wide eyes and nervous stance, Stoker could tell he must be starving.

“I know you hunters have never been the brightest kind, but you generally don’t need machetes to ‘just talk.’” Stoker informed them drily. The big hunter shrugged.

“And you big, strong, bulletproof fellows don’t need sniper rifles. You have those guys to give you comfort, and the people behind you as well, so why don’t you indulge us and let us keep these puny blades?” Stoker inclined his head. The hunter would not get close enough to use it, but even if he could, Stoker was no pushover. He was not some newly fanged vampire kid who thought strength without style would be enough to take down a hunter. No, Stoker had been in the game for a long time, and he would not make a silly mistake. But all of his training and all of his experience had not prepared him for some suicidal hunter idiot who wanted to talk.

He had all the advantages, so why did he feel so exposed?

“What do you want?” He studied the hunter closely. Where the newly turned vampire was entirely unremarkable, the hunter was striking. He was about six foot one, with short blonde hair, a symmetrical face and hard, old eyes. For a moment, Stoker wondered if he was a brother, but he dismissed the idea. The man had his right arm in a cast, and a vampire would not need something that permanent, nor would they be able to go to a hospital without awkward questions.

“Me? Nothing.” The hunter said. “But my friend Barry here would very much like to not be a vampire.” Stoker raised an eyebrow.

“We give you the gift of immortality, and you try to give it back?” He addressed ‘Barry’ now. He made no attempt to keep the coldness out of his voice. Barry’s eyes darkened, and Stoker was reminded that newly turned brothers tended to be a bit unstable. Oh well, he could handle it. But he was also reminded that Vilho didn’t know one of their guests were bulletproof.

“A gift?!” And there comes the outburst. Stoker kept the smirk off his face, knowing that if this turned into a fight he wouldn’t get to hear the rest of what the other hunter had to say. “You call this a fucking gift?!”

“Yes, I do. And I’m sure once you’ve calmed down you’ll see it that way too.” Despite his calm tone, he was getting increasingly pissed. There was nothing that angered him more than the attitude people had towards vampires. If vampires were somehow lesser than humans, why did God make them immortal, bulletproof and endow them with enhanced senses? Vampires were apex predators, and Stoker did not appreciate people treating him like a disease.

The other hunter reached a hand out to gently pat the shoulder of his seething friend.

“First of all, if you truly considered it to be a gift you wouldn’t have given it to a hunter trying to murder you. And secondly, maybe he would get used to it over time. But he won’t have to, because you are going to help us turn him back.”

“That’s impossible.”

“No, it’s entirely possible. All we need is a bit of blood from whoever turned him.”

“And why would I give you that?”

“Because if you don’t I will burn everything you hold dear.” He sounded entirely confident, so Stoker gestured in Vilho’s direction. The man shrugged, like having a rifle pointed at his head was not his problem. “It’s a nice house you’ve got here. I suppose you would need it, with a nest as big as yours.”

Stoker was momentarily thrown. The hunter continued. “You know, our original plan was to just storm the place. We figured Barry and Cho had failed the first time around because there were only two of them. But seeing this” He gestured around the compound “well, we’ve got some serious numbers, but we still had to rethink that plan.”

“So you’re improvising? Why am I not surprised?” Stoker commented drily.

“Oh, stuff usually goes way better when I’m just winging it.” The hunter waved it off.

“Is there a problem, boss?” Vilho’s voice sounded through his earpiece. Stoker cringed. Of course Vilho didn’t know that Barry could hear him. The young vampire quickly informed his companion what was going.

“You know what? We’re just wasting time.” The hunter pulled something from his pocket and threw it to Stoker. Stoker caught it in one hand and looked at it. An empty syringe for drawing blood. “Fill that with blood from the vamp that turned Barry and hand it over, or this place goes up in flames.” Stoker seethed. Nobody came to his house and threatened his nest without paying for it.

Stoker pressed the button on his radio and lifted it to his mouth. “Shoot the big one.” He ordered.

Chapter Text

“NO! Don’t!” The sound made Stoker’s cold blood curl in his veins. It was the sound of a desperate, crying child over the radio. “They’ll kill us if you shoot him.” It came out as a series of sobs that caused the radio to crackle. He recognized the voice nonetheless. It was David, who had been turned last year by his mother, a lovely woman who had been killed by hunters immediately. He was eleven years old.

“Sir?” Vilho asked, voice hard. It chilled Stoker even more to know that Vilho was hesitating on his behalf, not because he gave a damn about David.

“Hold it.” He ordered brusquely. He glared at the hunter in front of him, who hadn’t moved except to grab the arm of his companion and stop him from charging. He didn’t look triumphant, just determined.

“We might be winging it, but we’re pretty good at it.” He said. “Now, hand me the radio.”

Stoker threw it, hoping it would shatter on the ground. Of course the hunter caught it with one hand. “Get the kid out of the house. We’ll need him as leverage. Oh, and you two snipers on the roof, you’ll get down here pronto, or the kid dies.”

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Well, this plan was going to shit. It hadn’t exactly been the best idea to begin with, but Dean could never have imagined the security of this place. Like seriously, sharpshooter vampires? He had never encountered a vamp that didn’t want to be close to his kill. These guys were organized and smart. So he had to think outside the box when it came to taking them down. The problem with improvising here was that he didn’t have Sammy at his side (and never would again, but he refused to think about that.) Instead of an intuitive brother who knew him in and out and could read every tell, he had fifty agitated hunters of varying quality and experience. And when a few of those hunters go and do the one thing Dean would never ever do, threaten a little boy, he had to roll with it or everything would go even worse.

It would be a lot easier if he knew exactly where the vamp that turned Barry was, but he had no such luck. He’d hoped it would be the leader, whoever came out to talk to them, but Barry had indicated that it was not the case.

He had to take this one step at a time if he should have any chance of making it. Step one: get rid of the snipers. He glanced up, and saw that the two sharpshooters were gone from view. He lifted the radio again.

“All the way down here. Without the rifles.”

“Go to hell!” A voice hissed through the receiver, but it was an angry ‘go to hell,’ not a ‘I won’t do what you tell me to’ ‘go to hell.’

“Been there, done that. Now, get down here.”

“That’s him.” Barry said suddenly. Dean turned to him. “That’s the guy who turned me.”

Well, that’s convenient. This might actually work out after all. The two vampires he had spotted on the roof came out of a side door, rifles discarded somewhere. Dean kept an eye on the leader as the two sharpshooters approached. If he had any doubt that these three were the deadliest members of the nest they were dispelled now. The two approaching vampires were pale, a sign that they had been turned a long time ago. That impression was strengthened by the nazi uniform worn by the smallest one, which looked suspiciously real. The other vampire was wearing a green NATO sweater and khakis, clearly former military as well. No wonder this place was so well defended.

“We’ll do this nice and easy, and nobody gets hurt.” He said, once the two vampires were standing beside their leader. “You give us the blood, and we let the kid go.” Hopefully, if the hunters who had him were willing to cooperate. Damn, why did there have to be kids there?

The leader shook with rage, fangs bared. Dean sighed, and lifted the radio again. “Kid, your boss needs a bit of convincing. Get him to help us, and we’ll let you go.”

There was a pause for a second, then the boy started speaking. “Please, mister Stoker. I’m scared.” His voice was shaking. The fire in the boss vampire’s smile smoldered and died at the pitiful sound, and Dean forced himself not to wince. He noted that the big sniper seemed uncomfortable, and the nazi vampire clearly did not give a shit. He was waiting for the order to attack, kid or no kid. Pity and guilt was curling in Dean’s gut for the poor boy up there, with a machete to his throat.

“You don’t have to be, kid. Your boss is going to cooperate.” He gave Stoker a pointed look. The vampire hissed, but his resolve crumbled. The nazi vampire hardly made a sound when the syringe was suddenly stabbed into his neck and filled with blood. He did look pretty pissed off, though. As Stoker threw the blood back to Dean, Dean made the decision that no matter what happened here, he needed to make sure that this particular one did not see another sunrise. He caught the blood with one hand and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

And now comes the hard part. During their little negotiation, the fifty or so hunters he had with him had been improvising as well. And only one of the groups had a radio.

There was a loud boom as the back corner of the East Wing burst into flame, the orange immediately licking at the night sky. The boss was frozen for a moment, as was Barry and the big vampire, but both Dean and the nazi knew that negotiations were over.

Dean drew his machete and charged, Barry at his heel.

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Adriel watched the human fight from the second story window of the burning East Wing. The old building was well made, meaning there was not much humidity in the old oak of the interior. The angel soldier approved of the human’s technique, admiring each measured swing of the machete which sent the biggest vampire’s head sailing off and hamstrung the smaller one. The leader charged into the house to save his comrades, leaving his men to deal with the hunters.

The hunter tossed the syringe of vampire blood to his vampire comrade and gave him an order, sending the other man running away from the house and down towards the road. The hunter, who called himself Dean van Halen even though Adriel had checked their records and there were no men of that name at the right age, was about to decapitate the fallen vampire when someone in the West Wing got their act together and opened fire. The hunter crouched and ran for cover, jumping into a window and closing in on the shooter.

Adriel had seen enough for now, and answered the call of his superior officer.

“Tell us what you have seen, brother.” Castiel ordered. Adriel looked about the room, an old warehouse that the Garrison had made into their headquarters while they were on Earth for this emergency. Despite the fact that Castiel had spoken he was not the one in charge.

Anna had found a young vessel, a woman with red hair and grey eyes currently wearing a very large white dress that she had not had the time to change out for something more practical. Spread around the room sat some of the other members; Uriel, Balthazar, Hester and Inias. Their other six members had been temporarily reassigned to Ishim’s Garrison for some reason only known upstairs.

“The human who calls himself Dean van Halen is a hunter. He appears to be very experienced and a natural leader, though none of the other hunters knew him.”

“How come we couldn’t locate him ourselves?” Anna asked. It had been hard to find the hunter because they had to do it the old-fashioned way.

“His soul is shielded from us.” That seemed to worry the whole garrison, and with good reason.

“He knows about us, then.”

“He must know a lot if he tracked down and killed Azazel.” Castiel mused. Even before Uriel began talking the whole Garrison knew what he was going to say.

“Then we need to capture him and make him tell us what he knows. We cannot let him interfere with Heaven’s plans.”

“And what are those plans, exactly?” Anna suddenly asked. All eyes fell on her, but she did not flinch. “We don’t know if he is interfering with any plans, before we don’t know what the plans are. And I will not have someone tortured if I don’t even know they’ve done anything wrong.” She said it with the finality of one of Heaven’s most accomplished soldiers. Uriel remained expressionless, but Adriel knew that if it hadn’t been for millennia of training he would be pouting like a puppy that was denied a treat.

“We were told to figure out what he is doing. Uriel’s plan makes perfect sense.” Hester protested.

“Possibly” Anna allowed. “But it seems unnecessary given that we could simply talk to him.” She turned to Adriel. “You are posing as a hunter, correct?” Adriel nodded.

“Good. Return to him and become his ally. Keep an eye on him, and find out what he knows.”

“And if he does go against Heaven’s plans?” Uriel questioned sourly. Anna did not deign him with a glance, rather continuing to address Adriel. “If we confirm that he is a threat to God’s Plan, then you will smite him without hesitation.”

“We are warriors. We do not use subterfuge!” Hester protested. Adriel had to agree.

“I am afraid I have not managed to capture human mannerisms correctly. A hunter splashed me with holy water when I tried to inquire after Dean van Halen.” It hurt, having to admit failure, but he could not let his own faults jeopardize their holy mission.

“All right then.” Anna said, not sounding very disappointed. Adriel breathed a sigh of relief. “Castiel and I have studied humans for longer than you have. We will go to Dean van Halen, while you and Hester find the children of Azazel and question them. They targeted him, so they must know something.”

She gave Uriel a cold look. “I suppose you wouldn’t mind putting a pair of demons to the question?” The angel specialist shook his head in barely concealed glee. “Good.”

Anna turned to Inias and Balthazar. “Balthazar, I know you have connections among the Reapers. See if you can get your hands on the soul of Azazel’s host, so we can question him. He went to Hell, I believe.”

There was a finality in her tone that meant they didn’t have to wait to be dismissed. The sound of flapping wings echoed in the empty room for a moment before there was silence.

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The atmosphere in the Roadhouse was very strange when Dean returned after the battle was over. The cast around his right arm was cracked where he had slammed it into a vampire’s throat, and the whole arm throbbed painfully after the jarring impact. It didn’t feel like he had displaced the bone, though, so it wouldn’t interfere too much with the healing. Handling the machete in his left hand had been somewhat awkward, but from the awestruck look Cho had given him when he charged into the room she was cornered in, he presumed he hadn’t done too badly.

Hunters operating in such a large team was pretty much unheard of. And while it had been a bloody mess and Dean was frankly pissed at the two jackasses who took the kid hostage, it had worked out beyond all expectation. They had not suffered a single casualty, Barry had been cured, the vampires were all either dead or dispersed and their headquarters were burned to the ground. They would never ever regain the strength they once had.

The kid had made it out, but no thanks to Dean. He had taken the two hunters holding him hostage by surprise and leapt out the top floor window. Dean was not too worried about him. He was worried about the nazi sniper vamp who had disappeared after Dean had jumped into the house to escape the line of fire. He knew from watching Benny just how fast a vampire could heal with a bag’s worth of blood in their body.

The Roadhouse was buzzing with excited chatter when he entered. Unlike the way it was usually, people did not sit in groups, rather sharing everything with everyone. Barry was sitting on a barstool while a couple of seasoned hunters checked his teeth to confirm for the fifty-second time that the cure had worked and that he was in fact human again.

Cho was sitting at his side, looking like she was never letting him out of her sight again. She was the first to notice his entrance.

“There is the man of the hour!” Every eye turned towards him, and Dean imagined with a pang in his heart how Sammy would have slumped and stepped back to let Dean hog the attention. He shook off the thoughts, remembering that his little brother was even more little now, and much better off.

He accepted the claps on the shoulder, the beer pressed into his left hand, the people shaking his right hand, ignoring his wince of pain as the throbbing pain intensified.

People called defeating the Osgrove Nest (they had named it after the mansion they lived in) the biggest victory in hunter history. Dean knew that was bullshit, but they ignored his protests.

Dean spent the rest of the night at the celebration party, keeping himself somewhat sober as he did what he had originally planned to do when he came to the Roadhouse, creating a network. He gathered dozens of phone numbers, got in contact with hunter stores, lore experts, phone managers and experts on counterfeiting and more.

There was some general disappointment that Dean would not help out cleaning up the rest of the missing vamps, but at least he had the time to warn Cho and the others against the missing nazi vamp who would definitely cause trouble.

He slept half the next day away in a motel before driving back to Lawrence to get back to the business of saving the world. He had promised Mary that he would not disturb her again, but he couldn’t let the house be unguarded. That was why he soon was knocking on Missouri Moseley’s door.

Chapter Text

Missouri Moseley lived on an adjacent street to the Winchesters, but Dean knew the chances of running into his old family were slim. They did not move around much during the day, and it was cold now in November. The only grocery store was in the opposite direction. But the houses were close by as the bird flies, which made it an ideal observation spot.

It was afternoon, shortly after lunch. The grass on Missouri’s lawn was glittering with fine frost because it was overcast and the sun hadn’t managed to melt the residue from the cold night. Dean hesitated for a second to stop himself from knocking with his right hand. He had fixed the cracked cast by rolling it tightly with duct tape, but it was not a perfect solution and he needed it healing well.

Having the Legendary Dean Winchester die because his arm was messed up would be an embarrassing end to his story. Just the kind of thing Chuck would write if he had a hangover right before his deadline.

The door swung open after about thirty seconds. A psychic, even a really good one like Missouri, did not get too many clients, and strove to provide the best service possible for the ones they got.

Missouri stopped on the doorstep, eyes widening. Dean gave her a moment to get a reading on her before he opened his mouth to begin talking. She beat him to it.

“I’ve gotten my reading now. I think you’d better come in.” She moved aside, and Dean took the familiar path into her living room, plopping down on the couch and making sure not to even think about putting his legs on the table.

“You failed pretty miserably at that.” Missouri commented drily, but there was an amused smile on her face. She sat down in the chair across from her, trying to formulate a response to whatever she had read in his head. Dean took a moment to study her. She looked so much younger than what he was used to, but there was the same wisdom in her eyes.

“So.” Missouri began. “You’re a time traveler?”

“Pretty much.” Dean confirmed. Missouri cocked her head.

“Well, you’re either crazy or telling the truth” She said after some deliberation. Dean grinned.

“Do I have to pick one?”

“I suppose not. Well, mister time traveler here for some unspecified important purpose, what can I do for you?”

“I need some help keeping an eye on someone.”

“Would this someone object to being kept an eye on?”

“Probably” Dean admitted sheepishly. “It’s a family of four. The mother is a retired hunter who does not want to be pulled back into the life.”

“And you think that is impossible.”

“Yes.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Personal experience.” Missouri’s eyes widened at the implication.

“It’s you.” Dean smiled sadly and nodded.

“I am who the eldest son would have grown up to be.” Not him anymore though. The little boy living a few houses away was the real Dean Winchester now.

“You came back to save your family?”

“I came back to save everyone.” Missouri had that expression, the one she always had before she was about to chastise him, but she seemed to think better of it.

“What are they in danger from?” Dean silently thanked her for changing the subject. She heard him perfectly.

“Chiefly? Angels and demons.” Missouri’s eyebrows rose.

“Angels?”

“Yep. They are real dicks, but usually not very subtle in their approach. Just make sure you don’t try to look at them in their true form or hear their true voices.” He imagined Pamela and shuddered. Missouri seemed similarly upset at the image. “Honestly, if those guys show up there is not much you or my family can do other than to call me. I’d prefer to ward the house, but I don’t think mom would let me.”

“All right then. I have a thousand questions, but they can wait. What do I do if I sense any demons?”

“Warn them. Mom is no amateur, She’ll know how to protect herself from the low level ones. If anything bigger shows up, warn them and call me immediately.”

“Low level demons?” Dean shrugged.

“You know, the normal black-eyed ones, who possess people for fun or work at the crossroads. Most of them are hardly even telekinetic.” Missouri blinked.

“Those ‘low level demons’ are the absolute toughest challenge any hunter can take on.”

“Yeah. I remember my first exorcism. Frigging terrifying.” He shrugged again. “But that was years ago, and I’ve gotten better since then. I had to, or I wouldn’t have lived this long.”

——————————————————

The cab pulled up in front of the small church in Blue Earth, Minnesota. The driver opened the door for her even if Jackie tried to protest. Her crutches were perfectly adequate, thank you very much.

The church did not look like much. It was one of those tiny, white wooden churches with the one square tower. The green paint on the front door was flaking off, making for a bad surface to tape a notice that the church was looking for donations to repaint the door. The cab driver insisted on pushing the door open for her before he accepted the fare and left. Jackie struggled for a moment to readjust and then began the painful journey of walking into the church.

Her knee was not even close to healed, but she could not wait through months of physical therapy when there were monsters made of black smoke lurking in corners. Her family had been concerned when she just up and left them so soon after the attack, but Drew had supported her decision. Probably because he was the only one who knew what really happened.

The priest she had talked to in Lawrence had been a bit overwhelmed by her request. To her disappointment he did not know much about demons at all, only vague stuff about sin and impure souls and so on. The old man had tried to reassure her, but seeing that it was i vain he finally called around and referred her to a colleague in Minnesota. It was a near seven hour drive including breaks, but she had made it taking various buses and taxis. Her legs still did not allow her to drive, and she couldn’t borrow Drew’s car anyway because she had no idea when she was coming back, and it would do him no good to have it three states over. She just hoped the long journey was worth it, and that Pastor Jim Murphy could help her.

The church was no more impressive on the inside than the outside, but Jackie found the environment strangely comforting. The wooden walls were painted a light green, which was a lot more homey than the sterile white she had been expecting. The smallness gave it a homey feeling. Jackie had always been a bit put off by the ceremony and grandeur of church. This felt more like a quiet room to think in.

She could hear someone was in one of the side rooms, but her knee was really bothering her and she was not in the mood for more walking. She’d wait until whoever they were came into the room. She made her way to the front pew and sat down, leaning her crutches beside her. She laid out her leg, the large, awkward brace finally being able to rest. She sighed at the minute relief, but after a minute the stabbing pain in her knee became bordering on unbearable.

She had swung her backpack onto the pew beside her, and now pulled a bottle of pills. Her mother had been sceptical about Jackie taking so strong painkillers, but Jackie agreed with the doctor. She popped two of them, which was definitely too much under normal circumstances, but she had been sitting in a cramped cab for hours, and she needed some relief.

She swallowed the pills dry and put the bottle in her jacket pocket. She might need more later. She leaned back, waiting for the medication to work. Her life had been constant pain, fear and tiredness ever since the Incident. It was hard to believe that only a few days had gone by. She couldn’t imagine living like this for the rest of her life, but that was why she was here. She needed to feel safe again.

Actually, it wasn’t safety she was seeking - that was what Drew wanted.

Jackie just wanted to know what the hell was going on, and what to do about it.

“Can I help you?” It wasn’t the kind of impatient passive aggressive demand that Jackie was used to from stores and so on, the kind that actually meant ‘what the hell do you want?’ Rather, it was soft and spoken with genuine concern. She turned to face the man who could only be Pastor Jim Murphy.

He was a lot younger than what she had expected, probably straight out of seminary school. A thin man of unassuming stature, so young the idealism shining in his eyes still hadn’t had time to temper. He was probably about five years older than her, but he looked younger than she felt.

“I hope you can.” She responded honestly, not really knowing how to bring up the subject, but eager to get the help she needed. The pastor frowned at her tone, then found a seat on the small stairs in front of her. She wondered if that was something they learned in their training, putting themselves in a position where they were sitting lower than the obviously distressed young woman.

“I’m Pastor Jim.” He introduced himself, noticing that she didn’t know how to start. “I haven’t seen you around here before.”

“I’m Jackie Mason. The reason why you haven’t seen me around is that I am from Lawrence, Kansas.” She shrugged and added a bit sheepishly “And I’m not very religious.” The pastor nodded in understanding, waiting for her to continue. Jackie took a shaky breath. Okay, here goes nothing. Either he would think she was crazy, or the pastor in Lawrence was right and he could really help her.

“I was possessed by a demon.” She studied his face, looking for the telltale signs of disbelief, but saw no such thing. He gestured for her to continue, brows furrowed in concentration. The story began pouring out of her mouth faster than she thought was possible, a waterfall of grief and pain. She had never actually said the story out loud before, only talking about bits and pieces with Drew. Telling the pastor about the demons riding her and her brother, about the man who killed the demons’ father and fought back, about the exorcism and the hospital and the state of constant dread she had been living in for the last few days, it lifted a heavy weight off her shoulder and she found she had to fight to hold back the tears of relief.

The pastor believed her. He didn’t need to say anything, she could tell just from looking at his face. The seven hour drive had been worth it just for that understanding expression. Once she was done, he leaned forwards and took her hand before he spoke in a soft voice.

“I am very sorry you had to go through all that, Jackie. You and your brother are very lucky to be alive.” She smiled gratefully through the tears that were gathering in her eyes. “I myself have had a few encounters with demons, though I have never been possessed. I’ve spent the last few years researching everything I could about these most wicked creatures. If you and your brother are afraid of being possessed again, I will give your charms that will protect you.” Jackie spoke before she really had time to think.

“That’s not enough.” She blushed, realizing just how rude that sounded. “Sorry. I mean, I don’t just want to know how to protect myself, I want to know how to stop them from hurting anyone else.”

“Jackie...”

“Don’t patronize me. I know better than most how dangerous these things are. But there are people who fight them and I want to be one of them.” He had the grace not to look at her leg. “And I don’t care that my leg is messed up for life. I can’t go on doing nothing.”

The pastor was silent for a second, considering, before he buried his face in his hands for a second and groaned in frustration. He collected himself quickly, though.

“Alright.” Jackie almost balked.

“Alright?”

“If you want me to teach you how to fight the good fight, I will.” He looked at her seriously. “That is what you want, right?”

“Well yeah, I just didn’t expect you to give in that easily.”

“You’re not the first person to show up on my doorstep asking to be taught. I know that if I turn you away you’ll find some other way, and that way will most likely get you killed.”

Jackie was speechless.

“But, if I am going to teach you, I want you to do one thing for me.” He was serious now. “I want you to listen to everything I tell you. Because while I feel guilty for every hunter I turn away who get themselves killed, I would feel even worse if you were to die on my watch. Is that understood?” She nodded, head still spinning. This was happening. He said ‘alright,’ and her whole life just changed. It wasn’t going to be eternal pain and empty fear like she had thought when she woke up in that hospital room.

The gravity of what she was about to do only really hit when the pastor brought her down into the church cellar. She didn’t know what she expected to find, but the large collection of firearms and occult paraphernalia was definitely not it. The stairway had been narrow and the roof low, but the room was large enough to fit the whole arsenal. The pastor noticed her gaping and couldn’t help but to chuckle.

“The power of prayer is a useful tool, but sometimes nothing helps like a good shotgun.” He said.

“Where did you get all this stuff?” She asked, trailing one hand over a collection of shotguns hanging in a niche on the wall.

“Legally, actually. Most of them are from gun shows, btu I made sure to register them all.” He gave her a long look. “A lot of hunters skirt the law or outright break it every day, and if one day one is arrested and reveals that there is a whole community of us there will be mass arrests. Formalities like these will help keep my head over water if that were to happen.”

She was beginning to understand why Pastor Jim did not want her to join other ‘hunters.’

“How many hunters are there?” She asks.

“At a guess? A bit over a hundred in America, and a few more in Canada and Mexico.”

“And they all hunt demons?”

“No. Demons are too dangerous for most of them.”

“So what do the others hunt?” Jim looked a bit sheepish, like he was afraid of bursting her bubble.

“Pretty much everything you can and cannot imagine. There is a lot of darkness in the world.” He smiled reassuringly. “But there is a lot of good too.” He didn’t say it like it was obligatory for a pastor to preach faith in a benevolent God, but like he truly believed it.

“I don’t really hunt the same way other hunters do. I focus on exorcisms because they require a specialized skill set that most hunters do not possess.”

“The hunter I met clearly did.” She pointed out, because she was beginning to understand the context of her saviour.

“Yes, he did.” Jackie had taken a seat on a mostly empty table to take the weight of her good leg. “And I’ve been giving a lot of thought to that. You said the demons who possessed you and your brother were angry because he had killed their father.” She nodded.

“He was burning a body when they found him.” And somehow that was not what freaked her out.

“And you say he had a knife that hurt the demons.” She nodded, wondering where this was going. “You see, I have never ever heard of someone killing a demon.” She looked at him in surprise.

“Then what do you do?”

“An exorcism forces the demon out of the host and into Hell. It does not kill them, but it puts them away for a long time.”

“Like putting them in prison.”

“I suppose. But the reason we do it is because it is impossible to kill them.” He gestured at the shotguns on the wall. “I have these to shoot rock salt, which repels them, but it only annoys. They don’t even get hurt from it. Killing them has been thought to be impossible for anyone but the angels.”

“Are you suggesting that the man who saved me was an angel? Because I don’t think angels tend to break their arms.”

“No, I agree it appears unlikely. From the way you describe him, he seems like an experienced hunter. One who has more knowledge of demons than most. I’d like to talk to him.”

“He never gave his name.”

“No, but you saw what he looked like. There is no central leadership for hunters, but there is a grapevine, and someone that good must have caught some attention.”

“So, what do you suggest we do?” She was perfectly okay with looking for the man who had saved her. Hell, if she had the option of just talking to him from day one she wouldn’t be here today.

“Would you go with me to search for him?” He didn’t really need to ask, and he knew it.

Chapter Text

They made arrangements for the next few days. Pastor Jim did not know exactly how long it would take to find the mystery hunter. He had never heard of someone matching the description Jackie gave. The church came with a house for the pastor to live in, and it had a spare bedroom that she was given. Pastor Jim was unmarried, but the house was meant for a family, so he had plenty of space.

She called her mother and told her she had found a trauma center she had been recommended and was staying for at least a week. Her mother still did not understand why she went so far away, but she came up with something about needing some distance from Lawrence, and Drew backed her up. She spoke to Drew and told him she was mailing him one of the charms Pastor Jim had given her. He was grateful, and though he was not even out of the hospital yet he sounded a lot better once she had broken the news.

“You do what you gotta do, sis.” When she told him she was looking for the man who had saved them he responded with a “thank him for me, Jackie. I mean it.”

Her room was bigger than the one she had at home, but she appreciated the extra space because walking around was so cumbersome with the crutches. The adjoining bathroom was a bit too small for her to comfortably use it, but she chose not to complain because there was another one right down the hall.

She popped another two pills, letting the temporary relief flow through her as she laid down on the bed. She remembered the good old days of Monday, when she would jump and plop face down on her bed whenever she came home from work. She might never be able to do that again. But she would be able to hunt demons and save lives. It was a fair trade.

Jim (she was getting mental fatigue from constantly repeating his title) was downstairs by the phone, calling around to his contacts to figure out where to start looking for the man.

About half an hour later, when Jackie was about to nod off, Jim knocked on the frame of the open door.

“I hope I didn’t wake you.”

She sat up, wincing as her knee was jolted a bit and a knife of sharp pain flared up. She was awake in an instant.

“No, it’s fine.”

“I know you’re tired, but I just wanted to say I think I’ve found him.”

“Really? That was quick.”

“It was. I was honestly surprised. A man who went by the name Dean Van Halen stopped by a hunter bar called the Roadhouse two days ago. He helped out fighting a nest of vampires, and apparently made quite an impression.”

“Vampires are real? Actually, never mind. You think this Dean Van Halen is our guy?”

“He was described as ‘six foot and change, blonde hair and green eyes with his right wrist in a cast.”

“That sounds like him, yeah.” She confirmed. “Is he there now?” Would this really be that easy? Jim had given her the impression that hunters could be really hard to find. Something about paranoia; of not wanting to be followed by the things they hunt. And something about cops not liking it when they dig up graves.

The crash course on the supernatural she had received during the short drive to Jim’s house was swirling around in her brain, which helpfully picked out that hunters dug up graves to get rid of ghosts. It was the most common and most basic kind of job. If she had joined a regular hunter to get training she would probably be digging right now. She gazed at her bum leg in it’s clunky brace and winced. Or maybe not.

“No, he left the next morning, and he doesn’t have his own phone.”

“Did he leave an address then?” Jim shook his head.

“A lot of full time hunters are homeless. They travel so much to get from job to job that they don’t have time for a permanent residence. Nor do they have the money for it. I asked Ellen at the Roadhouse to spread the word that we want to talk to him. It shouldn’t take too long before we get another call.”

“What do we do until then?” Jim smiled sweetly, and Jackie suddenly felt like she was back in high school and a teacher was about to spring a surprise biology assignment on her. That expression of tempered glee was hard to forget.

“You are going to get some sleep, because you frankly look like death. And tomorrow, we’re going to brush up on your latin.”

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Mary had woken that morning drenched in cold sweat. She was on her feet in an instant, padding out of her room where John was sleeping peacefully, down the hall and into Sammy’s nursery. The baby was sleeping safely with no sign of any demons. Just to be safe she checked on Dean too, the four year old sprawled in bed, having kicked off the covers. Whatever dream had compelled him to do that was long over though, and his expression was serene beneath the blonde bangs that were getting just a tad too long. She carefully lifted the covers and tucked him in properly. He wouldn’t wake in another two hours, at least, and she didn’t want him to catch a cold.

She glanced at the window. The urge to lay down salt lines was overwhelming. Azazel was not the only demon out there after all. What if someone came to finish the job?

She shook her head, trying to physically get the treacherous thoughts out of her head. She was out of that life. Her family was dead: she had a new life, a new purpose. She lived in a world where ghosts and monsters were things of stories. Except they weren’t. The very worst of them had come to her home to harm her son, and now she was leaving them vulnerable and unprotected out of her own vain belief that she was no longer a hunter.

Once a hunter, always a hunter.

Before she really knew what she was doing, she was dressed and downstairs, with a notepad, planning out the defences of her home. She doodled the sigils she could remember, brainstormed how to hide the salt lines, and wrote down the supplies she would need to get.

Her children and John would need anti-possession charms. She had put on her charm bracelet when she dressed, the one she hadn’t worn in ten years, six months and four days. She’d need to keep some holy water in the house, and maybe even get herself a shotgun. John would not like that.

Her husband had not touched a firearm since he came home from the war. He didn’t talk about it much, but she knew that he too was trying to leave a violent past behind. He never spoke of what happened down there in Vietnam, but she had a lot of practice of seeing lurking trauma in people’s eyes.

He didn’t wake up screaming in the night or anything, but she still saw it.

Going back to the task at hand, she planned out where to put everything before she heard John’s heavy footsteps meandering down the stairs, and the pages were ripped from the pad and hidden among the stack of receipts she kept on the counter in the corner of the kitchen. She was busying herself making coffee when John entered the room in a flannel shirt and jeans, looking for something warm before he went to work. He smelled like aftershave when she kissed him good morning.

“Hey darling.” He was smiling, and the warm look in his eyes sated the anxiety she felt every morning when he came down. This was one of his good days. He wouldn’t yell and run away for days when he woke up this happy.

“Hey back.” She melted in his embrace, relishing the domestic bliss while it lasted. This was not the fairytale life she had imagined she’d get when she left hunting. It had its up and downs and challenges within and without the home, and John was no longer a fairy tale prince who would come and take her away from the monsters. But she loved him anyway, temper and trauma and impatience and all.

“Is there breakfast soon?”

“I was going to make pancakes.” After I’ve finished protecting us from the monsters.

The baby monitor on the counter warned the happy couple that little Sammy was crying. John kissed her again.

“I’ll make the pancakes, and you’ll handle the little ones. Deal?” She kissed his nose.

“Deal.”

Dean, the lovely little man was already up and brushing his own teeth. He smiled a toothy grin at her when she passed him, green eyes sparkling. He hugged her and she hugged him and knew that there was no way she was going to leave this little boy unguarded for a moment longer than necessary. She kissed his forehead before she went to get Sammy.

The chubby little baby was easily consoled when he had a clean diaper and some milk in his tummy. Soon enough he was gurgling happily and batting at the hand that was feeding him, leaving little Dean with goopy baby-food all over his face and blue ‘I wuv hugs’ t-shirt.

John was laughing from the safety behind his newspaper, pancakes already devoured. Mary tried to let it distract her, but she was practically vibrating in her seat waiting for John to get to work so she could begin her preparations.

She needed to hide all this from John. She had always wanted to keep him out of the life. If he knew what was out there... her husband was just the kind of man who would die to protect his family. She would not let that happen.

But if he didn’t find out the hard way, through an emergency, then it would be even worse. He would know she had lied to him, and she could not stand the thought of him leaving forever. She could not stand the thought of Dean’s little heart breaking. This family could not split up. She would never survive it.

“Mommy? Are you OK?” Dean asked, little brows furrowed in concern. Mary looked at him in confusion, before she noticed the tear running down her cheek.

She wiped it away with the back of her hand and smiled in a way that she hoped was reassuring. A glance at John told her he hadn’t even noticed, thankfully. Her husband checked his watch and then stood.

“Well, I’ve got to go. See you tonight, darling.” He kissed her cheek, and she kissed him on the mouth, relishing the contact and laughing when Dean grimaced and covered little Sammy’s eyes in jest. Her little boy would grow up to be a charmer. She ruffled his hair when John had left. She wanted nothing more than to spend her whole day around the house with her son, but she had a lot to do.

“Sweetie, Mommy has a lot she needs today. Can you play with your brother in your room?” The boy looked like he was about to protest, but she knew just how to play him. “It would make me really happy if you were to take care of Sammy for a while. Can you do that for me?” Now that it was an important job he agreed immediately. She kissed his forehead and ruffled his hair.

“My little hero.” He was smiling all the way upstairs, and went about his job with great enthusiasm, introducing Sammy to his dinosaur toys. The chubby little baby was laughing and clapping his little hands in joy. Mary tore herself away from the lovely sight of her children playing.

Over the course of the next few hours she hid symbols in every room, having Sammy and Dean move when she needed to work in theirs. John didn’t do much work around the house, so he would not discover the symbols scratched beneath tables and window sills, painted behind pictures on the walls and beneath rugs. She put the Key of Solomon beneath the entrance rug, in the living room and in every bedroom. The salt lines were harder. She ended up mixing fine salt with glue and laying it out into thin lines beneath the window sills and thresholds.

She went down into the cellar after she had given the children lunch, unscrewing the hot water tank and blessing the contents. She couldn’t bless the whole water supply, but if she kept blessing the hot water tank it wouldn’t be diluted.

When John returned that evening she told him she had an errand to run. A friend of her father was in town, and wanted to give her a case of her father’s old stuff that had been gathering a dust in his attic. It wasn’t too far from the truth, only there was no friend. She stopped by her old house, which she still owned but which neither her nor John knew what to do with, and gathered a crate of weapons and equipment. She locked it with a padlock and put it in the closet in the hallway outside her room, telling John there was really nothing important in it. She put the key amongst the rest on her keychain.

The next morning she woke up and knew she needed to do more. If she was going to sit here and wait for an attack, at least she needed some forewarning. Her father had never really been fond of psychics, but Mary knew that a good one could do a hell of a lot of good. There was a name on the tip of her tongue, mentioned in passing by her parents years ago. Someone young with a lot of promise, if she recalled correctly. She thumbed through a phone book after breakfast, when John had kissed her cheek and left for work.

Moseley. That was it. She would pay her a visit when she had the time.

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Dean tried not to spit out his coffee when Castiel and Anna entered the small diner where he was having a very, very late dinner. There was no doubt it was them. Even if he hadn’t known them both intimately, he would have pegged them as angels instantly.

They must have taken their hosts recently, because it was obvious that they had not bothered with a change of clothes. Unlike the suits angels tended to prefer, the man who Dean realized must be a close relative of Jimmy Novak was wearing running wear; grey sweatpants, a green t-shirt and a dark blue runners jacket. He had the same tousled black hair as Jimmy, and the same piercing blue eyes.

Anna stood out like sore thumb in the seedy little diner. There were no other customers in the diner, which wasn’t very surprising considering that it was three in the morning, but if there had been, all heads would have turned at the beautiful redheaded woman in the stunning white wedding gown.

Dean was willing to bet that whatever woman the angel was possessing was related to Anna Milton. Possibly her mother, he surmised. He had only seen her mother the day she was murdered, and couldn’t really remember what she had looked like, but the angel standing in front of his table looked so much like Anna Milton it was honestly uncanny.

His mind raced as he kept his face calm and ate another one of his chips. It was amazing how crispy they were. Whoever this diner had on night duty needed some serious props. The waitress was out for the moment, clearly aware that there would be no more customers that night. Dean was glad. He needed to concentrate. Why were there two angels standing in this diner?

They did not get involved this early last time, but Dean was good at stirring shit up, and it wasn’t really that surprising that they would sic the Garrison on him. He reminded himself that Anna was in charge still. She hadn’t fallen yet.

It occurred to him that having these two to himself for a moment could present a golden opportunity. Anna and Castiel were among the most rebellious angels that had ever existed, and Dean knew exactly why they had both fallen last time. He had been in the game long enough to know that there were very few things as valuable as an ally in Heaven.

They approached him, and he greeted them with a raised eyebrow. Cas tilted his head in that familiar bird-like way and Dean felt an actual, physical pain in his chest. Anna... it was easier to see her, because their history had been shorter, and further away and then she had snapped and tried to go all Terminator on his parents. So yeah, it was easier to face her than Cas. He wondered what that said about his life.

“I presume you are Dean Van Halen? My name is Anna, and this is Castiel. We are hunters.” Angels trying to pretend to be human was probably the most adorable thing Dean had ever seen. He decided to indulge them for a while.

This could be fun.

Chapter Text

Dean stood to shake the angels’ hands, then gestured for them to sit down across from him. Anna gracefully maneuvered her dress so it wouldn’t get in her way, but Dean still winced at the thought of diner grease getting on the clearly expensive white lace. He felt bad for the host (mrs Milton?) who had her life taken away from her on her wedding day. It wouldn’t be much of a comfort if it was just a rehearsal either.

“Always a pleasure to meet other hunters.” Now that was a blatant lie, but they did not seem to notice. Cas was cocking his head in that birdlike way and staring at him like he was the strangest thing the angel had ever seen. Which, granted, he might actually be. He remembered the sigils he had engraved on his ribs must make him hard to identify. If he remembered correctly, they should have kept them from locating him, but judging from the car outside they might have done it the old-fashioned way. They might be clueless about human behaviour, but they were not idiots.

“How can I help you?”

“You can tell us what you know about the demons.” Castiel deadpanned. Dean’s lips curled up despite his best attempts to keep cool. He remembered his jobs with Castiel from the original timeline, where the angel was completely and utterly unable to use a cover story. If Dean asked what Cas was, he would no doubt say he was an Angel of the Lord.

Anna looked slightly annoyed, but she had always been a more expressive angel. Dean had no problem letting her take over and try to save their cover.

“We hunt demons too, but you appear to know a lot about them.”

“And what would make you think that?” There was a bit of hesitation, and Dean decided not to press them there. “Never mind.” He waved it off. “I’m sure you’ve heard it somewhere. Yes, I have been fighting demons for some years. What do you want to know?”

“What are they planning?” Anna asked.

“That is not the real question.” Dean responded.

“What do you mean?”

“The demons have never been secretive about the end goal. Your leadership on the other hand... do you have any idea what their endgame is?”

Anna opened her mouth to lie again. Dean leaned forwards. “Don’t try to deny that you’re angels. No offence, but you are both terrible at it. Answer my questions, and I’ll answer yours.”

The waitress entered back into the diner and gaped at the two new guests. Dean waved her over and asked for coffee for his friends here. He smiled and winked at the woman, and she became too flustered to ask why Anna was wearing a wedding gown.

“Rule number one of pretending to be human: eat or drink something when you are at a restaurant.” He took a sip of his coffee and got a refill when the waitress came back with extra cups. “Thank you, Dorothy.”

“So, what are your superiors planning?”

“What makes you think they are planning anything?”

“When was the last time an angel spoke with a human? It has to be something like two thousand  years, right?” The confirming nods from Castiel and Anna told him all he needed to know. “And yet, here you are. So, what are your agenda? Do you know?”

“No.” Anna admitted. “Our superiors don’t tell us much.”

“They don’t have to” Castiel pointed out. “Our orders come from God. Our father would never lead us astray.”

Dean knew he had no chance at convincing them otherwise at this point. Anna was clearly more sceptical than Cas, so he might be able to take advantage of that. It was time to cut this meeting short, or he would be at a disadvantage.

“If you don’t want to know the truth about your own situation, then I don’t see why I should tell you anything about mine.” He looked straight at Castiel. “You’re a soldier. I get that. But an order that you don’t understand the reasoning for is not worth following. You answer to angels, and the most famous angel of all time proves that angels are fallible.” Suddenly, but angels cocked their heads and looked into empty space. Dean knew the expression.

“What do you hear?” There was no response for a while, before the two angels exchanged looks.

“We were ordered not to interfere.”

Well, that wasn’t ominous at all. The Garrison had begun interfering because he had changed things. Whatever was going on, it had to do with something he had done over the last five days or so. He knew immediately what the most likely option was.

“Son of a bitch.”

He threw some bills on the table and ran to his GTO, heading back towards Lawrence, leaving a pair of rather flabbergasted angels behind.

——————————

Ten hours earlier.

Mary brought both her children with her to see Missouri Moseley. The psychic did not live far away, and she was afraid John would be suspicious if she kept leaving the house on unknown errands alone.

Dean was perfectly okay with it, because Missouri immediately offered him a cookie. She didn’t seem surprised that she had visitors.

After the introductions were over, Missouri took Mary aside to the kitchen while Dean watched tv. Sammy was squirming on her lap.

“You were expecting us.” She stated once both women were seated.

“I suspected you would come by eventually. I was honestly surprised it was this soon.”

“Then you know who I am?”

“You are Mary Winchester, née Campbell, descendant of the oldest hunting family in America. Five days ago you were attacked in your own home by a powerful demon, but another hunter killed it before it could get to your youngest son.”

“And you, what, psychically sensed this?”

“I knew something was amiss that day, but I didn’t know the whole story until two days ago, when a hunter came by and asked me to keep an eye on your family.”

“Let me guess. Dean Van Halen.” She didn’t know how to feel about that. Van Halen had known she wanted him and everything else in the life as far away from her as possible, and yet he had decided to violate her privacy by hiring a psychic to watch them twenty four seven.

“I’ll have you know he did not bother to pay.” Said psychic pulled from her train of thought. “And I myself find it admirable that he was both trying to look out for your family and obey your wish to stay out of the life.”

The small woman sipped her tea then looked pointedly at Mary. “Considering that you are here, I assume he was right that you needed looking after.” Good point.

“So he thinks there are more demons coming for my family?” She made sure that Dean could not hear the conversation.

“Among other things.” Mary’s mind went blank for a moment. Among other things? Demons work alone, she knows that much. Maybe they have a couple of witches on their side? The very thought of being attacked by demons - plural - was terrifying to her. She really was not looking forwards to meeting the ‘other things.’ Missouri leaned over the table and took Mary’s hand in hers. She was a small woman, and her fingers had a hard time encircling Mary’s, but her hands were warm and comforting.

“If it is any consolation, Van Halen will do anything he can to help protect you.”

“There is something you are not telling me.” Mary stated, though there was no venom in her voice, only resignation. Resignation because this was happening, and she had no way to turn back. This was no longer her paranoia, there were actual demons - plural - and ‘other things’ coming after her family.

“There is a lot I am not telling you, Mary.”

“Dean Van Halen is not his real name, is it?” The woman let go of her hand and sipped her tea again, chuckling.

“It is not.” She confirmed. “That man has a lot of secrets, but I will leave the decision of when to tell you to him. Just because I can look into people’s heads does not mean I will violate their privacy.”

“Then tell me what I need to know. What is going on? Why is my family in danger?”

“He wasn’t very clear on that.”

“And you couldn’t just, you know?” Mary waved her hand somewhere beside her head to indicate psychic powers.

“It’s not that easy. People’s heads are messy, and his even more than most. What I do know, is that this is big, possible world-ending big, and your family is right in the middle of it.” Right after uttering those ominous words, the psychic tilted her head, eyes unfocused. Her lips tightened.

“What?”

“Your house is better warded than mine. I suggest we go there.” The two women were on their feet immediately. Mary was faster, cradling baby Sammy against her left shoulder and scooping Dean up with her other arm. The boy protested being pulled away from the TV so fast, but Mary was already running. They cut across Missouri’s backyard and the lawn of her neighbour to get to the Winchester house faster.

“Mom? What is happening?” Dean was crying, but Mary had no time to comfort him. Her feet thundered over frosted grass and slippery asphalt, and she was painfully reminded of how long it was since her hunting days. There was a stitch rapidly developing in her side, and by the time she had stormed into the house she was completely out of breath.

“MARY!” She heard Missouri shout through the open door. The tiny psychic was being held by her neighbour mr Grant, the wiry accountant’s arms completely encircling her waist pinning her arms to her side in what looked like a very painful position. His eyes were shining black as he grinned at her and ignored Missouri’s squirming.

“I suggest you let me in there, lady.” Mary did not bother standing in shocked silence. She hurried into the kitchen, pulled a glass from the sink and filled it with water from the hot tap. She would have preferred to go upstairs and get the shotgun from the weapon’s case in the closet, but Missouri did not have that long. She held the glass behind her and handed Sammy to Dean.

“Go hide in your room, sweetie. You gotta take care of Sammy.”

“Mom? Why is mr Grant being mean to miss Missouri?” Dean was crying, but he did not forget his manners. Mary kissed his forehead as he cradled the baby.

“I will explain later. Now go, sweetie. I’ll come up soon.” The boy nodded and hurried up the stairs, trying to contain his tears.

“That’s adorable. Now let me in, or miss Missouri will get a whole lot thinner.” She stood in the doorway again, the tall thin glass of hot holy water hidden behind her arm. She winced as she heard the sound of Missouri’s ribs cracking. She reached down and scraped off some of the salt-glue mixture from the threshold. The demon grinned and walked up the stairs, tossing the injured Missouri ahead of him. Mary grabbed the woman’s arm and pushed her behind her. The protection wasn’t necessary. The demon stopped suddenly, unable to move past the rug right inside the door. Mary grinned.

“I’ve got you now.” The demon looked confused for a second before that cocky mask returned.

“That’s cute. You think a little trick like this will hold me for long?”

“It was enough to hold your prince.” She pointed out. The demon looked a bit pale, but he composed himself.

“You think I came alone, Mary? Even if your precious little wards can hold back the hordes of Hell, you’ll never step foot outside your door again. My comrades will be outside, enjoying the sound of your children starving to death.” Mary splashed him with the holy water, causing him to scream and frantically dry his face. Missouri stepped out from behind her and began an exorcism. Mary was glad. It was embarrassing, but she had forgotten the words. She watched with cold detachment as the demon writhed and screamed in the trap before it was finally, finally gushing out of the little man’s throat as thick black smoke and slipping in between the cracks in the floor, on its way back to Hell. She hoped he would stay there for a long time.

They were under siege. As her neighbour collapsed on the floor she looked out the door, at the rest of the neighbourhood standing on their own lawns. Standing unnaturally calm, with cruel smiles on their faces. Betty Thomas waved at her, eyes flashing black where she was standing by her white picket fence. Mary felt the urge to throw up, remembering that she had been at Betty’s house just nine days ago, playing cards with the ladies in the neighbourhood. Her friend was in there somewhere, clawing and screaming to try to regain control of her own body.

“My god! They are everywhere!” Mr Grant had managed to pull himself up and was leaning on the wall of the hallway, looking pale. “What is going on?”

“It’s a long story.” Mary muttered. “I suggest we don’t stand exposed like this. I have to relay the salt line.” She ran off to get more salt and glue.

“How do I get out of here?” Mr Grant asked, panicked.

“You can try running, but I’m staying here.”

“This is insane!” The man paced for a few seconds before storming out the front door. The demons watched him go, deciding he wasn’t important. Mary hurried to replace the salt that she had scraped off, completing the warding again. The demons were kept out, but they were also kept in. She slammed the door on the street full of demons.

Two hours later

Dean wanted to play in the garden. Actually, Mary was fairly certain that he didn’t, he was just trying to test the new limits. Mary hadn’t explicitly said they were trapped, but Dean was no fool. He knew something was wrong. Missouri was keeping them occupied playing chutes and ladders, but the little boy was fidgeting in his seat. Mary paced from window to window, unable to stop herself from looking out. People were going about their business as usual, inside or outside. It looked completely normal, but she knew better.

Missouri told her even the postman was possessed. John would be home soon, and Mary feared for his safety.

They had tried calling Dean Van Halen, but the phone line had been cut. They were cut off from the world.

She stopped pacing and plopped down on the sofa, trying to make sense of the situation. Azazel had been after Sam, but was that the only thing they were after now? If they had time to possess the entire neighbourhood, surely they could have attacked while they were at Missouri’s house and grabbed the child then?

Missouri gave up on the chutes and ladders game and had the children watch television instead. Dean was a lot calmer when he had baby Sammy on his lap. The psychic sat down next to Mary on the couch.

“I’ve tried telepathically connecting to some of my associates.”

“And?”

“Most are out of range. As for our friend Van Halen, I can’t seem to find him. It wouldn’t surprise me if he carried some form of warding that keeps him from being located. I am trying to contact some hunters, but at this distance all they will get are some vague hints.”

“So we’ll get no help on that front, then?”

“This many demons in one place have got to leave some obvious omens. There will be hunters coming eventually. We just have to wait until they can clear a path for us.”

“No hunter can face this many demons!”

“No hunter except Van Halen.” Mary fell back on the couch and sighed.

“Who is that man? He practically tried to handwave away the fact that he can kill demons. That should be a big deal.”

“And I’m sure it was, the first time he did it.”

“You know I met him ten years ago? Back then he was convinced demons could be killed too. He was looking for Samuel Colt’s gun. And now he shows up and has a functional copy of it. You don’t get a weapon like that without paying for it.”

“You think he sold his soul for a gun?” Mary shook her head, not denying it, but indicating that she did not know.

“I’m just curious how someone ended up like that, that is all.”

2 hours later

John should have been home from work by now. Mary was pacing again, biting her nails. She had made a small lunch, not certain how to ration the food. She couldn’t starve her children, but if they ran out of food that was exactly what would happen. She glanced at the clock on the wall again, frustrated to see that only two minutes had passed. There was a thick lump in her throat that she was trying to swallow around. Was she a widow now?

She had always been worried that John would run out on her, ever since the early days when she decided to found their relationship on the lie that she was normal girl from a normal family. She hadn’t even considered the possibility of someone taking him away from her. For some reason she didn’t think the universe would let a good man be murdered twice.

Mary hadn’t prayed in a long time, but she was making an exception now.

If there is anyone out there, please keep my husband safe.

The minutes kept ticking by, infuriatingly slowly as she waited. Not for anything in particular, just for anything to change. Because she couldn’t do a damn thing.

2 hours later

“Has anyone responded to your telepathic calls yet?” Missouri shook her head despondently. Mary had just put the boys to bed. Dean insisted on sleeping with Sammy, his own way of trying to protect his little brother. It broke Mary’s heart that her son was that scared, but she was proud all the same.

“I’ve been trying to locate John. Wherever he is, he is shielded from me.” Mary paled.

“How is that possible?”

“It doesn’t have to mean the worst.” Missouri soothed. “He might just be in a place with a bit of interference, or he might have passed out from something.”

“Or they might have taken him and done God knows what to him!”

Missouri’s tone was low and even. “Mary. You need to calm down. Freaking out will not help John, nor will it help your sons.” Mary had to physically fight the urge to snap at the woman again. She was right. This wasn’t helping, but what else could she do?

She couldn’t fight, she couldn’t flee, she couldn’t call for help... all that was left was to negotiate.

Chapter Text

“This plan is insane.” Missouri opined. Mary didn’t bother verbally agree with her. It was insane, and she knew it. It was absolutely, completely and utterly insane, but it was the only plan she had.

The two women were moving around the house, frantically working on the symbols. They made sure they were seen through every window so it was clear what they were doing. The two young women suddenly got the suspicion something was wrong with their warding after having sat idly too long during a siege. It was the perfect cover, if Mary was correct about the disdain these demons felt for humans.

Waiting out a siege is not the Campbell way. Her late father, if he hadn’t already been furious that she had left the life and become a helpless civilian, would be pissed that she had been sitting on her ass for six hours when there was fighting to be done.

Then again, she was certain even the Great Samuel Campbell would be a bit unnerved by a situation like this one.

The most important part of her ruse was hidden beneath her baggy hoodie (she had changed into one of John’s sometime between coming home and beginning the fight), tucked in the waistband of her jeans. The crate she had brought home a few days ago had contained a box with her father’s antique gun collection. She wasn’t entirely sure why he had one of those - the man had never been sentimental and chose his weapons on utility alone, but she suspected he too had once been looking for the legendary Colt, and just found it to be a waste to throw away the non-magical ones he found.

Carving the symbols into it had not been easy without electrical tools, but the result looked very old-fashioned and occult. It didn’t hurt that the symbols were more or less correct.

If you knew what the Colt was supposed to look like it wouldn’t fool you for two seconds, but Mary was counting on that they didn’t.

The way they had manipulated the warding allowed the demons entrance into the living room and kitchen, but not up the stairs or anywhere near the nursery where Dean and Sam were hiding.

“You should go up too.” She informed Missouri as she finished the final preparation: filling a mug and some glasses with holy water from the hot water tap in the kitchen and placing them around the room. The small woman snorted.

“Like I trust you not to get yourself killed on your own. No sweetie, I am not leaving those children motherless if I can help it.” She stuck her chin up in a defiant gesture and tapped the shotgun she had taken from Mary’s arsenal, hidden beneath a pillow on the couch she was sitting on. How the psychic had the nerve to sit down when they had just opened the house to a horde of demons was beyond Mary, but she was glad for the company. They waited with baited breath for a few more moments.

Mary was about to ask what was taking them so long when someone cleared their throat behind her. It took all her self-control not to pull the fake colt immediately when she turned, but she couldn’t blow that card yet.

Her job was simple: distract the demon while Missouri salted the one window that was open. It was not in ideal ward: the demons could break the line with some manipulated wind or an earthquake or something, but it would give them a couple of minutes while they found someone powerful enough to do that. So Mary did the most distracting thing she could think of and grabbed a glass of lukewarm holy water from the table and threw it in the demon’s face.

The next thing she knew she was slammed against a wall. The glass in her hand shattered upon impact. Missouri had made the salt line though: a thick, lumpy line that went around the window on the floor rather than trying to balance on the windowsill when the psychic was in a hurry. The demon frowned at the line. He was wearing Jordan, the teenage son of the couple living four houses down the street. The young man was still wearing his uniform from Pizza Hut, having just come home from work when the siege began.

“What is this? I know you hunters have never been the smartest bunch, but trapping a demon in the house with you? That has got to be a new low.” MIssouri, sensing that Mary was a bit too busy being crushed against the wall spoke up.

“We want to talk.”

“And what makes you think we want to talk with you?”

“We’re... still alive.” Mary managed to cough out. The demon cocked his head for a second, then lowered his hand. She fell down, suddenly aware that she had been hanging way higher than she had thought and there was broken glass on the floor. She managed to get her feet under her before she fell butt first down on it. The demon looked somewhat disappointed at the lack of blood. Mary straightened up and took a few steps forwards to regain her composure.

“Well, Mary? What did you want to talk about?”

“How about you begin with what the hell you want with my family?” She and Missouri had decided that there was no point in hiding that they had no clue what was going on, because it was blindingly obvious. “ The demon seemed at a loss for words for a moment.

That was when it all clicked for Mary. The demons had not come with any demands when the siege began. They tried attacking one by one when they could have won with sheer numbers. There was only one explanation.

“You have no idea what is going on either.” They were acting like headless chickens, moving on instinct even after the brains of the operation was gone. She had a feeling she knew who that had been. “With Azazel gone, nobody is in charge down there.”

No wait, that didn’t fit with what she knew about demons. Someone would have tried to seize power — several someones actually. “Or maybe a lot of people say they are in charge, and you have no idea who to follow?” Oh, this was just too good. Hell had been permanently divided into factions because of one hunter with a magic blade!

Mary couldn’t help but grin. They had struck a serious blow to humanity’s most ancient enemy, and it had happened in her home.

Mary’s main problem with hunting had always been that it felt hopeless: they would struggle and fight and die, but it was like trying to hold back the rising tide using buckets. For every innocent person they saved, a dozen more died without them even noticing. There was no way to win. But now, for the first time she had helped make a dent.

Humanity had a new champion: one that could help them compete with the monsters in the dark.

She saw a glint of something in the demon’s eyes, a hint of fear. Fear because about a week ago, the whole world began changing. A revolution was coming: humanity was rising.

Mary knew then and there that she could not go back to her old life after this. Whatever Dean Van Halen was planning, it was too important to stand by and watch.

With this newfound fire burning in her chest, Mary spoke up with much more confidence.

“In that case there is no point in speaking to you. You don’t have the power to make a deal. I suggest you go get someone who can.” She stepped aside and made a small break in the salt line. If what she had surmised was correct, the demons outside would be too unorganized to launch an attack in a few seconds.

The demon left without another word, resolutely jumping out the first floor window and marching away with a sense of purpose he had not had on the way in. It amused Mary to see a soldier — because that was clearly what he was — so relieved to finally get orders that he would obey his enemy.

“Mommy? Why did Jordan jump through the window?” Dean was standing in the door between the kitchen and living room, just a few feet away from where the demon had been moments prior. Mary nearly had a heart attack when she realized he had been standing there the whole time.

“What are you doing down here, sweetie? I told you to play with Sammy.”

“Sammy is taking his nap.” It was said curtly, and a glance at her watch told her it was indeed time for the baby to sleep. Dean, her dutiful, perfect little son had known that, and had put his little brother to sleep on his own. “What is going on, Mommy? You and miss Missouri have been acting weird all day.”

“It’s nothing to worry about, sweetie. Just go upstairs and Missouri and I will take care of it.”

The four year old looked unimpressed. “I am four, not an idiot, mommy. Our neighbors have been acting weird too. I waved at mrs. Summers from my window, and she looked at me all weirdlike and then asked if I could open the window.” He caught his mother’s crestfallen look and quickly added “I didn’t, though. Her smile was all wrong.”

“Look, Dean. This is complicated grownup business. Now, go upstairs and stay there until I call you down.” Mary said sternly. The little boy looked up at her, unimpressed.

“If it was just about the grownups we wouldn’t have to hide.” He informed her curtly, before he stomped back upstairs. Mary drew a breath of relief.

“Your son is a smart boy. You’ll have to figure out what to tell him sooner or later.”

“Surely it can wait until we’re out of danger?” Missouri huffed.

“Do you really see that happening soon, dear? As you said, a revolution is coming, and your family is in the middle of it.” Mary sighed and plopped down on the sofa. She combed her fingers through her hair, realizing too late that her right hand had been cut on broken glass and she now had sticky blood all over her blonde curls.

Missouri was right (something that seemed to happen annoyingly often) “get used to it, dear” she could not keep Dean in the dark forever. Now that she had decided that she could not stand on the sidelines anymore, she would have to inform her family what was happening, or it would tear them apart. Telling them could potentially tear them apart too, though. John would not be happy that she had hid this from him — after he was done questioning her sanity, of course.

Another thought struck her that made her feel physically ill. What about the children? She had fought so hard to give them a future as anything but hunters.

“Just because you are getting back into hunting doesn’t mean your children have to be raised like you were.” Missouri pointed out, reminding Mary that her internal monologue was being heard loud and clear.

“Then how much do I tell them?” She asked, feeling hopeless. Striking a balance between hunting and family life was a challenge she had never heard of anyone overcoming.

“Enough. You tell them there are monsters and that you hunt them. Teach them enough to keep safe, but no more.”

“And what if they choose to hunt?”

“Then that is their choice, once they are old enough to make it. It is not fair to keep all of this from them. You need to make sure they are properly informed and capable of making their own decisions. What good reason is there for lying to them?”

“Ignorance is bliss.”

“Ignorance is what gets you killed in this brave new world of ours.” Missouri cut her off. Mary was quiet for a moment. She didn’t need to tell Missouri she was right, because she already knew.

“We’ve known each other for what, seven hours, and you are already the wisest friend I have.”

“Give it a few more days and you’ll say it grows annoying.”

“Does that happen a lot?”

The psychic shrugged. “My friends tend to keep me at a distance. Something about wanting privacy.”

Before Mary could respond to that, the doorbell rang.

The familiar walk to the door felt strange when she knew what was waiting on the other side. A demon polite enough to ring the doorbell was so perversely mundane that Mary’s mind hardly knew how to process it.

Some demons were good at playing human. The borrowed skin sat comfortably around their twisted souls, their faces schooled into genuine emotions that revealed nothing of the corruption beneath. These two just plain did not give a damn.

The taller of the two looked about as comfortable in his new skin as a bear wearing a pink frilly tutu. He was wearing a permanent sneer trying to make up for how unterrifying he found his vessel, an expression that didn’t fit on the blank, professional face of his middle-aged host. The effect was that he ended up somewhere in the uncanny valley, less in the amusingly disturbing section and more in the existentially horrifying.

It made Mary wonder if a human being could ever radiate as much malice as this demon was. The way he was wearing his host made her think of an eldtritch god trying to convey his cosmic horror through jodling and somehow succeeding.

The man beside him seemed painfully plain in comparison; plain enough that she made the mistake of calling him a man in the first place. He wore his host with the kind of comfort you only wear an age old jacket (like the beaten brown leather jacket that had intrigued her to John in the first place.) Not that the host was very unassuming: a short, moderately heavy man with the air of a businessman or a lawyer, though that might be the demon shining through.

Armani suit, black shirt, black tie and Oxford shoes that cost more than her house, if she was not mistaken. She wondered if this was what the host had been wearing when he was possessed. The demon seemed very aware of the exquisite look, which made it hard to see where the man ended and the demon began.

“Mary Winchester? How about you invite us in?” A smooth british accent that might not belong to the host inquired. Mary glanced at his companion and decided that she would not invite that thing into her home. The fact that she had noticed Missouri taking five steps backwards and grabbing her shotgun tighter the moment Mary opened the door helped with her assessment. The Armani demon seemed to read her mind too (could they really do that?) and smiled apologetically.

“I agree he is not very good company, but I am afraid he insisted to tag along. I don’t know why: deals have always been under the management of the crossroads, not the torturers.” The last few words were being said with a pointed look at the eldtritch demon, who looked back the way one would look at a particularly fat cockroach.

It seemed her theory that Hell was fractured was accurate if the way they were fighting for control was any indication. Armani was smiling at her belatedly as if saying “bureaucracy, what can you do?”

It was clear that they would get nowhere standing on the threshold. Mary sent a thought asking Missouri to go upstairs and make damn sure the kids stayed there, not wanting Dean to wander down one more time before she wiped out a sigil behind a picture of her and John on their honeymoon and let the two demons inside her house.

Armani immediately stepped forwards with his hand outstretched. Mary jerked backwards, well aware that a crossroads demon could twist anything into a contract. The demon smiled jovially.

“It’s just a handshake, love. No deal, I promise.” His hands were warm and dry when she shook them, so unlike her own. She hoped in vain he didn’t notice her trembling. It did feel like just a handshake: it reminded her of the first time her father brought her to Chicago to buy weapons, and of the middle aged italian who met them in the empty parking lot. A man who hadn’t bothered bringing his own gun to a surreptitious arms deal.

“My name is Crowley, King of the Crossroads, and my charming companion here is Alastair, Head Inquisitor of Hell.” Eyes flashed, Crowley’s blood red and Alastair’s bone pale.

“Let’s end the niceties, shall we?” Alastair spoke for the first time. His voice was nasal, like he hadn’t bothered figuring out how human vocal chords functioned, and the words were spat out with obvious contempt. Crowley rolled his eyes.

“This is why I am King of the Crossroads and you are a glorified gaoler, my friend.” Alastair looked disgusted at the mere idea of being Crowley’s friend. Crowley, unfazed, turned back to Mary.

“Can you believe he wanted to come here alone? He is an artist with a straight razor, but with words? Not so much.” Apparently judging that his companion was at the edge of his patience, Crowley gestured towards the living room.

Mary did not take her eyes off of either of them for a second as they each found their seat, Crowley in a comfortable chair facing the sofa, Alastair standing against the wall, arms crossed. Both skillfully avoided stepping on the rugs that concealed Devils Traps.

Mary stood by the sofa, unwilling to sit down in this company. The fake Colt was still in the waistband of her sweats, now accompanied by a hefty bruise from being slammed into the wall earlier.

She had bet any Joe Schmoe demon would not recognize the Colt was a fake, but these two were not ordinary.

Alastair was Head Inquisitor. Judging from his reaction to his host he did not come Topside often. Mary could imagine him not recognizing the replica. But the King of the Crossroads? The man in charge of Hell’s business deals would know a magic weapon when he saw one — or didn’t see one in this case. And, if Mary’s theory about how Dean Van Halen got the Colt in the first place held any truth, Crowley might have owned the real Colt at some point.

“So, Mary” Mary cringed at her name being on the demon’s oily lips. “Rumor has it you want to make a deal.”

“I want this siege to end, and I want my family safe.”

The crossroads demon took some time to deliberate it, as if he hadn’t had this planned out from the very beginning.

“And what do you propose to give us in return?” Mary blinked in confusion. Crossroads demons only took one kind of payment. “Your soul? I’m afraid that is not enough, love.”

Mary’s heart sank. It wasn’t that she wanted to go to Hell, but she knew in her heart that she should have sold her soul to get John back all those years ago, not her unborn son. If she could rectify that now, and still get ten years to try and destroy Hell, she would have been content.

“You wouldn’t be here if you thought I had nothing to offer.” Crowley chuckled.

“As intelligent as you are beautiful, I see. You are right, there might be something you could offer us.” The demon paused dramatically, as Missouri walked back into the room, giving Alastair a wide berth.

“Your son.” Alastair was not one for beating around the bush. The next thing he knew he was staring down the barrel of an antique revolver with occult inscriptions.

“You are not getting anywhere near Sam.”She informed him coolly. The demon eyed the fake Colt with some apprehension, but his lips twisted into a mocking grin anyway.

“Who said anything about little Sammy?” Mary’s eyes flickered to Missouri for a brief second, seeing the same confusion written all over her face. Alastair attempted to take a step towards her, but she thumbed back the hammer and adopted a better stance.

“Calm down, Mary.” Crowley was speaking to her like she was an easily spooked deer. He was on his feet now too. She could tell from his voice that he hadn’t approached, though. She kept all of her focus on Alastair, well aware that as soon as Crowley got a good look at the gun she would be dead. “This is not as bad as it sounds.”

“I am not letting you take Dean to Hell!” She snarled.

“We’re not planning to.” Crowley soothed, still from behind her. Alastair made a noise of protest. “Or, we were, but that part is clearly non-negotiable.”

Calm down. Crowley’s voice rang out in her head. Ask me what we want with him. Mary blinked in confusion, then briefly caught Missouri in the corner of her eye and knew she was broadcasting the demon’s voice in her mind.

“What do you want with him?”

“We want to keep him out of the hands of some very powerful beings.” And I want to keep him away from Alastair. You have leverage as long as he thinks that toy of yours is real. If you make a deal with me, you can set terms that would benefit both of us. Keep the conversation going, love.

“Who wants him?”

“That’s not important right now, love.” None of you will leave this house without handing over the boy. As soon as Alastair knows you can’t hurt him he will kill your psychic friend and then torture you until your son gives himself up. It’s your choice.

“Oh, I think it’s pretty important.” She couldn’t actually be considering this? No mother would ever give up her baby boy, especially not to a demon.

“All I can tell you is that they want your son to fight for them, and they don’t care if they have to force him.” Mary, this isn’t about the hard way or the easy way: it is about the dumb way and the smart way. If Alastair gets his hands on the boy he will suffer unimaginable horror for eternity. I can’t stop that unless you deal with me. Crowley sounded pleading now, and it made Mary want to scoff in disgust.

Demons lie. That was rule number one when dealing with them. Did they honestly expect her to fall for this good cop bad cop routine?

Only, she knew Hell was split into factions. If Crowley wasn’t lying about how valuable Dean was to them it made sense that he would make some concessions to get him away from his rival.

Believe it or not, but we are on the same side. As soon as Alastair and everyone else who wants him are out of the way you can have him back. Now, set your terms and make sure you specify that Alastair and his cronies can’t have him.

Mary saw Missouri give her a grim nod before she had to admit defeat.

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” Alastair smirked in victory. Mary wanted to wipe it off his face. Preferably with sandpaper coated in salt and holy water. “I have some terms, though.”

“One: neither Alastair nor anyone who work for him are allowed anywhere near him.” Alastair looked positively murderous, but he was pinned by the gun.

“Two: he will be protected from all harm.

Three: he will be provided for with good food, clothing, entertainment and standard education.

Four: you will to the best of your ability assure his health and happiness.

Five: he and I will be allowed weekly private phone calls at my own discretion.

And six: once these ‘others’ who wanted to use him no longer pose a threat, he will be safely returned to his family.” It felt like she should keep going, but this was already pushing Alastair’s patience.

“Do you accept the terms?”

“With one addition: if either you or anyone associated with you attempt to harm me, the boy dies.” You didn’t think I’d let you off with no guarantees, did you? Bastard. She had no choice.

“I accept.”

The kiss was not as bad as last time. Given that last time the demon had been possessing her father and she had been clutching her dead boyfriend at the time, the bar was set very low.

It was a bit awkward, kissing a man while pointing a gun at another, but given that Alastair was technically her hostage, she couldn’t take the gun off him before the deal was sealed.

Alastair was radiating fury as Crowley let go of Mary and stepped in front of her.

“You’ll have to leave now. Mary won’t hand me the boy before you’re gone.” Alastair seethed.

“Am I supposed to believe she just happened to suggest a deal that benefits you?”

“This deal kept her from shooting you. I’d say it benefits you as well. Anyhow, I am a man of my word, so I cannot let you stay in this house any longer.”

“This isn’t over.” The pale-eyed demon warned, before he was gone. Mary took a relieved breath. The pressure in the room dropped significantly once the torturer was gone. The pit in her stomach remained, though, as the danger was not over yet.

“Give us a moment” It wasn’t a request. Mary grabbed Missouri by the arm and pulled her up the stairs, back into the safety of the warding. Once they were out of sight, Missouri hugged her tightly.

“Oh god, Missouri” Mary sobbed. “What have I done?”

“The only thing we could do, dear.” The firmness of her tone was comforting. “We’ll get him back, I promise.”

“And what do I tell Dean? My baby boy won’t know what is happening.”

“You need to tell him the truth, Mary. The less he knows, the easier it will be for Crowley to manipulate him.”

Sam was still asleep when Mary peeked into Dean’s room. Dean had placed the baby on the floor so he couldn’t fall out, burritoed into his own comforter. Dean was laying on his side next to him, one arm clutching the bundle protectively. He only had a thin blanket for himself.

Mary stepped into the room as quietly as she could, yet one of the floorboards creaked. Dean was on his feet in a second, eyes wide, standing guard between the intruder and his baby brother. Mary began crying again as she realized it never occurred to him to protect himself.

“Mommy?” He finally recognized his mother through the haze of sleep and the dimness of the room. She hadn’t noticed, but it was past midnight. Suddenly she was on her knees, with her little boy giving her the tightest bear hug she had ever had. After a moment, he leaned back, pulled his sweater sleeve over the palm of his hand and used it to wipe away the tears on her cheeks. Mary leaned into the touch, allowing herself to be comforted for a moment. “It’s gonna be okay, Mommy.” Her four year old son assured her.

“Are you going to tell me what is going on, now?”

“Yes, I am sweetie.” She took a deep deep breath. “A long time ago, before Mommy met Daddy, Mommy had a different job. Mommy was a monster hunter.”

“There is no such thing as monsters.” Dean’s half-hearted protest was practiced, a line all children spread around their friend group until everyone believed it.

“Oh, but there is, sweetie. Most people don’t know about them because they don’t want to know.”

“What kind of monsters?”

Now, how to say this without scaring him? “Many kinds, sweetie. I was a hunter for a long time, and I never found all of them.”

“Are there monsters here? Is that why you and Missouri have been acting weird?” Mary felt the tears press on again. She choked down a sob and felt Dean hug her tighter. She was only ever this emotional in front of her son, probably because he was the only one who comforted her like this.

“Are mr. Grant, mrs. Summer and Jordan monsters?”

“Not really, sweetie. You see, some monsters can possess people.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means they can take over people’s bodies, and control what they do. And you are right, there are a lot of them here, and they are keeping us from leaving the house.”

“Then what do we do?”

“Sweetie, do you know what a hostage is?” The boy shook his head. “It’s is when someone brings someone their enemies love with them to make sure they won’t hurt them.”

“Okay.”

“Mr Crowley downstairs says the monsters will leave us alone if he can have you as a hostage.”

“Me?” His voice was high pitched and frightened. Mary was about to draw the line then and there, stomp back down the stairs and tell Crowley to go back to Hell, but she knew there was no better option. If she broke the deal, they would be starved out, and Alastair would get to her baby boy. This way was the safest for all of them.

“It’s okay, Dean. He won’t hurt you. But you will have to be away from Mommy for a while. Can you be a good boy and do that?” Dean looked torn between his crippling, reasonable, self-preserving fear and his wish to be a ‘good boy.’ Mary wanted to punch herself for manipulating him this way.

Finally he steeled himself and nodded. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

On the way downstairs, Mary filled her son in on what he needed to know. She told him the terms of the deal and not to trust Crowley. Most importantly, she handed him an anti-possession charm.

“Keep this on, always.” She told him as she kneeled in front of him at the top of the stairs. “When you go to bed, when you take a bath, even when you change clothes. It will keep them from possessing you. Remember, I’ll call every week. I love you.” She kissed his head, hugged him and cried some more, but Dean was all out of tears. He hung the charm around his neck like a medal and straightened up into a posture he had only seen in the military funerals they had gone to for old friends of John.

“It’s gonna be okay, Mommy.”

The moment his feet touched the bottom of the stairs, both he and Crowley were gone. Mary and Missouri watched from the doorstep as dozens of demons exited their hosts and smoked away in a cloud, crackling with electricity.

They had agreed on a ruse with Crowley, to explain the sudden disappearance of Dean. The window of Dean’s room was picked open, and traces of a fight and kidnapping were placed everywhere, including a crossroads demon pretending to walk her dog as a witness. Mary and Missouri changed into nightgowns and did the whole song and dance with calling the police and crying.

She didn’t have to fake her grief and shock. All she did was sit in the living room clutching a sleeping Sam while the police questioned her. John came home from the bar he had been hanging at with his friends. He had been unable to call because the demons had taken down the phone lines.

She just stared dumbly forwards as he fussed and raged and paced. The only thing that made her look up was the front door slamming open just as the police had left. Dean Van Halen was once again standing in her living room, but this time he wasn’t calm and pleasant. He was a thundercloud, big and dark, bursting with rage that filled the room with the same intensity she had felt in Alastair, only this was righteous fury, aimed at her.

“What the fuck did you do?”

Chapter Text

The GTO pulled onto the curb in front of the Winchester house just as a whole fleet of police cars vanished down the road. He cursed himself for not keeping a closer eye on the family. Missouri was smart, but if she for some reason had been unable to get to his (gigantic and unwieldy) cell phone, she couldn’t do much but advice the family to hide.

The Impala was outside, which meant John was home. Normally, Dean would do anything to avoid facing the man, but something had happened here that even the angels had noticed. He pulled the door open unnecessarily hard and ran inside. His shoulders sagged in relief for a moment seeing that baby Sammy was safe in Mary’s arms. Then he registered that both John and Missouri were there too: the whole family and appointed guardian. Everyone except... oh no. Finally, he met Mary’s eyes.

Dean knew that expression well. He’d seen it plenty before, both on her, during the turbulent time after her resurrection, and on himself, pretty much all the time lately. It was an expression he had inherited from her, showing the emotion he was the most used to, the one that hurt him the most.

It was guilt. Little Dean was gone, and Mary blamed herself. His worry turned to anger. He was fighting his ass off to keep this family safe, but all of that was for nothing if Mary screwed everything up the moment he turned his back.

“What the fuck did you do?”

Dean knew people found him intimidating. Even without his reputation, he carried with him the intensity of a man who had been to Hell and back. A man who had watched everyone he loved die, sometimes several times. He also knew that he had serious anger issues, Mary had a short temper and John tended to explode whenever he was confused or frustrated. He had been on the receiving end of those outbursts several times during his childhood.

In the back of his mind, he knew there was no way this would end well. There was too much tension in one small room. He ignored the voice of reason and kept going.

“Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?” John was on his feet now, stepping protectively in front of his wife. Judging from his demeanor he had no idea what was going on.

“I’m not talking to you.”

“No? Well I’m talking to you. Get the hell out before I call the police!”

“John! He is here to help!” Mary cut in, rising to her feet and moving out from behind her husband. “And he is right to be angry.”

“He can’t blame you! You were asleep when they took him!” John still hadn’t calmed down. He was worried and he needed someone to punch to calm down. Dean knew the feeling. He also knew that if it came to blows between him and John, there was no way they were getting out of it without one of them landing in the hospital. Dean was confident he could take him even with his broken wrist, but John was resilient and never gave up.

“I wasn’t asleep, all right!?” Mary yelled. Sammy woke with a wail. “I made a deal.”

No. “You did what?!” Dean and John yelled simultaneously. Mary was crying now. Missouri darted in and grabbed Sam, putting him down on the sofa and shushing him.

“Did you learn nothing last time?”

“I know, okay?! It was the only way to protect my family!” Mary was facing him now.

“What? You sell one son to save the other? What kind of mother are you?”

“What the hell do you mean sell our son?!” John was looking between them, willing one of them to give him an explanation. “Mary?” Mary took a deep breath.

“They would have torn the house apart and gotten to him anyway. I set the terms so they couldn’t hurt him.”

“Who?!” John asked just as Dean spoke pleadingly.

“Please tell me it was Crowley.” Crowley at least kept his promises. If she had set the terms right there might still be a chance.

To his immense relief she nodded. “Good. If Crowley said he wouldn’t hurt him, then he won’t. Please tell me you made sure he couldn’t just hand him to someone else.”

“I added clauses about keeping him from harm and specifically told him to keep him out of the hands of Alastair, the Head Inquisitor.” Fuck, that’s right. Alastair was still alive. He should get around to killing him soon. Doing it himself this time would be immensely satisfying.

“Good. That buys us some time to get him back.”

“All right, everyone back up a step. Who the hell is Crowley?” John was pathetically out of the loop, and he hated it. His introduction to the supernatural last time had been anything but gentle, so Dean saw no reason not to be blunt.

“Crowley is the King of the Crossroads. He is a demon that buys souls from humans and bring them to Hell.”

“I made sure he wouldn’t do that to Dean.” Mary reassured quickly, as if that was the main thing John was worrying about. No, John had the air of a man stuck on the word ‘demon.’

“He is also a potential ally. If Mary absolutely had to make a deal with someone, it was good that she picked him. Alastair would have lied through his teeth and been tearing your son to shreds before sunrise.”

John paled at the thought of his son being murdered.

“I’d prefer to talk to Crowley before I do anything else. But first, we need to get all of you somewhere safe. Lucky for you I have a place in mind.”

Missouri rode with Dean in the GTO as they headed for the Men of Letters bunker. Mary had managed to convince John to pack a bag with the promise that she would explain everything in the car. They were now following in the Impala. In the dark, Dean couldn’t see them through the windshield. He knew Mary was driving. Apparently John had been out drinking when the shit hit the fan. Dean wasn’t surprised.

“She didn’t have another choice. You know that.” Missouri spoke up for the first time. She too had tossed a few belongings in a bag before they left, now deposited in the back seat.

“Yeah. I know.” Dean admitted. “I’m just pissed off in general.”

“I must say I’m impressed you didn’t punch John. He is a stubborn man.”

“I know. I must have gotten it from somewhere, right?” Missouri chuckled.

“Honestly you remind me a lot more of your mother. Same hair, same eyes, same willingness to sacrifice yourself for your family.” The little woman looked over at him. The charms hanging from her ears and around her neck were glinting in the lights from the light poles they passed. “It tore her apart to give little you away, you know that.”

“Just call him Dean. We are separate people: same DNA, different experiences.”

“Like twins, only different ages.”

“Pretty much.” There was a pause.

“If Dean dies, what happens to you?”

“I don’t know. I assume there will be a Terminator Paradox or something, but I don’t know what that would look like.”

“I’m sorry, a what now?” Dean nearly face palmed.

“It’s from a movie that comes out in a few months. This guy named John Connor sends a guy named Kyle Reese back in time to stop a robot called the Terminator from killing John’s mother Sarah. The twist is that Kyle Reese ends up getting Sarah pregnant. So, John would not be born if he didn’t send Kyle back in time to conceive him, but how could he do that if he was never born?”

“That sounds needlessly complicated.”

“It’s a great movie. The 1997 sequel is better, though. After that the franchise went off the rails.”

“Must be weird to be back here, where the pop culture is different.” Dean snorted. It felt great to have someone to talk about all this with.

“You bet. I have to remind myself there are only three Star Wars movies, that the Internet doesn’t control the world yet, that phones weigh half a ton and the Cold War is still happening.”

“About that: I assume the world hasn’t been scorched by nuclear fire yet — or is that why you came back?”

“Nah. There is some stuff about North Korea, but the Soviet Union is gone. The Russians are still bad, only they are capitalist now.”

“That’s good, I guess. Have we cured cancer yet?”

“No, not really, I think they’ve made some advancements though. Cancer is a real bitch, I’ll give Pestilence that.”

“Pestilence as in the Horseman of the Apocalypse?”

“Yeah. Real disgusting fellow. All of the Horsemen are, actually. Except Death. He’s just terrifying.”

“Is that why you came back? To stop the Apocalypse?”

“Not really.” Missouri looked confused. Dean backtracked quickly. “I mean, of course we’re going to stop the Apocalypse — preferably before it starts this time — but that isn’t why I came back.”

“I’m trying to imagine something worse than the Apocalypse, but I’m drawing a blank.”

Dean shrugged. It was hard to explain the mess that had been the last decade or so.

“After Sam and I stopped Armageddon — that’s the part of the Apocalypse where the world ends — things got messy. Civil war in Heaven, civil war in Hell: Purgatory launching an invasion, God’s crazy sister trying to kill us all, damn Brits showing up everywhere... and that is not even all of it. And we were right in the middle of it all. Sam took the brunt of it. I tried to protect him, you know, but I could see it in his eyes. He’d been through too much.

“It wasn’t really one thing that made me go back. I just stopped one day and looked back at my life, and realized that it had been a continuous downward spiral since November 2nd 1983. So I went back and changed it.”

“You make it sound easy, going back.”

“Oh, time travel is no great mystery. Any angel can zap you right back. Actually being able to change something, that is way harder. The Fates are really strict about that. They don’t want people going back and changing their master plans.”

“Then how come...” Missouri must have seen a flash of something in his mind, because she stopped abruptly. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”

“The universe has been a pain in my ass from day one. I’ve just decided to give them a taste of their own medicine.” There was silence for a couple of minutes. Missouri yawned, and Dean was reminded that it was past four in the morning, and Missouri had been up since dawn.

“If you want to sleep, that is fine by me.” Missouri shook her head, suppressing another yawn.

“Whenever I sleep close to someone else I tend to dream their memories. No offense, but I don’t want to look any deeper in your head unless I have to.”

“Probably wise. We’re still two hours out, though.”

“Then keep talking. When is this Apocalypse starting?”

“If we’re still following the original timetable? In about twenty-seven years. But by killing Azazel, I’ve knocked things pretty far off track.

“Before they can start the Apocalypse, they need to be able to move more freely. I suspect the demons besieging you earlier were pretty much every demon that managed to crawl their way to the surface. They want to open a Hellgate so they can come and go as they please.”

“And how are they planning to do that?”

“There is a gate in Wyoming. Samuel Colt sealed it so no demon can even step in the area. Azazel was doing the rounds creating psychic soldiers with demon blood. One of them would go up to the gate and open it using the Colt as a key. I suppose the copy I have will work just as well.

“Once they have the Hellgate open they’ll begin breaking the 66 seals. That is where my family comes in.”

“Back up. The 66 what?”

“There are a whole bunch of seals that keep the door to Lucifer’s cage shut. 666 if them, actually. Number of the beast and all that. The demons have to break 66 of them, and then Luci will do the rest.”

“Okay, and how is your family involved in that?”

“The demons are free to choose whichever seals they want in whichever order, only the first seal has to come first and the last has to come last.”

“And what is the first seal?” Dean grimaced. This was his least favorite part of the whole seal business.

“When a Righteous Man sheds blood in Hell, the first seal shall be broken. The Righteous Man thing is a matter of bloodlines. It passes down through the firstborn in the family.” Missouri frowned.

“Your mother’s family?”

“No, this is from my Dad’s side. The fact that Mom is a hunter isn’t really a coincidence, but that is another story. Anyway, the plan is to get Dad or either of me to sell their souls and end up in Hell. The unlucky winner will be tortured until they break, and then begin to torture souls as well.” Missouri looked like she wanted to say something sympathetic, but Dean shot her a look and she wisely refrained.

“So that’s why Alastair and Crowley wanted Dean.” She said instead.

“Why Alastair wanted him.” Dean corrected. “Crowley wants him as far away from Hell as possible.”

“Why is that?”

“Crowley is an upjumped salesman. None of the big shots in Hell like him. If the Apocalypse happens there will no longer be any use for the Crossroads. That’s why he’s a potential ally: he is the only one who wants to keep the status quo. What he really wants though, is to rule all of Hell. With Azazel gone there should be a power vacuum waiting to be filled. Alastair is in the way of that. I can’t imagine those two getting along well enough for Alastair to work for him. He was all for the Apocalypse last time, but he wasn’t around to see it begin, and it’s possible he would change his mind. He didn’t seem like a fanatic to me. He just really likes torture.”

“So, what are you planning?” There was another yawn, this one longer than the others.

“I need to know who rules Hell. After I killed Azazel last time, this white-eyed bitch names Lilith took over. But from what I understand she is still stuck in the Pit. Azazel was working on releasing her, but she wasn’t able to walk the earth before the Gate opened. Azazel’s Special Children won’t be able to open that gate in years, so we’re safe from her for now. If Crowley had to bring Alastair with him to deal with you two, then he isn’t King of Hell yet. So who is in charge? Knowing your enemy is half the battle.”

A glance at Missouri showed that she was no longer paying attention. The little woman’s head had fallen to the side and was resting on the window. Dean knew he didn’t stand a chance to wake her, so he flung his green canvas jacket over her to help with the biting November chill, and tried to think happy thoughts in case she was in his head.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Missouri suspected Dean Winchester was a mess the moment she met him. He was like a swirling void of grief and guilt and anger. It followed that his memories were much like that: swirling and ever changing. The first thing she could fully process was sitting in a car: a black muscle car that she suspected was the same driving shortly behind them in real life. She was sitting in the back seat. Dean was driving, with a tall man with long hair riding shotgun.

She couldn’t help but smile when she felt the love pouring off of Dean. The other passenger wasn’t the one dreaming. He wasn’t really there, so she couldn’t get a read on him, but he looked equally devoted. She was willing to bet her house that this was adult Sam Winchester.

The baby had grown up handsome. He was around her age, freakishly big and muscular with hazel eyes and a strong jaw.

It took her a little while to realize that she wasn’t watching one memory. Their clothes changed occasionally when she looked the other way. The landscape outside was a blur, irrelevant features blotted out. She suspected Dean hadn’t bothered paying attention to anything but the road and his brother.

She was watching years go by, thousands of days and nights in the black Chevy Impala. There was love, joy and contentment, but also desperation, rivalry and anger. Dean was more devoted to his brother than anyone she had ever seen, but their relationship had been a complicated one. She saw snippets of hundreds of arguments, the subject ranging from petty pranks to life and death matters.

The changing back and forth was giving her whiplash. The two men filled up the space in the car, all the emotions between them suffocating Missouri the same way she supposed it was choking Dean. And on top of it all was an extra flavor of sadness. Because the man sitting next to Dean was gone. In fact: he had never existed outside this space in Dean’s head.

For a moment, Dean’s eyes met hers through the mirror. The mossy green was grounding in the chaos. Then the scene changed.

She was no longer sitting in the car. In fact, she wasn’t certain where she was. It was a seemingly endless forest, covered with slight mist. The sky seemed to be the wrong colour, tinted with indigo.

Dean looked like he belonged in a horror movie. That was the only way she could describe him. He was wearing the same green canvas jacket he wore when she met him, but now it was streaked with mud and blood. The same grime was clinging to the man in it: the dust sitting deep in every crease in his face. The weapon in his hands wasn’t a sleek dagger or hatchet: but a crude stone blade attached to a rough wooden handle. A weapon made by someone without any tools.

Dean was walking fast, prowling between the tall trees of the forest, his eyes and ears peeled to watch his surroundings. Someone else were walking alongside him, keeping the same brisk pace. He was a tall man -- not as tall as Sam, but towering above Dean. He had bright blue eyes, a scruffy short beard and was wearing an old marine blue coat. The same kind of mud and grime was clinging to him.

Neither men seemed to mind their disheveled appearance. They were engaged in companionable banter.

“You sure you don’t belong here, chief?” The tall man asked in a prominent Cajun accent. “I’m just saying you seem far more comfortable with the whole ‘forest full of monsters’ thing than I would have thought.”

“I’m a hunter, Benny. This is as much my home turf as it is theirs.” Benny laughed, carefully keeping his voice at the same volume as the rest of the conversation.

“You are something else, Brother.”

“By your logic, you should want to stay too.” Dean pointed out.

“Good point.” Benny conceded. “And despite how well you fit in, you’re on your way out too.” Dean looked pensieve for a moment.

“Yeah. I am. But if I hadn’t had a brother to get back to, an angel to rescue and you to help, I might have wanted to stay. At least for a while longer.” Benny looked baffled.

“How come?”

“Things are just too messy back there. It would be good to take a break for a while.”

“You can do that, you know. I’d stick with you, if you wanted me to. There really isn’t any rush.” Benny assured him.

“No way. I’m your meal ticket. As soon as we find Cas, we’re out of here.”

“Do you ever do anything for yourself?” Benny asked. Dean’s lips quirked into a small, insincere smile.

“Geez Benny, what is this? An intervention? Let’s quit the chick flick moments, huh?” Benny wisely backed off, and they walked in silence for a little while longer. Suddenly, Benny stopped in his tracks, head cocked. He seemed to sniff the air for a moment. Dean had frozen at the exact time, glancing at his companion. Benny jerked his head to the left, and Dean nodded. Even a psychic like Missouri couldn’t read the silent communication between themselves as they split up, taking different paths between the trees. Dean kept walking straight, a bit slower than before. He lifted his crude glaive to rest at his right shoulder. Benny went to the right, speeding up once he had cover behind a thicket. Through the trees, Missouri could see him duck down behind a fallen trunk, taking cover for an ambush with Dean as bait.

Dean was calm. Missouri was frankly baffled by that. Whatever it was he and Benny were about to face, it didn’t seem like a small matter. Benny had a grim expression and a more tense set of his shoulders as he hunched and waited. While Dean... Dean was in his own element. The weapon in his hand was an extension of his arm, the arm was an extension of his will.

There was nothing to stay his hand here. Every rule and every obstacle was distilled to the bare minimum: hunter and prey.

There were three of them. They appeared between the trees ahead of Dean, walking towards him. They too had their own primitive weapons: a hulking man was holding a mean-looking cudgel with a heavy rock tied to one end, a young woman was holding a remarkably smooth long knife that looked like it had been carved out of a tusk of some sort, and the last one was holding a pickaxe made of the same obsidian Dean’s knife was made of, with a long grass rope attached to the back, coiled together in a lasso.

Missouri made her way to the side of the clearing, safely away from everyone, but in a position where she could see everything. She couldn’t be harmed in someone else’s memories. Not when it was a sane human she dealt with anyhow. If things got too confusing she might end up convincing herself she had gotten hurt. She once spent eight days limping with phantom pain after a way too realistic memory of a car accident.

This time though, the dreamlike wisps of fog along the ground and strange indigo light helped her remember that this wasn’t real.

“You’re him, aren’t you? The human?” Bone Knife spoke, loud enough that she could be heard across the whole clearing and beyond. The sound was unnaturally loud in the otherwise quiet forest. Missouri knew the exact moment Dean heard the rustle of fallen leaves and quiet snap of a twig behind him to the right. Whoever was approaching was using the same log Benny was hiding behind for cover, probably planning to leap across it and attack Dean from the side. Missouri felt the amusement roll off of Dean in waves even as he kept his face passive.

“Who’s asking?”

“Why, we’re the jolly fellows who will have you for dinner tonight!” Big Cudgel smiled.

“Thank you for the invitation, but I’m afraid I’ve got a date.” He replied flippantly. If there was a punchline to that joke, Dean never got around to it. The three had been slowly closing in on him, but waited with charging until their friend to the right had stepped onto the log and readied himself to leap. However, the moment the young man had both feet on the log, Benny reached a big hand up, grabbed his ankle and pulled him down. From her angle, Missouri couldn’t see what happened to him, but he didn’t have time for anything but a short yelp, before a sickening crunch announced the end of his ambushing career.

Dean, on the other hand, had decided the time for banter was over. Missouri had figured the man must be an exceptional fighter. She had not been prepared for what she saw.

The fight didn’t last more than thirty seconds. That was how long it took Dean to close the distance between him and his three opponents, dodge an incoming attack from Cudgel, decapitate Bone Knife, kick Lasso Pickaxe in the groin and slam his blade into his skull. By that time, Benny had emerged from cover and grabbed Cudgel by the the arm to prevent him attacking Dean from behind. Dean dislodged his blade from Lasso Pickaxe’s skull and held it to Cudgel’s throat.

“Alright, let’s just get this out of the way. Where is the angel?” He inquired. It was tired, a question he had asked a thousand times and never gotten an answer to. Cudgel grinned, an expression of schadenfreude as he realized that his killer would get no satisfaction from the act.

“I don’t know.” He replied, sealing his fate. Dean decapitated him in one fluid motion. Benny dropped the body to the ground as the head flew a few feet away.

The two remaining men were quiet for a moment, catching their breaths. Benny glanced at his hands. When he had grabbed Cudgel, some of his skin had flayed off and was now stuck to his jacket. Benny cursed and scraped it off. Dean chuckled.

“Shifters, man. I’m telling you, they don’t even belong here. They are con artists, not predators.”

“God’s Armpit has never been known for it’s fair admittance policies.”

“I don’t think God knows the meaning of the word fair.” Dean muttered. Benny seemed to sense that this was a touchy subject and suggested they keep walking. They’d have to stumble upon someone who knew something eventually. Dean gratefully accepted the change of subject.

“By the way, what the hell is a ‘chick flick?’” Dean burst out laughing.

“I forget how you old you are, sometimes. You gotta be what, ninety now? Sure you don’t need a walker or something?”

“I’d retire if I could.”

“Well, that is where we’re heading. You can find some elderly home earthside and join a domino tournament or something.”

“Domino tournament?” Dean shrugged.

“I don’t know what old people do.”

There was more sadness in the back of Dean’s mind here too. Not just because this friendship had ended when he went back in time, but also because this very moment was indicative of his whole life. He wanted to stay in whatever this place was, but he chose not to, for Benny, for Sam and for an angel named Cas. Just like he was doing now, when he wiped the slate clean for everyone but himself.

She had the sense that this memory was fading out, but Dean shook her awake before she could wonder what would be next. So far she had been in the more domestic parts of Dean’s life, but she had a feeling there was a lot more chaos out there.

The GTO had stopped. It was approaching dawn, and out the window Missouri could see a looming abandoned factory building. The headlights of the Impala behind them went out as Mary turned off the engine.

“Are you okay?” Dean asked, concerned. Because to him, it would be a lot worse if someone got upset by being in his head, than him actually living in there every day of his life. She considered cuffing him upside the head, but she was way too tired, and doing so would mean knocking off the canvas jacket he had draped over her.

“I’m fine.” She responded. All in all, it had probably been the best possible result she could have gotten when prowling Dean Winchester’s head. She just hoped this place was big enough that she could get her own room. Oh, and soft beds. That would be nice too.

As soon as she had stepped out of the car, tucking the canvas jacket further around herself, she knew that John Winchester had not had a wink of sleep on the whole three hour drive. It was five in the morning, and while he was slightly drunk when the drive began, he was now completely sober. Sober, and pissed off.

“How about you go and get this place ready, and I’ll babysit him.” She suggested to Dean. The hunter glanced at his angry father and nodded. He turned on his heel and hurried down a flight of stairs, out of sight. Missouri stepped so as to subtly block John’s path.

She was blinking frequently and swaying a bit. If this place didn’t have soft beds (which, judging by the abandoned factory, it did not) she would be fine with a cold concrete floor. She had slept on plenty of those, back in the day.

“Punching him won’t help get your son back.” She warned John. He didn’t care. He wanted to punch something. “There is a tree over there and a wall over there, and if that won’t be sufficient, can you at least wait until the morning before you punch anyone? I need about ten hours of sleep, and you two hammering at each other would be very distracting.”

John opened his mouth to response, but Missouri wasn’t really in the mood to wait for him to speak. She knew what he was going to say anyway. “I know you don’t like losing control, and having some other guy telling you what to do is hurting your precious masculinity. But you know what? I don’t give a damn. You two are going to keep it in your pants and behave like fucking adults, or I will personally kick your ass!”

“Is that understood?” John hesitated for a moment.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good. Now, let’s go see if this place has anywhere to sleep.”

Missouri didn’t notice much about the place she walked into. Dean pointed her into a room at the end of a hallway, promising she would be alone there. The room was dusty, but it had a queen size bed with a soft mattress. She was out the second her head hit the pillow.

It was only when she woke the next morning that she realized that this abandoned factory basement was a bit weird. Her room was decently sized, a bit larger than her bedroom back home. A thick layer of dust covered every surface. There was a dressing table, a desk and a wardrobe, old furniture with little decoration and much utility. Nothing looked cheap, but this was clearly not the room of a wealthy person.

There were some personal effects scattered around. A few framed photographs on the dresser, most of them involving a young blonde man. In one, he was in uniform, posing in front of a WW2 fighter plane. In another, he was in his parade uniform, beaming in happiness with his arm around a pretty young woman in a wedding dress. Another depicted a pair of young boys Missouri could only imagine were the happy couple’s children.

These seemed like important memorabilia. The kind you would want to bring with you when you left. Yet the dust was just as thick on top of the frames as everywhere else. There was a comb abandoned on the table, just slung haphazardly down as someone had fixed their hair in a hurry. There were some papers on the desk, yellowed and crispy with age. They were typewritten, appearing like a deposition of a witness in a ghost hunting case. Beside the deposition was a notebook, with a pencil beside it. The young man had been taking notes, like he was studying how to hunt.

The wardrobe was full, mostly featuring nice fifties style suits. Whoever had this room before her had left one day, fully expecting to come back.

Missouri walked out her door the exact same time John exited his own.

“Good morning.” He greeted. He looked a bit better, like he had been sleeping for a long time.

“Good morning.” Missouri yawned and stretched. “Is Mary up yet?”

“I don’t know. We didn’t share a room.” He shrugged. “You were right. I needed some time to cool my head.” Missouri smiled. He didn’t seem like he was about to punch anyone right now. She had assumed John must have a nicer side, if a spirited woman like Mary stayed with him for so long.

“Is there breakfast anywhere?”

“I don’t know. I guess this is as good a time as any to explore. Any idea what this place even is?”

“I have no idea. Whoever had my room left in a hurry decades ago.”

“Mine too. It creeps me out a bit. It’s like a tomb with no corpses.”

They followed the hallway into a large library and reading hall. All the technology was from the fifties or earlier, but it was nicely lit. Missouri ran her hands along the spines of some of the books. This must be the best stocked library on the supernatural in the whole world.

There was a note on one of the tables.

‘Went out to run some errands. Kitchen is to your left, groceries are in the fridge. -- D. Van Halen.’ The kitchen was indeed to their left. It was a large industrial kitchen with what must have been state of the art appliances at the time. There was indeed food in the fridge: bacon, eggs, milk, butter and much more. Dean had bought enough to last them for days. He intended them to stay there for a while.

They made scrambled eggs and bacon on toast, MIssouri and John eating in the kitchen, with Mary joining them with baby Sam. There wasn’t a baby stool for Sam, so he ended up sitting on Missouri’s lap while Mary spoonfed him baby food that Dean had also provided them with.

“He really likes this brand.” Mary commented. “We’ve only just introduced him to real food, but we haven’t found anything he likes before now.” Missouri couldn’t help but smile. Nobody knew baby Sam better than Dean. He probably hadn’t even given the choice much thought. There was a baby that should be using baby food, so he bought that baby’s favorite brand.

Of course, the missing person around the table was keenly felt. Mary and John refused to look at each other. John was acting like the bacon was responsible for his son’s disappearance, stabbing it with his fork hard enough to dent the plates and chewing it aggressively. Mary focused entirely on Sam, like if she looked away from him for even a second he too would disappear.

Damn Dean for leaving her alone with them before he had explained everything. Neither of these two could handle being kept out of the loop. But Dean wanted to carry the burden alone, because that was how he had been left to live his whole life.

Oh my god. If this group of morons are left behind for five minutes, sparks would fly. It didn’t help that Dean had deep-seated mommy and daddy issues over things Mary and John had never done.

Dean asked Missouri to look after the Winchester family, and that was what she was going to do.

Chapter Text

“Anna, angel of the lord, hear my prayer and all of that” Dean had always found prayer to be kind of ridiculous. It was like leaving the world’s most awkward answering machine message: you had no idea what etiquette to follow, and the person on the other end was listening live, so you couldn’t delete it and try again. “I’m in a diner in Lebanon, Kansas. It shouldn’t be too hard for you to figure out which one. We got interrupted last time, but I’d like to talk.”

He heard the fluttering of wings before he had even finished the last sentence. The next thing he knew, Cas was sitting next to him, blocking the exit to the booth. He had his hand under the table, the tip of his angel blade poking him in the stomach. Anna was sitting across from him, wearing the same wedding dress as before. Her hair had fallen out of the exquisite do, so she had drawn it back into a high ponytail to keep it out of her face.

Slowly, to make sure not to spook Cas, Dean reached forwards and grabbed a fry from his plate, adjusting it a bit to make sure the angel next to her would not notice the blood beneath.

Dean had fought Cas before. He hadn’t had lethal intent at the time, but he still knew that the nerdy angel was a force to be reckoned with. Anna was no joke either, and now they were not taken off guard or trying to spy on him.

“Good morning to you too. I’m sorry I had to run off last time, but unlike you I actually care about keeping the Righteous Man out of Hell.”

“We were ordered not to interfere.” Anna defended.

“And you made a choice when you followed that order.” Dean responded. Was it just him, or did Anna look a little guilty? “If that kid ends up in Hell, the demons could break the first seal before lunch. Don’t you find it a bit funny that your superiors wouldn’t want you to save him?”

“You speak like you know he isn’t there already.”

“He’s not. Mary made a deal before the Lucifer loyalists could get their hands on him.”

Cas hissed. “Do not speak his name so carelessly!” Dean snorted. The blade had poked through his shirt. Dean had already cut his palm, and was keeping his hand flat on the table, ready to banish the angels if this went sideways. Convincing Cas to fall the first time around had been a fluke. Dean was no longer the man he had been back then. There was a distinct possibility that this version of Cas would never be his friend, and that hurt like hell. But he would be better off for it, and that was what mattered.

“He is not Voldemort, and he is not God. Don’t think for a moment that I am not taking him seriously. I don’t want him up here.”

“Yet you are implying that we do.”

“It certainly looks that way.”

Cas was angry now. “We take our orders from God!” And here came the touchy subject. Angels did not take well to people insulting their darling deity. He couldn’t access the symbol under his plate faster than it would take Cas to impale him with that blade.

“You take orders from whoever is above you on the corporate ladder. How do you know how far up your orders go?” He sighed. “I know I can’t change your opinion on this. I just want you to think for yourself about why you do the things you do. Hopefully, you will come to the same conclusion I did.”

Castiel did not look appeased, but Anna held a hand up to stop him from acting. “Is that why you called us here? To turn us away from our Lord?”

“If your Lord wanted something done, he would do it. The man created everything, and he could just as easily destroy it. Nothing we do could affect that. So I’m going to keep fighting, and if I’m wrong, then I’ll fail.”

He looked Anna straight in the eye. “I am trying to stop the Apocalypse. Are we on the same side?”

“What do you want?”

“You’re dodging the question, but sure, I’ll play. Little Dean might not be in Hell, but he is in the hands of a demon, and I can’t have that. I’m going to get him back, but the terms of the deal Mary made say I can’t harm Crowley without endangering the boy. It doesn’t say anything about you, though.”

“You want us to help you fight the King of the Crossroads?”

“I want your help saving a scared little boy from a big bad demon. How much help you give is entirely up to you.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No.” The angel was stone faced like a, well, angel. But Dean knew he had made an impression. Anna and Cas did not care about children. But they did care about what they have been told was their mission.

“You’ll hear from us.” She said.

“Anna.” Cas warned, voice low.

“I’ll take what I can get.” Dean said. He handed them a slip of paper. “My number, if you can figure out how phones work.” Anna grabbed it, and the two were gone. Dean drew a breath of relief. He wiped out the symbol beneath his plate with a napkin, then walked away before he had even finished his plate.

Cas and Anna weren’t really Cas and Anna. There had been times when Cas forgot who he was, or reverted to his old robotic personality, but each time there had been hope that he would come back. This time there was nothing to come back to. The worst part was that this time he couldn’t guarantee that Castiel wouldn’t turn out to be his enemy.

He had watched him die before, and each time marked the new worst day of his life. Could he ever kill him?

He supposed it was time to return to the bunker, and the people he had been trying really hard to avoid as much as possible when he came back.

------------------------------------------------------

When Jackie Mason signed up to become an apprentice exorcist, she hadn’t expected it to involve quite so many dead cows. Apparently, Lawrence, Kansas had become a hotbed for demonic activity over the course of the last week. Over two hundred cattle had been disemboweled on nearby farms. All milk from the area went sour, there had been a random, sporadic lighting storm hitting out of season, starting a brush fire in freaking November. Pastor Jim had asked Jackie to help cataloguing what he called ‘omens.’ She knew a lot of people in the local community, which made it easier to coordinate efforts with the hunters they had joined up with.

They were staring when they thought she wasn’t looking. She couldn’t really blame them. A twenty-something art student with a busted leg didn’t exactly blend in. They were gathered in the local church, the one she had first gone to after the attack. There was a basement meant for sunday school that they had poured salt in front of the door of. They were all gathered around a whiteboard where Pastor Jim was now listing the types of omens they had seen so far. Jackie was sitting on a slightly too small chair, trying to look like her leg wasn’t bothering her even after the long day of gathering information. Cho Wing was marking the spots the incidents occurred on a map taped to the wall. Barry Kerrigan was making a timeline on a small fridge using magnets shaped like assorted fruit.

“So, as far as we can see there have been fifty-two separate omens in and around Lawrence over the last eleven days.” Jackie was taking notes in a spiral notebook. She had picked it up at home: she had bought it as a spare for one of her classes. She also had a non-lined notebook that she was using for sketches. If there was one thing Pastor Jim stressed above all else, it was being diligent in your note taking.

“Old hunter’s journals are some of the most important sources we use.” He had informed her. The principle seemed to be to make this very difficult job slightly easier for the people who come after you. Jackie had seen both Barry and Cho taking their own notes earlier.

“The omens appear to be two separate incidents, if we consider these days in between where nothing happened.” The pastor gestured to the fruity fridge timeline. “Now, we know for a fact there were three demons in Lawrence on November 2nd. One was killed, the other two came for revenge and were exorcised.”

“We can see that the omens for both events were about equally strong, and that both were far stronger than average.

“Something big happened in Lawrence, twice. Any theories?”

“Megara and Jarl were both reacting to the death of their father. If killing demons is as impossible as you guys say, then it would be fair to say it must have been a pretty big deal, right?” Jackie mused.

“Whatever happened, it was centered here both times.” Cho was finished marking the map, and pointed at a small neighborhood. Jackie squinted at the map from where she was sitting. She knew that neighborhood.

“That’s where my friend Jordan lives.”

“It is also not far from the home of Missouri Moseley.” Pastor Jim replied. “She wasn’t at home.” The others nodded gravely.

“Did I miss something?”

“Missouri is one of the best psychics in the country. There is no way this happened without her noticing. She left a note at the door saying her business was closed until further notice. Do we know anything else that has happened in this area during our time frame?”

“Yes, we have a missing persons case.” Barry responded, holding up a folder. He’d stopped by the police station and gotten a copy of the report. He hadn’t explained how, exactly, but Jackie suspected he hadn’t been entirely honest with the cops. “A local boy went missing from this house right here.” He pointed at a house pretty much in the middle of the marked circle. “Dean Winchester, age four, had been asleep in his room when someone crawled in through the window and grabbed him. A lady walking her dog saw two men pulling a sleeping child into a van, but didn’t catch the plates.”

He pinned a note with the date onto the timeline. “This came towards the end of the second event. And here is the real kicker, Missouri Moseley was in the house at the time. She was visiting the mother, and was reportedly right downstairs when it happened.”

“Which would have put her right in the centre of a whole lot of demonic activity.” Cho pointed out. “That can’t be a coincidence. How about we go talk to the family?” Everyone seemed to second the motion.

“Do you want to ride with me?” Pastor Jim asked Jackie after Cho and Barry had left the room. He had learned pretty quickly that Jackie got pissy when someone offered to help her with her crutches. She was still pretty awkward with them, as she got up and out of the cellar.

“Sure.” She replied. It hadn’t really been a question. Pastor Jim just liked making small talk before he got to the serious stuff.

“How is Drew?” And she knew where this was going.

“He’s struggling.” She admitted. “The charm helped a bit. He says he doesn’t look over his shoulder quite as often anymore.” Jackie had never considered herself an oversharer, but it was hard not to talk to Pastor Jim. She had come to him for help with the demons, but he seemed dead set on saving her mind as well. At least he was subtle when it came to saving her soul. She still wasn’t sure about religion.

“He found himself a girlfriend. I met her for dinner the other day. She seems nice. I don’t think it’ll last, though.”

“And how are you, Jackie?” They were sitting in the car by now. Jim pulled out after Cho. Barry had been in some form of fight or something a few days earlier, and his friend was super protective. “You seem to be taking this pretty well, and that is never a good sign.”

Jackie sighed and threw her hands up. “And there it is.”

“Don’t blow me off, Jackie. You moved out of state after a traumatic event. Any sane person would force you to talk.” And there he was being completely reasonable again.

“Anyone who cared.” She smiled.

“You’re dodging the question again.”

“I don’t know how I feel, okay? Ask me again in a few days.”

“I will.” Jim promised her. Jackie’s leg was cramped a bit awkwardly in the car. She fought to adjust it, but it hurt to move it. In the end she had to use both hands to adjust it, and by the time she was done, they had pulled up in front of the Winchester house. It was a two story old wooden house painted light blue. The lights were off. It looked abandoned.

Cho had already knocked, getting no answer. “Kind of strange to skip town right after your son vanishes, right?”

“They’d have disappeared at the same time Missouri did.” Jim replied.

“So, are we going in?”

“Wait, what?” Before Jackie managed to comprehend what was going on, Cho had picked the lock and she was being pulled into a stranger’s home. The house felt like it had been left recently. Which, to be fair it, had, but Jackie couldn’t help but think that someone could walk in the door right now, home from a shopping trip or a walk to the playground. There were toys around in the living room and washed dishes on the rack waiting to be put away.

She glanced at a few photographs as she walked around the living room. The other’s had a pretty clear idea what to do. They were methodically searching for clues of what happened and where the family had gone. Jackie on the other hand was clumsily trying to both not be in the way and avoid being seen through the windows.

The whole demon fighting thing, that was going surprisingly well. She might not be as good as the others in the field, but as Pastor Jim explained, she didn’t have to be.

A picture that caught her eye depicted young Dean Winchester in his little league uniform, posing alongside a man she assumed was his father, with Jordan on the other side. Jordan had always loved baseball, but beyond knowing the rules and not literally hitting himself in the face with the bat, he sucked pretty hard at it. He did love kids, though, and he was good at engaging them.

A volunteer children’s coach. It was almost a cliche, to the point where Jackie started dating him just out of curiosity. Could someone really be that nice? Turns out they can. Jackie had ended the relationship so as to not hurt him later. There had also been the age difference to think about: he was three years younger than her, and in this transition phase, that can be taken the wrong way quickly. She hadn’t spoken to him in a while, but they had been on good terms since the breakup.

Losing one of his kids must have hit him hard. And, living in the area, there was a chance he had noticed something.

“I kinda feel like a third wheel here. I’ll go talk to my friend Jordan. He knew Dean, maybe he saw something.” She nearly whispered to Jim in passing. It still felt strange to be breaking and entering.

“You look like shit.” Okay, maybe not the most considerate greeting, but to be fair, she was right. Jordan was pale enough to be almost grey, and had bags under his eyes that would fit better in a horror movie. He was, what, nineteen now, but he looked way older in this moment.

“Jackie?” He hesitated for a while, looking up and down the street. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard about the kid that went missing. I just wanted to check that you were okay.”

“I’m fine.” She almost laughed out loud.

“Yeah right. Never heard that one before.” Jordan glanced at her leg, then invited her in.

“Sorry. Are you okay?” She considered the question for a while. The only way to get him to be honest with her was to be honest with him.

“Not really. I’m freaked and my leg hurts like a bitch.” They went up to Jordan’s room. It was an old habit after the weeks they spent together with his parents constantly hanging over their shoulders. It wasn’t as if anything happened.

Jordan had always been a bit of a neat freak. Jackie plopped down on the bed because the desk and two chairs (Jordan often did homework with his little sister) were completely covered in papers. Jordan had gathered newspaper clippings. At a glance, most of them were about Dean Winchester’s disappearance, though there were some of the ones that had drawn her and Jim to Lawrence in the first place.

“It’s so fucked up. Lawrence used to be a great town, and now all this shit keeps happening.” Jordan lamented while pacing the room. “Dean is a really great kid, you know. He got a little brother about six months ago, and it is all he ever talked about. The kid was over the moon when he became a big brother. And he’s good at baseball too — better than me.”

“That doesn’t take much.” Jackie joked to keep the mood light. Jordan almost cracked a smile, but it was interrupted by a sob.

“Get over here.” She ordered. He sat down next to her on the bed, giving her space to wrap her arms around him. Jackie was tall, and Jordan was thin as a stick. He leaned into the hug, not too macho to take comfort in something this simple.

“It’s not fair. That kid never did anything wrong.” Jordan muttered. “HIs bastard mother might not care what happened to him, but I sure as hell do.” Jackie frowned.

“What about his mother?” Jordan stiffened in her arms. She could sense he was about to retreat into himself. She had a pretty good idea that whatever he was hiding was something of the demonic variety.

“Drew and I were possessed by demons.” She said. Jordan pulled away, eyes wide. “Your turn.”

“I was possessed to. And I saw everything.”

Five minutes into his explanation, Jackie had her notebook out and was scribbling furiously. They would need every detail of this.

“So, there is a power struggle in Hell?” Jordan nodded vigorously, relieved someone believed him. He had run out of tears in the middle of his story, though he was still hiccuping a bit.

“Alastair, the head torturer and a really mean dude is pitted against Crowley, some salesman guy. But neither of them have power. Someone else has taken it, and they are just hoping for second place.”

“Do you know who?”

“The demon who was possessing me had never heard of her before one of the soldiers brought it up while Mary was negotiating. Some new player, apparently.”

“Did you hear a name?” Jordan shook his head.

“Only that it was a woman, and people seemed to be creeped out by her. Whatever creeps out demons I have no idea.”

“And the others Demons want Dean Winchester to impress her? Why?”

“I have no clue. They think he is important somehow.”

-------------------------------------------------------

Dean had promised himself he wouldn’t cry. This was the first night he ever spent away from his mother, but he was a big boy, and big boys don’t cry. Especially not in front of the Bad Guys. He hadn’t been outside the room since Mister Crowley brought him there using magic. It wasn’t bad room: there was television and a soft bed and boxes full of nice toys. But the walls were plain white, there were no windows, and perhaps most importantly, no door.

Mister Crowley said it was for his own safety: nobody could get in, especially not Mister Alastair, who Mister Crowley had identified as a Very Bad Guy. But mommy had told him not to trust Mister Crowley at all. Dean wasn’t stupid. He knew that Crowley was bad: he reminded Dean of a used car salesman lived a few streets down from his family when he was even littler. That guy got arrested because he cheated people out of their money. He had spoken in the same way (not all british-like, though), all oily and pretend-nice. But the most important reason Dean knew Mister Crowley was bad was that he had scared mommy so much that Dean had to step up and protect them. He had to be the hostage, because Mommy was scared they would hurt her and Sammy.

And so, Dean was resolved to stay brave. He had thought it would be scary, being captured by monsters. What he hadn’t realized was that it would be mostly very boring. Dean had unlimited TV time, and got to watch all of his favorite shows, plus the grown-up shows mom would never let him see. They got boring immediately.

Even if there had been a clock on the wall, Dean wouldn’t know how to read it. He thought he could have told time by remembering the time his favorite shows came on, but after a while he noticed they seemed to come in the wrong order. The same went for meals: sometimes he’d have lunch after dinner or breakfast two times in a row. He’d never get really hungry, but it was confusing.

Constant boredom was made worse by the fact that he had nothing to look forwards to. His mother had promised him that she would do everything in her power to get him out, but somewhere deep in his mind there was a mean little voice that said that she hadn’t been able to stop them from taking him to begin with.

Dean was sitting cross legged on the bed with a Batman comic in front of him. It was older than he was, but he didn’t mind. It wasn’t as if he could truly pay attention to the long stories anyway. Dean had been trying to teach himself to read because the comics got a bit confusing when he didn’t know what was going on, but it was hard. He kept mixing up the letters.

The Joker had made Batman upset somehow, but today, Dean was completely unable to glean why. He skipped back a few pages, studying the images to see if there was something he had missed. Still nothing. He huffed in frustration and threw the comic away.

He missed baby Sam. His little brother might be unable to do more than lift his head two inches off the ground and gurgle, but it was a lot more entertaining than being alone.

He laid back, considering whether he should take a nap. Again, there was no way to tell when his usual bedtime would be, or when his mother would usually wake him. For all he knew, he just blinked and then kept going. A few times, he could tell that time had passed because food had arrived when he was asleep and had gone cold before he could touch it.

Unable to think of anything better to do, Dean lay backwards on the bed, tucked the comforter around himself and closed his eyes. He always wore pajamas these days. He’d been given three sets, and he saw no reason to dress up every day when he wasn’t even sure it was daytime.

He woke an indeterminate time later when he felt the hairs at the back of his neck rising. When you spend enough time around demons you learn to sense it when one is near. There is the feeling in the air, like electricity. Dean had lived in Kansas his whole life. He knew what a tornado smelled like long before it would appear. This was the same feeling: the air suddenly got thicker, like you were trying to breathe pudding. The power in the air was stifling, but static. The calm before the storm.

“Hello Mister Crowley.” Dean said without looking up. He didn’t need to: Crowley was the only demon allowed in his room. Food would usually arrive by itself, suddenly appearing on the table. Crowley visited him at irregular intervals. Actually, he could be on a damn timer, and Dean wouldn’t know. Maybe he was the only regular thing in the whole place.

“Why, hello, Dean.” The voice confirmed that this one stable rule still held true. Dean sat up and rubbed his eyes grumpily. It was just for show. He was always alert when Crowley showed up.

“What do you want?” Dean mumbled. “Don’t you have better things to do than bother me?”

“Now that hurts my feelings, Dean. Don’t you enjoy my company?” Dean glared at him. The demon ignored it. “Besides, isolation tends to make people a bit funny in the head, and I promised your lovely mother I’d take care of you.”

Dean glared even deeper at the comments about his mother. This time, Crowley actually chuckled. “You are a spirited one, aren’t you? Well, you’re stuck with me for the next hour or so.” Dean perked up, and then hated himself for it. There was one good thing with Crowley being around, but he didn’t know if he should enjoy it as much as he did.

“Can we play the game again?” He asked, somewhat timidly. He didn’t want to be too rude to Crowley, because then he might never play against him again, and that was the only truly interesting thing that happened.

“Again?” Crowley shook his head in bemusement. “I have never met someone who enjoy losing quite as much as you.” But despite his head-shaking and lack of a real answer, he sat down in front of the chessboard.

The first time Crowley had suggested they play was because he got too bored with the other games around. He hated chutes and ladders because it was only luck, and even though he always won in battleship, he said it was because Dean had a terrible poker face. Dean was confused by that, because he was pretty sure poker involved cards.

Chess was kind of hard to begin with. It took him awhile to figure out the rules, but once he did, it started to make a lot more sense. Of course, he didn’t win very often (or ever) but he was getting a lot better at seeing traps. He prided himself in not falling for the same trick twice. Okay, maybe like ten times, but he learned eventually. He had asked Crowley if there was any way to learn to play better, and Crowley had given him a book so big he could barely carry it. The text was so small he could barely see it, and he didn’t understand any of it, but it had a lot of pictures of chess boards. After a while, he figured out that the letter and number combinations beneath the pictures were moves, and then he began testing every combination.

After that, the chessboard began making a lot more sense. A lot of the things Crowley did was straight from the book, or some variation of it.

Another thing he liked about chess were the rewards. Because Crowley liked playing the game, and Dean initially didn’t want to, there was reward system where Dean could gather points depending on how long he could go on before Crowley set him in checkmate. If he went a bit further than usual today, he could get enough to ask some questions that he really wanted answers to.

Crowley suggested they start playing rapid today. That was both good and bad. It was good, because when they played rapid and blitz they played more games, and that meant earning more points, but it was also bad because Dean hardly got any time to think.

Dean drew black pieces, meaning Crowley went first. He tried a new opening today, and Dean physically straightened himself up. That was a pretty cool move. He wasn’t trying to take the center, rather going for a slower defence. He was aiming for Dean to throw the match.

Rushing into something like that would make him lose immediately, Dean knew that from experience. So instead he focused on managing his own defense. He didn’t do exactly what was in the book, because Crowley had probably read it (and he could even tell what the words said) and rather went around doing his own thing. He had been practicing against himself earlier.

They were moving fast. Crowley didn’t need much time to think, and Dean wanted to save his for the endgame. He found that he had to sit on his knees on top of the chair to move effectively. It was important not to touch any of the wrong pieces, or even worse, knock one of them askew. Crowley’s offensive came out of nowhere, but Dean had been prepared for it. A new flurry of moves commenced. By now they were moving fast enough that this could be a game of blitz. Crowley was trying to use his experience as an advantage, while Dean was fairly certain that Crowley hadn’t figured out his strategy soon enough.

He left his queen open, seemingly by accident in a fast move. He didn’t bother putting on a show because he was a terrible liar. Instead, he pretended he hadn’t noticed it. Crowley took the bait, and five moves later Dean executed something he was fairly certain was called a ‘fork’ against his tower and knight. Crowley’s eyes widened comically, and Dean was about to cheer in triumph at what must have been his best move yet, when he suddenly remembered that he wasn’t supposed to trust Crowley, not even his expressions. Looking at Crowley wasn’t going to give him an answer because he couldn’t read him any more than he could read the big chess book. All he had to go on was the board.

And right there, there was a trap. He paused for a while, using some of the seconds he had saved up in the beginning. Yup, there was a trap right there. The bishops were planning an attack. A move of a pawn made the attack infeasible.

Take your eyes off the board, and you’ll lose.

In the end, he had to throw the game halfway through the endgame. Crowley looked mildly impressed, but again, he couldn’t trust that.

“You’re getting better at this.”

“What happens when I beat you?” Crowley’s eyebrows rose.

“When, is it? You’re getting confident.”

“Are you going to answer the question?”

“I’m going to need some time to think about it.” Dean sulked in a way he knew must look petulant, but then perked up when Crowley counted up the points and realized he had been so into the game that he didn’t notice he had set a new personal record. One more game like this and he would have enough points for a full day outside. Crowley had warned him that he would have people with him the whole time, but he didn’t care. This room was making him stir-crazy.

He rearranged the pieces, eager for the next game. Crowley held up a hand. “That’s going to have to wait a moment. I need to fulfill another clause of the Deal.” Dean looked up, suddenly anxious. The Deal was the covenant that ruled his life now, and he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. His mother must have made another mistake.

With a snap of Crowley’s fingers, there was a phone standing on the table, the board having vanished for the time being. Dean stared at it suspiciously. For a moment, it just sat at the table, unmoving like, well, an inanimate object. He was bewildered. Was he supposed to call someone? Because he didn’t know any numbers -- other than 911 of course, but he didn’t think Crowley would let him call the cops on him.

He looked up, hoping to get some clue from Crowley, but of course, the demon had snapped his fingers again and vanished, because he was a massive douche. Dean reached forwards towards the phone nervously.

It rang: a loud, shrill noise in the otherwise completely quiet room. Dean jumped back like he had been burned, heart suddenly beating out of his chest. The phone rang again, and again, and Dean seriously considered hiding beneath his bed until it eventually went quiet.

Eventually, he lifted the phone and held it to his ear, gingerly, like it would suddenly sprout tentacles and teeth and stuff like the people in that horror movie last year that Dean had snuck down and watched without his father noticing. “Hello?” He asked, unsure if there would even be someone on the other end.

“Dean?” And that was when Dean broke down crying at the sound of his mother’s voice.

Chapter Text

Hearing her son’s voice over the phone, cautious and timid broke Mary’s heart. He sounded scared, his voice very small and far away.

“Dean? It’s Mom.” John was sitting next to her in the bunker library with his own phone connected to hers so he could speak as well.

“And Dad.” He said. He was more stone faced than her, but then again this wasn’t all his fault.

“Mommy? Daddy? Can you come get me now?”

“I’m afraid we can’t do that, sweetie. But we’re working on it, okay? We’ll get you back, just not right now.”

“Are they treating you all right, son? Do you get enough to eat?” John asked. There was some hesitation on the other side. It occurred to Mary that Dean might have nodded. Or he could be too choked up to say anything.

“Sweetie?” She coaxed gently. “Is there anyone else there?” Maybe he was too scared to answer?

“No.” Came the answer from the other end. “Mister Crowley left. He’s the only one who is allowed to come into my room.”

“Is Mister Crowley mean to you?”

“No.” Came the answer again. “He comes in sometimes because he says I’ll go crazy if I’m left alone. We play chess. He lies a lot, but I don’t believe anything he says anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”

“That’s good, honey. Do you know where you are?”

“It’s a white room. He hasn’t let me out yet, but if I do well in the next game he says I can have a whole day outside.”

“I thought he lies all the time?” John frowned.

“It’s a deal, Dad.” Dean somehow managed to incorporate an eyeroll in his voice. “Deals are different. If you break a deal, nobody will ever make another one with you. If he breaks his promise to let me out, I will never make a deal with him again, and why would he waste that on something this small?” The boy sounded wise beyond his years. He had always been a smart boy, but Mary had never heard him like this. He was being forced to grow up fast.

“Okay, son. If you say so. But you watch out for yourself while we work to get you back.” In reality, the two of them had done precious little over the course of the last week. They had mostly just hung around in the bunker reading about demons and demons abducting children. The old organization that had built this bunker had very good and thorough filing systems, but it was still a dull and unrewarding job that told them very little about where Crowley might be hiding Dean.

What was even more frustrating was that Mary and John were mostly alone. Dean Van Halen came and went, but never stayed for long and every rarely told them anything but to pursue consistently false leads. He was trying his very best to keep them out of the loop, and Mary was wondering if it was because she was the one who screwed this up so badly in the first place. She assumed that was it.

Missouri came and went too, but she was in the bunker far more than Dean. He had set her to gather supplies and make hex bags that would keep them hidden from various creatures. She too told them very little, but she at least had the decency to pretend she didn’t know anything.

John’s favorite tactic had always been to run away from his problems -- if they were of the emotional kind, anyway. Whenever they would argue, he’d storm out of the house, either coming home late at night to sleep of his liquor on the couch, or staying away for days on end. Now though, with all this looming over their heads and Van Halen’s warning that they were both targets if they were to leave the bunker, that was no longer an option.

The place was huge, so when they were doing research he could disappear off to god knows where. He had located a shooting range and a collection of old guns, where he went to work off some aggression. But eventually he would need food, and there was only one kitchen.

Mary did not cook, but she had been working to convince everyone in her family that she did ever since she married John. It was a silly thing to do. But Mary had wanted to be a perfect housewife: the antithesis of what she had been raised to be. Still, John didn’t know how to cook either, and without the option to run to the nearest diner every time he got hungry, it was inevitable that they would meet during meals. Mary would be sitting with Sam, spoon feeding the baby (Van Halen had an uncanny ability to pick out food the little guy liked whenever he went shopping, so the baby had a wide variety of food he loved. Mary imagined he would grow big at this rate) while John ate like the food had offended him and staring in every direction but hers.

Mary had stuck with John through thick and thin. They had fights, but they always overcame their differences, they had to, or Mary’s apple pie life would fall apart. But now that it already had come crashing down, Mary began wondering if it was right of her to let John give her the silent treatment. She had indeed screwed up really badly, but right now she was the only one taking care of Sammy and the only one doing any actual research. John was stalking around, unwilling to help and too stubborn to try and patch up their relationship. It kind of made her wonder what made her fall for him in the first place.

Sure, it had partly been about his looks. John was absolutely stunning in his youth, and even now he was a handsome fellow. When he wasn’t drunk or sulky he could be quite charming, though she saw that side of him less frequently these days. However, Mary was no stranger to handsome, charming men. Hunters got around, that was just the nature of the lifestyle, and quite a few people she’d met during her travels had taken a keen interest. She hadn’t really considered settling down with any of them, but still. John didn’t exactly stand out in the crowd. So why had she settled for him?

It couldn’t have been his stubbornness. She actually hated that about him. It wasn’t the uniform or the medals he had worn the day she met him. She was a hunter: it’d take more than distinguished service to impress her. So it wasn’t his looks, his stubbornness, his service... the what the hell had it been?

Now they were sitting together by necessity, across each other around a table with a phone each, listening to their son -- the only person who had truly bound them together -- sounding distant and hurt. The married couple hadn’t spoken to each other in a long time, but now the two were together about lying to their son. If -- when, God, let it be when -- they got Dean back, he would expect things to go back to normal, and Mary would have to look him in the eyes and tell him that it could never be that way again. That life was over. They could not go home because the demons would still be after them, and they wouldn’t be a happy apple pie family anymore because Mommy and Daddy no longer loved each other.

---------------------------

Dean Van Halen was an irregularity. Castiel was uncertain how to feel about him. His irreverence and downright blasphemy should make the angel warrior furious, but in the end he was only baffled. The man spoke to them like he was their equal. He was jaded in a way nobody should be when facing the awesome power of angels and the boundless corruption of demons.

Anna seemed both amused and intrigued by the human. She listened to him, mulling over his words (again, like the human was their equal, despite him speaking ill of their Father) so hard Castiel could see the gears turning in her head. She was pacing the floor in the warehouse they had made their headquarters, her heavy boots (she had decided to take off the rather impractical white shoes her host had been using) thudding on the floor.

“He is right. Dean Winchester cannot remain in the hands of demons.” Anna eventually concluded. Castiel frowned in confusion.

“That is not our decision to make, Anna. We follow the orders of Heaven.”

“And yet our Father has imbued us with reason. Demons have their hands on the Righteous Man. With him, they can start breaking the 66 seals. We angels have been ordered to keep Lucifer from walking free. Do the math, Castiel, and come to the same conclusion I have. The boy needs to be rescued. I will speak to Zacharia myself.”

“We both know Zacharia will never agree.”

“Then I’ll take it up the flagpole. Someone will listen.” His superior insisted stubbornly. Castiel was relieved that she wouldn’t commit outright treason and just go rescue to boy, but questioning orders... angels were not supposed to do that. For some reason, each time he thought about it, there was a flash: something painful and terrifying. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was, but he knew there was the colour white and a pair of cold, blue eyes involved.

He still decided to accompany Anna to Heaven to argue her case. He didn’t know exactly why: he had made it clear he did not agree. Maybe that was it, he needed to show their superiors that the entire Garrison weren’t thinking treason too (because they were good angels, who knew to avoid the bright white colour and the piercing blue eyes that looked malicious and gleeful and cold at the same time). Or maybe he felt somewhat protective of Anna (though, not in a treasonous way, obviously.)

Zacharia’s favorite part of Heaven was the palace of an ancient Sumerian king. The king himself spent most of his afterlife in the gardens playing with his eight children, so Zacharia had pretty much the run of the fancy longues.

For millennia, Castiel had been silently wondering whether it was humble enough of the mid-level manager to reside in a palace. He had managed to rationalise it by saying it was an earthly palace, and no real joy could be found in it, though if that was the case, why was it in Heaven? But to think like this of his superior officer, an angel their Father had placed above him, that was positively treasonous as well.

It horrified Castiel to realize, now that he was trying to identify treason in others, how close he was to committing it himself. He would have to reign himself in if he wanted to avoid... (white, blue eyes, pain, pain, horrible pain) disappointing their Father. Something strange happened to his host. It was like he screamed in horror for a moment, so loudly that it even deafened the sound of his singing grace. For a split second, his host regained control of his facial muscles, and Castiel had to fight him to remove the grimace. Anna gave him an odd look from the corner of her eye, but it didn’t seem like Zacharia had noticed.

Anna presented her case with all due respect and propriety. If it hadn’t been for the outrageousness of her request, nobody would have batted an eye. Except, it wasn’t really outrageous, it was perfectly reasonable to want to keep the Righteous Man out of the hands of the demons. And with her case being presented this well...

He was getting a headache, which was weird because angels do not get headaches. It had been a very long time since the Castiel took a host. His name had been Mihal, if he remembered correctly. A repentant criminal who turned to God for forgiveness. He was a sinner, but tried his very best to make up for it through sheer devotion. As a vessel, he was perfect, taking joy in every second his impurities were being burned away by the grace inside his body. He never complained, never even stirred as Castiel wore him for centuries. His soul was now in Heaven, where he relaxed in the shade on a hot summer day.

This one, on the other hand, was different. William Novak was not cooperating, which confused Castiel to no end because he was the one who said yes in the first place. It made no sense that he was this strong either. He tried to think back to what he knew about his host. He was a lawyer, as far as he knew. Married, with one child to pass on his host bloodline. Castiel had no doubt he could convince nine year old James Novak to be his host if this one would not suffice, but he understood that having a child host would make it hard to blend in for certain assignments.

William was tugging at his own body again, pulling as well as he could to retain some form of control. There was an odd prickling feeling as the lawyer figured out how to fire the nerves on his back skin. On top of that was the very low whispering at the back of his mind, which he knew was the equivalent to William shouting at the top of his lungs over a hurricane.

What was more confusing though, was that he hadn’t told him to get out. Castiel was only possessing his body by his permission, if he were to retract the invitation, Castiel would leave him alone. What could he possibly want that didn’t require Castiel leaving him?

“Castiel?” Anna inquired, snapping him out of his introspection.

“Sorry, I was not paying attention.” Zacharia looked scandalized. Standing rapt at attention when two superiors were talking was practically branded into every angel’s mind from infancy, which was, by the way, a very long time ago. Anna covered for him.

“The Garrison has urgent business, Zacharia. I apologize for bringing Castiel with me, but he has always been the most intelligent of my men. He has sensed that he is not needed here, and wishes to return to his duties.”

That's what she said out loud. But what Castiel heard came over Angel Radio, on a private frequency between a Garrison leader and her second in command. You have my permission to go to Ishim and present our case for him. He can take the case to his own superiors. Castiel bristled. This was a blatant attempt to circumvent the chain of command. But it was true that Tariel, Ishim’s superior, was far more reasonable than Zacharia.

She said he had her permission, but it sounded more like an order to him. He took his respectful leave, then headed for the other Garrison.

Chapter Text

Anna’s plan had worked. Tariel had seen the sense in the rescue mission, and had somehow convinced Zacharia to go along with it. Castiel was still bristling by the subterfuge his commanding officer had made him take part in, but as he saw the two garrisons prepare for battle, he ignored that voice in the back of his mind in favor of preparing himself. He also ignored the literal voice in the back of his mind. The issue of what William Novak wanted from him would have to wait until after the boy was rescued.

Ishim came with Castiel and Anna to speak to Dean Van Halen. It had taken them over a week to convince their superiors to even let them do this mission. In the meantime, Van Halen had made progress in locating the boy. Wherever he was, he was hidden from the angels, but Van Halen had his own ways of finding people. The three angels stood in a motel room and watched as he showed them what he had found: receipts for furniture and food, deeds for warehouses, and most importantly, a map with demonic omens plotted on it.

“Crowley is smart.” The hunter told them. “These omens are a sign of raw, uncontrolled power. They can be avoided if you want to stay hidden.”

“If there are no omens where the boy is, how are we supposed to find him?” Ishim questioned. There was a glint in the hunter’s eyes as he responded, a gleeful feeling of triumph.

“Because Crowley’s henchmen are not the only demons nearby. No way Alastair would let him have the kid alone. And his guys are not that well behaved.” He showed them spots on the map: minor omens, murders, disappearances and so on, compared with nearby locations of recently bought warehouses.

“How do you know he is being kept in a warehouse?” Dean rolled his eyes.

“It’s always a freaking warehouse.” Was the only reply they got. “Seriously, you’d think people would get more creative, but nope. It’s always a warehouse. Might be a reflection of the economy or something, you know, less stuff being produced in the midwest, but what the fuck do I know?” He gestured at the map again.

“I’ve narrowed it down to about ten spots. With your wings, it shouldn’t be too hard to figure out which one it is.” Ishim gave a stiff nod and was gone with a flutter of wings. Dean blinked for a moment.

“You’d think I’d get used to that.” He muttered before shaking his head. He turned his attention back to Castiel and Anna. “So, your boss did a 180*, huh? How did you pull that off?”

Again, Castiel was baffled by how direct he was. Anna answered. “We just picked the most reasonable of our superiors and ran with it.”

“That’s why Ishim is here, isn’t it?”

“Indeed, it is. He is blessed with a more cooperative handler. Tariel saw the sense in our proposal.”

“Tariel, huh? Good to know.” It was unsettling, seeing this man, this human, considering how to affect angel politics. Dean Van Halen knew too much. He even knew how to ward himself against detection by angels. Even while looking straight at him, Castiel could not get a glimpse of his soul. If he didn’t know better, he would think the man had enochian runes carved into his ribcage, but that would be impossible, because only an angel could do that.

In many ways, Dean Van Halen was a symbol of everything wrong with this whole situation: a mysterious human who worked to tempt angels into treason. This time, his reaction to the dreadful thought was a hundred times worse. There was searing pain, like someone was trying to smite him, and then the whole room seemed to tilt, which was odd, because he was fairly certain rooms were usually stationary.

“Cas?”

Back here again, Castiel? Honestly, why do we even bother anymore?

“Castiel? What is happening?” Blue eyes, green eyes, grey eyes, spinning around. It was dizzying. His eyes closed in an attempt to save himself from the awful nausea.

“Can you hear me now?” He froze. That voice was familiar, but he couldn’t think of why he heard it. “I’ll take that as a yes. You have to listen to me, Castiel... no, no, no! Don’t wake up!” But he did, because this was weird and he was dizzy, so he forced his eyes back open again and pushed the voice back as far as he could.

Anna and Dean were crouching over him, both looking concerned. How long had he been out? It couldn’t be that long, a few seconds at most. He shook them off and got back to his feet. The dizziness persisted for a few more seconds, but a hand on his shoulder kept him steady.

“Are you alright?” Dean asked. Castiel was about to answer, but he couldn’t find anything good to say, so he kept quiet. Dean and Anna took the opportunity to speak above him like he wasn’t listening.

“He has been acting oddly ever since he took this host. It is almost like he doesn’t have control.”

“But if the host is fighting back, why hasn’t he just thrown him out yet?” And yet again Dean Van Halen demonstrated angel knowledge he shouldn’t have. Anna just rolled with it.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Should he sit out the raid?”

“I don’t think that is wise.” There was a silence as Dean waited for Anna to elaborate. After a glance at Castiel, who had been placed on a lumpy motel mattress and fought his best to stop shivering, she spoke up again. “In the eyes of our superiors, an angel who cannot do his job is useless. We’ve pushed our limits today, and I don’t want to turn them any more against Castiel than I already have.”

“Alright.” Dean conceded. “But he doesn’t go anywhere alone.” Castiel was back on his feet by the time Ishim appeared to tell them he had located the right spot.

-----------------------------------------------------------

There was something wrong with Castiel. Dean was confused as hell as to what it could be: he was pretty sure this had not happened the first time around. Which, of course, meant that his (once) best friend was in pain because of him. Damn it. He really did not need this distraction. This entire mission was a detour to pick up the pieces of a major screw up. He should have kept a closer eye on Mary and the family. Knowing what he had been doing instead, wasting his time fighting vampires of all things, made him sick to his stomach.

But he didn’t have time for these distractions. He was on a mission to save himself... damn, this shit was giving him a headache.

The demon compound was exactly what he had expected it to be. Honestly, if you see one of them, you’ve seen them all. It was an old warehouse, which hadn’t changed owners in at least sixty years. Dean suspected Crowley had owned it all this time. He remembered an offhand comment by Crowley, of how he had a whole warehouse full of kraken blood in Ireland. A man like that knew the value of real estate.

From the outside, it didn’t seem like it would be hard to enter at all. But of course, that was not the case. To begin with, the whole building was covered with invisible enochian wards. Ishim had waved his hand to reveal them to Dean. They were pretty basic, but effective. No angel could enter here, and even if he managed to break those particular wards, the angels would be weakened by the remaining ones. Another thing was that there were demons coming and going regularly. They hadn’t spotted Crowley yet, but higher level demons preferred to teleport.

The reason he knew this was where little Dean was kept, and not just another demon warehouse, was because of the group camping out in a small diner just down the street. They were posing as staff and regular customers, coffee cool in their cups as they with varying degrees of subtlety surveyed the warehouse.

Alastair did not have a lot of cronies to spare. Most of them were permanently occupied down in Hell, torturing and corrupting souls to add to the infernal ranks. A slow and arduous process, but vital to keep the whole damn operation running. Still, he had spared half a dozen to keep watch over this one seemingly insignificant warehouse. Half a dozen of his closest and meanest, if the manic looks in their eyes was anything to go by.

The two angel garrisons were spread out around the building, ready to attack each entrance once the warding was broken. For that particular part, Dean was going alone. None of the hunters he had made contact with so far had the skills, or even the balls to march straight into Demon Central. Mary and John would volunteer in a heartbeat, but neither were qualified for this. And so, Dean approached alone.

The enochian wards on his ribs shielded the state and location of his soul from the angels. None of them had commented on it thus far, but given that they couldn’t enter the building anyway, it would not make much of a difference. The hex bag in his pocket was a much more important measure in this particular operation. It kept demons from noticing him unless they were looking straight at him. The spell was something Sam had stumbled upon a few weeks before everything went to shit again and Dean ended up going back in time to solve this mess once and for all. They had just been hanging out in the bunker, rifling through random books over a bottle of beer and laughing at the nonsense the Men of Letters collected. Both were still chuckling at Dean’s dramatic narration of one particular Letterman’s account of his date night with a siren, a lovestruck fool geeking out about both the amazing magic that was keeping him on the hook, and the magnificent tits on the lady doing so. Sam had rolled his eyes at Dean’s antics and flipped over another page in someone’s diary, and then he had frozen with his bottle to his lips, because one little spell that the moron hadn’t bothered writing down anywhere else turned out to be something they could have used a whole lot over the past, oh I don’t know, twenty years or so. And so they wrote down the recipe in their own journals, and gathered supplies to make the bags. Dean had made a joke about how they practiced more witchcraft than most witches, and Sam had made a joke about them getting together with a bunch of wiccan teenagers. God, Dean missed his geeky little brother.

He shook his head, trying to dispel that train of thought. Sam was going to be fine. He would grow up safe and happy, maybe go to law school and meet another nice girl and never be pulled into this shit. All Dean had to do was suck it up and do his job right.

The demon guarding the door was wearing a security guard, and was sloughed on a table with a cigarette butt in his mouth. He was currently openly glaring at the diner down the street, his eyes so intense they had turned black. Dean made sure to avoid him so the people in the diner wouldn’t see him, and crouched down to pick the lock of the door as quietly as possible with his bad arm.

The guard turned in his direction, black eyes vacantly staring at a spot somewhere over his shoulder. The lock was turning out to be annoyingly tricky. Crowley had spared no expense here. He wasn’t entirely sure how the demon would react to the sound of the door opening. If it did alert him, Dean wouldn’t have time to kill him. He would have to barrell into the warehouse and break the wards before they could block his way. And depending on how many high level demons were in there, that could be difficult.

He hadn’t planned on dying today. Maybe, considering he had erased most of his alliances and most people did not know who he was, he might actually stay dead this time. Ironically, the first time in a long while when he might actually die properly, he didn’t actually want to die. Because nothing in his miserable life could ever be simple.

The lock finally clicked open. A glance at the demon guard told him he hadn’t noticed. He pocketed the lockpicks and pushed down the door handle, angel blade at the ready. It bothered him that he had to use it while around angels. He had the replica Colt with him, but this mission required stealth. The door slid open without a creak. Thank Chuck that Crowley’s minions were diligent enough to oil the hinges. His henchmen were the most motivated and happiest in Hell, and would continue to be so until Crowley went all Bonnie and Clyde with Dean.

He slid in the door, not taking his eyes off the guard until he had closed it behind him. He was in enemy territory now.

Chapter Text

The warehouse lights were dull and painted the walls a sickly green, as he walked past the office section. His feet made little sound as he walked, but not enough to be noticed over the buzzing of the fluorescent lamps and the general humming of the place. He hadn’t noticed it before he entered, but the amount of power in the place was enough to choke on. It stuffed into his ears, his nose and his mouth, a dry, pressured feeling like he was on an airplane lifting off: which incidentally, was not a place Dean liked to be.

It made his broken wrist ache beneath the plaster and electrical tape. Two weeks was enough to dull a lot of the pain, and he was fairly certain that despite his active lifestyle, the bone was mending smoothly. It was a stroke of luck that he needed to take that kid to the hospital, or he would have tried to set the open fracture himself. He was good, but nothing like that could ever turn out perfect, especially not on his dominant hand.

He found the first symbol along the ground, underneath a table along the wall beside a watercooler. He scratched away the paint in a thin line to break the symbol.

One down, three to go.

He could go for the kid right now, but if he met Crowley, he was royally screwed. And his past self was dead, which may or may not end with him being erased for existence. Which was not as bad as the alternatives, but still not acceptable because it would mean a child getting hurt. Fuck. This whole twin thing was messing with his ‘put-everyone-else-first’ philosophy.

He walked on, angel blade poised in an icepick grip in his left hand, ready to strike. A demon turned into the hallway, and Dean slid against the wall, crouching down so it wouldn’t look straight at him by accident. To a human bystander, it would look ridiculous. He was out in the open, green canvas jacket in stark contrast with the white walls, angel blade shining in his hand. He was crouching at the ready, in case the demon was bullshitting him and just wanted to close the distance. But if he was bullshitting, he was playing the long game, passing right by him without as much as a glance and continuing on his merry way. Dean was happy to let him, continuing on his own.

He walked straight past a room where about a dozen demons were resting, drinking and laughing. None of them spared him a look.

“My kingdom for a demon bomb.” He muttered under his breath, seeing how tightly they were sitting. But he hadn’t had the time to make one (not that he could without an angel to help him gather supplies either), and using it would blow his cover. He had to think big picture here.

He found the second ward. There were two demons standing by it, talking. Dean crouched down again to listen to their conversation and wait for them to move.

“Where is the boss? I’ve got something really important for him.”

“He’s with the kid again.”

“Is it just me, or does he stay longer each time?” The other demon shrugged.

“He’s been in there for a while, so he should be done soon. Maybe the little shit is annoying him. You know how the boss gets when he’s annoyed. He likes to take his time.” Dean felt sick to his stomach. Sometimes, hanging out with Crowley required him to suppress his knowledge of how evil the King of the Crossroads actually was. But Crowley wasn’t allowed to hurt the kid, and he was a man of his word. On the other hand, the cunning old demon knew ways of inflicting pain that Dea couldn’t even dream of, ways that might provide a loophole if need be. He didn’t have time to wait for these assholes to finish their chat. Slowly, he crept closer to where the symbol was, right behind asshole number one’s head.

Asshole number one better have the most enchanting eyes in the galaxy. So captivating that there was no reason to look anywhere else, especially at the left arm with a blade reaching right behind his head. Deep enough to drown in, because drowning was one of the most painful ways to go, and these guys definitely deserved that.

The tip of his blade now rested on the spray painted line, digging into the plaster wall, ready to break it. He glanced at the two demons still talking, though he was too concentrated to really pay attention to what they were saying. He pulled the blade down hard, chipping away enough paint to cleanly break the sigil. The two demons jolted.

Asshole number one didn’t have time to turn before he had the blade buried in his neck. He spasmed for a few seconds, yellow lightning coursing through his body as the demon was fried inside the host, before Dean jerked the blade out again and let the body drop to the concrete floor with a dull thud.

Asshole number two didn’t actually see him before his eyes could fully focus on the big hunter in front of him. His eyes widened comically and his jaw fell slack as Dean appeared seemingly out of nowhere. He was about to smoke out when Dean slammed him into the wall, shoving his plaster encased hand as far into the bastards mouth as he could, placing the razor sharp angel blade to his throat.

“Easy now.” He advised the demon, who promptly stopped struggling. This one was smart. Dean would guess he usually worked the crossroads. Those guys shied away from fighting things that struck back. “What was it you were going to tell Crowley?” News for Crowley were news for him. He removed his hand slowly, ready to clamp the cast right back into him, and pushing the knife close enough to draw blood. sparks flew from the wound, and the demon whimpered.

“If I tell you, I’m dead anyway, right?” He had a point. There wasn’t much incentive for him to talk, but what he had sounded important. However, if this was a crossroads demon, he might have another option.

“How about we make a deal? You tell me everything I want to know, and do everything I tell you to do, and neither I, nor the two garrisons of angels outside will lay a hand on you. Does that sound fair?” The demon seemed to blanch at the mention of angels. Dean cursed himself, just now remembering that demons were pretty justifiably freaked out by angels before 2009. Pulling the angel card might be too big, too much for him to grasp. Oh well, no crying over spilt milk. “Do we have a deal?” He pressed. The demon nodded.

“Deal.” He whispered meekly. Dean leant in to seal the deal, being damn quick about it. He really didn’t have time for tongue. For the first time ever, the demon he was kissing seemed more freaked out about it than him. He was still quivering when Dean released him.

“There are hunters coming. Someone showed up at the boy’s house looking for him.”

“If you’re here to warn Crowley about an attack, he’ll be pissed you just didn’t tell the guys by the front door.”

“They're not coming here. They don’t know where this is, at least not yet. But they are investigating. Trying to figure out who she is.” Dean frowned.

“ She? Who is she?” The demon hesitated for a second, and Dean barely lifted the knife again, reminding him what would happen if he broke the deal.

“I don’t know okay!?” Dean jerked the blade a little to remind him to keep his voice down. It worked, as the elaboration came in a low hiss. “She took over everything downstairs, but we don’t know who she is. Only a handful of guys have seen her, but none of them have been ours.”

“She’s the new Queen of Hell?” Well shit. If he had missed this, he could be in big trouble. The demon nodded.

“Pretty much.” Dean straightened up, taking a step back and looking around.

“All right, then. Now, here is what you’re going to do. You’re going to go to the north corner and break the sigil that looks just like that one” he pointed at the wall behind him “and you’re not going to tell anyone what you’re doing.” With him helping, the job could be done twice as fast. “When you’re done, come find me, and I’ll tell the angels to spare you.”

“You want me to let them in? How is that in my best interest?” Dean rolled his eyes.

“They are freaking angels. Sodom and Gomorrah ring a bell? They are getting in one way or another, and when they do, it would be nice for both of us if the building is still standing. Have you ever seen a smiting before? No? Well trust me, you don’t want to.” The demon saw the logic in that, and hurried towards the north corner. The demon glanced behind himself, but frowned when his eyes didn’t focus upon Dean. Apparently, the spell worked even if the target already knew he was there. Interesting.

He moved on to the last sigil, walking more confidently now. If Crowley was soon finished with little Dean, he might show up anywhere at any time. He reached the open hall that comprised most of the warehouse. It was relatively empty, save for some crates along one wall and a hastily erected structure in the middle, covered in even more wards, these ones against demons as well. Dean was willing to bet anything that this was where they kept his younger self. There had been remarkably little action on this mission. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to find out what would happen if he died after all. Maybe he had simply grown badass enough that walking straight into a demon hideout was no real challenge. He grinned at the thought, thinking back to the good old days when the very idea of attempting an exorcism was terrifying. On a normal black-eye, no less. Of course, the fact that the moron liked to crash planes didn’t help, but still. He had come a long way from then.

There were no people in the open space, so Dean hurried across, around the structure in the middle, to the corner where he knew he would find the sigil. He spotted it after some searching, and cursed under his breath again. It was high up on the wall, right beneath the ceiling. Because nothing could ever be simple, could it?

There were crates that could be moved to form a ladder: if you had two good hands, that is. He glanced around. There was a drain pipe running from the roof down the wall in the corner, not too far from where the sigil was.

Dean placed the angel blade between his teeth and began climbing, gripping the pipe tightly with his good hand and pushing against the corner with the other, slowly but surely making his way upwards. His arms burned with the strain, making him wonder if he had put on weight. He wasn’t as young as he had once been, after all. By the time he caught up with his own time, he’d be an old man. Or dead. He couldn’t really see himself getting too old.

The sigil was just out of reach of his bad hand when he felt something give in the pipe. The screws attaching it to the wall were more rusty up here. The pipe was jiggling as the screws on one side began to get pushed out of the wall. The metal groaned, and Dean found himself stretching further to keep himself aloft, his abdominal muscles now beginning to protest as well. He shifted so that both of his legs were against the pipe, and then pinned himself between the pipe and the wall using his feet and his back. With his now free good hand, he picked the angel blade out of his mouth, and slowly reached it up towards the sigil. The pipe groaned again, the rusty metal slipping even further away. Dean was balancing on his tiptoes now, stretching out so only his shoulder blades were in contact with the wall. The tip of the blade reached the bottom of the sigil, and with one hard tap he flaked off enough paint to break it.

The change in the electric hum told him the demon he had enlisted had already finished his task. The angels were free to enter.

A loud creaking sound as a screw was wrenched the rest of the way out of the wall was all the warning he got before he was suddenly pummelling to the ground. The fact that his legs had been positioned slightly higher than his shoulders made it impossible to get his feet beneath him when he hit the ground with his tailbone first, quickly followed by his head cracking against the concrete floor with enough force to shatter the back of his skull.

Death was pretty much instantaneous.

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They stormed the warehouse the moment the wards were broken. Two dozen sets of wings beat in unison as they appeared within the walls of the building, not bothering to restrain the wild power that constantly threatened to explode out of their hosts. Anna was vaguely aware that the sound of her enochian warcry shattered the lamps in the room she entered with Castiel at her back. She didn't bother draw her blade against the demon filth cowering on the floor, opting to smite them instead. The two garrisons moved smoothly, clearing each room methodically, their combined power making the whole warehouse shake. A few of Ishim's men had been deployed to take care of the observers in the diner down the street. It would benefit them all if there was no absolute certainty as to what had happened here.

The Righteous Man had been located, in a warded room in the middle of the main hall. Anna and Castiel made their way there, but were unable to pass the walls. For some reason, Van Halen must have been unable to break the warding on this one. Or perhaps he hadn't had the time? She looked around to try and locate the hunter, but he was nowhere to be seen, and as usual, she could not sense him either.

"What do we do now?" Adriel asked, addressing her. Anna frowned.

"The Deal Mary Winchester made has not been broken. Crowley cannot harm the boy, so he is useless as a hostage. He will try to make a break for it. Be ready." All the angels had now gathered around the box-shaped room, their blades drawn and ready for whenever Crowley would try and make his escape. The demon let them wait for a few seconds, hoping to catch them off guard. Apparently, he did not know angels very well. When they were ordered to be ready, they would stand with single minded focus until hell froze over -- and then they would only move because they had specific orders as to what to do in that eventuality, which would counteract any other order. In short, one could not count on an angel to neglect their duty. Still, the cunning old demon almost succeeded in his dash for freedom. He took hold of the young boy's arm and teleported, but teleportation leaves a trail that the angels were quick to take flight and follow. His first destination was somewhere on the coast of Ireland. It was a rainy day, the rotten snow being slowly melted by the slush falling from the sky in chilly clumps. Anna just caught sight of Crowley, wearing a middle-aged man in a tailored suit, holding onto the confused the boy. He was wearing a pair of pyjamas with a bat imprint on the yellow shirt, too shocked by the sudden change of scenery to react to the fact that his bare feet submerged in a cold puddle of icy slush. His startingly green eyes met her from across the dingy street, then Crowley was gone again, and Anna took flight to follow.

The subsequent jumps went all over the earth. Anna was always the first to land, with Castiel soon behind her. For about a hundred jumps, they seemed to gain on him, then Anna failed to spot him when they landed somewhere in the Amazon jungle, and he gained a headstart that he kept expanding with remarkable speed. He must have been conserving energy to sprint when he saw an opportunity. A glance told her Ishim had fallen too far behind and given up. To save face, he had probably called his own men with him, because Anna had not seen them for a little while. Adriel, Hannah and Inias were following Castiel's trail, because they were so far behind that Crowley and Anna's had already faded. The demon was annoyingly quick. Each time she landed, she caught a shorter and shorter glimpse of the demon and the boy before they were gone again. He seemed to be aiming for places with bad weather and startling contrasts, hoping to throw them off that way. Anna was aggrieved to say it was working. It was hard to focus on anything when she shifted between a rainstorm, sandstorm and snowstorm all within eight seconds. The world flitted by her, thousands of sounds and smells, flashes of multicoloured light from streetlights and sunsets and festive lanterns, and the occasional absolute darkness with an open, starry sky above. The only thing they all had in common were that they were all loud, ranging from ambient white noise from the weather to the deafening roar of the Niagara Falls or the pulsing of a heavy metal concert in Hungary.

As annoying as it was to her, it must be even worse for the poor, barely dressed boy he was pulling with him. Anna heard him cry out, a desperate sound that echoed in every environment they landed in. Crowley could not keep doing this if it meant hurting the boy. He would have to stop soon, but where would he try and hide? The deal prevented him from bringing the boy to Hell, so logically, Crowley would have to bring him to some hideout on Earth. The problem was that there were so many of those. She landed on a street in Bangkok, a crowd of humans surrounding her, but she caught a glimpse of Crowley pulling the boy into an alley ahead. If he was walking, that meant the hideout must be warded and close by. He must have thought himself a lot further ahead than he actually was. She used a light flap of her wings to bring her in ahead of them, at the same time as Castiel covered the entrance of the alley.

It was a thin, narrow passageway with brick walls on both sides. The ground wasn’t paved, and was covered by a thin layer of muddy water, with some kind of oil spill floating on top.

Crowley was by no means the ugliest demon she had ever laid eyes upon. His corrupted soul was red, a smoky mass that would manifest into teeth and horns and tails and claws at irregular intervals. He wore his host with ease, his power safely contained to prevent damaging it. The boy was pushed against the wall of the alley with his powers, unable to move, but also kept out of the way for the impending conflict.

“Hand us the boy, demon.” Anna demanded, allowing her voice to boom with power. Surely the Righteous Man would not be bothered by a little Enochian. Her wings were aching from the chase, but she allowed herself to stretch them to be ready for the confrontation. Castiel was catching his breath behind Crowley, blade in hand.

She couldn’t see any safehouse: the alley just led from one street to another, with no doors at all. Maybe it was hidden? But if it was, why approach on foot? Crowley had chosen this alley in Bangkok, out of all possible locations on earth, to face them. There was only one explanation. Her host greatly enjoyed cooking, and had a very sensitive nose. In the back of her mind, the woman was filtering out the individual spices from the food vendors around the corner. And beneath it, was the smell of the oil on the ground. Her host, Janice Milton, had no idea what kind of oil it was, but Anna did recognize it.

“It’s a trap!” She lunged towards Crowley as quickly as she could, getting her feet out of the holy oil. For just a moment, it was like things were moving in slow motion. Her eyes met Castiel’s but there was something wrong. For a split second, he was gone again, cringing the way she had seen him do all day, and that was enough. Crowley had time to snap his fingers before she could slam into him, and then the world was moving fast again.

She had two options as she saw him begin to leave: grab the kid before he disappeared again, or pull Castiel out of the fire. Mission, or fellow soldier. Mission, or friend.

She should never have let Castiel on this mission. He was clearly in no state to be on active duty. If he died now, it would be her fault, and she could not let that happen. This mission did not come from Heaven. It had been her idea. Castiel wouldn’t die for God, he would die for her, and she could not live with that.

Instead of going after Crowley and the boy, she beat her wings once and grabbed onto her second in command, screaming in pain as the holy fire caught on her white dress, and pulled him out of there, onto the nearest rooftop away from the flames.

Chapter Text

The lady in the wedding dress leapt at Crowley, and Dean thought that maybe, just maybe, he was saved. But then the other guy was set on fire, and she went to save him instead. Dean could understand that. I mean, her friend was on fire . But now he was stuck with Crowley again, and now that they had thrown off the last of their pursuers, he would be locked back up. Even though he was cold and miserable and scared, he felt more free than he had in a long time, because there was a real sky above him and real ground beneath his feet. He could tell it was nighttime, which meant thank god that time still exists. This particular place was hot and humid, full of city noise and spicy smell and completely foreign to a little kid from rural Kansas, but he would rather be here than in the small white room.

Nobody were going to save him, but he would be damned if he got dragged back to the white, boring room without putting up a fight. There was something on the ground beside him, a stick of some sort that would serve as a weapon. It was some form of tool, with a broad head. If the handle hadn’t been snapped off, four year old Dean wouldn’t have been able to lift it.

Hitting Crowley with a stick would not have much of an effect. But Dean was no fool, and quite creative when he wanted to be. So he used the other weapon that was handily provided. He quickly pulled off his batman pyjama shirt, wrapped it around the broad head of his makeshift spear, and dipped it into the flaming oil all around him.

Mister Crowley’s suit caught fire fast. His torch was soaked through with the oil, and it splattered over the whole back of the fancy jacket. Some of it also splattered onto Dean, but he ignored it in favor of running for his life, leaping over the fire and barrelling into the crowded street.

He’d expected there to be noise from all the people and cars, but there wasn’t, only this high noise in his ears that he only just realised was the only thing he had heard for a while, ever since the lady in the white dress started yelling really, really loud. But he didn’t have time to think about that, too busy running for his life, dodging between people and hoping Crowley wasn’t following him. He looked behind him, but couldn’t see anything through the crowd.

His mom had always told him to look where he was going. He only remembered this when he barrelled straight into a lady in a red dress.

Him being tiny and she being very tall, the result was him falling straight on his butt, and her hardly moving as she looked down at him. He recognized the type of dress she was wearing as an indian thing, but he couldn’t remember what it was called. Next to the lady was a short man with a lollipop in his mouth.

He was fairly certain that they asked him something, because their lips were moving and they were looking at him, but the painfully loud whining noise. The man was smiling, a broad, friendly smile twinkling with mischief. The woman looked... impressed? It was hard to tell. Dean was wondering if he should maybe do something and get out of the muddy puddle he was sitting in, when the man leaned down and grabbed his arm. What followed was a feeling he was beginning to get really tired of, being teleported.

The place he landed wasn’t so different from where they started, but the smells were different and it was a little less humid. He was indoors too: in a large suite in some fancy hotel. The man and the lady were there, talking, and Dean wondered if maybe he should have brought his torch. They didn’t smell like demons, though. Maybe they were the same as that lady in the white dress?

The whining noise refused to stop, making it impossible to hear anything they were trying to say to him, but they didn’t seem like they were going to hurt him right now, and he was too tired to protest when the guy put him to sleep.

---------------------------

The two of them looked down at the sleeping child. They had expected a dramatic rescue mission, but somehow, the kid had given the demon the slip.

“He actually put him on fire.” Kali said. Loki couldn’t remember the last time he had seen her this impressed, especially over the accomplishments of a child. But he had to admit, the trick with the holy fire lance was pretty awesome. “Let’s keep him.”

“That was the plan, honey.” He’d expected babysitting a baby macguffin to be a pretty boring job, but if he was a secret tiny badass, this might get interesting. Kali hadn’t let her motherly instincts out in a long time.

-----------------------

Anna returned to the warehouse with her metaphorical tail between her legs, supporting her injured comrade. Castiel was so badly burned that she had put him to sleep to spare him the pain. Ishim met her when she landed, quickly and effectively getting Castiel transferred back to Heaven to recuperate. Heaven were not accepting of failure, but as a garrison leader, Ishim knew better than to judge her. She had held out longer than any of them.

Still, he looked grim when he greeted her.

“What has happened?” She inquired.

“It seems you will need a new human asset.” He gestured towards a corner of the large room. Anna found her heart sinking.

The big man looked a lot smaller when he was on the ground, his neck broken and his skull cracked open. A pool of blood was slowly creeping over the floor, soaking into her white dress as she kneeled down to inspect the body. He had fallen, there was no other explanation. An unremarkable end for a remarkable man. Still, he had done his job admirably. A single man standing alone against an army of demons was no small feat. She would have to pay him a visit in Heaven after the cleanup was done.

“What shall we do with the body?” Adriel asked.

“He was a good soldier. He should have a proper funeral. I will return his body to his friends.” Adriel nodded in confirmation.

“He was indeed a good soldier. If only he had been an angel, he would be invincible.” Anna chose not to respond what she was suspecting: that had Dean Van Halen been born a angel, he would not be half as powerful.

She wondered whether she should be mourning for him. She hadn’t known him very well, but how could one truly know any human? By the time you have taken the time to build a proper friendship, they would be dead from old age. But his friend, the one they were supposed to deliver the boy to, she would mourn for him, and Anna felt he deserved that. She was about to move the body when she saw something in the corner of her eye.

An angel blade, lying on the ground not too far away from the body. Anna frowned. No angel would leave their blade so carelessly lying around. The other angels were working to clear out every trace of the demons from the warehouse. She messaged them on angel radio, asking who had dropped their blade. Everyone responded that they already had theirs. Even the unconscious Castiel had his blade with him. Anna glanced at the dead hunter. He couldn’t have... but how else had he gotten all the way into the warehouse? There was no way he hadn’t been spotted.

How silly of me. I had managed to misplace mine. She sent out on the radio.

She stuck it in her left boot, next to hers in her right boot.

It wasn’t hard to locate Missouri Moseley. Her soul was not hidden in the same way as Van Halen’s, and so Anna made her way to the woods outside the small Kansas town where she was waiting with one single beat of her wings. She was exhausted from the chase earlier, but still carried the large dead man over her shoulder. It was perhaps not the most dignified way to deliver a body larger than herself.

Missouri was sitting on the hood of a black muscle car. She had a thermos of coffee perched at her side alongside a folded magazine. Apparently she had been fidgeting too much to get any reading done. The small woman jumped off the hood with a gasp as Anna appeared before her.

“Dean!” She called out in shock.

“He can’t hear you.” Anna deposited the body on the ground as gracefully as she could manage. He stopped bleeding once his heart stopped pumping, but the back of his head was still squishy. His eyes were wide open and glassy. She had tried closing them for decency’s sake, but rigor mortis had set in and they refused to stay closed.

“The mission failed. The demon Crowley kept us from getting to the Righteous Man, and your friend died while working to let us into their base.” Missouri crouched down next to the body. She too attempted to close his glassy green eyes, and had about as much success as Anna had.

Anna studied the woman as she knelt next to the body. She wasn’t crying, but there were clear signs of distress. “Are you alright?” Anna asked.

“You know, he kind of gave you the impression he was invincible.” Missouri spoke softly.

“Nobody is invincible.” Anna wasn’t sure why she said it, but she felt she had to say something.

“Maybe.” Was all Missouri responded before standing up and facing Anna again. “What are you going to do now?” Anna was taken aback by the question, mostly because she really didn’t know the answer.

“I do whatever Heaven commands me to.” She responded automatically. Missouri gave her a look, and so she continued. “But I will keep searching for young Dean Winchester as well. I don’t have high hopes, however. Without Van Halen’s help, we never would have found him.”

“But he was where Dean said he would be, right? It wasn’t just a decoy?”

“Yes. I got a good look at him before Crowley got the upper hand. He seemed physically well, though very scared.”

“Van Halen said your superiors can’t be trusted.” It was a blunt statement, and just a few days ago, Anna would have been outraged. But Dean Van Halen had said those words so many times, she had gotten used to it. He had asked her to think about it, and she had indulged him. The longer she considered it, the clearer it became that she already knew the answer. Heaven was no longer following the will of their Father.

“They can’t.” She confirmed. “Our Father ordered us to stop the breaking of the Seals and to prevent the return of Lucifer. Any order given by my superiors that serves another purpose is not an order I am obliged to follow.”

“How will you tell which orders to follow and which ones to ignore?” Anna hadn’t known the answer before she replied, but the moment the words were out of her mouth, she knew they were the truth.

“I cannot know which orders are true and which are false. And even if I could, Heaven would never abide by insubordination.”

“So, what, you’re going to desert?” Anna cringed at the choice of words.

“I am not deserting my father. Only going my own way to serve him.” Missouri nodded.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” Again, Anna was taken by surprise, and again she knew the answer as soon as she began speaking.

“I assume you have a safe place, where you have hidden the rest of the Winchester family?” Missouri confirmed it with a nod. “I might need that location later. I’ll also need the help of a hunter to track down the Righteous Man. I assume you have contacts in the community. But before that, I want to see if any members of my Garrison are willing to join me.”

“I’ll get some people to track little Dean, and see if I can find any indication how far the corruption in Heaven has spread. I know some spirits that have contacts in Heaven.” Missouri handed her a slip of paper.

“This is the main phone line to our headquarters. Either I, or one of the Winchesters will always be by it.”

“I will call when I am ready to join the search.”

“Good luck then, Anna.”

“Good luck, Missouri Moseley.” With a flap of her wings, she was gone.

Chapter Text

Talking to Anna and making plans had served as a nice distraction, but as soon as the angel was gone, her eyes were drawn back to the fallen form of Dean Winchester. She hadn’t exaggerated when she said he gave an impression of invincibility. Because Dean Winchester did not lose. He might lose battles, but he never lost the war. Until now.

Missouri wasn’t going to let this stop her. She had never been a hunter, but knowing the apocalypse was coming -- and being the only person who knew -- meant she could never forgive herself if she was to stop now. She thought back to what Dean had told her in the car. Keeping little Dean and John out of Hell was the priority. Without them, they couldn’t pull off the whole Righteous Man prophesy thing. He might have told her more, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember what it would be.

But before all that, she had to figure out what to do with the body. She knew the basics of how a hunter’s funeral worked. She had attended a few in her days, but she had never been the one to actually light the fire. Mary might have, though. Besides, it was only right that Dean’s family would attend his funeral, even if they didn’t know they were his family. With that in mind, she grabbed a hold of his shoulder and began pulling him towards the trunk of the car. Why did he have to be so damned heavy? She had to stop to take a breather after just a few steps. All right, screw it. It was about time John did something useful for once.

She picked Dean’s clunky mobile phone out of the car and called the bunker. John was the one to pick up.

“Yeah?” He sounded as grumpy as usual. Neither Dean nor Missouri liked keeping those two in the loop, and chose not to inform them what exactly they had been doing to avoid them getting disappointed if it failed. John was probably expecting them to dump more useless work on him.

“John, I need your help. Could you meet me right down the road from the bunker?” Missouri had been a bit doubtful whether it was a good idea to have the meetup so close to their main base, but Dean had explained that because angels fly everywhere they had a bad sense of relative location. They never really comprehended that humans dislike long distances. To them, it would be just as a natural to have the meetup in Siberia. Also, it would be helpful if they didn’t have a long way to transport little Dean to safety once they got him. The result was that they were about half a mile down the road.

It had been a while since John had been let out of the bunker, for his own safety. “Remember to bring the hex bags.” She reminded, just to be sure.

“Alright. I’ll be there in a minute.” Was the response. Ten minutes later, the Impala pulled up behind the GTO, and John stepped out alone. Of course he hadn’t brought Mary. He probably hadn’t even told her he was leaving.

She took a moment to really study the man in the starlight. The bunker had been fully stocked with fine whisky when they found it, and John had been partaking a bit too much lately. His eyes were red-rimmed from drink, and he had bags under his eyes from an uneven sleep cycle. Living underground was difficult like that.

He froze when he spotted Dean on the ground. His mind rushed through a dozen different emotions. At best, his relationship with Dean had been ambivalent, but the man was under no delusions that he hadn’t relied heavily on the hunter to survive in this brave new world.

“What happened?” He eventually asked.

“The mission went bad.” Was all Missouri could say in response. “I don’t really know. One of the angels dropped off the body.”

“And you couldn’t just read his mind?”

“It was a she, and no. Van Halen warned me that angels are too loud to listen to without going mad or blind or deaf, so I blocked it out.”

“What do we do now?”

“Well, first we move the body. He should have a funeral.”

John grimaced when he moved the body. The crushed back half of Dean’s skull squelched when he touched it by accident. It wasn’t first time he had heard that sound, she gathered. Nor was it the first time he had handled a dead body. After some maneuvering, the body was propped up in the back seat of the GTO. John blankly refused to ruin his precious Impala’s upholstery. It was grimly amusing to know that the corpse probably agreed.

Missouri drove back to the bunker. She couldn’t sense Dean’s spirit around right now, which might mean he had made his way to Heaven already. Perhaps she should do a seance later to figure out what to do next? Or perhaps Anna would simply go -- or fly -- to talk to him. Mary was waiting in the doorway of the bunker when they returned, wondering where her husband had gone, but aware that stepping outside would make her vulnerable. Missouri assured herself the woman had her hex bag before waving her out.

Mary’s reaction to seeing the dead hunter was a lot more complex. He had saved her life, and the lives of her family. He had rectified her biggest mistake, and fought to rectify the second biggest. There was guilt there, guilt because she had been the one to give away the son he died to recover, guilt because she had been the one to pull him into this mess (or so she thought) and guilt because she hadn’t been much help lately, and he hadn’t trusted her enough to bring her with him. There was also that strange feeling you get whenever someone you barely knew died. Like you were wondering how much it was appropriate to care.

“Oh.” Was the most articulate sound she could come up with when she looked at him inside the car. There was a long silence filled with thoughts that slugged along, a blank space as they all tried to reset themselves from the boredom that had surrounded them previously. It was a fuzzy ominous feeling, like when you pack your stuff to leave at four in the morning, wide awake and yet somehow still asleep, wondering if you were still dreaming because you swore there should be excitement just about now.

Mary wondered whether John would go get firewood if she asked. Missouri had no time for this drama.

“John? Could you go see if you can find some wood for a pyre?” John had seen an axe somewhere around here a while ago. He went off to find it. Mary was thinking she saw some accelerant in a storage closet downstairs. She was about to say so, when she noticed that Missouri already knew.

Missouri pulled the body out of the car and began preparing him. In a hunter’s funeral, the body was burned with its clothes on, but the pockets had to be emptied. There wasn’t much in them. Some money, a knife in each boot, a flask of holy water in his jacket pocket. Missouri had to look even further to find some lockpicks which seemed a shame to waste.

If Dean’s spirit hadn’t moved on, he might tie himself to an object, but she couldn’t really image it being one of these. None of them had been in his possession for very long, and she hadn’t sensed any particular attachment to any of them either. Perhaps except the jacket. He had it with him when he was in that forest with his friend Benny, so he must have had it for a long time.

She would need something he had been attached to if she wanted to contact him anyway. That was why she found herself unzipping the jacket and struggling to pull it off of him. Damn, did that man have broad shoulders. The back of the jacket was stiff with dried blood, presumably because he had been lying in a puddle of it.

Despite the rigor mortis and the general ickiness of the task, she eventually freed him of his green canvas jacket. She placed it among his other belongings on the hood of the GTO. John returned with firewood tied in a bundle with his jacket. He and Missouri placed Dean on top of a crate of some sort and stacked the firewood around it. Mary gave them some pointers on how to do it effectively, before the whole creation was soaked in accelerant, sprinkled with a liberal amount of salt and lit ablaze.

The fire burned just like any other hunter’s funeral. There was a lot of smoke because it was still November and the wood was slightly damp, but it burned hot enough to melt the skin and burn the flesh. The fire burned bright enough that it hurt her eyes in the otherwise dim night.

“You can’t cut us out of this anymore.” Mary said when the pyre had burned down to smoldering coal. “You need to tell us what is going on.”

“The Apocalypse is coming.” She said. “Dean wanted to stop it alone. But he couldn’t. And neither can we.” She turned to the two of them. “Pack some things, will you? We’re going to the Roadhouse.”

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Jackie didn’t get drunk often. Not before all this, anyway. Before she became an apprentice exorcist, she had been the kind of girl who hung around in diners late at night, not bars. The strongest stuff she had ever had was beer, shared with Jordan and Drew on late nights. She had assumed that would change when she got into college, but art school was not the place for wild parties. Weird parties, sure, but they usually stuck to beer. She had never really been with a crowd of excessive drinkers until now.

Hunters, she had learned, drank whiskey the way her classmates had drunk Redbull. In some cases it seemed to be their only fuel.

She had begun wearing the unofficial hunter’s uniform: plaid shirt and jeans over a black sabbath t-shirt. It was a hopeless attempt at fitting in around the others. She was still too wet behind the ears to impress any of the seasoned and pretend-to-be seasoned hunters around her. Never mind that the thing they were working on was way bigger than anything these other hunters had ever seen. The demons were planning something big, and Jackie, pastor Jim, Cho and Barry were hot on their trail trying to figure out what.

Cho was her current drinking partner. Barry was off getting them new ID’s, and Pastor Jim was big on the whole sobriety thing (and continuously harped on the whole ‘don’t combine alcohol and pain meds’ thing). The older huntress had taken Jackie under her wing in the crazy new world, and they had become good friends. Cho loved sharing old hunting stories.

“So anyway, then the real FBI agent comes back, so I throw my fake badge out the window and grab a stack of paper out of the trashcan and just walk on out of there. The guy thought I was an intern or something.”

“I have a harder time believing the cops thought you were a FBI agent at age seventeen.” Jackie responded with a giggle. Cho grinned.

“I was a real mature girl, if you know what I mean.” She wiggled her chest to underline her point. “And you’d be surprised how far you can get with just acting. It was Barry who taught me. He was in drama school before he became a hunter, you know.”

“No shit?”

“No shit indeed. See? Useless education isn’t always useless.” Cho patted Jackie on the back.

“Big words from someone who didn’t even finish high school.” That seemed to be a common theme among hunters. Cho sobered up for a moment, and Jackie considered for a moment whether she had insulted her, until she recognized the expression. She had seen it quite often lately. “You’re about to give me a ‘talk’, aren’t you?” She sighed and took another sip of her whiskey. It burned her throat and increased the pleasant buzz in her system. “Well? Get on with it.”

“You know, dropping out might not be the best idea.”

“And there it is.”

“Listen, hear me out, okay? I’m not saying you aren’t cut out for this life, but it might not be a good idea to jump in with no way out. Life on the road sucks pretty hard, and considering you have a family to go back to... It might be a good idea to at least have a somewhat legitimate source of income.”

“I’m not going back to school.” Jackie declared. She had given it a lot of thought, and she just couldn’t imagine going back to drawing.

“You don’t have to. But at least get yourself a life. If you’re going to stick with Pastor Jim, you’ll be spending most of your time in Blue Earth. Get a job, save some money. If you wanna do something later, people will understand that you dropped out because of your injury. Just make sure there isn’t this huge empty gap where you dropped off the face of the earth. Because trust me, if you ever want your real identity to stand up to scrutiny, you have to maintain it.”

“I hate it when adults make good points.”

“Oh, am I an adult now?” Cho grinned and flagged down the bartender. She was a hunter, a blonde in her twenties named Ellen. Her knuckles were bruised after she had thrown out some idiots earlier in the night. “Do you have a minute, Ellen?” This was their first time in the Roadhouse: Jackie had wanted to follow up on her clue on Dean Van Halen immediately, but the massive demon omens in her hometown had distracted them.

“Maybe? What’s it about?”

“Have you heard anything from Dean Van Halen?” The reaction to the name was almost comical. The otherwise loud bar went to a standstill as people strained to listen to any possible news of this apparently legendary figure, all the while desperately trying not to appear like they were listening in. The result was a very stiff, awkward moment when people realized that shutting up might not have been the best idea. Someone slammed down their glass a bit too hard, and the sound made everyone cringe.

“No, nothing. He just showed up, made a huge splash and left. Have you tried calling him?”

“Nobody answers. It’s one of those new fancy mobile phones, so I don’t know how to trace it.”

“I don’t know how, either, unfortunately. And you can’t trace him if he doesn’t pick up anyway. What did you need him for? Surely, some other hunters can help too?”

Cho gestured at Jackie. “She wants to talk to him. And more importantly, we think he has information we need.” Ellen frowned.

“I bet he does. Look, I haven’t heard of anyone contacting him, but I can spread the word, okay? Plus, it seems like he is networking, so he’ll probably be back eventually.” The door opened, and a group of three adults and a baby made their way towards the less noisy restaurant area in the bar. Ellen grabbed a menu from somewhere and went to serve them. “Excuse me.”

Jackie buried her face in her hand, realized how dejected that made her look, and made an effort to smooth back her hair and look awake. The cut above her eye was healing nicely, and her leg was throbbing less than usual, probably because the pain was masked by the alcohol. With no immediate pain, the only thing left was exhaustion. Exhaustion from having slept for only three hours on a lumpy motel bed, from having been woken in the middle of the night and eaten breakfast in an all-night diner with way too bright lights, from the adrenaline rush of facing another demon and finally getting the exorcism just right. She hadn’t been the one to catch it: they hadn’t even let her out of her car before they were certain that it was safe, but once they had him tied up with saltwater rope, they brought her in for the questioning and exorcism.

He hadn’t known the name of the new Queen of Hell, but he had given clues. Clues that both excited and terrified her. Something big was coming, and somehow, art student and diner waitress Jackie Mason was right in the middle of it. Or close to the middle, at least. It seemed likely that Dean Van Halen was even closer.

He was the eye of the tornado, she had decided. She remembered how he had grounded her when she was freaking out during the demon attack. She had a choice: leave the tornado and run for your life, hoping beyond hope that the storm won’t kill you, or press on through the thick of it until you are standing in the calm centre. Of course, walking through a tornado on foot would leave you about as dead as you can be, but Jackie couldn’t afford to think like that now.

Exhaustion was taking over, and her head dropped back into her hands. She barely even jerked when Cho elbowed her side.

“Alright, I’m awake” she grumbled and rubbed her eyes.

“Yeah, you’d better be.” Cho said frantically and pointed towards the group Ellen had just gone off to serve. “That’s Missouri Moseley right there.” Jackie blinked, trying to get her brain together so she could figure out who the hell that was, and why it warranted waking her from her very important beauty nap on the bartop. Then it clicked.

“The psychic? The one who disappeared after the Lawrence kidnapping?” She said out loud because the buzzing in her head was too loud to hear herself think. Cho nodded. Jackie took in the sight of her companions. She recognized them from the pictures in the Winchester family home. “With Mary and John Winchester. And Baby Sam.” It was said incredulously. They had not expected their witnesses to fall straight into their laps.

It took Jackie a frustratingly long time to get her crutches under her and muster the coordination to get across the floor into the dining area. Some drunk almost ran into her, almost yelling some drunken threat until he took in the crutches and realised there was no winning that scenario. Cho helped her along, a bit concerned she would just pass out. Jackie rolled her eyes at that. She might not be used to drinking, but she was a big girl. As in, she was five foot nine and stocky, with a lot of body mass to dilute the alcohol. Cho had been matching her shot for shot and had even less sleep than her.

She was trying to figure out how to approach. The usual procedure wouldn’t work for someone who were already tangentially in the life. For once, they would have to be honest, and Jackie had no idea where to start. Like seriously, should she open with ‘what the hell is going on’ or ‘why did you sell your son to demons?’

The family was huddled in their own little bubble. Ellen had found a high chair for the baby, and Mary was busy fussing with it while Missouri and John seemed to be arguing about something. Suddenly, Missouri tensed up and tilted her head for a second. John met Jackie’s eyes, looking puzzled, then looked back at Missouri. By the time Jackie and Cho had made it all the way over, the whole group had moved: shuffling their chairs so they were occupying less space. John picked a pair of chairs from another table, and offered one for Jackie. He even helped her place the crutches on the floor.

“We need to talk.”

Chapter Text

Well, the dilemma of how to approach had been solved for them, but it did not answer where to start. Honestly, Jackie wasn’t sure what she was going to say until she had opened her mouth to say it, and Missouri snapped at her.

“Don’t, sweetie.” It was only then she realised she was about to accuse Mary of selling her son to demons. Jordan’s expression when he told her what happened had been haunting her for a while. She had used the courtesy phone in a lot of diners and motels they passed by to call and check up on him lately. “We’re all tired, and I am so done with allies fighting over stupid things.” Missouri did indeed seem tired.

She was a very small woman, with big, bleary eyes that blinked way too often. It didn’t look like she had slept much in the last couple of days. But Jackie was also tired, so she wouldn’t give her a pass because of this. And selling your son to demons does not equate a stupid thing.

“That’s not what happened, and compared to what is about to happen, it is indeed a stupid thing.” Wait, did she say that out loud?

“No, you didn’t. Psychic, remember? Anyway, I suggest we keep this conversation entirely verbal for everyone’s benefit.” Cho finally decided to take over -- even if Jackie hadn’t actually said anything.

“I’m Cho Wing.” She introduced herself. “This is Jackie Mason. We’re hunters, working a lead on heavy duty demon omens in Lawrence over the past three weeks. Your son’s disappearance is part of that.” This was said to Mary and John. It occurred to Jackie that she was gauging their reactions. They looked distressed, and Mary looked guilty. She wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, other than the fact that they at least gave a shit. Missouri had asked her to let it go for a moment, and so she would, if only to get information.

“We’ve been catching and questioning demons for the past few days, trying to figure out what they’re planning, and why they wanted your son.” Ellen arrived with the food the family had ordered. She shot Cho and Jackie a questioning look, but figured they were busy and let them be.

“We might be able to help you there.” Missouri said once Ellen had left. John pulled a face.

“You mean you might be able to help them.” He met Jackie’s eyes, looking grumpy. “Nobody ever tells us anything.”

“And I’m sorry about that!” Missouri snapped suddenly. “But neither of you two have been very useful either. Mary, you know you fucked up. And John, you couldn’t even be in the same room as Van Halen without glaring daggers. So sorry that we didn’t keep you in the loop, but you didn’t make it easy.” John (a very big man, by the way) rocked back in his chair in surprise, before something that looked like mutiny flashed in his eyes. Missouri pointed a finger in his face before he could respond.

“See? That right there, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. How am I supposed to work with you when you want to punch everyone who insult you?” Jackie had the feeling she had just walked into something very personal. Having any form of communication when a psychic was present was unbelievably trippy. She had only known Missouri for about two minutes -- and Missouri hadn’t even bothered introducing herself -- but she still had a feeling that the psychic had a hard time making friends as a kid.

“You have no idea, kiddo.” Missouri informed her quickly. Jackie would have contemplated how to censor her thoughts, but she was running a bit late, and realised that Missouri had just mentioned Van Halen. As in Dean Van Halen, the elusive eye of the shitstorm. “But circumstances have changed.” She was addressing the whole table now. Even Baby Sam, who had just knocked a spoonful of baby food askew so it smeared across his nose and clumped in his left eyelid paid attention, making a gurgling noise that Jackie hilariously thought sounded a bit like ‘yes ma’am.’

“Tell me what you two know.” The command was directed at Cho.

“We know there have been three separate demon attacks in Lawrence Kansas over a period of ten days. The first was a very powerful demon going to do something -- we’re assuming it was bad. Instead he got killed by Dean Van Halen. The second was an attempt at retaliation: the demon’s two children possessed Jackie here and her brother and tried going after Van Halen. One fled, the other was exorcised. Then there was a much larger attack: a siege by multiple demons that ended with your son, Dean Winchester, going missing.

“The first demon to be killed -- and we’re very interested in how he did that, by the way -- was the de facto leader of Hell. When he died, he left behind a power vacuum which various demons have been trying to fill. From what we can tell, someone referred to as the Queen of Hell is now in power, though nobody seems to know much about her. What we do know, is that the demons are planning something very big, and they need the boy to do it.”

“They are planning the Apocalypse.” Missouri stated matter-of-factly. Jackie blinked once, twice, three times. Nope, too big.

“Come again?”

“The biblical Apocalypse. Four horsemen, fire and brimstone, the actual capital D Devil. Ring a bell?” Jackie’s mind was still stuttering, but there were definitely bells ringing. Warning bells the size of East Texas, that is. This was clearly not news to Mary and John, but they still looked disturbed by it. They were having the same trouble wrapping their heads around the freaking world ending. “Listen, can we skip the disbelief stage this time? We really don’t have time for it.”

“When is the Apocalypse happening, exactly?” Cho seemed to have a better grasp on her priorities than the rest. Or maybe the fact that she had been raised in the Life made her more accepting of new hard truths.

“Not in a long time, according to Van Halen, but the longer we wait the more certain the outcome becomes.”

“Where is he?” Jackie blurted. Missouri sighed, covering her face with her hands for a moment.

“He’s dead.” She finally said. “He was the one who knew the most about all of this, but he was also a very stubborn man, who refused to let others help with the serious issues.”

“He helped Barry and I fight a giant nest of vampires.” Cho pointed out. “Over a dozen hunters came along, and he didn’t mind that.”

“Van Halen didn’t consider a few dozen vampires to be a serious issue.” There was a beat of silence. Jackie was still reeling from the nope, too big of it all.

------

Dean Winchester was no stranger to death. That is, he was neither a stranger to dying, nor was he a stranger to Death with a capital D. Both of them. Still, it was kind of trippy to see both of them at the same time. Billie Reaper was leaning against the wall in her usual leather jacket and jeans. She naturally deferred to the elder Death, probably because she never wanted the job in the first place. The joy of having her boss back was not enough to overshadow her obvious dislike of Dean, though.

“Hello Dean.” The old man said, leaning on his cane and cocking his head. Dean got to his feet, back automatically straightening in the old man’s presence. Death was the only person that had ever truly terrified him, because for a very long time, he was the only being Dean couldn’t kill. Even now that he knew it was possible, the feeling didn’t leave. He was standing straight like a soldier, not prepared to attack because he knew he would never get the chance again.

He didn’t answer. He knew no response was necessary. The old man continued.

“We haven’t met yet, but I am told you know me quite well.” Billie had filled him in, then. Dean wasn’t surprised that Billie had come back as well. Atropos had warned him that some beings might not want their consciousness erased from existence when he went back, so they would most likely follow. Not that any of them were likely to be much help. “You want to stop the Apocalypse, I hear?”

“That was the plan, yeah.” Dean responded carefully. It didn’t seem like they were about to throw him into the Empty for being a nuisance, though judging from Billie’s expression, that had not been her decision. “You got a problem with that?” It didn’t come out as a challenge. He would never dare to do that. He just didn’t want to hang in suspense if Death was against him. Death seemed to consider it for a moment, and Dean meekly went along with the bullshit charade.

“Not really.” He said slowly. “I have been enjoying my rest, it would be a pity if some child should interrupt it with his petty squabbles. Nor do I care much for the goings of Fate. All I care about, is one rule.”

“What lives, dies.” Billie looked satisfied. It was a policy they had fought hard for, considering how often Sam and Dean messed it up over the years. “That goes for you too, Dean. You fell and cracked your head open, and your soul was released from your body. You are dead, and the dead should stay dead.”

“Should.” Dean dared to point out. “You’re not planning on keeping me dead, are you?” Death did not speak with ambiguity. If he wanted Dean to stay dead, he would say so.

“You should stay dead, yes.” Death responded, lip curling in something that might be amusement. It was hard to tell with the old man. “But the circumstances are extraordinary, I trust you would agree? The reapers cannot stop the Apocalypse. Originally, we were forced to simply accept the whims of the fool God and his Divine Plan. Thanks to you, that has changed. You may be granted a second chance at finishing your work, but you will have to agree to certain conditions.”

Dean wanted to ask what conditions, but he kept his mouth shut and waited for the primordial being to continue. He raised a crooked hand and counted off the conditions with his fingers.

“One: you must have a plan in advance. No running around the country desperately searching for the solution. You must stick to this plan to the best of your ability, and report your progress to Billie here.

“Two: you will not kill, harm a reaper unless they have gone rogue, and not interfere in the reapers’ work. This includes any and all attempts to resurrect any wayward friends, enemies, acquaintances and family members.

“Three: once the Apocalypse is averted, you will die and will be taken to the Empty to stay for the rest of eternity. Any attempt to avoid this will lead to the immediate death of both you and your entire family.”

Dean bristled at the threat to his family. “I know that clause upsets you, but think about it from my point of view. Billie tells me your family is equally as troublesome as you. If one of them is left alive while you die, they will do anything in their power to get you back. And at this moment, the only way they would know about to bring someone back would be selling their souls at the Crossroads.”

Dean felt the blood (or ether or whatever he was made of now that he was temporarily a ghost) drain from his face at the thought. “This way, they too will be brought to eternal rest in the Empty. Wouldn’t that be better than one or more of your family members trapped in Hell, potentially breaking the First Seal while they are at it?” Billie decided to speak up for the first time.

“This is the best deal you’re going to get, Dean. You could just make sure not to tell anyone the consequences, and everything will be fine.”

“Yeah, with me dead.” Dean snorted.

“Not really. There is still a ‘you’ out there, living and breathing, remember?” That... was actually a good point. Dying was very different for Dean than it was for other people. He pretty much had the whole afterlife figured out, and he was of the opinion that pretty much every alternative sucked, but going to the Empty was different. He had once been a staunch atheist who really, truly wanted to believe that death would mean the end of everything. Just eternal rest, not having to worry about anything. He later found out Heaven was real and boring as fuck, but the Empty was exactly what he had always wanted. Well, besides Purgatory. He liked Purgatory too, but there was no way Death was dropping him in an afterlife with an emergency exit for humans.

“Do we have a deal?”

“What happens if I die before the job is finished?” Dean asked. He was still a bit embarrassed at dying from a fall, of all things.

“You get a second chance, not a third.” Death responded sternly. “Though I suppose for you it would be more like your fifteenth chance?” Dean shrugged. He honestly hadn’t kept count. “This is the problem, Dean. You do not respect death. You keep your mouth shut in my presence, but as soon as I am gone, you plot to undermine me. You have created a world in which there is no fate. Do you want a world without death? Without relief, without end? Because if you keep bending the rules, everything will break.”

Billie pushed herself off the wall and approached, speaking more gently now. “You’ve done a helluva lot in a very short time, Dean. Hell, there are actual gods who will never even get close to the amount of influence you’ve wielded. But if you keep going like this, you’ll end up becoming like us.” She gestured not just at herself and Death, but at everything else. “Eternal. You will be here forever, with no rest, no aging, no permanence, because each time you are about to put the machete on the shelf and relax, something will pull you back in. It will keep going, Dean, forever. You could be immortal if you wanted to be. Hell, you could end up immortal even if you didn’t want to.”

“The rules say all humans live and then die. But if you keep acting like the rules don’t apply to you, then one day you won’t be human anymore, Dean. Is that what you want?” Death asked. Dean covered his face with his hands for a moment. He knew they were right.

Growing up, Dean had been taught a simple worldview: us and them. Humans and monsters. Over the years, the lines grew more and more blurred. You had humans and monsters and creatures and people and gods and human monsters and creatures and in some cases, just beings. Entities that lived on a whole different level, who didn’t just obey different rules, they made the rules. They enforced them. Dean had strayed from his job description a long time ago. The work he did hardly counted as hunting anymore. It was more of a mix between warfare, espionage, diplomacy and politics. He clung to the label even if it didn’t really fit him anymore.

He had strayed from humanity too, he knew. He had tortured souls in Hell, moments away from becoming a demon when Castiel had pulled him out. He had been a vampire for a while, masking his lust for human blood with a more figurative bloodlust. And then it was his six months spent as a Knight of Hell. The one time he truly fell over the line, with no intentions of going back. The Mark stripped him of everything he had loved, his very ability to love and care for the people around him. He still remembered the feeling, the weight off his shoulders when he realised he no longer had to give a flying fuck about anything or anyone but himself. But most of all he remembered that feeling of being distinctly not human. That small voice in the back of his mind telling him he no longer needed to eat that burger; it was pointless. Sleep was pointless -- and it would stay that way forever.

He couldn’t go through that again. He needed his labels. If what Death described happened, he would be unique. Alone.

“We have a deal.” He confirmed.