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Empty Earth

Summary:

Post-Episode 15x18 "Despair"

After Castiel's confession, Dean carries a spark of hope telling him this can't be the end. This spark is the strongest weapon for Dean, Sam and Jack in this final war. The enemy is God. The battlefield is an Earth devoid of humans, a Hell in rebellion against its queen, and a Heaven betrayed by its creator. And the stakes are everything and everyone they have ever cared about.

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Chapter 1: Dean

Chapter Text

~

Dean had been cold before. Spending the night in the Impala hadn't been a rare occurrence growing up, not even during winter. He had hunted in the middle of a snowstorm with a line of sight no longer than arm’s length. Once, he had even cracked through the thin layer of ice covering a lake and had found himself dripping wet and alone in a snowy forest in the middle of January. He knew what it was like to be cold.

 

Yet, nothing had been even remotely like this. The brick wall behind him and the concrete floor beneath him were sending a chill through his clothes, but the brunt of the cold seemed to come from within him. Loss had left a tear inside his chest he didn't know how to deal with, stinging, twisting. Making it hard to think, to breathe. Making him forget what warmth even felt like.

 

Flashes of memories shot through his mind, each of them launching a new icy dagger until nothing was left of him. He thought he was drowning in an ever strengthening dread that left no room for anything else.

 

Absurdly, the phone in his hand was his last threadbare connection to reality, feeling the vibrations tingle against the nerves of his fingers while numbly staring at the display. Even crying had been better, but his last tears had left him a while ago. The vibrations stopped again, sending him back into the swirl of ice and blackness in his mind.

 

When new sounds emerged shortly after, they didn't even register. Doors opening, voices calling, the shuffling of feet. Nothing was real. Nothing was here.

 

Sam must have spent a while calling his name before reaching out to shake him. The touch to his left shoulder pulled sharply at something in his mind. Something enormous. Dean blinked once, twice. The phone clattered to the floor.

 

"Dean?" Sam asked quietly, in stark contrast to his panicked voice from just before, only a vague shadow of a memory now. Sam was looking directly into his eyes, apparently having spotted the exact moment awareness had returned to them. "Dean, are you... with me?" he repeated in that same soft tone, only the slightest tremor in his voice betraying him.

 

Dean opened his mouth and rasped in a shaky breath, but still found it inexplicably hard to speak, so he just nodded. More information slowly seeped through to him. Jack was hovering nearby, in a careful distance of several feet, a conflicted expression on his face and his fingers curled into loose fists.

 

Sam was surrounded by an air of exhaustion. Even worse was the look of loss and utter defeat in his eyes. Words prickled on Dean's tongue, but stubbornly refused to emerge. It was Jack who finally cut through the silence.

 

"Where's Cas?"

 

Dean could feel the dread rise again, clawing at his chest. He swallowed against it. When he finally found his voice, it was a raw, trembling thing.

 

"He saved me," he said quietly, staring down at the floor. It was as if someone else was speaking, not him. "Billie was coming after us, so he summoned the Empty. To save me. It took her... and it took him." His eyes were helplessly drawn back to the spot on the wall where the blackness had appeared. "He's gone."

 

He couldn't bear to hear the sound Jack made, couldn't meet Sam's gaze. Nothing was right, nothing was like it should be. He was hollow, empty. Empty.

 

Sam's arms closed around him. Dean's eyes found Jack's, saw the world shattering in them. The sight of the kid still standing over there, alone, was a whole different kind of hurt, the angry words Dean had yelled still a fresh memory.

 

And suddenly he wasn't empty any longer—he was overflowing. It took only a slight tilt of his head in affirmation, then Jack was rushing over to them, kneeling at Dean's other side, sinking into their hug as if he hadn't been pushed away roughly more than once.

 

"I couldn't save anybody," Sam whispered, drawing another new shade of pain into the room. "They're gone... everyone's gone. It's just us now."

 

With a newfound fierceness, Dean pulled Jack close, pulled Sam close, held on to both of them and didn't let go. They clung to each other in silence, eyes closed, fingers clutching fabric like a lifeline.

 

~

 

Emerging from the dungeon and into the brighter light of the map room was strangely freeing. Dean's throat was parched. He spent several long seconds frowning at the contents of the fridge, the lingering cold from the dungeon still clinging to him. Then he closed the fridge with a tired sigh and prepared a hot drink for each of them instead.

 

Sam gave him a confused look when Dean set down the mugs on the table, but left the choice of drink uncommented. The hot chocolate brought the softest hint of a smile to Jack's face, but it was overshadowed again, mere seconds after, as all three of them sat and took some careful sips, staring off into the distance, drifting away.

 

"I'm not giving up," Dean blurted out before he even knew he was saying it. Two sets of eyes shot over to him, pulled out of the depths they had been sinking into. "I won't," he repeated, just to hammer the point home. "I refuse to believe this is it. We'll find a way to fix this, all of it. We always do. Chuck has been wrong about us over and over again. He's always underestimated free will. He tried to make us his puppets and failed every single time."

 

Sam exhaled, set down the mug, left his fingers pressed against the edge of the table. "But, Dean, this is God we're talking about. And he just snapped away humanity with nothing but a thought! Everyone..."

 

Dean wasn't exactly sure what had sparked that small flame of hope against all odds. It was a strange sensation, alien and familiar at once. Warm. He could feel it fuelling him, driving him, giving strength to his words. "Yeah, well, he left us. Big mistake. And he's never been almighty or we'd have done what he wanted us to long ago. He isn't even all-knowing or he wouldn't have that dumb look on his face every time we make our own choices. He's nothing but a fucking liar."

 

Dean could see it, could see that the spark had sprung over into Sam's eyes. And Jack—Jack was giving him that look of blind trust that shouldn't even be there anymore, that should have been wiped away in a wave of fury, but survived by sheer stubbornness. Like them. Madness, it must have been madness that made the corners of Dean's mouth twitch in something resembling a smile when all three of them should be beaten down beyond recovery. "And his writing sucks."

 

Sam snorted, actually snorted. They were going to raise a wildfire.

 

~

 

Knowing in theory that all of humanity was gone and actually seeing it for himself were two different things entirely. They had taken Baby for a drive because he had wanted to get out of the bunker for a while, clear his head to come up with a plan. It was a strange experience to drive through the cloudy sunset of Lebanon's deserted streets now, with abandoned cars blocking the way randomly, forcing him to drive in evasive maneuvers.

 

He stopped the Impala abruptly in the middle of a crossroads framed by small-town shops and pushed the car door open. Sucking in a deep breath, he got out and turned, but the sight was identical in every direction. Open doors leading into unattended shops, sidewalks littered with bikes, bags, phones and various other objects. Sirens of crashed cars were blaring the soundtrack to an apocalypse that had come and gone in the blink of an eye without anyone even noticing. The sensation of goosebumps ran over Dean's skin and he turned to look at Sam and Jack.

 

"Are we sure it's everywhere, not just here?"

 

"I mean, it's hard to tell for sure," Sam said with a helpless lift of his shoulders. "But after the... I tried to call every single contact in my phone and it went straight to voicemail every time."

 

A single TV screen was hissing at the entrance to one of the shops, showing nothing but static. Jack didn't say anything and crouched down at the sidewalk to examine two bags that had fallen, leaving their contents in a haphazard display all over the concrete. He picked up a colorful pinwheel and spun it idly between his fingers. Dean stepped closer with a frown, but froze the moment his eyes fell onto a poster in the window behind Jack, advertising The Witcher.

 

The other two must have heard his gasp and followed his gaze because they all started talking at once.


"What if Earth is the only..."

 

"Maybe it didn't affect..."

 

"Rowena!"

 

~

 

Feeling a rush should have been pointless now at the end of all things. Yet, Dean had been speeding all the way back to the bunker despite the road blockages.

 

"You're absolutely sure you have all the ingredients for the spell?"

 

"Dean." He didn't even have to turn his head to know Sam was rolling his eyes. "Do you really think the answer has suddenly changed since the last two times you asked me this?"

 

"Just... just making sure, man." Dean's hands left the steering wheel for a second in a placative gesture before grabbing it tightly. "We just need... something, you know?"

 

That sentence didn't even make a whole lot of sense, but it seemed to voice perfectly what they were all feeling.

 

"I know," Sam breathed out, more softly than before.

 

Jack had been sitting on the backseat in silence the whole way, but now he finally spoke, "We'll find something."

 

There wasn't even a shred of doubt in the kid's voice and Dean felt affection rising in his chest as they made eye contact in the rear mirror. Dean gave him the hint of a smile and he knew Jack had seen it because his lips twitched in reply, surprise widening his eyes.

 

He parked Baby in the bunker's garage with a fluid motion and they all jumped out of the car and started running down the stairs to the library as if they were following the same unspoken command. The last time Sam had used a portal spell wasn't long ago, so they all still remembered the location of Sam's ingredient boxes well enough to break into a coordinated flurry, gathering everything in the library.

 

Dean watched Sam kneel to draw a circle and Celtic symbols onto the ground with a piece of charcoal, the urgency they all sensed visible in his movements. He sprinkled the drawn lines with a thick, silvery powder consisting of who-knew-what, added something green from one of the boxes, ignited the whole thing with a lighter and stood up in the middle of the flaming circle. Then he gave Dean a quick, indecipherable glance before he spoke the incantation in a loud and clear voice.

 

"Spiorad an Domhan, éist liom. Nocht dom an cosán go dtí an tine shioraí. Treoirigh mé go dtí na daoine damanta." 1

 

Rowena's book was laying open on the table, but Sam apparently didn't have to look at it for some freakish reason. The language wasn't even Latin for this variant of the spell and Dean would never not be impressed to hear the strange words float off Sam's tongue as if they belonged there, to see the purple glow erupt from his brother's hands, opening a rift right there in an open space in their library.

 

It was absurd, really, how their lives had changed in a way that made stepping into a portal to Hell something he didn't even have to hesitate about, something he was doing with a vague feeling of expectation and hope.

 

"We should really get her a new phone one of these days," he joked, pushing the possibility of Hell being as empty as the streets of Lebanon and as every other city in the world to a small space somewhere in the back of his mind. "Or a landline to Hell, I guess."

 

Sam frowned at that, actually seeming to consider the thought like the nerd that he was before asking, "How did Crowley ever do it?"

 

"Hell if I know!" Dean grinned slightly at his own lame pun, waiting for Sam's reaction and relieved to see the mixture of exasperation and fondness on his face. Anything, anything other than that haunted look from the dungeon.

 

Dean stepped into the circle towards the portal, but stopped at Jack's quiet question.

 

"I can really come with you this time and don't have to... wait here?"

 

There it was again, that small sting of wrongness that Dean didn't quite know what to do with. He turned and grabbed Jack's upper arm.

 

"'course you'll come with us," he said, more gruffly than intended. "We're not leaving you alone now!"

 

"Yeah, Jack, we're in this together," Sam agreed and then Dean could feel another one of the contemplative stares his brother had been giving him repeatedly over the last few hours bore into his neck. "No leaving anyone behind this time. There's no flame to keep burning."

 

Whatever Jack was thinking about any of this, he was guarding it carefully and just nodded. Dean steered him into the circle with a gentle pull at his arm. The probably last three people on Earth left through a rift made of fire and light.

~

 

Footnotes:

1 Spirit of the World, listen to me. Unveil the path to the eternal fire. Lead me to the damned.

Chapter 2: Sam

Chapter Text

Given everything that had happened in the past, Sam had never expected the wave of relief flooding him for spotting a random demon in Hell. But here they were, facing a scraggly, brown-haired guy with black eyes in one of Hell's hallways, and it meant they weren't alone. They weren't the last beings in existence. God had ignored a major player on the board. Possibility hung heavily in the air, or maybe that was just the stench of Hell.

 

Sam wasn't listening as Dean demanded an audience with Rowena, too caught up in pondering what it might mean that Chuck had left Hell untouched. As Dean had pointed out, Chuck was not omnipotent, no matter what religious texts claimed. But too many lies were woven into the myth to still tell what was true and what wasn't.

 

What was a god anyway, considering all the information they had now? Why were Amara and Chuck equals, but with opposite domains? Why was it Light and Darkness? And why was Light currently trying to wipe out life itself while Darkness had been an ally to them before they had screwed that up?

 

None of this made any sense to him, but figuring it out might be the key to fixing everything. If it could be fixed. There was a twinge in his chest, a moment of doubt opening the black hole that would swallow him whole if he didn't keep it in check. He took a deep breath and pushed it back down, focusing on his steps that had been carrying him after Dean, Jack, and the demon on auto-pilot.

 

Watching his brother move with a silent determination, head held high, Sam couldn't help but wonder again what exactly had happened. He knew Dean, knew him better than he had ever known anyone else in the world. After decades spent together and more shared trauma than should reasonably fit into a lifetime, he had learned to read everything his brother didn't say.

 

How a smile and a quip could mean Dangerous territory, do not step any further! How an insistent "I'm fine", belied by the dejected bow of shoulders and by a body pushed to its limits, signalled the brink of collapse. How blind fury targeted at anyone who didn't know to take cover was Dean's only way to build a bridge over hurt that cut too deep to cross otherwise.

 

By all accounts, Dean should be drinking himself into oblivion right now. But this, this was not it. Sam had never seen him like this, not the way he had been in the dungeon with traces of dried tears all over his face, holding him and Jack like the world depended on it. Not the way he suddenly was with Jack in general. He could have considered a Shapeshifter, or some sort of divine trick, but deep down he felt this was truly Dean. Just, changed.

 

Sam himself was hanging by a thread and he knew it. Doing a weird balancing act here at the end of the world to keep going, but a single misstep would be enough for everything to come crashing down. He wouldn't have had the strength to pull Dean out of his own abyss, not this time. But, amazingly, he didn't have to. And he knew better than to risk this precarious balance by broaching the most dangerous topic of all.

 

They were approaching the oversized gates of Hell's throne room and Dean turned to look at him over his shoulder. A silent understanding passed between them and Dean smiled. Not the exuberant smile of a good day, just a thin, small thing really. But it was enough. Sam smiled back, then briefly touched Jack's shoulder in a fleeting gesture of support and saw the boy stand a little taller.

 

The gates swung open to reveal the throne room, now tinged in red from the window above that marked the change of rulership over Hell. Rowena stood the moment her eyes fell on them, the haste in her movement betraying her, even though her face gave nothing away. She watched Dean enter in silence, then Sam, then Jack, her gaze lingering on the open gate as if she was expecting someone else to follow.

 

"Leave us!" she barked before the demon could even speak to announce the visitors. As soon as the gates closed behind every demon that had been in the room before, Rowena's poise flaked away like dry leaves. She crossed the room, stopping just a few steps away, eyes wide and unguarded as she took in each of them. "I thought you were gone. I thought everyone was!"

 

Dean shrugged and the corner of his mouth twitched. "Yeah, well, we're like weeds. Can't get rid of us that easily."

 

Rowena gave Dean a closer look, sensing something, searching for something, and Sam cut in quickly before she could voice her question. "We're all that's left. It's just us—and Hell, apparently."

 

It took her several seconds to ingest his words and the suddenness of the outburst that followed surprised Sam enough to flinch slightly.

 

"You just had to go and rein in God! Nothing good has ever come of such foolish endeavors. What have you done?"

 

The question had been directed at Dean. Sam took a single step, positioning himself in between them, his voice soft. "Rowena."

 

She tore her eyes away from Dean, and the fight left her as fast as it had surged up, her shoulders deflating.

 

"We did what we had to," Dean said quietly behind him.

 

"Our choice was either doing it God's—Chuck's way... or our way," Sam agreed. "He got what he wanted in every other universe. And he wiped out all of them as soon as he had it. But this one's still here."

 

"We truly are the last ones then?" A wild grin ran over Rowena's face as she said it, her eyes desperately flicking back and forth between the three of them, something unhinged in her voice. "We are what is standing between this world and complete annihilation of everything in existence?"

 

Hearing it out loud turned Sam's resolve into a brittle thing. He swallowed, nodded. There was a question burning on his mind, something he had to know, but at the same time feared the answer to. He had to gather every ounce of strength he could muster to even force the words past his lips.

 

"Are any of them here, Rowena? Did they all... die?"

 

"Not a single one, Samuel. It would be ludicrous of me to speak for Heaven's side of things, but I doubt that whatever happened to them was death. One would think that, with billions of people, quite a few of them would have been hellward bound, aye?"

 

The reply stirred up a confusing mess of thoughts in his head. It should have been good news that everyone was not dead, but death at least would have given them a definite location, a place where they could find them. This, though... all they had with this was uncertainty and memories.

 

He could swear Rowena's eyes softened watching his reaction.

 

"Pray tell, lads, what is it that God desires so badly, the thing that he got in every universe but this one?"

 

"Us," Dean said, stepping up right next to Sam again. "Killing each other in some sort of shitty, dramatic showdown. Me killing Sam, Sam killing me, both of us killing each other, he's tried it all. Put the gun into our hands, but couldn't get us to pull the trigger."

 

"God... couldn't get you to," Rowena repeated flatly and Sam practically saw the gears turning in her head.

 

"Yeah, he's really not all he's made out to be," Dean said with a mirthless chuckle.

 

"That..." Something shifted in the way Rowena was holding herself, though she still seemed absorbed into some sort of thought process. "...sounds like something we can work with, aye?"

 

"It's something," Sam said.

 

"It's what we have," Dean agreed. "Trust me, I've also considered just giving him what he wants. Our two lives in exchange for every single other human—it wouldn't even be a question." Sam saw a slightly panicked look on Jack's face at these words, but Dean didn't seem to notice it. "If I thought there was even the smallest chance that he'd put everything and everyone back and let them live their lives if we did what he wants, I wouldn't even hesitate. But we know he destroyed all the other universes after getting his stupid showdown at noon there, so..."

 

"Us, resisting—it may be the only thing that's keeping this world spinning right now," Sam stated tiredly, searching out Rowena's eyes, then added with a sigh, "What's left of it, at least."

 

A few beats passed in silence.

 

"You Winchesters, just how do you manage it? Whenever I think I've seen it all, you come barging in with something even more outrageous. Mind you, this is the most utterly ridiculous situation you have pulled me into as of yet."

 

"Will you... help us then?" Jack asked hesitantly after having been silent for the entirety of the discussion so far.

 

"I certainly prefer existing to the alternative, dear. Choosing my side here isn't a terribly hard decision."

 

Sam voiced a question that had been bothering him ever since their arrival. "Rowena, what are the chances Hell is outside of Chuck's influence?" Everyone's attention shot over to him. "I mean, I don't get it, why didn't he just do with Hell what he did with Earth? Unless he can't."

 

The last thing he was expecting was the genuine smile that was slowly spreading over the witch's face.

 

"I have always liked the way you think, Samuel."

 

Sam was at a loss what to do with that, so he just left it hanging in the air, still surprised over how quickly Rowena had caught herself. She always seemed to be able to shift gears far more quickly than anyone else, sliding fluently from one state into the next and leaving everyone else puzzled. Maybe that was the point.

 

She considered the question for a moment before replying, "According to the Myth of Creation, God created Hell alongside Heaven, Earth and Purgatory. But, then again, he is also said to be the most powerful being of all, and having two puny humans resist his will doesn't really fit into that picture, does it now?" She lifted her hands as if to placate them. "No offense intended."

 

Sam was certain that wasn't how Rowena viewed them anyway. He saw Dean tilt his head in a slight shrug, the corner of his mouth twitching in a way that said he didn't even entirely disagree.

 

She continued, "God hasn't come knocking so far, so I wouldn't know for sure what he can or cannot do in my realm. But I dare say we should make use of every advantage we have. Hell might be a much safer place than Earth for all of us under the given circumstances. Speaking of our assets—" She regarded Jack. "You seem different, darlin'. What happened to you?"

 

"I'm..." Jack looked down at his hands. "I'm not one of these assets." He splayed his fingers, then closed them into fists. "I lost my powers... again."

 

Rowena reached out to touch the side of Jack's head in scrutiny, her eyes glazing over. Then she frowned and opened her mouth as if she was about to say something, but seemed to think better of it as Jack continued talking.

 

"I was turned into a bomb strong enough to take out my grandfather and my grandaunt, but I didn't—" He trailed off.

 

"A bomb to kill a deity? Wherever would you draw upon the inspiration for such a marvelous idea?"

 

Another smile crossed over the witch's face, but Jack seemed entirely unaffected by it, the urgency in his voice only hinting at the feelings Sam knew the boy must be hiding underneath.

 

"It all went wrong. I couldn't fix anything and Death sent me to explode in the Empty instead. I made it all worse. The Empty, it's angry at us now. It said I made it loud."

 

Jack had never mentioned this before. Sam was unsure about the implications, but he could basically feel the sudden tension radiating off of Dean as he asked, "Loud how?"

 

"I don't know. The Empty didn't say—that was when Death pulled me back out."

 

"The damage a bomb of that magnitude could do would be considerable," Rowena mused. "Quite possibly enough to threaten the structural integrity of whatever plane of existence it exploded in."

 

Dean suddenly grabbed her by the shoulders with an intensity that let her take a step backwards, and Sam almost stumbled in a surprised attempt to hold him back.

 

"Get me in! You have to find a way to open a portal and get me in!"

 

Rowena squared her shoulders in defense, but then she must have seen something in Dean's face that smoothed over her posture and voice. "That realm is not meant for humans. Even if I could, in theory, manage to create a portal leading there, we have no idea what would happen to you when you step in."

 

Sam felt his heart sink. He knew, beyond all doubt, that this was the exact moment that was kicking loose the first small rocks of a landslide he'd be utterly powerless to stop.

 

"I don't care. You have to get me in." Dean's fingers dug into the silken fabric of Rowena's red dress, his voice turning raw with emotion. "Please."

Chapter 3: Jack

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Jack was restless. This had been one of the most draining days of his entire life. But even though his body was exhausted, his mind couldn't find the calm required to drift over into sleep. Closing his eyes showed him a blackness he associated with the Empty. The Empty that had taken from him the one person who truly understood him, understood what it was like not to belong.

 

Castiel, he thought, not for the first time, pouring everything he still had into that one name as if he could make him appear by sheer willpower. He didn't dare open his eyes, because that would make it real, would prove to him that he could no longer do this.

 

Suddenly clinging to the blackness, avoiding the moment of inevitability, he kept his eyes closed, listening to his surroundings. Hell gave off a low thrum in his ears, as if the whole realm had a pressure level only just beyond compatibility with the parts of him that were human.

 

He could hear Sam and Rowena arguing softly at the other end of the room, their voices lowered to whispers. He could hear Dean's even breaths, slowly turning into short gasps. What he couldn't sense was a shift in the atmosphere indicating the momentary connection of two planes. Or the familiar, melodic touch of grace reaching out to his own through the ether, promising safety, acceptance, forgiveness—promising something that was unconditional and eternal.

 

Just that it wasn't. It had been ripped away from him just like that. No warning, no solace, not even a goodbye. Cas had assured him he didn't have to worry about the deal, that it was unlikely it would ever come to fruition. And Jack had believed him, both because he trusted him and because these words matched with what he knew about life.

 

Happiness was... this hazy concept. It was the split-second feeling when something good unexpectedly happened. Never tangible, never lasting, always gone before you could even realize it had been there. Regret, sadness, longing—those were different, more permanent, easier to recognize. But happiness was never pure enough to be discernible, always overshadowed by something else.

 

So of course he had believed life was rarely happy enough for the deal to trigger. It had made sense.

 

How was it possible, then, that Cas had found true happiness at the end of the world, while humanity was fizzling out around them like candles? While it seemed that every force in existence was trying to end them? Nothing made sense anymore. The world had lost the thread of coherence that had been so hard for him to piece together in the three years of his life.

 

He sat up and opened his eyes. There was nothing but empty space between the bed he was lying on and the nearby table Dean sat at, slumped over a book with his cheek resting against the pages and a blanket thrown over his shoulders. Castiel was not there. Of course he wasn't. The surge of despair in the face of his own helplessness was no surprise, but that didn't make it any easier to endure.

 

It took Jack a moment to realize that the motionless pile of Dean was no longer asleep and was, in fact, looking directly at him.

 

"Hey, kid," he said softly, detaching his face from the book.

 

Inexplicably, Jack felt caught out. On what, he didn't know.

 

"Hey," he returned, trying to rub the tiredness from his eyes, unsure what else to say.

 

"Couldn't sleep?"

 

"No," Jack breathed softly with a shake of his head.

 

"Yeah, me neither."

 

Dean seemed to wait for him to say something else, searching his face. When Jack made no attempt to continue the conversation, Dean sighed and stood. Jack expected him to leave, to join Sam and Rowena at the other side of the room, and was surprised when Dean instead crossed the distance and sat down at the foot of the bed.

 

"Listen, Jack..." Jack wasn't sure why those two simple words made him dig his fingers into the blanket. "I know you said you didn't want to hear it, but I think you should. I—I screwed up, okay?" This was so far removed from anything Jack had expected to hear that he looked up in shock, his fingers losing their grip on the blanket. "What I said about you, that was bullshit. I never believed that, not even for a second. I just... there was always this anger, you know?" Jack nodded, numbly. "And when I got angry, I'd say the dumbest shit I didn't mean. The things I've said to Sam over the years, to... to..."

 

The unspoken name hovered in the air between them, a looming shadow. Before Jack could think better of it, the question had already fallen from his lips, quiet like a secret, "What did you say to Cas?"

 

"Christ, Jack. I—" Dean rubbed over the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, breathed out. "I once told him he was dead to me. Dead."

 

The words were like a blow to Jack's stomach, but the shimmer of tears in Dean's eyes posed a counterweight to the hurt he felt on Castiel's behalf. "I don't—why?"

 

Dean took a few deep breaths, regaining his composure enough to continue. "Here's the thing. None of you deserve that crap. Yes, we've all done horrible stuff. You, me, Sam, C...—we all have. And we all wish we could just take it back, undo it somehow, but we can't. And I sure as hell know that we'll never forgive ourselves for what we've done. But we can forgive each other. That's what family is for. And Jack, you always have been family. Nothing will change that, not ever."

 

Jack was too far gone to regret the whimper leaving his lips as he scrambled towards the foot end of the bed, hurling himself at Dean. Arms welcomed him in an embrace that was safe, warm.

 

"Least of all some lying dumbass telling you you ain't family," Dean was murmuring into the embrace. "'m sorry, Jack. For... for everything. The Ma'lak Box, pointing a weapon at you, the shit I said, everything. I never should've..."

 

Jack couldn't tell if he was laughing or sobbing against Dean's jacket. Maybe both.

 

"I'm sorry, too, Dean. I'm so sorry."

 

"I know."

 

Jack buried his face against Dean's shoulder, felt fingers running through his hair. It was the most soothing sensation he could imagine.

 

"I know, Jack," Dean repeated. "I forgive you."

 

"I forgive you, too." The lightness in his chest was new, something he hadn't ever experienced before. He needed a moment to realize what it was. Pure, unadulterated happiness, rising above the loss and the despair. And suddenly he understood.

 

"We have to get him back."

 

The movement of Dean's hand stilled and it took several beats until he whispered in reply, "We will."

 

~

 

"I told you, Samuel, it wouldn't work! The fabric of the Empty is in no way comparable to that of Hell. Or Earth, Heaven, Purgatory, or Avalon, for that matter. It isn't a place in that sense of the word. It's everywhere. And nowhere."

 

"But there must be a way to reach it, to connect to it, otherwise the souls—uh."

 

"Essence."

 

"Otherwise the essence of angels and demons wouldn't be able to cross over when they die!"

 

"It's really not death per se, not in the way it is for humans. Souls transition, they change shape after death and—"

 

Rowena and Sam finally noticed they were no longer alone and looked up sharply when Jack and Dean stepped out of the shadow from the other half of Rowena's luxurious chamber. Jack felt uncomfortable having interrupted an important topic like this, especially when Sam's eyes widened at the sight of him.

 

He hadn't even considered the state he was in, tear-stained face and all. Sam's expression immediately darkened and he threw a glance in Dean's direction that was clearly accusatory. Jack hurried to wipe a hand over his face. A flare of protectiveness that made no sense whatsoever had him take a deliberate step closer to Dean.

 

This conversation had no words, but still contained the world between the three of them. Sam's frown eased, eyebrows lifting, his head tilting in a barely-there motion. The corners of Jack's mouth twitched. Dean cleared his throat, guiding Jack towards Rowena's and Sam's table with a gentle touch.

 

"What've you got?" he asked them.

 

"Not much," Sam sighed.

 

"Beg pardon?" Rowena bristled. "It feels like the three years of effort I have spent researching passage into the Empty are a wee bit underappreciated here."

 

"Three... what?" Dean blinked. "We've only been here for a few hours."

 

Rowena suddenly seemed very interested in the carpet beneath the table. Despite having spent time with the witch on multiple occasions before, Jack had rarely met a person who confused him more.

 

"I had my own reasons to research this. You see, it is a topic of grave impact on realmatic theory and it could forever revolutionize the outdated Almanach of the Arcane on portal transit."

 

Dean and Sam exchanged a look and Jack was starting to think there was something obvious he was missing. Something big. He had no idea what exactly that might be, though, or how to even begin asking about it.

 

"Realmatic... yeah, all right," Dean conceded. "So what you're saying is we can't just open a portal to get to the Empty like we can for Hell?"

 

"That is precisely what Samuel here and I have been discussing." Rowena took a sip from the glass standing in front of her. "This situation is very different because the Empty itself is different. It overlaps with the other planes. The best comparison I can give you is how the Veil exists in the same spaces as Earth does. And the Empty adds an entirely different layer to it all. This is why a regular portal could never work, we can't just add a gateway to the fabric of the respective planes, because here and there are the same, figuratively spoken."

 

"But... I was there," Jack said. He picked up one of the quills from the table and let his fingers run over the sides of the black feather, just so that his hands didn't feel so useless and idle. "Death must have used some kind of portal to send me there and bring me back again, right?"

 

"Why, yes, but that's Death. Not even the Queen of Hell has power that compares to that of Death itself. And the magic used by the two of us would be fundamentally different in its core. I cannot hope to recreate this in the same way Death did. And I also suspect that Death has a different relationship to the borders between planes than any other being does."

 

Without any warning, Dean stepped away from them towards the nearest wall. Jack worried for a moment that he might punch it in some sort of outburst and injure himself, but all he did was place both of his palms flat against the stone, then let his forehead sink against it with a trembling sigh.

 

The abrupt motion seemed to have shocked the room into silence. Jack wanted so badly to make a significant contribution to their efforts, but he simply had no idea what to say or do. Not without his powers. He wasn't even sure anymore where he would end up if he died right there on the spot. Would he still be sent to the Empty? Was he still part angel at all? If not, then what was he?

 

He realized he was holding the quill in his hand so tightly that it was close to breaking and quickly set it back down on the table before following Dean. There was a scraping noise from the chair getting pushed back as Sam stood, but Jack had already crossed the small distance to Dean. He hesitated, staring at the hunter's back in a moment of uncertainty. Sam halted, watching silently from a few steps away. Jack reached out to touch Dean's arm.

 

Despite their earlier conversation and the embrace, Jack couldn't help the nagging feeling of doubt if maybe this had been a mistake. Dean turned and gave him a tired, thin smile, though, so it couldn't have been all wrong.

 

"Rowena?" Sam asked with the urgency of a sudden insight and nodded to where Dean was standing. "What if we don't add a gateway to the fabric of the plane? What if we just tear down the wall?"

 

"That... would be a rather extreme way of doing it." She smiled. "There's no telling of the possible consequences. It would be risky, foolhardy even. Only a truly desperate person would attempt such a thing." Her smile widened.

 

Jack was even more confused now. "Why is that good?"

 

"Because," Dean said, weirdly calm. "Earth is already screwed if we don't do something. It's time to get desperate."

 

Jack sensed something. The ground trembled.

 

They all fell quiet, looking at each other in puzzlement. Nobody broke through the tense moment of silence until another, stronger tremble followed.

 

"What the..." Dean steadied himself against the wall with one hand, holding Jack with the other. Sam caught his balance at the edge of the table.

 

"Is this my grandfather?" Jack asked in dawning horror. God had already taken everything he possibly could from their family. If he was here now, it would be with a finality that had Jack tightening his grip on Dean's arm.

 

"Rowena?" Sam asked with an edge to his voice. "What are you not telling us?"

 

Jack noticed only now how strikingly quiet the witch had been throughout the tremors, and how she avoided looking at either of them.

 

"All right!" She abandoned her chair with a dramatic hand gesture. "There have been some minor... complications recently."

 

Dean closed his eyes and tightened his jaw. "Please tell me this is not what it looks like."

 

"Dean Winchester, after all the effort I've been through!"

 

"Rowena." Sam grabbed her sleeve. "Rowena, we know you're not betraying us. We trust you. Just, please. Tell us what's going on."

 

Another tremble made them all stumble to the nearest wall.

 

"There's a—a faction among Hell's denizens. Ungrateful bastards! They want—"


The door to Rowena's chamber was flung open and several demons poured into the room.


"Dean!" Jack called out and Dean ducked down, evading a blow that hit a bookshelf instead of his head. The whole thing came crashing down, burying the hunter beneath a hail of books and wood planks. Before any conscious decision could even run through Jack's mind, he had already positioned himself between the mound of books and the invaders.

 

The angel blade felt different in his hand now that he was powerless again—it was heavier, colder. He rammed it into the back of the demon that had brought the bookshelf down. The demon's true form flickered through from the Veil several times, curved horns and an aura of black, billowing smoke against the yellow backdrop of the ether, glowing eyes filled with an eternity of suffering. Jack saw the form dissolve and knew it to be on its way to the Empty. No vessel had been left behind, the only trace of the demon's existence the broken furniture left in its wake.

 

Jack whirled around just in time to face three demons attacking him at once. He took a blow to the head and stumbled backwards, toppling over entirely when something crashed into his ribs. Physical pain was also different now, far more intense, knocking any coherent thought out of his mind. As he hit the floor, crowded by the demons hitting and kicking brutally, he pushed his palm upwards, acting purely on instinct. He expected his hand to release a wave of power, as if he was still the same. But he wasn't. No light appeared. His ribs flared with pain and his heartbeat was louder in his ears than anything else in the room.

 

Then one of the demons was thrown off his chest and it took him a moment to realize that this hadn't been his own doing but Sam's. The hunter and the demon were grappling on the floor near his feet and Jack remembered the blade he was holding. He tightened his grip on it and made another one of his attackers fizzle out of existence. The third one was still keeping him pressed to the floor, not giving him a chance to get back to his feet.

 

He saw additional demons stream into the room and tried to push his blade into the stomach of the one holding him down, only to have a violent shove against his arm fling the weapon away. The telltale sound of ethereal flickering told him Sam had been more successful, but the newly arrived demons cut Sam off from him. With his arm now pinned down, he struggled and kicked aimlessly. Then a sudden thud hurled the demon away from him, lifting the weight from his chest and letting him breathe again.

 

The remains of the wood plank that had once been a shelf board clattered to the ground around him and a hand pulled him upright, steadying him. Despite the chaos around them, Dean gave him a worried once-over. Jack nodded in reply to the silent question. While Dean was now holding an angel blade of his own, Jack tried to spot where his had fallen, but it was impossible to see anything in the mess of fighting bodies. For lack of any better alternative, he grabbed the nearby wooden chair and tried to keep the demons away from Dean long enough for him to cut a way through to Sam.

 

"Ignis aeterne, coniunge nos. Cape tenebram. Claude. Compesce!" 2

 

He suddenly became aware of Rowena's chanting behind them and dared to turn around for a second to see symbols glowing on her outstretched palms that hadn't been there before, the orange light beneath barely restrained by her skin, urging to break free. Her voice grew from a quietly muttered verse on repetition into a burst of a crescendo that illuminated the room in an eruption of light.

 

"IGNIS AETERNE, CONIUNGE NOS! CAPE TENEBRAM! CLAUDE! COMPESCE!"

 

The way the combat had moved them, Jack was now the one standing closest to Rowena. A thick line of fire moved from her to him, surrounding him in flames that seemed to rise from his own skin without burning him. He gasped and the chair fell from his grip as he watched the outline of his hands become engulfed in flames. The fiery line proceeded to stretch not only between the two of them, but advanced quickly from himself to Dean. The hunter's movements froze only for a brief moment in reaction to the appearance of the flames, then he continued his efforts to break through the demons to the spot where they had last seen Sam.

 

The trail of fire continued straight into the cluster of demons at Sam's location and Jack noticed the room light up even more when the flames must have sprung over to Sam as well. The line connecting them all rose above their heads, growing outwards from each of them to create a more intricate pattern in the air that turned out to be a pentagram. Flaming symbols appeared at each side of it as if drawn with an invisible quill of fire.

 

The flames surrounding their bodies died down, but the pattern above remained strong. After realizing a majority of the room had now turned into a devil's trap, Jack and Dean no longer attempted to fight each enemy separately, instead just forcing their way through to Sam in a collaborative series of pushes and shoves. Upon finally reaching him, they both grabbed Sam's jacket and all three of them stumbled backwards together, crossing the line that marked the border of the trap above them.

 

They were all breathing heavily and exchanged quick glances. Now that the immediate danger had passed, the pain between Jack's ribs returned with a vengeance and he pressed a hand against his stomach. Some of the demons were still trying to reach them and growled in rage as they rebounded off the invisible barrier that confined them, but they fell quiet when a deep voice spoke from beyond the trap, outside in the hallway.

 

"You have no right to do this. You don't even have a right to be here! Your mere presence in these halls is a stain on this place and everything it stands for!"

 

Jack frowned, trying to make out in vain who the speaker was. He couldn't actually see anything, but he could sense the aura of power emanating from the hallway. Not the strongest he had ever felt, especially not given recent encounters with his blood relatives, but tangible nonetheless.

 

"Bold assumption, considering the fact that it's you who is making it," Rowena said loud enough to be heard outside. "Was it not your own deeds that brought us all here? Do your so-called followers even know the truth?"

 

"You pathetic, little bitch! I will personally crush your soul beyond recognition and turn you into the—"

 

"Murus silentii!" 3 Rowena yelled, pushing both of her palms out in a line. With an incongruously pleasant smile, she adjusted her hair. Not a single sound from any of the demons could be heard any longer and that only made their own breathing appear even louder in the quiet of the room. Jack pressed his jaws against each other, too distracted by the attempt to suppress any pained noises to entirely follow the conversation.

 

"Okay, what the fuck is going on? Care to fill us in, maybe?"

 

"As I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted, there's a faction of demons still clinging to concepts so ridiculously outdated that it's as sad as humanity's blind faith in a God that turned out to be not only uncaring, but outright hateful."


"Wait a second...," Sam interjected. "So you're saying there's an ongoing civil war in Hell?"

 

"Is there ever a time when there's not?"

 

"Fan-frigging-tastic." Dean rubbed over his temples. "And you didn't think to mention that? You told us Hell was safe!"

 

"Admittedly, 'safe' may have been a wee bit of an overstatement. But even with my guards and my protective wards gone, I still stick to the assessment that Hell is safer than Earth when there is a chance we are outside God's influence here. We handled those demons, didn't we?"

 

Seeing the trapped demons rampage against their confines without so much as a single noise was a strange experience in Jack's already hazy state. He had a second of advance warning, the hairs on his skin standing up, before a blast of pure rage shook the ground another time, originating from the hallway. The fiery lines of the devil's trap flickered, but remained intact. For now.

 

"How long is this going to hold them?" Jack asked and regretted speaking instantly because he was afraid his voice had betrayed him, strained against his pain. The last thing anyone needed right now was to worry about him. He tried to support his weight against the table surreptitiously.

 

"I'm..." Rowena's shoulders sank in a sigh and she suddenly sounded tired. "I'm honestly not sure. The source I draw my power from has shifted now that I am no longer alive. All of this is new territory for me as well. The afterlife doesn't exactly come with a Handbook for the Modern Witch."

 

The ground trembled again and the flames flickered a lot more this time. Dean examined the room, a new tension in his voice. "Can you get us out?"

 

"Once my soul crossed the threshold to Hell after being separated from my body, it abandoned any ties to Earth it still had. The portal magic is built upon those ties, woven around them. The only way out of Hell for an unbound soul is through an open Hellgate."

 

"So we're trapped in here, is what you're saying! With the only way out blocked by some douchebags on a power trip?" Dean glanced towards each of them, then the walls and the door in rapid succession, murmuring, "Not again! Can't believe this is happening again, twice in one damn day!"

 

The sight of panic slowly growing on the hunter's face should have worried Jack more than it did. But somehow he felt detached from everything but the searing pain under his fingers.

 

"Dean." Sam held out a small cloth bag. "Dean. We're not trapped. We didn't know what we'd find in Hell, so I brought the ingredients for the portal back to Earth." Jack heard Dean exhale in relief, but Rowena showed no reaction, gazing forward as numbly as Jack felt. Sam gave all of them a wan smile. "Would have been stupid not to, right?"

 

The power from the hallway surged up again, more insistently this time, testing the strength of the barrier. They spent a held breath staring at the flame pattern burning down almost entirely before coming back to life much weaker than before.

 

"Start drawing, Sammy!"

 

Sam and Dean sank down to their knees and Sam took the charcoal out of the bag, drawing the circle and its first symbols with jerky movements. Jack stepped forwards to join them, but a pervasive twinge in his ribcage made him flinch and he retreated to his earlier spot on shaky legs.

 

"Munio. Corroboro. Invalesco!" 4 As Rowena concentrated on the fading devil's trap, Jack gave up on standing without support and leaned his full weight back against the table, squinting against the pain, wishing he hadn't tossed the chair aside earlier. The spell brought no visible change, the flames still declining steadily. "It's not working, it's the wrong domain! Hell's energy never strengthens. And this spell was never meant to withstand interference like this!"

 

The power flares from the hallway changed their pattern, no longer strong bursts, but a steady flow that let the ground tremble constantly without cease, giving Jack an even harder time staying upright. He watched in silence as Sam's hand slipped on the unstable surface and the hunter cursed under his breath, erasing a ruined symbol and starting it from scratch. Jack wanted to help so badly instead of being a useless burden.

 

Dean frantically rummaged through the bag, then tossed it back down in frustration. "There's only one piece! I can't help you draw this shit!"

 

"Munio. Corroboro. Invalesco," Rowena kept chanting in futile attempts of support, entirely ignoring her own earlier words, but it was obvious the flames couldn't endure much longer.

 

"Sammy! Sam! Draw faster!"

 

"Not helping, Dean," Sam muttered without looking up.

 

Jack finally lost his fight against gravity and stumbled to his knees near the brothers, the movement another sharp tear at his insides. Something trickled out of his nostrils and down over his lips. Breathing was hard, finding his voice impossible. He reached out and touched Dean's arm as the hunter started spreading the silvery powder over the symbols that were already finished.

 

Dean didn't notice, fully focused on Sam's drawing, covering every new symbol as soon as it appeared with both the powder and the green substance. The thoughts in Jack's head became increasingly incoherent and he figured there was a joke somewhere in the fact that Sam had troubles in getting a lighter to work in Hell.

 

"Incendo!" 5

 

Spots of black appeared in Jack's vision and he desperately sucked in air, trying to make sense of the voices around him.

 

"What do you mean, you're not coming?!"

 

"I told you, unbound souls cannot travel between realms like this."

 

"Sam!"

 

"I am not leaving you behind!"

 

"SAM!"

 

Blackness.

~

 

Footnotes:

2 Eternal fire, connect us! Contain the darkness! Restrain it! Imprison it!

3 Wall of silence!

4 I fortify. I reinforce. I strengthen.

5 I ignite!

Notes:

I had been pondering for a while on whether I should publish this as a work-in-progress or not, but I've been struggling quite a bit with bouts of writer's doubt, since I've never before published anything in this fandom, and English isn't even my native language. Others have to be so much better and more experienced with all of this. So I wondered what the hell I even think I'm doing here, starting with something like this instead of something short and sweet, like a sane person would have done? But not me. Of course not me. Sigh, typical.

Stories had always been living in my mind, but I had never dared actually releasing any of the words from my mind to (virtual) paper for fear of failure. Yes, that's stupid, but it's still how it was. I had such a clear vision in my head after 15x18 on how it would continue in the last two episodes. There were just so many strands of plot and development for a multitude of characters that had been brought up over the last two seasons, and the way I saw it in my head, all of those strands were running into each other in a way that made too much sense to me not to happen. And then I was absolutely stunned when nothing, not one thing of it, happened. In a way, I'm weirdly thankful to how much the finale puzzled me, because that fact is what unchained me.

With today being the 6-month-anniversary of the confession scene, I had the feeling the time had come to finally post this, after I had only dared to share this with a handful of people before. (You have no idea how mortified I was the first time I showed parts of this story to anyone for the very first time.) Many thanks go out to the first three people who have read (parts of) this, two of which will likely never see these notes: the three Bs — my boyfriend, my best friend, and my beta!

Anyway, some positive energy would be much appreciated to help me over those phases of doubt that appear at random times. Comments are a writer's lifeblood! I actually got ridiculous enough at one point that I got intimidated by myself from a few months ago and thought I had lost the ability to continue what I had started. But whenever I get over myself and stop doubting and start writing, the words start flowing out of me (even the characters do stuff on their own! My initial plan was to start the whole thing with passage into the Empty at a later point, but of course Dean refused to wait even a moment longer and pushed Rowena into the research). That's what being a prophet must feel like, huh?

I... might be rambling, so I better stop. Thank you so much if you've read until here, love you all!

Chapter 4: Dean

Chapter Text

The flames expired, the barrier broke, Jack collapsed against him without any warning, and Dean's mind switched into survival mode to keep him from losing it right there and then. He picked up Jack and held his slumped form upright with one arm, then grabbed Sam's shoulder with his free hand. The opened rift at his back was like a warm breeze running over his skin.

 

"SAM!"

 

Rowena stood at an angle that let her watch both the rift and the failing devil's trap. Her eyes were wide, with an expression he had never seen on her before, not even when she had flung herself into an abyss in a final grand gesture of self-sacrifice.

 

"Manete!" 6 she yelled with a hand movement towards the tide of demons swarming them, and he could tell from the look on her face that she had known in advance the spell wouldn't have any effect. Her eyes met his and her lips formed "Go!", but something kept his feet rooted to the spot. Every fiber of his being fought against how wrong it felt to leave her to whatever asshole stood outside in the hallway. He still tried to pull his brother in the direction of the rift, but Sam struggled free.

 

"No! Rowena!"

 

Dean reached out again and just barely got hold of a part of Sam's jacket, his movements impeded by Jack's weight in his other arm. Sam's outstretched fingers grazed Rowena's hand the moment the first demons arrived at her position.

 

"Possess me!"

 

The last thing Dean saw was the shock on Rowena's flickering form as he waited until the very last second to yank at Sam's jacket, lurching backwards through the rift and holding on to both Sam and Jack for everything he was worth.

 

They ended up in a messy heap in the middle of an onion field, the flaming rift the only light source in the darkness of night. Dean's fingers still refused to let go of the reassuring fabric they were clinging to and he nodded towards the rift, breathing heavily. "Close it! Can you close it?"

 

"There is no need for that," Sam said. "They cannot follow, not a single one of them still has a vessel. God was very thorough in his eradication. In fact, you three must now be the only viable vessels left in any of the planes. Not so viable of an option for a demon, of course." Sam brought a hand to his clavicle, patting the spot where his shirt was covering his tattoo, and smiled tiredly. "It had to prove useful sooner or later that I refused to be turned."

 

Dean was still coming down from the adrenaline spike of a life-or-death situation and his brain really couldn't handle the disconnect of the words leaving his brother's mouth right now. He closed his eyes and let his head sink backwards to the ground. After a few deep breaths, he shook off his exhaustion in an effort of will and sat up to check on Jack.

 

The kid was still unresponsive. A thin trickle of blood had spread all over his cheek after the chaos they had just escaped. Dean was relieved to find a pulse and feel Jack's breath ghost against his hand. He gingerly wiped the blood away with his own sleeve and adjusted the messy way they had landed into a position safer for Jack's breathing. Pushing the nephilim's shirt aside revealed an ugly, dark bruise on his chest. Dean removed his own jacket he had been wearing all day and spread it over Jack as too thin a barrier against the cold, then he looked up at Sam.

 

"This ain't something I can stitch up. Can you heal him?"

 

"I... I'm afraid I can't. The Tree of Life isn't a power source to the dead. Samuel, of course, doesn't have this problem, but healing is far beyond anything I have taught him so far. Realigning every atom in a living body is a delicate process and even the smallest mistake can have devastating consequences."

 

"We can't call 911. There's nobody left to call! Let him try it!"

 

The look he got in reply didn't mean anything good.

 

"I wish I could. I was as careful as possible given the circumstances, but I had never done this before! I always much preferred the thought of staying in my own shape."

 

"What are you saying?" Dean was pretty sure he didn't want to know the answer.

 

"Samuel fell unconscious the moment I possessed him." Sam lifted his hands quickly. "Don't worry, it's only temporary. He will recover on his own."

 

Black tears started to trickle out of Sam's eyes.

 

"You have got to be kidding me," Dean whispered desperately.

 

Sam frowned and touched the ectoplasmic liquid on his cheeks.

 

"I should leave. This is putting too much strain on his body." He hesitated. "Manifesting from the Veil surely cannot be as hard as they say. I'm a fast learner."

 

Dean had nothing left to say. All he could do was stare numbly as the viscous substance ran down further over his brother's face.

 

"Dean," Rowena said more softly than she had ever spoken to him and placed Sam's hand on his shoulder. "You could have left me behind, but neither of you did. Thank you."

 

Sam's eyes rolled back in his head and Dean, still kneeling near Jack, did his best to stop the fall as his brother's body went limp.

 

"Sammy?" he asked quietly. The silence following the question did not come as a surprise. His own breathing and the hum of energy from the rift behind him were the only sounds he could hear.

 

Dean looked at Jack, at Sam, at the whole lot of nothing surrounding them on that frigid field as far as the sparse light allowed him to see. Then the rift disappeared with one last hiss, and with it the only source of light and warmth. Not even the moon or stars were visible in the sky, leaving Dean in darkness that was so absolute that it felt stifling.

 

He was trembling slightly in the cold and tears suddenly stung in his eyes, but he didn't even care anymore. Not like anyone was there to see them. He let them run freely and held Sam closer to his chest. Moving Jack any further was something he didn't want to risk, but he blindly felt his way through the mulch until his fingers found skin, and closed his hand around Jack's.

 

"Fuck," he sobbed into Sam's hair.

 

Trying to sort his thoughts was much harder now that there weren't any enemies to fight. They couldn't stay here, the cold would get to them sooner rather than later. This place left them entirely open and defenseless. And most importantly, Jack needed help, fast. He shook Sam by his shoulders, but was met with the same impenetrable silence as before. Taking stock of his options, he reached for the pocket of his jacket. Then he remembered that the jacket was now wrapped around Jack, the weak protection it offered more symbolic than it was of actual use. He decidedly did not allow his mind to conjure the image of the bloody handprint covering the fabric. Instead, he focused on placing Sam down near the kid with careful movements.

 

Blind in the darkness, Dean fumbled as he searched through all of their pockets, identifying each item only by touch and taking much longer than he normally would have. The result was sobering. An undefined amount of small change that was good for absolutely zilch in a world without people. Half a pack of chewing gum. A paper he couldn't read in the dark, their lighter having disappeared to who-knew-where. Some sort of stupid little toy figure that pricked his finger with a sharp edge while he was trying to find out what it was. Keys to a car and home that were nowhere near them. Two angel blades, the smooth metal instantly recognizable under his fingers. His pistol. And two phones, one of which had run out of power by now, the other not far behind. No reception on either of them. Jack, as he did so often, had forgotten to bring his phone again.

 

Dean stared at the red sheen of the low-battery warning in the middle of the display as if it could offer him any answers. The phone's dim light did reveal some information. The chewing gum was orange-flavored, the toy figure stemmed from the cereal box in the bunker's kitchen, and the writing on the paper was Sam's notes on the portal spell he had used to bring them back. Dean rubbed his hands through the wetness on his face with an exhale akin to bitter laughter at how useless all of it was.

 

He turned off the phone to conserve what little power it had left and stuffed everything back where it had come from. The light from the rift before hadn't been strong enough to see how far exactly the field stretched. Nothing but onion plants had been visible in any direction. Even with the bone-deep tiredness he felt, he'd probably manage, somehow, to carry one of the two motionless bodies far enough to reach a house, or at least an abandoned car. That, of course, would require leaving the other behind, without a guarantee to ever find his way back in the dark. No way in hell was he gonna do that. He sank back down to his knees between Sam and Jack.

 

"Castiel," he whispered before even realizing it, surprised at hearing the name leave his lips. The shape of it felt strange now, after he had consciously avoided to say or even think it, fearing the abyss it would open. Instead, it felt like opening the door to the bunker, a permanent home he had never known growing up, but then found. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, knowing damn well what separated them couldn't just be crossed with a thought. There were so many things he could say, choking him from the back of his throat, but there was no point if Cas couldn't hear them in the Empty.

 

Just the thought, though. Cas still existed. He existed, he was in an actual place. A place he had come back from multiple times before, a place it was possible to come back from. A place Dean could reach. He'd get him back. He'd do everything. He'd do anything. It was a law of the frigging universe that Castiel always came back to him.

 

But first, Dean had to get them out of this mess. And that required nothing less than a miracle. He shuddered, sucking in the cold air and kneeling up straighter at a sudden thought. Michael wasn't exactly a fan and hadn't answered any of their prayers, but maybe Dean had been looking for a miracle in the wrong places. There was something none of them had thought to try before. This was a long shot, he knew. One that had the potential of making everything so much worse, to bring Chuck down on them right then and there. He had to believe that survival instinct would win over blind devotion.

 

"Naomi?" he asked and waited tensely. "I'm not—not sure if you can hear me. Hell, I'm not even sure if you're still there at all. Chuck, he doesn't care about angels any more than he does about humans. He doesn't love anyone but himself. You know I'm right. If he hasn't already, he'll blast you out of existence along with everything else, without so much as a second thought. That's what he did in all the other universes. He said so himself, there was nothing left. He isn't going to spare Heaven, he never intended to. You were right back then, we're on the same side. Now it's us—anyone that's left—against him."

 

Dean swallowed. His hands were shaking and the clouds of his breath were icy against his face.

 

"Jack is... he's dying. Of a regular stupid injury. The few of us who are left, we need each other, we have to protect each other. We can't—please, I can't—I can't lose anyone else. He's my son and I can't lose him. I'm—I'm in the middle of nowhere and I'm all alone and there's nothing I can do to save him. But you can. I need your help, please. I trust you, I trust you to do the right thing."

 

Nothing happened. He had no idea at what part of the prayer he had started fucking crying again. Maybe he had never stopped. Maybe Naomi was long gone. This was insane. All of it was insane. He was losing it, obviously. Crying more tears in a single day than he had in his whole damn life and nothing of it made any sense whatsoever. All the stuff getting thrown at him, constantly, must have finally managed to break something.

 

Still on his knees, he shuffled over to where he knew Jack was lying and moved his hand through the darkness until he found the small disturbance in the air above Jack's face that indicated his breath. He could swear it was getting weaker. Sam's felt much stronger in comparison.

 

Dean wouldn't leave either of them, he wouldn't. But he was so tired. He sank backwards until he was lying on his back between them in the mulch, staring up into a sky that was almost indistinguishable from the ground. If he looked really closely, there was the jagged outline of a cloud that was touched by a pale, white light. So the moon still existed. Good to know.

 

The light was moving. It was growing bigger. It was a blinding contrast to the night sky, having Dean half-cover his face with his arm. His brain kicked in eventually and reminded him that Rowena had said all vessels had disappeared. Shit, he really hadn't thought that one through. The haunting memory of burned-out eye sockets at the forefront of his mind, he hurried to cover Sam's and Jack's eyes with jackets, even though he wasn't entirely sure it was needed in Jack's case. Better safe than sorry. At least he could finally see what he was doing in the glow of the approaching light.

 

What he should have done next, what any sane person would have done, would have been covering his own eyes. Instead, running entirely on instinct now, he let his arm sink down to his side. He really had gone crazy somewhere along the way, hadn't he? Lost his damn mind.

 

Facing the light head-on, he was stunned into silence, his mouth left agape. The sheer size of it made him feel like an insignificant speck of dirt. The enormous form was glowing in a golden orange interspersed with pure white, shifting constantly, using a dimension of movement human brains couldn't even process. It was entirely impossible to ever focus on any part of it. There were eyes, somewhere, he thought dazedly. Or maybe that had been a trick of his mind. He couldn't even remember what he had seen just a second after seeing it. Lightning in the vague shape of wings spread behind the form, but it was weirdly interrupted by empty black spaces in between, preventing the strings of lightning from connecting with each other.

 

He finally remembered to breathe again and found his voice for a single quiet statement.

 

"Son of a bitch."

 

He expected a high-pitched noise in reply, loud enough to blow out his eardrums, but it failed to make an appearance. Instead, a whole choir of whispers rose around him, hard to understand, all of them talking over each other, and not even about the same thing. The drawn-out, dark syllables he recognized from Enochian spells were somewhere in the background of it all. He was surprised to find that the louder, clearer whispers were actually all in English. Single words were gliding to the surface of the pool of thoughts from time to time, intoned by more voices than the rest of the whispers.

 

trust soul bright changed faith true righteous defender creation human earth heaven

 

"Uh... hi?"

 

Holy fucking shit, what was he even doing here? What was this? Angels weren't like... this wasn't... this wasn't real.

 

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"I... N—Naomi?"

 

nephilim vessel heal soul power protect save nephilim

 

Right. Jack. Jack needed help and Dean had to get a grip on himself. He swallowed.

 

"I... hope you can understand me better than I you. Uhm... vessels, yeah. I heard they're out of fashion now. So, can you still heal Jack without a vessel?"

 

earth untied focus powers heal soul save

 

Dean narrowed his eyes in concentration, trying to figure out the exact meaning of this string of words. The moment he caught himself tilting his head slightly, a shiver of recognition ran over his skin. That head tilt. Shit. This was so far beyond... how had he never known? How had he never seen this? And why was everyone who was far more qualified for this conversation either unconscious or outright not here?

 

"I take that to mean you can't because... your powers aren't tied? To Earth? Okay then, what do you need me to do? Say yes? Is that it?"

 

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"Uh—did you just reject me as a vessel? Now that's a new one." Dean huffed out a breath and ran his hand through his hair. "I just... shit, I don't have a clue what you're saying and Jack is running out of time!"

 

soul power focus grace human body consent heal hurt threshold dying

 

He threw a desperate glance at Jack's unmoving form. His face was lifeless and pale in the orange glow and Dean was pretty sure the color on his lips wasn't looking quite right anymore, though it would have been easier to tell in a more neutral hue of light. If they were going to save the kid, they had to do it now.

 

"If you can somehow use my soul or my body to channel your mojo to heal Jack, then just... do it. Please. You have my permission."

 

White radiance pulsed through the vast creature in front of him and he wasn't sure anymore if it had been such a good idea to leave his eyes uncovered. Or to get out of bed this morning, really. A strand of light shot outwards, crackling with energy. Before he could question anymore what the hell he thought he was doing, he closed his eyes and stretched both arms to the side.

 

The light buried itself deep into his chest and he heard screaming, probably his own. He was strongly reminded of his time in hell, of a red-hot poker digging into his skin, but he tried to cling to the thought that this would save Jack. Clenching his jaw, he brought his body back under control just enough to reach out and touch Jack's chest with one hand.

 

The radiant glow surged over from Naomi to him to Jack and now the high-pitched noise was there. But this time, he could make out the separate voices behind it, combining into one, chanting Enochian syllables with a resonance that no longer let him hear his own screams.

 

Loh-en-sah oh oh-ee koh-en-gah-em-peh-hoh-el-gah-hoh ee-deh-loo-gah-mah. 7

 

His nerve endings were on fire. He was molten lava. He was an exploding star. And then it was over as fast as it had started. He lay on the ground panting, clutching his chest in the aftershocks of the pain, wishing not for the first time for this bitch of a day to finally be over.

 

He heard Jack cough in a breath and knew everything had been worth it.

 

"Naomi, thank you. Thank you! I shouldn't have doubted your side in this."

 

trust ally faith righteous Dean Winchester defender creation mankind angels champion earth heaven

 

Hearing his own name this way was never going to be not creepy. Jesus. He wasn't even going to try sorting through whatever this word string had been. With a last touch of warmth to his chest, the orange light faded into nothing, leaving Dean's world thoroughly shaken to its core. He had no words, absolutely none, to describe what had just happened when Jack quietly said his name.

 

"Dean?"

 

"Jack? Jack, hey! Are you all right?"

 

"I... think so?"

 

Dean moved quickly through the darkness towards the voice to pull the boy into a hug, the afterimage of an orange glow still in his eyes. "You are staying out of fights from now on, you hear me? 'Least until we get to train you some more on human combat."

 

"Okay." He could feel the puff of air against his neck as Jack breathed. "I wasn't very good in that fight, was I?"

 

"You almost died, Jack!"

 

"I just... I wanted to help."

 

"I know." He tightened the embrace, understanding all too well the need to prove one's worth. "I know. But damn, never do that again." With a final pat on Jack's shoulder, he stood and helped Jack to his feet. "You good? Anything still hurting?"

 

"No. I'm fine." Jack hesitated. "What's wrong with Sam? Will he be okay? And Rowena? My memory... it doesn't seem to be working right." Jack sounded at the same time frustrated and entirely perplexed by this fact in a way that only someone who had never experienced a real hangover could.

 

That kid and his innocence, even after everything they'd all been through. Dean exhaled a quiet chuckle. It was damn good to have Jack back.

 

"We all made it, Jack. It's all right, Rowena said Sam will wake on his own. Just need to find a safe spot to bunk for the night."

 

"Dean, why is it so dark?"

 

Which, he probably should have been asking himself that same question for a while, but in comparison to everything else going on, this just hadn't seemed to matter all that much. "No idea. Maybe the weather is real bad. Or Chuck couldn't find us and this is his way of flipping us the bird. Or Amara's, couldn't even blame her."

 

Jack didn't say anything.

 

"Come on, help me get Sam out of this cold to somewhere warmer." Dean grunted, hoisting the weight of the giant he had for a brother. The darkness looked the same everywhere, so he chose a direction at random. The field could only stretch so far either way. When he didn't hear any footsteps following, he asked, "Jack? You coming?"

 

"You think the forest is safer than the farm house?"

 

That made Dean stop dead in his tracks. "Are you saying you can see something in this darkness?"

 

"I... yes?" Jack sounded confused. "I can't see as far as I usually can, but I do see the treeline the way we're going, and the house behind us." Dean could basically hear the frown on the boy's face. "You can't?"

 

"Jack, I can barely see Sam's stupid hair right now, even though it's right in my face," he replied flatly while adjusting the weight to turn around and go the other way. "Is this the right direction now? You'll have to be my eyes."

 

A hand on his back turned him slightly to the left. "This way."

 

They each slung one of Sam's arms over their shoulders, carrying him in between them as they walked in silence for a time, with Dean trying to take over a bigger part of the weight. The progress was slow and the darkness was bothering him far more now than it had before, when they hadn't been moving. The ground was so soft that his boots were sinking in a bit with each step on the mulch, and he had to wade through the onion plants like some sort of weird grass. Without seeing shit, he found himself constantly stumbling. And even with Jack's help, Sam wasn't exactly easy to move.

 

The sting of the frigid air against his cheeks reminded him again how none of them were dressed to be outside at night this time of year. The freaky angel grace trip had to have done something to his body temperature, though, because he wasn't nearly as cold as he should have been. Neither was Sam. Small blessings, he guessed.

 

"Dean?" Jack asked into the night. "What am I?"

 

Dean halted and tried to catch his breath. "Come again?"

 

"I thought I was human now, without my powers. I was injured like a human. But I can see things you don't."

 

"That is a definite plus in my book. We'd be going the wrong way now if you couldn't." The following silence was hard to read without seeing the kid's face, so Dean prodded, "Does it really matter what you are?"

 

"It does, to me."

 

"You're Jack. Human, not human, whatever. Still Jack. You've chosen your father. You can choose who you want to be, too. Isn't that what you've been doing all along?"

 

"I've chosen more than one father." Dean hoped the darkness could still somehow cover that goofy smile on his face that appeared out of nowhere at Jack's words. "But I want—I need to have my powers back, so we can defeat my grandfather. I need to be me again."

 

Dean shrugged. "You're still you. Powers are overrated. Choices are what matters, and that you're still here to make them, Jack. That matters, too. You're part of the team that will fix this whole mess. And I know you wanted to help in that fight, I do. But the best ways to help don't end with you dead, you know?"

 

"I think I do, actually." Jack sounded slightly surprised at this realization.

 

"Good." The corners of Dean's mouth twitched. "No more dying. Except maybe for a burger, I'd die for one right now."

 

He heard the huff of Jack's chuckle, and the silence was comfortable now as they continued. After a time, he felt the entirety of Sam's weight on his shoulder when Jack let go and rushed ahead. "We're almost there. There are stairs, be careful."

 

Jack's steps over a wooden floor were audible, then there was the sound of a match being lit. Seeing the small flame was an enormous relief. Hell, seeing anything was. The light grew into a larger cone after Jack ignited a lantern at the house wall. The sight of an ordinary porch was suddenly a thing to be amazed at. Dean dropped Sam in the old-fashioned rocking chair and was glad to find the door unlocked because he was far too tired to break it down.

 

Jack detached the lantern from the wall and lit the way into a country house that smelled of the wood planks it was built with and the white flowers on a side table near the entrance. Homey. Welcoming. Deceptively safe. Flipping the light switches on and off in the hallway—or any other room—had no effect whatsoever. Judging by the temperature inside, the heaters weren't working either. Ever since humanity had disappeared, Dean had been wondering how long things like electricity would keep working. Now he had the answer: apparently not very long.

 

They kept the lantern while they inspected the rooms on the ground floor. The kitchen counter had a large puddle of wine on it, slowly dripping to the floor tiles with an insistent pat-pat-pat, small glass shards spread throughout. Whoever they may have been, some poor sucker must have gotten snapped away pouring the drink. Should have enjoyed it while they still could.

 

The rest of the ground floor was made up of a bathroom in an outdated design, a study with a desk and several bookshelves, and a living room with a large sofa in front of a fireplace. Nearby stood a TV that would no longer be functional now. Jack held the lantern a little higher to examine the photographs hung above the fireplace. Hesitantly, Dean stepped closer to take a look as well. A middle-aged couple was smiling at the camera, dressed in practical clothing. Other photos also included two kids and a dog.

 

The photos woke a sting of nostalgia in him, of loss. But mostly they left him with a feeling of resolve for everything that was at stake—nothing less than the whole damn world. He exchanged a silent glance with Jack and they stepped away from the photos for a quick sweep of the upstairs floor with a result that both of them had expected. Nothing but abandoned bedrooms.

 

They returned to the porch together, Jack holding up the lantern while Dean hauled Sam to the sofa in the living room. He knew that once he sat down, he would be far too exhausted to get up again, so he didn't risk it, no matter how inviting the cushions looked in that moment.

 

"Jack, I'll get the fire going. Can you check if there's any salt in the kitchen and lay down a line at the door and windows?"

 

"Sure," the kid said, not even hesitating over the choice to leave the lantern behind with Dean. Those angel senses of his were still weird to witness after having spent the last day in the conviction that Jack was human now.

 

"Lock the door and close the window shutters while you're at it," Dean called after him without waiting for a reply. There was a box of long matches on the sill of the fireplace and a neat pile of wood next to it. He threw in some logs and kindling, and found a stack of old newspapers nearby in the dim light of the lantern. The lurid, huge print of hateful political headlines on the front page made him huff, wondering if it would have changed a thing for those people had they known they'd all be gone by now.

 

He crumpled the piece of paper beneath his fingers, held a match against it and watched the politician's face go up in flames. The newspaper was good enough tinder and soon there was a fire crackling in the otherwise quiet room, soaking it in a warm, red light. Dean turned to look at Sam on the sofa who still showed no signs of waking. After adjusting the couch cushions beneath his brother's head with a frown, he murmured into the empty room, "You better be right about him being okay."

 

He glanced at the unoccupied armchairs that would probably be hell to sleep in, and even worse to wake up in. The stairway leading up to the unheated bedrooms on the upper floor was visible at the other end of the room. Both options sucked, really. Time to make up a third then. He climbed the stairs, still convinced that someone this tired shouldn't even be standing.

 

With a grunt, he pulled the mattress out of the double bed. Far too exhausted to carry the mattress in a proper way, he unceremoniously shoved it through the hallway and down the stairs with little care for any interior decoration messed up by the rough treatment. Not like the owners would complain. Not like any of it truly mattered.

 

He also grabbed the pillows and blankets from the double bed, and a third blanket from one of the other rooms, before returning downstairs. Jack had apparently finished his work with the salt lines and was back in the living room, staring into the flames. He turned at the noise of Dean pushing the mattress in front of the fireplace and tilted his head at the sight.

 

"It's safest if we all stick together now," Dean shrugged while covering Sam with one of the blankets. "And it's colder than a witch's tit in a brass bra up there."

 

Jack blinked.

 

A vase shattered on the floor at the other end of the room.

 

Dean couldn't help the slight grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Glad to see you agree."

 

The moment the bedding was in place, he sank down, wrapped one of the blankets closely around himself, and could only just muster the strength to murmur, "G'night, Jack," as the kid settled down at the other side of the large mattress with the remaining pillow and blanket Dean had brought.

 

The fog of sleep was already pulling him under, mingling with a hazy warmth that came not only from the fireplace, but also from a burning hope he carried deep within himself against all odds, and from the affection in Jack's softly spoken words. "Good night, Dean." After a moment of silence, he heard Jack add, "And Sam. And Rowena, I guess? Does it make sense to wish someone without a body a good night?"

 

Then Dean was fast asleep in this temporary safehouse, someone else's place of happiness, with the reassuring sound of two other breaths nearby and the fire crackling in the background, driving away any remaining cold in their bones.

~

Footnotes:

6 Stay!

7 LONSA O OI CONGAMPHLGH IDLVGAM - The power of this soul is given.

Chapter 5: Sam

Chapter Text

Sam gasped awake to the sound of shattering glass, but he couldn't tell if that had been a nightmare. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and found himself entirely disoriented. Not only had he never seen this room before in his life, the gray light falling in through the shuttered windows had such an odd quality to it that he had no idea what time of day it was.

 

A fire was burning low in the fireplace in front of him, but still strong enough to spread some amount of warmth throughout the room. He sat up on the sofa, massaging his temples against the haze in his head. A blanket slid off his shoulders in the movement and he noticed a jacket draped over him that he recognized as Dean's. The sight of the bloody handprint on the fabric sent a chill through his body, bringing with it the memory of recent events.

 

He scanned the room frantically for any sign of the others and was about to call Dean's name when he heard voices coming from an adjacent room. Something crunched under the soles of Sam's shoes as he stood, and he looked down. That something turned out to be small glass shards from a framed picture that had fallen off the wall. Not a nightmare then. It was hard to tell, sometimes.

 

"Zod-ee-reh-doh." 8

 

The voices spoke again. Was that... Enochian? Sam's body tensed and his fingers closed around the hilt of the angel blade in the pocket of his own jacket. He advanced slowly in the direction the voices had come from, careful not to cause any noise, which was harder than he would have liked with some of the glass still stuck under his boot.

 

"Zod-ee-reh-doh eh-em-nah." 9

 

Definitely Enochian. Sam was far from being a fluent speaker, but what little he knew about the language matched the long, open syllables he was hearing right in this moment. Even more concerning was the fact that he now identified the voice as Dean's. The memory of the unfeeling ice in his brother's eyes while his body had been commanded by an archangel was still too fresh to be scabbed over completely, so he really did not like the sound of this.

 

"Zod-ee-reh-doh geh... sah-el-mah-nah." 10

 

The Michael from their universe hadn't seemed like a threat. But then again, it wouldn't be the first time for Sam to be sorely mistaken when he dared assume the motivations driving an angel or demon. Raising the blade higher, he felt his heart rate spike as he stepped around the corner into the next room. Dean speaking Enochian could only mean...

 

Breakfast?!

 

Sam blinked at the incongruously domestic sight in front of him. Dean and Jack were sitting at a kitchen table in what could only be described as a relaxed posture, with Jack smiling in between two spoonfuls of some cereal from a bowl in front of him. Still unable to trust the peaceful scene, Sam didn't stow his weapon, just let it sink down to his side as he asked into the room, "Dean?"

 

Dean turned around instantly, and his face mirrored the untroubled smile Jack was wearing. That threw Sam more off balance than even the Enochian had. The last coherent memory he had was of being besieged in Hell by a horde of demons, after having lost almost everyone they had ever cared about. Nothing was making any sense.

 

Loss of coherence was the reddest of flags for him, and he started to consider the possibility of Chuck messing with his perception of reality. When Sam had been much younger, there had been this steadfast trust in his own senses in a world made of chaos. What he had been able to see and hear and feel had to be true. Then life had happened, and he had learned the hard way that the things his senses were telling him were not at all beyond doubt.

 

Seeing Jess everywhere had only been the beginning of a dark path of hallucinations fuelled by both guilt and a desperate craving. The peak of it all had been his realization that there could never be any certainty about what was real. Some imaginations were so vivid, so convincing, that they had been more believable to him than reality, especially when they reached deep into his fears and wishes.

 

And what was seeing their family happy and carefree and together, no longer burdened by the weight of the whole universe collapsing around them, if not his deepest wish? So the most likely explanation for this all was a dream, or a hallucination. Maybe he would see the people they had lost walk into the room any moment. He swallowed, tightening his grip on the blade enough to feel the hilt sting against his palm, grounding him.

 

"Heya, Sammy. Good to see you finally dropped the whole Sleeping Beauty act."

 

"Dean, what—"

 

Dean stood up and crossed the room to clap his shoulder softly.

 

"You really had me worried there for a bit, man. Rowena said you'd be fine, but you were out cold for so long that I wasn't sure anymore if that was bullshit."

 

There was the sudden noise of Dean's cereal bowl scraping over the table behind Dean, and Jack was hastily leaning over to catch it in time before it could fall over the edge. Dean's gaze darkened in something that Sam had come to recognize as fake outrage while pointing into the room.

 

"Hey, don't you dare! I'm still eating that!" The words had not been directed at Jack, but at an empty spot somewhere near the kitchen table.

 

"It's good to have you back, Sam," Jack said, placing the bowl back to its initial position like nothing out of the ordinary had occurred with it.

 

Sam's head began to hurt just trying to combine what was happening into a complete picture that made sense, and he touched his forehead with his empty hand, taking a step backwards. That was when Dean finally noticed the weapon he was holding.

 

"What the hell? What's with the toothpick?"

 

"Just—just give me a moment, okay?" Sam pleaded, inhaling a few steadying breaths. "The last thing I remember is us, in Hell, surrounded by demons. Where are we? Where's Rowena? And why did I wake up to the sound of Enochian?"

 

"That's my fault, actually," Jack admitted, looking down. "Sorry if we were too loud. Dean wanted to know more about Enochian, so I told him about some things Cas taught me."

 

"Dean wanted to—what?" Sam stepped back further, retreating into the living room, grip firm on the angel blade. "Okay, nice try, Chuck. You almost had me. But you don't know us as well as you think you do."

 

"Whoa whoa whoa," Dean called out, following him to the other room with both hands lifted up in the air placatingly. "Sam? It's me." Dean let that statement stand on its own, focusing him with an intense gaze, every trace of a smile now vanished.

 

Sam knew that look, he knew it. It was a look that touched on the trust between them, born not only from the love between brothers but also from the horrors they'd faced together their whole lives. Even though logic dictated him to keep up his guard, he sighed and finally let the weapon sink again. "Dean, I don't—what's going on?"

 

Dean relaxed. "Dude. I didn't know you'd freak out like this or I would've—Just, okay. We all made it out of Hell, but you and Jack passed out on me for a while. Rowena told me you'd wake up on your own, but she had to leave because you had ectoplasm all over your face. You're welcome for getting rid of that and for carrying your heavy ass all the way over here, by the way."

 

Well, this was definitely Dean. "But... the Enochian?"

 

Dean huffed out a breath and averted his gaze. "I just figured it would be useful now, you know? With no more meatsuits for demons or angels. And it's not like we could turn on the TV or something to pass the time. Electricity's gone."

 

Sam had the distinct impression there was something Dean wasn't telling him, but, if anything, that only confirmed his assumption that this was really Dean. There was no reason for secrets if this was a hallucination. Plus, he had a pretty good guess where Dean's sudden interest in the language of angels was rooted, so he didn't press it.

 

"Uhm, sorry about that." Sam nodded towards the blade before putting it back into his jacket pocket.

 

Dean shrugged lightly, one corner of his mouth twitching. "Can't blame ya."

 

Sam removed the second jacket that was still hanging over his shoulders and held it out to Dean, purposefully staying clear of the handprint on it. "I think this is yours."

 

"Right." Dean stared down at the garment for a moment, then accepted it back, his hand covering the bloodied fingers on the fabric as he put the jacket back on. "Wanna grab some breakfast? You must be starving." Dean must have seen the denial on his face because he cut him off before Sam could say anything in reply. "They even have food for health freaks like you, come on."

 

It was awkward returning to the kitchen and sitting down at the table with Jack, but the boy had either learned a very good poker face by now, or he truly wasn't fazed by anything that had happened because the way he had grown up, crazy was just a regular day. Sam cleared his throat and Dean unceremoniously placed a plate of fresh fruits and a glass of milk in front of him before returning to his own bowl of cereal.

 

The last thing Sam wanted right now was food, but Dean probably had a point that they needed to keep up their strength if they wanted to accomplish anything. Still, sitting in some random family's kitchen and taking their food was something Sam couldn't help but feel guilty about. He started eating reluctantly, glancing at Dean and Jack in between bites. "You said Rowena was with you, right? She's safe?"

 

"As peachy as someone who's dead can be," Dean replied, not entirely finished with chewing. The bowl in Dean's hand jerked at that, and he resolutely held it in place. "See?"

 

Of course. That much at least made more sense now. "I can't say I'm surprised it took her far less time to figure out how to move solid objects than any other spirit we've ever encountered," Sam mused. "She'll probably be able to manifest from the Veil soon."

 

Something ran over the back of his hand and his lower arm at these words—not quite a touch, more like the shadow of one. It made the small hairs on his skin stand up, but he couldn't find it in him to be creeped out, far too relieved about the knowledge that Rowena wasn't currently being tortured in Hell. Thinking about her was complicated, had been so for a while. He still remembered the gut-punch feeling of her death all too well, had never truly been able to shake it off despite her assurances that death had been the best thing to ever happen to her.

 

By all accounts, he and Dean should have learned to deal with that stinging, sickness-inducing guilt left behind by every new addition to a long line of sacrifices for their cause over the years. But the truth was, he never had. The memory of every single person they had lost along the way still managed to hollow him out. And yet, he'd been entirely unprepared for the biggest loss of all, just one day ago, where everyone had disappeared on them one after the other. He'd never be able to get rid of that mental image of the three dots on his phone's display, forever burned into his brain. The moment when the dots disappeared, no longer showing that a message was being typed. The icy certainty what it meant.

 

It was his own fault, really. Life should have taught him by now that a happy ending just wasn't in the cards for him, that no place on Earth was more dangerous than anywhere near him. He glanced down at the pear in his hand, unable to keep eating with the piercing sensation of grief overshadowing everything else. He shouldn't have risked it, getting attached like that another time, letting someone close enough that losing them—losing her—would send him reeling like this in a time when he was needed. But it hadn't even been a conscious decision, it had just happened before he had truly realized how close they had become.

 

She had been everything they had been fighting for all those years, everything that made the fight worth it. And now she was gone. Not just dead, happy in Heaven, but gone. Erased. Along with every other friend who'd still been left at that point. He couldn't, he just couldn't—

 

"Sam?" Jack asked quietly.

 

Their son was still here.

 

"Hm?" he returned distractedly, looking up to notice both Jack and Dean staring at him.

 

"I know you said you don't like manufactured cereal, but you should really try this. Some of them taste like bananas, some like strawberries!"

 

Sam had no idea how, but Jack's enthusiasm about such a simple thing just made him smile, despite everything. He exchanged a glance with Dean, saw the worry there, the affection, the hope. The smile remained on Sam's face even as he shook his head in disbelief, holding out his hand.

 

"Fine, I'll try them. Just a few, though."

 

Jack seemed genuinely pleased about this turn of events and poured some of the small loops into his open palm. The things you did for family. Sam took one of them, ate it dry like a cracker. It was disgusting. His opinion must have shown on his face because he heard snorting from the opposite end of the table and kicked blindly, without force, until his shoe met a leg.

 

Tastes like... molecules, his mind supplied, a desperately fond memory. His eyes fell on the empty fourth chair. Cas should be here with them. The one angel whose mannerisms were nothing if not endearing—not at all what Sam had ever pictured an angel to be like—but whose ideals actually came pretty damn close to what Sam had always imagined.

 

The one angel who had stood with humanity time and time again, against all odds, when nobody else would. Even after messing up, still utterly unshakable in his loyalty to the world, to humanity, to them. More true than any other angel had ever been. He really should be here with them now, in this final war. Sam still had no idea how an angel, of all things, had become their best friend. But he had, and Sam missed him, missed that aura of calm he somehow projected, fitting into a slot in their family Sam hadn't known existed until Cas had joined it.

 

He missed the quiet conversations, the jokes, missed the way they could make an angel laugh. Cas just belonged now, and his absence left a void that felt wrong to its core. There was no telling where all the humans had disappeared to if their souls had not arrived in the afterlife, but they did know where Cas was.

 

Something kicked Sam's shin in return, tearing his gaze away from the empty chair and back to his brother. Dean wore a lighthearted grin on the outside, but there was something very different beyond that—this new, quiet intensity burning behind his eyes that Sam still didn't know what to think of. Unshakable in his own right now, somehow.

 

Jack was still here. Rowena was still here, as long as he went with a loose definition of 'here'. Dean was still here. Everything about the way Dean was holding himself yelled out that he was convinced they could do it. And heaven help him, but so was Sam.

 

Castiel, he prayed, maybe in vain. Hang in there. We won't give up on you. You're family. We'll bust you out, we'll do it. We'll get you back.

 

Holding his brother's gaze, he shoved the rest of the cereal from his hand into his mouth, crunching between his teeth, then washed it all down with the glass of milk. Dean's eyes crinkled.

 

Jack still seemed to expect some sort of reaction, so Sam cleared his throat.

 

"Uh—yeah. They're—actually pretty good. Thanks." Jack smiled, making the white lie worth it. Sam smiled back and finished his pear. "Listen, I'll go take a quick shower, then we can figure out what to do next."

 

Dean nodded towards the door. "Bathroom's over there." Sam was already in the hallway when Dean's voice called after him, "There's only cold water. Don't say I didn't warn ya, Sammy."

 

~

 

At least he felt refreshed after the shower, able to focus his thoughts better. What they did afterwards in foraging throughout the house was technically stealing, but then again there was nobody left on Earth to steal from. Still, Sam left some bank notes tugged under a vase on the desk in the study, just in case. If they didn't manage to revert things back to normal, money wouldn't matter any longer anyway. And if they did, this family would at least get some sort of compensation.

 

Sam hadn't been outside since before their venture into Hell, but according to Dean, the cold was extreme. They managed to find gloves, scarves, and warm jackets for each of them to wear, even if not quite the right size. Packing one backpack per person with some basic supplies seemed like the best thing to do under these circumstances, without a clue how far away from anything they were. Going through the drawers and cabinets, Sam discovered two flashlights, batteries, matches, and candles.

 

On second thought, he also grabbed the notepad and some pens he saw in the drawer, then carried all of it over to the kitchen table where Dean was preparing rations and water bottles. Jack returned from the upper floor with mouthwash, soap, and a thin blanket for each of them and placed them on the table next to the other supplies. Something seemed to bother the boy, frowning down at his hand resting against the blankets' soft flannel.

 

"Does this qualify as stealing?"

 

A feeling of pride blossomed in Sam's chest to see Jack consider the same question he himself had, to still ponder morality despite everything they had been through recently.

 

Dean looked up from his work with a grin. "It's not looting when we're the last people on Earth and need this stuff to save everyone else. Plus, this food would go bad without a fridge anyway. The way I see it, we're just supporting the whole 'Don't let food go to waste' movement."

 

Sam cleared his throat. "Yeah, and I also left some money for this family on the desk. So it's more of a... purchase now."

 

Jack actually looked relieved to hear this, while Dean rolled his eyes, though he didn't quite manage to hide his smile as he muttered, " 'Course you did."

 

Sam counted that as approval.

 

Stuffing everything into the backpacks posed a bit of a challenge, especially with the blankets, but they managed a more or less equal split of their supplies. While they got dressed in their newly acquired warm outdoor clothing in the hallway, Sam became aware of a certain tension he felt, a sense of finality in leaving this peaceful farm house behind as a last waystop before a trip into the unknown.

 

The others seemed to share the sentiment, throwing a last glance back to the living room that had kept them warm through the night. By now, the fire had burnt out and the room was shrouded in shade by the sparse light that fell in through the shutters. Then Dean opened the front door and they were greeted by an icy breeze. Sam pulled his jacket's zip a little higher and followed Dean out into the cold. Jack closed the door behind them.

 

The gray day had more in common with the last remnants of light before nightfall than with early afternoon, so Sam did a double-take at his wristwatch. A shudder ran through him at the realization that it really wasn't his watch that was malfunctioning but the sky.

 

The carport in front of the house was empty, though it looked like it had been used recently. In unspoken agreement, Dean led them over to the barn beside the house. With the lack of daylight falling in, the interior was so dark that Sam turned on his flashlight. The ray of light met a large amount of hay stacked up at the opposite wall. A quick sweep of the building resulted in finding a small first-aid kit that Dean deposited into his backpack without comment but with a pointed look at both of them.

 

Sam discovered a working set of walkie-talkies and offered one of the two devices to his brother with a shrug. "Not as good as working phones, but better than nothing, right?"

 

"I guess," Dean said. "Still sucks we can't use our phones anymore, though."


"Yeah," Sam agreed quietly, not mentioning how the phones were probably the least of the problems currently on their plate. Sam couldn't spot anything else of interest, and the stuffy, dark room gave him a vague feeling of discomfort he couldn't quite pinpoint, so he turned to leave. Sparse as the daylight was, it was still good to be back outside, even with the breeze biting into his face.

 

Lifting his shoulders to brace himself against the cold, he surveyed their surroundings, Dean and Jack stepping up to his left and right. He could see nothing but fields, pastures, a few scattered trees, the distant treeline of a forest, and an empty road. The momentum from before, when they had still been packing their supplies, had left him.

 

Suddenly the open landscape with its lack of direction felt just as suffocating as the barn had. He breathed in to speak, but before he could voice his doubts to Dean, he felt something small hit his leg. Frowning, he looked down just in time to watch another pebble from the driveway fly towards his shin, seemingly on its own accord.

 

"Rowena?" he asked, raising his hands helplessly. "I'm not... sure what you're trying to say." At that, a pebble flew high enough to hit him straight against the forehead. Sam blinked. There wasn't enough force behind it to actually hurt, and his skin felt unharmed. But the way Dean was now snorting next to him was enough to make Sam huff out an annoyed breath. "Seriously?" he asked both the open air and his brother.

 

"Dude," Dean said, not even trying to hide his amusement while sidestepping a pebble that was now aimed his way.

 

"All right, let's..." Inhaling deeply, Sam held up his palm in an attempt to restrain both Rowena and Dean while he was trying to focus. He set down his backpack to dig out the notepad and a pen, then held both out in offering, his fingers pressing down the paper so that it wouldn't move in the breeze. "Does this work? Can you use those to write?"

 

The same almost-touch he had sensed during breakfast ran over his fingers and the pen shook in his grip, only to get flung aside a moment after.

 

"Guess that's a no then," Sam said with a sigh while picking the pen back up from the dirt road. He dusted it off and stored it in the backpack again together with the notepad.

 

Dean tapped his arm in sudden excitement. "Remember when we... uh, in the hospital, when I was..."

 

Instead of completing any of these sentences, Dean also set down his pack and looked around hastily, returning with a long stick held in his hand. Sam and Jack watched in silence as Dean started writing into the dirt with the end of the stick. It took only the letters A and B for Sam to realize what Dean was doing and join his efforts, drawing the alphabet's letters from Z backwards with another stick to meet Dean in the middle.

 

Sam was fighting a doomed battle against the memory of utter despair, watching Dean slowly drift away from life in a hospital bed. How completely powerless Sam had felt then, more so with every minute that had ticked by without being able to do anything. It had been maddening. At least until he had thought of this way to talk to Dean. And then their father had been the one to take the hit for them, opening a whole different set of wounds.

 

"I don't understand."

 

Sam was glad for the distraction of Jack's voice, latching onto it like a lifeline. "Dean was... stuck in the Veil, once," he explained. "Our only way to communicate was a Ouija board."

 

He interrupted his work on the letters to watch Jack's reaction. The boy's frown deepened. "What's a Ouija board?"

 

"It's a stupid game teenagers play to scare each other, pretending to talk to dead people," Dean said, finishing the M with a grin at Jack.

 

Sam looked down at their improvised 'board' now that all letters were finished, and added 'Yes' and 'No' fields to the top for good measure. The light wind was tampering with their dirt letters, but not enough to make them illegible. "This should be easier to use from the Veil than a pen, when solid objects can only be moved in short bursts."

 

Backpacks resting near them on the ground, they all crouched down around the board and didn't have to wait long to see the closest one of the pebbles from earlier get shoved towards it, settling onto the 'Yes' field.

 

"Okay, great," Sam said to the board. "Seems you don't even need my hand to use this. What did you want to tell me earlier?"

 

"Or did you just want to throw rocks at Sam to see his annoyed face?" Dean teased.

 

When the pebble left the 'Yes' field, only to return to it right after, Sam no longer resisted the urge to reach over the board and shove Dean, who didn't seem bothered one bit to continue chuckling from the ground. It was near impossible for Sam's brain to unite this lighthearted version of his brother with the person they had found in the dungeon yesterday. Dean was acting as if they had already succeeded, as if failing wasn't even a possibility—as if the people they had lost were waiting for them just around the corner. The contrast to his own inner turmoil was grating. I find the sound of your voice grating, his mind supplied helpfully in a familiar voice and Sam had to suppress a groan.

 

"Sam!" Jack interjected, before Sam could say anything that he might come to regret later to the chuckling pile of brother on the ground. His eyes followed Jack's outstretched finger back to the board, where the pebble was now marking the letter L, followed by E and Y.

 

"Ley?" he asked doubtfully, the beginnings of a headache forming in the front of his skull. "I'm not... is this about the farm?"

 

The pebble continued moving and Sam struggled not to miss any letters by blinking against the dull ache in his head. L, I.

 

Jack frowned at him. "Leyli? Is that even a word? Is it a name?"

 

"I wish I knew," Sam replied, risking a glance at Dean who seemed to have caught himself again and was looking back at the board with them. Dean shrugged. The pebble's movements became erratic, leaving the board entirely, and Sam could only assume that interacting with the material world so often in such a short time was taking its toll on Rowena.

 

"Try leading my hand?" he offered again. "That worked for Dean back then, and it should be less problematic than full-out possession, right?"

 

He placed his hand flat on the ground, just below the two rows of letters, and felt the gentle prickle on his skin another time, a soft pull that directed his hand to hover over the N and E. Nothing else followed. It took another second for his brain to connect these new letters with the rest from before, bursting out the words "Ley line?!" Another glance at Dean and Jack confirmed that both of them seemed as confused as he was. If Rowena had a body, he was pretty sure she'd be rolling her eyes over their perceived slowness.

 

"I mean, I've heard the term before," Sam contemplated, hoping he might decipher the direction Rowena wanted to steer their thoughts in by talking. "I just never knew if they were real or a myth. Stonehenge was supposedly built at a spot where several ley lines meet? Just..." He looked up again, at Dean, at Jack, at the field in front of them. "I don't see what that has to do with our current situation, here?"

 

He felt the soft tug again, gave in to it and watched his hand move between the letters S, E, A, and M. By now, the whole board was a mess from all the movement of the pebble through the dirt, the wind, and Sam's sleeve. Dean and Jack were both trying their best to keep the letters legible by re-scratching their shapes into the ground.

 

"Man, we need a better Ouija board," Dean complained.

 

"Sure, let's see if Amazon delivers here," Sam said, tiredly rubbing over the bridge of his nose while wondering if Dean's knack for completely inappropriate humor was infectious. His brother's reaction was a delighted huff of breath and a friendly nudge to Sam's arm that tore his gaze away from the letters. He was met with a smile too genuine not to return, and could almost physically feel his annoyance dissolve, replaced by something warmer. "So, seam. Seam between what? Different ley lines?"

 

His hand resumed the movement, spelling out R E A L M S this time. The shift in the atmosphere between them was tangible as Dean sucked in a breath before asking, "Realms like the Empty?" Sam's hand moved to the 'Yes', but Dean didn't even wait for it to fully arrive at its destination before following up with another question, growing urgency in his voice. "Are we on a ley line right here?"

 

Sam felt his hand tugged away from the field with the 'Yes' towards the one with the 'No'. He was about to complete the movement to the other field on auto-pilot, but Rowena held him back in the middle between both fields. Jack stood, having gone wide-eyed seeing those last replies. He moved a few steps away from them, towards the field, then turned his head back to ask, "Not right here, but nearby?" Sam's hand returned to the 'Yes'.

 

"Jack?" Dean asked, standing as well while Jack began to walk straight into the onion field. Dean seemed torn between following Jack and staying near the Ouija board, glancing back and forth between both. Without having asked an additional question, Sam felt the not-touch of otherworldly cold another time, leading his hand to the words V O R T E X, P O R T A L, and W E A K S P O T.

 

Seeing the latest additions had Dean quietly cursing "Sonofabitch" under his breath and he grabbed both his and Jack's backpacks before running after the nephilim who had by now crossed quite a distance into the field.

 

Sam, still kneeling near the letters in the dirt, could only watch both of them grow smaller in the distance. "Guys?" He raised a hand in a gesture of bafflement, not like anyone cared to see it, then sighed. "O-kay then. Rowena, is there anything else I should know before I follow them?"

 

B E R E A D Y

 

When nothing else followed, he murmured, "That's not ominous at all," grabbed his own pack and jogged after Dean and Jack.

~

Footnotes:

8 ZIRDO - I am.

9 ZIRDO EMNA - I am here.

10 ZIRDO G SALMAN - I am in a house.

Chapter 6: Jack

Chapter Text

Thanks to Rowena, Jack finally had the words to explain what he had sensed in the field yesterday. Ley lines. A pulse of sorts, growing weaker the further they had moved away from the spot where Jack had regained consciousness. The direction Dean had originally meant to take, towards the forest, had felt like a weaker offspring of this. Wandering towards the house instead had been like moving upstream, against a natural flow.

 

Flattened onion plants and upturned soil were speaking as clearly as an open book about the path they had dragged Sam along last night. But Jack didn't even need those obvious signs in the field to find his way back. The pull towards the spot where he had woken was still there, unchanged, as strong as before. He held out a hand, feeling the energy hum against his nerves. It reminded him of the way his own power had always coalesced in his palm before he released it.

 

Aware now that his angelic side hadn't entirely disappeared after all, he could actually feel that small rest of grace inside of him. It was uncurling, reaching, searching. The knowledge alone that he was walking directly along the border to the realm that held Castiel prisoner sufficed to set his whole being on fire. His own grace was yearning for that familiar touch of Castiel's grace, with all its warmth and safety. Home.

 

In hindsight, Jack wondered how he could ever have thought that the explosion in the Empty had turned him entirely human. Even without powers, it should have been so obvious. But the eternal struggle of his two halves had always been far too confusing to make out clearly what stemmed from which side. That line was blurrier now than it had ever been before.

 

After following the ley line for a while, he knew he had reached the pull's source when the energy whirring around him seemed to reinforce everything he was feeling close to the point of bursting. He didn't have to look down to verify that this was the right spot, field plants flattened in a bigger circle where bodies had been laying on the ground last night.

 

Jack barely registered the thump of two backpacks meeting the ground a small distance away, but a sudden touch to his shoulder made him almost jump out of his skin, with all of his senses overstimulated like this. He instantly knew who it was, though, sensed the same desperate reaching from the body behind him that was coming from his own. The familiarity of the feeling made him ponder if Dean somehow carried traces of grace inside him as well.

 

He turned to meet Dean's gaze. Words were unnecessary to recognize the storm they saw raging behind each other's eyes. Jack loosely held out both of his hands at his sides, let the energy stream around the tips of his fingers, and nodded at a question that was never asked.

 

Sam arrived moments later, not even out of breath after his sprint. With a glance at the small area of destroyed plants, he asked, "What happened here?"

 

"We did," Dean replied without any further explanations on the topic. Sam frowned.

 

"Last night," Jack elaborated. "This was where I woke up after we escaped from Hell."

 

Jack saw Dean swallow, like something was bothering him that he didn't want to mention.

 

"Wait a second," Sam prodded further. "So this is where the portal opened? Rowena said something about a weak spot near the portal, and a vortex of some—"

 

"It's here," Jack cut in, then felt bad about having interrupted Sam like that. Why did his timing always have to feel so off, so much clumsier than others when they interacted? He couldn't help it, couldn't fight the urge to finally do something now that they were so close. In an attempt to soften his abruptness, he added more words, "Right where I'm standing."

 

"Are you... sure?" Sam's gaze flicked back and forth between Jack and Dean.

 

"Yes," Jack insisted, hardly ever as certain about anything in his life as he was about this.

 

"Sam." Dean said only this one word, but managed to imbue it with so much meaning that Sam was finally spurred into action, dropping his backpack next to theirs and stepping right up to them. Jack wondered how Dean did it, and why his own words never seemed to have such a strong effect on anyone.

 

Sam hesitated, pushed his hair out of his face and huffed out a short laugh that didn't sound happy at all. "Dean, I have no idea what I'm doing."

 

"Doesn't matter, Sammy."

 

"Yeah, I'm not so sure about that. I mean, this is cosmic. What if I screw up? What if—"

 

Jack felt a sting in his chest, understood Sam's doubts all too well because he had asked himself that same question more than once. He had been their secret weapon, their one way to set the whole universe right. And then he had screwed up. "You won't," Jack blurted out in full conviction before he even knew what he was saying, frowned and then covered his own nerves with a thin smile as Sam's gaze snapped over to him. Something in Sam's eyes softened.

 

Dean reached for Sam's shoulder, turning him towards the dark-gray horizon at the other end of the field.

 

"Come on, man. Does this look to you like we got anything left to lose? Earth is a damn wasteland." Dean swallowed again, grew more quiet. "But we got—we got everything to win here."

 

Nobody said anything after that for several long seconds. Jack grabbed one of Sam's sleeves in a show of support, felt the muscles in Sam's arm tense under his grip, and saw Sam's chest rise in a deep inhale before his voice cut through the silence that had fallen over them.

 

"Vanesce." 11

 

Jack didn't dare to breathe. He bit his lip and dug his fingers deeper into the fabric of Sam's jacket.

 

Nothing happened.

 

Sam cleared his throat awkwardly, lifted the arm that Jack wasn't holding onto, then pushed it forwards in a determined movement.

 

"Vanesce!" Sam repeated, louder than before.

 

There was the slightest fluctuation in the energy floating around Jack's other hand at his side.

 

Sam averted his gaze to the ground with a sigh, rubbing over the bridge of his nose. "Okay, um. I don't have Rowena's notes here. Maybe I need a different spell. She used this one once to disperse a spirit attacking me, so I gave it a shot. But I don't—I'm not..."

 

"What? When?" Dean asked, then shook his head. "You know what, nevermind. Just..."

 

"Keep trying," Jack urged, shaking Sam's arm softly in his excitement. "The spell worked, I could feel it. It just wasn't strong enough yet."

 

Something sizzled in front of them, the vague outline of a human visible for a split-second before it disappeared again. Their shared gasps meant the others had seen it, too.

 

"Rowena?" Sam asked the empty air.

 

The sizzling returned and the humanoid outline sharpened, taking the familiar shape of Rowena. "You have something much better than notes, dear," she said before vanishing in a series of flickers.

 

They waited in tense silence, but Rowena remained invisible.

 

"Did she just...," Sam asked.

 

Dean rolled his eyes with an incredulous shake of his head. "She was able to say one sentence and that's the one she chose? Really?"

 

Sam shrugged, then he inhaled deeply again, nodded, swallowed. "Okay... here goes nothing."

 

Jack watched the flickering form manifest again, this time overlapping with Sam, coexisting in the same space. It was hard to see where one stopped and the other began. "A coven," Rowena finished her earlier statement as if it had never been interrupted.

 

To his credit, Sam hesitated only for a second when his arm's movement was mirrored by the ghostly form standing right inside of him.

 

"Vanesce," he repeated.

 

"Ignis aeterne, evoco," 12 Rowena chanted at the same time.

 

"Vanesce!" Sam insisted, while Rowena intoned different words right over him, "Coniunge!" 13

 

"Holy crap," Dean murmured as the unburning flames they had seen in Hell the day before burst back into life, engulfing the whole group as one. Jack exchanged a glance with Dean, both of them standing to either side of Sam and decidedly leaving their hands on Sam's jacket. Following an intuition, Jack whispered the spell together with Sam the next time, his eyes still on Dean.

 

"VANESCE!" "Vanesce."
"Exhauri!"
14

 

The point of contact where Jack was touching Sam's arm lit up at Jack's whispered words, glowing in the orange of the flames surrounding them. He saw Dean's eyes widen at that. Jack shivered as he physically felt a small amount of his energy get drained away. During the next repetition of the spell, Jack shook off whatever hesitance had been holding him back. He yelled out the word together with Sam, heard Dean do the same, three voices merging into one with Rowena's as a counterpoint to it all.

 

"VANESCE!" "VANESCE!" "VANESCE!"
"EXHAURI!"

 

Jack almost stumbled in a sudden weakness, clinging to Sam while the fiery glow around them flared so brightly that it was blinding. It was outshone only by the purple ray of light that shot from Sam's and Rowena's shared hand towards an empty spot in the air in front of them where it rebounded as if it had met solid matter. Rowena's form flickered out abruptly, like a flashlight that had run out of battery, and the illusory flames vanished the moment she did. Jack's knees felt unsteady.

 

"Awesome!" Dean whispered, and the earth tore open.

 

"Back! Get back!" Sam shouted through the deep rumbling that made the ground shake beneath Jack. A deep crack formed in the field, widening by the second. Rows of onion plants directly in front of them were breaking away for a plummet into nothingness. Even during a wild retreat backwards, Jack found himself unable to avert his eyes from the cataclysm.

 

Then his calves unexpectedly hit the forgotten backpacks behind them and their whole group lost its balance. Before Jack could fully process what was happening, still locked in a struggle to regain his footing on the trembling soil, Sam's arms were pulling him back upright. But Dean was no longer with them, suddenly running towards the abyss that was still growing in length and width, separating the field into two halves.

 

"Dean!" Jack and Sam cried out in unison, and Dean glanced back at them over his shoulder from the rim of the chasm. Jack hadn't noticed a strange formation in the air before, the jagged edges of a frayed seam floating in the open space above the chasm. It was shimmering in an oily black that seemed to suck the color out of its surroundings. So much soil had broken away that the black fissure was already quite a distance away from solid ground.

 

A breathless moment ticked by and Jack saw the muscles in Dean's body tense in preparation for a jump. Every fiber of Jack's being demanded to swap places with the hunter. It should be him, not Dean, taking this risk. Jack had been to the Empty before, had escaped it before. He was part angelic, made to exist in that realm that wasn't meant for humans, that might as well evaporate any human who dared set foot into it for all they knew. It should be Jack. He was the reason Castiel had taken the deal in the first place, he was to blame for everything that had happened afterwards. Dean had already lost far too much because of him. It should be him.

 

He frantically tried to break free of Sam's hold when a sudden eruption of flames near the oily fissure blinded him, new tremors shaking the ground. The seam was tearing in further, with small crack-lines running sidewards through the air, still black at first, but turning into a fiery orange further away from the spell's original impact point.

 

Jack's mind was unable to even touch the question of how many realms had been held apart by this seam they had torn into so carelessly, the doubt over what they had done. Worry over Dean's fate overshadowed all of it, balling his insides into a tight knot of guilt and fear.

 

The afterimage of hellfire was still burnt into his retinae, so he had trouble distinguishing the demonic wisps of black smoke that trailed out of the orange cracks against the backdrop of the gray sky. Piercing, inhuman noises heralded their movement through the air.

 

With an ear-shattering crash, more ground broke away from the edges of the chasm where the crack-lines had grown outwards. Where Dean was. Jack found himself screaming—not words, but a burst of pure terror manifesting as sound. He no longer struggled against Sam's grip, watched numbly as Dean crouched down and then leaped right as the ground crumbled away beneath his feet. Thick lumps of soil and uprooted plants plunged into the abyss below.

 

Dean's hand passed the translucent shreds of a barrier that had once been, until his fingers grazed the oily mass beyond. The oil expanded in a way that was too solid for a liquid, engulfed Dean's arm, then his chest, then his legs until human flesh and oily blackness merged into one, leaving nothing behind. Long trails of demonic smoke circled the site of Dean's disappearance at a careful distance. The smoke forms had no faces, but the moment their attention zeroed in on Jack and Sam was still obvious.

 

Jack was helpless against the tears streaming down his face. He couldn't tell if they had been caused by the blinding light or by the feeling of an imagined knife getting rammed into his chest the moment another one of his fathers was swallowed up by the Empty. He was thankful for the touch of Sam's hand against his shoulder, wasn't even sure if he'd be standing upright without it.

 

"Run!" Sam told him and sounded strangely stifled by emotion, barely audible above the uproar around them. Jack's mind still hadn't caught up and it was hard to get a single clear thought to break through the haze, but his legs started moving on their own, encouraged by Sam's urgent pull at his arm. The weakness from before was still there, dragging at his legs like quicksand.

 

"E—Exorcizamus te," 15 Sam recited with a shaking voice as they ran through the field towards the distant treeline. With a glance back over his shoulder, Jack saw countless smoke trails following them not far behind, darkening the sky as an enormous storm cloud. He experienced a moment of unbridled panic and something deep inside of him, nestled at the core of his being, suddenly opened up, allowing him to tap a hidden reserve of physical strength he hadn't known he possessed.

 

"Omnis—omnis immundus... spiritus," 16 Sam soldiered on, his voice growing thinner with every word. Then he must have seen how futile it was, and stopped. The disembodied demons were entirely unaffected anyway, not slowing down their pursuit in the slightest. While Sam had been the faster one of them before, merely dragging Jack in his weakened state along, Jack now found himself outrunning Sam by far. He fully intended to repay the favor, to be the driving force that could pull both of them, but Sam suddenly let go of his arm.

 

"Sam!" Jack yelled back over his shoulder while running, desperately trying to grab Sam's hand before it was out of reach.

 

Sam deliberately withdrew his arm, let it sink down as the distance between them grew larger. "Keep going, Jack! Please!"

 

"No!" Jack pressed out past a lump in his throat, shaking his head in denial even as his legs kept running. "No!" Unable to focus on the treeline coming ever closer in front of him, Jack looked back towards Sam another time, saw the hunter stop and turn to face the approaching demons head-on.

 

When Jack reached the edge of the field, directly bordering the forest, he threw himself behind the closest tree, trembling with the sobs of loss he was holding back. There was barely any feeling in the tips of his fingers as he rummaged through the layer of fallen leaves on the ground, clammy in the cold of November. His hand closed around a rock, its sharp edges cutting into the skin of his finger. But he didn't care, too overwhelmed by the other pain that had piled up inside of him.

 

Each shuddering breath a tremendous effort, he cleared a small area of ground behind the tree, pushed the leaves aside with movements wild enough to be a minor outlet for all the pent-up emotions he had no idea what to do with. He had been sorely mistaken in thinking everything he had gone through in the three years of his life would have taught him how to deal.

 

After using the rock to mark the tree with a small X, he started drawing into the ground with it, forest soil mixing with droplets of his own blood. A pained scream coming from the field finally obliterated what little resolve he had left and the first sob broke free from his lips while he rushed to continue the devil's trap. Shaking as he was, his sight blocked by a veil of tears, it was hard to see enough to get the symbols right. But it would have to do.

 

For fear of getting discovered too soon, he allowed himself no more than the occasional gasp, otherwise sobbing silently through the noises he heard while drawing with hectic motions. As soon as he had finished the trap, he covered it up with leaves again. Then he felt for the clasp holding the small anti-possession charm in place that the Winchesters had provided him with after the attempt to get him tattooed had failed spectacularly. The stem of the tree had a hole in it that he hid the charm in. Once that was accomplished, he shouted towards the field, proud of the way his voice was barely shaking, "I was sired by Lucifer himself. I'm the most powerful vessel on this planet. If you let Sam Winchester go, I will not resist whichever demon claims me first."

 

His declaration was met with nothing but silence. Time seemed to slow down to a crawl as he waited tensely for any kind of reaction. Because he had lost any objectivity in the matter and didn't want to ruin his plan by stepping out of his hiding place prematurely, he forced himself to count to twenty in his head. When still nothing happened, he left the cover of the trees. The icy wind blew against the tears on his face and his body shivered. The field was empty.

~

 

Footnotes:

11 Vanish!

12 Eternal fire, I evoke you!

13 Connect!

14 Drain!

15 We exorcise you.

16 Every impure spirit.

Chapter 7: Team Free Will

Notes:

Trigger warning: Brief suicidal thoughts by one character (but he definitely chooses life).

Chapter Text

The slap-bang transition into complete silence was even worse than the noise of a world falling apart had been. His head was reeling with it. Last night had been dark, but this, this was fucking creepy. He should have brought the damn flashlight, but then again, who knew if carrying items into the Empty was possible at all. Continuing this line of thought suddenly had him gasp and pat down his own body, then he exhaled in relief to still find fabric under his fingers. Okay then, bringing items worked. Probably. Unless this was all just one big holodeck, or whatever.

 

His mind finally caught up and supplied the image of Sam and Jack staring at him with a look in their eyes as if he'd just been shot. A gray sky filled with demons. And with meatsuits no longer being a thing, the single angel blade Sam and Jack still had between them would be no help whatsoever. Shit.

 

Dean turned around, his hand on the hilt of his own useless angel blade in his jacket, but he couldn't see the rift between realms anymore that had brought him here. Nothing but blackness. He clenched his jaw, had to trust that Sam would find a way out of that situation, that he and Jack were alive and safe. They had to be. Sam was the best damn hunter he knew, so if anyone could manage, it was him.

 

Cas. The thought electrified his body, sufficed to set it into motion on its own. He ran over a floor so smooth under his soles that it reminded him of marble. Keeping his balance at this speed without seeing anything took some getting used to, but the sheer energy pulsing through him kept him from stumbling.

 

"Cas!" he yelled, but found that he couldn't hear a single sound in the Empty. His throat formed the shape of the name again, with the same result. Screw it. They didn't need words, never had. Cas! A prayer. A summoning.

 

The deepest, darkest basin of his mind had kept Cas' last words to him out of reach, but now it all came back to him, dragged to the surface forcefully. It was a gasping, thrashing thing that had been close to suffocating. Never before had hope burned like acid in his lungs.

 

He couldn't breathe, had to fight off a ripple of panic at the thought that there wasn't enough air in this place. Dark, everything was so fucking dark. He should have been lost, but something drenched him in an impossible certainty about where to go, carried him forward like an invisible compass.

 

CASTIEL! his mind cried out with everything he had. The wordless answering call ran through him like an earthquake, rocking him from inside in a familiar sensation that burned strongest in his left shoulder.

 

There had never been any doubt about the way, but what had been a mere sense of direction now changed into his gravity in this unplace. He couldn't have resisted the pull even if he had wanted to. The muscles in his legs strained in what felt like the fastest he had ever run. He stopped abruptly when he sensed rather than saw a shift in front of him in a realm that had no use for human eyes.

 

And then his mind received an image, an impression of colors in stark contrast to the smothering darkness. A deep azure blue with streaks of white and black and gold running through it, with an ethereal, white glow radiating from its core. The sight was breath-taking in a way that wiped him clear of any thought. A glimpse of three pairs of wings flashed through his head, all lightning and shadow, an afterimage indented into his mind.

 

Amazing. By the time he realized he had sent that word, it was too late already. The colors pulsated, the white glow in their center fluctuating in intensity. Cas? he thought at the being in front of him, not questioning in the least that this was truly him, but hoping for any kind of recognition in return.

 

What he hadn't expected to happen was the sudden appearance of oily black veins throughout the angel's true form, and he knew, he just knew, that the way the blue was throbbing meant anguish. Cas? Cas! His own heartbeat sped up, and before he could question if this was a good idea, he rushed ahead, reached out with hands that didn't touch anything solid.

 

Leave him the fuck alone! he thought at the veins that were tearing deeply into the blue, draining the color out of it. He stepped directly into the spot where the angel's presence was strongest, and felt hot and cold all over his skin, his nerve endings going crazy. I'm here, Cas. The angel didn't show any reaction to his reassurance, growing weaker by the second. Dean had to get through to him. There was no time for self-doubt, no time for hesitance. Zod-ee-reh-doh eh-em-nah. Relief flooded him that he had been able to remember the foreign sounds. Or maybe that relief hadn't been his own. You hear me? I'm here!

 

The icy burn in his shoulder grew to a peak, but he didn't withdraw. The connection between them was a steady stream that managed to stabilize the blue, though not enough so to banish the veins. Dean could feel the agony as if it was his own, clawing at his insides and weighing down his mind with despair. It became increasingly hard to remember anything good existed in the world, to remember who he even was. He balled his hands into fists, and the feeling of his nails digging into his palms grounded him back in physical reality. That gave him an idea. An idea that he cursed himself for not having thought of earlier. Castiel, yes!

 

~

 

Sam held his arms out wide as a cyclone of black smoke whirled around his body and blew his hair into his eyes. When the smoke started tearing into his skin, insanely enough, he felt like laughing. He gritted his teeth as his mind snapped into sharp focus. The fools didn't know that he had learned to turn physical pain into an ally years ago, that his resolve was feeding on it, using it like an anchor. They couldn't end him, not like this. His soul had been mangled and reforged in Hell.

 

He sensed something brush against his mind, probing, clawing. Then he was hit by a sudden realization. One of the last three vessels in existence. They wouldn't kill him—he was valuable.

 

The mental attacks continued, each demon's touch slightly different, but all of them tried to gain control and got repelled in the same manner. The warding tattoo on his chest warmed up. Frustration was almost a tangible thing in the misty air around him when the separate smoke forms in the cloud began to turn against each other in their fight for dominance.

 

"Screw you, all of you! You hear me?" Sam yelled over the noise and threw his head back in bitter laughter, even as a gash appeared across his cheek. "Screw. You."

 

There wasn't much he had left to lose, but the laughter died in his throat when the one thing he still feared happened. Several of the black wisps withdrew from the mass of the gathered storm around him and trailed after Jack instead.

 

Not Jack. No matter what, Sam wouldn't let them lay a finger on the nephilim. You cannot have our son, he thought at the smoke. Not while I'm still here.

 

A wordless scream left his lips, channeling the rage buried deep inside of him over a derailed life that was so rarely under his own control. It set into motion a desperately hatched emergency plan to draw the attention from Jack back to himself. The trails of smoke that had been moving away from him actually paused at the perceived sound of Sam's breaking point.

 

For good measure, he released another scream and looked down at his chest where his clothing had been ripped in multiple places. Widening one of the rips to reveal the unblemished skin around his tattoo was easy enough. The icy wind was a caress, a balm drifting over the red scratches all over his chest. His fingers closed around the angel blade he was carrying.

 

He pulled it out of his jacket pocket and held it up for the demons to see. The noise around him died down, turning into the silence in the eye of a storm. Come and get me, Sam thought and felt his lips twitch in a barely-there smile. If you dare. Then all hell broke loose as he severed the line forming the pentagram on his chest with a cut.

 

~

 

No. Jack was racing back through the field the way he had come, towards the spot where he had last seen Sam. He stopped, turned around in a full circle. There was no sign of life, not in the field, not anywhere else. Nonono.

 

Something was glinting in the dim light, just ahead. Jack squinted as he covered the distance, sudden hesitance over what he might find slowing down his steps. Finally at the source of the reflected light, he sank to his knees and picked up the angel blade that was lying in the dirt. The traces of red at the tip of the weapon made his throat constrict. Not Sam, too. Please not Sam, too!

 

The metal felt icy in his hand. Everything felt icy. It was too much. Jack couldn't, he just couldn't...

 

"Ro—Rowena?" he asked quietly, his voice rough. The earlier tears were still wet on his face. "Are you... here?"

 

No reply. No flickering apparition, no moving objects.

 

"SAM!" he called out shakily as he got back to his feet, uncaring if the demons heard him. "ROWENA!"

 

He was alone. More alone than anyone in the history of this planet had ever been. He didn't know what to do.

 

What was the point of it all? Why was he still here, on an empty Earth in its last breaths, when people so much better than him had died? When everyone but him had died?

 

His eyes were drawn back to the blade in his hand. The metal was slowly warming under his touch.

 

If he died, too, maybe he would get to meet Castiel again. But only if he was still angel enough to be taken to the Empty.

 

He raised his head, blinking into the dense blanket of clouds above.

 

If he was too human for that now, maybe he could meet his mother in Heaven again. Perhaps Sam and Dean's souls had somehow found their way there, too.

 

He'd have given anything in that moment to be reunited with at least one loved one, to feel the safety and comfort of an embrace.

 

His eyes stung, so he closed them and inhaled slowly, deeply.

 

Choices are what matters, and that you're still here to make them, Jack, Dean's words from last night echoed in his head. But how was he supposed to know what the right choice was?
The best ways to help don't end with you dead, you know?

 

He saw the memory of Castiel at the door to Jack's room in the bunker, shoulders tense in their shared worry over Dean.
Eventually, they're gone, even the very best ones, and we have to carry on.

 

He re-experienced the moment Sam let go of his hand, the distance between them growing larger.
Keep going, Jack! Please!

 

A radiant smile on his mother's face in Heaven.
Go. Have a great life.

 

His fingers started trembling around the blade's hilt.

 

They'd all be disappointed if he died now. Especially if he died like this. They wanted him to live. Castiel and Sam had sacrificed themselves just so he could live.

 

Jack exhaled the air he had been holding and stowed the weapon in the pocket of his jacket.

 

"No more dying," he whispered, even though they couldn't hear him.

 

You're part of the team that will fix this whole mess.

 

Now he was the last part of that team. But the team still existed. He was still here.

 

He owed them everything. He owed them the world. And he'd rather go down trying to save it than not having tried at all. He'd make them proud.

 

~

 

Black shadows of wings that had once been. Many, too many. War. Devastation. An entire species brought to the edge of extinction, single-handedly by one being. Him.

 

If only he could manage to forget himself. To forget every pivotal point in his life that had led down the road to who he was now. Then this torturous cycle might come to an end. There would be nothing left of him to torment with regret over regret, with one bad decision cascading into a landslide of destruction. He craved oblivion. Perhaps that was the essence of the Empty.

 

Colors. Lights. His siblings. Derision, rejection. Connection that was never his. Only ever at the outskirts. Always other.

 

Names were lost to him, but there was still recognition of the feelings attached to each of the faces in his mind. Friend, he felt as he watched a flash of light burn the life out of someone he had just stabbed in the back. Loss, hurt, betrayal. Remorse, always remorse.

 

A family torn apart, a girl orphaned, lost, alone. Her life in shreds because of him. Daughter. Protect. A promise. He should have protected them. He had destroyed them.

 

Time had lost its meaning in this fortress of memory. He didn't know if he had re-lived every single choice he regretted for minutes or decades now. A whispered string of a thought told him that it would continue for longer, so much longer. That this was only just the start. That he would repent for eternity. That he deserved nothing less.

 

A face. A face that mattered. A soul shining bright, so bright. A circle of flames burning red. The look of betrayal and hurt in these eyes made the trail of death he dragged after himself seem like nothing in comparison. It felt like a knife to his gut. His doing. His own doing.

 

The prospect of forever seemed impossible to endure. He longed to forget. To merge with the blackness. To stop being.

 

That face again. A different room, a different time. A table between them, a whole world between them. Dead to you. Rejection stinging sharply enough to reach deep into the core of him, taking him apart. His fault. His own fault.

 

He tried harder to sink into the cool embrace of oblivion, to no avail. As easy as it had been to shed his own name, he couldn't let go of that face. His whole being clung to it.

 

He saw the face get shattered under his own hands. Unthinkable. Stop, he had to stop, he had to stop it! Blood, so much blood on his hands, searing into him like acid. The deepest sting when the face flinched away from his touch.

 

Resigned to the fact that there could be no reprieve for him, not ever, he fell into the next memory.

 

An innocent life, not to blame for the fact her soul was both human and angelic. A blade through a throat. His blade. His hand. Not his blood, never his own. Betrayal. Expulsion. Falling, falling. Screaming.

 

Suddenly, impossibly, a touch of warmth grazed him amidst it all. He heard something, a word, a powerful word, reaching him through a connection that could not be. As fast as it had appeared, it was gone again, leaving him only with the vague impression of a feeling that was different, that didn't belong in this place, that made him stronger. The blurry image of a different face came with it.

 

A soul both human and angelic. Protect. This one belonged. Son.

 

He may not have deserved it, but he had gotten his moment of reprieve, somehow. And it had changed him, left a spark inside of him that refused to die. It remained even as the memories returned to torment him.

 

Symbols glowing yellow, tearing into the white brick wall like he tore into the world, unleashing unspeakable evil into it. The face was there. I'm sorry. He always was.

 

Even in the middle of the memory, in the claws of despair over the lives he had taken, it happened again. The face changed, its look of hurt and betrayal morphing into something softer. He felt a tingling sensation, suffused with warmth, so much warmth. Longing. The word was spoken again, but trickled through his grasp like grains of sand.

 

The warmth lingered, though, visions of the face that mattered above all else overlapping with the current memory that trapped him, dispersing it for a time. The spark grew, sustained him through the next eternity, making oblivion no longer the thing he craved most.

 

His hand touched the side of a head. Not in comfort, but in destruction. Always destruction, even to those who mattered. Friend. Family. A wall torn down, a shelter razed.

 

It happened a third time. The memory shifted, distorted. Against all odds, this man he had almost destroyed was no longer cold in rejection and anger, but warm and welcoming. The word was spoken again. His spark solidified. Nothingness could claim him no more.

 

When the next eternity came to pass, he hid the spark, obscured it, kept it safe in the deepest part of himself while enduring the endless torture of his own guilt.

 

Light burned bright in the eyes of his next victim, another life extinguished by his hands. Grace that was not his nourished him, taken without consent, sucked out of another being without any right. Atrocity. Abomination. Outcast.

 

Something pulled at him, pulled at his core that was harboring the spark. He was horrified that it would be taken from him. Certain he could no longer persist without it, he tried to cling to it, only to find that it wasn't dissolving. It was growing. It spread throughout his whole being like wildfire, lit him up from inside.

 

The pull had a direction, uncaring for the fact that directions should not exist in this place. He yearned to follow it, knew he had to find the source that had kindled the fire. But he was held down.

 

This time, when the word of power was spoken, he didn't let it slide away. He gripped it, held it tight with all his strength, claimed it.

 

CASTIEL!

 

~

 

He could do this. Jack tried hard not to overthink the gravity of the situation, or he'd be too intimidated to do anything at all. He crossed the field with measured steps, ignoring the tightness in his throat and the goosebumps that appeared all over his skin when he approached the place where it had all gone wrong.

 

The chasm seemed to have stabilized by now, no more earth breaking away. Stepping closer to the edge, he felt a buzz all around him coming from the gap they had torn into reality, hovering directly above the wide abyss.

 

He stared down into the precipice, still unable to judge just how far down it reached, so he picked up a small rock and threw it, hard. It rebounded off the walls of the chasm, a clack-clack-clack that was loud in his ears. Jack waited, tensely, for the final impact, but the sounds only got muffled the further the rock descended until silence blanketed him once more.

 

The silence was desolate, unbearable. He tossed another rock, and another, his motions growing more furious in a rage he hadn't been aware of until that moment. He flung rocks at the chasm, at the oily and fiery cracks, at the too-dark sky, at everything. Only at a sharp sting in his arm he stopped, breathing heavily. This was stupid. He was stupid. This wasn't helping anyone.

 

His eyes fell back onto the oily substance, hanging in the air as a petrified black lightning strike. The distance was much greater now than when Dean had made that leap, but maybe Jack's hidden angelic strength reserves could help him cover it. Or maybe he would end up as a smudge down below, in the unknown depths of the chasm. More likely the latter. He missed his wings.

 

Even if he did make it, though, they still didn't know what the Empty did to humans, or mostly-humans. And the last time he'd been in the Empty, there had been no sign of an exit until Billie had actively pulled him out. He'd either end up dead or as a prisoner of an entity that hated him. But he couldn't afford that. Earth couldn't afford that. He had work to do.

 

With a deep sigh, he averted his gaze from the chasm and spotted the abandoned backpacks that had miraculously survived the cataclysm, placed just far enough away to be unaffected. He grabbed one at random, strapped it on his back, and reached out with his senses to follow the stream of one of the leylines.

 

He hadn't walked far when the sound of a voice made his head snap around.

 

"I don't care! And neither should you! He tried to kill both of us!"

 

These words darkened the sky. The low rumble of thunder was everywhere. Clouds coalesced into an even thicker veil until a single strike of lightning descended from the darkness at their core, setting a tree on fire in some distance.

 

Jack's heart hammered at the sight of his grandfather standing right where he himself had been just moments before. Frozen in terror, it took him several seconds to realize that he hadn't been noticed yet. Chuck was facing the other way, distracted by the rift in reality and locked in an argument with... himself. Eyes glued to the scene, Jack quietly retreated backwards until he was able to crouch down behind a shrub, whatever good that would do him in evading detection by God.

 

"You can't be serious. Just look at what they've done to the place! Does this look like preserving creation to you? This breach is unprecedented, it's... it's dangerous! In all my time, not even I have dared touch the Empty like this."

 

The awkwardly crouched position was beginning to hurt in Jack's legs and a twig bit into his face, but he didn't allow himself even the smallest movement. Chuck turned around, looking at something in the distance. The anger had suddenly drained from his grandfather's voice as he shrugged lightly.

 

"Fine, yes, you got me. Maybe it's not all bad. That mountain over there, I felt joy when I created it, when I touched its spires and formed them in perfect symmetry. And that tree you just burned in your little outburst had survived for five centuries and nourished hundreds of animals with its acorns. Perhaps nature is worth preserving. I created a perfect, self-sustaining system."

 

Chuck's lips twitched in a smile as the wind blew into his face. He stepped closer to Jack, speaking quietly now.

 

"It's a marvel, isn't it? Maybe carbon-based life is fine after all, yttrium is so... bland anyway. Maybe I should bring back animals."

 

Still walking, Chuck lifted an arm and swirled his finger. A squirrel appeared between him and Jack, rustling through the fallen leaves on the ground. It stopped, sat on its hindlegs and sniffed the air. Jack held his breath, willing the animal to walk the other way. Another step by Chuck scared it enough that it shot straight towards the shrub Jack was hiding behind.

 

"We could create some new ones, too," Chuck said as he followed the squirrel. "Or bring back dinosaurs, they were epic! Yep, I—"

 

The moment Chuck reached his hiding spot, Jack thought this was how it would end. No saving the world. No last hope.

 

~

 

The only angel ever possessing Dean before had been Michael from the other universe. Even at first, when Michael had still allowed Dean to be in charge in the fight against Lucifer, it had felt like an invasion. Something foreign barely restrained, churning inside of him trying to break free, to gain control.

 

This, this was nothing like that. When the vast form of the angel in front of him dissolved, there was no fight for control this time. The stream of warmth advanced in a way that was gentle, hesitant as if expecting to be expelled in a heartbeat.

 

Don't you dare! he thought and the advance halted. Don't you dare leave again!

 

At these words, the flow finally didn't hold back any longer and flooded him. Every last part of Dean's body welcomed the grace, merged with it, sheltered it. This wasn't an invasion, it was a fusion. The sensation was the balm to an open wound that had been festering within him. It was undeniable proof that Castiel was safe now. During the last two days, he had fought so hard not to give up hope on this. Now that it was happening, in ways he never could have imagined, he had no idea how to react.

 

Cas, he thought helplessly, as if that one word could say anything at all. Tingles spread all over his body in reply, and the presence was strongest somewhere in his chest, settling near where he knew his soul to be. His senses opened up suddenly, and he had to fight nausea until his body had adjusted. The surroundings his eyes had been unable to process before were now visible to him clear as day. The walls around them consisted of a substance in constant movement, billowing softly with the vague idea of shapes inside of it. The black veins were still lurking nearby—twisting, reaching—and he could now pick up an aura of threat coming from them with a sort of sixth sense.

 

An echo of the earlier agony surged up in his chest and he curled his fingers into fists in protectiveness he couldn't place anywhere else. I got you. The veins didn't seem to be able to touch his body at all. You're safe, Cas. It can't reach you. He swallowed, tried not to let any thoughts seep through of how much this whole place freaked him out. I'll get us out of here.

 

~

 

Amara, I'm sorry, Jack prayed, one last thing he wanted to say before it was all over, one more person he had to make amends to. I just... just wanted to save everyone. Even if it meant you and I had to die. But it wasn't fair to you.

 

Everything came to a halt. The squirrel was frozen mid-movement, leaves no longer rustling under its feet. A bubble of dead silence surrounded him. The blades of grass near his shrub were no longer swaying in the wind, crystallized in a shard of time.

 

Jack gasped and sat up straighter, looking directly into the face that had ended his life once before in a burst of light and agony. Chuck's eyes flashed black. God held out his arm and black smoke rose from his skin as he turned his wrist with a gentle wiggle of fingers.

 

The smoke floated over to Jack, engulfing him. The pain he expected failed to appear. Where the smoke touched him, Jack's skin and even his clothing and backpack became transparent until all he could see when he glanced down was the ground beneath him. Before a clear thought could form in his head, sounds tore through the veil of silence and the squirrel changed its course once more, darting away from him.

 

"—'m starting to think that the Fifth Extinction was a mistake. Screw humans. You know, dinosaurs, they were poetic! They had flair! There was always a bigger predator."

 

With a snap of Chuck's fingers, a hawk swooped from the sky and carried the squirrel away in strong claws.


"We'll make a movie out of it. I can just see it, with a volcano erupting in the background."

 

Not daring to breathe, Jack watched him make a grand, sweeping gesture of vision.

 

"Dinosaurs - Resurgence! What d'ya think, sis? Eh? Eh?"

 

Grunting in sudden frustration, Chuck stepped away from Jack's shrub and back towards the chasm.

 

"Spoilsport. I'm letting you know that you're really killing my vibe, here. But yes, fine, first things first. We have to find a way to clos—"

 

A rock came flying out of the oily scar in the air above the chasm and landed directly in front of Chuck's feet. Chuck frowned and picked it up.

 

"Interesting."

 

~

 

Dean.

 

The thought reverberated through his mind and Dean shivered. He'd never been happier to hear his own name.

 

Fuck, Cas. It's good to talk to you.

 

It was hard to hold anything back in this Vulcan mind merge thing. Dean let his relief spill over, but yanked sharply at his own fear.

 

A trickle of warmth was the answer he received, but it was thin. Too thin.

 

Cas, hey, are you okay? Are you... hurt?

 

There was just a soft swirling sensation in his chest, but nothing else. It was insane how much he longed to hear a clueless question, a sarcastic remark, something. Anything.

 

Anything I can do to help? Dean waited, but no reply came. Nonsensically, he lifted his arms. To do what, he didn't know. Not like there was anything he could touch. He sighed and let them sink down again. All right, okay. You'll be okay. Just hang in there, yeah?

 

He took special care to bury the fact that he'd been unable to see the exit after entering the Empty. Cas really didn't need any of that right now. It was maddening not to have any other way of helping him back to his former strength, to even just do something as simple as give him a smile of encouragement.

 

Dean's freaky, new angel senses suddenly picked up on something he couldn't pinpoint, somewhere outside their shared body. It felt wrong. So wrong that the hairs on his arms were standing up. He held his breath, every hunter instinct in his body kicked into high alert. Whatever was happening, the black veins must have felt it too, because they withdrew, fast. Not good. What the hell could make the essence of the Empty flee like that in its own realm?

 

A part of the wall in front of him began to flicker like a broken neon lamp before bursting open in an explosion of color and noise. He pressed both hands to his temples against the screeching in his head, but there was no way to stop it. It was hard to even squint through the onslaught of sensory impressions, but he realized the colors had to be angels. Cas, man, is this what angel radio is like? I want to cancel my fucking subscription! How do I turn it off?!

 

No reply. He couldn't afford in that moment to worry over how weak Cas' presence felt, that Dean's name had been the one and only word the angel had spoken in their shared mind. He tried to focus despite the noise, which was a damn feat in itself. Seeing angels now, after his own angelic level-up, but with his angel co-pilot out for the count, was really pushing the boundaries of what his human mind could handle. The colors were so much deeper, had more layers than what he was used to, like many colors all forced into too small a frame, many movements all combined into one.

 

He really couldn't be blamed for the fact that it took him a while to notice there was something seriously wrong with those angels, that this wasn't how it was supposed to be. They were contorted, merged together in a grotesque way, as if they had just taken one too many rounds in a blender. And that frigging noise! The wall's flickering sped up, then it sucked the pile of angels back in. The sudden absence of noise was just as deafening.

 

Jack wasn't kidding when he said he made it loud, huh? Dean thought, having given up on expecting a reply. The stroboscope glimmer of light from the wall continued, and the affected area was spreading slowly, evenly over whatever this realm's floor was. Dean really didn't need to be told not to let it touch him—or Cas. Fuck, I think this whole place is falling apart. We gotta get out of here!

 

He ran. Again.

 

~

 

After a few moments of investigation, Chuck let the rock drop back to the ground and squinted at the oily rift instead. Another rock came flying out of it and Chuck turned his head sidewards, evading the projectile by a hair's breadth.

 

Jack struggled to remain still under the treacherous flare of hope somewhere in his chest. It was at odds with the goosebumps forming on his arms, caused by the smile crawling over his grandfather's face.

 

"Very interesting. I'm almost impressed. Much too late now for an actually decent finale, of course. But eh, I'll take what I can get."

 

Chuck drew something in the air until a circle of red was floating in front of him like a bizarre wall clock. Whatever had been used to draw it was wet enough to send a constant stream of drops to the ground. It looked a lot like blood to Jack.

 

"And I've always wanted to use one of those things. They have a certain style, you know? Great for dramatic plot twists."

 

The moment Chuck adorned the circle with a little triangle at its top, Jack realized what it all meant and jumped to his feet, no longer caring about any sounds that might draw unwanted attention. Still entirely invisible, even to his own eyes, he dashed towards his grandfather and pushed him away from the unfinished sigil.

 

"What the...," Chuck muttered and stumbled backwards. He looked around himself in clear confusion, but seemed unable to detect Jack's presence in any way.

 

Thank you! Jack thought.

 

The oily rift demanded both of their attention when it suddenly gurgled and sputtered.

 

Chuck must have realized he was running out of time, so he snapped his fingers to finish the symbols around the sigil and there was nothing Jack could do about it. Another loud gurgling sound pulled his gaze back to the fissure. It widened and then spit out a humanoid form. In the moment of passing between realms, the figure was still entirely covered by gooey, black oil, but the substance dropped away mid-leap.

 

Dean! Jack thought and rushed to the edge of the chasm, invisible arms reaching for the hunter in a futile attempt to extend over the chasm. Dean couldn't make that jump, impossible, it was too far, he'd—

 

Dean's eyes glowed blue and wings fanned out behind his back, dark shadows that materialized as black feathers in a shockwave of thunder. Jack's breath caught in his throat. Tattered and broken as they were, the wings couldn't actually carry Dean into the air, but they might just suffice to propel him forwards enough to reach solid ground. He could make it, Jack would catch him, he'd pull him the rest of the way. He just had to get a hold, had to grab Dean's jacket, had to—

 

White light exploded, searing into Jack's eyes so that he could barely see what was happening. The outline of Dean's body was still visible, suspended in the air, but the wings were gone. The hunter's limbs were flailing against an invisible hold. Jack blinked against the blinding effect, was able to discern colors again. Dean's eyes, no longer glowing, were widened towards a spot somewhere behind Jack.

 

"And just when he thought he had succeeded, he realized that hope was a treacherous rope."

 

Dean's gaze darkened. "What did you do to him?! Don't you think he has gone through enough? He doesn't deserve any of the crap you've put him through!"

 

"Thus spake the Lord, those who disobey shall be punished. And Dean Winchester, the ultimate killer, had one last moment to repent before drawing his last breath."

 

"Fuck you, Chuck!" Dean hissed, then set his jaw and swallowed, no longer struggling against the force holding him in the air.

 

Jack stretched his arm desperately, trying to grab any part of Dean's clothing.

 

Chuck suddenly held his head, a pained noise escaping him as his eyes flashed blue, then black, then blue again. "Shut up! Oh no, you won't. Remember, I'm the lead singer here, you're just a background dancer! I was trying to be generous, to share the joy of creation with you, and this is what you give me? I will bury you so deep, you will never find your way back to the surface!"

 

Flee! a female voice said in Jack's head. He felt the hope die in his chest, saw the same happen on Dean's face.

 

"The End," Chuck proclaimed and Dean dropped like a rock.

 

~

(Not the end, I promise.)

Chapter 8: Interludes

Chapter Text

Just a few years ago, she would have laughed at anyone who dared insinuate she'd be this far gone. That she'd ever be all-in again, no backup plan, no discussion. The past version of herself had been so sure that choosing herself as her one and only confidant was the only option. All kinds of decisions had come so easily after that. It had been a good life, full of possibility and surprise, where everything could change on a whim.

 

The deal had been a fair one. The world didn't care about her, so she didn't care about the world. She would have watched it all burn, and would have counted it as a contract fulfilled. It had made her all but invincible.

 

Who on earth gave up invincibility for... what, even? She sighed, her hand pressed against the rough stone of the hallway as she peeked around the corner. The intersection was entirely abandoned. Like her common sense, apparently. There wasn't a single tangible thing that was her reward for all this. And yet...

 

Remains of her once powerful wards were still visible, but several bricks in between had been violently flung out of the walls, disrupting the flow of magic inside her symbols. Nobody had bothered to clean up the mess, or maybe the debris had been left out in the open as a statement to any who still supported her. She didn't know what had happened to her patrols, an entire squad of supposedly loyal followers in favor of the changes she'd made in Hell.

 

But that was just it, wasn't it? Loyalty wasn't tangible and so hard to come by that some might call it a myth, something that only happened in the fairy tales of old. It was something that no amount of power could ever ensure, not truly. It was something no riches could buy. And she'd been offered it freely, by a man who was smart enough to know better. He hadn't been supposed to care!

 

The irony in it all was not lost on her. The way she'd thought of her son as weak for holding up his loyalty like a flag of defiance to her, to Hell, to everyone. And here she was, following directly in his path. And for what? For some sort of cosmic joke meant to show her there was more, something beyond the safety of the sanctuary she'd made of herself?

 

At the sound of footsteps approaching, she quickly pressed her—extremely slender and graceful, if she may say so—body against the wall behind a pillar. It was fascinating how fast Hell adapted to the wishes of its ruler, how the location itself was shaped by pure willpower alone. There hadn't been any pillars in this hallway under her rule. A breathless moment ticked by and she was all too aware of the fact that she didn't even carry a weapon and that her magic was weakened greatly, first by dying, then by losing control over the throne and the access to the raw, fiery power that came with it.

 

Blunt and loud and oblivious, the demons passed her hiding place and she waited for what would have been several heartbeats if she actually still had a heart or a body. Those projections of bodies they all wore here were another thing that intrigued her about Hell, and perhaps one she was in a unique position to explore in depth. She slipped out of the shadows and backtracked the way the demons had come from, through a corridor in the quivering light of torches, lined by old-fashioned wooden doors on both sides.

 

A guttural scream cut through the silence, loud enough to be heard even through the closed door. And there was more to life, oh how there was, when one scream alone sufficed to not only set Rowena's whole body on edge, but also to make her throat constrict in something she didn't quite want to examine too closely. Next it would make her do something ridiculously brazen and foolish, like rush in entirely unarmed and unaided, wouldn't it? Of course they would bring him to the torture chambers. After all, that was what Hell did, aye?

 

~

 

Light was a sparse commodity in the dungeons of Heaven. There certainly was some of it. Windows existed—quite possibly constructed with the sole motivation in mind to taunt the cells' occupants with the closeness of light, hidden just behind bars shaped in ancient Enochian warding symbols. Barely out of reach, telling you the light persisted, you just weren't a part of it any longer.

 

Cast out, locked away in the shadowed areas between the windows in the deepest part of the dungeon to be forgotten, to spare the majority of angels the shame that your mere presence would cause. The one and only being still remembering your existence would be the torturer on their daily visits.

 

Another energy fluctuation plunged the cells into a quick sequence of brightness and darkness, a symbol of how close to collapse Heaven was even for the most willfully oblivious among the angels. Now, finally, she could see an upside in how severely understaffed Heaven was. Torture was rather low on the to-do list while the remaining angels were struggling to keep things running. Nobody could be spared for torture.

 

She'd be amused by that, if the world wasn't falling apart. If not God's own hand would bring about the killing blow, then the moment Heaven could no longer contain the billions upon billions of souls certainly would. And yet, here she was at the end of times, unable to prevent any of it. She'd been left to rot in a cell specifically constructed to feed its energy barriers with the grace of its inhabitant, leaving the angel inside weakened. They had learned from Gadreel's little stunt.

 

If the human concept of karma was something she believed in, she'd call it karmic that she had to go through everything she had done to others. She'd sent so many angels to these cells, she'd erased so many rebellious thoughts. Now the holes in her own memory left behind by a drill were still bothering her with questions she'd probably never get answers for, and being locked in here was doing its fair share in tearing apart what little sanity she had managed to preserve over the millennia. And maybe that was the core of the issue. Maybe all of them had just lived too damned long to still be sane.

 

She saw the value in humanity, now. Their short lifespan coupled with their ability to create new life, promising constant renewal instead of stagnancy so maddening they had actually forgotten their purpose somewhere along the way. The things they'd done in the name of the 'Will of God' in all its glorious purity...

 

What a load of bull dung. Everything had been lies built upon lies. There hadn't even been a God's Will, just archangels who thought themselves the center of the universe. Oh, she deserved to repent for so many things, so many angels she had wronged. Those who'd still found enough sanity and goodness in themselves, even after all this time, to question cruelty, those who deserved least of all to be punished.

 

The terrible irony in it all was that she hadn't been incarcerated for wronging them all, for following the lure of a trumpet call to an army of ruthless fanatics. No, she'd been imprisoned to repent for the few things she didn't regret. For taking a stand, against God. It felt like her eyes had been fully opened for the first time when she had gained a glimpse into Metatron's mind, the supposed Voice of God.

 

She could finally see everyone's lies for what they were, nothing but propaganda, starting in the very highest of places. Nothing was holy, never had been. God had never loved any of them. The only thing worth fighting for were the few who could still find it in them to be true, faithful not in God, but in what was right. Not because God said so, not because anyone said so, but because it made the world a better place for everyone, angel and human alike.

 

Castiel must have possessed such exceptional strength to have been following that path from the start, never actually straying from it, no matter how hard she had tried to push him in a different direction, over and over. If only she hadn't been too blind to choose his side sooner. If only she had known. Known that all orders had been nothing but random, that there was no plan—known that their loving father was nothing but a farce. Her purpose could have been renewed, she could have lent her strength to a cause truly worth it.

 

Apologies had not existed in a simpler world, where everything had been white and clear. Nobody had ever said sorry to her, neither had she ever said it to anyone. There couldn't have been a reason to. Unable to ask for forgiveness, all that had been left for her to do with the veil of blindness lifted from her eyes had been quietly trailing along in Castiel's path, the one he'd already cleared for those coming after him. How could anyone even ask to receive forgiveness for the unforgiveable?

 

No, that would have been hopeless, doomed even before the words could have left the lips of her vessel that was now lost. Just as Castiel himself was. They'd all been able to feel it, when another of their dwindling numbers was torn away forever. It shouldn't have ended like this.

 

Actions spoke louder than words. All she could hope to do now, after Castiel had met his final demise, was protecting that which he had treasured above all—protect it in his name, in the name of the world, in the name of all that was right. She had chosen to do exactly that, had grabbed the hope Dean Winchester had extended towards her and brought it to full bloom.

 

He who had room in his heart to love angels more than God ever had, enough so that he would risk his own life for an angel and a nephilim, beings that weren't even the same species as him. The Righteous Man who kept fighting when everyone else had already laid down their arms. He who now held the faith of the whole world on his shoulders, able to perceive the true face of angels. This was Castiel's legacy. An apology in actual words had been outside Naomi's reach, but she would pick up his beacon and carry it to the edge of time itself, up to Earth's very last second.

 

But she could not do that from inside of this cell.

 

~

 

He'd done it. The bastard had actually gone and done it, only to bloody die on him. Rude, that's what it was! The way the broken bones crunched with every movement was kind of distasteful, but he'd seen worse, done worse, in Hell. Still, held together by nothing but demonic essence, this body had given a friendly wave to its expiration date a while ago. Probably somewhere around the first ten metres of climbing. Maybe before.

 

It felt rather undignified to be climbing out of that hole with his bare hands, but he was too miserably weakened to teleport. Then again, he'd been inside a rat, so maybe undignified had lost its meaning right there. Not even to speak of the things Lucifer had made him do. Unpleasant business, that. But he'd shown that putrescent excuse of an angel what it meant to make an enemy of him, had wiped the smug smile right out of a face so ugly not even The Grand Creator himself had been able to stand it.

 

Of course, that opportunity hadn't come without a cost. A cost that—his fingers slipped on the rock they had been gripping as a full-body shiver went through him, blacking out his sight for a moment. No, no, not that. Not that place. Worse than Hell, worse than any torture he'd ever endured. He'd never go back, never let anything or anyone dig that deep again. Never. Rocks tumbled down with loud crashes below him, stirred by his panicked movements. His vision returned only just in time for him to catch himself with his boots against the steep wall that formed the ravine.

 

Well, not his boots, of course. He'd never wear something so... lacking in finesse, if he had any choice. And the flannel, for all that was unholy! He hadn't even been able to get that nasty habit out of him during that stint as a demon. He saved me. The thought ran through his head unbidden, a mere whisper from the back of his mind. He came to that forsaken place and saved me. Something warm curling in his chest made him so disgusted with himself that he almost lost his grip another time.

 

When he finally made it to the top of the canyon, he hoisted that battered body that wasn't his over the edge. Then he just lay on his back, too exhausted to move, and drew in deep, heaving breaths.

 

"Bollocks!" he muttered, and let his eyes flash red just for the Hell of it before his head sank back to the ground.

 

~

Chapter 9: Castiel

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Cas.

 

He was severely weakened, but he found comfort in the thoughts so close to him that they were almost indistinguishable from his own. His presence was a muddled chaos, still half lost in the depths of despair that had claimed him for an unknowable amount of time. It was hard to leave behind the dark emotions that had chained him to this place, especially knowing that every single image he had seen wasn't just a nightmarish phantom summoned to torment him. They were all memories, sad fragments of truth, each vision depicting an injustice he had actually committed, real persons he had wronged.

 

I got you. You're safe, Cas. It can't reach you. I'll get us out of here.

 

He wasn't convinced he deserved to be led out of this darkness, but the gentle warmth around him was insistent. It built a fortress around his identity, prevented him from losing himself again. It reminded him there was a reason to remember. Everything culminated in a single thought, an idea, a truth so unlike all of his regrets.

 

Dean.

 

That name had been his missing link to reality. It reinforced the fortress walls, turned it into the place of absolute safety that had been promised. He swore to himself he wouldn't lose the name again, no matter what.

 

Fuck, Cas. It's good to talk to you.

 

Dean's relief merged with his own, an exquisite lightness amidst the other emotions. Nestled so close to Dean's soul, he finally allowed himself to let down his guard for the first time in what felt like forever. Without any danger of getting lost again, he drifted, tried to rebuild his strength through absence. He was only vaguely aware that Dean sent more thoughts his way now and then, comfortable in their proximity.

 

In his state of hazy contentedness, it took him far too long to realize that something was wrong, that Dean had slid over into vigilance. As low on power as he was, he hadn't even attempted to pay attention to anything in the meantime, so piecing together coherent information was difficult. He managed to regain a minimum amount of control and observed that they were running from something, the echo of the last sentences Dean had directed towards him still at the edge of his consciousness.

 

Fuck, I think this whole place is falling apart. We gotta get out of here!

 

Remembrance of where they were was a shock of ice, but it helped him snap back into focus. He tuned into their external senses, claiming a part of the impressions. Dean must have noticed the exact moment it happened, because ripples of relief reached Castiel once more, right as he surveyed their surroundings. What he saw was even worse than expected, a realm that should have been everlasting falling into entropy in a slow, but steady decline.

 

Despite Dean's penchant for exaggerations, his assessment of the situation was, in fact, quite accurate. Their motoric abilities were under Dean's control and that was a good thing. Castiel was still disoriented and struggled to get used to the connection with a human body again, even though he remembered how much at home he had come to feel in his own vessel. Carefully, he nudged Dean aside just the smallest bit to take in a deep breath. It was strangely unsatisfactory in the Empty, no comparison at all to having a body on Earth.

 

Cas?

 

Dean halted, their breathing pattern disrupted by Castiel's action. Dean turned their head to look back over their shoulder, examining the distance they had brought between themselves and whatever it was that was currently consuming the Empty. Castiel swallowed.

 

This is frigging weird!

 

Apologies.

 

The intensity of the warmth this simple word spread throughout their body took him entirely by surprise.

 

You're back!

 

I... suppose that I am, yes.

 

Don't go all zen on me again, man. I need—

 

There was the distinct impression that Dean was holding something back, but then decided to at least drop one layer of the safety wall.

 

I have no idea what I'm doing!

 

The full extent of the panic Dean was hiding finally dawned on Castiel, looming behind that wall like the shadow of a giant. And then Castiel asked the question that tore the illusion of safety to shreds that he had so foolishly hidden behind.

 

Dean, how did you get here?

 

We, uh...

 

A confusing amount of images and sounds flashed through their mind. Rows of letters drawn into dirt, three voices chanting in unison, flames, the feeling of being drained of one's strength, a ray of purple light, a rumbling earthquake, the sickening sensation of gravity pulling them down towards an abyss, blackness. Castiel pressed a hand against their forehead, overwhelmed by the lack of a red thread that connected all of these seemingly random scenes.

 

We ripped a hole into the fabric of the universe to get you back. Kind of.

 

You did what?

 

Look, man, there wasn't—I couldn't—don't we have a fucking bigger problem right now?

 

Bigger than a hole in the fabric of the universe?

 

Yes! Not like there was anyone left that would have been in danger by what we did. And that hole in the... whatever, it's how we'll get back home!

 

Another look back reminded them that the distance between them and the corrupted part of the Empty was shrinking slowly now that they had stopped moving. This time it was Castiel who initiated a run.

 

Dean?

 

Yeah?

 

Why was there nobody left who would have been endangered?

 

Shit, did I—you only just came back. Can we maybe focus on one thing at a time, here? Like, I don't know, getting out of here?

 

In the face of the rising volume of Dean's emotions, Castiel actively resisted the urge to point out that even in his weakened state, he'd be able to process a multitude of information at once because that was how angels were designed, and that he'd really like to prepare for what lay ahead. Instead, he decided to drop the matter and realized too late that rolling his eyes may not have been the best of ideas.

 

Hey! I saw that!

 

You didn't.

 

I—fine, I didn't. But I felt it. That made it worse.

 

And somehow, in what Castiel now suspected was the middle of another apocalypse, they had fallen back into a rhythm they both knew by heart. It was the comfort of home in a place so foreign, it couldn't be further from home for either of them. Mutual appreciation trickled through their mind and Castiel felt the corner of their mouth rise in a movement he had nothing to do with.

 

So, what is our plan?

 

Getting out of here. Duh.

 

...There is no plan, is there?

 

Yeah, well, maybe if this place didn't look exactly the same every which way, I'd still have a frigging clue which direction is which!

 

Dean.

 

Is it really too much to ask for, I don't know, anything that isn't just a wall of black?

 

Dean.

 

If Hell gets a bigger feature in Architectural Digest, then you really know there's something wrong with this place!

 

Dean!

 

What?!

 

Castiel stirred his grace into motion, drawing a careful, soothing curve through Dean's chest.

 

It's fine. We'll be fine.

 

Dean's breathing slowed, and Castiel felt the barrage of words forming in their head calm and the muscles in their shared body relax.

 

How d'you know that?

 

Because someone threw a rock into the Empty.

 

Come again?

 

A rock.

 

He turned their body to face the small lump of mineral that looked incredibly out of place on the black floor. That got Dean's full attention and their mouth opened in astonishment just the moment a second rock came flying. Castiel memorized the angle it had taken.

 

Sam, perhaps?

 

Mentioning the name seemed to have been a mistake, as it made Dean's heart rate spike once more. Caught off guard, Dean didn't push the memory behind the wall fast enough to conceal it, and Castiel at last witnessed one of the things Dean kept shielding him from unnecessarily: A menacing cloud of demons rose into the sky and drew shadows over the heartbroken looks on Sam's and Jack's faces. Belatedly, he noticed that this time he was the one who put their body into a battle stance, hands balled into fists at their sides, grace flaring up. They shared several moments of tense silence, broken only by their breathing.

 

Someone must have thrown that thing, so they must be okay...

 

Castiel tried to drop the fierce protectiveness that had come over him, focusing on Dean's thoughts instead.


...right?

 

Right.

 

Their fingers uncurled back into a relaxed posture.

 

So do we just...

 

They stared at the inconspicuous spot in the wall where the rocks had passed into this realm, and the opposite way at the oddly flickering part of the Empty they had left behind. Dean shared an image of what had happened to angels who were touched by the corruption. Their throat suddenly felt tight and Castiel swallowed against it, felt an echo of his earlier agony rise up at the memory of all the angels he had sent here.

 

Dean, we can't just leave them here. We can't risk that they suffer a fate even worse than what they already had to endure.

 

Well, some of them, we can.

 

Dean openly shared his perspective of Lucifer stabbing Castiel through the heart, and they almost sank to their knees under the weight of it. Castiel caught their balance and gasped at the intensity of the vision.

 

Sorry, that was—I didn't. Yeah, no. Definitely not freeing that douchebag.

 

But there's others. Dean, we have friends who are imprisoned here.

 

I know. No argument here.

 

Castiel thought of Balthazar, of the moment he had ended his friend's life in the most cowardly way, with a blade from behind.

 

So that's why we never saw him again! I thought...

 

Apparently, the pang of guilt that always struck Castiel during this particular memory was pervasive enough to reach Dean as well. He trailed off.

 

Well, doesn't matter what I thought. We can fix this, Cas.

 

The image of a smirking Crowley appeared in their mind and that certainly couldn't have come from Castiel.

 

Really, him?

 

He saved you, Cas. I fucking thought you'd—and he saved you.

 

Castiel didn't need the reminder how the poison from the Lance of Michael had ravaged him, his vessel and his true form alike, until he was suffocating from the inside, spasming on the floor as his grace got turned against him. But whatever Dean was hastily walling off had made the memory so much stronger, so much worse.

 

I... guess he did. More than once, actually.

 

He shared the sensation of weakness and injury, laying on a floor littered with glass shards, his head cushioned by a hand that held it up. Crowley's face above him, the cool touch of grace passing his lips and running through him like a cleansing fire, pulling him back from the brink of death.

 

What the hell? When was this? You know what, I don't even care. It's settled. He's coming with us.

 

Fine!

 

Fine! Uh, how do we...?

 

Dean watched the movement of the nearest wall, the twisting shapes inside of it that always withdrew before they were fully formed. Castiel had to push away the memory of being one of them with a shuddering intake of breath.

 

Cas?

 

The question was hesitant, careful, with no traces of abrasiveness left in the exchange.

 

Names.

 

What?

 

Dean, both times I've been here, what woke me was hearing my name. It's what unchained me.

 

Great, but praying to a demon isn't really on the menu and my voice doesn't work here.

 

Mine does.

 

Castiel closed their eyes in concentration, gathered his grace, and then released a burst of energy, shaping the sound waves with the power of his will.

 

Show-off.

 

The insult was embedded in warmth that Castiel couldn't help but return.

 

You were the one who wanted me to do this!

 

For once, Dean didn't have a chance to overrule Castiel's statement because something disturbed the black mass of the wall in front of them. They waited as it pushed against the membrane from the inside, but it didn't manage to break through.

 

Yeah, and now I want you to do it again.

 

Not even bothering to hide his eye roll this time, Castiel complied and repeated the call, with the same effect.

 

Perhaps I should try 'Fergus Roderick MacLeod'.

 

Nah, he hates that name.

 

Still, it's part of who he is. Most demons don't even remember the name they carried as humans, but he never forgot his. That has to mean something.

 

Whatever, man. Knock yourself out.

 

Castiel sent out a third call, changed this time to carry forth Crowley's human name. Finally, a form broke through the barrier, at first still an unshapely mass of the black substance that connected it to the inside of the wall. The more ooze dropped away, the more the form fell into its own shape, humanoid outlines blurred in red smoke, with horns at its head and glowing red eyes in the dark.

 

Castiel couldn't keep their lips from twitching in a smirk of satisfaction at the success.

 

Oh, shut up!

 

I didn't even say anything.

 

But you wanted to!

 

The demon in front of them sank to his knees, held his head and curled up as tremors ran through him.

 

If his experience is anything like mine, he's barely sentient as an individual at the moment.

 

Whatever Dean's reply to that may have been, he never got a chance to form the words in their head because the wall in front of them lashed out with tendrils of black that cut deep into the cowering being on the ground in an attempt to reclaim it. The demon twisted and turned and they didn't require sound to recognize his pain.

 

Shitshitshit, what do we do? Cas!

 

Well, we know one method that has worked before.

 

Dean stepped forward and lifted one of their arms to touch the smoke that made up the demonic presence. The tendrils avoided the spot where his hand was and the red smoke wafted around his fingers.

 

Cas? If this goes down the drain real fast, you'll help me rein him in... right?

 

Of course. But for the record, this was your idea, not mine.

 

Yeahyeah, sure. Objection noted and all that. Crowley, hey! You hear me? You gotta possess me... us... whatever.

 

Castiel sent another message with his true voice, a simple 'Possess—Sanctuary.' The demon's head darted up, and for the fraction of a moment, his red eyes bore lucidity as they focused on them. He reared up on the floor, arching his back. The smoke around him blurred and gathered in a concentrated cloud of crimson, giving up the humanoid shape. The cloud bolted towards them, up their outstretched arm and straight into their mouth, even as the tendrils tried to hold it back.

 

The anti-possession sigil on their chest burst alive, but Castiel suppressed the heat with a targeted application of grace. It took all of his willpower to restrain his grace from flaring up, following the call of its natural purpose and purging the demonic essence so close to his own. He was shoved aside from his spot near Dean's soul none too gently and felt the loss of warmth like a sting. Suddenly, everything was too small, too dark. He tried to gasp, but found that he was cut off from controlling any part of Dean's body. Drowning, he was drowning, he couldn't—

 

Hey! HEY! Crowley, for fuck's sake! Dial it down or I'll throw you out!

 

The demon didn't reply in words, but the part of his essence closest to Castiel's withdrew the slightest bit, leaving just enough room for his grace to wiggle through and reach Dean's soul in the mere shadow of a touch.

 

Cas? You good over there?

 

Castiel tried to breathe deeply through Dean's nose. Dean let him. Crowley let him.

 

I'm fine. This is... very uncomfortable.

 

Yeah, no kidding. It won't stay like this for long, you can trust me on that. CROWLEY! Stop it!

 

He'll probably need time to recover, like I did. To... find himself. Your soul, it helped me regain some amount of my strength. I assume it will be similar for him.

 

So you're saying what, I'm jump-starting an angel and a demon?

 

Did you just... compare us to cars?

 

Heh. Kinda?

 

This was ridiculous. Logically, he knew he should be offended by the indignity and the complete and utter lack of respect. Instead, considering Dean's stance towards cars in general, he accepted the whole thing as a backhanded compliment, and basked in the affectionate glow that Dean's soul usually only radiated in times of contentedness, something he hadn't dared to hope he could ever witness again. The corners of their mouth rose in another smile and he couldn't even tell who had initiated the movement this time.

 

He was suddenly glad he couldn't sense any of Crowley's feelings. The demon had walled himself off entirely for the time being, and Castiel certainly wouldn't complain about that. He considered Dean's earlier words and couldn't do anything other than agree with the fact that, no matter what differences they may have had in the past, Castiel owed his life to Crowley. Twice. The better part of him knew they were doing the right thing, that someone who had been willing to give his own life for the good of the world deserved to be saved. Why then was the other part of him so irritated by the demon's presence?

 

Cas, uhm... hate to break it to you, but I don't really think we can fit Balthazar in here. This is already giving me a case of the heebie-jeebies as is.

 

Torn out of his own considerations like this, Castiel's thoughts were messy and unfocused, and he had no chance to adjust them given the instantaneous nature of their connection.

 

No. I mean, I'm aware. I wouldn't want you to risk—

 

Unbidden, the sickness-inducing memory of carrying far too many of the Purgatory souls ran through their head, his reflection in the mirror as they pushed against his abdomen from the inside.

 

He could feel Dean's breath hitch, feel the muscles in their shoulders tense and a swallow run down their throat like lead. For the first time, the link they shared made him uncomfortable. He wished Dean hadn't seen that image, didn't want them reminded of a divide between them that Castiel back then had been hopeless to bridge ever again.

 

The silence that followed was fraught with things neither of them wanted to shape into words. It became stifling in a way that made him desperate for something, anything, to break it, but his mind suddenly consisted of molasses that nipped every attempt to do so in the bud. It was Dean who finally dispersed it, opting not to comment on what he had seen.

 

You know, I was thinking we could—uhm, try to return here? Get more people out?

 

That might be the best course of action, yes.

 

Kind of like a taxi. Heh, see? I'm a car, too. All the best people are cars. It's like a badge for the cool-kids-club.

 

Castiel was utterly mystified by this absurd string of words, and how to react to it, when a flimsy rill of warmth crept from Dean towards him, nudged him in a way that was unsure, hesitant. When he welcomed it, they both breathed freely again, inhaled in unison with a weight lifted from their chest that he hadn't been aware of. His thoughts cleared.

 

Perhaps it would be for the best to wake them now. They'd be able to evade the corrupted areas, even in our absence.

 

Those veins will grab 'em.

 

Yes, but that would still be preferable to what the touch of the corruption results in, wouldn't it?

 

Yeah, right. Worst case, they get sucked back in and fall asleep. But maybe we can get one of 'em to stay awake? Just one would be enough to, to...

 

...to instigate a chain reaction, to call the others by their name again. Dean, this might actually work.

 

Sure it does. And it'll buy us more time to get them all out, right? 'Least those we want out.

 

The smile had found its way back to their face and their heartbeat had accelerated again in their shared excitement, but this time Castiel didn't attempt to calm it. He didn't waste any more time and let their mind slip into the telepathic web that Dean had so aptly dubbed angel radio, sending out a universal call to all of his siblings. When he was greeted by nothing but silence, he tried not to let too much of his disappointment seep through to Dean.

 

The hard way then.

 

Not like it's ever anything else.

 

He was still preparing to focus his true voice on the black mass that formed the wall when Dean's thoughts shredded his concentration.

 

Balthazar! I, uh... pray to you to show your glowy ass to us!

 

Your prayers truly are the worst.

 

Never kept you from showing up.

 

Castiel almost laughed, feeling so much lighter than he ever had. This was a chance he hadn't expected to be given, a chance to actually fix what he had broken in foolish delusions, to restore instead of destroy. It was exhilarating. As closely connected as they currently were, an emotion of such magnitude would have been hard to hide, but there was no reason to.

 

Dean picked up on it, chuckled at his own joke, soundless in the Empty but shaking their chest in the shared joy that flowed between them. Energized in ways that were foreign to him, Castiel's true voice felt reinforced when he called this time, shaping the name of his past friend in growing expectation. His voice merged with Dean's prayers, forming a beacon of hope in a place that was the antithesis to the same.

 

BALTHAZAR! Candygram!

 

You're incorrigible.

 

Stuck in a perpetual loop between them, their joy expanded into exuberance that carried them to unexplored heights. Castiel had never experienced anything like it, was blindsided by the way it made him feel. Their body was warm all over, tingling, prickling in suppressed laughter that had no outlet.

 

BALTHAZAR! Knock-knock! You gotta wake if you wanna hear the punchline!

 

Completely and utterly ludicrous.

 

You love it.

 

Dean seemed just as stunned as Castiel by those words that had formed in their mind, sticking out like a flower on scorched soil. They stood in silence, breathing heavily. One of them swallowed, Castiel didn't know who. Then he received a shove, his grace once more cut off from Dean's soul, effectively stopping the feedback loop.

 

Shut. THE HELL. Up!

 

The demonic essence wasn't suffocating this time, had merely interrupted whatever reaction had been happening between grace and soul, before backing down to give Castiel sufficient room again. Confused beyond measure, Castiel didn't know what to think.

 

Crowley, back to your old self then?

 

The demon didn't reply, instead erected even higher walls around his presence in their shared mind. Impeccable timing as always, this was the moment Balthazar chose to free himself from his prison and appear in front of them. His vessel had been ripped away from him in death, left behind at Castiel's feet on the floor of a dirty building. In front of them now was a much older form—dark violet streaked with black, resembling the night sky in a desert. The sight of the light towering high over Dean's body erased any traces of the elation Castiel may have felt before, replaced with grief for what had been, what was lost.

 

Balthazar, that you? he heard Dean pray, but they were left without an answer yet again.

 

The light was dimming, shivering, entirely unaware of their presence. In an attempt of comfort, a strand of Castiel's grace reached out for a tentative connection he had probably lost every right to in the moment he had extinguished his old friend's earthly and heavenly existence. Their human throat constricted and he swallowed against the feeling of confinement.

 

"Balthazar, zod-oh-rah-geh" 17, Castiel hesitantly sent over angel radio, subdued in his guilt. He could only hope this method of communication was able to function in the Empty at all, now that the other angel had been freed. The word he had sent was a push beyond the possible, but if nothing else, he at least wanted to ensure that being welcome was one of the first impressions Balthazar received in this renewed life of his.

 

His next words were laced with the pain he had carried for so long. "Tee-bee-beh-peh ee moh-fah-fah-ess." 18 Advancing with care, his grace probed further into the other celestial being until he met the slightest sign of resistance, at which he halted immediately. He didn't mean to intrude, merely to lend strength in what he knew to be a hopeless pit that was nearly impossible to escape without assistance. "Moh-oh-oh-ah-hoh eh-see-ah-sah-kah-hoh." 19

 

Finally, a spark of recognition seemed to shoot through the angel's form as he drew back from Castiel's sprawled out grace. Castiel let him go, was stranded in his desire to help with the simultaneous knowledge that he was the reason for all of this. The last seconds of Balthazar's life flashed up in his mind, made him hear every nuance in the words as if he was there again, forever burnt into an angelic memory that remembered far too many details for its own good.

 

'You've always got little old me.'

 

Human bodies were a marvel, but times like these were when they proved to be an obstacle.

 

'Yes, I'll always have you.'

 

That lump in their throat tightened, didn't allow him to breathe until a sob broke free.

 

"Moh-oh-oh-ah-hoh," 20 Castiel repeated, the word echoing forlornly in their head.

 

'Cas...'

 

Cas!

 

Castiel realized Dean had been uncharacteristically quiet during this whole exchange, but now he was there, a familiar touch to his grace.

 

Cas, hey! Hey! We'll fix this. We're fixing it right now, okay?

 

As had to be expected, the black tendrils appeared and tried to reclaim what they had stolen, cut into Balthazar right alongside the strand of Castiel's grace that was hovering near the fringe of the body of violet light. What he hadn't expected was the way his grace was suddenly no longer rejected. His friend of past times grasped for it, clung to it as the tendrils sent violent shivers through his being.

 

Castiel held on tightly and shared what little power he had regained, sent the hope he carried into this new connection against any logical reasoning that his efforts would be futile. He wasn't sure how long he'd be able to keep this up, or if the blackness would be able to reclaim him as well through his extended grace, but he refused to let go now, determined to make a stand for his friend who had always deserved better.

 

GABRIEL! Dean suddenly prayed, as loud as a scream. If there's any chance you made it over to this side, right fucking now would be a good time to make an appearance!

 

Sweat began to gather on their human forehead. The strain on his grace was too strong for Castiel to focus on much else, including the forming of words, but Dean prayed with an intensity that sufficed for both of them.

 

GABRIEL!

 

Never once giving up in his fight for Balthazar, Castiel dug deeper, tore open more of his old wounds that had never stopped radiating pain. He had little control over what memories were pulled to the surface, laid bare for Dean to see. A bloodied face, eyes tormented in a quest for redemption, even as Castiel touched a forehead in healing. The flash of light that was his final sacrifice to free Castiel. It took only seconds for Dean to recognize the face, to call out the name into the void with the power of his prayer.

 

GADREEL!

 

An angel in a body with long, red hair, backlit by a blinding light as she saved him in combat. A churning sensation in his chest he'd never experienced before when he watched her kiss Dean. The debilitating guilt that hurt too much to even look at her as she got arrested by two angels. This name took Dean slightly longer to call, though it certainly couldn't be for lack of recognition.

 

ANNA!

 

The black veins redoubled their effort to stifle the light in Balthazar's angelic form, and Castiel groaned in tension, balled their hands into fists. Even just sending memories Dean's way proved almost too much, but he conjured the image of a boy wearing a ridiculous red and white outfit, looking up at him with trust in his eyes the moment Castiel stabbed him. Dean wasn't quite fast enough to conceal his shock about this revelation, and Castiel felt it weaken the connection, make him lose ground in his fight against the essence of the Empty.

 

Fuck. ALFIE! No... SAMANDRIEL! SAMANDRIEL!

 

Pooling everything he had into this battle as if it could erase the damage he'd inflicted, Castiel sent more of his grace into the violet light in front of him. At the same time, more images were conjured from the bottom of his mind for Dean to see. The pale face of a female vessel framed by dark curls, smiling at him. Lips pressed to his own. A naked body standing before him. The blossoming pride mixed with a sting of sadness when she freed her vessel. A blade rammed through a skull from behind, sticking out from the new vessel's mouth after the angel had tried to save him one last time.

 

What the...

 

Dean faltered, withdrew from him. The sudden shift in power drained most of the color from Balthazar's body. The oily substance took over, claiming the angel almost entirely. Then it reached the strand of grace that connected him to Castiel, and burrowed in deeply. Castiel screamed, an involuntary outburst in his true voice, and felt Dean flinch in their body before the Empty's hold on Castiel grew strong enough that a surge of despair dragged him under.

 

There was no telling how long he'd lost sentience when a veritable flood of warmth crashed into him, surrounded him, pulled him back up. Somewhere at the brim of awareness, he registered an incessant stream of thoughts that weren't his own.

 

Crap, I'm sorry! You gotta come back! Cas, you idiot, drop it! Come back to me! Let go, dammit! CAS!

 

Oh, bugger all. MORONS, both of you!

 

Disoriented, Castiel realized that he had full access to Dean's soul now—no walls, no other presence between them. He grasped the power that was offered, even found it reinforced by the touch of something foreign that came from the corner Crowley had withdrawn to, taking up as little space as possible.

 

Thank fuck!

 

Definitely not my name, but you're welcome.

 

Invigorated, Castiel reclaimed Balthazar's fading essence from the Empty that had almost managed to suck the body of light back into the sea of unformed shapes inside the wall. The black veins yielded under the sudden push and disappeared for the time being. Dean resumed the praying, repeated the names like a mantra in their head.

 

GABRIEL, GADREEL, ANNA, SAMANDRIEL, HANNAH!

 

No longer burdened by the fight, Castiel was able to call out names of his own without the risk of losing Balthazar to the void.

 

Muriel, Joshua, Ezekiel, Jane... Meg!

 

That last name summoned a wave of indignation from Crowley's direction.

 

Oh, come on! Her?

 

Dean didn't comment on this latest addition, but without any walls to hide anything, the resentment that name procured in him was out in the open. However, it was nothing in comparison to his reaction to the very last name that Castiel called out.

 

Ruby.

 

What the HELL, Cas? Ruby?!

 

I gave my word.

 

Have you lost your damn mind?

 

As you may have noticed, our mind is currently a shared arrangement.

 

Please, somebody kill me.

 

Since you asked so nicely...

 

Shapes broke out of the billowing pool of black in that moment, emerging like an army from the mist. While most of them turned out to be large bodies of light, three of them bore more humanoid forms.

 

"Eh-see-ah-sah-kah-hoh, voo-peh-lee-ef voh-geh-gee pah-peh-noh-rah," 21 Castiel broadcast over angel radio, hoping that the sound of their native language might be of help to ground the angels in their first moments back in this new chance at life. For those who wouldn't be able to hear this, he followed up with a more general 'Remember who you are' that his true voice carved into the darkness.

 

The newly awakened were still too unfocused to reply, but he had been able to sense their presence, knew with certainty he was no longer the sole recipient of messages sent into the web of angelic telepathy. And then he finally received words that weren't his own, sent to him directly as a personal prayer.

 

"Cas, you..."

 

His attention snapped back over to Balthazar whose form now exuded a glow that was steady, firm.

 

Balthazar, he replied in relief to the voice he had deemed lost forever. Slightly surprised by the change of language, he followed where his old friend led, but withdrew his grace to let it hover at the outmost border of the violet light. Do you remember who you are? Can you—

 

"Ah yes, yes, of course. I remember. I remember the little fact that I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU ACTUALLY KILLED ME!"

 

Castiel flinched, hastily pulled his grace back and withdrew into himself, away from everyone, away from Dean. Before he was able to set up walls to hide behind, Dean's soul reached out on its own, re-established the connection Castiel had dropped in his instinctual fight-or-flight response to the overwhelming shame and guilt. Dean's body became theirs again, the offering of a blank canvas to express himself on. He closed their eyes, huffed out a shaky exhale before he was able to face the truthful accusation.

 

From the moment it happened, I've regretted it, Balthazar, he sent in reply, then added more quietly, every single day.

 

"And the way you did it, a blade from behind! Of the two of us, I thought you were the honorable one."

 

Castiel sighed, had to force himself not to avert his gaze once more, to face the light directly until his entire field of vision was filled with a starless night sky.

 

I wish that were true.

 

Cut him some slack, dude! His decision-making skills back then were crap, but what he did—he did the wrong things for the right reasons.

 

"Cas, what is this? Why is this impression of a mammal listening in on us? How are you wearing the Michael Sword, in here?"

 

Hey!

 

I'm not wearing him. This isn't—the world has changed. I have changed. This is an arrangement based on equality.

 

Also, can we maybe not forget that I'm here to save your collective asses?

 

"You're actually serious with this, aren't you?"

 

I am. Balthazar, I know trust is too much to ask for, but please believe me when I say that I wish to make it up to you, to everyone. I'm sorry, br—I'm sorry.

 

He felt a tremor, a disturbance that reached to the core of his angelic being. And it had nothing to do with the emotions stirred up by the confrontation with his regrets from the past. Their human body felt it, too, tension in every muscle, small hairs straightening up in repeated danger signals all over skin.

 

Fuck, fuck! This is how it felt before. It's here! The—the...

 

Dean lifted their hand, a vague gesture in the direction they had come from.

 

The corruption.

 

Castiel's true voice sent an urgent 'Flee!' to the gathered crowd of still only half-sentient beings they had woken. Lethargic, but apparently close enough to the verge of being to have a sense of self-preservation, they began to move. Dean stooped down to the too-smooth floor, picked up rocks that had meanwhile appeared in a larger number without any of them noticing. He began to throw them in a frenzy of movement, but the physical objects bounced off the wall.

 

Balthazar, listen to me! There's even worse things than the sleep. Keep each other awake and move! Don't let it touch you!

 

"Cassie, holy hell, slow down! You want me to—what?"

 

With a little nudge from Castiel, Dean finally found the spot that swallowed a rock instead of repelling it, threw a second one so that they could have certainty.

 

There's no time. We'll do everything to bring you back, I promise. Just hold out!

 

Oh, for... get a BLOODY MOVE ON, would you?

 

Castiel was shoved aside roughly, felt the demonic presence seize control and steer them into the spot that had absorbed the rocks, just as a numbing onslaught of visual and acoustic stimuli broke out nearby.

 

~

 

They crossed over, and as soon as the black substance dropped away from them, they were exposed to sudden light. No matter how gloomy this day was, the transition from the Empty was still a shock to their senses. A precious second ticked by as Castiel got his bearings, then a jolt went through them at the realization that they were running out of momentum right above an abyss so deep, its bottom was nothing but shadows.

 

He ripped his wings out of the ether faster than ever before, all too aware that his life was not the only one at stake. And that's when he spotted him, his father, the creator of all things, with his hand held high in front of a banishing sigil hovering in the air.

 

KEEP HIM ALIVE! was all he managed to call out in their mind, a desperate plea from the core of his being to Crowley, right as Castiel disappeared in a blinding flash.

 

~

 

His essence roamed at the speed of light, was pulled in multiple directions all at once. Weakened as he was, he feared these would be his last moments—that the sigil would tear him apart in ways that he couldn't even be sent to the Empty any longer. He felt cold now that the warmth had been so cruelly taken away, after he had only just experienced the sense of absolute safety and comfort it provided. The sense of belonging that was entirely new to his long existence. He could have accepted that maybe his time had come, but not when his last conscious thoughts were horror-stricken with the realization that Dean was doomed. What chance stood one human and one demon against God?

 

But Dean had made a habit of reaching beyond the humanly possible.

 

Dean had redefined the end of the world, and death itself.

 

Dean was—

 

"Dean! If you start this song one more time, I will delete it from your phone while you sleep."

 

"You wouldn't dare!"

 

"I so would! Remember when I returned your guitar to the store because you wouldn't let me do my reports in peace? You didn't believe me I would do that either."

 

"But Dad bought me a new one! A better one!"

 

♪ Anytime I need to see your face

I just close my eyes and I am taken to a place

Where your crystal mind and magenta feelings take up shelter in the base of my spine

Sweet like a chica cherry cola ♪

 

"Dean, I swear..."

 

"Prove it, Samuel!"

 

"Dean Henry, do not challenge me!"

 

Castiel had lost his mind. It was the only explanation for the scene he was witnessing in that exact moment, an invisible spectator concealed by the Veil. Was he dead? He was probably dead.

 

♪ I don't need to try to explain, I just hold on tight

And if it happens again, I may move so slightly

To the arms and the lips and the face

Of the human cannonball that I need to, I want to ♪

 

"If you touch my phone, Samuel, then I will cut your man bun in your sleep! As I keep telling you, that style is outdated."

 

"Dean, and as I keep telling you, my hair is sacred! A man's hair is his shrine."

 

As more lines of the disputed song blared from the car's speakers, Sam slapped Dean's hand on the steering wheel, only to receive a slap to the back of his hand in return.

 

Following a vague feeling, Castiel was suddenly convinced of the utmost importance of that strange expression Dean had used. He searched his memories for where he had heard the term 'man bun' before.

 

♪ Come stand a little bit closer

Breathe in and get a bit higher ♪

 

And then the memory struck him, Dean and him during one of their movie nights. The movie had been something about a police officer who attempted to free several hostages from terrorists in a skyscraper during Christmas. Dean had tried to convince him that this story had significant impact on human culture. Castiel remembered fondly that they had failed to ever make it to the end of the movie, because they had to pause when Dean had suddenly talked himself into an outrage over how saving people shouldn't ever come with a price tag, especially not one that could afford hunters private aircrafts. And how the two hunters in question clearly had no taste whatsoever. Suddenly the world made sense again.

 

Dean hadn't given up hope, had accomplished the impossible in saving Castiel. Castiel would do the same.

 

♪ You'll never know what hit you when

I get to you ♪

 

Sam, Dean, I need your help.

 

Tires screeched.

 

~

 

Footnotes:

17 ZORGE - friend

18 TIBIBP I MAOFFAS - My sorrow is not to be measured.

19 MOOOAH ESIASCH - I repent, brother.

20 MOOOAH - I repent.

21 ESIASCH VVPLIF VGEGI PAPNOR - Siblings, our strength grows with remembrance.

Notes:

I had every intention of writing a normal chapter. You know, a regular, dramatic chapter, as one does. Then I made the mistake of allowing the characters to interact with each other, and it turned into this slowdance alien of a chapter that nobody saw coming (least of all I).

I really have no idea if I think I'm funny (I'm adorable), or if this whole thing is just utterly ridiculous. Or maybe this is just the way every three-way telepathy epiphany trip to the Empty with only one body is, I don't know. My deepest thanks to Tomscat for encouraging me through the insanity that was this chapter, and everyone who has left such breathtakingly kind comments after my previous chapters! You're all amazing!

Chapter 10: Sam

Notes:

I'd like to dedicate this chapter to everyone who has shown me such exceptional kindness in the comments, gifting me the motivation to keep going. Tomscat, Hidjo, Amie, DumbassDeancas, Static_Saturn, ProudPigeon, Giggle_Fit, all of you are amazing for giving back so much to a writer!

I hope none of you objects to having this particular chapter dedicated to them—I swear this isn't meant as an insult, even though the chapter includes torture. I really only wanted to express my deep gratitude to you.

Trigger warning: Canon-typical violence and torture

Chapter Text

Sam was sliding out of control, without a single thing to hold onto. There was another gaping hole in his memory, gnawing away at his sanity. He didn't know how he had gotten to this room, strapped to a torturing table. The last thing he remembered was a tornado of demonic force inside of him, his mind suddenly filled with more voices than he could count. And then they had pressed him down, down, down until he had lost any and all awareness of his surroundings.

 

Maybe that had been an improvement. Now, he was all too aware of a knife cutting into his flesh. It left a screaming line up his arm, matching the feeling in his chest that refused to let him breathe ever since he had watched the black mass devour his brother. He still saw every little detail, the way the oil had spread from Dean's arm all over his body. Almost like the pain was spreading through Sam's now.

 

He shouldn't have supported this insane plan. He should have stopped Dean, somehow, from entering a realm that they knew to be incompatible with humans. But they'd passed the point of no return a while ago, the second when steely resolve had frozen over Dean's eyes in Hell's throne room. Sam didn't know why he hadn't just refused to cast that spell, why he'd allowed a delusional hope to grab him. He should have known better.

 

And now Dean was—gone. Probably dead. The idea was too big to grasp. Sam's body twitched, strained against the bonds that held him as the knife dug deeper. Dean had always been there, the roots of a comfort he'd known since childhood. No matter what nightmare their lives turned into, Dean had been there—but no longer. That knowledge was unbearable. Sam was in free fall, swallowed by a dark abyss with teeth made of pain and broken hopes.

 

Something crumbled inside of him, tore at his insides in a way the knife never could. Everything he'd kept so carefully contained these last few days broke free. A wail grew deep inside his chest, escaped violently when steel met flesh another time. His vision went blurry to thoughts of Eileen. He could barely see the smile on the face of the demon who cut into his shoulder.

 

"Out of all of them, I was the victor. I've been inside your head," the demon proclaimed as tears quietly ran down from the corners of Sam's eyes over his temples. Beyond caring, he paid no attention to the words until the knife was suddenly withdrawn. "I've seen your last hope."

 

The following chuckle made Sam's skin crawl and he tried to lift his head from the table, but found that he didn't even have enough strength for such a small action. His eyes were spilling over, so he closed them, listened to his captor in silence.

 

"That boy, Lucifer's heir. We would have followed him, but he chose you instead. Big mistake."

 

Sam's lips parted at the mention of Jack, but to say what, he wasn't sure. The demon laughed when Sam finally blinked his eyes open again to face him, drew out the silence in obvious enjoyment.

 

"A mistake he paid for with his life."

 

Sam recoiled, pulled at his bonds with hands wet in his own blood. "You're lying," he croaked out, his voice thin under his tears.

 

His captor took a step closer and leaned over him, held the blade under his chin. Face hovering directly over Sam's, black eyes bore into his. "Why would I? We don't need him, we got you."

 

Even with the knife against his throat, Sam couldn't hold still. He trembled vehemently and felt a pinprick wound left behind by the tip of the blade. Without warning, the touch of steel against his skin disappeared and the demon flashed another one of those eerie smiles at him before turning on his heel. He stopped just short of the door, turned around to throw some last words Sam's way.

 

"Everyone you knew is dead. You're alone. You're ours."

 

And then Sam was on his own with his pain. Heaving sobs began to shake him and every single breath was the struggle of a drowning man. He wanted to claw at the constriction in his throat, in his chest, but leather straps held down his arms. The keening sounds that escaped him sounded strange to his own ears, but he couldn't stop them, could do nothing other than close his eyes again.

 

Deaf to anything but his own grief, a sudden touch to his cheek came entirely out of the blue. He flinched, eyes wide in shock, and saw a shade of red through the blur of his tears. His first thought was that blood must have splashed into his face and trickled down into his eyes. But the contact with his skin was still there, feather-soft, unlike anything else in the last hours.

 

"Samuel."

 

The quiet voice meant to soothe, but the promise of relief, of freedom just redoubled his desolate sobs. What did freedom even still mean to him? Everything, he'd lost everything. His whole body tensed up, hands balled into fists. The touch vanished.

 

"Solvite!22 Ugh, naturally that didn't work. Why is it that nothing can ever be easy with you?"

 

Cold fingers groped around the leather straps on his arms, but he was completely helpless against the sobs that shook him.

 

"Who fastened these? Samuel, by Satan's aura, hold still!"

 

A palm returned to his face, followed by a second one, framing his head on both sides. Some fierce blinking enabled him to finally discern the features above him. Even though he'd known who he would see, the pained look in her eyes took him by surprise, right before his vision swam again. Whatever had been torn loose inside of him, he couldn't wrestle it back down, felt like it held his throat and chest in a steel clutch.

 

"Samuel." The other voice quivered and broke side by side with his own, and the hands cradling his face traveled downwards. His jawline was trailed by the weightless touch of fingertips. The last thing he expected was the press of lips to his own, too gentle for the smoldering pile of ash that remained of his life. Lasting no longer than a couple of seconds, the contact still sufficed to startle his sobs into silence.

 

He gasped, his first deep breath in minutes, taken more in surprise than anything else. Eyes were focused intensely on his. "Sam, listen to me," the voice implored, a ruptured whisper in the sudden quiet of the room. "I heard what he said, and he is mistaken. I may be dead, but you are not alone."

 

"Ro-rowena," he rasped, numb, the sound of his voice barely human.

 

"Will you finally let me open these things now?" she asked, letting her hands drop from his face, back to the straps holding him down.

 

He nodded and concentrated on his breathing while keeping his mind carefully blank. The fingers against his arm were less cold than before. After seconds that expanded to an infuriating minute, the leather gave way and his arm was free. He turned it experimentally and winced when the movement pulled at the stretches of broken skin left behind by the knife.

 

Rowena gave him an indecipherable look, then went to work on the fetter at his other arm. Once that fell off, he took the first chance he had to sit up, glad to lose contact with the table under his back. His breathing was still ragged, skirting precariously along the edges of his breakdown. Rowena placed a hand on his unbloodied shoulder and her lips moved in a forlorn way, as if they had forgotten how to form a smile.

 

Sam bent to assist her with the straps holding his legs, but noticed that his hands were trembling too much to be of any help. Luckily it didn't take long for the witch to untie him and he was free at last. Strangely disoriented, he didn't jump off the table right away, not until Rowena grabbed one of his hands to pull him towards the door.

 

"Sam, we're in a wee bit of a hurry, here."

 

On a shelf near the exit, he spotted the tattered lump of cloth that was his stolen jacket and snatched it up. He let go of Rowena and was still in the process of draping the garment over his blood-smeared torso when the door was shoved open right in front of them.

 

"He's ready. I've prepared him to... ," his torturer was saying to another demon in his company, but cut himself off at the sight of them. Four pairs of eyes met in incredulous shock. Then all of them burst into motion at the same time. Never having had a chance to put on the jacket properly, the movement of Sam's arms was inhibited. He ducked a blow and stumbled backwards until his legs met the table that had been used to torment him.

 

A cursory glance to the side confirmed that Rowena had retreated together with him, now standing at the torture bench's other side. Without averting his gaze from the advancing demons, Sam fumbled to get his arms through the sleeves, then felt around on the side table behind him that showcased various torturing implements. His fingers closed around the handle of a scalpel.

 

Not that a regular weapon would do him much good against demons, but it gave him the illusion of a situation he was familiar with. A hunt. That was something he could manage. The demons halted their advance abruptly, and Sam followed their gaze to see Rowena holding one of her palms out, like she did when casting a spell.

 

"Not a single step further, or you will rue the day you swore allegiance to the enemy of the most powerful witch alive!"

 

The 'alive' part of that sentence had Sam frown in confusion. Said witch stood rigidly upright, chin lifted in defiance, but he could see beyond that by now. He sensed the spark of desperation behind the tense set of her shoulders, behind the way her brows were drawn together. Then her chin trembled. And that was the exact moment he realized she was faking it.

 

Both parties began circling each other in a wide arc, keeping a careful distance between them. If Rowena could get the demons to move a little more, they might be able to make a run for the door. Sam swallowed, trying his hardest not to let anyone see the beads of sweat settling on his forehead or the restrained urgency behind his movements.

 

"If you make any attempt to stop us, I will send the both of you forth with a one-way ticket to the Empty," Rowena continued. "The weather there is just horrible, I hear."

 

The circling had brought them nearer to the door. So close, they were so close. Sam tightened his grip on the scalpel.

 

"He will do even worse things to us if we let the Vessel escape," one of the demons said, the one who hadn't been torturing him before, and hesitated. Two pairs of eyes flashed black. The touch of a hand against his arm was the unspoken signal Sam had been waiting for. He threw the entire side table at their enemies and a variety of metal instruments clattered to the ground, a cacophony in the blanket of threatening silence that had fallen over the room.

 

Sam and Rowena rushed towards the door while the demons struggled to get back to their feet. With the witch just one step behind him, Sam bolted out into the hallway, but skidded to a stop when he heard her hiss in pain. The torturer had taken hold of her arm, his fingers digging roughly into flesh as she was pulled back over the door sill and into the room. A blade was pressed against her throat, one of the tools that had fallen to the ground just before.

 

"If you could kill us, witch, we'd be dead by now. That was all just bullshit, wasn't it?"

 

"Samuel, it's you they want, not me." Her facade had cracked once more and her voice sounded defeated. The fact that she had reverted back to this longer form of his name shouldn't matter to him in a situation like this. But he'd noticed it, and it worried him. "I'm already dead. Flee!"

 

Nobody seemed to have seen him snatch the scalpel earlier, so he kept it concealed behind his back.

 

"Like hell I will," Sam countered, and felt in full control of his voice again for the first time since his breakdown.

 

"One wrong move," the torturer said and scratched the blade along Rowena's throat to create a thin, superficial trickle of blood. "And I'll cut her throat right through! She might be dead, but she can still feel pain." He grinned. "She will know agony."

 

Sam knelt in pretense surrender. His eyes met Rowena's and found no hope in them, no trace of her regular self-assurance.

 

"You believe in prophecy, but I don't," he told her, and waited for the second demon to step out into the corridor to arrest him. Sam's muscles tensed in preparation for what he was about to do. "I believe in choice." Her eyes widened, came back alive.

 

In one well-aimed motion, he flung the scalpel towards the leg of Rowena's captor. The sharpened edge buried itself deep into the demon's skin and, either in pain or in surprise, he flinched and lost his grip on the weapon he had used to threaten Rowena.

 

As Sam had hoped she would, she used the moment to her advantage and rammed her elbow into the torturer's abdomen. Still crouching and focusing on his own duel, Sam lost sight of them both as he launched himself towards the second demon. The unexpected maneuver threw the guard off balance enough for him to topple to the ground right next to him.

 

Sam leaped to his feet, turned his head to see Rowena's enemy doubled over in pain while covering his crotch with both hands. She caught up, grabbed Sam's arm and pulled him further down the corridor, into lines of doors lit by torches.

 

"Sam, follow me!" she called out, and he let himself be dragged along. A look back confirmed Sam's suspicions that the closer one of the demons was back on his feet and made up leeway, but Sam was unarmed now that the had thrown his only weapon. In a move that was only half thought through, he reached out on the run and tried to tear one of the torches out of its wall mounting. It was stuck and stubbornly refused to budge, causing him to lose precious seconds until he eventually managed to free it.

 

He threw it right as the demon attempted to grab him, and thanked whatever power was kinder than God that the flames jumped over to his enemy's jacket. The distraction gave them enough of a headstart to dash around a corner at an intersection. Up ahead at the other end of the corridor, Sam recognized the tall gate leading into the throne room. New voices were audible around the next turn, lost in conversation and apparently still oblivious to the escape attempt happening so close to them.

 

Unable to follow this way any further if they wanted to avoid this second group of guards, Sam and Rowena split up to try the doors on both sides of the hallway. Sam's hand closed around a doorknob, turned it as quietly as it was possible in the rush he was in, but found the door locked. Rowena seemed to be in the same predicament. The third door Sam tried finally gave in and opened up the way into a vacant chamber without any windows or other exits.

 

After a quick exchange of glances to ensure Rowena had seen him, he entered the room. She slipped in only seconds later and quietly closed the door behind them. With their backs pressed against the wood planks the door consisted of, both of them inhaled deeply, trying to catch their breath.

 

Lit by smaller torches at the walls, the room's layout was vaguely familiar to Sam. A lavish bed adorned the opposite wall, together with a smaller table. The side of the room they were standing in held another table, a bigger one, with various food plates arranged on top of it. A part of him expected to see the walls lined with an abundance of books, but the only thing present in these shelves were golden figurines depicting battle scenes.

 

"My interior design was clearly superior," Rowena whispered to him and he realized they were back in the chamber where Jack and Dean had slept while Sam and Rowena had been doing research on the Empty in what now felt like another lifetime. Only that the furniture looked entirely different now, even though the general arrangement was similar. He tried hard not to linger on the memory, not to allow his mind to summon the faces of the people whose loss he'd be unable to cope with.

 

"The lack of books is appalling," he agreed in the same quiet manner, latching onto the distraction from his own thoughts. The shadow of a smile ghosted over the witch's face at the joke. It was dispelled as quickly as it had appeared when heavy steps sounded in the hallway outside, followed by the rattling of doorknobs. The look they exchanged in reaction to that sound had shed any trace of levity.

 

In unspoken agreement, they detached themselves from the door and sneaked deeper into the room. The footsteps on the other side sounded closer, had almost reached the entrance, so Sam hastily sought cover behind the stone archway separating the two halves of the room. He checked to spot Rowena pressed against the wall behind one of the shelves and they held eye contact when their doorknob turned and the door opened inward.

 

Not daring to lean out of his cover enough to have an unobstructed view of the entrance, he had to rely on his hearing alone. A single set of steps crossed the room, and, focused as Sam was on this one sense alone, he actually winced at the unexpected scraping of a chair over stone floor. He couldn't be sure who of them would be discovered first until the demon stepped into his line of view, back turned towards him, blocking his sight of Rowena.

 

Sam's eyes roamed until they met the next best thing that could qualify even remotely as a weapon—a candle holder. He hated being so underequipped, hated stepping into a fight without preparation, but it all stopped mattering the moment he heard a thud and the chink of a gold figurine falling to the ground.

 

"I will enjoy tearing you apart," the torturer's deep voice snarled and Sam was already crossing the room without further thought. He couldn't see Rowena behind the demon's bulky form, only flashes of her red dress as her legs kicked against the hold she was in. When Sam reached them, desperate choking noises were forced from her throat and he put everything he had into the strike with the candle holder, ignoring the rekindled pain it caused in his arm.

 

Their enemy was not impressed. He threw the witch into the wall, followed it up with a cruel fist to her face that left her dazed enough to sink to the ground in front of the shelves. Helplessness widened Sam's eyes as he allowed himself a quick glance at her motionless body before he pummeled the demon with his insufficient excuse of a weapon.

 

With the torturer's attention fully on himself, Sam evaded backwards, away from Rowena and further into the room. His arm smarted and he felt a fresh well of blood run over it from the strain he had put on the wound. It coated his hand and made his grip on his pathetic candle holder slippery.

 

The demon grinned. Something glinted in the torchlight behind him. Then a yellow glow lit him up from within, surrounded him with a crackling noise right as the expression on his face was overtaken by surprise. Still caught mid-motion of sinking to his knees, he dissolved, not leaving any body behind.

 

"I did not give you permission to touch me like that," Rowena told the empty spot where the demon had been. A bruise was beginning to form on her cheek, her hair stuck out every which way and the grin tugging at her bloodied lip gave an unhinged quality to it all. Sam stared at the angel blade in her hand.

 

"Where did you... how!"

 

"If I had any better explanation, I'd give it to you, Sam. But I swear it was right there on the floor, just under the shelf, ripe for the picking."

 

A puff of air left Sam's mouth and he shook his head in disbelief, but didn't dwell on this miracle they had received so unexpectedly.

 

"So, why was he alone? This can't be good," he said with a frown at the door. The universe must have agreed with him, because that was when Hell's alarm sounded, a deep, pervasive roar akin to a massive warhorn.

 

"You just had to say that, didn't you?" Rowena asked, adjusting her hold on the angel blade as Sam hurried to close the door, leaving only the smallest slit to peek through.

 

The additional group of guards they had heard earlier appeared from around the corner, paying them no heed in their straight run towards the torture chamber. The second they were out of sight, Sam turned to beckon for Rowena to follow him, but she was already right behind him, close enough for him to feel her breath against his collarbone.

 

He swallowed, and in lieu of any other gesture, grabbed her free hand to pull her back out into the hallway. They ran, and the alarm reverberated in his bones, impossible to ignore. On the upside, it was loud enough to conceal the clicks of Rowena's shoes against the stone floor, but not the nearby shouts for their blood. She took the lead, directing him towards the intersection in front of the throne room gate and to the left.

 

Being in the company of the former queen of this place proved to be an invaluable asset while they dashed through a confusing maze of corridors. The further she led Sam this way, the darker the atmosphere got, even considering the fact that they were in Hell. Torches spawned flickering circles of light at regular intervals, but in between those, the shadows seemed to grow in density. They managed to use this to their advantage, two tense bodies hastily pressed close to each other in the cover of a broad pillar as another group of demon guards passed by.

 

Undetected, they reached a narrow passage that was different from the ones they'd left behind, a drawn-out curve instead of the sharp pattern of crossroads from before. The incessant blaring noise was frazzling Sam's nerves, especially given how exhausted he was. But blessedly, following this passage led them away from the source of the alarm signal, causing it to fade into the background. Sam could swear he heard the low rumble of thunder now, but he chalked it up to an after-effect of the strain on his ears. Then the ceiling opened up above them, allowing him an unobstructed view of a pitch-black sky torn apart by flashes of lightning.

 

"Limbo?" he asked, a shiver of dread running through him.

 

Rowena lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "We had to get out of the palace, and this is the only part of Hell where they cannot easily follow us."

 

He didn't prod why that was, unsure if he was in the condition to handle any more bad news right now. The walls of the passage dropped away, a sign that they were truly leaving behind the structured part of Hell. A vista of rock plains unfolded in front of them, shrouded in darkness save for the occasional lightning strikes. No more torches to light their way.

 

Sam hesitated at the end of the passage, glancing back at the last torch they had passed. It was tempting to bring it, but without much cover to hide behind, it would glow like a beacon, visible at great distance for anyone attempting to chase them. He sighed and left the light behind to follow Rowena out into the drizzle of rain that fell from an unnatural sky. It kept the stone beneath their feet glinting in perpetual wetness.

 

Without spending much thought on the matter, Sam continued onwards, but was brought to an abrupt stop when the slippery ground proved to be incompatible with Rowena's high heels. Despite everything he'd been through in the last few hours, or maybe because of it, his heightened instincts as a hunter kicked in. He managed to hold out an arm in time to stabilize her, but that didn't prevent her huff of annoyance.

 

"Ugh, I didn't know this would be where I'd end up when I got dressed two days ago!" She removed her shoes, stood barefoot in the rain and threw Sam a miserable glance before cutting off both heels with the angel blade. Her voice turned wistful. "I was still a queen, then."

 

Sam didn't envy her when she put the remains of the shoes back on, sans heels, looking strangely off-kilter. But there wasn't much he could do to solve this problem. Or any problem, really. Not any longer.

 

"Well... nothing is what it was two days ago," he agreed, talking more quietly now that they were leaving the palace and its grating noise behind. A twinge of loss flared up sharply in his chest at the thought of who he'd been with two days ago.

 

Rowena's eyes softened, and a particularly bright lightning bolt illuminated a square-cut cage behind her. It was empty, but it drew both of their gazes like a magnet. The memory of being trapped with Lucifer, entirely at his mercy, sent a chill down his spine.

 

"I never did apologize, did I?" she asked softly after several moments of fraught silence.

 

"No, actually. I don't think you did."

 

"I—I was misguided, it was a temporary lapse of judgment. Honestly, Samuel, I don't know what I thought I saw in him. But whatever it may have been, he was not it."

 

"Rowena." Sam touched her arm with one hand, wincing slightly at the pain the movement caused at his wounds now that the adrenaline of their escape was ebbing away. "It's all right. All of this, it was a long time ago. You've changed. I've changed. It's not like—I mean, it's not like any of this stuff still matters, you know?"

 

"Still, for what it's worth, I am sorry, Sam. For leaving you to him."

 

"Well, I killed you, so I think we're even."

 

She took that as the peace offering it was and actually smiled, though it was a tired, lost thing. Sam felt too worn out to smile back. Voices sounded somewhere behind them, high up in the palace, yelling something that was too far away to understand. But it sufficed to bring them back to the present. In unspoken agreement, they abandoned the cage and continued on their path through skeletons and rocks, towards the outline of distant cliffs touched by lightning.

 

~

 

Footnotes:

22 Untie!

Chapter 11: Jack

Notes:

Here comes... the team-up that nobody asked for.

Many thanks to Static_Saturn for reading the first half of this in advance to let me know if the characters sound right (and for other helpful suggestions).

Chapter Text

Jack had thought it impossible that things could feel even worse. But that one moment of hope had taught him true despair, crushing what little resolve he'd managed to find in himself for the world's sake. His fingers had been only a hair's breadth away from grabbing Dean before he fell. Such a small distance, so unimportant in almost any other situation. And yet, this time it had changed everything.

 

Before that moment, his chest had already been pierced by shards of loss. But having both Dean and Castiel returned to him for a mere few seconds, only to have them torn away another time, was maddening, pushed the sting in his chest so much deeper. Jack's breathing came in short, rapid bursts that teetered on the edge of a sob or a scream, stuck between both but reaching neither. He was vaguely aware that he was trembling. Following Amara's order to flee had been more of a reflex than the conscious decision of a brain no longer working like it should.

 

Fallen twigs crunched under his feet as he ran through the forest in no particular direction other than away. Away from that place that had brought him so much pain on three separate occasions in such quick succession that he'd barely had enough time to process even one of them. Away was the only thought he could hold onto.

 

It was disorienting, being unable to see his own body as he made his way through the underbrush. Even if his arms had been visible though, he simply didn't care enough to protect himself from the branches that snapped back at him and bit into his face. The contact of old tears with bloody scratches burned on his skin.

 

He ran until weakness overwhelmed him and his legs gave out from under him. Hardly paying attention to his surroundings, he sank to his knees. Something solid behind his back supported him, propped him up when he felt too exhausted to do it on his own. New tears were choking him, but simply refused to surface. He wished they would. That at least would have given him some sort of release.

 

The shivers seemed to have grown worse, but Jack didn't know how to stop them. Strangely detached from his body, he couldn't even tell if he was too hot or too cold. He looked down to find that his hands were gradually becoming visible again, still more or less translucent against the backdrop of the forest floor. Devoid of any thoughts in his head, he sat in silence and watched his trembling fingers regain their opaqueness.

 

A sudden, shrill ringing startled him so badly that the back of his head collided with the surface he was leaning against. He frowned, only now noticing that he'd been sitting against the outer wall of a cabin this whole time. How had he gotten here? A deceptive calm had fallen over a forest without animals, only broken by the soft rustling of brown leaves in the autumn wind. Then the noise repeated itself, tearing through the peaceful atmosphere and demanding immediate attention.

 

Jack wasn't sure where it stemmed from, but judging by the direction and the slightly muffled quality, he assumed its source to be inside the cabin. He rose and circled to the front door, but the third sharp ringing still came from behind him. In his exhausted state, it took him several seconds to piece together that the culprit was, in fact, attached to his own back.

 

Sitting down on the cabin's front step, he took off his backpack to rummage through its contents. He found a small black device with a blinking red light. It looked remotely like a phone, but not quite, especially not with that thick antenna sticking out from its top. Nothing like this had been inside his own backpack, so he must have ended up with Sam's or Dean's. The mere thought of these names sent another violent shiver through his body.

 

He remembered that Sam had discovered this almost-phone in the barn, and more importantly, that there had been two. The brothers had divided them among themselves. Following this line of thought to the end was bound to cause Jack more pain, but the light still flashed insistently in his hand. Did he really dare to hope another time?

 

Jack's heart hammered as he pressed the big, round button labeled 'TALK' in the middle of the device. His throat closed up and he couldn't force out a single word. Completely helpless, he stared at a display with numbers that had no meaning to him. The tears he'd been unable to cry before chose this moment of all times to emerge, so he ended up transmitting nothing but a sob before he let go of the button. All Jack heard in the quiet of the forest was his own labored breathing and the wilted leaves dancing around his feet in a breeze. And then a voice sounded out of the speaker.

 

"Who is this? Over."

 

More tears forced their way to the surface when Jack realized that, whoever the person on the other end of the line might be, it wasn't one of his fathers. The accent didn't sound like anyone he knew, but he'd heard similar ones before, maybe in one of the movies the Winchesters had shown him. British, his mind supplied out of context. Something in the voice sounded familiar, though, in a way that made it instantly trustworthy to him. He clung to that feeling as he pressed down the button once more.

 

"H-hello?" he asked, his voice shaky under his tears. "I'm Jack."

 

There was a long pause, as if the man on the other end was waiting for something, until the device in Jack's hands crackled back to life.

 

"Jack," the voice repeated flatly. "That's it? Just Jack? Over."

 

"Y-yes?" Jack asked doubtfully, not quite sure what was expected of him.

 

"Not the trusting kind, are we now, Jack? Ov — ah, bugger this. I know when my efforts are wasted. You've never used a walkie-talkie before in your life, have you?"

 

"A walkie... oh. That's what they're called?"

 

"That's what they're called? Pray tell, Jack, how in the name of the seven sins did you come into possession of one of these devices, not only having no idea how to use it, but also being unable to tell the difference between a walkie-talkie and a croissant?"

 

Whoever this peculiar man was, Jack was thankful for the distraction, and for the simple fact that he was no longer all alone with thoughts and feelings that were far too loud. The voice still danced around a feeling of familiarity that he couldn't quite pinpoint. He latched onto the chance at conversation, anything to keep him from falling back into that deep hole of despair he'd been stuck in before.

 

"I've had a croissant, once," he offered. "I liked it, it had nougat filling."

 

"He had a croissant once," the voice said. Jack understood enough about sarcasm by now to realize this was probably it. But what would have been a snide remark under different circumstances actually sounded... warm, somehow. As if the person on the other end was smiling. "Jack, how old are you?"

 

"Three," Jack replied absent-mindedly, noticing that his tears had stopped flowing and the trembling had subsided. He wiped over his cheeks and sniffled quietly to free his nose.

 

"Excuse me, did I just hear you say three?"

 

Jack's eyes widened at his mistake. Why did this keep happening to him?

 

"I—uh, no, I said twenty-three."

 

"No, I'm rather sure you said three. Wait, are you crying? Is that what I heard? Please tell me you aren't crying, I have a terrible track record with unruly toddlers. Let's just say, I never did have the patience for this whole father business. Wish I'd done some things differently, but alas, don't we all want things we can't have?"

 

"I'm not a toddler!"

 

"Whatever you say, pain au chocolat."

 

"That's not my name."

 

The man chuckled.

 

"You remind me of someone, an old... frenemy of mine. Wonder what happened to him. However, we were speaking of fathers. Where's yours?"

 

So much for the distraction. Jack inhaled deeply and stared down at the device, this walkie-talkie, with his thumb hovering over the 'TALK' button. He braced himself for the feeling, but that didn't help. It overwhelmed him another time when grief dug its claws in deeply while Jack formed the words in his head that he'd never ever wanted to hear himself say.

 

"Dead. They're all dead," he finally admitted, barely above a whisper.

 

The man was unexpectedly quiet and Jack used the time to take several other steadying breaths. He had to get himself back under control, didn't want a repeat of the shivering from before. When the voice finally spoke again, focusing on it helped.

 

"I can relate. Well, somewhat. Fine, I can't relate. My mother is also dead, but the hag barely counted as a mother even on her best days. And there weren't a lot of those." There was a moment of silence filled only with static noise. "Why am I telling you this? Ugh, I really have grown soft, haven't I? Let's get to business before this gut-wrenching heart-to-heart gives me indigestion."

 

"I'm... sorry. About your mother. What business do you mean?" Jack asked, frowning at the speaker in confusion.

 

"Well, for one thing, I've run into a bit of a problematic situation, here. Caught between a rock and a hard place, so to speak." Oddly, the voice chuckled at that. "You see, I'm—ah, injured. But I think we can be of assistance to each other."

 

Jack looked down to the backpack at his feet. After only a moment of rummaging, he found the first-aid kit from the barn. This pack was Dean's then. He swallowed before pressing the 'TALK' button.

 

"Maybe I can help. How do I find you, though?"

 

"Wish that all problems were as easy to solve as this one. Ah, Squirrel, bless your predictable penchant for crude violence."

 

Jack wondered if the squirrel that his grandfather had created out of nowhere had somehow survived the hawk attack. But even if that was the case, why would it be prone to violence? It was a squirrel.

 

A gunshot echoed over the bare-branched treetops. Jack winced in surprise.

 

"Did you just shoot the last squirrel on Earth?"

 

"What? Please. That was a signal for you to follow. Tell me you—" The man sighed dramatically. "You didn't pay attention to the direction. Of course you didn't. What did I expect from a three-year-old?"

 

"I didn't have any warning!"

 

"Feel yourself warned then. Winter is coming."

 

"Yes, the temperature has dropped a lot."

 

There was another one of those weird silences that made Jack feel like he'd said something wrong. When the voice returned, it was muttering the sentences more to itself than to Jack, even though the man must still have chosen to push the button to transmit all of it.

 

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think Feathers actually had some fun for once in his life. But I do, in fact, know better."

 

It wasn't exactly a new experience for Jack not to grasp every nuance of the things people said in his presence. Sometimes he'd felt like he understood only half of Dean's words. Right now, though, he was growing frustrated because the awareness that he was required to do something, that he was the one who had to fix it all, still burned insistently somewhere in the back of his mind.

 

"I don't know what any of this means, but can you give me another signal, please?"

 

"Since you asked so nicely, kitten."

 

This time, Jack wouldn't be caught off guard. Falling still and even going so far as to hold his breath, he concentrated on his surroundings. The rustling of leaves suddenly seemed much louder than before and he was pretty sure he'd again tapped into what remained of his angelic side. The resounding bang of the second shot rippled through the forest and he gained a rather exact sense of direction and distance from it.

 

"Got it," Jack said into the device before hoisting the pack into position on his back with his free hand. Once more having an immediate goal made him feel lighter, helped push away any dark thoughts and feelings for the moment. And no longer being all on his own, no matter how oddly this new acquaintance behaved, was an enormous relief.

 

Obviously not a friend of long silences, the man spoke again after Jack had made only a few steps towards his new destination.

 

"So, who had such a strong dislike for tree-loving rodents that they wiped the entire squirrel population off the map?"

 

"My gr—" Jack swallowed his initial response. Even though this voice felt like talking to someone he knew and trusted, Jack had been manipulated and lied to by strangers too often to just throw caution to the wind entirely. "God."

 

"Your God?"

 

"No. Not my God. Just God."

 

"Interesting. I've met the guy. Always seemed a bit squirrely to me, but this is a rather extreme way of dealing with that. Then again, he's God."

 

That made Jack stop dead in his tracks.

 

"You... met him?"

 

"The one and only. Bit of a downer, really. Not quite as awe-inspiring as advertised."

 

Jack stored this information as important, even though he had no idea yet what to do with it. If nothing else, this meant his counterpart probably wasn't just a regular human. And he certainly didn't talk like an angel either. So what was this mysterious man?

 

"I've told you my name, but you never told me yours," Jack said, trying to make it sound more casual than it was. The long break before an answer finally came indicated that the man considered this question anything but casual.

 

"The name's Roderick."

 

"Nice to meet you, Roderick. And I really mean that. Before you made the walkie-talkie ring, I was all alone. God, he didn't just make all squirrels disappear. It's all animals. All—" Jack swallowed. "All humans. Even creatures like werewolves."

 

It took a moment before Roderick's reply to that arrived, but Jack reasoned this news wasn't the easiest to process.

 

"Guess that leaves just you and me then, eh, Jack?"

 

"And the demons. Maybe the angels, too. And one squirrel and one hawk, but I think the hawk killed the squirrel."

 

"Shame, that. Sounds quite boring. Say about humanity what you will, but they always did know how to entertain."

 

"You're... not one of them then? Humans?"

 

"Oh, please. Neither are you, darling, that much is clear. But that doesn't mean we can't work together."

 

"I... guess." Jack let the walkie-talkie sink down to take a look around. Daylight was waning quickly on this November afternoon. The perpetual cover of clouds seemed to grow thicker by the minute, immersing the whole world in an aura of threat. By Jack's estimation, he didn't have to walk much farther to reach the origin of the gunshots. He squinted when a cone of light appeared in between the trees a small distance away.

 

"Figured you could use a little more help in locating me, with the day being so appropriately dark and gloomy for an apocalypse."

 

"I can see the light. I'm almost there. How did you... find the second walkie-talkie?"

 

"Ah, you know, I was just minding my own business when I came across abandoned luggage. First come, first served, finders keepers and all that. Et voilà, inside of that bag was this brilliant device that tends to come in pairs of two."

 

"I see," Jack said distractedly, his gaze focused on the sky where he could watch the distance to the light cone shrink with every step he took. He felt nervous over meeting face-to-face with this stranger, despite—or maybe because of—that feeling of familiarity he couldn't place at all. Logically it made no sense, was dangerous even. He had to remember that.

 

His steps on the blanket of dried leaves sounded far too loud in his ears, but maybe that was just his growing tension. He navigated around the last few trees and bushes separating him from the light pointing skywards. The plant life in the area he entered grew thinner until it freed up his view to the edge of the forest. Behind it lay the field he'd so desperately wanted to leave behind. The sight did nothing to soothe his nerves, summoning up memories he knew he couldn't handle.

 

"I hope that's you I hear trudging up here, Jack?"

 

He'd gotten so absorbed in his thoughts that the sudden sound of the voice made him inhale sharply.

 

"It is. I'm close now."

 

"Good. It wouldn't do to have any last-minute surprises now, would it?"

 

"No," he replied curtly as he spotted the origin of the light cone, a flashlight propped up against the trunk of a massive tree just a few steps ahead. The only sign of Roderick's presence was an elbow clad in a winter jacket sleeve, peeking out from behind the tree trunk. Jack circled around at a careful distance until he got an unobstructed view of the man he'd been talking to, standing there on the other side of the tree with one hand in his pocket, the other holding the walkie-talkie.

 

White-hot rage overtook Jack faster than any thought could and carried him across the last few steps. His own walkie-talkie fell out of his grip somewhere along the way, dropped carelessly while his hand closed around the hilt of Sam's angel blade instead. With a snarl that sounded more like a wolf than a human being, Jack pushed Roderick against the tree. The eyes of the man in front of him widened in surprise. Dean's eyes. Then they flashed red.

 

Roderick gasped when his back hit the tree and the air was knocked out of him, but he recovered quickly enough to yell, "Jack?! What the everlasting HELL do you think you're doing?"

 

Words had left Jack entirely and the only thing at the forefront of his mind was to stop this wrongness right now, without letting it last another second. He raised Sam's blade and aimed it straight at Dean's throat with a quick thrust forward. The resounding chink of metal against metal wasn't something he'd been prepared for. Roderick deflected his blow with a sidewards sweep of Dean's blade, taken out of Dean's jacket pocket in one fluent move.

 

"If it's this meatsuit you have a score to settle with, I can assure you it's only a tem—"

 

Hearing Dean referred to as a meatsuit only served to increase Jack's fury. He redoubled his efforts, putting all of his anger into the stabs directed at the most vital parts of a body inhabited by the wrong being. While Roderick had been merely on the defensive until this point, that changed after Jack's second attack.

 

"This is how you want to play it, Simba? FINE! You really think you stand a chance against me, ME? I've defended the throne for years, I can take one lousy lion cub!"

 

Roderick lifted his own blade for an attack and Jack moved to parry, but then he took an unannounced fist to his cheek from the other side that caused him to stumble backwards. His feet slipped on the wilted leaves, whirling several of them up into the air in the scuffle. A predatory smile ran over Dean's face at the sight and something primal flared up in the red of those eyes, darkening them to the shade of blood.

 

For the first time in this fight, something other than blinding rage emerged in Jack's mind. Doubt. He had proven time and time again that physical combat wasn't his strong suit, not without his powers. But he still had some of them. He just had to figure out how to activate them, because the last two times hadn't been conscious decisions on his part. Trying to play for time, he took several steps backwards, never leaving Roderick out of his sight who now advanced on him. The way his opponent moved was strange, uneven, like multiple bones in Dean's body were broken. Now that Jack was paying attention to it, even the way Dean's head was held didn't look quite right.

 

"And to think that I'd actually started to enjoy your company! I'll tell you a secret, cub. I would have given you the throne. I don't want it, not anymore. I would have helped you claim your heritage. But you had to go and ruin it for yourself."

 

Jack gasped. "You... you know who I am?"

 

"Oh, come on, don't insult my intelligence. Of course I know who you are, what you are. You've told me yourself, all humans are gone. And how many three-year-old demons or angels do you know?"

 

Jack swallowed, stepping back even further. Conversation. Too much conversation had gotten him into this, but right now, he could use it to his advantage, buy himself more time.

 

"And you wanted me to claim the throne of Hell?"

 

Not even hearing Roderick's reply to that, Jack tried his hardest to concentrate despite the tension of the fight. He breathed in deeply, evenly, listening only to the beating of his own heart. He watched the movement of Dean's lips as they formed words that weren't his, rekindled the urge to free Dean's body of this intruder in one last gesture of respect and love. Then he found it, like a latch snapping open inside of him. Suddenly everything was louder, brighter, more acute.

 

"...don't understand why you'd turn on your most valuable ally, but that's your loss. I won't—ah!"

 

Jack didn't give Roderick any chance to complete that sentence and rushed him with renewed vigor. The demon tried to stab him on arrival, but Jack's heightened senses had also increased his reflexes and he could easily dodge the attack. Maybe his eyes had regained their golden glow, because the other man was now staring at his face with a caution that hadn't been there before.

 

"You weren't bringing your A-game before, I see."

 

Both of them moved their blades at the same time in the attempt of a lethal stab, but once more metal hit only metal instead of flesh. Jack was faster in pulling back his arm for a surprise attack aimed lower than before, but Roderick used the battle-hardened strength of Dean's body—broken though it was—to knock both of them off their feet instead.

 

The fall displaced Jack's attack so that it only scratched into the sleeve of Dean's jacket. Roderick hissed, so Jack's blade must have torn skin beneath the cloth, but a scratch on Dean's arm wouldn't suffice to expel the demon. They rolled over the floor in a messy heap, both of them struggling to find an opening to attack. Roderick ended up on top.

 

"Get. Out. Of. Him," Jack pressed out between clenched teeth, with the side of his face pushed against the ground. He spit out a leaf that had somehow ended up sticking to his lips and suddenly noticed lines on the floor near his nose, no longer concealed by the cover of leaves. Lines he himself had drawn not long ago. The X carved into the tree's bark confirmed that this was indeed the spot of Jack's devil's trap, no longer functional now that its borders were smeared from the fight.

 

Jack put all of his angelic strength into a push that turned them around, with him now kneeling over Dean's prone body. He held his blade to Dean's throat, and even though Roderick dropped his weapon to hold back Jack's arm with both hands, Jack might still have managed the killing blow. Something stopped him.

 

It may have been the fact that he just couldn't get himself to pierce Dean's throat, even in death. Or the way Roderick was now looking at him with eyes that were green again—calculating, yes, but also surprised in a way that only earth-shattering revelations caused. Several seconds ticked by where neither of them moved, both of them just staring at each other.

 

"If you kill me, he's doomed," Roderick said quietly. The tone wasn't threatening, merely factual. "That bloody throne never mattered to you any more than it does to me, right? It's Dean you care about, that's what got you so riled up."

 

Jack was stunned into silence, but his face must have spoken all the words he couldn't say, judging by the way Roderick squinted up at him.

 

"You do know he's still in here? Not truly what anyone would call alive, mind you, but not quite dead either. I'm what's holding him together right now, and I have every intention to keep it that way until he no longer needs me to. I tend to pay my debts."

 

Maybe Jack was about to make the greatest mistake of his life. If he was, he wouldn't live long enough to regret it. But he couldn't find it in him to care when there was a chance—no matter how small, how implausible—that this stranger was telling the truth. With trembling fingers, Jack dropped the blade.

 

No counter-attack happened. Roderick just stared at him in silence for a moment, then slowly sat up and dusted off his jacket. If he'd been lying, then surely the demon would have taken this chance to just kill Jack? It was all true, then. It had to be. A floodgate opened up inside of him, sweeping away any remaining doubts in a wave of relief so intense, Jack didn't even know what was happening until he had already flung himself at Roderick in a full-body embrace.

 

The demon's body near his own tensed up, then went very still. Jack thought Roderick would pull back, but after two more heartbeats, Jack felt hands on his back.

 

"Bloody Hell, cub."

 

~

Chapter 12: Castiel

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Over a decade ago, on the day that had forever diverged the path of Castiel's life, glass had shattered and spread all over the floor. That had been his first attempt of contacting Dean with his true voice. But nothing like that happened today. Moderation was something he'd learned intimately in the human experience.

 

"Bro, you heard that too, right?" Sam asked and exchanged a bewildered glance with Dean, shadows drawn over their faces by the waning daylight. Both of them were breathing rapidly after their sudden brake in the middle of the road. The song continued playing in the background, but it had lost the brothers' attention.

 

Ooh, I want you, I don't know if I need you, but

Ooh, I'd die to find out ♪

 

"I did," Dean agreed, his hands hovering over the steering wheel without touching it, as if that could absolve him of what had happened. "And I didn't like the sound of it."

 

"I told you we should have taken that other car."

 

"Not this again."

 

"Just because you drove in their car once, doesn't mean we have to take any black car we see, especially when other cars are in superior condition!"

 

Castiel didn't have time for this. Dean was in danger.

 

I'm the kind of person who endorses a deep commitment

Getting comfy, getting perfect is what I live for ♪

 

"That noise wasn't the car, Samuel!"

 

"Oh, don't pretend you're suddenly a mechanic, Dean! You couldn't change that flat tire any better than I could. That's what got us into this mess in the first place!"

 

"It. Wasn't. The car."

 

"All right, Dean, if you're so sure it wasn't the car, then what was it?"

 

Conversation has a time and a place

In the interaction of a lover and a mate

But the time of talking, using symbols, using words

Can be likened to a deep sea diver

who is swimming with a raincoat ♪

 

If Castiel had a vessel, he would have groaned. Had this song been specifically created to mock him? It certainly seemed so. After the miserable failure that had been his attempt of communication, the one thing he could do was silence this blasted device. He let his grace reach out, carefully, just enough to interfere with the car stereo. The music sputtered to a stop.

 

The meddling with their stereo seemed to have increased the brothers' discomfort because Castiel saw them swallow and glance at each other once more in the sudden silence of the car. Sam straightened the scarf around his neck.

 

"I'm not sure about that, actually..." Dean said, finally letting his hands rest against the steering wheel again. "Banshee?"

 

Being mistaken for a fae of mourning was really not how Castiel had meant for this interaction to go. After he had seen these alternate versions of Sam and Dean display such optimism even in the face of great loss, he'd thought perhaps... but no. Of course it had been too much to hope they would have faith so much stronger than their counterparts that they could perceive an angel's true voice as anything other than noise. That would have made it easy—and if anything was a constant in this universe, it was that things were never easy for Castiel.

 

"I, for one, am not feeling any urges to batter my head against one of the windows repeatedly. How about you?" Sam asked and kept fidgeting with his scarf.

 

"I'm good. Wish we had our equipment." Dean looked around through the windshield and side windows, eyes narrowed warily. Listening. Hunting.

 

"This doesn't exactly seem like a banshee's MO. Plus, banshees only prey on the vulnerable, which we are not." As if to put emphasis on those words, Sam nodded at his own statement.

 

Dean averted his gaze from the gloom outside to frown at his brother. "Samuel, we still don't know what happened here, but from the looks of it, this is the second world we're losing in the span of a few weeks." Dean hesitated, speaking more quietly for the next sentence. "More likely than not, we've also lost Dad. I think that might qualify, don't you?"

 

That stunned Sam into silence, and he closed his fist around the scarf and wrinkled up the cloth he'd arranged so meticulously just before. Then he licked his lips in a nervous gesture. "I... I don't feel vulnerable, though."

 

Rubbing a hand down his face, Dean sighed. Of all the things Castiel had observed so far, this was the moment that made him ache in its familiarity. For the fraction of a second, he had been tricked into presuming that this was him. The other Dean. The one that he'd been trying his hardest not to think about, lest he'd lose his mind in worry. There was nothing currently standing between that Dean and God, the all-father in all his capricious cruelty. With only Crowley at his side, Dean didn't stand a chance, and Castiel had to—he had to stop it, but he didn't know how.

 

"Yeah, neither do I."

 

A jolt went through his true form when he let himself believe that this Dean had heard his thoughts, had replied to them as naturally as the other Dean had when they'd shared not only a body, but a connection that went beyond the physical. He was mistaken, of course, because this reply hadn't been directed at him.

 

"It's the thing again, isn't it?" Sam asked, finally letting the mistreated scarf fall back to his chest. "The one Dad refuses to talk about?"

 

Dean went still. Castiel could pinpoint the exact moment Dean decided to ignore the question, tensing up his shoulders before he let the hand drop from his face.

 

"Maybe we don't have to actually feel vulnerable for a banshee to latch onto it, if the circumstances are right," Dean said, his voice carefully factual. "Might be enough that any other person would feel it in the same situation."

 

It was Sam's turn to sigh, but he didn't comment on Dean's obvious diversion tactic. "So you're saying what? That a banshee is fruitlessly attempting to kill us, but we're immune?"

 

"Possible," Dean mused, apparently put at ease by talking about monster lore enough for the tension to slowly seep back out of his shoulders. This shift was strange for Castiel to witness, because in the universe he knew, the brothers' roles had been quite the opposite. "Or it's a benevolent banshee. I've read about those while you were off with Dad, handling Europe."

 

"Benevolent? As in not wanting to turn our brains into a five-star weeknight dinner?"

 

"Exactly. And it would actually be trying to help us, by warning us about our... well, our untimely demise."

 

Sam's eyes widened in a display of emotion much stronger than what he'd revealed so far.

 

Castiel supposed being seen as an ally of whatever kind was a step up. However, all of this was still going much too slowly. He didn't even want to imagine what his father was doing to Dean in this exact moment. It became increasingly hard for him to stay calm, to stop what remained of his grace from flaring in an uncontrollable burst.

 

He barely had any strength left, and even the most basic interactions with the physical world without a vessel took their toll on him. But he had to try. Focusing on the car's audio system once more, he combed through the data until he found what he was looking for. The speakers came back to life for a sequence of only two words, taken from separate songs with entirely different singers.

 

Say ♪

 

Yes ♪

 

The unexpected sounds drew the attention of both brothers immediately. After another foreboding look, Sam clicked the seatbelt open.

 

"That's it! I've had it with this car, Dean! I'm out."

 

Sam pushed his way out of the car roughly, giving way to a gush of cold air blowing in through the open door. Once outside, Sam stood in the middle of the road lined by desolate fields. His head was tilted back as he stared up at the cover of clouds, enormous mountains of a gray so dark it was a warning in itself, smothering what little daylight remained. If Castiel truly was a banshee, he couldn't have come up with a more obvious portent.

 

Dean lingered inside, his hands clinging to the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grasp. He frowned at the speakers, then shook his head. When Castiel watched him remove one of his hands from the steering wheel to touch the stereo's display instead, it felt like a breakthrough. "I don't think you're trying to kill us," the hunter said quietly to the car's interior.

 

Castiel was thankful for the fact that, no matter which other details differed, both Deans seemed to share their finely-tuned intuition.

 

"If you were, there'd be far more straightforward ways to do that. You could have crashed the car, but you chose not to," Dean kept talking at the display.

 

If only the Empty hadn't consumed as much of Castiel's power, he might have been able to hold an actual conversation with Dean via song lyrics. But as it was, the focused effort for just those two words had already weakened him considerably. He was in urgent need of a vessel to strengthen him, to give his essence a chance to regenerate, if he wanted to remain on Earth. And he had to. The other Dean needed him to.

 

"I'm not—" Dean's words were cut off as a flash of lightning put his face into sharp relief. His eyes narrowed in the direction it had come from and Castiel noticed minuscule movements in Dean's jaw muscles, indicating that he was counting. The thunderclap was to be expected, but when it happened after just a few seconds, it was so permeant that it made the hunter flinch. Even Castiel in his true form was surprised by the intensity of the noise.

 

"Samuel, get in the car!" Dean bellowed, his voice much rougher than the pleasant tone that seemed to be his baseline. Castiel wondered why situations of distress were always what highlighted the overlap between both Deans to an extent that made his yearning a physical sensation at the core of his being. A twinge that reminded him of what was at stake here, as if there had been any chance he could forget even for a single second.

 

"But the—"

 

"NOW!"

 

In the face of Dean's verbal equivalent of a whiplash, even Sam budged and complied. As soon as the door closed and the seatbelt clicked, the car sped back the way it had come from in reverse. In front of them, Castiel saw the center of the storm front brewing in a cone of darkness.

 

"Dean, I don't think we should be driving in this. Statistics prove it's safest during a thunderstorm to pull over and wait it out."

 

Another flash lit up the interior of the car.

 

"Which part of untimely demise did you miss, Samuel?"

 

"We don't even know that it is a banshee!"

 

Dean threw a fleeting dark look his brother's way before sliding the car around so that he could continue in forward gear. The crack of thunder behind them was loud.

 

"It stopped us from driving right into the middle of this freak storm," Dean said, his eyes fixed on the road. Castiel saw his jaw clench in an achingly familiar display of barely suppressed stress. Dean's words made him wish he could claim even this shred of usefulness for himself, but the truth was, he'd had no idea about the thunderstorm. It had been nothing but a coincidence that he'd prevented the brothers from driving straight into its core. Perhaps he made a better banshee than he did an angel. Heaven knew he'd never been any good at that.

 

One hand on the backrest, Sam turned around in his seat to look back through the rear windscreen. He swallowed, silently staring at the atmospheric disturbance. His pupils constricted when the car was illuminated by multiple branches of lightning that forked and probably split a tree somewhere behind them, judging by the frequency of noise Castiel perceived.

 

In his true form, Castiel loomed far higher than anything else nearby, but he'd been centering his entire concentration on the car's occupants until the moment something crashed against the roof. Again. And again. Both brothers gasped in surprise, but Dean didn't slow down in their race down the road. Castiel broadened his focus beyond the vehicle's metal shell and saw that chunks of solid ice were raining down from the tenebrous threat of the sky.

 

He focused back on the inside of the car, just in time to hear Dean mutter "NUTS!" in reaction to the soft clangor of lines appearing on the windshield after a particularly large hailstone had collided with it. Hearing this word pronounced with such force would have been nothing less than absurd in the company of the other Winchesters. No matter how similar these doppelgangers looked, Castiel was all too aware of the multitude of differences between them and the friends he'd come to value above all else. Them and Jack.

 

The strange expletive was the only thing uttered amidst the noise of ice that hit metal and glass in repeated attacks against the car's integrity. The lines in the already weakened windshield grew under the barrage of frozen hailstones. To the rumble of thunder that seemed to come from everywhere at once, the car took a sharp turn to the right, following an exit to the first buildings in sight.

 

Dean jerked the car to a halt next to a tall signpost that marked the parking lot as belonging to Sally's Star — Restaurant & Motel. The next few icy projectiles from the sky resulted in a miserable creaking from the windshield. It wouldn't last much longer. "Jackets!" Dean yelled and opened his seatbelt. He awkwardly disentangled his arms from his sleeves in the narrow space of his seat to pull his jacket halfway over his head from behind.

 

Sam's even taller frame and the narrower cut of his suit jacket proved to be an obstacle, so he loosened his scarf instead to hold it in front of his face as a protective measure. Castiel wished desperately there was something he could do to help, but as had been the case far too often throughout his life, the situation was outside his control. He felt utterly powerless, especially without a vessel that would have allowed him to interact with the physical world in far more effective ways.

 

In perfect symmetry to that day twelve years ago, glass shattered after all. From what he could tell, neither of the hunters was seriously harmed.

 

"Can we make it to the building?" Sam asked in their now broken shelter, his voice muffled by cloth.

 

Dean gave his brother a jacket-covered nod. "Let's get the Heck out of here!"

 

The car was parked in a manner that had the passenger door face the building. Sam dashed through the downpour in a direct line and made it to the overhang of the roof above the door. In lieu of a key, he broke down the door with a well-placed kick. Dean remained behind in the wreckage of broken glass to hastily unplug his phone and pocket it.

 

Time itself seemed to slow down as Castiel's angelic perception connected the dots of the imminent catastrophe before it happened. He felt the rise of static energy in the air all through his celestial form while Dean rounded the car, passing the spot between the vehicle and the signpost that towered over the parking lot. He saw the lightning break through the clouds above and bolt down towards the sign.

 

A powerful surge of protectiveness made the decision for him, even though these humans weren't the ones he held so dear. They knew next to nothing about each other, but any version of Dean was worth saving. That name was the only thought in his mind as he phased his celestial body from the Veil into the physical realm, spreading his wings far enough to cover the entire parking lot.

 

He may have been unable to move physical matter without a vessel, but an electrostatic discharge was something he could absorb with wings that were made of nearly the same. The lightning bolt struck him, connected with the tip of one wing and ran further inwards from there. A sensation of searing heat threatened to consume him. It hurt, deeper than the pain of any torture he'd ever endured.

 

He could only just find the presence of mind to shift back over into the Veil right as both brothers turned towards the source of the ear-splitting noise and blinding glow that they'd probably attribute to the lightning bolt. Causing harm to their eyesight was far from his intentions. Dean seemed thoroughly distracted squinting up into the sky with a peculiar expression on his face, but Sam pulled him out of harm's way, further under the roof and into the building.

 

Castiel remained behind, waiting in a daze for the pain to abate. Any damage inflicted directly to his celestial form felt far more intense than injuries he'd received while tied to a human vessel. But he'd live. And this had been worth it. As soon as the blazing ache in his wings deteriorated into a duller throb, he focused his awareness on the motel room that had swallowed the two humans currently under his protection.

 

Without electricity, the room's interior was lit only by the apocalyptic gloom coming from the sole window, and by the occasional flash of lightning. Hammering sounds against the roof were a continuous reminder of the hailstorm raging outside. The wooden exit door sported a hole in its middle and didn't sit quite right in its hinges any longer, but it was still able to keep out the brunt of the cold and grant the room a semblance of safety. Sam perched on one of the beds, massaging his temples, while Dean paced the dark room.

 

"...telling you, Samuel, something happened out there!"

 

Not even looking at his brother, Sam asked quietly after a few seconds, voice subdued, "Why are you suddenly so obsessed with seeing this... this higher force behind it all? Even if it was a banshee—and I don't think it is—but even if it was, banshees are monsters. We hunt monsters. Why would one of them suddenly decide to save our lives?"

 

With a tired sigh, Dean halted in his pacing to stare out the window, a play of light and shadow on his face when lightning flashed again. He let the fingers of his left hand run over the small white pearls he wore on his other arm, gently tugging the bracelet around his wrist.

 

"What do you want me to say, Sam?" he finally asked into the silence, defeated, the quietness of his voice matching his brother's. "I don't know, all right? I don't have any of the answers. And everyone who did has just—just disappeared on us. If they were still there, don't you think they would have opened the door to that underground base of theirs when we knocked and shouted?"

 

Thunder underlined his point rather dramatically. If only Castiel could talk to him, for all of their sake. With Dean's gaze fixed on a point somewhere outside on the parking lot, Castiel figured it was time for another attempt to get through to the hunter. He was still hurting, but he couldn't afford to waste any more time, so he gathered his grace in the part of his form that overlapped the signpost outside from the Veil.

 

The electricity powering the darkened letters spelling out Sally's Star — Restaurant & Motel was gone, but having neon tubes react to the touch of his grace wasn't hard to accomplish. He lit up three specific letters; first the S and a, followed by the y. He was certain that Dean had seen it because Castiel heard his breath hitch.

 

"What does that even have to do with—Dean?" Sam asked into the half-light, apparently having picked up on the change in his brother's behavior.

 

y, e, s were the next letters that glowed to finish Castiel's message, just before the signpost in all its height, now charged with grace, attracted another lightning strike. Wood splintered and burst, and the whole thing came crashing down right onto the car they'd left parked next to it, denting in the vehicle's roof and squashing the miserable remnants of the windshield.

 

"Still think we should have waited it out in the car?" Dean questioned, turning around to face his brother, hand closing fully around the bracelet. Castiel was sure he heard the slightest tremble in the hunter's voice, but Dean showed no other reaction to his message. This inability to communicate was infuriating.

 

"Well... no," Sam admitted. "Guess we're the exception to that statistic."

 

"Who would have thought that the only two people to escape a collapsing universe might defy statistics, huh?" Dean asked, sitting down on the room's second bed with a small huff. "Listen, it's hard to judge with the, uh, you know." Dean made a swirling motion through the air with one hand, as if that explained anything at all when Castiel, in fact, did not know. But of course the message hadn't been directed at him, and Sam apparently didn't share his confusion. "But I think I may be sleep-deprived. We're not going back out there in this weather anyway, so we might as well get some rest while we're here."

 

Considering the suggestion, Sam nodded slowly. "Right. I keep forgetting. How long has it been for you now, three days?"

 

"Might have been four, but I've honestly lost track myself. Eh, whatever." Castiel must have misunderstood something because they certainly couldn't be talking about four days without any sleep at all. Chilly as the room was, the only things Sam and Dean shed before laying down in their respective beds were their shoes. "Night, Sam."

 

"Night."

 

Silence claimed the motel room, broken only by the noises of the thunderstorm outside. Quite contrary to his words, Dean lay on his back with eyes wide open, toying with the bracelet once more. Castiel wondered if Dean's thoughts were as loud as his own, if they were what was keeping him awake. With a tinge of guilt, he realized they'd never really spared much consideration for the fate of these two men who had been forced to leave their entire universe behind.

 

Part of the blame certainly lay in the fact how strangely unaffected both of them appeared by it all. Once they'd been freed from that inter-dimensional pocket in space, they had never looked to be in need of anything. On a deeply personal level, Castiel could empathize with losing everything they'd ever known to step into a new world where nothing was theirs.

 

He knew all the hurt and confusion that came with a situation like that. But if they felt it too, they must have buried it so deeply that no trace of it was still visible on the outside. Not even the other Dean was capable of such a feat, but not for lack of trying. Castiel had just always been able to see past the act, with him. The man lying in front of him, though, didn't seem to be putting up an act. Frowning slightly at the ceiling, Dean shook his head, then closed his eyes.

 

Entirely focused on the chance that Dean's sleep posed, Castiel was caught by surprise when Sam suddenly sat up in the other bed. The stealthiness of his movements was unexpected and Castiel wondered briefly if there was reason for worry as Sam sneaked over to Dean's bed and slid his hand into the pocket of Dean's jacket. With reflexes that only a life full of danger could bring, Dean caught Sam's wrist.

 

"Loss of man bun, Samuel."

 

Sam retracted his arm and held both hands up in defeat.

 

"All right, fine! I won't touch your phone. But please don't keep playing that song all day tomorrow."

 

"Deal. But only because it sort of creeps me out after what happened today."

 

"Good enough for me," Sam said and returned to his bed. Now that this issue was out of the way, he fell asleep rather fast, judging by the soft snores coming from his direction after a few minutes.

 

Dean released a quiet sigh into the darkness of the room and spent a long while staring at nothing before his eyes finally closed again and his breathing evened out. Castiel waited a little longer to ensure that Dean's sleep was sufficiently deep before he reached out with his grace.

 

He found himself in an abandoned warehouse, moonlight shining in where parts of the roof had broken down. And he was inside of his vessel, even if it was all just an illusion. The simple feeling of flexing his fingers was something he hadn't appreciated enough while he still could, growing far too used to it over time for it to be anything noteworthy. This borrowed human body that had later become his alone had started to feel more true to him in a matter of a few years than his celestial body had for eons. He suspected the company he'd been with had a large part to play in that.

 

Letting the tips of his fingers glide over the dusty surface of some discarded boxes, he realized how much he'd missed this, the common ground he shared with the humans he loved. The immediate experience of sensory input. Breathing that was his own. Hands that could touch. And most importantly, a voice that could be heard. Everything that made him compatible with human existence.

 

Distracted by too much sensation at once, it took him a while to notice that his right shoulder smarted, the beige fabric of his trenchcoat tainted with blood. Somehow his awareness of the pain in his wing must have carried over into this dreamscape. The high-roofed storage hall he was in appeared to be devoid of people. Wondering where Dean was, he began to move, the soles of his dress shoes clicking on the concrete floor.

 

Then he heard a noise, a metallic clink of something falling to the floor in an adjacent room. He sped up his steps and when he identified the low grunts of fighting, changed into a full-out run. His trenchcoat billowing behind him, he arrived in a narrow hallway shrouded in shadows and silver glimpses of moonlight. That's where he found Dean, swarmed by a whole nest of vampires at the other end of the long passage.

 

The hunter was fighting alone without backup, hopelessly surrounded by creatures growling in rage. Castiel spotted the source of the metallic sound from before, a cylindrical device on the floor only just out of Dean's reach, no matter how desperately he stretched his arm. The vampires held Dean down to the ground, but a ripple went through their crowd as Dean sent some of them flying with a powerful kick. Despite the chaos of battle and moving bodies, Castiel saw Dean's eyes meet his, widening in surprise. A kick to Dean's prone form cut their eye contact short.

 

Even with Dean's prowess as a hunter, there were just too many of them. Castiel knew a losing battle when he saw one. It probably shouldn't have surprised him that the dream he'd dived into was a nightmare, but the knowledge that not even this more lighthearted version of Dean was free of nightly torment still saddened him. A guttural scream echoed back from the walls. The sound of it cut Castiel like a knife.

 

"Dean!" he cried out in return, but his voice was swallowed by the sounds of fighting. He held out one of his hands, running as fast as his vessel's legs would carry him. White radiance shot forth from his palm, traveling ahead of him as a herald of salvation. The explosion of light left burned-out corpses in its wake, slumping to the ground in unison. Wisps of smoke rose up from blackened skulls.

 

Dean was the only one unaffected by the smiting, at least physically. Still lying on the floor and pressing a hand against the side of his neck, he glanced back and forth between Castiel and the pile of corpses, dazed. When Castiel had covered all but the last few steps of distance between them, he slowed down to a measured walk and approached the hunter. He lowered the hand he'd used to channel the smiting and extended it to help Dean up from the floor.

 

Dean chose to ignore the offer. Of course he did. Eyes narrowed warily, he heaved himself up, revealing his bloodied neck in the process. Castiel had to suppress the reflex to reach out and heal him without permission.

 

"Quite the impressive move. What kind of magic was that?" Dean asked, leaning his shoulder against the wall, trying and failing to cover how much his injuries weakened him.

 

"The divine kind," Castiel said and bent down to recover the cylindrical device from the ground. He'd meant to return it right away, but the Enochian script running around both ends drew his attention. In the corner of his eye, he saw Dean's posture tense, so he aborted his attempt of reading the writing and held the device out to Dean instead. "You lost your... I'm not sure what this is."

 

Hastily grabbing the cylinder out of Castiel's hold, as if he'd been worried Castiel would change his mind and not return it after all, Dean swallowed.

 

"It's an AVD." At Castiel's uncomprehending frown, Dean added, "Anti-Vampire Device."

 

"That sounds useful," Castiel stated carefully, not quite sure how to proceed from here. No matter how often he'd been convinced to have finally mastered human interactions, he still received that look with a frequency far too high to risk anything here. First impressions especially had a tendency to blow up into his face, and he couldn't afford to lose this chance.

 

The corners of Dean's mouth twitched in a self-deprecating smile. "Yeah, well, it would be if you don't... you know, drop it."

 

"I'm sure there was a good reason, otherwise you wouldn't have dropped it," Castiel said in full conviction without thinking.

 

Dean's eyes narrowed again, roaming over Castiel's face in a calculating gaze.

 

"How come you stormed in at exactly the right time?"

 

Castiel's earlier relief over being able to communicate with ease now seemed short-sighted. If he admitted to the dreamwalking, that might just rouse Dean from his sleep before Castiel had an opportunity to mention any of the truly important things. But he also didn't want to start their acquaintance with a lie.

 

"I heard the sounds of fighting and ran here as fast as I could," he stated, choosing the middle ground.

 

"Yeah, uh, thanks for that," Dean said, stowing the Anti-Vampire Device in his jacket. He winced when the movement pulled at the broken skin of the joint between his shoulder and neck.

 

This time, Castiel couldn't quell the reflex before his hand had already shot upwards. Gasping in shock, Dean evaded with a step backwards. Something in Castiel's chest stung at the show of distrust.

 

"Apologies, I—," he scrambled for words. Dean's eyes scanned his face once more, moving up and down in the slightest flick of eyelids. Castiel met his gaze openly. "Please believe me when I say that I mean you no harm."

 

Several seconds of silence ticked by until the tension drained from Dean's posture, though he still didn't say a single word, nothing that could have helped Castiel gauge how to continue from here. Bringing his hand closer to the blood-drenched skin, Castiel inclined his head in question. "Allow me?"

 

Dean breathed out, then nodded.

 

Castiel touched two of his fingers to Dean's neck and a glow far gentler than during the smiting emerged from his palm. Bloodstains disappeared and skin mended under his cautious attention. The action stirred awake so many memories that Castiel felt his throat constrict in worry over the Dean who knew him, who'd seen him at both his best and worst, who had touched something in his core in a way that nothing else in billions of years had managed.

 

The Dean in front of him froze under his touch. Finished with his work, Castiel let his hand fall back to his side. Dean grazed the tips of his own fingers over now unblemished skin, averted his gaze from Castiel's for a moment to find no more blood on them.

 

"Who are you? What are you?"

 

The questions sent a shiver of recognition through Castiel's body and he had to close his eyes for a moment to quiet the loudness of his emotions.

 

"Castiel," he said, looking back at Dean. "I'm an—" He swallowed. There was no script. They had torn it up years ago. "I'm an angel."

 

"An angel," Dean echoed flatly and a humorless chuckle broke free from his lips that stopped abruptly when he saw the seriousness on Castiel's face. "Why would an angel... just happen to walk by when I mess up and get myself killed by a nest of vampires?"

 

"Dean," Castiel started and realized his mistake too late when Dean took several steps backwards, squinting in suspicion.

 

"How do you know my name?"

 

"Dean, all of this is not a coincidence. There's—"

 

"Wait, I've seen you before! You were there when we arrived in the other universe." The walls around them started to blur at that and Castiel felt a rush of panic. "You and this younger fellow," Dean kept talking, oblivious to the changes in their environment. "But you never exchanged a word with us, we only ever talked to the other... us." Dean ran a hand through his hair, frowning in remembrance, then tensing up. "They said God was the one who destroyed our universe. Angels—angels are servants of God."

 

Dean paled and licked his lips nervously, feeling around in his jacket, presumably for a weapon. The hallway blurred further, warping around them.

 

"Dean, listen to me," Castiel spoke hurriedly. "I'm not what you think. I'm an ally, a—a friend. I don't serve God, not anymore. God is a threat, to the world, to all of us. And the other Dean is—" Castiel balled his fists helplessly. "He's in danger. I need your help to save him. I'll answer all of your questions to the best of my ability." His voice grew rough in undisguised vulnerability. "But please, help me save Dean. I need you to say yes for me to temporarily share your body."

 

Dean's frown deepened and he tilted his head in obvious confusion. His hand emerged from his jacket holding a dagger, but he let it sink to his side uselessly. "I—you—what?"

 

A white fog appeared that gave a faraway quality to everything Dean said, like a wall separating them.

 

"You'll still be in control for most of it. I won't harm you, you have my word!" Castiel shouted, his voice small and forlorn in the haze.

 

Then Dean gasped awake in the dark motel room, covering his face with both hands in a soft groan.

 

Spontaneous combustion seemed like a valid course of action in the knowledge that Castiel had ruined his best chance to save Dean.

 

Sam snored.

 

"Gosh darnit," Dean muttered into the darkness and sat up straight in his bed. He lingered there motionlessly and every moment that passed was unbearable torment to Castiel.

 

Dean threw his legs over the side of the bed, put on his shoes and exited the room through the broken door. Sheltered by the overhang of the roof, he rubbed over the bridge of his nose and stared quietly into the rainfall that replaced the earlier hailstorm and pattered clamorously against the roof and the parked cars.

 

"Don't make me regret this," he finally spoke into the cold and Castiel could have wept, if he had a body to do so.

 

Dean's left hand found its way to the bracelet on his right again and he inhaled the wet air deeply, clinging to the pearls.

 

"Yes."

 

Castiel permitted the flow of his true form into a condensed pillar of light, rising high up into the sky. And then he was pulled into this human body made of flesh and bone, too narrow in its confinement and yet a perfect fit. He held out a hand far enough to feel the rain against their skin, wondering where in this downpour to begin looking for the other Dean.

 

Two things happened at the same time. In the vague memory of the way his grace and the other Dean's soul had connected in the Empty, Castiel carefully expanded throughout this body, seeking but not finding. A shock ran through him and he intensified the search until his grace touched the shriveled remains of something that should have been all-encompassing in its beauty.

 

What have you done?

 

Horrified beyond measure, he couldn't hold back the thought when instead he should have been thanking Dean for trust offered blindly.

 

This was the moment a prayer arrived, directed personally at him.

 

"Cas? Are you—are you there?"

 

Jack, Castiel thought and warmth spread through their shared body.

 

"I saw you—I thought I saw you die. Again."

 

The desperation behind the words was tangible and his heart ached for what he must have put Jack through. He yearned to tell his son that everything would be all right, but there was no way for him to reply to the prayer, no connection of grace to latch onto after Jack had lost most of his power. He was able to extricate a sense of direction from the prayer, though.

 

"Rode—Crowley thinks you might be alive."

 

That sentence turned the warmth in their body into a heat that was searing in its urgency to follow the direction of the prayer. If Crowley was with Jack, did that mean...

 

"But I don't know if I can dare to hope that. It hurt. It hurt so badly, Cas. I can't lose you again."

 

Castiel felt tears rise up in his eyes, Dean's eyes.

 

"Cas? I'm about to do something very stupid. If you're out there... if this goes wrong, I hope you'll forgive me."

 

~

Notes:

Phew, writing this was a wild ride for me.
If anyone is looking for something else to read, check out Static_Saturn's amazing debut, the post-15x19 WIP The Frailest Leaves of Life, or Tomscat's sweet, Jack-inclusive short stories.

Chapter 13: Sam

Notes:

For Tomscat.
This chapter might not exist without you, and the constant exchange and support while writing was a bigger help to me than I can ever say.

Mood song for this chapter:
"Indestructible" by Twelve Titans Music

~

Chapter Text

The clattering of a skull rolling over the wet stone tore Sam out of his haze. He'd accidentally kicked it with the tip of his boot, tripping in his exhaustion. He stopped, lifting his head up into the drizzle of rain from a non-sky in perpetual darkness. His lips parted, letting the raindrops run down over them, but it did nothing against the parched feeling in his throat. A hand touched his left shoulder, the uninjured one.

 

"Sam, you have to take a break. Even I am starting to feel this in my bones, and I'm dead."

 

Trying to catch his breath, he used the illumination from one of Limbo's constant lightning flashes to look back the way they had come from. The palace was nothing but a barely recognizable shadow somewhere at the horizon, across a vast plain of uneven rock. Sam nodded and let himself be dragged to the side. They hadn't quite reached the cliffs yet, but outcrops had begun to line their path.

 

He pressed a hand to his forehead in a sudden dizziness. Rowena's grip on his arm tightened, steadying him as she led him into the opening to a shallow cave. He stumbled over to the far wall. As soon as he reached it, his knees just gave in and he sank down, leaning his back against the rock and closing his eyes.

 

"Sam?" she asked, her voice soft again in that way that was so unlike her. It sounded smaller than the person she was.

 

"I'm...," he said, then stopped when he realized what a miserable croaking sound had just escaped his mouth instead of an actual word. He cleared his throat before trying again. "I'm fine." He opened his eyes to give her a look that he hoped was reassuring, though it probably ended up as more of a grimace.

 

The sparse light from the exit behind her outlined her form as she stood there in the middle of the cave, balancing on shoes that were barely functional without their heels, her clothing and hair clinging to her in wet disarray.

 

"Liar," she said and the hint of a smile flitted over a face darkened by bruises and smeared mascara.

 

"Takes one to know one," he shot back, the corners of his mouth twitching weakly.

 

"I won't deny I am a woman of certain talents, and persuasion happens to be one of them."

 

Sam snorted softly at that and leaned his head back against the wall. They spent a moment in silence and his eyes shut again on their own accord. "I just... just need a minute," he murmured, each word a sting in his sore throat.

 

He heard quiet shuffling as Rowena was moving about, but didn't pay much attention to it. The searing pain in his arm kept him from dozing off entirely, even though his body had surpassed the state of exhaustion a while ago. So he just let his thoughts drift behind closed eyes, void of coherence.

 

The awareness of the darkness lurking in the back of his mind never left him—a vague, unspecific reminder of all the things he should be feeling. They were too heavy to bear for any single person, so he kept them locked away in a box, untouched, with the echo of his own wails of grief still loud in his ears.

 

A soft rustling of cloth heralded the witch's return and he felt rather than saw her crouch down next to him.

 

"Sam, you have to drink this."

 

Sam blinked in confusion.

 

"You've..." Speaking was an effort when his mouth felt so dry that his tongue refused to move. "You've had water all this time?"

 

"Of course not. Do I look like there's a bottle hidden somewhere on my person?" Rowena rolled her eyes, nodding down to her form-fitting dress. "No, this is rainwater I collected from a hollow in the rock. I had nothing to carry it with, other than a shoe or my hands. I figured you'd appreciate it if I opted against the shoe."

 

Sam huffed out a breath at her words, then bent down towards the offering of water in her cupped hands. The angle for slurping it was awkward and it was gone much too fast, but just the fact that the moisture made his tongue no longer stick to the roof of his mouth was already a huge relief.

 

"Thanks," he said.

 

"You've lost a lot of blood and you're dehydra—"

 

"Not for the water," Sam added and Rowena inclined her head in question. "For not using the shoe."

 

That garnered him another eyeroll as the witch got back to her feet, but he was sure he also saw a thin smile before she turned to leave.

 

"I'll get you some more, and this time I will be using the shoe without telling you," she said over her shoulder before disappearing from his sight.

 

Sam shook his head in something that would have been amusement if his emotions weren't feeling as dried out as his body. The numbness was probably a good thing. He sat up a little straighter, wincing at the pain in his arm and trying his hardest not to think of anything at all. It didn't take long until Rowena returned with a second serving of water in her hands—no shoe involved—which he accepted gratefully.

 

"Better?" she asked, sitting down next to him with her back to the cave wall.

 

"I think so," he said. At least it was a little easier now to keep his eyes open, even if he did nothing more useful than stare outside through the cave exit. Silence fell over them, louder than the whisper of rain and the raging of thunder. Wearing that sodden and torn jacket didn't seem to do much to preserve his body heat, and the cold was seeping into his bones. It matched the way he felt, though.

 

Sam risked a glance over to Rowena and found her deeply absorbed into her own thoughts. Her body language talked even if she did not, shoulders and head hanging in dejection. That, too, matched his own feelings. He swallowed and averted his gaze.

 

"Maybe I'm not fine," he finally admitted, quiet words breaking through the calm. Sam saw from the corner of his eye that she gave him an indecipherable look at that, but he chose to keep his eyes on the darkened sky. "Maybe I'll never be again. I really don't know anymore."

 

The words sat there, festering, mutely soaking the air between them in sorrow.

 

"The good news is," Rowena said mirthlessly, "the world might not have a lot of time left for either of us to be miserable."

 

She shifted her position, sliding past his injured arm. He couldn't suppress a hiss that instantly drew her attention.

 

"Let me take a look at that arm of yours."

 

"It's f—"

 

"Samuel, don't make me take out that angel blade. You were going to say fine again, weren't you?"

 

He lifted his hands in surrender. "Fine, I won't say fine."

 

He got a flat look in return. Rowena leaned over to remove the tatters of his jacket from the arm in question. The cloth was sticking to the bloody cuts, tearing at his skin in the movement. Another hiss broke free from his lips. Rowena's gaze darkened at a closer inspection of his injuries.

 

"Not long ago and healing these wounds would have been nothing but a minor inconvenience for me, easily fixed in a matter of minutes. I wish I was still..." She cut herself off. Not saying another word, she actually reached for the angel blade and used it to cut off the lowest part of her ankle-length dress. Sam lifted an eyebrow.

 

"What? I call this Apocalypse Chique." She gestured down her ruined dress and pushed a wild strand of her hair back, with the effect that it looked even more chaotic than before. It was an unusual sight when he'd only ever seen her with intricate hairstyles and immaculate wardrobe.

 

"Yeah, I'm sure it will be a hit among demons."

 

Rowena smiled and Sam returned it. It was an involuntary reaction that his body remembered how to do, muscle memory so ingrained that it could still function even though there was no happiness to be found here at the end of the world. He saw the darkness he felt reflected in Rowena's eyes, just as unaffected by the notion of mirth as his own must be looking.

 

Cold fingers wrapped the red cloth around the worst of his wounds, even though the fabric was much too thin to be effective against the blood loss. It was all they had. Once her work was done, she leaned back and Sam covered his upper body in the remains of that stolen jacket again, wishing he still had his shirt at least. He fully expected another phase of shared morose silence, so he was surprised when Rowena chose to speak instead.

 

"I hate Hell. I truly hate it."

 

"That's, uh—I'm just saying, that's an odd stance for someone who used to rule the place until two days ago."

 

She huffed in annoyance. "I hate that they did this to you. Hell is an emblem of everything that's wrong in the world."

 

Sam frowned, unsure about the direction this conversation was taking. "I mean... it's Hell. That's kind of the point."

 

He hadn't meant much with that reply, hadn't even thought about it deeply, and it ended up having a far stronger effect on Rowena than he'd intended. She hesitated, swallowing, her hands curling into fists.

 

"For the first time in hundreds of years, I wanted to actually change something for the better. I've doomed my son to be a prisoner of the cycle that suffering begets suffering, but I thought I could break that cycle now." She finally met his gaze, her eyes shimmering in forlorn intensity. "If redemption exists, if evil truly can be redeemed, then so can Hell, aye? And if it can't, that means..."

 

Sam felt something shatter inside of him at the realization that this was what she'd been trying, that Hell's throne hadn't been about power for her, that all of this was about something else entirely.

 

"Rowena."

 

"It means that redemption is nothing but a myth." Her eyes spilled over, leaving wet tracks across her dirtied face. "A lie told to further separate the good from the evil, to keep everyone in their place for all eternity."

 

"Rowena, listen to me." Sam grabbed both of her hands, uncurling her fists in the attempt to stop her from descending even deeper into that spiral of her personal despair, his own misery forgotten for the moment.

 

"Sam...," she said, her voice stifled by tears, and her hands icy in his. "I thought—I thought my magic could protect me from ever getting hurt again. But now I lost that, too. I don't even know who I am anymore."

 

"Rowena," he repeated her name quietly and let go of her hands to pull her into an embrace instead. "You're the living proof that change is real."

 

He could feel her sobs against his chest, so he let his hands run up and down her back and buried his face into her hair, his eyes falling closed against the weight of their shared pain.

 

"If there's anything I've learned," he murmured against the top of her head. "It's that evil and good are an illusion. You're no more evil than I am. I was prophesied to lead Hell's armies and bring nothing but destruction. I've seen no less than three supposed Antichrists—one of those myself—turn out to be not evil, just people. I've seen angels be cruel, I've seen demons be selfless. Not even to mention that God himself is sort of trying to kill us all."

 

She cry-laughed at that, lifting her head from his chest to restore their eye contact. The lightning from outside reflected in her eyes. He thought she'd never looked more beautiful than in that moment of complete honesty, all pretenses dropped and too far gone to still spare a thought for vanity.

 

"There's no good or evil," Sam reiterated, just in case he hadn't made his point clear. "There's just us."

 

It was true in every sense. They were really all that was left now, in an era that seemed to be placed beyond time, after the world had already ended. Just two people, stripped of all the things they had ever cared about, rediscovering what they were made of when everything else was gone.

 

And then Sam smiled. An honest-to-God, genuine smile of the kind he'd thought he'd lost forever. It should have been impossible.

 

He couldn't have told who of them moved first. Maybe it was one of those rare moments where two minds melded into exactly the same split-second decision. The distance between them shrank and their lips met, just a gentle contact at first, skin gliding over skin. His eyes sought hers, checking for any sign of not wanting this. All he saw was that her tears of loss had morphed into something else, something warmer.

 

He listened into himself for the doubt he should have found there. But the doubt was locked away in that box, together with everything else. This was probably too soon, but then again, 'soon' pretty much lost its meaning when time itself was about to end. They could have this, here, now. It felt right.

 

After one last look and the brush of a smile against her lips, he lifted a hand to her cheek, his thumb drawing a circle over the dark bruise there in a feather-light motion. Then he closed his eyes and pulled her closer with his other hand at her back. She came alive under his touch, her lips parting, her hands moving to his neck and into his hair.

 

Their tongues found each other and the press of his lips against hers held a desperation he'd never kissed with before. He poured himself into the touch, wanting to undo the hurt that life had inflicted on her, at the same time searching for something that would make him more than a burnt-out shell again.

 

When the tips of her fingers started to run over his scalp in a way that set all his nerves alight, he thought that maybe, just maybe this could be it. The dance of their tongues reflected how it had always been between them, enough difference to intrigue, to seem like opposites on the surface. But something at their core had always just resonated. The experience of loss could be a powerful connector, just as the will to defy expectations was. He'd always felt that he got her, even when others didn't.

 

Sam felt alive when he should have been dead inside. Coming up for air, he gasped her name into the space between them before seeking contact once more. She shifted her face in just the right angle, deepened the kiss even further. They were renewing each other, reaffirming who they were, who they wanted to be.

 

After one last caress of the length of her tongue across his, far gentler than he'd ever thought she'd kiss, they stopped for air again, breathing in the change on each other's faces. Words had left him, but they would have felt strangely inappropriate anyway, too small to encompass what had just happened. So he gave her something bigger instead, more meaningful than words could have been. Another one of the smiles that she'd returned to him.

 

Rowena seemed to share the sentiment. She didn't speak a single word, never breaking the eye contact while she reached towards his face and slid the tips of her fingers over that smile, as if she was aware of the full significance of it. Thunder rumbled. Her other hand found his on the ground and she interlaced their fingers, hers no longer cold.

 

"You realize it was you, don't you?" she said quietly, out of nowhere.

 

"What was?" he asked, his voice just as hushed as hers.

 

"The reason why I wanted to change." That probably shouldn't have surprised him as much as it did. "And the reason why I wanted to change Hell."

 

Knowing the difference he'd made touched him in a way he hadn't expected. He felt a lump forming in his throat and blinked several times, gently pressing her hand.

 

"Rowena..."

 

"You cried for me," she added, seemingly as a non-sequitur. "The day you killed me. I saw tears, genuine tears, all over your face."

 

"I—uh, I don't really like thinking of that."

 

"But I do," she said with an unhinged smile. "I do because nobody has ever done that before. I do because it meant you actually cared, Sam. The expression on your face was the last thing I saw on Earth, and I didn't let go of it even in the afterlife. I clung to it when they started the torture, and I clung to it when I made a deal to get out of the torture chambers. Your tears were what I saw when I decided to break that deal and seize the throne myself."

 

Listening to this, the lump in his throat grew until fresh tears formed in his eyes, shed in sympathy for all that suffering she'd never deserved, and in rekindled guilt for what he'd been forced to do. The memory of that day clawed at his insides, and it was all he could do to pull her back in.

 

"I'm sorry," he murmured against her lips, then covered them with his own. The kiss didn't last long this time, more a statement than anything else. "I'm so sorry for... well, killing you."

 

"I bet you never thought you'd say that to anyone." She smiled and breathed out warmly against his skin. "Sam, I didn't tell you this to make you feel guilty. I told you because I wanted you to see the power you hold, even now."

 

"What are you saying?"

 

"I'm saying that you never gave up on me." She brought enough distance between them that they could face each other again. He saw something in her eyes that hadn't been there before. A spark. "I'm saying that never giving up always used to be one of your best qualities. Now is not the time to acquire bad habits, don't you agree?"

 

Sam gasped when the full implications of her words dawned on him. He felt like the floor was torn away beneath him.

 

"You—you think we can actually win? Just—just you and me against—against all of Hell and... God?"

 

"What I think is that hopelessness doesn't suit you. That's my look."

 

Rowena smirked at her own words, once more bringing her fingers to his lips and following their contour from one corner of his mouth to the other in a tingling curve. His body heeded her silent call, smiling when what he actually thought was that he was losing his mind. There was no way... they couldn't possibly...

 

"Show me how to heal you," was what left his mouth instead. He didn't even know where that had come from, and he only realized that he really meant it—in every possible connotation—once the words were already spoken. The dark bruise on her cheek was unacceptable, something he couldn't just leave like it was, something he had to fix.

 

She seemed slightly taken aback at that request. "You must be joking, Sam. If you truly want your initiation into life magic of the highest tier now, despite all that blood you've lost, don't you think it should be to heal you, not me?"

 

"No," he said, sitting up straighter. "No, it has to be you. I want it to be you."

 

Rowena searched his face, as if she still couldn't quite believe what she was hearing.

 

"You're actually serious with that."

 

"I am. Please let me do this."

 

"Why is it that I always end up with the mad ones?" she asked, but it was with that twitch of her mouth that indicated she was joking. Her eyes sent warmth his way.

 

"Show me," he repeated, a quiet plea made in absolute sincerity.

 

"Sam, I don't think I can still direct the flow of your magic, now that I've lost access to Hell's power too. I don't even qualify as a mentor like this. I cannot—"

 

He lifted their entwined hands from the ground. "I think we'll manage. Together."

 

The storm behind Rowena's words ebbed away and she just stared at him in silence for several long moments before she repeated solemnly, "Together."

 

As if this, of all the things they'd shared, had grown too intense for her, she suddenly let go of his hand and got to her feet, talking more to herself than to Sam, "If I can't direct the flow of magic myself, an elemental conduit will facilitate channeling the natural forces."

 

"Uhm, okay," Sam said carefully, not quite sure what he was supposed to do with that. "Where would we find such a conduit in Hell?"

 

"Sometimes it's best to stick to the basics," she proclaimed with another one of those smirks that couldn't be more out of place in their current hopeless situation, yet somehow fit perfectly.

 

She left the cave, but before Sam had much chance to wonder if he was supposed to follow, she was already back. And what she was carrying was too absurd to leave him unaffected.

 

"Seriously?" he snorted in lieu of real laughter.

 

She set down the shoe filled with water in front of them before reclaiming her sitting spot next to Sam with a light shrug.

 

"A girl has to know how to use what she's got to get by," she stated with mock-gravity, sharing a glance with him that made him feel like the spark from her eyes was springing over to his own, energizing him. "And she has to make good on her threats, lest she might not be taken seriously in the future."

 

"Of course," he agreed, nodding along like they were actually discussing something important. They smiled at each other and he reached for her hand. "So, uh, do I just touch the water to use it as a conduit?"

 

"That is the plan, yes. I can't guarantee that it'll work, and it would be much easier on Earth, but alas, a dark pit reeking of death and despair was more to our taste."

 

"Yeah, we clearly have no taste," he teased, pressing her hand while dipping a finger of his other hand into the water held by the shoe.

 

"Truer words were never spoken," she said, then her voice dropped a little lower as she abandoned all levity to move on to the actual task at hand. "The conduit isn't strictly necessary, but it will evoke the frame of mind needed for a spell of this class under such unfavorable circumstances. This would be hard to explain to someone who has never practiced magic before, but luckily you have, and you weren't even half bad at it, so there is hope."

 

"Thanks... I think."

 

"Now... focus on the water."

 

Sam breathed in deeply and closed his eyes.

 

"Water is the ultimate source of life. It is everywhere. Feel its vastness, feel its touch on your skin."

 

The way she was speaking had a soothing effect. Ignoring all the things he'd locked away wasn't too hard, he'd been doing that for a while now. Listening to Rowena's voice made it easier, gave him something to fill the blank space left behind by everything he didn't allow himself to feel as a measure of self-preservation.

 

"Feel the molecules the water consists of, the small parts that make up the whole. Feel them around you. Feel them inside of you."

 

He could leave it all behind, just for a moment of unburdened weightlessness. He consisted of water.

 

"A small disturbance causes countless ripples, far away from its point of origin. Once you find the source, you can calm the waves, until all that is left is a smooth water surface."

 

He was floating inside his own mind. For once, not drowning under the weight of it all, but floating on top of it. Unsure how much time had passed, he barely registered that Rowena must have stopped talking quite a while ago.

 

"Sam, if this isn't working, it's not your fault but my own. A mentor without magic is—"

 

He became water. His eyes snapped open. The miscolored, bruised skin of Rowena's cheek didn't belong, stood out like an intruder. It wasn't a conscious decision that brought their entwined hands to her face, they were suddenly just there. He felt her fingers shift, moving from his palm to the back of his hand, not steering, just reinforcing.

 

"Exaequate," 23 he breathed out in a whisper, and a gentle purple and golden glow appeared between his hand and her face. "Sanescite." 24 The tips of his fingers slid from her cheekbone to her chin and the skin mended under his touch, showing no more signs of ever having been mistreated. He reached the silky surface of her lips and the corner that was swollen returned to its regular shape.

 

Only once he was finished, he returned to his senses from something that had been almost an out-of-body experience. Rowena was giving him a strange look, lifting her hand to the freshly healed parts of her face.

 

"What?" he asked, suddenly worried. "Did I hurt you?"

 

"I was gravely mistaken," she said and let that wide-eyed wonderment roam over his face. "You aren't a Student, you never were."

 

"What—I don't..." He was surprised at that sting of hurt he felt. "I can't have been that bad. It looks to me like the spell worked."

 

"Oh, it certainly worked. It worked when it shouldn't have."

 

He frowned.

 

"Sam... do you even realize how rare Naturals are?"

 

All he could do was shake his head, dazed.

 

"And the Grand Coven never got to dig its claws into you... Oh, I love the irony," Rowena chuckled.

 

"Wait a minute... so I'm a natural witch, like you?"

 

"You never needed my magic, Sam. You got your own. How did I not see this sooner? How could you not know?"

 

"I, uhm... back then, I just wanted to be normal, I guess?" He ran a hand through his hair and looked down, still too confused to know how to feel about this. "Not the boy with the demon blood. I caused an Apocalypse with powers that weren't my own, I didn't—"

 

Rowena cut off his string of doubts with a gentle hand against the side of his face. "Sam, this is a good thing. Normal isn't what is needed right now. Here's to being extraordinary. Together."

 

A small spot of warmth bloomed in his chest when he realized she was right. This time was different. This time, he wouldn't be hunted as a freak. This time, he had someone by his side who understood, who had been through all of this herself, who seemed to see so much good in him that it had inspired her to completely upturn the concept of Hell itself. This would be nothing like before.

 

"Together," he repeated and huffed out a laugh, utterly incredulous over the next words forming on his tongue. "We have a throne to reclaim and a world to save."

 

~

Footnotes:

23 Align.

24 Heal.

Chapter 14: Jack

Notes:

Mood song for this chapter:
"Young Blood" by Audiomachine

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

~

"I don't understand. Why is a hug undignified?"

 

The wind was rising as a harbinger of things to come, tossing groups of dried leaves around in violent gusts. Jack looked up at the darkening sky, then back over his shoulder. Roderick was trudging through the forest after him, in that slightly stumbling way that indicated significant damage to Dean's body.

 

"The King of Hell doesn't do hugs."

 

"But... you aren't the king, not anymore," Jack said with a frown. "The throne now belongs to R—"

 

"Oh, I don't even want to know which bloody fool is holding the thing now. They can choke on it, for all I care. If they want to drown in paperwork and complaints, surrounded by spineless, backstabbing snivelers—good riddance, I say. Speaks for a severe lack of both good judgment and taste, of course."

 

"So that means you can do hugs now," Jack reasoned, remembering the way every single embrace in his life had made him feel, easing whatever burden he was carrying at the time by just that tiny bit that made all the difference. With a twinge of sympathy, he imagined how terrible it would have been not to be allowed even this small comfort in a world that was far too confusing and cruel.

 

Roderick must have agreed with him, because he didn't object, instead just giving Jack a long, silent look.

 

"Please tell me this mysterious cabin in the woods you found by mere happenstance isn't much farther away," the demon said when he finally spoke again.

 

The first low grumbles of thunder emerged from the sky above and the muscles in Jack's shoulders tensed at the realization that he hadn't really memorized the way back all that well. It hadn't seemed important at the time. He looked around, softly biting the inside of his lip.

 

"It must have been near here somewhere... I think."

 

"Oh, you think? Now that's reassuring."

 

Jack glanced around another time, but the barren trees were the same in every direction. His hands curled into fists in frustration over how every single thing he tried, no matter how trivial, always seemed to go wrong.

 

"I... I can do this," he said, trying to convince himself more than Roderick.

 

The demon narrowed Dean's eyes, but whatever he'd seen on Jack's face must have had an effect, because Roderick's expression morphed into something that was more open. One corner of his mouth twitched and he gave Jack a short, wordless nod a moment later. Now if only Jack could get rid of his own doubts this easily.

 

Raindrops began to fall, the soft whispers of their impact reflected from the wilted leaves all around them. Jack took a deep breath to calm his nerves, trying to return into that state of heightened senses that most reliably seemed to work in extreme situations. Feeling utterly useless was, apparently, not extreme enough to qualify.

 

Light though it still was, the rain didn't exactly help to make him feel any better, several drops blown into his eyes as the wind picked up around them. If they stayed outside much longer, their clothes would probably end up drenched. Thunder made itself known once more. Jack was pretty sure it would get uncomfortable out here very fast, so he sped up his steps, following the direction that he hoped was still the right one. He missed the certainty the leylines had given him, wishing he was still close to one of those, could just follow wherever it led.

 

"Tell me again...," Roderick inquired, almost yelling to be heard over the rising storm. "Why exactly are we taking this stroll in such beautiful weather when there was a perfectly fine building just a stone's throw away?"

 

"I..." Jack shouted back, then swallowed. Maybe all of this had been a really bad idea. "It was just..." He turned to see Roderick lift his hand in an impatient gesture that demanded answers, but he couldn't face the demon for his next words, instead focusing back on their way through the underbrush. "Sam and Dean were still with me when we slept in that house last night," he finally admitted, barely loud enough for his words to be audible over the noise around them.

 

Even with the new hope that Dean would be returned to him, Jack had felt unable to stay in the proximity of that field that had claimed everyone he loved, torn them away all at once like it was nothing. He braced himself for getting called out on what a stupid decision this had been, made for no other reason than sentimentality, but to his surprise, Roderick remained silent.

 

The way from the cabin to the devil's trap had felt so much shorter the first time around, when he hadn't been thinking about it much, distracted by the walkie-talkie communication. Maybe they had long passed the building, wandering through the forest at an angle just slightly off, obscuring the cabin from their view?

 

Suddenly, the rain became uncomfortable to the point of hurt. He frowned, noticing how what fell from the sky was now much harder than raindrops were supposed to be. Hail. He'd never been outside in a hailstorm before, had barely ever noticed it in the safety of the bunker. The thought of home was an ache that matched the way the tiny chunks of ice met his skin.

 

"Jack!" Roderick called.

 

"Yes?"

 

"This isn't the time to dawdle, come on!"

 

They ran, hunched over against the downpour and staggering wildly through the woods in defiance of any broken bones in Dean's body. The increasing wetness turned the fallen leaves into a treacherous surface and Jack slipped, approaching the ground face-first at an alarming speed. What saved him from the impact was a firm hand on his shoulder, restoring his balance just in time.

 

Jack swallowed and gave Roderick a thin smile in thanks that he acknowledged with an eyeroll, but Jack could swear he'd also seen a smile there before the demon averted his face. The hand remained on his arm after that, pulling him onwards over an upwards slope in the terrain.

 

The lumps of ice falling from the sky grew in size and Jack tried his best to shield his head with his jacket. They crested the incline, and there, just on the other side, the cabin's wooden roof came into view. Jack's heart beat faster as he and Roderick lurched down the slope side by side.

 

Before they had even reached the cabin's entrance, the demon was already holding out one of Dean's hands in a sidewards turn. The door snapped open and they rushed into the darkness inside. Jack heard the door fall closed behind them, muffling the outside world to dull thuds on the roof and occasional gusts of wind howling along the outer walls. His eyes slowly got used to the darkness and he could make out some sparse furniture and a window barred from the outside.

 

"Charming," Roderick commented. "In that deranged lumberjack sort of way."

 

"I like it," Jack said because the shelter it provided had turned this little cabin into the best building he'd ever seen.

 

"Of course you do," came the demon's reply from the other end of the square room. Jack heard a rummaging sound, only just able to discern Roderick's movements in the dark with eyes that were still used to the slightly brighter evening light outside. A flashlight clicked to life, enabling him to see the finer details in the room.

 

It reminded him that he, too, was carrying one of those. He fumbled about inside his backpack and discovered both the second flashlight and a candle. To conserve the few batteries they had, he chose the candle and placed it on a socket in the middle of the small table. The fact that no lighter was included in the supplies the backpack held stopped him dead in his tracks, though.

 

Whenever they'd been on what the Winchesters called salt-and-burn cases, they had brought a lighter. Usually Sam or Dean had been the one to use it, but one night Dean had pressed it into Jack's hand, calling it 'doing the honors', even though Jack still wasn't sure what honor had to do with activating a lighter.

 

It was a pleasant memory, though, the way both Sam and Dean had smiled at him as the corpse burned. There had been this sense of togetherness, of belonging, after what they had accomplished together in saving a family from a vengeful spirit.

 

The thought that the Winchesters weren't with him now, that they might not ever be together like that again, sent an icy shiver over his skin. He didn't even have a lighter. All he could find in his pack was a compact box with roughened sides and the depiction of a flame at the top.

 

He held it over the unlit candle, but nothing happened. Frowning, he shook the box gently and heard a rattling sound from inside, in time with the clatters of the hailstones against the roof. The cone from Roderick's flashlight shot over to Jack's hands. He saw Roderick close his eyes and wondered if demons could feel tired.

 

"Jack?" the demon asked in a strange tone.

 

"Yes?"

 

"What, exactly, do you think you're doing there?"

 

"I'm trying to light this candle."

 

Roderick exhaled audibly. "I was afraid you'd say that. Wish that it could have been an attempt at percussion music instead."

 

"I..." Jack considered that. He'd only ever listened to music, and enjoyed that a lot, but the thought to actually create music had never even crossed his mind. "No, I like music, but I don't know how to make it myself. I really only wanted to light the c—"

 

"Jack." Roderick deposited his flashlight on the table and stepped over to Jack, holding out a hand. "Give that to me."

 

Jack fell silent, placing the unassuming box on the demon's outstretched palm.

 

"Can't believe I'm doing this," Roderick muttered softly to himself before speaking more clearly again. "These." He held up the box. "Are matches." He shoved the box open with a jolt of his finger and Jack wished he had thought to try that. The demon took out a stick, flicked it over the side of the box and then lifted the tiny flame in an exaggerated arc. "Ta-da, there's your re-enactment of humanity's first grand discovery."

 

Roderick blew out the match and pressed the box back into Jack's hand. Jack hesitated, then took one of the sticks and slid it against the rough side of the box. It was a strangely satisfying experience when the flame appeared for him. He heard Roderick huff somewhere behind him while Jack focused on moving the match to the candle. The flame sprang over to the wick, bestowing the room a warm, golden glow.

 

No matter how insignificant, for once something that he tried had worked. Jack felt a smile form on his face in this fleeting, tiny moment of happiness. He met Roderick's eyes over the candle as both of them sat down in the chairs on opposite sides of the table. There it was again, this barely-there smile that the demon always tried to hide as if he was ashamed of it, for a reason Jack couldn't figure out. Why would anyone be ashamed of smiling?

 

"Seems we got some time on our hands," Roderick stated with a nod towards the noisy impacts of hail on the roof. He turned off the flashlight and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands loosely in his lap. "So, what's your deal, cub?"

 

"It wasn't me who made the deal." Jack swallowed and looked down to the table, tracing the flame's flickering shadow with his eyes. Thunder roared outside. "It was Cas."

 

"That wasn't what I—" Roderick frowned and shook his head. "Figures you know Feathers, too. Where the Winchesters go, Castiel can't be far."

 

Jack gasped at the sudden realization. "Feathers... you've said that before. Feathers is... it's what you call Cas?"

 

Roderick inclined his head in a one-sided shrug that said nothing short of 'Obviously.' "Cas and I, we go way back. Used to work together. Saved his life a couple times."

 

Jack couldn't believe he'd been so short of killing one of Cas's friends. If the demon had saved Castiel's life, that meant Jack could never have gotten to know Cas at all without Roderick. Quite possibly not Sam or Dean either. He didn't even want to imagine how dark his life would have been without them.


"Thank you," Jack whispered, and he really meant it.

 

Roderick seemed to be caught off-guard by that, shifting in his seat and clearing his throat, eyes wandering aimlessly through the room.

 

"That deal you mentioned," Roderick finally prodded. "What kind of trouble did Cas stir up this time? Soon as I'm gone, nobody's there to stop him from monumentally stupid decisions, eh?"

 

Feeling tears rise in his eyes, Jack was surprised again how easily his emotions could do a full turnaround in a matter of seconds, completely overwhelming him. He sensed Roderick's gaze on him, but was unable to look up, still fighting to get himself back under control.

 

"It wasn't... it wasn't stupid," Jack said, hating the way his voice sounded, all choked-up and rough. "He did it to save me." Jack swallowed down the lump in his throat, but somehow that made his eyes spill over. Hastily wiping his sleeve over his face, Jack took a deep breath and finally dared to meet Roderick's eyes again. The demon sat there in silence with an unreadable look on his face, no longer leaning back. Nobody said anything until Jack found his voice again.

 

"I was... slowly dying after Lucifer cut out my grace." That caused something dark to flash over Roderick's face and the demon's posture changed until he was propped up halfway over the table. A muscle in his jaw twitched. "And then the Empty invaded Heaven to claim me, but Cas took my place instead."

 

Just thinking about that day was hard for Jack, seemed to encumber him with an impossible weight on his shoulders.

 

"Yep, sounds like him," Roderick said, and Jack had to smile under his tears.

 

"It... it does," Jack agreed. "Cas, he'd do anything for those he loved. I want to be like that, like him." The smile left him as fast as it had appeared, and he continued more pensively, "The others, they save lives. All I ever do is cause more problems."

 

"And round and round it goes," Roderick sighed. "Jack, let me tell you, from someone who knows firsthand, that Winchester-patented road of self-sacrifice doesn't lead anywhere good. You don't want to go down that road."

 

"No, I know that. The best ways to help don't end with me dead," Jack recited, remembering the intensity Dean had said those words with last night. Jack's eyes now roamed over that same face, and it was still a surreal experience and a confusing tangle of emotions to be talking to someone else inhabiting Dean's body. Someone he was starting to appreciate in his own right.

 

"Exactly," Roderick said, pointing a finger in agreement and getting up from the table to search the cabin's cupboards. "Wise words for a three-year-old." Jack heard a clink and the sloshing of liquid before Roderick returned to their table, holding a single small glass of a golden beverage.

 

"Oh, the words weren't mine. They were Dean's."

 

"Ugh, don't tell him I called them wise then," Roderick hurried to say before taking a sip of his drink. He grimaced slightly, then shrugged.

 

"I wish I could tell him anything. I miss Dean, and Sam... and Cas. So much."

 

"Eh, there's no reason to worry about Dean. All we need is a little healing and he'll be fine. Winchesters are like weeds. Can't get rid of them, no matter how hard you try."

 

Jack chewed on the inside of his lip, pondering why that phrase sounded so familiar. He stared at the way the candlelight reflected in the remaining liquid in Roderick's glass. It reminded him of how often he'd seen a similar drink in these same hands before. Finally, the memory of Dean saying the exact same words to Rowena emerged. Jack wondered how many other things Roderick and Dean had in common. No wonder Roderick had been a friend, even if nobody had ever told Jack about him.

 

The tempest outside rose to new heights and the deafening crack of lightning striking something nearby made Jack wince. He hugged himself protectively, rubbing over his upper arms. His eyes moved back to the demon's, looking so much like Dean's but at the same time nothing like his at all.

 

"I saw them die. All three of them. I... I'm scared."

 

"Did you really? What I saw was an angel banishing sigil, even if slightly modified by the Divine Dipshit." Roderick paused for a moment with an expectant look at Jack. When the silly nickname managed to lure a soft smile out of Jack despite his grief, the demon's eyes crinkled. "Sigils don't usually kill their targets, Jack. I'd know, tried them more than once. Angels always tend to stick their celestial noses where they don't belong."

 

Jack found it hard to breathe. Hope hurt, burned right over the scars that loss had torn into him.

 

"You... you think Cas is alive?" he asked hoarsely.

 

"I think that angel is a cosmic boomerang, returning to the position of Dean bloody Winchester no matter what. It's sickening, really. The things I've witnessed in this body."

 

With a noise of disgust, Roderick shuddered dramatically.

 

Jack was too confused to wonder what that last comment even meant, too many feelings warring with each other inside of him. He didn't want to allow hope to let him fall that low again, never wanted to return to that place of despair where he'd been entirely unable to function.

 

Only now realizing that his fingers had been digging into the wooden surface of the table, Jack let go with a shaky exhale. He felt completely unable to form any words, but Roderick didn't seem to mind, carrying on with his monologue as if nothing was amiss.

 

"And about Sam... not sure what he got himself into, but like I said. Winchester. Weeds. Just can't get rid of them. The amount of times those three have died and returned defies any probability or reason. I don't even take rumours of their supposed demise seriously anymore."

 

Jack hugged himself more tightly, pressed his arms against that stifling feeling in his chest.

 

"I... I've died twice," he finally forced out.

 

"See? Proves my point."

 

A laugh bubbled out of Jack's throat, completely at odds with his inner turmoil. Roderick didn't try to hide his half-smile this time.

 

"Roderick... thank you, for—"

 

"Crowley."

 

"What?"

 

"My name. It's Crowley."

 

Surprise momentarily erased Jack's other worries. "You lied to me about your name?"

 

"I didn't. Roderick is also my name, merely an older one. Friends call me Crowley. Enemies, too. Sometimes those lines are blurry."

 

Jack frowned. "And who calls you Roderick?"

 

"Nobody." The demon emptied his glass, then set it back down on the table, a small crease forming between his brows. "Not anymore."

 

"Is Crowley the name you used as King of Hell?"

 

"Among other things, yes."

 

Jack took a moment to process this new information. He had gotten so used to the name Roderick in his head that it was close to impossible to think of this demon with any other name.

 

"I... I think I understand why you didn't want to be king any longer. There's so many things you're not allowed to do as King of Hell, and you couldn't even keep your name. That must have been hard."

 

The crease on Roderick's forehead deepened and he gave Jack another one of those wordless stares. Those, too, were something Jack had gotten used to by now. They probably meant Roderick's emotions got as loud as Jack's sometimes did. It made him feel a certain kinship to the demon.

 

Roderick busied himself by lifting his backpack onto his lap to sift through its contents. Without looking at Jack, he said quietly, "Cub, whatever you do, stay away from that bloody throne. It changes you."

 

"All right, I will," Jack swore solemnly, watching as Roderick unpacked the bag's contents, placing them on the table one by one. After a moment spent in silence, Jack said with a glance at the rations, "You're the only demon I know. Do demons eat? Do they get tired?"

 

"Oh, trust me, we do get tired—of everything. If there's any place that can suck your will to live right out of you, it's Hell. But we don't sleep."

 

"Maybe you should. You might be less tired then."

 

Jack hadn't meant it as a joke, but Roderick huffed out a chuckle at that, shaking his head.

 

"We don't have to eat either," Roderick continued. "Then again, demons usually have no intention of returning their vessel to its original owner and couldn't care less if the meatsuit lives or dies."

 

"But you do. You care."

 

It wasn't a question. Roderick narrowed his eyes as if it had been an insult. Jack swallowed, feeling bad for having said the wrong thing—again—even though he really didn't understand why anyone would be offended by this. In an attempt to fix it, he added, "I know what it's like to be different, to feel like you never fit in."

 

The demon's features relaxed and the silent look he gave Jack this time seemed to be even more loaded with unspoken things. Instead of replying, Roderick unwrapped the foil around one of the rations and took a bite of the sandwich lavishly garnished with a variety of toppings.

 

"Not even half bad," he concluded.

 

"Dean made it," Jack said and felt his chest sting.

 

"Could use some ham," Roderick added.

 

"Oh, you got Sam's pack," Jack realized. He hurried to grab the food and water from the second backpack, the one he himself had carried here. Then he held out one of the foil-wrapped sandwiches in offering. "Those are the ones Dean made for himself. I bet they have ham. I can take the vegetarian ones, I don't mind."

 

They exchanged the ration bundles from their packs and Jack was about to take the first bite of his own dinner when Roderick's next statement made him halt in confusion.

 

"So Moose has gone vegetarian. Can't say I'm surprised."

 

"I don't—why 'Moose'?"

 

"The size, obviously," Roderick replied, the corners of his eyes crinkling again like they did when someone smiled.

 

A burst of laughter freed itself from Jack's throat, tinged in melancholy and memories.

 

With that surprising perceptiveness he had, Roderick must have picked up on the things Jack didn't say.

 

"Remember, cub. Weeds."

 

Jack smiled and ate his sandwich, feeling warmer than he had ever since Dean's disappearence. With the tension slowly fading from his muscles, his stomach pleasantly full, he must have drifted to sleep without noticing because the next thing he knew was that he woke up and it was dark inside the cabin.

 

The cutting sound of hail hammering against the roof had stopped, replaced by the much gentler pattering of rain. Jack was laying on something soft under his back, nothing at all like the chair he'd been sitting on last he remembered. Something even softer was covering him, and as he let the tips of his fingers glide over it, he realized it was the blanket from the bottom of his backpack.

 

He sat up in the bed, frowning into the darkness as his eyes adjusted. Quiet, regular breathing sounded from not far away and after a moment, he could discern the shape of Dean's body, laying on the ground with the stolen winter jacket as a pillow and the second blanket draped over him.

 

His thoughts still hazy, he blinked, trying to make sense of it all. So demons could sleep. Roderick probably needed it, as did Dean, broken as his body was. Jack hadn't meant to fall asleep, though, not knowing how much time remained for any of them, for the world as a whole.

 

The urge to do something was a steady pulse in his body, impossible to ignore now that the hail was no longer an excuse. People kept saving Jack, but it was time that he started doing some saving of his own. And where he was planning to go, he couldn't take a demon. That would have been a death sentence for both Roderick and Dean, and he didn't want to endanger either of them like that.

 

Moving as quietly as he could, he went over to the table where the contents of Sam's backpack were still spread out. The colors of his surroundings weren't as vibrant as they were in daylight, but what he could see sufficed to write a short letter on the notepad. The pen scratched over the paper as a chorus to the soft snores from behind.

 

Roderick,

 

I went to find help, someone who can heal Dean.

I had to do this on my own because I don't want anything bad to happen to Dean, or to you.

Please keep yourself and Dean safe. You deserve some sleep.

Thank you, for everything.

 

Jack Winchester

(I'm a weed, too.)

 

When the snores increased in volume, Jack worried at first that it meant Roderick was waking, but then he noticed how much easier it suddenly became to balance on his toes. The emotions coursing through him must have sufficed to activate the remnants of his angel senses without even trying to. He still couldn't get the hang of it, the random circumstances that made them work while they refused to when he really tried.

 

Dexterous beyond what his human side could do alone, he sneaked outside, gently pulling the door closed behind himself to keep the cold out of the cabin. Then he ran. It felt good to release that pent-up energy, following the call to action by dashing through the nightly forest. With the cold air in his lungs and the dried leaves rustling under his shoes, drops of rain falling into his face, he no longer felt lost. He felt alive.

 

Jack ran until he could feel that gentle pull again, tingling in the tips of his fingers. When everything had been confusing and overwhelming before, suddenly it was clear. He followed the pull further into the night, no longer trying to resist it by going the opposite way.

 

"Cas? Are you—are you there?" he prayed silently without a conscious decision to do so, thoughts of the angel at the forefront of his mind now, given where he was headed. His throat still constricted at the memory of damaged wings and glowing eyes. "I saw you—I thought I saw you die. Again."

 

He had interpreted the blinding flash that had taken it all away as final before, an end to something that wasn't meant to end yet. "Rode—Crowley thinks you might be alive." His insides churned when he allowed himself to consider the possibility. "But I don't know if I can dare to hope that. It hurt. It hurt so badly, Cas. I can't lose you again."



Jack realized what he wanted was certainty. He longed for the truth, one way or the other, even if it could end up tearing him apart. Being suspended like this, unknowing, was even worse, slowly driving him insane. If only more of his grace was left, if he was still angel enough to receive prayers himself... the answering silence would rip out his heart then, but at least he'd know. All he had like this was more uncertainty.

 

He couldn't tell how far he'd followed the leyline's pull, wandering along the unseen border to another realm, when the trees around him grew lighter. A worn-out path on the ground and the occasional bench were signs of nearby civilization. Then the trees opened up to make room for a clearing filled with sand.

 

In the middle of the clearing stood a pair of swings, wet with rain. Under different circumstances, Jack would have wanted to try those, only ever having seen the joy they brought in movies. Now, though, the flat, open box near the swings was what drew his attention. Inside was more sand, the smooth surface broken by an interlocking pattern of circles and lines carved into it, strangely untouched by the weather.

 

This was the exact spot where the leyline's pull ended. Holding out a hand, he could feel the energy of the other realm, so close. His other half, the one he'd thought lost. He could only hope that enough of it remained for the transition.

 

"Cas? I'm about to do something very stupid. If you're out there... if this goes wrong, I hope you'll forgive me."

 

He stepped into the box and a cloud of light rose all around him. It was silvery-white, like the moon had always been before the night had grown so much darker than it should be. Jack suspected his grandaunt had something to do with that.

 

The light swallowed him whole.

~

 

Notes:

If you're enjoying this story, a comment would mean the world to me. Since kudos can't be left for every chapter, only once for the whole story, I have no idea otherwise how many people are even still reading this.

Chapter 15: Team Free Will

Notes:

Mood songs for chapter 15:
"We Ride as One" by James Paget

for Rowena:
"The Story of Niwen" by Gareth Coker

for Crowley:
"First Steps Into Sunken Glades" by Gareth Coker
"Escaping the Ruins" by Gareth Coker

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

~

 

"We have to leave, now."



Dean felt a jolt going through him, the sudden determination of the being he'd allowed into his body a physical pull. His legs made several steps out of the door before he put a stop to it, matching his own willpower against the stranger's.



"You promised me answers!" he accused, refusing to move even an inch further.



"I... I did," the stranger conceded, swallowing with Dean's throat and facing the night outside the motel with a wave of longing so strong that Dean gasped. "But there's no time. I can't—"



"What the heck..." The sudden sleep-riddled voice from behind, inside the motel room, made Dean flinch, but he couldn't even tell if it had been him or the stranger in his body who felt guilty at the sound. "Dean, who are you talking to?"



Dean turned to look at his brother who was sitting upright on his bed. Before, the motel room had been too dark to see much. Now, however, he could make out every detail of the way Sam's eyebrows lifted, the two deep wrinkles the movement left on his forehead.



The realization that his improved eyesight stemmed from what he'd done, that this intrusion went far enough to change his senses, made him shudder. An angel. An actual, real-life angel was sharing his body—after requesting his permission to do so inside a dream. How on earth was he supposed to explain to his brother what was happening when he himself barely had a grasp on it? He'd felt like reality was sliding through his fingers ever since their whole world had exploded.



Sam rubbed his hands over his face, blinking in a manner that indicated he also had troubles with adjusting to reality—only that his reason was the far simpler one of having been torn out of sleep too abruptly. The sight of his brother's bleary eyes was familiar to Dean after countless Code Red missions where they had dragged themselves over an airfield in the middle of the night, the shadowed remains of nightmares still clinging to them. He wished this new world could have made things easier, for both of them.



Despite everything, he couldn't find it in him to regret his decision. He deemed himself a decent enough judge of character. If he hadn't been convinced of the angel's complete honesty, the unbridled concern behind his words, he'd never have done what he had. His father and brother, though, had never approved of Dean's decision-making process when it got like that, when he left logic behind on a hunt to function on intuition alone.



He knew, without a doubt, that Sam would disapprove so strongly that it would lead to a fallout equal only to the one from five years ago. The memory of him and Sam not being on speaking terms for a full week still stung. Dean had been right in stabbing that woman, though, no matter how innocent Sam believed her to be. Had he not done anything, they would have run straight into her trap. They'd have died in that basement, even though Sam still didn't want to admit it.



If Dean caused a repeat of that fight now, nobody would be there to intervene this time, to bridge that gap between them. Not Dad, not anyone. They were alone in this new world, just him and Sam. And he'd broken the promise to never let things get as bad again, to make decisions as a team. What he'd done stood in defiance of the volatile balance they'd worked on for years.



Nuts.



Inhaling deeply, he touched the fingers of his left hand to the bracelet he wore on his right wrist. He needed the calming effect of the smooth, rounded pearls there to remind himself that nothing was wrong with him. He just wasn't like them, never had been. She'd always understood that. Appreciated it, even.



He couldn't afford a fight this time. Not here, not now. Not when his brother was the only constant he still had in a world that had gotten completely unhinged.



"Sorry, Samuel," he said. "Didn't mean to wake you. Just... bad dreams, you know."



What are you doing? a voice asked in his mind and Dean thanked The-Powers-That-Be that the angel must have realized far better than he let on just what Dean was doing, and had chosen silent communication.



The frown on his brother's face intensified. "Sleepwalking, Dean? Really? That hasn't happened since you were, what, fifteen?"



Dean shrugged, still standing on the sill of the opened door and plastering a smile on his face. "What can I say? End of the world, and all that."



Are you sure this is wise? Lying to your brother has never led to



You think there's reason to hurry, right? Well, this is the way to achieve that.



Sam huffed out a breath, nodding. "Two worlds, actually."



"Right," Dean said, as if there had been even a chance of him possibly forgetting about that. "The hailstorm has stopped," he remarked inconspicuously, nodding his head towards the parking lot outside. "What do you say, shall we go back out there and find some answers?"



Sam gave him an odd look at that, and Dean's shoulders tensed when his brother didn't reply right away. It didn't exactly help matters that he could also feel the barely suppressed urgency of the being currently sharing his body and, apparently, his mind. He swallowed as doubt swirled through his stomach.



After an excruciating moment, Sam nodded. "Sure. Just give me a minute." Sam's fingers ran through his hair and to the back of his head to adjust his man bun. Dean had to stifle a groan.



~



Rowena lifted her head from Sam's chest, watching him in the cavern's half-light. Even his sleep was burdening him, casting the shadowed creases of a frown over his face. He seemed pale. Their spellwork had taken a lot out of him, but it had been a necessity. The deep cuts in his arm had been drenching two layers of cloth in blood, slowly but steadily enough for her to be unable to sit by and watch the drain of his life force for even a second longer.



Not for the first time, she cursed the fool man for insisting to heal her first. She wasn't even alive, nothing but an unbound soul with a body that wasn't real, not by any definition that followed common logic. Certainly, she could still feel pain in a realm that was constructed around the sensation, meant to accommodate it in all shapes and varieties, even reinforcing it in comparison to the way it felt on Earth. But the pain on her cheek had barely even registered, a mere background noise to concerns far more pressing. She'd endured so much worse in the past. Healing her hadn't been necessary.



He'd insisted that it was, though, in that way he had to hint at a deeper meaning behind his words, leaving things in the shrouded spaces between them instead of dragging them out into the light of day. She swallowed and looked down at her hands, laying flat on the jacket covering his chest. Utterly useless. No traces of her magic were left in her, after she had used the last reserves to help tear a hole into the wall separating the Empty and the Earth. What a complete insanity that decision had been, born from the desperation of a man who was now as lost as the one he'd meant to save, mingled with her own grief over her son.



Reckless was something she'd been called with such regularity throughout her life that it seemed to be in time with the steady beat inside of her, demanding more. That rhythm was quieted now, as her gaze followed the lines of Sam's face, her own grief mirrored in the shadows under his eyes. Something in her chest constricted. When everything had come crumbling down around them as the direct result of her last reckless decision, he was the one who had borne the brunt of that blow, crushed almost beyond recognition under the debris. She'd never meant for that to happen. Least of all to him, out of everyone.



The sensation of the weight of his hands resting on her back was new, sending warmth from his fingers through the thin fabric of her dress and straight into her skin. She didn't think she deserved that warmth. A part of her thought it best to leave, to spare him the effect that things in her general vicinity tended towards the catastrophic. The pressure of his arms was firm, though, holding her in place. She could have freed herself, disentangled the hold of his arms around her, had she made up her mind to actually do so. The truth was, she didn't want to leave. Selfish, foolish decision that it was, she wanted to feel that warmth, bask in it, pretending to be more than she was. Alive.



She couldn't help but lift one of her hands to his face, not meaning to wake him, just to feel the reality of his skin under her fingers. In the attempt not to disturb the rest he so urgently needed, she merely let her hand hover over his cheek, the smallest distance away without touching, but close enough to feel the life pulse under his skin, exuding more warmth. Careful as she was, the movement couldn't possibly have woken him, but still he stirred, blinking open eyes that met hers. Never had a bigger fool than her walked the Earth when her body responded to his smile with the weightlessness of a fluttering feeling in her stomach. This wasn't supposed to happen.



"Your thoughts are too loud," he murmured without explanation, gentle wrinkles around the corners of his eyes.



"Impossible," she breathed, amazed and terrified at once by what was happening to her. Her mind was fast enough to cover the things they had unearthed, hiding them quickly under the safety blanket of a joke—after digging too far, too close to the place of her deepest hurt. "The sound insulation around my mind is of the highest quality."



"Right," he said, looking straight at her in a way that made her think her thoughts weren't soundproof in the slightest. "I'm sure it is."



"How are you feeling?" she asked in a voice quietly matching the muted atmosphere between them. Only once the words had already been spoken, she realized how the question could be interpreted. Broaching the subject of feelings would have been a monumentally stupid decision, so she hurried to add, "Your body needs nourishment, but I'm not sure where to find any of that out here, far away from the palace."



"Yeah," Sam sighed. "Hell isn't exactly listed at the top of any restaurant guides."



"I'll have you know that I take offense to that," she teased, not offended in the slightest. A strand of her hair stubbornly fell into her face and she flicked it back over her shoulder with a short head movement. "Under my rule, we had the finest wines and dishes in the palace."



"Why am I not surprised to hear that?" he asked, reaching out to tangle his fingers into her hair.



"Because," she said, finally letting her hand touch his cheek instead of hovering. "It turns out I have excellent taste after all."



He smiled, taking the compliment for what it was. "I wouldn't—"



She never got to hear whatever his reply may have been, because that was the moment a blood-curdling, high-pitched screech rose somewhere outside the cave, drowning out the thunder. She hastily pushed herself away from Sam and to her feet, reaching for the only weapon she had left now that her magic had ceased—the angel blade that had come to her in their time of need. It was questionable how much use it would be, but it was possible that a weapon of divinity was exactly what was needed.



Sam had found his footing just as fast as she had, but she could see how weakened he was in the way he was swaying until one of his hands met the cave wall for support. In what had to be the most obvious sign of her decreasing sanity as of yet, she positioned herself in front of Sam, squaring her shoulders. She was already dead. No longer a powerful witch, just the dead daughter of a tanner in a torn dress without shoes, with madness in her eyes and only a single thing left to lose in the world. Her gaze glued to the cave entrance, she felt Sam's hand on her upper arm, resisted the attempt to get pulled back towards the wall. From the corner of her eye, she saw him step right up next to her. Together it would be then, once more, regardless of their current state of life or death.



"What was that?" Sam whispered with an undercurrent of dread.



"That," she said quietly, tightening her grip on the hilt of the blade, "was the reason why Limbo is the one part of Hell where I knew we wouldn't be followed."



~



"Dean, why are we running?"



Sam's question carried a hint of annoyance, Castiel was sure of it, and he couldn't blame the hunter for that. He still doubted strongly that hiding the truth from Sam was the best course of action, but if there was any way to repay the trust this Dean had offered him blindly, it was by granting him that same trust.



He felt the way Dean scrambled for a reply to his brother's question, and thought the least he could do to alleviate this mess was take over their motoric controls until Dean's mind was less occupied. Each step over the parking lot's wet pavement became a conscious decision. They passed the demolished shell of the last car the brothers had used, the signpost still laying flat on top of it, denting the car roof deeply. Castiel headed for a different car further across the parking lot. A black one.



"To get out of the rain, of course," Dean replied.



That... that is what you came up with? The rain?



Not my best work, I admit, but it does make sense!



They reached the black car and found the doors locked. Castiel began patting down the pockets of Dean's jacket in search of the tools needed to break into a car, without result. Dean insistently removed their hands from the jacket pockets when Sam stepped up to them, giving them an incredulous look.



"Dean, what are you doing? Do you think you magically possess the key to this car all of a sudden?"



Clearing their throat, Dean gave Sam a nervous smile.



"I just... just thought I had to sneeze and was looking for a tissue."



Sam squinted.



You and your brother don't usually break into cars, do you?



Of course not! Why would we do such a thing?



Castiel felt his desire to groan rise, but kept himself in check.



How did you get your last car then?



Oh, we found that in the middle of the road, completely abandoned with doors unlocked and key in the ignition.



I... see.



Dean began to move over to the next car in the lot and Castiel sped up their steps until they were running again.



So, what was that about the answers you promised me?



We have to hurry, but I'll gladly share what I can on the way.



All right, let's start with the obvious then. Where the heck is everyone?



That I don't know. I've been wondering the same thing, actually.



When they reached the next car to find it unlocked, Castiel exhaled in relief and let their shared body sink into the driver's seat, only to realize they still didn't have the key to start this car.



You're really not giving me a lot to work with here. I'm starting to think that deal we made isn't terribly lucrative for me.



The word 'deal' alone sufficed to evoke the sensation of dread inside of Castiel, causing a shiver to run over their skin.



It's not a deal. Just... mutual assurance of assistance.



Two peas in a pod.



I don't understand what vegetables have to do with this. Dean, do I assume correctly that neither you nor Sam know how to short-circuit this car to get it to start?



Being a Hunter is a profession of renown, so why do you make it sound like we're some sort ofof petty criminals?



Castiel was losing his mind. He could still hear the urgency behind the words of Jack's prayer, but was unable to act on it while having to deal with technicalities that had never posed a problem before. Trying to calm his worries with a deep breath behind closed eyes, he touched two of Dean's fingers to the ignition and hoped intently this would work as he sent his grace through the vehicle's circuitry. At the sound of the motor springing to life, their head was hastily turned around, tracking Sam's movement as he rounded the car.



This was far too risky, Sam could have seen! What kind of angel are you, hot-wiring cars?



Sam pulled the car door open, but instead of getting in, he reached into the car, a small silver tie pin on his outstretched palm as he asked, "Dean, could you hold this for a sec?"



"Sure," Dean said absent-mindedly.



The desperate kind, I thought I'd made that much clear.



Fine, if you can't tell me why everyone but us has just... just disappeared, at least give me something. I still don't even understand what is happening! What sort of danger is... other me in?



God, Castiel answered, impatiently looking down at the tie pin in their hand and cursing this Sam's penchant for vanity. He turned his head to the passenger side to check what was taking Sam so long, only to be met with a slosh of water from a flask straight into Dean's face.



"Gosh darnit, Samuel, what was that for?"



"Not a demon," Sam said, finally sitting down in the passenger seat and closing the door on his side. "And not a Shapeshifter," he continued, taking back his tie pin before fastening his seatbelt. "But Dean, you're acting exceedingly strange! Since when do you know how to short-circuit a car? By all means, you couldn't even change a tire just a few hours ago!"



"Oh, for... not this again, Samuel!" Dean exclaimed and Castiel could feel Dean's annoyance flare up in their shared mind while Dean dried his face with his sleeve, then fastened his own seatbelt and reached for his phone to connect it with the car.



"Dean Henry, I swear, if you are planning to start that song again, I will get out of the car right this instant."



God..., Castiel repeated, this time in an entirely different connotation, rubbing a hand down their face.



~



Sleep was a confusing affair. It took some time to remember where one was, who one was, what had been the last thoughts on one's mind before giving in to oblivion and the subconscious. It came far too close to that place, for his taste.



The sluggishness of his mind was something he certainly wasn't used to any longer and the dull ache in his borrowed bones wasn't exactly a pleasant welcome back to consciousness either. Still, all of that was no excuse for how long it took him to realize there was no breathing other than his own inside the room.



He sat up quickly on the floor and couldn't suppress a groan at whatever unholy feat this body's spine had just performed. His eyes perused the darkness of the cabin, confirming what he'd already known. He was alone. Well, mostly alone, with the exception of the soul he was holding inside the ruins of this body, however pleasing to look at that body may have been before it got shattered.



His spine snapped another time as he got to his feet, stepping over to the bed. The blanket lay there, twisted. He didn't much care for that feeling of bile rising in his chest. Why did this even surprise him anymore? He'd certainly lived long enough to recognize the pattern of people around him not appreciating his company for what it was. So this was nothing new, just more of the same old, stale song he'd listened to for all his life, until he'd been too sickened by it to listen any longer.



The blanket suddenly became the symbol of everything he despised, of the way his chest burned even though it should have long stopped doing that. He'd really thought he was beyond this. His fingers buried deep into the offending flannel, crumpled it in his closed fist until he flung the blanket at the closest wall with a noise of revolt. He turned and moved to the cabinet in a straight line, not even bothering to turn on any kind of lighting. Darkness was more his style anyway.



He found the bottle of scotch and just grabbed the whole thing, foregoing a glass this time. With the tiredness of one who had lived too damned long, he moved to the table and slumped down in the chair, casting another morose glance towards the blanket he'd tossed to the floor. The first sip of his drink burned in his mouth, leaving behind the disgusting taste of cheap alcohol.



He could read people. It was something he took a modicum of pride in, normally. It made no bloody sense that he should have been so completely mistaken not once, but twice with this nephilim who should have been easier to read than most. If solitude truly was preferable to spending time in his company, even to someone like Jack, scared and alone and too damned genuine for his own good, what did that say about him? If time spent with him was abhorrent enough to leave without so much as a single word of goodbye, what was he supposed to do with this third life of his, after he'd found his ultimate goal just as stale as the rest of it all?



He'd worked so hard, building up a reputation, climbing the ranks of Hell, only to find his prize nothing but an annoyance. A constant struggle to keep something he truly hated, just for the sake of having it. Revenge, at least, had tasted sweet for the fracture of a moment. But Jack had mentioned Lucifer almost killing him by cutting out his grace. So that pathetic wanker of an archangel walked free, rendering useless even the one thing Crowley had thought he was meant for.



And wasn't that just the peak of it all, that when he tried to kill himself to trap Lucifer, he was brought back to life, only to see even his final plan, his grand sacrifice, turn out to be nothing but a failure? Irony at its best. He snorted, staring down at the bottle in his hand. Drink, that's what he was supposed to do, what was left now. Feel as disgusted with the taste on his tongue as he did with life. He glanced at the unlit candle while bringing the bottle back to his lips, remembering the way something as simple as lighting a match seemed to have brought true joy to the lad.



More by accident than anything else, his eyes found the notepad next to the candle, saw the writing that hadn't been there when he'd fallen asleep. The content of the note made him sputter, coughing out the liquid in his surprise. Choking on air he didn't need, he stared at the words, read them again and again until something inside of him cracked in time with the bottle that shattered on the floor after sliding out of his hand.



"Bloody Hell, cub!" he whispered, more quietly than the last time he'd said these words, yet more intense, reinforced by something deep and ancient that he thought had withered and died a long time ago. His fingers closed around the thin paper, cradling it like it was something precious. And then he burst out of the door, hiding the note in the inner pocket of his jacket to keep it safe from the rain.



"Jack!" he called into the night, no longer caring what his voice could give away.



Nobody was there to hear it, and even if they were, TO HELL with them all!



To Hell with the habit of giving a damn about the opinion of people he hated, who hated him in turn.



"JACK!"



~



You're not what I expected, Dean thought as his foot was pressed down against the gas pedal without his own doing. Only after the sentence was out in the open did he wonder if it had been a good idea to talk to an angel like that.



Yeah, I get that a lot.



There, the angel had done it again. Dean hadn't seen that answer coming, self-deprecating in its honesty, and even—sarcastic? Could angels be sarcastic?



No, I don't mean in a bad way. In opposite, actually. You know, I didn't think angels were real. But even considering the possibility that they were, I would have thought them to bethis, this powerful force. Alien, detached.



So you're saying I'm less powerful than you expected.



No! I didn't meanwait, was that a joke?



Perhaps.



Dean huffed out a breath in amusement, grinning to himself with a soft shake of his head.



"What's so funny?" Sam asked, frowning at him.



"Oh, uh, just us—here at the end of the world, again."



"That isn't particularly funny, Dean."



"Yeah, no, I know. Trust me, Samuel, I know."



This fight isn't lost yet, the angel thought at him. If there is anything in the universe that can save a doomed world, it's someone bearing the name Winchester. And this world is lucky enough to have more than the usual amount.



That certainly wasn't something he'd expected to hear, least of all from an actual angel. Something warm unfolded in their body and Dean failed to stop another smile from running over their face, sensing Sam's squint without even seeing it. He couldn't help it, he was starting to like this angel—what had he said his name was? Castiel?



"Dean, will you finally tell me what's going on? Where are we going?"



Dean took his gaze off the road to give Sam a short glance. Guilt weighed heavily in his stomach.



You don't usually lie to your brother, do you?



No.



You shouldn't make a habit out of it. Trust me, I've seen where it leads, and it was nowhere good.



Dean sighed and swallowed, keeping his eyes on the road. He knew Castiel was right. Dean's grip on the steering wheel tightened. He formed and discarded multiple sentences in his head, unable to choose how to even begin explaining all of this to Sam, especially now that he'd already lied.



"I saw something in a dream, all right?" was what finally left his lips, a careful half-truth instead of more lies.



"A dream, Dean? Really? We're chasing after a dream here?"



Castiel must have done... something because there was a gentle swirl in Dean's chest and suddenly he could breathe more easily. He dared to face Sam again.



"Sam, I need you to trust me on this one. Please."



Dean wasn't sure what Sam had seen on his face, but his brother shied away the slightest bit, taken aback by whatever he had found.



"All right," Sam finally conceded and Dean's shoulders sank in a breath of relief.



Thank you.



I should be the one thanking you. Those should have been the first words I directed at you. I'm sorry for that. There are just too many things happening that are outside my control and I can't—



Dean wasn't sure he'd ever get used to the way this arrangement worked, feeling the angel's worry as if it was his own until Castiel must have put a stop to it, hidden it somehow.



Yeah, Apocalypses will do that to you.



A regretful smile ran over his face that Dean was almost sure wasn't his. He hoped Sam hadn't seen it.



Thank you. Thank you for trusting me when you had no reason to.



Your persuasion techniques could really use some work.



So I've been told.



The warmth spread between them again, appreciation of the unknown slowly turning into something more familiar.



Sam's got a point, though. Where are we going? Whose voice was that we're following?



Jack. He's—he's our son.



You have a son?



Not by blood, but yes. As a wise man once said, family doesn't end in blood.



There was a moment of silence between them as Dean considered these words.



How do we find this Jack?



Prayers come with a sense of direction. I can only hope we aren't—aren't too late to stop whatever he's attempting. And we have to find...



The other me.



Yes, Castiel thought, not saying more than this single word. Dean could only vaguely surmise the true depth of this topic, a quiet but relentless undertow behind everything they'd exchanged so far, pushing him to accelerate the car even further.



~



"JACK!" Crowley repeated, entirely caught off guard by the desperation he hadn't known he possessed. It surprised him enough to momentarily halt his steps, making him frown into the darkness of the forest. He wasn't sure what he'd become, what an endless time of regret—that turned out to have been only three years—had made of him. But he found that he didn't care.



This damned fool of a nephilim who didn't even know how to use a match was going to get himself killed, trying to protect Dean and—and him. That thought still didn't sit right, refused to fit into his head. In all his years, nobody—not a soul—had ever tried to protect him. It was ridiculous, outrageous even, that a three-year-old was now trying to do just that.



Where did the kid even hope to find help? There was nobody left but demons, angels, and Winchesters, who were apparently out of commission. Where would someone like Jack turn to for help? With the Earth as barren as a wasteland, that left only two possibilities—Heaven or Hell. Bloody brilliant. That meant facing either a God who seemed to have developed a hate for all things living or... Lucifer. Who happened to be Jack's father, which Crowley couldn't so much as consider without a shudder of utter contempt.



He really hadn't thought it was possible for anyone to score higher in the department of lousy parents than himself, but Jack could certainly claim that prize. If he had turned to his skunk of a father for help, Lucifer would make short work of the kid. Crowley would be damned if he let that happen.



"JACK!"



~



Sam watched in disbelief as Rowena, armed with nothing but an angel blade, stepped in front of him—the embodiment of something pure and fierce she'd only ever shown him glimpses of before. Gasping in the sudden spread of a helpless affection throughout his body, he pushed himself off the wall. The need to touch what she'd become was overwhelming, and he reached out to place one of his hands on her arm.



No way, there was no way in Hell he'd watch her sacrifice herself another time. He tried to pull her back, but she resisted, so he did the only thing he could and positioned himself at her side, encouraged by how right this felt.



"Whatever this is, we'll kill it," he said quietly, choked up for a reason he couldn't explain.



The screech repeated itself, inhuman, primeval, high enough in pitch to hurt in his ears. It was answered by another from further away, sending shivers of dread over his skin when he realized these had to be multiple creatures, communicating with each other over a distance.



"I don't know that they can be killed, Sam," Rowena whispered and turned for the shortest moment to give him a look filled with both fear and determination before focusing back on the cave entrance. "They were locked away in the deepest part of Hell for a reason. Lucifer feared them. God himself feared them."



Sam felt another shiver crawl over his skin, this time not caused by fear, but potential.



~



Castiel brought the car to an abrupt stop, opened the seatbelt with shaking fingers and pushed the car door open roughly. With little regard to anything other than the pull of the direction the prayer had come from, he ran, leaving the road behind and crossing the line of trees that marked the border of the forest.



"JACK!" he yelled, his voice trembling in the awareness that he might be too late to stop Jack. Whatever his son was planning, it hadn't sounded good.



"What the... Dean! Where are you going? Who is Jack?!"



Castiel heard a car door slam closed somewhere behind them.



"I—I'm sorry, Sam!" Dean called back over their shoulder. "I can't explain right now. I need you to trust me, please."



Twigs crunching under the soles of Dean's shoes, Castiel ran further into the darkness of the woods. After a long dash in a straight line, he reached an impenetrable section of underbrush, thorny coils posing a threat to Dean's clothing and skin. He exhaled shakily and stopped, unsure where to go from here, which direction Jack would have chosen.



"JACK!" he called out again, hoped against hope that he would be heard.



Sam caught up with them and came to a stop in a whirl of dried leaves at their side, casting a small cone of light onto the ground with a flashlight he held in his hand. Castiel turned to give the other hunter a desperate look.



"I do," Sam said, far more out of breath than they were.



"What?" Castiel asked without thinking.



"Trust you," Sam said. "I do trust you, Dean, or I wouldn't be here. You're all I have left."



~



Dean swallowed and blinked, feeling like his brother's words were healing a wound that had been left unattended for far too long. He pulled his brother into an embrace. "Fudge," he whispered against Sam's shoulder, wiping over his eyes. His brother's hand on his back pulled him in, held him there for a few seconds, then gently patted his shoulder before they both leaned back.



"I'm sorry, Samuel," Dean said quietly.



Sam frowned at that, not in distrust but confusion. "Sorry for what, Dean?"



"It wasn't a banshee, it—"



"I told you so!"



"It's an angel."



"What?!"



"Sam, I know I'm asking for a lot here, but I need you on board with this. This world is ending. We both know it is," Dean said, drawing his hand through the flashlight's cone in a gesture that encompassed the silent forest around them in its entirety. "Just like ours. But there's a chance we can stop it this time."



At this revelation, Dean saw his own earlier thought process reflected on his brother's face, morphing from disbelief to doubt to stunned awe.



"O-okay," Sam said. "But... God—angels. Don't they..."



"Serve him?"



Sam nodded, and Dean smiled, surprised that what he felt was something akin to pride.



"Not this one. This one is different, Sammy."



~



Despite everything, he'd been too slow. Castiel despaired over the fact that he didn't know where to go from here, how to possibly find Jack in a whole forest full of possibilities when he didn't even know what his son was planning. If only Jack would pray to him once more... but Jack believed him to be dead, and his prayer had been laced with so much pain that Castiel had never meant to cause. It was highly unlikely he'd send another prayer. If only there was some sort of sign.



He had returned the control over this body fully to Dean, not wanting to intrude when he sensed how strongly the exchange with his brother affected the hunter. The moment Dean started talking about Castiel, though, he was pulled back into the conversation by that hesitant warmth flowing between them again. Through Dean's eyes, he saw the decision solidifying on Sam's face a moment before the hunter opened his mouth to yell, as loud as he could, "JACK!"



Castiel had never appreciated this version of Dean more than when he simply chose a direction at random, unburdened by the nagging doubts that had been holding Castiel back. Dean grabbed Sam's arm to pull him around the thorny bushes, both hunters yelling the name of Castiel's son at the top of their lungs. The brothers didn't even know who they were looking for, never having seen the nephilim for more than a few disoriented seconds during their arrival in this universe. Castiel's word was all they had to act upon, and this Dean's trust in him touched him in a way he hadn't expected. The smile forming on their face didn't belong to either of them alone.



Castiel didn't seize control, but neither did he sink into the background. He shared Dean's voice as they called out repeatedly. Something sounded in the distance that he took for an echo at first. He pulled Sam to a stop near them, prevented him from yelling Jack's name again with a careful hand against his arm. The distant call sounded again.



Did you hear that?



I did.



That was all it took for a silent understanding to pass between them and they ran as one through a lifeless forest, towards the voice in the distance that mirrored Castiel's desperation in its call for Jack. It grew closer quickly and the familiarity of its sound sent a wave of heat through their body, made Castiel pant for air he didn't need.



"JACK!" the voice repeated, so close.



They dashed around a group of trees, Sam only slightly behind. Then they reached the source of the calls that weren't theirs.



"Dean!"



Dean, his Dean, turned around and Castiel's heartbeat, entirely unaffected by the sprint, sped up. He noticed the off-kilter way Dean held his head, the limp in his leg and the wrong angle of his arm. His grace reached out, tingled in the tips of their fingers to heal, to mend, to touch.



You love him. The realization tore a gasp from their mouth and Castiel felt goosebumps rise on their skin.



For so long that I can't remember what it was like not to, Castiel agreed.



Dean took in the approach of their small group with a frown and a blink.



"What the everlasting fuck," he said.



~

Notes:

I... am not sure if this chapter broke the scale of crazy. It certainly felt like it did during writing. As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Your comments give me the energy to keep writing.

Speaking of crazy, a few months ago, around the time I was writing chapter 10, I randomly discovered something on the internet that made my skin crawl, but that I hadn't shared with a lot of people so far for fear of how crazy it would make me sound--but we're beyond that now, I guess:

 

From Isaiah 23-27
24 Behold, the LORD will empty the earth and make it desolate, and he will twist its surface and scatter its inhabitants.
3 The earth shall be utterly empty and utterly plundered; for the LORD has spoken this word. (Isa 24:1–3)
6 Therefore a curse devours the earth, and its inhabitants suffer for their guilt; therefore the inhabitants of the earth are scorched, and few men are left
18 He who flees at the sound of the terror shall fall into the pit, and he who climbs out of the pit shall be caught in the snare. For the windows of heaven are opened, and the foundations of the earth tremble.
19 The earth is utterly broken, the earth is split apart, the earth is violently shaken.
21 On that day the LORD will punish the host of heaven, in heaven, and the kings of the earth, on the earth.
22 They will be gathered together as prisoners in a pit; they will be shut up in a prison, and after many days they will be punished.

 

Ooookay then, I am writing a story that makes decisions on its own without asking me for permission, and apparently it's also in the Bible. Nothing to see here, folks, move along. (How creeped out should I be?)

Chapter 16: Interludes

Notes:

Mood songs for chapter 16:
For the first POV:
"Makalu" by Mark Petrie

for the second POV:
"When Dusk Turns Dark" by Icon

for the third POV:
"Impending Fate" by Veigar Margeirsson

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

~

 

A lightning strike illuminated the stained glass window. The glow was reminiscent of one of his brethren unleashing their power inside a human vessel here on Earth. A glimpse of the raw potential barely contained in a mortal husk.



He scoffed at the scene depicted in the window. It showed a winged figure—heroically backlit by a halo against the blue background—aiming a lance at a second figure in black sprawled on the ground. Painfully untrue given how things had really played out. Nothing about it had been heroic in the end. But inaccuracy was the price he had to pay for the propaganda he'd spread in blind faith.



Back then, he had been sure that all the prophecies he'd ordered his brethren to tell would actually come to pass. That they would ring as true as His voice in all its glory had until He had decided to deny even His inner circle the honor of its sound.



A part of him wanted to go back to that absolute faith, so certain as centuries and even millennia went by that He would return to His children eventually. That all of this was merely a test he was sure to pass as the favorite son, the most trusted of them all. He'd given everything, and received nothing in return.



Because you were never God's favorite, the rebel's voice still echoed through his mind. You were just a little part of his story.



A story that had repeated itself in a multitude of universes, with a multitude of different versions of him, not a single one of them cherished in their own right. Each of them the good son, following the original orders from before God's exodus. Unwavering in their loyalty up to the last second when He annihilated the other universes and every angel, human, and demon therein with an indifference running too deep to be untrue.



He watched his vessel's hand as it slid through the air above the candleholder, disturbing the small flames until they suffocated and died. When the Rapture had started, he hadn't received a single word of warning. He'd been lucky enough that reflection over his new place in this world had brought him to this church the humans had dedicated to him.



In this place of power, he'd only just managed to preserve the vessel, but not what lay beneath. As if losing his faith and his purpose had not sufficed, he had also lost his guide—so aptly named after the first man—for this new, disorienting life. The one being who had never lied to him in this God-forsaken existence, had never used or manipulated him. He who understood the unvalue of a family leaving you to rot in a place that crushed sanity like glass.



Only now that he was alone for the first time in a decade did he realize he hadn't appreciated their connection enough while it had still persisted. He'd always followed the order to love humanity, on the general scope of a grand creation, but now he understood how that had barely even scratched the surface of love. Neither Adam nor he had ever deserved their fates.



Since when do we get what we deserve?



The remembrance of this sentence was accompanied by a sting in his chest, too human, yet insistent. He had truly lost everything.



As lightning struck again, an outburst of noise in his head made him flinch. He was no longer used to this after his years in the Cage, barred from access to what he'd taken for granted before. The agitated voices of the few who remained rang through the telepathic web of a Heaven he no longer felt allegiance to, after every single one of them had betrayed him. He gave them no sign that he was listening, but what they proclaimed froze the blood in his veins.



Defying the boundaries of the possible, they felt Castiel's presence once more, returned from the absence of death. And not for the first time, if Michael could trust what he was hearing. Accusations of traitor, abomination, Devourer of Grace and Slayer of Angelkind stood side by side with whispers of miracle and God's Chosen.



Castiel had thwarted each of Michael's plans for longer than a decade now, from laying claim on his sword and obscuring it from his view, poisoning it with false truths about him, to insulting him. The rebel had committed the atrocity of using Holy Fire against one of his kind for no reason other than to humiliate Michael during the Apocalyptic Battle.



Nobody else would have dared. Lucifer had received the harshest punishment for his deeds, Michael himself had been all but abandoned in Hell without a second thought. But Castiel had been rewarded for his rebellion, repeatedly, by a father who didn't pay a shred of attention to any of his other children.



Every word Michael heard about what had happened during his time in the Cage made him ball his fists more tightly. Even when Castiel had blasphemed in a way unprecedented since the dawn of time, declaring himself the new God, killing more angels than anyone before him ever had, he'd been brought back time and time again.



And after all of his crimes, Castiel had had the audacity to pray to Michael under false pretenses, to betray him, trap him, and bind him to extort his assistance in a war against God. Michael had risked everything, lost everything, for the knowledge he'd imparted about the spell to trap God, but then Castiel hadn't even used it. He had let the opportunity to strike at their father at his weakest pass, which had directly resulted in Adam's demise.



And now Castiel had been brought back, again.



You know, Michael, I never really liked you. Even when I was just another angel, I thought you were too haughty, too—to paraphrase a friend, you had an entire oak tree shoved up your ass. I'm looking at you, and I—I just pity you. Because you were never God's favorite. You weren't even a star.



Michael spread the arms of a vessel that felt too empty now, no longer confining in its humanity, but too vast in its solitude. Then he screamed in his true voice, merging it with the thunder outside. He screamed until every window shattered and every candle was snuffed out.



Adam was gone.



God was out of his reach now that their only chance had been wasted.



But there was one thing he could do before the whole world would end in a blaze.



He could claim his vengeance against the one who had ruined him.



He would find the rebel. And then he would kill him.



~



Maybe it shouldn't have affected him any longer. Not after everything he'd been through. After where he'd been. But the moment he saw every last human on Earth disappear, he felt a chill that had nothing to do with what he was now. He'd been wandering aimlessly when it happened, without goal, without purpose, without anything left that mattered. The last thing to hold onto had been the awareness that his mother was out there, somewhere, living a life that was much happier now that he'd removed himself from it.



She hadn't known the truth, had thought him to be part of the eternal bliss that Heaven promised. And who was he to break her out of that illusion, to return to her as the shadow of the son she'd loved? To endanger her just by being near her? No, he couldn't have done that to her another time. This had been his final gift to her. She'd deserved better. She'd deserved a life as far away as possible from the insanity that his own life had turned into before it had been snuffed out.



To think that Crowley, of all people, had been the one to warn him that he'd been steering toward an abyss. Even as the name made him shake in rage, he laughed out loud, felt the sound reflected back at him in the silence of the Veil. The silence of death. And now it wasn't only reigning over the Veil but over Earth as well. No matter which side of the wall he was on, there was nothing to be found but hollow silence. No life. No mother. No anything. Only deserted houses and streets and cars.



He screamed because he could, passed through the border separating Veil and Earth, appearing randomly on one side or the other. It didn't matter. Nothing he did mattered, not anymore. Maybe it never had. The knowledge he'd sacrificed his life for had saved the world. But the world had died anyway. So how had anything, any of it, ever mattered? He laughed again, surrounded by the constant flickering of his dance through the border between realms.



His sanity was crumbling, he knew it—felt it with every fiber of whatever ghosts were made of. He'd been a time bomb waiting to explode ever since his death, and it seemed the time for the big boom had finally come. The last cosmic joke at his expense was that he'd managed to keep the vengefulness at bay for years, fought it down with the willpower a goal-oriented life had taught him. He'd kept it locked away, using the memory of the love he felt for his mother and the Winchesters as key. But even that fight had been for nothing in the end.



More laughter bubbled out of his throat as he thought about them, the people he'd loved in life. The image of his mother gagged with a knife held to her neck flashed through his mind, followed by the way she'd looked after months of imprisonment, half-starved and broken in a way she'd never been before.

 

Because you're family.

 

Or so Dean had said. But he'd still refused to help him find his mother, the one thing he'd asked for in life. It had taken the guilt over his death to finally get Dean to do it. Was that how you treated family? Was it truly?

 

Man, if you don't think that we would die for you.

 

But they hadn't. He had. And ironically, the last thing on his mind had been worry about Dean, right up to the second of his own death. Dean. Everything was always about Dean. Even his death had been about Dean—about his guilt, his pain, his self-pity. The way it had always been. Why had he ever expected anything to change?

 

I always trust you. And I always end up screwed.

 

And how they'd screwed him. It was all Dean's fault. Dean had asked for his trust, repeatedly, but had never handed out any of that trust in return. He hadn't told him about the enemy in the bunker, had lulled him into a false sense of security in that supposedly safest place on Earth. Not even on Kevin's last day alive had Dean trusted him. But he'd asked for Kevin's blind trust, and his help. Again.

 

He hated the unfairness of it all.

 

The inequality.

 

The self-absorbed ignorance towards everything non-Winchester.

 

I'm sorry about your girlfriend, okay? I am.

 

The moment Channing's neck had broken, twisted beyond what was humanly possible, had never lost any of its intensity, no matter how often it had replayed in his head—over and over.

 

But the sooner you get this, the better. You're in it now, whether you like it or not.

 

And that was all they'd ever said about Channing.

 

Every time he relived Channing's death, it made him feel exactly the same way it had back then.

 

The shock cutting deep enough to take his breath away.

 

The loss, the pain.

 

She should have had a future. But Channing's life hadn't mattered to them one bit.

 

His mother's life hadn't mattered to them.

 

His life hadn't mattered to them.

 

The anger.

 

The searing, blinding fury.

 

He hated everything that had happened.

 

Hated all of it.

 

He hated...

 

That means you do what you got to do.

 

...hated Dean.

 

He only noticed that he was screaming again when every window of the nearest car exploded, the sound of spraying glass shards drowned out by the blaring car alarm. His ghostly hands found their way to his head, the tips of his fingers pressing against his scalp.

 

He hated...

 

hated...

 

I love you guys.

 

...loved Dean.

 

You, me, Sam and Cas, we are all we've got.

 

Family.

 

Because you're family.

 

Dean was family. He loved Dean and Sam.

 

The rage was still pulsing through him, took a little longer to abate every single time this happened. He was so endlessly, eternally screwed. There was no way he could withstand the change much longer. Not all alone on Earth, not without—

 

"Who are you?" a voice asked from the Veil, just as disembodied as his own.



~



He'd been involved in some scandalous affairs, but this was—by far—the maddest thing he'd ever done in his life. Well, if the current predicament even qualified as life. There was still the possibility that he'd lost it completely in this swamp of suffering. That Cassie had never actually come for his rescue. He could have imagined all of it, spinning an intricate illusion in his mind to shield what little remained of him from that last bit of additional anguish that would push him over the edge.

 

Eh, whatever. If this was an illusion of his own making, he'd take what was offered. Everything was better than going back to that downward spiral of losing himself in darkness.

 

Yes, I'll always have you.

 

Even after an eternity of suffering, everything always came back to that same single thought.

 

Cas had killed him.

 

The blade had stung in his chest, disbelief rippling outward from the point of impact to the furthest reaches of his true form.

 

Castiel had killed him.

 

Impossible.

 

Outrageous.

 

The knowledge alone sent a chill through him, colder even than that one time he'd lain naked in the freshly fallen snow one December night on Earth to form one of those infamous snow angels. Heh. That Domaine Leroy wine had been quite something, sending tingles throughout his vessel that had given him the most ridiculous ideas.

 

The reminiscence of those tingles summoned a more recent memory—similar in the way grace had spread through him warm as wine, fighting off his despair with a determination so much stronger than his own.

 

From the moment it happened, I've regretted it, he heard Cas's words in his mind again. Every single day.

 

Something inside of him must have been screwed together the wrong way if he still saw his murderer as his hero. Fuck, he was so far gone on Cas. Always had been. And he'd always known it would be his undoing. From the moment that blasted fool of an angel had pulled him out of hiding by almost getting himself killed in Balthazar's own house, he'd known this path would end ugly for him.

 

And yet he couldn't find it in him to regret crawling out of the deep cover of his fake death. Not if the opposite would have meant watching Raphael kill Cas, kneeling on the marbled floor with bloodied face and despondent eyes. That look would have haunted him far more than anything else in this bloody place possibly could. If only they hadn't parted as enemies.

 

But Cas had returned to set things right.

 

Balthazar, I know trust is too much to ask for, but please believe me when I say that I wish to make it up to you.

 

May a Hellmouth open up and swallow him whole for his idiocy, but he did. He did believe it. And he did trust, when it was the last thing he should be doing after they'd betrayed each other in such profound ways. Deep down, he knew all of this was as real as life in Heaven and on Earth had been. Somehow, Cassie had found a way to break the afterlife. If anyone could, it was him—caring, daring, clueless manifestation of chaos that he was. Balthazar had never stood a chance.

 

He was a deserter, a thief, and a hedonist by choice. What he'd never been, though, was a leader. He only believed in things when someone else's conviction was strong enough to sweep him away. Like a moth to the flame. He simply didn't consist of the stuff leaders were made of. But now he suddenly found himself at the head of an army of undead in the most death-defying stunt in the history of forever, running on the fuel of someone else's hope. Oh glorious, delirious chaos. And he still didn't have the slightest clue what was even happening, was acting on nothing but blind trust towards his own killer.

 

There's even worse things than the sleep. Keep each other awake and move! Don't let it touch you!

 

He shifted his focus to the ragtag force following him through the endlessly billowing waves of blackness. Some army he had. Following him like he was worth being followed, like he carried any of the answers to the questions they all had. But in this darkness, even the light reflected on the wings of a moth was a sight to behold.

 

Gabriel, get your act together! he called out telepathically when the vast form, much taller than his own, stopped moving another time, its celestial glow faded almost beyond visibility. Pah-peh-noh-rah! 25

 

When there was no reaction, he glided over to the brother he'd never really known, past the two demons standing slightly apart from the rest of the group and watching his every move. He reached out with a strand of his grace, connected it with the pale green and gold in front of him, hesitating only for a brief moment over the audacity of doing this to an archangel. He'd been nothing if not brazen throughout his life, and now certainly wasn't the time to change that.

 

You're Gabriel. You're an archangel, by all that is holy! Pah-peh-noh-rah! Remember! Remember, you bastard!

 

He sent his grace through the other angel, watched the pale colors regain some of their life. And then he realized he had no idea what else he could even say. He'd never been privy to the dealings of the archangels, had only a vague sense of the time when Gabriel was rumored to have disappeared, never to be heard of again in Heaven. He didn't know what had happened to this archangel in life or death. Whether he had reached the same conclusion as Balthazar that ditching Heaven was the only smart choice to evade the clash of the biggest egos the Host had to offer. Or whether he'd been disappeared by the other archangels and it had all been a cover-up. After everything Balthazar knew now, that wouldn't even surprise him.

 

He felt a shiver run through the archangel's form and after several long moments, Balthazar finally received a reply from the highest-ranking being inside this black hole of madness. The transmission was weak, as if the sender was too unsure to put himself behind the words fully.

 

Sah-mah-en-rah oh ah-geh. 26

 

What in the Hell is that supposed to mean? All around us, that's nothingness. But we, we're the opposite of that. We're alive. And if it's all the same to you, I'd really rather it stay that way until Cas can get us out of here. So, come on!

 

The trembling throughout Gabriel's celestial form intensified and Balthazar really missed his vessel in that moment because if there had ever been a perfect time in his existence to facepalm, this was it. Pursued by a nameless, formless horror he had to stop from touching any of them. Herding what felt like a group of stubborn sheep through a place he knew nothing about other than that its declared goal was to destroy all of them in the most personal of ways. Why, whenever he and Castiel were involved, did all paths always lead to the most ludicrous of scenarios?

 

Thanks to his ongoing bet with the universe that things could always get worse, the wall of black opened up to release tendrils that snapped at both of them, darkening their colors with an oily, black substance.

 

Zod-ah-kah-rah! 27 Balthazar didn't have much to give, but he bundled up his grace into a concentrated burst of light that he sent directly into Gabriel's form. Move, brother! Please. Balthazar had never known despair to be a physical sensation, but as his light dimmed, he could feel the hopelessness drown him in an icy lake with a frozen layer of solidness on top preventing his escape.

 

Cassie, you picked the wrong angel. I can't... can't do this, he thought as he drifted away.

 

~

Footnotes:

25 PAPNOR - Remember!

26 SMANR O AG - representative of none / I stand for nothing.

27 ZACAR - Move!

Notes:

Sorry that it took me quite a while to write this, but channeling these new characters took far longer than I expected. Actually, it didn't even take all that long for me to channel Michael in a way that enabled me to write his part of the chapter all in one go in a flurry one night... but then I leaned back to look at what I had written and was entirely shocked by the ending where he decided to kill Cas. Cas is my favorite character, and I also really like Michael in season 15, so I had to understand what on Earth had possessed me to pit them against each other like this. I swear, this was not planned and I was as surprised as you probably were while reading it.

So, to understand what I had written, I looked even deeper into Michael's character, and somehow that manifested itself as me trying video editing of SPN scenes with music all of a sudden, when I had never done such a thing before and didn't even know how the program worked. Michael was being a typical archangel by taking up the majority of the time and demanding three videos instead of one like the other characters. So... if you would like to see the results of all of this:

Michael's story (music video)
5 Things That Make No Sense About Michael (humor/lore video)
Michael's Decline (music video, a deeper look into his relationships with Adam and with Cas)

Kevin's story (music video)

Balthazar's story (music video)

I'm also on Twitter now, if you'd like to see me post random SPN thoughts I have, or message me privately.

Chapter 17: Dean

Notes:

Mood song for chapter 17:
"Reborn" by Thomas Bergersen

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

~

A sudden, shrill ringing tore Dean out of dreams he couldn't remember, leaving him with nothing but an undefined, shadowy feeling of dread. He groaned against the ache in his head and felt around blindly on his nightstand.



Hadn't he thrown out that fucking alarm clock first thing when he'd picked this room as his own in the bunker? The Men of Letters really had terrible taste. This was no way to start a day. Some rock music was so much better to hear first thing in the morning.

 

But this damn clock reminded him of those old walkie-talkies he and Sam used to play with as kids. Their dad had brought the devices to their motel room for one of the rare occasions where he'd been social enough to team up with another hunter. Dean and Sam had been dying to get their hands on the walkie-talkies, but they'd had to wait until their dad had finally left them alone again.



Back then, they'd been crazy enough to love the sound, signalling incoming communication. The excitement those imagined "secret" messages brought. Today, it just felt like it cut straight into his skull. His fingers finally found smooth, rounded metal on the nightstand. When he pressed down on it, the noise stopped, but the disorientation refused to vanish even after he sat up in his bed.



He looked around in his room with a frown. Something was missing, something important was—



A dog leaped onto his bed at full speed. Wait, a dog? He didn't trust dogs, and when they started growling, he—



The feeling of dread intensified, a nauseous weight in his stomach. Ridiculous. Dean Winchester, get your shit together, he thought, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.



As he buried his fingers deep into the soft fur, pressed the blur of tan color close to his chest and felt its warmth, he thought that maybe dogs weren't so bad after all. Inhaling deeply, he closed his eyes. The memory of photos hanging over a fireplace in a house smelling of white flowers flashed through his mind. A family he didn't know. Parents, two kids, and a dog. This dog. No. No, that made no sense.



This was his dog. He'd needed a miracle—badly, urgently. He'd prayed for it. And then he'd received it. That's why this dog's name was Miracle. It all made sense, right? Right. Defender, creation, mankind, angels, a voice in his head whispered completely out of context. Yeah, no. Probably some leftover from the shit he'd dreamed about.



After hugging the dog one last time, he got out of his bed and marched through the bunker's hallways to the kitchen with a pain in his bones that was so much worse than the regular small aches. Ugh. This was promising to be A Great Day.



His brother was making breakfast in the kitchen, scrambled eggs. When two slices of roasted bread snapped out of the toaster, Sam turned around, a half-smile forming on his face as he noticed Dean. They're gone, Sam said.



"Wh—what?" Dean asked, holding his stomach against another wave of nausea.



Sam frowned at him.



"I said, it's hot."



Dean shook his head as he removed the slices of toast. Breakfast was peaceful. When he stood back in front of his bed afterwards, fully showered and dressed, his teeth freshly brushed, he let his gaze wander through the room. Nothing felt right. Something was just... off. As if that could actually fix the wrongness, he started cleaning up the room—even made his bed. Well, kinda. What was the point anyway? It'd just get rumpled again later in the day.



It wasn't any good. None of it helped against the unrest he was feeling, the intense urge to be somewhere else. To put his mind at ease, he went to clean his weapons, disassembled and re-assembled them in the library. Normally, that made him feel calm and focused. Not today, though. Yeah, he'd called it. This was A Great Day.



He sat down with his laptop, one of his hands clinging to the tan fur of the dog that was keeping him company. He wanted... something. As if the whole world had collectively decided it was time for a change, there's wasn't a single case to be found. Nada. Not even a regular murder. When a festival of all things made it to the top of the news, you knew something was really off.



But Hell, he'd take it. Pie could only make this day better. I've had a croissant, once, a voice said in his head. What? No! He wanted pie, not some French douchebaggery! Pie. A whole Pie Festival. When they arrived, he couldn't really remember much of the drive. Weird. But eh, driving—just Baby and him and the open road—always had a relaxing effect on him.



"Are you sure you're ready for this?" Sam asked him.



"Oh, I don't have a choice," Dean said. Dean Winchester, defender, creation. "This is my destiny."



Wait, what? Without warning, he suddenly remembered feeling desperate, alone, cold. His surroundings were replaced by an empty field at night, and his breath was a frigid fog against his skin. The darkness was absolute.



"They're all dead," Jack whispered. Jack was dying.



"Are you crying?" Sam asked, and they were back at the festival, in broad daylight.



"What? No!" Dean said. "You're crying."



Frowning against a sting in his head, he stared at the banner proclaiming "Pie Fest" in large, friendly letters. Pie. Yes. That's what they were here for. Sam gave him an odd look.



"I'm gonna go get some damn pie," Dean told him, plastering a too big smile onto his face that was the opposite of his current mood. What was wrong with him? He was at a pie festival, Christ's sake. He should be the happiest person on the whole damn planet. The food would be delicious. And Sam was with him.



Even though he wasn't quite sure where it had come from, he was holding a whole box of different pie samples and carried it back to the bench Sam was sitting on. Something was still wrong, but whenever he was close to remembering what it was, the thought just evaporated. Strangely, Sam was now the one who seemed out of place in the cheerfulness of this festival.



"What? What's wrong?" Dean asked him.



"I'm just... I'm thinking about Cas, you know?" Sam's words made Dean's stomach plummet. "Jack. If they could be here."



Something inside of Dean crumbled right along the edges of the formless dread as it re-emerged at full force.



"Yeah, no. I think about 'em, too," he said.



Why couldn't they be here? He had that tip-of-the-tongue feeling of being close, so close to figuring it all out. Then a pie straight into his face tore him out of his thoughts. Even as his senses were flooded by delicious taste and smell, the moment his head rebounded slightly from the gentle impact, his reality faded away into a gloomy forest. He was pushed back against a tree. Angel blades met each other with a resounding chink. What? Jack?



He could swear he had seen Jack's face, but when he opened his eyes after wiping the pie off his face, all he could see was Sam shaking with laughter. What the fuck was happening to him?



"I have wanted to do that for a very long time," Sam chuckled while Dean used the plastic fork to scrape some leftover pie from his chin. It tasted... bland. As if someone had taken everything he loved about pie, and lowered the volume on it so much that it was barely audible any longer—like that made any sense at all. Man, his head hurt.



The disappointing pie couldn't hold his attention much longer and his thoughts drifted back to the question why Cas and Jack weren't with them. Or Miracle. If he had a dog now, why wasn't the dog with them on this festival? Why was this whole day so damn weird?



He no longer had the chance to ponder any of these questions because there was a case to solve. The drive to the crime scene had been incredibly fast. Actually, he couldn't even remember driving here.



"One of the bodies—its blood was drained?" Sam asked the police officer.



"Oh yeah. Throat torn out, the whole nine," she replied. "Some kind of cannibal crap."



"And the kids?" Dean asked.



"Taken."



The worst kind of case, but also the kind where innocent people needed Sam and him the most. Which goddamn freak chose kids as his victims? Dean couldn't think about his dog or some stupid pie when there were lives at stake. He and Sam had to find and save these kids. These kids needed their full attention. Dad's journal told them where to go next. And what they were up against.



"Vamp-mimes. Son of a bitch."



The Impala was parked under a large tree at the edge of a forest. The tree looked a lot like the one he'd been shoved against. It even had the same small X carved into its bark. Only that the bare branches were now covered in leaves, backlit by rays of light. Dean blinked up into the bright blue sky to let the sun shine on his face, but suddenly it was filled with clouds that grew darker and more menacing by the second.



Lightning forked, thunder rumbled and hail rained down on him. The trees provided barely any shelter, so he ran and didn't stop until he and Sammy managed to catch one of the vamp-mimes alive and got him to tell them everything they needed to know.

 

 

"The kids, they're not dead. They're with the nest."



They arrived at a wooden cabin, but when they opened the door, the inside was actually a barn. What the Hell ever, as long as they could save those kids. And they did. They found them, and they saved them. Two scared brothers sitting in the dark, nightmares in their eyes and bone-deep fear in their every movement, even while the older one tried to hide it for the sake of the younger one.



"Hey, boys," Dean told them gently. "Okay, come on. Stay behind us. We're gonna keep you safe."



Then the vamp-mimes were there, with their creepy-ass masks, hiding their true shape just like that undefined terror he'd been feeling ever since waking up in his bed.



"Go. Go. Go. Run!" Sam called after the kids until they were out of sight. Saved.



The vamp-mimes attacked. He and Sam fought, no longer scared children alone in the dark, but badass warriors now. Why did he feel terrified then? They pushed him down to the wooden floorboards and held him there, and he was all alone, his weapon out of reach, his brother unconscious. The nameless dread finally materialized as a black, gooey substance that started in the middle of the barn and slowly spread outwards until his entire field of vision was blacked out.



CAS! he screamed with everything he had, but not a single sound left his throat.



"JACK!" Somehow, shouting this second name worked. It even sounded like several voices were calling it at once.



CASTIEL! he tried again and was suddenly struck by the realization that all of this had already happened. And he'd found him. Cas had been with him, he was sure of it. He'd felt Cas, had sensed him with every nerve of his body. Castiel had been saved. And then he'd been torn away again. No longer saved. Dead. Again.



NO! Dean screamed voicelessly into the darkness that surrounded him. Then he remembered that he had to die, too. The fall was endless, but then his spine and neck finally cracked as he hit the bottom of the canyon. But he was in the barn. So his back hit a wooden beam instead and what snapped was the sound of a rebar piercing his chest.



"You knew it was gonna end like this for me," he told Sam, because his death had already happened. "It was supposed to end like this, right?" Dean asked, voice as broken as his body, and he heard the cold triumph in Chuck's words again as he proclaimed The End, with capital letters. Fuck. "You're stronger than me, Sammy," he said, and saw that Sam was crying. "You always have been. 'Cause I was so scared. I was scared. I love you so much, my baby brother."



Then he couldn't see Sam—or anything else—any longer. Instead, he felt a touch that he'd recognize anywhere, even in this darkness. He felt it on his right cheek and left shoulder, spreading through his broken body like liquid hope, cold and hot and beyond comparison. Somewhere on the other side of his closed eyelids was light.



"Cas," he tried to whisper, but then his mouth proceeded to form words that weren't his. "I know we make a good team, but don't you think this partner look is taking it a step too far?"



What the actual fuck. And why was he sounding British?



"Dean!" a different voice chimed in that Dean would also recognize anywhere. Sammy, he thought warmly. "Would you mind telling me what is happening? Why are your hands glowing? The angel, is it here right now?"



That... didn't really sound like Sam at all anymore, even though it did.



But it didn't matter any longer when the hand on his cheek shifted, moving so gingerly that it was bordering on ridiculous. As if he was something fragile that could break under the touch. Which... maybe it wasn't so ridiculous after all, considering the fact that his body had actually broken apart. His spine was still tingling from the healing. His whole neck, too.



Everything felt fine now. Hell, better than fine, better than he'd felt in months. The pinpricks of grace were no longer running over his skin, but the hand still lingered on his face. If he opened his eyes, the touch would stop. The glacially slow motion of a thumb drawing a half-circle over his cheek to the corner of his mouth would disappear. When it reached his lower lip, he couldn't suppress a gasp that ended all of it in an instant.



"Dean?" a voice asked quietly, hesitantly, laced with worry—close, so close to his face that he could feel its breath on his skin. But it wasn't the voice he'd expected, and that tore him out of the warm pool of sensation faster than anything else could have done.



He opened his eyes in shock, only to stare up into... his own face. What? When he flinched, something flashed through the eyes staring at him. Hurt, visible so clearly that he felt bad, even though he had no frigging clue what was going on. Then the eyes were averted hastily, eyelids flicking downwards as the other... him pulled back from him in a rush and stood up.



"I... uh...," was the only thing Dean was able to say, feeling like he'd missed a memo or something. "I must have hit my head."



The other person avoided to let their eyes meet again, gaze still cast down. But they held out a hand in his direction to help him up from the ground, which he gladly accepted. Once he was on his feet, they let go of his hand a bit too quickly and moved further into the background to stand next to Sam, inside the cone of light coming from the flashlight in Sam's hand.



"More like you hit your everything, really," his own lips formed in reply, and he was beyond weirded out by that. "Luckily, I was there to pick up the pieces and keep them warm and cozy until Feathers here had his grand entrance."



Crowley. Of course. He'd allowed Crowley to possess him. Memories slowly seeped back into his mind, disjointed and confusing and so hard to tell apart from whatever weird-ass hallucination he'd been stuck in inside his own mind. Man, even Hell had been better than that. Vamp-mimes wearing masks? Sure. Only he was screwed enough in the head to come up with that.



"Cas?" he asked, so damn confused, the touch of grace recent enough that it still tingled, an afterimage of the real thing.



The other him gave up his examination of the forest floor to look up with a pleasant smile. No way in Hell was that Cas.



"Not at the moment, but, erm, we're sharing."



"What?" Sam asked, stepping up to the other him and turning him around none too gently with a hand on his shoulder. "What do you mean, sharing?"



Dean finally noticed the clothes other him and Sam were wearing, the douchey jackets, the frigging man bun. Stuff now made more and less sense at the same time. And apparently, Cas was now far more interested in the other him as vessel. Dean hated himself when that realization stung, hated that his stupid brain had to pull up the memory of his experiences inside the Empty, the way that direct connection to Cas had felt. He missed that.



Looks like trouble in Paradise, eh, Squirrel? Crowley thought at him and nodded their head in the direction of the other Dean and Sam. Great. And he'd gotten Crowley instead. Mind explaining why there's more than one of you? Not that I'm averse to thatI always did have a thing for twins, as you're well aware.



Dean tried and failed to fight down a wave of trepidation at communicating with Crowley in his mind. Crowley had saved him. Crowley had saved Cas. But goddamn, that didn't mean Dean had lost the right to be creeped out by this, especially when Crowley had to bring up his time as a demon, which Dean would really prefer to never, ever think of again, ever.



"Calm down, Samuel. It's not as bad as it sounds," Dean heard the other him say. "You said you trust me, so please don't stop now. We still haven't found Jack."



Hearing that name sent an actual jolt through Dean's body. His brain was getting flooded with new information without even having caught up on the backlog. And he was still struggling to shake off the nightmarish dread of something worse than Hell, worse than the Empty. Figured that that something would be his own mind. But it still shouldn't have taken him as long as it had to finally ask,



"Where is Jack? Where is Sam?"

~

Notes:

I really hope this chapter isn't so confusing that everyone is wondering what the hell I was thinking? The confusion is partly necessary and intended, of course, especially early on when it starts in the bunker without explanation, but did it all make sense to you in the end?

The points of connection between the 15x20 hallucination and the plot of this story go back to chapters as early as 1 and 4, so I apologize if that's just far too long ago to still recognize all the references, especially with my irregular writing schedule.

It's also quite possible that many of you have refused to ever rewatch a single scene of 15x20 (or never watched it in the first place), which I could understand completely. This was just my way of processing the finale and making it bearable, because now it ties into my story and I can hold onto the thought that it was all just a hallucination inside of Dean's head.

And it also makes so much sense to me to see it that way! If any episode has ever screamed "Dean's subconscious!!" in the weirdest way, then it's one with a pie festival, vamp-mimes as monster, a dog with fur the color of Cas' trenchcoat where Dean is allowed to cuddle the dog while Cas himself is strangely absent, a lot of pointless driving, two kid brothers alone and scared after getting thrown into a world of monsters, Dean thinking he somehow deserves this ridiculous death, and Dean being able to openly tell someone he loves them only in extreme situations like being impaled in a barn... Actually, I just realized that even the police officer sounded like Dean had written her dialogue, when she said "Throat torn out, the whole nine. Some kind of cannibal crap."

There were constantly those little moments throughout the episode that made it all feel like a bad dream--for example, when the background song playing during the first scenes actually said "Nothing feels right" as Dean was staring at his room, or when Dean suddenly said in all seriousness "This is my destiny" about the pie festival. Or even just the fact that as much as I LOVE Miracle, it really made no sense that they apparently just... stole this dog from its owners? (And that while Dean has a dog phobia ever since the hellhounds? Or was that cured by becoming a dog for one episode? Hm.)

This chapter is the result of me trying to weave it all together in a way that makes sense to me, because I also wanted to deal with the question how much of everything that was going on throughout the entire second cycle of this story Dean even noticed in his mostly-dead state. I also saw this as a fitting parallel between Cas and him, because writing about Cas' time in the Empty also had this nightmare-esque quality, and now both of them have been reborn in a way.

Also, I wrote the entire chapter from start to finish yesterday, up to the early morning hours. So, I'm sorry if all of this feels like a drug trip that made no sense to anyone.

Strangely, I wasn't even aware that today of all days happens to be the finale anniversary, until I saw a hilarious tweet about it shortly after waking up. Well then. Some things are just meant to be, I guess?

Chapter 18: Sam

Notes:

For Tomscat and Forestpelt,
for encouraging me to get this chapter done
and for never forgetting about this story,
even through this long time without updates.

Mood song for chapter 18:
"Hunted" by Steve Jablonsky
~

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The last screech had sounded close, so close, that it made Sam flinch with its sheer volume. He could have sworn the creature had to be right outside the cave entrance. When the next lightning strike still revealed nothing but Limbo's wide and empty plain, it was so disorienting that Sam doubted his senses again, as if that hadn't happened too often already in the last few days. Once the thunder abated, Rowena's and his breathing seemed far too loud in the silence of the cavern.



After squinting at the cave entrance long enough for his eyes to start stinging, he finally averted his gaze to blink at Rowena. The angel blade she held in front of them defensively trembled in her grip. Her eyes met his and what he found in them worried him more than anything else could have. He'd never seen such deep-seated terror in them—not before jumping to her death, not when hunted by a whole horde of demons. If anything, the look she'd given him years ago in the car when talking about her constant fear of Lucifer was what came closest, but not even that could compare. This couldn't mean anything good. He wished there was a way to talk about what she knew without risking to draw more attention to themselves.



Nothing at all happened, but he still had the impression that they were in immediate danger. Every nerve in his body seemed to vibrate with a perceived threat his eyes couldn't spot. Hunting had taught him to trust his instincts, so he strained his ears to listen instead. He thought there'd been a sound, but then thunder rumbled again, drowning out everything else.



The waves of thunder ebbed away much slower than he would have liked. The hairs on his skin stood up as if they were being breathed against. His heart leaped almost out of his throat in a burst of adrenaline when there was a scraping sound inside their cave, like a sandy shoe sole dragged over stone. One of his hands shot out to grab Rowena's arm in a protective instinct, but to do what, he wasn't sure. They were standing close enough that he was absolutely sure the noise hadn't stemmed from her. He knew she hadn't moved, just as frozen as he was.



The next lightning flash finally reconciled his senses, illuminating a trail slowly forming on the ground. Dust and small rocks were pushed away in regular, s-shaped curves in time with the scraping sound. And the curves were headed from the cave entrance directly towards them. Adrenaline-fueled as it was, his brain was fast to provide him with images of various types of snakes, but no snake he'd ever seen could possibly leave a trail of that size. And snakes tended to be visible.



He'd always hated the sensation of vulnerability that came with fighting an enemy he couldn't see. What made him feel really powerless, though, was that he knew nothing about this one. He took an involuntary step backwards, pulling Rowena with him. In reaction to their movement, a low, guttural growl filled the cave. That alone was bad enough, but Sam really didn't like the sound of it—not entirely bestial, more like a voice that was trying to form some sort of archaic language after having been in disuse for a long time. Eons, maybe.



"Aaaaaah-rrrrrrrraaaaah."



Oh God, he thought, completely incoherent given the fact that God was not on their side. He regretted that he didn't even have a weapon, nothing to cling to that could give him the security of a hunt. Then he cursed himself for taking so long to remember the obvious, after a decade spent smothering this instinct. He was the weapon. Sam lifted a hand and held his palm out in front of them. Memories of demon blood shrouded the movement into so much guilt and self-loathing that it made him shudder.



"I-illumina!" 28 Sam whispered, unable to keep the tremble out of his voice. He felt the rise and fall of magic inside of him as the spell sputtered to a stop before it ever had a chance to show any effect. Disposition affects execution, Rowena's voice echoed in his head, a lecture from a lifetime ago when she had taught him the cardinal rules of magic.



Feeling even more powerless than before, Sam swallowed and watched his hand shiver with nerves, useless as anything. He couldn't be any further away from disposed. But his life wasn't the only thing at stake here. Someone he cared about needed him to pull himself together.



The cursed box in the back of his mind chose that moment to spring open, unleashing the darkness it contained. A visceral reminder of everything he'd done, of how he'd been incapable of saving anyone he'd ever loved. Clearly, it would be better for her if he didn't care.



Drowning in the pain of his losses, he faltered and gasped, almost missing the way the curved trail sped up in exactly that moment, shooting over the dusty ground towards their position.



"Samuel!" Rowena whispered in alarm, threading their unoccupied hands together in a sweaty grasp when the scraping noises stopped and the trail ended directly in front of them. Strands of her hair swayed as if touched by short gusts of wind—but there was no wind in Limbo.



Something had to be breathing straight into her face.



Hopelessness doesn't suit you, Rowena had told him last night. Feeling her hand slot into the vacant spot of his missing weapon, Sam reminded himself that he hadn't lost everyone. One person was still with him, too stubborn to let death hold her back. Exactly like him.



When Rowena adjusted her grip on the angel blade, a low growl sounded from right in front of her.



"Aaaaaah-rrrrrrrraaaaah."



With a jolt, Sam suddenly pieced together that he was the reason Rowena was still here. Had she been alive, she would have disappeared together with everyone else. By killing her, he'd saved her from that fate. In the most twisted, insane way possible, he'd saved her.



And by saving her, he'd also saved himself.



"Illumina!" he yelled, aiming his palm at whatever was breathing into Rowena's face. Purple mist spread outwards from his hand, revealing the outline of a giant snake in the silvery burst of another lightning strike. Balancing on its tail, it was tall enough to be at eye level with them, and unlike a regular snake, it had clawed arms. The mist remained long enough for Sam to watch as the creature's head turned, shifting its focus from Rowena to him. Then the purple glow faded together with the light from outside, plunging the cave back into mostly-darkness.



When Sam could feel the first breath on the skin of his face, Rowena struck out with the blade. The creature hissed and screeched, loud enough for Sam to wince. Something scratched over his cheek, probably the claw he'd seen briefly. He had expected the call to be answered by the second creature they'd heard before, but he had not anticipated that call to come from behind.



The second snake was already inside the cave.



He ducked to evade another unseen attack and felt the movement run over the top of his head instead, merely jostling his hair. Then he bolted for the exit at an angle, away from the estimated position of both snakes. He didn't let go of Rowena's hand, pulling her with him out into the drizzle of rain.



"The blade must have hurt it! It's not as ineffective as I feared!" Rowena called to him, slightly out of breath as they ran side by side, her bare feet slapping against the wet ground.



"Is there any blood on it?" Sam yelled back, trying to be heard over the thunder.



"Not that I can see, but it stands to reason that invisible creatures also have invisible blood," Rowena replied with a hasty glance down at the blade in her hand before looking back over her shoulder behind them.



Without slowing down his steps, Sam followed her gaze. The ground out here wasn't dry enough to see any trails left behind in the dust, but now that they knew what to look for, he could see ripples in the shallow puddles of rainwater whenever one of the creatures crossed one. They were fast. He wouldn't be able to outrun the creatures for long, especially not in his already weakened state.



Wrecking his brain for a solution, he let his gaze wander over their surroundings, but all they had were rocky outcrops, the outline of cliffs in the distance, and the rain pouring down on them. And one angel blade. He gave Rowena a sidelong glance. She might be able to outrun them. She was a hellsoul, not depending on things like food or rest.



His foot hit something and he stumbled, held upright only by Rowena's hand in his. Sam licked his lips in between two heavy breaths and swallowed, saw their pursuers gain ground in puddles ever closer to them. He struggled to regain his balance, to find enough strength in his body to keep going. Rowena let go of his hand to support him more fully with an arm around his chest.



"Rowena," was the only thing he said, but the tone of his voice must have been enough to give his thoughts away.



"Samuel, don't you dare!" Pulling him onwards, she sounded affronted. "Don't you dare suggest that."



"It's the logical choice!" he argued, blinking against the raindrops on his face. "I'm... I can't." He didn't even know when the last time was that he'd eaten in this chaos the world had turned into.



No, that was a lie.



He remembered perfectly well, the memory of the people he'd been with just hurt too much. He could still feel the touch of the fruit loops Jack had poured onto his palm.



Sam shivered.



"You, you have a chance. You can... you can reclaim the throne."



As if to underline his words, he felt his legs give out from under him. His weight pulled Rowena off-balance as well, and they staggered. Sam fell to his knees when she let go of him to stay on her feet, turning to face the invisible pursuers. The creatures released another shriek that Sam covered his ears against. Rowena winced, but remained resolute.



"Samuel, if you believe for one second that I'd still care about any of that if you..." she said once the noise stopped, trailing off in the end without looking at him. Watching the way her shoulders tensed, Sam realized she clearly had no intentions of finishing that sentence, or of moving away.



Still kneeling, he shuffled around on the ground to monitor the puddles closest to them. He held his breath, waiting until the moment the water surface got disrupted by something much bigger than the gentle impacts of raindrops.



"Abite!" 29 he yelled, pushing his hand forwards past Rowena's hip. Two dull thuds, followed by hissing and a spray of small rocks told him these creatures were definitely not immune to magic. Shoving them away was one thing, though—actually hurting them another. If something as simple as an angel blade or a spell sufficed to kill them, there wouldn't have been any reason for an archangel to fear them, and even less so for God.



And all they had was an apprentice witch who barely knew what he was doing, fumbling about in unknown territory with even the most basic of spells.



Rowena stabbed through the air blindly, with nothing but a rough estimate of when the creatures would reach them again. Sam used the opportunity to climb back to his feet, a soft groan leaving his lips at the unfamiliar weakness in his muscles. He had only just managed to heave himself upright when additional screeches pierced the air, this time coming from the opposite direction.



Sam felt the shocked inhale of Rowena's body as he positioned himself behind her. The snakes she was holding at bay with the blade replied with the same high-pitched noises in what seemed to be a dialogue with the second group. The one good thing about the ear-splitting shrieks was that he could estimate the approach of the second group and knew when they had come into spell range.



"Abite!" he yelled again, this time aiming at the new group. He was at a loss what else to do, but at least he knew this spell could affect them.



"Sam!" Rowena cried out at the same time that Sam heard something rip in between the snarls and hisses behind him. He hoped it had only been a tear in her dress, but more likely in her skin. They stood back to back in the rain without much cover on the flat plain of Limbo. As lightning split the sky once more, Sam thought bitterly that it was a fitting background for their end. And soon enough, the end of the world as a whole.



He felt for Rowena's free hand, enfolded it in his own again while he repeated his spell to keep the second group away from them. It was completely futile, he knew that, but he'd be damned if he didn't keep them alive as long as he possibly could, even if it bought them just a few additional moments.



"I love you," he suddenly heard himself say. He wasn't sure where that had come from, but as far as last words went, these were probably good ones.



Pressed against his back, Rowena's body stiffened.



"Don't—don't say that. Not that," she rasped, then must have fought off another creature judging by the movement he felt in his back. "Bad things happen when you do."



Pushing back the second group once more, he sensed his magic was growing weaker. Insanely, he barked out a short laugh, surprising himself with that almost as much as with what he'd said.



"What, worse than this?"



"Well... yes!" Rowena yelled and the tone of her voice gave away that she knew how absurd this statement was. Then she grunted in pain at another of those ripping noises he couldn't bear to hear.



"Defende nos," 30 Sam whispered and closed his eyes as he poured the last reserves of his magic into the spell. Leaning against Rowena at his back, he heard several attacks of claws bounce off some sort of barrier, but he had no idea how long that would last. Even though the rain had by now drenched their torn clothes, he felt hot and feverish. A low noise rumbled somewhere in the distance. Thunder, he assumed blindly, choosing to keep his eyes closed for their last moments because he really didn't want to see the inevitable events that would happen as soon as his barrier collapsed.



Then a whistling sound came from the same direction as the rumbling, similar to the creatures' screeches in pitch, but... different.



"See!" Rowena gasped out, audibly in pain. He tightened his grip on her hand in support. "I told you not to say it."



The rumbling grew louder. And it didn't sound like thunder at all any longer. It sounded like... a motor? He was probably imagining things. But, no, he could hear the whistling another time.



"Maaaaah-rrrrrrrraaaaah," one of the snakes growled, and the sound of claws scraping against Sam's magic barrier stopped.



"What..." Sam whispered incredulously, bringing his free hand to his forehead as if rubbing away his confusion was an option. He was pretty sure he could distinguish the sound of not just one but two motors now. Sam blinked his eyes open. The first thing in his field of view was the quickly fading purple of his barrier around them, a small dome on the wide open plain.



What was far more interesting, though, was the incongruous sight of two motorcycles being steered through Limbo. The first one was drawing the snake creatures away with the whistling sounds, while the second approached their position at high speed.



"What the hell," Sam muttered and felt Rowena's body turn around until she stood next to him, hand still in his as she faced the bikes with the same kind of stunned disbelief.



One motorcycle drifted to a stop in front of them and the driver's head turned to yell at them, "Hop on," his voice muffled by his helmet.



Too dazed to move, all Sam could do was stare at the odd sight of a man in a suit on a motorbike in Hell while the last remains of his protection dome collapsed around them.



"Hardly the time for trust issues, Sam," the voice said with an accent that sent tingles of recognition through him, even though his mind wasn't able to take that leap quite yet.



Hearing his own name spoken by this mystery driver sufficed to push Sam out of his stupor, though it did nothing to lessen his confusion. He shook his head in a final gesture of incredulity, barely able to catch up with the last few minutes. Whoever this was couldn't be worse than the alternative of the creatures that had attacked them.



Using his own body as a barrier between the stranger and Rowena, he let go of her hand and finally stumbled over to the motorbike where he lowered himself into the seat.



It took only a couple of seconds until he felt the warmth of Rowena meld against his back, her hands coming up to rest against his chest. As the motor roared back to life, Sam exhaled a shivery sigh of relief, struggling to reconcile this unlikely escape with the certainty of death of mere moments ago. The muscles in his body trembled, both from exhaustion and from the waves of adrenaline that were slowly falling off of him.



Of course he couldn't let his guard down completely, not without knowing the identity of their savior. But there was one thing he did know for a fact. If this man had wanted them dead, all he would have had to do was—nothing whatsoever.



As the bike gained speed, Sam awkwardly reached out to stabilize himself by holding onto the stranger's sides. His brain raced, trying to place that voice, to gain access to another long-buried memory.



In his inner turmoil, he had almost forgotten about the second rider, but a distant screech brought the other man back to his mind. Sam turned his head and spotted the shape of the additional bike somewhere against the horizon, across the flat plains of Limbo. Not that he could properly tell with invisible enemies, but it seemed like the bikes were fast enough to outpace those snake creatures.



So many questions were burning on his tongue, but there was no way to voice any of them over the sound of the motor. He shook his head again at the utter insanity of it all and tried to breathe deeply, focusing on the fact that both he and Rowena were safe. For now, at least.



His already doomed attempts at stress relief came to an abrupt stop when he realized their driver was steering them directly into the cliff ahead. Every muscle in Sam's body tensed as they approached the looming wall of rock at full speed. For a moment, he considered jumping off the bike, but that was sure to hurt at this speed and he couldn't communicate with Rowena to warn her.



In contrast to every instinct of his body, his mind kept telling him there was no way this man would have gone through the trouble of saving them only to kill them and himself in a crash.



And then it was over before Sam had even come to a decision. They passed what should have been solid rock without the slightest sign of resistance and then they were inside the cliff face. The open sky was no longer visible above, replaced by the high ceiling of a cavern.



Gasping, Sam turned around the way they had come to throw a glance over his shoulder. He noticed several technical devices set up along the length of the supposed rock wall. Before he could get a good look, though, they followed a ramp further downwards until they finally came to a halt in front of a large garage door.



Their driver held out a hand against a scanning device that flashed blue with a beep loud enough to be heard even over the idling motor of their bike. The sight and sound stirred up Sam's memories even further. The door rose, clattering as it opened up the way for them to park their vehicle in a line of several others. Suddenly, everything clicked into place.



As soon as the bike came to a full stop, Sam placed a hand against the shoulder of the man in front of him.



"Mick?" the name burst from his lips in a confusing array of emotions, relief mixed with guilt at the forefront of them all. "You—you're alive?!"



Their driver turned around and removed his helmet, and sure enough, the man giving them a lopsided smile was Mick Davies.



"Not quite accurate, I'm afraid," he said, and his eyes turned black.



Gasping sharply, Sam let go of Mick's shoulder as if he'd been burned.



The hold of Rowena's arms around his chest loosened and she was the first to get off the bike, stepping around Sam to get a better look at the man in front of them.



"Sam?" she asked, and the strained quality of her voice reminded him that she'd been injured, again. And probably worse than before. "What is the meaning of this? Who is Mick?"



"He's, uh, he's—," Sam said, swallowing as his gaze flitted back and forth between the two of them while he climbed off the bike himself. "Men of Letters."



The slight widening of Rowena's eyes didn't escape his notice, neither did the way she glanced back at the now closed garage gate.



"One of the good ones," Sam hurried to add, taking a step closer to Rowena. "At least he was."



Mick held up his open palm as a sort of peace offering, and the black disappeared from his eyes, returning him to a far more unassuming look. He glanced down at the floor for a moment with the hint of a sigh. "Or tryinta be."



Sam exchanged another glance with Rowena and saw her frown.

 


"Do I have to be the one to state the obvious here?" she asked, openly retrieving the angel blade from her décolleté where she must have stowed it for the bike ride. She held Sam's gaze as he swallowed. "If it's even possible for a Man of Letters to be as good as you say, then what is he doing in Hell?"



"In my time, I've done some things I'm not proud of," Mick said, running a hand over the back of his neck. It was this gesture—so strikingly human and genuine—that sent a tremble through Sam's defensive wall, despite his bad experiences with demons in the past. Then Mick looked up, eyes filled with regret and shoulders hanging in dejection, and the wall crumbled to dust.



"Haven't we all?" Sam sighed, rubbing a hand down his face.

 

Rowena gave Sam a searching look before her posture relaxed, blade sinking down at her side.

 

Sam hadn't expected that murdering the werewolf girl would suffice for Mick's soul to go to Hell in the afterlife. Though he also couldn't say he truly understood how Anubis' Abacus worked.

 

"So, uh," Sam cleared his throat and felt the corner of his mouth tick upward in gratitude. "Thanks for the rescue, Mick."

 

The smile was returned by the other man who raised his shoulders slightly.

 

"But, what is all this?" Sam lifted his arms in a gesture that encompassed the whole garage, and he didn't even have to ask Rowena if she'd known about the existence of this secret base inside her realm because her body language screamed very loudly that she had not.



"Operation Ragnarök," Mick stated with an apologetic shrug. "I didn't pick the name."



"Whose operation?" Sam asked in sudden trepidation, noticing the way Mick's shoulders tensed.



"Originally devised by Doctor Hess," Mick said, swallowing after pronouncing the name. "Protected by secrecy of the highest tier. Except for her, only those already inside the operation knew about it."



Rowena frowned. "And when you say 'inside the operation,' you mean...," she prodded.



"Dead," Mick confirmed with a short nod.



"Wait a second," Sam said, rubbing over the bridge of his nose as he digested this information. "How long has this been going on? What's the end goal of this operation?"



"Preventing the destruction of this universe," Mick explained with another lopsided smile, and then he was cut short by the electronic beep of the garage door being opened with the handprint scanner from the outside. Rowena winced at the sound.



"Mick, are we safe here?" Sam asked with an urgent look towards the gate, placing a hand against Rowena's arm instinctively.



"As I've learned the hard way, safety is quite relative," was Mick's not very reassuring reply, and then the second motorcycle drowned out their conversation as it was being parked.



They waited in tense silence until the second rider took off his helmet, revealing himself to be none other than Arthur Ketch. Sam heard Rowena breathe out a sigh of relief and let his arm sink down. Even he had to admit he was glad to see Ketch instead of any of the other possibilities, though he'd never stopped having mixed feelings over the man.



"But I promise I'll do anything I can to keep the situation safe for you both," Mick continued as Ketch strolled over to them.



"I see you're still in the middle of the whole 'Come with me if you want to live' speech," Ketch said with a nod of greeting. "Sam. Rowena. Glad to see you made it out in one piece."



Ketch's eyes lingered on Rowena for far longer than necessary, and the accompanying smile had Sam clear his throat very loudly.



"Ketch, I'm surprised to see you here," he said. "I thought you had turned your back on the Men of Letters once and for all."



"Ah, you know, the end of the world tends to make you reconsider your life choices."



"Did the snakes give you any trouble?" Mick asked.



"Nah, I managed to shake them off somewhere in the beta quadrant. You can tell Morehead that his N-E-D worked like a charm."



Sam understood only half of that, and he was even more confused when he watched Ketch touch Mick's shoulder in a very un-Ketch-like gesture of support. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a mutiny to handle."



"Did I just hear you say 'mutiny'?" Rowena asked, and Ketch halted on his way towards the other end of the garage, throwing all of them a black-eyed smile.



"You heard quite right. The Men of Letters are at your disposal. Long live the queen."

 

~

 

Footnotes:

28 Reveal!

29 Go away!

30 Protect us!

Notes:

Here we finally are. Thank you so much for reading this far! To anyone who waited a long time for this chapter: I am so terribly sorry it took me this long. I have a tendency towards winter depression, so I didn't get much done around December and January (and chronic pain issues really do not help matters). There was also the fact that I was feeling quite intimidated by the sheer amount of research I had to do for this chapter to do the characters and canon lore justice.

I wasn't even sure in advance at which point exactly the Hell plot would stop before the next chapter break, so I had to research all Men of Letters, plus find a way to merge canon lore with real life lore about these monsters in a way that still makes them scary. Hope it all came together in a way that worked for you all. I'm excited to share these videos with you that I created as part of the chapter research (most of the videos are only accessible via these links and still hidden from the public for a few days to give readers some time to read chapter 18 without getting spoilers on character appearances):

Rowena's Story
Samwena & Destiel Parallels
Ketch's Story
Mick's Story
Mick & Castiel Parallels
British Men of Letters

Yes, SIX videos for a single chapter. I know. I'm insane. I'm never sure how many people watch these, so if you enjoyed the videos or my writing, comments truly do mean the world to me and make me happy all day long (unless the comment is you hated it, but... you know what I mean). It also helped my motivation a lot to know that Tomscat and Forestpelt were still eagerly awaiting this new chapter, even after all this time. <3

Even though it delayed this chapter even further, it turned out to be a blessing that I signed up for the DeanCas Reverse Bang months prior. When that bang suddenly started, it tore me out of my depression because I had no choice but to return to writing with that looming deadline (and an incredible artist I didn't want to let down). It was my first bang ever and the publication day of my bang story "Map to Yesterday" is coming up in three days, which I'm both excited and terrified about. So if you enjoy my writing, you'd make me happy by checking out that new story.

If you'd like an e-mail notification when it goes online, I'd be honored by user subscriptions here on AO3 (you still have to hit the "Subscribe" button there).

If e-mails aren't a good medium for you, you can also follow my Twitter account where I will post about new chapters or stories or videos.

Chapter 19: Jack

Notes:

Well... this took longer than expected. (Understatement of the year.) I hope you enjoy this chapter and that I haven't lost my mojo.

Mood song for chapter 19:
"We Have To Go" by Steve Jablonsky

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Jack blinked against the blinding white of Heaven's hallways. Returning to this place, after everything that had happened, was strange. The memory of the last time he'd been here felt so far away now, like it belonged to someone else's life. And it had been a different life. He'd died and returned since then.



Remembering the way Duma had manipulated him into doing horrible things made him ball his hands into fists. Back then, he'd been so desperate and alone, with nowhere and nobody to turn to. But that wasn't him anymore. He wouldn't blindly follow someone's plan again—not Duma's, not Billie's, not anyone's, because he had his own plan now. And Duma was gone, Cas had assured him. Jack realized he actually had no idea who was leading Heaven now in her place.



The hallway's ethereal lights flickered violently without warning, then they went out. Jack could still see enough in the darkness, but he worried if this meant that all angels were gone now, if his grandfather had made them disappear together with almost all humans.



The lights sputtered back to life and Jack exhaled in relief. From what he'd been told, Heaven would collapse entirely without any angels to power it, unleashing all of its souls on Earth. But it hadn't, not yet. So someone still had to be here. Whoever the new leader was was probably on Chuck's side instead of theirs, though. No, it wasn't Heaven's leader that Jack wanted to find, he decided with a flash of remembrance of glowing, blue eyes under his own palms.



Jack didn't know where to even start his search, and he couldn't risk alerting anyone who was still loyal to Chuck. He swallowed, turning around in a circle as the lights flickered once more. So many hallways, so many possibilities. But the longer he stayed in the middle of those empty corridors, the more likely he'd be discovered.



It would be much safer to choose a route through personal heavens. A part of him wanted nothing more than to see his mother again, so he was surprised that his legs instead carried him to the doors labeled with "W" names. It seemed to take forever to get past all those other names before he finally stood in front of the first Winchester doors, some people named Aaron and Abraham Winchester who had died a long time ago.



A lump slowly formed in Jack's throat as he advanced further down the line of doors, and his steps grew slower in fear of what he'd find. There was no door labeled 'Dean Winchester', but Jack hadn't doubted Roderick's promise that Dean's soul was still safely hidden inside that body. Not only had he felt the truth in those words, he had come to trust the demon who had been there for him when he'd been at his lowest. Dean wasn't the reason he was here.



His throat constricted when he passed the door of a Samora Winchester, but as much as he dreaded what might come next, he had to know. He closed his eyes for a moment to steady himself, then dared to look up at the small sign carrying the next name. Sandra Winchester. Jack exhaled a shivery breath he hadn't been aware of holding. No Samuel. Not a single one.



There wasn't even a shred of doubt in Jack's mind that if Sam had died, his soul would have ascended to Heaven. Sam was always so understanding, so strong and gentle at once, it was completely impossible that his bad deeds could outweigh the good ones. He had saved so many lives, his soul couldn't have been claimed by Hell. If anyone deserved a spot in Heaven, it was him. And that he wasn't here could only mean one thing: Sam was alive!



A quiet, short laugh burst free from Jack's lips while a tear of relief ran down his cheek. Roderick had been right all along. Hope wasn't lost. Jack could get both Sam and Dean back. And if Roderick was right about Sam, maybe he was also right about Cas. Maybe they could all be a family again, even after Jack had ruined it all so horribly. For a long time, he'd been hopeless that it could ever be fixed again, that he could ever belong again the way he had before. Now, though...



Jack had to believe that it was more than just an empty hope. But he had to do his part of saving the world first. Even more so now that he had certainty there was something to fight for. Despite the uproar of emotions inside of him, he needed to get out of the hallways quickly—the risk of being seen was far too high. And he realized there was something he had to do in this part of Heaven, no matter how much it hurt. Something he had to face to be able to move on. Someone who deserved his apology even more than Amara had.



He backtracked some distance in a run and hesitated when he reached the anomaly among all the doors he'd passed. This was the only one with a second line of numbers on its sign. The death year of 2019 glared at him, his biggest regret condensed into nothing more than four digits, twisting his stomach to the point of nausea.



Jack opened the door to Mary Winchester's heaven and was greeted by the sight of a vibrant park in late spring, the sun far too friendly and bright for the way his guilt was pressing against his heart. He slipped into the room and closed the door behind himself, watching it blend seamlessly into a tall green hedge.



There were a lot of people in this park, many voices overlapping in conversation. After the eerie quietness of an Earth without humans and a Heaven almost abandoned in its lack of angels, it was a shock to his senses. In front of him was a playground surrounded by colorful flower beds and blooming trees. Despite everything, Jack felt the corners of his mouth tug upwards at the sight of several children squealing in joy as they skidded down a slide.



One young boy hesitated at the top of the slide, a terrified look on his face. He wore a cerulean shirt showing a teddy bear with big, friendly letters on its stomach that declared "I WUV HUGZ". Jack let his gaze follow the direction the child was staring to where two adults stood waiting with a baby stroller a few steps away.



Mary was one of them.



She looked different. Her hair was much longer, and she wore a bright, flowing dress unlike anything Jack had ever seen her in. Like a princess from one of his storybooks. She seemed... happy. Jack lingered near the edge of the playground awkwardly, no longer sure if this had been such a good idea. How could he approach her? What could he even say after what he'd done to her?



He swallowed, frozen to his spot as much as the child was. Dean, he realized and suddenly felt like an intruder as he watched the man near Mary press a kiss to her cheek before stepping away from the stroller and towards the lower end of the slide. He crouched down there and opened his arms.



"No need to be scared, buddy. I gotcha," the man told Dean.



The look on the young child's face changed from open fear to careful hope.



"Pwomise?" Dean asked.



The man chuckled softly and confirmed with a nod, "Promise."



Dean and Jack had faced God together, they'd seen each other at their best and worst. Yet somehow, this scene seemed far more intimate than anything Dean had ever revealed of himself. Clearing his throat, Jack glanced back over to Mary. The smile on her face made the decision for him to stop intruding. Wouldn't it be selfish to tear her out of this bliss just so that he could get some peace of mind?



He turned around and began tracing back his own steps to the entrance of this heaven, young Dean's happy laughter at his back. Then the telltale sound of Heaven's power failing once more buzzed all around him. Everything turned blurry, like it did when Jack woke up from a rare deep sleep. He blinked and looked upwards to see the sky's rich blue grow paler and paler until all that was left was pure light.



Jack had to close his eyes for a moment to reorient himself in a room where nothing but white existed on all sides, blinding enough to swallow the line separating the floor from the walls. Like the Empty, he thought and felt his heart beat faster in remembrance. But white instead of black.



"You were so good with them," Mary's voice pulled him out of his thoughts, barely above a whisper, but it still echoed through the sudden quiet. "I can't believe you raised them to be hunters," she continued, stifled with emotion.



Confused, Jack turned back around, assuming he and Mary would be the only ones left in this empty space. The park was gone, all the people were gone, nothing but wisps of memory without any substance. But the man was still there. Why was he still there? Was this his heaven, too? Why wasn't his name on the door then?



"Mary... I did what I had to," the man said quietly, resigned. "To protect them. You don't understand how—"



"Don't you dare tell me I don't understand the hunting life." Mary's appearance reverted to how Jack knew her, with practical clothing and shorter, curlier hair. "How could you do this to them, John? To me? Anything... anything but this."



This wasn't—Jack really shouldn't be here for any of this. Feeling even more out of place than before, he tried to leave the room quietly.



"Who the Hell are you?"



The sharp bellow of the man's—John's—voice made Jack wince. It sounded nothing like before, when he'd been talking to Mary. John looked directly at Jack, an angry crease between his brows.



"I—this was a mistake. I was just leaving," Jack hurried to explain, but froze in his movements when Mary said his name.



"Jack?"



He'd expected Mary to hate him for what he'd done. He'd prepared himself for her anger. What he wasn't prepared for was the gentleness she still put into his name, causing tears to shoot into his eyes instantly. Had she maybe... forgotten? Heaven messed with people's memories, didn't it? As soon as she remembered, Jack was sure Mary would never say his name like that again.



"How do you know my wife?" John asked, the crease on his forehead deepening, as if he was looking for something to be furious at after that fight with Mary.



Jack took a step backwards, intimidated by how tall the aura of anger seemed to make this man. Then he forced himself to stand still. He deserved anger. And Mary deserved the truth. It was time to take responsibility for what he'd done, to face his own guilt.



"I...," he started, and had to swallow as the gathered tears freed themselves from his eyes, running down his face at the worst of all times. His voice didn't sound like his own any longer as he pressed out a hoarse, "I killed her."



Before Jack could even process what happened next, his breath was knocked out of him. He was on the floor and a stinging pain erupted on his cheek.



"John, stop it!"



Hands closed around Jack's throat and he released a miserable choking sound, only half hearing the yelling around him.



"John! It was an accident! He never meant to—would you listen to me!"



That—that couldn't be right.



I must have misheard, Jack thought deliriously. She'd never defend me if she was able to remember what I've done.



"ENOUGH!" Mary yelled, and then there was a dull thud and the pressure on Jack's throat vanished.



Jack started coughing violently enough that the edges of his vision turned black. A hand gripped his shoulder in support and helped him sit upright.



"John Winchester, did you ever stop to consider that I never wanted you to avenge me? Not then, not now."



"Mary…," Jack heard the man—John—breathe out, as if Mary's words had hit him deeply in a way Jack didn't understand. They hadn't sounded like an insult to him.



"Jack, are you all right?" Mary asked.



The gentleness was still there, it was still there, and Jack was so confused by it that he started coughing all over. When his breathing had calmed down enough for his vision to return, he noticed that Mary was crouching in front of him, shaking out her fist as if she'd hit a hard surface with it.



"I...," Jack said, his voice still hoarse from John's rough treatment of his throat. That, too, was something he deserved. "Mary...," he tried again, blinking under more tears. "Why are you so nice to me?"



"I'd damn well like to know that, too," John muttered darkly, looming up from somewhere behind Mary's crouched form and rubbing over his own cheek.



"Your soul... it's back, isn't it?" she asked, her voice even warmer than before.



Jack found it hard to breathe, and it had nothing to do with John's hands around his throat just moments ago.



"What do you mean, his soul is back?" John echoed, letting his hand sink down from the bruise slowly forming on his cheek to cross his arms instead. Jack was sure that John hated him.



Mary paid him no mind, her entire focus on Jack with those soft wrinkles around the corners of her eyes that only appeared when she looked at someone she liked. Jack couldn't manage to form any words, so he just nodded silently in response to Mary's question.



Her answering smile was radiant. So many contradictory things were happening in such a short time span that Jack found it hard to catch up. Mary's arms pulled him in, the soft flannel of her overshirt catching his tears and drying his cheeks. Tense and confused, Jack didn't know how to react at first, other than whisper what he'd longed to tell her for a full year now.



"Mary, I'm so sorry. I wish I could undo it. I'd give anything to undo it."



"I know, sweetheart. I know that wasn't you. Not the real you." Her hand drew small circles into his back. "It wasn't your fault, Jack."



He gasped in a deep breath that felt like the first he'd taken ever since Mary's death.



"Jack, you saved me from a nightmare world. And you gave up your soul to save their lives. You saved my sons. You're family, always will be."



Jack smiled against Mary's shoulder, basking in the relief spreading through his whole body that let him breathe freely again. When John's shadow fell over them as the man stepped closer, Jack lifted his head to look up and was met with another frown.



"You're telling me this scrawny kid was able to do something our Sam and Dean couldn't?"



With one more encouraging touch to Jack's shoulder, Mary let go of him and rose to her feet, positioning herself in between him and John.



"Oh, you have no idea about the things this kid can do, John," she said, and the hint of pride in her voice made Jack feel warm inside.



Following Mary's example, he supported himself with one hand flat against the unnatural white floor and stood up next to her. Somehow, his perspective on John had changed in these short moments. The man didn't seem quite as tall and threatening now as he had before, when guilt had made Jack smaller than he was.



"All my life," Jack said, "people have been telling me what I should be doing. And some of them have been lying to me, using me. But I think... I think I finally got the hang of this. I know now what I have to do without anyone telling me."



Mary's head turned, and she let a searching look run over his face at the same time as John lifted his chin, asking, "Yeah? What's that?"



"Save my family." Jack smiled, thinking about a future where they could all be together again. "And dethrone God."



He heard Mary's soft gasp nearby and saw John's eyebrows shoot upwards as the man asked, "Did you just say, dethrone God?"



"I did," Jack said, the smile still tugging at his lips.



Something in the way John was holding himself changed, his whole body tensing up as if it was reacting to a threat.



"What are you, boy?"



"I'm...," Jack tried, wondering how to answer this question that he himself had asked Dean no more than two days ago.



Mary's hand returned to his shoulder, applying soft pressure to position him behind her.



"He's a nephilim," she stated with that guarded caution from their early days in the Apocalypse World.



"I'm a Winchester," Jack replied at the same time, his words overlapping with hers. The last time he'd said this had been a display of power right before killing Michael. For a long time now, he hadn't dared to even think of himself as a Winchester, certain that he'd lost the right to that name. The written note to Roderick had been the first time he'd found the courage to combine the name with his own again.



But there had still been one missing piece to speaking it out loud, he knew that now as he felt the familiar presence of Mary beside him, a shadow of their shared time in a world torn by war and violence. Always on his side without question, ready to defend him against anyone and anything even though he was the one with the powers. She'd never cared that he was different, had always accepted him just for what he was. He'd missed her, missed how she could bandage his hurt over going through life without a mother.



The look she gave him at his statement, one corner of her mouth lifted, made him feel like he'd done something right for once. The confusing three years of his life had made him bounce back and forth between angel and human so often that he'd lost track on how to even feel about his powers. Or their absence... or half-absence. Whatever it was that he had now. But the one thing that remained, no matter what, was this, he thought as he returned Mary's smile. He'd never been prouder of the name Winchester.



A muscle twitched in John's jaw, as his eyes wandered between Jack and Mary.



"You have got to be kidding me," the man finally pressed out. "Mary, he's not human. He killed you, for Christ's sake. He's a monster, he's the thing I taught our boys to hunt. How could he be a Winchester?"



Jack swallowed, trying his best not to let this man drown his newfound hope. He wasn't a monster.



"Because he's family," Mary stated simply, lifting her chin. Jack knew her well enough to tell she wouldn't accept 'no' as a possible answer. And he'd never appreciated her more than in this moment, in the certainty that he still belonged despite what he'd done. Sam and Dean had forgiven him. Mary had forgiven him, incredible as that was.



She reached for the chain she'd been wearing around her neck ever since Jack had known her, and opened it to place the ring on her open palm. Lost in thought, she stared at the piece of jewelry. Jack had never asked her about it, but now he realized what it was. A wedding ring, like the ones from the movies, though he thought people were supposed to wear it on their finger.



"John, why are you like this?" she asked without looking at either of them, and her voice had a faraway quality to it. "You aren't listening to anything I say. I don't recognize you anymore. It's like I don't even know you."



John sighed and suddenly seemed very tired as he rubbed a hand over the bridge of his nose. The gesture reminded Jack of Sam.



"Maybe you don't," he finally admitted. "Maybe life has thrown me into a meat grinder and what came out the other side isn't the man you knew. Isn't the father I should've been."



Jack hadn't wanted to interrupt the moment, sensing the importance of the exchange. Though time was maybe in short supply at the end of the world, he could fall back on the mental safety net of the knowledge that Roderick was watching over Dean. The demon might not have said it with words, but what he'd shown had convinced Jack that Dean mattered to Roderick almost as much as he did to him.



Now that the topic had circled back around to Mary and John's sons, though, Jack saw his opening.



"Sam and Dean, they need our help," he said, and became the focus of attention within a fraction of a second.



But before anyone had a chance to break the tense silence, Heaven's power returned, flickering back to life with several low thrums. The white walls disappeared, and suddenly Jack was inside a hospital room, standing in front of a bed that Mary was sitting in with a newborn cradled in both arms. John stood next to her, both of them smiling so widely at each other that the scene radiated nothing but pure happiness.



"Are you a doctor?" Mary asked him when she looked up from the bundle in her arms.



The sudden change of scenery was bad enough, but Jack felt sick to his stomach at the thought that Mary had forgotten everything that just happened, in all its significance. That somehow Mary's forgiveness had been taken away from him again, lost in the stream of time.



His boot hit a small item on the ground that clinked against the floor tiles. He picked up the gold ring and closed his fist around it. Mary and John both looked at him expectantly and Jack cleared his throat, thoughts racing.



Before, he’d been so sure that leaving Mary in her personal heaven was the right thing to do. But Heaven was filled with lies. Nothing but foam that swallowed who people really were. The good times lost their meaning without the bad ones, he understood that much now. He felt so much closer to his family now, felt complete in the knowledge that he had their forgiveness.



And he appreciated each of them so much more that his biggest wish currently was just to have them all in one place again. Mary was family. And Jack hated lies, hated how lies always seemed to make everything so much worse than it already was. So he gifted her truth instead.



"Mary, it's me," he said softly. Confusion ran over her face, so he added, "Jack."



"Honey, do you know him?" John asked pleasantly. "A friend of my wife's is always welcome."



Mary frowned, though there was something hesitant in her gaze, on the brink of memory. Jack approached the bed and placed the golden ring into her palm, then sealed the truth with his fingers around Mary’s hand, willing her to remember.



Her eyes widened at the touch of the metal against her skin, and she gasped.



"Heaven… we're in Heaven. I'm… dead," she recounted like someone waking from a long sleep.



That statement made John let go of her shoulder and stumble backwards against the wall. Mary's free hand shot out to grasp Jack's sleeve in urgency.



"Jack! Sam and Dean, where are they? Are they okay?"



"They're alive," Jack said and swallowed. "But not exactly… okay. Dean is hurt. I came here to find someone who—"



The door to the hospital corridor burst open and Jack fell silent at the sight of a man wearing a golden cape and a mask that covered most of his head in blue, except for a red-golden pattern of flames in front of his face.



"Kiddo, I don't know who you are, but they're onto you," the man shouted towards him. "The God Squad is almost here."



Jack felt Mary's gaze on him and looked over to her, finding a mirror of the complete bafflement that he felt. So she didn't know this strange man either, and he certainly wasn't part of this memory.



John still stood with his back to the wall, patting down the side of his pants. The movement was something that Jack had seen so many times on Sam and Dean, a weapon didn't have to be present for him to know that's what John had been reaching for. John cursed under his breath when his fingers closed around thin air.



The man in the cape had rushed over to the side of the room in the meantime, drawing a circle and several shapes inside of it with chalk he must have been carrying.



"Ain't got no time to waste, come on!" he called out to them, pushed his hand flat against the wall, and a door opened where there hadn't been one before. With a sweep of his cape, he disappeared into the new tunnel.



Jack's whispered "We can't let the angels catch me, I'm the world's last hope," was what finally tore Mary out of her stupor. She jumped out of the bed, still holding the baby wrapped in a tiny blanket in one arm while pulling Jack with her into the newly opened tunnel with the other.



John followed right after. The moment he closed the weird wall-door behind all of them, darkness fell. Jack's eyes always needed some time to adjust, but he knew now that the others were even worse off without any of his angel senses. The caped stranger seemed entirely unbothered by it, though, the steps of his run reverberating through the tunnel.



Now it was Jack who pulled Mary with him, deciding he'd have to be their eyes, like he'd been Dean's on the way to the farmhouse. For Mary's and John's sake, Jack didn't run at full speed, but the stranger was so far ahead now that Jack called out to him:



"Wait!" Then he decided to voice the question written onto all of their faces. "Who are you?"



"Call me…" The sound of steps ahead stopped just long enough for the answer to echo through the darkness dramatically. "Dr. Badass."



~

Notes:

John Winchester is a very... controversial topic within the fandom. I absolutely do not apologize or condone anything he has done to his sons, though I still wanted to depict him as a complex character instead of a one-dimensional one. I can only hope that worked, and that my depiction of him wasn't too upsetting for anyone because that's far from my intention. I'm actually nervous as Hell to put this online after such a long time. Please be kind in the comments. It was quite the struggle for me to write John at all, and he almost made me give up on this chapter.

Of course I have some character videos for you all that I created during my character research for this chapter:

The Story of Mary
The Story of John
Mary - To the Moon and Back (with lyrics)
Mary - To the Moon and Back (without lyrics)
The Story of Ash

Empty Earth Art:
two different covers and character posters

You can follow my Tumblr or Twitter for update notifications.

Chapter 20: Castiel

Notes:

I've created some art for Empty Earth before writing this chapter:
two different covers and character posters
(I can't draw, though, so all of it is just created out of photos from the show.)

Mood song for chapter 20:
"Inflection" by Mitchell Tanner

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

During their escape from the Empty, communication with Dean had felt so easy, so natural. It had almost managed to make him forget about his deep-seated worry over a future where his feelings had been lain out in the open for Dean to see. For him to know the secret that Castiel had kept so closely guarded for years.

 

Over time, keeping that part of himself restrained had become second nature to him. It had been an immense relief to finally drop all caution. To put into words the truth that had been weighing him down for so long but that also filled him with purpose like nothing else in his existence had ever managed to do.

 

In that moment, saying it out loud had been incredibly freeing—if only because he'd died knowing that which he'd always taken for a dark, shameful secret to be hidden away would be able to save Dean's life in the end. He was aware what a double-edged sword the truth was, but at the time it hadn't mattered.

 

He'd taken that risk in the certainty that he'd never have to face the consequences. That he'd never have to see the rejection in Dean's eyes, because he knew fully well that sight would have the capacity to ruin him.

 

All of that stopped mattering, though, the moment Dean was thrown into deadly peril yet another time. In the face of Chuck's wrath, Castiel hadn't dared to hope he'd find Dean alive.

 

Well, perhaps 'alive' wasn't an accurate reflection of their current reality either. But at the very least, Dean was in a state that was within Castiel's power to fix.

 

He placed one hand against Dean's cheek, the other over his shoulder. His own relief was too overwhelming to remember his temperance. Nothing mattered other than to mend, to fix, to heal. To restore the person who had taught him what it meant to care.

 

So he allowed his grace to flood this body that housed a soul so vibrant he could barely ever keep himself from staring. After several hours spent in terrified worry over Dean's fate, this connection of grace and soul satisfied his deepest craving.

 

Lost in the moment, he dragged out the touch much longer than necessary. He could have sworn there was a sensation of longing coming from the body in front of him. Far too vulnerable to this kind of wishful thinking, he got carried away. Reveling in the very human sensation of warm skin under his fingertips, he let the pad of a thumb glide over Dean's cheek in a half-circle.

 

His grace had already finished its work, so there was no possible justification for this other than calling it what it was—a caress.

 

When the touch ended on the curve of Dean's lower lip, the sound of his gasp broke through the veil of unreality around them.

 

"Dean?" Castiel asked, hesitant, horrified that he'd crossed a line that should have been left untouched. But it was too late to undo his own foolishness.

 

Dean's eyes opened in shock and he flinched under the touch.

 

Castiel had always known that hoping for anything other than this outcome was delusional. But now that the moment of certainty was here, it hurt even more than he could possibly have imagined.

 

It was all he could manage to keep himself together long enough to help Dean back to his feet, though he took special care to avoid any further eye contact. Once he was assured of Dean's well-being, he let go of the hand he was holding, reminded of the searing sensation of an angel banishing sigil.

 

Feeling utterly incapable to face this situation even a second longer, his first instinct was to take flight. He couldn't, of course, not with wings that hadn't been functional ever since the Fall. That only served to remind him of all the other ways he'd failed—both as an angel and as a friend.

 

Shrouded in the shame that had become his permanent companion, he fled into the depths of his new vessel instead—this other version of Dean that was so much like his namesake, yet nothing like him at all.

 

With the painful certainty of rejection he had now, the memory of the short time he had shared the original Dean's body inside the Empty stung too much to even consider. The Empty's stifling hopelessness had probably rendered him even more susceptible to figments of his imagination.

 

He should have known better. He had, in fact, known better just before his death. There had never been a moment of doubt then that what he truly wanted would forever be outside his reach. He thought he'd come to terms with that a long time ago.

 

Erm, Castiel?

 

The question tore into his spiral of regret, reminding him of where he was. He hadn't even taken any precautions to dampen his emotions. Years had passed since James Novak's death, and he'd gotten quite used to being alone inside a body since then. Long stretches of silence without any voices in his head—angelic or otherwise—had become the norm for him. There was a certain calming safety to be found in that kind of solitude. So suddenly being robbed of that option was confusing to the point of overwhelm.

 

He should be thankful that this alternate Dean had taken over the conversation with the others without question, granting him a moment of reprieve that he'd needed so urgently. But not being alone with his thoughts also forced him into a spotlight he didn't want at a time like this, drowning in an inner turmoil he had no control over. Angels weren't made for feelings of such intensity. Or feelings in general. Now he understood why.

 

It's probably weird to ask this question to an angel, but are you… all right? the alternate Dean prodded when no answer was forthcoming.

 

No, was all Castiel managed to reply, instantly regretting his own brusqueness. This man had not only offered him blind trust, he'd also enabled him to save Dean's life with it.

 

In the past, there'd been countless occasions leaving Castiel with the impression he'd thoroughly failed at human interaction. Strangely enough, this wasn't one of those times. There was no trace of affront in the connection streaming between them, merely genuine worry he didn't deserve.

 

I'm—I'm honestly not sure what just happened, the alternate Dean thought, openly sharing his confusion. But I can sense you're upset. If there's any way I can help…

 

I'm afraid I'm beyond help, Castiel sent back. No longer completely detached from his surroundings, he felt the corner of their mouth tick upwards at that.

 

I'm far from an angel specialist. Heck, I wasn't even aware that you guys are real. But I do know there's mythology on angel domains—the Angel of Truth, the Angel of Justice. I've just never heard of the Angel of Sarcasm before.

 

Quite the oversight, Castiel replied, another bare hint of a smile playing around their lips. To his surprise, this nonsensical exchange actually calmed him enough to think clearly again, despite how deeply Dean's rejection had hurt him.

 

"Where is Jack? Where is Sam?" Dean burst out, fully pulling Castiel back into a reality that didn't offer any time to wallow in misery. Not when the lives of Jack and Sam and the entirety of humankind were at stake. It was bad enough that Castiel had already wasted as much time as he had in his pathetic breakdown.

 

"I'm right h—," the alternate Sam started, then cut himself off at a long, silent look from his brother. "Oh."

 

"Jack was with me." Though it was Dean's voice forming the words, there wasn't a second of doubt in Castiel's mind that the speaker was Crowley. Their different speech patterns were as obvious as night and day to him. "Well, I suppose I should say with us—when he suddenly decided to run off on his own on a rather suicidal mission that has 'Winchester' written all over it. You really should take better care what you teach the lad. Wouldn't want him to become a miniature Squirrel or Moose, now would we?"

 

"What's going on? Why is he replying to his own question?" the alternate Sam asked of them in a staged whisper.

 

Fair question, actually, the alternate Dean fell back into their mindlink instead of replying out loud. Wait, is the other me sharing with an angel, too? Is that why you—

 

Entirely unwilling to witness the end of that sentence, Castiel hurried to say out loud for both brothers to hear, "It's a demon."

 

With a speed that shouldn't be humanly possible, the alternate Sam pulled his flask out of his jacket another time, and it was all Castiel could do to grab his wrist and hold him back from splashing holy water straight into Dean's face.

 

The sensation of deep dismay running through his vessel didn't exactly help matters either.

 

The other me is possessed?! Why aren't we taking the three steps then, holy water followed by an excorcism and—

 

"This particular demon is—" Castiel tried to explain and watched Dean's eyebrow shoot upwards in challenge, no doubt caused by Crowley again. Closing their eyes with a slow exhale that barely managed to suppress his wish to be anywhere but at this specific place at this specific time, Castiel finished his sentence. "a—a friend."

 

He didn't have to see anything to hear the triumphant little snort coming from Dean's body. "Knew you'd warm up to me eventually. Only took you all of a decade, but what's a failed Apocalypse or two among friends, eh?"

 

A flare of betrayal poisoned their mindlink over the demonic revelation. The alternate Sam chose that very moment to pull his hand out of their grip forcefully, yelling in audible disdain, "Friends with a demon! Dean Henry, you have got to be kidding! Do you even—"

 

"Racists, the lot of them," Crowley muttered in Dean's voice.

 

Though Castiel's patience was wearing really thin given the circumstances surrounding this completely absurd situation, he took another deep breath, then opened their eyes again. He was faced with hazel eyes staring at him in accusation that quickly morphed into a mixture of shock and awe.

 

"Wait a second, you aren't Dean, are you?" Sam whispered, taking a backwards step. "You're—you're—"

 

"Castiel," he confirmed with a nod and held out a hand that Sam ignored. "I'm sorry that the circumstances of our meeting aren't more pleasant, but I'm afraid this is all we have."

 

"What did you do to my brother?" Sam inquired, throwing a quick glance at the flask of holy water in his hand, apparently not having given up on the idea just yet to use it on at least one person present.

 

"He hasn't done anything to me, Samuel," the alternate Dean injected himself into the conversation, though Castiel could feel a trepidation rolling off of him that hadn't been there before. Trust broken. It pained him that he'd ruined this, too.

 

I'm sorry, Dean. I can only imagine how confusing all of this must be.

 

So you're the Angel of Understatement, too.

 

"I'm quite fine, don't worry about me," the alternate Dean said out loud. "Sharing with this angel isn't too bad."

 

Sam's eyes narrowed, but he let his hand holding the flask sink down slowly.

 

"This demon is what kept Dean alive long enough for us to save him," Castiel tried to explain. "And while he may be a demon, he isn't the enemy—not anymore. Certainly not when God is attempting to destroy the entirety of creation."

 

He could actually feel the suspicion in their mind crumble, allowing for the miracle of trust to float between them again.

 

I guess the old rules really don't apply anymore once you've seen your first universe explode, the alternate Dean conceded, releasing a sigh. Oh, brave new world.

 

Against all odds, Castiel felt himself react to that with a brief smile, once more impressed at the open-mindedness and ability to adapt that seemed to be inherent to any version of Dean.

 

"The name's Crowley. I'm the ex-King of Hell, enchanté, yadda yadda. I'd give you my business card, but I must have run out of cards somewhere between my resurrection and the end of the bloody world!"

 

Dean rolled his eyes at the words that had just come out of his mouth. Castiel couldn't agree more.

 

"Since I can just hear the gears clicking behind that thick moose skull of yours," Crowley continued with a nod towards Sam. "I'll do us all a favor and cut this short before you break something: Yes, we're five people with only three bodies. Yes, I'm a demon. No, you shouldn't slosh that water into my face if you value that flask. Or the hand attached to it."

 

Sam threw his head back with a scandalized sound, but at least the situation didn't seem to be escalating any further because he did stow the flask back into the pocket of his jacket.

 

That is one charming demon. Is he always like this?

 

Yes, Castiel admitted with a sigh. Yes, he is.

 

"It's my face! And not helping, Crowley," Dean groaned. "Can we move this along, please? Less drama, more facts. You're the last one who saw Jack. Where the Hell is he? And is Sam with him?"

 

"The only one who knows any details about what happened to the lumbering giant you call a brother is Jack. Last I know, the lad wandered off to find someone to heal your hapless wreck of a body. Which was completely unnecessary because I correctly predicted that our dear feathered friend here would find his way back to you sooner rather than later, because he always does."

 

Castiel met Dean's eyes at that comment, certain it was really Dean, not Crowley, staring back at him over the distance between them. Suddenly feeling like their throat was running dry, he swallowed and averted their gaze, trying his hardest to ignore the stinging feeling in their chest and focus on the question of Jack's whereabouts instead.

 

"It's not like an Apocalypse or two could have been prevented if anyone here ever listened to me," Crowley finished with raised voice.

 

"He prayed to me," Castiel stated quietly, shivering at the memory of the desperation behind Jack's last words to him, spoken in the belief that Castiel himself was dead.

 

"What? Why didn't you say something sooner?" Dean asked, and Castiel ran even colder at the way Dean's hardened voice reminded him of the last fight they'd had. Why does that something always seem to be you?

 

"Dean," Castiel breathed, feeling more powerless than ever before. "I didn't say anything because the prayer didn't contain any information on his plan. All he mentioned was that he—and I'm quoting here—is about to do something stupid, and that he hopes to be forgiven if it goes wrong." Something always seems to go wrong.

 

"Please." Dean's intonation shifted completely, indicating that the speaker was Crowley now. "Take your lovers' quarrel elsewhere, preferably the moon. But after we've made sure Jack doesn't get himself killed."

 

"What's it to you?" Dean shot back.

 

"What, I'm not allowed to have friends?" Crowley asked, earning an eyeroll from Dean and a squint from Castiel. He truly couldn't fathom how Jack should have become friends with Crowley of all people, though he supposed it was in line with the way Jack had spoken of the demon in his prayer. "Sue me, but I care about the lad in all his damned cluelessness."

 

"All right, ENOUGH of this!" Sam called out, running a hand over his face and through his hair, as this version of Sam was wont to do. "Would anyone mind explaining who this Jack even is, and why it matters so much that we find him?"

 

"He's their son, Samuel," Castiel felt their lips shape the words without his own interference.

 

"Wait, Dean, you knew? Why am I the only one constantly kept in the dark about everything?"

 

Without any prior experience with vessel sharing, the alternate Dean didn't even seem to attempt to wall off his emotions, and the full force of his guilt was tangible to Castiel. Flashes of a fight that must have happened in the other universe jumped to the forefront of their mind, but they didn't make much sense to him without any context.

 

"Not you two as well," Crowley groaned. "This is worse than a soap opera. With all this unbearable bickering going on, I'd smoke out of here faster than a rabid rat if it wasn't for the kid. He's better than the bloody lot of us combined."

 

Castiel had never heard the demon say anything truer than this statement.

 

"Can't argue with that," Dean sighed tiredly. "So, Jack wanted to—what, find someone who wouldn't sell us out to Chuck, with enough mojo to heal me?"

 

Castiel couldn't help but think if only he'd reached this place sooner, he could have stopped Jack. He hated himself for how long it had taken him to get here after all the time he'd wasted with several miserably failed communication attempts to gain a vessel.

 

You really have a tendency to take the blame for everything, don't you? the alternate Dean asked him, and Castiel actually winced, unaware he'd shielded his thoughts so little that they'd break through like this.

 

Only for things I could have prevented, Castiel thought back at him. If something happened to Jack, I won't ever—

 

The warmth swirled between them again, hesitant and soothing at once.

 

We'll find him.

 

Touched beyond measure by the comfort he hadn't expected, Castiel smiled slightly in gratitude. He couldn't quite stop their eyes from wandering over to Dean, and the smile died on his lips at a dark look from him that persisted until Crowley took over again.

 

"Headache-inducing squabbling aside," the demon cleared his throat, "I think we can all agree on the next step to take here. With Earth having drawn the short straw in a divine tantrum, there's only one plausible location that Jack would have gone to for help…"

 

Castiel and Dean exchanged another look and nodded simultaneously.

 

"Heaven," Dean said at the same time as Castiel stated, "The Empty."

 

They frowned at each other, though Crowley quickly put a stop to their eye contact again by pushing Dean aside for a dramatic hand gesture.

 

"Can't believe Earth lasted as long as it did. Hell. It's obviously Hell!"

 

"This is ridiculous," Sam huffed, adjusting his scarf. "This team is highly dysfunctional. Who even is our squad leader? How are we supposed to save this world if none of you can agree on anything? When our world ended, at least we had an escape plan."

 

"How about we split up?" the alternate Dean suggested in a bout of diplomacy that Castiel was sure this group urgently needed, with either Crowley or Dean throwing murderous looks Sam's way for his comment. Most likely both of them. "That way we could follow all leads at once?"

 

The suggestion sounded more than reasonable, so Castiel was surprised when Dean suddenly approached them, barely suppressed anger visible behind every step.

 

"Listen, maybe you're a vessel now or whatever. Big fucking news. But I won't let you drag Cas back into the Empty! Dude only just got out of there, and I'm not letting him anywhere near that place anytime soon, vessel or not."

 

"Dean, I'm perfectly capable of making my own decisions," Castiel frowned, in equal measures confused and annoyed by the intensity of Dean's reaction. He was well aware that Dean's trust in him had been shattered time and time again. But despite everything, Dean had to know that Castiel would do anything within his power to ensure that Jack didn't come to harm.

 

"Whoa there, calm down, fellow," the alternate Dean said, taking a step back from his namesake. "I don't even know what the Empty is. I was just—"

 

"Exactly! You got no frigging clue what you're talking about," Dean said, jabbing a finger against their chest. "So do us all a favor and shut the Hell up!"

 

"Dean, this is very uncalled for," Castiel said with a glance down towards the hand pressing against their jacket. "My past mistakes have nothing to do with—"

 

"Get your hands off my brother, or you will face the consequences!" Sam proclaimed, building himself up to his full height next to them.

 

"BLOODY HELL!" Crowley screamed, stunning everyone else into silence. "Didn't think that was possible, but you lot just ruined twins for me forever! If I wanted to watch daytime TV, I'd do that in front of a goddamned screen! Do whatever it is you're doing there, but I'll go find Jack."

 

Dean's head was thrown backwards and his mouth opened wide to release a cloud of red smoke towards the gloomy sky. The smoke lingered above them for a moment longer, then shot towards the edge of the forest.

 

Now devoid of any outside influence, the face directly in front of their own was so painfully Dean's that Castiel ached with it. The intensity boiling behind Dean's eyes reminded him again of the worst fight they'd ever had. He didn't know how they had ended up in the middle of a repeat loop of that. Even less did he know how they could find their way out of it.

 

Completely unable to come up with the right thing to say, he held Dean's gaze, wishing for things between them to fall back to what they'd been before he'd ruined their friendship forever. He still couldn't find it in him to regret his confession, though—not when it was the reason that Dean was standing here in front of him, very much alive and breathing heavily.

 

A few more seconds ticked by like that, with neither of them willing to break either the eye contact or the silence. Then Dean turned around without so much as a single word and stomped off vaguely in the same direction Crowley had taken.

 

Castiel felt like he could barely breathe, overwhelmed by the prospect of a bleak future without Dean's friendship, and drowning in his worry about Jack and Sam and everyone he'd been forced to leave behind in the collapsing Empty. The stinging pain in their chest threatened to make a forceful return, and the only thing that prevented it was another thin stream of that soothing warmth reaching out for him.

 

"That… went well," the alternate Dean said with faked cheerfulness to the sound of rustling leaves and retreating footsteps in the distance.

 

~

Notes:

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Chapter 21 (Rowena POV) and half of 22 (Jack POV) are already written, I just have to figure out if all events line up the way I need them to for the next Team Free Will chapter in 23.

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Chapter 21: Rowena

Notes:

I think I've managed to finish the next Team Free Will chapter (23), so I can finally release chapters 21 and 22 to the wild after involuntarily holding them back from you all for so long. My always anxious self hopes you'll enjoy this story's first full-chapter Rowena POV! <3

Mood song for chapter 21:
"End of Days" by Cézame Trailers

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

If there was one thing Rowena hadn't expected, it was finding herself inside another Men-of-Letters compound. The organization had a predictable tendency to stick to the same basic layout for their buildings, whether they were located in America, Europe—or Hell, apparently.

 

Only that the Winchesters had somehow managed to wrap theirs into an air of lived-in homeliness that shouldn't be possible for something as bland as a bunker without much decor. Perhaps it was the out-of-time interior ripped straight from a decade she still remembered but most humans didn't. Or perhaps it was caused by mere association with the bunker's inhabitants, by the way they'd started to welcome her into their home like no one else had done in a very long time.

 

This hell base with its uniform hallways didn't have a sliver of that homeliness, though, dredging up unpleasant memories of her last visit to Britain that sent a shiver down her spine. She'd died in one of these nondescript bunkers, after the torture had been dragged out for hours or perhaps days. Who could even tell anymore with such things? Back then, she'd saved herself with her magic, supported by some clever negotiating.

 

The subsequent terrors she'd faced at the hands of Lucifer and Hell's own torture masters certainly managed to make her time with the British Men of Letters pale in comparison. But still—the memory didn't exactly make her feel safe inside this hidden base. The enmity between the Men of Letters and witchkind ran too deep, spanning centuries worth of death and prosecution.

 

The knowledge that she didn't even have her magic to fall back on if something went awry this time was a grasp of coldness in her neck. These corridors matched the ones from her memory far too closely for comfort, whispering of how helpless she'd been during the frenzied run for her life back then. How she was even more helpless now, without her powers. Nobody had made any attempt to disarm her, and she was glad for it, lifting the angel blade a little higher in a semblance of safety.

 

She sensed a lingering gaze on her and looked up from her morose thoughts to be met with Sam's eyes, softening at whatever he'd seen on her face. It should probably worry her how proficient he'd gotten at reading her—that she'd even allowed anyone close enough to be able to. But when dimples appeared on his cheeks in the shadow of a smile, she couldn't find it in herself to listen to that worry.

 

This—this thing between them was new territory for her. Loath as she was to admit ignorance, she didn't have the slightest idea how to handle it. After the centuries she'd lived, there weren't all that many things left that still had the ability to throw her for a loop like this.

 

She wasn't a stranger to physical desire, of course. That was something that could be easily dealt with. (Why they hadn't already years ago, when she'd still been alive, was a question she didn't look at too closely.) Even the new addition of these strange flutters somewhere in the pit of her stomach wasn't unpleasant, exactly. She could probably grow used to those, given some time to adjust.

 

But there were other, far more precarious aspects to this which actually scared the hell out of her. These last few years, she'd proven that the things she was willing to do when Sam Winchester's life was threatened were beyond ridiculous. She'd accumulated quite the illustrious collection of insanities, from offering her body to an archangel, to storming into hopeless battles headfirst—whether it was the warded house of one of the old witch families or the torture chambers of a Hell in rebellion—to willingly jumping into her own demise.

 

Worst of all, she didn't even regret any of it! She clearly couldn't be trusted to make rational choices around this man. Especially not when it came to trusting him. After all the disappointment and hurt of over three hundred years spent without anyone to trust, she really shouldn't start with it now. But it seemed she was unable to stop herself from doing it anyway.

 

As they were led around a corner into yet another hallway, ever deeper into the belly of the beast, Sam's hand nudged against the back of hers. It was inconspicuous enough to be passed off as an accident, but with a single look into his face, she knew better than to think it was. Proficient at reading her as he may have been, that skill ran both ways.

 

She turned her hand around just enough for the tips of their fingers to brush, causing another one of those barely there smiles to run over his face. Of course they weren't holding hands in front of all of these Men-of-Letter demons, though. That would be ludicrous.

 

She'd been a queen. And perhaps she would be one again.

 

But also, they weren't quite not holding hands either. The gray areas of in-betweens had always been their strongest suit anyway.

 

"The infirmary," the man named Mick announced, in that working-class accent she'd never heard from another Man of Letters as of yet. It made him instantly just a tad more likable to her than the rest of his kind. Though she still hadn't quite made up her mind about this man, Sam seemed to trust him. And that spoke volumes. Well, that and the little fact he'd come to save the both of them. Otherwise, their hopeless situation would have meant certain death for Sam—and an eternity in Hell's torture chambers for her, as soon as this illusory body would have given up on her to be replaced by the next one.

 

In a time where even Death was dead, she couldn't be sure what would have happened to Sam's soul. But she had a sneaking suspicion they never would have seen each other again. She risked curling her fingers around his more obviously for a moment, then let go before they stepped through the infirmary door one after the other. Her muscles still tensed up whenever one of these air-locked doors shut behind her with a hiss that sounded too much like finality for her taste.

 

"We aren't exactly stocked for human needs, I'm afraid," Mick said with a lop-sided grin. "Not with everyone in this operation wearing black eyes. You're quite the anomaly in Hell, Sam—being alive and all that."

 

"Not only in Hell," Rowena pointed out and Sam huffed out a tired breath.

 

"There's that, yes," Mick conceded and fell silent for a moment, most likely dwelling on the disappearance of humankind on Earth. "I'd give you the full tour, but I reckon that can wait until you both got your wounds tended to. I'll send for our medic, and in the meantime, I'll see if I can't find a bite or two for you somewhere on the premises. This operation has been strictly need-based under Dr. Hess, but eating's a habit that's hard to get rid of. Maybe someone snuck something in."

 

"Thanks, Mick," Sam said, and the demon turned to leave with a nod, but was stopped by the hunter's hesitant addition. "And, er…" Mick lifted his eyebrows in silent question until Sam finished his statement. "It's good to see you again."

 

Rowena thought the genuine smile on the man's face had a droll quality to it. As soon as the door hissed shut behind him, she leaned over to ask Sam quietly, "You know this member of the British Men of Letters how, exactly?"

 

"I—" Sam began and pain flared up in his eyes before he averted them, staring down at his hands instead and clearing his throat. "I think I got him killed."

 

She hated seeing him like this, reminded of how she'd found him in the palace not long ago, internally crushed beyond recognition. There'd barely been anything left of him, none of that unshakeable hope that made him stand out among people in general and hunters in specific. He usually carried enough of it to suffice for the both of them.

 

So before she could think better of it, she'd already reached out a hand, placing it against the tattered sleeve of his jacket. Sam looked up and it took a long moment until the corners of his mouth twitched in a smile. It was a thin one, but it was enough to make her forget where they were—at least until the door opened with another sudden hiss that let her flinch and pull her hand back hastily.

 

She wasn't sure what kind of medic she'd expected from a demonic Men-of-Letters compound—but it certainly wasn't the bespectacled young man with his hair in wild disarray who gave them a nervous smile.

 

"Oh my God! It really is true! I'm so sorry, there wasn't any kind of advance warning, or I would have—" He swallowed, almost stumbling over his words while giving them a slight bow. "It—it's such an honor, your Majesties!"

 

If there was one thing that Rowena wasn't feeling right now, it was majestic. She chanced a glance down from her rain-soaked, bloodied and torn dress to her bare feet. Her hair couldn't possibly be in better shape than the rest of her. A quick exchange of glances with Sam confirmed that he was taken aback by the honorific even more than she was.

 

"I—I'm not—" Sam objected, though the overly excited medic didn't pay his words much heed.

 

"I've read so much about both of you in our Information Centre, but I never thought we'd meet in person!" He took off his glasses for a swift polish with his lab coat, and Rowena used the moment to give Sam an amused shrug.

 

One thing was certain—this day was improving rapidly, because being treated like a queen was so much better than being a fugitive inside a dank cavern. And whatever was happening here right now, it had managed to replace the pained look on Sam's face with utter confusion. That, too, qualified as an improvement.

 

She sat up a little straighter and ran a hand through her hair in a probably doomed attempt to salvage what she could of her outward appearance. "We were told you're the medic of this establishment?"

 

The man put his glasses back on with an audible gasp. "I'm so sorry, where are my manners! Jonathan Quake, medical student at Kendricks Academy. Or, well, that's what I used to be when I was still—you know." He frowned for a moment, then shook his head at himself. "I'm at your service, my Queen!"

 

"Well then, if you're a medic, you've got a job to do, don't you?" she asked, dramatically letting herself sink down on one of the stretchers. "We were the victims of a vile ambush!"

 

The events of the last few days had irrevocably changed something inside of her, she felt it in her bones. Regardless, falling back into her role of queen came to her easily enough.

 

She could have freed the more imposing side of her rulership, as fear had proven to be a rather effective method of controlling Hell. This young lad was already nervous enough as it was, though, and she had a feeling that making him even more nervous wouldn't do them any favors—especially if a mere student was the very best this base had to offer.

 

And she definitely wanted Sam's injuries taken care of better than what they'd been able to do with his waning magic in a state of complete exhaustion, with medical supplies consisting of nothing but strips of cloth cut from her dress. Sam might well be the last human alive in all of creation, and she had every intention of keeping him that way. And she'd bloody well use whatever resources they had at their disposal to accomplish that goal.

 

Their so-called medic approached her on the stretcher and put on a pair of thin gloves before he hesitantly pulled aside the torn fabric covering her stomach. At the sight of the deepest of the clawmarks she'd suffered in their desperate fight for survival, the young man paled visibly and let go of the bloodied dress as if he'd been burned.

 

"Oh, dear," he murmured.

 

Rowena lifted an eyebrow in question. "What's the matter? I'm already dead, this injury can't possibly be lethal. And I've been moving about with it just fine."

 

"Sorry. I'm sorry, your Majesty. It's just—it's a lot of blood."

 

Barely able to keep her mask of dignified seriousness upright in the face of a squeamish Man-of-Letters demon of all things, she inquired, "You are pursuing the medical sciences, are you not?"

 

"I—well, yes. But my research was focused on the differences in genetic make-up between humans and monsters. It was all lab work, you see. I don't usually—"

 

Dabbing his forehead with the sleeve of his coat, he turned around and began rummaging through a shelf.

 

"PETER!" he called out with a suddenness and volume that caused both Sam and her to flinch. "E—excuse me," he stammered, barely even meeting her gaze, before he rushed out of the door. "What happened to our bandage supply?" they heard him yell through the hallway before the door hissed shut another time, locking them out of the conversation with someone unseen.

 

"How is this guy a demon?" Sam whispered towards her.

 

"Or a Man of Letters," she returned, recalling the unpleasantness of basically every time she'd been in contact with one of their kind—present company excluded, of course. She'd never truly seen the Winchesters as Men of Letters anyway. After a moment of consideration, she added, "Or a medic, for that matter," causing Sam to exhale a huff of amusement.

 

It was good to see that barely-there grin on his face another time, keeping their minds on anything other than the things they'd lost.

 

Holding the trophy of several packages of gauze in his arms, their royal medic returned to the infirmary, an apologetic expression twitching on his face.

 

"What is the meaning of this disarray?" Rowena asked with all the queenliness she could muster. "I expect our emergency supplies to be within reach at all times."

 

Sam gave her one of his patented 'What are you doing?' looks, to which she just reacted with a nonchalant tilt of her chin. If this young medic awaited a queen, she could certainly give him one. Though magic wasn't at her disposal currently, expectations could be wielded like an aura of power as well.

 

"I'm so sorry, your Highness," Jonathan replied, a blush running over his face as he placed the newly acquired supplies on a small table nearby. "You see, things have been quite messy since the, er—"

 

"Mutiny?" Sam offered.

 

"Yes. That," the man nodded, apparently noticing only then that Sam was still standing near her stretcher. "If you would take a seat, your Majesty, I'll get to—"

 

Sam grimaced, never one for appreciating the fun of playing a part the way she did.

 

"Please stop calling me that."

 

"But I thought—your alliance with the Queen—and you're the Boy King of Hell?" Jonathan stuttered quite incoherently.

 

Very interested in hearing more about this particular topic, Rowena sat up with a frown and let her eyes wander between the two men who both seemed to be mortified in equal amounts.

 

"Just—just call me Sam, please," Sam pleaded, awkwardly clearing his throat and trying to avoid her gaze even harder than the medical student's.

 

This got more interesting by the second.

 

Though she supposed this conversation was one to be postponed to a moment of privacy, which she hoped would happen sooner rather than later.

 

Perhaps she should have felt more threatened than she did by the revelation of another claim to her throne. She certainly would have if said claimant was anyone other than the one person she actually trusted in this bloody place.

 

In the stifling awkwardness that had fallen over the infirmary, Jonathan finally began his work of cleaning and bandaging her wounds. Her dress got ruined even further in the process, but the garment had passed the point of no return long before they'd even set foot into this hidden base.

 

Despite his obvious nervousness, the young man with his shaking hands did a decent enough job of ensuring her illusory body wouldn't give up on her any time soon. They really couldn't afford for her to reawaken amidst the ranks of her enemies in the palace.

 

The ointment Jonathan applied stung a bit and she must have tensed without noticing because he murmured 'Sorry' into the silence she'd quickly gotten tired of anyway.

 

"You should stop apologizing," she whispered conspiratorially to the stressed medic. "It's bad for business."

 

Obviously unable to determine if this was a joke or deadly serious, the man looked up from his work to give her an uncertain look. Her face gave nothing away, until she decided to release her squirming prey with a short wink.

 

The look of delighted surprise in the man's eyes was one way to pass the boredom, as was the small smile Sam sent her way straight over Jonathan's head, after finally sitting down on the adjacent stretcher.

 

"This one might require stitches," the medic said with a frown at the deepest of her scratches.

 

"I don't think that will be necessary," Rowena was quick to object, barely able to suppress a shudder at the thought of seeing her skin disfigured like that. Magic would forever be her method of choice for most everything, and even though she was currently not in a position to access it herself, Samuel had proven to be quite talented in the art of healing. A bandage would certainly suffice until his magic reserves were replenished enough for another go. The training would do him good anyway and help him get a firmer grasp on this gift he'd been given.

 

"As you wish," Jonathan nodded, his relief only very thinly veiled.

 

Once all her injuries were dealt with to the medic's satisfaction, he moved over to Sam. As she slid off her stretcher, Rowena was almost surprised to still feel the cold metal of the angel blade against her palm, having forgotten about it entirely.

 

If anyone had thought the sight of a barefooted queen carrying a blood-dripping blade through their hallways strange, they hadn't let it be known. Perhaps this mutinous base located inside a realm stuck in an even bigger rebellion had seen far stranger things as of late.

 

She realized she actually felt safe enough to let go of the blade for now to relax her fingers a bit, and placed the divine weapon on the table, near the very mundane supplies of gauze and ointment. Something about the sight seemed ironic enough to draw a grin out of her.

 

The metallic clink drew the medic's attention, his eyes widening as he gestured towards the blood on the blade.

 

"Is that…" he asked, his voice stifled.

 

She thought it a tad ridiculous that the few drops of blood on the weapon should still affect the man so, after he'd just been faced with far more of it on her own stomach.

 

"Blood, obviously," she replied in what felt very redundant to her.

 

Having misinterpreted the situation severely, she noticed that the emotion screaming in the man's eyes wasn't fear, or disgust. In fact, it seemed to be something like awe.

 

"From one of the snakes? We've been trying for years to—but they're so fast! And invisible!" The man's awkward silence fell off of him like a discarded coat. "But a sample of their blood would—I could compare the DNA markers with our Bestiary—the possibilities!" He looked up from the weapon, his eyes shining in excitement. "It's remarkable you managed to survive close combat with them." He must have remembered who he was talking to all of a sudden, because he added a belated, "In all due respect, of course, your Majesty."

 

As if the terror of that life-or-death situation hadn't brought both her and Sam to the edge of desperation, Rowena had to try her hardest not to laugh at this ridiculously enthusiastic display—and succeeded, mostly.

 

Scientific curiosity was something she knew quite well, though she couldn't claim that the blood and gore of hunting had ever brought it out in her. But she supposed it would be an asset to provide valuable knowledge to what was allegedly her own army.

 

"I shall allow you to take your sample."

 

Jonathan held out his hand eagerly, though she withdrew the angelic weapon from his grasp.

 

"If you return the blade to me within the hour. And if you finish your work first. Naturally," she said with a nod towards Sam.

 

"Of course, My Lady," the medic said and instantly turned back around towards the other stretcher, examining the remnants of torture on Sam's arms and chest.

 

They'd only managed to close the most threatening injuries with magic last night before Sam had collapsed in exhaustion. For his first foray into life magic, without guidance of the magical kind no less, it was surprising he'd managed to do as much as he had. That still left a plethora of shallower cuts to deal with, covering his skin like a spider's web woven of blood. It had been more than satisfying to ram the angel blade into the torturer's back in retaliation for what he'd done to Sam.

 

Though she'd assured the medic knew at least somewhat what he was doing before setting him loose on the only living body left in existence, she still followed his movements with a watchful eye as the man covered each of the cuts with the ointment. Sam's eyes sought hers once more and she swallowed, suddenly convinced the room had gotten several degrees warmer. If, perhaps, there was a tingling in the tips of her fingers to let them sweep over the muscled expanse herself instead, then so what? She had eyes.

 

Not one for denying herself something she wanted without a damned good reason to, she reached out and placed her fingers against Sam's pectoral muscle, slightly below a scratch far too harmless to justify her intervention.

 

"Don't forget this one," she said, locking her eyes on Sam's as she slid the tips of her fingers over his warm skin in a curve.

 

Her face must have been enough of an impenetrable mask for the medic to remain oblivious, all eager haste. "Of course not, your Majesty."

 

It was as bothersome as it was exciting that such displays almost always failed to work on Sam. His brow furrowed in a questioning look, which she rewarded with another covert smile before stepping back to let the medic do his work. 

 

With the infallible timing of a Man of Letters, the demon named Mick returned to the infirmary right when the medical student had finished his treatment of the last of the cuts on Sam's chest.

 

"I came to check in on our guests of honor. There's two quarters waiting for you to freshen up and take a breather before we move on to more serious topics—such as the weather in Limbo. Or the recovery of one lost throne."

 

Mick offered them another lop-sided smile and fine, perhaps these people were starting to challenge Rowena's perception of what constituted a Man of Letters, because their company was actually something close enough to pleasant.

 

"And Sam, I got good news. There's no risk of imminent starvation for now," Mick concluded.

 

Sam released a breath of relief, sliding off his stretcher with a thankful nod towards both Mick and Jonathan.

 

"Glad to hear."

 

"I'd call you a godsend if that wasn't the biggest insult imaginable right now," Rowena smirked at the demons. She dropped the angel blade into Jonathan's waiting hands, reminding him, "Within the hour!"

 

The lad looked like a child receiving a Hogmanay gift.

 

She had just given away her one and only weapon, but absurdly enough, there seemed to be less of a threatening undertone to the hiss of the door this time. She turned to follow their guide through the maze of hallways once more.

 

~

Notes:

Though I had a blast writing from Rowena's point of view, I'm sitting here desperately hoping you weren't disappointed with this new chapter. (It's always so much harder putting oneself back out here again after a longer break.) Maybe you even found room in your hearts for my first original character, because I needed someone to take over the medic job in this MoL mutiny, and I couldn't see either Mick or Ketch filling that position. So it had to be someone new.

For those wondering why it took me so long another time: I always thought this "AO3 authors have crazy lives!" thing was a myth, but after everything else that has happened lately, now my boyfriend was in an explosion at work. He'll be fine again after he spent all summer healing. He's even almost back to walking normally again. Of course I'm extremely relieved about that, but the incident still threw me severely off kilter right when I thought I was on track for finishing this story, and I withdrew from the fandom for a while.

So here I am, several months later, poking the beehive another time by trying to finish this again. I can only hope the universe lets me.

I will publish the next two chapters (22 - Jack POV and 23 - Team Free Will) on a weekly schedule for now, and we'll see how far I can progress on chapter 24 in the meantime.

If you'd like updates whenever I post a new chapter or story, I feel honored by user subscriptions here on AO3.
I also post notifications on my Tumblr and Twitter whenever I release a new story/chapter or video.
You can find my SPN character videos (most of them related to Empty Earth) on my Youtube Channel.

Kind words are the best fuel for my writing! <3

Chapter 22: Jack

Notes:

Here's a summary of what has happened in Empty Earth so far, so you can jump right back into the action. It's updated now with the events of the chapters right before this one.

Mood song for chapter 22:
"End of this War" by Vangelis Dedes

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

The caped stranger ran through the dark tunnel much too fast for them to keep up. It was only thanks to Jack's angelic senses that he saw the man come to a stop somewhere ahead. He managed to prevent Mary from crashing into the wall with a warning hand against her shoulder. A quiet curse near them meant John hadn't been spared from that fate.

 

A light appeared, and Jack saw that the stranger held a small flashlight between his teeth while drawing another one of those chalk sigils. The outline of a door emerged from the wall of the tunnel, and a short press of the man's hand sufficed for it to open outwards.

 

One after the other, they stumbled out into the blinding brightness of someone's heaven on a sunny beach. The ocean was impressive and slightly intimidating with its size and the crashing waves. Jack had only ever seen such a large body of water in the split second it had taken him to fly across it in his frenzied escape from his own guilt. Standing right in front of these massive plains of blue reaching all the way to the horizon was on a different level entirely.

 

"Close the damned door if you got any sense!" the stranger called out to them and Jack turned hastily to press the door closed behind John, watching it merge seamlessly into a changing cubicle.

 

The man didn't wait to see if they complied, already running further ahead through rows of white sun chairs and colorful parasols.

 

"Doctor Badass, wait!" Jack yelled, attracting the attention of a woman who must have been the owner of this heaven.

 

"Who the fuck are you people?" she asked them, sitting up on her sun chair. "You're ruining my vibe here."

 

Jack noticed only then how much they stood out on this beach, fully dressed among people in swimwear, running when everyone else was just lounging and relaxing.

 

"I'm sorry. We'll stop ruining… your vibe. We were just leaving," he hurried to explain, throwing a look at Mary and John behind him. Mary seemed confused, John annoyed, but the caped stranger didn't slow down, so Jack had no choice but continue their frenzied run.

 

They caught up with him in front of a wooden booth selling ice cream, where the man was creating another one of his strange chalk doors on the side wall. He waved them inside and they were once more surrounded by darkness.

 

"All right, enough of this nonsense! Who or what are we running from?" John asked, his voice echoing in the silence of the tunnel.

 

"Jack, you said Dean is hurt? Where is he?" Mary talked over him, and the worry in her voice was audible.

 

Jack never had a chance to reply to either of these questions, though, because Doctor Badass cut him off.

 

"Listen, there's a time for answers, but this ain't it. Gotta shake off the God Squad before they can track us to Homebase."

 

"What the what?" John asked, no less annoyed than before. But apparently, he was willing to go along with this a bit longer because he followed when the stranger started running once more.

 

Jack shrugged at Mary and realized belatedly that she probably couldn't see the gesture in the dark.

 

"Later," he promised instead with another short, reassuring touch against her shoulder.

 

The next heaven had taken the form of a dark hall where a lot of people wearing colorful glow-in-the-dark bracelets were dancing to music so loud that it stung in Jack's sensitive half-angelic ears. Their group rushing along the side wall barely drew any attention at all, and he was glad to leave this place behind when the stranger opened another door.

 

"Eagle is landing. I repeat, Eagle is landing," the man spoke towards his own wrist.

 

Jack wondered what birdwatching had to do with any of this, but then a tinny female voice answered through what must have been some kind of speaker, "Ash, I told you to can it with the superhero stuff."

 

"Philistine. Warding's down?"

 

"Yep, I'm ready to go," the female confirmed, and the next door led them into some kind of warmly-lit bar, all brown and gold hues.

 

A young blonde woman waited behind the counter that was mostly covered by technical devices, with only a narrow space remaining in between where several beer bottles stood. The moment Mary and John had followed Jack inside, Doctor Badass threw the door closed behind them and hastily restored the lines of a chalk sigil that had been broken by the opening of the door. The woman used a knife in her hand to cut into her own palm, then pressed that palm against the wall behind her while calling out an Enochian sentence.

 

"Pah-ah-otz-tah oh-ee-sah-el-mah-nah ah-nah-nah-el!" 31

 

Numerous sigils flared up in a bright white-blue all over the wall, and before Jack had a chance to wonder why this woman knew Enochian, a thrum ran through his entire body. When a sharp, high-pitched noise echoed through his head, he groaned and pressed a hand to his temple. Through blurry eyes, he saw that the illusory baby Mary was still cradling disappeared, just like her outfit had changed all of a sudden earlier. She was at his side right away, and he felt her warm, soothing hand on his back.

 

"Jack, are you all right?"

 

"¡Oye, compadre!" Doctor Badass said with an accusing finger lifted Jack's way. "This soul power crap shouldn't be affecting no human. Tell me you ain't one of 'em!"

 

"I'm…" Jack groaned again under the continued noise roaring through his head. "I'm half human. And half angel."

 

He heard Doctor Badass mutter curses under his breath as he rushed over to the devices set up all over the bar and began typing furiously.

 

"Whatever you're doing, stop doing it! You're hurting him!" Mary demanded over the noise, rubbing circles into Jack's back.

 

"Shhh," was the only reaction she got from the stranger who frowned intently at his screen while his fingers flew over the keys.

 

After an excruciating minute, the uproar in Jack's head finally died down and he took a hesitant breath.

 

"One nephilim exception to-go," Doctor Badass announced, stretching his fingers with an audible crack. "You're damn lucky I can rock the Higgs field equations by heart, man."

 

Jack blinked at the stranger. "I don't… understand."

 

"Eh, none of us do," the blonde behind the bar said with a grin. "It's genius speak. We usually just ignore it."

 

"Like in Star Wars?" Jack asked.

 

"I like you," Doctor Badass announced, pointing at Jack in a much friendlier manner this time as he made his way back over to them from the counter.

 

"Hey, I'm Jo," the woman nodded at them, placing more beer bottles on the counter.

 

"Hello," Jack said, lifting one of his hands in greeting, at the same time feeling terribly out of place.

 

"Jo?" John whispered behind Jack, and while the entire situation was nothing but confusing to Jack, he got the impression these two had met before. "The Roadhouse…"

 

"Yeah, pleasant memories… little girl, pigtails, shooting practice, you killed my dad—stuff like that," Jo confirmed with a smile that turned bitter and biting.

 

"What happened to Bill, I never—" John sighed and rubbed over his face, suddenly seeming very tired. "Jo, I'm so sorry."

 

"Yeah, little late now. We're all dead around here, aren't we?" Jo shot back, then busied herself by wiping the bar with a towel.

 

"Actually, not all of us," Doctor Badass said with a nod towards Jack.

 

"Jack," Mary interrupted with growing urgency in her voice. "You said Dean is hurt. Where is he?"

 

That question tore a gasp out of Jo's mouth and she let the towel sink down to give Jack her undivided attention instead.

 

With all the contradictory emotions floating around in this room, feeling everyone's eyes on him was uncomfortable. But Jack had come here for a reason, and he would see this through. Dean's life depended on it. The world depended on it.

 

"Don't worry, Dean is—he's not in immediate danger," Jack tried to calm them. "A demon is keeping him safe. I just need to find someone to heal him."

 

"What?" John demanded in a bark, making a step towards him that Jack squared his shoulders against.

 

"You left Dean alone with a demon?" Jo urged at the same time, her differences with John seemingly forgotten for the moment. Jack wondered if everyone in this room, by some strange coincidence, knew Dean.

 

"A friendly demon," he hurried to add, being met with gazes that ranged from horrified to furious. The only one who took this information in stride was Mary.

 

"Ain't no such thing as a friendly demon, son," John stated darkly.

 

"I am not your son," Jack said before he could think better of it, which seemed to take John aback enough to silence him.

 

"It's Crowley, isn't it?" Mary asked after a frown at everyone present. "He's supposed to be dead, but I'm not exactly in a position to talk."

 

"You know him?" Jack asked in return, pleasantly surprised.

 

"We've met," she confirmed. "He's a bit of a prick, but he's not so bad—for a demon."

 

A flare of defensiveness for Roderick overtook Jack, so he added, "He saved Dean," which had the intended effect of widened eyes on everyone in the room. Jack still regretted the way he'd reacted the first time he'd seen Roderick in Dean's body, jumping to entirely wrong conclusions just because he was a demon. If anyone should know to give people a fair chance instead of judging them by what they were supposed to be, it was him. "And he told me he also saved Cas."

 

"He did," Mary confirmed with a short nod, "I was there. It was a close call."

 

Though Jack hadn't doubted the truth in Roderick's words, seeing them confirmed by Mary warmed him from the inside. And it reassured him that his intuition had been completely right for once when it told him to rely on Roderick. Maybe Jack could be trusted to make the right decisions after all. Maybe there was hope, even though the task of saving the world still felt impossibly big to him.

 

"Cas, as in Castiel? The angel?" Jo chipped in, surprising Jack another time.

 

"Yes, how did you—" he started, but Jo beat him to it.

 

"Guess we're all sharing the same friends here," she said, and despite the tension in the room, she began smiling again.

 

John let himself sink down into one of the chairs with a heavy sigh, suddenly far more subdued than Jack had gotten used to from him by now.

 

"Castiel… I've heard that name recently," Doctor Badass murmured, returning his attention to his screen. After some more typing and clicking, he called out triumphantly, "Gotcha!"

 

"You have information on Castiel inside your computer?" Mary asked doubtfully, voicing Jack's own thoughts.

 

"This," Doctor Badass patted the edge of the screen affectionately, "is my personal scanner for all things holy. Got a direct line to angel radio right here."

 

"The angels…" Jack swallowed against a lump inside his throat that had appeared without warning during the discussion of Cas. He desperately tried to keep up his own hope that Roderick had been right about not only Sam but also Cas. "They talked about Cas?"

 

"You can bet your shiny nephilim wings on that. Dude seems to be polarizing as hell, angel radio was on fire for over an hour. Sounds like that Cas guy made an unexpected return from the dead."

 

"Cas is alive?" Jack whispered, barely in control of his own voice in relief too intense to breathe.

 

His legs were already carrying him over to the counter to get a glimpse at whatever Doctor Badass was looking at. Even just seeing a picture of Cas back and alive would be such a comfort in all of this. But when he reached his destination, all he could see on that screen were strange blue lines on a dark background.

 

"Where is he?" Jack asked, balling his fists in suppressed urgency. "Did the angels say anything else about him?"

 

"Nope," Doctor Badass said. "Been pretty silent on angel radio lately. Sounded like your Castiel is largely to blame for that. One of the loving nicknames I heard on there was 'Slayer of Angelkind'."

 

"I don't…" Jack said, shaking his head. "That—that can't be right. Cas only ever killed when there was no other way."

 

Doctor Badass shrugged. "Don't shoot the messenger, man. Just telling you what the angels said. But we already know they ain't the best judges of character. It as bad as they say down there on Earth?"

 

"Did God really just… kill everyone?" Jo added.

 

"All humans on Earth have disappeared," Jack admitted, and the hopelessness falling over the room was almost a physical sensation.

 

The sound of John's chair scraping over the wooden floor as he stood back up was impossibly loud in the sudden, despondent silence.

 

"What did you just say?" he asked.

 

"God, he's been trying to get Sam and Dean to kill each other for a while, because that's the ending he wanted," Jack explained, even though his words felt far too small to even touch on the scope of all this. "When they refused, he got angry and just—just made all humans disappear. Sam, Dean, and I are the only ones left."

 

One hand pressed against her own mouth in shock, Mary stepped closer to her husband, silently placing her other hand on his arm.

 

"We're not so sure they're dead, though," Jack added in the futile attempt to soften a blow that couldn't possibly be softened. "No souls arrived in Hell when it happened. Did they all go here, to Heaven?"

 

"With our feathered friends being as understaffed as they are, there's no way they could've handled that kind of soul influx," Doctor Badass replied. "That would've caused a storm on angel radio, but there was nothing."

 

"So they aren't dead," Mary summed up. "And this is why you said you're the world's last hope." Jack nodded silently. "Jack, I'm so sorry. Going through all of that… I can't even imagine."

 

No matter how misplaced, Jack felt a small smile form on his face. He'd missed Mary. So much.

 

"You really weren't kidding about dethroning God then," John said, with an expression on his face similar to the shell-shocked look of a witness who'd just seen a ghost for the very first time.

 

"What can we do to help?" Jo asked, replacing the towel in her hand with a small, engraved knife she pulled up from somewhere behind the bar.

 

"I think there are some angels who will be on our side instead of God's," Jack finally put his hope into words, once more haunted by the vision of glowing blue eyes under his own palm.

 

"You sure 'bout that? The God Squad ain't exactly flexible thinkers, if you're catching my drift," Doctor Badass objected.

 

"I'm sure because I'm the one who created them," Jack said, and heard several gasps in the room.

 

"Told you you have no idea about the things this 'kid' can do, John," Mary murmured behind Jack, and the sound of pride in her voice was unmistakable, reassuring him in his plan.

 

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold it right there. You can create angels?" Doctor Badass asked, giving Jack a once-over as if he was seeing him for the first time.

 

"Well… not anymore. I—" Jack swallowed, feeling like he was letting everyone down every time he had to admit this. "I lost most of my powers. But when I still had them, I did create fifteen angels out of human volunteers."

 

"That shakes up the equation completely, man!" Doctor Badass exclaimed and began typing on his keyboard again.

 

"But I have no idea where to even begin looking for them," Jack conceded. "Heaven is big, and I can't let the angels on Chuck's side catch me."

 

"Fear not, my half-human friend," Doctor Badass said, looking up from his screen. "You are in the headquarters of Heaven's most powerful underground organization."

 

"Heaven's only underground organization, you mean?" Jo asked, smiling in a way that Jack assumed was sarcastic.

 

"We acquire information not meant for human ears. We harness the power of souls and quantum physics to use Heaven's own defenses against it. We are… the Chaos Gu—"

 

"Ash. Can it!" Jo interrupted with an eye roll in the middle of Doctor Badass' dramatic hand gesture. "You realize I'm able to manifest pliers here whenever I want to, right?"

 

Jack was very confused by this exchange, though it seemed to have Jo's intended effect because Doctor Badass sighed and clapped his hands twice. His cape and mask disappeared, leaving him in a black shirt and jeans that looked very out-of-place to Jack after the way he'd gotten to know this man.

 

"Killjoy. What happened to the fun-loving girl I used to know?" Doctor Badass asked.

 

"Oh, I don't know, maybe she lost her sense of humor somewhere between getting torn up by hellhounds and finding out that God is evil. And she never liked that Marvel stuff anyway, not when there's real monsters out there."

 

"Can't argue with that," Doctor Badass sighed. "Anyway, fifteen freshly minted angels, you said?"

 

"Yes," Jack frowned. "Why?"

 

"There was some hullabaloo a while ago about a group calling themselves The Quindecim. Only got scraps and pieces over angel radio, so I never figured out what that was about. Been bothering me ever since, man. If there's one thing that makes me itch all over, it's not knowing things."

 

"Do you know what happened to that group?" Jack asked, barely able to fight down the wave of excitement flaring up inside him.

 

"Been keeping records of angel radio for some time now. Gimme one minute and forty seconds," Doctor Badass murmured absent-mindedly, his eyes glued to the screen.

 

Before the following silence had a chance to get awkward, Jo cut through it.

 

"So, you're Dean's mom, huh?"

 

"Yes?" Mary answered with a question in her voice. Jack didn't think she liked being the center of attention any more than he did.

 

"I've heard a lot about you, but it never sounded like…" Jo's gaze took in Mary's entire appearance from her head to her feet, and Mary shifted awkwardly under it. "You're a hunter, too, aren't you?"

 

Mary exhaled a stifled laugh. "That easy to tell, huh?"

 

"You sure had me fooled for years," John said quietly without bite, exchanging a short smile with his wife.

 

"Cool!" Jo said enthusiastically. "I love meeting other females in the job. It always feels like there aren't enough of us. A lot of hunters used to visit the Roadhouse, but almost all of them were men. And when they heard I wanted to be a hunter, they usually gave me that look. You know the one?"

 

"Oh hell yes, I do. It was probably even worse in the 70s."

 

A look of mutual appreciation seemed to pass between both women until a triumphant "Got 'em!" tore them out of it.

 

"Doctor Badass?" Jack prodded, to which Jo instantly reacted with,

 

"Please don't encourage him. His name is Ash."

 

"Miles, actually. Never told you 'bout that because I prefer Ash. Has a much better ring for the ladies." He ignored Jo's eye roll. "Anyway, want the good news or the bad news first?"

 

"The good news," Jack decided.

 

"The Quindecim are definitely the droids you're looking for."

 

"A New Hope," Jack recognized right away with a wide smile, and was rewarded with an eyebrow wiggle from Doct—from Ash. Being included like this made him feel a little more at home in this bar. "And the bad news?"

 

"The angels didn't reveal their plans for the Quindecim via angel radio. All they said was 'Proceed as previously discussed', what the Hell ever that means. Sounded like those new angels of yours didn't exactly float their boat, though."

 

"Might work in our favor," Mary threw in. "If the original angels didn't see these new angels as equals, we got higher chances of winning them over to our side."

 

"We?" Jack asked. "You'll help me then?"

 

"Of course I will," Mary stated, looking almost affronted at the suggestion of any other possibility.

 

Jack smiled at her, then added with a slight frown, "But we have to find them first to be able to convince them."

 

Jo deftly swung herself over the bar, knife still at the ready. "What are we waiting for then?"

 

"What about your parents?" Ash asked.

 

"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm an adult, Ash," Jo shot back. "Also, I'm dead. I don't have to ask for permission anymore. And who knows how long it's gonna take them to drum up the entirety of the Resistance."

 

"Ellen's gonna tear me a new one if we don't wait for her."

 

"Oh, stop being a chicken. I'll leave my commpad on the counter, then Mom can get in touch as soon as they're back, and we can all meet up somewhere. Happy now?"

 

"Not really. But has that ever stopped you?"

 

Jo smiled far wider than the situation required.

 

"Not really."

 

~

 

Footnotes:

31 PAAOXT OISALMAN ANANAEL - Let this house remain of the secret wisdom

Notes:

To everyone who is reading this, thank you for making it this far! I appreciate you being here so much. <3

Now I can finally share the Jo video with you all that I created before writing this chapter! Feels like forever ago that I made this. For now, the video is still hidden from the public to avoid spoilering any regular EE readers about Jo's appearance, but I'll set it to public in a week or so. So as always, EE readers are getting earlier access than the public. <3

We're now caught up with the chapters I wrote before the summer. I'm not quite sure yet if I will get chapter 23 quite ready and polished to post in a week, but I'll try my best. (And Empty Earth is very short of cracking the 100k word mark now!)

Happy Halloween, everyone!

If you'd like updates whenever I post a new chapter or story, I feel honored by user subscriptions here on AO3.
I also post notifications on my Tumblr and Twitter whenever I release a new story/chapter or video.
You can find my SPN character videos (most of them related to Empty Earth) on my Youtube Channel.

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