Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

2029

Sam Winchester sighed and ran a hand down his tired face.  Feeling the length of his grey flecked beard, he made a mental note to break out the trimmers before he ended up looking like a yeti.  He discarded the heavy tome he’d been reading onto the table in the bunker’s library, deciding to call time on research for today. Besides, the lore on Djinn and their various representations in different cultures wasn’t needed urgently for a hunt, Sam was just looking to expand his knowledge, well aware how a random sliver of lore could save lives.

He sat back in his chair and took in the silence of the bunker.  Having spent years building up a network of American hunters, enough to constitute a small army, the bunker was usually a hive of activity.  Quiet moments like this, were very few and far between.  Sometimes a hunter would comment that the ‘Chief’ never got any peace.  In reply, he would usually crack some sort of joke about wishing he could kick them all out, drawing a few laughs from the hunters who didn’t know him so well… others new better.  In truth, he hated it when the bunker was quiet.  It just reminded him of a time when the place only had a handful of residents.  In the silence, he was reminded of what he’d lost, of who he’d lost.  He felt that familiar ache in his chest when he thought of his brother.  Although it had been ten years since Dean had gone missing, the ache hadn’t lessened.  He’d just learnt to live with the Dean shaped hole in his life.

Feeling guilty at the thought, he straightened up in his chair and picked up his tablet.  He swiped through his folders, opening the one labelled ‘Dean.’ It contained all the information he had on his brother’s disappearance, which wasn't much.  Maybe if he looked through it one more time he would spot something that he’d missed?  His finger hovered over a video file - the last time he’d seen his brother.  Resisting the urge to play it, he put the tablet down with a sigh.  If he was ever going to find out what happened to Dean, it wasn’t going to be from the pitifully small collection of evidence that he had analysed thousands of times already, and watching that video would only tug at the despair he kept tightly locked up.  He would never give up on his brother, but any fresh leads had dried up years ago.  He had nothing to go on.  

Castiel had left no stone unturned in heaven, confirming Duma's insistence that Dean wasn't there and every demon they had captured and ‘questioned’ over the years had claimed that he wasn’t in hell either.  Demons weren't exactly trustworthy sources, but Sam’s gut told him they had no reason to lie.  Despite repeatedly trying to summon Billie, she had eluded all his attempts to make direct contact.  However, he had, at least, pissed Death off enough to warrant a visit from Jessica the reaper.  According to Jessica, Billie denied any knowledge as to the 'fate of Dean Winchester' and had stated that she had much more important issues, of a cosmic scale, to deal with than 'one lost little Winchester.'  Jessica had genuinely seemed to sympathise with Sam and had answered his multitude of questions as best she could.  

'What about the watch you were keeping on us?' The surveillance on the Winchesters had been relaxed when Michael was contained.  'Could Dean be in the Empty?'  No, no one had 'tossed' Dean out into the Empty.  'What about Dean's books?' A second's hesitation, then a sombre expression, 'They've all gone blank, Sam.'

So, they didn’t know where Dean was or whether he was alive or dead.  He was just gone.

With a resigned sigh, Sam ran a hand through his hair, and shook away the thoughts that were guaranteed to drive him crazy.  In fact, they had done so on more than one occasion over the years.  He resolved to find himself a strong cup of coffee and to have a quick scan through the hunter check-ins before he went digging through the leftovers in the fridge for some dinner.  

Maybe later he’d call Cass and see how he and Jack were getting on with their ghoul hunt.  He knew he didn’t really need to know how they were getting on – Cass had only texted him an hour ago – but it helped to talk to Cass when thoughts of Dean threatened to overwhelm him.  The angel had always remained steadfast in his belief that one day they would find him.  Castiel’s devotion to the search for Dean had propped Sam up on more than one occasion, when Sam was in danger of completely losing hope.  Once, during one of his low points, he had asked Cass how he managed to remain so confident, how he managed to ‘keep the faith.’  Cass took a moment, before quietly replying, “I have to believe because… because I can’t bring myself to imagine the alternative.”  Sam stared into those piercing blue eyes and knew that sentence was loaded with so much more than Cass was willing to admit.

Light footsteps broke the silence, shaking Sam out of his reverie, as the only other person in the bunker entered the library.  Claire flashed Sam a bright smile.  “Hey Sam, I’m heading out to help on that werewolf case over in Louisiana.”  

Claire was one of the few hunters who never called him Chief and he was grateful for it.  She had grown so much in the time that Sam had known her.  She was no longer the rage filled teen that Castiel had begged for help with all those years ago.  Claire was now a young woman and an amazing hunter, well known for her cool head when the shit hit the fan.  She often spent time at the bunker, helping out with training and research, but she was always eager to get back on the road and onto the next hunt.  Dean would be so proud of her and everything that she had become.  Sam smiled sadly.

He stared up at her from his seat.  “You keep those kids in check.  Make sure Jayden doesn’t do anything stupid.”  He said, thinking of one of the newer, headstrong hunters who’d gotten himself into a few scrapes already. 

“Don’t worry old man, I can handle Jayden.” She said with a raise of her right eyebrow and a smirk.  “I just put on a fresh pot of coffee and there’s some leftover curry in the fridge.”  

Sam had to smile at how well she knew his habits. “Thanks.” He replied.

Claire slung her weapons bag on her shoulder and studied him for a moment.  “You should take the night off, get out.  Go see a movie or whatever.  Do something normal.  Get rid of that face.” she said, gesturing at him with her finger.

He raised his eyebrows, “That face?”

She folded her arms, cocking her head at an angle.  “The Dean face.” She said knowingly.  She continued before Sam had a chance to compose himself and deny it.  “Sitting around here all by yourself thinking morose thoughts about your brother ain’t going to bring him back and you know it.”  She strode out of the library and headed up the stairs, calling out behind her. “And call Jody!  She's starting to think you've disappeared too!”  And with the loud bang of bunker’s door shutting, she was gone.

Sam shook his head, biting the corner of his lip.  There were few people who could talk to Sam so lightly and so brazenly about his brother and get away with it.  He’d said as much to her once and she’d simply shrugged and replied “it’s a gift.” Maybe it was because he knew how hard she’d taken Dean’s loss and that the light-hearted comments were a way of masking the pain she felt.  A classic Dean move.

Claire had a point, though.  Maybe he should do something normal.  He picked up his tablet again and started looking up what was on at the local cinema.  It would be good to put his mind on pause and 'check out' for a couple of hours.

The silence of the library was broken again by the creaking hinges of the bunker’s door.  “Forget something?” Sam absently called out whilst scrolling through the cinema listings.  He heard the sharp scrape of heels on metal, which was definitively not Claire.  He looked up to see a familiar petite red head descending the stairs. Sam frowned in surprise at the unexpected visitor, rising out of his chair. Over the years Rowena had proven herself to be a loyal and fearsome ally in the fight against all things evil.  She had saved his life on more than one occasion, but their friendship had been frosty for years.  

It was Sam’s fault.  When Dean had first disappeared, he had let his emotions rule in his search for his brother, jumping to conclusions and making accusations that had damaged more than a few friendships.  Rowena had been the worst.  He had accused the witch of being somehow involved with Dean's disappearance.  Rowena, who had stayed by his side for months and tried to do everything she could to find Dean, who had been surprisingly supportive and, at times, a shoulder to cry on.  The ensuing argument had been explosive, to put it mildly.  

He had later apologised.  She had quietly accepted his apology, without a hint of the usual self-righteousness and drama that he was expecting.  However, their friendship had never been the same.  Now, she hardly ever came to the bunker.  Rowena always came through when asked, but only stayed as long as necessary to help with a case, nothing more.  He counted himself lucky that she had stuck around at all after what he had said to her.  Hell, he was lucky Rowena hadn't burnt him to a crisp where he stood.

Given their strained relationship, Rowena showing up out of the blue couldn’t mean good news. The solemn expression on her face, as she made her way across the war room, only deepened Sam’s suspicions and gave him a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Hey Rowena.” he greeted.

Rowena paused at the threshold to the library, “Hello Samuel.”

“What’s up?  I wasn’t expecting you.” he said lightly, hoping he sounded neutral, and that his statement didn't come across as a glaring reflection on the state of their non-friendship.

She walked into the library, coming to a stop across the table from Sam. Rowena looked down at the open books littering the table and traced a finger across the pages. “We need to have a wee talk,” she began, looking anywhere but at Sam, “and… you’re not going to like what I’m about to say.”

Sam tensed, gripping the back of his chair. “What, Rowena?” He couldn’t help the clipped tone to his voice, his patience already wearing thin with Rowena’s typical theatrics.  But then it hit him – the fidgeting and lack of eye contact - Rowena wasn’t drawing this out for dramatic effect, she was genuinely afraid.  Sam didn’t think there was a place lower than the pit of his stomach, but he’d just found it.

Rowena took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she was about to say, and finally looked at Sam, fixing him with a piercing gaze.

“It’s about Dean.”

---

2019

It was the early hours of the morning when the impala rumbled onto the gravel driveway outside Donna’s cabin, the first glow of dawn appearing on the horizon.  The three Winchesters trudged wearily through the door, voices raised.

“We’re just worried about you, Dean.” Sam implored as he followed his brother into the cabin, trailed quietly by their mother.  Mary had chosen the wise move of keeping silent when the conversation grew heated.  Sam continued, “You’ve not been acting yourself.  We just want to know what’s going on.”

“What’s going on?”  Dean felt himself snap and whirled around.  “What’s going on is that there’s this pounding in my head and it. Never. Stops.” He motioned a hand to his forehead. “What’s going on is there’s a freakin’ archangel up here and he is fighting hard and I can’t let my guard down, not even for a second!  So I’m sorry if I’ve not been my usual, charming, wise-cracking self.  What did you expect? That everything was just business as usual?! Whiskey and strippers all round?!”

“Dean -”

“Sam just stop, okay?” Dean sighed, feeling the anger drain out of him as quickly as it had come, and as an afterthought, slight embarrassment about mentioning strippers in front of his mom.  He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off the headache he could feel brewing behind his eyes, that was only partially caused by an angry archangel.  “Look, I get it." He said, opening his eyes and looking at Sam. "I know you’re concerned, but you’re suffocating me here man.  I don’t want to talk about it.  I don’t want to share.  I just…”  he raised a hand and then let it drop, exhaling slowly, running out of steam “I’m just tired.” He said, looking between Sam and his Mom.

Mary still couldn’t help the feeling that there was something more going on, but she could see the pleading look in Dean’s eyes, and jumped in before Sam got any ideas about pressing the matter.  Sam was fighting a losing battle and it was time to call a time out before he pushed his brother too far.  “Okay, it’s been a long night and we all need some shut eye.”  She declared, glancing between her two boys.  Dean’s shoulders slumped in relief at the change of subject.  “Let’s get some sleep and we can talk later when we’re all feeling a bit more… rested.”

Sam hesitated, but after a glare from Mary, he conceded. “Yeah. Okay.”  He sighed.  Trying to talk to Dean about how strangely he’d been acting, when they’d been up all night dealing with Nick and the demon from the Enochian puzzle box, had not been one of his smartest moves.  He should have known it would backfire.  Getting Dean to talk was like drawing blood from a stone the best of times.  He’d just been so desperate to make sure his brother was okay.

Dean made his way back towards the door. “I’m going to get some air.” He threw over his shoulder as he grabbed hold of the handle and stalked outside.

Sam watched Dean walk out and took a deep breath, his cheeks puffing as he slowly blew it out.  He turned to look at his Mom, “Well, that went well.” he stated flatly, gesturing towards the rapidly closing door.

Mary sighed, “Sam, you know how he can be.  He’ll talk eventually.”  

“I hope so.”  He replied tiredly.

-----

Once out of sight, Dean dropped onto the wooden bench outside the cabin, burying his head in his hands.  He breathed in the cool early morning air in deep breaths, trying to calm himself.  He hadn’t meant to lose it at Sam, but he was overwhelmed, and he’d panicked when Sam started questioning him.  He’d felt backed into a corner and had responded automatically with the default Dean Winchester setting – anger.

He knew the minute Sam appeared at the cabin that night that he hadn’t fooled him.  He should never have given him that damn hug at the bunker.  It had been a moment of pure weakness.  He’d needed to embrace his brother one last time before…  he glanced over at the workshop, icy fear settling over him as he thought about the Ma'lak box inside and what he was about to do.  

As if on cue, Michael renewed his attack on the fridge door and the banging in Dean’s head caused his vision to go blurry.  He tensed, squeezing his eyes shut for a few seconds, willing the noise and the spiking pain to the back of his mind.  He could feel the door giving, bit by bit.  He knew now that he had to go, that if he spent much more time with Sam and Mom he would break.  He had to stay strong.  He had to end it right.

-----

Sam woke at midday, shrugging his arms out of his sleeping bag on the floor and stretching his aching muscles.  He'd slept in worse places but having a home in the bunker, with his own bed, had been a luxury he'd gotten used to over the past few years.  I'm going soft. He mused groggily. He opened his eyes and glanced over to where he'd last seen his sleeping brother slumped on the couch, only to find it empty.  He sat up and looked around blearily, hoping that Dean was busy brewing some coffee.  The cabin was quiet - no smells of freshly brewed coffee and no sign of Dean.  He wriggled out of his sleeping bag and padded over towards the kitchen. That's when he noticed the piece of paper on the table...

I just need a bit of time on my own, to get my head straight. Don't worry, I'll keep in touch.

Clutching the note, Sam headed straight for the door and looked outside.  The impala was gone.

Shit.

Chapter Text

2029

"Dean?  What about Dean?  Do you know where he is?"  After so long with nothing new to go on, Sam resisted the urge to leap across the table and physically shake the information out of Rowena.

"No…” She hesitated.  “Not anymore."

Sam felt like he was about to explode at the witch’s cryptic reply.  "Not anymore?  What do you mean, not anymore?"  Instinctively, he knew that Rowena was right, that he wasn’t going to like what was coming next.

"Sam, I..."  Rowena wavered.  How could she tell Sam?  Where did she even begin?

Sam’s already fragile patience ran out.  "Rowena, talk. Now."  He erupted, folding his arms to stop himself from slamming his hand on the table in front of him.  He felt every ounce of the dangerous tone in his voice. 

Rowena flinched, recognising the unspoken threat.  She wondered if there was a black book on her shelf in Death’s library that described this particular moment.  It was a definite possibility. 

Either way, Sam still needed to know the truth.

2019

"So...”  Rowena lingered on the word, before launching into her tirade, “you want to tell me why you made me hike halfway across America to sit in this dump of a bar, in the arsehole of bloody nowhere, full of drunken sailors, without telling a soul? Oh, and whilst you’re at it, why the hell I needed to bring-” She paused for dramatic effect, “sensible clothes."  She drawled, using her perfectly manicured fingers to make air quotes. 

Rowena sat back on her booth seat, taking a long sip of what could possibly be the worst red wine she'd ever tasted, and studied Dean, trying to tune out the other, unnecessarily rowdy patrons.  Never mind all the secrecy, the fact that Dean Winchester was sat in a bar, nursing a cup of coffee, was enough to set alarm bells ringing.  For a moment, Rowena wondered whether that archangel had broken out and she was actually sat in front of Michael. 

"Come on Rowena, a few hours in first class, drinking champagne, is not exactly hiking."  Dean retorted.

Rowena just glared at him.

In an attempt to relieve the tension with a bit of humour, he raised his eyebrows and flashed her his best shit-eating grin. "Plus, I bet you've had a few sailors in your time."  He teased, knocking back some of his coffee.

"Aye, well, one in every port, as the saying goes."  Rowena retaliated with salacious wink.  Unable to resist the temptation to get one over on the elder Winchester, she put on her most wistful sounding voice, and followed up with, "But you wouldn't know anything about that would you my dear?" cocking her head to one side and staring at him pointedly.  Dean choked on his mouthful of coffee and Rowena smirked.  God, she loved making the great Dean Winchester - hardened hunter, world saviour - blush.  One day that boy’ll be honest with himself and find the love that’s been right in front of him all along, Rowena mused.

Her smug satisfaction was cut short when Dean suddenly grimaced, squeezing his eyes shut and tilting his chin towards his shoulder.  He blinked blearily, looking a little disorientated for a moment, as if Rowena wasn't even there.  She couldn't help the pang of concern she felt at the strained expression on his face.  Bloody Winchesters sneaking their way into her cold heart, making her yearn for redemption.

"Well, enough of this hilarious banter." Rowena broke in bluntly, drawing his attention back to reality.  "What have I got to do with your plan for dealing with that archangel trapped in your head?" 

Dean started, looking at her silently with a mixture of shock and fear.  She rolled her eyes, deciding to voice her thoughts. "Oh please, I wasn't born yesterday, Dean.  You're sat in a bar, drinking coffee.  Either hell has frozen over and you've decided to give up alcohol or Michael is fighting so hard it's taking every ounce of concentration you've got to keep the bastard locked up."

Funny how he could be so boyishly embarrassed one minute and look so dangerously stoic the next.  She decided to continue her monologuing.  “Judging by the fact that I’ve already had to cast a spell to change the location of your phone signal, you're here without your brother or your angelic boytoy, and, your beloved 'Baby' is not parked outside, I'd say you're planning on doing something monumentally stupid.  So… start talking."

Dean hesitated for a moment, choosing his words carefully.  He’d already dragged her out to this god-forsaken coastal town.  He couldn’t afford to risk losing Rowena’s help, and more importantly, her trust.  "Rowena, do you believe in your fate?” He said quietly.  “Do you really believe that Sam is going to kill you?” 

Okay, Rowena thought, not what I was expecting.  She contemplated the question for a moment, before answering sincerely, "Yes I do.  I believe in magic and I believe in prophecy.  I know it’s true.  I can feel it in my bones.”  She continued, “But Dean, what does that have to do with-" 

Dean interrupted her, "Billie paid me a visit.  She says there's only one way Michael breaking out doesn't end with him using me to murder the world.  That there's only one way to stop him."

"Go on."  She prompted.  Stupid was definitely on the cards.

"Have you ever heard of a Ma'lak box?" He asked.

"Aye," Rowena nodded, "I've read about them, but they're impossible to build."

"Yeah, not so much.”  Dean contradicted.  “Billie gave me the special recipe, all I had to do was the work.  It's in the back of the van outside." He motioned with his thumb behind him, towards the car park.  He had left the Impala just a few miles from Donna’s cabin, in a secluded spot, hidden from the road.  It had hurt like a bitch to walk away from her, but he couldn’t risk taking her any further where he was going.

Rowena felt sick, realisation dawning on her.  Suddenly the cheap wine she'd drunk turned to burning acid in her stomach.  "Dean, you can't be serious?” 

Taking a deep breath, Dean ignored her question and barrelled on, "Plan is: pay a little hush money, charter a boat to take me out to the Pacific… splash."  He said flatly, as if he was talking about something mundane, like a simple salt ‘n’ burn.  He couldn’t afford to think too hard about the reality of what he was intending.

Rowena leaned forward, her voice rising in volume as she spoke “You and Michael?  Trapped together?  For eternity... in a coffin?  That's not stupid, it's insane!"  She was suddenly glad of the raucous sailors, drowning out the intensity of her outburst.

Dean remained unnervingly calm.  "Well, insane is the only play I've got.  Michael gets out, that's it for this world.”  he paused, “And he will get out.”

"There has to be another way.” She implored.

"Rowena, you're the only one who can help me.”  He pleaded, “You're the only one who can make sure I take that trip to the bottom of the ocean."

Anger sparked in Rowena at Dean’s assertion.  How could he think that she would be okay with this plan?  "Oh, and why is that?”  She spat out.  “Because you think I'm heartless enough to let you do something worse than killing yourself?"

“No.” Dean fixed her with a penetrating stare, "I think you care more than you’d like us all to believe… more than you’re willing to admit to yourself.” 

Rowena inwardly winced at how the hunter seemed to have looked straight into her soul with those pretty eyes.  For someone who played the dumb jock, Dean Winchester was anything but.  She was so occupied trying to maintain her poker face that she forgot to even try and deny his insightful observation.

Still staring at her intently, Dean took her silence as an opportunity to drive his point forward, “I know you'll do what needs to be done to save the world, even if it means doing something ugly."

"Dean, you can't ask me to do this."  Rowena quietly begged.

"You're the only one who can cover my tracks.”  He pressed on.  “You’re the only one who can stop Sam from finding me."

And there it was.  It hit her like a freight train.  The whole reason she was here, sat at this table, in this crappy bar.  Of course, it was all about Sam.  It was always about Sam.

"Dean,” she said breathlessly, “you can't keep this from Sam, from Castiel.  What about-"

Once more, he broke in before she could continue.  He didn’t need to hear the list of people that he cared about the most.  That he was never going to see again.  "You know Sam will try and stop me.”  He argued.  “That he will do anything, anything, no matter the cost, to try and save me…  Cass too."  He added sadly, his heart clenching.

Rowena did know.  She had personal experience of exactly how far his brother and angel friend would go to save him.

“Rowena, if you truly believe that Sam is going to kill you, then you know that I don’t have a choice.” Dean let out a resigned sigh, “I have to do this, and you have to help me… Please.”

And that was where he had her.  How could she be certain of her fate at the hands of Sam, but refuse Dean?  Well played, Winchester, well played.  She thought sombrely.

Good job she actually brought those sensible clothes.

-----

Rowena descended the stairs from the bridge of the Ocean Tackler and headed towards Dean’s cabin to give him an update on their ETA, stumbling slightly as the large fishing vessel lurched with the Pacific waves.  She may have found a little of her sea legs after a week onboard but the odd movement still caught her out.  The voyage had been a mostly uneventful affair so far.  The weather had been relatively good, and the captain and crew very accommodating.  Although the latter was down to her ‘influence.’ 

Dean had been against using compulsion at first.  They had argued about it, but when Rowena pointed out how easily money could be traced and how they would have no control over who the crew might speak to, he had begrudgingly conceded.  By the time she stepped down the gangway and back onto solid ground, the crew wouldn’t remember anything of the trip, their memories replaced with a particularly unsuccessful haul.

Rowena had spent a lot of her time onboard reading.  She researched spells she was going to use to conceal their tracks, as well as ones she might need in anticipation of Sam’s actions once he discovered his brother was missing.  She spent the rest of her time with Dean, not wanting his last few days ‘alive’ to be spent in desolate solitude.  They often played cards, watched movies and swapped old stories to break up the monotony of rolling around on the ocean.

The knowledge of their final destination had brought about a sincerity to both of their words that, under normal circumstances, would never have happened.  Rowena had genuinely enjoyed hearing Dean’s tails of his and Sam’s misadventures growing up, feeling a simultaneous warmth and sadness at the strength of their brotherly love.  She, in turn, had told him about some of her more amusing antics from her long life, as well as some stories she had sworn she would take with her to her grave.

In all their honesty, Rowena had found herself wanting to ask Dean how he really felt about Castiel, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.  She knew that, given the circumstances, whatever answer he gave her would be heart-breaking.  She decided she was better off not knowing.

She had also watched as, day by day, Dean had looked more worn down, the dark patches under his eyes growing as he slept less and less, trying to keep Michael at bay.  His ‘episodes’ had increased in frequency and intensity.  Whenever she questioned him about it, he would always brush it off with a patented Dean Winchester quip and a smile.  But she knew he was suffering, that he couldn’t hold on much longer. 

As Rowena arrived at Dean’s cabin door, she heard a loud thud on the other side.  She banged on the door, calling his name, but there was no reply.  She tried the handle only to find the door locked.  Going on instinct, she bent down and whispered delicately into the lock, “Aperiatur.” A moment later there was a quiet click as the latch was released.  Adrenaline pumping, she flung open the door to find Dean in nothing but his boxers, writhing senselessly on the floor.

She rushed to his side, propping him up against the side of his bunk as best she could, given his six foot or so of pure muscle and her lithe five foot three inches.  He was completely out of it, his eyes unfocussed and glassy.  She grasped his head in her hands, feeling his shower-soaked hair under her fingers. 

“Dean!” she cried, trying to shake him out of his stupor. “No, no, no. Come on Dean!  Don’t do this now!”  She slapped him, hard.  No effect.  Rowena’s mind raced through her internal archive of spells, desperately thinking of anything that might work. 

After a spark of inspiration, she calmed her mind and chanted the words “revertetur ad me” three times, hoping that the spell to bring someone out of unconsciousness would work.  Her eyes flashed purple as she put everything she had into the incantation that usually required a hex bag to focus its power. 

Dean bucked underneath her as if he’d been momentarily electrocuted.  His eyes shot open, mercifully echoing hers with a brief flare of purple, rather than flashing the ice blue that could trigger the end of the world as she knew it.

“Rowena?” Dean panted groggily, his gaze finally managing to focus on her.  He blinked a couple of times in confusion before recognising his surroundings and realising what had just happened.  One minute, he had been stood in front of his small wardrobe, digging out a fresh shirt, when Michael had gone all out.  Suddenly he’d found himself in that bar, the fridge door buckling, hinges screaming.  Holding that door had felt like being crushed on all sides.  As if he was at the bottom of the ocean, being compressed by the overwhelming pressure of a few miles of dense water.  The irony of that thought was not lost on him. 

“That was a close call.” He breathed.

Relief flooded through Rowena and before she realised what she was doing, she gathered Dean into a fierce hug, finally noticing the thumping of her heart in her chest.  Unexpectedly, Dean gripped her back just as tightly.  Words were unnecessary.  She understood how close he’d come to breaking and he knew that without her, he may not have made it back.

Realising that she was actually sat astride him, Rowena pulled away and awkwardly climbed off his lap.  She slumped against Dean’s bunk so that they were sat shoulder to shoulder, releasing the breath that she had, unknowingly, been holding.  The silence continued for a few more moments as both of them contemplated the enormity of the crisis that had just been averted.

Suddenly, Dean rubbed the side of his face and broke the silence. “Did you slap me?”

Rowena leaned her head back. “Yep.” She replied, blowing out her breath on the ‘p.’  A thought popped into her head and she couldn’t help but let out a small snigger.  She looked over at him and grinned, “I never thought a situation where I ended up straddling and smacking a nearly naked Winchester would be so un-erotic.”

Dean smirked, meeting her eyes with a raised eyebrow.  “I knew the only reason you broke in to my cabin was to get a peek at my perky nipples.”

The held each other’s gaze for a split second, before simultaneously bursting into childish giggling.  Both of them enjoying the break from reality that the easy humour of the moment gave.

Dean broke off first, screwing up his face and holding the palm of his hand to his forehead.  “Son of a bitch.” He ground out, the searing pain of the still raging archangel, momentarily throwing him. 

Trust Michael to ruin even just a few seconds of relief, he thought.

Rowena started, ready to jump into action. “Dean?” she probed.

Dean raised his other hand in placation. “Nah, I’m good, I’m good.” He said, sucking in a deep breath and exhaling slowly, looking up at the open wardrobe in front of him.  He stared at the plaid shirt suspended haphazardly on its hanger with a detached fascination.  “I can’t hold him back anymore.” He admitted defeatedly, resting his elbows on his raised knees.  “That door’s going to give.”  

“Can you manage a few more hours?” Rowena quizzed gently.  “We’ll be there at about eight tonight.” 

They had picked, what was hopefully, a nondescript point in the ocean.  Deep, but without any potentially fascinating wrecks or trenches.  Just miles and miles of unremarkable ocean bed.  Not geologically interesting enough to draw the attention of surveyors or explorers… or anyone searching for a missing hunter/archangel. 

“Yeah, I can do that.” He sighed resolutely.  Besides, he still had one last job he had to do before they arrived.

Silence hung in the air again, but this time it wasn’t a short reprieve.  It was a moment filled with sadness and despair.

“I’m scared, Rowena.”  Dean confessed quietly.

-----

“We’re heading over to New Mexico on a case.  Some bodies have been turning up, organs removed and, get this – cooked, then eaten.  Jack’s calling it monster fine dining.”

Dean could hear the hopeful tone in Sam’s voice, knowing that his brother was trying to use an unusual hunt to entice him back under his watchful eye.  Under any other circumstances, Sam’s tactics would have worked and Dean felt a pang of longing for a good old-fashioned hunt with his brother.  Instead, he was stood staring out at the Pacific, at what would be his watery grave.  Dean shuddered, pushing the thought away and turning his attention back to the phone call.

Sam pushed on, “We could really use your help on this one.  You’re only one state away after all…”

“You guys have got it.” He answered, noncommittally.

There was a pause.  Dean could picture Sam silently trying to formulate another plan to convince him to head back.  It seemed his outburst at Donna’s cabin had made Sam overly cautious of pushing him too far. Dean was grateful for it.  He didn’t want to argue, not today.  He heard his brother let out a slow exhale.

“Yeah, I guess.  You sure you’re ok?”  Sam said hesitantly.

“I’m fine.  Michael’s not going anywhere, promise.”  At least that wasn’t really a lie.  Although he knew that wasn’t actually what his brother was asking.

“Dean -“

“Sammy, I’m fine.”  He could hardly focus on Sam’s voice with all the banging going on in his head.

Another pause.  Another submissive sigh.  “Yeah, alright… but if you need anything…”  Sam trailed off.  Again, Dean could see the sweeping hand gesture and the furrowed brow from over a thousand miles away.

“I’ll call.  Trust me, all this quality time with Baby and the open road, it’s… helping.  I’m getting a handle on the arch-douchebag squatter much more easily on my own.  I’ll be back, I just need a bit more time to get a grip on things.”  That definitely was a lie.  No Baby and only open ocean.  Point of no return…

Dean had been doing this dance with Sam ever since he left.  It was getting harder and harder to speak to his brother and keep up the pretence that he was just getting a bit of down time, road tripping around Texas.  At least with Cass and his Mom he only had to pull off his deception via text.   He forced down a stab of guilt at that thought.

Luckily, this is the last time I have to lie to any of them. Dean thought sadly.

In reality, he was thankful that he had been able to speak to his brother, to hear his voice, right up until the end.  Who knew deep sea fishing vessels had wi-fi?  Not that he’d expected eye patches and peg legs.  He’d just never really given that much thought to offshore communications.

Sam’s voice drew him back to the conversation.  “That’s… good.  We’ll find something, Dean.  We’ll find a way to take care of Michael.”

“Yeah…” Dean’s heart fractured at the forced certainty in Sam’s voice.

Suddenly, the sounds of a muffled conversation drifted down the line.

“Look, I gotta go.” Sam said distractedly.  “Maggie thinks she’s found another body linked to this case.”

“Sure.” Dean felt the lump rising in his throat.

“Speak to you soon?” Sam questioned expectantly.

“You know it.” Dean shot back, not feeling the cheerful conviction he put into his response.  It was taking everything he had not to let his voice break.  “Watch your back.”

“You too.  Bye Dean.”

“Bye Sammy.”

And that was it.  The last time he would speak to his brother.  Dean wanted to say so much more but he knew saying anything meaningful, for no apparent reason, would set off Sam’s spidey-sense.  He had to give Rowena as much of a head start as possible.  A couple of days of radio silence, probably less, would be all it took before Sam’s internal panic button was activated.  He just hoped that whilst Rowena was making her way back to dry land, Sam would be busy tearing up Texas, chasing his wild-goose of a phone signal.

Dean looked down at the phone in his trembling hand, feeling wetness rise up in his eyes.  Loosening his grip, he watched his phone slip into the passing ocean, and with it, his last connection to his brother, to his family.  His breath hitched and he grasped the rail in front of him, ducking his head and squeezing his eyes shut, trying to calm the rush of emotion.  Trying not to think about the devastating loss.

Suddenly, delicate fingers prised at his left hand, slipping into his grip and holding tight.  Rowena’s small act of compassion broke him and he sobbed silently, looking away, but clutching her hand like a lifeline.  He wasn’t sure he could do it.  He wasn’t strong enough expel Michael.  Was he really strong enough to get in that coffin?  Dean felt the panic rising in his chest.

Rowena wanted so desperately to say something comforting.  She wanted to tell him that everything was going to be okay.  But it wasn’t going to be okay, not for Dean.  Her mind raced, wondering if she actually had the fortitude to force Dean into the box, like he’d asked, if he couldn’t bring himself to do it unaided.

“Dean…”  She trailed off, still at a loss for words.

Rowena’s voice shook Dean out of his tail-spin.  He couldn’t afford to get shaky on this thing now.  The world couldn’t afford it.  So, he took a leaf from his own, well-versed, playbook.  Gathering together all the paralysing fear and gut-wrenching grief, Dean shoved it down… deep down.

“Yeah… Okay.”  He said, abruptly breaking their connection and quickly wiping his eyes.  He inhaled deeply and gazed out at the setting sun. “Okay.” He repeated, nodding his head and psyching himself out, rebuilding his resolve. 

It was time. 

Turning to Rowena, he took a small padded envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her.  She grasped it to her chest and nodded at Dean, trying to convey all her determination to see her task through.

“Thank you, Rowena.”

Rowena bit her lip, looking down at the envelope in her hands.  Dean’s words made her feel dirty.  She didn’t feel like she deserved gratitude for what she was about to do.  Knowing it was for the greater good didn’t stop it from feeling like the worst thing she would ever do, and Rowena had done a lot of bad.  She tucked the envelope away into her coat. 

“I won’t let you down.” She declared as she looked up at him, firmly jutting out her chin.

“I know.”  He said simply.

Rowena’s chest ached at his unwavering faith in her.

Dean briefly glanced out at the red hued horizon. “One hell of a final sunset.” He observed, flashing her a half smile.  Then, as if he was taking a Sunday afternoon stroll through the park, Dean sauntered towards the stern and the warded metal box awaiting its permanent resident.

Rowena marvelled at the courage it took to willingly go to such a horrifying fate.  Taking a deep breath, she resolutely followed him.

-----

When Rowena made it back to her cabin, the sky had turned dark, the light of the moon glistening on the waves outside her porthole.  Under different circumstances she would have noted the beauty of the view.  Instead, Rowena slowly shut the door, carefully turning the lock and resting her head against it.  She shut her eyes and wept at what she had just done.

Chapter Text

2019

Dean stood in front of the fridge door in Rocky’s bar.  It was eerily quiet, as if Michael sensed what he was about to do.  There was no use in fighting anymore.  He no longer needed to be the cage, not when he was wrapped in warded steel.  He swallowed, looking down at his seemingly intact hands, turning them over to inspect both sides.  He knew his actual fingernails were torn and bloody, his throat raw from screaming.

The initial panic attacks had finally subsided, leaving him feeling bone tired and despairingly empty.  He had realised it didn’t matter when Michael took over.  The dread of what the archangel would do to him was essentially the same as the terror of lying alone, encased in darkness.  It was all just fear, either way.  Something about that thought had brought him a strange sense of calm.  Maybe insanity was beginning to stake its claim?  He had already lost all sense of time. 

His gaze drifted towards the screwdriver acting as lock and key.  Although he knew it was just a mental projection, he couldn’t help the abrupt snort that escaped from his lips at the notion that one simple hand tool was keeping such an immensely powerful creature at bay.

With a deep breath, Dean resigned himself to his woeful destiny once again and wearily slid out the screwdriver.  Stepping back, he waited for the onslaught.

The silence threw him. 

The door to the fridge slowly swung open, under Michael’s sedate but deliberate push, as the archangel strode out into the bar.  He regarded Dean with a measured stare, hands clasped in front of him.  Despite weeks of relentless, raging attempts to break free, there was not a single crease to his appearance, his flat-cap still perfectly positioned on his head.  Dean hated that stupid fucking cap.

“Silly, silly, boy.”  Michael said impassively with a slow shake of his head.

Dean couldn’t help the satisfied smirk. “Well, this silly boy still stopped your almighty feathered ass.”

Suddenly he found himself slammed up against the wall, pain exploding across his back, a hand around his neck, gradually constricting his throat.

“You really think you can contain me?” Michael sneered menacingly; his voice scarcely louder than a whisper. 

“Yeah, I do.”  Dean replied confidently, relishing the barely contained fury in the familiar, yet alien, eyes gazing back at him.  “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be wasting your time in a made-up bar with me.” 

Despite the pressure on his windpipe, he leaned forward, staring down what the world’s most dangerous being.

“You’re trapped… bitch.”

The first punch was shockingly brutal, followed by a flurry more with equal intensity.  Dean made a half-hearted attempt to defend himself, which was more out of reflex than anything else.  What was the point in fighting?  His fate was sealed. 

Feeling bones snapping under the weight of Michael’s fists, Dean tried to remind himself that it wasn’t real, but that knowledge didn’t stop the excruciating pain tearing through him.  But hey, it wasn’t like being pounded on by an angry archangel was anything new…

Before he knew what was happening, he was launched across the bar, landing on a table which collapsed beneath him with the force of the collision.  He lay there for a moment, his vision blurring and thick fluid bubbling up his throat with a familiar coppery taste.  He slowly rolled off the wreckage and attempted to push himself up but failed miserably, the pain too much.  All he managed to do was cough up a lake of blood, the action sending further shockwaves throbbing throughout his broken body.

Despite the agony it caused, his chest heaved with a short bark of laughter and he looked up at Michael.  “It makes no difference what you do to me.” Blood continued to dribble over his bottom lip and onto the floor as he rasped.  “No matter what, you still lose.”

Michael walked over and crouched next to Dean, gripping his hair and yanking his head back, eliciting a restrained grunt from the pitiful human.

Amused by the futility of the hunter’s ingrained efforts to mask how much he was hurting, he looked deep into Dean’s eyes.  “All this Winchester bravado…  You’re forgetting, I’m in here with you. I know your true thoughts and feelings.  How much you hurt...  How scared you really are.”  He cocked his head, leaning in further.  “I know all your greatest hits, Dean.  Your worst memories, your deepest, darkest fears.” 

Michael gestured around the bar with his free hand.  Not that he was really gesturing at the bar at all.  “This is my playground now, and I have nothing better to do until I get out.”

It was the archangel’s turn to smirk. “And I will get out.  It’s just a matter of time.” 

-----

Rowena hesitated at the door to the bunker, feeling more tired that she had ever been, the weight of the world resting on her shoulders.  “You can do this, Rowena.”  She whispered to herself under her breath, her eyes closed.  “It’s the only way to save the world.”

She repeated the affirmation a few times to give herself the courage to walk in and act out the biggest lie of her long life.  In that moment, she didn’t know what was harder, helping Dean into that box and letting him disappear under the surface of the ocean, or having to watch Sam tear himself apart trying to find him, and pretending to know nothing.  She guessed she was about to find out.

She opened her eyes and pushed open the door, hearing the familiar creak of its hinges.  The witch descended the stairs, gripping her bag tightly.  She barely made it to the bottom before the younger Winchester was on her.

“Rowena, where the hell have you been?!” The heat in Sam’s voice was obvious, his eyes accusing.

“Well, it’s nice to see you too Samuel.” Rowena replied sarcastically.

“I’ve been trying to get hold of you for over a week!”  Sam continued angrily.  “You didn’t think Dean going missing was important enough to answer your phone?”

Rowena casually strolled over to the map table and placed her bag down on its glossy surface, before turning to face Sam.

Showtime...

“One doesn’t check one’s phone when holidaying at an exceptionally exclusive desert spa!” Rowena said with feigned snobbery, flicking her hair over her shoulder.  She continued, “Sam, if you ever took any time to relax, you would know that…”  Rowena shut her eyes, her hands open as if she was imagining something incredibly indecent, “to fully enjoy the pleasures of a rosewater and vanilla oil massage, by an obscenely well-toned demi-god,” she opened her eyes, “you switch your phone off.”

For a fleeting moment, Sam seriously wondered how literal Rowena was being about the demi-god part.  He shoved the thought aside. “Rowena, this is an emergency, Dean’s- “

“Och!” Rowena exclaimed, exploiting her Scottish heritage for some added nonchalance. “I’m sure Dean’s fine!  He’s probably just at his own, less salubrious, “spa”, with fewer essential oils, a lot more grease and much cheaper whiskey.  Give the boy a break.  It cannae be easy keeping an archangel in your head.”

Sam just stared at her, face twitching, incredulous.  Trust Rowena to vastly underrate the gravity of the situation.  He thought.

“Okay!” Rowena huffed, throwing her arms up in pretend resignation and breaking the momentary stalemate.  “What do you need me to do?”

Sam shook himself out of his stunned daze and went into hunter mode. “Every location spell you can come up with, and anything else in your magical bag of tricks that might help.” 

He sighed, his fury at Rowena dissipating. “Dean’s phone signal had him in San Marcos, Texas, but we couldn’t find him.  Cass and Jack are heading back from there now.  They stayed to check every last police station, hospital, motel, diner and bar in town, but they’ve found nothing.  I’ve got Mom asking around about the night he left the cabin and Charlie checking every hackable camera in the area, but most data is only stored for seventy-two hours and it’s been more than three weeks since he left Donna’s…” He trailed off, running out of steam.

Rowena hated herself for mentally checking off everything Sam was saying from her list of ‘Samuel Winchester’s expected actions.’  It was all things she had anticipated and prepared for.  So far so ‘good.’

“So, what are you thinking?” She prompted, hoping to stay ahead of the game.

“My gut tells me he was never in Texas in the first place. I should never have let him go off by himself.” Sam said in self-recrimination, even though he’d had no say in the matter.  “Deep down I knew something wasn’t right, but I ignored it because I didn’t want to push Dean away.  Cause I wanted to believe that everything was going to be okay.”  He glanced away, trying to hold back the emotion that he couldn’t afford to indulge in right now.

Rowena’s face softened at Sam’s anguish.  She figured she could allow herself that.  The hunter would get suspicious if she acted like she had no feelings at all.  At the same time, she ticked off the ‘Sam being smart enough to figure out that Dean had done something’ section from her mental list.

She took a deep breath, stepping towards him.

“Sam, you can’t blame yourself for this.  Sometimes bad things just happen.  We’ll find Dean.”  She said in an assuring tone, her self-hatred developing into full on loathing.

Sam fixed her with a desperate gaze.  “Rowena, something is really, really wrong.  I can feel it.”

-----

The next day, Cass and Jack trudged despondently from the bunker’s garage, making their way towards the library.  Their search in Texas had been disturbingly fruitless.  They hadn’t turned up a single shred of evidence of the elder Winchester’s presence in San Marcos, past or present. Cass agreed with Sam’s theory that Dean had never been there.  Which meant that Dean’s disappearance wasn’t due to some sort of supernatural misfortune, but was down to something the hunter had planned. 

That thought had Cass far more terrified than he was willing to admit to Jack, or anyone else, for that matter.  He had tried to remain calm and confident in their search for Dean in Texas, so as not to worry the kid too much, but inside he had already been panicking.  If there was one person who was more than willing to throw his life away for the ‘greater good’ it was Dean Winchester. 

As they walked down the corridor, Cass regarded the padded envelope that Jack clutched between his fingers with a sense of foreboding.  Upon Sam’s request, they had called into the post office in Lebanon on their way home to check the ‘Campbell’ P.O. Box. The woman behind the counter – Marta - had scowled at Cass until she spotted Jack shuffling in behind him.  Upon recognising her other customer, Marta’s face lit up and her frosty demeanour melted into doting smiles and mostly incoherent mutterings of “Such a polite young man” and “What lovely manners.” After that, she let them get on with their task unhindered, beaming over at Jack from behind the counter as he unlocked the P.O. Box.

Unfortunately, Jack had recognised the handwriting on the only item in the box as quickly as Cass.  The Nephilim had earnestly looked up at him, eyes wide.

“What does this mean?” He had whispered with raw innocence.

Trying to hide his true reaction to seeing Dean’s blocky scrawl on the envelope, Cass could only shrug. “I guess we’ll find out when we get this back to Sam.”

However, his worst fears had been confirmed upon sight of that package.  He knew that nothing good would come from its contents.  Cass had never before wished for Dean to be kidnapped, but right now he was desperate for it.  All he wanted was to hear a prayer from Dean, asking for his help out of some incredibly unexpected, crazy situation.  Instead, the radio silence was deafening.

-----

“Okay, keep me updated if you find anything else.  Bye Jules.”

Sam dropped his phone on the library table and rubbed the sides of his forehead with his fingers.  When Dean had stopped replying to his texts and phone calls, Sam had abandoned the hunt in New Mexico.  He had put other hunters on the case, but it seemed like they had already lost the trail.  He felt guilty that the monster was still out there and that more innocent lives would be lost, but he refused to feel guilty for choosing to go after his brother.  He exhaled slowly, and brought his eyes back to his laptop where he’d been scouring traffic violation reports for any sign of Dean’s beloved Impala.

At the approaching click of Rowena’s heals on the concrete floor, Sam looked up. “What have you got?” He asked her eagerly, hope welling in his stomach.

Rowena was poised to answer, her mouth half open, but stopped upon sight of Cass and Jack entering the library behind Sam. 

Her eyes fixated on the package in Jack’s hands as the younger Winchester got up to greet the newcomers.  She had known this was coming. She had posted the bloody thing.  Nevertheless, upon sight of that damned envelope, Rowena felt her blood freeze in her veins.

“Hello Sam, Rowena.” Cass greeted soberly.

“Hey Cass, Jack.” Sam replied, as he turned out of his chair to stand.

Rowena stayed rooted in position at the opposite end of the room, nodding with a smile that she hoped didn’t look forced. She felt sick.

“Hey.”  Jack responded nervously, giving his customary stiff wave, without the customary awkward smile.  He stepped forward, towards Sam.  “This was the only thing at the post office.”  Jack said almost inaudibly as he handed over the envelope.

Sam frowned at the small package, turning it over in his hands.  His eyes widened as he recognised the handwriting, looking up at Cass and Jack, before glancing back at Rowena.

The look on Sam’s face shook Rowena out of her momentary paralysis and she made her way over to the trio, trying to contain feeling of dread at the situation that was about to unfold.

Taking a deep breath, Sam ripped open the envelope and emptied the contents into the palm of his hand - A USB stick, a post-it with some coordinates on it… and the most familiar set of keys he had ever known.  He fingered them for a moment, feeling a tremor developing in his hands.  He gently put down the envelope, carefully placing the post-it on top and weighed them down with the precious keys.  He already knew the coordinates were the location of the Impala. 

Suddenly all he could think about was the memory of a trashed hotel room in Nebraska and a slip of paper with the words ‘She’s all yours’ on it.  Icy tendrils of fear ran up his spine and began seeping into his core.  Why did he feel like this time he was too late?

Sam slowly sat down and put the USB stick into his laptop, nervously running a hand through his hair as he waited for it to connect.  One lone video file, entitled ‘Sam’ appeared on the screen.  After a moment’s hesitation, he clicked on it.

“Hiya Sam.”  Dean said.  He looked so drawn and tired.  “Well, I guess by now you’ve figured out I’m not in Texas.” He said with a sad half-smile, glancing away from the camera for a moment, seemingly collecting his thoughts with a slight nod. 

He looked back. “I’m sorry I lied to you… to everyone, but I found a way to take Michael off the board… the only way.” Dean swallowed, “But it means taking me out too and I knew you wouldn’t… that you couldn’t, accept that.” 

Sam felt a rush of terror gripping his heart. 

He paused, glancing away again before fixing the camera with a steely gaze. “Sam, I have to do what needs to be done.  I know you think you can find another way, but trust me, there isn’t.  I can’t hold him back anymore and I can’t let him destroy the world.  I got one card left to play here and I have to play it.” 

No no no… Dean, don’t do this to me.

“By the time you get this I’ll already be gone.  I’m sure you’ve already figured it out, but the coordinates are where you’ll find Baby.  She’s not far from Donna’s cabin.”  He sighed, “I know that me askin’ you not to, is not going to stop you from trying to find me.  But Sam, you won’t.  It’s over.  You have to take this for what it is - the end.”

A wistful smile. “We had one hell of a ride man.” Another pause. “Sam, I am so proud of you.  You can move on from this.  You’re stronger than me.  You always have been.”  Dean’s eyes glistened.  “Take care of Cass, Jack and Mom, Okay? You keep fighting, but you have to let me go…  It’s the end of the road for me.”

“I love you, Sammy.”

Silence descended in the library, the air thick.

Sam broke it. “Rowena, please tell me you have something… anything.”  He softly demanded, still staring at the now blank screen in front of him.

Rowena took a deep breath, “I’ve tried every single location spell I know, and some I didn’t.  They all say the same thing…”  She hesitated, trying to avoid the distraught looks on Cass and Jack’s faces.  “That Dean Winchester is no longer on this earth.”

In an uncharacteristic move from the younger Winchester, the stillness was shattered by the scrape of Sam’s chair and the sudden crash of books being violently shoved off the table and scattering across the room.  Without looking at anyone, Sam wordlessly stalked out of the library. 

Rowena’s heart clenched at the glistening look in Jack’s puppy dog eyes as he gazed at her in disbelief.  Cass had turned away from them, hands on his hips, shoulders hunched, head down.  Rowena couldn’t bear to imagine what the angel was feeling.  In fact, she was desperately trying to ignore any feelings, particularly her own. 

She had known the contents of the envelope, but she had not been with Dean when he had recorded his message.  Seeing him again on screen, and listening to his words, had brought the memory of the terrible thing that she had done crashing back with crystal clarity.

It’s the only way to save the world, it’s the only way to save the world, it’s the only way…

Cass suddenly turned around and calmly picked up the books that were strewn across the floor, gently setting them back on the table.  When he finally looked up at Rowena and Jack, his eyes were burning with an intensity that Rowena had never seen before.

“Start researching.  Go over everything, even if it’s already been read a thousand times.” He instructed.

“What are you going to do?” Jack asked.

“I’m going to talk to Sam before he does something equally stupid.”  He said, striding purposefully out of the library.

-----

2029

“So, everything I said...” Sam paused, his mouth working, trying to form words in his shocked state. He could feel his pulse racing as he tried to process the nuclear bombshell that Rowena had just dropped. “Everything... everything that I accused you of, that I-I apologised for… it was all true?!”

“Yes.”  Rowena answered simply.  There was no point in denying it.

“So, all those location spells that you tried?”

Rowena sighed.  “They were real spells, Sam.”  She responded dejectedly.

“But you knew they wouldn’t work against the Ma’lak box?  You knew where he was the whole time?”

A distant, logical, part of Sam’s brain recognised that this wasn’t what he should be focusing on, but his emotions were at DefCon One and he was blindsided by them.  “What about when we investigated that van rental in Minnesota and the CCTV footage was corrupt.  Was that you?”

Rowena understood Sam’s anger.  By God, she deserved it and more.  However, the finer details of her betrayal could wait.  She put her hands up in surrender, but couldn’t help the frustration in her tone.  “Look, Sam, you can be mad at me all you want.  I get it, but we don’t have time for this right now.”

“Why not?” He spat out.

“When I put Dean in that box, I cast a protection spell so I would always know exactly where it was.  Call me paranoid, but I couldn’t just let your brother go completely.”

Sam snorted at the absurdity of her statement. “That’s exactly what you did.” He bitterly shot back.

“Samuel, please!” Rowena begged desperately, losing her usual serene composure.  “The box – I don’t know where it is anymore because it was destroyed…  Sam, Michael’s free.”

-----

Michael lay on the surface of the choppy ocean, waves splashing across his face.  He was glad he didn’t actually need to breathe, making the semi-submersion a mere irritation.  He had no idea how long he’d been drifting, unconscious. 

Never, in his entire existence, had he felt so weak.  If the resultant shock wave of using all his power to break out of that wretched box hadn’t nearly destroyed his vessel, Dean could have easily expelled him in a heartbeat.  Maybe even killed him.  Luckily, the human was out cold, in poorer condition than the archangel.  It actually felt strange to have a temporary absence of Dean’s presence, having spent the past ten years solely focussing on the human.

Michael’s attention shifted back to his current situation.  Infuriatingly, he couldn’t even fly away from his solitary spot on the ocean.  Right now, he had less strength than a lowly cherub.  The thought disgusted him, but one wasn’t commander of the host without dealing with a few setbacks from time to time.  Granted, this one was up there on the podium, but he would manage. 

He still found it galling that a lowly human had gotten the better of him.  He could, at least, take consolation in the suffering he had exacted upon Dean in retribution.  That had brought a lot of satisfaction.  He would not defy Michael again after what he had done to him.

As he floated, Michael wondered at what external influence had affected the Ma’lak box to weaken it just enough to give him a small window of opportunity.  The shift had been so minute, so slight, he could have easily missed it.  Dean almost had.  Michael smiled, remembering the sudden rush of fear and look of horror on the hunter’s face moments before they were both knocked out.  It almost made being trapped in that coffin worth it.

Resigned to his current situation, Michael settled into his watery bed.  It would take a little time to heal enough to have the strength to at least get to dry land.  He would use it to come up with a plan. 

Chapter Text

Castiel looked down at Sergei’s body and sighed.  He was saddened to see that his Russian associate had passed away.  They would never have called each other friends, nor had they ever even trusted each other, but the angel and shaman had built a begrudgingly respectful relationship over the years.  Both knew what each other was capable of and both had learnt to appreciate one another’s talents.

When the man had not returned his calls, Cass had made the long drive to Sergei’s trailer to try and find him. The shaman was exactly where he had hoped he would be… just without a pulse.  He had seemingly died of natural causes.

Cass supposed it was possible. Sergei’s lifestyle hadn’t appeared the healthiest.  However, the fact that one of the very few people who could possibly help them with Michael and Dean just so happened to have up and died, at such a crucial time, gave him the heavy feeling that something more sinister had happened. The whole situation reeked of foul play.

He gently placed a hand on the dead man’s shoulder.  “I’m sorry Sergei.  I hope you’re in a better place.” 

He truly did.  The Russian may have had some questionable business practices and nothing he did was for free, but he had come through for Team Free Will on a number of occasions.  Cass hoped that Sergei hadn’t done anything too extreme in his other endeavours to warrant a trip downstairs.

He stood up from his crouched position and wearily made his way out of Sergei’s trailer, trudging towards his old truck.  He would put in an anonymous call to the local P.D. once he was an hour or so out.  The angel yanked open the door and dropped into the driver’s seat with a thud, his shoulders sagging. 

What now? He thought. 

He slowly exhaled and turned the key in the ignition, the elderly engine springing to life.  All he could do was head home and deliver the bad news.  As he drove, he contemplated the past few weeks since Rowena had shown up at the bunker with her revelations. 

He and Jack had just finished up their ghoul hunt when Cass had got the call from Sam.  The job had been a milk run for the two supernaturally empowered beings.  Jack may not have the abilities he was born with but, as time went by, his grace was slowly returning.  He was now almost as strong as Cass.  It wasn’t much, seeing as Cass’s grace was not what it used to be either, but it was a step in the right direction, and it meant that dispatching a couple of ghouls was mere child’s play for the angel and Nephilim. 

With their work done, they had headed over to the local diner, Sadie’s Place, for dinner.  Jack may have matured over the years but he was still a sucker for a good milkshake and, according to the son of Satan, Sadie’s were the best.  Cass was sipping on his habitual coffee, whilst Jack tucked into a burger and fries, when his phone had started ringing. Upon hearing Sam’s news, the duo had raced back Lebanon with hearts in their mouths, preparing for battle stations. 

What they met upon their arrival was a silent bunker, its only two occupants apparently not talking to one another.  Rowena was flicking through a large tome on angel lore and Sam was staring pointedly at his laptop, typing furiously, a sour expression on his face.  The atmosphere was so thick, the tension could be cut with a machete.

The hunter and witch had argued so much, they had reached an impasse.  Cass had the suspicion that both of them had been waiting for his and Jack’s return to break the icy stalemate.

Whilst Cass wanted to smite Rowena where she stood for what she had done, he knew he had to keep a clear head.  There was too much at stake.  So, he had acted as referee between the pair whilst trying to learn everything that he could.

One of the most immediate threats was the possibility that Michael could turn up at the bunker. Sam swiftly redirected his hunters to Sioux Falls, where Jody had agreed to run the network for the time being.  Claire had argued bitterly that she should be at the bunker, but had eventually conceded that her surrogate mom needed help and headed over to South Dakota.

Everyone had been put on red alert and then… nothing.

No apocalyptic omens, no biblical bursts of power or rash of angel-style executions.

Nothing. 

Things were quieter than ever.

Except for the bickering between Sam and Rowena. 

Sam was so angry at her betrayal that every time they were in the same room together, the air pressure seemed to bottom out like the weight of an impending storm.  Sam could barely look at the witch and Rowena was too stubborn to try building bridges.  She had apologised for the hurt that she had caused but had refused to agree that carrying out Dean’s wishes was wrong.  Cass idly wondered that if, without his mediation, he’d get back to the bunker only to find that they’d killed each other.

With no hope of help from Sergei, Cass found his thoughts turning to the demise of Donatello.  Despite coming out of his coma, with the assistance of Cass and Jack, not long after Dean’s disappearance, the quirky soulless prophet had been lost three years ago to a clogged artery that was undeniably down to an excessive amount of fried chicken.  The next prophet had, unfortunately, not been activated.  Cass had mourned the man’s passing, but right now he selfishly lamented the loss of such a useful source of divine information.

He could only hope that Jack was having better luck in Heaven.  Whilst their relationship with his original home had thawed over the years, it was still tenuous.  Cass couldn’t help but smile at the memory of Jack volunteering to make the trip to the sandbox.  The Nephilim had grown into such a confident young man, developing a surety and charisma that was so very Winchester. Cass had no doubt that if heaven knew anything or could help in any way, that Jack would charm Duma into to making it happen.  Nevertheless, Heaven finding Michael was still a long shot at best. 

Cass sighed again.  Ultimately, Michael would be found when he wanted to be.

Deciding to listen to some music to try and take his mind off his worries, he dug a tape out of the haphazard collection piled inside his armrest, whilst attempting to keep his eyes on the road.  He tried so hard not to think about it, but sometimes he really missed his wings. 

Not caring what he listened to, Cass absently glanced at the cassette he was about to shove into the deck. 

Deans top 13 Zepp TRAXX

He paused.

He hardly ever listened to the gift from his best friend, finding it too painful.

Cass’s heart had soared at the prospect of finally finding Dean, but it was simultaneously gripped with fear of the apocalyptic destruction Michael would wreak.  First and foremost in his thoughts was what the archangel could do, or may have already done, to the man he cared for more than any other living being.  Cass was terrified that there would be nothing left of Dean to save.

After a few more moments of hesitation, he resolutely placed the tape in the deck and turned up the volume.  Maybe something that was so quintessentially Dean was exactly what he needed right now.  He listened to gravely tones of Robert Plant’s voice, letting the lyrics wash over him, and drew strength from memories of Dean animatedly telling him about the intricacies of Jimmy Page’s guitar expertise.  He longed to be lectured again about the use of violin bows to create unique sounds.

Cass pressed his foot down on the accelerator, determined to see his friend taking the simple pleasure of tearing down the open road in Baby once again, rock music blaring, a carefree grin on his face. 

He would save Dean, no matter what it took.

-----

The first thing Dean became aware of was the throbbing in his head.  It radiated out to his limbs, pulsing through every fibre of his being.  His whole body felt like a dead weight, like he’d suddenly been transported to Jupiter and gravity had more than doubled. 

He felt a cool, hard surface pressing on his cheek and made the connection that he must be lying on a floor.  The smell of stale beer assaulted his nostrils. If he didn’t know better, he would have assumed it had been one epic night. 

His thoughts were fuzzy as he struggled, and failed, to remember what had happened.  However, if there was one thing he couldn’t forget, it was that he was Michael’s exclusive punching bag.  There was no way his current state was alcohol induced. 

God, what he wouldn’t give to be able to drown himself in a bottle of whiskey.

Even though he felt like he’d gone twelve rounds with a golem, Dean was disconcerted by the lack of unbearable agony, by the absence of merciless torture.  He decided to try cracking open an eyelid and was met with a sea of blurry brown.  It slowly focussed into a wooden floor and the base of a familiar bar.

So… Rocky’s.

It had been a while since he’d been here.  But then, what was classed as ‘a while’ in the space of an eternity?  Could it really be quantified? 

Did it matter? 

Dean realised his thoughts were drifting.  He tended to do that a lot.  With no real awareness of time and no purpose but to satisfy an archangel’s vengeance, his mind had developed a habit of wandering aimlessly.  It had helped him cling onto his sanity. 

Or had it? 

It’s not like he had anyone sane to compare to.  Maybe he had actually cracked and had lost all sense of self?  There was no way he could have any sort of autonomy when there was an evil, sadistic creature sharing his mind.

Do crazy people even know that they’re crazy? 

Maybe he’d gone cuckoo years ago.  How many years had he even been here?

Tens? 

Hundreds? 

Dean shook himself back to analysing his present situation. 

Not that there was any rush…

Or was there? 

The question chimed in the back of his mind like an annoyingly persistent alarm clock.  That something was somehow different.  He tried to focus his thoughts.

Rocky’s usually meant he’d been granted a momentary reprieve.  Dean liked to tell himself it was because Michael got bored, but deep down, he knew the archangel didn’t do anything without reason.  Being given a break from his punishment, and therefore being reminded what it was like to not suffer, was just another tactic to break Dean down. 

And Dean had let it break him. 

He didn’t have the same resilience that he’d had in Hell.  There were no options, no matter how bleak, to choose from this time.  There was nothing to resist and he had nothing to fight for. 

The ruthlessness of ‘God’s favourite’ had been unrelenting.  Alastair had more or less invented torture, but Michael had taken all that experience stored in Dean’s head, and built on it, perfecting it.  Alastair may have been an expert of his trade, but Michael had become the master in the art of dissecting Dean Winchester.

The archangel had compiled an extensive playlist of all his most distressing moments, remastering it in ultra-high definition.  With forty years of Hell and countless heartbreaks, unforgiveable mistakes and shameful regrets, Michael had had plenty of material to choose from.  He had taken those memories and skilfully blended them with an agonising virtual reality of all of Dean’s worst nightmares.  Nothing was sacred.  Even Dean’s happiest memories were torn apart, twisted and corrupted into a horror show of Michael’s making… and the archangel was incredibly creative.

The first time Dean had found himself back at the bar was after Michael had realised that there was one fear he could make an actual reality – the solitude of the Ma’lak box itself.  The archangel had retreated to a hidden part of the hunter’s mind, abandoning him to the confines of the underwater coffin… for months, maybe years.  Dean had no way of telling.

Rocky’s had been a light in the suffocating darkness.

Dean had been so grateful for some form of contact, even if it was with Michael.  The smirk the archangel had been sporting had reminded him that Michael knew it too, that he was well aware how desperate Dean was for his company. 

His human need for contact was intrinsic to his core and the archangel had exploited the weakness to its full potential.  There was no way of making a deal with a reaper to help extract him from solitary confinement this time.

Dean had hated himself for needing Michael’s twisted companionship, for begging the archangel not to leave him alone again.  Michael had granted his request, for a time, but every now and again he would return Dean to the seclusion of the box to remind him how dependent he had become on his enemy.

Reluctant to find out what Michael had in store for him next, but curious as to why he was back in Rocky’s, Dean decided that he wouldn’t find any answers lying on the floor.  He attempted to get up, but was stopped in his tracks as a wave of vertigo hit him.  He groaned and closed his eyes, weathering the storm that was taking placing in his stomach.  He settled for pushing himself into a sitting position, rolling heavily onto his butt and leaning back against the bar.  He tilted his head back, resting it against the rough wood and waited for the sick feeling to dissipate. 

Once he felt a bit more centred, he gingerly lifted his head and opened his eyes again.  This time Michael came into focus, sitting at a table directly across from him with his legs crossed, hands clasped on top of his knee.  He was calmly staring at Dean, head tilted slightly with an expressionless look on his face. 

Suddenly Dean’s memory came flooding back to him:  The shift in the Ma’lak box and the explosion of grace that had followed the triumphant smile on the archangel’s face. 

Michael was free. 

Fear shot through him, followed by despair at having failed.  It was all for nothing. 

The corners of Michael’s mouth briefly contracted upwards.

The hunter tried to remember another time, which seemed like a lifetime ago, when he used to be able to compartmentalise his feelings and focus on dealing with the situation at hand.  Dean blinked back the overwhelming emotions and tried to think more objectively. 

Finally taking in the scene in front of him, he noted a bottle of whiskey and a glass tumbler sitting on the table next to the archangel. 

Well, that’s new. He thought.

So, what was Michael doing sat in Rocky’s when he had world annihilation to be getting on with?

Dean forced his heavy, aching limbs into action and, using the edge of the bar for support, pulled himself into a standing position.  Once he felt like he wasn’t going to fall flat on his face on his first step, he shakily made his way over to his celestial prison warden.

He slumped into the chair across from Michael and, after a pause, hesitantly dragged the whiskey bottle and glass towards himself, eyeing the archangel as he did so.  He waited a moment, bracing himself for the swift and brutal retribution that he would usually receive when he provoked the archangel’s fiery temper.  When Michael made no move to stop him, he proceeded to pour himself a large measure… a really really large measure.

He stared into the glass at the amber liquid swirling around inside, before taking a long swig.  He took comfort in the familiar burning sensation coursing down his throat like embracing a long-lost friend.  Despite the fact that it would probably be used against him in some way, he chose to enjoy the moment.

He cautiously looked back over at Michael who was still silently observing him.

The hunter couldn’t help his wave of frustration and impulsively broke the silence, “You already know my thoughts so why don’t you get on with explaining why we’re here?” 

Dean flinched at his own tone.  He hadn’t meant to sound defiant.  Maybe that large gulp of whiskey wasn’t such a good idea. 

Maybe that’s exactly why Michael had given him some whiskey.  Was it all pre-planned?

Why was he bothering to second guess the archangel at all?  What was the point?

Shit, he was drifting again. 

He steeled himself, expecting to pay the price for his disrespectful words.

Instead, there was a cocky smirk as Michael gave him an appraising look.

“I’ll let that blatant insolence go… this time.”

Dean winced, knowing he’d been very lucky not to be thrown straight back to the horrors he’d just been suffering.

Michael continued, “You’re right.  I do have big plans for “world annihilation.”  But I wouldn’t want you to think that I would just forget about little old you now that I’m free.  Your punishment isn’t over, Dean.  It never will be.”  He paused, letting that statement sink in.  “But, as it happens, what I need to get done in the real world coincides with that.  You see, I need something and it’s located in a certain bunker.”

Panic ran through Dean’s core.

Not Sammy.  Not his family.

Michael broke his thoughts “That’s right.  My next stop will be your precious little home where I’m going to tear apart your brother, your pathetic excuse for an angel, and all you hold dear. You’re going to have a front row seat,” Michael lifted his hands and flexed his fingers, “and I’m feeling very hands on.”

Michael fixed him with a piercing glare, “I’m going to take my time.” He slowly clenched his right fist. “I’m going to crush every bone in Sam’s body and you’re going to feel it all… every, single, one.” Michael said, smoothly rocking his fist to punctuate each word.

“And Castiel, well…”  He opened his hand, sweeping it to one side as if the possibilities were endless. 

Dean knew from experience that they really were.  He didn’t need to use his imagination.

Michael relished the distraught look on the hunter’s face and the accompanying feelings.  Time to twist the knife.

“Looks like Billie played you.”

Dean was devastated.

“You only managed to contain me for ten years, Dean…  You lose.”  Michael revelled in using the exact words Dean had used on him all those years ago.  The utter defeat felt by the hunter was intoxicating. 

“Please, don’t do this.” Dean pleaded.  “I’ll do anything you want.  Just leave my family alone.”

Michael really enjoyed it when the great Dean Winchester begged.

“Dean, you’re already mine.  You have no leverage here.  I didn’t come here to bargain.  I came here to enjoy your suffering and my, I have not been disappointed so far.”

Suddenly the archangel had his own glass of whiskey in hand, tipping it towards Dean in some sort of mock salute before taking a slow sip and savouring it as if he was some sort of connoisseur.

Still staring at his glass like he was contemplating the different notes of the beverage, he continued, “I’m intrigued to see what a difference it will make to be torturing your actual family.  I know I’ll certainly find it more satisfying.”

Dean’s mind raced, thinking of anything he could do to stop Michael from carrying out his plans.  There was no way he could deceive the archangel, so he had to come up with something that would be beneficial to Michael, but still save his brother and family.

“I can get you what you want.”  He said desperately. 

Taking Michael’s silence as permission to plead his case, he carried on, “You know all of my memories. You know Sam and I have managed to defeat the seemingly invincible, that we have a knack of finding some sort of loophole… Sam even more so than me.   Ten years may not be long in your lifetime but it could be enough for him to find another way to stop you.”

Michael raised an eyebrow derisively.

“…Or at least, make it difficult for you.”  He stammered.

Michael seemed to concede that point. 

He took another sip and nodded for Dean to continue, “Go on.”

“Let me speak to Sam.  I can get you whatever you want from the bunker, much more quickly than if you just tried to take it.  Look, ultimately you want God, or Chuck, or whatever.  You leave my world alone and you can happily burn your way through the rest to get to him, I won’t fight you.”

Dean knew that last statement was an empty sentiment.  He was just a passenger, and the twitch of the archangel’s lips reinforced that fact.  He just had to hope that the bastard would see some merit in his idea.

Michael may have broken him a long time ago, but he would still fight for Sam even if it meant signing the death warrant for an unknown number of worlds. 

He would always fight for Sam.

Unable to handle the silence, he begged, again.

“Please… I’ll do anything you want.”

Michael looked pensive.  Dean dared to hope.

“You’re right, I do want God’s head on a pike more than destroying your insignificant planet.”

The archangel took another agonisingly slow sip of his whiskey, before looking back over at Dean and addressing him directly.

 “I’ll make you a deal.  You get me what I want and I won’t kill your bother, or your angel, or any of your sad little “family.”’

Michael felt the spark ignite in Dean and delighted in it. Despite everything he’d put the man through, there was still fight left in the hunter.  Dean saw himself as broken, but Michael knew the truth, that there was still so much more to wring out of the emotional human.  His resilience had been what had kept Michael entertained throughout the past ten years.  Dean Winchester hadn’t completely lost his spirit.  The box would have been so boring if he had.

He continued, “You’re mine, Dean, forever.  But you maintain your end of the bargain and I’ll leave this whole pathetic universe intact.”

Dean bowed his head submissively and nodded, looking up at the archangel.  “Yeah, okay.  I can do it.  I can get you what you want.”

Michael’s poker face was smooth but inside he was grinning from ear to ear.  Dean was so resigned to his fate that he hadn’t even flinched at the archangel’s reminder that there was no hope for the hunter himself.  The human’s selflessness had played directly into Michael’s hands.  He had gotten exactly what he wanted and all it took was some simple manipulation.  Letting Dean think it was his own idea was so much more fun.

Chapter Text

Looking at the world through his own eyes was like being hit by a tidal wave.  One minute Dean had been in Rocky’s, discussing the terms of his temporary release from custody, and the next he was standing on the sidewalk of an average looking, nondescript town.

He marvelled at the people just going about their daily business, at the cars slowly ambling down the high street.  It was all so… normal.  He felt his heart thumping in his chest.  Despite knowing he was on a tight leash, the sudden freedom was overwhelming. 

Returning to reality was a sensory overload.  Dean felt woozy.  Seeing spots dancing across his vision, he blinked and stumbled a couple of steps towards the nearest form of support.  Leaning a hand against the wall of a dry cleaners, he closed his eyes and took some slow, deep breaths. 

After a few moments, he sluggishly opened his eyes.  He was half expecting the whole thing to be some sort of hallucination, but the world was still there, everyone still getting on with their ordinary lives.

Or were they?

Maybe he was just back on the holodeck, with Michael setting the program to Mindgames 101 again.

“Hey man, you okay?”

The question from a passer-by shook Dean out of his stupor.

“Uh, yeah.”  He answered automatically, whilst pushing himself off the wall into a more upright position.

“You sure?”

He finally focussed on the balding, middle-aged guy in a dull grey suit.  There was a similar grey outfit, wrapped in plastic, draped over his arm.  The man had a concerned look on his face and a steadying hand clasped on Dean’s shoulder.

“Yeah.”  He gently shrugged out of the man’s grip.  “Sorry… just, er, rough night.” 

Suddenly acutely aware of the ridiculous cap, he snatched it off his head.  He felt a small spark of pain and winced. 

Of course, even if this was real, Michael was still watching. 

Still in control.

“Want me to call someone for you?

“No.”  He answered quicky. 

He ran a hand through his hair.  “Just… Look, I know this sounds crazy but where am I?”

“Er, okay…” The man raised his eyebrows.  “This is Lebanon, Kansas.”

Dean took another look around and this time really saw the town.  Some of the buildings may have had a few facelifts over the years but it was obviously the Lebanon he had known. 

It was home.

“Rough night sounds like a bit of an understatement.” The guy gave him a dubious look, his eye’s searching with genuine compassion.

He licked his lips and flashed, what he knew was a poor imitation of a Dean Winchester winning smile.

“You have no idea.”  He said, barely able to meet the man’s gaze. 

“You sure you’re alright?”

He shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny.  “Thanks for the help.  I’m fine.  Really.”

The man paused briefly before giving up and raising his free hand in amiable defeat.  “Okay then…  You take care.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Dean glanced over his shoulder at the man’s retreating figure and heaved a sigh of relief.  Being so unexpectedly confronted with another human being had startled the hunter but being shown some kindness had floored him.  He had reacted on pure autopilot, covering up his distress as best he could, when all he wanted to do was break down and sob at the beauty of being in the real world.

This was real, wasn’t it?

His gut said it was, but could he truly trust in his own instincts anymore?

Realising he was just going round in circles, he weighed up the possibilities.  If this was a fabrication, and Michael was just messing with him, then the only person that would get hurt was himself.  If it was genuine, then Sam, Cass, his family and the rest of the world were at stake.  Realising there was no contest, he took door number two and decided to assume that this was reality until proven otherwise.

Trying to put his brain into gear, he loosened his collar and looked around.  As his eyes fell on the local diner, a grin spread across his lips.  Being powered by an archangel, sustenance was unnecessary.  But given that he was destined to continue being an angel condom, whilst Michael worked his way through multiple universes, he decided he would take the opportunity to see if Big Al’s cheese and bacon burgers were still as good as he remembered.

-----

“There was nothing suspicious about his death, which, in itself, is suspicious.”  Castiel concluded as he finished detailing the outcome of his trip to Sergei’s trailer.

“You’re right.” Sam agreed, looking at the angel next to him. “It’s just too much of a coincidence to rule out Michael’s involvement.”

The current four occupants of the bunker were all sat hunched around a table in the library.  The atmosphere was filled with the smell of freshly brewed coffee and frustration.

The younger Winchester sighed. “The hunter network is quiet.  Not even a hint of a lead on Michael or what he might be up to.”

He turned to look at Jack who was slumped in the opposite chair.  “Jack?”

“Heaven has nothing.” Jack answered dejectedly. 

“I got the usual spiel about them being too busy keeping the lights on to be able to do much.” He exhaled. “But Duma did promise to keep a look out and to send a message via angel radio if anything popped up on the radar.”

Despite all the negative news, Sam smiled at the man he considered a son. “That’s the best that we could hope for from Heaven.  Don’t beat yourself up, Jack. You did good.”

Cass nodded in agreement and noted how Jack’s demeanour brightened at the praise.  The nephilim had come so far, it was so easy to forget how young he really was.  Cass’s heart swelled with pride at the thought.

Sam’s smile dropped and he looked down at his loosely clasped hands resting on the table top.  Rubbing the inside of his right palm with his left thumb, he addressed the red head sat next to Jack.

“Rowena?”  He said tightly.

“I’ve tried the most powerful location spells I know, but I’ve found nothing.” Rowena got up and dug a bottle of whiskey out of the liquor cabinet.  Frowning at the cheap American label, she continued, “The one I used to find Gabriel, all those years ago, was useless.  Michael knows how to hide himself.”

Sam listened intently; his gaze pointedly fixed on the table in front of him.

Rowena glided back over to the table and dispensed a healthy slug of bourbon into her coffee.

“I can try some contacts I know.  It’s a risk - They’re not exactly friends, but they might speak to me given the gravity of the situation.”

Sam couldn’t help the quiet snort that slipped out as he involuntarily shook his head.

Rowena placed the bottle down on the table with a loud thud, tilting her head towards the hunter with pursed lips.

“Something you want to say Samuel?”

Sam knew he shouldn’t bite, but he couldn’t help himself.  The wound was still too raw. 

“Yeah, a situation we wouldn’t be in if it wasn’t for you.”  He looked up at her. “You knew precisely where Michael and Dean were… for ten years.”

“Really Sam?” Rowena knew she should let it go, but she was done with being vilified.  “Are we going to go over the same old ground again? I think it’s time we changed the channel. This station is getting so boring.” 

“Look guys, I don’t think…” Jack tried to break in but stopped at the twin glares he received.  He turned to Cass in the hopes that he would play his usual role as peacemaker, only to find the angel turning away from him, and the burgeoning dispute, as he rose out of his chair. 

Surprised at Castiel’s retreat and fearful of being left alone to deal with Sam and Rowena, who continued to hurl abuse at one another, Jack’s eyes tracked the angel’s movements as he stalked away to the other end of the room, the fingertips of his right hand pressed against his forehead and strained look on his face.

Jack wondered for a moment whether Cass merely had a headache from all the bickering.  He could certainly feel one gathering momentum.  However, his instincts told him that there was something else going on with his adopted father.

“Cass, you okay?” he enquired, slowly getting up from his chair, ignoring the raging argument that was going on in front of him…

“Give it up already, Sam!”

“Like you gave up on my brother?”

“SHUT UP!” 

The force of Castiel’s voice immediately silenced the squabbling duo.  Sam and Rowena simultaneously turned and stared at the angel in surprise.

“I can’t focus… I-I can’t listen to…”  Cass trailed off, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples, seemingly deep in concentration.

“Listen to what Cass?” Sam prompted quietly.  “Is it Duma?” 

“It’s Dean.”

-----

Dean sat back in his booth seat, eyes closed in brief contentment, the plate in front of him empty.  If anything, the burgers had gotten better. 

However, he’d had similar experiences upon his return from Hell and Purgatory.  He knew that it was the novelty of being able to engage in such a simple pleasure that made, what was probably an average burger, taste so fantastic. 

Maybe he should indulge in the extasy of a mediocre slice of pie too…

He opened his eyes and flinched at the sight of Michael sitting across from him.  The archangel leisurely looked around the diner before fixing his piercing gaze on the hunter.

“I don’t recall the reason I released you was for casual dining.” Michael said, his voice deadpan.

Full of emotion at being catapulted back to planet earth, Dean lashed out without thinking, “Yeah, well, sorry if being hurled back into the world was just a little bit disorientating after years of the crap you just put me through.  Just give me a minute or two to find my bearings, okay?”

Michael’s eyes flashed and Dean doubled over, crying out in agony.  He gripped his torso with his right arm and reflexively slammed his left fist on the table top in an attempt to manage the pain.  When he was finally released, he panted, trying to regain composure.

As he recovered control of his faculties, Dean nervously glanced around the diner.  He expected his actions to have drawn attention, but the other patrons were happily carrying on with their meals.

“Come on, Dean.”  Michael rolled his eyes.  “Don’t be so stupid.  This is all happening in your head.  The most that pretty little waitress will see is a twitch.”

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” Dean said, trying to keep the distain he felt out of his voice, even though he knew he couldn’t hide anything from the archangel.

“It’s come to my attention that you’re stalling.” Michael declared, seemingly almost bored.

“One burger and you think I’m going back on our deal?” Dean questioned.  “You’re in my head, you know everything that I’m thinking.  So, you know that I’m going to do what I promised.”

“You’re right, I know exactly what’s going on.”  Michael leaned back in his seat.  “More so, it seems, than you.”

“Really?  Well do share with the rest of the class…”  Dean internally winced, hoping the sarcasm would be forgiven.

Michael sighed as if he was about to explain something incredibly simple to young child.

“You’ve just returned to the town you consider home.  Your beloved brother is merely a stone’s throw away and yet, you’re sat here, in a second-rate diner, contemplating two-day-old pie?”

“I told you, I needed a minute.”

“You’re scared.”

“Shut up.” Dean said defiantly, but without any real force.

Michael huffed. “You’re not an idiot Dean, so don’t act like one.”

“Oh wow, I guess I should take that as a complement?  Our relationship has really grown.” The hunter retorted venomously.

Michael’s eyes flashed again and Dean felt like he was going to pass out from the pain.  He was vaguely aware of coughing blood into the half empty beer glass in front of him.

“Don’t push me, boy.” Michael’s words rang loud and clear in Dean’s head.

After a moment, the archangel sighed, once again releasing the hunter.

As Dean spat out the last remnants of blood in his struggle to collect himself again, Michael meditated over the current situation.   Having a purpose had given the human back some of his spark and Michael couldn’t help but admit that it made torturing him so much more entertaining. 

‘Ma’lak box Dean’ had been well on his way to breaking but, having been given the opportunity to protect his family, this Dean was a refreshing encounter.  Nothing got Dean Winchester more riled up than a threat to dear old Sammy. 

Michael wondered why he cared so much.  Dean was just a vessel after all.  His perfect vessel, yes, but still a lowly human who was only in control of his own body as a means to an end. 

Why was playing with the hunter so enjoyable?

Michael put the question to the back of his mind for another time and turned his attention back to the gasping human.

“I’m not your shrink, Dean.  I’m not here to talk about your feelings or to deconstruct the meaning behind your feeble attempt at delaying the inevitable.  I’m here to tell you to get your shit together and play the role that you agreed to… before I decide that a frontal assault is easier.”

Upon hearing the casual threat, Dean looked up, locking eyes with the archangel as he wiped blood from his lips with the back of his hand.  The look in Michael’s eyes was a stark reminder of the ruthless battle commander that sat before him.  He couldn’t help the immediate rush of fear that ran through him at the thought of being thrown back in his mental cage and having to watch as the archangel tore apart his family. 

Michael held Dean’s gaze for a few moments until satisfied that his message had being received loud and clear, then disappeared.

Dean started at the abrupt departure, before letting out a breath that he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.  He glanced down at his hand and the table top in front of him, to find no trace of any blood.  His last few of mouthfuls of beer weren’t swirling with red anymore.

He pushed the beer away and swallowed, mulling over the archangel’s words.  As it turned out, he could fool himself, but he couldn’t fool the heartless dickbag in his head. 

When he agreed to this gig, saving Sammy had been the only thought on his mind.  Now, the implications of what he had to do were finally setting in.  Even though it was all he wanted, he was terrified of seeing Sam and his family again, of how they might react, of their anger at his disappearance.

Or what if it was the opposite?

What if they weren’t bothered at all?  What if they had no interest in seeing him?  What if they had all moved on, like he’d told Sam to do?

Either way, he knew how much it was going to hurt to be able to see them again, and then be taken away.

Dean shook himself.  He was wallowing in his misery and, whilst that had been acceptable in the box, the status quo even, it wasn’t going to help him right now.  He hated to agree with the feathered son of a bitch, but he did need to pull himself together and get the job done.

“Hey sugar, you want another drink?  Maybe some dessert?” 

Dean glanced up at the waitress who had appeared and was now busy clearing his table.  Michael was right about her too, she was attractive.  In another world, another time, he probably would have flirted with her.

“No.  Just a coffee, thanks.”

“Comin’ up.”

As she walked away, he took a steadying breath and tried to cut off his emotions.  He needed to figure out his next move.  He couldn’t just walk into the bunker.  The warding must be too good, otherwise Michael wouldn’t have needed him.  He smiled, feeling proud that his baby brother had found a way of protecting their home from the archangel.  He felt Michael stirring and snapped back to the task in hand. 

Communication was the first step. 

He figured he could try all of Sam’s numbers.  There was a chance that one of them would still be in use after all these years.  Cass’s number probably hadn’t changed.  He’d had the same one ever since he’d rebelled against Zachariah.  He could just call his best friend.

If he was honest with himself though, Dean knew he wasn’t ready for the first conversation with his brother or Cass to be over the phone.  Didn’t seem right.

He did know of one sure-fire way to make contact, which involved no two-way conversation at all.  Dean paused for a moment, pushing down the fear he felt.  He had to get on with it, before Michael questioned his usefulness again.

Deciding that the diner was as good a place as any, he closed his eyes.

“Hey Cass, you still got your ears on for an old friend?” He said quietly.  “Long time, no speak.  It’s er… It’s me… It’s Dean.” 

He paused, cringing at his uncertainty, at the stupidity of that statement. Cass wasn’t an idiot; he would still recognise his voice. 

Wouldn’t he?

“Look, I…”  He trailed off, where did he start?  What did he say?  He mentally berated himself for not thinking this through.  There was so much he wanted to say and yet, so much he couldn’t say.

“I guess you’ve probably figured out that Michael’s free… We need to talk.”

-----

A heavy silence had descended between Sam and Cass as they made their way from the bunker to Big Al’s diner in downtown Lebanon.  Having spent the initial part of the short journey staring out of the window, immersed in thought, Sam inhaled deeply and turned towards the angel behind the wheel.

When no words were forthcoming from the hunter’s lips, Cass hesitantly glanced over at the man riding shotgun.

“Sam?” He prompted.

“You’re sure it was Dean?”

Cass exhaled slowly, choosing his words carefully so he didn’t let the frustration of having to repeat himself show.  He understood why Sam couldn’t help revisiting this line of questioning.

“I can’t say anything for certain, but as far as I know, it is impossible to fake a prayer.” He reiterated patiently.

“Right.” The hunter returned to staring at the road ahead.

Cass gazed over at his friend with concern. “Are you okay?”

“No.  I’m pretty far from okay right now.” Sam stated bluntly.

Upon learning that Dean was only a few miles away, waiting in the local diner, the bunker had descended into chaos.  Following a heated discussion, it had been decided that, as Dean had only requested to speak with Sam and Cass, Jack and Rowena should stay behind in case it was a trap.

Sam felt sick.  He had so many unanswered questions.  He was desperate to see Dean but petrified at what they might find in the diner.  Thoughts of a potential ambush were the least of his concerns.  He would risk everything for the chance to see his brother again.

He turned back to Cass.  “Do you…”  Sam trailed off.  “Do you think he’ll still be… Dean?

Cass was at a loss as to what to say to the younger Winchester.  He was ‘pretty far from okay’ too, but he was trying to hold it together for Sam’s sake.  Dean’s prayer had been woefully short and to the point.  He had no idea what sort of state the elder Winchester would be in.

Saddened at the thought that he couldn’t provide Sam with any comforting words, he went with the plain truth.

“I don’t know.”

-----

Sam walked into the bustling diner, scanning the tables until a lone figure in the corner caught his attention.  He stopped in his tracks, not quite believing his own eyes. 

There was his brother, sitting at a table, shoulders hunched over a cup of coffee.  To an outsider Dean looked slightly dishevelled, as if the previous night’s antics had taken its toll.  But the haunted look in his eyes and the rumpled suit he was wearing told Sam the actual truth. 

Despite having taken the one seat in the diner where he could view the entire room, Dean didn’t appear to notice their arrival.  With one hand clasped around his untouched coffee, his brother seemed to be lost in thought, vacantly staring at the empty seat across the booth.

Sam felt a hand grip his arm and turned to look at Castiel.  The angel looked up at him, communicating so much in just one glance - fear, caution but ultimately, hope.  They stared at each other for another moment, before he turned and determinedly made his way towards his long-lost brother, Cass close on his heels. 

They were barely a few feet from Dean’s table when the elder Winchester seemed to shake himself out of his trance, looking up in surprise. 

Leaning back in his seat, Dean acknowledged their presence with a shy half smile.

“Hiya Sammy.  Hey Cass.”

Chapter Text

Dean stared at the two people sat across the booth from him and struggled to find words.  When Sam and Cass had appeared at his table, he had automatically stood up and gripped his brother tightly.  But, as he felt Sam hug him back even more fiercely, Dean had found himself abruptly withdrawing.  He couldn’t afford to become attached.  It would only make it harder on the both of them in the long run.

It had pained him to follow-up with a lacklustre embrace with Cass, but truly showing how he felt was too difficult.  Better to keep his best friend at arm’s length and minimise the heartbreak.

And now here they all were, together again, and he couldn’t think of a damn thing to say.  Dean felt his heart thumping in his chest and fought the turmoil of emotion that threatened to spill out.

He just needed a moment to regroup.  

His saviour came in the form of the cute waitress as she bustled up to the table, notepad in hand.   Stacey, Dean finally noted from her name tag, beamed down at the awkward group.

“Well, aren’t you guys a bunch of handsome fellas!” She remarked cheerfully, oblivious to the charged atmosphere at the table.  She turned to Sam and Cass, pen at the ready. “What can I getcha?”

Cass looked up and gave her a polite smile, “Just coffee, black, thank you.”

She scribbled on her pad and tilted her head, looking past Castiel to address Sam.

“And for you, Sasquatch?”  She said with a cheeky grin.

Sam blinked, taken aback at the familiar nickname he hadn’t heard in years.  He glanced up at her briefly, unable to take his eyes off his brother for long, for fear he would vanish.  Dean was staring at the table, tracing an unknown pattern on its surface.  Physically he seemed okay, healthy even, but there was something different in the way he held himself, in the hollowness behind his eyes.

“Regular decaf, please.” Sam said distractedly. 

Suddenly the elder Winchester was staring straight at him, holding his gaze with an amused smirk.  Despite all his worries, Sam reflexively slipped back into little brother mode and glared back at Dean in defiance.

“I’m trying to watch my caffeine intake.” He bristled.

With a gleam in his eye, like the older brother Sam had known, Dean seemed poised to deliver a witty retort, but the waitress broke the spell of the moment.

“Hey daydreamer, you want a fresh one?”

The smirk immediately dropped as Dean turned towards her.

“What?” He replied, a touch defensively.

Sam caught a flash of something in Dean’s eyes that he couldn’t quite pinpoint.

“Sweetheart, you’ve been staring into space so much, you haven’t touched a drop of your coffee!  I’ll wager it’s colder than a polar bear’s wet dream!”  Stacey said with an unabashed chuckle.

Sam and Cass simultaneously turned to look at her with raised eyebrows.

Dean looked away and pushed his cold cup over to her. “Uh…. Yeah, sure.” 

Sam didn’t know what surprised him more, the waitress’s comment, or Dean’s lack of reaction to it.

“Okey-dokey.”  She said as she took Dean’s cold coffee, bounding off to fetch their order as the strained silence returned.

“So…”  Dean trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. “You guys are still at the bunker huh?”

“Where else would we be?  Sam replied, puzzled.

“I guess I just hoped…” He paused with a shake of his head. “I dunno.”

“I know it’s customary to make small talk when you haven’t seen someone in a long time, but I think in our situation, we don’t have that luxury.”  Cass broke in with an apologetic grimace.

Dean gazed over at the angel and felt a flood of warmth.  It was nice to know that after all these years, he could still rely on Cass to describe the enormity of the situation in such a monotone way.  He lost himself in the nostalgia of the moment and Cass’s piercing blue eyes before the content of his friend’s words really hit home.

“I guess I’ve got some explaining to do.”  Dean frowned for a moment before glancing between the two of them.  “What do you know already?”

“Only what Rowena told us about your trip to the ocean floor a few weeks ago, when she discovered that Michael had escaped from the Ma’lak box.” Sam responded in as neutral a tone as he could muster.  “Since then, we’ve heard nothing about you, or Michael, until your prayer to Cass.” 

“Huh.” Dean replied contemplatively, wondering what Michael had been up to in the weeks since his jail break.  He was glad that Rowena was still in the picture.  He had known she would keep her end of the bargain.

“How is red?” He asked casually. 

Seeing the involuntary twitch of the corner of Sam’s mouth and the hard look in his eyes, Dean paused. 

He knew that look. 

Realising his ill-considered question, he opened his mouth to defend his partner in crime, but decided that was a topic that could wait and sat back with a resigned nod.

“Dean, how are you even here?” Cass enquired, steering the conversation away from the minefield that was Rowena.

Dean shrugged and replied with a sad smile, “I made a deal.”

Sam’s heart sank like a lead weight.

“What deal?” Cass asked, the apprehension in his voice evident.

“Michael needs something from the bunker.  I get him what he wants, and he leaves you, and this world, alone.”

“And what about you?”

Dean hesitated.  “I’m not part of the deal.”  He stated calmly.

Unable to a sit back and listen anymore, Sam exploded.

“Jesus, Dean.  What does that even mean?  You rock up at the local diner after ten years… ten years of-of being locked up with Michael and weeks of radio silence…”  He ran his hands through his hair before gesturing towards Dean. “Can you please just drop the cryptic and explain exactly what is going on?  And where the hell is Michael?

“He’s still here.” Dean said, tapping the side of his head with two fingers.

“What?!”

“Whoa!  Easy there, tiger!” Stacey exclaimed, cups rattling on her plastic tray.

They had been so engrossed in their conversation; they hadn’t realised that she had crept up on them.  The group sat in tense silence as the waitress handed out their coffees and merrily babbled on about the weather.  Sam felt like it was the hardest wait he’d ever had to endure.  He was seriously considering drawing his Taurus on Stacey and her self-assumed ‘expert’ meteorological knowledge. He glanced over at Cass, who was still staring at Dean with a stunned expression on his face. 

When Stacey finally turned away from their table and went charging off to a family a few booths down, Sam rounded on his brother, keeping his voice low.  “Dean, please tell me that was a really bad joke.”

Dean sighed. “I’m on temporary release…  I’m behind the wheel right now, but Michael’s still in the driving seat.”

-----

“So, what do you think?” Sam asked Cass as they stood in the diner car park.

“I think…” Cass blew out a breath.  “I don’t know what to think, Sam.”

There was a momentary pause.  Sam glanced away, pursing his lips and rolling his shoulders whilst he contemplated his next words.  He looked back at Cass.

“I think we should bring Dean back to the bunker.” He declared.

Cass stared at Sam, slack jawed.  Recovering his senses, the angel proceeded slowly, “Let me get this straight. You want to bring the most formidable archangel in existence - who is evil by the way - into the exact place he wants to be? 

The younger Winchester held his gaze with a stony expression.  “You know the saying – keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

“Sam, have you lost your mind?” Cass responded, incredulous.

Sam held out his hands in supplication.  “Think about it.  If Dean’s in the bunker, then Michael’s not out in the world, wreaking havoc.”

Cass turned away from Sam, pacing a few steps, his mind racing.  “I wish I could believe that that’s your only reasoning.”

“So, I want to keep my brother close too.” Sam conceded. “Doesn’t mean my logic isn’t sound.”

Cass sighed. 

“Cass, Dean deserves to come home.”

“I don’t disagree with you there.”  He acknowledged, turning back towards Sam.  “But something’s not right.  I couldn’t sense Michael at all.  I thought Dean was free of him until he said otherwise.  Michael’s up to something.”

“Of course, he is!” Sam replied animatedly. “There’s no way he’s just going to let us all live when he has the power to annihilate the planet.”

The hunter inhaled before continuing to plead his case. “Look, personal feelings aside, we need intel, and our biggest clue is Dean.”

Cass pinched the bridge of his nose, already regretting what he was about to agree to. “Okay, say I’m onboard with this.” He said cautiously. “We can’t just let Michael walk around the bunker, and there’s no way he would willingly be contained.”

Sam sucked in a breath, calculating. “Then we have to contain the archives instead.”

-----

Rowena huffed as she flicked through the dusty tome in front of her.  She had no real desire to walk into a potential trap set by Michael, but she was annoyed at being side-lined.  The incredibly powerful witch knew that the reason she’d been benched was because Sam was pissed at her. 

Typical Winchester, thinking with his heart and not his head.

She thought about Dean waiting in that diner and her chest tightened.  She still believed that she’d done the right thing with the information she’d had at the time, but hindsight was a bitch.  Rowena bit her bottom lip. 

Had Billie been wrong, or had she had some ulterior motive? 

It threw everything Rowena believed in into question.  She grabbed the bottle of whiskey next to her and poured another measure into the glass she’d requisitioned when she’d decided that an Irish coffee was too much coffee, and not enough Irish, for the escalating situation.

As she brought the glass towards her lips, she heard the sound of footsteps and the murmur of Jack’s voice drifting in from the war room.  Rowena hesitated.  When Jack strode into the library, phone glued to his ear, she placed the glass back down on the table and listened keenly.

“Okay, we’ll do what we can… Cass, is he… how is he?” Jack paced back and forth “… Right.  I’ll let you know if we come up with anything.”

Jack ended the call and grasped the back of a chair, slowly blowing air out of his puffed cheeks, deep in thought.

Rowena couldn’t take the suspense.

“Well?” She demanded.

 “Right. Sorry. It’s just…” Jack’s brow furrowed.  “It’s a lot to take in.”

The petite redhead rolled her eyes “So, why don’t you spit it out instead?”

“Michael wants something in the bunker.  It’s called the ‘Key to Death.’” Jack said slowly, still processing the information that had just been passed onto him.  “We need to try and find it, as well as find a way to restrict his access to parts of the bunker, so they can bring Dean home.”

Rowena lost the already thin hold she had on her patience. “Why is it that whenever there’s an apocalyptic situation at hand, you Winchesters start talking in riddles?!” She complained, gesturing with her hands.  “Jack, you’re not making a lick o’ sense.”

“You’re right.”  Jack sighed and ran a hand down his face. “I guess I should have started at the beginning - Michael is still possessing Dean.”

Rowena’s eyelids fluttered. “Come again?”

“Dean’s currently in control, but he’s not… ultimately in control.”  The nephilim noted the witch’s blank expression and frowned.  “He’s navigating but he’s not the captain of the ship.  Does that make any sense?” 

Rowena sighed, massaging her temples. “Aye, unfortunately it does.”

“Sam wants to bring Dean back to the bunker,” Jack explained, “but he needs to stop Michael from getting to the archives and finding this key thing, before we do and figure out what he wants it for.”

He paused. “Sam’s hoping you can come up with a spell to do that.” He said hesitantly, waiting for the inevitable onslaught.

Rowena sat staring at Jack, dumbstruck.  She slowly brought the whiskey tumbler back to her lips and took a long swig whilst she formulated her reply.

 “So, just to clarify, I’m supposed to find a way to stop the oldest, most powerful being on this earth from breaking into our knicker drawer?  She inquired evenly, tilting her head.

“Well… yes.” Jack winced.

“No wonder Cass phoned you.” Rowena scowled. “He knows I won’t shoot the baby-faced messenger… coward.”

“There must be something you can do?” He appealed.

“I can’t pull a miracle out of my arse!” She barked angrily, sitting back in her chair and folding her arms. “Bloody Winchesters!”

“Rowena,” Jack began haltingly, knowing he had to play this right to get her on side. “You’re the most powerful witch on the planet and you have a brilliant mind - ”

“Aye, that is true.” She interrupted, nodding along without a shred of humility.

“If there’s anyone who can figure it out, it’s you.”  He implored.

Rowena knocked back the rest of her whiskey and looked up at Jack’s boyish big blues.

“Bollocks.”

-----

Barry Burke sighed as he finished marking his last paper.  Today had been a long day.  He loved his job as a chemistry teacher, but sometimes he considered using his ancient abilities to fix the lottery and lose himself in a world of champagne, hookers and caviar.  It wasn’t like he hadn’t done something similar in the past, but that was a different time and a different Barry.  He’d come a long, long way from sacrificing infants on the Drombeg altar during the winter solstice.

After today though, he could think of a couple of students he’d quite like to ‘sacrifice.’ 

They’re teenagers, Barry, their hormones are raging and Ricky’s homelife is crap.  Don’t take it so personally. 

He told himself as he thought of the angry fifteen-year-old who’d told him to ‘fuck off’ when he’d asked him to stop talking.  The incident had completely derailed his lesson on covalent bonding.  With a deep breath, Barry resolved that tomorrow was a new day and that he would make an extra effort to check in with Ricky and find out what was going on with him.  Maybe his alcoholic, dead-beat dad had skipped town again, poor kid.

Gazing at the darkness outside of his classroom window, Barry decided it was time to head home.  He needed a stiff drink, and an episode of NCIS: Fort Lauderdale to fall asleep to before the inevitable shrill of his alarm clock at six am.  Maybe he’d break out the Kinsale barrel-aged mead he’d found on the internet which reminded him of his primordial home.

He packed up his things and slipped into his ill-fitting suit jacket.  Taking a last glance around his classroom, he was poised to turn off his desk lamp when he heard the chink of glass from the prep room at the back of the lab. 

Barry frowned.  His department colleagues had gone home, and he knew that the school cleaners were finishing up for the evening at the opposite end of the building.  Another fifteen minutes and the janitor would be kicking him out so he could lock up.

“Hello?”  He called, making his way towards the room that was essentially a glorified cupboard. Opening the door and flicking on the light, he glanced around, finding nothing out of place.  All the beakers and test tubes were stored away safely, as usual.  He tried the connecting door to Barbara’s classroom, but it was locked.  Shrugging in confusion, he switched off the light and turned back into his classroom.  As his eyes re-adjusted to the dim light, he gasped as a humanoid shape materialised in front of him, silhouetted against the desk lamp at the other end of the room. 

Barry had lived far too long not to recognise a potential threat when he saw one.  His eyes glowed purple as he prepared to defend himself with his age-old, trusty magical arsenal.  But, before he could do anything, he was thrown against the wall, with no option to move, and his link to the dark arts unexpectedly out of reach. 

Barry felt panic rise in his gut.  There were very few things on this earth that could threaten the existence of someone like him.  As the dark figure moved forward, Barry fears were confirmed as he stared into eyes of ice.

“I know what you are.”  He stammered out.  “But it’s not possible!  There are none of your kind left!” 

“Oh Barry, don’t you know that nothing ever stays dead?”

“Please!” He begged, for the first time in his very long life.  “I’m powerful.  I-I can be of use to you.  Surely we can make a deal?”

“But you’re already being useful.”

Barry’s hopes for survival perished at those words.

“It’s nothing personal, Mr Burke. I just need you dead.”

Suddenly Barry felt an intense pain as his insides liquified, bright light shining from his eyes.  He knew it was the end.  In that moment he felt such sorrow that he wouldn’t be able to repair his relationship with Ricky and support the unlucky teenager. 

All he had hoped for in his current life was to one day atone for his past sins.

Barry’s lifeless body dropped to the floor, his eyes reduced to charcoaled craters.

-----

Jack exhaled slowly, the words in front of him blurring into a sea of black squiggles. He scrunched his eyes together, trying to refocus.  His gaze wandered over the mountain of books in front of him and the flash of red hair buried behind them, indicating the witch who was also furiously researching, empty whiskey bottle at her shoulder. 

They had been at this for hours and had, unsurprisingly, turned up nothing.  This was all familiar ground to the nephilim.  Every single piece of lore on archangels had been read and re-read a thousand times in the search for Dean. Jack was combing through information that he could probably recite from memory.  He couldn’t see how they were going to find anything more from these books.

He knew there was something he was missing.  That they wouldn’t find the answer in the vast resources of the Men of Letters. 

Then it hit him.

“Rowena, what about the Ma’lak box?”

“I very much doubt Michael’s going to let us put him in another one.”  Rowena said, raising her head, and a perfectly shaped eyebrow, above the pile of books.

“No, that’s not what I meant.” Jack countered. “If it can keep an archangel in -”

Rowena snorted. “If that was true, Michael and Dean would still be languishing at the bottom of the ocean.”

“Just humour me.”  Jack breathed, waving his hands in frustration.  “If it can keep him in, surely it can also keep him out?”

“What’s your point?” Rowena challenged bluntly, confusion marring her features.

“The box is just a box, right?  It’s the sigils and spell work that stop him?”

“So?”

“Couldn’t we apply that to the parts of the bunker we don’t want him to have access to?

Rowena’s eyes lit up and a wicked smile spread across her features.  “Jack my boy, you’re a genius!”

Chapter Text

As Dean silently gazed out of the window at the passing streets of Lebanon, Michael took stock of the unfolding situation. He hadn’t been surprised when the younger Winchester suggested Dean return to the bunker. In fact, he had banked on it. However, he had been taken aback by how quickly that decision had been made. It seemed that despite being the smarter Winchester, Sam just couldn’t refrain from making reckless choices when it came to his brother.

Dean had initially refused the offer, of course. The man wasn’t a fool. But, after a brief visual from Michael of his younger brother, his angel, and everyone else in the diner broken and bleeding, the human had easily submitted. Michael internally smirked in satisfaction. Even after all the hell re-runs he’d put Dean through, he could still shock the hunter with some spontaneous wanton savagery.

Michael turned his attention to his next steps. The archangel was displeased to find that his access to the archives would be restricted. He was also curious as to how they thought they could prevent him from going anywhere. Holy oil and magic handcuffs only lasted so long, and Michael did not intend to acquiesce to either. He conceded that Sam and Castiel may have learnt some new tricks in the past ten years, but Michael sincerely doubted they had found a way to permanently prevent him from going wherever he desired, and he certainly wasn’t going to be stepping into another Ma’lak box.

Michael weighed up the turn of events, good and bad, and decided that, all in all, things were going better than planned. Potentially being prohibited from searching for the Key to Death himself was only really a minor setback, tempered by the fact that he hadn’t predicted gaining access to the bunker quite so soon.

Now they were on their way to a local motel, to wait whilst the bunker was ‘prepared.’ Sam had been particularly vague about how, and Dean hadn’t pressed. Michael was content to wait for the big reveal. He suspected that Sam hadn’t actually figured out how to limit his access yet and was winging it, as the humans would say. The Winchesters always tended to rely on the last-minute Hail Mary. In Michael’s vast experience, beings who depended on luck to see them through, all ended up dead, eventually.

Castiel’s old, battered truck pulled into the parking lot of the Buckshot Inn, breaks squealing as it came to a halt. Dean couldn’t help making a comment about how the angel needed to take better care of his vehicle. Michael noticed the way his vessel flooded with fondness at the roll of blue eyes he received in response. Michael recorded everything.

Once Sam had procured a key from reception, the group settled into a shabby twin room, complete with fake deer head and plaid bedspreads. The taller Winchester settled himself at a small wooden table, whilst Dean perched himself on the end of the bed closest to the door. Castiel placed himself next to the window, appearing to stand guard, scanning the area as if their biggest threat came from outside. Michael found it farcical.

As they made awkward small talk, he decided to let his mind wander. The archangel had never held much interest in frivolous human interests, such as interior décor, but he still couldn’t believe that, after thousands of years of evolution, some humans still thought brown textured walls were a good idea.

Michael noted that, regardless of Dean’s overall unease, a sense of calm had descended over his vessel. Despite everything that he had been through, Dean still found a dingy motel room comforting. Michael found himself relating to the feeling of finding solace in the unremarkable in lieu of the soothing arms of a father’s embrace. He filed that unsettling thought away for later analysis.

As Dean attempted to nonchalantly query whether Dr Sexy was still on the T.V., Michael groaned to himself. He couldn’t believe the human genuinely wanted to know what had happened to some mediocre soap opera characters. He’d always found Dean’s not so secret love of trashy T.V. mystifying. It was so… inconsequential.

The archangel let his mind drift again, cataloguing all the potential outcomes from his recent actions and his possible responses, until a question caught his attention. Michael gleefully waited for the ensuing car crash. That slippery shaman had been very informative, once he had applied the right pressure.

-----

“How’s Mom?”

Sam flinched at Dean’s question. In all the rush of dealing with his brother’s return, he realised he hadn’t prepared himself for this conversation. He glanced over at Cass and was met with a solemn look of compassion. There was no way to avoid it, he had to rip off the Band-Aid. He leaned forward towards Dean, resting his elbows on his knees. He gazed down at his hands for a moment, rubbing them together whilst he collected himself.

“Dean, Mom…” Sam exhaled, blowing the air out of his puffed cheeks and looking up into searching green eyes. “She died… six years ago.” He said gently.

The look of shocked disbelief on his brother’s face was crushing.

“How?” Dean asked softly, his eyes darting away from Sam’s.

“Demons.” Sam hesitated, unsure how much to tell. “Her and Bobby, they were given some bad intel, their hunt went sideways, and they got cornered.” He sighed. “Bobby didn’t make it either.”

What he left unsaid was that the veteran hunters had been chasing a lead on Dean’s whereabouts. That the information they had been following up on had been a fabrication, specifically designed to lure Mom and Bobby to their deaths. Dean didn’t need to hear that. The knowledge would only hurt his brother deeply and Sam was determined to spare him from that particular heart break.

He studied Dean, not expecting the reaction he was greeted with. His brother had a distracted look in his eyes, his face unreadable. Sam glanced over at Cass who was sporting a puzzled frown.

“Dean?” Sam prompted, confused.

Dean squeezed his eyelids together, running a hand over his face. When he looked back at his brother there were tears in his eyes. “Sam, did she die looking for me?”

“What? No.” Sam stammered, attempting to put more conviction into his voice. “It was just a hunt that went south.”

Dean just stared at him and suddenly Sam felt like he was six years old again, trying to convince his older brother that he hadn’t secretly binged on the last of the Fruit Loops. Sam’s shoulders slumped and he shook his head, trying to salvage the situation. “Dean, it doesn’t matter the circumstances, Mom was a hunter. With every job she took, she was risking her life.”

“Right.” Dean stated flatly, pointedly fixing his gaze on an old watery stain on the faded carpet.

Sam tilted his head, trying to catch his brother’s gaze. “Dean, Mom’s death isn’t on you.”

“Yeah, okay.” Dean said noncommittally.

“Dean, it’s not your fault.” Sam repeated earnestly, trying to get through to his brother.

There was a beat as Dean shifted slightly, a muscle pulsing in his jaw. Sam held his breath, unsure what to do. He looked up at Cass, with pleading eyes. The angel shook his head in mutual uncertainty but hesitantly stepped forward anyway.

“Dean…” He began.

Dean stood up, abruptly cutting off Castiel’s attempt to intervene. He roughly scrubbed a hand through his hair and glanced over at his brother. “I need some air.” He declared, making for the door.

Sam reacted instinctively, leaping out of his seat whilst Cass moved to intersect Dean.

The elder Winchester spun around. “Relax, I’m not going anywhere,” Dean growled out.

Sam held up his hands in an effort to diffuse the situation. “No offence,” he responded evenly, “but the last time you said that you were going for air, you were gone for ten years.”

Dean visibly recoiled, before the mask went up and his expression hardened. “Don’t worry Sammy, no video messages of doom this time.” Dean retorted. “I’ll be right outside.” He gestured indignantly towards Cass. “You can monitor me through the window if you want.”

With a final glare directed at both of them to make sure they were staying put, Dean walked out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

-----

Dean strode a few of steps away from the motel room and collapsed against one of the thick wooden pillars which held up the roof that ran along the pathway across the front of the crudely constructed building. He stared out across the mostly empty parking lot and wrestled with the barrage of emotions coursing through his system.

It wasn’t supposed to end that way for Mom. She had been given another chance. She was supposed to grow old, surrounded by grandchildren. Because, with him out of the picture, Sam should have finally settled down. It would never have been apple pie, but it could have been something.

If only he had been strong enough to defeat Michael, this wouldn’t have happened. She wouldn’t have been searching for him. He scrunched his eyes together and smacked the back of his head against the support behind him, trying desperately to regain some composure.

When he heard movement to his right, he opened his eyes and turned his head to see Michael, leaning against the adjacent pillar, surveying the blacktop.

“What?” Dean spat out, feeling the anger rise in his chest. “Dishing the dirt on Mom’s hunt wasn’t good enough? Now you’re back to gloat too?”

Michael smirked at Dean, humourless and cold.

“I’m just soaking up the atmosphere.” He acknowledged contentedly as he returned his gaze outward. Maybe he was finally starting to understand Dean’s love of Dr Sexy. He had no tactical reason to appear to the human in this moment. Revelling in Dean’s misery was definitely a guilty pleasure.

“Yeah, well, you’ve already got your hotel on Boardwalk, so you don’t have to actually ‘be here’ to do that.” Dean wiped at his eyes with the heels of his hands. Right now, he didn’t care about the repercussions, Michael could shove it where the sun don’t shine.

“Dean, Dean, Dean.” Michael sighed. “I’m just trying to help you see the reality here.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?” Dean snapped.

“That there is no reality for you.” Michael’s eyes bore into him. “Your family was designed by heaven. You exist because of me. To serve me. The only reason you’re here with Sam, that you know about your mom at all, is because I have allowed it.”

-----

Dean took a deep breath as he descended the stairs into the bunker. After being ambushed by Michael, he had retreated back to the motel room in the hopes of finding some vague imitation of peace. He had deflected as many questions as he could from Sam, just sticking to basic facts as much as possible. It made the atmosphere awkward, and conversation stilted, but it was the best that he could muster. The rust on his social skills was so deep, it wouldn’t take much to punch a hole straight through.

In the early hours of the morning, Sam had taken a quick phone call outside, then announced that they could return to the bunker.

But Dean didn’t want to return. He didn’t want to come home and be reminded of everything that he had walked away from, of everything that he was going to have to lose again. Sam and Cass were making it so hard for him to remain detached and Michael was taking every opportunity to rub salt into the wound.

As his gaze wandered over the war room, nausea twisting in his gut, two figures appeared in the archway to the library.

“Dean!” Jack exclaimed with a breath as he came tumbling down the concrete steps.

Dean just managed to get out a “Hey kiddo.” Before he was enveloped in a tight hug.

When Jack eased off, he held the nephilim out, gripping his shoulders and taking in the young man before him. “Wow, look at you. You grew up.”

Jack grinned warmly, “Yeah, I’m a whole twelve years old now.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “I’m nearly a teenager.”

Dean raised an eyebrow and smirked. “How’s puberty going? I hope Sam has told you all about the birds and the bees.” He said in mock seriousness.

As Jack gave a chuckle, Dean’s eyes drifted to the red head lingering a few paces behind him.

“Hey Rowena.” Dean said, a weak smile ghosting over his lips as he released Jack.

“Dean.” She nodded, gliding forward.

He wrapped the witch in an affectionate embrace, trying to express so much in that one hug. He hoped that Rowena understood how grateful he was for her help, even if it had ultimately been for nothing. He would never forget how she had kept him going in those last few weeks. How, without her help, he never would have had the strength to get into that coffin.

Dean felt more than saw Sam stiffen out of the corner of his eye. His brother’s feelings about Rowena were a can of worms that he didn’t want to pop open right now. He let go of the witch and retreated to the safety of light-hearted banter.

“Still treating them mean and keeping them keen I hope?” He teased.

Rowena stepped back and inclined her head with a smirk. “Aye, still have one in every port.” She said, acknowledging what he had been trying to convey with a small in-joke, that hopefully wouldn’t rile Sam.

“It’s good to see you again.” He intoned with sincerity.

“You too.” She returned with equal candour.

The two held each other’s gaze until Cass cleared his throat, breaking the moment. Dean glanced at the subtle but stormy look on his brother’s face and marvelled at how the angel’s powers of perception had improved. He felt a pang of sadness that he hadn’t been the one to continue teaching his friend the intricacies of human interaction. That someone else, probably Sam, had had to carry the torch in his absence.

He turned away from Rowena, letting his eyes wander around the room. At face value, it looked relatively the same, but he could pick out the subtle changes like headlights on a moonless night – the extra scuff marks on the table, the spare chairs stacked in a corner under the stairs and the small wall mounted whiteboards which had been hastily scrubbed clean. It all suggested that Sam had continued to expand on the hunter operation he had begun when they had brought over the apocalypse world hunters. The ‘fake authority’ phone desk, which reminded him so much of Bobby, seemed to have expanded. However, there were no phones, just empty chargers. He wondered where everyone had been diverted to, internally praising Sam for keeping as many people out of the line of fire as possible.

“So… what now?” Dean said distractedly, thinking about how much Sam had achieved in his absence. His little brother had gone on with his life, without him. He felt so proud and so sad.

“You can go anywhere you like in the bunker.” Rowena said, drawing his attention back to the discussion he’d started. “Except for the archives. They’re warded against that archangel in your noggin.”

He nodded, feeling a twitch of… something from the archangel residing inside of him. It was… he didn’t know what it was.

“We’ll search for this Key to Death and let you know when we’ve found it.” Sam continued. “In the meantime, just… relax, I guess.”

“Relax?” Dean sounded out the word as if trying out an unfamiliar piece of foreign vocabulary. He dug his teeth into his bottom lip.

“You hungry maybe? Sam hastily prompted in reaction to the lost look on his brother’s face. When Dean shook his head, Sam barrelled on with anything he could think of. “When was the last time you slept?” He asked, noting the dark circles under Dean’s eyes.

Dean snorted at the idea of sleep. It was such an alien concept nowadays. When was the last time he had slept? For real? Dean paused, his eyes darting around in thought. His lips parted as he realised something.

“Yeah.” He finally responded, unable to answer the original question. Disbelievingly, he looked up at Sam, “Come to think of it, I’m beat.”

-----

Dean groggily tracked his brother’s steps down the dimly lit corridor, wrapped in a haze of fatigue. He felt so overwhelmed that putting one foot in front of the other was taxing. Having finally recognised how tired he was, it had hit him like a freight train. He was exhausted in every way. When Sam came to a stop he jolted back to attention, taking in the number eleven marked on the door Sam was stood next to. He turned to look at him questioningly.

“It’s the same as you left it.” Sam opened the door and flicked on the light. Dean gaped at his perfectly preserved room.

“Well, there might be a little more dust. We didn’t exactly get much of a heads-up.” Sam said with a conciliatory smile. “But it’s been cleaned on a regular schedule so it shouldn’t be too bad.”

“You get yourself a maid or something?” Dean joked, not knowing what else to say.

“Actually, we did have a Mrs Butters for a short time.” Sam shook his head. “But that’s a crazy story for another day.”

“I bet.” Dean nodded in understanding. Their life had always been one big bucket of crazy.

Sam hesitated, his mouth working. He ached to say more, but now was not the time. It wasn’t just his brother in front of him, he reminded himself. “I’ll give you some space to get settled in.” He said instead.

Sam beat a slow retreat down the hallway, fighting the feeling of wrongness that every step away from his big brother induced.

“Sam, I…” Dean trailed off, at a loss.

Sam turned around and regarded his brother. “I knew you weren’t dead.” He said simply, the edge of his lips twitching with a gentle nod.

Dean took a deep breath, trying to find the words to respond, but Sam had already disappeared around the corner before he could form any sort of sentence, leaving him alone in the dim hallway. He turned back to the doorway to his old room, apprehension coursing through him. He didn’t know what to do with this. Sam had opened a time capsule that would surely only fill him with sadness and regret. He wished he was back in that nondescript motel room, where he could take comfort in a bit of nostalgia without any personal attachments.

Fearful to cross the threshold, he slowly stepped inside and took in the rough industrial walls and contrasting sleek art deco furniture. A couple of his favourite jackets were still hanging on the brass hooks where he’d left them ten years ago. A near empty bottle of Tylenol he’d used to help him get through his Michael induced headaches lay discarded in front of the mirror on his tallboy and the carelessly scattered items on the shelf behind his bed were still exactly that. The first LP of his Celebration Day box set was still placed in the record player, the red and yellow clock-face sleeve resting on top of the adjacent cupboard.

It was all as he remembered it.

He traced his fingers across the edge of his desk before switching on the old banker’s lamp. With a smirk, he noted the copy of Busty Asian Beauties peeping out from underneath his notepad, which still had a list of his favourite Bob Seger songs he’d compiled whilst procrastinating over doing some particularly boring research for a case.

It felt like only yesterday he had been making that list. It also felt like a million years ago.

After years of not letting himself get attached to anywhere permanent for fear of losing it, he had whole heartedly jumped into the bunker with both feet, and now it was coming back to haunt him. He shouldn’t have gotten so comfortable. Lisa and Ben had been a harsh enough lesson, why hadn’t he learnt it? Now here he was again.

All he wanted to do was set the turntable spinning and position the needle into the exact groove on Side A that he knew would bring on the peaceful timbre of Jimmy’s acoustic guitar, signalling the beginning to ‘Ramble On.’ He wanted to turn the volume up as loud as it would go and immerse himself in this place that was all his. But that was the worst thing he could do. Maybe Sam thought this was a good idea, but this was the physical embodiment of everything Dean was trying to avoid.

Turning his back on the record player, he dropped down heavily onto his bed, his limbs succumbing too easily to his body weight. He sat there for a moment, silently breathing in the musty air that he had been disturbed with his weary movements.
Dean gingerly shrugged himself out of his jacket and waistcoat, acutely aware of invoking Michael’s wrath. Thankfully, the archangel remained silent. Dean hated himself for the gratitude he felt, knowing that Michael was on the receiving end.

As he eased the already loosened tie from around his neck, he caught sight of the slightly open drawer on his bedside table. He remembered how that drawer would always stick, needing a good tactical shove to close it. He wondered if that had been the way he had left it and that this Mrs Butters, and whoever else had been cleaning his room, had purposely left it in situ.

The dog-eared corners of some familiar photographs peeped out ominously. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself. He picked up the photos that he had fastidiously carried from motel to motel for years, before finally having a place to keep them safe.

He fingered the picture of him, Sam and Bobby, mourning for the loss of ‘Old’ Bobby and ‘New’ Bobby. Both had been doomed by their relationship with him. He huffed a breath, brooding over the rarity of mourning two different people who were the same person. How many people on the planet could claim that right?

Realising his mind was sliding into messy, unsolvable territory, he moved on, quickly flicking through the rest of the photos in the hopes of blockading his inevitable feelings. The final photo was the last picture he had of him and Mom before she died… the first time. His speed tactics failing him, he lingered on the photo, rubbing a thumb across its surface. He still remembered being that four-year-old, when his only care had been when he would be getting his next snack and the comfort of his mother’s arms could cure anything.

At that, the floodgates opened.

He was just done.

-----

As Dean fitfully slept, Michael carefully scrutinised the events of the past twenty-four hours. In his grief, his vessel had finally exhausted himself, falling asleep curled up on top of his bed. The ex-hunter was currently in the throes of a nightmare, which Michael was happily letting run its course. After all, this was the whole point of letting him have the full ‘human experience.’

Michael knew that Dean was his own worst enemy. Returning to the bunker would torment the man without Michael having to lift a finger. It was almost too easy. By trying to save his family, the human had set himself up to be knocked down. Anything that reminded Dean of the comforts of his old life, of being human and in control, was a spray of lighter fluid on the heartbreak fire.

The archangel contemplated his new surroundings in the heart of enemy territory. Although he had briefly been to the bunker before, and could recall it in detail from Dean’s memories, it was still interesting to explore the real thing. He had to give credit to the Men of Letters, from what he had seen of the library alone, they had built up an extensive collection of supernatural knowledge and artifacts. He was right where he needed to be, even if he couldn’t search for what he wanted for himself.

His strength had improved greatly over the past few weeks, but he was still far from firing on all cylinders. It was frustrating to be denied access to the archives, but it wouldn’t stop him from achieving his goal. He was happy to sit back and let ‘Team Free Will’ do the leg work for the time being. Michael was old enough and savvy enough to know that power wasn’t always about brute strength. He was eternal, he could be patient.

He turned his thoughts to the witch and reflected on her ingenuity. Rowena may not have explained what she had done to contain the archives, but Michael knew the feel of those sigils and spell work. He had been slowly crushed under the weight of it for ten years. He was never going to forget.

He couldn’t help his begrudging respect for the red-head and made a mental note not to underestimate her. He knew from Dean’s memories that she had survived several encounters with Lucifer. Rowena had a track record with archangels, although the less said about Gabriel the better. It seemed like their Trickster, had been as weak willed as the impertinent brother he had executed for treason years before on his own world. He had had no qualms over killing him a second time.

As Michael contemplated his brothers, his mind was drawn to his father, or lack thereof. He drifted back to that uncomfortable moment in the dingy motel room. There was no getting away from the glaring similarities between himself and his vessel. The effort to be a good son, conditioned to put the mission first, above all else, even one’s own needs.

Michael had towed the company line for years, as had Dean, who had developed a toxic need to care for everyone else except himself. That was why Dean had agreed to become Michael’s vessel, when he had fought so hard against it previously.

The difference between them was that Michael had finally decided to look out for himself, whereas Dean really was Daddy’s blunt little instrument to the end. Still desperately trying to watch out for a little brother who was just fine without him.

Ultimately, all he and Dean really had, were each other.

Chapter Text

With a sigh, Rowena gently placed her bag on the war room table. This was a ritual she had often done throughout the years before saying her goodbyes. The apprehension she felt this time though, was unique.

“Going somewhere?”

Rowena winced and looked up to see the tall frame of Sam Winchester leaning against the entrance to the library, hands in his pockets and an inquisitive frown on his face.

It had only been a few hours since Dean had returned to the bunker, and she had hoped that Sam would still be catching up on some sleep, leaving her free to slip away quietly.

She should have known better.

Never one to shy away from confrontation, she looked Sam straight in the eye and declared, “Yes. An old acquaintance of mine passed away.”

There was a beat, and Rowena braced for impact.

Instead, she was caught off guard by Sam’s moderate tone.

“Rowena, I’m sorry for your loss… but with everything going on, is it really necessary?” Sam was trying his hardest to remain calm, not wanting to antagonise the witch. He was so damned tired of all their arguing. He hesitantly added, “Haven’t we got bigger fish to fry?”

“Barry was a dear friend. Especially over the past few years. Within my…” Rowena paused, searching for the right words, “volatile community, they are very few and far between.”

“Barry?” Sam quizzed.

“He was a druid sorcerer.” Rowena huffed.

“Barry the druid?” Sam sounded out slowly. “You sure you’re not talking about a game of DnD?”

Rowena rolled her eyes. “Well, Cathbad didn’t exactly stand the test of time.” She retorted, fixing Sam with a withering look. “I’m going to go to Nebraska to find out what killed him and pay my respects.”

“He was murdered?”

The red head exhaled, “So I’ve heard along the magical grapevine.”

Sam was stumped. “I appreciate you cared a lot about him,” he began tactfully, “but do you really think investigating his murder is the best idea right now?”

“What’s your point, Sam?” Rowena said, her irritation at being questioned unmistakable.

Sam, triggered by the witch’s tone, responded with equal exasperation “Rowena, we’re in the middle of a world ending crisis and what? You’re jumping ship because a random witch, who probably had it coming, bites the dust?” He knew enough about Druid mythology to make that leap.

Rowena felt the blood start to heat in her veins. “Do I ‘have it coming?’”

“That’s not what I meant-” Sam backtracked, realising his mistake.

“Coming from the man who’s destined to kill me.” Rowena broke in, shutting him down. “Aye, whatever.”

Sam took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, holding out his hands. “Rowena, I’m not trying to fight here. I just want to understand.”

Rowena contemplated the olive branch and sighed, “There’s something more to it. Barry was formidable and bloody hard to kill. Believe me, I tried.”

Sam pulled a face, “I thought he was your friend.”

“I tried to kill you once upon a time.” She responded evenly.

Sam paused. After everything, Rowena still considered him a friend?

The witch took his silence as an opportunity to continue. “Barry did a lot of bad back in his day. But he was making amends, long before my own U-turn. He deserves more.”

“I understand that, believe me, I do.” Sam entreated. “But we have an apocalypse on our hands.”

“When is it not the apocalypse?” Rowena snorted and folded her arms. “Believe it or not, the world doesn’t revolve around ‘The Winchesters.’”

Sam’s weakly constructed patience was swiftly beginning to collapse. “That’s a cheap shot.” He said quietly. “You know this is bigger than me and Dean.”

“Is it?” Rowena snapped. “I know you, Samuel. I know you’ll put your brother before anything else... before everyone else. Excuse me if I don’t hang around for the fallout.”

“So instead, you’re ditching us to go on a revenge mission?” Sam said, incredulous.

“I’d rather do that than sit here twiddling my thumbs, waiting for our resident psychotic archangel to murder us all because we were stupid enough to let in the Trojan horse.” She hurled back.

“Michael’s not going to do anything as long as we have what he wants.” He asserted.

“Oh please, Sam. You weren’t born yesterday!” Rowena contested, gesturing angrily. “We have no idea how he got out of that box, so we don’t even know if those sigils will stop him. I don’t have a death wish.”

Sam sucked at his teeth, as if contemplating her words. “I thought I was ‘destined’ to kill you?” He replied with a scornful tone.

Rowena fixed him with a stony glare. “There are worse things than death. Remember the last time I was intimately acquainted with an archangel?”

“Yeah, I remember you and Gabriel rolling around in the extinct languages section.” he said, nodding behind him at the library. It was a low blow, but his anger had gotten the better of him and he couldn’t help running his mouth.

Rowena froze, her following comment lost on her lips. She slowly closed her eyes and took a moment to compose herself. Taking a deep breath through her nose, she opened her eyes again.

“Sam, you know my history with Lucifer better than anyone.” She said in almost a whisper.

Sam looked away, unable to hold Rowena’s gaze.

She continued, resolute. “I’ll help, but right now, I can’t do it here.”

Sam looked back at Rowena. “After everything you’ve done, you’re just going to walk out?”

“I’m not your personal magical doormat.” She shot back.

Sam’s face twitched darkly; lips pursed.

Rowena swallowed. “I’m sorry.” She said, attempting a ceasefire. “I’ve done everything I can for the time being. I’ll only be a couple of hours away and if you really need me, I’ll drop the case and come straight back.”

“I guess there’s nothing I can say to stop you?” Sam asked, his frustration evident.

“No.”

Rowena picked up her bag and determinedly made her way up the stairs and out of the bunker.

-----

Castiel stood sentinel at the end of the corridor from Dean’s room. Upon deciding to bring him back to the bunker, he and Sam had agreed that Dean should have some form of supervision… albeit from a short distance, so as not to antagonise the archangel riding shotgun. He had volunteered to watch over the elder Winchester, determined to do whatever he could for Dean.

He wanted to believe that he had stepped up to the charge solely out of loyalty and compassion for his best friend, but that would be a lie. Cass knew he had taken on the task of sentry duty out of guilt for not having found Dean himself. He couldn’t help but wonder if there was something else he could have done, some avenue of investigation he hadn’t followed. Maybe he should have looked that little bit harder.

The angel shook his head, trying to dispel the negative thoughts swirling round his mind. Dwelling on the past wasn’t going to save Dean in the present. He relocated his thoughts to current events.

From the moment he had stepped within the vicinity of Dean’s room, his acute hearing had picked up the distress the hunter was in. He had practically been able to feel the grief emanating from behind the closed door at the other end of the hallway. His angelic powers may not be what they once were, but he still remained highly attuned to Dean Winchester.

Cass had desperately wanted to provide some comfort, but figured that probably wasn’t what Dean wanted, let alone whether Michael would permit it. He had the feeling the archangel was quite content with the situation. So, he had despondently endured the emotions seeping out.

He had breathed a sigh of relief when Dean finally slipped into slumber, only to find himself on alert an hour later, when the hunter seemed to have fallen into the throes of a nightmare. Once again, he had been torn over what action to take, but the knowledge that Michael obviously wanted to keep the status quo, had kept Castiel’s feet rooted to the ground throughout. For all he knew, the archangel had induced the nightmare deliberately.

It was agonising to be so close to Dean and yet, feel like his friend was so far out of reach.

So here he stood, in the dim passageway several hours later, anxiously hoping that Dean wouldn’t slip into another restless dream from which he couldn’t be rescued. Castiel’s only social interaction had been a brief chat with Jack, whom he had dispatched to check on Sam. Finding this key may be a priority, but keeping Sam together was just as important.

In the silence, Cass contemplated his decision to back the younger Winchester’s play in bringing Dean home. It may have been the right thing to do, but it didn’t stop the angel from feeling like he was monitoring a ticking timebomb that he was powerless to disarm. He couldn’t help but send out a subconscious prayer to Chuck to return from wherever he was in the universe and deliver them from Michael’s evil, and ultimately, save Dean.

Suddenly, the archangel in question appeared in front of him, head cocked, just staring. Cass felt like a bug being dissected under a microscope. The cold, unblinking expression on Dean’s face was so alien.

“Michael.” He acknowledged for want of any other response.

“Castiel.” Michael returned, his eyes roaming around the now seemingly cramped corridor. “He’s not listening, you know.”

Cass stayed silent, watching the face that was all wrong.

Michael’s green eyes returned to Castiel’s blue. “So, you’re my guard dog.”

“You can call it that if you want.” Cass said neutrally.

“I could disintegrate you just by thinking about it.” Michael mused. “So, what’s the point?”

Castiel glared at the archangel. “I don’t need to justify myself to you.”

“You may have defected, but I am still your commander.” He remarked.

“No. My old general is in the cage.” Cass countered. “You’re just a poor substitute.”

Michael’s lips twitched. “You know, Dean is struggling.” He declared, choosing to ignore Castiel’s comment. “He’s not doing so good.”

“Well, given the current situation, I would say that’s to be expected.” Cass deadpanned, trying not to give an inch.

Michael gave him an appraising look before changing the subject yet again. “I know you want to ask.” He hummed. “It’s written all over your grace.”

Cass considered the question for a moment, filing away the knowledge that Michael had read him like an open book. Having concluded that the inquiry would not jeopardise their current situation, he finally said, “What happened to Sergei?”

Michael shrugged. “You were once a good soldier. Surely you can’t have forgotten basic war strategy?”

Cass merely waited for him to continue, sensing the start of an egotistical, self-indulgent lecture.

“You know you can’t form a battle plan without intel, and Sergei was very forthcoming… once I applied the right pressure.” Michael said with a smirk. “After that, well… he was a means to an end, and then he became a loose end.”

Michael’s efforts to rile him over Sergei’s death were lost on Castiel when realisation dawned on him halfway through the archangel’s speech. “You told Dean what happened to Mary.”

“I merely informed him of the knowledge I had gathered.” Michael said, feigning innocence. He then leaned in conspiratorially. “I heard it was brutal.”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed in fury, wishing he could punch the smug look from Michael’s face, regardless of the fact that it belonged to his best friend. He couldn’t look less like Dean right now.

“Our father taught us to protect humanity…” He began angrily.

Michael stepped forward, crowding Castiel’s personal space. “Our father is a fraud.” The archangel mocked with a quiet ferocity. “Lucifer, for all his failings, was right on one thing: Humans are beneath us. Why do you persist in upholding the wishes of a petty con artist?”

“You wouldn’t understand.” Cass replied with equal fervour. “You couldn’t.”

“What? Because I didn’t fall in love with ‘humanity?’” Michael scoffed. “You care for him so much, and yet, he has no idea. Do you endure in the pathetic hope that one day he’ll notice?”

Cass knew there was no point, but he explained himself anyway. “I stay because he deserves more. It doesn’t matter how I feel.”

“You disgust me.” Michael spat out.

Despite the close quarters, Castiel stepped forward so that he was almost nose to nose with Michael. He levelled with the archangel’s gaze. “You make the mistake of believing that I care what you think.”

“You may not care what I think, but you do care what he thinks.” Michael said, flicking his eyes towards Dean’s room. “Imagine if I told him how you’d all but given up on finding him? He acts like that’s what he wanted, but deep down he still had that spark of hope that you would come and rescue him... his ‘guardian angel.’” Michael sneered.

Castiel’s calm demeanour wavered for a second before he schooled his features, trying to smother the boiling rage he felt. “You will tell Dean whatever you want him to believe, regardless of the real truth… you arrogant dick.”

Michael just gave him a satisfied smile.

Cass stalked away, not even caring if he was reduced to dust.

-----

Sam slumped into the nearest chair as the bunker door made a loud clang. He rubbed his face, brooding. Once again, he’d managed to tumble headfirst into an argument with Rowena. How did he manage to let one of the only people on the planet who was even remotely able to hold their own against an archangel, walk out?

Because he was too busy being petty and making spiteful remarks about Gabriel when he knew first-hand the trauma Lucifer had unleashed upon her. In his fear, he’d reacted with anger when, on reflection, he should have just been honest. He should have told her how scared he was, and how much her presence brought him comfort, not just because of her unique skillset.
Sam huffed, annoyed with himself for letting his emotions get the better of him. It seemed like ever since Rowena had walked into the library with her confession, he had turned into a powder keg. He thought back to when Dean had first disappeared and realised he was sliding into the same state that he’d been in ten years ago. He couldn’t be that person again - too much was at stake now.

Drawn out of his thoughts by the sound of soft footsteps, Sam looked up to see Jack entering the war room.

“I would tell you to go back to sleep, but I know you won’t, so... here.” Jack said, holding out a steaming cup of coffee with a half-smile. “I made the executive decision that caffeine should be included.”

Sam released a long sigh and gratefully grasped the offering. “Thanks.”

“So…” Jack said, lingering on the ‘o.' “Rowena left huh?”

“Yeah. How did you…?”

Jack gritted his teeth. “I may have caught the end of the conversation before retreating to make coffee.” He confessed.

Sam grimaced. “Right… Not my finest hour.”

“No.” The Nephilim readily agreed.

Sam grunted. Jack had definitely inherited Castiel’s blunt honesty.

Jack tilted his head. “What are we going to do?”

The seasoned hunter paused for a moment, thinking. Rowena hadn’t deserted them; she wasn’t going to be that far away and was still willing to return when needed.

“It doesn’t change anything.” Sam stated with a confidence he didn’t feel. “We find this key, find out what Michael wants with it, and hope that in the process we can find a way to kill him.”

“Yeah.” Jack blew out a slow breath, trying to act as if what Sam had proposed wasn’t a Herculean feat. “I’ve looked at the digital archives and found some vague references to the key, but nothing concrete. I’m hoping it’s in that last section that we haven’t finished cataloguing.”

“Of course, it is.” Sam said grumpily.

“On the plus side, that section is relatively small and I’m very good at finding things.” Jack declared, with an optimistic grin.

Sam looked up at Jack and marvelled at how the kid could put a positive spin on anything, even the impending end of days. The elder hunter shook his head, trying to shrug off his downbeat mood. “Thanks Jack.” He said, mustering something resembling a smile. “I’ll keep researching. You let me know when you find the key.”

Jack nodded.

“Is Cass…?” Sam began.

“Still keeping a covert watch on Dean?” Jack supplied. “Yup.”

“Right… good.” Sam responded with a short nod but raised his eyebrows as Castiel appeared on the threshold to the library, an angry, harassed look on his face.

“Hey.” He greeted cautiously. “Everything okay?”

“Yes.” Cass wrapped his arms around himself and leaned against a pillar, letting his head fall back against the stonework. “Just taking some time out from our friendly neighbourhood archangel douchebag.”

Despite his immediate concern, Sam’s mouth quirked. Castiel had become quite adept at delivering insults over the years, but every now and then, some words still sounded completely foreign on his lips.

“What happened?” He queried, refocussing.

“Nothing really.” Cass exhaled. “Michael apparently just wanted to chat.”

Jack frowned. “What did he want to talk about?”

“It doesn’t really matter.” Castiel deflected, drawing his forefinger and thumb across his eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “He was trying to get a rise out of me, and I believe he succeeded.”

Sam sighed. “Michael’s holding all the cards and he knows it.” His mood was swiftly sliding back downslope. “Maybe Rowena was right, and this is Troy.”

-----

Rowena felt a shiver as she stood in the science lab of the late Barry Burke, whilst Barbara something-or-other, tearfully wittered on about her lost colleague. Why anyone would want to spend so much time amongst teenagers was beyond her. Just the thought of it made her skin crawl.

She turned her attention back to the frumpy, unremarkable, middle-aged teacher in front of her and tried to focus on any important details she could decipher from the woman’s ramblings about the death of her friend. After one flash of her fake FBI badge, Ms Barbara… Johnson had begun telling the witch her autobiography.

Rowena was secretly pleased that she hadn’t had to use compulsion to get her intel. She always loved a bit of role play. She mused over the fact that she would make a great actress if she had the time and the inclination, side-lining the voice in the back of her head which said that she’d chosen the FBI badge because using unnecessary magic on innocent people just didn’t sit right in her stomach anymore.

As the woman waffled on about what a great teacher Barry had been, Rowena ruminated over whether Barbara had had a massive crush on the retired sorcerer. She concluded that it was a distinct possibility.

Lost in thought as the teacher listed her qualifications, the witch started when something in Barbara’s meandering monologue caught her attention. “I’m sorry” She broke in, blinking. “Can you say that again?”

“I said…” Barbara began, clearly frustrated at having to repeat herself. “I majored in Forensic Science, so… I know that having his eyes burnt out and insides liquified is not humanly possible. And don’t even get me started on that letter calved on his chest!”

“Go on.” Rowena replied, sensing that Barbara had more that she wanted to share.

Ms Johnson did not disappoint. “It’s exactly like those other murders! The police are trying to keep it quiet, but I know we’ve got a serial killer on the loose. So don’t try and lie to me.” The teacher stared Rowena down, hands on hips. “I may look like a gullible plain Jane, but I am far from it…”

Rowena stifled a grin. She had to admire the woman’s tenacity. Her and Barry would have made a good pair… if only they’d had the chance. For a moment, she deliberated whether to tell Barbara the truth, but realised that she was just dragging her into a world that Barry had obviously kept her away from.

Deciding to respect Barry’s wishes, she redirected, flashing Barbara a conspiratorial wink. “Yes, well, you could say I’m a specialist in investigating the more unusual cases that the FBI come across.”

Barbara’s eyes lit up. “Like the X-Files?”

Rowena’s smile tightened, her newfound respect for the woman plummeting. “Something like that, yes.”

-----

Dean cautiously made his way through the bunker, indecision trailing in the wake of every footstep. Since arriving he’d mostly confined himself to his old room in some stupid attempt to keep Michael away from everyone. He knew it was futile. He couldn’t protect anyone from the archangel, but it made him feel slightly better to pretend like he could.

Of course, Michael knew all about Dean’s efforts to shield his family, but just seemed to find it amusing. Dean couldn’t work out whether to be grateful for the lack of repercussions for his defiance or face the depressing reality that his actions were so pitifully insignificant, the archangel just didn’t give a crap.

So, despite trying to remain in his self-enforced seclusion, his feet had found themselves carrying him out of his room and wandering the corridors in search of his brother.

Old habits die hard.

Having found Sam’s room empty, he automatically headed for the library and was rewarded with the sight of his brother hunched over a table, engrossed in something on his laptop. Dean leaned on the door frame, silently watching, a half-smile involuntarily creeping up on his face at Sam’s concentrated scowl.

Old habits die hard indeed.

“Hey.” He greeted quietly, not sure if he really wanted to disturb the peace.

“Hey.” Sam replied, leaning back on his chair and taking in the appearance of his brother. “You ok? Anything I can get for you?”

Dean faltered for a moment, Sam’s hospitality leaving a sting. He was being treated like a guest in his own home. But then, that’s exactly what he was, even in his own body.

“Nah.” He replied nonchalantly. “Just got a bit restless.”

“Of course, sure.” Sam responded politely, rising out of his seat.

Silence hung in the air, neither one of them sure how to proceed. Dean pushed himself off the door frame and walked into the library, using the movement to try and escape the impasse. He ran a hand along the curvature of the opposite chair, trying to recall the intricacies of making small talk.

“So, you stayed at the bunker all this time huh?” He ventured.

“Yes.” Sam said, blinking. “You asked that back at the diner. Where else did you think I would be?”

Dean sighed, realising he’d already failed at engaging in idle conversation. “I just thought, with me out of the picture, that you might get out of the game.” Noting Sam’s perplexed expression, he attempted to clarify. “You know, go back to the life you had before… become a big shot lawyer or something. Maybe get married and have a load of kids.”

After a beat, Sam replied. “That life went up in smoke.” Dean winced at the double meaning. Sam continued softly. “Dean, I made my peace with that a long time ago.”

“Sorry.” Dean murmured, looking away.

“What for?” Sam questioned, confusion marring his features.

“All of it, I guess.” Dean intoned ambiguously. He took a breath and shrugged. “For taking you down this road with me. I should have been a better brother and let you have the life that you wanted.”

“Me being a hunter is not your ‘fault.’” Sam contested, his brows knitting, annoyed by the big brother attitude that suggested he had no say in the matter. Dean seemed to have conveniently forgotten about all the outside forces that had also had a hand in shaping their lives. “It’s not something I regret. It’s who I am.”

“Yeah, okay.” Dean nodded, but the acceptance didn’t reach his eyes.

The evasive response set off a chain reaction within Sam. “The way my life turned out isn’t a result of your bad choices.” He said curtly. “I’ve made my own decisions.”

“I know that, and I’m proud of what you’ve achieved here.” Dean appealed, trying to defuse the tension. “It’s just… you deserved better.”

“I’m good with my life.” Sam declared, brushing off Dean’s attempt at a truce. “The only thing that would have made it better would have been having my brother by my side.”

“Sammy, I had no choice.” Dean pleaded.

“There’s always a choice, Dean. You chose to give up.” Sam said.

“No.” Dean protested. “It was the only way to stop Michael.”

Sam tipped his head to one side and folded his arms. “How’s that working out for you?”

Dean looked away, his eyes misting up.

“You left and you didn’t even tell me. We spoke almost every day and you lied to me, every damn phone call. Do you realise how messed up that is? How unfair that is?” Sam had released the throttle and now there was no holding back, the volume of his voice rising with each word. All the rage and hurt at the way Dean had cut him out by stepping into the Ma’lak box came bubbling up to the surface. “What happened to us not lying to each other anymore? To us trusting in each other? We were the guys that saved the world, who always beat the odds. Why did you decide to just check out?”

“Cause we’re also the guys who agreed that we should stop playing Russian roulette with the world just to save each other!” Dean yelled, matching Sam’s tone. “You said it yourself, in that hospital after we let out the Darkness, that we had to change! You were ready to let me go to stop Amara-”

“Change?!” Sam cut in. “You didn’t change at all. You always fought to the bitter end to save everyone… anyone else, but when it came to you, you just threw in the towel!”

Dean took a breath. “Sam, this is bigger than me. Letting in an archangel isn’t something you just walk away from.” He said with a quiet intensity. “You of all people should know that.”

“I’m still here, Dean.” Sam said flatly.

The two of them stared at each other in stalemate.

Dean broke it, shaking his head. “I can’t give you what you want.”

“And what is that exactly?” Sam inquired.

“Your big brother from ten years ago.” Dean said. “He doesn’t exist anymore. I don’t exist anymore. Dean Winchester doesn’t exist anymore.” He paused, swallowing. “I’m a lost cause, Sam. I knew it the minute I said yes to Michael that it was a one-way ticket.”

“Well, at least that’s one thing we can agree on… You are a lost cause.” Sam responded coolly.

Dean recoiled as if he’d been slapped in the face. He knew he’d given up all hope for himself, but he realised that, subconsciously, he hadn’t expected Sam to give up too.

A lot had changed in the past ten years.

“Just like I made my peace with losing Jess and my ‘normal’ life, I made my peace with losing you.” Sam continued, shaking his head in return. “You’re the one looking for your little brother from ten years ago, but he left the minute his big brother walked out on him.”

Dean opened his mouth to reply but found a vacuum in place of any words as he studied Sam’s furious gaze. He had hurt his brother greatly, why should he expect him to still care? He had begged him to move on and he had done so. So why did it hurt so much to find out that he had done what Dean had asked?

“I can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.” Sam stated calmy. He glanced away for a moment before resuming, a hardened edge to his voice. “I have a lot of people that rely on me now and I have to do whatever I must to keep Michael from destroying this world… regardless of who his vessel is.”

-----

Michael couldn’t help but enjoy the emotional ringer that was unfolding in front of him. He had never held much interest in the intricacies of human relationships until he had gone trawling through Dean’s mind for ammunition with which to torture the man. The elder Winchester may have convinced himself that he was resigned to his fate, but the archangel knew that deep down, Dean was terrified of his grim destiny. That he desperately wanted his little brother to say to hell with the world and pull him out of the fire yet again.

Being referred to as a vessel had cut deep.

Michael silently revelled in it.

Chapter Text

Sam stalked into to his room, anger and frustration coursing through his body. He paced back and forth a couple of times before stopping in front of the concrete shelf full of lore books and research documents. Placing his palms on the edge, arms rigid, he drew in a deep breath, trying to regain his composure.

“Are you okay?”

He turned to find Castiel leaning on the door frame, a questioning look on his face.

“Let me guess, you happened to hear our little heart to heart out there?” Sam snapped wearily, leaning back on the shelf and folding his arms.

“It was difficult not to.” Cass stated, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him.

Sam sucked his teeth, running the back of his knuckles against his still unshaven beard. He looked at Castiel. “Was I convincing enough?”

“I’m sure you convinced Dean.” Cass replied.

Sam winced, feeling the guilt rising in his chest at the conviction in the angel’s tone.

“We can only hope that Michael fell for it too, but we shouldn’t rely on it.” Cass continued. “We’re going to have to play this one really really close to the chest.”

“Play what really close to the chest?!” Sam exploded in a furious whisper, resuming his pacing in the cramped space. “We don’t have a plan, Cass. I have no idea what to do! I’ve spent ten years thinking about how I could save Dean from Michael. Ten years and I’ve got jack squat!”

Sam stopped in front of Cass, eyes glistening. “I just know I’ve got to do something. I can’t let Michael…” He trailed off, gesturing towards the closed door and the brother he’d left in the library beyond it.

“Me too.” Cass nodded solemnly in understanding. “But you know the only way to save Dean is to keep him, and therefore Michael, in the dark as much as possible. Letting him think that you’ve given up on your brother is the best way to do that. It might just give us the edge that we need when the right opportunity presents itself.”

A muscle ticked in Sam’s jaw, and he turned away from Castiel, hating what his friend was saying, but knowing that he was right.

“You should have seen the look on his face, Cass.” Sam said, his voice barely audible. His shoulders slumped as the anger drained out of him and was replaced by a familiar ache under his sternum, as if there was a hand was gripping his insides and squeezing tight. The feeling had become a regular companion since Dean’s return.

“The worst part is, it wasn’t even hard to get angry at him.” He confessed. “I am pissed at him for not trusting in me. After everything we’d been through, he just gave up.”

“The best lies are always rooted in some form of truth.” Cass consoled. “Dean could have seen through the deception, even after ten years apart.” He softened his voice. “I know it kills you to hurt your brother like that. To make him feel like there’s no hope, but maybe it’s the only way that Dean survives this.”

“Maybe.” Sam breathed out dejectedly.

Despite his own fears, Castiel’s heart clenched at hearing the doubt spilling out from Sam’s mouth. “We’ll figure it out.” He said in a reassuring tone. “We always do.”

“I hope so.” Sam mumbled as he rubbed his face. He needed to regroup. Wallowing in guilt wasn’t going to help anyone. He thought back to Rowena’s final words before she left.

“What do we do until we figure it out?” He questioned. “Rowena had a point. We have no idea whether her Ma’lak box spell will hold Michael back. In fact, we know it can’t, otherwise he’d still be at the bottom of the Pacific.”

Cass grimaced, unable to refute Sam’s statement.

Sam continued. “We need to find a way to subdue Michael, to give us time to come up with a way to save Dean.”

The two stood silently mulling over the mess that they were stuck in, the electric hum of the old light fittings becoming evident in the stillness.

Suddenly Castiel opened his mouth as if to speak, but frowned and shut it again.

Catching the gesture, Sam’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

Cass shook his head “Nothing.”

“No.” Sam challenged. “That wasn’t nothing.”

Castiel silently held Sam’s gaze for several moments, opening and closing his mouth repeatedly, before giving a defeated sigh. “I have an idea” he conceded, “but it’s not a good one.”

-----

Rowena dropped the stack of case files with a heavy thud on the desk she had commandeered at Hastings Police Station. Despite looking like he hadn’t moved from his chair in twenty years, Sergeant Gary Saunders had been very accommodating when she’d asked for some space to look through the files. Rowena had been surprised when he had given up his own work top, until he declared he was heading out for doughnuts.

She stared at the pile of ‘alphabet killer’ folders in front of her and snorted at how unoriginal the local cops were. Nothing seemed new anymore. Movies were just remakes; modern songs were a rehash of older melodies, and now it appeared serial killer nicknames were also being recycled. It was enough to make her wonder if living an abnormally long life was all it was cracked up to be.

As the witch cleared space to lay out the files in chronological order, she balked at having to brush away short stubbly hairs along with other dust and detritus that littered the surface. Gary obviously had little regard for personal grooming. A glance in his bottom drawer confirmed her suspicions. It was empty save for a beard trimmer, a can of old spice and a hip flask. Rowena rolled her eyes. Gary really was a walking talking cliché. She picked up the flask, unscrewed the cap and took a sniff, her face contorting. Whatever was in there could strip paint… marine grade paint.

She dropped the flask unceremoniously back into the drawer and started pulling files from their folders, reading briefly through the key points and skimming through photos to get a rough idea of the overall picture. Nausea bubbled up her throat when she realised that several of the victims were children. Even at her darkest, that was a line she wouldn’t cross.

Rowena took a deep breath and attempted to disconnect, looking at the murders from an objective viewpoint. Each story seemed the same – eyes burnt out, insides liquified, a random letter haphazardly carved into their chest. No signs of a break-in, despite the carefully arranged carnage of the crime scene. None of the victims seemed to have any connection to one another apart from the manner of their death… which appeared mostly angelic in nature.

She worried her bottom lip. How had they missed a case like this only a couple of hours away from the bunker?

Could it be Michael?

The first murder had taken place less than a week after he had broken out of the Ma’lak box. The most recent, a teenage girl, had only been yesterday.

Rowena mulled the information over. Whilst Michael was perfectly capable of sneaking out of the bunker, for some reason, she just couldn’t see it. There was a creative violence to the murders, as if the killer saw themselves as an artist of some sort. It didn’t fit Michael’s detached, calculating style.

She turned to the letters carved into the victim’s chests, digging out a crime scene photo from each file and scattering them across the desk. As she stared at the random jumble of letters, her eyes widened as she found another connection forming in front of her.

“Oh, bloody hell.” She muttered angrily under her breath. The dubious mystery liquor that was lurking in Gary’s hip flask was looking more inviting by the second.

-----

Dean awoke with a gasp, musty air swiftly filling his lungs as he swung bolt upright. His breathing like a breaking radio, he shuddered as the fuzzy outline of his room came into focus.

Alistair is dead. I’m not in Hell anymore.

He repeated the line in his head like a mantra until he finally started to believe it. Alastair wasn’t peeling his skin off with a sickening grin, whilst he screamed for Sam in desperation for a brother he knew wasn’t coming.

The murmur of the T.V. drew his attention, and he concentrated on the moving pictures of some obscure, old sci-fi flick to try and find his bearings. He realised he had fallen asleep whilst absently watching the dusty screen, preferring any sort of distraction to the thoughts swirling through his own mind.

He rubbed at his sweat covered face, dragged himself off the equally sweat soaked sheets beneath him and padded over to the sink. Splashing water on his face, he gazed into the mirror to try and ground himself in his own eyes. “Alastair’s not here.” He whispered into the mirror. “It’s just… you.”

“We’ve heard that one before.”

Dean flinched, squeezing his eyes together like he was trying to shake a bad headache. Raising his eyelids, he made out the familiar figure of Michael leaning against the wall from the corner of his eye, but chose to keep his vision trained on the water swirling around the antique plughole. There was no brave façade to put on, no snappy comeback. Michael knew exactly what a churned-up mess he was right now. There was no use in claiming otherwise.

“You here just to gloat?” He ventured.

“Yes.”

The simple answer threw Dean. His head snapped up as he looked at the archangel in surprise.

Michael shrugged. “I need some form of entertainment whilst I wait.”

“Did you…?”

Michael smirked. “No, you came up with that one all by yourself.” He cocked his head. “I wonder what brought it on?” He said in mock confusion.

Dean remained silent, bringing his lips together in a thin line.

Michael strolled forward, penetrating Dean’s space as he leaned in and turned off the running tap, the squeak of the mechanism ringing loudly between the two of them. Dean turned his head away, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his throat pulled tight.

“Sammy may have forsaken you,” Michael stated calmly into his ear, “but you can take comfort in the knowledge that you’ll always have me.”

Dean closed his eyes, his heart crawling up into his throat. He felt like he was being suspended on a rope, dangling over a vast dark abyss.

A rap at the door shattered the twisted illusion. Dean opened his eyes to find himself alone, the water still pouring out of the tap and eddying round the sink, his fingers aching from his grip on the porcelain. He released his hold and stared at his palms in a daze, contemplating the purely artificial control he had over them.

“Dean?” A muffled gravelly voice queried.

He shook his head and quickly shut off the tap, giving his face a rough once over with the hand towel. Taking a deep breath, he pulled open the door to find Cass standing at the threshold.

“Hey Cass.” He greeted apprehensively, the smile on his face weak at best.

“Hello Dean.” The angel replied. “How are you doing?” He asked, his eyes scrunching earnestly.

“Peachy.” Dean deflected. Cass just stared at him with that look that made Dean feel like his soul was being laid bare. He couldn’t take the scrutiny and turned away, leaving space for his friend to enter. He nodded at the television and the credits stream of the movie he hadn’t been watching. “I see my old T.V. still works. I guess the future hasn’t quite got round to phaser guns and virtual reality sex just yet huh?”

“You won’t find any seashells in the toilet either.” Cass quipped.

Dean grinned at his friend. Ten years ago, Castiel was still awkwardly trying to keep up with pop culture references, despite Metatron’s memory download. Now here he was, effortlessly grasping Dean’s Demolition Man quote and deftly throwing out a joke of his own. Pride bubbled up in Dean at the leaps the angel had made, but he soon found melancholy seeping in at having missed the learning process in between.

He scooped up the T.V. remote, his thumb automatically finding the standby button without even a glance, before casually discarding it on the bed. He ran his eyes over the angel, who was looking characteristically uncomfortable. At least Cass still had some trademark awkwardness left in him.

“What’s up?” Dean prompted.

Castiel let out an audible puff of air. “I’ve been sent by Jack to invite you to cocktail night.” He declared sheepishly.

As Dean opened his mouth to decline, Cass held up a hand. “I know, I know. I told him that you wouldn’t want… wouldn’t feel comfortable in attending, but he insisted.”

At Dean’s silence, the angel sighed again and went on to explain. “Ever since Jack went undercover on a case involving a siren at a cocktail bar, it’s become a bit of a tradition on a Friday night, when we’re in the bunker, to get a takeaway and we try the latest drink that Jack has invented.”

Dean raised his eyebrows, amused at the mental image of Jack doing his best Tom Cruise impression.

Cass smiled warmly. “We’ve had some very interesting concoctions.” He leaned forward. “Not all were a success.”

At the small chuckle he received, Cass pressed on in his attempt to coax Dean into socialising. “You don’t have to stay for long. Surely, it’s better than drinking alone in your room.”

Dean reflexively glanced behind him at the cupboard that housed the bottle of whiskey that he’d found under his bed, coated in layers of grimy abandonment. He wondered if Cass had just guessed or whether he knew what had been lurking under the frame and had correctly concluded the outcome. The bottle was almost empty, his fight with Sam having helped to make a sizeable change in volume.

Returning to the proposal in question, he strained to find the right words to refuse. He slowly shook his head. “I’m not sure Sam wants me there.”

“Don’t worry about Sam. He’s incapable of refusing Jack.” Cass said, dismissing the elephant. “He once went to a circus and sat through a whole clown performance, just because Jack wanted to experience the…” The angel paused to find his classic air quotes. ““magic of a big top.””

“Wow.” Dean murmured, his bottom lip protruding as he nodded thoughtfully.

“Please come.” Cass implored. “It would mean the world to Jack…”

Dean stared at the angel’s sincere expression and mulled it over. Despite his terror at the prospect of social interaction and reminding himself of what he was set to lose once again, all he could think was: To hell with Michael.

If he was stuck being the archangel’s bitch for the rest of eternity, then why not take whatever reprieve he could get, and deal with the consequences down the line, whenever the S.O.B. decided to capitalise on it?

Wasn’t that who he was – Dean Winchester, shoot first and ask questions later?

-----

Dean followed Cass into the kitchen to find Sam placing a stack of pizza boxes on the table and Jack braced against the steel work surface, slowly pouring a thick, creamy liquid into some tall glasses with a concentrated pout. Large splashes of milk, random utensils and other cocktail making debris were strewn around the area. Dean couldn’t help but draw parallels between the chaos Jack had created and some of the crime scenes he’d attended over the years.

His ears caught the classic rock drifting out from a wireless speaker in the corner. As he soaked up the chesty roar of Bon Scott and the domestic sight in front of him, he began regretting his cocky decision.

He shouldn’t be here.

Dean tried to ignore the fear brewing in the pit of his stomach, reminding himself that this wasn’t one of Michael’s hallucinations, which usually started off with a seemingly peaceful situation and descended into a bloody massacre.

“We came to the conclusion early on that trying to cook at the same time as Jack making his cocktails was a futile exercise.” Cass said as Sam mechanically placed pizzas across the middle of the table without a look in the pair’s direction. “We now surrender the kitchen to him and eat takeaway.”

Dean nodded, taking a strange comfort in Sam’s frosty demeanour. Maybe this actually was real.

He took a breath and sat down at the end of the table. Perching on the outermost stool, he grabbed a slice of pizza out of the nearest box, as banter over Jack’s cocktail prowess swirled around him. He rolled his shoulders and decided to at least enjoy the meal, despite the dubious look of the cocktail.

Attempting to make some form of conversation, he cleared his throat. “So, what’s the story behind the siren and cocktail making?” He asked as he took a bite of his double pepperoni slice.

“Well…” Jack began enthusiastically.

“Here we go again.” Sam said, with a dramatic eye roll as he leaned back against the wall. Cass gave Dean a side-long glance and a knowing grin from his spot next to him.

“We were working this case where all these women were being killed and had tracked the perpetrator to this bar, but we couldn’t figure out who was doing the killings.” Jack supplied, comfortably getting into the swing of his well told tale. “I went undercover as a bar tender and, whilst Sam and Cass were investigating other leads, I realised it was one of the other bar staff – Carlos - and took him down… singlehandedly.” Jack said, leaning in towards Dean across the table as he emphasised his solo kill.

“That’s pretty impressive.” Dean said with a glance over at Sam. “Sirens are tricky.”

Despite their earlier argument, Sam responded with a brief understanding nod.

A pleased smile blossomed on Jacks face. So much had changed and yet, some things stayed the same. Jack was still desperately trying to prove that he wasn’t his biological father’s son.

“Anyway, despite being an evil murderer, Carlos taught me a lot about cocktail mixing.” Jack said with a shrug, holding his glass up. “I made this one especially with a whiskey base.” He continued with a tentative smile. “It’s kind of like egg nogg, but with a few herbs for an extra twist.”

Dean felt the weight of Jack’s innocent, expectant look. He eyeballed the drink cradled in his fingertips, gazing at the creamy liquid. “Sounds good.” He lied, feigning an appreciative nod and bravely took a sip.

-----

In an instant, Dean’s expression dropped, replaced by a blank mask and a flash of ice blue.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Michael leisurely quizzed.

The trio tensed in their seats. Castiel slowly gripped the angel cuffs that had been nestled inside his trench coat pocket ever since Dean’s return.

Michael rose and began inspecting the leftover equipment and ingredients scattered over the worktop. “I don’t know whether to be amused or offended.”

The archangel lifted his eyes to the ceiling with a contemptuous groan. "I have existed for millennia. Did you really think I wouldn't know what this is?” He drawled, holding out the highball of liquid. "A little yarrow root, some ground jawbone - a children's potion for silly naive angels fresh out of the box.”

Sam slowly stood up and fixed him with a steely glare, Cass and Jack following suit.

Michael gently placed the glass down next to some discarded eggshells. “I expected more from you, Sam. Dean’s supposed to be the headstrong one, but you seem to be leaping feet first into quick sand at every opportunity.” He turned towards the younger Winchester, an overly puzzled expression on his face. “Are you trying to fill the reckless void left by your older brother?”

Sam shrugged, keeping his voice neutral. “Can’t blame us for trying to reduce a threat.”

Michael tilted his head in thought for a moment, before giving an acknowledging nod and continuing on with his inquisition.

“What was your plan anyway? It would take quite a few of these concoctions to significantly reduce my strength.” He said, the lie rolling off his tongue easily. It would take a lot less in his current state. Michael turned towards Jack with a perceptive grin. “But you already knew that.”

He directed his attention to Castiel, whilst still managing to address the room. “Were you hoping one cocktail was going to be enough for me to drop my guard so you could use those cuffs you’ve been keeping in your pocket, or was it going to be breakfast smoothies tomorrow, followed by mystery burger sauce at lunch?”

The relative accuracy to Michael’s words deflated the group and, despite their best efforts to disguise their feelings, the archangel knew he’d hit the bullseye.

“Did you think once I was weakened, you could get Dean to expel me?” Michael mused, returning his focus to Sam. “Do you honestly believe he's strong enough for that?”

He paused for a moment, thinking. “But then, if your earlier argument is to be considered valid, maybe you’ve got another Ma’lak box up your sleeve and you plan on locking Dean away and throwing away the key yourself this time? That red-headed witch knows how to do it.”

Michael squinted with false concern. “Are you truly willing to put your brother’s life on the line like that?”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to save this world… sacrifices have to be made.” Sam responded, adjusting his jaw. “I can’t afford to think of him as my brother anymore.”

“And doesn’t Dean know it.” Michael retorted with a smirk.

Despite feeling like a knife had been shoved into his gut, Sam squared his shoulders. “You need us. So, you’re not going to do a damn thing unless you want that key. This conversation is over.”

“Now there’s the intellectual Sam we all know and love.” Michael said, with an exaggerated spread of his arms. “You are right. I do need you.” He agreed, before flashing them with a pearly white smile. “But Dean… he’s all mine. So, I guess I’ll just punish him for your insubordination, whilst you consider what little options you really have.”

Michael leaned in towards the threesome, raising his eyebrows as a dribble of blood slowly made its way out of the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry, as you can imagine, he’s used to it.”

The rigid posture evaporated, and Dean crumpled to the floor with a pained cry.

Chapter Text

Mop in hand and metal bucket of soapy water at his feet, Jack stared at the large pool of blood on the kitchen floor with a grim expression.  Tightening his grip on the handle, he vigorously dunked the mop head into the suds, trying not to think too hard about the cause of the scarlet mess. 

Instead, he chose to contemplate why no one had ever changed the cumbersome old bucket, when the mop had been replaced so, so many times.  It wasn’t much of a problem for him anymore now that a small portion of his angelic muscle had returned.  Even so, he remembered the strain of lugging around the bulky pail and wondered how Sam hadn’t ever felt the need to upgrade.

The thought brought on a needling sensation at the back of his mind. He’d felt that a lot recently.  Something was pushing for attention that he couldn’t quite identify.  He likened the feeling to watching tv and trying to remember where he’d seen a familiar actor before.  Whatever it was, it was on the tip of his tongue.

Jack froze, mop stilling as realisation dawned.  What if cleaning with a mop wasn’t a burden he had to endure any longer either?  He rolled his shoulders and concentrated.  With a hesitant wave of his hand, the kitchen floor was transformed, the polished concrete suddenly immaculate.

“Huh.” He muttered. 

How long had he been fastidiously cleaning through habit, when he could have just wished it into being?  Now that he thought about it, he realised the power had been there for quite a while, just waiting in the wings, so to speak.

He studied the floor.  The surface had an unearthly sparkle, as if to deny the earlier events of the evening.  The recognition of how easily he could remove the evidence of Michael’s brutality made him feel uncomfortable, like he was tampering with a crime scene, liberally spraying Resolve into every corner.

Despite it only being a small leap, this was the first time in a good long while that he felt uneasy about his celestial strength.  It reminded him of when he was new-born and was struggling to understand his powers and how to wield them.  The guilt of killing that security guard bubbled to the surface. 

He took a deep breath and tried to calm the internal waters.  Being able to magically clean the floor did not mean he was in danger of killing innocent people.  His mind flicked to his favourite Marvel character.  Peter Parker echoed in his head: ‘With great power comes great responsibility.’ 

Yeah, and a whole ton of remorse.  Jack thought, sourly.

He shook himself out of his morose thoughts.  Now was not the time.  Dean was the priority.

Dean.

Jack sighed.  As Friday night cocktails went, this one was the mother of all fails.

The elder Winchester had gone down hard, coughing up blood left, right and centre, in an unconscious fit.  Despite the scene in front of the trio, they had reacted with an almost mechanical unity, scooping Dean up between them and swiftly carrying him to the infirmary, a trail of blood dripping along the floor behind them. 

Jack wanted to believe that it was born from years of dealing with crisis after crisis, but the reality was that each one of them knew the cold truth.  Michael was going to do whatever he wanted to Dean and they were helpless spectators.  Jack wrapped one hand around the centre of the mop’s shaft, hoisted up the bucket with the other, and made his way out of the kitchen, feeling an incredibly strong need to clean the corridor the ‘human’ way.

As he fastidiously swabbed from side to side down the hallway, he was startled out of his thoughts by a pulsing vibration coming from his back pocket.  The muffled opening beats of Donovan’s Wild Witch Lady hit his ears.  Knowing the caller, who had programmed that song into his phone on a considerably more successful cocktail night, he hastily propped the mop against the wall tiles and retrieved his phone, accepting the call and bringing it to his ear. 

“Hey Rowena, what’s up?” He breathed, turning away from the speckled path he had been following towards the infirmary.

-----

Feeling the sharp puncture of another iron nail embedding itself in the rack below him, Dean’s scream was lost in a strangled gurgle, resulting in a coughing fit that tore his body around the railroad spikes that already pinned him down.  Had he been alive, he would have long bled out by now.

Instead, the nails just kept on coming and the blood kept on pooling at the back of his throat. 

The searing pain and thick choaking liquid were unremittent.  No matter how deep Alasdair hammered, Dean could never find the sweet escape of death.

Pounding in each spike, like some sort of cruel distorted acupuncture, took time.  It shouldn’t.  A demon had the supernatural strength to hammer it home in one.  But hell-bound demons, and Alasdair in particular, were a different breed.  Even though old white eyes could probably do it with just a swipe of his finger, he didn’t have the same impulsiveness that characterised so many other demons that Dean had had the pleasure of meeting in life.  Alasdair revelled in the glory of the process, rolling himself around in it like a pig in a stinking pile of shit.

He was presently crooning his way through Frank’s entire back catalogue as if he was stood at the centre of adoring crowds in Madison Square Garden… again. 

“I'd tried so not to give in” the demon bellowed with a flourish of his arms.
“I said to myself, "This affair never will go so well"
But why should I try to resist when, baby, I know so well…’”

Alastair slowly scraped his clawed fingers down the side of Dean’s bloody torso.

“I've got you under my skin.”

In the early days, Dean had defiantly delivered a cocky critique of Alasdair’s musical preferences, but they were long past that now.  All he had left was his will to resist, which was crumbling under the onslaught.  He could feel it slipping with each strike of the hammer.

Alasdair gently stroked Dean’s hair and cooed at his agonising struggles, as if comforting a newborn child.  Gathering up another spike in his palm and lining it up with Dean’s left eyeball, he leaned in, hammer at the ready.

“What do you think grasshopper?  Are you ready to pick up the blade?”

“Screw you.” Dean coughed out feebly.

A gleeful smile spread across Alasdair’s face. “You sound so beautiful when you’re choking on blood.”

-----

Making his way to the kitchen for some much-needed coffee, Sam paused, glancing back through the infirmary doorway at his brother as if retreating to the dimly lit corridor would somehow provide a more encouraging perspective on the situation.  Dean was jerking erratically, seemingly in the throes of a nightmare, as Cass gently mopped at his sweat streaked brow with a cloth.  Sam guessed whatever Michael was doing was much worse than a simple fever dream. 

At least the blood had stopped… for the time being.  Michael had made his intentions clear though.  Whatever world Dean was currently in, there was no doubt that he was being tortured, blood or no blood.  All Cass’s attempts at intervention had been completely fruitless.  Dean was trapped until Michael decided otherwise. 

Sam couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all was part of a carefully constructed design.  Michael had known that they would try something and had planned exactly what he was going to do about it.  Sam felt the cold burn of fury sweeping his insides, coursing through his veins like ice water.  He needed to find a way to kill the son of a bitch.

He turned and made his way down the corridor, absently side-stepping the abandoned mop and bucket, consumed by his stormy hatred of the archangel.  Entering the kitchen, he yanked the pot from the coffee machine, huffing at its cold contents.  Sam stalked across the kitchen, the pristine floor lying unnoticed as he dumped the dark liquid into the sink.  Feeling a throbbing building up behind his eyeballs, he set the pot down with a thud and pinched the bridge of his nose.

At the sound of light footsteps, he turned to find Jack stepping into the kitchen.

“Hey, you got a minute?” Jack said warily, noting the bloodstained shirt still on Sam’s back and the angry, exhausted look on the younger Winchester’s face.

“Yeah, sure.”  Sam replied, attempting to muster up a calm demeanour as he retrieved the pot and made his way back to the coffee machine.  “What’s up?”

“It’s Rowena.”  Jack began.

“What’s she done now?” Sam ground out, shoving the coffee pot back into the machine with a little too much force, stabbing at the buttons.

“Seems like she’s stumbled on something big in Nebraska.” Jack answered hesitantly.

“Really? As big as an Archangel possessed brother showing up out of the blue after ten years?”  Sam knew he was being a dick, but his patience had run out with all things Rowena.   He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, as the coffee machine beeped, indicating it needed more water.

“Uh… Yeah.”

Sam stared at Jack, his brows knitting at the unexpected answer as the Nephilim held out a tablet towards him.  He grasped the offered device and looked down at a photograph of a mutilated corpse.  A capital ‘C’ was carved into the male victim’s chest.  His anger and coffee momentarily forgotten, Sam took in the gruesome picture, hunter mode robotically kicking in.

“Her friend, Barry Burke?  He was the sixth person out of seven in the area to be found with their insides liquefied and eyes burnt out… some were children.” Jack grimaced. “All with a different letter carved into their chest.”

Sam swiped through the photos, quickly skimming from body to body, his mind subconsciously storing and analysing the information, trying to put together the pieces of the puzzle.  As he looked at the last picture, he sucked in a breath, realising Rowena was a few steps ahead of him.  It was a collage of all the previous photos, arranged in a specific order:

WNCHESTR

“Okay…” Sam paused, calculating.  “Jack, you head over there and help Rowena, see if you can figure out what this is about.”

“No.” Jack responded slowly, as if he had to drag the word from his lips.

“What?” Sam said in a slightly clipped tone, hairline cracks appearing in his thin veneer of composure.

Jack looked up at Sam. “You should go.”

“Are you serious?”  Sam snapped.  “I can’t leave Dean.”

“And that’s exactly why you need to go.”  Jack appealed, his tone firm.

Sam stood frozen for a moment, incredulous, before his shoulders slumped as the reasoning behind Jack’s words registered.

“Michael’s calling your bluff.”  Jack stated, voicing the thought process that was currently going on in Sam’s head.  “The longer you stay in that room, the more obvious it becomes that you’re trying to con him.  If you leave, then maybe he’ll truly believe that you’re committed to sacrificing Dean.”

Sam expelled a long puff of air and turned away from Jack. He ran his hands through his hair, his head dipping in thought for a moment as he clung onto the strands at the back.  “You’re right.” He agreed.  Leaving was the last thing he wanted to do, but the kid had hit the nail on the head.  He had to try and keep up the deception, and this was the best way to do it.

“Dammit!” He exclaimed, his arms dropping like dead weights before coming to rest on his hips.

A quiet beat passed before Jack cautiously ventured, “How’s he doing?”

“The same - unresponsive.  Cass can’t even get through to him.”  Sam shook his head minutely, his throat working as he turned back around.  “Dean hardly ever talked about his experiences in Hell, but I can’t stop thinking about the first time he told me.” 

Sam swallowed, staring hard at the tiled wall behind Jack’s head.  Voicing his thoughts felt like he was somehow betraying his brother’s confidence.  “He said that he would be tortured, but then he would be made ‘whole again’ before the process started over.”  He reluctantly pulled his eyes back to Jack’s. 

“Do you think that’s what Michael has been doing to him all this time? Hell re-runs?” Jack asked. “Is that what he’s doing right now?”

“Probably that and worse.  Dean is a walking manual of torture best practice.”  Sam replied, the knot in his stomach tightening.  “What else is an angry archangel going to do at the bottom of the ocean?”

The Nephilim’s doe-eyed commiserating look brought him no comfort.  Sam sighed resignedly, running a hand down his stained shirt and wondering whether there would ever come a time when being covered in his brother’s blood would become long distant memories.

“I better get on the road.”

-----

Castiel sagged back in his chair as he brought his fingertips away from Dean’s forehead.  In the hours since Michael’s dramatics and Sam’s subsequent departure, he kept trying to see if there was any way he could stealthily slip past the archangel’s guard, but to no avail.  Attempting to access Dean was an odd mixture of banging against a brick wall and being sucked into the cold vacuum of space. 

Cass had been surprised.  He had expected to be held back by an immense burst of power, like being impeded by the dazzle of a thousand blazing suns.  But instead, he was met with the dark expanse of a black hole. Michael was a cosmic void, his power completely unreadable. 

Cass frowned.

All he could achieve was a vague insight into the pain and distress that was going on in Dean’s mind.  The blood that had initially escaped the hunter’s mouth was just a spoiler for whatever was really happening on the inside.

Suddenly Dean started choking again, but this time the elder Winchester began coughing up water.  He rolled his shuddering friend onto his side, taking in the salty stench of the liquid as it spread across the floor.  Holding his friend in position, his eyes were drawn to the fluid slowly tracing a path towards the drain in the corner. 

Judging by the salt content and the microorganisms within it, the water had come from somewhere deep, approximately thirty-five degrees north and one hundred and forty-five degrees west.  Castiel’s grip on Dean’s shoulder tightened, his lips pursed in fury as he recognised the irony of Michael’s gesture.  He was drowning Dean in the very water they’d been submerged in for the past ten years.

He held back a growl, his anger and desperation growing in the knowledge that that Michael had concocted this particular torment entirely for Cass’s benefit.  He was the only one who would be able to make the connection with the Pacific.  The archangel was taunting him.

Cass thought back to when he first met Dean, when he still believed in all of Heaven’s propaganda. 

He had not fully appreciated it at the time, but it had been a profound turning point for him.  Gripping Dean’s soul and knowing that he was worthy of love despite his torturous acts, that he was more than what Alasdair had turned him into, had had a huge impact on the angel. His intensely black and white existence had suddenly been smudged into a million shades of grey.

Strangely, in all their years of friendship, they had never had a conversation about their meeting in Hell.  He suspected that at some point Dean had probably remembered but had chosen to stay silent on the matter.  Cass understood, knowing the state of the soul that he’d hauled out of the inferno.

He knew how broken Dean had felt when he’d found him wallowing in the inglorious task of torturer, having finally surrendered to the only relief available in the pit.  Dean had always aspired to be the best at what he did, and Alasdair had twisted that need into something grotesque. 

The hunter had been full of guilt, self-loathing and burning anger.  That had told Castiel that Dean still had some fight left in him, that the was still good in him.  He knew that Dean could be redeemed.

This was different. 

Yes, there was pain and anguish and fear, but the defeat, the cold acceptance was frightening. There was a numbness within Dean that Cass didn’t know how to combat.  As his phone buzzed in his pocket, he found himself wishing for the broken, rage filled soul he’d first met in Hell.

-----

Sam glanced down at his phone at the update he’d requested from Cass as he climbed out of his Charger.

No change.

He grimaced.  Although the angel’s text speak had never been particularly verbose, he knew that Cass was deliberately leaving out the gory details.  Guiltily, he was grateful for the reprieve.  He felt sick to the bottom of his stomach about leaving the bunker.  He tried to console himself with the fact that there was no one he trusted more than Cass and Jack to look after his brother.  Briefly typing his thanks, he shoved the phone back into his pocket. 

The frown remained on his face as he stared up at the hotel in front of him, knowing that it must be the best on offer in Hastings.  The Holiday Inn Express was much classier than his usual accommodation choices, but he knew Rowena would feel like she was slumming it.  He could clearly hear her in his mind, recounting the benefits of 24-hour room service when working a case.  If he wasn’t so stirred up, the memory would have been a fond one.

He swung the car door shut and made his way to the entrance, avoiding reception and heading straight for the elevator and Rowena’s room.  He momentarily hesitated as he brought his fist up to rap on the door of room 214, as if he could somehow avoid this meeting.  Knowing resistance was futile, he knocked, but with a little less force than he’d initially intended.  He was tired, bone tired.

The petite red head swung open the door and regarded her tall visitor for a slow moment.

“Samuel.” She greeted in a neutral tone.

“Rowena.” Sam acknowledged.

The witch let go of the door and withdrew into her room, allowing Sam to enter.  He gently shut the door behind him, dropped his bag and took a deep breath.

“So, what have you got?”  He enquired, getting straight to business, as if it wasn’t three o’clock in the morning and their friendship wasn’t in shreds.

“Pretty much what I’ve already sent through.”  She gestured at the flimsy wood veneer desk and the case files scattered under the generic hotel lamp.  Leaning down to crack open the mini fridge, she pulled out a beer, twisted open the top and handed it to Sam, which he took with an appreciative nod. 

Rowena scooped up a glass of whiskey, the large bottle of expensive single malt sitting on the desk clearly not supplied from the mini bar.  They both took a long sip, Rowena guardedly watching Sam from the rim of her glass.

Sam contemplated the witch’s gesture.  After a drive and with a case to investigate, he tended to lean towards drinking a beer over the hard stuff.  As he let the generic local brew drift down his throat, he realised that, at some point, Rowena had noted his preference.  He’d always been so wrapped up in whatever case they were working on, that he had failed to notice her thoughtful actions before.  He swallowed the lump forming in his throat and ran his eyes over the paperwork strewn across the desktop.

“What are your thoughts?” He prompted.

Rowena looked down at the files.  “The cause of death looks like a classic angel smiting.” 

“Do you think it’s Michael?” Sam could feel his heart rate kick up a notch just voicing the idea.

“We can’t rule it out.” She said, but slowly began shaking her head. “But it doesn’t seem to fit his superior, god complex style.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You mean the letters?”

“That, and…” Rowena paused, twisting her mouth to one side. “There’s just something about the way the crime scenes are arranged.”

“What do you mean?” Sam pressed, having only had chance for quick skim through a few photos before getting on the road.

Rowena sighed thoughtfully.  “Take Barry, for example.  The autopsy says that after he was killed, he was dragged back to his desk by his tie, before being sat in his chair, where the letter carving took place.  The killer also took the time to place Barry’s marking pen back in his hand and tie his tie in a bow round his head.  It all seems rather childish.”

She dug through the pile of photos, handing Sam a picture of Barry in his carefully arranged pose.  He brought the photo up to his face for closer inspection, his eyes squinting.  “Is that… the periodic table?”

“Aye, Barry loved his novelty ties.”  Rowena looked away with a sad smile and took a healthy slug of her whiskey.

Sam’s eyes softened.  “I’m sorry about Barry.”  He said sincerely.

Rowena nodded her head, throwing a quick glance his way. “I know.”  She murmured before steeling her voice. “It’s the same story for each victim.  Every time there’s a frivolous twist, an extra detail that seems like it’s been done because the killer just couldn’t help themselves.  I’ve known my fair share of serial murderers, and this has the same pathological vibe.  Whatever were dealing with is pure evil… and seeing as they managed to kill Barry, powerful to boot.”

He shuffled through a few of the nearest photos, taking in the teenage girl who was sat at her dressing table, lipstick in hand and a Joker-esque smile applied post-mortem.  On another an office worker lay, chest down, on a photocopier, surrounded by papers, which all had a scanned bloody ‘W’ on them. 

Rowena sat herself down on the small couch behind him, propping her feet up on a cube shaped upholstered stool, supping her whiskey.  “That’s not all.  The pathology reports all say that that the lacerations on their chests appear to have been inflicted incredibly quickly, but with scalpel precision.  Which is almost impossible to do.” She gestured with a tip of her glass. “Unless you’re a powerful supernatural being who could do it with a flick of a wrist.”

“So, we’re back to Michael?” Sam could feel his heart thumping again.

“Or, something else old and strong, that has a very juvenile of a sense of humour.” The witch countered.

Sam turned towards her, a random photograph depicting multiple pages of smudged Ws hanging from his hand.  “Do you really think the killer is trying to spell out Winchester?”

Rowena fixed him with a look.  “Come on Sam, what are the odds?”

“Yeah, okay.”  He conceded as he discarded the photo and flopped down on the couch next to her, staring at the beige wall opposite him.

Rowena eyeballed Sam, taking in the lines of tension across his face and the dark circles forming under his eyes.   “Seems like the world really does revolve around ‘The Winchesters.’” She proclaimed, with a cautious half-smile.

Sam hesitated, taking in her expression and the light-hearted intonation behind her words.  Rowena was holding out the metaphorical peace pipe.  Something she rarely did willingly.  Despite all the anger and hurt he was harbouring toward the red head, he felt something gently release inside of him.  He was so weary of their arguing.  It was time to take a smoke, inhale, and try not to cough. 

He grinned back at her, and Rowena’s guarded air instantly softened.  She slowly brought her legs off the stool and leaned forward, elbows on knees as she cradled her drink.  She took a deep breath, looking down into the swirling mixture of ice and burnt amber. 

“I never wanted to hurt you or your brother.”  She admitted quietly. “I only did what I thought was right, with the knowledge that I had at the time.”

Sam was startled at the unexpected confession.

After a few moments, she haltingly continued, “Putting Dean into that box was the hardest thing I have ever done, and I will never forgive myself for it.”

The room descended into silence, the quiet of the small space drawing around them like a blanket.

“I forgive you.”  Sam said softly.

Rowena’s head whipped up, her eyes going wide.

Sam deliberated for a beat, choosing his words carefully.  He turned towards her. “In trying to do the right thing, we’ve all made choices that we regret.”

Rowena blinked, a sheen appearing across her eyes.

“All we can do is keep trying.”  Sam affirmed.

“Aye, I’ll drink to that.” Rowena whispered with a resigned nod, clinking her glass against Sam’s bottle in a muted salute, as they both took a long sip.

“How is Dean?”  She probed gently, once the liquor had washed down.

“Still under.”  Sam replied, his voice a little hoarse, the corner of his mouth twitching unhappily.

“Michael’s been a step ahead of us from the start and now Dean is suffering for it.”

Rowena nodded bleakly.  “You know I would have come back if I thought I could do anything,”

“Yeah, of course.” Sam said in earnest.

“So, what’s the plan?” She quizzed with a resolute set of her shoulders.

Sam opened his mouth to respond but paused as Rowena suddenly stiffened.  He caught the faraway look in the witch’s eyes, her posture tense as if she was listening to something.

“Rowena?” He queried uneasily.

Her eyes flashed purple.  “It’s here.”  She announced, turning to look at him.

“The alphabet killer?”  Sam questioned; eyebrows raised.

If there had been time, Rowena would have rolled her eyes at the nickname.  “It’s the only thing that could break through wards as powerful as mine.”  She said instead. 

Sam reacted immediately, instinctively reaching for the Taurus tucked into the small of his back, as they both arose, poised for action. 

“Unless Michael decided to follow you.” The witch added unhelpfully.  Sam gave her his best bitchface as he thumbed the safety off his gun.

When there was a cheery ‘rat-a-tat-tat’ on the door, they looked at each other in silent confusion.  Rowena tipped her head towards the door with an expectant wave. Sam frowned at the implication that he should go first, but took the lead anyway, stalking towards the closed threshold.

He peered through peephole and was greeted with the distorted sight of a petite blonde 20-something, with an All-American girl scout pout, hands on hips and eyes raised to the ceiling with impatience.

He looked back at Rowena one last time, who nodded, primed with whatever magic she had at her fingertips.  Sam pulled open the door, stepping back and bringing his gun to bare.

“Hi!” The blonde greeted with an exaggerated lift of her shoulders.  “I believe you’re looking for me?”  She said with a tilt of her head and a big grin, before the world went black.

Chapter Text

The joy of shaping a world within was that time was fluid.  It was whatever Michael wanted it to be.  It could be like the endless repeats of Heaven, or it could be slowed to a dying crawl like in Hell. 

Hell.

Michael ruminated over the word.  Despite living for millennia, his first trip through Dean’s head had shown the archangel that he could still learn new things.  It had given him a detailed insight into the sordid world of Alastair, a demon he’d only known by reputation in his own world.  He’d had no need or any want to venture into the pits of damnation.  Who would? 

Realising his comprehensive knowledge of torture was still lacking, he had embraced Alastair’s education, using and adapting the new techniques he had learnt to great effect during his and Dean’s incarceration at the bottom of the ocean. 

Less than forty-eight hours had passed on the outside, but the human had been entrapped in his mind for longer.  The present scene playing out was still one of the archangel’s favourites - abandoning Dean to the isolation of the Ma’lak box, all hope lost, regret and terror filling his mind.  He had returned to the scenario so often over their time together, but this was the first time he’d had to create it in Dean’s mind.  He strangely missed being able to sit back and watch reality play out in front of him. 

The fear of being alone, Michael mused, now that was the ultimate human weakness.  Ten years ago, Dean had given in and let him out of that freezer because he couldn’t bear the solitude.  In that moment, Michael knew he would win eventually, it was just a matter of being patient.  So here he was, staying the course… with a little baiting of a particularly irksome seraph for extra entertainment value. 

Many eons ago, the Castiel of his world had also been a thorn, but like all creatures, he had broken the rebel and bent him to his will.  He had painstakingly reprogrammed the angel with the biggest ‘heart’ into one of his best torturers.  No wonder the Castiel of this world and Dean had been drawn to each other.  They were so alike; they just didn’t know it.

As Dean started scrabbling at the inside of their metal tomb, Michael let the wreckage of the human’s fingertips and forearms bleed out into the real world.  It was amusing to see the distraught look on Castiel’s face as he scrambled for extra towels and bandaging, his grace laughably impotent, even compared to Michael’s current limitations.  He basked in the waves of grief rolling from the angel at his inability to heal his friend. 

A voice at the back of Michael’s mind told him that it was frivolous to indulge in such things as antagonising a lowly subordinate, but another, angrier voice screamed that he was no longer duty bound to be a good son.  That he could do whatever he pleased.  That he was allowed to do things purely for self-gratification.  The thought was so… liberating.

But, alas, even though he was savouring Castiel’s discomfort like Dean would a single malt, goading the angel was turning into a diversion from his main objective – the ultimate job. 

He’d made his point, his message clear.

Michael had work to do.

Then he could give in to every single desire he’d ever had for himself.

-----

Sam was floating. 

“Wakey wakey, sleepy head.”  A sing-song voice teased, penetrating his subconscious. 

There was a nagging thought that he needed to get up, but he was so comfortable, it made it hard to obey.  He contemplated turning over and ignoring the voice, when a less than gentle slap to the face brought him crashing back to planet earth.  Sam’s breath hitched as he sat up on what appeared to be a very large, very plush sofa.  As his blurry vision re-adjusted, an expansive sitting room slowly came into focus.  He took in the vaulted ceiling, expensive décor and noted the two suited goons manning the doorway. 

Rowena was perched on a lavish mid-century style armchair across from him, cup of tea in hand.  To the untrained eye, the witch appeared to be relaxed, but Sam knew Rowena too well.  The slight stiffness to her posture and the measured expression on her face told him all he needed to know: She was currently powerless and putting on her best poker face. 

This was bad.  Very bad.

He turned his gaze to the pouty blonde stood in front of him, arms folded, eyebrow arched.  Somehow, he got the impression that the extra muscle by the door wasn’t exactly necessary.

“Who are you?”  He demanded.

“Aw Sam, you don’t remember little ol’ me?”  She said, pushing out her bottom lip in mock offense. “That really hurts a girl’s feelings.  I thought we had a connection.”

Knowing appearances meant little in his profession, Sam put two and two together and guessed demon, the goons having already suggested the same.  He took in blondie’s body language and sarcastic tone but came up short.  Rather than play her game, he attempted to take the lead. “You’re obviously powerful enough to kill us with a snap of your fingers, so the only reason we’re talking is because you want us alive.”

She screwed up her face. “I wouldn’t say want…”

Sam was so done with the playground banter. “Why don’t you cut the crap and get to the point?”

“Oh, so dominant!” Blondie said, clasping her hands with glee. “I wish we could have followed through all those years ago.  I reckon you’ve got some kinks.”  She sat down and draped herself on the cushion next to him with a dirty leer.  “I definitely could have taught you a trick or two.”

Sam had seen that hungry look before.  Like a lion sizing up its prey.

“Lilith.”

-----

One minute Dean had been scraping his fingers raw, screaming for Sammy, for Cass, for anyone who might be listening, even Chuck, and the next, he was scrabbling at nothing but empty space, his hands seemingly weightless against the lack of friction.  His lungs sucked in proper air, not the stale confines of his metal coffin, which had been bereft of oxygen for a long time.  He choked on the sudden influx. 

When his vision cleared and his chest stopped heaving, he realised he was lying on a bed in the bunker infirmary, staring into the concerned eyes of his best friend, who was gripping his shoulder, preventing him from going over the springy precipice.

“Dean!” Castiel exclaimed, startled by his friend’s abrupt awakening. “Are you ok?”

Dean flinched from the touch, pushing himself up into a sitting position against the cold metal bedframe.  He let his head drop back onto the painted bricks and closed his eyes, willing the thumping in his chest and the corresponding pulsation in his eardrums to abate, as he adjusted to the change of scenery.  Once the thundering eased and he got his breathing under control, it hit him how adept he had become at jumping from one nightmare scenario to the next.  What a disappointing achievement.

“So, what’s the play this time?”  He said, blinking wearily and gazing at a small damp patch forming on the ceiling, before bringing his eyes back to study his ‘friend.’  It wasn’t like Cas was actually there.  Michael was just trying to lure him into a false sense of security before he turned up the heat again.

The angel’s brows knitted, and his head tilted in typical Cass fashion.  “What do you mean?”

Dean sighed, taking in the classic expression.  Seemed like Michael was phoning it in on this round.    Maybe even archangels couldn’t match Alastair’s stamina for torture.  His gaze drifted lazily across the dimly lit room.  “You know exactly what I mean.”  He said to the air around him.  “Just get on with it.”

“Dean... Dean.” Cass’s voice was like a distant call from a badly tuned radio, haphazardly breaking through a hum of static.  He reluctantly turned his head back towards the caller. 

“This is not one of Michael’s visions.  This is real.” The angel pleaded, realisation dawning.  “I’m real.” 

Dean raised an eyebrow. “I’ve heard that one so many times, I don’t know why you bother anymore.” 

The kicked puppy expression simultaneously juxtaposed with a burning fire in those blue eyes that could destroy worlds, made him hesitate.  It was so indescribably Cass.  Something in his gut rolled.  Something said that maybe, just maybe, returning to the bunker had actually happened and that he was back again.  That this wasn’t some twisted mirage.  There was a vague sensation of his angelic overlord shifting in approval, which just left him feeling dirty.  He desperately wanted to disagree with everything Michael.  This could easily be one big manipulation.  It had happened before.  The archangel was well versed in playing the long game.  Hell, this whole project, if real, was a long game.  God wasn’t going to randomly show up tomorrow.

The slim possibility of it being reality kick started his natural instincts, smothering any morose, self-pitying thoughts he had for himself.  “Are Sam and Jack…?” He began.

“They’re fine.”  Cass cut in with a reassuring set of his hands.  “Michael didn’t do anything to us.   What do you remember?”

Dean schooled his features into a confused frown. “I remember pizza, Jacks dicey looking cocktail and then… nothing.”  He lied.  He remembered blood and pain, Alastair re-runs and ransacked dreams stripped and eviscerated from the inside out.

Cass knew that look, but he accepted the subterfuge, knowing that pushing for the truth would be futile at best.  He substituted it with an explanation.  “We attempted a ruse to weaken Michael.  It backfired and I’m afraid you paid the price for it” He grimaced.  “I’m sorry Dean.”

“I’m used to it.”  Dean threw out with a resigned grunt.  Cass’s heart sank at hearing the same words that Michael had used. 

Dean scrubbed a hand through his hair and felt the way the greasy strands moulded with his fingers. “How long have I been out?”  He said, absently rubbing his thumb and fingertips together.

“Roughly two days.”  Cass answered. 

Dean nodded, nonplussed.  The time didn’t really matter.  There was no point in telling Cass how long it had seemed to him.  When you were being tortured it always felt like forever. 

The elder Winchester shifted in his spot, suddenly acutely aware of how exposed he was, sitting in the infirmary bed, a stinky mess.  He couldn’t help but think about how used to being broken and vulnerable he was around Michael, but here, in front of his best friend, he longed to be the Dean that Cass remembered.  It made him want to turn tail and run.  He opened his mouth to make his excuses and escape to the relative safety of his room, but curiosity got the better of him.  “What did you try and do?”  He asked instead.

Cass paused, “The short version is that Jack’s cocktail was actually a magical potion meant to weaken Michael with repeated ingestion over time.”

“And the long version?”  Dean probed.

Cass blew out a long breath, letting his cheeks puff out.  “A few years back, the bunker started having technical problems.  When we investigated the switchboard, Jack was a little too enthusiastic and hit the reset button before we could stop him.  That’s when Mrs Butters appeared.”

Dean frowned.  “Sam mentioned her.  Wasn’t she a maid or something?”

“She was a housekeeper of sorts.” The angel said, struggling to summarise all that was Mrs Butters.  “It turned out that the bunker had been in standby mode.  At full power the bunker was run on her magic – she was a wood nymph.”

An amused grin blossomed across Dean’s face. 

“Not that type of nymph.” Cass retorted with a pointed look.  But he was unable to bring himself to feel the exasperation he put into his tone, when he could bask in Dean’s long-lost smile instead. 

As Dean made a token attempt at restraining his childish glee, Cass continued with the story: “She had been tortured by Cuthbert Sinclair and conditioned into looking after the bunker.  Consequently, she had grown fiercely protective of the Men of Letters.  So much so, that when she discovered Jack was the son of Satan, she weakened him using the same potion, claiming they were smoothies.  Eventually we managed to appeal to her good nature, and she relented.  So,” He rounded up, “we set her free.”

“A hunt without a kill?  Doesn’t happen often.” Dean remarked ruefully.

Cass nodded, acknowledging the rarity of the occurrence. “We hoped that we could use the same method and weaken Michael, but he was familiar with the ingredients, and decided to punish you for our actions.”  He added, the unspoken apology creeping into his tone.

“It’s OK, Cass” Dean said quietly, avoiding the angel’s gaze. “I appreciate the effort.”

The friends sat there in companionable silence for a few beats before the inevitable question that Cass was dreading:

“Where’s Sam?”

-----

Sam blinked. “How are you even alive?”

“I made a deal.” Lilith said airily, inspecting her nails.

“With who?” Sam had had enough of people making deals to last a lifetime.  Scratch that, a thousand lifetimes.

“Er, hello?” Lilith snarked, a finger extending to point at herself. “Ancient evil demon. Not going to tell you.”

Sam rolled his eyes, despite the tension that had his body coiled tight.  He fixed her with a murderous gaze.  “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”

Lilith scoffed, tilting her head like a ragdoll. “And how do you plan on doing that?” She teased, flashing her pearly white eyes.  Sam felt the all too familiar press of power pinning him in place.  “You’re not all hopped up on demon blood this time.” She stated, blowing out a puff of air, seeming almost disappointed.  “I guess he was done with that story.” She muttered to herself.

As infuriating as it was, Sam knew Lilith was right.  At this point in time, he had no way of killing her and a lot of questions.  As he felt Lilith release her hold on him, he decided to focus on the reason he was there in the first place, in the hope of getting some proper answers. “Why are you killing people in Hastings?”

Lilith shrugged.  “I had to get your attention somehow.” She drawled as she rose from the sofa.

“My attention?” He echoed incredulously.  “By killing innocent people…innocent children?”

“Not as many as I wanted to.”  The demon replied, turning back to him with a sulky expression.  “I was hoping to finish my vowels before your little pet witch here showed up and put two and two together.”

“I am nobody’s pet.” Rowena said cooly, enunciating every word.  Despite the witch’s magical hands being tied, Rowena seemed no less formidable.  Sam swore he could feel static build up in the air around him.

Lilith arched an appraising eyebrow at her. “You’re right.” She acknowledged, twisting her face thoughtfully before declaring, “Us girls really should stick together. Fancy coming back to the dark side?  You could be my right hand in Hell with all your talents.”

“Darling,” Rowena crooned breathily, with a clear hint of venom, “whenever I end up in Hell, I’ll be the one in charge.”

Lilith eased herself down into the other armchair, her presence and posture making it look like a throne.  Her eyes gleamed as she sized up her would be opponent.  The demon smirked.  “I’m looking forward to that battle already.”

Rowena tilted her head and gave a slow nod in salute of the challenge.  Sam’s mouth hung open as he glanced between the demon and witch, wondering how the conversation had been so easily sidetracked to duel arrangements.

“You wanted to get my attention?” He cut in between the two women.

Lilith turned back towards him with an annoyed scowl.  “Your long-lost brother appears after ten years with Michael in tow?  There was no way you were leaving that cosy little bunker of yours without good cause.”

He gave her a flat stare. “You could have just picked up the phone.”

She leaned forward, eyes wide.  “Yes, but that wouldn’t have been half as much fun.”

Sam could taste bile in his throat.  Lilith was beyond sickening.  He hated her to his core.  “I will find a way to kill you.”  He pledged, voice low.

Lilith straightened up and assumed an overly fake manner of indignance.  “You know,” she huffed.  “I expected a little more gratitude.  I am the one who freed your brother after all.”  Seeing the shocked look on Sam’s face, she continued “What?  Did you think that celestial dick got out on good behaviour?”

“Why?” Rowena challenged, giving Sam a chance to regroup.

“That was the deal.”  Lilith stated simply, turning her attention back to Sam.  “Find that sexy, pig-headed big brother of yours and get him out.” 

Sam studied Lilith’s face, knowing that there was a lot more to that story but that there was no way Lilith was going to share her secrets.  So, he changed tack. “Why you?”

Lilith fixed him with a contemptuous glare.  “Have you forgotten I’m the world’s foremost authority on jailbreaking archangels? I broke 66 seals to get Lucifer out of the cage and you think I can’t handle one little Ma’lak box?”

“How did you know he was in a Ma’lak box?” Sam bit back.

“There aren’t many things in this universe that can permanently contain an archangel.  It doesn’t take a genius to work out that if he’s not in the cage then he must be in a Ma’lak box.”  Lilith scrunched up her face “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.” 

Sam just stared at her, not rising to the bait, but Lilith’s childlike attention span had already shifted again to Rowena.  “Impressive work on the additional warding around the box.” She praised.  “That gave me a few headaches.”

Rowena tilted her head graciously.

Sam shook his head in frustration.  “Why are you telling us any of this?  Why are we here?”

“Because” Lilith sat up with a wiggle of her shoulders and gave him a bright smile, “I want to save the world.”

-----

Castiel threw back the cover and held an unnecessary breath as he watched Dean run his fingertips slowly across her bonnet, eyes awash. 

“Hey Baby.” He whispered, bringing his hand together in a fist and giving the Impala a gentle double tap on her nose.

Cass could have easily missed the slight lift to the corner of Dean’s mouth, before his lips drew tight with a deep swallow.  It bolstered the angel with a tiny drop of hope that his old friend was still in there somewhere.

Seeing the crushed look on Dean’s face at learning Sam had left to work another case had torn him apart inside.  The elder Winchester had swiftly rebounded with an unconvincing attempt at casually clearing his throat, before stuttering through a long-winded comment about how busy Sam must be with his hunter operation.  Instead of lending his friend some reassuring words, Castiel’s only option had been to agree that Sam had other responsibilities to think about - and rub salt deeper into the open wound.  This was his subliminal bid at an apology.  If Sam had to play ‘bad cop,’ maybe he could get away with playing just a little bit of ‘good cop.’

Dean finally heaved his reverent gaze away from the Impala to look questioningly at Cass. “What’s she doing buried back here in the corner?”

Castiel paused, unsure how to answer, before a moment of inspiration struck.  He decided to take a chance, eyebrows rising as he declared, “Because nobody puts Baby in the corner?”

When Dean’s face split into an earnest grin, Cass knew that his pop culture gamble had paid off.  He had stumbled across Dirty Dancing late one night, when another hunter had left the TV on in the Dean Cave.  He knew the classic due to Metatron’s download, but he’d still found that watching films for himself added an extra layer to the experience that the Scribe wasn’t able to replicate.  Claire had stumbled across his unexpected movie night and ridiculed him for watching ‘ancient chick-flick crap,’ before settling down in the lazy-boy next to him. 

The memory was a good one.

Dean bit his lip and tilted his head as he deliberated over teasing the angel, before he conceded, “Yeah… Swayze always gets a pass.”

Cass’s whole demeanour seemed to change, a bashful smile blooming across his face that made something in Dean shift, reminding him of a time when his mind and body were all his own.  And damn, but wasn’t that the reason he’d easily let himself be led to the garage, when he had purposefully avoided the place? 

Dean wasn’t stupid, he’d had time to think about his predicament.  He knew, despite whatever strengthening Sam must have done, that Michael could break through the bunker’s warding all by himself, eventually.  He was the most powerful being in the universe, aside from God, at the end of the day.  He was only being used as a tool to gain entry purely for Michael’s warped sense of fun.  It was all for kicks.  Daddy’s boy really needed to get out more.

And yet, even knowing that Michael wanted him to build a house of cards, when Cass had proposed a trip to the garage, he’d headed straight for the Impala like a moth to a bonfire, because seeing his beloved Baby again was the easiest diversion from Sam’s wounding absence. 

He walked the length of the Impala, his fingers gently tracing the contours of her body.  Something about the touch grounded him.  He knew every inch of this car, down to every nut, bolt and wedged plastic toy.  His mind automatically conjured up a maintenance checklist – callipers and pads, alternator, water pump… he lost himself in the simplicity of it all, imagining himself streaked with grease, elbow deep in a carburettor rebuild.

Cass’s voice broke his daydream. “Sam drove her for a few years, but...”

Dean felt the gut punch full force.  So, Sam gave up on the Impala as well.  He redirected the conversation before he had to hear Cass say it.  “What’s Sam cruising round in now? Please don’t tell me it’s electric.”

The angel’s blank expression was priceless.  Dean wanted to box it up.  Cass opened his mouth and, after a few awkward moments, came out with. “A dark grey one?”

“So, you can quote Dirty Dancing, but you still haven’t learnt anything about cars?” Dean joked.  “What has Sam been teaching you?”

Cass shrugged.  “It has a cobra in the middle of a threat display on the front and rear.  I think it’s supposed to be a king cobra, judging by the relative dimensions of the flare of its hood.”  He frowned.  “I’m not sure what snakes have to do with the internal combustion engine.”

Dean snorted, enjoying the perplexed reasoning that was so Cass.  At least he could narrow his brother’s car choice down to a Mustang, probably a Shelby.  Props to Sammy.  It wasn’t a bad substitute.  Much better than that Dodge Charger in any case.

He opened the driver’s door to its familiar creaking tune, taking in the long, sweeping dash.  Cass opened the passenger door and climbed in.  Dean eased his way into the driving seat.  He gently ran his hands around the steering wheel, losing himself in memories of giving in to the steady rumble of her engine and the rolling landscape passing by.

“She may have been laid up, but she was turned over every other week and one of us took her for a drive from time to time, usually Jack.”  Cass’s eyes wrinkled briefly with the quirk of his lips. “He’s become quite attached to her.”

Dean couldn’t help but smile too at the thought of Jack driving Baby.  He ran his eyes across the instruments, taking in each one, before reaching out a finger to trace the opening of the tape deck.  He wondered what cassette would start rolling if he switched it on.  Would it be one of his or would Jack have made his own music collection?

“Shall we take her for a spin?”  Cass casually suggested, holding out the keys.

Dean’s vision tunnelled at the sight of them.  Suddenly he was back on that boat in the middle of the ocean, sitting at his cramped desk, envelope in one hand, keyring in the other.  Everything else was in there, all he had to do was put the keys in and seal it up.  It was such a simple action and at the same time, it was the final nail in the coffin.  He could feel his throat drying and his stomach twisting in intricate knots at the memory, just like they did then, knowing that there was no coming back.

There was still no coming back.

Dean recoiled, the thought striking home.  This was a mistake.  He forced his tongue to punch past his lips and moisten them.  “You know what? I think I’m good.” He answered, avoiding eye contact.  He hastily added, “Thanks Cass.” As he pulled himself from the car’s leather embrace.

Cass scrambled to follow, “Dean.” he appealed across the roof of Baby as Dean shut his door.

“Cass, stop.” Dean held out his hands, resting his forearms on the shiny black top.  “I get what you’re trying to do.” He said gently, before pushing himself off and stepping back. “But let’s not kid ourselves here.”    

He faltered as he took in Cass’s forlorn expression, but pressed on, his voice hoarse.  “Going on a nostalgia trip isn’t going to fix anything.”  He concluded with a sweep of his hand.  “I’m just passing through.” 

And with that, Dean walked away.

Chapter Text

“You want to save the world?”  Sam slowly echoed Lilith’s paradoxical statement.

“I was prepared to let Michael out to live again, that doesn’t mean I’m happy about the situation.” Lilith explained.  “Michael wants to destroy this world. I just want to bathe it in baby blood.” She said with a casual shrug.

Deciding Lilith’s ambitions were a tomorrow problem, Sam schooled his features. “What makes you think he’s going to destroy it?”

“Come on, Sammy.” Lilith groused, her nonchalance instantly evaporating into an exasperated tirade. “Don’t try and bullshit me.  Archangel’s have a one-track mind, and Michael is the Olympic champion of relentlessly pursuing a goal.  He waited millennia to take down Lucifer all in the name of duty.  Now it’s revenge, not loyalty fuelling those wings.  And revenge is the mother of all motivators.  He was gunning for God before he got dumped at the bottom of the ocean.  Ten years in a box isn’t going to make him change his mind.  He’s going to burn through this world and every other one to get to that squirrelly idiot.”

“She’s not wrong.” Rowena added quietly over the rim of her cup as she took a slurp of her tea.  Sam glowered at the witch.

He turned back to the demon.  “So, why take so long to get in contact when the world hangs in the balance?”

“Well, I did need a little time to consider all my options.  It’s not like I don’t approve of Michael’s plan.”  Lilith replied, puckering her lips in thought.  “But considering that plan involved obliterating this universe; and ergo, me, I decided to put on my little white hat for a while.”

Lilith enthusiastically donned an imaginary hat with her hands.  Sam wanted to punch her in her conceited face.

“Besides,” Lilith continued, seemingly oblivious to Sam’s bitchface.  “I figured I had time for a quick murder vacation after all the effort it would have taken him to break open the crack I put in that box.”

-----

Dean ducked his head and let the shower water wash over him.  The scolding liquid traced routes along the contours of his shoulders and down his back, steadily building a red tinted wake on his skin.  He squeezed his eyelids together, grappling with his thoughts.  He’d tried so hard to keep his distance, but he was broken, and he’d let the bunker, its occupants and his old life seep through the cracks.  Like frozen rainwater in a pothole those cracks were gradually being pried open, creating deep fissures that just hurt.

Michael couldn’t have thought up a worse punishment for locking him in that box.  Being in the bunker was agony.  Right now, he wished he was back on the bottom of the ocean.  Suffering at the hands of the archangel’s imagination seemed better than this weird in-between world, surrounded by everything that he loved, but unable to really touch any of it.  He was an inmate with a telephone receiver in one hand and the other splayed out on the security glass. 

He placed his palms on the wall in front of him and leaned his weight forward, as if the cold tiles could absorb all the heartache throbbing through his veins.   When it didn’t work, he slammed a curled fist hard against them, taking out his frustration on their inanimacy. 

The tile beneath his hand cracked and he paused, startled.  He gently uncurled his fist, inspecting it, momentarily mystified.  Dean knew from plenty of past experience that there was no way he could break the porcelain.  That meant there was only one conclusion to draw: Michael was ‘helping’ him with his emotional outburst.  The winged son of a bitch.

“Alright asshole, I get it.  You’re in control.”  He growled into the steamy air around him as he twisted the stainless-steel faucet and got out of the cubicle.  He vigorously rubbed his towel over his face and body, as if he could somehow scrub the archangel away from his skin, but Michael was like an aggressive cancer that had spread without prejudice, seeping into his very core.

Dean tucked the towel around his waist, his actions more forceful than necessary, before smearing a hand across the saturated mirror.  He flinched as he caught sight of a smirking reflection in the distorted glass.  Instant, untamed rage rose up within him, fuelling the fist that punched the mirror square in the centre.  Spiral cracks darted out towards the corners. 

It hurt, but it felt so freakin’ good. 

He shook out his hand, oblivious to the droplets of blood spattering across the bathroom, as he exhaled a slow, satisfied breath.  Past experience had taught him that he was perfectly capable of breaking a mirror all on his goddamn own.

“I was just trying to give you a helping hand.” Michael said innocently, appearing to the side of the cracked glass.

Dean glared at the archangel. “Yeah, and lap dances are free.” He shot back.

The flash that passed through Michael’s eyes was the only warning he got before a hand gripped the back of his head and Dean’s face smashed into the cold, hard sink.  He felt bone snap as pain seared across his nose and cheeks.  Before he had chance to recover, face met sink again, and again.

When Michael released his grasp, Dean crumbled to the floor.  One hand desperately clutching onto the edge of the sink was all that stopped him from dropping face first onto the hexagonal tiles.  Despite the blood lubricating their path, Dean choked on the sudden influx of broken teeth.  His chest heaved in agony as he gasped, trying to find a clear breath.  The only thought his pain ravaged mind could muster was to observe that all the little blurry hexagons seemed to have turned red, before everything turned blissfully black…

In the next second, he was stood gazing at his smooth complexion in the undistorted mirror, Michael still leaning on the wall next to it.  He looked down at the unbroken skin on his hand, before turning back towards the shower cubicle.  There was no crack in the tiles, no blood on the polygons.

How could he possibly have forgotten that reality was whatever the psychotic ass-hat wanted it to be?  When he turned back to the archangel, Michael’s face was almost unreadable, except for the dangerous glint in his eyes.

“You forget your place, Dean.” Michael drawled pointedly.

Dean rested his hands on the edge of the sink and ducked his head, unable to maintain eye contact.  Shame ran through him at the act of submission.  His throat pulled tight as he took a deep swallow, trying to pull together the shreds of bravado he had left. “What do you want?” He asked, his voice hoarse.

 “We need to talk.” Michael responded.

“Just talk?”  Dean gave Michael a hesitant side glance. “Usually, it’s more you talk, and I get tortured.”

There was a pregnant pause before the archangel actually chuckled.  The unexpected reaction knocked Dean.  The twisted sound of mirth from his own voice gave him the creeps.

“That’s a fair assessment.” Michael replied, his head tilting to one side as he adopted a pensive expression. “Consider this a ceasefire.  I’m going to give you a gift.”

Dean turned to look at Michael, raising a sceptical eyebrow. “A gift?”

Michael smiled. “The gift of vengeance.”

-----

“Wait, are you saying that Michael is weak?” Sam’s stomach lurched and his chest constricted.  He stole a glance at Rowena. The look on her face said she’d joined similar dots.

“Duh!” Lilith taunted. “You dummies didn’t think about how much power it would take to break out of an unbreakable coffin?”

“How weak is he?” Rowena quizzed.  Sam leaned forward.

“Do I look like an encyclopaedia of archangel physiology?” Lilith responded waspishly.

“So, you thought going on a murder spree and giving him time to recover some of his power was the best way to deal with the situation?” Sam deadpanned, his ire reaching breaking point.

Lilith looked at him squarely, pointing a deliberate finger to herself once again. “De-mon.” She sounded out gradually, as if teaching a five-year-old how to read.  She straightened her posture, working her shoulders back.  “I’ve been sleeping the big sleep for twenty years and, no thanks to you and your brother, it was all for nothing.” Lilith said emphatically.  “So, I think I deserved some long overdue fun after the sacrifice I made.”

All Sam could do was shake his head as fury boiled in his gut.

Recognising the deadly look on Sam’s face, Rowena stepped in. “You say you want to help with Michael.  Does that mean you have a suggestion?” She said in an overly polite tone.

Lilith looked between the pair expectantly, before blowing out a breath and adopting a disgruntled teacher tone once again.  “How do you kill an archangel?” She questioned.

“An archangel blade,” Sam answered, putting the puzzle pieces together as fast as he could. “But you need..”

“An archangel to wield it?” Lilith broke in, tapping a finger on an invisible surface in the air. “Bingo.”

There was a beat, then Sam’s eyes widened. “No.” He said, his instincts screaming in instant rebellion.

“No?” Lilith questioned.  “How else do you plan on getting rid of angelic John Wick?”

“There has to be another way.” Sam rallied. “A spell, a way to trap him or…”

“Doesn’t that line ever get old?”  Lilith interrupted.  “Don’t you get tired of the same old spiel?”  For once, the demon’s tone held no mockery, she seemed to genuinely want to know the answer.

“It got me this far.” Sam countered defensively.

“And did it always work out for the best?” Lilith disputed.  Sam’s lips twitched as the pair stared at each other, locked in a stand-off.

“Okay, say what you’re suggesting is the only way.”  Rowena broke in, knowing full well how an argument with Sam Winchester was going to turn out.  “What’s your plan?” She asked, despite her rapidly sinking suspicions.

“Do I have to spell out everything?” Lilith complained. “I have the keys to the kingdom.  Or, more specifically, we do.”  She said, waving a hand between herself and Rowena. “Let’s jailbreak another Archangel.”

----

Dean stepped back with an appraising look, wondering what angle Michael was working this time.  He folded his arms and decided to let the archangel expand.

Michael’s mouth quirked, before he asked.  “Why do you think I’m looking for something called the ‘Key to Death?’”

Dean sighed. The scumbag was going to make him work for it.  “The thought had crossed my mind.” He retorted.  “But then, you already knew that.”

At the archangel’s blank expression, Dean grudgingly sifted through all the theories he’d had about Michael’s plan before settling on one. “You’re going after Billie.”

“Yes.” Michael affirmed.

“Why?” Dean questioned.  “I get that you’re pissed at her for pointing me at the Ma’lak box and pulling the trigger, but that can’t be the only reason you want to take her out.” He paused, before concluding. “You never do anything without purpose.”

In the silence of Michael’s quiet repose, the answer dawned on Dean.  “You need her to get to God.”

“More or less.”  Michael replied vaguely.

Dean had to battle with himself not to roll his eyes. “Let me guess, my present is to help eighty-six Billie?”  He was so over this stupidly ambiguous conversation he didn’t bother waiting for an answer.  “And, what?  You’re just giving me the opportunity to lend a killing hand out of the kindness of your non-existent heart? Didn’t you enslave Death on your world?  What do you need me for?”

“Good point.” Michael nodded approvingly.  It made Dean want to vomit. The archangel pushed away from the tiled wall, his feet taking him in a leisurely arc around the hunter so that Dean had to watch him in the mirror.  “I’m going to level with you, Dean.  On my world, enslaving Death took an army of angels and archangels.  But on this world…” Michael broke off, gesturing around with his hand. “Somehow you got under Death’s skin.  He grew fond of you and dropped his guard, and you – a weak human - killed him.  I’m impressed.”

Dean huffed a humourless laugh. “Gee, thanks.”

“Now this Death,” the archangel resumed. “She may be a mere child in comparison, but she is no less powerful, and this time I don’t have my army.  But…” Michael paused deliberately, leaning in over Dean’s shoulder so that their eyes locked in the mirror.  “I do have you.”

Dean turned his head away. Michael’s proximity made his skin crawl, knowing that they were way more than just close.  He resignedly waited for the big reveal that always came at the end of a bad guy monologue, wondering whether it was possible to develop evil fatigue.

Michael didn’t care.  He wondered over to the other side of the mirror, leaning on the adjacent sink.  “So, I can fight her and maybe win, or… I send you in first, you get close, and we surprise her.” Dean couldn’t help but bring his gaze back to the archangel’s.  “I’m someone who likes to go into battle with the best odds I can.” Michael stated. “Why wouldn’t I use all the tools at my disposal?”

Dean frowned. “Did you just call me a tool?”

“Don’t you want some retribution?” Michael persisted, ignoring Dean’s petty indignance. “She lied to you and put us in that box, knowing that it wouldn’t last.  She used you.”  A muscle in Dean’s jaw flexed.  Michael could feel the resistance ebbing.  “This is a win-win situation for you.  If we win, we kill Death.  If we lose, then we both die, and I know how much you’ve fantasised about that outcome over the past ten years.”

Dean couldn’t argue with that one.

Michael grinned wolfishly.

-----

“You want to break Michael out of the cage? What makes you think we’re going to trust you?”  Rowena asked as Sam sat silently digesting - or fuming over – Lilith’s proposal.  Rowena figured it was mostly fuming.

Lilith rose out of her armchair, appearing to take a moment in thought, before turning to lean on the back of the chair. She cocked her head. “Where do you think Crowley acquired all his integrity?” She responded to Rowena’s surprise.  “He was my right-hand man.  I taught him everything.  How do you think he managed to work his way to the throne?” Lilith looked pointedly at Rowena. “It certainly wasn’t good parenting.”

Sam raised his eyebrows, pulled out of his brooding at the unexpected jibe.  But looking across at Rowena, the witch’s lips pursed in thought for a moment before she conceded the point with seemingly proud nod.

“I taught him that when you make a contract, it’s binding.”  Lilith raised her chin towards Sam. “Demons, monsters, humans… they only fall in line if they know that you’ll follow through on everything you say you’ll do, not just your threats.  I stick to my word, no matter who I make a deal with.”

Sam sat back, stunned at the deceptive wisdom of someone so sadistically juvenile, finding himself wondering about a room in the ‘Red’ motel a long, long time ago and the deal he maybe should have taken the last time Lilith had a crisis and wanted things to go back to the way they were.

“This time I’m only asking for one Winchester sacrifice, not two.” Lilith said, with a piercing look in Sam’s direction.  He internally shuddered, feeling like she had taken a bone saw to his skull, dug out his thoughts and scattered them across a blood drenched platter.

“You’re a demon, why would you want to release another archangel?” Rowena queried.

“I don’t!”  Lilith grumped, waving her hands animatedly.  “I’ve been dealing with smart ass angels with their stupid superiority complexes since the dawn of time.  Another archangel on the loose is the last thing I want.  But, to coin a popular phrase, it’s better the devil you know at this point.”

Knowing Sam Winchester, Rowena foresaw the cutting retort before it slipped from his lips. “You sacrificed yourself to release Lucifer, an archangel.”

“Did I?” Lilith’s jaw dropped, her tone oozing sarcasm. “Thanks for the reminder.” She turned away from the pair, hands waving at the air as if she was addressing the entire universe. “I handed Lucifer his chance and he blew it.  Archangels are all talk and disappointing climaxes.” She turned back to them, hands on hips.  “I just want to make sure that I’m not on the receiving end this time.”

The selfishness of the statement belayed its honesty.  Sam and Rowena looked at each other.

With a huff, Lilith broke in impatiently. “Look, you can take my word for it or… we can always seal the deal the old-fashioned way.  You know what that entails.”  She gave Sam a suggestive wink. “I’m game if you are.”

All of Sam’s racing thoughts were suddenly overridden with just one: revulsion.

Lilith leant towards Rowena. “Why not make it a threesome?”

“I wouldn’t say no.”  Rowena responded with a coy smirk.

Sam gave her an incredulous stare.

“What?” The witch reacted innocently.

“She killed Barry, never mind all the rest of the evil.” He said, gesturing towards Lilith.

Rowena shrugged.  “Never let a blood feud get in the way of good sex, Sam.”

“Seriously?”  Sam ground out as Lilith nodded in agreement to Rowena’s statement.

Rowena rolled her eyes and tutted. “Prude.”

“Let’s get rid of Michael, then we can get back to being good old-fashioned enemies.” Lilith grinned, her eyes gleaming.  “Whaddaya say?”

Sam shifted his gaze between the two women.  He couldn’t believe that his life had come to this, that Lilith was the lesser of two evils.  He scrubbed a hand across his face and grumbled, “I can’t believe I actually miss Crowley.”  He would give anything to be dealing with that smart-ass British dick right now.

Rowena couldn’t resist a smug smirk, bad parenting or no.