Chapter Text
Dean is pulled from sleep by a thundering at the door, and it takes him a moment to realize it’s not his bedroom door.
He rolls onto his back and closes his eyes. He slept for at least 7 hours, but it wasn’t restful. Every time he started to drift off, Michael would slam against the cage, throw things around, have a rave… who knew what the archangel was doing in there. Whatever it was – if Michael’s plan was to take back over one sleepless night at a time, then his maniacal (and kind of lazy) plan was in full swing.
“You look like shit.” Sam tells him later, when he stumbles blearily into the kitchen.
“I bet you say that to all the pretty girls.” Dean says flatly, and holds his coffee cup under Sam’s nose. Sam’s eyes are on Dean’s as he obligingly tops off Dean’s mug.
Dean leans back against the counter, and burns his lips taking a sip of too-hot coffee. He looks around the kitchen. The Bunker hadn’t been their home for long, but long enough that the small changes following the arrival of the Apocalypse Universe hunters is jarring. Tables have been moved up from storage to accommodate the increased numbers. Dishes fill the sink, at least four knives are forgotten in various cupboards, and the novelty mugs that Monica collects from motel gift shops line the back of the counter. Not that he’ll admit it, but it makes Dean feel a little… uncomfortable. Unwelcome in his own home. Michael winged around the country in Dean’s body, and by the time that Dean got it back, the hunters were settled in and comfortable. And Dean was the odd one out.
“You want an omelet?” Sam asks suddenly, and Dean didn’t even notice that Sam was inches away, pulling open the fridge at Dean’s left.
Dean’s fist clenches on the mug, and he forces some good humor back into his tone. “An omel – you want to make me an omelet? With your disgusting egg whites and kale and… corn…”
Sam throws his head back and laughs. “Are those seriously the only three healthy things you can think of?”
“Shaddup.” Dean grouses good-naturedly through a mouthful of coffee. “I’ll be the one making my own omelet, thank you very much.”
Sam’s face lights up with victory. “Well, if you’re offering…” And he pulls the carton of eggs from the fridge with a handful of other ingredients.
Dean rolls his eyes, knowing he’s been played. But he knocks back the dregs of his coffee and gets to work.
“You talked to Jack at all?” Dean asks, after a few minutes of cracking eggs and slicing up Sam’s favorite fancy cheese.
“Not really. I checked on him last night, but he was sleeping. Why?”
“I think he’s avoiding me.” Dean admits, and turns his back on his brother. Heart-to-heart conversations always make Dean feel uncomfortable.
He can hear the frown in Sam’s pause. “Avoiding you? Why?”
There’s a hiss of beaten eggs striking a hot pan, and Dean flattens the mixture smoothly with a spatula. “Forget it. Maybe it’s just me.”
Dean can feel the heaviness at his back as Sam works himself up into a let’s talk about feelings session, and already regrets asking about Jack. Dean should just go and bang on the kid’s door and make sure that they’re good. After the hurt and nonsense that Michael threw at Sam and Cas in his head, who knows what kind of fallout Dean has to recover from in other quarters.
Sam stays silent though, and Dean risks a glance behind him. Sam’s sitting at one of the tables, and his phone screen is inches from his face. The screen light catches in the furrows of his brow, and whatever Sam is reading, it’s not good news.
“What’s up?” Dean says, and his brother pulls himself away from his phone.
“Nothing.” Sam lies immediately, and Dean glares at him. “Omelet’s gonna burn.” He adds, and Dean turns back to the pan, irritated, but not willing to risk his professional reputation as a breakfast chef extraordinaire.
He slides the spatula around the edge of the omelet, ready to flip, when –
Bang.
Dean feels the spatula slip from his fingers and watches it clatter to the floor noiselessly. All the sounds of the room – the sizzling of the pan, the hum of the refrigerator, the sound of Sam’s fingers tapping at his phone – all fade to nothing.
Nothing except a guttural roar tearing Dean’s mind and the sounds of heavy fists pounding against the wall. His head feels hot and strained – like he’s been hanging upside down and all the blood’s rushing to his brain. Sensations light up Dean’s head like a switchboard and he feels dizzy, like a rug’s been swept out from under him, stealing away the floor and his sense of balance.
He feels a hand on his shoulder, and jumps until he sees it’s Sam. Just Sam. Not an archangel, not Michael.
Sam’s mouth opens and closes but Dean can’t hear anything except for echoes rebounding inside his mind like a bullet ricocheting in a closed room. Dean blinks once at the mute apparition of his brother, and then a flip switches, and suddenly all the noises are too loud – the lights are too bright, and the sensation overload crashes over Dean’s head like a physical blow.
“Whoa, Dean – “ He hears Sam say, but it’s like a train roaring past his ears. Dean flinches away from Sam, pulling himself from his grip. His back collides into the stove top, and he throws his arm backwards in a delayed attempt to correct his balance.
Then, everything is normal.
His blurry vision clears abruptly, and the sounds all return to an acceptable decibel level. There’s a sizzling at his back as the eggs burn in the pan. The wash of light that was Sam’s face sharpens into lines of fear and concern. “Jesus Christ, Dean!” He yells right into Dean’s ear, and tackles his brother away from the stove.
Dean’s hip clips the side of the fridge painfully, and he roughly shoves Sam off of him. “Jesus, Sam,” he tries, trying to feign a sense of normal, “I can make eggs without – “
But Sam is batting aside Dean’s protests and raised arm without listening. His fingers close on Dean’s other hand and wrenches the arm into the light. The bright shiny pink of burned flesh marks the palm on Dean’s hand. Dean stares at it incomprehensively. He remembers arresting his fall, but he must have stuck his hand straight against the blistering heat of the oiled omelet pan.
Sam’s eyes are wide and fearful as he looks back and forth from Dean’s face to his hand.
Dean flexes his hand, and watches as the seared skin wrinkles. “It’s okay, Sammy. I don’t even feel it.”
His words were meant to be reassuring, but the fear in Sam’s eyes only blooms.
“Jesus, Cas, it was like he didn’t even notice that his hand was in a pan full of oil!” Sam snaps under his breath. “I called his name like three times! He was totally checked out – it was like he didn’t even notice me.”
Cas is all crossed arms and stiff posture as he leans against the wall in Sam’s room. Sam sits heavily on his bed, and waits for the angel to give him some sort of reassurance that Dean isn’t going to disintegrate into a pile of ash or keel over dead.
“I don’t have all the answers, here, Sam.” Cas says slowly. “I healed Dean’s burn and he said he was going to shower. I don’t see what else we can do other than keep him safe, and keep an eye on him.”
Sam raises his arms and slaps them against his knees, frustrated. “We can’t – we can’t just keep an eye on him, and wait for something worse to happen, Cas! What if this happens on a hunt?”
Cas’ calm eyes don’t betray any offense at Sam’s vehemence. “Dean shouldn’t leave the Bunker, Sam. Not for a hunt, at least.”
“Yeah, try telling him that. And now I’ve got this situation in Joplin I need to check in on, Fatima and Devin are in over their heads, and now something’s going on with Dean and he won’t talk to me about it, and I – “
“What’s the situation in Joplin?”
Sam and Cas both start, and their heads swivel towards the door. Dean’s leaning with his shoulder against the doorframe, hair still dripping into the collar of the fresh shirt he’s put on. He looks better than he did this morning, with a fresh shave and clean clothes, but all Sam can see are dark circles under his brother’s eyes, and exhaustion and stress lining Dean’s face like new wrinkles.
Dean raises a suspicious brow when Cas and Sam remain silent. “If you’re trying to talk secretly, maybe don’t do it with an open door, right next door to my room.”
“It’s nothing, Dean – “ Sam tries, but Dean cuts him off.
“Right. Nothing. Just something that you need to check in on because two hunters are in over their heads. I know what you’re doing here, and it’s not going to fly. You’re not benching me.”
“Dean,” Cas starts soothingly, and Dean visibly bristles, “you’re caging the most dangerous enemy we’ve ever faced in your mind. And we don’t know the first thing about the consequences that will follow. If you’re on a hunt, and something goes wrong… we’re talking about Michael, here. He will not hesitate to do whatever it takes, take advantage of whatever distraction, to take back control.” Cas throws a plaintive look at Sam, and his eyes widen meaningfully, wanting Sam to back him up. Sam meets Cas’ gaze, but can’t seem to get any words past the lump in his throat.
Dean swallows down whatever angry words he was about to say next. Sam watches as Dean visibly tries to control his temper, worsened by hours without sleep and an unwelcome guest rattling around in his brain. “Listen.” Dean says, “I get where you fellas are coming from. I do. But we don’t have the luxury of fighting a man down here. And I… I need the distraction. It’s… it’s getting a little crowded up here.” Sam reads the hesitation in Dean’s eyes, sees just how much it cost Dean to admit Michael’s presence was weighing on him. “I need to do this.” Dean says, and there’s no pleading, no supplication. It’s a declaration.
Sam drums his fingers nervously against his leg, and meets Dean’s gaze. Unspoken questions are asked and unspoken answers are given. It’s internal dialogue based on trust and familiarity, and Dean’s eyes are steady and clear.
Sam sighs, and scrubs a hand down his face. “Fine. Wheels up in 15.”
Dean’s face cracks in a grin. “Ooh, it’s General Sammy today, is it? Yes sir.” And he snaps off a smart salute. Sam’s mouth twitches at the corner as Dean ducks back around the corner towards his room.
Cas turns solemn eyes back on Sam. “This is not a good idea.”
Sam scratches the underside of his chin, wishing he had the time for a quick shave. “Of course it’s not. But when are our ideas ever good ideas?”
There’s the sound of footsteps stomping back down the hallway, and Dean’s head reappears in the door way. “We’re taking the Impala. Want to make sure Jeremy didn’t hurt the sweet lady driving her back from Kansas City.”
I mean, what are you? You’re nothing.
Jack’s torn from sleep when a text crackles from the phone shoved under his pillow. Dean blew out the speakers a month ago showing him one too many classic rock hits at full volume, and the phone’s been busted since. All part of the experience, Jack. You got a lot to catch up on.
A text on his phone from Maggie. “You ok?” Jack thumbs the text’s delete button and tosses the phone onto the desk across the room. His aim is off, and the phone smashes into a water glass, knocking it from the table. The piercing ring of shattering glass slams into Jack’s head, and he winces.
Jack holds his breath, trying to ignore the bubble of nausea he’d been fighting since tapping his soul to disintegrate the Michael Monsters. Jack can only hear his heartbeat, and the steady drum of water dripping off the table.
Then: the one sound Jack was hoping not to hear. Footsteps.
A door opens further down the hallway, and Jack listens as a man grunts, as if hefting something heavy. Footsteps head further down the hallway and pause. There’s a beat of silence, and then a heavy palm slamming into a closed door. “Sam!” Dean shouts. “Put the curling iron down and let’s hit the road!”
So, they’re leaving.
Jack doesn’t know if it’s relief or hurt that squeezes his chest.
There’s a muffled reply from Sam that Jack can’t quite make out, but Dean slaps one last hand on Sam’s door in response. Dean’s heavy footsteps continue down the hall, and Jack twists the sheet in his hands, hoping that Dean will just keep walking by.
No luck.
Dean’s steps halt outside Jack’s room, his feet two shadows in the crack of the door. There’s the muted sound of Dean adjusting his go-bag on his shoulder, but then silence. Finally, there’s a hesitant knock on Jack’s door.
Jack holds himself extremely still, not moving a muscle.
“Uh, hey kiddo. Don’t know if you’re awake… or… or, you know, busy, but…” Dean trails off and hides his awkwardness behind a cough. “I just want to check in and make sure that you’re good. Sam and Cas told me that you really went through the ringer back there, and I’m sorry that I… wasn’t there to back you up. But we got your back, Jack, okay? It won’t go down like that again. I promise. So… just… call me later, alright?”
There’s a long pause, followed by the soft sound of a knuckle rapping against the door. Finally, Jack releases a breath as he hears Dean’s footsteps disappear down the hallway. He doesn’t fully relax until Sam’s door opens and closes, and his own footsteps pad towards the garage. He hears Sam’s hesitation outside his door, but ultimately, the older hunter leaves Jack alone.
Jack pulls the sheet over his head, and hears another crackly text hit his phone from across the room. He doesn’t make a move to check it.
You don’t know anything about Dean.
I know everything. Like, I know how sad he was when you died… on the outside. On the inside, well… it’s not that he was happy… he just didn’t care.
Jack knows that he can’t trust everything that Michael says.
'Cause you’re not Sam. You’re not Cas. You’re a new burden he was handed.
But that doesn’t mean Michael is wrong.
If Sam was worried the drive to Joplin was going to be a mess of heavy silences and conversation attempts being brushed off, he would have only been half right.
Dean’s leaning against the Impala, a foot tapping impatiently against his duffel. “There you are. Get lost?”
Sam checks his watch. “I’m five minutes early, jerk.”
“Bitch.”
Dean tosses the keys at Sam, and Sam easily snatches them out of the air. “Seriously? You don’t want to drive? Maybe Michael’s taken back over after all.”
Dean barks out a laugh, always amused by gallows humor. “Yeah, sure. Well, let’s hope that Michael has better taste in music than you, because we’re not listening to jazz.”
“When have I ever listened to jazz?” Sam laughs, and he slings his bag into the backseat, adding Dean’s after a moment.
Dean’s already climbing into the passenger seat. Sam fiddles with the keys for a moment, before opening up the driver’s side. Dean’s tapping his fingers impatiently on his knee, and Sam slides the key into the ignition and the Impala thrums to life under his hands.
He pulls out of the garage and sneaks a glance at Dean. Dean’s chin rests in his hand, and he looks out the window. Sam looks back at the road, troubled. Dean hardly ever lets Sam drive, and usually only acquiesces if he’s down a pint or two of blood, or on hour 36 without sleep. Sam never takes first shift, and that’s just how it’s always been.
“I heard you talking to Jack.” Sam says after a few minutes of silence. He sees Dean look over, but keeps his own eyes steady on the tarmac.
“Uh, tried to. He must have been sleeping.”
“You said earlier that you think he’s ignoring you?”
Dean shrugs, but doesn’t reply.
“He’s a good kid, Dean – “
“I’m not saying he’s not a good kid,” Dean snaps impatiently. “I’m saying that – “
“Hey, let me finish. He’s a good kid. But that’s what he is. He’s a kid. Jesus, I mean… Jack’s like, what… two? I mean like properly, honestly two years old.”
Dean laughs, though it’s clear he doesn’t want to. “Two fuckin’ years, man. Feels like he’s been around forever. I think about all the times at the beginning, when I wasn’t… “ he waves a hand vaguely in the air, encompassing all the distrust and distance that marked his and Jack’s first few months, “I just want to make sure he’s okay.”
“Cas said he had a chat with him. Talked about the soul-thing.” Sam says after a moment, and signals to merge onto the highway – the first leg of their 6-hour drive to Joplin.
“Soul-thing.” Dean repeats, and shakes his head. “I thought raising a kid would be more about… teaching him to talk to girls, how to order a drink at a bar… now we have to worry about the kid putting up his soul at a craps table.”
“I mean… probably not that specifically, but – “
Dean smacks Sam’s arm, and Sam grins at the road. “Shut up, you know what I mean. God, you’re insufferable when you’re… chipper.”
Sam’s grin stretches wider. “I’m sorry, did you just use the word chipper in a sentence?”
“I’m going to take a nap.” Dean snaps without heat. He fishes one of Sam’s discarded sweatshirts from the backseat, and balls it up as a pillow. He settles, but must sense Sam’s amused gaze on him, because he flips Sam off without opening his eyes.
Dean drifts off with his brother’s laughter filling the car.
Rocky’s Bar – his bar.
Dean’s aware that he’s sleeping, but he also knows that this isn’t a dream.
Neon lights flicker reflections off clean bar tables, and the smooth twang of bluesy rock pumps into the room from the jukebox. It’s not a real place that Dean’s been to, but his eyes trace over the bottles of liquor lined behind the bar, the flyers and business cards pasted by the phone, and the discarded foamy beer glasses on the bar, and it’s hard to remember that this isn’t real.
It’s real to him.
He remembers framing the pictures behind the bar. He can remember the day that he and Pamela finally hung the Rocky’s sign, and the second one, after a bullet meant for a werewolf went off course and shattered the first one. He knows which bar stools squeak, and which ones wobble. He can tell you exactly how many different types of coasters are stacked underneath the bar, and knows down to the penny the first bar tab the place ever had.
And none of that even happened. He shuts his eyes, hears the background sounds of an empty bar melt into his brain, and mourns for the end of a bar that was never really his in the first place.
Bang.
Dean jumps backwards, knocks his ankle painfully in a bar chair. The walk-in refrigerator rattles and shakes in its foundation as a pissed off archangel throws himself against the walls of his prison. Dean steels himself, and walks the few steps closer. He checks that the screwdriver is still secure in the lock, and he slides behind the bar to grab the machete that he keeps stashed there.
Not that he actually stashed a machete there, because none of this is real.
Fuck, to go back to a time when up was up and down was somewhere secure below his feet.
The banging in the walk-in – so loud in his ears, so loud in his mind – ceases.
The crisp voice of Michael echoes around the room, like there aren’t four walls and ceiling containing him. “I know you’re there, Dean. You might as well as stop squirming like a child.”
“I thought you liked the squirming.” Dean gibes, and manages to keep the anger and fear from his voice.
“Cute. I’ll remember that sense of humor of yours when I take back control. We both know how… creative I can be when properly motivated.”
“This is starting to sound like a whole lotta foreplay, and not a lot of delivery. You nice and comfortable in there? Not a lot of reading materials, but maybe I can wriggle in some of the magazines we keep in the crapper – “
An explosive bang rattles the walk-in door, startling Dean into leaping a step back and nearly dropping the machete. His heart almost stops in his chest, but the door holds. It holds.
“You do not want to make me angry, boy. I gave you a chance to do this the easy way. I tried to give you all of this.” And the sentence is punctuated with the slamming of a hand against the door. “I gave you a peaceable end to your bloody story. And you threw it away when you threw me in here. You had Sam and Castiel to back you up before. What do you think is going to happen now that the odds are even, and I’ve got an eternity of practice whittling down insects like you?”
Dean swallows down the nerves that almost choke the air from his lungs. But he’s Dean-like-the-rifle-Winchester, and he comes from a long line of firebrands and shit-starters, and that doesn’t just end when the walls close in and the going gets tough.
Dean walks steadily to the walk-in, and slams the handle of the machete against the walk-in. The strike dents the metal inwards, and the echo reverberates inside the cage like the beat of a drum. Dean doesn’t raise his voice, but he knows Michael can hear him. “You talk big game for someone currently sucking down freon.”
Michael laughs, and it’s as cold and biting as winter. “So, tell me, Dean. Has it started?”
Dean doesn’t answer. Doesn’t take the bait. Michael chuckles to himself, and Dean can hear the sound of a keg scratching along the floor. Presumably Michael is making himself comfortable.
“Oh, now we’re done talking? And you’re usually such a chatterbox those first few days.”
Dean grits his teeth together. “Has what started?”
Michael can’t escape the walk-in, but his smugness pours from the cracks like tear gas. “Let me answer your question with another question. What do you think happens when all that archangel grace is trapped inside a human with no where else to go? Does this universe also use the charming phrase blow a gasket?”
Dean doesn’t say anything, but his silence speaks volumes and Michael knows he’s hit his mark.
“Here’s another human phrase for you – Death by a thousand cuts. It doesn’t matter if you give in today, or tomorrow, or a week from now. It doesn’t matter if you can hold me for a year. You’re hardly a granule on the scale. No matter that you are my Sword, you do not have the fortitude or ability to contain my grace. Archangels were born to house that level of power, and for a human to have even held it in this long, you have already surpassed my expectations. Grace will overwhelm you, Dean Winchester, and whether it leaks out in agonizing gasps or clears out an entire city block in precipitous annihilation, I will take back control of my vessel. Because this body wasn’t born for you, Dean. It was made for me.”
And Dean can picture it so clearly – the Bunker imploding, a mushroom cloud of sacrosanct proportions, a page ripped straight out of Revelations. The end is nigh, and Dean is going with it – just like the thousands and thousands of destinies penned out in Billie’s books.
And Dean wants to reveal it all, then. The Plan. The slim book of one last alternative destiny, hidden under glossy magazines in his room, the instruction manual for averting the inevitable and ending Michael once and for all. Dean wants to throw it in Michael’s face and watch him choke on his own words.
But he doesn’t have a chance. The sound that explodes from the cage is more of a detonation than a bang, and Dean stumbles; his foot catches on the leg of a bar chair, and he trips backwards into nothingness.
Bang.