Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Amara and Chuck faced him, hand in hand, looking so utterly content, and Dean had only a moment to puzzle out how exactly his life got to be so weird. He was once a normal kid, then a damaged young hunter, then one of the most feared forces in the supernatural world – and here he was, playing at a relationship counselor for two beings older than time and space.

Amara turned an amused smile to him, and he realized belatedly that she was, in fact, capable of hearing his thoughts. Which, to be fair, so was Chuck, but Chuck was at least polite about it.

“It's not politeness that keeps him from speaking,” Amara offered, and Dean was getting really sick of his brain not being private. “It's fear. All the years we've lived, all the lives we've created and destroyed, and no one could ever quite predict you, Dean. We are standing here today because of you, even more so than you are standing here because of us. If you wanted to, Dean, you could unmake the universe. I have no doubts about that. Neither does he.”

“Well, I mean,” Chuck interrupted, because the guy didn't know when to shut his mouth. “It would be hard. There's a lot of fail-safes, you know. I planned ahead and everything. But you're pretty good at looking at something I spent eons on and just saying, 'Nah, I'm gonna do something else.' It's actually kind of annoying.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Dean drawled back.

“Really, Dean,” Amara said, cutting in. “We do owe you. Between the two of us-...” She paused, looking him over, and then grinned. “Three, really – we can do anything you can even imagine. Anything at all. So tell me, Dean – tell us – what can we do to make this up to you? Your suffering over the years...it's all, inevitably, our fault. Tell us what we can do to make it right.”

Dean stared blankly at her. “You're kidding, right?” At her innocent blink, he couldn't help but full-on laugh. “You can't just – No. My life's been a mess since I was four, okay? But the thing is, no matter what happens, too much has gone wrong for you to just...wave a hand and make it better. One life restored here and there, that's amazing. A wound healed when we don't have time to patch it, that's cool too. But to fix anything – to make my whole life less than the shitshow it's been? That'd take a lot of changing. You'd have to take away every single thing that ever put me here, and that wouldn't make any sense. Paradigms, or some shit.”
“Paradoxes,” Chuck murmured, and Dean shot him a look to show what he thought about the correction.

But Amara ignored both of them – she looked to be considering, deep in thought, eyes focused on something distant and unseen.

And then she smiled, and Dean had a feeling he wouldn't like what she said next.

“I said we can do anything,” Amara told him. “And I meant it. Each step in this timeline was created through choices made, and each of those choices follows a sequence set into place at the beginning of time. We made that sequence, and we can unmake it. If time is a woven band, we can unweave it, and start over at whatever point we want. We could fix things, if only by....turning back the clock, a bit. Restoring ourselves to a point in history where things were a little bit more stable.”
Chuck looked alarmed. “You're talking about, like, serious time travel. We can't actually do that. I mean, I could, theoretically, but the universe really doesn't like it. Everything gets weird when I change stuff and I have to push a bunch of stuff around to even it out again.”
“You're forgetting, brother,” she said, smiling at him. “There's two of us, now. And balancing each other out is what we're good at.”

Chuck made a face, like he was reluctant to admit that she had a point, but Dean was stuck on something else entirely.

“Wait,” he interrupted. “You're saying you'd....what? Go back? End the crazy aunt and absent father shticks and get your kids in line so that my family doesn't fall apart in the eighties?”

Chuck ran a hand through his hair, and made a frustrated noise. “No, we can't just- Ugh. Look, time doesn't work like that. I didn't make time. Time just kind of showed up, the same way I did, and she did, and Death did. So I can't just change it. But because we were made – or whatever – around the same time, we're kind of linked? I can see every single point where it branches off, and let me tell you, that is a lot to have in your head. And because I made the world, I can push it back, and send it to any of those branches I want. Well. Mostly any of them. The big ones. I can't push you back to a point where you decided to get a cheeseburger instead of a steak, but if you know any big choices that changed your life, I can drop you there. Which means technically I could send you back to the point where you woke up and decided to check on your mom when you heard screaming at age four, but there'd be nothing you could do, and I don't think you want to be four. So...”

“Dean,” Amara cut him off. “What God-...”

“Chuck,” said being corrected, sounding slightly petulant.
“-...Means,” she continued, blowing right over him as though he hadn't spoken. “Is that we're too fixed, created by something beyond even our own power, something we can't explain. We can't return to the past any more than you can. But we can return something under our power, so the Earth – and you – are easily shifted.” She released her brother's hand for the first time, only to step forward and take hold of Dean's. “Think of a point in time,” she told him. “A choice you made, somewhere along the line, that changed you. History will branch, there, and we can use you as a tether to return. It will likely wear us down, and we will have to take time to build back up to strength – meaning it may be a while before we are of any use to you, if we ever are at all. But you have the same knowledge of this world as us, now: what has been, and what can be. You have the power to change the tide, even just a little, and make things go better. We will all be better for it.”

Chuck sighed, then stepped up as well, taking Dean's other hand, and then Amara's, so they were all linked. “If we're doing this,” Chuck said. “Know you're gonna be on your own – Sam can't come back with you. One of you is going to wear us out enough. And please, don't make yourself look crazy and get stabbed, alright? I'm gonna be really tired, and I'm definitely not doing this twice.”

Dean swallowed, still overwhelmed at the possibility of changing things. Of doing it better, or right. “I...really didn't think this was how this day would end.”

Chuck snorted. “Well, I like it better this way, because that soul bomb was super freaky. Which, by the way, it's cool that we made that, because that will be a good energy boost for this thing.”

“Have you picked a decision?” Amara asked. “What choice do you want to rewind to? Where do you want to shift the tide?”

And really, Dean had a thousand answers to that. He could talk about all the times he'd chosen to lie to Sam or hide something, ever time he'd pulled a trigger he should have held off on or held off one he should have pulled – hell, he had more bad calls in his life than he could list if he took a year naming them off.

But when he thought about fixing things, about what he would have done if he could do it all again, there was really only one choice.

“Stanford,” Dean said. “Take me to when I went to visit Sam at Stanford. That's where everything went to shit, and that's where I've got to start cleaning it up.”

Chuck groaned, murmuring what sounded like “But the 2000s sucked,” before squeezing both his hands around the other two's and beginning to light up from the inside, a glow unparalleled by anything Dean could even think up.

Amara kissed the back of his hand, and then her brother's cheek, and began to glow as well.

When Dean closed his eyes, he wasn't sure if it was to shield them from the light, or to wake himself from the weirdest dream he'd ever had.

The latter seemed a lot more likely when he snapped his eyes open in a dingy motel room he didn't even vaguely recognize.

Then again, he thought, looking to the side, where a small table held a low-tech clunky laptop. Maybe, just maybe, this was his chance.

Chapter Text

The first thing Dean did upon getting out of the motel bed was take inventory. He searched the room high and low, finding every single thing that was clearly his, and checking and double-checking his belongings. He tried to remember what he had back then – he was 26, here, if he recalled rightly. God, he was just a kid, really. He shook off the thought, and focused on reminding himself that he wasn't missing Ruby's knife or their angel blades or anything like that, they just weren't his yet. He turned to ask Sam if he'd found anything weird, only to pause, because Sam wasn't here, either. Sam was at Stanford. Sam was in college, living life, loving his girlfriend and getting a degree in law and being happy.

Dean took a moment to sit at the table, staring blankly at the powered down laptop, processing just how different things had been back in these days.

After a moment of hesitation, he turned on the laptop, staring at the lock screen for a moment as he tried to recall what would have been his password in 2005. His latest laptop password had been 'fuckoffchuck' because the guy kept stealing it, and the one before that had been 'noneofyourbusiness' because he could tell people honestly what his password was and they'd never believe him. Unless they were Sam, because Sam got his sense of humor like that.

In 2005, he was still dad's good soldier boy, still a hound on call, still fighting to be worthy of things he gave up even caring about long ago. This was the version of him that had clung to some faint glimmer of hope that one day, he'd be done. That the demon – because there had only been one, in those, days, what a joke – would be killed and it'd be over, and he could just stop. The ghosts could sort themselves out and the monsters could starve in the woods and it would be someone else's problem.

Dean gave up on that dream when Azazel cracked open the gates of hell that first time, and gave up on all hope of getting anything like peace around the time he stumbled out of the woods after crawling his way out of purgatory to find that Sam hadn't been looking for him, and realized how disappointed he was that his brother had done the normal human thing and tried to move on.

He should have accepted it, in hindsight. They really should have moved on several times. They just tore the world apart, otherwise.

Dean shook off the melancholy thoughts again, returning to his goal. The standard passwords he could remember, the ones he defaulted to for trash accounts on websites and such that he didn't really care about keeping locked tight, all turned up busts. Around the third variation of 'impala' as a password attempt, the laptop happily announced he'd been locked out for fifteen minutes, and he admitted defeat, retreating to the pile of other belongings he'd accumulated. He dug through until he found a battered notepad, which Dean supposed he used for keeping track of things before he started emulating his dad with the journal-keeping. He could distantly remember jotting things down on napkins and such for years, and he hoped his computer password at least deigned a more permanent recording.

He thumbed through the pages, searching for a hint, and hummed happily when he found a dog-eared page in the middle with a simple scrawl of mary1967. His mother's name and the year model of the Impala. Something both he and his father would be able to connect with and remember with ease, making it perfect as a password.

He checked the computer and, finding it had finally unlocked, attempted the new password. The computer began to obediently boot up – quite slowly, between the crappy motel internet and the low model tech – and he sat to start his research. Something he was, admittedly, not great at, too prone to general searches and random clicking to really find anything of use, but he'd have to do his best. He had a lot to catch up on.

Or, he supposed, to recall.

Time travel was weird.

Dean learned an awful lot about 2005 in a few hours of internet searching. He learned that YouTube is relatively unheard of, only hosting a handful of dumb videos, not having even been operating a full year. Facebook, similarly, was just coined as a domain name, existing in the void of the internet to be discovered later. MySpace is the more important thing to note, at the moment, as far as the people of the time are concerned.

Dean took a brief segue from his research to invest in both Facebook and YouTube, figuring those stocks would make for some nice money in the future, should he want some legitimate income to fall back to. Knowledge of the future could be really nice. He drops similar cash on stock in the company behind World of Warcraft, because apparently that was new as well, and Charlie had insisted it was still massive, if a bit worn-down on content, the one time he'd let her ramble about games long enough to get to recommendations.

Smartphones aren't a thing, yet, with the notable exception of a rather ugly BlackBerry. The promotional images the 2005 version of Google can sluggishly drag up show a phone similar to the more advanced model he can remember from later years, before iPhones washed out the whole line with their touchscreen bullshit, but with a weirdly pixelated screen and tiny 8-bit looking icons.

Ugly, clunky, and dysfunctional – but the best he had to work with. He made a mental note to pick one up when he finally headed out, since it would be easier than constantly reminding himself that he had a flip phone with only the barest hints of what could be alternate functions.

On the bright side, snake. That was a game he hadn't played in years, and he'd like to see if he was any good at it, what with his well evolved hand-eye coordination.

Turning to less fun topics, he abandoned timeline refreshers in search of more typical searches. He looked up news out of California, specifically within about sixty miles of Stanford University, and relaxed slightly when he didn't see any world-ending destruction occurring. And then tensed up again when he realized that back in these days, world-ending wasn't really common, but shit still went sideways anyway.

Hesitating only for a moment, Dean quickly found his way into public records – sighing at how lacking they were as opposed to the tech-heavy 2010s – and searched for the name Jessica Moore.

He saw barely anything of note. One single speeding ticket, a year old, paid on time and in full by someone who, by name, he assumed was her mother. Birth records, coupled with housing documents, showing she'd lived in California her whole life. Only basic medical records, when he managed to dig those up (security in 2005 was actually laughable, especially with Dean's knowledge of computers instilled on him second-hand by a stern Charlie). She'd apparently had both her tonsils and appendix removed, and had a broken arm at 12 and a twisted ankle at 16.

There was nothing on her to suggest she was anything short of a perfectly normal twenty-one year old girl, and Dean lamented at the thought. He really didn't want to drag her into the mess of their lives, but he wasn't gonna let her die, either. And Sam wouldn't just leave her behind for no reason. Not as he was back in 2005 – or, rather, now. He couldn't keep thinking of his present as his past if he was going to last long enough to fix things.

Maybe, just maybe, things would work out.

Looking back on the evidence of his poor Winchester luck through the years, Dean felt he probably shouldn't hold his breath.

Last, Dean found the Stanford site itself, and through some careful tech finagling, he managed to get into the administrative files, masquerading as – ironically, given the names – the dean. He pulled every record that ever existed on Sam Winchester. He found a lot of information, and he devoted the rest of the evening to devouring all of it. He read teacher's evaluations of him, praising his dedication and his intellect. He found scores, consistently high, years of life-or-death research translating easily into hardcore study sessions. He found reviews of essays, summaries of activities, spotless discipline records and, at last, his room assignments.

Sam had spent all four school years of his pre-law program in different dorms, switching roommates twice, before settling now into his private double dorm that he shared with his girlfriend.

Taking note of the building and room number on the first page of his notepad, squeezed carefully between stick figure doodles and what looked to be a roughly sketched map of a city, he prepared to head out.

The calender in the corner of his computer screen declared it October 25, which meant he needed to find Sam in less than a week.

That's fine, Dean thought. I've found him in less. At least now I already know where he is.

With that in mind, he packed up his things, moved them into the Impala, and headed out.

Dean only realized his mistake twenty minutes later, when he was sitting in a diner a few miles out from the motel, and his phone started ringing. Which wasn't necessarily foreboding, until he looked at the screen, and it read Dad.

Shit.

Dean had been operating under the assumption that his dad was already missing, because he'd said he wanted to go back to when he decided to visit Sam, and he thought he had done that after he'd had radio silence from his dad for a few days.

But, apparently, Dean had made up his mind long before then. So instead of just taking his own job, doing it, and heading back, he'd been slowly trekking to California, even with his dad still totally on call.

He realized, belatedly, that John had probably seen through him when he left for the job in the first place. Which is how he would have known it was the right time to bail out. Because he could trust his sons together.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Dean answered the phone.

“Dad,” Dean greeted, hoping his voice didn't sound as strained to his father as it did to his own ears.

There was a brief silence that told him his hope was for naught. “...I don't want to know why you sound guilty, do I?” John finally responded, and Dean felt something in him break a little at hearing his dad after so long.

“Not really,” Dean offered, that coming out more casual, because it was true. John wouldn't want to know. Too much had happened that he simply wouldn't be able to accept, and Dean wasn't about to drive the man crazy with talk of angels and God and the Devil and bigger plans. His dad had been stressed enough when it was just a single crazy demon he had to look out for.

And oh, Christ, he was gonna have to figure out what to do when his dad didn't have Azazel to hyper-fixate on. He had no idea how John would react to shit like the gates of hell, demon armies, or the actual Apocalypse. His life kept getting harder.

“Then we'll forget it,” John said, and when Dean hummed an acceptance, the man continued. “I was just calling to let you know I'm not gonna meet you in Nevada after all. I picked up another case. So when you're finished up in Arizona,” and John's tone told Dean he knew full well he was no where near Arizona, “You can just find yourself another case, or hang out for a bit. Up to you.”

Dean wondered if he'd questioned this call the first time around. He can't remember anything odd about it, but now, it seemed so obvious something was wrong. His dad never gave him an open ended option, presented without pressure, with a choice stated where he could do nothing. He was always being pushed in one direction or the other, forced into action, never given time to entertain leisure. Sam had often complained, in the early years, that he was lazy, but it was hard not to overindulge in relaxation and comfort when you spent so long denying it to yourself.

This call, Dean realized, was meant to set the seed. The thought of something isn't right, here, that would lead to him keeping a close watch on his phone. That would lead to him finding the hidden message in the static of the voicemail he'd leave in a couple of days, that would lead to him climbing in Sam's window in the middle of the night. That would lead to him chasing John across the country, looking for his runaway dad with the same vigor his father chased Azazel.

Dean had been played, even back then. Ever the puppet, no matter who held the strings, and no matter their reasons.

Feeling slightly bitter, Dean replied, “I may take a little sight-seeing tour. Maybe see if there are any freaks in LA. Think I could get a celebrity to let me in their house if I invented a ghost?”

“Please don't get shot,” was John's only reply, sounding quite predictably stern, as though the joking tone Dean had taken was beyond him. Which it probably was – the man was far too serious, too deep in thoughts of grief and revenge to see much outside his goals.

“Please,” Dean said. “It'd take more than a bullet to put me down. I'll finish up, and look around for something to keep me busy. You enjoy wherever it is you're carefully not telling me you're going, and good luck doing whatever you're carefully not saying you're doing. See you.”

And then he hung up. Because over ten years in the future, Dean had learned that sometimes, you needed to let yourself be petty. Just a little bit.

So he put the phone away, and leaned back in the booth seat, and he drank another coffee and ate a piece of pie and relaxed in the knowledge that at least for the moment, he knew what to expect.

That, at least, was a luxury he hadn't had before – possibly ever.

Chapter Text

Careful analysis of street signs and maps (all on paper, which was kind of weird to adjust to again) revealed that Dean was already well into California, in a small town about four or five hours south of Stanford. Meaning he could, reasonably, make it there by the next day.

However much he wanted to just drive through the night and go see his younger brother, happy and unburdened by years of demonic bullshit, he knew he needed to wait. Sam wasn't going to accept a random visit, because that didn't fit with Dean's M.O., and he didn't yet have the voice-mail to act as probable cause.

He had to wait.

Dean was awful at waiting.

So, instead of doing that nonsense, he returned to the motel from the morning, and to his laptop, and started a new line of research.

He didn't have Ruby's knife, or an angel blade, or even the Colt. He had no tools with which to kill demons, and if he was hunting down Azazel – Prince of Hell, ruler of demons, general pain in the ass – he needed something stronger than an exorcism and some holy water.

Demon bombs, he remembered, were hard as shit to make, and Dean really didn't have the time to track down all the rare ingredients, even if he knew what all of them were. Kevin had been kind of cagey on that.

Ruby's knife seemed like a good option to look into, but there was no telling where it was currently, and Azazel was stronger than it could really handle anyway.

Which meant he either needed to find the Colt (again), find a new way to kill demons (not likely), or find an angel blade.

The last option sounded coolest, but the idea of tracking down an angel – especially back in 2005, when they weren't really too interested in coming to Earth – was not one he wanted to entertain.

The Colt was in Colorado, he remembered, with a bitter old hunter who was about to be offed by some pissed off vampires. The city was about a full 24 hour drive out of where he was, but he'd done worse. A couple hour stop in the middle for some rest, fast food to get him by, and he could make it there and back in maybe four or five days, depending on how long the actual vamp-killing took. Just enough time to roll up to Sam's dorm, greet his brother, and propose a road trip. Perhaps enough to stake it out for the weekend, instead, and shoot Azazel when he came to fuck with Jess.

In the meantime, he'd probably need more than the five bullets the gun would have when he got it. Digging through his supplies he managed to trudge up silver bullets, as well as the herbs and holy oil he'd need for Bobby's bullet-making ritual.

About an hour later, he had about thirty bullets in a small bag, which he stuck into his pocket to keep close until he got the gun to match them. With that settled, he packed up the rest of his things, loaded them in the Impala, and took off to the east.

He slept for a few hours in a motel on the Nevada border, ate cheap burgers twice along the way, and never once stopped thinking about the task ahead. It was a single-minded focus he'd fallen into over and over again in past years, usually because something was endangering Sam. Or Cas. At some point, Cas had become a close second to his brother, as far as protective instincts went.

This, however, was not about them. It was about everyone. The world as a whole. Every life lost along the way. Bobby, Jo, Ellen, Kevin, Adam, and a thousand other names forming a list Dean runs through in his head far too often. He had the chance to put a stop to at least most of those, saving every life he possibly could – and doing what Winchesters did best, by screwing up the plans of so-called higher beings.

Dean held himself back from making a sarcastic 'fuck you' prayer to the angels. It really wouldn't do him any good for them to know that he knew anything about them. They were assholes enough when he didn't know anything worthwhile.

Finally, on Thursday, the 27^th of October, 2005, Dean pulled in to the drive of a creepy, paranoid, alcoholic hunter, and hoped he didn't get shot for the audacity.

He got out of the Impala and headed to the door, which swung open before he could even knock.

“Yeah?” the man at the door bit out, sounding every bit the ornery old drunk his dad had described years ago.

Dean looked him over, trying to recall what he was meant to look like. “Daniel Elkins?”

The man squinted suspiciously at him. “Who's asking?”

“Dean Winchester,” he replied, and moved his foot to stop the door before it could slam shut in his face. “I just want to talk to you. I'm not here for my dad – he doesn't even know I'm out here. As far as he knows, I'm holed up in the middle of California, waiting to ambush my brother with a visit. Which I fully intend to be, once we get rid of the nest that's trying to kill you and I get the things I need.”

Elkins glared at him. “You mean the Colt. You want me to just hand it over, when it's the greatest weapon we've got against these bastards?”

“Yeah, I do,” Dean replied. “Think about it. You've got five bullets. They've got way more than five vamps. And vamps you can at least kill normally – there are a thousand ways to behead one. I know because I've tried most of them. But the Colt? That's a weapon for something way stronger. Things you can't take a blade to, you go at with that. And between the two of us? I'm hunting a lot of things you can't take a blade to.”

“How'd you know about the bullets?” Daniel demanded.

Dean snorted. “I'm nosy. I know a lot of things I shouldn't. Including,” he leveled Daniel with a glare of his own, “That if I walk away right now, and leave you here with that gun, you'll die. And then I'll have to come back, and fight my way through a nest of vampires, and kill their leader to get that gun back. And I really don't want to do that. So do me a favor, and work with me to torch the bastards, and then give me the gun. At least as a loan. I really only need to fire it once, I think, if I don't miss.”

“That still takes me down to four bullets,” Daniel pointed out, but he sounded more considering, so Dean counted it as a win.

“Oh, I forgot to mention that, didn't I?” He reached into his pocket, into the bag, digging out one of the new Colt bullets, which he passed over. “Now you've got six.”

Daniel took it, staring at it in amazement. “This...this is fake, right? The gun only has thirteen bullets, and eight have been fired. You can't have extra.”

“I know an awful lot of things, Elkins,” Dean told him. “Way too much, sometimes. And if you help me, I'd be happy to pass those on. Some of 'em, at least.”

Daniel stared at him for a moment, then looked back to the bullet, and then sighed, stepping aside to let Dean in. “Come on in, kid,” he relented. “Looks like we've got a raid to plan.”

Dean told him everything he knew about vampires – or, everything that was currently true about them. He didn't need to know about their weakness to blood tainted by Leviathans, because Leviathans weren't around. He also didn't need to know about how easily angels could wipe them out, because angels also weren't in play. But he did go through the history of vampires, and their weaknesses, and some easy tricks to taking them out.

After their little debrief, they assembled their weapons, and headed out to approach the nest around two in the afternoon – when the sun was high and every vampire would be sound asleep, vulnerable to an ambush.

The actual fight, Dean thought, was laughable. He remembered it being hard, with his dad nearly dying, but compared to Abaddon or Amara or any of the other recent big bads, it was child's play. He thought of how easy salt and burn runs would be, with his current experience, and almost wanted to cry.

Soon, it was him and Luther, circling each other, the head vampire snarling with anger at the death of his girlfriend, at the hands of the same man who had killed his family before.

Maybe, at 26, Dean would have empathized, just a little. He knew what it was like to lose family, after all.

Now, with two lifetimes warring in his head, all he could think was that this creature was the first obstacle between him and his goal, one of the first things that could stop him on his road to redemption.

Luther opened his mouth to speak – to goad or to plead, Dean didn't really care – but didn't get the chance to make a noise before Dean swung his machete, taking the vampire's head clean off.

“You're a force of nature, kid,” Daniel observed, and Dean laughed, because being something of nature was not something he got accused of often.

Dean didn't waste any time hitting the road when Daniel surrendered the Colt to him, only slightly reluctantly, admitting that he was quite sick of being tracked down by people who were after it.

“Honestly, kid,” he'd told Dean. “Watching you? I feel like it'll get better use being wherever you're going, then hiding in my safe until someone picks it off my corpse.”

Dean couldn't really argue that, so he didn't try. Just thanked the man, hid the gun in the Impala, and headed back west to California.

It was late at night on Saturday, October 29^th, when he finally reached Stanford, and he checked himself into a motel and crashed with the knowledge that the world was looking just a little bit brighter.

Sunday, Dean spent most of the morning tracking signs of where Azazel might be, because he would really rather take the bastard out quickly and get it over with. It occurred to him after about an hour that technically, he already knew where he was – or at least, where he would be.

Eventually, Azazel was going to try and kill Jess. Dean didn't really need to track his dad, urgently, since he knew the guy would be fine for a while, so he could reasonably just wait around until the demon showed up, and put a bullet in him.

Quick and easy, something they never managed to actually achieve.

Dean looked at the Colt, sitting innocently next to his laptop on the table, because he was rather desperate to keep it within his sight at all times, given how shitty it would be if it was stolen or damaged before he had an angel blade to trade it out for.

(If he ever got one at all. If the gates of hell didn't open, and Lilith didn't walk free, what would happen regarding the Apocalypse? They wouldn't give up, surely, but Dean would no longer have a host of heaven out for him. It was a lot of stuff Dean didn't really want to think about.)

The Colt was an unassuming old thing, looking like someone's family heirloom antique with some weird ass carvings in it. It was odd to think that it was the only thing he currently had to really defend himself, since it was the only weapon he had that could take out demons, which were going to be a massive problem soon.

But....if he had this, if he had a chance, the ability to fix things...he knew what he wanted to do. He had only ever been on his A-game in one situation, and that was with Sam at his back.

So, mind made up, he packed up his things again, and drove straight to the Stanford campus.

No rolling in windows, this time. He was going to knock on the door, and talk to his brother like a person.

Because if he learned anything in the past few years, it's that you can't take your own humanity for granted.

The Stanford dorms at nighttime had looked weirdly archaic, like some sort of Victorian asylum, giving him the ability to pretend he was swooping in to rescue his brother from a false normal hell.

In the day, though, they looked...about like what he expected of dorms, honestly. There were a few too many windows crammed into the walls to look like a simple apartment block, but the architecture was quaint, making it look sort of like the type of exterior that would match the cozy layout of the bunker.

Minus the windows, of course. The bunker had none, and Dean still felt weird when rooms he slept in did have them, sometimes.

The point to going during the day was to make it clear he wasn't being underhanded, and that his first priority was seeing his brother after a long absence. The light, though, had the added benefit of proving to Dean that his actions the first time around hadn't been very...good. He'd played the savior, acting like there was nothing worse than getting out of hunting. In 2016, Dean would have probably said that was a fair assessment, because there was too much shit to just let it run wild. In 2005, though? There was barely anything. Ghosts, a few monsters, one or two demons within miles of each other. They used to drive through two or three states to get between one hunt and the next, as opposed to the years after shit hit the fan, where the computer in the bunker actually had a filter to separate potential hunts that they needed to go after from things other people could handle. The fact that they could pretty much find something fucked up in any town they stopped in was a good sign that there was no other life for them, at that point.

Here, Sam had made a good call. He'd accepted his losses, and accounted for his wins, and went on to live a life of his own without being dragged down by the burdens of what could have very well been a dead-end revenge quest.

And Dean just...turned up, in the middle of the night, and dragged him headfirst back into it, dropping him off at his place just in time to watch the girl he loved light up the same way as his mom.

Dean was, unknowingly, partly responsible for Sam's start on the path to obsession. All the negative parallels that developed between Sam and their dad over the years were, at the core, Dean's fault.

Dean couldn't forgive himself for that, but he could try and stop from doing it twice.

With that resolve in mind, he sought out Sam's dorm room number, carefully memorized from the dean's records, and knocked.

There were noises inside, stumbling and fumbling sort of sounds, as though he'd startled them by randomly appearing.

After a moment, the sound of a lock being clicked came to him, and the door swung open, revealing tiny little Jessica Moore, pretty as he remembered, in a freaking gigantic coat that had to be Sam's.

He got the feeling he didn't really want to know what was under it, given that she was horribly red-faced and holding it tightly shut.

“Hi,” she greeted, sounding strained. “Are you a new RA? I haven't seen you. Oh, or are you from a club or something? Did you need Sam?”

Dean smiled at her – trying for his nice smile, rather than the flirty one he'd given her the first time, because he was trying to make a good impression this time. “Or something,” he replied. “And guessing by how you answered the door, I'm guessing Sammy's listening in close by, so if you need to close the door and argue about if he's gonna talk to me, go ahead.”

She blinked at him, and then, somewhat reluctantly, looked behind her. After a moment of staring, she sighed, and smiled apologetically at him -

And then shut the door.

Dean snickered to himself as he heard the muffled sound of them speaking, and wondered what explanation Sam had given her about his family. Likely some facsimile of the truth – homeless boys trekking cross-country with their dad, a kid pressured into a family business, something like that. Likely nothing that would make her think too well of Dean, but whatever. If Sam didn't want to see him, it would hurt, but he and his brother were really never great at giving up on each other. Dean would take the time, and he'd win his brother over, and then he'd get the support he needed to do what he had to.

And if Sam never wanted to hunt again...Dean would be disappointed, beyond measure, but he'd live. Having his brother safe, happy, and alive had always been a priority. If he had to choose that over having a partner at his back...

Well. He could hold on until he managed to figure out what to do about Cas.

He was interrupted from his musings by the door swinging back open, and he looked to smile at Jess again, only to freeze at the sight that greeted him.

There, in boxers and a t-shirt and with the weirdly baby-like face Dean wasn't used to anymore, was his brother.

“Sam,” Dean greeted. “It's been a while.”

Sam stared at him, openly shocked, before looking more than slightly suspicious. “I'd say it's good to see you, Dean, but I really don't know why you're here. And I feel like I'm not gonna like it.”

Dean shrugged. “I came to see my brother. I missed you.”

Sam watched him for a second, before stepping back with a sigh, opening the door wider. “I missed you, too,” he admitted. “Come in.”

Dean stepped in, looking around, taking in the cute little apartment-style setup. There were pictures around, but not many, since it was still a dorm and sticking nails in the wall was a no-go. Most of the furniture appeared to be flimsy standard stuff, the kind that was already in the room when you got there, but there were a couple of nicer things as well that he supposed Jess must have added. Half because Sam had no real belongings, and half because Dean knew his brother had shitty taste in furniture. Dean was the only one allowed to redecorate rooms in the bunker, in fact, and Charlie had been allowed to assist if she didn't buy anything from a thrift shop that looked like a crazy old cat lady had owned it. Castiel was banned from any kind of shopping, because he still thought his trench coat was stylish and his pimp car was cool.

God, Dean missed his friends.

“Nice digs,” Dean said, because he really hadn't thought of anything to say when he showed up. Dad's in trouble would defeat the purpose of the day trip, and I haven't seen you in years but also I saw you last week, or technically eleven years from now seemed a bit crazy even for them. Also, Jess was still there, watching him with a mix between curiosity and caution – a look he was familiar with, because pretty much every civilian whose home he'd stumbled into for a hunt had given him the same one.

(Lisa, also, had given him the look a lot, when she thought he might be starting to break down. He tried not to compare this look to that one, though.)

“We're thinking about an apartment next year,” Sam replied, tense, the if I'm still here going unsaid between the two. Sam wasn't stupid – quite the opposite, actually. He'd know that Dean was there for a reason more than a typical check-in, and he was bracing himself to have to fight to stay.

Dean didn't want to fight with Sam. Instead, he made a little hum of acknowledgment, and asked, “Staying at Stanford for law school, then?”

The question clearly caught Sam off guard a little, and his brother fumbled for a moment before finally grabbing Dean by the shoulder, spinning him around so they were looking dead at each other. “Dean,” Sam pressed. “I know you didn't come all this way just to make small talk. You hate small talk. What do you need?”

Dean held his gaze evenly, meeting the challenge, as he tried to think of where to start. Finally, he let out a breath, breaking the eye contact to stare at a blank spot on the wall. “Dad bailed.”

“He does that,” Sam replied, without missing a beat. “He's always done that.”

“Not like this,” Dean insisted, looking back to Sam, so he could see how serious this was on Dean's face. “This isn't a plain old I'm taking a couple days to shoot things and get drunk trip, Sam. He thinks...” Dean shook his head, looking to Jess, then back to Sam. “He's not gonna turn up in a couple days. He's not going to roll into the motel room and yell at me for exhausting four days' worth of emergency money after a full week alone. He called me about a week ago, and the call was...really weird.”
“He call from Poughkeepsie?” Sam asked, dropping their code word – his way of asking if Dad had been in trouble.

“He wasn't in any funky towns, as far as I could tell,” Dean replied, returning the code-speak to confirm the call had been of John's own volition. “I told him I was in Arizona, working a job. He knew damn well I was in California and he didn't say a word.”

“So he doesn't give a shit,” Sam said. “What else is new?”

Dean glared at Sam. “What's new is he ended the call telling me that when I finished 'in Arizona,' I should take a few days to myself, because he was going to stay away for a while.”

Sam blinked, slowly. Then, he murmured, “Well, shit.”

“I'm sorry,” Jess interrupted, and Sam honestly jumped, because he'd apparently forgotten she was there. Sloppy. “Did I miss something? I feel like I missed something.”

Dean took pity on her, when Sam looked like he was struggling for an explanation. “Our dad did his best by us, don't get me wrong, but his best still wasn't great for two kids. And he...overcompensated for that. Dad has a bad habit of starting a new job before the last one is even finished, and he expects me – expected us when Sam was with us – to be the same way. 'Take a few days to yourself' is dad-speak for 'get used to me not being around, because I'm not coming back.'”

There was a moment of silence as Jess processed this.

Then, carefully, in a low murmur, Sam asked, “Did he find it?”

Dean didn't bother playing dumb. He knew exactly what – exactly who – Sam meant. “Yeah,” Dean confirmed. “Or if he hasn't, he thinks he's about to. And he doesn't think it's gonna end well, so he's keeping us on the other side of the country, just in case.”

Sam looked crushed. “Dean,” he said, his voice sounding strained and borderline pleading. “I got away. It's been four years. I love you guys, both of you, but...I can't go back. I can't help.”

Dean shook his head. “I didn't come to ask you to,” he replied, not even bothering to spare a thought for what Jess might think of their current line of conversation. It was too weird to be easily explained away, but this – talking to Sam, telling him the truth – that was more important then making the blow of otherworldly reality a little softer on Jess. “I found something, on the way here. A guy who used to work with dad had something strong enough to get rid of it. I know how it works, and I just...need to get close enough to use it.” He met Sam's gaze. “Dad is hell-bent on getting this done, getting rid of the shit that killed mom, but that's not the priority right now. It's not just gonna hurt mom, or him, or us – the longer it sits there, the more people its gonna take down. I need to get rid of it. Help me, let me get this done, and then...Then you can come back here. Go to law school, become the world's best lawyer, and keep my number saved because I'm probably gonna need you to bail me out once or twice.”

“I can't defend you,” Sam replied, weakly. “You're usually guilty.”

Dean shrugged. “Not of the big stuff. Just...a little bit of fraud here and there.”

“Dean, you know full well you've done more than fraud.”

Jess was staring at them as though a lot of things suddenly started making sense, and oh, great, now Sam's girlfriend thought they were mafia. Fantastic.

But when Sam huffed out a huge sigh, and asked, “What do you need me to do?” Dean couldn't feel too bad about it.

Being mafia was probably more fun, though. At least humans could be bribed.

Chapter Text

Jess bailed quickly after Sam's concession, understanding that the brothers were going to be talking about things they'd rather not bring up around her and fleeing with the excuse of changing into actual clothes. Dean didn't waste time with her out of earshot, and quickly filled Sam in on the basics: there was a gun made by Samuel Colt capable of killing demons, and Dean had taken it off the hands of a disillusioned old vampire hunter. The bullets had to be made specifically for it, through a spell, but they could take out just about anything.

Sam asked what could be strong enough to survive something that could kill a demon, and Dean had to restrain himself from saying “Most things.” Instead, he told Sam solemnly, “Let's try not to find out.” Sam had agreed wholeheartedly with that sentiment.

The plan was flimsy at best, but Dean knew full well that they worked best when improvising. Having a plan set in stone usually ended in someone getting killed, as things would go wrong and they wouldn't be able to move fast enough to make up for it.

Jess reappeared, and Sam kissed her softly and told her he'd be back as soon as possible, and Dean hoped that he wouldn't be the reason his brother broke that promise.

Just in case, though, Dean waited until Sam disappeared to prep a bag with Jess in tow, and flitted around the room hiding wards wherever he could. He wasn't going to make her an easy target if he already knew Azazel was after her, even if he hoped to deal with the demon before he had the chance to move.

Within the hour, Dean and Sam were piling into the Impala, and Dean paused for a moment after cranking her up to marvel at how surreal it was to be back at the beginning.

“Dean?” Sam prompted, sounding concerned, and Dean realized that he'd probably been staring off into space for a second too long to be casual.

“Yeah, sorry,” he muttered, pulling out of the dorm parking lot. He could feel Sam's eyes still on the side of his face, so he gave up trying to shrug off his own weirdness, and decided just to try and cover it up with an alibi. “Look, this is just...weird, okay? This should be dad's thing. But we're doing it instead. I'm not gonna feel like it's over until I see him die. And the thing is, I know dad will be the same way. He won't be able to just accept that it's over. But...”
“You don't care,” Sam filled in, and Dean reluctantly nodded.

“It's not that I don't give a shit about what dad thinks or anything,” Dean said. “It's just...I've got a bad feeling, Sammy. The demon that killed mom? He's named Azazel, and he's a prince of hell. He's not killing random women for kicks. He went after mom for a reason, and that makes all of this shit so much more....Just. More. We can't afford to let anything go on without us. I refuse to walk into a fight blind.”

Dean chanced a glance at Sam, to see his brother's face was pinched. “Dean, you know I don't want to hunt again, right?”

“I know, Sam,” Dean told him. “And I'm not gonna lie, I'm not happy about it. I'm actually pretty freakin' depressed about it. I don't do as well on my own as I do with someone at my six, and you're about the only person I'd trust to watch my back one hundred percent.”

“Not even dad?”

Dean snorted. “I love dad, man, I do, but if things got hairy and he thought he had a shot at a kill, he'd go for it, even if it left me exposed. He wouldn't let me die, or anything, but...You, you're different. Were different,” he corrected, remembering the timeline he was in. “We watch...watched each other first, above everything else. On my own, I'd never bail on a hunt, even if I knew full well I was gonna die on it. But with you, I was weighed every step. The whole time we were kids, I'd look at every hunt with the thought of will Sam get hurt? And if I thought it was an unavoidable yes, I tried my best to either change the odds or pass it up.”
“I noticed,” Sam confessed. “I...I honestly didn't tell you, a lot of the time, if I learned a new trick or got good with a new weapon or anything. I wanted you to underestimate me, because I knew it was the only thing stopping you from letting yourself get killed, half the time.”

Dean let out a slow breath, trying to think of how to respond to that, and then abruptly decided not to at all. Instead, he reached over and popped open the glovebox, declaring, “Grab me my tapes.”

Sam snorted. “Of course you still use tapes.” He passed over the box anyway, if with a look of clear judgment.

Dean was unbothered by it. What was bothering him, though, was that he was just realizing that this box would be significantly lacking. While most of his music had stayed the exact same collection of near-archaic classic rock tapes, he'd added several new ones over the years, picked up here and there to serve as the 'variety' that pretty much everyone demanded he grant himself. His usual pick for a solo road trip (which was rather common, as Sam went off by himself a lot in later years and Cas moved from flying everywhere to driving his ugly pimp car) was a tape compiled by Charlie of “not-shit indie music” that she'd insisted he would love if he gave it a shot. She hadn't been wrong, but he had never told her that.

She was dead, now. Dean clenched his teeth with that memory, and carefully shoved the box aside, back toward Sam. “Fine,” he said, shooting for a casual, jesting tone. “Let's mix it up, college boy.”

He ignored Sam's bewildered stare as he switched on the radio, hitting the seek button to have it auto-flip through stations for him.

He continued to ignore it as it increased tenfold when, upon the radio hitting a pop channel, Dean burst out laughing and stopped the seeking for a few minutes, to listen to the entire duration of “Don't Cha” by the Pussycat Dolls.

He'd have to explain it later, he was sure, but for now, let him appreciate the sheer novelty of 2005.

God knows it would probably wear off fast.

Dean parked in front of the motel he was staying in, letting them into his room. He watched as Sam took in the carefully disguised protection charms, runes, and wards.

Sam stopped in front of one, pointing to it. “This one's new.”

Dean stepped over to check it out. “Yeah? Oh, yeah, that one. It's Enochian.” At Sam's blank stare, he filled in, “It's a really friggin' old language. Like, beginning of Earth, Garden of Eden old. Biblical. Some guy a few hundred years ago figured out the alphabet, or part of it, so the written part is easy.” He waved at the ward. “Those things are all over the place. Protection sigils. They're strong enough to keep everything short of the devil himself from walking in.” He looked at it, before belatedly adding, “Probably. I don't actually know what the limits are. I'd ask Ca- uh, the hunter buddy who showed them to me, but he's... not around.”

Sam was watching him with open suspicion. “You've had a busy few years, looks like.”

“I've had a busy life,” Dean corrected. “I've done more in the past week than most people do in their lives. I have a gun that can kill a prince of hell, Sam. Most people aren't even sure there is a hell.”

“But it's more than that,” Sam argued. “You've changed a lot, Dean. The Dean from four years ago never would have badmouthed dad, especially not to someone who knows nothing about him. He wouldn't have passed up his tapes and sang along to some top 40 pop song. I don't know what got into you but...” Dean braced himself. “...I like it.”

Dean blinked. “You what?”

“It's kind of cool,” Sam said. “When I left, you were always...I don't know, nervous? You were always trying to be who dad wanted you to be. Now, it's like you figured out who you are, and it's nice to see.”

Dean considered that. He supposed after years of not having John around, he'd given up on living up to his image. Similarly, he'd given up on a lot of pretenses – he didn't have time for them, with the world constantly falling apart and all. He'd started taking it day-by-day, enjoying the things he enjoyed and giving Sam a middle finger if he laughed about it.

He remembered, distinctly, his defense of 'I'm nesting' when he took to cleaning the bunker and recalling his cooking skills and other domestic tasks. It was a statement that never would have passed his lips in 2005 – hell, in 2012 he wouldn't have said it.

He was smiling to himself before he knew it, so he shrugged to Sam and waved around the room. “I'm still me, Sam. I still won't stop hunting, I still drink too much and listen to classic rock and all that other stuff you remember. But you're right, I'm not just that guy anymore. It's just...” He thought of a way to explain it without bringing in time travel. “I had some things happen, here and there, that made me realize that I don't want to spend every single day of my life doing what I'm told. Hell, I'd rather never spend a single one doing that. Somewhere along the line, I've got to make up my own mind, and make my own plans, and do things my own way.” He nudged Sam, who was staring at him with a bit too sappy an expression for comfort. “That's why you're here, if you haven't figured it out. 'My own way' pretty much begins and ends with 'working with Sam.'”

“Well,” Sam said. “If it took me helping you on this for you to get out from under dad's thumb, I'm glad to do it. This is what I wanted for you, Dean – for both of us. I wanted us to have the chance to be our own people. And for me, that meant leaving hunting – but for you, it could be this. Hunting by yourself, getting things done without asking for permission. As long as you're happy, you could be doing anything.”

Dean twitched, slightly, uncomfortable with the amount of emotion being dealt his way right then. It didn't help that what Sam was saying wasn't really in-line with how Sam of 2016 felt about things: future Sam had given up hope of happiness for either of them, and instead sought out contentment, the knowledge that everything they had to do urgently was already done and they had time to be people.

“I'm not really sure about my goal here,” Dean admitted. “I just...I really missed you, dude.”

Sam smiled at him and pulled him into a hug, which Dean returned tightly, before pulling back and rolling his shoulders. “Okay, now that we've upped our estrogen for the day, let's get to work.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but sat down on the edge of the motel bed obligingly. “What's the plan, then?”

Dean sat down next to him, shot him a wicked grin, and said “Mostly? We're winging it.”

“I hate this,” Sam told him, standing in the center of a worn out warehouse about half an hour out of Stanford. “Why did I let you talk me into this? We're going to die here, Dean. This is suicide.”
“Eh,” Dean replied, mixing the summoning ingredients together. “There are worse things than dying.”

“I don't wanna know what that means, do I?” Sam muttered in response, before returning to his task of checking the sigils, wards, and traps around the room.

Dean didn't bother confirming it. Instead, he announced, “Look alive,” and finished the summoning ritual, calling out to Azazel.

Sure enough, within an instant, a pair of sickly yellow eyes were staring at him.

Sam looked terrified, and Dean understood why – this was the pinnacle for them at the time, the most powerful creature they knew of. But Dean had stared down the sister of God and walked away with her thanks, so this was nothing.

“Well, well,” Azazel drawled. “My loose ends learned my name, I see?”

“'Loose ends' implies you didn't full well mean for us to make it,” Dean pointed out. Azazel looked very slightly taken aback before he composed himself, and Dean counted that as a win. “Yeah, I know. I know a lot of things – way too much, if you ask me. I know that you want to free your master, I know you want to end the world-...” He ignored the twin looks of shock turned his way, and pulled out the Colt, holding it out, pointing it straight at Azazel. “And I know that I'm going to kill you.”

Azazel went for an expression that was probably meant to be amused, but there was a tension in his stance that showed he knew what the weapon in Dean's hands was, and knew full well he was screwed. “Taking me out won't stop it,” Azazel told him. “The plans are in place. The Apocalypse is coming, and Lucifer will walk free.”

“See, here's the thing,” Dean started, before stepping forward, leveling the barrel of the Colt between the demon's eyes. “I don't care.”

And he fired.

Yellow light flickered throughout the vessel's body, spreading like cracks along the lines of veins, before burning out abruptly as the body hit the ground, slack.

Dean stared down at the shell, and tried to recall what he'd felt the first time. Something akin to victory, but mixed with grief, thanks to the high cost of killing the demon.

Now, he felt...cold. Hollow. It didn't feel real, to have something that was simple as an aim-and-shoot win after years of bloody struggling.

Sam crouched next to the body, shifting it around slightly, checking for signs of life. “Did he...did he really die?”

“Yeah,” Dean confirmed, voice strained. “He did.”

Sam looked up at him, eyes wide and face pale. “That stuff he was saying. About...the devil and the apocalypse and stuff. Is that all true?”

Dean nodded, and watched as Sam began to pace, swearing up a storm. “There are seals holding Lucifer in a cage in Hell,” Dean explained. “He was trying to set free the first demon, Lilith, so that she could start breaking them.”

Sam let out a whistle. “Did he manage to do it?”

“Hell no,” Dean replied. “That's why this had to happen now. He'd already done too much. And now some other shit is going to go down and someone else is probably going to pop open a gate to Hell and let her out, but for right now, we've bought ourselves time.” After a second, he corrected, “I bought myself time. You can go back, enjoy law school, marry your cute girlfriend or something. Dad will be pissed that I handled this myself, but he'll latch on to the new goal, I think. The two of us can handle it.”

Before Dean had even finished speaking, Sam had smacked him hard on the back of the head.

“Ow, dude,” Dean glared at his brother. “What the fuck?”

“You're an asshole,” Sam told him. “As if I can go to law school and study how to talk juries out of convicting small-time criminals when you're going to take on the freaking devil.”

“Sam.” Dean stared at his brother, trying to process what was happening. “You got out. You said you were done. What about your life here? You've got a lot going for you.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “And I'm not going to sit around, waiting to lose it. I'm going back to Stanford, and...I'm going to tell Jess.”

“Sam...”

“No, Dean, listen. I'm going to tell her everything. And if she says I'm crazy and tells me to get out of her sight? Then that's it. I'll let her go. We'll take off. If not...we'll play it by ear.”

Dean stared at his brother, trying to process the level of personal sacrifice he was about to display. The Winchesters had given their lives for each other so many times that crossroads demons wouldn't even answer their summons anymore, but this somehow felt...more. Sam wasn't trading his life for Dean's, he was giving up his peace. He was looking at the world he'd built for himself, domestic and happy and hopeful, and deciding that Dean was worth more.

Dean clapped his hand onto Sam's shoulder, gripping tight, and told him, “If she rejects you, I know a pretty damn good bar,” and hoped that would suffice as a heartfelt thank you.

The Stanford dorms looked just as weird at night as Dean remembered, and he prayed that the reunion between Sam and Jess would be an actual one, rather than the gruesome scene from the first time around.

Dean pulled up to the front of the dorm, idling for a moment, asking “Do you want me to just circle, or..?”
Sam looked at him like he'd lost his mind. “What? No, dude. You're coming in with me. I'm not going to be the only one looking crazy, here.”

Dean blinked, but shrugged, pulling into a parking spot and shutting off the car.

Dean had dragged Sam along as his backup, he could at least return the favor.

“Jess?” Sam called out, letting them into his dorm. “You here? I'm back.”

Jess stepped out into the living room, and Dean let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Somehow, some way, he'd managed to save a life. Not just a passive rescue of an old hunter, like when he retrieved the Colt, but actually stopping one of the many events in their lives that set them on the path to self-destruction.

Jess rushed up to them, throwing her arms around Sam's neck in an embrace that his brother met full-force. “I was so worried,” she told him. “I didn't know what you guys were up to, but I was half sure you weren't coming back. I was so scared, Sam.”

“I know,” Sam choked out. “I know, Jess. And I don't want you to be scared.” He pulled back, looking her in the eye. “So I want to tell you about us. What we are, what we do, so that you understand why I have to keep at it.”

She looked at him in horror. “Sam, I don't know what you guys are up to, but you seemed determined not to go back.”

“That was before,” Sam said. “This, though...this is bigger than me. I have to help, Jess.”

She looked between the brothers, before her gaze settled on Dean. “Okay, then. Explain.”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, racking his brain for an explanation that didn't seem totally insane. “You might want to sit down.”

Sam and Dean sat side-by-side on the couch, while Jess took an armchair, so she could look at both of them while they clued her in. Then came the hard part: actually figuring out where to start.

Dean had a pretty good idea.

“When I was four,” he began, “My mother was murdered.”

She blinked, looking as though she were about to say 'I'm sorry,' and he held up a hand to stop her.

“My dad...didn't handle it well,” he continued. “He started looking into it. He had this image in his head, right, of how she'd looked when he found her. He told everyone who asked that he'd found her pinned to the ceiling, dripping blood from her stomach, seconds before the house caught fire.” Her eyes were wide, and he met her stare dead-on. “Everyone said he'd gone crazy, that the trauma had broken him or some shit. But the thing was, he wasn't wrong.”

Sam stepped in, there, probably sensing that Dean wouldn't be very delicate about the rest. “She was killed by someone named Azazel.” He then continued, using the bits of story Dean had filled him in on on the way over. “He had this plan, to turn kids into weapons, and so he was hoping to take out my mom to get to me and Dean.” Really, just Sam, but Dean had decided he didn't need to share that detail just yet. “And it worked. Dad was determined to get revenge, to kill whatever killed mom, and he started raising us like...like soldiers. Like weapons, just like Azazel wanted. Because he was convinced that one day we'd have to take him down, all three of us together.”

“Except I'm pretty good at ruining people's plans,” Dean cut back in. “I figured out what was going on, because I'm nosy as hell. And that's when I came and got Sam. Dad took off and gave me the impression he was about to make his move, and I knew I needed to act fast to keep him from getting himself killed.”

There was a moment of quiet, where Jess absorbed what she was being told, and both Winchesters worked up the strength to say what had to be said.

“Dean killed Azazel,” Sam finally admitted, quietly. “That's where we went.”

She stared at them with wide, wet eyes. “You...killed him. But I don't understand. That means it's done, right?”

“Not really,” Dean said. “He was making child soldiers for a reason. He had this...grand plan. He wanted to start a war, and he needed an army, and armies needed leaders. That's where we would have come in. Just because he fell, doesn't mean that's over. He wasn't alone in his plan. We have to stop the rest of it.”

“You can't just...tell the FBI, or something?” Jess pleaded. “Taking something like this on by yourself – that's crazy. You're going to get yourselves killed.”

Dean and Sam looked at each other, and Sam gave him a solemn nod – the time for talking around it was over. They had to tell her the whole truth.

“The FBI can't take this,” Dean said. “They would be out of their depth.” When she looked ready to argue, he continued, “Because when they shoot something, they're used to it dying. But we're not hunting anything that easy.”

Sam took a deep, steadying breath, and told her, “Azazel wasn't a man. He was a demon.”

She looked at them, confusion plain as day on her face. “I...holy shit, you aren't kidding, and you don't mean that in a figurative way. You actually believe he was some kind of...devil, or something.”

“The devil comes later,” Dean couldn't help but quip, and Sam elbowed him in the side. “Ow. Seriously, though. Demons.”

She shook her head, standing up, starting to pace. “Boys. You...this isn't good. I don't know what your father taught you, but this isn't...Demons aren't real, Sam.”

Dean thought of how he could prove that they were serious, racking his brain for evidence.

Then, he had an absolutely terrible idea. And, in true Winchester fashion, he rolled with it.

“Come with us,” he said. “I need to do one more thing, before we make any more moves, and you need proof we're not crazy. It's not far.” When she watched him warily, he rolled his eyes, and added, “Drive your own car, bring whatever you need to feel safe, have the cops on speed dial – I don't care. Just...hear us out, before you write us off.”

Weirdly, she seemed to actually think about it. Even more weirdly, she hesitantly nodded, agreeing with a broken-sounding “Okay.”

Well. Dean would take his wins where he could get them, he supposed.

There were not a whole lot of dirt roads in central California, and even fewer dirt crossroads, but there was one close enough to campus that they pulled up to it just as the moon reached its peak, making the night as bright as it would be and casting everything in a silver glow that made it look appropriately creepy.

Dean pulled out the box from the trunk, careful to keep the hood on it lowered so to hide the weaponry from Jess – she really didn't need to see that yet, if ever. He'd made up the box shortly after getting the Colt and had simply been debating when to use it, but now was as good a time as any, he supposed.

He could have used the old summoning incantation or some other direct method, but those would give away who he was pretty easily to anyone looking. He wanted whoever answered to come in blind.

He buried the box in the center of the road, and stepped back, waiting for someone to answer the call.

“What's-...” Jess began to ask, only to cut off with a scream as a woman suddenly appeared in the road.

“My, my,” the demon tutted. “We're having a party.” She looked between Sam and Jess, lips pursed. “But neither of you is the one after a contract, hm?” She slowly turned her eyes to the side, where Dean stood, and then -...

Froze. Dean blinked, because he hadn't been expecting fear, but there it was on the demon's face.

“You,” she hissed. “You killed Azazel.”

“I'll be after Alistair, too, if that means anything,” Dean offered. “I'm pretty indiscriminate on Big Bad killing.”
“You're insane,” the crossroads demon told him. “They're going to destroy you. The entirety of Hell is on alert, ready for blood. We were so close to being freed, you know, and everyone was looking forward to it. No demon is going to want anything from you except your head.”

“Well that's good,” Dean said. “Cause I don't actually want a deal.”

She stiffened again, and then took a step back – probably testing to see if she was in a devil's trap. She wasn't, but Dean knew full well he could get her before she managed to flee if she didn't stick around to listen. He was miles ahead of where they were used to humans being, even hunters. She was going to underestimate him, and he could use that.

“What do you want?” she asked, tone suspicious and harsh.

Dean grinned easily at her. “Your boss.”

Her face paled, black eyes flitting between him and his brother, then to Jess, then back. “I don't know-...”

“Save it,” Dean said. “I'm not trying to kill him. I'm doing him a favor.” He shrugged. “He's not actually the worst, given how many assholes are down there, and he's got that dumb bureaucratic thing going for him. I put down the ruler of hell, and there's no one in his place.”

“How do you know that?” the demon demanded.

Dean snorted. “I'm getting kind of sick of that question. I'm nosy. Don't worry about it. Worry about getting a message to Crowley, from me: if he wants to take over Hell, I'm willing to help out.”

“Why?” the demon asked him. “What do you get out of this?”

Dean pretended to consider it. “Huh. I don't know, maybe a bigger dick?” At the blank look she gave him, he snorted. “Pass that on to Crowley, he'd get it. Seriously, though – Hell is full of demons that are ready to set the Earth on fire. Crowley knows better. He's happy to do his shifty soul deal thing and keep everyone in line down below, and that's what I want to happen. All this...starting the Apocalypse, fighting for power over Earth, war with Heaven shit is more than I have the time for.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “The Angels,” she said, seeming to come to a conclusion. “You're working for them, trying to keep him from walking free.”

“Wrong,” Dean said, cheerily. “Angels are dicks. I'm not working for anybody but myself. If I could summon an archangel with a dumb box full of tricks and tell them to piss off, I would. Sadly I don't really know anyone I'd want in charge upstairs. Hell, on the other hand, is easy to get in line.”

She straightened, turning a cold look to him. “I don't like this,” she said. “I don't like being a tool for some hunter. But,” she glared at him. “I like Crowley. He's an asshole, but he's a good boss. If I was going to serve under anyone, it'd be him. So I'll pass on your message, hunter. Don't be surprised when he comes calling.”

“I'll leave the devil's traps down, then,” Dean quipped. “And the name's Dean Winchester. You're gonna be hearing from me a lot, I think.”

She tipped up her chin. “Then I'll tell you now, I'm Marcella. If you need something, come to me. If I'm your messenger, I'm a target to dissenters – but I'm also valuable to Crowley. I need that.”

He gave her a lazy salute. “Can do. I'll let you know if anything interesting happens. Prepared to be summoned, though – I don't do that blood bowl shit.”

She laughed, and then returned the salute with a cheeky little wave, before vanishing into the night.

“Holy shit,” Jess murmured, dropping to her knees, the shock finally catching her. “Holy shit, you're not crazy. Or I'm also crazy. Are we on drugs?”

“I wish,” Sam muttered, crouching to help her. “But no. That was real.”

“And the stuff they were talking about?” She asked. “This...Hell and demons and angels and...?”

“The angels are news to me, if that helps,” Sam said. “But apparently not news to Dean, so...yeah. I'd say it's all pretty solid.”

She let out a broken, desperate sob, curling into Sam's side. “This doesn't make sense.”

Dean sighed. “I know,” he offered, walking over, crouching down to her level, and resting a hand on her shoulder. “It's a bunch of bullshit. The world is full of crazy stuff. But the thing is, that doesn't have to be what your world is. I can show you a couple basic things, little stuff you can put around your house to keep you safe, and we can take off. You can be content in your life knowing that we're handling the big stuff, and that the little stuff won't come near you.”

She watched them, looking between both the men in front of her, the flow of tears ceasing even as her eyes stayed wet. “I can't,” she said. “I can't just...”

Sam was tense, but nodded, looking grim. “I get it, Jess. You don't owe us anything. I love you, but if you'd rather forget about this stuff, that's fine. We can do it on our own. I just...I wanted you to know what I was doing, instead of just up and leaving.”

Jess turned wide eyes to him. “Sam,” she said. “I'm not going to forget about this! I just learned that everything bible school taught me when I was a kid is apparently real, and then some, and that weird ladies with black eyes from Hell are apparently trying to destroy the world.”

“A lot of other things, too,” Dean added, only to wince when Sam glared at him. “Sorry.”

But Jess just nodded, looking up at him. “That's what I mean. The world is falling apart and I didn't even know it. So many people don't know anything about this stuff, and it could kill them. I went to law school so that innocent people wouldn't have to suffer. I think Hell is worse than prison.”

“So you're coming?” Dean asked.

“I'm coming,” Jess confirmed. “And I want you to teach me. Teach me everything.”

Dean grinned. “Now, that, I can do.”

Chapter Text

The Stanford dorms may not have been a conventional base of operations, but Dean already had Sam’s warded and Jess was already signed up for two winter classes, so they could easily continue living there until the spring. That gave them time to plan their next step - and Jess time to learn how to be a part of it.

Jess reminded Dean an awful lot of Jo, so he started there, teaching her how to work with knives and guns and other weaponry. Quickly, though, he learned that those would not be her strengths - her upper body strength was poor, which could be trained, but she had next to no combat-level reflexes. Her hand eye coordination could at best be described as passable, and she hesitated before making any moves.

All of that could be taught, yes, and Dean had time to teach it, but she was becoming discouraged. Which meant Dean needed to find something she was good at now.

So Dean changed gears, and cut physical training down to a couple hours a day, and spent the rest of Jess’ free time running her through the technical aspects.

He taught her lore, as best he knew it. He taught her how to pick out lore on her own when facing something unfamiliar, learning to separate fact from fiction. When she caught onto that easily enough, he added in some lessons in knowledge unique to him, passing on Charlie’s technology tips and his own engineering knowledge gained from nearly forty years of random tinkering. It didn’t take long before she was easily accessing police databases and picking out potential cases from vague or conflicted reports.

Each time she succeeded, he clapped a hand on her shoulder and told her “That’s great” or “Awesome” or “Good job!” Each time she failed, he hummed thoughtfully and told her “We’ll work on that, it shouldn’t take too long to pick it up.” He refused to let Jess learn the way he learned, by constantly striving for recognition that never came. Sam had broken under that stress, and he wasn’t going to let that happen to Jess.

Eventually, Dean admitted defeat on the weapons training, as his form of tutelage usually amounted to “just pull the trigger - if you’re doing it wrong, you’ll figure it out.” He gave that task to Sam, who gently educated her on the basics like how to stand and how to hold certain weapons and such. With firmer, more clear-cut instructions, Jess picked up those skills much faster, and soon she was a pretty good shot when they went to the range and could hold her own well enough in a knife fight.

In between all these lessons, there were times when Jess sagged, where her eyes became distant and haunted and she looked at Sam as though he were a stranger.

Sam was shaken pretty badly by that.

“You don’t get it, Dean,” Sam had told him, when Dean tried to comfort him. “Watching someone you love just...fall apart? Knowing you’re the reason? It’s awful.”

But Dean did know. His mind flashed to Cas, the strong and powerful angel Castiel, turned to a broken man a thousand different times. He thought of the apocalyptic 2014 he’d seen once, with a drugged-up Cas walking willingly to his own death because Dean asked him to. He thought of the times he’s seen Cas in the hospital, going off his rocker after taking on the damage from Sam’s mind. He thought of a motel room where a solemn, open Cas had admitted, “I’m afraid I might kill myself.”

Dean knew what it was like, to take someone you cared about and somehow break them, just by proximity.

So he didn’t bother telling Sam any of the platitudes like “It’s not your fault” because it was, it was their fault, this was on both of them and they knew it. Instead, he held him and told him, “She’ll adjust. She’s strong. She’ll pull through.”

Sometimes you hurt the ones you love. The best thing to do is stick around and try to heal them.

About a month into their residency at Stanford, they got a visitor to the door - Marcella. They let her past the wards and traps and she collapsed into the armchair, glaring at Dean. “Crowley’s pissed.”

“It's been a month,” Dean pointed out. “He's just now getting mad?”

“No,” she said. “He's been mad. He's just now deciding he wants me to drag you off somewhere private and safe so he can meet you and ask you where the hell you learned anything about him.”

Dean shrugged. “He wants to talk shop, I'm game. The sooner we get on the same page,the better.”

“You can't go by yourself!” Jess protested. “Take at least Sam with you.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “I'm not taking you guys with me. Either of you. He's not going to listen to me if someone else is there to make him posture. One on one is the best shot I've got at getting him to listen.” He also had a number of things to admit to knowing that he'd rather Sam and Jess not know just yet.

Sam and Jess reluctantly conceded that Dean would be better off going alone, and Marcella went with him in the Impala to the old warehouse they'd used to kill Azazel.

The body had been removed, salted and burned almost immediately upon death, but there was still blood on the floor and all the wards were still present. Marcella looked lovely nauseous at the sight.

“You don't have to stay,” Dean reminded her. “I don't want you to, and he won't either. Just call him and take off. I'll call you if I need you.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I'm not calling him until I know the traps are broken. Take them down.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but complied, scratching out the edges of the devil's traps and demon-specific wards. When Marcella fully relaxed, probably feeling the lack of force acting against her being in the room, she nodded and vanished, likely fetching Crowley.

Sure enough, after a couple of minutes of tapping his foot and humming some indie song that wouldn't come out for a decade, Crowley appeared.

He was in his usual vessel, which was nice, because it meant Dean had less to adjust to. Vessel changes had always been weird to work with. “Crowley,” Dean greeted. “King of the Crossroads himself, come to greet a lowly old hunter.”

“Save the false humility, darling,” Crowley drawled back. “We both know you're more than you're letting on.” He tipped his head back, giving Dean an appraising look. “So what are you? You're certainly not human.”

That was weird. “I'm completely human,” Dean argued. Now, anyway. He wasn't going to bring up the Mark Of Cain demon thing if he could help it, though.

“No, you're not,” Crowley insisted. “Humans, you imbecile, can't hide their souls. But I can't see yours. I can't even feel it. It's like there's nothing. No Angel’s Grace, no demon soul, no human soul - nothing. You're empty.”

Dean blinked. That...was weird. He didn't feel soulless. He knew what that was like, he'd seen it with Sam. Coldness, calculating, a lack of emotion or empathy. He felt as strongly as ever - grief, joy, love, hate, all of it. So why couldn’t Crowley sense his soul?

Then, it hit him. Chuck had mentioned once that he was never discovered because he could shutter off his light at will, keeping him from being sensed. It would probably have been easy to block off Dean as well. Dean could think of many reasons why - so he wasn't hunted by batshit crazy demons, for one. Or angels. Or anything, really.

With that realization, he laughed. “I have a soul, I promise. I'm not gonna sell it to you or anything, at least not right now, but I have one.”

“Impossible,” Crowley replied. “I'm the highest level of crossroads demon. We are made to sense souls.”

“And I'm a Winchester,” Dean replied. “We’re made to wreck the world order. Or so I'm told.”

Crowley watched him warily. “You know about me. You know about who I used to be. You know about Azazel and Alistair and a thousand other things you shouldn't. Why?”

“I’m nosy,” Dean parroted. “And I have a bad habit of looking into the sun and hoping I don't go blind. Sue me, Fergus.”

Crowley looked immediately disgusted. “You really ought to butt out, boy.”

“Nah,” Dean replied easily. “I've got a stake in this game as much as any. While asshole in Hell are getting ready to start a war, they're looking for soldiers, and one of the main candidates is my brother. I'm not gonna let anything happen to him, thanks.”

Crowley stared at him, bewildered. “You're shitting me,” he murmured. “You're going to take on the most powerful creatures the world has to offer, stage a coup d'etat in Hell, spit in the face of the devil himself, and give the finger to freaking archangels, because some crusty old demon bled on your bother?”

“Pretty much,” Dean said. The dismissal stung, and he ached to say something sharp, but Crowley lived for getting a rise out of others. Dean wouldn't give him the satisfaction. “They also seem pretty determined to make us into meatsuits for the war of the ages, so that's a factor.”

Crowley shook his head, dragging a hand down his face. “You are the single most insane being I've ever faced. And you're backing me for King of Hell.”

“I'm thinking of it more like President,” Dean said. “Since most of the demons there like you better anyway.” At least, for now. In a world where he didn't gallivant off to play Bonnie and Clyde with Dean’s demonic form for several months.

Crowley let out a long-suffering sigh. “I suppose I don't really have a choice, here.” He swept out his arms in a grand, sarcastic gesture. “What would you have me do, my charming puppetmaster?”

Dean grinned, hopping up to sit on the table from the Azazel summoning ritual. “I'm so glad you finally asked.”

Dean hadn't really been in a rush to leave, determined to get Crowley completely sorted before he turned the demon loose, but he regretted that almost immediately after exiting the warehouse.

He had seven missed calls.

Five from Sam, two from Jess.

There were no voicemails, and no texts - unsurprising, as hunter tended to be wary of leaving recordings anywhere and texting wasn't really a big thing in the era of flip phones. Still, it was worrying, because that meant Dean didn't know if they'd had a minor emergency and panicked when he didn't answer or had a major emergency and panicked regardless.

He figured it out when he pulled up to the dorm, after speeding back in unreasonable time, to see a beat up old car with Oklahoma tags sitting in the parking space right in front of Sam's dorm room.

There was only one person that could be.

Dean let himself in the door, calling out, “Family reunion! You guys partying without me?”

He was met with a trio of identical unimpressed stares, as Sam, John, and Jess all let him know what they thought of his humor.

“Geez, tough crowd,” Dean murmured. Then, more serious, he said, “Hey, dad. I guess you're the reason they were blowing up my phone?”

John looked at him with a stern expression that told Dean he wasn't listening to a word out of his son’s mouth. “I was chasing rumors of Yellow-Eyes,” John said. “And this demon turns up, out of the blue, and tells me my son already killed him, and is shacking up with other demons now that that's over.”

Dean blinked. “Short, chubby, British asshole?” And John’s quirked eyebrow, he knew he'd hit the nail on the head. “That rat bastard. He narc’d on me.”

“Dean, what the hell?” John yelled. “You run off on your own-...”

“You told me to take my own hunt!”

“And you track down a demon and face him down by yourself?”

“I had Sam,” Dean defended.

“That's worse, Dean!” John insisted. “You put your own brother in danger because you had something to prove!”

Dean recoiled, feeling a long buried rage spill over into his words when he yelled back. “Something to prove? All I've ever had is something to prove! I spend every second of my life justifying what I'm doing, even if it's just to myself. I can never just do something because I want to, I have to come up with a laundry list of excuses. That's what you taught me, dad. You taught me that the job comes first, and I took that to mean I should be a weapon before I'm a person. Hunter over human, machine over man, all that shit.” He straightened up, glaring at John. “So yeah, I didn't wait for you. I killed Azazel. Before that, I tracked down the Colt, so that I could do it. I used a spell to make more bullets for it, which is something no one actually knows is possible, outside this room. And then I summoned Azazel, and I put a bullet in his brain. And it was easy.” He huffed out a breath. “It was so easy I didn't believe it was real until Marcella told me that Hell was falling over themselves in fear because I killed their leader. You know what that means, dad?”

He received a blank, dark stare. He took that as a sign to continue.

“It means I wasn't trying to prove a damn thing,” he said. “I wasn’t taking on a challenge to make you proud of me. I was taking out the garbage. I was finishing a job that you've driven yourself half nuts over for over twenty years. I took Sam with me because I wanted him there. We told Jess about us because we wanted her to know.” Dean let out a long, slow breath, deflating as his anger abated. “Just this once, dad - not everything I do is about you.”

John was staring at him, clearly floored. The tense silence stretched on for a minute or two too long for Dean to feel comfortable breaking it himself.

Then, John seemed to come to a decision, and with clenched fists and a stern set to his jaw he told Dean, “I’m proud of you.”

Dean nearly fell over. He hadn’t been expecting that. “You’re...what?”

“You did what I couldn’t,” John said. “And I don’t mean killing the demon. I mean protecting your family. I left because I wanted you two to take over hunting the smaller monsters while I took on the demon, so I could know that my job was being done by someone who could handle it if I didn’t succeed. But you did better. You didn’t wait around for me, you didn’t ask permission, you just did what you had to do. You didn’t care about anything except keeping your brother and your old man safe.” He shook his head. “All these years, Bobby kept telling me I was trying to make you into me, and you somehow ended up being your mom.”

Dean swallowed, eyes burning. He’d been compared to Mary many times, by many people and creatures over the years, but never his dad. Something in him broke, knowing that after years of telling himself that it was fine he never got it, he finally had his dad’s full approval. His living father, standing before him, breathing and human and smiling.

Dean was simultaneously sure he was going to cry and throw up. Instead, he launched forward, and dragged his dad into a hug.

What had Sam said? ‘You love chick-flick moments.’

Sam was right about far too much for his own damn good, sometimes, but Dean would give him this one.

Sam and Dean caught John up to speed on recent events, with occasional interjections from Jess that usually amounted to ‘I hated that lesson’ or ‘That was weird to look at.’ She spent most of the time in tense silence, watching them like she didn’t know when she was permitted to join, probably trying to reconcile the imagine in her head of a shitty half-crazy dad with the approving father sitting in her living room.

Eventually, their dad was in full hunt mode, latching onto the new goal with single-minded determination that Dean recognized like looking in a mirror. “We’ll need somewhere stable,” he said. “Somewhere more secure than a dorm room, hopefully.”

Dean shifted in his seat, ringing his hands, and said, “I may have an idea.”

Jess did a mid-semester withdrawal (with a sizeable fine that she reluctantly charged to a dummy account of Dean’s) and packed up her things, and the team of four headed east.

Nebraska was just as unremarkable as Dean remembered, looking rather plain compared to some of the grand beauty he’d seen driving around the country over the years. But the state itself wasn’t what Dean was there for - he was headed straight for the center, to the one place where he knew he’d find friends.

Besides, if anyone could track down half the shit Dean was looking for, it was Ash.

They arrived at the Roadhouse during peak business hours for a bar - around 10pm. The Roadhouse tended to be odd, since hunters pretty much just rolled in whenever, but Ellen kept up rigid business hours and told everyone not to come outside those times unless they were bleeding, else they would be when she was done.

Christ, Dean missed her.

Sam and Jess seemed heavily confused by the stop, and John looked apprehensive.

“We can’t stay here,” John insisted. “Ellen would have my head.”

He didn’t ask how Dean knew about it, which was good, because excusing himself was getting old fast. “This isn’t my idea,” Dean said. “Well, I mean, it’s part of it. But this isn’t where I want to stay, as nice as it is. I just need a couple things, first, and this is the place to find them.”

They headed into the bar, and Dean only had a second to contemplate how do go about asking for Ash, before they were spotted.

“John Winchester,” Ellen drawled, leaning on the edge of her bar. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

“To make them worse, maybe,” John replied, and gave a slight smile as Ellen laughed.

“Well, come on in, then,” Ellen said. “I’ll get you a drink. I think I have your typical pisswater around here somewhere.”

John looked to Dean, who shrugged, heading to the bar himself. As he took a seat, he caught Ellen looking between him and his dad, a mix of amusement and confusion on her face.

“You seem to have formed a posse,” Ellen prompted.

“Did someone say ‘posse’?” a voice called from the side, and Dean gave an internal sigh of relief as Ash hopped up on the bar next to him, sitting on the counter as though the use of the chairs didn’t even occur to him. “That sounds too much like a party for me to miss.”

Dean couldn’t help but grin, remembering the subtle genius hiding behind that eyesore of a mullet with ridiculous fondness, just as he felt for Jo and Ellen and Bobby and everyone else he’d lost over time. “Well, what can I say,” Dean said, recalling an old joke. “I’m a posse magnet.”

Ash returned his grin full-force, pointing a finger at him and drawling, “You. I like you.”

Dean accepted a beer that was being shoved into his face by Ellen, and popped it open. “You seem alright, too, Billy Ray.”

“Hey,” Ash defended. “Business in the front, party in the back. Perfect balance.”

“Doesn’t that make you a business party?” Dean teased, unable to resist. “I’m pretty sure those suck.”

Ash blinked, then looked off into space, appearing to have just had his mind blown by the realization.

“Calm down, Hasselhoff,” Dean said, taking pity on him, and patting his shoulder. “You’re managing to pull it off just fine.”

Ash turned a look on him then, sly and appraising, and Dean realized how that sounded.

He flushed and turned abruptly away, taking a long drink of his beer, before turning back to Ellen. “Would you mind if we bummed around here for a couple of days? We’re trying to get some stuff sorted out.”

“You’re paying for your room,” Ellen replied immediately. “Exorbitantly. I’m not an inn, boys.”

“Of course not,” Dean placated.
“Just an inn keeper ,” another voice added, and Dean brightened further as Jo appeared. “Uncle John! Which makes you guys Dean and Sam, and…” She looked to Jess apologetically. “Sorry, drawing a blank.”

“Don’t feel bad,” Jess said. “I’m new. Jessica Moore. Call me Jess.”

“Joanna Harvelle, call me Jo,” the girl returned.

“We’ve got a lot to catch you up on,” John told Ellen. “But it can wait until we can talk privately. For now, if we can get some drinks and a place to sleep, we’re good.”

“I can do that,” Ellen replied. “But you better have a damn good story to tell.”

“Believe me,” Dean said. “We do.”

There was a day, in the bunker, back - forward? - in 2016, that Dean very deliberately did not think about.

His little misspeak with Ash, though, brought it back into his mind, and Dean forced himself to recall it. To process it in the way he’d refused to, at the time.

It had started when they were sitting around one afternoon, killing time between the fifteen billion things they needed to do, the specifics of which were pretty much lost to Dean in the muddled blur that became of those last few days in his head.

Sam had, as per usual, taken the downtime to grill Chuck about being God. The interrogation sessions - the Celestial Inquisition, as Dean had dubbed it - usually ended with frustration on both ends. Chuck hated having to confront any of his own mistakes, and Sam hated Chuck’s half-answers and careful deflections.

The first questions had been little, typical theology questions, like “Why create cancer?”

Chuck’s answers to those tended to be blame-shifting, such as answering that particular example with “Don’t look at me, that was Pestilence.”

(For the record, he’d answered “Why not cure it?” with “Sometimes, you just gotta pick your battles, man,” so he really wasn’t doing a good job of making himself seem like less of an asshole.)

On this particular occasion, though, Sam asked, “How come you don’t seem to know what we’re going to say or do before we do it? I thought you were omnipotent.”

Chuck had scrunched up his nose, and to their surprise, actually answered. “I know everything about you guys, don’t get me wrong. Down to the tiniest details. But to hear your thoughts and predict your actions and all that takes focus, and half the time, you two aren’t worth listening in on.” Before they could get offended, he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Not for lack of interesting content, but because it’s so damn scrambled. You guys are always running a mile a millisecond up there. If I want to know what you’re going to do or say, I can’t just... look, like I can for most people. I have to look closely, and then weigh every single thing you could do against what I know you’re most likely to do, and then I could still be wrong. It’s just tedious, honestly.”

“So,” Dean had said. “You’re omnipotent, sort of, but you’re too lazy to use it.”
And that had been where things got weird. Because Chuck glared at him, apparently sick of the twenty questions game, and went off. “When I said I know everything about you, I meant it. I know every hope, dream, fear, and concern you have ever had, and will ever have in the future. I know what you like and dislike even before you know it yourself. Every single emotion, thought, action, or compulsion you’ve ever had is the result of the way I coded your soul. I may not look at everything, but I look at enough. I don’t have to know how you’re gonna kill a demon, because I know you will.” Chuck threw up his hands, letting out a frustrated noise. “I’m getting really sick of you guys acting like you have secrets from me. You don’t. I know Sam still gets blood cravings sometimes, I know you still reach for the Blade when you first wake up, I know Sam’s afraid of clowns and you’re terrified of planes - Hell, I know things I don’t want to know. Sam’s survivor’s guilt over his sea of dead exs and your bisexual repression are things I’d really rather just let go.”

There was a beat.

“My what ?” Dean rasped.

Chuck slammed his head on the table. “I quit,” he muttered, into the wood. “Let Amara kill me. It’d be easier.”

Sam had gone to get a beer, then, and Dean had taken the opportunity to flee to his room and immediately repress the previous ten minutes of his life.

Now, both weeks in the future and years in the past, Dean considered that offhand statement.

Chuck hadn’t sounded really bothered by it. He’d said it in the same tone he’d said everything else - irritated, and offended, but not actually mad. Just riled up. And when the disgust had entered his tone, it had done so on the word repression, not...what came before. Dean had a hard time thinking it.

Charlie had made offhand comments, once or twice, about Dean possibly being not quite straight. They usually ended with something like ‘Let me know if you decide you want to go to my kind of bar - they’re pretty sweet.’ Dean always shrugged them off as jokes and refused to consider what they might have been beyond that.

Dean took a moment, stretched out on one of the two beds in the room he and his dad were splitting at Ellen’s (since Sam and Jess had taken the single room for themselves, the traitors), to consider what would happen if he just...didn’t fight it.

He’d never, in thirty-odd years of life, give or take a few decades in Hell and some time jumps, let himself fully embrace that part of himself. A handsome man would wink and his brain would go blank. An offer would be made and he’d stutter on his reply. Men made him nervous in a way women never did, because while sleeping with every pretty girl he saw had always been a sort of bragging point, even acknowledging the potential for anything with a man would have been...a bit too real, he supposed. It got shoved into the same locker of things he refused to think about along with all things settled , like his time with Lisa.

Dean had, somewhere along the line, developed this sense of self that relied heavily on posturing. When he told John he was always justifying his actions to himself, it had been completely honest. Dean never just let himself do anything. He always needed a reason .

He hadn’t been able to stay with Lisa without telling himself every single day that it was because Sam asked him to.

In a bar full of people, he would tell himself that he was allowed to take the pretty girl home, because it was like building a cover. He could prove himself to be a normal guy to a whole bar of people, and get some pretty good sex out of it - which would also, of course, benefit the lady of the evening.

But if a man pulled his gaze, the first thought in his head was there is no excuse.

Maybe, with this new run of things - with Dean doing things his way because he was sick of answering to someone else - he could stop looking for excuses at all.

Instead, he could have reasons, and those reasons could be as simple as I want to.

John shifted in the other bed, rolling over in his sleep, and Dean brought his hands up to cover his face.

The world was trying to end, demons and angels were vying for power over Earth, and here Dean was in a spare bedroom next to a bar having a gay awakening.

What the hell was his life, honestly.

Chapter Text

Blue eyes, soft smiles, a warm hand on his -

“Dean.”

- a kiss placed gently against his temple, a deep voice whispering in his ear -

“Dean!”

The hand on his shoulder woke him instantly, years of well-honed instincts overriding everything else. He had a knife in hand and aimed at the throat of the figure before him within a millisecond, before blinking away the remnants of sleep and processing his brother’s face.

“Oh,” Dean said, setting the knife aside. “Is something wrong?”

Sam was giving him an amused look, which put Dean immediately on alert. “No, we’re just getting breakfast with Ellen and catching her up to speed.” He practically leered, then, and asked, “Who’s Cas?”

Dean stiffened. “Who?”

“Oh, just the name you kept muttering in your sleep,” Sam said. “Seriously, Dean, who is she? You seemed to be having a nice dream.”

Dean shoved his brother, because he really didn’t want to address that. “Shut up, Sammy,” he said. “Let’s go get breakfast.”

Sam laughed, but complied, following his brother out of the room.

Ellen had the bar covered in breakfast foods, which made Dean laugh a bit. Partly because the phrase ‘breakfast bar’ came to mind, but mostly because Ellen would walk right past the actual ‘house’ aspects of the building the Roadhouse was in and serve a meal in the bar instead.

Catching the other hunters up with their shenanigans let to a lot of gaping and bewildered stares, mostly directed at Dean. Which, to be fair, if someone had told Dean when he was actually 26 “Oh yeah, there was a demon doing some weird shady shit so I just put an ancient magic bullet in him and lit the corpse on fire,” he'd be a little taken aback as well.

Well. He'd probably try silver and holy water on the person, first. He was a paranoid son of a bitch.

When they were done with their story, Ellen brought out a bottle of whiskey and took a long drink straight out of it, giving Jo the finger when she asked for some herself.

Ash, on the other hand, let out a low whistle. “So you guys came to us for something to help, yeah? Not just a warning.” He leaned right into Dean’s personal space, asking, “So what can Doctor Badass help you with today?”

Everyone looked to Dean, because he hadn't shared his plan yet with anyone.

He cracked a smile at Ash, and told him, “I need you to track down a key.”

About twenty minutes later found Dean perched on the edge of Ash’s bed as the man started running some weird algorithm on his homemade laptop. Dean had passed on only the bare minimum information - that there was an organization of elite hunters known as the Men of Letters, and that the had strongholds and resources across the globe, locked up by a universal key, which just about every member carried a version of. Dean told them that there was a bunker they could use as a base, if they had one of those keys, but the American chapter of the Men of Letters had died out decades ago and the bunker in question had been dormant since around the late 40s.

When asked how he knew all that, Dean told them he'd been looking into a theory on something and stumbled upon records of a deceased member of the organization. He didn't elaborate, and Ash seemed to clue in that he was reluctant to give away much to the group at large.

Thus, he'd stepped up, dragging Dean off to be his source while he MacGyver’d his way into one of the most paranoid organizations on the planet.

“So, Dean,” Ash asked, as he rolled his chair away from his desk, leaving his computer running some code program that Dean couldn't even begin to puzzle out, even with his lessons from Charlie and his futuristic tech knowledge. “You're a weird dude.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You look like you stepped onto a tour bus in the 80s and didn't step out til this morning, and I’m weird?”

Ash waved a hand. “Appearances, man. They're only part of the picture. You're weird on a deeper level.” He shifted his chair around, sitting leaning over the back of it instead of full forward. “You know a lot of shit that doesn't make any sense for you to know, and you're really not transparent on where you learned it. And look, I know what it's like not to give away that you're smarter than you let on, but dude. You killed a demon with a magic bullet and you talked about it like a salt n’ burn.”

“It was easy,” Dean defended. “The Colt is powerful and he was in a devil's trap. His death was pretty much handed to me.”

Ash stared him down for a second, before getting out of his chair, stretching out. “Fair enough, I guess. Keep your weird mystery if it makes you happy, dude.” He looked to the screen, then back to Dean, with a slight leer in his eyes. “You know, this could take around an hour to find something worth looking at. You wanna kill some time?”

Dean wasn't an idiot, he knew what Ash meant. And while the usual denials and excuses were on the tip of his tongue, he swallowed them back.

Instead, he told himself, because I want to. And then he grinned back and said, “I can be persuaded.”

Sex with Ash wasn't as weird as Dean thought it would be.

It helped that Ash seemed to be pretty determined to ride him, which meant Dean’s involvement in the finer details was minimal. He could just enjoy it.

And dear God, did he. It was fucking awesome . Ash’s body was a whole new experience, and Dean relished the chance to try something new. He knew Ash, he trusted the guy, and he also knew he wasn't going to be the type to want some long term committed thing. Ash was burning off steam, and Dean was just along for the ride. Pun intended, of course.

Afterward, Ash had cleaned up quickly and efficiently, chunking the condom in the trash from a distance and faking enthusiastic crowd noises when he landed it, and returned to his computer to fiddle with some things before heading back to the bed.

“Computer’s gonna be searching a little longer,” Ash said. “I got it into a database that looks like it's a cover for something sketchy enough to be your mystery hunter dudes, but it's still got to pick out personnel files and shit we can use.” He flopped down across Dean’s chest. “Are you a cuddler?”

Dean really didn't see the point in bravado at that point, so he shrugged. “Kind of, yeah.”

“Sweet,” Ash said, and proceeded to burrow into Dean’s neck. “Wake me if there's an apocalypse or something. Or Ellen makes fajitas. Those are rad.”

Dean snorted, holding Ash obligingly, and eventually even drifted off himself.

Dean woke to an elbow in the stomach, and lashed out with a punch reflexively, which met empty air.

He was awake instantly, scanning the room, only to process at last what had happened.

He was in Ash’s room, and the elbow has been part of the other man’s scrambled attempt to get to his computer, which was making some god awful beeping noises.

“What is that?” Dean asked. “Did it find something?”

“No,” Ash said. “Wait. Yeah, it did, but that's not the noises. The noises are an alert.” He hit some random looking keys and pulled up a screen with some rather fuzzy photos. “Shit. I have this scanner thing rigged up to flag funny police reports, so I can see if anything is a potential hunt and give it to Ellen to pass on. But this is fucked.”

Dean stood, heading over to stand over Ash’s shoulder, leaning in to squint at the low resolution copies of police photos.

When he realized what he was looking at, he swore, loudly and colorfully.

“Well, that sounds promising,” Ash muttered. “You know what did this, then?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, looking at the corpses with horrified expression and bloody, burned-out eyes. “I do.”

The bodies had been found in Wyoming, which made a shitty situation that much shittier.

The Angels were going after the Devil’s Gate. Dean foiled their puppeteer planning, so they were getting hands-on.

Dean dressed quickly and found Sam, John, and Jess, telling them to pack quickly. They needed to head out fast.

Soon, he and Sam were outside, loading the Impala back with their things, while John and Jess bid their farewells to Ellen and Jo.

“So,” Sam said, tossing Jess’ bag into the ‘normal’ part of the trunk, above the hidden weapon storage. “You and Jo got along well, then?”

Dean, confused, raised an eyebrow. “Sure? I mean, I like her, but I don’t think we actually said two words to each other directly. I guess I’ll meet her later or something.”

Now Sam looked confused, which had Dean wondering where exactly they’d ended up in such a fucked up conversation. “You didn’t spend any time with Jo?”

“No?” Dean questioned. “I was with you or Dad most of the time, except the couple hours I hung out with Ash.”

Sam stared, then blinked, and then his eyes went comically wide. “Holy shit.”

Dean got a sinking feeling in his stomach. “What?”

“ Ash?” Sam asked, voice low. “ He gave you that hickey?”

Dean’s hand went to the side of his neck immediately, and he cursed. “He- Oh, I’m gonna fucking kill him. What an asshole.”

Sam was staring at him like he’d grown a second head, and Dean forced himself not to recoil from the look. Instead, he glowered.

One unfortunate coping skill Dean had never quite dropped was acting angry when he was hurt. That came out full-force then, as he spat, “ What, Sam?”

“Nothing,” Sam said quickly. “Just…”

And then Sam’s eyes slid across the parking lot, to where John was chatting with Ellen, and Dean got it. Sam wasn’t being malicious, here - he probably didn’t actually give a shit what Dean did as far as that was concerned. Most likely, actually, because Sam had always been pretty easygoing about stuff like that. Instead, he was concerned, because neither Dean nor Sam knew what John’s reaction would be.

“I’m not telling him if you aren’t,” Dean told his brother, and watched Sam swallow and give a grim nod. “Let him think what he wants, I don’t care. It’s not his business.” He rubbed his neck, fighting the rising anxiety. “And if this is too much for him, when I do all the fucked up shit I do on a daily basis, then...I’ll deal with it.”

“Not well, probably,” Sam muttered in response.

Dean didn’t answer. He didn’t need to - they both knew Sam was right.

They drove nonstop until Wyoming. Dean rode for most of the trip, as both John and Sam were also taking shifts driving. It was odd, but he dealt with it, taking the time to get some sleep and play on his ancient BlackBerry.

Which lead to his current problem: Sam seemed to enjoy ribbing him for his 'nerd phone.’

“Seriously,” Sam told him. “You know who at Stanford has that phone? Engineering students. That's it. I expected you to be on basic call-only phones until you died.”

Dean shrugged, typing out an aggressive all-caps to Ash about the hickey since he realized that if anyone in this time was good at texting, it was the guy who could hack into Men of Letters database with what looked like a pile of car parts strapped to a toaster. “I can't always make calls, and I'm not trying to figure out texting on a number pad. This is easier.” And then, because he knew it would sell Jess, if not Sam, he opened the shitty little internet browser, flashing his screen at them. “Plus, internet. WiFi isn't always a thing, Sam. If I need to look something up, right here and now, I can.” He paused. “Well, after waiting a minute or two. It’s not fast.”

“Wow,” Jess said. “That's cool. My phone has an internet browser, but it's not really able to load most things, so who knows why.”

“Eh, they'll fix it,” Dean said, returning to his texts. Ash had replied with 'you mean you didn't notice?’ and Dean needed to think of a reply that didn't just say 'WELL THE SEX WAS KIND OF A DISTRACTION’. “Some websites are putting up mobile versions of their pages so that phones like this can load them. Every time a new processing chip or new phone service or whatever comes out, more people get on board with the 'internet in your pocket’ thing. It's gonna be great when it's finally common, because I fuckin’ hate going all the way back to a motel to google something.”

“I see how you get along with Ash, now,” Sam muttered.

Dean resisted the urge to glare, knowing that would make the other two passengers in the car suspicious of why he was offended. “Oh, no, I've got nothing on that guy. I'm a high school dropout who learned everything I know by dumb luck and trial-and-error. He's a genius. Even if he does look like some rock band roadie.”

Sam gave him a look, then, and Dean shot him the subtlest warning look he could manage.

And then, he realized that he was making it sound like he had a crush on the guy. Sam was probably getting the massively wrong idea about the two. To fix that, Dean leaned back, casually saying, “Maybe when we get back, he’ll have found the key to the bunker. I like them all fine, but the four of us is enough for me.”

Sam frowned, and Dean pointedly ignored him. He also very pointedly stopped texting Ash.

Dean wasn't looking for something new, with this. He wanted a better version of what he'd already had. Selfish as it was, Dean didn't have any plans to add anyone into the story who shouldn't have already been in it.

Dean didn’t expect to make it all the way to the cemetery unopposed, so when they managed to park the impala right in front of the ugly metal gates, he was more than a little suspicious.

“No way this ain’t a trap,” he told the others. “They let us walk in here. What the hell do they want?”

They were right in front of the Devil’s gate itself when Dean finally heard a noise that meant their unseen stalkers had revealed themselves: the tell-tale beat of wings.

He spun around, taking in the three angels before him. He didn’t recognize a single vessel, which could really mean anything about the angels contained inside.

“It is curious,” the lead angel spoke, tone even to the point of robotic, as most angels’ had been before shit hit the fan. “That you knew precisely where to go to find the Gate, when we have not noticed any point at which you would have obtained this information.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean said. “Shows you what good spying on me does, doesn’t it?”

The angel shifted almost imperceptibly, but Dean had years of practice, and knew he’d pissed the creature off. Nice. “I am Haniel,” he said, eyeing him like he was a particularly annoying bug. “I am an archangel. My domain lies in all things eternal, and as such, I see it my duty to ensure that the permanent remains so, and the temporary does not interfere.”

“And I’m temporary,” Dean filled in. “Got it. You done?”

Haniel tipped his head. “Nearly.”

Dean felt like time slowed after that. He could see his father, brother, and friend all flinch and curl in on themselves, eyes squeezed shut, and hands over their ears. He could see a light emitting from the angels in front of him, likely intended to smite. However, before he could even blink, he processed something else: he wasn’t hurt. The light felt like standing too close to a fire, with every instinct screaming Danger! Move away! But he wasn’t actually in pain. His eyes were fine, if the light felt a bit like sunlight on a hangover, and his ears weren’t ringing at all.

Instead, he heard what sounded like a chorus. And it was shouting at him, Righteous Man, we condemn you to Hell, so that you may fulfil your destiny.

The light shuttered off abruptly, and the silence the chorus left echoed.

“You are unharmed,” Haniel said, sounding slightly shaken. “Impossible. Some humans can hear the voice of angels, but you are not meant to be one of them, and even that gift would not save you from a direct intent to kill.”

“I’m special,” Dean drawled. “I know. I get it all the time.” He tipped his head. “Try the Angel blade, next. That way I can steal it and gank your ass.”

Haniel sneered. “I would be delighted. Unfortunately, your death was only permitted under the circumstances we did not directly engage you. My brothers seem to be concerned by your...talents.” The angels on his side both summoned their blades to hand, and Haniel gave what could almost be considered a smile. “Raziel, Samael - you know what our goal is.”

The angels moved in a blink, but their attacks were not direct. They struck out with the Angel blades, but the movements were heavily advertised, and Dean realized they were intended to be blocked or countered. They were distracting them, but for what purpose, Dean couldn’t puzzle out.

And then his wrist was grabbed, right as he went to block a hit, and the angel who had apprehended him reached his other hand into his jacket and pulled out the Colt.

Shit. Dean had forgotten, in his panic, what had opened the Gate in the first place. The Colt was a key, and he’d just hand-delivered it.

Haniel stepped up, taking the gun from his grasp, and within a blink he was unlocking the gate with it.

Dean watched in horror as the scene unfolded yet again, a flood of black smoke filling the graveyard as the demons broke free.

“Shit!” Sam yelled. “Is that the Devil’s Gate? Are those all demons?”

“We have to close it!” John yelled back.

Fuck, Dean thought to himself. Chuck, you could have warned me this would be so fuckin’ hard.

And then, almost as if summoned by the thought, a blinding light filled the cemetery. Several of the black clouds dissipated into nothing, and the doors of the gate slammed shut. Through the bleached-out portions of his vision, Dean saw the Colt crack down the barrel, before crumbling into dust. Something he would have felt a lot worse about if it weren’t for the fact that he was pretty sure he was being saved by actual God.

Once again, Dean noticed that he was the only one unaffected. His family were all screaming silently, curling up against the pain of the smiting, and the angels were all standing back-to-back in a circle looking awed and terrified.

Abruptly, the light ceased.

In front of the doors, standing with his back to them, was a figure that was undoubtedly Chuck.

Dean resisted the urge to say About time, asshole, because he still owed the guy pretty hard. Plus, he could imagine the struggle of trying to explain away that one.

After a second, Chuck let out a low whistle. “That was a hell of lot of demons.” He turned around, grinning at Dean, who responded with an unimpressed stare. “Ugh, come on, that was good. Came up with it on the spot, too. I’m proud of it.” Then, he scrunched up his face, turning to look at the stunned angels. “Less proud of you three. I know my instructions were kind of vague, but they do not in any way mean let demons ravage the earth so you can fist fight your big brother. Seriously, guys, what the fuck?”

“Father,” Haniel whispered. “You have returned.”
Chuck looked tempted to say way to join the class, jackass, but instead he softened. “Yes, Haniel. And you can thank the human you just tried to kill for that.” He waved to Dean. “Notice how he was entirely unbothered by your grace? You know who else is unbothered by your grace?”

There was only a beat of silence, before Haniel answered. “Other angels are not harmed. Are you claiming this man is an angel?”

Dean felt six sets of eyes on him, and snorted. “As if. You guys can take your pretentious religious shit elsewhere, thanks.”

“He’s something else entirely,” Chuck said. He waved a hand in Dean’s direction. “There. Now look at him. Take a glimpse of his soul. What do you see?”

Haniel turned to look at him, and then sucked in a breath, looking as though his world had been shattered. “What….what is that?”

Now Dean was kind of confused, because he really didn’t know what was up with his soul, but it had definitely seemed normal enough before the time jump shenanigans.

“An Ophanim,” Chuck said. Dean looked to him, and the celestial shrugged. “Holy creatures I choose to serve me directly. Angels and humans are all my children, and they have their own hierarchy among them, but Ophanim answer only to me.” He gave Dean a dry look. “Or, in your case, only yourself. The blessing on your soul was kind of a formality. Plus, it helped me fix all the damage I did along the way. Removing the soul bomb took out a good chunk of your soul’s core, so I just...filled in the rest. With Grace. You’re sort of more important than an Archangel, now, if you wanted to be cut-and-dry with it.”

Dean blinked. Then, realizing they were having this conversation openly, he looked around - only to find his family passed out on the ground, and the angels staring blankly forward.

“The humans of the group will wake up in about a day, and you can tell them that you guys closed the Devil’s Gate and a shockwave or something knocked you all out. Or whatever, it’s up to you. The angels are suspended. They heard Ophanim and then I stopped them from catching the rest. I figured you should have the choice of who knows how weird we both really are.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Dean told him. “I thought you were gonna still be passed out for a few years or so?”

Chuck snorted. “Yeah, I thought so, too. But Amara is smarter than both of us, apparently, because she pushed most of her energy into me at the last second. She has more time to build it back up, since she’s returned to the Mark. Cain will probably notice that she’s being quiet, but no one really listens to him anymore, anyway.” He flexed a hand, light flaring around it, showing how a dark smoke leaked out among the white. “It’s like a blood transfusion. My...Grace, I guess, I don’t really know what my essence is meant to be called - is taking over hers, slowly, and using it as a basis to make more of my own. You’re helping, too. Making you as Ophanim allows us to be linked, so your soul can feed on my Grace and vise versa. They’ll get stronger together.” He pointed a stern finger at Dean. “So don’t let yourself be obliterated, please. Dying is fine, because Heaven and Hell and Purgatory are all still in my domain, so I can still reach you, but if Amara or Death or someone like me wanted to take you out, they could absolutely get both of us.”

“So I can’t kill you if you piss me off, basically,” Dean said.

Chuck snorted. “Honestly, it’s like you’ve never even heard of blasphemy. And here I was, going to help you get back to your favorite of my kids.”

Dean straightened. “You have a plan to get Cas back to Earth?”

Chuck grinned, and nodded his head toward the angels. “I don’t plan on letting those three walk out of here. They’re going to stew in Purgatory for a while. Which means they won’t be able to tell anyone I was here, and I can keep playing hooky, so they’ll keep trying to start an Apocalypse.” He stuck his hands in the pockets of his worn out jeans, looking more like a washed-out rock band wannabe than an all-powerful being. “So they’re gonna want you in Hell, and they’re gonna wait for you to break, and then they’ll send the Host. And Cas will lead the charge, because he’s strong and determined and I keep sticking my fingers in and making them forget how often he questions orders. You’re welcome, by the way, since I totally had your deck stacked from the start.”

“Thanks,” Dean told him dryly. “I’m guessing your big plan is for me to go to Hell? Literally, even.”

“Pretty much,” Chuck told him. “You have a day before the others wake up, and I’m gonna run off with the kiddos now and trap them up in a spooky forest full of disasters that supposedly purges sin, but is really a big time out field where everyone is drained of pretenses and inhibitions and allowed to work out what really matters.” He walked over to the crumbled remains of the Colt, and his hand lit up, reducing the broken metal to fine ash, which he then sunk his hand into.

The ground around him began to light up as well, and glowing lines stretched out across the cemetery, creating an intricate pattern.

After a moment, the glow stopped, and Chuck stood. “Okay, there. I changed the demon blocker to a more generic protection. Anyone can enter, but no one - human, angel, or demon - will have any urge to be here. They’ll look right over it.”

Dean didn’t feel any differently about the ground around him, but Chuck had made it sort of a big deal that he was unique now, so he wasn’t sure what that meant.

Chuck didn’t give him long to contemplate. “I’m gonna bail. And save the quip. You have work to do.” He waved a hand, and an altar appeared, decorated with the makings of a summoning ritual. “Call Crowley. Make a deal. For what doesn’t really matter, but I’m going to falsify the reports heaven receives from these three to claim that the Gate broke the seal when it popped open and you were able to call Crowley, and sold your soul to seal Hell again and save your family from being obliterated by the full force of the host.” He looked vaguely apologetic, then. “And then you’ll have to go to Hell. And...you know the rest, from there.”

Something made a lot of sense to Dean, then. “You want Lucifer free,” he said. “You want the Apocalypse to start, if not to finish. That was your plan - let your kids fight amongst themselves until they destroyed each other so you didn’t have to make yourself do it.”

Chuck hung his head. “I couldn’t have. I’ve destroyed so many of my own creations, or watched Amara do it for me. It was easier to just...let them have at it.” He looked up then, face set and determined. “Not this time, though. I’m going to let them do what they want, how they want to, but I’m going to push it my way. This time, I’m talking to Lucifer. That forced sit-down we had in the bunker helped him, I think, and the first time he breaks out would be a better time to reach him. He’d be more willing to listen if I’m reaching out to him because I want to, and not because I need his help.”

Dean shrugged. “You’re not wrong. But don’t think of it like that - you’re trying to manipulate him, that way. Doing what you think will get the response you want. Do what you think you should do, and hope he has enough sense left in him to snap out of the crazy and forgive you, even a little.” He shook his head, swallowing back hysterical laughter that was threatening to spill out. “At least he can’t be the worst thing we’ve talked down. ‘God’s crazy all-powerful older sister’ sounds a lot worse than ‘God’s pissed off kid.’”

Chuck rolled his eyes. “Keep that in mind, would you? And try not to get shunned out by your family for helping break the seals.”

Dean sighed. “Is there any way to do this without it going to shit like before? So many people died for this.”

“Try and steer them toward less violent seals,” Chuck said. He reached forward then, tapping Dean’s forehead. “There. All six hundred plus, in a neat little list in your mind. Pick your favorites.”

Before Dean could respond, Chuck was gone.

“Typical,” Dean muttered, but didn’t dwell on it.

He had a deal to make, apparently.

Chapter Text

Deciding what to sell his soul for was a lot harder than Dean thought it should be.

In theory, it should have been the easiest thing in the world. Pick any one thing in the world he wanted and give over his mostly useless soul so that he could get on with things.

The problem was, there was nothing Dean really wanted. He usually only ever entertained the idea of a deal in a last resort, no-win scenario. Sam’s life had been the only thing he’d ever really bargained for, and Sam was fine, if sprawled out awkwardly, unconscious in the middle of a graveyard. Bobby wasn’t paralyzed, Cas wasn’t on Earth, there were no pressing disasters that Crowley could even begin to help with...there was nothing.

So Dean racked his brain, trying to remember decade-old history. What had happened, the first time around, that could be prevented? The Colt was disintegrated into dust at the moment, so that wasn’t a huge problem. The Hell Gate had already been opened and shut. Chuck was on-call, if only in theory. Amara was catnapping in the Mark of Cain, rebuilding her strength until she was needed. Even if Dean keeled over right then, his family would have plenty of time before anything fell to shit.

Chuck apparently wanted to launch into the Apocalypse, and Dean wasn’t really enthused with that plan, but it would be easier to minimize damage than to try and argue down God.

Even if he’d done that before. Especially since he’d done it before.

As such, Dean needed to keep from directly cutting off any more plans, instead directing Lilith and Michael both down the path of least destruction. He needed to make it easy enough for them that they wouldn’t torch the planet to get their way, but not so easy that they did it for the thrill of it, or got suspicious.

And that was gonna be the kicker: Dean had to make it look like he was aiming for stopping it completely, rather than just derailing it a little. He had to maintain the image of a rebel determined to keep Lucifer locked up or kill him, instead of the glorified family counselor he’d somehow become.

At least he apparently had some cool new Angel rank, even if Dean didn’t have the slightest clue what it meant. He’d have to research, he supposed.

Back to the problem at hand, though: Dean needed to make a deal. He needed to make a deal that would help them, and look reasonable, but not stop anything completely.

Just a miracle. No big deal. That’s what Winchesters were made for, supposedly.

Just as Dean was about to start praying curses at Chuck, damn the risk of Angel radio, an idea occurred to him.

There was someone else he could save, here. Someone he really need to, but that it would be nice to anyway, if he could. Someone who had been a pawn of Lilith and demons and Hell for far too long, and was an absolute pain in the ass when they weren’t on the same side.

Mind made up, Dean summoned Crowley.

If his soul could be used for anything, he could use it to bail out Bela Talbot.

Crowley seemed heavily amused by being called from the center of clear destruction, and Dean glared at him when he went to make a comment.

“Touchy,” Crowley drawled, instead. “Alright, sunshine, I won’t ask why your little pack is unconcious in the dust in front of a Devil’s Gate. Or how you ended up letting half the host of Hell escape. I will ask why you called me, though. I was in the middle of cleaning up your fucking mess.”

“I would have called Marcella,” Dean offered. “Except she already made it clear she doesn’t want anything to do with my soul, contract or otherwise.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “You? You, slayer of archdemons, feared creature of unknown origins, and hunter, are making a deal?” He looked around, taking inventory of the graveyard. “You are aware your family members are all perfectly healthy, if slightly comatose? And that, contract or no, I can’t actually stuff all those demons back into Hell. I’d need far more soul than you’ve got - if you have any, because I still can’t see one.”

Dean huffed. “I have a soul. It’s hidden, but it’s there.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “So you’re admitting you’re not human, now? Done with the ‘simple hunter’ song and dance?”

“Nope,” Dean replied, cheeky. “I’m still human, and I’m still just a hunter. I just happen to be a really, really weird one.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels, trying to look casual instead of impatient. If Crowley knew he was riling Dean up, he’d be intolerable. “Can I tell you what I’m after, now, so we can lip-lock and be done with it? I need to get these guys,” he nodded towards the others, “Somewhere less gross and demon-filled.”

Crowley sighed deeply, like Dean was simply too much effort to put up with, and waved a hand in a sort of ‘go on’ gesture. “Very well. What do you think your possibly non-existent soul is worth?”

“Another soul,” Dean replied.

“You lost me,” Crowley admitted. “Do you want to replace yours? I can’t do that, either.”

“Listen,” Dean said, and lost all casual pretence - he was serious, and he needed Crowley to see that. “There’s a girl, around twenty-ish right now, calling herself Bela Talbot.”

Crowley looked intrigued. “I’m familiar. You want me to shut down her little con operation? Obtain one of her special objects?”

“I want you to let her out of her contract.”

Crowley blinked. Dean took a moment to relish the look of utter befuddlement on the demon’s face, because it was such a novelty. “You want me to let a girl who had her parents killed at 14 and turned into a great supernatural scammer out of a contract that’s been stewing for seven years?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “I do. Because that 14-year-old girl was manipulated by a demon into taking an easy way out of a shitty situation, and agreed to shit she didn’t fully understand. Now, she’s scraping her way around the world, looking for something that’s worth enough that she can buy back her own soul.” He tapped his chest. “So I’m paying it off for her. She’s got skills and knowledge we could use, and we need all the allies we can get. I’ll take on her deal.”

Crowley huffed. “You make the absolute least sense of any creature I’ve ever stumbled across,” the demon informed him. “If I move her contract to you, the due date will stick. You’ll have around three years.”

Dean shrugged. “Longer than I need.”

Crowley raised his eyes to the sky, in a look that would seem to be praying for mercy in anyone other than the (future?) King of Hell. “I’m never going to understand this one, am I?” he muttered. Then, he looked back to Dean, stepping forward into the man’s personal space. “Alright, big guy. You want to put yourself between a hellhound’s jaws, that’s fine by me. I’ll put Bela Talbot’s contract on you, and let her know that she’s indebted to a lovely if stupid unknown in the middle of the good ol’ U.S.A. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.” He said the last bit half sarcastically - which, fair. “Now, if I can’t see your soul, at least let me taste it. Maybe then you’ll make a little bit more sense.”

“Not likely,” Dean offered, but leaned in anyway, taking the kiss.

Distantly, Dean noted with amusement that he’d now technically kissed two men since his return, marking a significant change from his leanings the first go ‘round. It’d be something to laugh (or cry) about later, he supposed.

The deal-sealing kiss was a bit like a contract peck, really, since in nearly the same instant Crowley connected he yanked back.

“Son of a whore,” the demon cursed, staring at him. “You’re a damn- Christ. Your soul….or whatever that is….probably would be enough to stuff the lid back on Hell.” He held up a finger. “Not that I’m offering. No take-backs, Winchester, your contract is sealed. Or, well, hers. I’ll send Marcella to let her know. Give you a nice personal reference.”

“Thanks,” Dean told him, dryly. “I’ve been informed I’m an Ophanim, by the way, if that helps. Even though I don’t really know what the hell that’s supposed to mean.”

Crowley cursed colorfully under his breath. “ You , Winchester, are above my paygrade.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean replied. “Get used to it. I’m only gonna get worse.”

Crowley left without dignifying that with a response.

Getting his family to the motel was a pain in the ass. Dean could carry Jess so easily it was laughable, Sam was a reasonable weight to carry (though Dean could tell his muscles were weaker than they would be in the future), but John required a lot of half-dragging and stumbling.

First thing he could, Dean was getting serious on building his upper body strength. He used to be able to lug his 6’6” brother around like a sack of potatoes, damn it.

Getting them into the motel was a worse pain, because transferring three unconscious people into a motel room at dawn looked suspicious as hell. Dean made a show of grumbling about drunken bastards and lightweights and ‘see if I come pick you assholes up, next time’ the whole time, which seemed good enough, as the lone worker standing outside taking a smoke break seemed more amused than concerned.
Dean settled Jess and Sam into one of the double beds in the room and put John into the other, and then settled down at the table with his laptop to work.

He researched Ophanim, and discovered that they were a Hebrew legend, known as angels that served as the “wheels” of the throne of God. He cross-referenced that knowledge with Chuck’s words, and decided humans had likely taken some creative liberty in deciding how exactly the angels selected by God served him.

Which, to be fair, Dean really didn’t know what they were meant for, either. Chuck certainly hadn’t told him anything helpful.

Deciding to be irate about it later, Dean took to killing time online in other ways: namely, scouring the internet for bits of long-forgotten pop culture. And traversing stock market pages, because he was still entertaining the idea of getting rich off his foreknowledge.

The best thing he discovered was that the third Star Wars prequel had only come out earlier in the year, which meant that he could make lame references to the series and have people actually catch them, as the movies were at peak relevance.

(Shame, though, that it was in a bad way - at least the 2015 one had been good .)

He was debating how easily he could get away with stealing ideas from 2010 and beyond and implementing them now when he finally heard someone start to stir.

Dean looked over as Sam groaned himself awake, before blearily opening his eyes and looking around the room. Apparently remembering what had been happening before he passed out, he sat up abruptly, eyes settling on Dean.

“What happened?” Sam demanded. “That Gate - the demons -...”

“The Gate was opened,” Dean confirmed, which made his brother grimace. “A lot of demons poured out, and the angels pissed off to let it happen.”

“What happened to us?” Sam pressed, looking around, taking in Jess and John’s sleeping forms.

Dean shifted, and didn’t even have to fake the guilt in his eyes. Sam stiffened.

“Dean,” Sam said, slowly. “What did you do?”

“I closed it,” Dean answered, roughly. “That’s all. It doesn’t matter.”

“That means it does,” Sam argued. “What did you do, Dean?”

Dean clenched a fist. “I’ll tell you when Dad wakes up. I need to tell both of you, and I’m only gonna be able to say it once.”

Sam looked like he wanted to argue, but simply nodded. “Okay.” He got up, then, heading over and joining Dean at the table. “Gives us time to talk, at least.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, and, upon seeing Sam’s expectant expression, groaned. “ No, Sam. I don’t want to talk about it. I know what you want to talk about, and I most certainly do not.”

“Dean,” Sam said. “Stop acting like it doesn’t matter.”

“It shouldn’t,” Dean said, actually getting slightly angry about it, because it was true. It shouldn’t matter. When God himself had shrugged it off, when an angel made it clear he didn’t give a shit, what fucking right did his own family have to treat it like some big deal? “We shouldn’t have to talk about it, the same way we don’t talk about anything like this ever. If I’d hooked up with Jo - which, by the way, she’s like twenty. Not gonna happen - we wouldn’t be talking right now. You would have teased me about it for about an hour and then let it go and it’d be over.”

“But you didn’t,” Sam said. “Dean, you’re not getting me. I’m not mad, I’m not bothered or anything - I’m happy for you.”

Dean winced. “I’m not in love with the guy, Sammy, so I really don’t know why you’re acting like I am.”

“Okay, I’ll admit,” Sam conceded. “I thought it would have been more of a big deal to you than it was. But now I know it’s not - but it still should be, because you did something Dad probably wouldn’t like, because you wanted to. That’s huge, Dean. The eighteen years we were on the road, the three of us, I don’t think you ever did that.”

Dean blinked, taken aback. That...was not what he thought this discussion would have been about. “You’re… Wait, hold on.” He held up a hand, processing. “You’re telling me you don’t give a shit that I like dudes except for the part where it might piss Dad off?”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, pretty much.” He tipped his head. “About that, though…”

Dean rolled his eyes. He knew he wasn’t getting off that easy.

“Are you gay?” Sam asked. There was no accusation in his tone, just genuine curiosity, so Dean didn’t get defensive.

Instead, he snorted. “Fuck no. Men are cool and all, but women are where it’s at.”

Sam pursed his lips, seemingly deep in thought. “So, bisexual?”

Dean was tempted to crack a joke regarding the labeling, but all the words coming to mind weren’t coined (or at least popularized) until the height of social media activism, so he let it go. “Yeah.”

Sam nodded. “Okay. Cool.” Then, because his brother was a shit, he raised an eyebrow, prompting, “So is Cas a guy or girl?”

Dean shut his laptop. “I’m gonna go get coffee. Call me if they wake up.”

Dean left Sam laughing at the table.

Sam did not call, but Dean came back in an hour later to find all three residents of the motel room sitting together, talking.

Sam was apparently passing on the loose summary of events from Dean, which would explain why he didn’t get a call - they probably just woke up.

“Hey,” Dean greeted, setting the coffee carrier on the table and passing out drinks. “I brought moral support.”

“There’s whiskey in here?” John replied dryly, but sipped the coffee anyway. “Sam said you were waiting for me to tell us what happened.”

Dean grimaced, taking a seat. “Yeah. I really don’t wanna have to tell anyone this twice.”

They all watched him expectantly, and he let out a long breath. Here it comes.

“When the Gate was opened, the seal around the place was weakened.” Dean traced out a circle on the table. “The cemetery was in the middle of a huge devil’s trap. It kept out demons, and also kept demons in. Opening the gate, to let the demons out, shattered most of the trap, so it was worthless.” He drummed his fingers on the table, debating how exactly he wanted to phrase the rest. “But that meant that demons could come in, and I still know a couple. So I called Crowley.”

Sam seemed to catch on, eyes going wide. “Dean…”

“I made a deal,” Dean confirmed, eyes going to his own clenched fists on the table at the sharp inhale his father responded with. “I had him close the Gate. He couldn’t put the demons back, but closing the Gate kept the worst of Hell from getting out, which is good enough for me.”

“What the hell, Dean?” Sam demanded. “You sold your soul?”

“How long?” John bit out, tone ice cold.

Dean grit his teeth. “I’m not saying.” At both their outraged cries, he shot them a stern look. “I’m not. You’re not getting me out of this deal, and I don’t want you even trying. I’m not risking popping the lid off of hell, okay? One soul in hell over thousands of demons on Earth? That’s not even math you need to run. It’s a no-brainer.” He spread his hands out, going for placating but probably looking just more like he was bracing himself. “I’m not telling you when my time runs out, because then you’ll be eyeing the clock all day every day. I don’t want that. Don’t act differently than you usually do. I’m going to keep track on my own, and I’ll let you know when the day comes due. Until then, drop it. I didn’t have to even tell you about it, but I did, because I’m trusting you to listen to me.”

He locked eyes with John, then, who seemed to get the hidden meaning. The unspoken for once in our lives. After a moment of tense staring, John gave a single, solemn nod.

“I’m not going to just roll over and accept your death, Dean,” Sam warned. “Especially not you going to Hell.” He paused, before continuing, “But I won’t bring anything up unless I’m 100% certain of it. And you tell me when we’re getting close to the end, so I can say goodbye, if nothing else.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, Sammy. But honestly, if I start twitching when dogs bark, you’ll know I’m getting there.”

Sam winced. “Please don’t joke.”

“Humor is my last defence,” Dean defended. “Sue me, lawyer boy.”

Sam shot him a long-missed bitchface, and Dean took a moment to marvel at how different things had become.

Looking around at his tiny little family, he couldn’t help but think he’d finally done something right.

Chapter Text

The thing about Dean’s deal being three years, rather than one, was that they had a lot of downtime.

The seals wouldn’t be a problem until after Dean had done the song and dance in Hell, so the only thing they really had to think about were basic hunts. Before, they’d had nonstop problems, always something urgent on their minds - but now, Dean could take the time to think.

So, they headed back to the Roadhouse.

“The boys are back in town!” Ash called out when they pulled up, from where he had been seated on top of a random car in the parking lot. “I had your tag tracked on street cams once you hit state lines.”

“Don’t track my baby,” Dean warned. “She’s too good for you.”

Sam looked like he wanted to comment - probably on how the Impala somehow ended up with higher standards than one of her owners - but Ash just shrugged.

“That’s fair,” he said. “She’s a pretty car. Could probably use a couple engine upgrades -...” Dean made an offended noise, which Ash breezed right past. “But there’s always something to be said for the classics.”

Dean eyed the mullet the man still sported rather proudly, as though to make a point.

Ash just grinned back. Asshole.

“So,” John spoke up, then. “Did you manage to find the key?”
“Oh, yeah,” Ash said. “I got the first couple of hits on possibilities before the hunt ever flagged. I just didn’t look at them until after you guys left.” Turning back to Dean, he explained, “I found a whole lot of busts, where they’re probably family heirlooms passed along or chunked at some point, but there was one old dude that had left really weird funeral instructions. They salted and burned him, put the ashes in an urn, and buried an old box in the middle of the ashes. His whole family thought it was weird, but everyone was like ‘The dude’s crazy, who cares’ and did it anyway.”

“So there’s our key,” Dean filled in. “In the urn of a paranoid old hunter. Does it still count as grave desecration if it’s an urn?”

“Probably,” Ash replied. “Anyway, I saved you the trouble. Sent a couple hunters that were out that way to swing by and pick it up. Claimed the ashes were an ingredient in a ritual we were doing, so they wouldn’t fuck with ‘em. They dropped it off yesterday.”

Dean pointed at him. “You’re my new favorite. Apologize to Ellen for me.”
“Hell no,” Ash said. “I may be the obvious choice for coolest Roadhouse squatter, but I’m not gonna let her throttle me to take the title back. We’ll keep it between us.”

And then he winked, and Dean covered his choke with a snort, before heading directly into the bar.

He could practically feel Sam laughing at him, and really, that was going to get old quickly.

The urn was warded, with all the intricate symbols disguised as random decoration. Some quick examination and cross-referencing with Ash had Dean determining that they were probably warded keys, so that you had to do something special to open it.

So, for the next week, the hunters of the Roadhouse devoted their time to studying all sorts of magical rituals and their related symbols, to try and work out how the hell you opened the thing.

Their lucky break came in the form of a phone call, received by Dean four days into the study binge.

His cell - the Blackberry, not any of his burners, which was immediately suspicious - started going off, and he eyed it carefully before picking up. The number had been hidden, which could really mean anything, knowing the company Dean kept.

“Winchester,” he greeted, simply.

“You’re an interesting one to track down,” a lilting British voice replied, and Dean grinned.

“You’re one to talk, Talbot.” Dean replied. “I take it Marcella passed on the news, then?”

“Why?” Bela demanded. “Why did you take my contract? What do you want?”

Dean examined the book in front of him. “Right now, if you have any information on key wards, that’d be sweet. Other than that, nothing.”

There was a long silence on the line. “What do the wards look like?”

“I’ll send you some pictures,” Dean said. “If I can actually get some kind of contact info. The blocked number schtick nearly gave me a heart attack. I am on speaking terms with way too many creatures of the night to trust random calls.”

“I’ll text you,” she told him. “Your phone bill suggests that is your preferred method of contact, anyway.”

Of course she hacked his phone records. Dean rolled his eyes. Show off. “Only because I’m usually with all the people I’d actually call. But sure. Text me, and I’ll send you some shots of all this weird shit I’ve been staring at for a week, so you can tell me how to open it.”

She hung up without a verbal assent, and Dean resigned himself to the strained, forced respect she was likely to show him in the future.

He got her text almost immediately, though, and wasted no time replying with the clearest photos he could manage of every ward the urn featured.

About an hour later, he got back a single word reply: Kurdish.

Well, it was better than nothing.

In researching Kurdish symbols and wards, though, he discovered something interesting: they looked really familiar. Some closer examination had him recalling that they were very close to the ones inscribed along Ruby’s knife. Sure enough, he managed to do enough digging to find the symbols he remembered being etched into the blade, and thought he could even remember Henry making a passive reference to their origins once.

It seemed to be a little protection blessing, and Dean made careful note of it, in case he could manage to recreate the blade.

With that done, he returned to the warded urn. The symbols he found in his books and online were all more focused on modernized Kurdish, not the old symbols, but Dean was persistent. Eventually , he managed to get to a website that had snapshots of museum pieces, with translations and explanations of the images along the side.

Before long, Dean had several pages open, a book open to his side, and a notebook on his lap steadily being filled with furiously scribbled translation notes.

After around four hours of exhausting work, Dean finally felt confident he’d puzzled out the key wards’ meanings.

Dean set all his research material aside and headed to Ash’s room, clutching his notebook.

“Hey, Johnny Castle,” Ash greeted as Dean stumbled through his door. “There a reason you look like you got hit by a truck?”

“Research sucks,” Dean whined, before dropping the notebook on Ash’s lap and collapsing onto the man’s bed. “I’m gonna sleep for four years. You try and figure out that shit.”

Dean heard the paper rustle as Ash flipped through his pages of notes. “Huh. This is cool. How’d you find this stuff?”

“Bullshit,” Dean corrected. “This bullshit.”

Ash snorted. “What’s bullshit is that you’re sleeping on my bed and you’re still dressed. That’s just unfair, man.” He used the notebook to slap Dean’s ass, which made Dean turn around and give him a cold glare. “Yikes, that’s icy. Fine, princess, sleep away. I’ll wake you up when I’ve got the actual ritual we need to do on these.”

Dean didn’t need to be told twice. He was out like a light almost immediately.

Dean stirred to his brother’s voice, harshly whispering to someone.

“...and he just passed out in here? Is he okay? He’s usually not that quick to fall asleep.”

“Says you,” quipped the other person, and that was Ash, and Dean could finally remember where he was. Fuck. “I’ve seem him pass out in seconds, twice.”

“Fuck you, Stamos,” Dean said, sitting up. “I’m pretty sure you’ve got weed or something in the air knocking me out.”

“That’s the Agent 15,” Ash replied, dryly. “Or the sweet scent of my masculine sex appeal.”

“Your sex appeal is buried under a hairstyle that people in the eighties were sick of.”

Before Ash could reply, Sam cut in. “Seriously, Dean, you okay? I never knew you to be one to just crash out. Especially not where you wouldn’t wake up with me coming in.”

Dean stretched lazily, before standing and going to peek over Ash’s shoulder at the translation progress. “I’m tired,” he told Sam. “Do you know how little I’ve slept lately? It sucks. Typically I’m good with four hours every forty or so, but I’ve been running on less than that. If I pass out in here at least I know I have Ash’s fuckin’ annoying-ass alarm to wake me up if something’s wrong.”

“I tried making it music,” Ash said. “Slept right through it. The beeping is more intimidating.”

Dean gestured toward the computer dweeb with a hand, as if to say See? Told you. Sam just rolled his eyes.

“Well, we can catch up soon, once we’re somewhere permanent,” Sam suggested. “Or more so, at least. Did you find the way into the urn?”

Dean looked to Ash, who scoffed. “What do I look like?” He then quickly pointed a finger at Dean. “Don’t answer that. I look like a genius, that’s what, and this genius figured out that our key ward is actually really easy.”  When the Winchesters both looked to him expectantly, he sighed. “Y’all have no sense of fanfare. It’s a blood seal. The blood of all the Men of Letters at the time was put into it, which means we need that blood to open it.”

“How are we supposed to do that?” Sam asked, at the same time Dean said “Not a problem.”

Two pairs of eyes turned to Dean, and Dean grit his teeth. “Alright, don’t tell anyone, especially not dad, but I know about this because our grandad was a Man of Letters.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Which one?”

“You know dad’s old man?” Dean said. “The one that fucked off into oblivion?” At Sam’s sour look, he nodded. “Yeah, him. He didn’t piss off on purpose. He was killed by a demon.”

Sam sucked in a breath. “Shit,” he muttered. “That’s...not good. So he was a Man of Letters?”

“Got it in one,” Dean confirmed. “Which makes us a thing they call ‘Legacies’ - descendents of Men of Letters, who can join when they’re old enough. Our blood should work fine.”

“Awesome,” Ash said. “So we could pop it open now and see if we just wasted a week of our lives or not.”

“Sounds good to me,” Dean agreed. “Bring it over.”

Sam went and fetched the urn, and Ash did the preemptive ritual, before Dean cut his palm and dropped some blood onto the primary seal. Sure enough, it lit up, and then a clear seam appeared along the previously sealed lid. They popped the lid off, and Dean shoved his hand in, sending a mental apology to whatever old dead guy he was pissing off via ash violation, and fetched the box.

It looked just like the keybox Henry had given them, and once opened, it contained the same key.

Dean let out a breath of relief. “Thank Christ. It’s here. We’ve got our ticket out.”

Ash let out a whoop of joy, likely happy that he wouldn’t have to stare at any more eye-bleeding ancient texts, and Sam gave a tentatively hopeful smile.

Dean felt some of the tension pinching his shoulders ease. At least for now, they had a plan. They had a place to go.

They had something good, and way before anything good ever would have found them.

Any doubts Dean had about going back, this wiped them out. The look of relief and joy on Sam’s face was worth every single second of struggle.

They set out the next day, Dean giving quick goodbyes to Ellen and Jo and rolling his eyes as Ash pretended to weep for their loss. As John, Jess, and Sam piled into the car, though, Dean risked the shot - he pulled Ash forward a bit, kissed him quickly, and told him, “One last one for the road. Try not to die in the year or so before we come back into the world of the living.”

“‘Try not to die,’ he says,” Ash mocked. “‘Meanwhile I’ll go make a demon deal. No big.’”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I know. But no one ever accused me of being smart, Mr. MIT. Do better.”

Ash shrugged. “No promises, but I really don’t plan on biting it, so I’ll give you that one.”

“Good enough for me,” Dean said. “And I’ll probably call you at some point halfway there so you can tell Sam that having sex once doesn’t mean we’re about to go elope in Spain.”

“We’re not?” Ash feigned offense, placing a hand over his heart. “Honey, I had our tickets purchased and everything.”

Dean flipped him off. “I have standards. If I’m eloping with a dude I had sex with once, I’m gonna pick one with better hair.”

“And I would pick someone with better taste,” Ash countered. “Seriously, though, fuck off now. If you don’t leave soon Ellen is gonna be pouting all afternoon about it instead of getting over it in time to make me food.”

Ellen smacked him on the back of the head, but Dean just laughed and finished his goodbyes, heading to climb into the front seat of the Impala.

The passenger seat, because it was still “John’s car.” Dean would never get used to that.

With Dean seated securely in the vehicle, it was like a switch had been flipped. There was little conversation, only John’s tapes playing and the sound of tires on gravel.

They had just over two hours to Lebanon, if they drove entirely legally. Hopefully no one would be murdered.

Hopefully . It was never really out of the question, with them.

The bunker coming into view ahead of them made something in Dean relax that he hadn’t even known was tense. For so long now, that place had served as a safe haven, allowing them time to get their bearings in a way that they’d never been able to before.

Dean unlocked the door to the bunker with the key, but waved the others in before him, so that he wouldn’t have to worry about acting surprised at the interior.

“Wow,” Sam muttered, looking around the main area of the bunker. “This place is amazing.”

Dean bit back a laugh at Sam squinting to make out the details of the room in the sunlight that spilled through the door, and reached over to flick on the lightswitch. As the antiquated generators roared to life around them, lights and other powered items came on, revealing the true splendor of the safehouse.

“Holy shit,” Jess breathed.

Dean let his laugh out, then, watching with fond amusement as the three other hunters scrambled about the bunker, mapping it out in their minds and learning what they had access to.

“Bedrooms are this way,” he said after a bit, pretending to spot the hall of them for the first time. “Who wants first pick?”

Sam appeared over his shoulder, gaping at the sprawl of doors. “I really don’t think order is gonna be a problem.”

Dean contemplated for a moment revealing that the bunker had multiple floors, and decided he should probably wait - lest his brother’s brain leak out his ears.

They all began peeking through rooms, checking each one carefully, and Dean left them to it, heading instead to the kitchen.

He dropped his bags onto the counter, figuring he’d wait until everyone else had settled before he picked a room, and started taking inventory of the non-perishables that the kitchen had been stocked with for fifty years. There were a whole lot of interesting foods that he really wanted nothing to do with, so he made a note to self to drag someone (Jess, maybe? She was sensible) out shopping with him to stock up.

Jess came speeding into the room, slamming her hands onto the counter and leaning over it. “There’s more floors,” she told him, words coming out in an excited rush.

Dean laughed at her frantic look, and she grinned back. “What’s on them?”

“More bedrooms, for one,” she said. “I think they were supposed to have a rank system? Different floors have nicer stuff.”

“Practicality,” Dean offered. “Hide all the nice stuff where people aren’t gonna find it.”

“Yes, because I’m sure hunters in the forties were very concerned about breaking and entering.” She rolled her eyes at him. “I’m taking a nice room. A big one.”

She marched off with that, and Dean snorted, because Charlie had made a very similar declaration when she stayed with them. Of course, Charlie had also changed her mind about an hour after heading to bed, moving to a standard room with the comment of ‘the big one is creepy.’

Given that he’d noted some of the fancier rooms were heavily soundproofed, he understood why. Being in silence when you are used to constant noise was jarring - and the knowledge you wouldn’t be heard if you yelled out was unsettling. Jess likely wouldn’t have the same problem - but if she tried to share such a room with Sam, she’d find out.

Sam was the next to pop up, stopping in the doorway with a huge grin. “Dean! This place...it’s like...God, we could actually have a place to live.”

“That’s the goal,” Dean confirmed, and watched Sam shoot him a slightly teary-eyed smile before prancing off again.

Which left…

It was several minutes before John made his appearance, coming into the kitchen to stand in front of Dean with stiff shoulders and a contemplative look frozen on his face.

“Yeah?” Dean prompted.

“What’s the catch, Dean?” John asked, quietly. “I know you wouldn’t say it in front of Sam or Jess, but there’s no way we’ve got a place like this free of charge.”

“You didn’t,” Dean said. “You got it through the blood, sweat, and tears of other hunters - who died for it, actually. We’re taking over, and we’ll protect it from here on out. That’s what we’re paying for it, Dad - don’t overthink it. Just this once, we’ll take something good.”

John gave him a hopeless sort of look. “Dean. Since we met back up, all I’ve been getting is something good. You can’t blame me for waiting on the other shoe to drop.”

Dean frowned. “Dad. We’ve been scrambling for years to kill one demon, and now we’ve got a whole host of them released from Hell, trying to kickstart the actual apocalypse with Satan himself and goddamn angels. The other shoe dropped a while back, and it was full of freakin’ cement. This is just...evening the playing field, a little.”

John’s shoulders slumped. “I guess you’re right. Sorry - you worked so hard on getting this set up, and I’m not trusting you.”

“I’m used to it,” Dean muttered, rubbing at his face. “Sorry, that’s...that wasn’t fair. I’ve been cagey, it makes sense you’d be worried about what I was up to. I promise I’m not going to do anything that won’t help.”

“That’s not reassuring,” John told him.

Dean laughed. “I wasn’t really trying to be.”

Dean didn’t pick his same room as before, deciding trying to make it a home twice was just too much for him to take on. Instead, he waited until Jess and Sam had settled on a room, and picked the one directly across from it. John had gone two doors down from Sam, which placed them all in close range of each other, in case of emergency.

Jess ended up agreeing to go shopping with him eagerly, stating that it was the only way she would be safe from Sam’s idea of acceptable nutrition: namely, salads and weird health foods, intermixed with random microwavable meals when he was in a mood.

Quickly, though, he realized she had an ulterior motive: while Sam had kept his mouth firmly shut regarding the Ash situation to John, he clearly hadn’t extended the vow of silence to Jess.

“So,” she said, once they were safely in the Impala and on the way to the store. “Sam’s worried.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Dean waited, and when she didn’t offer any further explanation, sighed. “What’s eating him now?”

“Apparently you’re a lot different than he remembers,” she said. “I don’t know, because I only met you, like, six weeks ago. But Sam says you used to be a lot more…”

Dean snorted. “Self-righteous? Obedient? Stubborn as all hell?”

“Well, he said repressed,” Jess offered. “But yeah, basically.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “My brother is a great kid,” he told Jess. “I love him to death and I’d die for him a million times over.” He had, but, not the point. “But, he’s also the dumbest smart person I’ve ever seen. He’s trying to figure out what deep life-changing thing happened to me when he wasn’t around that made me give less of a shit what dad thinks.”

“And you’re saying nothing happened?” Jess guessed.

“Oh, no, I definitely changed,” Dean countered. “But the stuff he’s fixating on is stuff that doesn’t matter. Who I am, what I do, that’s secondary. I’m more worried about the whole ‘angels and demons trying to duke it out for Earth’ than identity issues, right now.”

Jess eyed him. “I was trying to be tactful and not jump straight to the guy thing, but I get the feeling you knew where I was headed.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Sam wasn’t just gonna let that one go, I know that much. I promise it is not as interesting as he thinks it is.”

“He keeps trying to figure out why you act like it doesn’t matter,” Jess told him.

“I know.” He reached over, pointing to his glovebox. “Get my tapes out of there for a sec, will you?” He waited for Jess to pull out the box, and then stopped her from handing it over. “Look at that box. See anything?”

She flicked through, making appreciative noises occasionally. “The classics,” she complimented. “Though I’m kind of surprised the guy with a BlackBerry still uses cassette tapes.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Dean said. “Those are dad’s. This jacket I’m wearing? Dad’s. Hell, Baby here-...” he pet the dashboard for a moment. “She’s Dad’s. Someone once asked me if I had anything that wasn’t second-hand from my dad, and I thought real hard about it and realized, no. I don’t. So I’m trying to be my own person, just a little bit, and stop worrying so much about what John Winchester would or would not do, think, and say in any situation.”

“And sleeping with Ash?” Jess asked.

“That one Sam’s just overthinking,” Dean told her, honestly. “Ash was interested, and I wasn’t about to turn down a good time. Easy as that.”

Jess laughed. “Fair enough. Hey, do you think the library in the bunker has anything in old Hebrew? I can never find anything good.”

Dean went through the mental inventory of books he could remember, and soon, they were in a rapt discussion on extinct languages.

Well. Maybe Dean embracing his inner nerd was cool, after all.

Chapter Text

“Gwen Stefani.”

“Know her.”

“Mariah Carey.”

“Duh.”

“Kanye West.”

“This is too easy.”

“Ciara?”

“Hot.”

“...Nickelback?”

“I oughta kick you out of my car.”

Jess laughed, slumping back in her seat. “I give up. You have culture, after all.”

“I’ll show you culture, top 40,” Dean countered, before launching into humming a very particular tune.

Jess’s eyebrows went up as she placed it. “Vivaldi?”

“Four Seasons,” Dean confirmed. “Spring, ‘cause no one cares about the others.”

“Wow. Didn’t see that one coming.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean grinned at her. “Dad benches me on hunts all the time, and I gotta find something to do.”

He actually learned most of that kind of stuff killing time in the bunker, but she didn’t need to know that.

“Okay, real question,” she said. “Favorite Shakespeare work?”

“Macbeth,” Dean responded immediately. “Shit was wild.”

“I was always down for Othello,” Jess said. “Especially since pretty much no one in that play is worth rooting for.”

“Aren’t you supposed to root for Othello?”

“The guy killed his wife over a rumor .”

“...Alright, that’s fair.”

Dean pulled up to the bunker, navigating down into the garage area to store the Impala. Jess immediately climbed out, heading to the trunk to grab as many groceries as she could carry, cackling all the way.

“Do I wanna know what she’s laughing about?” Sam asked from the doorway, apparently having come down at the sound of the car pulling in.

“She bought, like, eight things of ice cream,” Dean told his brother.

Jess turned to him with wide eyes. “Traitor! Now he’s gonna steal them.”

“Not if you eat them first.”

She shot him a finger gun, apparently deciding that was a great plan, and then darted off into the bunker to go put away her haul of snacks.

“I see you two got along well,” Sam said. “I was hoping you guys would be friends.”

“Your girlfriend quizzed me on pop culture to make sure I wasn’t an actual hermit and we had nerd debates,” Dean said. “It was awesome.”

"I'm glad you found something to talk about.” Sam shifted his weight between his feet, and Dean caught on to what he wanted to ask.

"She grilled me about you being nosy, too. Real subtle, Sammy.”

"Sorry,” Sam said. "I was just worried about you. You've been… Weird.”

"Weird?”

Sam pursed his lips. "You seem like you have a lot going on. You still haven't explained how you learned all this angel stuff.”

Dean winced."Look, Sam, I can't really explain just yet. Let's just say I know a guy, who knows a lot.”

"That's all I get? 'I know a guy?’” Sam stared his brother down."C'mon, Dean.”

Dean sighed."Okay, fine, damn. His name's Chuck, and he's a prophet.”

"... Okay, not what I expected.”

Honestly, Dean could get that - he hadn’t really decided on a cover story for his knowledge, but with Sam pressing for information he went for the easiest excuse he had. It wasn’t even a lie, really - originally, he’d met Chuck as a prophet, and he’d learned a lot from the guy that way. He just learned a lot more when he was outright about being actual God.

“So,” Sam prompted. “A prophet? Like, of God? Is...is that a good thing? Because so far angels have seemed like very bad things.”

“It’s a good thing,” Dean said. Mostly, he chose not to add. “The Angels we’re dealing with? They’re rogues. God went out for a pack of smokes and never came back and now they’re all scrambling trying to make daddy proud enough to come home. We’re just caught in the middle.”

“God’s missing?”

Dean grimaced, because that was a question he didn’t know quite how to answer. Figuring Chuck would probably smite him twice if Dean gave him away so easily, he offered, “Yeah, pretty much. Some angels are looking for him, but mostly they’re all convinced this is part of some grand plan and are trying to show how good of kids they are by destroying Hell while dad’s out of town.”

“Exciting,” Sam muttured. “So, ‘Chuck.’ How’d you meet him?”

Dean frowned. “Uh, he was doing some weird shit, so I checked it out and found a guy drinking himself to death in front of a shitty desktop computer, working on a shitty novelization of my actual life. The prophet thing was the second conclusion to come to, after ‘massive stalker.’”

“Wow,” Sam said. “And his...writing? That’s where you got all this?”

“Oh, hell no,” Dean said. “I try not to read that shit, for my own sanity. But the stuff he sees? Yeah. He’s watched the whole world get its shit wrecked.”

Sam sighed. “That sounds...awful.”

It was, Dean thought, but decided he’d keep that to himself for the time being. “Yeah. So I’m operating off of some semblance of foreknowledge that may or may not actually be relevant at all, depending on how much I’ve fucked up along the way.” And now that he thought about it, that was a perfect cover, and he was tempted to pat himself on the back. “In the meantime, I’ll let you know if he comes up with anything else we should look into.”

Sam nodded. “I didn’t expect to get back to hunting again in my life - but I gotta admit, being back at it with you, helping people through disasters they don’t even know are happening? Feels good.”

Dean grinned, patting his brother’s shoulder. “I know exactly what you mean, Sammy.”

Dean’s phone rang about thirty second after he’d shut himself into his new room, playing a grainy recording of Joan Osborne’s voice, which was impressive considering he was pretty sure his BlackBerry didn’t have that kind of storage.

Or speaker quality.

Really, if Chuck was capable of ignoring technology limitations like that, Dean was going to put in some requests.

That thought aside, the hunter answered his phone, pinning it to his ear with a shoulder as he went about unpacking his things. “Sup, Bruce Almighty?”

Chuck’s familiar groan came through the speaker, showing Dean hadn’t been wrong about who was behind the supernatural phone call. Good - calling Crowley or some other powerful being a movie title from a religion-based comedy was probably not easy to explain away.

“Ah, come on,” Dean said. “You can’t tell me you had nothing to do with that movie.”

“Morgan Freeman can play me any time,” Chuck said. “And if that sounds like an innuendo, I’m okay with that.”

“Gross.”

“Truthful.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “I take it you’re keeping an ear turned our way?”

“I’m not a labrador, asshole,” Chuck said. “I’m God. And the great thing about that is that I can see right past all the fancy seals on that building you’re in. So yeah, I heard you tell Sam about me. Good cover, even if it sounded super gay.”

Dean frowned. “Wait, what?”

“He totally thinks I’m your scorned ex boyfriend,” Chuck said. “He’s got a whole theory on our torrid romance being your big gay awakening. He’s trying to figure out where Cas fits in, and I can’t wait for that one to blow up in your face. Maybe you’ll get lucky and stumble back into Cassie, and he’ll shrug it off. Seriously, though, dude - I pretty much spelled that one out for you, and you missed it. I’m so ashamed of you.”

Dean wondered if Chuck joking about him and Cas being too close to just be friends would ever actually get funny, or if it was just one of those things where he’d be slightly uncomfortable up until the point it hit his last nerve. It didn’t help that he wasn’t exactly sure what Chuck’s commentary meant - he wasn’t sure if the guy was being a douche or if he was genuinely trying to get Dean to go for it, but either way, the Winchester was not happy about the interference.

That was irrelevant at the moment, though: what mattered was that he had Chuck on the line, and it was time for some answers, dammit.

“You wanna spell something else out for me, while we’re at it?” Dean asked. “What the fuck am I supposed to do now? I got three years of sitting on my ass ahead of me.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Chuck said. “The gates of Hell did get opened, Dean. Just because my kids can’t play yet doesn’t mean Luci’s won’t act up.”

Dean huffed. “You know what I mean. I can’t just...drive in circles, dealing with minor demons and acting like nothing’s going on. Sam will want to do something, and he is too smart to buy that there’s not anything we can do to stop the Angels for three years .”

“Why am I suddenly the idea guy?” Chuck asked. “I have my own shit to worry about - like who the hell I’m gonna actually let know I’m here. Maybe Gabriel? He was one of my favorites. Don’t tell the others.”

“I’ll leave it out of our weekly meeting,” Dean deadpanned. “Look, if I don’t have Sam helping me think of the big picture, I’m good at fucking it up. Short-term goals are easier for me to work with. Three years from now, I’m getting roasted. Until then...what?”

“Train Sam and Jess,” Chuck said. “Teach your family the lore they need, and show them where to look for more. Anti-possession and angel sealing tattoos are gonna need to happen ASAP, and other than that? I have no idea. Maybe you should start a club. Get a hobby. Make some friends , jeez, you’re killing me.”

“So your plan is ‘lie low’?” Dean asked. “Yeah, sounds great. Thanks a bunch, you’re a real trooper.”

“Eat me,” Chuck snapped. “My number will be on your phone if you need me. Can’t get to it, pray. You’re an Ophanim - your prayers will skip right over any angels and come straight to me. Oh, and one last thing - your blood is sort of toxic to any kind of supernaturally tainted creature, so don’t, I don’t know, get a vampire boyfriend or something and let him take a nibble. It’s holy water on steroids. Great for demon-fighting, probably not good for kinky monster sex.”

“I’m going to forget that string of words ever left your mouth, and hang up,” Dean told him.

“You’re welcome.”

The dial tone sounded before Dean could even begin to move to hang up.

What an ashhole, Dean thought.
Still - blessed blood? Not a bad secret weapon, that.

He’d have to keep it in mind.

Dean got three days of peace before Sam apparently couldn’t take it anymore.

He was in the kitchen, cooking breakfast, humming to himself because he was in a great mood and he had no other way of getting Sia’s Cheap Thrills out of his head when it wouldn’t come out for over ten years.

Sam had joined him about midway through, summoned by the smell of frying bacon, and was hovering by the metal table in the middle of the room. Dean had a feeling the first batch of anything he sat down over there to cool would be missing when he came back for it, and resigned himself to making more than he’d intended.

Sam apparently figured cornering him in the kitchen was the best opportunity to get answers, because he waited about ten minutes before starting the inquisition.

“So,” he said. “Chuck.”

Dean wondered if it would be petty to pray, so that the deity would have to take part in this conversation as well.

He’d save it for a last resort.

“What about him?” Dean asked, playing innocent, deliberately not thinking about what Chuck said Sam’s theory was there.

“How’d you manage to meet him, really?” Sam leaned on the table, probably shooting for casual, like Dean couldn’t see right through it. “You were always glued to Dad’s side, growing up.”

Dean gave him a flat look. “You left for college when I was twenty-two, dude. It may shock you, but I’m an actual adult now.”

Sam frowned. “Twenty-two is adult.”

“Yes, Sammy, you’re very grown up,” Dean said. “I’m sure you’ll be in big boy pants any day now.”

Sam flipped him off. “Screw you. I’m serious, here. You must have been on your own for a while to end up with a prophet.”

Dean sighed. “I take hunts on my own sometimes.” After a moment, he confessed something he’d never really talked about, the first time. “And honestly? Only half the ones I told Dad I was taking were solid leads. The other half, I just needed space to think for a while.” He focused on silently finishing another round of bacon, scooping it onto a napkin-covered plate to cool and dry, and starting the next as he spoke again. “I had a couple of...I don’t know, vacations, I guess. A few weeks here and there where I’d drag out a salt n’ burn or drive in circles pretending I was doing something important, so that I could get time to myself.”

“And one of those ‘vacations’ was with Chuck?”

Dean snorted. “Uh, no. I hunted Chuck down on purpose, and no, I’m not going to give you a story, there. He’s a weird dude, and I can’t claim a single second spent near that guy was a ‘vacation’ when he’s practically a 5’4” mass of concentrated anxiety and cheap booze.”

The grease in the pan popped, splashing his hand, leaving Dean swearing and pulling back a bit. Fuck you, he thought, with the force of a prayer, because no way that wasn’t Chuck.

“So you took a hunt to find him, and...then what? You didn’t really say anything about that.”

Dean paused, because he didn’t really know what to say, there. He couldn’t tell the truth, but there was no lie coming to him. A half truth couldn’t even serve, because his first meeting with Chuck was steeped in weird angel bullshit and Sam didn’t know how bad that was, yet.

“It’s not important,” Dean said, grimacing at how shady he sounded. “I spent a few days around there, made sure he wasn’t anything trying to kill me or whatever, and read through some of the shit he’d written that hadn’t happened yet. Once I had enough info, I had to get some shit done about it, so I was out.”

“Shame,” Sam said, tone just sly enough to set Dean on edge. “You should really look into doing stuff for yourself, more.”

“You’re not subtle, Sam,” Dean said, finishing up the bacon and setting the plate of it next to Sam as he traded for eggs. Maybe the fried meat would distract him from his questioning.

“I’m not trying to be,” Sam said, picking up a strip of bacon and practically inhaling it. “I told you already that you seem a lot better - happier, even, when you look past all the world-ending crap - and I’m starting to think maybe something in particular made you realize-...”

Dean turned from the stove in the middle of frying the first eggs, pointing his spatula at Sam in a warning. “If you spout off some sappy shit about me having a gay awakening, I’m gonna beat you into the dirt.”

“Well, good morning,” Jess piped in from the doorway, stepping into the kitchen. “I slept great, thanks for asking. No, no, this isn’t awkward at all, just keep talking.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Morning, Jess.” He waved to the plate of bacon. “There’s breakfast on the way.”

“Jess is Jewish,” Sam said.

Dean wasn’t entirely sure why religious beliefs mattered in a world where God was AWOL and Angels were trying to stage a jailbreak for their murderous younger brother, but he wasn’t one to argue letting people have their own thing. At least her following biblical rules wasn’t self-destructive, which was already better than John’s drinking or Sam’s running away or Dean’s…

Well, Dean’s everything, really.

“So,” she said, hopping up to sit on the table. “What were we talking about before I interrupted?”

“Sam’s trying to switch hats from lawyer to psychiatrist,” Dean said. “Apparently liking dudes is supposed to be a much bigger deal than I’m making it.”

Sam threw his hands in the air. “I’m just saying, Dean, you were always such a repressed kid! It’s weird to see you...I don’t know, comfortable.”

“I’m not comfortable,” Dean said. “This conversation? Very much uncomfortable. Quit starting it or I’m gonna start giving you details.”

Sam made a face. “Uh, gross. No thanks. I don’t need to know that much.” He looked to Jess, telling her, “Dean was telling me about running away for a month to date a prophet.”

Dean turned pointedly back to his eggs, ignoring his brother entirely.

“And now he’s sulking,” Sam added.

“You two are a riot,” Jess said. “You remind me of my cousins. Except one of those is in jail and the other three should probably be, too.”

“ I should probably be in jail,” Dean said. “I’m probably on a lot of wanted posters on police station corkboards.”

“Speaking of your family,” Sam said. “What do they think about you dropping out of Stanford and taking up with us?”

“They think that my boyfriend whose dark, mysterious past I always speculated about turned out to be from a family of bounty hunters, and on the run from the family business, but the felon they’d been hunting for years ended up in our area, so you joined your brother to take him down and got the taste for vigilante justice again.” She grinned. “And I, supportive girlfriend that I am, went with you to enjoy your semi-legal path of criminal justice.”

Sam blinked, looking to Dean, who shrugged.

Somehow, Jess had come up with a perfect cover story for their entire life, which Dean had been struggling to do for years.

“Marry this girl,” Dean told Sam, taking great pleasure in watching him flush and sputter. “She’s smarter than the rest of us combined.”

Sam was saved from having to form an articulate reply by John entering the kitchen, effectively cutting off any chance of the former subject being revived.

“What’d I miss?” John said, looking between Jess and Dean’s amused faces and Sam’s mortified one.

“Nothing much,” Dean said. “Who wants breakfast?”

Sam’s look turned a bit too knowing for Dean to think he got away with that deflection, but he was fine with it.

‘Later’ was not now, and that meant he had time to come up with something to say.

Chapter Text

If Dean hadn't put so much effort into keeping Sam alive, he'd probably strangle him.

“You should probably tell him,” Sam said. “Hiding isn't good for you.”

“I'm not hiding,” Dean said. “It’s just not a big deal, Sam. I’m not a relationship kind of guy,” he stubbornly ignored Sam’s snort, “and I doubt Dad wants to hear about who I'm leaving bars with anyway.”

“You don't think it's important that you're not telling dad a part of your identity?”

“Oh, my God, Sam,” Dean groaned. “I'm not in a cult, I'm not taking up step aerobics, I'm not about to buy a cat. This is not an identity crisis situation. I like dudes. It's really not a big deal.”

Sam frowned, and Jess intervened, patting her boyfriend’s shoulder. “It’s Dean’s choice, Sam. It's not like you tell your dad everything.”

Dean waved toward her. “Listen to the woman, Sam. That's usually the best advice in stuff like this.”

Sam sighed. “I just...If anything happens, I don't want to see what you do if Dad finds out and freaks.”

“And me telling him is supposed to make it less freaky?”

“He at least would find out directly.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “If you're suggesting that Dad would walk in on me doing the horizontal tango, you clearly haven't considered that we’re not in motel rooms anymore. And!” he pointed a finger at Sam. “If he did, I'd be scarred for life whether he freaked out or not. Some things are not meant to be seen, Sammy.”

Sam sighed. “Okay, fine, I'll lay off. It's your choice. But…”

“What?”

Sam leveled him with a serious look. “Don't go back to being Dad’s yes-man. You're better as yourself.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “You’re such a fucking girl, Sam.” At the bitchface he received, he laughed. “Alright, alright. I solemnly swear not to let Dad strong-arm me into being his clone. I will, however, keep the jacket and the Impala, because they're badass. The music can be compromised on.”

“Is this because of our top 40 game?” Jess asked. “Because I still can't believe you know all the words to Don’t Cha.”

Dean grinned. “It’s iconic. People will be stripping to it for decades to come.”

“I'm sure.”

Dean found her sarcasm hilarious, because he wasn't even wrong, but he'd let it go.

You know, like how Sam wasn’t letting anything go.

Once again, John saved Dean with his entrance, coming in with Dean’s laptop in his hands. “This thing started yelling at me, so I'm guessing something important happened.”

Dean took the computer, looking at the alert he'd set up - a news alert, telling him an article was posted with one of the key phrases he’d tabbed in it.

Article containing phrases: ‘unusual death’ and ‘hollow eye sockets’ has been posted.

“Weird,” Dean muttered, looking over the article. “I thought the Angels would fuck off until later, but it seems somebody's hanging around in...oh, you've gotta be kidding me.”

The others instantly swarmed him, peering over his shoulder curiously.

“Pack your bags, guys,” Dean said, waving at the Sioux Falls diner address. “We’re going to see Bobby.”

Dean had never understood Sam’s complaints when they would take long drives and Dean would loop tapes.

However, after about a week in the bunker listening to shitty top 40 hits with Jess, it was weird to hear Metallica ’s greatest hits for the second time in one car ride. Sioux Falls was just shy of six hours from Lebanon - five, maybe, given John’s less-than-legal driving - and Master of Puppets was an eight minute long song. Those two things did not combine well.

He loved the music, don’t get him wrong, but...change the tapes out, man. You’ve got a whole box of them.

Then again, Dean might have just been projecting how irritated he was on the music, instead of how dramatically uncomfortable it was to be riding shotgun next to his dad less than an hour after having a conversation with Sam about all the shit John definitely did not need to know.

Dean didn’t bother looking at Sam in the mirror to see if he was being given a look, because he could feel it.

Why Sam made such a big deal about it, Dean couldn’t figure out. His Sam, in 2016, had generally not given a fuck about Dean’s slow descent from a perfect soldier son to a house mom for the bunker. He’d poke fun at things Dean did here or there, but mainly he just left him to it. If Dean felt like cleaning the whole bunker or making a nice big home-cooked meal or otherwise generally playing like he was some kind of housewife, Sam let it happen.

Then again, his Sam had always been an advocate for them finding their comforts where they could. Their lives were falling apart pretty much 24/7, so it probably didn’t strike him as anything odd that Dean would cling to stability in any way he could, even if it meant dramatically shifting away from his once-held personality.

As far as the liking dudes thing, his Sam had always struck him as knowing. Dean would make a comment or talk to a guy for too long or volunteer to interview a male witness and Sam would just sort of give him an amused side-eye and tell him to go ahead. Whenever Chuck had made comments - fuck, whenever anyone made comments, because several people (and angels, and demons, and monsters) had - Sam hadn’t commented. He’d snort sometimes and try not to laugh when Dean looked offended about it, but he didn’t…

He didn’t freak out. He didn’t make a big deal out of it.

That was probably the biggest thing upsetting Dean: he had a dramatic, tangible reminder that he’d given up his Sam for good. That the 2016 that was would only ever exist in his mind, and he’d need to adjust to 2005 Sam again.

And honestly, those two were dramatically different people.

At least this Sam didn’t yet hate himself and low-key want to die. That had been a hard trait to stomach in 2016!Sam.

He didn’t like thinking about the fact that the Sam he’d gone through everything with wouldn’t exist again. He didn’t like wondering what Sam would turn out like this time.

He really, really didn’t like the fact that most of the things he told Sam were lies. Lying to Sam had never ended well for him. Ever.

Jess was alive, though, and John was too, and Azazel was dead and the Apocalypse was on hold until Dean took a dive down below and God was, for once, not AWOL, but just chilling out while he built he strength up again.

Chuck had even mentioned in their phone call the possibility of telling someone he was back, and even if he did pick Gabriel - the Angel that Dean would forever associate with Casa Erotica , which would be awkward if they met again - it would still be one more Angel that wasn’t about to go batshit.

Things were good. Things were great, even, by Winchester standards, which meant something was bound to fuck them over soon. Dean was just hoping that whatever it was was supernatural in origin and reasonably killable, and not just “Sam accidentally let it slip that you fuck dudes and Dad didn't take it well.”

Christ, he hoped that wasn't a thing he needed to deal with. His father's approval took two lifetimes to get. He didn't want to lose it over something dumb.

Besides, Dean had been honest when he told Sam it wouldn't be a major change from the norm. He didn't date. That wasn't something hunting allowed for. He wasn't about to go unearth Lisa and Ben or seek out any new and exciting romances that could end tragically. He'd be content with a little stress relief here and there as he otherwise focused on fixing the fucked up mess that was his world.

Any relationship he'd consider having, any man he'd consider putting up with romantically instead of sexually, he likely wouldn't even stumble into. He didn't plan on heading to Purgatory, so Benny was firmly out of reach, and no other men really came to mind when Dean considered that potential path.

Well, except Cas, but Dean wasn't touching that one. He'd wait for that candle to burn itself out. He had three years to get over it before he ran into the angel again, and Cas wouldn't even know him.

...That kind of stung, actually, so Dean distracted himself by striking up a conversation with Jess on the lack of consistency in biblical lore.

They were huge fuckin nerds, and both of the others were looking like they wanted to laugh, but Dean was okay with it. He had a family, and he was going to make the most of it before someone tore it apart again.

Seeing Bobby’s house was a punch to the gut Dean hadn’t been expecting.

He’d seen his brother as a kid and his father alive, but somehow both of those were easier to stomach than the sight of the old salvage yard, a home for Dean and Sam back when they had nowhere else.

Bobby wouldn’t suffer for Dean’s mistakes, this time, he swore it. Bobby was family, a better father figure to Dean than John really ever managed to be, and he’d get the chance to die a grumpy old man if Dean had any say in it.

The front door swung open as John cut the car off, revealing Bobby Singer himself, frowning at them from his porch.

“What the hell’re y’all doin’ here?” Bobby called out to them as they piled out of the car. “...And who’s the girl?”

“Hi!” Jess greeted. “I’m Sam’s girlfriend, Jessica Moore. Call me Jess.”

Bobby stared at her blankly for a moment, then looked over Sam and Dean each in turn and settling, at last, on John. “Y’all are here about the thing in the city, huh?”

“Jess is a hunter,” John told Bobby. “Dean’s teaching her.”

“Dean is really good at turning lessons into hospital trips, if I remember your boys in their teens rightly,” Bobby said. “She needs a teacher, I’ll take over. You three can figure out what the hell burnt out the eyes of a minister working late in the town church.”

“Angels,” Dean said. At Bobby’s incredulous look, he shrugged. “It’s a long story, man.”

Bobby shook his head. “If I’m gonna listen to whatever shit you’re about to dump out on me, I’m gonna need a drink. You may as well come in too, I guess.”

From a Bobby Singer that hadn't yet learned John was anything other than half-crazy desperate hunter running his kids into the ground, Dean considered that a damn warm welcome.

“...Angels.”

“Yeah.”

Bobby stared at Dean for a long time, before slowly popping the lid off his whiskey and fishing out a bigger glass to pour it into.

“So there are going to be demons everywhere,” Bobby said. “And there’s nothing we can do about it other than send ‘em packin’, and unless we steal the sword off an actual angel.”

Dean shrugged. “A couple other things can kill them, but yeah, pretty much.”

“Where in the hell did you even catch scent of this, boy?” Bobby asked. “Any other hunter would’ve turned tail and booked it at the first sight of something anything half as powerful as what you’re talkin’.”

Dean ignored Sam’s eyes on his back, and gave a noncommittal, “I have sources.”

Bobby paused in the middle of a drink, staring down Dean before turning to Sam. “Where’d he get this?”

“What the hell, Bobby,” Dean said, offended. “I don’t tell everything to Sam.”

“He met a prophet,” Sam said, before giving Dean a halfhearted, “Sorry.”

John looked to them incredulously, clearly wondering why he wasn’t informed of that detail, while Bobby just nodded.

“Right. Prophets. There are angels, and the devil, so why not prophets.” He took a long swig of whiskey. “And so this prophet told you that all this stuff was gonna happen?”

“He’s already seen it,” Dean confirmed, choosing his wording deliberately. Chuck had seen it, after all - it was just that Dean had, too. “He’s the reason I was able to get a head start on all this.”

Bobby narrowed his eyes. “By the stink-eye your dad is givin’ you, you didn’t tell him this?”

Dean swallowed. “I didn’t want to tell anyone. Sam just cornered me.”

Bobby leaned in on his elbows, levelling Dean with an intense stare. “Why not?”

Dean’s heart raced into his throat, and he scrambled for an answer. Sam’s ‘knowing’ stare piercing his back was a physical force, and the expectant looks of both older men were making him anxious. Words failed him, and he tried to think up something that he could use to cover his tracks.

“Uh, I know I’m the new one here,” Jess spoke up, calling the men’s attention to her. “But if Dean’s got foresight into the world ending and he’s holding something back, I’m willing to bet I really don’t wanna know. I’m okay with him keeping the gorey details to himself.”

Jess was Dean’s favorite, that was it.

“If we are gonna stop it, I’d like to know what I’m stopping,” John argued.

“No, you really don’t,” Dean said. “Trust me, okay? I have it under control. I know what needs to happen and what needs to not happen, and I’m handling it. I’ll tell you when something important happens.” At the skeptical looks he received, he sighed. “Look, guys. If I sit here and run through every single thing, it’s not gonna help us. It’ll just make you paranoid. Worry about the big stuff. Going on hunts, stopping demons and monsters as they turn up, that kind of thing. Help me hunt down these angels that are hanging around, too. When there is something else you can do, I’ll tell you, I promise.”

There was a beat of worrying silence, before Bobby set his glass down on the table, leaning back in his chair. “Well, in that case, let’s get started on the problem at hand. What the hell are angels doing in my town?”

Dean had missed Bobby’s pragmatism, he really had.

Chapter Text

If there was anything Dean was more excited about than seeing Bobby again, it was this: walking up to Jody Mills for what she would remember as the first time, armed with the knowledge that trying to lie to her was next to impossible, saving him the embarrassment of being caught out on a scam.

“Excuse me, sir, this is a crime scene,” the sheriff called out as Dean walked up. “You can’t be here.”

Dean pulled his hands out of his pockets, baring his palms in a casual show of surrender. “I’m not trying to trespass. I was looking for you, actually.”

Jody narrowed her eyes at him. “Me?”

“You’re Sheriff Mills, right?” Dean asked, trying to sound uncertain.

“I am,” she confirmed. “And you are…?”

“Dean Winchester,” he said. “I’m, uh...a friend of Bobby Singer’s?”

“If that’s supposed to endear me to you at all, you must not know Bobby that well.”

Dean snorted, remembering with amusement that most people in Sioux Falls thought Bobby was a crazy drunkard. “Yeah, no, not really. He’s friends with my dad. That’s, uh, why I wanted to speak to you.” He nodded to the side, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. “Can we talk? Just for a sec?”

Jody watched him closely for a second, before sighing and starting to march off toward the edge of the diner’s parking lot where he’d gestured, waving for him to follow her.

Dean walked after her quickly, quietly signalling Sam to start moving into the diner. The sooner he got what they needed, the better.

“Alright, kid,” Jody said when he stopped in front of her. “What is it?”

“Bobby’s like my uncle, at this point,” Dean said. “He helped raise me. Hell, half the time he did a better job of it than my dad did.” At Jody’s quirked eyebrow, he scrambled to assure her, “Don’t worry! I’m not trying to start a therapy session here, or anything. I just wanted to make it clear that whatever issues you’ve got with Bobby, he’s the better option.”
“So this is you warning me your old man’s in town to cause trouble?”

Dean shrugged. “Pretty much. I wanted to give you my number, in case either of them ends up getting hauled off in cuffs. They’re really not bad guys, they’re just…”

“Rampaging alcoholics?” Jody suggested. “Singer always struck me that way, anyway.”

“Uh, yeah. Pretty much. My dad’s also a little bit…” he made a ‘crazy’ hand gesture next to his temple. “And they feed off each other. I just didn’t want you to shoot him if you walked in on him...I don’t know. Shouting at a wall in Latin.”

Jody’s eyebrows shot back up to her hairline. “Is that something that tends to happen?”

“It’s not...entirely unheard of?” Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “The short of it is: Bobby is a grumpy old man with paranoia issues and my dad is a worn out widower with even worse paranoia issues, and you’re probably gonna run into them doing something weird at some point while we’re in town. Please try not to kill them, even if you really want to.”

Jody watched him with an unreadable expression - right up until she spoke, and Dean recognized her tone as the ‘worried mom’ voice she’d used for Claire and Alex. “Those two raised you? Were they always this way?”

Dean twitched, and racked his brain for a way to save the conversation.

His hesitation must have said too much, because Jody’s face became pinched. “Listen, son-...”

“They’re not bad men,” Dean insisted. “They’re really not. My dad probably shouldn’t have had kids, but Bobby never did wrong by us, and my dad...he tried, okay? Don’t worry about it. My brother and I are adults now. It’s water under the bridge. I’m just trying to keep an eye out for them.” He handed over a folded scrap of paper. “Here’s my number, alright? Call me if they cause you any problems, and I’ll handle it.”

Over Jody’s shoulder, Dean saw Sam slip back out of the diner and into the car.

“I’ve gotta go,” he said. “See you around, Sheriff.”

Jody’s “You too, kid” sounded slightly weary, but Dean didn’t dwell on it.

“They didn't seem to be missing anything,” Sam said, once Dean joined him in the Impala. “But I snuck a peek at the cop’s notes. Cook remembered them coming in a group of three, but there's only two stiffs.”

“So victim three made it out,” Dean surmised. “What do you wanna bet there's something hitching a ride in their head?”

“Sucker bet, I'd say.”

“Yeah.” Dean cranked the car, pulling out onto the road. “You get a name?”

“Nope. Checked the vics’ IDs, though. I can probably track down the friend from there.”

Dean nodded, and then paused when he saw Sam frowning at the rear view mirror.

“What?”

“You’re being tailed.”

“The fuck?” Dean looked, and sure enough, he could see Jody Mills sitting in her patrol car, casually following them down the road. “Shit. I should’ve picked a better story.”

“She didn't believe you?”

“Oh, no, she definitely did,” Dean said. “And that's probably worse.”

Singer Salvage Yard rose up before them, and Dean pulled into the drive muttering curses.

The second they were out of the car, Jody was too, hands in her pockets and looking casual - not at all like she’d just followed someone home out of suspicion.

“Sheriff Mills,” Dean greeted. “Something the matter?”

“You tell me you have two known troublemakers sitting pretty in the middle of this town and don’t expect me to drop by and check on them?” Jody gave him an amused looking half-smile. “Yeah, no. I don’t trust Bobby Singer as far as I can throw him, and the look on your face when I asked about your dad tells me he’s probably the same way. I just want to remind Bobby he’s on thin ice after last month.”

Dean blinked. “What happened last month?”

“I found him hanging around a museum after hours. If I hadn’t stopped to say hello, he’d probably have broken in, and we both know it.”

Dean grimaced. “In his defense, he probably would have given whatever it was he took back when he was done.”

“Done with what ?” Jody asked. “He’s a weird guy, but I can never figure out what it is he’s up to in there.”

“Would you believe ‘ghost hunting’?” Dean asked.

Jody snorted. “Honestly, at this point? I’d believe anything, just to have an explanation for this man.”

Dean looked over to Sam, who emphatically shook his head.

...Eh, screw it.

“Come on in,” Dean invited. “Meet my dad, talk to Bobby.”

“Uh, Dean,” Sam started to say. “Maybe not-...”

Dean waved him off. “I’d rather not have someone gunning for Bobby if we can help it. May as well clue her in.”

“I really don’t like the way this sounds,” Jody said. “But what the hell. You wanna start making sense, I’m all for it. If I walk into a cult meeting, though, you’re all leaving in cuffs.”

Dean resisted the urge to say wouldn’t be the first time. It wouldn’t help his case in the slightest.

“Dean, good, you’re back,” Bobby’s voice came to them, the second the door opened. “Did you hear any shrieking around the diner? I found an Ojibwe myth about-...” Bobby stopped in the doorway to his living room, book in hand, floundering for an explanation. “...Sheriff Mills. Hello.”

“Bobby,” Jody greeted. “What was that about shrieking?”

Dean grinned at the man over Jody’s shoulder, holding back a laugh when he was met with a glare.

“The baykok,” Bobby said, slowly. “It’s a restless spirit, usually the ghost of someone who died in disgrace.”

“And this has to do with my crime scene, how?”

“Their eye sockets are hollowed out,” Bobby said. “It’s a loose connection, but better than we had.”

“I’m telling you, Bobby, it’s angels,” Dean said, ignoring the desperate shut the fuck up look the man shot him. “We even think we know where to find the one who did this. He’s probably camped out in the third vic, wherever they are.”

Jody turned around, eyebrows shooting up to her hairline. “Wanna run that by me again in English?”

“Gimme a sec,” Dean said. “Bobby, you got any yarrow lying around? I need to make a call.”

Bobby shook his head. “ Do I have yarrow. What do you take me for? Of course I have yarrow.” He pointed at Dean, levelling him with a stern look. “But whatever shit you’re up to, try not to get any of us killed.” He looked to Jody, then, and back again. “Or arrested,” he added.

Jody looked beyond confused, which made Dean feel kind of bad for just throwing her into the mix, but she would catch on soon enough. He headed into the other room, picking through Bobby’s herbs and ingredients to find what he needed, chucking them into an empty whiskey glass as he went. Not exactly a traditional bowl for a summoning, but Crowley probably wouldn’t give much of a shit.

Even if he did, Dean didn’t care. He didn’t have time to get fancy.

Heading back into the living room, Dean set the glass on the coffee table, and pulled out a pocket knife, carefully cutting into the palm of his hand.

“What the hell?” Jody yelled, as Dean let blood drip onto the herbs.

“Crowley, Rex Compitales,” Dean muttered, ignoring Jody starting to panic behind him. “Hercle factum.”

There was a beat.

“You guys are crazy,” Jody breathed. “This is actual cult shit.”

“Don’t be a dick, Crowley,” Dean muttered, and shook his hand, dropping another drop of blood into the mix.

“Rude.”

Jody screamed, jumping back, as Crowley appeared next to her, staring disinterestedly at Dean.

Crowley winced, sticking a finger into one ear and making like he was cleaning it out. “Yeesh. Try a bit louder, next time, love. I don’t think all of Heaven heard.”

“Pick a better wording,” Dean said, wiping off his palm now that the blood was done with. “Angels are fucking around here. Found two bodies, and we think he’s riding the third.”

“Tragic,” Crowley drawled. “But that sounds like a personal problem, love. Our deal’s been done. As lovely as your soul is, I can’t actually take it twice.”

“Can we change the terms?”

“Dean, what the hell?” Bobby demanded. “Don’t-...”

“Hush, darling, the adults are talking,” Crowley interrupted. To Dean, he gave an interested twitch of his eyebrow. “What are you offering?”

“Shorten the term,” Dean said. “And get me something that can take down an angel. If anyone has something like that, it’s the guy gunning for king of Hell.”

Jody began softly muttering what could have been a prayer or a string of curses. Both were equally likely, knowing her.

“And what makes you think I want that abomination of a soul any faster than I’ve already got it?”

Dean really hoped Sam and Bobby wrote that one off as a generic insult. “You saying you don’t?”

“Not at all,” Crowley said. “Just don’t want you getting an ego. I have an idea that should work, if you’re really willing.”

“Dean…” Bobby started to warn.

“How long?”

“A year.”

Dean winced. That was familiar. “Two.”

“Is this a negotiation, now?” Crowley asked, incredulous. “ One, and you get the power to destroy almost any being. Certainly any I can think of. More than fair, Dean.”

And dammit, but he was right. “Fine,” he sighed. “One year.”

“Excellent,” Crowley said. “I’ll take a verbal agreement for this one, if you don’t mind, darling. It’s not you, it’s me.”

“Eh, fuck off,” Dean said. “Bring me a weapon.”

“I’m not able to make it,” Crowley said, before waving a hand. A creepy antique-style envelope appeared in his hand, complete with a red wax seal in the shape of a devil’s trap. “I believe this was created by the same folks who built the house you’re squatting in.”

“ I built this,” Bobby said.

“Not you, moron,” Crowley told him. “ Them.”

“Quit spying on me,” Dean said, snatching the envelope. “It’s creepy.”

“Pot, kettle,” Crowley cooed, before vanishing, apparently satisfied with the last word.

“What the hell,” Jody breathed. “What the everloving shit was that? Am I insane? Did you- Did you drug me?”

“Nope,” Dean told her, trying to speak gently. That kind of reveal was a little bit mean, but he really needed Jody to skip the doubting them part of the routine and get straight to being on board with the planing.

“I got this,” Jess said, stepping into the room, and putting an arm gently over Jody’s shoulder, steering her toward the kitchen. “Come on. I’ll explain everything the slow way. It’s not really any easier, but it makes more sense, at least.”

Dean let her take over, and flipped over the envelope, ripping into it.

“That better be worth it,” Bobby told him. “I don’t know what the hell you were thinking, dealing with a demon like that. Do you want to go to Hell?”

Kind of, Dean thought, except he really didn’t at all. He just wanted it to be over with.

Instead of replying, he just pulled the parchment from the inside of the envelope, and read carefully through the ritual instructions written there.

Forging a weapon in holy fire, the document was labelled.

“Good news,” Dean said. “It was so worth it.”

Chapter Text

“So a knife would be easiest, right?”

Dean shook his head. “Not to work with. I had a better plan.”

At the expectant looks he received, he rolled his eyes.

“You could at least pretend to be excited, this is awesome.” He held up a finger on each hand, in a ‘wait for it’ gesture. “I have a ritual to make bullets for the Colt. What if we could make a new Colt out, and forge it and the bullets in holy fire?”

Bobby leaned back in his seat, letting out a breath. “That...would be perfect. If we had one gun that could kill anything…”

“Dean,” Sam said. “You’re a genius.”

Dean fumbled, not liking the twin awed looks he received. It was a sweet idea, but it was a longshot, really.

He went to say as much, but they had already moved on, talking animatedly about the logistics of how to go about creating a new version of the Colt.

Oh well - he’d take his compliment in the spirit it was intended, and let it go for now.

Jody and Jess were still talking in the kitchen when Dean entered it, a good hour into Sam and Bobby’s brainstorming session on the technicalities of their new ritual.

They looked up at him, and there was a moment of awkward silence before Dean maneuvered past them to go to the fridge.

“Anyone else want a beer?” he asked.

“ God , please,” Jody breathed out. “This is crazy.”

Dean got two bottles out and handed one over to her, watching her pop it open and down a good third of it.

“If it makes you feel better,” Dean started, but Jody cut him off.

“It won’t,” she said. “Whatever it is. Just...let me process, thanks.”

That was fair, he supposed, so he sipped his own beer and let the girls stew quietly for a moment.

“What’re the guys up to?” Jess asked, after a while.

“Sam and Bobby are trying to figure out how to make a new Colt,” he said. “Since ours is laying in a pile of ash in a graveyard. I dunno where dad even is, though.”

“He said he was going somewhere, earlier,” she said. “But now that you mention it, I can’t remember where.”

“This is the guy who is worse than Bobby, right?” Jody chimed in. “And he’s just...out somewhere? In my town?”

Dean grimaced, because even though he’d sort of bent the truth a little when he told her about them, she wasn’t wrong . John Winchester was worse, in that Bobby researched everything extensively before he made any moves, and John was more the ‘learn by doing’ type.

A perfectly valid way to be, up until you charged at an angel without anything strong enough to even make them flinch.

“I’ll find him,” Dean said, setting the half-finished beer down and heading toward the door. “Keep an eye on those two, would you? Don’t let the nerds make a ritual that’s gonna bring the world down or something.”

“But where’s the fun in that?” Jess teased, and Dean laughed his way out to the yard.

He’d had the Impala on his run to town with Sam, so John would have had to take a different car. There were plenty of junkers around he could have fixed up just enough to go a short distance, but Dean doubted he would.

His dad was many things, but he wasn’t stupid. He was probably still in the salvage yard.

Sure enough, as Dean took a slow walk around the grounds, he eventually caught a glimpse of his dad bent over the hood of a Chevy Caprice.

“That’s an old model,” Dean observed, strolling up at a casual pace with hands in his pockets. “Late 60s?”

“Early 70s,” John said. “It’s convertible, so it’s at least ‘73.”

“The Impala had a droptop in 61, didn’t it?”

“It was made with one from the start,” John corrected. “Back in ‘58. People liked it, so they drug it over to the Caprice.”

Dean hummed, looking over the car. “I still like our baby better.”

“Well that’s good,” John said. “Because she’s yours.”

Dean blinked, startled. “What?”

John waved at the car in front of him. “I’m gonna jack this one off Bobby when I get it running. Shouldn’t take long. There’s four of us, right now - we need more than one car. Especially since you know more about what we’re up to than any of us.”

Well, that was true, but Dean still couldn’t see where the logic of ‘multiple vehicles are probably a good thing’ jumped to ‘give Dean the Impala.’

John must have caught the confused look on his face out of the corner of his eye, because he stopped digging around in the car’s engine and looked up to his son.

“Dean,” John said. “The whole ride up here, you were practically twitching in your seat. Three grown men is too much for that car, and adding in Jess doesn’t help. It’d make more sense for us to get a car for Sam, so he and Jess can ride together on their own, but…” He waved at the car in front of him. “I feel like I’ve been riding your coattails since California. I gotta do something for myself, or I’m gonna lose it.”

“I know the feeling,” Dean allowed. “But seriously, Dad, I don’t need anything. I’m doing the same things you would do, if you were the one who knew about it.”

“No, you aren’t,” John insisted. “You’re doing better. And more than that, you’re keeping stuff from me - don’t look at me like that, I’m not an idiot - and making choices on your own, which shows me that you’ve long since gotten over looking for my approval on things.”

“I’m-...”
John held up a hand. “Don’t say ‘sorry.’ It’s a good thing, I think. I wanna know what’s going on with you, and having a say in things would make me feel better, but at the end of the day you’ve made all the good calls on your own and cleaned up my mess while you were at it.” He picked up the rag he had tossed over the car’s hood, wiping his hands off on it. “I’m just saying, give your old man something to do. Sitting around on my ass watching you boys do the legwork is driving me crazy.” He shot Dean a stern look. “And don’t think I didn’t catch you telling Sam more of the story than you’ve told me. I don’t know what you’re not trusting me with-...”

“It’s not that, Dad, it’s just-....”

“Don’t bullshit,” John cut off. “You going after Yellow-Eyes was the start of it, but you’ve been cutting me further and further out of the loop. One day I’m not going to be able to do anything, because I won’t know anything.”

Dean shifted, guilty. “Dad, Sam barely knows anything. I just told him about the prophet thing because he wouldn’t get off my back, and I wanted him to know I wasn’t...I don’t know, in a cult or something. That I got all my info from a good source, and I wasn’t in any more danger than I’ve gotta be.”

John eyed him, clearly disbelieving. “So why does Sam keep looking at me like he’s waiting for me to break shit?”

Dean let out a low breath. “Because the kid isn’t nearly as subtle as he thinks he is,” he grouched. “And he’s hiding stuff from you, but this is...not actually important stuff. Nothing to do with demons or angels or anything, just...personal shit.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Personal?”

“You really don’t wanna know.”

John stared him down for a second, before shaking his head. “Alright, I’ll take your word on it. Just...don’t keep leaving me in the dust, alright?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, and hoped John never caught how heavily he was bullshitting. “I’ll let you know the important stuff. Promise.”

“Sam,” Dean called, watching as his brother’s head perked up. He waved over his shoulder, signalling Sam to come out into the hall with him.

“What’s going on?” Sam asked, frowning at Dean’s serious expression.

“You need to chill the hell out,” Dean said. “Dad isn’t blind, and he knows you know something he doesn’t, and he’s trying to find out what it is.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. So I need you to calm down and stop losing your mind about this, because it’s really not a big deal, and I don’t wanna have that conversation, thanks.”

Sam shifted. “I just-...”

“ No , Sam, listen to me,” Dean insisted. “Why the hell is this so important to you? I didn’t peg you for the type this shit would bother.”

It didn’t bother you before, he wanted to say, but that wouldn’t make any sense to Sam as he was now.

“Because, Dean,” Sam said. “I didn’t see you for years, and then you turn up a completely new person. This is the only change you’ve told me about, so I have to think it’s important. The other option is that you’re not telling me what really happened to get you out from under Dad’s thumb, and I don’t want to think we’re that far apart now.”

“We’re not,” Dean said. “I’m not telling you everything, but I wish you guys would stop trying to find out what I’m not saying and start listening to what I am.”

Sam looked slightly guilty at that, and Dean took it as a hollow victory. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he said. “I just...it’s easier to fixate on stuff that makes sense than stuff that doesn’t. ‘Dean’s gay’ makes more sense than ‘Angels are trying to end the world.’”

“Whoa, whoa,” Dean said, holding up a hand. “Back up. Dean’s not gay, thank you very much. I like dudes and chicks. We’ve been over this.”

Sam’s guilty look got a little more pinched.

“Oh, my God,” Dean huffed. “You didn’t believe me. That’s some shit , Sam.”

“Sorry.”

“No, no, you’re not talking your way out of that one,” Dean said. “I’m telling Jess.”

“What? Dude, not fair.”

“Too late. Jess !”

“Dean!”

Not too long later, Dean left Sam to be scolded by an offended girlfriend, and returned to the living room to check on Bobby’s progress.

“How’s mission: impossible?”

“Pretty damn impossible,” Bobby said. “We don’t even know what made the Colt work, let alone how to make it again.”

Dean frowned, thinking, before going to his things to retrieve his notebook. He flipped through it, seeking out the runes he’d tracked down when working on the urn for the bunker key. Kurdish runes filled the margins, and he passed it over to Bobby. “I found all these the other day. They’re supposed to be pretty demon-proof, or something. Maybe some of these can help?”

“Boy, what the hell?” Bobby demanded. “Why didn’t you start with this? Could’ve saved me this damn headache. Idjit.”

That term was a bit of a knife to the gut, to hear again. He didn’t have to worry about hiding his reaction, at least, because he was almost immediately dismissed, Bobby turning his full attention to studying the new material.

Dean didn’t have anything else to do, at that point, so he turned to the door, deciding to head back out into the junkyard.

Maybe his dad would need help with the car. He’d take an engine over a ritual any day.

Dean was elbow-deep in the engine of the Caprice when Bobby came out to retrieve him, saying they’d made progress and needed his input.

Once they were at the back door of Bobby’s house, though, they stopped, and Bobby turned to Dean with a tense look.

“I heard you and Sam talking earlier,” he started, and Dean froze. “Don’t look at me like that, I ain’t tryin’ to give you shit about it. I just wanted you to know that I know.”

Dean shifted back on his heels. “You’re not gonna…?”

Bobby scoffed. “Son, I ain’t touchin’ that with a ten foot pole. That’s between you and your old man. Far as I’m concerned, it’s none of my damn business. But Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“If he gives you shit, let me know,” Bobby said. “You’re a good kid, and an outstanding hunter. This doesn’t change that.”

“Thanks, Bobby,” Dean sighed out, feeling like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders he hadn’t even known was there. “I needed that.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Bobby said. “And just so you know? The rules for girls carry over to guys.”

“There are rules for girls?”

Bobby held up fingers in turn as he listed them off. “If they’re serious, they need to know about the job. If they aren’t, don’t bring ‘em by. And for fuck’s sake, kid, keep the details to yourself.”

Dean laughed. “Yeah, can do, Bobby. I wasn’t planning on oversharing in that department.”

“Good,” Bobby said. “That’s more than I ever need to know.”

A wicked whim hit Dean, teasing him with the idea of telling Bobby that once, in another life, he’d pretty much made out with a demon.

...Nah. He’d save that one for another time.

“Alright,” Dean said. “Did you actually work on the ritual, though?”

“Damn right,” Bobby confirmed. “Come on. You’re gonna like this.”

Chapter Text

“I’ve got a 1911 somewhere around here,” Bobby said, looking over their spread of materials for the new Colt ritual. “We could use that as the base.”

“Is it a 1911, or is it from 1911?” Sam asked. “Something up-to-date is probably best.”

Bobby huffed. “It’s a couple years old, tops, you big baby. Honestly, it’s not like I’m gonna carry around anything I can’t rely on, no matter when the hell it was made.”

“Be careful,” Dean mock-whispered to Jess. “They’ll argue about this for days.”

Sam threw his hands into the air, exasperated. “I don’t get why none of you like anything made since 1980.”

“Uh, not true,” Dean corrected. “I like you two, and you’re both from the 80s.”

Sam gave him an unimpressed glare, and Dean grinned back.

“Okay, kids,” Jody cut in - probably not ready for joking around in the middle of a slightly occult ritual just yet. “What are we doing? What am I supposed to be doing?”

Bobby tossed the book he’d been flipping through to the side, letting it drop onto the couch, and turned to leave the room. Over his shoulder, he called, “I’ll get the gun.”

“I can carve the runes in,” Sam said.

“I’ll help you get the translations right,” Jess volunteered.

Everyone looked to Dean, and he realized he was probably going to have to delegate from there.

He really didn’t like how much was defaulted to him, but at least he knew he could keep a lid on things.

“Someone has to get ready to bleed,” Dean said. “Human blood is one of the ingredients.”

“I guess you already bled for this,” Jody said, looking down to his hand, where the cut from summoning Crowley was.

That was true, so Dean didn’t feel bad about letting her believe it, but the main reason was something else entirely:

The ingredient was human blood, and he wasn’t really sure how ‘human’ he counted as being. Especially with Chuck telling him his blood was basically red holy water or something. As awesome as it would be to throw one more demon-nuke into the pot, he wanted to make sure it worked, and the fewer changes they made, the better.

“Whichever one of you doesn’t bleed is doing the incantation, so please be confident in your Latin.”

“I’ll take blood, then, I guess,” Jody said.

“Just tell me what to say,” John added.

Sam ripped the page with the incantation out of Dean’s notebook - ignoring Dean’s offended hey! - and handed it over. “Just that bit at the top should be it.”

“And that leaves me,” Dean sighed, looking down at their gathered materials. “Getting to throw the thing into the fire. Here’s hoping it doesn’t blow up.”

“That’s a possibility?” Jody asked, weakly. At Dean’s shrug, she lowered herself down to sit in Bobby’s armchair, looking haggard. “Of course it is.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean told her. “It may not seem like it, but I know what I’m doing.”

“Yeah,” Jody said, “ that’s the part that scares me. This is.. normal, for you?”

“Not at all,” Dean said. “Normal is finding stuff that wants to kill me, killing it first, and celebrating with pie. ‘Normal’ has kinda gone out the window, here. We’re making it up as we go along.”

Jody gave him a flat, unimpressed stare. “I’m a sheriff . Forgive me for wanting there to be some type of protocol to follow.”

“There’s plenty of damn protocol,” Bobby cut in. “But that’s years’ worth of learning. Stick around, you’ll catch up.”

“Great,” she breathed, heavily sarcastic. “Just what I needed.”

Bobby rolled his eyes and turned, heading out of the room, presumably going to fetch the gun for the ritual.

“I take it that’s our cue,” Sam said. “Showtime?”

“Places, people,” Dean confirmed. “Let’s make an Angel gun.”

“...This is not a civilian model,” Jody said, looking at the gun in her hands. “Do I want to know where you got this?”

“It’s retired FBI,” Bobby told her. “Barely counts.”

Jody’s eyes slid shut, entire body radiating exasperation.

She was getting more and more like the Jody Dean remembered, even if the change was being done in a pretty mean way.

When her eyes opened again, they narrowed, as she ran her fingers across Sam’s engravings. “So this says…?”

“A bunch of nonsense,” Jess answered. “At least, read all together. Individual, they’re protection prayers, curses, that kind of thing. Most of them are just sigils - uh, that’s the same sort of effect as me drawing a pentagram or something, I guess I could describe it.”

“Except pentagrams trap demons,” Sam added. “And these, hopefully, kill them.”

“You... fight demons with holy stuff, right?” Jody asked. “How will that work on Angels?”

“That’s where my bit comes in,” Dean said, holding up a glass bottle. “This is holy oil. A fire lit on holy oil has the power to debilitate or harm an Angel - if we light it up and drop the gun in, it should christen is and give it the same strength.”

“Or it’s just a normal reaction, and the gun explodes,” Jody finished. “And you’re okay with just doing this in your living room, Bobby?”

“Hell no,” Bobby countered. “That’s what the saferoom’s for.”
“...The what ?”

“I feel like I’m being punked,” Jody muttered, looking around the saferoom. “Or sacrificed.”

“Wrong moon for a sacrifice,” Jess told her.

Jody looked startled, and Jess threw her head back in a laugh.

“I’m just kidding,” she said. “I don’t know anything about sacrifices, I was just messing with you.”
Bobby opened his mouth, probably about to educate her on the fine art of ritual sacrifice, and Dean quickly stepped in to rid him of the opportunity.

“Everyone come over here, get around this table,” Dean said, dragging a metal table to the middle of the room. “Let’s get this as quickly as possible, so we can go gank a bitch.”

He poured holy oil into the center of the table, covering the entire center so as to have a fire big enough to consume the whole gun.

Across the room, Bobby picked up the wooden bowl they were using for the initial ritual, and stirred the liquidized ingredients inside a few times.

“Okay,” he said, apparently deeming it suitable to continue. “Sheriff Mills, you sure you wanna-...?”

“Please don’t ask,” she said, shoving a hand toward Bobby. “Just do it before I get some common sense back.”

Bobby didn’t waste time, cutting into Jody’s palm and tipping her hand over the bowl, dropping just a few specs of her blood into the mix.

“Okay,” he announced, mixing it together with one last stir. “It’s ready. Drop the gun in.”

Dean put the 1911 into the liquid, submerging it, and let John read out the first ritual’s chant. The liquid in the bowl began to bubble ominously, and then began to draw in on itself, forming an almost jelly-like substance that swallowed the gun and slowly began retracting, shrinking as the magic was absorbed into the gunmetal.

With the ritual complete, the bowl was empty, and the gun’s engraved sigils had a faint glow to them.

“Holy shit,” Jody breathed. “Yeah, that’s still crazy.”

Dean pat her on the shoulder, and reached into the bowl, scooping out the gun.

“Now for the fun part,” he said, setting the gun in the center of the oil on the table. “Anybody got…?” Bobby handed him a match. “Ah, thanks. Here goes nothing.”
He lit the match, and tossed it into the oil, watching a raging fire spike up off the beaten metal surface of the table.

The flames danced in the air, flickering menacingly as John began reading out the second incantation. Then, from the point where the gun lay, a light even brighter than the flames started to shine.

All the others looked away, wincing at the harshness of the light, but it must have been the same holy light as the Angels’ Grace: Dean was unharmed as it shined across his face.

That gave him the unique experience of being able to watch the metal of the gun glow bright, and begin to shift, cracking and splintering along the surface. He was worried for a moment that it would explode, until the gun began to chip, and he realized that it was only the outer layer that was peeling back.

The exterior of the frame was chipping away, revealing a new solid silver version of the gun instead.

Like the Angel blade, Dean realized. So that isn’t just an aesthetic thing.

Everyone’s hands went to their ears around him, and Dean was confused for a fraction of a second, before the Angelic chorus from the graveyard began again.

An Astra is crafted! the Angel voices called out. Declare it to be the arm of Vinda, and bless it with the strength to ravage Heaven!

The flames flicked out, and the light died, leaving Dean blinking away his shock as the others recovered from the assault.

An Astra? Dean thought. What the fuck is an Astra?

“Did it work?” Jess asked, rushing forward to crouch down next to the table, examining the gun. “It’s all silver now, is that a good thing?”

“It worked,” Dean said. “It definitely worked.”

“Oh, good,” she breathed. “Now we get to...kill an Angel. Exciting.”

Dean stepped forward, patting her lightly on the back. “That’s the spirit.”

Dean left in the Impala, and Jody in her patrol car, splitting up to scan the city for anyone who matched the description of the missing person from the diner.

“Was the attack at the church before or after the diner?” Dean asked, on the phone with Jody.

“Before,” she said. “Why? What’re you thinking?”

“They probably tried to find a vessel with the Christians of the city, and ended up having to look somewhere else,” Dean explained. “But Angels are always gonna be more comfortable around the religious. We should head to the first scene, take a look around. We might even figure out what they’re after here.”

“They’re not after one of those...seal things? The ones you were talking about?”

“No,” Dean said, and then hesitated. He knew they weren’t, because the first seal - Dean’s seal - hadn’t been broken yet. He could say that, though. “At least, I don’t think. They probably have something else in mind.”

“Like what?”

“Dunno,” Dean replied, turning into the church parking lot. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”

Dean made his way into the church, looking around for anything that stood out to him as obviously supernatural. The crime scene had been cleaned up already, the police working fast, but he could see where the bodies had been by the marks where the pews had been moved aside. He searched near there, thumbing through the provided Bibles and hymnals in search of anything out of place. His hunch to look through the books proved to have been valid, because in the middle of one of the Bibles he found a smear of blood sticking several pages together, where he could picture the angel scrambling to find answers in the text. Dean didn't know the Bible well enough to recognize the page that have been marked, so any significance in the verses he’d been reading was lost on him, but he at least had solid proof that someone had, in fact, been there. Maybe Jody knew someone who could look at fingerprints and see if they couldn't get an ID on the meatsuit their angel buddy was wearing.

“Jody,” Dean called out. “I think I might have found something.”

The woman approached from behind him, quick and eager to hear any new information. “You got our guy?”

“Maybe, but I'm not sure.” He held the book out to her. “See if you can find anything on here that helps?”

“Can do,” she said, taking it from him. “They’ll want this for official evidence, anyway. Anything else?”

Dean looked around again. “Do you think this place has any hidden rooms or anything? I dunno, a choir place or something?”

“The Sunday school room,” Jody suggested, pointing to a door to the left of the stage area. “Other than that, no. Normal people don’t have underground bunkers, actually.”

Dean rolled his eyes, and headed toward the door. “They’re missing out. The underground lifestyle’s pretty sweet, even-...What the fuck?”

The door was locked.

Jody and Dean exchanged a look, and then her lips pressed into a hard line, and she nodded once - giving Dean permission.

He took a step back to give himself room to move, and in one fluid motion, kicked as hard as he could right next to the doorknob. The door was old and cheap, and it splintered under the force, and even though it didn’t come unlocked on contact, it did break a hole wide enough for Dean to simply hook his hand through and open it himself.

He had the new Colt raised, Jody doing the same with her pistol, as they both entered the room on high guard..

...Only to stare in shock as the teen girl inside fell to her knees, staring straight at Dean with open awe.

“It’s you,” she breathed. “Vinda, reborn.”

Dean had no idea what that meant, but he had a feeling he wouldn’t like it.

Chapter Text

“I have no idea what that means,” Dean told the girl honestly.

She didn’t even seem to hear him. “We saw it,” she said. “The birth of a new Astra, a weapon to signal the coming of the end.”

Astra, there was that word again. “What does that mean?” Dean demanded. “What’s an Astra?”

She blinked, and then dropped down, lowering her head like an overdramatic bow. “I apologize, I assumed you were aware. The Astra are the weapons of gods, blessed with the power to smite the unworthy. To create one, you must have the blessing of a deity. The last to be blessed with the power never acted upon his gift, too eager for his revenge. He was struck down in battle, choosing to die alongside his brother rather than retreat to try again. For you to create one, his soul must have cycled through the world again.”

Dean relaxed a little, because this he could get his head around: the fact that, whoever and whatever this girl was, they were super misinformed. “You’ve got the wrong guy,” he said, and held up the new Colt to show off. “I made this, yeah, but I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I got the information on how to make it from a demon.”

Her head snapped up, eyes wild. “You sold your soul?”

Dean didn’t like the genuine terror in her voice. “...Yeah. I did.”

“No!” she began to tremble, shaking her head wildly. “No! A blessed soul cannot touch Hell! If it becomes tainted…”

Dean’s stomach churned. “Tainted?”

“The blessed who fall,” she said. “They become Belial. Destructive forces stoppable only by a deity, who hunger for nothing but death and chaos. If Hell is allowed to taint your soul…”

“I really don’t think you have the right person,” Dean told her - he had no way of explaining that he had no intention of staying in Hell, and even if he did, he wasn’t sure it would make a difference.

His ascent from Hell had been staged from the start, but Castiel and the Angels with him had honestly believed in what they were told they were doing, so they couldn’t have just been waiting for Dean to act. How much of his rescue, the first time, had been reliant on time? If he climbed off the rack and shed blood, would they send Castiel immediately? Or would he be stuck sneaking ever closer to becoming a demon until they deemed it the right time to rescue him?

He wasn’t certain, and that made him nervous.

“We cannot allow a Belial,” the girl said, voice losing some of its shakiness as it turned to steel instead. “The Thrones of God cannot turn a blind eye to the creation of such an evil.” She pushed up, moving to stand on unsteady legs. “If Vinda’s soul exists in you, the Astra has been created, and his purpose is served. There is no reason to let you live.”

That didn’t sound good. Dean raised the Colt to point at her chest, finger resting just over the trigger. “Hold it. I’m telling you, you’ve got the situation wrong. I’m not...whatever guy you’re on about, okay? My name is Dean Winchester. I’m just a hunter.”

The girl hesitated, just a moment, and then placed a fist over her heart, bowing her head. “I am Pahaliah, the last Throne of God to survive Lucifer’s purge of Heaven.”

“Pah…” Dean started, then shook his head. “Yeah, I’m not gonna be able to say that.”

Pahaliah looked up, her face still entirely blank in the way Angels’ always were before they learned how expressions worked. “The followers of Jesus referred to me as Sothis,” she said. “That is easier for an English speaker to pronounce, I believe.”

“Sothis,” Dean echoed, lowering the gun. “Nice to meet you, Sothis. Like I said, I’m Dean. This is Jody. We’re not gonna hurt you if we don’t have to - just explain what all this you’re talking about is. What’s a Belial? Or a Throne, for that matter?”
Sothis blinked at him, the slightest confusion finally bleeding into her borrowed face. “...Heaven has a hierarchy,” she said, eventually. “Above the normal Angels, there are Archangels, and above Archangels, there are...there were Thrones.” Her face pinched. “When Lucifer and his followers dissented, they hunted us down first. We were the closest to God, the peacekeepers and lawmakers of Heaven. We were the best suited to defeat him, and so he tried to kill us. With the exception of me, and a few deserters, he succeeded.” Her chin dipped down, just the slightest bit, the only external show of grief. “Thrones were the second highest class of Heaven, second only to God’s chosen warriors, the Ophanim.”

Dean’s breath caught at the familiar term, which Sothis unfortunately noticed.

“You know of the Ophanim?” she asked. “We would serve in garrisons under their command, but when the Angels began to rebel, the threat of them leaving and converting to Belial was too great. God had no choice but to smite them all.”

Dean’s blood ran cold. “He killed all of them?”

“Every last one,” she confirmed. “As well as the Thrones who had fled the battle. He sent me to guard the gates of Purgatory, lest the souls within turn to unworthy hands.”

Dean’s stomach churned as he tried not to imagine what had happened to Sothis, the first time, that Castiel had been able to crack open Purgatory like he did.

“Someone opened Hell,” she continued on, oblivious to Dean’s distress. “And Lilith, the first demon, walked free again. I abandoned my post to seek her out.”

That answered Dean’s question, at least. The idea that Lilith had probably killed Sothis the first time was upsetting, because she had pretty much just implied she was the highest ranking creature in Heaven left standing.

How exactly had that fight gone down, that she’d fallen?

“I couldn’t find her,” Sothis admitted. “Her presence was hidden from me, I don’t know how. But…” Her eyes went glassy, and Dean had the terrifying thought that she might actually cry. “I heard His voice. My father spoke to me, after so long silent. He guided me here.” She looked to Dean. “Then you came, and you created an Astra. The weapon of a warrior of God, finally in human hands again. That must have been what he wanted me here for. I was his chosen witness, the one he allowed to present his blessing.”

“God told you to come to Sioux Falls?” Jody cut in, incredulous. “I’m sorry, Dean, but that’s a little far out there, even for today’s level of weird.”

If Dean didn’t have God himself in his phone’s top five, he’d say the same thing. “Why would he want you here, for that?” Dean asked Sothis. “And anyway, I only came here and made that because you were killing people, hunting down that vessel.”

“The humans who perished were among the faithful,” Sothis dismissed. “They died in service to Heaven, and their souls held no regret.”

“Yeah, I don’t really care if they believed you or not, when you told them you were an Angel.” Dean waved vaguely to the Church around them. “They could have been on their knees in here, praying for an Angel to come straight to them and bless their souls or whatever people ask for, and it wouldn’t change the fact that you killed them.”

Sothis looked entirely lost. “Their souls moved from Earth to Heaven. Such is the goal of all life on Earth.”

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to fight the desperate urge to continue the argument. Angels and ‘free will’ logic never really got on well, so he may as well just give up now and leave that for another time. “Yeah, okay, whatever. The point is, I wasn’t going to be here until you showed up, so you couldn’t have been sent here for me.”

“God is all-knowing, all-seeing,” Sothis argued. “He knows where his children will be, before they do.”

Dean wanted to argue, but all of his counterpoints came from things Chuck himself had said in 2016, which was a source he couldn’t exactly cite. Instead, he took a metaphorical step back from the conversation, and thought about it.

Bobby Singer was a vital part of Dean Winchester’s life story. It was entirely possible that Chuck had expected Dean to eventually roll through Sioux Falls in search of his surrogate uncle, and sent a creature that supposedly served under the weird thing he’d become himself to standby to help.

He had to make a choice, then, of how to proceed. If Chuck really was throwing Sothis his way, he probably wanted Dean to tell her he was an Ophanim. Which, really, would have been nice to know before he dragged Jody along with him.

Since he couldn’t just go blurting that out, there, his only real choice was to talk to Sothis later... meaning he needed to keep her around.

Dammit, Chuck, Dean thought. Your fucking phone works, too, you know.

Dean’s phone started to vibrate in his pocket.

For a single, split second, Dean honestly believe Chuck was calling him, just to be a piece of shit. When he pulled his phone out, though, it was Sam’s number on the screen.

He accepted the call, holding up a finger to signal Sothis and Jody to wait.

“Dean,” Sam said immediately upon connecting, his voice crackling through the speaker with the unstable signal that probably meant he was in Bobby’s safe room still. “Can you hear me?”

Dean wondered if it was too early in pop culture history to make a joke about the Verizon/Sprint guy. Instead, he just replied, “Yeah. What’s up?”

“Marcella is outside.”

Fuck. It was just one thing after the other, wasn’t it?

“What does she want?”

“I don’t know, I’m not going out there! She doesn’t like me.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “She’s a demon, Sam, she’s not supposed to like you. Just...hang tight, okay? I’ll come back and talk to her.”

“Thanks.”

Dean ended the call, looking to Sothis. “One of the demons I’m in contact with,” he started to explain. “She’s at the house we’re using, and I don’t know why. I need to go see what she’s after.”

“I’ll come with you.”

Dean blinked. “Uh, no,” he said. When Sothis looked ready to argue, he continued on, telling her, “Marcella is a demon, okay? She won’t be happy if I turn up with an Angel.”

“I am a Throne,” Sothis corrected.

“Okay, missing the point,” Dean sighed. “Look, the point is, you’re designed to be able to kill her easily and she won’t like that. She gets twitchy enough around devil’s traps.”

“I was sent to guard you,” Sothis insisted. “That is the only possible interpretation of my orders here. I cannot let you approach a demon alone.”

“I won’t be alone,” he corrected, holding up the Colt. “I have this, and four other hunters, and Jody. Besides, Marcella looked like she was gonna piss herself when I summoned her the first time. I don’t think she’s really eager to try her luck with us.”

Sothis frowned, face smoothing back into the standard hard lines of an Angel’s expressionless state. “You ask me to ignore an order from God?”

“No,” Dean said. “Look - let me get Marcella squared away, and I’ll pray to you, okay? Then you can come by, and we can finish this conversation and figure out where to go from here.”

Sothis’ face pinched up again. “I...you can’t.” She shook her head, the gesture almost sad. “My Grace was ravaged in Lucifer’s assault. My position outside Purgatory was little more than a watchpost. I am among the weakest of Angels, currently - I cannot hear prayers.”

Dean swore under his breath. “Fine, fine, okay,” he looked to Jody. “Can you take her?”

“You want me to babysit and Angel?”

“I am a Throne,” Sothis insisted, a petty defense that somehow managed to come out perfectly even and matter-of-fact.

“Yeah, sweetie, we know,” Jody told her, more placating than condescending, before looking back to Dean. “What do you want me to do? Drive her around town? Take her out for ice cream?”

“Just..figure something out,” Dean said. “I’ll call you when it’s clear, and you can bring her back to Bobby’s. I just...really don’t need these guys anywhere near each other, if I can avoid it.”

Jody let out a harsh sigh. “You owe me, Winchester.” She turned to Sothis, jerking her chin in a gesture toward the door. “Come on, girlie. I could use a burger, so we may as well get lunch while this guy sorts out whatever crazy mess he’s gotten himself in, this time.”

Sothis nodded her head, and started to follow Jody out the building.

As they neared the door, Dean heard her quietly ask, “What is a burger?” and spared a moment to be entirely unimpressed with Chuck for letting one of his kids go so tragically uniformed. Poor girl had probably been standing outside the door of Purgatory for thousands of years, just hanging out.

He could worry about the education of ancient Angels later, though.

For now, he needed to figure out what the hell - no pun intended - the demons needed with him now.

Hopefully, it was something straightforward. He had enough new questions to seek answers for without having to go on some weird demonic side quest.

Chapter Text

The sight of Bobby’s house was surreal, given that it appeared entirely normal, the only thing out of place the actual demon sitting cross-legged on the hood of the Caprice that John must have finished working on at some point.

“Marcella,” he greeted, getting out of the Impala. “Not really a good time.”

“Oh, it’s not?” she replied. “I’ll just take off, then, shall I? I guess Alistair will just wait patiently for you to fulfil your promise to take him out.”

“Alistair?” Dean echoed. “He’s trying something?”

“Weirdly enough, the guy who was in line to become ruler of Hell really didn’t like Crowley making a bid for the top,” she said. “You said you planned to kill him, too, right?”

“Yeah, but not immediately,” he returned. “I was kind of hoping he’d just fuck off.”

“Well, he’s put a claim on your soul,” she said. “When you get to Hell, you’re all his. I figured I’d let you know, so you could prepare for how totally fucked you are.”

“Is he challenging Crowley or not?” Dean demanded.

“Not,” Marcella replied. “His deal was that he’d step aside and let Crowley run the show, so long as he got to do what he wanted with you when you got down there. I’m coming to warn you not to fight him.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” she said, reaching up to her neck. She pulled the fabric of the collar of her shirt aside, revealing winding red lines sprawling across her torso. “He marked us. You kill him, and Crowley’s main supporters all die with him. He said he’d take them away when the Hellhounds got their teeth in you.”

“Shit,” Dean breathed out. He should have acted sooner. “Thanks. Don’t worry, I’m not too worried about Alistair.”

“That’s why I’m pretty sure you’re batshit insane,” she replied. “Even demons fear Alistair. You’re either incredibly arrogant-...”

“Guilty.”

“Or incredibly stupid.”

“Also guilty,” Dean allowed. “But don’t stress about it. I’ve got it under control.”

She watched him with lines across her face that might have been terror. “I don’t think you’re even lying,” she said. “That’s what scares me.”

She didn’t offer any more commentary, just vanished.

He let out a breath, followed by a string of curses, resisting the urge to kick the Caprice for an outlet. His dad had just fixed her, he wasn’t about to tear her up.

He really hadn’t been thinking much about Alistair. He should have killed the demon immediately after killing Azazel, but he’d had too many half-plans at once to actually get all of them done.

Now, he’d have to put himself under Alistair’s knife again. Even worse, he wasn’t sure how long he’d be under it, because his plan to hop off the rack immediately apparently might have been naive.

Everything was falling in on itself, and he couldn’t believe he’d been so cocky as to believe this would be easy. Knowledge didn’t give him much of an advantage once things started changing, and they had definitely changed.

Speaking of which…

He pulled out his phone, dialing Jody’s number.

If he needed to get all the changes in order, he should start with the one that could talk.

Jody watched the girl - Angel, ‘Throne,’ whatever she was - as she carefully deconstructed the burger the waitress had set in front of her.

She seemed fascinated, setting each piece aside, separating bread from pickles and tomato and lettuce and meat, examining the ingredients closely as she went.

“You don’t have to study it,” she said, finally giving in to the urge to correct Sothis. “Just eat it.”

Sothis looked up, eyes wide an almost alarmed. “Eat it?”

“It’s food.”

Sothis frowned at Jody. “I am aware it is for consumption. I do not eat.”

“Why not?”

“I…” Sothis seemed baffled by the question. “I do not require it.”

“Yeah, well,” Jody said, gesturing toward her own burger. “I don’t need this, but I’m eating it anyway, because it’s good. You don’t ever just try something because you want to?”

Sothis blinked. “Why would I do that?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“That is a circular argument,” Sothis said. “You can offer no reasoning why I should, so you point out my inability to argue I should not.”

“Yeah,” Jody said. “And it’s working. I see that look. Try the burger, Sothis.”
Sothis stared at her for a second, before looking down to the plate, lifting a single pickle and taking the most tentative bite out of the outer edge of it.

Her face scrunched up immediately. “It tastes of lactic acid.”

“Okay, so you don’t like those,” Jody said. “Try something else.”

Sothis eyes the plate with distrust. Before Jody could offer more encouragement, her phone started vibrating in her pocket.

Finally.

“You work on that,” Jody said, fishing out her phone and accepting Dean’s call. “Dean. We clear?”

“Yeah,” his voice crackled back through her speaker. “Marcella was just giving me a heads up that some stuff is gonna be harder than I thought, but there’s really nothing I can do about it. If you bring Sothis back, we’ll introduce her to the others and see if we can’t work out what she’s really here for.”

Jody eyed the girl as she seperated the seeds from the inside of her tomato slice, squinting at them like they were scheming against her.

“Yeah,” she murmured, weakly. “I think she needs something to do.”

“Hey,” Dean greeted, when Jody rolled back into the salvage yard. “How was lunch?”

“She hates pickles and lettuce,” Jody informed him, much to his confusion. “But tomatoes, ketchup, and french fries were winners.”

“Good taste,” Dean replied, not even bothering to ask for context.

Sothis climbed out of the car behind Jody, looking nauseous. “I hate this machine,” she informed them. “It travels unnecessarily slowly and with extreme turbulence.”

“Yeah, well, flying makes me wanna puke, too,” Dean returned. “So one of us is gonna have to suck it up.”

She gave him a look that suggested she was heavily skeptical of the implication it was meant to be her that got over it.

“Anyway,” he said, turning toward the house. “Come on in with me, and meet the others. Sam will probably foam up at the mouth.”

Sothis looked alarmed. “Is he diseased?”

Dean snorted. “Mentally, maybe.”

“I am sorry for your troubles, then.”

Dean shook his head, taking note that he’d have to teach Sothis what sarcasm was if she was going to be hanging around. He couldn’t remember if Castiel had been this bad, when they first got him, but he’d been actively observing humanity for ages. Sothis pretty much admitted she’d been squatting in Purgatory’s doorway since the fall of Lucifer, so she was probably pretty behind in the art of sass.

“Guys,” he called out, stepping into Bobby’s house. “Marcella’s gone, you’re good to come out.”

There was a beat with no response, and Dean remembered that without an angel there to act as radio transmitter, the safe room was completely soundproofed, and no one would hear him.

He pulled out his phone, grateful yet again for his shitty 2005 model Blackberry keyboard, and typed out a text to Sam.

ALL CLEAR, it read.

A moment later, he heard the whoosh of the safe room door unsealing, and footsteps headed their way.

“What did the demon want?” Bobby demanded immediately. “And who’s this?”

“One question at a time,” Dean replied. At Bobby’s unimpressed look, he raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, nevermind. Marcella was giving me an update on some stuff that’s happening down in Hell, because apparently I’m in charge now, or something. And this is Sothis. She’s the Angel we were tracking.”

“I am a Throne,” she corrected. “I was sent to guard Dean.”

“No she wasn’t,” Dean said. “Ignore her.”

“God sent me to your side for a reason,” Sothis insisted. “What purpose if not to guard you?”

“Wait, God?” Sam echoed. “Like...actual God?”

“No, the John Lennon song,” Jess replied. “He just said she was an Angel.”

“I am a Throne ,” Sothis interrupted again.

“I don’t know what that means,” Jess said.

“The tiers of Heaven-...”

“Hey, maybe save the lesson for later,” Dean cut in, ignoring the offended look Sothis shot him at the audacity. “Basically, she’s one of the strongest creatures in Heaven, at full power, but she’s not doing so hot right now. If you guys want to research ways to heal a creature that’s meant to be like eight times stronger than a demon, that’d be helpful.” Turning to Sothis, he waved for her to follow him. “You, come with me, to the kitchen for a sec. I need to talk to you.”

He led her into the kitchen, and dragged out a chair at the dining table as he went, gesturing for her to sit in it as he took the one across from it.

“You should probably know,” he said. “I’m not totally human.”

“You are Ophanim,” she replied, entirely evenly. “Your Grace is hidden, but Thrones feel the power of their leaders instinctively. I knew what you were immediately.”

Dean blinked. “You did?”

“Of course,” she said. “The Ophanim are the only creatures strong enough in Grace to become Belial. I would not have warned you had I thought you were merely human.”

Dean floundered for a response to that. “So you know…? Then why are you talking about trying to guard me?”

“I am duty-bound to protect and serve the Ophanim,” she replied. “You are hiding your Grace, and you told me you were just a hunter in the Church. Clearly, you have chosen to hide your power, and I was trying to respect the choice by not mentioning my fealty to you.”

Dean shook his head, disbelieving. “So you were just playing along?”

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Are you displeased by my choice? Should I have revealed myself openly?”

“Christ, no,” Dean muttered.

“Jesus of Nazareth does not hold influence, here.”

Dean was going to need to get Sothis to understand human idioms soon, because he hadn’t had to put up with constant misunderstandings from supernatural beings in years.

“Okay, look,” he said. “I appreciate you keeping quiet, okay? I really don’t want anyone to know about this whole thing if I can help it.”

“While I do not understand, I accept your will,” Sothis replied. “Guide me as you deem fit.”

“Uh, yeah, I’m...not gonna do that,” Dean said. “You’re welcome to hang around, but I’m not really the giving orders type of guy. Just...do what you want.”

Sothis’ face pinched. “The woman told me the same thing, about the pickles.”
“...Yeah,” Dean wasn’t really sure the connection was great, but fuck it, he’d work with what he had. “You tried stuff, and you liked some of it and didn’t like other stuff, right? Well, that’s how we work around here. Do what you feel like doing, and if you like it, keep doing it. If not, learn from it.”

“You thrive in chaos.”

Dean shrugged. “Your dad made us that way.”

Sothis blinked, then straightened, eagerly latching onto the implication. “You speak of God with familiarity. You are Ophanim, which means you have seen him...yes?”

“Yep,” Dean confirmed. “He’s hiding right now, but he’s around. His sister, too.”

“The Darkness?” Sothis’ voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “The world is in danger, then.”

“Not really,” Dean replied. “I’ve met her, too. Her and Chu-...uh, God - have come to a kind of truce. They’re both just hanging out, building up strength for the apocalypse.”

“They intend to allow Lucifer to walk free?”

“That’s the plan,” he said. “Let Lucifer out of the box, and then sort out all his issues personally. Trapping him in Hell forever isn’t really a permanent solution, so they’re trying the more direct route.”

Sothis nodded. “God intends to kill him.”

Dean faltered. “Uh, no,” he said. “He’s gonna talk to him, and try and get him to chill.”

“...Chill?”

“Calm down,” Dean corrected. “Stop freaking out and trying to destroy the world. However you want to put it.”

“I see,” she said. “If you intend to free him...You intend to break the first seal.” She watched him with wide, frightened eyes. “You intend to shed blood in Hell.”

“Yeah,” Dean confirmed. “Except now I know that might be a bad idea, so that’s where I need your help.”

Sothis straightened again. “What do you require of me?”

“Uh,” Dean tried to ignore how massively uncomfortable it was for this girl to be totally ready to do whatever he asked, and focused on what he needed to actually get her to do. “Can you find out what the Angels are planning?” he asked. “If I go to Hell, they’ll send Angels after me. I need to know when they plan on sending them, so that I only get off the rack just before they show up. I don’t intend on becoming a demon while waiting on a rescue.”

“I have not been to Heaven in a long time,” Sothis said. “But I am too weak to be sensed by my siblings. I will walk through the gardens of Eden, and listen to the whispers of the Angels. I will report to you when I have learned their plans.”

“Thanks,” he said, and blinked when his gratitude was interrupted by Sothis completely vanishing, the sound of wings his only clue to where she’d gone.

Angels were such a pain in the ass, honestly.

Chapter Text

Dean sat in silence for a moment, processing the changes to his plans. While this morning he’d been certain he had everything under control, that confidence was quickly being stripped away, replaced by a rolling uncertainty. He had thought Chuck’s little soul promotion trick would be a benefit, but instead it just ended up being like the Mark of Cain all over again. Something that was infinitely helpful, but also a time bomb, slowly ticking away until it could destroy him.

Or something like that, anyway. According to Sothis, at least.

If Dean thought the guy would answer, he’d pray to Chuck. Or pull out his phone and call, because he could probably dial any random number and reach the right phone if Chuck really wanted to talk to him. He probably didn’t, though. Even in the bunker, when communication was vital to their survival, Chuck had been tight-lipped.

Really, Dean didn’t blame him. He’d found it hard to speak to Sam when every conversation turned to the First Blade, and Chuck had significantly bigger skeletons in his closet, especially where the Winchesters were concerned. Still, just because he understood didn’t mean he approved. Avoiding problems didn’t make them go away, and Dean knew that well.

...But that was hypocritical, wasn’t it? How many problems was Dean ignoring, right now? On the cosmic scale, there were countless demons roaming the Earth, several big bads getting their start, lots of lives barrelling full speed toward destruction…

The sight of Jody with Sothis reminded Dean that she’d adopted two highly damaged teen girls, in his time, and that got him thinking about all the people who had been caught in his crossfire. He needed to be vigilant, but he wasn’t naive enough to think he wouldn’t fuck up along the way. Claire Novak would hopefully be saved by him refusing to let Jimmy Novak out of his sight if Cas bailed out of him again, and that set tension rolling in his gut.

He was selfish, so horribly selfish, but he wasn’t willing to give up Castiel for Jimmy Novak’s sake. Castiel could find another vessel, maybe, but he didn’t know how long that would take or how well it would go. Dean didn’t really have a way of stopping it, either, short of driving to Pontiac and convincing the guy to abandon his faith.

Still, Dean was used to a version of Cas that owned that body himself, and was the sole inhabitant of it. Thinking of having a person trapped in there with him was super uncomfortable.

Doubly so considering the direction some of Dean’s thoughts tended to take, but that was a concern to be heavily repressed until the far future.

And that brought him around full circle, back to the sea of things he was trying to ignore. Sam’s nagging about talking to John had annoyed him, and rightly so, but he had to admit his brother had a point. Everything he refused to address was just going to keep building, until it blew up in his face. If he wanted to control anything, he had to act as soon as he had the chance.

Honestly, though, he’d rather just let the sexuality thing explode. Yelling about a problem had always been infinitely easier than talking normally about it.

Coward, something in Dean’s mind whispered, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if it was actually Chuck instead of his moral compass. Dean had practically tied Chuck to a chair to talk things out with Lucifer, and later Amara, and here he was, violently shying away from talking to John about literally anything.

They had a good while before they could do anything significant. Until Sothis reported back to him, he couldn’t make any solid plans, and there wasn’t any real maintenance to do as far as the seals and stuff went since Dean hadn’t gone to Hell yet. That gave him a year to just sort of patrol the country, taking down demons here and there and trying to keep the peace as best he could until Lucifer got his shit together.

Man, that was a weird thought to have.

Leaning back in the dining room chair, Dean took stock of his wins. Jess was alive. Sam was, arguably, happy to be back. John seemed to be genuinely proud of him. The Impala was his now, score, but John wasn’t dead. Bobby was still walking around on two legs and not yelling at him from a wheelchair. Jody was only lightly traumatized by the supernatural world. Ellen, Jo, and Ash were all alive.

What else had he changed? Probably way more than he could think of, hopefully for the better.

What had he done, that first year with Sam? He couldn’t even remember most of it, it was so long ago. He had memories that were good, but ultimately useless - a prank war, making fun of Sam’s lack of game with girls, a few late night talks - and a few spotty monster memories that didn’t have enough detail to be worth anything.

The only real things of note had been the progress in their tracking of Azazel and their father.

He thought as hard as he could, scrambling for something that was urgent or vital. The problem with reliving his life was that his memory was way too unreliable for him to remember , let alone fix , all the massive fuckups he’d had along the way.

He was really good at finding out he’d done something wrong only when it was way too late to fix it. Like that whole mess with Cole.

….Who was probably, what, sixteen right now? Yikes. He should probably avoid security cameras in the future, lest he get hunted down again by someone who thinks he’s a serial killer.

Actually, back in this time, lots of people thought he was a serial killer. He wondered if avoid the shifter situation would save him from getting marked by the FBI. Victor Henriksen had ended up being an okay dude, but Dean would rather not meet him again, if possible.

Mostly because Dean had gotten him killed, which was honestly his reason for avoiding a lot of people. Past friends lived a lot longer when they weren’t friends with Dean.

Behind him, he heard someone come in, and looked up to see Sam peeking into the room.

“Where’d the Angel go?” he asked.

“Home,” Dean replied. “She said she’d spy on the Angels for us, and took off before I could even really thank her, so that’s a thing.”

“Cool,” Sam said. “It’s weird to think that was...like, an actual angel . A month ago I thought I’d never even see a demon face-to-face, and I watched you befriend a couple. This is all kind of surreal.”

“Buckle up, kid,” Dean said. “It’s not even 2006 yet.”

Sam’s eyebrows twitched toward each other, clearly trying to find sense in Dean’s comment. “Uh, I guess,” he murmured. “It’s almost Christmas, now that I think about it.”

“Dude, screw Christmas,” Dean said. “We missed Thanksgiving.”

Sam blinked, then threw his head back in a laugh. “Of course. Your favorite thing - a holiday that’s 90% pie.”

“Uh, rude,” Dean rebuked. “It’s like 40% pie. The rest is turkey and football.”

“You don’t care about those parts,” Sam countered. “You care about the pie.”

Dean let out a jokingly wistful sigh. “True. I suppose I can tolerate spending a holiday with you assholes if it means pie.”

There was no response, and Dean looked back to Sam to see him giving a tiny, frail-looking smile.

“We actually have people to spend holidays with,” he murmured. “And somewhere to spend them at.”

Dean returned Sam’s smile, though he kept his humor light. “Don’t start crying, now. I’ll take pictures.”

Sam laughed softly in response. “We should drag Bobby back with us, so he can see the bunker.”

“I’ll let you invite him,” Dean said. “That way if he comes, it’ll be you he yells at for making him drive six hours.”

“Thanks,” Sam said, tone dry. “I really appreciate your support.”

Dean grinned back. “Anytime, Sammy.” He stood up, heading out of the kitchen, Sam tagging along behind him. “C’mon, let’s say our goodbyes and hit the road. I’m ready to get some damn sleep.”

Bobby agreed to meet them in Lebanon a couple days before Christmas, and Jody threatened to put out an APB on them if they gave him anything weird out of the bunker to take home with him.

She probably meant things that would fuck up the town, though, so Dean figured the books Bobby was absolutely going to steal would be fine.

With the basics sorted out, Dean climbed in the Impala and John into the Caprice, and headed back toward the bunker.

Sam rode shotgun in the Impala with Dean, while Jess opted to ride in the Caprice and just nap through the classic rock.

The padded bench-style seats of the other car probably played a part in her choice, but Dean had the sneaking suspicion she was trying to leave him and Sam unattended together on purpose. Most of their conversations had been with her present, and Dean was grateful for the chance to try and actually get to know this younger form of Sam, since most of his memory was fucked up over years of older-Sam.

He probably should have anticipated not being in charge of the conversation, though.

“Dude,” Sam said. “Seriously?”

Dean responded by turning up the Kanye West song a little louder. “Appreciate the artistry, Sam.”

Sam’s incredulous look made him burst out laughing, finally reaching out to scan through channels again. His jokes were several years too early to be appreciated, but at least he thought he was funny. His seeking landed on a song that sounded vaguely familiar, probably by one of the same bands from Charlie’s playlists, and turned the volume down to a low background noise.

“You’re in a good mood,” Sam observed. “I wasn’t sure you would be, with all this weird stuff going on.”

“I have an Angel spying on Heaven for me, and a demon spying on Hell,” Dean pointed out. “I’m in a great mood.”

“And Dad gave you the Impala,” Sam said. “I didn’t see that one coming. He really just handed it over?”

“He said he wanted to contribute, or something,” Dean confirmed. “I’m not questioning it. I’m lucky he decided to go the gift-giving route instead of buckling down and trying to get me to tell him the whole story.”

“And what is the whole story?”

Dean lifted a middle finger against the steering wheel. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Sam let out a huff that was only half honest frustration, the other half being reluctant amusement. “I do, actually,” he said. “But if you’re that set on not telling me, whatever.”

There was a moment of silence.

“You and Jess seem to be getting along,” Sam offered, tentatively treding into a new topic of conversation. “She likes you, at least.”

“Of course,” Dean replied. “She likes you, and I’m clearly the cooler one between us.”

“Dean,” Sam said, sounding remarkably unimpressed. “Five minutes ago you were listening to Gold Digger at full volume.”

Dean supposed that was fair. “I’m the cuter one, at least.”

Sam snorted.

“Hey, I have it on good authority that I’m gorgeous,” Dean said. “Don’t be jealous.”
“Whose authority?” Sam countered. “Ash’s?”

Dean scoffed. “Ash stumbled out the ass-end of Woodstock forty years too late to fit in. His taste isn’t worth a damn thing.”

“Then who’re you on about?”

“Me,” Dean replied. “I’m the authority. I’m adorable.”

Sam rolled his eyes, laughing at his brother. “You’re ridiculous, is what you are.”

“I’m both,” Dean said. After a moment, he added, “There’s probably a joke there.”

Sam laughed harder, hands coming up to cover his face as he shook with it.

Dean marvelled at the sound of genuine joy and good humor, something he hadn’t heard from Sam in so long, 2016 too much of a hellscape for them to get any real enjoyment out of even the nicest things. Everything had just felt like a break, a temporary distraction from the increasingly shitty world, and that had put a damper on things quickly.

This Sam hadn’t had that disillusionment, yet. This Sam was young and happy, free of the burdens Dean had forced onto him in the years yet to come.

If Dean had any doubts about his choice to keep his knowledge to himself, that absolved them. He couldn’t ruin Sam’s ability to enjoy life again, couldn’t make him carry the load that was rightfully Dean’s.

If his foreknowledge turned to shit and he couldn’t save anything, he could at least protect his brother’s happiness.

Chapter Text

‘Carver Edlund’ had published his first book, Supernatural, in December 2005. The persona ‘Chuck Shurley’ had been his for a long while, though it was just one of many forms he took on over the years he was in hiding. He liked to walk the Earth in all sorts of shapes, at first, viewing it from the eyes of homeless people and the elderly and children and other often-ignored persons, if only for the convenience that no one looked too closely at how entirely lost he was on social interaction. Humans had developed so many nuances and subcultures over the millenia, trying to keep up was exhausting. Living as Chuck had made it easier, allowing him to develop one personality and stick to it, learning to experience his own creations organically instead of just acting how he needed to get the desired responses.

Finding himself in November 2005 again had the unfortunate consequence of making him have to start over at square one, rebuilding the entire life he’d built as the uncomfortable alcoholic author from the beginning.

He really didn’t feel like rewriting all the books, and he wasn’t even sure he should - things were going to play out differently, weren’t they? Which story should he write out?

He moved over to the typewriter that sat on his table, and passed a hand over it, watching the keys come to life and start moving on their own, clacking out the full text from the first book. He stood to the side and waited as sheet after sheet wrote itself, sipping his coffee and contemplating his options.

He’d write the original story, he decided. It would at least be easier to get Dean to forgive if it wasn’t his real life anymore, and honestly, he never wanted to piss off a Winchester again. It wasn’t good for his mental health.

His coffee was cooling, so he tapped the side of the mug, heating it back up and filling it back to the brim in the process.

His original tenure as Chuck had featured him using his powers as little as possible, only resorting to them to ensure his continued privacy and to reinforce his alibi as a ‘prophet’ when needed. Now, though, the Archangel assigned to this ‘prophet’ was not Zachariah yet, but Haniel. Or, it would be, if he hadn’t stuck Haniel on a loop in the outer ridges of Purgatory to stew for a while. He had at least a few weeks before he would stop the fake reports he was sending in, pretending to be a very bored Haniel on guard duty, and then maybe two weeks tops before someone realized something had happened and they needed to send a new guard. That guard would probably be Zachariah, which meant Chuck would have to commit to the simple prophet routine…

...Or find a way around it.

He’d supported Gabriel’s choice to bail out of the grand battle plan - it’d have been hypocritical to do otherwise - but it looked like he was going to have to call him back in. The number of his children that were pleasant to be around and trustworthy to have at your back were getting increasingly few.

No guard, legitimate or otherwise, would watch him terribly closely - a bit of lingering Grace to detect the presence of any ill will or tainted souls, and that’d be it. As long as Chuck kept his power repressed, he’d be ignored completely until the Angels had need of a prophet.

If he could get Gabriel on board, he could get around his inability to directly act. He could have eyes on Dean and still remain hidden.

First, though, he had to find his son, and speak to him, neither of which were things he was particularly good at.

He hoped Dean appreciated the struggle he was going through for this. Honestly, Amara had the worst ideas.

The movie Thor didn’t come out until 2011, which sucked, because Chuck had really wanted to work in a Marvel joke somewhere into his summons for Gabriel. The guy was posing as Loki, after all, and Tom Hiddleston’s portrayal of the Marvel version of the god was a riot.

He wanted to keep his cards close to his chest as long as possible, and so he didn’t call on Gabriel as God, nor try and forcibly summon him by a ritual like a desperate human in need of his particular talents. Instead, he sat down on his couch, took a long drink of whiskey straight out of the bottle for luck, and closed his eyes. Focusing as hard as he could on making himself appear as just a particularly loud human voice, he prayed, directly to Gabriel.

Archangel Gabriel, his prayer went. Your exile is over. You are needed.

There was a long silence, where he waited with baited breath for a sign that his son wasn’t just ignoring him, before he felt it: a prod of Grace, reaching out to sense for the human soul trying to contact him. Curious, but cautious.

Chuck rose the feeling a prophet’s soul would have, and pushed back against Gabriel’s Grace with it, letting him get an idea why someone might be aware of him. If Gabriel thought he’d been featured in a prophecy, that would be a direct call to action from God. He wouldn’t ignore it...right?

The sound of beating wings confirmed his faith was well-placed, and he let out a relieved breath as he snapped his eyes back open. “Oh, man, I’m so glad that worked,” he said, relaxing back onto the couch. “I totally thought you were gonna just ignore me for a second there.”

“You’re a prophet?” Gabriel asked, the thin eyes of his vessel narrowed suspiciously at him. “If you’re telling me you saw me getting involved in my brothers’ mess, I’m not buying it. What did you really see?”

Chuck levelled him with an unimpressed stare. “Your death,” he replied, completely blunt. “Lucifer burns you into a stain on the floor and walks away without a scratch, barely even phased at his younger brother trying to put a stop to his actions.”

Gabriel’s face pinched. “All the more reason to stay out of it.”

“Or to head it off before it gets to that point,” Chuck countered.

“What are you suggesting? That I throw myself back into the family fight?” Gabriel shook his head. “Stay out of it, prophet. I don’t want anything to do with this. Lucifer and Michael can keep their boxing match far away from me.”

“It won’t come to a fight.”

Gabriel turned sharply back to him, face incredulous and holding the tiniest restrained hope. “...What?”

“There are these two brothers,” Chuck said. “They’re actually really fucking annoying, but that’s not the point. They are going to stop it.”
“Stop the Apocalypse?” Gabriel echoed. “Two human boys, stopping a prophecy of God that’s been around since Lucifer got locked away in the first place?”

“Well, technically, only one is human.”

“What?”

Chuck shook his head. “I’m getting off topic, stop interrupting me. The point is, these boys - the Winchesters - they’re not going to let it come to a fight. And I don’t intend to let it get that far, either.”

“No offense, kid,” Gabriel said. “But a prophet doesn’t actually have much stopping power.”

“Yeah,” Chuck drawled. “About that.”

Perhaps it was a bit heavy-handed, but Chuck chose that moment to push the core of himself outward a bit, revealing it just enough to show Gabriel before hiding it away.

The Archangel’s eyes went wide, and he stumbled back a step. “...Dad.”

“Hey,” Chuck said. “Surprise?”
“What, am I supposed to be happy, now?” Gabriel demanded. “You vanished . You left Heaven to fall apart. My brothers tore themselves to pieces trying to figure out what to do without you. Now you’re showing up out of nowhere just to play referee?”

“Once, I let things go,” Chuck said. “I didn’t step in, I didn’t get involved any more than I needed to. I let things work themselves out. I waited for the Winchesters to make the changes I couldn’t.” He shook his head. “Not this time. I’m starting over, and we’re gonna do this right this time.”

“I don’t follow.”

Chuck rose to his feet, setting his whiskey bottle aside - watching Gabriel’s eyes flicker to it in vague judgement, which he’d get onto him for later - and crossed the room. Gabriel looked a lot like he wanted to step back from him, but Chuck didn’t give him the chance, just raising his hands to rest on Gabriel’s cheeks. With the most gentle touch he could, he gathered up his memories of the major events of the original timeline, as well as the full memory of Dean’s request and Amara’s choice, and gifted them to Gabriel.

The Archangel sucked in a sharp breath. “You really meant it,” he murmured. “You really did let it happen.”

Chuck called forth the memories of guilt and self-loathing, intermixed with resignation. The memory of thinking he’d failed his children too greatly to be deserving of their praises, and distancing himself in the hopes they’d grow stronger without him. The memory of his disappointment when his plan backfired, and Heaven turned to anarchy in his wake.

Gabriel took each memory in turn before walling himself off, shutting down the communication between them. “Enough,” he said, voice rough. “I don’t want to know why you did it. It doesn’t make it better. You left.”

“I came back,” Chuck said. “I did what I did, but I can change what I’m going to do.”

There was a pause, before he felt the walls drop, Gabriel opening his mind to him again. “The human,” he said, pushing to Chuck the image of Dean standing across from Amara. “Who is he?”

Chuck called up a series of memories of Dean, sending them back to Gabriel. Images of a child Dean making dinner for his younger brother, love and desperation filling his soul, intermixed with a man singing along to classic rock cassettes and beheading vampires and going toe-to-toe with Lucifer and Michael. He showed Gabriel Dean’s fight against the Mark of Cain, his journey from man to demon and back again, his ability to undermine divine prophecy every time it dared try to involve him.

For the fun of it, he included some smaller memories, like Dean’s ‘family therapy’ session with him and Lucifer. When Gabriel tried to chase that memory, Chuck cut it off and gifted him memory of that one time Aaron Bass had flirted with Dean and he’d gotten so flustered he backed himself into a table.

“That’s not helpful,” Gabriel said.

“Sure it is,” Chuck replied. “I’ve been trying to set him up with one of you for years.”

Gabriel made an alarmed sound. “What?”

“Don’t worry,” Chuck told him. “I have a particular angel in mind already.”

Gabriel didn’t look any less concerned.

“Oh, come on,” he said. “It’s Castiel! He loves humans. It’ll be great.”

Gabriel blinked at Chuck. “You want Castiel to hook up with a human?”

“Not really a human,” Chuck countered, and pushed over one last memory: him laying his hand against Dean’s soul whilst they were travelling through time, and marking it with divinity, morphing it into the Grace of an Ophanim.

“Didn’t you wipe those out because of Lucifer?” Gabriel asked, weakly. “You want to set him free and you prepared by making another one of the things that he absolutely should not be allowed anywhere near?”

“He had the Mark of Cain for ages,” Chuck said. “He’ll be fine. I’ve got complete faith in him.”

“That sounds like bullshit.”

“It is,” Chuck said. “Mostly. But honestly, if anyone can handle it, it’s Dean Winchester. Like I said, he’s a pain in my ass. He does whatever he wants and gives me the finger the whole time.”

“I like him already.”

Chuck grinned. “Yeah, just wait. You’ll regret saying that, later.”

Gabriel shook his head. “So, an Ophanim named Dean Winchester,” he said. “...What did you need me to do?”

Chuck beamed. “I’m so glad you asked. How do you feel about playing messenger one more time?”

Chapter Text

John and Jess beat the boys back to the bunker by about twenty minutes, which surprised exactly no one. Dean entered the bunker to find them both engrossed in books, though Jess quickly set hers aside to come meet them at the door.

“No offense to your dad,” Jess told him, in a low voice, “but I’m never riding in a car with him for more than an hour ever again.”

“It’s usually best to avoid that,” Sam agreed. “I don’t think he ever learned what road signs are actually for.”

“Besides target practice,” Dean quipped. When the other two looked at him in confusion, he mimed controlling a steering wheel, rocking his hands back and forth like he was making a car swerve - purposely driving the imaginary vehicle into the imaginary street signs.

Jess dissolved into giggles, and Sam snorted, both covering their mouths as they tried not to draw attention to their amusement.

They failed. John looked up from his book, locking eyes with Dean. “Do I want to know?” he asked.

“Not even a little,” Dean replied.

John watched him for a second longer, before apparently deciding to take his word for it, looking back to his book.

“Now that you guys are back,” Jess spoke up, bringing Dean’s attention back to her. “Mind a road trip to a bookstore? There’s lots of them here, but they’re all old. I was thinking of getting some more modern theology books to cross-reference with the ancient ones, to see how much is probably factual.”

“Good thinking,” Sam said. “I’m game.”

“I’ll drive,” Dean offered. He leaned over the railing of the balcony entrance, calling down to John. “Dad, we’re going on a book tour. Be back in a couple hours.”

John gave a distracted hum as acknowledgement, which probably meant he was engrossed in what he was reading enough that he wouldn’t even really notice they had left.

Dean headed back out the door, brother and Jess on his heels, and climbed back into the Impala. Jess immediately got in the passenger seat, making a face at Sam as she did, leaving him to fold his ridiculously gangly limbs into the backseat and lean forward enough to participate in conversation.

“I don’t know if I said this, Sammy,” Dean said, “but I love your girlfriend.”

“Me, too,” Sam replied, getting a happy coo out of Jess.

“Gross,” Dean muttered, cranking the car. “Don’t get all sappy in my car.”

Both of them ignored him.

Probably for the best, anyway, he figured, and set off toward the city.

Dean abandoned Sam and Jess in the nonficiton section of the bookstore, leaving them to browse theology books and philosophical essay anthologies, and headed to where the Bibles were shelved. There were usually notated versions, right? If he could find a Bible with someone’s personal Sparknotes alongside the actual text, that might shed some light on the implications of different passages, as well as connect them to outside information.

Digging through the shelves eventually revealed the jackpot: a book designed for academically inclined atheists and skeptics, connecting Bible passages to historical documents and events as it went.

“Bingo,” he muttered, opening it up to flip through some of the entries. He was reading a small essay about the names given to Jesus by Romans, when he felt someone approach from behind him.

Hunter’s instinct was to never let someone too close to his back, and so it was reflex that had him stepping aside, turning as he did so that his back was facing the shelf instead. The problem was that the action brought him face-to-face with the intruder.

The very, very familiar intruder.

Dean was glad that Angels generally didn’t read minds, because he didn’t want to have to explain the fact that his traitorous mind immediately conjured the image of Casa Erotica and the memory of a full-frontal that he’d never truly be free of.

“Dean Winchester,” Gabriel greeted. “Dear old dad speaks highly of you.”

“Bullshit,” Dean replied immediately. “Don’t trust anything Chuck says. He’s an asshole.”

Gabriel blinked, apparently taken aback. “...’Chuck’?”

Dean faltered. “It’s, uh. What he was going by, before? I don’t know what he’s using now, but I’m not about to go saying the other thing.”

Gabriel looked around, watching a few random people pass by, generally avoiding the section they were occupying. “Alright, that’s fair,” he allowed. “Not like I know what he wants to be called. First time I see the guy in years and all he wants to talk about is his new drinking buddy. You’re gonna give a guy a complex.”

Dean was of the personal opinion that Chuck didn’t need a ‘drinking buddy,’ given that the original Chuck Shurley they’d found had been the type to finish of a bottle of Jack by himself for the hell of it.

He kept that bit to himself, lest he discover Chuck was eavesdropping through some cosmic punishment.

“You’re not missing out on much,” Dean told him. “Talking to Chuck is more of a headache than anything else.”

“He said pretty much the same thing about you.”

Dean shrugged. “He’s not wrong. Did he tell you…?”

“The part where you got that Impala of yours up to 88mph and rolled back eleven years, or where you’re trying to bust my darling big bro out of jail?” Gabriel asked.

“Uh...both.” Dean shifted, closing the book and tucking it under his arm to be bought and then read later, focusing his full attention on the moment at hand. “And it may sound crazy, but it’s really our best shot. Things only got worse when we tried to stop it, before, and kept getting worse the longer we kept fighting. Heading it off at the pass is the best thing we can do.”

“I’ve been an advocate for just letting everybody duke it out from the start,” Gabriel said. “I don’t like my brothers fighting, but if throwing them in the Thunderdome keeps the rest of us out of it, I’m willing to step aside.”

“We’re not letting them fight,” Dean promised. “From what he actually bothered to tell me, he wants to talk it out like an adult instead of letting his kids kill each other and destroy his favorite playground.”

“You really don’t give a shit what he is,” Gabriel observed.

“Oh, I care,” Dean said. “Believe me, it’s a big deal. But meeting an Angel was a big deal, at first, too. Then I realized most of them are just really powerful dicks. It’s hard to be impressed when you’re just pissed off.”

Gabriel laughed. “He ripped apart the fabric of reality for you, and you’re mad about it?”

“He had to fuck up massively to get to that point,” Dean said. “And technically, it wasn’t his idea.”

“Right,” Gabriel said. “The Darkness. You made a deal with the embodiment of chaos, got thrown back to the past, and then teamed up with-...with my dad , to pop ol’ Lucy out of the box and tell Mikey to go fuck himself. You’re a wild time, Winchester.”

“Runs in the family,” Dean replied.

“Yeah?” Gabriel responded. “Mine, too.” A beat of silence passed, before he continued on again. “I’m apparently supposed to be the go-between for you two, now, since he’s playing human for a while.”

“He can’t just…” Dean waved his hands vaguely. “You know. Do some Jedi mind tricks or something?”

“He’s God,” Gabriel said, entirely unimpressed, and apparently giving up on their self-imposed censorship. “Not Obi-wan Kenobi.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. He shouldn’t have to like… actually shut down, should he?”

“Probably not,” Gabriel allowed. “And right now, not at all, because apparently his current guard doesn’t actually exist. But letting Zachariah watch him and genuinely believe he’s a human prophet can go a long way in our favor, because that gives him the opportunity to tell them whatever the hell he wants and have them buy it.”

Dean stared, incredulous. “...He’s God.”

“What do you want me to say, Travolta?” Gabriel demanded. “My dad gave me an order and I’m following it. Would you question it?”
“Yeah, actually,” Dean said. “Pretty much most of what I do is question the shit I’m being told by all-powerful dickheads.” He folded his arms. “He’s making you run liaison because it means he can stay out of it for longer.”

Gabriel watched him through narrowed eyes. “Think carefully about what you’re about to say.”

Dean resisted the urge to meet the hostility with some of his own, and sighed instead. “I’m good to help out,” he said. “I’ll do what I have to, whatever that is. But make sure he knows - once I’ve crawled back out of my grave, his time on the sidelines is used up. If Lucifer steps a single foot out of Hell without Chuck there to make it right, he’s gonna have a lot more to worry about than hurting his kids’ feelings.”

“Threatening God?”

“You know it,” Dean confirmed. “And he knows it, too. I’m not watching anyone I care about die again.”

Gabriel opened his mouth to reply, only to snap it shut, shifting his eyes off to the side. Dean followed his gaze, curious, and saw Sam rounding a corner.

“Hey, Dean, we found a few-...oh, uh, hi.”

Gabriel gave a cheeky grin and a fingertip wave. “Heya, Sammy.”

Sam immediately went on defensive, eyes sharp. “You know me?”

“Not well enough,” Gabriel responded, before winking.

“Okay, that’s enough out of you,” Dean replied. “Get the fuck out.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Gabriel relented, turning on his heel and walking off, waving over his shoulder as he went. “See you boys on the flip side.”

As Gabriel turned the corner behind a shelf, Dean heard the faint sound of wings beating, signaling his exit.

“What an asshole,” Dean muttered.

“Who was that?” Sam asked, before teasingly adding, “Another secret boyfriend?”

“You’re also an asshole,” Dean declared. “And-...Wait, what do you mean, another?”

Sam just laughed, and rushed back toward the direction he’d come from, going to hide behind Jess as Dean chased behind him.

What a fucking brat.

“So we have...history of Jesus being recorded under names like ‘Chrestus’ and ‘Christus,’” Jess started listing off, looking over the notebook page where they’d been scribbling down their most relevant findings. “References to the ‘Astra’ in Hinduism, diagrams of the hierarchy of Angels, a couple things about the Thrones of God, and a fuckton of prophecy relating to the end of the world that may not be complete garbage, but only if we’re insanely lucky.”

“More than we had,” Sam said, playing the optimist. “This was a good idea, Jess.”

Jess preened a little under the compliment, but remained steadfast in her pessimism. “Thanks, but we haven’t actually found anything yet. I’m gonna dig through the library here in the bunker and see what stuff is constant between books. If hundred-year-old books and ones published last month can agree on something, that’s probably got weight behind it.”

“Just remember there’s probably a lot of creative liberty in play,” Dean suggested.

“Of course,” Jess replied, voice almost offended. “Who do you think I am?”

That was fair, really. Jess was new to hunting and extremely rough in combat skills, but could research better than even Sam if given the time. She wasn’t the fastest at it, but she always came back with stacks of notes like she’d been writing a full dissertation.

“Just making sure,” Dean assured her.

“Speaking of knowing who people are…” Sam led in.

“That’s a stretch,” Dean told him. “You’re really reaching.”

“Shut up. Who was the guy in the bookstore, really?”

Jess perked up, instantly latching on to the new information. “A guy?”

Dean rolled his eyes. Gabriel had avoided flying in front of Sam, so Dean decided that it was probably best to not reveal he was an Angel, which meant he really only had one other direction to take it.

“He’s a friend of Chuck’s,” Dean said. “He saw me and stopped to talk, that’s all.”

“So,” Jess said, “can we assume Chuck lives nearby?”

Dean froze, because he had just implied that. “...No,” he said, but in retrospect, Chuck did live pretty close to them. Not right next door, or even in the same state, but about the same distance as Bobby’s or Ellen’s. When the other two clearly caught his hesitation, looking to each other with wicked grins, he scowled at them. “No. No, no, no, drop it, we’re not going to see Chuck.”

“Wouldn’t it be good to get help from a prophet?” Sam asked. “He might have insight as to what we can do next.”

“Here’s your ‘insight,’” Dean replied, giving Sam two middle fingers. “Quit sticking your nose in it. The guy can see what is gonna happen. He’s probably dreaming up us sitting around this bunker doing shit all, right now. Going to see him won’t give him anything interesting. Besides, he’d said he’d call if he has something.”

“There’s no cell service in the bunker,” Sam pointed out. “How’s he gonna call?”

“I’ll drive to a gas station or something once a day,” Dean decided. “Just to check missed calls.”

“And if the calls don’t even show?”

Dean wasn’t worried about it, because Chuck didn’t even need him to be out of the bunker to accept a call, what with celestial forces all having magical constant reception. He couldn’t tell Sam that, though. “He’ll figure it out,” Dean said. “Or if we really need him, I can call.”

“You’re no fun at all,” Jess told him. “How are we supposed to be nosy if you won’t let us see him?”

“You’re not,” Dean replied. “That’s the point.” He pushed away from the dining room table where they’d been gathered around their books, and headed toward the kitchen. “No Chuck, that’s final. Now I’m gonna make dinner, and the next person to mention him isn’t getting any.”

Neither of the others really seemed to intimidated by that threat, but they didn’t say anything else, either, so Dean counted it as a win.

Dean was going to need to find out if being an Ophanim meant he could punch Angels without breaking his hand, because Gabriel and Chuck were both asking for a knuckle sandwich with the way they kept butting in.

He comforted himself with the knowledge that, when Sam eventually did meet Chuck, it would clear up the misunderstanding that Chuck was some ex. No one would ever meet Chuck Shurley and think Dean would tolerate that mess for more than about twenty minutes.

...Hopefully, anyway.

Chapter Text

The Angels were uneasy.

The opening of Hell had set them on edge, and the gardens of Heaven all hummed with a nervous energy.

Sothis had just enough Grace left to pass through the gates without alerting any but Joshua, and the guardian of Eden met her in the shadow of the Wicked Tree.

“He did not ever intend for them to resist,” she murmured, when she felt her brother’s presence behind her. “Did he?”

“He had no firm intentions,” Joshua replied, voice soft but holding no trace of dishonesty. “He created humanity with the capacity to disobey, and gave them an order to see if they would use it.”

“He was...curious,” Sothis murmured, somewhat shocked at the concept. “Angels did not rebel even slightly until Lucifer, and so the Wicked Tree was planted in the garden to test the loyalty of humans against their predecessors.”

“Not loyalty,” Joshua corrected. “Their strength of will. Angels know their creator above all others, and value his judgement above their own at all times. In order for an angel to rebel, they must have something they hold higher than God’s own word. For Lucifer, it was his pride. He set this tree here to discover what it was that humans would value highest.”

“But Lucifer interfered,” Sothis filled in. “He told them to eat it. He forced their faith upon himself.”

“Precisely,” Joshua confirmed. “He looked into their souls and saw their desire to understand, to learn, to grow. He used this against them, and in doing so, claimed their souls for his own.”

Sothis stared up at the small forbidden fruits growing from the tree. They were tiny, just barely sprouting, the first growth she had seen on the tree since the corruption of Lilith.

“How long have these been growing?”

“As long as you have strayed from your post.”

Sothis stiffened, and turned to face Joshua. They both appeared in their human forms, adapting to the constraints of the semi-Earthly plane of Eden, but she could still see the Grace trapped beneath his vessel’s warm brown eyes.

It was writhing, probing, chasing the weak strains of her own and dragging them forward for closer examination.

“You cannot let the others know I’m here,” Sothis said, as firm as she could make her unsteady voice. “I have come at the behest of-...”

“The Ophanim,” Joshua completed. At Sothis’ look of shock, he gave a kind smile, Grace flaring with warmth and love. “Our Father speaks rarely, and when he does it is often unclear what he means, but his will in this was clear. Dean Winchester is a vital part of the events to come, and we are to aid him how we can.”

“Then you’ve spoken to him?” Sothis latched on to the detail, stepping closer. “Tell me, Joshua. If he is present, if he is watching, do we have his support?”
“You have that of the Ophanim,” Joshua replied. “Our Father insists that this will be our greatest asset, above even his own help.”

Sothis let out a low breath. “They intend to send him to Hell,” she confessed.

“I am aware,” Joshua said. “They have been speaking, when they think I am not listening. When they think he is not listening. They intend to form a special garrison for his retrieval, to be sent when the time to break the seals begins.”

“When is that?” she asked. “When do they plan to pull him from the flames?”

“They will bring him to Earth when Lilith is in line to break the second seal,” Joshua told her. “When that will be, you will have to find out on your own.”
She nodded. “Thank you, Joshua. It is good of you to help me.”

“I do so by the word of God,” he replied easily. “Good luck, my sister. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“So do I,” she murmured, looking back up into the tree. “So do I.”

Putting up angel warding in the bunker hadn’t really been a priority for Dean, mainly because of the somewhat embarrassing fact that he honestly forgot he needed it. He’d been living in an impenetrable fortress for years, it was hard to remember this version of the bunker was different.

If there was a good way to realize you'd fucked up in protecting yourself and your family by completely forgetting to ward against one of your biggest threats, it was most definitely not one of said threats materializing in the kitchen while he was frying eggs.

“Fuck,” he shouted, stumbling, the pan in his hand jostling and sending a bit of grease flying free to burn his knuckles. He released the pan’s handle, shaking off his injured hand and turning to glare at Sothis. “Knock next time, will you?”

Sothis reached out, placing two fingers on the pulse point of Dean’s wrist and flaring her grace beneath his skin to heal the minor burns. “I did not anticipate you would have your guard down.”

Dean grimaced. “Yeah. I wasn’t really expecting a surprise Angel visit.” When she opened her mouth to reply, he lifted a hand, stopping her protest before it was made. “‘Throne’ visit. Whatever. I was pretty sure I wouldn’t get jumpscared making breakfast, is the point.”

Sothis turned her eyes to the pan, frowning. “The chickens that laid those eggs were very unhappy. And heavily medicated. Is it wise to patronize a business that encourages the suffering of my father’s creations?”

“Oh, great,” Dean muttered. “Thrones are vegan.”

“What is-..?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean cut off immediately. “Just...let me make my eggs without the guilt, please. I hunt monsters, someone else can look after the chickens. Unless I'm about to give myself salmonella, leave my food alone.”

“You are an Ophanim,” Sothis responded, tone implying she thought he was an idiot for having said anything. “Your Grace will burn out foreign bodies to try and maintain your body as though it were a vessel.”

“Wait, really?” Dean turned to her, almost excited. “So I heal like an Angel would?”

“No,” she said. “Your body is physically human, and you do still have a human soul. Any injuries upon you will linger, just like injuries caused to Angels by a blessed weapon. Your blood is the only thing that will maintain itself.”

“Huh.” Dean thought about that for a minute, weighing the possibilities. How many problems were blood limited only? Was he safe from any kind of poison? Could he still get drunk?

“Your eggs are burning.”

Dean jumped, quickly removing the pan from the stove and scooping the eggs out with a spatula to cool on a plate. “Shit, shIt, shit. Thanks.” He moved the plate aside to eat shortly, and turned his full attention to Sothis. “So, did you find out anything about my trip down south?”

“A family of devout Christians living in a church community have a young daughter who is seven.”

Dean blinked. “Okay…?”

“On her tenth birthday Lilith will possess her to lay waste to the gathered children and force the child’s family to rescind their faith in God,” she told him. “This is the second seal. When Lilith lays a hand on the girl’s soul, the garrison that will rescue you will receive their orders.”

“...Three years from now,” Dean said. “Meaning two years from when I go to Hell. I have to be in Hell...for two years.”

“The Grace of an Ophanim would take about ten years in the time of Hell to turn to a Belial. That would be roughly a month on Earth, leaving you at least twenty-three months in which you will need to resist.”

There were no words for the sheer level of fucked Dean was. He shifted his weight and was surprised to feel the world spin around him, giving him only the briefest of seconds to catch himself on the edge of the counter.

Sothis’ hands came to his shoulders, steadying him. “Dean,” she said. “That would be-...”

“Two hundred and thirty years,” Dean wheezed. “I have to stay on the rack for at least two hundred and thirty years. Are you fucking kidding me?”

“There is no redemption for a Belial,” Sothis said. “I am sorry, Dean, but this is the only way to be certain you remain in command of your own mind.”

Dean shook his head, eyes burning and lungs aching. “I can’t,” he said, it coming out more of a harsh breath than a proclamation. “I can’t. How long…” He shook his head again, more violently. “Days. How many days… ?”

“83,950,” Sothis said, quietly. “Are you certain there is no other way to break the first seal, or to free Lucifer?”

Dean was sure if they tried, they could find another way to open the Cage, but the Angels and demons both needed to believe they were doing it themselves. The easiest path to take…

Like it or not, Dean’s best bet for keeping the world in one piece was in letting himself be shredded in Hell for nearly eighty-four hundred days.

“It has to be me,” he said, slumping in Sothis’ grip. “It has to be.”

Her hands tightened on his biceps, and a moment later, her forehead tapped against his own, her dragging him into a strange sort of impromptu embrace - her likely trying to comfort him without actually knowing how.

“The garrison coming for you is a good one,” she murmured to him. “One of my kindest brothers leads it. He was always curious, always eager to learn. He got in a lot of trouble for asking questions every time he was given a new order, but he never stopped wondering.”

“Castiel,” Dean murmured. “You’re talking about Castiel, right?”

Sothis blinked, looking to Dean in shock. “I…yes. Castiel.”

“I can wait,” Dean declared, finding the strength to stand, running his hands over his face to try and rub away the tension pinching the muscles in it. “I know he’s coming for me. That’s more than I had the first time. I can hold out with that in mind.”

Sothis reached out, tapping his forehead, before moving to form the Catholic cross on his chest by tapping along the respective points. “May my father grant you strength,” she murmured.

Dean didn’t know how to tell her, so he kept it to himself, but personally? Most of his strength would have nothing to do with Chuck at all.

“Hey, little bro.”

Castiel’s Grace flared to acknowledge the greeting, surprise laced through it at the presence of his long-absent elder brother. The eyes of his front-facing head flickered over Gabriel’s form, taking in the bleeding gold light that poured from his core. It was stifled, limited to the same brightness as Castiel’s own Grace, rather than the endless brilliance of an Archangel’s. “Gabriel,” he greeted. “Why are you hiding?”

“I’m on vacation,” Gabriel replied. His wings flared out, sweeping forward - a gesture of dismissal. “That’s not important right now. I have a favor to ask.”

“Anything,” Castiel agreed immediately. “I’d be happy to help.”

“Michael’s true vessel is on Earth right now, just hanging out,” Gabriel said. “And I’m not gonna give away any details, but I got asked to...keep an eye on him, I guess.”

“An important task,” Castiel said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Gabriel flicked his wings again, long talons waving as he gestured with his hands like a human would. “The thing is, I’ve got some stuff I need to get sorted, before I do that. So I was wondering if you, my favorite brother-...”

“I’m flattered,” Castiel said, hesitantly interrupting. “But...are you asking me to take over your watch?”

“Just for a little while!” Gabriel assured. “Long enough for me to put the other stuff I’ve been doing on hold without tipping anyone off as to what I’ve been up to the past few decades or so.”

“...Alright,” Castiel acquiesced. “I will begin immediately.”

“Thanks, Cassie,” Gabriel said. “Watch him close for me! It won’t be a hardship, I promise.”

Gabriel vanished before Castiel could ask what that meant.

Chapter Text

The week before Christmas, Dean woke to his Blackberry making extremely obnoxious beeping sounds that he knew for a fact were not his standard ringtones for anything .

“Fuck off,” Dean muttered in his phone’s direction, tossing a pillow at it. “It’s too early, Chuck.”

The beeping stopped for the briefest of seconds, letting Dean lift his head to stare at it incredulously, before launching into an 8-bit version of what he was fairly certain was a Carly Rae Jepsen song.

“I hate you so much,” Dean groaned, finally rolling out of bed and scooping up the phone.

It wasn’t even really ringing, just announcing the presence of a text. With an exaggerated eye roll towards the ceiling for effect, he opened it, squinting sleep-fogged eyes to try and make out the grainy text.

Needed in Pontiac. ;-)

Dean sighed, and shot back a quick don’t give emojis noses, weirdo before getting out of bed completely.

An hour later had him returning from a ‘coffee run,’ passing drinks to his half-asleep family members and bullshiting that he’d gotten a text during his time in town.

“It just said we need to go to Illinois?” Sam asked, incredulous. “That’s it?”

“Sometimes, with Chuck?” Dean said. “It’s best not to ask.”

“Okay then,” Jess said, curled up in a chair and clutching her coffee like a lifeline. “Road trip number three. Just... lemme wake up, first.”

Dean was happy to give her as much time as she needed, because anxiety was rolling through him like a storm on the ocean. Pontiac had lots of things, he was sure, but all of them were unimportant when weighed against the site of Dean’s once-held grave and the home of Castiel’s future vessel.

Fuck, Jimmy. If Dean saw him, he’d probably have a damn panic attack. Most of his composure at this point was a hard denial that anything abnormal was happening and a firm refusal to look too closely at anything.

When everyone dispersed to ready for a trip, he hesitated in the kitchen for a moment by himself.

If he thought it would help, he would pray. But Chuck was the one sending him across state lines, and Gabriel was probably off doing some weird shit by himself, Sothis couldn’t even hear prayers, and all the other angels were definitely out.

“Is it bad I like it better when the damn demons call me?” Dean asked the empty air. “I think that’s bad.”

His next sip of coffee tasted a bit like it was made with sour tap water.

“Thanks, asshole,” Dean said, lifting his cup in a mock toast. “Get fucked.”

The next sip was normal again - and yes, he was brave and stupid enough to try it again - so Chuck must have taken pity on him. Or stopped listening.

Or both.

Never any telling, with that guy.

“Dean,” Sam said, voice strained. “You’re my brother, and I love you.”

“Thanks, Sammy.”

Sam shot him a look. “And I love you,” he repeated, before pressing on. “But I honestly miss the tapes at this point.”

Dean shook his head in feigned disappointment. “You see, Jess?” he said, looking up to the rearview mirror to meet eyes with the girl in the backseat. “This is why we should have made him ride with Dad.”

“We’ve been in this car for four hours, Dean,” Jess pointed out. “And we’ve heard three Gwen Stefani songs in that time.”

“Only three?” Dean asked. “They all kind of sound the same at this point, so I can’t even tell.”

Sam let out a strangled noise. “If you’re not even enjoying it, why are we listening to a pop station?”

“I like to keep track of what’s come out,” Dean said, and ignored the other two sharing a long-suffering look to reach for the glovebox. “Fine, fine, gimme my tapes.”

The car ride was much more pleasant with music he actually enjoyed for reasons other than nostalgia playing, Sam at his side, and a little bit of friendly conversation filling the air.

He’d need to keep an eye on top chart listings online, or something, so he’d know when it was appropriate to swap stations again and annoy the hell out of his brother again.

Dean really hoped no one was looking too closely at him as they entered Pontiac, because he could see his knuckles going white from his deathgrip on the steering wheel, and he was sure he looked just as ready to hurl as he felt.

Chuck better have had a good fucking reason for sending him into this city, he thought, because otherwise he was going to strangle him.

...Could he strangle God?

He could certainly try.

Nervous energy buzzed under his skin, and he wanted desperately to turn the car around and drive until he was safely isolated somewhere, to drink or scream or something to unfurl the tight coils of tension in his chest.

There was a chance he was being overly dramatic, but...the risks here were too great.

Chuck really better have had a good reason for sending them in.

“Okay...what the fuck is that?”

Dean blinked at Jess’ words, and watched as she pointed over his shoulder, toward the road.

At first, he was confused as to what she meant, but as he slowed the car down to a crawl and they approached, he managed to get a glimpse of what she’d seen.

There was a gathering, with maybe twenty people, stern-faced and wearing black suits.

The person at the head of the group was looking dead at the Impala, and Dean swore as he recognized him.

Chuck had sent him straight to confront Death.

Well, that answered the question of if Death was affected by their time hopping. Hopefully he didn’t remember Dean killing him.

“What’s going on, Dean?” Sam asked, as Dean pulled off to the side of the road, parking the Impala just behind Death’s little white Cadillac.

“Old friends,” he muttered, shutting off the car. “Wait here, will you?”

“Dean?” Jess called, as Dean clambered out of the car. “Dean, what the hell-...And he’s gone.”

Sam laughed as Jess deflated in the back seat, both of them left watching as the man moved toward the curling black smoke on the street.

Hopefully it wasn’t anything that would kill him.

Out in the street, Dean approached Death, giving an uneasy smile.

He was met with a cool glare.

“Time is being kind to you, Dean,” Death told him. “She rarely plays along with games like this.”

“Ah,” Dean said. “So, uh. You know about that?”
“The last time I saw you it was 2015, and you put my own scythe through my chest.” Death’s fingers drummed along the top of his cane. “Do not think I’ve forgotten that, or that I ever will.”

Dean was so fucked. “So, you’re here,” he said, looking at the others around him. “And I’m guessing these guys are all reapers? Why can I see them?”

“Interesting,” Death murmured. “To your brother and your friend, there is nothing here but a void, curling like smoke across the sidewalk. But you aren’t human, are you, Dean?”

“Not anymore,” Dean confirmed. “You mean you can’t tell? Everyone else seems to know.”

“You are touched by God,” Death said. “That much I can tell. What changes he’s made, though, he’s been careful to hide.”

Death raised a hand, snapping his fingers once, all the reapers around him vanishing in an instant.

“Let’s talk, Dean,” Death said. “Tell me what games you’ve played with the universe. God would not have destroyed the Darkness, not if she threatened his own life. How did you manage it? How did you convince Time to unwind for you?”

“Um,” Dean faltered. “I don’t know, actually.”

Death blinked, and then, surprisingly, laughed. “You fumble in the dark so often you seem surprised to find there was ever a light to begin with,” he said. “You’ve unmade the world, dragging even the eldest beings in the universe to heel. You are a man who has killed Death, brightened the Darkness, corrupted God, and now you’ve tamed Time. You are a force to be reckoned with, Dean Winchester.”

“Chuck sent me here,” Dean said. “Was it for you? You could have talked to me anywhere, it didn’t have to be here.”

“God does not know I’m here,” Death said. “He had his own reasons for bringing you here. I simply chose to meet you at the doors. We have much to discuss, you and I.”

“For the record, I’m sorry,” Dean told him. “But, I mean, come on. You know me. Did you really think I would be able to kill Sam?”

“Not for a moment,” Death said. “Just like I knew you would not be able to act as a reaper when I loaned you my ring, or how I knew you would not let the walls remain in Sam’s mind when his soul was pulled from Hell. Knowing something is impossible does not make it any less entertaining to watch.”

“What did you think I was gonna do, then?” Dean demanded.

“I don’t know,” Death replied, easily. “With you, Dean, no one ever knows. That’s what’s fascinating about you. It’s why I listen to your whims, why God gives you so many chances, why Time herself has bought into your game. We all want to know what you’re going to do next.”

“So I’m divine HBO, is that it?” Dean said. “I’m just a human. At least, I was. I don’t see what the big deal about me is.”

Death’s amused smile made Dean’s stomach churn. “That’s the thing, Dean. God should not have had the power to create you. In order for you to exist, to have the sway you do, something else must have touched your soul at some point.”

Dean frowned. “...Like…?”

“What created God, Dean?” Death asked him. “What made me? What made the Darkness? What made Time?”

“I don’t fucking know,” Dean snapped. “Nobody knows, right? That’s the whole point.”

“And that’s why we’re so fascinated by you,” Death told him. “You have met your own creator, and its siblings, who is to say that you could not also seek out his predecessor? Who is to say you were not touched by the Universe itself?”

Dean’s eyes widened, almost stumbling under the idea of it. “You’re not serious,” he said. “Now you’re saying the whole goddamn universe is fucking with me?”

“Just a theory,” Death replied. “Always just a theory. You are the only one who has ever found answers to questions like these...we’ll be watching to see what you find.”

In a blink, smoke swirled, and Death was gone from the street.

“Dean!”

Dean turned to the car, the Cadilac between them having vanished along with its driver, to see Jess and Sam both clambering out of the Impala.

“Who was that?” Jess called to him. “That creepy guy that came out of the smoke?”

Dean debated the value of his answer.

“Dean?” Sam prompted.

“Death,” Dean decided to admit, watching both his hunting partners recoil at the answer. “He, uh. Doesn’t like me very much.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Jess muttered. “Death, the grim reaper, the force ends life, doesn’t like Dean Winchester. I don’t know why I’m even surprised anymore.”

“You really should get used to it,” Dean told her. “A lot of powerful things don’t like me.”

“One of those is going to be me, if you don’t chill out,” Jess warned him. “Is that what your prophet guy wanted us to be here for?”

Dean frowned, looking at the spot where Death had been standing. “I don’t know,” he said, even though he was fairly certain it wasn’t, from the creature’s own words if nothing else. “I don’t know what I’m after.”

They stayed standing on the sidewalk for a moment longer.

“Come on,” Dean said, heading back toward the Impala. “Let’s get moving again. Maybe we can find something further into town that tells us what we’re after. See if there’s anything weird going on. Weather freaking out, or mass nightmares, or, I dunno, a bunch of fuckin’ bugs.”

“Is that a thing?”

“It is most certainly a thing,” Dean assured Jess. “And it’s just as nasty as it sounds. Actually-....”

“You’re real.”

Dean froze at the shocked voice, turning slowly to meet the wide eyes locked on him, grocery bags held in slack hands and face the picture of stunned revelation.

“I thought they were just dreams. They had to be dreams.”

Dean shifted, ignoring Jess and Sam both giving him concerned looks. “You’ve dreamt about me?”

The man shook his head. “I know it sounds crazy, I’m sorry, I just…”
“It’s not crazy,” Dean said, and vowed that Chuck was going to have hell to pay when they saw each other again, all while crossing the street to shake the man’s hand. “My name’s Dean. Dean Winchester.”

The man returned his handshake with a small, kind smile. “I’m Jimmy Novak.”

Chapter Text

The reunion at Stanford had shown Sam a new version of Dean, and at first, he’d written that off as something to be expected. After all, it had been years. Of course they weren’t the same people they’d been when Sam left.

The longer he’d spent with Dean, though, the more changes he was seeing. Oddly, the major changes were the ones that were the least alarming. Dean’s casual dismissal of his once tightly gripped pride could be explained with the events Dean had confessed to taking place during Sam’s time in school.

It was the little things that worried him.

Little things like how he startled sometimes when their dad started talking, or the way Dean watched Sam like a hawk when he thought no one could see it. Little things like how Dean was the last to go to sleep and the first to wake, always hovering in the main room of the bunker with books in hand and a frown on his face. Little things like the fact that he clenched his jaw before he answered questions, which Sam knew from years of childhood poker games was his tell that he was about to lie.

Little things like the fact that he looked like he was screaming internally when this man smiled at him and introduce himself, like the words ‘I’m Jimmy Novak’ had reached right into his soul and shredded it to pieces.

Something major had changed in Dean, but all the positives did little but mask the revelation that something darker was lurking underneath, some tragedy or trauma that Sam didn’t know about and possibly never would.

He needed to know, because he needed to help.

He only had his brother for a short time, if the demons kept to their contract. He had to make it count.

He had to find some way to let Dean live without this unseen weight on his heart.

And, somehow, something told him the key to this started with this man - with Jimmy Novak.

Dean was going to fucking hurl.

He was going to be sick, and then he was going to scream, and then he was going to go hunt down Crowley and just cash the fuck in on his contract, because there could be nothing in Hell that was any worse than looking dead into Castiel’s electric blue eyes and knowing that not only is he not the man Dean wants to see, his life would be ruined if not ended for the sake of letting his friend even have a chance of being the same.

Part of him knew meeting Jimmy could be good, that it could give him the chance of making his life go a little less shitty this time around, but most of him just wanted to go grab Chuck and force him to jump back again, to the decision Dean had made to read that stupid fucking text and follow it.

If this is what Chuck sent him after, Dean was going to punch him, God or not. Or call Death back and make some kind of deal for him to punch Chuck, since Dean would probably just break his hand.

He’d work out the details later.

“I hate to bother you,” Jimmy said, “but...would you be alright talking to me a while? Maybe at my house? I’m sorry, I just...you seem to believe me, and that’s more than I was expecting.”

“It’s not the weirdest thing I’ve heard today,” Dean assured him. “I don’t mind following you home, if your family would be okay with it.”

Jimmy blinked. “You...you know about my family?”

Dean could have shrugged it off as a lucky guess, but...well, Jimmy was owed at least the basest level of honesty. “You have a wife named Amelia and a daughter named Claire,” he said, watching Jimmy’s face pale. “And the angel that’s talking to you? His name…” Dean swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to force the words.

“His name is Castiel,” Jimmy filled in for him. “How do you know all this?”

“It’s a long story,” Dean said. “I’d be happy to tell you at least the cliffnotes, though.”

And so they found themselves piling into the Impala, driving behind Jimmy’s dinky little economy car.

“What’s going on, Dean?” Sam asked. “How do you know this guy?”

“Guys, I’m gonna ask you a favor,” Dean said, rather than answer.

“Anything,” Jess answered without hesitation. “What’d you need?”

“Chuck sent me here because of this guy,” Dean said. “I know him-...well, I know the angel that’s been bothering him.”

“I heard that,” Sam said. “Ca-..?”

“Don’t,” Dean cut off, voice almost cracking as he rushed to stop Sam. “Don’t say his name. You never know who’s listening.”

Not to mention it felt like a fucking knife to the back, honestly, but that was a personal problem.

“Just…” Dean took a deep breath. “You guys are better with people than I am, better with the emotional stuff, and keeping people calm. Right? I need you two to talk to his wife.”

“What should we say?” Jess asked, all business.

“Fuck, anything,” Dean said. “After-...Well, in the future that Chuck, uh, saw, some bad shit happened to them. His wife ended up dying, and his daughter was...really messed up, mentally. Classic teen rebellion, times a hundred.”

“And we need to…?”

“Jimmy isn’t hallucinating,” Dean said. “Amelia thinks he is. I want…”

God, he was so fucking selfish.

“I want you to convince her she’s right.”

“What?” Sam asked, stunned. “But…”

“Listen, Sammy,” Dean said, almost desperate. “Knowing the truth will only hurt them, and put them in danger. I’m going to talk to Jimmy alone, and I’m going to see if I can convince him to come with us. His family is safer thinking that we took him to a psych ward than knowing we dragged him off to be angel bait for the fucking apocalypse.”

“Christ, Dean,” Sam muttered. “That’s…”

“I’ll handle it.”

Dean looked up, catching Jess’ eyes in the rear-view mirror. “...Really?”

“Knowing about this stuff…” Jess shook her head. “Sometimes I feel like I’m going to go crazy. I love Sam enough that I’m able to deal with it, when that happens, but...I’m not going to make someone else make the choice between throwing away everything they know about the world and staying at their loved one’s side. It’ll be easier to keep her safe if she just doesn’t know.”

“I don’t like this,” Sam said. “But I guess I’m outvoted. Dean- you’re at least going to ward their house, right?”

Dean was going to ward their house a thousand times over, and then go drag Chuck over the coals until the guy promised to hide their souls, too. For the sake of time, though, he just said, “Duh,” and let it be.

“Jimmy?”

“I’m home,” Jimmy called back to Amelia, kissing her on the cheek when she came to greet him. “I ran into some... friends, today. I’m gonna talk to them awhile, okay?”

Amelia hesitated. Jimmy knew the look in her eyes, knew that she’d heard his split second hesitation and was wondering if this was one more thing in his growing list of crazy. When the sound of heavy footsteps rang behind him, he watched relief fill his wife’s face, a joy that he genuinely had found some friends and not just dreamt them up.

She didn’t believe him about the angel, but Jimmy had no doubts he was real. He’d stuck his hand in boiling water and come out unscathed. He’d passed his hand through a flame, he’d seen Claire’s scraped knee close up under his fingertips.

Castiel was real, and these people - this man - believed him. Knew him.

He had to talk to them.

“Would you like anything to drink?” Amelia asked.

“I’m good,” the man from the road, Dean, said. “But, uh..”

“I’d love one,” the girl said, and she and the tall man followed Amelia into the kitchen.

On the way out, the tall man looked back, locking eyes with Dean for a second and giving him a short, stern-faced nod.

…Ominous. Yet, somehow, he couldn’t distrust these people. Something in him just wanted to believe they were genuinely here to help.

“Okay,” Dean said, heading into the living room. Jimmy quickly followed behind him, taking a seat across from him when the man settled onto the couch. “So, uh. Angels.”

“Angels,” Jimmy confirmed. “Or, an angel. Just the one. Ca-...”

“Yeah,” Dean’s voice came out rushed, panicked. “Try not to name an angel unless you want them listening in.”

“You don’t want him to listen?” Jimmy asked, frowning. “Why? Who are you?” A thought occured to him, and he recoiled a bit. “You’re not...you’re not some kind of demon, are you?”

Dean snorted out a laugh. “Yeah, no,” he assured Jimmy. “Like I said, it’s a long story.”

“I have plenty of time.”

Dean’s lip twitched, almost toward a smirk, before returning to the tense frown that had his whole face pinched. “You’d need years,” he said.

Something in his tone of voice suggested he wasn’t exaggerating.

“Then what can you tell me?” Jimmy asked. “You said you’d give me the short version, so...let’s hear it.”

“Angels are real,” Dean said, voice low - likely to keep anyone from overhearing. He appreciated the effort, considering Amelia already thought he was crazy. “Demons, monsters, Heaven, Hell - all of it.”

Jimmy gave a short nod. He’d already figured that much out, at least.

“Right now, they’re all working hard to get ready for something,” Dean said. “Something big.”

“Like...a second coming?”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, no. I still don’t know if that’s ever gonna be a thing, honestly. No, I’m talking bigger.”

His tone was foreboding.

“....Armaggeddon?” Jimmy ventured. At Dean’s grim nod, he slumped in the chair. “Oh. Oh, my God.”

“It’s not actually the end of the world,” Dean said. “At least, it doesn’t have to be. The angels intend for an archangel battle royale to take the planet down, but we’re not letting it get that far. That’s where you come in.”

“Me?” Jimmy asked, incredulous. “What can I do? I’m...I’m an ad salesman, I’m not anything special.”

“Angels need people of faith, from certain bloodlines, to act as hosts,” Dean said. “Bodies.”

Jimmy blanched.

“He’s bothering you because he wants yours,” Dean told him.

“That’s...that’s crazy,” Jimmy murmured, not bothering to acknowledge the irony of the statement. “I can’t...I can’t just...What, will I die?”

“Not gonna lie, here. Probably,” Dean said.

“...Do I have a choice?”

“Barely,” Dean said. “If you say no, he’ll have to find another body. But he’s an angel. They’re dicks, alright? They don’t care about humans in any capacity whatsoever. He won’t care who says yes, as long as someone does. Someone from the right bloodline.”

Jimmy’s blood ran cold. “Claire.”

Dean didn’t even respond, just dipped his chin slightly in acknowledgment.

“I-...” Jimmy shook his head. “If I do this, will they be safe?”

“I know ways to protect them,” Dean said. “I can do my best to, even if you choose to stay. But know that the best way to protect them is to stay away. You’re marked, now. You’ve heard an angel’s voice. They’re not going to leave you alone, ever.”

Something occurred to Jimmy, then, and he turned slowly, looking toward the kitchen door.

“...What are they telling her?” he asked, barely a whisper.

“That you need help,” Dean answered. “And that we can give it to you. It’s not a lie.”

“But it’s not the truth, either,” Jimmy said. “I really don’t have a choice, do I?”

“There’s always a choice,” Dean said. “It’s just not always a good one.”

“Okay,” Jimmy said. “Dammit, okay. You win. I’ll do it. What do I have to-...?”

“Just come with us,” Dean told him, the gentle tone of his voice just acting as salt on the wound. “We’ll set you up to wait it out, until he needs you. The longer you’re away from your family before he takes over, the safer they’re gonna be.”

“Alright,” he said. “...Can I at least say goodbye?”

“Of course,” Dean said. “And...I know it’s not worth a shit, but I am sorry. I’m just too selfish to leave you here.”

“Wanting to stop the apocalypse is selfish?”

Dean snorted. “The most selfish thing I could do,” he replied, entirely nonsensically. “I’ll be outside.”

He called for the other two on his way out the door, and a moment later they emerged, following him out.

Jimmy, meanwhile, took a deep, steadying breath, and went to say goodbye to his family.

Chapter Text

Castiel knew Gabriel enjoyed practical jokes and teasing, and had gone into his favor with that in mind. Still, being distantly aware that there might be a joke tied in to the task he’d assigned Castiel and actually actively believing the task was a set-up were different things.

Perhaps that was why when he went to check in on the Winchester, he was so surprised to find him standing in front of his vessel’s house. He just honestly hadn’t believed Gabriel had been playing with him by giving him this assignment.

Dean Winchester was not supposed to be here. Castiel wasn’t meant to interact with the Righteous Man until he pulled him from Hell. To mark a human soul before it went to Hell would brand it in a way that would lure only the worst of demons to it, and he had no way of knowing how long Dean would be in Hell before Castiel would manage to reach him.

Still, he was interfering with Castiel’s plans at obtaining a vessel, and that could not be allowed.

Castiel was fairly certain the Righteous Man was able to hear his voice, should he speak, but the two humans with him - his brother, and a girl he did not know - most certainly could not. It was probably safest, then, to not try and interact with him directly.

Instead, Castiel looked into the house, seeking out his vessel.

James Novak, he called. You have a visitor.

Jimmy, in the arms of his wife, tensed as he spoke, but otherwise did not respond.

That was...irritating. Jimmy Novak had been getting progressively less responsive during Castiel’s visits, as his wife’s continued doubts weighed on his soul.

“I have to go,” he murmured to Amelia. “I...I can hear him, and I can’t...They can help me, with this. They can make it stop.”

“Get better,” Amelia said, through tears. “We’ll be here when you come back.”

They kissed, and released each other, Jimmy heading for the door.

This was not good. James, do you doubt me?

Jimmy did not respond.

This was... very bad.

“Okay,” his vessel said, once he was outside. “Where are we headed?”

“Lebanon,” Dean replied. “We have a safehouse there.”

Do not go with them, Castiel told Jimmy. I have seen their safehouse. It has wards against Angels - I cannot see you there.

“...He doesn’t want me to go with you.”

Dean straightened. “He’s talking to you? Right now? He’s here?”

He sounded alarmed. Castiel wondered at that - Angels had done nothing to Dean Winchester, as far as he knew. Perhaps his fears toward the supernatural extended to even creatures of God’s favor.

“Is there somewhere else I could go?” Jimmy asked. “I’d...I’d really rather do what he says.”

Dean’s jaw worked as he appeared to think it over.

“It’s a shitty idea,” he muttered to himself after a moment. “It’s such a shitty idea, and he’s gonna be pissed I even thought of it.”

“What?” Jimmy asked. “Who?”

Dean just shook his head, dragging a hand over his face. “Okay, Sammy,” he called, catching his brother’s attention. “How do you feel about meeting Chuck?”

Sam Winchester looked as though he’d been offered something divine.

Castiel wasn’t sure who Dean meant by Chuck, but he had a terrible feeling about it.

“So this guy is a friend of yours?”

Dean snorted. “He’s the one who told me to come after you,” he said. “So...no, not really. He’s just an asshole who can be helpful sometimes.”

“And he can help me?” Jimmy asked. “How?”

“Fuck if I know!” Dean couldn’t help but snap back. “All I know is that I can’t do anything, and apparently the bunker is a no-go for the angelic peanut gallery, so. Chuck it is.”

There was a beat of silence, before Jimmy spoke up again.

“...Chuck Shurley?”

Dean’s grip shifted on the wheel of the Impala. “That didn’t take him very long.”

“He says he’s a prophet,” Jimmy said. “Is that true?”

Dean lifted a hand off the wheel, waving it side to side a little in a ‘more or less’ gesture. “He’s full of shit,” Dean informed the others, “but yeah, he knows what’s supposed to happen, at least.”

“So far it sounds like Dean likes to ruin all the stuff Chuck saw,” Sam told Jimmy. “I’m pretty sure ‘fuck over the prophecy’ is like a third of a his motivation in everything.”

“The other thirds are protecting people, and food,” Jess added.

Dean’s hand came off the wheel again, this time to flip off the rest of the car.

...They weren’t wrong, though.

Dean reached Chuck’s driveway before he realized he wasn’t even sure if they guy lived there anymore.

His car radio started emitting a strange static as he moved to park, though, so the chances were good that something was hanging around. Either that, or Castiel was just really pissed off and trying to make a point of it.

Which, honestly, sounded like something he’d do. Cas had always been kind of petty.

“This is the place?” Sam asked. “Chuck’s here?”

Dean cut the car off with a grimace. “Should be.”

They exited the car and headed to the door, Dean leading them like a funeral march.

He really didn’t want to talk to Chuck right now, especially in front of other people, where he might end up letting something slip.

He knocked on the door, held his breath, and hoped he’d keep his cool.

A moment later, the door swung open, revealing a disheveled Chuck, in the same underwear-and-bathrobe ensemble he’d stuck to during his original prophet schtick.

“I said give me time,” Chuck hissed at him. “This is not time!”

“You’re the one who texted me,” Dean reminded him. “This is your fuck-up, not mine.”

“You didn’t have to bring him here!”

“And what else was I supposed to do with him?”

He and Chuck glared at each other for a solid thirty seconds.

“Um,” Sam spoke up, behind him. “It’s nice to meet you?”

Chuck abruptly abandoned being irate with Dean to look over the others. “Hey. I’m Chuck, but you already knew that. And I know you.” He glanced at Jess, then grimaced. “Well, mostly. You technically weren’t supposed to be here.”

“Dude,” Dean snapped. “Maybe don’t?”

“What does he mean?” Jess asked, looking to Dean. “Was I supposed to stay behind?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean tried, but she interrupted him before he could get it completely out.

“I’m worried about it,” she insisted. “What does he mean?”

“Okay,” Chuck said, cutting in. “Let’s go inside and talk in my house, and hope that Dean doesn’t punch me and get obliterated by an Archangel.”

“...What?”

“It’s a lot,” Chuck told Jess. “Come on. Inside.”

Dean pushed passed him into the house, ignoring his grumbling about rudeness, and went straight for the living room, where his computer setup still was, surrounded by booze and empty coffee mugs.

“Well, at least you’re consistent,” Dean muttered.

Chuck flipped him off, before moving to clear a space on the couch for the others to sit down.

“Okay, so,” Chuck looked at Jess, then Jimmy, as the three others sat on the couch and left only Chuck and Dean standing. “Who wants to go first?”

“First?” Sam asked.

“You all have questions you want to ask,” Chuck said. “I don’t do really well with interviews, so I figured we’d just take turns.”

“How about instead, you help me fix this?” Dean gestured to Jimmy. “He needs a body, but I’m not about to let him ruin someone’s life to take it. Not if I can help it.”

“So you need a way to copy his body,” Chuck filled in. “I have an idea, but it’s probably a shitty one.”

“What else is new?”

“Okay, listen, asshole-...” Chuck started.

“No,” Dean interrupted. “The plan was we’d leave each other alone until shit kicks off. You broke the deal, you get to deal with it.”

The glaring match resumed.

“What’s the plan?” Jimmy asked, cutting into their fight to bring them back to task.

“Right.” Chuck turned around, heading to his computer desk and flipping through pages. After a moment, he pulled out a sheet, with what looked like a printout of an article. “There’s a Malaysian creature called an A Bao A Qu.”

“Weird name.”

“Shut up,” Chuck hissed at Dean, before continuing. “It has no shape, but it wants to. So it lives at the bottom of a tower, and waits for someone to climb.”

“Like Rapunzel?” Sam asked.

“No, not like-...Well, yeah, kind of.” Chuck shook his head. “Whatever. When someone starts climbing, it follows them. It feeds off of them as they work their way to the top. By the time the climber reaches the peak, the A Bao A Qu has completely copied their form.”

“So if Jimmy climbs it…”

“You’ll have two perfect copies,” Chuck confirmed. “And we can use the not-human one as a nice, sterile Angel vessel.”

Dean frowned. “What’s the catch?”

“Yeah, that’s the sticking point,” Chuck said. “It feeds off the climber, not just their look. It doesn’t have a body yet because no one can ever live long enough to reach the top.”

There was a heavy moment of silence as everyone soaked that in.

“...If I make it,” Jimmy said, slowly. “If I can climb to the top, I can go home? My family will be safe?”

“Absolutely,” Chuck said. “It’s a long shot, but if it works, then you’re golden.”

“I’ll do it,” he said. “Just...promise me.” He looked to Dean. “If something happens to me, promise you won’t let him take Claire.”

Dean’s mouth felt like it was sewn shut with the effort it took to respond, and Chuck must have seen that, because he answered instead.

“Claire will be safe,” Chuck promised. “If he tries to talk to her, she’ll go to her mom, and Amelia will panic and run her around to a million doctors, but she’ll never have the chance to say yes. He’ll have to find someone else.”

“Thank God,” Jimmy breathed.

Chuck looked like he was tempted to say ‘you’re welcome,’ so Dean took over the conversation again.

“So we’re going after this thing,” Dean said. “Where do we go?”

“Chittorgarh,” Chuck said. “The Tower of Victory.”

“...India?” Sam asked, once he was able to mentally place the geography.

Dean blanched. “Oh, fuck you,” he said. “Of course I have to take a fucking plane.”

Sam gave an amused snort, which he covered with a cough when Dean glared at him.

“My turn, then?” Jess asked, tentatively. “What do you mean, I’m not supposed to be here?”

Luckily, for once, Chuck’s voice went tactful and gentle. “When Dean took Sam, he was supposed to do it in the dead of night,” he said. “And he wasn’t supposed to come back for a few days.”

“Okay…?”

“While he was gone, you were supposed to get a visit from a friend,” Chuck said. “Brady.”

“Alright?” Jess sounded infinitely confused. “What happened to Brady?”

“Nothing happened to Brady,” Chuck said. “Something happened to you.”

“Brady was possessed,” Dean told her. “He introduced you to Sam because while we were gone, and you were unprotected, he was going to kill you.”

Jess sucked in a sharp breath, turning wide eyes to Sam, who had gone sheet white.

“He was a demon?” Sam asked. “That whole time?”

“Not the whole time,” Chuck said. “Just...most of it.”

“Not helping,” Dean told him.

Chuck shrugged in response, entirely blasé.

“So, wait,” Sam said. “If you knew this, you changed it on purpose? You saved Jess?”

Dean faltered. “Well, I wasn’t gonna just let her die, Sam.”

“Thank you,” Sam breathed out. “That means everything to me, Dean. Thank you for saving her.”

“I’d also like to say thanks,” Jess added. “The past month or so has been a lot, but I feel like it’s a lot better than being dead.”

“Debatable,” Chuck said. “Heaven-...”

“Full of angels,” Dean interrupted to remind him. “Hard pass, thanks.”

Chuck waved him off, and spoke to Jess again. “The point is, I don’t know very much about you, because you were supposed to be a very short prologue before the real story kicked off. No offense.”

“Yeah, there’s some offense still taken,” she said.

Chuck shrugged again. “That’s fair. Anyway, Dean’s doing a lot of that. Taking stuff that’s supposed to happen and giving it the finger. It’s pretty fun to watch, when it’s not fucking me over.”

“Alright,” Dean said, clapping his hands together. “I think it’s time we get the fuck out, before I really do punch you.”

“By all means,” Chuck agreed. “Get out, and don’t come back unless I ask you to.”

“You won’t ever ask me to.”

“Exactly.”

Dean rolled his eyes, and turned to the door. “Come on, guys.”

As he left the house, he paused in the doorway just long enough to hear a quiet exchange between Sam and Chuck.

“It was nice to meet you,” Sam said. “Even if he was being kind of short-tempered about it, I think Dean is grateful to you for your help. That wasn’t what he acts like when he’s genuinely pissed off.”

“Trust me, I know,” Chuck replied. “I’m grateful to him, too. The path that was set out...really wasn’t great. I like his plan better than mine. If he’s even got one, that is.”

Dean rushed out to the car without sticking around to hear anything more.

Chapter Text

“Hello, little brother.”

Chuck stared at the whiskey, frozen in mid-pour, suspended in a second between the bottle and his glass.

“Can you not do that?” he asked.

The liquid pulled itself back into the bottle, which snatched itself from his hand and dropped back onto the table, as though it had never been touched.

Before he could complain, the bottle continued to warp, slowly refilling and then re-sealing itself, the plastic safety seal that had long since been removed stretching to cover the neck of the bottle again.

“You’re forgiven,” Chuck declared.

“And you’re a mess,” Time said, stepping forward, lifting the bottle to examine it. “Why do you keep up this charade? An illusion is simple enough to cast over the mind of one of your creations, even the highly powerful ones. Your Archangel guardian would never know he was being fooled.”

“It’s more fun this way,” Chuck replied, dryly. “I’m guessing you froze everything, not just my drink?”

“We’re in the space between seconds,” Time confirmed. “I needed to speak to you.”

“...It’s about Dean, isn’t it?” Chuck shook his head. “If you want an apology, I can’t give it to you. I wasn’t the one who came up with this whole thing, that was all Amara.”

“I’m not upset with you,” she said. “You did not force me to assist you in this. I acted under stricter command.”

Chuck narrowed his eyes at her. “...The Earth’s timeline is under my control, technically. If you got involved....Oh, geez, what did you change?”

“Death is very unhappy with you,” she said, in lieu of an answer.

Chuck threw his head back in a groan, which made her lips curl into a small, amused smile.

“Wait,” he said, after a moment. “‘Stricter command’? ...You don’t mean-...?”

“I can’t tell you what I mean,” Time said. “You know this, Lampiad.”

“Hey, no, none of that,” Chuck said, making frantic hushing gestures with his hands. “It’s Chuck! Just Chuck.”

“I never once called you God,” Time reminded him. “Nor any other title you’ve given yourself. Why would I listen now?”

Chuck sighed heavily. “Amara and I quit using our Aramaic names as soon as we could get away with it. I don’t know why you are such a stick in the mud about it.”

Time shook her head. “The more you create, the more you mimic,” she said. “I worry about you, Lampiad.”

“Well, don’t,” he said. “I’m totally fine. Let’s get back to you hinting that they are back.”

“ They never left,” Time replied. “They do not wish you or the others to know of them, that is all.”

“But you know,” Chuck pointed out. “Why not us?”

“You are impulsive, Lampiad, and unreliable,” Time said. “Kheshuok-...”

“She’s Amara, now.”

“ Kheshuok,” Time pressed, “is unstable and prone to irrationality.”

Chuck pursed his lips. “What about Death?”

“Aaemuot has never asked after our creator,” she said.

“Forgive me for the doubt here, sis, but...bull shit. ”

Time narrowed her eyes in warning. “Aaemuot has only ever asked one question, and they permitted me to answer it. Since then, he has not inquired any further, and I have not been prompted to give any more information.”

“What did he ask?”

Time’s lips curled up again, but there was no amusement there this time, only a cold and detached sort of disinterest. “I can’t tell you that.”

Chuck stepped forward a bit, catching the words unsaid. “But he could, right?”

“He could,” she confirmed. “Our creator wishes to be unknown, but in this they have kept their silence. Aaemuot is under no order of silence, not like me.”

“You never did tell me,” Chuck said. “Why is it you know this stuff, if they don’t want us to know?”

“I can tell you little,” Time said. “But...I was created before you, Lampiad. I had to exist for there to even be a before, and so there are no words to measure the distance between my creation and yours. Our creator chose to hide away in the fabric of their crafted universe, for reasons of their own, and I am not permitted to share anything more than that. Just know they had cause.”

“Thanks, sis,” Chuck said. “I know it’s not easy for you to talk about them.”

“If you wish to thank me,” she said, “then use my name.”

Chuck rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine. Thank you, Eedonoa. I owe you one.”

“You owe me several,” she corrected, and then was gone before Chuck could give any further reply.

The deity shook his head, reaching to pop open the whiskey bottle for the second time in its existence.

“Looks like it’s just you and me, buddy,” he told it, as he poured himself his glass. “Maybe the visitors will stop, now. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Outside his window, thunder cracked, the storm he’d created to keep his guardian angels at bay raging on.

He took a long drink, watching the dark clouds roll out the window, and weighed his limited new knowledge.

Time wasn’t a housecall kind of person. If she was getting involved…

He drummed his fingers against the side of his glass.

If Time was involved, that meant they had an interest. And if they had an interest…

...Well, maybe he could finally learn who they were .

“So this is what you guys do, huh?” Jimmy asked, trailing fingers over the spread of mythology texts that covered the bunker’s table. “Just...look up stuff about monsters, and then go kill them?”

“There’s usually a little more legwork involved,” Sam replied, “but yeah, basically.”

“And what about this thing?” He tapped the printout Chuck had given them, sitting at the center of the table. The, uh, ah-bow-uh-thing.”

“A Bao A Qu,” Jess corrected. “I’m already booking our flight. Earliest flight I can get is out of Wichita, so we’ve got a bit of a drive ahead of us, and then the flight is over twenty hours - and that’s a nonstop trip.”

Dean groaned. “I hate planes,” he said.

“You hunt demons,” Jimmy said. “Why are you scared of airplanes?”

“If I die because of demons, I go down fighting,” Dean said. “You know what you can do in a crashing plane? Jack shit, that’s what. I’m not about that.” He threw his hands up. “I just have to hope that there’s no weird shit in the sky waiting to knock me down.”

“Or just hope God likes you,” Sam offered.

Dean barely resisted the urge to laugh in their faces. “Yeah, not likely.”

“We should pack up,” Sam said. “Or just...not unpack, I guess.”

“If I’m going to India, I’m taking more than I took to Illinois,” Jess countered. “Not as easy to pop into a Target in Chittorgarh.”

“How do you know?” Dean asked. “They could love Target.”

“I’ll be right back,” Jess said, ignoring him completely. “If you guys wanna grab anything, too, act fast. Our flight leaves first thing in the morning, and we have a five hour drive to get through today.”

“...How did she even managed to get a flight?” Jimmy asked, after she’d left the room. “Christmas is in a week. Everyone’s gonna be flying home for the holidays.”

“It’s probably safest not to ask,” Sam replied.

“If you’re a law-abiding citizen, anyway,” Dean added.

Jimmy paled, and Dean would probably find that funny, whenever he got done feeling bad for the guy.

When the four of them reached the motel they were staying the night in - only four, because John had opted out of the field trip - Dean took a moment to step outside, breathing in the cool night air and trying not to dwell on the fact that he’d soon be boarding a metal deathtrap to go hurtling towards the stalking grounds of some new monster.

“Hey there, handsome,” a voice came from behind him. “Looking for a good time?”

Dean turned, ready to politely decline, when he met the jet black eyes of the woman who’d approached him.

She gave him a red-lipped smile as her sclera snapped back to white. “Boss wants to talk.”

“Crowley?” Dean asked, incredulous. “What does he want?”

“He wants you to do something for him,” she said. “In India, find Madhavi . She has something he wants.”

“And I should help him, because…?”

The demon’s smile turned wicked. “Bring him what he wants,” she said, “and he’ll help you in return. You’re hunting the tower-beast, right?”

“The A Bao A Qu?” Dean asked. “Yeah, why?”

“The vessel? He won’t make it,” she said. “There’s no way. A human body isn’t built for that climb.”

Dean frowned. “But Crowley has a solution to that, I’m guessing?”

“A contract,” she said. “You bring him Madhavi, in exchange for him putting a little extra juice into Novak’s soul. He’ll make it to the top, totally unharmed and unchanged, and you can go about your business.”

“And Madhavi?” Dean asked. “Who is she? What’s she got that he’s after?”

The demon winked, and then vanished.

“Goddamnit,” he swore. “Fucking demons. Every time.”

He didn’t know what Madhavi had that Crowley wanted, but the offer seemed terribly generous, and that made him extremely nervous.

Something told him this deal wasn’t going to be so cut-and-dry, in the end, but...what choice did he have, really?

He’d look into it. He owed Jimmy that much, at least.

“Kevin? Honey?” Linda Tran called out into their yard. “Come back inside! It’s starting to rain.”

As though summoned by her call, the rain turned from a light sprinkle to a heavy downpour, with one single clap of thunder.

There was no answer from the yard.

“Kevin?” Linda called again, before huffing, throwing on a raincoat, and stepping out to follow after her son. “Kevin, where are you?”

She found him in the middle of the yard.

“Kevin, sweetheart, what are you doing?” she asked. “Come back inside.”

He didn’t move.

“Kevin?” she called again. “Kevin, get in the house, right now.”

Still no response, and she pushed down the worry stirring in her chest, reaching out to catch her son by the shoulder.

“Kevin, I won’t ask again!” she warned. “You need to get out of the rain.” She stepped back, pointing a stern finger toward the house. “Now get back inside!”

The thunder rolled again, and she watched as her son tipped his head back, the rain soaking into his face, far too solemn for a twelve year old boy.

“You can’t see him,” he murmured. “Can you?”

Fear gripped at Linda’s heart. “What? See who? Kevin, what are you-...”

She didn’t get to finish her sentence before a loud clap of thunder hit again, and the sky above them lit up, as to her horror, a jolt of lightning hit directly into their yard.

She watched as, against all reason, the lightning passed over trees and houses alike, striking home directly on the boy in front of her.

The light took over his body, which jerked under the shock. She was so thrown, so terrified, that for a second, she felt she could almost see someone else’s silhouette in the yard with them, watching them closely.

The lightning stopped, dropping Kevin to his knees, and she was beside him in a second, scrambling at his face desperately.

“Kevin, baby, are you okay?” she cried. “Kevin? Answer me, Kevin!”

Kevin was utterly still for a moment that felt eternal, before he sucked in a sharp breath, to Linda’s unspeakable relief.

That relief didn’t last long, as a moment later, Kevin’s eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide and irises faintly glowing gold.

“I can see them,” the boy said, nonsensically.

Around her, the rain had stopped, just as suddenly as it arrived. She barely noticed.

“They don’t understand,” he continued.

“Who? What? Kevin, baby, what’s going on?”

Kevin’s eyes finally focused, slowly peeling away from the sky to turn to her, expression caught somewhere between awe and horror.

“She’s coming,” he said. “He woke her up.”

Linda shook her head, not understanding. “ What’s coming?”

Kevin raised wide eyes back to the sky.

“I think,” he said, slowly, “the end.”

Chapter Text

The Mark had been quiet, lately.

Cain was on edge every second since he’d taken note of its silence. Without the hum of a foreign anger beneath his skin, without the call for blood singing in his veins, the world seemed...strange. One step removed from reality, a waking dream where the tainted parts of his soul did not exist.

It did not help that he spent every moment anxiously aware that the longer the Mark was calm, the worse it would be when it made itself known again.

It was with that in mind that he sat one day, rolling up his sleeve and pressing his fingers against the Mark’s dark lines.

“Firstborn of Earth,” something called behind him, sounding distorted and echoing, similar to the voices of a demon outside a vessel. His eyes snapped up, alighting on a creature he had no knowledge of: taller than a human should be, holding itself upright but moving fluidly, skin like a thousand tiny shards of a shattered mirror. Looking at it gave him a feeling similar to trying to resist the Mark: fighting his own mind to struggle to focus on something it refused to latch onto.

“...What do you want?” Cain asked it, because it really didn’t matter what it was . Nothing sought him out with good intentions.

Without so much as a blink to soften the transition, the creature was suddenly in front of him, a freezing cold hand latched around his wrist, forcibly exposing his forearm. Long, thin, talon-like fingers reached out, pressing into the lines.

“What are you doing?” Cain demanded. “Don’t touch that. Let me go.”

He tried to pull loose, and was rewarded with sharp pain, as the effort he’d put into pulling free had only popped the joints in his arm, the creature not even appearing to notice.

“Kheshuok,” the creature’s strange voice murmured, the sound seeming to vibrate beneath the skin of Cain’s captured arm. “You have exhausted yourself.”

Cain sucked in a sharp breath as the Mark began to emit a soft aura, not so much emitting light as sucking it from the air around it, extending a void out around itself.

“I will lend you strength this once,” the creature said. “ All of us will be needed.”

The Mark began to burn, and he watched the skin around it pink and then fully redden, blood rushing beneath the skin. A dull ache started, then turned sharp, crimson flush going purple as bruises appeared across the length of his forearm.

The black lines of the Mark began to bleed, the aura around it growing larger and darker by the second.

“What is happening?” Cain asked, voice barely above a horrified whisper.

Smoke began to rise from the Mark, the lines lifting off his skin as it did, as though the lines were evaporating away. A cloud formed around his arm, then spread, slowly darkening the room.

“You were always so dramatic,” the creature said.

The smoke swirled around Cain, then rapidly collapsed inward, condensing in front of him. The cloud began to take a shape, a few moments later, a woman stood in its center.

“Eedonoa,” the woman breathed out. Her red lips twisted up into a wry smile. “It’s been a long time.”

The fractured glass looking creature did not reply. Just as quickly as it had appeared, and moved, it was gone, leaving Cain alone with the stranger.

He looked down to his arm, eyes widening in shock as he noted the blank skin.

“It’s gone forever,” the woman said. When his eyes rose to meet hers, she gave him a kind smile. “It was my prison, but I am free. It doesn’t need to exist anymore.”

“Your…?” Cain shook his head, beyond confused. “What is going on? What was that thing? What are you?”

The woman’s smile didn’t abate. “That’s complicated,” she said. “I can’t explain everything. But I owe you, I think. You’ve put up with me for a long time.”

The smoke swirled again, and the woman’s features faded, her voice calling out a far-away sounding goodbye as she left. When she was gone, Cain took a moment to gather his thoughts, before standing, intending to go find a way to research what had just taken place.

Instead, he came up short, chest seized as he watched more smoke condense behind where he’d been sitting, fearful of what new horror the creatures had conjured for him now.

The cruelest kind of all, it seemed.

Colette’s wide eyes locked on his, seemingly as stunned by him as he was of her.

“Cain..?”

“She is real,” something whispered to him. A man’s voice, this time, gentle and strong.

Somehow, he believed it.

He had no idea what manner of monster had visited him, but it had left a blessing better than any angel ever could, and for that, he didn’t care to know any more.

Dean Winchester had lived to see the world end a good few times over. He’d faced down the sister of God, the Devil himself, armies of angels and demons alike, curses and hexes, and - most impressively - his own stupidity.

None of that, though, made it any less shitty to have to take a plane.

“If I die in a plane crash, before Hellhounds can even smell me, I’m gonna be pissed.”

Next to him, Sam grimaced. “Please don’t joke about that.”

“The plane crashing?” Dean questioned, being purposely obtuse. “It’s not a joke, Sammy. We’re in a toaster in the sky.”

“I don’t think it’s a toaster until it’s on fire.”

Sam closed his eyes, tipping his face back with exasperation. “Jess, not helping.”

“I feel like I missed something,” Jimmy said. “I’m not really sure I want to know, though.”

Dean couldn’t see Jess or Jimmy, both of them sitting in the row behind him and Sam, but it didn’t make the conversation any less effective a distraction. Even talking about the plane crashing was better than just sitting there thinking about it.

Sam - beside him in the aisle seat, so that he could sit at an angle and extend his freakishly long legs - kept trying to start conversation about other things, but most of his attempts were dampened by the fact that John was on Dean’s other side. He was, by all appearances, sound asleep, but for a hunter that could mean anything from a full coma to just casually sitting around with your eyes closed.

Jess would probably have been more helpful, but she had laughed in their faces when they asked who she wanted to sit beside, and claimed the window seat of the aisle behind them with the middle seat left open and Jimmy in the next spot.

Sam probably should have taken that seat, but Dean’s anxiety beat their weird couple dynamic in Sam’s priorities, apparently.

He wouldn’t admit to it, but he was grateful. He knew the fear was irrational, and that being scared of a plane when he was fully prepared to be tortured in Hell for multiple years was stupid, but he couldn’t stop being scared of it. His reasoning for it to the others had been valid: in almost every situation, he was either hurting or dying for something, or he was actively fighting against it, or both. A plane crash was a helpless situation with no greater good behind it.

Maybe that made it worse, actually: the fear suggested he thought there was a chance Chuck would let him drop into the ocean for no reason. Thinking of it in those terms actually made it a little easier to relax. If anything did happen to him, he literally had God’s number. He would make sure the guy knew he’d fucked up.

In the meantime, he could distract himself further with mentally planning their path ahead.

The demonic side quest for ‘Madhavi’ would have to be first, in order for them to have a feasible way to get Jimmy to the top. Crowley wanting him to find some woman made him wary, because that couldn’t be anything good for her, but he would have to figure out what he wanted to make a decision. He didn’t really have any soul left to strike a deal with, and he damn sure wasn’t offering anyone else’s, so he wasn’t sure what plan B was if he didn’t feel comfortable following through on that request. They’d figure something out, though.

Madhavi, then, followed by the tower, and hopefully nothing else surprised them along the way.

“Fuck!”

“Holy shit!”

Dean startled at the yells, turning around in his seat to see Jess and Jimmy both looking terrified, the latter with a hand over his heart and the former looking like she was torn between screaming and actual murder.

Between them sat an innocent-looking Sothis, eyes wide and expression unaffected. “I frightened you,” she stated unnecessarily. “I apologize. It was urgent.” She paused, turning to the side, eyes fixing somewhere just past Jimmy’s shoulder. “Castiel?”

“He’s with me,” Jimmy said. “I’m apparently his vessel? We’re working on it.”

Sothis was quiet, and Dean worried about it until he realized that her and Jimmy were both probably listening.

“He is very kind,” Sothis said, eventually, and Dean narrowed his eyes at her as he tried to parse out the meaning of what she was saying. “His friends are kind, too. The woman tried to feed me, but I didn’t like it.”

She said the last part quietly, with a hint to her voice that could have been excitement, as though the idea of having opinions were a wild act of rebellion. Which, in her defense, it sort of was .

“They’re talking about you,” Jimmy informed him. “Apparently Castiel still thinks you’ve kidnapped me.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean waved a hand dismissively. “Cas can eat me. I’m trying to keep him from fucking things up too much, so he should just let me work.”

“...Cas?”

Sam’s echo was quiet, and Dean froze, eyes shifting to meet his brother’s very confused eyes.

“Do you know him?” he asked. “I’ve heard you say that name before, I think. Can’t really remember.”

If his brother was telling the truth, then Chuck blessed Dean with Sam’s goldfish memory. If he was full of shit, he was not subtle at all. Both were valid options.

“Chuck saw a lot of him,” Dean murmured as a temporary answer, trying to limit the information to just Sam. “He’s...sort of important. He will be, anyway.”

“Important how?”

Dean shook his head. “It’s a long story. I can’t really say much about it with the peanut gallery still around.”

“...Are my brother and I meant to be the ‘peanuts’?”

Dean turned to see Sothis craning her neck forward, trying to be part of his conversation with Sam while trapped in the seat behind them.

“Hey,” Dean scolded. “No eavesdropping. That’s rude.”

“Jessica asked me what you were talking about.”

“Jess,” the girl corrected. “Just call me Jess.”

“Jess asked,” Sothis corrected herself. “You called my brother ‘Cas.’ Do all humans shorten names like this?”

Not exactly the question he expected her to ask, but he’d go with it. “Not always. A lot of names are short to begin with. No one really likes extra syllables.”

There was a long silence.

“My original Enochian name has thirty-seven syllables when pronounced by a human,” Sothis informed him. “I wondered why your people gave me such small names instead. Thank you for explaining.”

To her side, Dean could see Jess quietly mouthing ‘thirty-seven’ to herself.

“What did you need me for, Sothis?” Dean asked, trying to get her back on track.

She blinked, before straightening. “Right. A few of my brothers have gone missing, and Heaven is on high alert. Continuing to hide there is not safe. Would you prefer I proceed anyway?”

“Nah, you’re fine,” Dean said. “Hang out with us for a while, if you want. You can help us find what we’re looking for. The name ‘Madhavi’ mean anything to you?”

Sothis tipped her head. “The prince-bearer? I believe she is still in the Rajasthan forest, but it has been centuries since anyone has bothered to look for her.”

“Centuries?” Dean echoed. “Just what is this lady? What kind of monster?”

Sothis frowned. “Monster? No, Madhavi is human. She is a witch.”

First planes, now witches - punching Chuck was looking more and more appealing by the second.

At least they had one more ally with them, he supposed. Even if that ally was basically on par with the cognitive, social, and supernatural abilities of the average human toddler.

The universe really couldn’t ever just let him win, huh?

Chapter Text

Castiel wasn’t really certain how Gabriel had arranged this elaborate practical joke - if he was right in assuming that’s what was happening, which he was fairly certain he was - but it was quickly becoming less of an attempt at amusement at his expense and more an actual chaotic subversion of several of Heaven’s strictest codes.

For instance, Pahaliah was present. She was going by her angelic name, instead, but that didn’t change the fact that she was openly answering to the beck and call of a human. A righteous man chosen by their father at the beginning of this world, but still a human.

A human who had kidnapped his vessel, even. A human who Pah- who Sothis claimed was kind, and kept similarly inclined company, but had definitely put a significant dent in his plans by dragging his vessel out of his reach and into the home of a prophet.

What’s more, Castiel didn’t even know what they talked about inside that house, except the bits they kept slipping up and saying out loud. He couldn’t go into the house, just in case one of his brothers was keeping watch. He wasn’t meant to be anywhere near Dean Winchester until the time for his retrieval came upon them. They weren’t supposed to meet, weren’t even really meant to know of each other.

Dean Winchester knew him, though. Called him by a shorter form of his name as though they were close enough for him to feel the second syllable was superfluous.

“...Sothis,” Castiel called to his sister, waiting for her to turn to face him. The glow of her Grace beneath the skin of her vessel was dim, her true face almost completely lost in the features of her human one. “You should return to Heaven to heal. You are severely weakened.”

Sothis, for the first time, did not reply where the humans could hear her. Instead, she allowed her vessel to go slack, falling back into the seat as though asleep, while she stepped out of it to speak directly with Castiel.

“When Heaven was purged, the Order of Thrones was abolished,” she reminded him. “I have no position in Heaven, no claim to authority or even residence among angels. Our father gave me an assignment and I have kept to it faithfully until only recently, where my original duties took precedence.”

Original duties? The original Thrones were meant to serve the Ophanim and arm the host of God’s chosen, both of which were gone now, and then each had their own tasks on top of that.

Sothis had been tasked with bringing God’s light into the souls of those who had failed his tests in the past. Those who broke under their suffering, rather than growing stronger, would have Sothis to thank for their return to holy glory, for she knew no prejudice. A man who had never once sinned or a man whose hands would never again be clean were equal in her eyes, as by her design, and it was her job to ensure every single soul had the chance to be welcomed home again in death.

It would make sense, then, that she would gravitate toward the Winchesters, who neither broke under their suffering nor grew to carry it. It was more that they grew around their pain, letting the parts of them that were damaged stay dead and buried while they adapted to hide the broken pieces. They had no faith, no family, no peace, but they hid those failings away in favor of strength of spirit and goodness of heart.

What he didn’t understand was how Sothis had even stumbled upon the Winchesters in the first place. How had her previous assignment brought her to them?

“What was your assignment?” Castiel asked, hoping the information would shed a light on things.

“I guarded the gates of Purgatory,” she said. “Until Dean fulfilled Vinda’s blessing, and created an Astra.”

Castiel startled. “The ancient weapons? He has one?”

“He made it,” Sothis confirmed, and Castiel wasn’t great with tones, but she sounded almost proud . “It is a gun, rather than a blade, but it works the same.”

“I thought those were all destroyed in the purge,” Castiel said. “Why would our father allow the creation of a new one?”

Sothis’ Grace twisted about in the air, tangling itself into knots, and Castiel got a good look at just how faded and damaged it was. Their Grace took many forms, depending on the preference of the angel who possessed it, and Sothis’ appeared as a tattered golden scarf, dim threads of her grace weaving together in an uneven pattern, like the fabric had been pulled on until it stretched beyond recovery. To make matters worse, she unfolded her wings behind it, showing them thin and scarred, and he could only imagine how much it must have been hurting her to fly on them.

“...You are not well,” Castiel observed again. “Heaven would not turn you away if you went in search of aid. The Garden could restore your Grace. You-...”

“I will not return.”

Sothis spoke with such a cold, calm authority, the status she once held bleeding into the words.

“Why not?” Castiel asked. “Why would you let yourself suffer this way?”

Sothis watched him for a moment, the vague outline of her true form flickering as it struggled to maintain its half-manifested state, being visible to him while invisible to the humans on board. For a creature as powerful as a Throne, it should have been a negligible effort, but Sothis appeared to be straining under the effort.

Finally, she reached up, dropping a hand on one of her own wings. Beneath her touch, a feather came loose, and she pulled it away with a sad smile.

“As far as Heaven knows, I am dead,” she said. “And I have trouble saying that I am not, weak as I am. But...a dead Throne has no orders, and that means I do not have to answer to anyone. Dean Winchester has proposed a world where all creatures, from angel to man and beyond, have a choice in their fates. The kind woman with the burger showed me how to choose, how to...to want, and to feel, and to like or dislike or-...”

She cut off, looking up to him, before her hand shot forward, talons pinching her lost feather as she extended it in offer.

Tentatively, Castiel accepted it, which seemed to please her.

“One day,” she said, “each of those will have fallen. My Grace is dying. I tried to ignore it, to run from it by staying so still I never had to see how much I had lost. But that can’t last any longer. I have a little bit of strength left, and I will use every bit of it to make sure that Dean Winchester is given every opportunity to create that world of choice. And then...Then, I don’t know. I may die. But I may live, and in doing so, will have the chance to make a million choices of my own. And I think...I think I will enjoy that.”

Sothis did not wait for a reply, instead returning to her vessel. He watched her sit up again, apologize to the others for the abrupt drop and explaining she was speaking to him, and looked to the humans around her. The humans who were greeting her with grateful smiles, relieved that she was alright, because they’d been worried about her.

Sothis had abandoned Heaven, abandoned the angels, but she had gained...friends.

Castiel wasn’t really sure what Gabriel had been planning with this, but it was time for him to ask.

Dean didn’t quite hit his knees and kiss the ground when they landed, but it was a near thing.

“ Fuck planes,” he declared, when they were finally outside the airport, breathing in air that hadn’t gone stale being sealed in a little metal tube with forty or so humans for several hours.

“We don’t really have to take one back,” Jess said. “We were in a hurry to get here, but if you’re willing to have Christmas on a boat, we could take the long way home.”

Christmas at home with the family, or avoiding a plane - that was a tough choice.

“Ask me about it later,” Dean opted to say, rather than force a choice while he was grumpy from the trip.

“Do you want me to check for the location of Madhavi?” Sothis asked, drawing his attention back to their mission.

“Yeah, that’d be great,” Dean said. “We’ll find a hotel and get settled in while you’re on that. Don’t rush or anything, though, because I am not going anywhere for at least twelve hours except straight into bed.”

Sothis gave a short, succinct nod, before vanishing with the sound of her wings beating.

“...She’s gonna come back in exactly twelve hours, isn’t she?” Dean asked the group at large.

“Oh yeah,” Jess confirmed. “I’d bet she’s counting by the millisecond.”

Dean let out a heavy sigh. “Angels, man,” he said. “Gotta be careful how you say shit around ‘em. What’s Cas thinking of all this, anyway?”

He looked to Jimmy, who, to his surprise, simply shrugged.

“He left,” Jimmy said. “He blocked me off when he started talking to Sothis, and then he was just…” He mimicked a deep voice, continuing, “‘Do not trust blindly in my absence,’ and he bailed. It was actually pretty rude.”

“We’ll write him a strongly worded letter,” Jess said, patting him on the shoulder.

Dean suddenly had the mental image of Sothis breaking out actual stationery, and was suddenly very glad she’d chosen to leave before that was said.

“Okay,” Dean said. “So we’re on our own. Alright. Let’s just...find a hotel. I need to sleep .”

As they set off, Dean tried to ignore the paranoid feeling that he was being watched.

Dean stood in a long forgotten prison - Hell, and the rack, set up before him with a trapped soul ready for his knife.

A trapped soul with a very familiar face.

“Dean,” Castiel rasped, struggling within his restraints, rough voice just deep enough to distinguish him from his vessel. “Don’t.”

Dean watched as his hand raised a knife, laying it against the skin of Castiel’s chest without his prompting.

“Angels cannot be bound like this,” a voice said to his side, and he jumped, getting just enough control of his body to spin his knife toward the source, only to pause as he found himself pointing a blade at Sothis.

Sothis blinked at the point, a mere inch from her, raising a hand to press two fingers against the flat side of it and push it down.

“And that won’t hurt us,” she continued. “Your dreams are not very accurate.”

“It’s a nightmare,” Dean snapped. “It’s not supposed to be accurate. It’s supposed to scare the shit out of you.”

Sothis squinted at him, before looking to Castiel’s bound form, then back again. “You fear hurting him?”

“That’s kind of a thing with me,” Dean said. “I hurt a lot more people than I’d like to.”

Sothis reached out, hand wrapping around the fist that still clenched the knife. Before he could ask what she was doing, she guided his hand forward, moving it in a smooth flick to split open the leather cuff holding Castiel’s wrist.

Immediately, the dream form of the angel scrambled to free himself fully, vanishing the second the last cuff was opened.

“...Thanks,” Dean said.

“My brother, Jeremiel, is in charge of blessed visions,” she said. “He should be providing you prophetic dreams. Instead, he leaves you to be tormented by the evils of your own mind.”

“Please don’t go yell at your family for this,” Dean couldn’t help but request. “I’m okay with nightmares. I’ve had a billion and I’ll probably have a billion more.”

“Sleeping once per day, that would take nearly three million years,” Sothis informed him.

“Sounds about right.”

Sothis squinted at him again, this one less like she was gauging his feelings and more like she was weighing his sanity.

Finally, she seemed to decide whatever she was looking for didn’t matter, because she spoke to him again.

“I found Madhavi,” she announced.

“Awesome,” Dean said. “Where is she?”

“In the woods, still,” Sothis said. “But...why were you looking for her?”

Dean frowned. “I don’t know. Crowley wanted her for something.”

Sothis’ lips pressed into a thin white line.

“Sothis?” Dean asked. “What’s wrong? Do you know what he wants with her?”

“Dean,” Sothis said. “Madhavi preformed a spell upon herself once, to ensure that every child she bore grew into a man of unparallelled strength.”

Dean didn’t like the implications, there. “So Crowley wants her because…?”

Sothis looked dead into his eyes and confirmed his worst suspicion. “He wants her baby. She is pregnant.”

Chapter Text

The sound of wings was unsurprising, even if it made him give a heavy sigh.

“Surprised you found me,” Gabriel said, turning to face his brother. “You weren’t really the scouting type.”

“You make your presence known clearly, when one knows what to look for,” Castiel countered. 

“And what is that?”

“Chaos,” Castiel said, judgement heavy in his tone. “Upsets in the balance of the universe....places where human lives are disrupted.”

“Don’t act righteous,” Gabriel said dismissively. “You just looked for my warding and found a back door to walk in through.”

Castiel held up a hand, wrapped around something familiar: a feather, shining a brilliant metallic gradient, gold to gunmetal grey. 

“Whose is that?” Gabriel asked, stomach churning. Most angel feathers were solid, matte colors. Archangels had solid metallics. A gradient feather-...

“Pahaliah,” Castiel said. “She’s using her Greek name, Sothis , but it is definitely her.”

“Sothis, huh?” Gabriel said, approaching Castiel to look more closely at the feather he held. “The base looks damaged. She’s in bad shape, huh?”

“Fading quickly,” Castiel confirmed.

“Well, she’ll like humanity,” Gabriel said jovilly. “It’s a good time down here, an absolute riot-...”

“Thrones do not fall, Gabriel,” Castiel interrupted, tensely. “You know this.”

“No one knows that,” Gabriel argued. “When were any of them given the chance to fall, Castiel? They could be perfectly capable.”

“A Throne away from the command of God is no longer of any value,” Castiel said. “Their entire purpose-...”

“ Fuck ‘purpose,’ Cassie,” Gabriel cut him off. “Welcome to Earth, little brother. Look around. Humans don’t have any clue what they’re doing, and they love it. A few go crazy staring at the sky and begging for answers, but for the most part? They’re figuring it out. Some of them are just like us, fighting over who daddy does and doesn’t love and who is the real favorite kid, but most of them have more important shit going on. Who cares what we were made to do? Kick back. Watch reality TV. Eat a Twinkie.” 

Castiel stared blankly at him. 

“You’re a disaster,” Gabriel sighed at him. “Honestly, do I have to teach you everything?” He turned a hand over in the air in front of him, calling to it a little plastic-wrapped snack cake, which he presented to Castiel with a flourish. 

Castiel lowered his eyes from Gabriel to it, still simply staring, uncomprehending. 

“Eat it,” Gabriel prompted. 

“Angels do not-...”

“You see!” Gabriel reached out, grabbing Castiel’s hand, which he forced the pastry into. “This is your problem, Cassie-...”

“My name is Castiel-...”

“...-You need a reason for everything. Why do you think dad’s left us alone? It certainly wasn’t to kill each other off like this. Think for yourself for once, Castiel. ‘Because I want to’ is a valid reason to do things. Nobody needs to do every single thing they do. Did you need to come speak to me? Do we need to be face to face right now? Or is this something you’re doing because you want to, because you’re annoyed with me and you want the satisfaction of addressing that with me head-on?”

Castiel’s jaw worked, his lips pressed in a thin line.

“Ah!” Gabriel exclaimed, triumphant, clapping a hand onto Castiel’s shoulder. “That right there, that’s anger, lil’ bro. You’re pissed at me. Nice, classic, petty annoyance. Take that, get more pissed, and take that energy and put it toward doing something good for yourself for once.”

He vanished with a beat of wings before Castiel could get another word in.

“....Dammit.”

“...You’re joking.”

“No..?” Sothis eyed him with confusion. “Did I accidentally phrase that in a way that was funny? I did not intend-...”

“No, I mean,” Dean waved a hand. “I just can’t believe this. I mean, I can, it’s Crowley , but...c’mon. A baby ? He wants me to take him a kid?” 

“The woman producing one, at any rate,” Sothis said. “What do you intend to do?”

“Well, not that, whatever I end up doing,” Dean said. “Fuck Crowley. We’ll find another way to get Jimmy up that tower alive.”

“If you do not deliver her, someone else will likely be sent.”

Dean let out a low, frustrated breath, burying his face into his hands. “You’re right. Dammit. We have to go to her, anyway, don’t we?”

“That would seem the best course of action.”

Dean glared up at her over his fingertips. “You don’t have to talk all formal to tell me my ideas are shit, you know.”

“Your ideas are not ‘shit,’” Sothis argued. “You are, however, not highly adept in placing strategic acts above impulsive decisions.”

“Ah,” Dean breathed, tone heavily sarcastic. “Is that all?”

“Yes,” Sothis said, either missing Dean’s point or deliberately ignoring it. “We can discuss it further when you wake.”

And, with that, she was gone.

Dean's subconscious apparently didn't know how to handle the horror being ripped out of a nightmare in the middle, because he woke almost immediately after processing that he was alone. 

Unfortunately, being alone in Hell was a nightmare on its own. 

“You look like shit,” Sam greeted him immediately after he left his bed. “Jetlag?” 

“Angels,” Dean corrected. “Sothis dropped into my dream.”

“Oh?” Jess leaned across Sam to look at Dean eagerly. “Did she find-...?”

“Madhavi’s a witch,” Dean said. “Only she’s fucking pregnant.” 

Jess let out a low whistle. 

“That’s...bad,” Sam said, slowly.

“Ya think?” Dean asked, bitingly. “What Crowley wants with her or her kid, I don’t know, but-...”

There was a beating of wings, and then Sothis stood in the room between them. Dean didn’t jump, pretty used to random angels at this point in his life, but Sam did, which jostled Jess where she was across his lap, which had him immediately dissolving into cooed apologies, while Jess mostly just laughed at him. 

“Warn a guy, Sothis,” Dean said, for their benefit. 

“If you are not expecting me, you will not be expecting my voice, either,” Sothis said. “Would me suddenly speaking not also be startling?” 

“Yeah, well,” Dean said. “It’s polite to let us freak out in private first, at least. Or put on pants.” 

Sothis looked down, where Dean was still in his jeans, having not bothered to dress down to pass out. 

“It’s hypothetical,” he said.

Sothis raised her eyes in a suspicious squint, before tipping her head, her teen vessel’s ponytail swishing wildly to one side. “Do you want me to leave?” 

“No,” Dean said. “Tell me about Madhavi.” 

“I have already told you the important part.”

“Well, tell me the un important parts,” Dean said. 

Sothis’ agitation was new, and visibly growing the more Dean spoke. “Her ritual required the binding of a crossroads demon,” she said. “The demons, in turn, took revenge, which she was able to mitigate by offering payment. To avoid contracting her own life, she deferred payment onto her youth.” 

“Her kids,” Dean translated. “She sold her fucking kids?”

“Each son is promised to Crowley upon their twenty-second birthday,” Sothis said. “They are given the first twenty-one years to fulfil whichever purpose they were assigned at conception, and to grow into the warriors she has ensured they will be.” 

“‘Purpose’?” Dean echoed. “That must sound familiar.” 

Sothis narrowed her eyes at him again. 

“Okay, wow,” Dean said. “Death glare is new. What’s up? What pissed you off?”

“This woman’s soul was bargained hundreds of years ago,” Sothis said. “Demonic contracts are not to outlast a human’s lifetime by nature - and claiming more than one soul is meant to be only possible through universal consent. The demons are tearing innocent souls from their bodies, delivering them to eternal suffering they did not agree to. Whether it is Madhavi forcing their souls, or Crowley, a balance that has been in place for eons has been disregarded for the sake of their convenience.” 

“Demons don’t play fair,” Dean said. “That’s nothing new.”

“A soul cannot be bound for Hell before it even leaves Heaven!” Sothis snapped. “It isn’t possible! Each soul allowed to enter the world does so untainted. Only on Earth can it be touched by sin and malice.” 

“So they get them when they’re born?”

“So,” Sothis fumed, “someone has marked them.” 

Dean blinked. “I’m….not following. The demons marked them, yeah? I thought that was-...”

“Not on Earth,” Sothis said. “They leave Heaven already marked. Someone in Heaven is allowing this.” 

Dean’s stomach dropped. “...Oh.” 

“One of my brothers,” Sothis said, voice breaking, “is pulling souls from their creation, and damning them for Hell, not giving them a chance to be innocents for even a day. They are inviting demonic presence into our supposedly sacred rites and corrupting them, and…” She shook her head harshly. “And I don’t know why. I don’t know what they get from it. I don’t know what this woman, or the demons, have bribed them into compliance with. I’m don’t know what could be worth it. I don’t- I don’t want to know. I never want to see something like this as justified...but the alternative is that one of my brothers has gone undetected as a follower of Lucifer.”

“No seals involve her, do they?” Dean asked, racking his brain. “If they think it’s necessary for the ‘Grand Plan’-...”

“No,” Sothis said. “No seal would require her specifically, nor her children. The only seal involving cursed children refers to the nephilim, and the children being born of Madhavi are neither demon or angel spawned. They’re simply...human.” She cupped her hands, raising them to her chest, staring down into her palms. “Delicate, innocent souls, plagued from creation. The illusion of choice is slim in Angels, but- humans were always meant to make their own destinies. The world as a whole followed an order, but the individual could move about that path as he pleased. To take that away- to chain a human soul to the lowest rung from the beginning - No human has even been completely without choice. This is...monstrous.”

“We’ll get them, Sothis,” Dean promised, standing, crossing over to her and dropping his hands onto her shoulders. “We’ll figure out what’s going on, and stop it. We’re not letting them take any more kids, no matter what happens.” 

Sothis looked up, eyes burning with fury. “If I act outside your orders,” she said, quietly, making Dean tense. “Will you enact your power over me?”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Dean said. “But I’m not in charge of you. I already told you that.”

“Good,” she said. “Because if a demon comes to claim her while we are there...Your allies or otherwise, the demons will die. I have little strength left, but I can do that much.” 

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Dean said. “But, honestly, if it’s not Marcella or Crowley, do what you want. Even those two are hit-or-miss, really.”

“It is good to know you don’t value such tentative alliances very highly.” 

“Oh, I do,” Dean said. “They’ve both been vital. Just because I need them, though, doesn’t mean I like them.” 

Sothis’ face pinched a bit, though it quickly flattened back out. 

Oh, my God. 

Dean grinned at her, trying not to laugh as he assured her, “I like you, Sothis. You’re not the same caliber of piece of shit Angels usually are.”

Sothis sniffed. “I am a Throne,” she reminded him. “And was tasked as one through whom sinners and tainted souls found redemption. I was made to view every soul as equal. It is hard to feel the...the disdain my brothers show the Earth and its people, when I know the depths their souls can reach.” 

“And you pull them back, right?” Dean asked. “You make the screwed up souls right again?” At Sothis’ nod, he nudged her shoulder. “There you go. Marked or not, that kid is going to be just fine. This deal ends with us.” 

She gave a sharp, determined nod. “Very well,” she said. “We go now.”

Dean blinked. “What?”

Her hand closed around his upper arm, and a familiar sensation clenched at his stomach, wrenching him sideways from the inside. 

A second later, he stumbled sideways, gagging as he caught his balance against a tree.

...A tree?

He looked around, taking in their surroundings: ass-deep in a forest. 

“Okay, I know I said I’m not in charge of you,” Dean said. “But ground rule number one? Do not do that.” 

“I’ll retrieve your brother and Jessica,” Sothis said, vanishing again. 

He was gonna strangle an angel at some point in his life.