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In the hands of the Righteous Man, the silver gun shakes ever so slightly. This man has held a gun in his hands since he was four years old, just a runt who had learned about death in the worst possible way, and he has refused to tremble since the day he failed to kill a deer and his father called him weak. But he trembles now.The young man on his knees in front of the Righteous Man does not tremble. He holds firm, ready to accept his fate, this act of desperate vengeance from a man he loves and who might just hate him.The young man closes his eyes, as if he was already fading into his final sleep. Without trepidation, he absolves his father: “I understand.”In the background, the younger brother of the Righteous Man yells for him to stop, but he’s always two steps behind. Always late.“I know what I’ve done.”Finally breaking eye contact with his prey, the Righteous Man glances at his brother, who has arrived at the edge of the circle of danger. The scene mirrors one of ten years prior, though reversed and loaded by decades more of pain and anger. “Stay back, Sam!”The young man continues his amends. “And you were right all along. I am a monster.”Suddenly, at the side of the younger brother, the Father appears. A small smirk blooms on His ageless ancient face. The younger brother’s eyes narrow, and an accusation of misplaced enjoyment falls unbidden from his lips.The Father shushes the younger brother. The Righteous Man clenches his jaw.The gun clicks.And the Righteous Man says “Why, Chuck?”Shock does not cross the expression of the young man in front of him, he cannot feel such a thing, only a vague curiosity at this turn of events. But the tension releases from the younger brother’s taut muscles, the angel yards away breathes a sigh. And the Father darts forwards, to the side of His creation, feeling the beginnings of annoyance and determined to stop such an emotion as quickly as possible.“What?” the Father demands. “You know why. He’s dangerous. Shoot him!”Still—the Righteous Man holds still. “And if I say no?”“No! You can’t! This isn’t how the story is supposed to end! Lookit, the–the gathering storm, the gun, the father killing his own son. This is Abraham and Isaac—this is epic!” As He speaks, the Father jerks His arms around, childish movements betraying His frustration.“That’s how you wrote it, right?” The Righteous Man’s voice is biting, angry and sure, but his hands still tremble.Looking between the Righteous Man and the Father, the younger brother cuts in: “That’s—that’s what I was coming to tell you, Dean. He’s been playing us. This whole time. Our entire lives—Mom, Dad, everything. He’s exactly like Michael said—he’s a writer, he creates and creates, but then discards the stories he doesn’t like.”The Father scoffs, tired of the grating voice of the abominable second brother. He turns back to His Righteous Man, His perfectly primed protagonist, and places a hand on his left shoulder. The Righteous Man tenses, like a deer who heard a twig snap just slightly too close in a vast forest.The Father, with a voice smooth like molasses, prods His creation with the sweetest treasure. He knows it will work on the Righteous Man; after all, He wrote him. “Come on, Dean. Jack’s still too dangerous. So pick up the gun! Pick it up, pull the trigger… and I’ll bring her back. Your mom.”It’s a threat, it’s a promise. It’s bait—he’s bait. The Righteous Man will surely fall for it. The Father thinks of other men He has directed to Moriah, the ones who truly followed Him and the ones who failed Him. But the Father has never known His Righteous Man to disappoint.Except the Righteous Man knows. He’d hoped that She wasn’t right, desperately so. But he knows. The Righteous Man knows he is bait. He has played that role, for another father, far too many times to not recognize a trap. He will not allow himself, nor his Son, to fall victim to another absent father’s games. He is two steps ahead.As his eyes gently blink closed, the Righteous Man whispers, “She warned me you’d try that.”In the silence of fear, it’s a shout. It’s the truth in a world full of lies, whether weaponized or unspoken.The Righteous Man opens his eyes, his gaze falling on the Son, still in front of him, still on his knees. There is pain there, etched on his face, anger too, in the hard set of his jaw, but there is also kindness and empathy, in the crows’ feet and freckles and single tear sliding down down down. But such mercy turns to rot as his judgment turns to his Father, the liar with a hand still on a shoulder that is not His to touch. In the green green eyes of a beautifully, brutally, crafted character, there is only hatred for his creator.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Earlier that day.
“Dean.”At the sudden voice nearby, Dean’s head bangs against the wall. Normally his first reaction would be to aim a weapon, but, drunk as he is—and, really, who could blame him—his reflexes aren’t exactly up to code. Plus, he knows this voice. He’d heard it in his head too many times to ever forget it. Wariness making its home on his face, his eyes open upon the stiff figure of Amara, standing in the middle of his bedroom, dark eyes heavy on him.He should feel wary of her—after all, the last time they saw each other, he’d tried to blow them both up with a soul bomb, and before that she’d tried to destroy the whole world. But, she’d also never tried to hurt him before—well, not directly, at least—and to be frank, Dean’s got so much cosmic shit on his plate right now that God’s sister showing up isn’t actually all that surprising. He kind of doesn’t care, or rather he doesn’t have anything to say to her at the moment.Plus she doesn’t look very intimidating at the moment. Instead of her usual Princess Diana Revenge Dress, she’s in simple athleisure wear—a loose magenta tank top and black yoga pants. She looks plain, comfortable.But as the silence continues, the door shuts without a touch. Secretive. Well, this should be good.After another long minute of silence, Dean caves: “What are you doing here, Amara?”“I’ve come to warn you.”Dean sighs and pours himself another drink. It’s an older bottle, made during a time people drank as much as they could get at sleazy underground parties, just in case the place got shut down the next day. Now, he can enjoy it in the privacy of his own resignation, a nice little goodbye gift. He shoots it back, likes the scratchy burn against his already worn out throat.“What you think you have to do… what my brother says you have to do,” she continues. “Dean, he’s lying.”“Everybody lies. I lie all the time,” Dean scoffs. “But he’s not wrong, the kid’s dangerous. Needs to be dealt with.”As she perches herself on the end of Dean’s bed, strangely awkwardly, Amara shakes her head: “Chuck is more dangerous.”Annoyed, Dean slams the glass back onto the small table in front of him with more force than necessary, and hardens his gaze towards the woman—no, the cosmic being. Normally Dean likes to get people—monsters—talking, to parse any information he could then use against them. But Dean’s not felt very normal in such a long time, and after that conversation with Sam, his patience is shot. “Jack made the world stop lying with a snap of his finger.”“And Chuck reversed that, and made the whole world forget everything, with a snap of his.”Kicking away from his chair, he slowly moves closer, like a rabbit sneaking up on a snake. Dean demands, “Even still… More dangerous than a nephilim without a soul? Than the—than the monster who killed my mom?”“Yes.”That—her certainty—makes Dean hesitate. He wants to argue, craves a fight, somewhere to put all his pent-up energy, and Amara’s as invincible as it gets. She could take it. And she knows him, his voice, his anger, too. She must know how angry he is at Jack—must understand it, and the part of him that really does want Jack dead for what he’s done to Dean’s family. After all, she’d once tried to kill her own brother. (And it was you who’d convinced her not to, you who had persuaded her to forgive, why can’t you do that with Jac—)Like he said, he wants to argue. Wants to yell at Amara again about the dangerous, horrible things Jack has already done and can do again. But there’s something else behind Amara’s certainty, nestling itself in the clench of her jaw and fluttering of her eyelashes… it’s almost like…“You’re afraid,” Dean realizes. “Of Chuck.”Amara looks down, but then raises her steady gaze back to Dean’s. She nods.She’d never been afraid of Chuck before. Not when she was going around eating people’s souls and burning up the sun, burning up the whole universe in fact. She’d never been afraid, only angry.
I’ve got a bad feeling about this…
“I don’t know what he’s told you about our time together, since we last saw you, of course, but it was short. Barely a second to us, in the grand scheme of things. I grew annoyed at him, and he… Well, he grew bored of me, as he does with his creations.” As she speaks, bitterness drips from every word.Dean’s heard that accusation levied at God before, from the Michael from Apocalypse World. Hell, even Raphael and Uriel, from way back in the day, had expressed similar fatigue of God’s indifference. But Dean had never really given it much thought before, considering all three of those guys had been trying to kill them and the entire universe. At first he’d just believed God didn’t exist, then—after meeting the angels, meeting Cas—he reasoned that God had disappeared or died long ago; and when they were drowning in the fight against Amara, and Chuck had shown up with seemingly all the answers, Dean had chosen to accept Chuck’s explanation for his piss-poor parenting of the entire human race. But now…“So what, you’re sayin’ that Chuck is more dangerous than Jack ‘cause he’s bored?”“I’m saying that Chuck hates boredom, but you—and your brother and even the angel—have always been entertaining, going off script. But now, Jack poses a problem, a challenge to his power. Chuck is afraid of what Jack could grow to do, especially without a soul and thus his connection to you—to humanity—regulating him. Jack is no longer entertaining, but I suspect that Chuck has seen potential for drama. He sees a good story in driving you all apart. Maybe a good ending too. Like two birds with one stone.”
As she talks, Dean grows more and more tense. A good ending. Like what the fight between Michael and Lucifer—their first Apocalypse—was supposed to be. Written out in the Winchester Gospels by a prophet of the Lord—no, by God himself. God’s plan. Destiny.
But they’d broken out of that. They stopped the Apocalypse, refused to play by the rules, by the plan laid out for them. They became “Team Free Will” and protected their free will from the tyranny of the Devil and so many other creatures…
But if Chuck’s still seeing us as a story…
“Are you sayin’ that Chuck’s been involved with us—our—our story—this entire time?” Dean grinds out, desperately hoping his intuition is wrong.But Amara holds his gaze, pitying yet certain. “He may have tried being hands-off, probably was for a long time. But he got invested, and he got involved. I don’t know to what extent, but, Dean, I think my brother has his favorite toys, and sometimes he breaks them, or at least lets them break, for the sake of a good story. I can feel it. I felt—it was fear, but also anticipation, oozing from his presence from across the universe. He wants this to happen, wants you to kill Jack, and not because of Jack’s powers or his missing soul, or because of what he did to Mary.”“But he—he couldn’t’ve made Jack kill her. That was all him. Jack’s still dangerous.” Dean’s grasping for straws; it feels like that’s all he has left, otherwise he’s gonna have to look at the dark truth he doesn’t want to believe, though it’s standing right in front of him.“Maybe so, but it’s likely that Chuck orchestrated certain events to make it more likely that Jack would snap, so that your relationship with him would break,” she says softly. Then she cocks her head, considering. “He likely could have helped with Jack’s soul, before it was burned off, for one thing. But he chose not to. Why? I think he could see that something would go sideways, even if he didn’t know what exactly, and that possibility would have been too exciting for him to pass up.”“So my mom was just collateral damage? A—a side character to be fuckin’ fridged?” Dean’s understanding of his world is weakening with every word Amara says, and the ground falters beneath him. “Why’d you even bring her back then?”“I wanted two things for you, Dean. I wanted you to see that your mother was just a person, that the myth you'd held onto for so long of a better life, a life where she'd lived was just that, a myth. I wanted you to see that the real complicated Mary was better than your childhood dream because she was real. That now is always better than then. So that you could finally start to accept your life and let go of some of that anger.”“But she’s dead now! And her killer’s still out there!” Dean is quickly losing his grasp of—well, anything. He doesn’t care right now that Amara intended a lesson, not a comfort, for him, one that worked. All he can think about is how much it hurt in the end, and how his anger can wrap around the wound. Dean feels like he’s losing his mind, but his anger keeps beating steadily through his veins, and it turns his tongue into a knife.Releasing an exasperated sigh—which, rude—Amara continues, anger edging her voice now, “Yes, she was ‘fridged,’ as you so inelegantly put it. Chuck chose not to save her, just as he chose not to save Jack. But, and listen carefully here Dean, you are the one letting her be. You are choosing to use her death for revenge. Like your father did.”“Don’t—” Dean begins, the accusation scratching at his heart, forcing him to defend, but he’s cut off without mercy, as Amara rises suddenly from his bed.“And I understand, Dean. You should know how I, of all people, can understand. When we met, all I was, every atom of my being, was angry. And I’m still angry. You think I haven’t realized that all of this just means I was an insignificant part of his story too? I may be the Darkness, the necessary balance for the universe, but I’ve only ever been another entertaining hamster running in an endless wheel to my brother!”Face to face now, breathing heavily, Amara finally takes note of the tears in Dean’s eyes, the desperation for them to not fall. Taking a deep breath, she takes a step back and continues, more gently now. “I understand, Dean, why you think this is the only way. Why you want this to be the only way. But it was you who taught me the importance of looking for a different way, even when all seems lost. And of forgiveness. Maybe you should try that.”“I want to,” Dean’s voice cracks and throat seizes with the admission. He drops onto the edge of his bed, defeated, legs nearly giving out. He’s too tense, too wound up, and he’s sitting on his bed holding hands with the dark truth of the universe as his entire conception of his world burns down because of its revelation. He wants to burn with it. He wants to throw up. He wants to blame someone and kill something. He wants to drink and drink and crawl under the covers and follow his mother and never come back. But right now, he has to clear his throat and try again. “I want to forgive him. I mean, I’ve forgiven Sam and Cas dozens of times over for the crap they’ve pulled. I want to—” Tears fall unbidden from his eyes now. “But I don’t know if I can. He—she was my mom.”“You don’t have to forgive him right now, Dean,” Amara says as she sits down next to Dean, displacing the dark mirage of Dean’s fear. She speaks so sure of herself, so gently, too gentle to be caressing such a dangerous man, but still she speaks. “But I’ve seen your memories of her, Dean. Mary wouldn’t want you to do this. She cared for Jack, as do you. Don’t let Chuck use her like this, just to get you to follow his orders.”Not wanting to agree just yet, nor to touch on that sore spot, Dean quickly wipes his eyes with his sleeve and deflects: “Why? What’s your skin in the game?”Amara sighs, seeing the change in topic for what it is, but it’s still a reasonable question. “Exactly that. My skin in the game, or rather, out of it. Chuck has gotten annoying, and I’m tired, of his machinations and my role in them. Plus, as I said before, I want good things for you, Dean. I want you to be able to accept your life, and I’m not sure you can do that if you’re constantly wondering whether you’re living an arrogant god’s plotlines.”“Well… you’re not wrong.” Gritting his teeth, Dean looks down at the mangy floor to distract himself—god, I need to clean up around here, probably should vacuum the entire bunker, get rid of all this dust and dirt and dried up blood— Then Dean asks, not quite a whisper, not quite a sigh, but close, “So what exactly are you asking me to do, Amara? Chuck’s gonna take us—or, well, me—to wherever Jack is, soon. I’ve already agreed to do this, and, based on what you’ve said about him, I can’t imagine he’ll be happy if I just say no.”“That’s exactly what I’m asking you to do,” Amara speaks with confidence, faith in him—how, why, Dean has no idea, and he makes that clear by side-eyeing her. “I know you’re still not sure, but I don’t need you to fully believe me, just trust me when I tell you that Chuck does not have your best interests at heart. I’m asking you to not kill Jack, for your own sake as well as the world’s. I’m asking you to question my brother, to disobey, as you have done in the past. Think about what Mary would want you to do, and what you truly want to do. Refuse his ending, Dean.”“Break out of ‘his story’ or whatever, you mean.”“Yes.”“Even though you can’t actually guarantee that he’s wrong here? Even though Jack is still a problem?”“Yes.”Dean looks at her, calculating. He remembers his father’s final words to him, the unfair ultimatum he had saddled Dean with, the look in Sammy’s eyes when Dean finally confessed. He sighs. I hope I’m not gonna regret this…“Okay. Okay, look. I can’t just say ‘yes,’ not without knowin’ what Jack’s up to right now.” Dean stares hard at her for another torturously long minute, then turns away and rubs his chin, resigned. “But I’ll think about it. I’ll be careful with Chuck.”Amara releases a long-held breath, the corners of her mouth arching up in a small relieved smile.“So do you have any idea for a plan or am I goin’ into this blind as a bull in a china shop?”When Amara doesn’t say anything for more than a minute, Dean slowly looks at her, takes in her carefully calculated innocent expression, and his eyebrows shoot up. When she holds her silence, Dean glares at the ceiling and sighs. “Jesus Christ, I’m gonna get myself fuckin’ killed, aren’t I?”And Amara—the bitch—she just shrugs.
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Chuck stills. Dean can tell that he’s trying to figure out just who “she” is, and how she knew what Chuck’s plan might be. Dean knows Chuck will figure it out, so he’s petty enough to let the silence carry on until he does.And, man, the moment Chuck realizes—his eyes widen slightly, he bounces slightly backwards on his feet, and he lets out a sound that resembles a whine, the kind that a child gives when their parent gives the toy they wanted to play with to their sister. It’s fucking phenomenal.Except Dean very quickly regrets this brief moment of satisfaction because Chuck’s clammy hands are at his throat before he can even blink, let alone register the warning shout Sam calls out. Luckily he is able to gesture at Sam and Cas to stay a safe distance away, stopping them in their paths (of course they’d try to rush God, the idiots), but, unfortunately for himself, he has no time to defend against Chuck’s attack. It's the first time Chuck’s ever been aggressive beyond cutting words, and it surprises Dean enough—even at this point—that he is forced a few steps backwards, Chuck moving with him, and even loses his grip on the Equalizer gun.Cutting through Dean’s thoughts, Chuck demands: “What did Amara say to you?”Dean lets out a harsh breath, all he can really get out at the moment. Chuck seems to realize this too, that he can’t get answers while he’s literally choking the life out of Dean, so he releases his grip, and thank god Dean can breathe again. He always hates it when monsters go for the throat, holding him there, his life literally in their hands. It reminds him too much of Hell, of Alistair. (And things from before, things you don’t think about—)Bending over a little, hands on his knees, Dean sucks in some desperate breaths. It seems like Chuck’s not satisfied yet, though, because there’s still some sort of pressure on Dean’s throat, like he’s being force-choked by a fucking Sith Lord. Dean figures there’s no way Chuck will calm down now…So why not try to wind him up a bit more? I mean, how much worse could it get? Dean smirks: “Just that you haven’t been able to get it up lately and are threatened by the younger generation.” Bad idea. Dean knows it as he’s saying it, and he can see the agreement in Cas’s (unnecessarily exaggerated) eye roll. They’re proven right when, suddenly, Dean’s insides feel like they’re being somehow simultaneously squeezed and wrenched out of him. The pain in his chest forces him down on one knee as he clutches the area over his heart.“Now you’re the one on your knees again, Dean,” Chuck snarls. His tone is… suggestive. Dean sneaks a glance at Jack, the obvious reference, but there’s something else behind Chuck’s tone that makes Dean think he’s actually talking about something else—something like—Nope, not thinking about that. Dean tries to ignore it, the subtle derision, instead focusing on Chuck as he stalks forward. “And you’re going to stay there until you answer my questions. What did Amara tell you? Where is she?”From his position, Dean can just about see Cas moving to Jack’s side, who has now stood up, and Sam—Sam’s scooting ever so closer to the gun, discarded in the grass. Of-fucking-course. Well, the least Dean can do now is buy his brother some time. He can do that.“I don’t know what to tell you, man,” Dean says, looking up at Chuck, a smirk blooming on his face. “It was just something about how much of an ego you’ve got.”The squeeze around his heart intensifies. It feels like his insides are being unthreaded vein by vein. Holy shit, if this goes on any longer, Dean’s pretty sure he’s going to start bleeding out of every orifice he’s got.
“Alright, alright!” Dean exclaims after another couple minutes, desperately throwing a hand up, just as he feels a little dribble of blood leak from his nose. Hopefully Sam doesn’t need much more time, because there’s no way Dean can keep going like this. The pain loosens just slightly, but it still feels so much better, and Dean takes a shallow breath before continuing. “Alright. She just helped me remember that you could’ve helped us long before things got this bad, but you chose not to. You chose to do nothing. As you always have! The Apocalypse, the first go-around, with Lucifer and Michael—you knew everything that was going on. And now with Jack… So why the games, Chuck? Why don’t you just snap your fingers and end it?!”“Look, I—”“Even before then!” Sam suddenly cuts in, causing both Dean and Chuck’s heads to snap towards him. He’s standing up now, but the gun is nowhere to be seen, probably (hopefully) tucked into his waistband at his back. Dean can only hope Chuck doesn’t notice the missing piece, so he schools his face and focuses on what Sam’s saying. “Every other bad thing we’ve been killing, been dying over—where were you? Just sitting back and watching us suffer, so we can do this over and over and over again—fighting, losing people we love? When does it end? Tell me!”“Sam, come on—”“You’re just a dick who likes to play with toys that aren’t his!” Impassioned, Dean glares at the spineless man in front of him—just another absent father trying to manipulate his kids into obedience. Remembering when Chuck first revealed himself as God and acted all righteous in his negligence, Dean’s gaze hardens. Yeah, bullshit you’re not like John, he thinks, heavy with spite.Chuck’s gaze chills, for a moment, as if he heard exactly what Dean was thinking. (Hell, he probably did.) But then… something changes in his expression. It’s not exactly softened, but it reminds Dean of when his father would scrunch up and then loosen his face to forcefully calm down in the middle of an argument with his mom. Suffice to say, Dean doesn’t trust it. Then, Chuck speaks: “Dean, don’t do this. As I told you before, I had to leave humanity alone so you could grow up. It was the best way. And killing Jack—it’s the best and only option left now. You believed me then, Dean, what’s changed?”Dean scoffs, thinking again about his father, about Sammy. “I needed to be reminded that I don’t listen to old men without askin’ questions anymore. Especially when it comes to killing my family.”Chuck remains still, his face stuck in that odd expression of forced mildness. “Think about it, Dean. Is Jack really your family? Over your mom? Think about what you’re going to give up for the monster that killed her, your actual family. Remember, I can bring her—”Shaking his head, Dean speaks with what he hopes is a steady voice: “My mom was my hero. That will never change. And I miss her, and I will miss her every second of my life, but she would not want this. And shit, man, neither do I.” Dean pauses, takes a steadying breath, before standing up to look at Chuck with contempt, eye-to-eye. “And besides, it’s not like you actually care, Chuck.”“Dean—”“No! We’re done talking. ‘Cause this—this isn't just a story. It’s our lives. So God or no God, you go to hell!”With a soft chuckle, Chuck’s mask breaks, any trace of softness or understanding slipping away from his figure like mist, and his face darkens with irritation. “Oh, Dean,” he spits out. “What a disappointment. So… pathetic. Well, alright, then. Have it your way.”Dean realizes just a second before it happens, he understands only as Chuck raises his hand. He remembers what Amara had said—with a snap of his fingers.
And so, right before Chuck’s fingers click together, Dean yells, “Jack, fly!”Dean’s too late. Jack begins to groan in pain as his eyes are drowned out by pure white light. Except… it’s happening slower than this normally does, when an angel kills a demon or something. Somehow, it seems as though Jack is fighting against the light leaking from his eyes. Just as Dean takes a step towards Jack, moments behind Cas, who is already on his knees next to the boy, Dean’s peripheral vision catches some movement…
CRACK!
Chuck pitches forward. And, suddenly, a deep, deep red stain can be seen on Chuck’s light blue shirt, peeking out from under the red suit.Sam Winchester has shot God.Something in Dean's chest collapses. He only takes a second to feel the rush of satisfaction at Chuck’s obvious shock, and the spark of relief as he notices that Jack’s eyes have stopped glowing, before he remembers the consequence of The Equalizer, and his gaze snaps to Sam, who has fallen to the ground and is clutching his shoulder, face screwed up in pain. NO! Dean changes course, heading towards his little brother. He catches Sam in his arms just as his knees give out. Frantically, Dean pulls Sam’s flannel off his shoulder to inspect the damage. There’s an entrance wound, but no bullet of course, but all Dean can really see is blood, blood, blood. Dean doesn’t know what to do with a bullet wound caused by a divine weapon, a wound he can’t patch up. He doesn’t know how to fix this, how to save his brother. All he can do is hold onto Sam, desperately patting his hands around his pec to try to stop bleeding that doesn’t have a real cause.He’s so lost in his head, in his panic, that it takes a minute for Dean to realize Sam is saying his name. Actually talking, not slurring his speech as blood fills his mouth. “Dean, Dean, I’m fine, I’m—I’m alright… I think.”At those words, Dean drops back onto his heels. Sure enough, although he’s clutching his shoulder in pain, Sam doesn’t seem to be dying. Hell, there’s barely even any blood, as Dean had thought there was. It’s… weird.
When Dean turns to check, Chuck is also somehow not dead, just standing there with a hole in his suit jacket and a furious expression.
The gun was supposed to be fatal.
Dean stands, wary, and starts to take tiny steps towards Chuck. “What the hell, Chuck? You said that gun could kill even you…”
“I lied,” he hisses. “I thought you’d figured that out by now, but you really are the dumb one.”Dean stops moving, a scowl blooming on his face.Then Chuck heaves a big sigh. “You guys really want me out of the narrative? Well, you’re going to regret that.” He turns a cruel smirk towards Dean. “Have you never wondered how it is that certain souls have never escaped Hell and come after you? I’ve been protecting you from your past for years, Dean.”“What the hell are you talking about, Chuck?” Dean grits out. Despite his question, despite how much he’d like to say he’s confused as hell about what Chuck means, Dean does actually have an idea. One he really doesn’t want to think about right now. Unconsciously, and confused as all hell, he takes another step towards Chuck.“But you know what? I’m getting tired of it.”And suddenly, Dean’s flying through the air. One second he’s standing a few feet from his brother and the next—his back and neck are slamming against a gravestone, cracking it right in half. Pain shoots through Dean’s back, lighting every nerve on fire. He tumbles onto the ground, rolling over the broken-off half of the grave. Distantly, Dean can hear both Sam and Cas yell out his name. That’s happened a lot today huh… Ignoring the pain as best he can, Dean pushes his weary body up with shaky arms and lifts his aching head to make eye contact with Chuck. He’s not smiling.“You should be grateful, but I guess you’re incapable of that, so I’m leaving it all up to you now. That’s the way you want it? Story’s over. Welcome to The End.”Chuck snaps his fingers, and then disappears… into the night.Because the sun is now gone.And the Earth cleaves open at their feet.
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The first thing that goes through Dean’s head is Fuck fuck motherfucking shit! The second thing is, Time to get up.Unfortunately, it’s a bit harder than Dean thought it would be. Slowly, he gets to his hands and knees, and then, one leg at a time, stands to full height. Well, not really—as he stands up, a prickling surges through his head, his vision blurs, and suddenly he’s bending over again. His head is pounding, pulsing and burning. Dean touches his hand to the back of his head, and pulls back bloody fingers.“Well that’s just great,” he mumbles as he wipes his fingers on his pants, trying to get rid of the sticky feeling sinking into every groove in his skin. Gross.Stumbling over to where Dean can just about make out Dean and Cas—and Jack still on the ground, for some reason—Dean realizes he’s stumbling just a little too much, and stops for just a second to take a breath. He feels like he did that day in Apocalypse World, when he was shot by a poisoned bullet, before Ketch gave him whatever the antidote was. Hopefully Cas can fix him up before he plops over dead. Imagine standing up to God only to die of a stupid head injury. That’d be just his luck, actually.When he gets close enough to the others that he decides he won’t freak them out like teenagers in a horror flick, he’s about to call out for Cas when he realizes—Jack’s still laid flat on the ground. Jack’s eyes are closed, though his face is limp. Jack’s not moving. Why isn’t Jack moving?
Dean hurries to stand between Sam and Cas, who’s kneeling next to the kid—his kid, their kid. Voice strained, he asks, “What—What’s wrong with him?”“I don’t know,” Cas says. His voice is flat, exhausted.“Is he—Is he dead?” Sam’s question comes out quiet, hesitant, almost frightened of the answer. Dean can’t judge him. He feels the same.“I don’t know,” Cas repeats, gently closing his eyes. “His eyes aren’t burned out. His wings aren’t burned onto the ground. But… I can’t sense his grace anymore. All but physically, he’s gone. Just… gone.”“That—That doesn’t make any sense. Chuck said the gun was the only thing that could…” Sam hedges.“He’s a writer. Writers lie.” As he says it, Cas looks up at the sky, almost like he’s praying. But, especially after this, Dean knows that Cas will never ask God for anything again. None of them will.“Seems like nothin’ we thought we knew about that gun was real,” Dean mutters. Hoping to hide any hint of desperation in his tone, Dean settles for practicality: “Okay, look. We can’t say for sure that Jack’s dead. This ain’t nothing like we’ve seen before with angel deaths. He could just be—disappeared. For a while. Like he’s done before. Or maybe he needs a new vessel, like how angels can switch around, a different prom dress every year and—and…all of that….” Noticing Cas close his eyes again, Dean stutters and then stops talking, uneasy.“Exactly, Dean. Jack’s not an angel. The rules are completely different where he’s concerned. But even still, I can’t sense him, anywhere on Earth. His soul was burned away, and now there’s no grace. He’s likely dead. Or captured by the Empty. Or by Chuck, even. He’s gone. He’s just gone.” Shaking his head, hands in his laps, Cas looks like the perfect image of a grieving father. And I helped get us here… He hesitates, but knows he has to say it, say something at least. “Cas, I’m—” But before he can get the words I’m sorry out, Dean’s vision blurs again, and he trips on his own feet.“Dean?” Sam prompts. “Dean, are you okay?”“Yeah, I’m—I’m fine. It’s just—”Whatever Dean was going to say, whatever lie he was going to make up, he’s cut off by a loud, pulsing roar. Then the crack in the ground, only a couple dozen yards away, seems to shudder, and a cloud of black smoke shoots upwards, followed immediately by a burst of cool white light. The perfect distraction.“What the hell is happening?!” Dean shouts over the sounds of an too-sudden storm.“Souls. They’re souls—from Hell,” Cas answers, standing up now. “And demons.”Suddenly, the ground around them begins to shake, and then there are hands punching up through the soil. Hands, and then shoulders, heads, bodies of—zombies—no, ghosts and demons, possessing the rotting, disintegrating corpses. Jesus, Dean didn’t think it could get worse, but when does that ever happen for them?“What do we do? Do we—Do we fight?” Sam asks, frantically looking around for weapons.But, seeing more and more and more things coming up out of the ground, Dean knows they wouldn’t stand a chance. Best thing they could do is make it to Baby and get the hell out of Dodge, but Dean’s got no idea where Sam parked her—if he even came in Baby—and if she’s anywhere in the direction that Sam came running in from earlier, they’d have to run in the direction of the crack, right through where the most zombies are coming up. Looking around for another option, Dean spots a mausoleum. They’ll be trapped, sure, but at least they can stage a defense from there.After patting Sam on the shoulder, he points in the direction of the building. Sam nods in understanding and takes off immediately, but Cas is lifting Jack’s body up onto his shoulders in a firefighter's hold and Dean, not wanting to just run off—even though Cas would be able to see him and follow—waits a split second to get Cas’s attention. They make eye contact, but Dean quickly tilts his head towards Sam and looks away, and then they’re both following his brother, running as fast as they can while dodging the grabby dirty hands at their feet.Sam makes it first, of course, and stands there holding the door, gesturing for Cas and Dean to hurry up. (Going as fast I can, little brother, Dean thinks, mirthlessly.) Cas makes it in before Dean does, and he goes immediately to put down Jack while Dean and Sam bolt the door. On instinct, Dean glances around for his go-bag, to grab a shit load of salt, but they’ll have to settle for just… hoping that the mausoleum is considered “sacred” enough to keep out demons and ghosts, at least for a while. If not… Well, then Dean’s just put them in a corner and gotten them killed. Though, the way it’s looking, they’ll probably end up dead in here anyway. Just the cherry-on-top of mistakes for today…
“Chuck—” Sam pants, “He said, ‘Welcome to The End.’ What does that mean?”“Hell is bleeding into Earth. I can feel it emptying out as everything escapes,” Cas explains, still crouching next to Jack’s body.“Is it happening just here, or… everywhere?”“Hopefully just here. Although it doesn’t really matter; at this point, all of Hell could come through just this gate.”“Didn’t even know there was a Devil’s Gate here. Can we close it?” Dean asks as he leans against the first wall he sees.“There’s not,” Cas says. “Chuck didn’t need one. He’s powerful enough to just break down the barrier, right here in Kansas.”“Right. ‘Cause he’s God.” Dean rolls his eyes, ignoring the sting behind them as he does. “So we go outside, we get ripped apart. We stay in here, we—what, we starve to death?”“Well, I wouldn’t starve.”“Oh, well, good for you,” Dean scoffs. He rubs his hands on his jeans and he can feel his heart beating, way too fast. “Chuck, man. Should’ve seen this coming. There’s always been something off about him. He’s so squirrely, you know, with the—the stupid robe and the beard and the smile that’s like half-nice, half-‘I’m gonna rip your throat out.’ ‘Oh, let me play you a song.’ Jesus Christ.”“Okay, Dean, just—” Sam cuts in, then clears his throat, restarts: “What do you guys think Chuck meant when he said he’d been protecting us?”Caught off guard, Dean hesitates before he heaves a big sigh, and then he presses his head against the wall as his eyes drift closed. “Every demon we’ve ever exorcised. Every—” Dean has to stop for a second. Both Sam and Cas know about what he did, of course, but every time he talks about it, Dean feels like he’s reliving all of it—his time on the rack, getting off, confessing to Sam what he did, Alistair revealing the other awful truth. He just needs a second. He just needs to slow his heart before he says it. He draws in a shaky breath, clenches his jaw. “Every soul I ever tortured.”“Oh…”“Yup.” Through a mirthless laugh, Dean continues: “It’s kinda funny though. Never really thought about it before, but it is weird we’ve never encountered any of ‘em. Thank God, right?”“Okay, well.” Sam rubs the bottom of his face. “We’ll deal with it. Later. Right now, we have to figure out how to get out of here. We should…”Sam’s voice fades out as the pounding in Dean’s head returns. Or maybe it’s been there for a while and Dean has been subconsciously ignoring it. Wouldn’t be the first time. Sluggishly, Dean leans his head slightly forward so he can reach his hand to the back of his neck again. When he brings his fingers into the little bit of moonlight, coming in through tiny cracks in the ceiling, they’re stained with more blood than before. Much more. His head swims, but he can’t tell if the reaction is because of blood loss or just shock. Trying to keep his tone light, and interrupting whatever Sam was saying, Dean announces, “Okay… so maybe I’m not as fine as I said I was.”Immediately, both Sam and Cas’s eyes shoot to him, to the bloody, trembling hand he’s holding out in front of him. And then, quicker than his fatigued brain can process, they’re both at his side.“Dean,” Cas demands, “Where are you hurt?”“I think I hit my head when Chuck threw me against that gravestone.”“You’ve had a head wound this whole time? Dean, those are serious!” Sam scolds him, but Dean really isn’t paying much attention, distracted by the feeling of Cas’s fingers—calloused, but still so, so gentle—pulling his head forward just a little bit more, probably to get a better look at the wound. Then, one settles at the top of his neck, where his hair starts, and Dean involuntarily lets out a whimper.“I’m sorry,” Cas whispers. Dean is probably being too hopeful, but he thinks he hears a little bit of something more behind those words. Something bigger, more pivotal. But he’s probably being too hopeful. Dean doesn’t think Cas will ever apologize about this—about his and Jack’s roles. Dean doesn’t know if he can either—he’s just so angry. Too angry. He can’t handle this.The sensation of grace spreading through him pulls Dean away from his thoughts. As always, it’s warm and comforting, like honeyed tea when he’s sick, or a simple hug. (Dean misses hugs.) Shit, he can’t handle this. Thankfully, very quickly, the throbbing in his head and the annoying blood on his neck disappear.Dean takes a breath and stands up straighter. Sam releases his shoulder—Dean hadn’t even noticed his grip—and Cas removes his hand. Glancing at the angel, Dean licks his bottom lip and then mumbles, “Thank you.”“Of course.” He backs up a couple steps. It feels like miles to Dean.An uncomfortable silence settles between them all as Sam paces around the mausoleum and Cas just stays near Dean, staring at Jack’s body again. As the minutes drag on, any hint of hope Dean had that they could get out of here dries up. They’re trapped. He doomed them all.“Okay,” Sam stops suddenly, turning back to Dean and Cas. “Let’s brainstorm.”Dean scoffs. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Cas glance at him for a split second, exasperated. Almost like normal.“Come on, guys! There’s gotta be something we can do from here. We can—uh—funnel them in one by one and pick them off. Or do some sort of spell or instantaneous exorcism. Or—Cas, can’t you fight them?”Cas is already shaking his head. “There’s too many of them, Sam. I’d be overwhelmed almost immediately with my powers as they are now—” Dean tries to take a moment to process that statement, to wonder what Cas means about his grace, and in that second, he’s already moved on, distracting Dean with more bad news. “And exorcising the demons won’t do anything. They’ll be sent to Hell and then just come back again.”“There must be something we can do!” Sam shouts. Face determined, Sam slides his hands against the walls, peers up at the ceiling, at the floor. He folds onto the ground too, pressing his ear against it near where it connects with the wall. Dean wants to say something encouraging, but he’s fresh out of optimism now.Suddenly perking up, Sam starts to pull at the crumbling stone. “I think I can hear something through here! It sounds like water.”Subtly, the air shifts.And then Amara is standing in the middle of the mausoleum.She looks down at Jack’s body, and Cas steps forward, on guard.Blithely, ignoring the angel’s nearing presence, she instructs, “Stop, Sam. You’ll let the ghost in.”Sam whips around, shocked, completely forgetting about the noise behind the wall.Dean just sighs. “What are you doing here, Amara?”“That’s the second time you’ve asked me that within the same day, Dean. After our last conversation, and what followed, I thought you’d be more relieved to see me.”“Yeah, well, I’m not really liking primordial beings at the moment. You don’t think it occurred to me that you also could’ve helped us—warned me—earlier, did ya?”“I won’t deny that, Dean, but I was choosing to stay out of it,” she shrugs. “And I hadn’t noticed the extent of what my brother was trying to do. He’d been obscuring certain things from me, for quite a while, I imagine. Then I listened, and I realized you were about to make a big mistake.”“Well thanks for that,” he replies, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Things have turned out so well.”“Things are better than they would have been.”“Sure,” he drawls.“Dean—”“Step away from Jack,” Cas finally interrupts, voice and eyes hard. Honestly, Dean’s surprised he was able to wait as long as he did.Surprisingly, Amara obediently moves away. Unfortunately, she comes closer to where Dean and Cas are, though she still ignores Cas, focusing her gaze on Dean and returning to what she had been saying previously. “Believe me, Dean, things are already better than they would have been. I can’t explain it, but I just know it.”Dean doesn’t bother to respond. He might trust Amara, but he definitely doesn’t have faith in her.“Is—” Sam begins, but Dean can tell that he’s unsure how to approach Amara. Actually, Dean realizes, this is probably the first time they’ve met without trying to kill each other. Dean had been the only one with nice-but-not, weird-and-uncomfortable-Amara-time back then. Lucky me . “Is Jack really dead?”The question seems to freeze even the molecules in the air.Cas’s shoulders tense, and Dean has to quickly stop himself from reaching out. He focuses on Sam instead. Across from them, still crouched on the floor, Sam looks so young, his eyes so desperate. It reminds Dean of that moment in the Mexican restaurant, when he chose to kill Death instead of his little brother. (He still has nightmares about that— Sam, on his knees, crying, just over thirty years old, and then, suddenly, eight years old, asking Dean what really happened to their mother; Sam, on his knees, crying, recounting every mistake Dean’s ever made; Sam, on his knees, his head several feet away, tears somehow still falling and mixing with blood.)“No.”The answer interrupts Dean's spiraling thoughts and sets all of his nerves aflame.Breaking through the suffocating heat that Dean would have sworn was real, Cas moves forward, too close to Amara for comfort, especially considering he’s brought out his angel blade. Amara looks down her nose at him, and Dean doesn’t like that, but Cas doesn’t seem bothered. He only cares about Jack now. “Explain. Now.”Backing up a few feet, Amara glances at Dean before answering: “He’s not dead. But he is unreachable right now. His grace and his soul are in the Empty.”“Wait, we thought he’d burned up his soul?” Sam questions, standing up again. His eyes have that typical hesitant hope in them again.“Oh, he did.”“But, then how—”“A soul can’t just disappear. Whatever magic you had Jack performing was only slowly unthreading his soul from his body and his grace. It… fizzled back into the Empty. Where everything is born from.”Gripping his blade white-knuckled, Cas demands, “Can we get him back?”“Castiel. Never a thought to the cosmic consequences.” Amara shakes her head, an unclear emotion in the lines around her tight frown, but a definite warning in her tone. Clearly she’s not a fan of Cas. Dean isn’t exactly sure why—after all, Cas—or, well, Lucifer—was the one getting tortured by Amara—but Dean’s also a little distracted by the whole ‘cosmic consequences’ thing, especially where Cas is concerned. She’s not actually wrong about Cas often stupidly going into things half-cocked. Dean almost gives a small shrug in agreement, but he stops himself, not wanting to attract Cas’s ire, which is still focused on glaring at Amara.Dean wants Amara to say more so that he can work out whatever that hint of warning was, but all she says next is another lecture: “Even if you could bring Jack back, you mustn’t. There are things coming out to play that could change everything, to the extent that even my brother can’t foresee every possibility. Do what you must to address the problems you can, but you must not interfere with Jack’s role here. Let it play out.”“You’re sayin’ you can’t predict what’s gonna happen but that Jack’s still got a destiny?” Dean finally reenters the conversation. “For the record, I’ve never really subscribed to those, ya know.”Turning to Dean, voice softening, Amara explains, “Destiny is not all bad, Dean. And it is not exclusive from free will. In this case, Jack has a role that he must fulfill, and some things must happen in a certain way for him to be able to do so, but there will be choices to be made even still.”Dean huffs. “So what’re we supposed to do in the meantime? Starve in here?”“Hm? Oh, no, you must close the rift.”“And how are we supposed to do that? Chuck—God caused it,” Sam says.“Yes, what an astute observation. And now you must fix it.”Sam scowls.“You’re doing a real good job at makin’ friends here, Amara,” Dean chuckles weakly.She scoffs, though her posture tenses, definitely making her come off more awkward. Whether that’s because of Dean’s implication or standard annoyance, he’s not sure, and he doesn’t particularly care. He’s felt that a lot the past few days. Starting to think that’s all I can handle at the moment.“I’m not here to make friends, Dean. I’m here to get you out of here.”And now Dean’s scowling too. “Well you could’ve led with that, doncha think?”“I got distracted. Answering your friends’ questions.”“Whatever,” he mutters, then clears his throat. “How can we get out of here then?”Gesturing around, Amara explains: “I’ll apport all of you out of here, to the closest city—Harlan. It’s where most of the ghosts have gone, and where the rest still here will follow, attracted by the people living there. You’ll have to deal with them.”“And how do we do that?”“You’ve handled large concentrations of ghosts before. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” Disconcertingly, Amara gives Dean a small smile and a wink.“What about the demons?” Cas asks.“Many of them are gone by now, as you probably could have guessed. There’s likely some stragglers in the town, wreaking havoc on the citizens or waiting for you, but most have spread far across the world by now.”“That’s just great,” Dean grimaces. “Hundreds of thousands of demons, if not more, just free to walk across the Earth. You got any actual tips for how we can take care of that, instead of just vague encouragement?”
“I don’t ‘have’ anything, actually,” Amara admits. (Thankfully she doesn’t do air quotes.) “I don’t know much about Hell, to be honest. It was created after my brother locked me away, and I have not ventured down there since my time with Crowley. Even then, I was kept to a small… bureaucratic, let’s say, section of Hell. The rest of it—It seems unpleasant.”Before Dean can make a sarcastic comment about Hell being a little more than unpleasant, Sam interrupts: “We can think about that later. For now, let’s just focus on getting out of here and taking care of the ghosts. Seems like that town will need a lot of help.”Dean sighs and rubs his eyes. As usual, Sammy is right. “Fine. Alright, yeah. Let’s go.”Unfortunately for them, Dean doesn’t realize just how literally his words will be taken.In too quick of a second, they are all unceremoniously dropped into the middle of a road, and they all embarrassingly stumble—barring Jack, whose body is already on the ground. Standing across from them, moonlight glinting in her eyes, Amara smirks.Dean has always hated traveling by cosmic wings, especially when it happens suddenly. It makes him feel all loose and tingly inside—and not in the good way. Christ, he feels nauseous. Bending over, hands on his knees, Dean glares up at Amara. “Could’ve given us a warning, ya know? Gonna be feeling that for days.”Amara just shrugs. Dean’s starting to get annoyed that this ancient primordial being of Darkness has apparently decided on a shrug as her signature gesture. “Apologies Dean, although that’s not really a big priority at the moment.” Her tone isn't very apologetic.“Yeah, yeah, ghosts and demons roaming the Earth. Still,” he groans, straightening back up again.Amara suddenly looks up at the sky, as if she’s reading something in the stars. “I must leave now. Do not call for me, Dean; I will appear only when really needed.”It’s Dean’s turn to glower at such an implication. He’s about to respond, probably with something snarky and unhelpful, when Amara continues, though she’s looking at Sam with a suspiciously intrigued yet concerned expression on her face.“And Sam… Be careful with that wound.” Then she’s gone, disappeared with not even a whoosh. Before Dean can ask her what the hell she means.Which means he has to ask Sam himself. Dean turns to his brother and—He’s got his phone up to his ear. On a call. Already. And he says I avoid honest communication! Really, Sam’s not wrong—as usual—but Dean thinks his little brother can be woefully pot-calling-the-kettle-black sometimes.“Dude, really?” Dean gestures to their surroundings.Sam rolls his eyes. “I’m calling Rowena.”A lightbulb flashes on in Dean’s head at the mention of Rowena, but he can’t figure out why. Can’t quite reach it, understand it. But he knows it’s something important. I don’t have time for this, he thinks, annoyed at himself, as the idea fades as he gets distracted by whatever Sam is now saying.“There might be something in the Book of the Damned,” Sam says, just as the call is picked up. He puts it on speaker for them all to hear.“Hey, hey, Rowena. We—”“Samuel, I’m sure you’re calling me just to say hello and not because of that massive surge of energy that rippled across the world not even thirty minutes ago, yes?” Rowena chirps, mocking. Dean rolls his eyes.“What?” Sam exclaims, but very quickly after he just sighs. “Of course you already know.”“Well, Samuel, it’s very hard to not notice when the Earth cracks open and collides with Hell. Now, are you going to explain to me what’s happened?”“We, uh. We pissed off Chuck.”“Chuck? You mean God ? The funny little all-powerful man who helped us save the world just a few years ago?”Dean interrupts, “Yes. Look, Rowena, now’s not the time to really get into it. We need you to check the Book of the Damned for a spell that can fix this and return all the ghosts and demons to Hell.”“Oh hello Dean, thank you for the well wishes. I shall need them if we’re going up against God!” Rowena says, voice rising in pitch, almost shrill.“Rowena,” Sam only rolls his eyes, used to Rowena’s antics.“Oh, fine, fine! Hmm! Well, I do believe I recall reading something about a barrier spell, but I can’t remember if it will fit your exact situation, nor the ingredients. I will check, but it might take me a little bit to figure it out.”“That’s perfect, Rowena. Thank you. Give us a call when you do.”“Yes, yes. Good luck in the meantime, boys.”“Yeah, thanks,” Sam says with a small smile as he hangs up the call.Dean almost wants to tease his brother for his ‘thing’ with Rowena, but they’ve got bigger fish to gut right now. “So, what do we do while we wait?”“I think we should try to evacuate the city,” Sam suggests. “We can say there’s been an oil leak or something.”“You really think they’re gonna believe that?”“They’ll believe FBI agents. Or CDC.”“Fine, sure.” Dean finally takes a look at their surroundings. Most glaring, the moon is still high in the sky, thanks to Chuck. They’ll have to wait and see whether people are freaking out or not, and whether the moon will still set naturally or if they’re in perpetual night—fucking Chuck. But right now, they’re standing in the middle of a four-way intersection, cafes and shops lining the streets, and there’s not many people out and about. Dean hopes that’s because they just accepted that night had come too early, a little too quickly, but that’s probably too much to hope for. They’re never that lucky…Except for one thing. Dean lets a real smile onto his face when he spots the Impala parked nearby. He could feel weird that Amara knows him so well, but he’s choosing to be grateful for even this small thing.“We can put—Let’s put Jack in the back of the car and then go speak with the sheriff.” Looking more closely at the buildings, Dean notes the one they’ll need. “There’s the police station over there.”“The Impala? It’s here?—oh!” Sam smiles too when he finally sees the car. “Yeah, that’s a good plan. Cas, do you need help lifting Jack?”As he points accusingly at his brother, Dean answers for Cas. “You’ve got a shoulder wound, Sam. One that I’ll need to take a look at soon. You grab the FBI jackets outta the trunk, I’ll help Cas.” Dean sends a glance to Cas, wordlessly checking that that works for him. Cas narrows his eyes briefly, then nods.
“Right,” Dean mutters to himself, as he bends down next to Jack’s legs, Cas at his head. They lift him up and slowly move towards the car.“You know, I don’t need help to carry Jack,” Cas says, barely loudly enough for Dean to hear.“I know.”“Okay.”“Okay.”“So why—”Dean sends Cas a hard, pleading glare, cutting him off, and Cas looks away. Like too often, Dean can’t tell what Cas is thinking. They don’t speak for the rest of the time it takes to settle Jack’s body in the backseat. Or for the entire time they meet with the sheriff.***“We should go around to all the houses. Make sure nobody was left behind.”“Look, Sam, much as I want to, we have no way of fighting the ghosts. We can’t really go around killing ghosts that don’t have anything keeping ‘em here. Until we can figure out a way to actually fight, we gotta hold off.”“Dean, people could be dying! Right now, because you’re too scared—”“It ain’t about being scared, Sam! It’s about not being stupid. If the ghosts are out there killing people, what can we do about it besides put ‘em in more danger by trying to fight ghosts with just iron? That never goes well for us!” Dean grits his teeth, annoyed with this conversation. He agrees with Sam—desperately wants to go looking for people—families, children—who may have been left behind or even already injured by the ghosts—but they can’t do anything to help. Normally, despite whatever the odds, Dean would still run headfirst into danger to save those people, but… Well, Dean’s trying to do things differently. Less like… Dean Winchester.“Dean, we have to—!” Sam’s tirade of increasing volume is abruptly cut off by his phone ringing. Glaring at Dean, Sam roughly pulls his phone out of his pocket and doesn’t even check who's calling before he answers. “What?”Apparently whoever it is on the other end of the call doesn’t appreciate Sam’s curt tone. He grimaces, then rolls his eyes. “I’m so very sorry for being rude. Now, please, Rowena.” (Ah, Dean smirks to himself. As much as the witch annoys him most of the time, it’s always much more amusing when it’s Sam on the receiving end of it.) “We don’t have time for this. You’re on speaker. What did you find out?”They had been able to convince the police that there was a chemical leak near the city and start an evacuation to the rich kids’ high school, which luckily happened to be farther out of the city. But soon enough the ghosts would be drawn to the high school instead of the city proper, not to mention whatever the hell the demons were doing, so they really needed a way to at least contain as many spirits as possible and, better yet, close the damn Hell crack. For the past ten minutes, the three of them have just been standing outside the high school next to the car, under the streetlights, trying to brainstorm but really just waiting for news from Rowena. It did give them time to call a few hunters they knew were in the area for backup, and for Dean to take a look at Sam’s gunshot wound; no exit wound, barely even bleeding, Sam promising that he felt fine. Dean eyed it (and Sam) with suspicion for a solid couple minutes, before accepting that it really did look fine. But Dean would be keeping an eye on it; as much as he didn’t trust primordial beings at the moment, he wasn’t going to ignore Amara’s warning.
So, yeah, they’re now just waiting. And crossing their fingers that Rowena has a solution for at least one of their problems.“Well, boys, it’s your lucky day,” Rowena croons. “I’ve come up with two spells for your little situation. The first is the barrier spell I mentioned earlier. It will trap all non-human entities within a three mile radius, including your leftover ghosts and demons, like a massive salt circle. It’s a relatively simple spell—Samuel, you can perform it.” Dean wants to roll his eyes good-naturedly at Sam’s badly-restrained look of surprised delight, but then Rowena’s voice turns firm. “However, the center of the circle will be wherever you perform the spell, so you will have to be in the center of the danger if you want to make the most of the spell.”Dean, Sam, and Cas all trade serious, but determined looks. No matter what the risks, no matter how much Dean dislikes the idea, they have to do what they can to protect this city. Dean will just deal with it, probably by not thinking about this part of the plan until he really has to.“Understood, Rowena. What are the ingredients?” Sam responds.“Hmm. Nothing too hard to retrieve. Just a large bag of salt—at least one ton—and, well. A human heart. Fresh.”“A human heart?” Dean repeats, scowl already forming. “We ain’t gonna kill somebody, Rowena.”
“I can’t change the spell, Dean. You will just have to figure it out.”He knows Rowena’s disastrous past, of course—in too many details, that’s for sure—but Dean had begun to think that she’d turned away from such… methods. Given up on her worst witchy habits. Sure, just the previous year she had killed a bunch of reapers trying to bring Crowley back, nearly disrupting the entire construct of fate. But, still, she’s been an ally in some tough times, and he has come to at least find amusement in her presence. Usually. Not when she’s telling them to steal somebody’s heart, though.But before Dean can continue to, I don’t know, argue about killing somebody for their heart, Sam preemptively interrupts, giving Dean that wide-eyed but serious look that he knows is just baiting Dean to trust Sam and his instincts. Dean narrows his eyes in response, but ultimately he can’t resist Sam’s puppy dog face, even after all these years. Dean shakes his head, yielding, as Sam speaks up.“We’ll figure it out. Now, Rowena, you said there was a second spell you found?”“Oh, yes, Samuel, I did indeed. The barrier spell can be performed by you, but this other one is much more complex. I will need to come and join you all to perform it.”“What is it?” Sam presses.“A spell to close up that pesky little rift between Earth and Hell.”“There was really a spell for that in the Book of the Damned?” Cas asks.“Ah, hello, Tweetie Pie! I didn’t realize you were also there!”“Rowena.” Dean frowns, growing impatient. The fondness in Rowena’s voice rubs Dean the wrong way. She’s always been weird about Cas, and Dean’s never understood why. He’s not sure he wants to.“Fine!" (Dean can hear her smile, amused at his annoyance.)
"The spell—Well, it’s not actually from the Book of the Damned, not entirely. It’s a combination of a couple spells, and my own genius, rather like a lovely fruity cocktail. You will still have to figure out a way to get all those demons back into Hell, but this will allow us to close it all up whenever you’re ready. It is experimental, but it will work.”“That’s good enough for now, Rowena,” Sam says. “Why don’t you text me the instructions and incantation for the barrier spell, and we’ll do that while you make your way here. Harlan, Kansas. We can figure out a way to fully contain the ghosts and trap the demons once you get here.”The lightbulb goes off in Dean’s head again, and this time he actually understands what it means. Understands why Amara had winked at him earlier. He leans closer to Sam to speak at the phone: “Actually, I’ve had an idea for that. Remember when we were trying to defeat Amara and we gathered all those souls in that crystal? Could you do that again, but without, you know, having to put a bomb inside of me?”“A soul bomb without the bomb? Well, well, Dean.” Rowena actually sounds impressed, Dean can just picture her teasing grin. Based on Sam’s wide eyes, he’s also impressed. Dean tries not to be offended.
“It shouldn’t be too terribly difficult to rework that spell, though it will probably be a weaker version,” Rowena continues. Now she sounds thoughtful, intrigued, even excited. “I’ll bring extra supplies just in case. I will see you boys soon. Good luck with the spell, Samuel!”“Thanks Rowena, see you soon.” Sam hangs up, and turns to Dean and Cas, who have somehow drifted to stand next to each other. (Too close, his brain supplies, ever unsure whether that's a bad thing or not.) “Alright. Let’s get started.”“Hold on a minute, Sam.”
“Sam, wait.”Dean and Cas speak at the same time, glancing at each other and holding the gaze for too long. Ignoring Sam’s raised eyebrow, Dean clears his throat and tries again. “Sam, we ain’t killing anybody. How do you plan to get a heart for that spell?”Sam heaves a big sigh, his whole moose-sized body moving with it. “Look, Dean, I don’t know. Much as I hate to say it, I’m kinda hoping that we’ll just find somebody already dead. It’s morbid, and I feel awful just saying it, but we have to do this spell to protect everybody else.”“That’s your plan? To just cut open the first dead guy you find in the streets and steal his heart?” Dean exclaims, gesturing towards the road that leads to the city.
“Dean, I don’t think we have much of a choice,” Cas says. “We haven’t been able to come up with any other ideas.”“And if you feel uncomfortable doing it, Dean,” Sam states matter-of-factly, though Dean can feel the cloaked hesitance. “Cas and I can just go out ourselves and you can stay here.”“No,” is all Dean says to that.“I have to go out to perform the spell, Dean, remember?”“That just means—”“Dean, I’m doing this! If you’re too scared to come along—”“I’m not too scared! It’s just—”“Then why are you being so hesitant?”“You’re being too—too not hesitant!” Yeah, Dean knows. He ignores Sam’s look of bewilderment. “Whatever! Anyway it’s weird, ‘cause normally I’m the one being stupid about these kinds of things!”“You are being stupid, Dean!”“Hey! You’re being—”“Dean! Sam. Stop. Just—” Cas finally steps in between Dean and Sam, like they’re in a damn drama movie and he’s about to stop a physical fight between drunks at a bar. Which is ridiculous. Dean hasn’t had a drink since before getting to the cemetery (unfortunately), and besides, him and Sam don’t need a babysitter for their arguments. Really. “You two are just—It’s like you’re beating a dead bush.”Dean can’t stop himself. ‘Cause he’s a fucking idiot. He mumbles, “Dead horse.”Cas just rolls his eyes. Very exaggeratedly, in Dean’s opinion. “What I mean is that you two are both right, and this arguing isn’t helping anyone,” Cas resumes. “We do need to be extra careful, but, Dean, we also have no other choice here. Sam has to perform this spell, which means he needs to get to the city center. You and I will stick with him as much as we can, protect him, but we can also be checking the buildings for people left behind as we do so. Does that sound fair?”“Sounds good to me,” Sam says, crossing his arms as he looks expectantly at Dean.Dean still isn’t settled. “What about the heart thing? We ain’t killing anybody.”“Of course not, Dean,” Cas basically sighs. “But as we’ve all said, this is our only idea. We all dislike this, but we’ll just have to do something a little bad to do something for the greater good.”Dean wants to sneer. “That’s some Machiavellian crap.”Cas rolls his eyes, again. Seriously, if he keeps doing that, he’s gonna roll his eyes right out of his damn head. But then Cas crosses his arms too and says, “How many bodies have you exhumed and burned, Dean? How is this so much different?”Dean huffs. “Alright, fine. Got me there, I guess.”“Great!” Sam exclaims, then pauses. “Well, not actually ‘great,’ I’m not that happy about this either, but you know, it’s… I mean, at least we can start now.”Dean shakes his head. “Yeah, yeah.”They walk around to the back of Baby together, and Dean opens the trunk. He pulls out the guns pre-filled with rock salt and an angel blade for himself; Sam already has the demon knife and Cas is set already too.Dean glances at Cas on his left and Sam on his right. They both look determined, confident.“Alright then,” Dean says, looking down instead. “We’ve got work to do.”Then he slams the trunk shut.