Fic | Souvenirs From The Edge of the Highway | SPN | 2/5

[siehn]

Masterpost

Dean had almost finished getting dressed for the day when he got the call.

“What do you mean, ‘where’s Sam?’ He didn’t check in?” he asked, scowling. He buckled the black leather collar around his neck and took the phone from his shoulder. He paced, irritated, and worry began to bubble up in the back of his mind, unbidden.

“Bobby, he was supposed to check in last night,” he snapped, and winced when the older hunter growled a sharp retort over the line.

“No, you’re right. Sorry. No, I’ll find him. Thanks, Bobby.” He snapped the phone shut and glared down at it for a long moment. Sam never missed a check in, especially when it meant a chance to geek out with Bobby over a new book. Dean was going to kick his gigantic ass for making him worry. He sighed, opened the phone, and hit speed dial. Sam was the first on the list, number one, and Dean’s contact list maybe reflected his life a little too well, sometimes.

The phone rang and rang, until Sam’s voice finally transmitted over the line. “This is Sam Winchester, leave a message and I’ll get back to you. If it’s an emergency, call my brother, Dean.”

Dean swore, closed the phone with a ‘snap’ as soon as the beep began, and re-dialed it impatiently. “Goddammit, Sammy. What the hell have you gotten yourself into now?”

He growled and bared his teeth briefly in a show of frustration. The voicemail picked up again, Sam’s voice deceptively cheerful on the other end, and Dean just couldn’t shake the feeling that something had really gone wrong. He had learned a long time ago to trust his instincts where his brother was concerned and he couldn’t suppress the worry, or the way it felt like he’d swallowed lead.

It had always been that way, was the reason for the check-ins to begin with. Sam and Dean both had gotten into too much trouble when they were younger and they were too protective of each other even now. He tried to keep from really panicking; his protective instincts were already in over-drive because pack might be missing, and he needed to find him.

“Dammit Sammy,” he said again, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. In seconds he was sixteen again, fresh out of his own Hell, and the eerie silence of Cold Oak, South Dakota made him want to grab his ears and scream.

He stood there beside an angel and Sam’s eyes went demon-black as waves of power rolled off of him. Ruby screamed, black smoke ripped from the meat suit in increments by the force of Sam’s fury. His nose burned -- the scent of sulfur almost too strong-- and he couldn’t help the rising terror at the sight of his kid brother, his Sammy, throwing around demons like rag-dolls.

“Sam!” The terror didn’t stop him from screaming out the warning, though, as a lanky teenager, dark-skinned and smirking, sidled up to Sam’s back and thrust the knife forward, and --

It clanged against the forged steel of Castiel’s angel-sword as Sam finally slumped forward, caught in one strong arm as Cas flared his wings and drove the kid back. He moved almost too fast to see, striking out. Dean smelled the blood before the spray of it became visible all over the angel’s trench coat. The body fell to the ground. Cas cradled Sam against him, and looked up at Dean, his wings fading back into the ether.

Dean finally felt the terror begin to ebb as he stared into intense, washed-out blue eyes, and his heart rate began to return to something resembling a normal speed as he took a step forward, towards his brother and their angel. He stopped, though, frozen in his tracks as that yellow-eyed bastard’s laughter began to ring out, echoing in the silence, and --

His eyes snapped open, and he swore again, loudly. The echo of that laughter rang inside of his head, and he cursed himself, and John -- who had given up actively hunting Azazel after that -- for not realizing Sammy had still been in danger. They should have realized, should have known the bastard wouldn’t give up the best of his ‘special children’ so easily.

“Fuck,” he said, slipped the phone into the pocket of his leather jacket, and grabbed the Impala’s keys. He knew he could have just been over-reacting; his imagination was a wild place, after all, but he also knew it was a legitimate concern, with their life, and Sam had…Shit, Sam had used his fucking demon-powers last night. He would have to check; he would find the place Sam had last been -- not too far from Dean because they always stayed close -- and he would find out just what the fuck was going on.

He expected to find sulfur, and the lingering scents of Sam, and demons -- maybe blood -- but he couldn’t quite stop himself from hoping he’d find Sam himself, huge and sheepish, and apologizing all earnest, for missing check-in because, “I’m sorry, Dean; I just got distracted, and lost track of time!” It didn’t matter that Sam had never lost track of so much time that he missed such an important phone call. There was a first time for everything.

---

Sam’s room was empty.

He hadn’t really expected anything different -- no, that wasn’t right, he’d expected sulfur, blood; signs of a struggle, maybe -- but the room had nothing. Sam’s scent lingered, faint, and the only thing to prove that his brother had ever been there. Everything smelled too clean, like house-keeping had come and gone, and there were no traces left to follow.

Sam had just disappeared, though his borrowed car sat out front, empty. His duffel had been packed and thrown in the trunk. Sam’s scent had been the only one he could identify.

He looked around the room with narrowed eyes, knew he’d have to search it and that it was probably a waste of time, but he’d been trained to be thorough, and Sam knew what he was. He had to hope that maybe Sammy had managed to leave something, some kind of clue that would tell him something. Dean was starkly aware that John wouldn’t sanction an official hunt --letting Dean search for Sam-- without hard proof, even though it was his own son. He may have raised them despite their taint, but he didn’t trust them any more than he had to.

Dean had tried to understand, Sam had rebelled in his own, quiet way, and Bobby was more of a father to them than John would ever be.

The trash cans had all been changed, and the beds were perfectly made -- he knew they’d been changed too, because Sam’s scent didn’t linger there. He stalked over to the dresser, his movements abrupt, and frustrated, and jerked the top drawer open.

Nothing.

He shoved it closed, and opened the next one.

Nothing.

“Goddammit!” He growled, low, tugged the last drawer open and glared down at it angrily.

Empty.

Dean sat back on his heels, turned to look around the room again. There had to be something, anything, that could give him some idea--

The cell phone lay half-covered by the sleeve of a large, black hoodie stuffed underneath the bed and between the bed-side table. It was easily missed by anyone not actively looking, and Dean felt the corner of his mouth pull up in a reluctant smile.

“Good job, Sammy,” he said. He tugged the hoodie out,and reached down to pick up the phone -- it was Sam’s. There were thirteen missed calls, all of them from Bobby and Dean. He sat back for a minute, thumbed through the phone to check the last calls Sam had made -- one to a Chinese place down the street and one to Dean -- and the last calls he’d received. He paused at a number he didn’t recognize -- the last call before Bobby’s, which had gone unanswered -- and pulled his own phone out of his jacket pocket.

“Yeah, Bobby. I need you to find out anything you can on this number. 871-777-9325. No, it was on Sam’s phone -- last call that he answered, apparently.” He shifted the phone to his shoulder, lifting the hoodie to look at it carefully.

“I found his room. There wasn’t--” Bobby cut him off, and he winced, reaching one hand up to pull the phone away from his ear for a moment. “Easy, Bobby. Fuck, are you trying to make me go deaf? I don’t know where he is. All I found was the phone and his sweatshirt.”

Dean brought the shirt up to his nose, inhaled deeply, and almost gagged. “Yeah, definitely sulfur. Blood, too, but I can’t tell if it’s Sam’s or not,” he paused, wrinkled his nose.

“I don’t know, Bobby, it all smells like fucking demon blood to me. Yes, his car is outside; so is his shit, but I didn’t get anything off of it,” he snapped, irritated, but looked thoughtfully at the bedside table.

He opened the single drawer carefully, stared down at the contents for a long moment, and couldn’t stop the bark of laughter.

The Holy Bible lay there, black leather binding and embossed, washed-out golden cross, like a secret, reminding him that he wasn’t without his own divine assistance.

“What?” he asked distractedly, snorted when Bobby spoke again, slower. “I don’t give a fuck, Bobby. It’s demons; tell him if you want. I’m gonna find my brother, and--”

He sighed into the phone, cutting the older hunter off before he could really get started. “Look, Bobby, I honestly do not care what Dad says about it. My priority is Sam. He made me that way and he can fucking deal with it, or come leash me himself,” he decided, shrugged carelessly, and bundled the sweatshirt up beneath his arm.

“No, look, don’t worry about it. I’ve got it covered, okay? I have a call to make. I’ll keep you updated. Let me know what you find on that number. Thanks, Bobby.” He hung up, grimaced at the phone, and turned back to regard the Bible for a long moment.

Dean sighed, levered himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, and scrubbed one hand over his face tiredly. It was a tossup as to whether Cas would even answer his damn phone, but the angel was pack, and that meant something, to all of them. He was fond of Sam, too, and he’d saved him once, and he knew what Sam meant to Dean.

He hit number two on his speed dial, waited; blinked in surprise when the ringing stopped.

“Cas?” he asked, and felt like an idiot when the angel’s typical ‘hello, Dean’ filtered down the line. He could practically see Cas’s head tilted like a bird, like Dean’s uncertainty that it was, indeed, the angel answering the phone was something he just couldn’t understand.

“Where are you?” he demanded, drawing the phone back to stare down at it for a moment after Castiel answered, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“What are you doing on Route 66? No,” he interrupted before Cas could answer the question, closed his eyes, and sighed. “Look, I need your help.” It would have cost him to say those words to someone else, but Cas was his, and Sam’s, and that meant everything.

“I don’t…No, Cas, it’s Sam,” he told him, waited when Castiel fell silent. “There was sulfur, blood; it was demons, man. I could practically fucking taste it,” he added, tried not to imagine all the ways the blood could have been Sam’s, hated himself for wondering if that was the best outcome.

“He wasn’t there. I don’t know, okay? Goddammit, Cas, Sammy is gone. I wasn’t here…I should have--” Castiel cut him off, a rare move for the angel, but effective at stalling out the looming breakdown full of guilt, anger, and blame. Dean couldn’t breathe and everything seemed too distant for a long moment as he just listened to Cas talk.

He rattled off plans, and strategies, and reasons; Dean only half-listened, swallowed hard, and pulled himself back in, shoved everything down ruthlessly to be dealt with later.

“Yeah, thanks Cas. Just, find out what you can,” he said finally, knew his voice cracked half-way through, but ignored it. Castiel hung up without saying goodbye; he always did, and it didn’t surprise Dean at all. Cas didn’t really do social niceties, and that suited Dean and Sam just fine. He knew the angel would call back when he found something, demand to know where Dean was, and show up.

He meant to go over the hoodie again, try to get a better feel for the scents and the blood, or call John and let his Dad know that he was out of the circuit for now. Sam was more important than any job. Dean sat there on the edge of the bed, dropped his head into one hand, and didn’t move at all.

-----

The motel room door closed with a ‘snikt’ behind Dean as he walked out to find an angel leaning almost casually against the Impala. His trench coat contrasted sharply with the black of the car, and Dean had to squint and blink against the sunlight in his eyes. The world came back into focus, all shades of gray and washed out color, and he tried to take a breath, but couldn’t seem to catch the air right.

Anyone else would have thought Castiel was completely at ease if they saw him standing there, hands stuffed in his pockets with his head tilted in that way that made him look so much like a bird, but Dean knew better. He’d learned to read Castiel better than one of those old, dusty occult tomes Bobby collected.

There were signals, subtle signs that something was very much off with his angel, and they were easy for Dean to see. It was there in the tense line of Cas’ shoulders, the way he looked so awkward in his meat suit, and how he hunched in on himself like those huge wings were pulled tight in some kind of defense against the world. Dean stopped a short distance away on instinct, inhaled sharply; Castiel’s rage was almost palpable in the air around him, and Dean could smell ozone, and rain, and all the scents of a raging storm.

He suppressed a frustrated growl, and approached him again, carelessly. There were no boundaries with Cas, and he stared into those blue eyes as they shifted their focus to him from whatever internal struggle Castiel had going on. Dean felt everything slow down with that acknowledgment and he could suddenly breathe again. Cas would help, wouldn’t let him down because he never had; not since Dean had been sixteen, and reckless, and Castiel had become pack by pulling two wayward teenagers out of their own Hell.

There was a joke in there somewhere, about feathered things, and perching, but Dean was too damn grateful for the angel’s help, and too worried about Sammy to make it.

“News?” he asked, leaned beside Cas with his arms crossed, and stared him in the eyes.

“Nothing good,” he warned, paused, and eyed Dean warily for a long moment. Dean raised an eyebrow.

Castiel sighed, “Alastair.”

Dean sucked in a sharp, pained breath, ambushed by a hundred different emotions all at once. He shied away on instinct, flushed with a very real, immediate terror brought on by the sound of that name. The memories threatened to overwhelm him, crystal clear images of white-hot blades and the sick feel of skin on skin as taunts were hissed into his ear: sickly sweet, and so, so cruel.

“Fuck!” he said, the unexpected feel of a strong hand clamped down on his shoulder managing to jerk him painfully out of the trap in his mind. He might have snapped, that touch coming so soon on the heels of those memories, but Cas’s scent was all around him and he could feel the soft caress of feathers he couldn’t see, and Castiel wasn’t Alastair. The angel’s touch was as welcomed as Sam’s, and Cas had always been the only one besides his brother who could ground him.

“Al--He--That sick bastard has my brother?” The deep, low snarl was all animal, from down in his chest, and he didn’t try to stop it, just leaned into his angel’s hand because that, at least, felt familiar, safe: pack. Cas had pulled him out. They would pull Sam out, too.

“We will get him back, Dean,” Cas told him, and Dean felt a feather brush his cheek. He looked up to meet Cas’ eyes. “And we will throw Alastair back into the Pit,” he added, a dark thread of promise in his words. There was absolute conviction there. Dean believed him, nodded, and reached out to slide his hand around to the back of Castiel’s neck, squeezing affectionately.

Sometimes Dean had no idea what to make of the strange relationship they had with Cas, the knowledge that something so powerful --and he was, Dean had seen it before, and he could feel it now, thrumming like a lightning storm just beneath his fingers-- had given them its loyalty, and faith, and trust. Dean didn’t always think he deserved it, but pack and family were like that; unconditional.

“Yeah, okay, Cas,” he breathed, closed his eyes for a moment while he pulled himself together. He had to get his brother back.

“First we gotta find the son of a bitch,” he said, tried to think of any demon contacts Sam had that might be willing to talk, and came up empty. He took his hand back, knew Cas had withdrawn his wings, but he squeezed Dean’s shoulder once before pulling back.

Dean knew what he had to do. “I have some leads I can look into,” he said, tried for casual, and missed.

Cas didn’t even blink, just looked at Dean for a long moment in that intense way he had before he nodded, like he’d found whatever he’d been looking for in Dean. “I have avenues I can check, as well.”

Dean nodded, watched the angel step away from the car, and knew he was about to go. He turned, intent on heading back into the room -- he had a few more things to check out before he left-- but Castiel paused.

“Dean,” he called.

Dean looked back, a question on his face.

“Anything,” he said, and Dean swallowed thickly, watched him disappear, and remembered a long-ago conversation with an angel over his brother’s unconscious form.

Dean sat beside Sam, the eighteen year old lay sprawled over the bed, his head on Dean’s thigh. Dean ran his hand slowly through Sam’s hair, affection and relief. Everything had been too close, --the hunters they‘d been with hadn‘t been playing-- and Dean was just grateful he‘d taken the brunt of it instead of Sam. He hunched over a little at the sound of footsteps, ignored the twinge in his ribs in favor of shielding Sammy from anyone else who might have heard about what happened and come looking for their own shot at the Winchester brothers.

Five dead hunters had John furious with them both, but it probably wouldn’t be the last time Dean had to kill someone for finding out that Sammy was demon-spawn, and Dean wasn’t exactly human.

He looked up when the familiar storm-scent hit him, and managed a pained smile for the angel.

“Dean,” Cas frowned at him, and Dean would be the first to admit he looked like shit. “Bobby said that you--”

“Did exactly what I had to do,” he rasped, winced, and looked back down at Sammy sleeping and whole, and beside him. He felt the bed dip next to them, watched as Castiel reached out, tentatively, and smoothed away the wrinkles in Sam’s brow, but didn’t take his hand away after. That --and the look of careful affection on that normally closed-off face-- more than anything, drove Dean to say what he did next.

“You know what I am,” he told Cas, met his eyes when he looked up, head tilted, “and you know how long I’ve been this way.”

Castiel said nothing, but he shifted, one knee pressing against Dean warmly, and some of the pain began to fade at the contact.

“It’s all about pack, Cas; family,” he said, leaning into Cas’s shoulder, and smiled when he felt the shift in the air, and feathers against his skin; knew Cas had wrapped a wing around him.

“By all accounts, Dean, you nearly died,” he said, a slight rumble to his voice, and tightened the wing around Dean for a brief moment, displeased by that thought.

Dean let him, gave into it without a fight, enjoyed the contact, and the way warmth spread through him from Cas’s Grace. “I would have, if that’s what it would’ve taken,” he finally answered.

The storm-scent got stronger as soon as the words left his mouth, and Dean looked up into too-blue eyes staring at him, trying to figure him out, and trying to understand.

“Anything, Cas,” he added, watched the angel try to piece it together.

“Who would be there, then, if you died?” Cas asked after a moment, curious.

Dean smiled. That was easy. “You,” he said, honest, and took Cas’s hand, settled it over Sam’s heart, and tangled their fingers together. Cas concentrated, his gaze fixed on their hands, like he was actually trying to feel Sam’s heart beat, or hear it. It wouldn’t have surprised Dean if he were.

“Pack,” he murmured, like he was testing the word. Dean thought it said a lot that he chose that one. He looked back over at Dean, brow furrowed.

“You claim me as such?” he asked, like he couldn’t quite figure out why Dean and Sam would do such a thing.

Dean snorted, rolled his eyes. “Yes, dude. Pack, family, whatever you wanna call it. That’s what we,” he nodded to their hands, entangled over Sam’s chest, “are. The three of us.”

Cas just nodded, a thoughtful look settled over his face, and said no more about it. He rearranged the three of them until they were all comfortably situated -- more or less into some kind of puppy-pile-- draped his wings --corporeal, massive, and black-- over them, and watched over the both of them while Dean drifted off to sleep, curled around, and over his brother like they were still puppies; warm, and safe.

He came back to himself after a long moment, still staring at the place Castiel has been, and it was good, it was awesome, that Cas remembered that, had figured that out. It was a relief to know the angel would give as much for them as they would for him and each other, and maybe that was selfish as Hell, but Dean liked to know where he stood, and at least Cas and Sam had always been clear about that. He swallowed again, hard, and turned back towards the motel room. Bobby would have answers for him soon on that phone number, and then the hunt could begin in earnest; Dean needed to be prepared for it.

He wasn’t prepared, though, when his phone went off half-way to the door, played ‘Ramble On,’ and Dean stopped and stared down at it.

“Fuck,” he cursed, watched ‘Dad’ crawl across the caller ID screen with a helpless, frustrated feeling rising because he knew--was absolutely certain-- that it was John calling to order him home. He almost didn’t answer it.

“Dad,” he did, though, because he couldn’t not. John was loud, demanding, and too suspicious, and Dean had to stop himself from snarling into the receiver. He had to curb that urge more, and more often around John, and Sammy was always claiming it was some kind of wolf-pack-dominance shit.

“Yes, sir. No, I know it’s demons, I don’t have to think about it,” he said, grimaced when John replied; something sharp and hard about Sam. Dean almost choked.

“You think—what? No, seriously, Dad you can’t possibly think--“ John cut him off, and Dean growled over the line. “I don’t fucking care what blood he has in him! Christ, Dad, he’s Sammy,” he snapped, unable to believe it. Dean had always tried to understand John’s position, but to hear the man openly accuse Sam of abandoning them for demons? He couldn’t stomach that. John was silent for a long moment, and then spoke again, and Dean almost threw the phone against the wall.

“What? Dad, no, you can’t do that,” he began, pleaded, an almost-whine threaded in with his words. “What do you mean, why? Because it’s—“ he was cut off again.

“No. You can’t sanction a fucking hunt against your own son! I won’t let you, goddammit,” he said, barely able to see straight. “I swear to God, Dad, if you send hunters out they won’t make it back. Why? I’ll rip their damn throats out, and send you their fucking hearts, that’s why,” he snapped, knew he wasn’t making a good case for himself or Sam at this point. He didn’t care.

“I don’t give a fuck what your orders are, sir; I’m not coming back to HQ. I’m going to find Sam, and you better keep your goddamn dogs on their leashes,” he told him, closed his eyes, and tried to count to ten in his head. It didn’t work. “Sam is mine, and I don’t think you want Cas going all badass angel on you, either,” he added, paused as John replied, and smirked.

“Of course he’s in on it,” like there was ever going to be a chance Cas wouldn’t help them, “and you know how he gets. I’d re-think this if I were you, Dad. It’d be better if you just stayed the fuck out of it and let me handle it. Sam didn’t go rogue; he was taken, and I am so fucking sick of your bullshit,” he said, worn, and tired, and he couldn’t deal with John Winchester’s stupid, non-human issues right now.

“We aren’t human, Dad. You knew that when you raised us; you made us this way, and you get to live with the consequences. Congratu-fucking-lations, and don’t bother tracking me. You won’t find a damn thing unless I want you to.” Dean ended it at that, not bothering to listen for a reply before he hung the phone up, snapped it closed, and tightened his grip on it so he didn’t throw it. Bobby still had to call, and he needed his phone for that.

It hurt, the way John acted, but it didn’t surprise him. The man hadn’t treated them like his sons in years. Dean’s most prominent memories of his father ran more like a stint in basic training, and John had raised him to be a good dog but hadn’t counted on Dean ever doing anything like thinking for himself. He didn’t seem to remember that he was the one who put Sam in Dean’s arms, and told him to take care of his brother, always. It was the motto of Dean’s life, a litany he’d built up in his head over the years because it was the one thing John had drilled into him from the start. ‘Take care of Sam,’ and Dean was going to do just that.

He knew the hunters John was most likely to send, the ones who would agree to do the job, and the ones who wouldn’t have anything to do with it because they knew the truth –-like Bobby—and he was confident in his ability to handle them. They didn’t know what they were dealing with, not really, and Dean had already proven –more than once— exactly how far he would go for Sam. He’d shot hunters for less.

He breathed out noisily, yanking the door to the room open –he’d never quite made it after John called—and stalked inside. He couldn’t make sense of everything he felt right now; it was all too close to the surface, and he couldn’t afford to lose it, but the fury was right there, all through him, and he paced the room like a caged animal, half-tempted to call Bobby himself rather than wait.

The phone rang, ‘The Gambler’ echoing in the room, and Dean grabbed it up from where he’d let it fall on the bed, flipping it open in some odd mixture of relief and desperation. He needed to get going, get started, and hopefully this would help.

“Bobby,” he breathed, “please tell me you have something.”