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ihearthings_iiThere was a week left of his deal, and he wasn’t making any kind of headway.
He shaved and showered, and walked to the closest bar, a dive if he ever saw one (and god he had seen a lot), sat in a booth in the back, wasn’t caring that he looked like a creepy weird person. It wouldn’t be completely wrong, after all.
He bought a shot of tequila, a beer. He eyed the menu, would have gone for the nachos, if it had been a month ago, but it wasn’t, it was now, and he wasn’t hungry at all.
There was just the flat, lukewarm mouthful at the bottom of his beer left, when a shadow fell over the booth. A skinny old man with bad teeth looked intently at him.
“Dean,” he said, almost as if he was a long lost friend and they were running into each other unexpectedly, “Dean Winchester.”
The old man had a choke-chain wrapped tightly around his left hand, and a large black dog bristled beside him. It started a low growl when the man said Dean’s name, a growl that reverberated in Dean’s stomach and rattled his insides.
“We’ve heard some things about you, Dean. Trying to get into hell before your time?” He shook his head and laughed, a thin reedy sound. The dog barked along, and Dean was creeped the fuck out. What the hell.
“Why not just wait ‘til they come for you? Are you that eager to join us? I have to say, there are some down there that can’t wait to get their hands on you, but there are others who think you could be valuable.” The man sat down opposite of Dean, and let the chain slip through his fingers with a soft sound.
The dog moved closer to Dean, sniffed him, rubbed against him, and Dean was pretty damn uncomfortable.
“You could be used as a bargaining chip when it comes to your brother. Maybe even turn you to our side, make you make Sam listen to our kind of reason.”
He leaned close to Dean, reached a bony arm out, and Dean wanted to flinch back but felt like he was frozen in place, hypnotized or something. The man ran a grimy finger down Dean’s cheek, slowly, slowly; it felt dry and oddly porous, and he smiled a languid rattlesnake smile at Dean.
“Yes, you could be very valuable indeed,” he said and stood, “just remember, once you’re down there, you’re not coming back. Ain’t that right?” he asked the dog, and it barked, and looked like it was smiling the same smile as its owner. Dean really wanted to get the hell out of there.
He didn’t have to, though. The man turned and left, the dog following him without prompt. He still felt like he couldn’t move from the spot, and when he could move again, he felt dizzy, and a little like he had imagined the whole thing.
&
Two days later there was a knock on the door, and when he opened, Ruby was standing there, looking more put-upon than ever.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” she asked, and pushed past him without being invited in the second he toed the salt in the ground.
“And hello to you too, Ruby,” he said, and closed the door, locked it, fixed the salt line. Little pieces of salt clung to his sweaty fingers and he wiped his hands on his jeans.
Ruby sat down on Sam’s bed, crossed her legs, crossed her arms, and glared in his general direction.
“You Winchesters. There are millions of us down there in the pit, trying to claw our way out any way we can, but you. You just can’t wait to get down there, can you? Your daddy, Sam, you.” she sighed, uncrossed her arms and put her hands on the grubby bedspread.
“For some reason, it seems I have a soft spot for you boys, even if you are bumbling idiots most of the time.” Dean wanted to protest, but this chick always fucking managed to get the best of him, so for once, he kept his trap shut.
She pulled a leather pouch out of her inner pocket, stood and walked over to Dean. He wanted to take a step back, but resisted at the last moment.
She opened the pouch and pulled out a leather cord, leaned in and put it around Dean’s neck. It was an exact copy of the amulet already around his neck, but he didn’t question it, just locked eyes with her, and she smiled, almost tenderly at him.
She then pulled a small silver flask out of the pouch and held it up in front of him. “Keep this empty for now,” she said, and Dean nodded, not exactly eager to ask what she meant by that.
She put the flask back in the pouch where it jangled against something that sounded like coins. She tightened the leather strips and took his hand, put the pouch in it and closed his fingers over it.
Her fingers were surprisingly warm and soft, and she squeezed once before she let go of his hand.
Dean felt like he should say something. Possibly something like ‘thank you,’ since he was pretty sure she was helping them, helping him, again, when she didn’t really have to.
Ruby bit her lip and walked across the room, her back to him, and put something heavy on the table. She sighed and hung her head, and Dean knew the defeated line of her body too well, thought that if he squinted a little he could imagine Sam standing in her place.
“No matter how this turns out,
“Comprende, Speedy?” and he could only nod, dumbly.
She walked back over to him and stood in his private space, and Dean met her eyes, stood his ground. She deserved it.
“This is the important thing. Don’t let them know you have it. Don’t tell anyone, not even Bobby, I’m serious.” She grabbed his chin and turned his face down, stared him hard in the eyes. “Don’t let them know, don’t whip it out unless it’s the absolute last chance you have, got it? There’s no reason to give them any more reasons to come after you.” she used her grip on his chin to bop his face up and down. “Yes I understand Ruby and thank you for being so awesome and helping my sorry ass again, even if I’ve been an asshole to you,” she said in an exaggerated deep, caveman voice.
“I don’t sound like that!” he said, and then when he felt her nails dig into his chin, “Yes. Yes. What you said.”
She smiled that tender smile again, so strange on her face, and let go of his chin. She slid her hand up his cheek, cupped his face, leaned in.
She pressed her lips against his, a harsh intake of air, and Dean stiffened against her. The kiss lingered for a few more seconds before she backed down, still cupping his face.
“Good luck, Dean Winchester,” she said and smirked. He toed the salt line in a somewhat confused haze, opened the door and she nodded at him once before she ducked under his arm and out the door.
And now, that was really fucking weird, but Sam was right, she had never done anything but try and save their asses. He rattled the door handle to make sure it was locked, repaired the salt line once more, went over it with more salt, looked out the window and pulled the curtains closed before he walked over to the table.
And there, in the middle of his frenzied research and coffee cups was the Colt.
Well fuck him.
&
The pouch contained, apart from the silver flask, nine gold dollar coins and three silver bullets. He had plenty of silver bullets already, he had a flask and he could get gold dollars easily enough, but he knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. He wasn’t Sam, after all.
He thought he maybe knew what he was supposed to do with it, and what it all meant, but he wasn’t entirely sure. He thought those stories were just myths. On the other hand, he was an honest to god ghost buster, so maybe it was time for him to start believing. Either way, he kept the other amulet around his neck, and kept the Colt and the pouch on him at all times, whether he was sleeping, eating, taking a piss or researching.
Ruby was a demon, and used to be a witch, and all his life he had been taught nothing but to hate everything she stood for. But she had saved them more times than he liked to think about, and he knew that somehow, he would be grateful for this sooner or later.
&
It was supposed to happen today. Today was supposed to have been his last day on earth. And, okay there was still about four hours left of the day, but he honestly doubted that he would be snatched up by the hellhounds anytime soon.
Fucking Sam. Goddamnit. He knuckled his eyes, sighed. He didn’t want to die, he really didn’t, but being there, being alive, being alone--- it was a hollow victory.
He wondered how he would have spent his last day if Sam had been around. He probably would have made noise about a last lay, pestered Sam about going to a strip joint or something. He probably would have gone for a ride in the car by himself --- that is, he would have circled the parking lot and then realized he hated the empty spot beside him. Probably would have gone back to the motel room and honked until Sam crawled in beside him, that familiar pissed off look on his face, muttering about feeling like a 9th grade prom date, and they would have taken a long drive down the dirt roads, and Sam wouldn’t even have bitched when he turned the music all the way up. They probably would have gotten all (okay, most of) Dean’s favorite food and some beer, maybe even tequila. They would have eaten in front of the pretending not to look at their watches, Sam would have tried to talk, Dean would have stopped him every time.
It was pathetic. He was sitting in his car, outside his motel room, waiting, waiting, waiting although he wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. He thumbed the radio on, Stairway to Heaven, and wasn’t that just a fucking joke. He ran through the channels, trying to find something that could distract him, and something that could make it seems as though he wasn’t sitting in his car waiting for something to happen, when he had a perfectly good room with a perfectly good shower and bed that he could have been using right then, just a few feet away.
There was static on most of the channels and he flicked the radio off, impatient. All of a sudden, the EMF reader started whining, high and insistent, and he jumped in his seat.
“What the…” he turned and fished it out of the duffle bag, stared dumbly at the lights and the meter that was going crazy, before he sprung into action.
Shotgun under his jacket and he was out the car and in the door faster than he thought possible. Something loomed by the window and he pointed the shotgun at the form unapologetically.
“Hey Dean,” the form said, and Dean’s grip only wavered slightly, and he kind of wished he had reached for the Colt instead.
“My dad’s dead,” he said, and pointed the muzzle between the thing’s eyes, “what do you want?”
The thing – spirit? ghost? What is it? They had burned him. Dean could still smell the sharpness of lighter fluid, dad’s aftershave and the sweetness of the burning flesh; he knew it couldn’t be a spirit.
Could a shapeshifter even shift into someone who was dead?
“Hey Dean,” it said again and he heard it loud and clear over the vacuum that threatened to squeeze his lungs into nothingness.
He stopped dead in his place, like he was bolted down and ground his teeth together. Demons lied, and reapers could make themselves appear anyway they wanted.
Huh. He wasn’t sure where that last piece of information had come from, but he latched onto it, reaper, it would make sense, here. He relaxed his grip on the Colt only a little – so you couldn’t kill death, but he didn’t know how a reaper would react to the Colt.
“You’re not my dad, he said, dejavu like a papercut and the thing, the thing just smiled at him, smiled dad’s smile, so much like the last smile he had given Dean before turning around and leaving.
“You’re not my dad,” he said again, but it didn’t lift the dread from his chest and the thing didn’t react, just stood there, smiling at him.
That was kind of anticlimactic until it stepped closer, closer, put a warm hand on his shoulder that Dean, against all instincts, didn’t flinch away from.
“Dean,” it says, “it’s me.”
“What do you want?” he repeated, broken glass edge to his voice and the thing sighed.
“Dean. Look I know this is a hard pill to swallow, but I was sent here. They--- look son, I’ll tell you all about it on the way but we kind of--- we need to go, right now.”
Dean snorted. That sounded like his dad, alright, but there was just no way in hell he was going anywhere with that creature. And especially tonight. Wait.
“How did you get across the salt line?” he asked, and the thing smiled, pride sparkling in its eyes.
”I’m not a demon,” it replied, “and I’m not a ghost either. I’m---“
“What, an angel?” Dean smirked, “Doubtful.”
“Not exactly an angel, no. Although I’m working on it. Trying to get on the good side of--- the people in charge. Which is also kind of why I’m here.”
“Look, buddy, I’m not really in the mood to help you earn your wings, so if you’d just get the hell out of here, I won’t even shoot you.”
“Dean. Look, I don’t blame you. This is how I’ve raised you. But Sammy needs your help. He’s in over his head this time. Although you boys have been in over your heads for some time, now.” The thing gave a rueful smile.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left the way I did, but it was the only choice I had.” It stepped closer, and Dean swallowed. He missed his dad is like an itch he couldn’t reach, and he had learned to live with it, but that didn’t make it any easier. And this, this thing, with his face and his voice and gun-oil and gasoline smell brought the ache closer to the surface than he was comfortable with.
“Dean. It was that, me, or you. And I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t do that to Sam, and I couldn’t do that to you.”
“I don’t want to talk about that,” he said, voice low, “I just want to know what you are, and what you are doing here.”
“Dean. I’m not a shapeshifter. Although, if you want to try that theory, try and shoot me with a silver bullet. And the rocksalt in that,” he nodded to the shotgun, “won’t do much damage either. I don’t know what the Colt would do, but if it would make you feel better.”
Dean swallowed.
“Dean, I know how to get to hell. I know an entrance where demons won’t be able to escape. Dean.”
Dean closed his eyes and breathed his dad in. It had been so long since he had seen his dad, and he missed him, god, missed him so much sometimes it felt like he couldn’t breathe around it.
He fired the shotgun, and it went right through, seemingly without it touched anything apart from the window and the frame, and shit that was going to make a dent in Angus Young’s credit card.
His dad chuckled and smiled. “Good job, Dean.”
&
They drove out into the night, and though Dean didn’t know where they were going, he didn’t have to ask for directions, instinctively knew where to turn, and drove on, past the trees and mountains and into the dark night.
He didn’t know where their final destination was on the map, but there wasn’t enough road in the entire country, not enough road in the world to make him stop. Dean would drive it all and back a thousand times, more, if it meant he could have Sam back.
He came to a stop in the middle of nowhere, the tires crunched in the snow, and they got out. Dean drew some protective sigils on the doors and hood and trunk and prayed to whoever was listening that nothing would happen to her while he was gone.
Dean had everything Ruby gave him and his trusty shotgun just so he was on the safe side. He wasn’t sure what good a single shotgun was going to do in the depths of hell, but he figured that it couldn’t hurt. (He kind of wanted to bring a flame thrower too, just in case, and also because it was just pretty badass, but he figured that, if you were used to eternal hell-fires, you probably wouldn’t be too bothered by a single flame thrower.)
Dad lead the way through the trees and Dean followed without question. They stopped when they came to a clearing. It was unnaturally quiet there, not a single sound, not even the wind in the trees. There was a Devil’s trap (or at least, what he thought was a Devil’s trap, it didn’t look like the one him and Sam used) laid down in small white stones and it covered the whole clearing. In the middle of the devil’s trap there was a door.
Just a door, and it stood there in the middle of a clearing in the middle of the woods, and it didn’t look like there was anything holding it upright.
It wasn’t even a very impressing door. It looked like the smallest gust of air would make it break into splinters, but Dean had always known that things weren’t always (or even just often) what they seemed to be, so he didn’t doubt that this was an entrance to hell.
“Are you ready?” dad asked, and fuck no, he wasn’t. He hadn’t wanted to go to hell, and yet there he was, on this day of all the friggin’ days of the year, ready to march into hell on his own accord.
“Let’s do this,” he said, and crossed the line of white stones.
Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate, it said in the door, carved in unevenly and it looked almost like graffiti, like someone had scratched it on the door with a Bowie knife. He ran his fingers over the inscription, and grabbed the handle.
