He’s dreaming, of course. Of course.
Sam’s back in his old apartment in Stanford, he feels a pang looking around him even as he doesn’t want to turn around. The shadows are thicker in one corner, almost malevolent, sentient. Sam doesn’t want to look in that corner and yet he can’t draw his eyes away.
The room is silent.
Lucifer steps out from the shadows and it looks like the sentient malevolence of the darkness reaches for him with black fingers.
“Hello Sam,” he smiles genially, stepping around the rug where Sam’s drawn a devil’s trap in his own blood. “This is some nice work,” he nods at said rug with an almost proud expression on his face.
“Go away,” Sam can’t deal with him now. He feels exhausted for some reason, nauseous, sick. Not like he usually feels within these dreams, alive and strong. “I’ll never say yes to you.”
“Oh Sam,” Lucifer strolls past the dresser full of Sam and Jess’s pictures. He brushes his fingers against the frames and each picture that he touches shrivels into a burnt piece of ash. “I’m just here to check up on you. Make sure that you’re doing alright.”
Sam can’t help it. He laughs. Lucifer’s checking on him, like one would with an investment, making sure that he’s taking care of the vessel that he so covets.
“Thanks,” he sighs as the laughter finally subsides, “I needed that.”
Lucifer looks curious, like a small child as he moves closer to where Sam’s standing. “There’s something different about you,” he murmurs softly, eyes intently raking over Sam’s features, “something familiar.”
The devil has gray eyes, Sam notices.
have you been up to?” Lucifer breaths out, breaching all personal space boundaries as he almost sniffs
This is a dream and Dean will never hear of this but Sam feels worried. Just for a second, mind you, but he feels worried.
The mildly curious expression on his face is changing, cold rage is seeping into his features, frost and lightning and thunder and power are cloaking around them.
“Tell me Sam,” he almost growls and grabs Sam off the floor, holding him up in one hand, choking the breath out of him, “who did you meet?”
Black spots are dancing on the edge of his vision and he’s panicking, floundering.
“Tell me!” Lucifer screams at him and shakes him.
Sam still manages to shake his head ‘no.’
There is a howling, piercing, whistling sound in his ears. An animal in pain, he thinks, a fire raging.
“Last chance, Sammy boy,” the deceptively gentle tone is back and still Sam shakes his head.
And that’s when the devil slams his head against the wall, breaking his neck instantly and waking him up.
Dean’s tied up when he wakes up. Ha, that rhymes actually.
The room swims into view, hazy at first but getting more solid by the second. His motel ceiling is the same as ever, dingy grey with a few water spots for good measure and Dean blinks before hurtling himself to the side for the ever present knife under his pillow.
This is when he realizes that he’s tied up.
“Sammy?” he croaks, realizing that his first priority is as always with his brother even if he doesn’t like him much at this moment. “You here?”
Nausea rolls into his throat, threatening to choke him and he gasps louder “Sammy?!”
The room is silent before Sam’s low voice sounds, raspy and reassuring and Dean breaths out a sigh of ‘Oh thank you Jesus’ relief. “I’m fine Dean,” Sam pauses and actually managed to sound
bitchfaced from wherever it is he’s lying, “just… A little tied up at the moment.”
Dean snorts out a laugh, stops it from the incredulity, pauses and then lets himself go, laughing like a hyena. A hungover hyena to be exact, but he gasps and guffaws and relaxes
for the first time in months. It figures, with his Winchester luck, that he would only relax after getting drugged and tied up by a bunch of pretty chicks that he met in a bar.
He stops laughing at the realization that if they were indeed tied up by the girls from the bar, that he doesn’t see them currently. This would be bad. Monsters, the usual monsters, they’re not much for stealth. If they tie you up, it’s likely for gloating purposes or for some kind of vengeful diatribe against the many wrongs that the Winchester clan has inflicted on them over the years. True facts.
“Sammy,” he probes, trying valiantly to flip onto a more or less sitting position. “Are we alone?” He feels sort of like a beached whale, flipping around on his back uselessly while the covers of his bed bunch up around him. Jesus, whoever’s tied him up, they did a freaking marvelous job at doing it the right way. Usually, whenever something or someone ties him up- they make some mistake that’s pretty easy for someone with Dean’s experience and training to exploit. Not this time though. This time, he feels like a virginal maiden, tied up and left for the sacrifice of the evening.
The question is: where’s the monster?
“Yeah,” Sam grunts and there’s the sound of his two ton body twisting as he too tries to undo the ropes, “I think so.”
“Good,” Dean goes back to struggling with his ropes, grunting and huffing as he feels no give whatsoever in the bindings.
It figures, really, that the only women that he’s been interested in since the beginning of this whole Lucifer fiasco turn out to be evil.
For a little while there’s only the sound of their struggling, each on their individual beds and at least the evil chicks were decent enough to leave them tied up on their beds before leaving.
Dean pauses, when has it ever been that easy and nicely done though?
He stops struggling, breathes deeply and slowly and hisses “Sam. Stop moving
It’s a mark of their training, their lifestyle that Sam listens right away.
Dean guesses that his little brother had been freaking out about the strange situation as well, it’s not very often that they’re not attacked right away after waking up in ropes.
He concentrates on the air around them. Listens to the atmosphere. Breathes. He is a hunter, he’s had experience in waiting out monsters in the dark. He knows his stuff.
And then he hears it. A creak.
“Fuck!” he grunts and manages to flip himself into a sitting position. This is pure luck as he will later realize, but he does it and his eyes widen.
The dimpled Faith from the bar is sitting in a chair straight across from him. She’s cleaning her nails with the Bowie that’s supposed to be under his pillow. She also looks incredibly bored, supremely hot and very
“..?” he manages to make a sound after all. A choking, questioning sort of sound but a sound nonetheless.
Her eyes are twinkling as she winks at him. “Hey sunshine. Sorry about the whole date rape drug thing,” she shrugs unrepentantly, “but, you hunters are notoriously hard to get around.”
Dean gapes. He can’t really help it. This is either the most messed up thing he’s ever seen or the sexiest.
And then Sammy speaks up from the bed where he’s trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, complete with the Bitchface O’Doom and a sweaty, shiny forehead. “You drugged us with Rohypnol
The bathroom door opens and Dawn steps out. Her hair’s up in a messy bun and she’s changed from the night’s black shiny top into a plain white wifebeater. She looks older somehow without makeup, wiser.
“Didn’t find it,” she shakes her head as she makes her way to Faith. She bites her lip, “Where do you think it could be?”
“Don’t know,” the grin slides off Faith’s face as she turns towards the window, “how’re you doing over there B?”
And oh holy god. Yesterday’s Remy, today’s ‘B’ is occupied on the floor with his weapons bag. Her hair is pulled back in a severe plait and her eyes are still kohl lined. She’s deep in the heavy stuff, daggers and guns and even more guns. “Guns,” she picks up one of Dean’s favorite Berettas and drops it next to her with a sneer of disdain, “more guns,” a Glock is placed next to the first gun, “rifles,” the rock salt shotgun is given less of a sneer, “and more rifles.”
She looks up at Faith and Dawn with a bland expression on her previously expressive face, “It’s not here.”
Faith sighs and scratches her head at that, “Well fuck…” She looks supremely discomfited by the fact that they haven’t found whatever the hell they were looking for and Dean feels a vicious stab of pleasure at that.
Something niggles at him though. From the state of the room, he can tell that they’re done a really thorough search and his and Sam’s wallets are lying opened side by side. Their duffles are strewn open and dirty laundry is mixed with the clean changes of clothing.
This doesn’t matter though. Just as long as they haven’t touched the Impala.
“It’s not in the car either,” Dawn says with a huff.
Dean feels even more sick. “What the hell
are you?” They’ve been digging through his baby, fucking bitches, they’re going to die
for that. “Witches? Shapeshifters? Tricksters?”
Remy, though that’s probably not her real name, snorts from the floor. A trace of yesterday’s amusement flickers on her features, “We’re something a little different.”
And even though he’s spitting angry at them and as soon as he undoes his ropes he’ll be launching himself at the nearest female, he can’t help but notice the care that Remy handles his weapons with. Like she knows what it’s like to rely on instruments of destruction.
“What were you looking for?” Sam clears his throat and Dean can see that little furrow between his brother’s brows. The one meaning that the gears in Sam’s humongous brain are furiously grinding, working to connect the dots and try to figure out some kind of solution.
It’s Dawn who answers him, giving him a small, almost apologetic smile “Something that we thought might have been hidden with you guys.”
“Wha-?” Dean frowns as he feels yet another roll of nausea descend on him. “I’m going to hurl,” he groans, bending forward a little so as not to hurl on himself.
“B?” Faith sounds like she’s laughing at him, the heartless bitch.
“Fine,” Remy sounds petulant as she gets up and hefts his weapons bag onto the table. “I’ll do it.” She’s even smaller up close, shorter than the five five he might have tagged her as. “Come on cowboy,” she leans and wraps her arm around his chest.
“You’re not going to be able-“ Dean starts and stops. Because the tiny blonde girl who can’t weigh more than a hundred and ten, she’s carrying him into the bathroom. Seriously. Carrying, not dragging. His feet are floating a few inches off the floor and she’s supporting his weight without much difficulty.
Definitely not human then.
“What are you?” he murmurs and yes, maybe he feels a little bit betrayed, but what the hell man? Dean knows that he has the shittiest luck with women but he genuinely
felt the connection with her yesterday. Or was that all a part of the act?
Remy smiles at him and he notices that her eyes have flecks of gold around the iris, “You should probably worry the fact that you’re going to be puking your guts up in your bathtub pretty soon.”
?” Dean grimaces, “Why not the toilet?”
“Sorry Dean,” Remy genuinely looks apologetic as she situates him so that he’s kneeling more or less comfortably on the tile floor next to the tub, “can’t untie you.”
He feels nauseous, sick and disgusting. But it’s not coming up and so he tells her so.
“Well,” Remy kneels beside him and gives him a small smile, “then this won’t be pretty.”
When Remy carries him back out of the bathroom, he feels much better and much more embarrassed. Seriously though, who would have thought that Dean would have this bad of a reaction to Rohypnol? Sam looks fine, sitting like an awkwardly long limbed duck on his bed, just a little bit sweaty and a lot more twitchy as he keeps his gaze on the two brunettes quietly conferring near the door.
Dean feels a lot more settled as Remy sits him back on his bed and goes to join her partners in criminally nefarious activities.
“So what do we do?” she sighs as she walks up to them.
“It’s not here,” Faith bites her lip and looks a little bit lost as she tugs her hair behind one ear.
“Neither’s mine,” Dawn looks tense and flips her cell phone open.
Remy’s eyes grow wide and she puts her hand on the taller woman’s elbow, “What are you doing?”
“Calling Gabe, Buffy, what the hell do you think I’m doing?” Dawn snaps.
Buffy. Huh. Dean much rather preferred Remy.
“I’m sorry,” Dawn sighs and tugs the newly minted Buffy into a hug, “it’s just, I’m really feeling the loss of it here. It’s making me all itchy
,” she shivers.
As Dean focuses more on her, he can see that she must not usually be as pale as she looks in the morning light. She’s almost transparent.
In fact, without the pleasant edge of alcohol blurring his senses- he can see that none of them look like they’re doing that good in the health department.
Buffy’s eyes are glazed though she tries her hardest to focus, and even with her strength and speed- Dean had made the unfortunate mistake of trying to evade her in the washroom, she moves like she’s walking through water. There are bursts of volatile energy that she summons as needed. The rest of the time, she seems almost dazed.
Faith is grinning widely and lecherously at Sammy and yet she has the same thing as Buffy, the same delayed almost dazed reaction to things. The shadows under her eyes are dark and Dean realizes that she must have been using a shitload of concealer last night.
“I know Dawnie,” Buffy squeezes Dawn’s shoulder and smacks a kiss on the girl’s temple, “I feel it too.”
And this is when Dean realizes that Buffy is Dawn’s big sister. He can recognize the same protective love there, the same desire to sweep in and save the day. He can see himself and Sam in the two women dialing someone on the phone.
As he glances at the neighboring bed, he can see that Sam sees it too and as he locks eyes with his brother- maybe, just maybe, Dean feels a little missing piece of himself shift back into place.
“Gabe,” Dawn says, “it’s not here. You need to come.”
There’s no warning, only the slight smell of singed air and cinnamon, but next thing Dean knows- the archangel Gabriel is standing next to Dawn with a concerned air about him instead of the usual dickwad expression on his face.
“It’s not with them?” he asks and Dean is startled to see that Dawn and the archangel are practically holding hands, they’re standing that close.
“No,” she shakes her head.
“Did you search the car? They keep all the important crap in that car,” Gabriel frowns.
“Hey douchebag!” Dean yells out and is a little creeped out to see all four of them turn to face him. “What the hell is going on here?”
“Ignore him,” Gabriel turns away and crosses his arms. He sighs and throws a red M&M into his mouth, “Are you sure?”
Dean’s pretty sure that there were no M&M’s two seconds ago.
“Yes Gabriel,” Buffy rolls her eyes and holds her hand out for some of the candy. “We looked everywhere
Gabriel glares but gives her a handful of the chocolate candy anyway.
“Well,” he drawls out slowly, “that changes things a bit.”
“Tell me about it,” Faith whirls Dean’s knife in the air and catches it by the handle, “I fucking hate this dimension.”
“Technically,” Gabriel gives her a grin, not looking even slightly concerned that the tired looking woman with the twenty inch knife looks pissed off, “this is your home dimension. You were only hiding out back there. Besides,” he loops his arm around her shoulder and tugs her close, “you’ve got family here. What’s not to love?”
Dean jolts as he hears Sam’s sharp inhale. His brother looks like he’s finally figured it out, the puzzle and his eyes are lit up with that big brain of his going haywire.
“Remy,” he murmurs slowly, looking at Buffy, “Remiel. The angel that trained Castiel’s garrison.” His gaze flickers to Faith who’s clutching the knife in a much more threatening position, “You don’t seem like the Gatekeeper type, excuse me for saying. I’m guessing that you were Raguel, one of Heaven’s biggest Generals.” Sam sounds awed, reverent as he addresses each woman. “And that,” he turns to Dawn, “that would make you Ophriel. The Gatekeeper, the keeper of Heaven’s Key.”
“Wow,” Dean smirks, feeling the bitter taste of disappointment bloom on his tongue, “so, what? You’re angels?”
The familiar flutter of wings is a comfort as Castiel blinks into existence beside Buffy. “No,” his eyes are more intense than Dean’s ever seen them, “they’re something a little different."
This time it's Faith that greets him, unfurling from the chair with a sensuous grace that makes Dean's pants a lot tighter, she sidles up to Cas, hand still firmly wrapped around the Bowie. "Hi little brother," she purrs.