Time travelling pt. 5
Apr. 30th, 2010 02:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rahmiDean dreams--
Blood and sulfur, his eyes clamped closed against the bright white of unleashed angels and Sam not with me where are you oh God Sammy somewhere outside of his reach. The pervading sound of a million flies buzzing, setting his teeth on edge, amphlified and multiplied because he can't freakin' see and where the fuck is Sam?
Castiel's next to him, pinned by the wings and bleeding somehow, leaking fire and light and fury.
"Don't look," Castiel hisses, his hands grabbing feebly at Dean's jacket, his arms. "Keep your eyes closed, Dean."
And Dean does, because he's seen what angels can do to the average regular smuck, but at the same time everything in him is screamin' for Sam Sam Sammy Sam protect Sam his brother. "Where's Sam?" he snarls. Touching Castiel is like touching fire, it freakin' burns, but his skin isn't peeling away and Dean can live with that.
He'd tried to pry Castiel's wings out, earlier, but that'd just left them both panting and useless. Like this, Castiel can still one-shot the demons that keep tryin' to creep up on them and, well, Dean's grateful. He can't fuckin' well kill what he can't see, the Colt a hot, sweaty weight in his hand.
"Holding the Mouth," Castiel snarls right back at him. "We've failed, Dean, and your brother must be stopped before he can do any more damage."
"You don't fuckin' know that!"
Something dives past his head. Dean can feel the burn of it against the back of his skull and fuck if he can tell whether that was an angel or a demon dying and fuck if he cares. Castiel's answering slash is a sear of light across the backs of his eyelids, so he's pretty sure he might have almost just lost his head.
Not that the angels are any more careful of the handful of humans tryin' to hold the damn line against, well, friggin' everything.
Castiel's grip on his wrist tightens to the point where it almost feels like it's flaking under his hand, flashbacks to Hell Dean does not freakin' need right now. His brother's out there somewhere, dancing to Lilith's tune or not, and Dean is going to save him if it's the last thing he does.
"He must be stopped," Castiel gasps out and then.
Dean's never been real sure how it feels to Sam, to have demon pounding in time to his heart, and he's never been real inclined to find out. He'd always thought that there wasn't a way to find out anyway and when he's proven wrong, well, it's pretty damn spectacular.
When Castiel slams power into him, Dean's back bows and he hears himself scream, distantly. It feels like fire licking up through his arm, like Castiel is just holding him over an open flame and hoping like hell it doesn't burn him out from the inside, divinity slammed in between one breath and the next.
It reminds him of hell, of Anna's freakin' grace, hanging from Uriel's neck.
Castiel's hand falls away from his. "Open your eyes," he demands. Then when Dean's apparantly a little too slow for his liking, because Castiel has just rammed about six thousand tons of shit that doesn't belong into his body, he snaps, "Now, Dean! We do not have time for your frailties."
Dean squints his eyes open. He expects the red tinge to everything, angels and demons flying and dying against each other, burning up like fireworks in the sky. What he doesn't expect is for his eyes to stay in his head and not, you know, melt down his face.
"What the fuck did you do?" he asks, eyes darting around.
"A loan," Castiel says. With his eyes open, Dean's pretty sure the angels in serious trouble. His face is not the bland tax accountant face anymore, but that doesn't really matter. You can always tell when a person was hangin' on, last legs and all. "It will allow you to see. Find your brother. Stop him."
He doesn't have to be told twice. Honest to God, he makes himself hesitate for a few seconds, but Castiel's a sitting duck and Dean doesn't have the manpower to move all the rubble sitting on those shining, not quite there wings. The angel can take care of himself, and if he can't, well fuck him.
It was the goddamn angels's faults they were in this mess, too stuck up and holier than thou to trust in the humans, to trust in Sam and they'd. If they'd doomed them, then Dean didn't give a flying fuck about anything but Sam anyway.
"You gonna be okay?" he asks.
He's already moving away before he can hear the answer, dodging the heavy fall of a body from the sky, the thwump of wings and not quite flesh meeting stone and breaking apart.
Sam, he calls, throwing it out there, Castiel's power bursting through him like white fire. Angels pause to turn and glare at him with eyes like infernos, demons hiss laughter, but on the wind there's a shiver and
Dean.
--and he wakes.
Dean rolls over, the same way he always does when he remembers, but there's no Sam there. He flicks out a hand and scowls into his pillows, groping blindly. Nightmares mean he's got an excuse to wrap himself around Sam's broad shoulders, nuzzle against the back of his neck.
He needs to know his brother was alive and breathing and goddamnit, where was Sam?
His hand encounters something tiny and warm, something that sighs out a breath. Dean freezes, his eyebrows drawing together in the dark, and wonders when the hell Ryan crawled into bed with him and why.
Kid's like a rock most days, sensitive as a post and about as liable to have nightmares as Dean is to declare himself a pretty, pretty princess.
The little hand pats him back. "S'okay, Dean," a high child's voice says. "Bad dream."
Sam. But not his Sam. The distinction tries to break his goddam heart, but it's made of stronger stuff than that, patched together with steel and his little brother's smile (sap alert, he thinks to himself sardonically) and, well. His Sam'll be back soon. In the meantime, he can curl around this teeny baby version of his brother and cradle him to his chest like he's always wanted to do to the adult version.
Damn God anyway, for making Sam roughly the size and shape of a giant.
"Go back to sleep, Sammy," he says once he's got his brat of a brother arranged the way he wants him.
Sammy's tiny sweaty head is tucked back against the hollow of his throat. He kicks Dean in the ribs once before he goes still and breathes out, dropping back off to sleep in a way that Dean's always wanted to bottle up and give back to Sam, twitchy insomniac that he'd become.
He tucks his face into Sammy's hair and tells himself he's not going to remember anything else tonight.
Sometimes when he says that, it works.
Sometimes it doesn't.
Dean remembers--
He slashes out like he'd done when he was first learning how to use knives, a gun, a sword, all raw power and no finesse. Demons snarl and laugh and die on the blade of Castiel's power, carving through them like they're butter and he's super heated a knife just for this purpose.
The Colt's an afterthought, its purely human bark a counterpoint to the buzzing hiss of the demons and the fury of the angels.
"Sammy!" he screams again, then Sammy! when his vocal cords just fill up with soot and dead demon. Sammy!
This way comes to him, a little whisper of sound and Dean turns on his heel, barreling through two angels and a demon. All three of them try to get a grip on him; he slashes through the demon's hand and spits divine borrowed power holy grace at the angels until they back the fuck down, turning away from him to slaughter their way through more hosts, more demons.
He slips on something that he thinks might have been guts at one time, dashed under the feet of a thousand possessed humans, catches himself on a ragged outcrop of rock. There're bodies hiding in the lee of the stone, larger curled protectively around the smaller ones, and Dean would stop to grieve or get pissed, he really would, but you can't get more fuckin' pissed than he is right now and Sam is the only freakin' important thing out there.
The next demon that takes a swipe at him has enough time to look down and open its mouth for a scream before it dies, glowing orange in its death throes. The body flops to the ground still in one piece, not alive if the blank eyes are anything to go by.
Demons, angels, humans. And Lilith still out there, pulling more and more demons from Hell and Sam out there too, holding the Mouth, and Jesus Christ.
He barely even notices the next demon. There's a taste on the air now, nothing as pure as he's learning to recognize the angels to be, nothing as filthy as the taste of demons. Sam. He fires the Colt at the next demon, turns left on the battlefield and tries not to notice the bodies stretched as far as he can see.
Almost there, almost there, but he can feel Sam starting to die a little, deep in his guts, somewhere vital, and he screams a challenge to anything standing between him and his brother. The angel nearest him jerks, turns to look at him with fire in her eyes, measuring.
She raises her sword arm, flaming weapon a beacon as it points. There, she says, her mouthless face still and serene. He'll be my duty soon if you don't hurry. She turns away from him and stabs her sword through the face of an incoming demon, leans over to whisper something to the dying human.
Death in her eyes when she looks up, and Dean knows what she's warning him about and spins to follow her directions. Faster, faster, faster.
Dean makes a note to get her name, later, and thank her. (Suriel won't be alive later, taken out by six white-eyes and Dean's bizarrely proud of her for it, because damn if she didn't take them all down with her.)
Don't you dare, he shouts at Sam, ripping his almost not quite sword from another demon. Don't you do this to me, Sammy, you keep it together, I'm coming, I'm coming.
Because Sam is holding the line, Sam has always held the line against the demons, flirted with it and kept it firm all the same and Dean needs to get there before Sam disappears.
And fuck you, Castiel, Uriel, Raphael and Michael and every other goddamn angel that'd tried to tell him any different.
--and he lies in the dark, breathing even and hard, wishing for his brother back.
He must eventually get to sleep, because he's woken up what he swears has gotta be no more than fifteen minutes later by Ryan clambering onto the bed and parking his ass on Dean's chest. Two tiny fingers attempt to pry one of his eyes open.
Dean rolls the kid over with a growl and traps him under one arm, right next to the other little body currently kicking him in the ribs. "Dude," he says, "No."
Ryan grins up at him. "Awake Dean," he trills.
"Dead Ryan," Dean mutters back. He'd tickle the kids, but Sammy has this weird ingained reaction to tickling that involves kicking Dean in the face with one heel and Ryan kind of. Pukes. A lot.
He's got standing orders not to tickle the kid in his and Sam's bed. Nobody really likes cleaning upchuck out of the bedding.
"What'd you want, brat?" he asks instead.
"Door," he says. Two fingers go into his mouth, and Dean's pretty sure there might be some strands of Sammy's hair joining them. Good thing he's still asleep, because Dean really really really doesn't want to deal with him screaming.
Dean rolls back over onto his back and throws his free arm across his eyes. "They'll go away, Ry. What have I told you about wakin' me up when you're not bleedin' or hungry?"
"Don't," Ryan says easily. He gives an almighty suck on the fingers in his mouth. "Cas at the door."
That gets Dean up. He eases his arm out from under Sammy's head, laughing quietly when the kid's mouth pulls down hard in a pout. He has to stretch before he can stand up, too many damn years of running and breakin' in muscles and he's getting old.
Castiel might have brought him back without any of his old, old injuries, but sometimes it seems like the world'd just taken that for a challenge. Dean rotates a formerly dislocated shoulder to loosen it up, stretches out his legs and then leans over to scoop Ryan up before he can badger Sammy into waking up.
"Be good," he tells Ryan, flipping him over his shoulder. "Don't wake him up. You know how bitchy Sam can get in the morning."
"Dean's growly bear," Ryan informs his back. "Sammy likes morning time."
"Not this Sammy, kiddo." Dean sets Ryan on his feet. "Go play with your leggos or somethin'. Don't swallow any. I'm not buyin' you more if you do."
He's pretty sure that the brat's just going to take that as a challenge, but, really, he's gotta try. Sam likes to blame the swallowing incidents on him, since Sam doesn't buy Ryan anything small enough to fit down his throat. Dean's of the opinion that a few swallowed toys never hurt anyone.
He'd fallen asleep in most of his layers last night, no point in stripping if there wasn't gonna be any fun anyway, so he just stalks throught he hallway, stopping to pull the Colt from the highest shelf in the kitchen.
Angels are all well and good, but Dean didn't get anywhere trusting them to never fuck him over. And lucky him, he had a weapon that could kill anything, even sanctimonious angels that'd read him the riot act for saving his baby brother from hell.
When he opens the door and leans one shoulder against it, Castiel tilts his head to the side and says, "Dean."
"Thought I told you to get lost?" Dean asks. Ryan's crowding up againgst the backs of his legs, eager to go outside in the sun even if the little brat hasn't eaten or dressed yet.
Dean obligingly moves himself out of the way, watching as Ryan rockets off into the front yard, Dina a black blur shoving her way past.
The kid's actually safer outside than in, enough cold iron buried in the ground to choke anything supernatural, symbols painted on the underside of rocks and runes carved into the trees. The trees are planted in a devil's trap pattern, five big, fast growing monsters with all the pretty purple flowers Sam could've ever wanted.
"Something has... come to my attention," Castiel says while they watch Ryan pull a handful of flowers off a low hanging branch. The kid proceeds to chase the dog around, shrieking and waving the flowers.
"Something?" Dean asks. Look, he doesn't pretend to know what the hell goes through his kid's mind. He's just happy Sammy's crashed out on the bed. Ryan won't wander. Sammy probably would without even meaning to, wandering away when something catches his attention.
"Someone," Castiel amends.
"This someone got black eyes?" Dean asks. He thinks he can see a glimpse of her now, sulking off to one side, and then yeah, there's--
The first thing he sees is Ruby. She's a whirlwind of long hair and her knife, lookin' like the bitch demon she is, guarding Sam's back when Dean isn't around to do it himself. The angels are mostly leavin' her alone, Dean realizes, uneasily, and then a second later he sees why.
The Colt barks as Dean sends a bullet into the angel dive-bombing his brother like a freakin' eagle or something, and then he slides forward to slot against Sam's open back, his shoulder blades to his brother's spine. The angel hits the ground with a vaguely worrying thump and Dean'd feel bad about shooting the bastard, but he'd aimed for the hip and it should still be alive.
Wouldn't be, if it decides to come after Sam again.
Sam relaxes against him for a split second before he straightens again.
When Dean glances behind his shoulder, the curve of Sam's cheek is streaked with blood, but he's still awake, still alive.
The gaping maw behind his back is not inspiring confidence, though.
"How're we doin'?" Dean croaks out, his voice almost lost beneath the buzz of flies and the scream of something he's not thinkin' about too closely.
The Hellmouth's holding, Sam says. He answers him inside his skull. Dean'd be a little pissed about that, but Sam sounds exhausted and he knows what the angel said and what he's feeling and Jesus. Just a little longer, Sammy, promise.
Ruby snarls at the next demon that comes at them and Dean figures that she's got Sam's back covered, much as he hates to think that, and he leans back to give Sam something solid to rest his weight on for a second. Then he slides around Sam's front and wedges an arm beneath his brother's when Sam looks like he's gonna go down.
Holding the Mouth could mean a shitload of things, Dean knows, and he sure as fuck knows which one the angels seem to think Sam's doing. But Sam's not holding the Hellmouth open, when Dean gets him situated on his shoulder.
No, his stupid little brother is holding everything in, demons slamming against something invisible as they hiss in their natural form, nothing but black smoke and fury. He glances up at Sam's face, isn't surprised to realize that his nose is dripping blood and there's more beading in his eyelashes and fuck. Fuck.
Lucifer'd pushed his way out in the first wave, his rotting wings spreading with a rasp of decaying flesh. An entire wing of angels had fallen before they'd gotten it together enough to harry him back towards the Mouth and then Lilith.
She'd been shrieking with laughter, climbing on Lucifer's impossibly broad shoulders in her tiny child's body, and she'd started taking everything down for miles, Lawrence ground zero for the apocalypse.
See, the thing was that the angels (and them, by default) had started out fucked and it just got worse from there. The white eyes were the Fallen, after all, and while there weren't that many of them, maybe a hundred, all told, the angels still couldn't take all of them and all of their pets at the same damn time.
Hell's been recruiting for who the fuck knows how long, thousands of years of stupid fuckers selling their souls in exchange for wishes. Humans who've turned into demons, those nasty little black eyed fucks that you can take down with a knife or a gun or just an old fashion exorcism, but there's a fuckton of them out here.
He's never heard of people becoming angels, though, and that's why they're losing. Not enough angels for all the demons and there sure as fuck aren't enough Sam's to go around. Most of the humans that were fighting are already dead or possessed and Dean doesn't look too close at the human bodies dotting the battlefield.
He hates to ask, hates to ask more, but there's only so much he can do and that doesn't involve anything with demons. Can you close it? he pushes at Sam.
He has time to hear Ruby pull her dagger free from another demon, the slick little rasp of flesh parting around metal, before Sam murmurs back, "Can't. Have to hold it."
"Lucifer has to go back in," Ruby says from behind him while Sam sways and grimaces, a blood tear dripping down onto Dean's arm. "If we close the Hellmouth now, we're stuck with him out here and, trust me, Dean, that's a very fuckin' bad idea."
Dean coughs away the smoke rising in his throat and shoves don't you fuckin' dare he's mine divine at the angel hovering above them. "How the fuck are we gonna do that?" Dean hisses.
Don't know, Sam responds. The sway is more pronounced now, the Hellmouth draining pretty much every damn thing his brother has left in him and Dean swallows back a sound of pain when he realizes that Sam's jacket is slowly smoldering under his touch.
He can't see Sam's eyes from this angle. He doesn't try to.
Ruby's looking at him with her black, black eyes when he looks up. "You're celestial, though fuck if I know how you managed to do that," she says with a sneer. "What'd you expect?"
He's always known that Sam was leaned a little more towards the demonic side of the equation, but. Fuck. He covers his hand with his jacket sleeve and hopes to hell he's not going to burn Sam, not that Sam seems with it enough to care.
"Sam?" he asks, then Sammy? when Sam doesn't even twitch. The buzz is getting louder again, setting his teeth on edge and making his bones vibrate. He can't imagine what it feels like for Sam's already fucked up head.
We have to hold the Mouth, Sam says.
Castiel sent me to stop you, Dean responds.
Sam smiles, one of those small, self-deprecating ones, blood caught in the creases of his dimple. Are you going to? he asks.
Dean wants to say yes. He wants to drag his brother away from all this shit, away from his demon guard dog who's already spun away to knife another something, Dean can't even tell if it's an angel or not anymore, the air heavy with smoke and smog and the incessant buzzing of a million demons.
He wants to say yes. The angels are losing, they're losing, and Sam won't last much longer. There might be a God up there, but fuck if he's doing anything about the hell down here and they're going to lose, the least the world owes them is a nicer death than this.
No, Dean murmurs, "No, I'm not gonna." He shifts his grip on Sam and--
Castiel's looking at him from uncomfortably close. Dean blinks and jumps back with a curse. "No," Dean snaps, "Just. No. Personal space, Castiel. Learn it, love it."
"Does that happen to you often?" Castiel asks. He sounds like he's asking about the weather, or maybe about how humans can be so disgusting as to fornicate when they know God is watching. Castiel's sort of a riot a minute when Dean's trying to get laid.
"Only when I've lost my little brother," Dean says flatly.
While he's been spacing, Sammy has apparantly gotten up. He's pressed against Dean's side, his messy head leaning against Dean's thigh while he tugs and pushes and pulls his hair into new and fabulous knots.
Dean'll have to pick those out later, carefully. He sort of wishes Sammy were old enough to have gotten the lecture about keeping his hair neat or getting it butchered off. Not that his Sam actually holds to that anymore.
The last time Dean'd pointed that out, Sam had rolled over in bed and grinned up at him. "Dude," he'd said, "You're the one doin' it. Keep your hands out of my hair and then we'll talk." Which, you know, made him sound like some sort of hair lovin' weirdo. Or a hair puller.
He'll cop to the hair pulling, maybe. But Sam gives freakin' good blowjobs when he's in the mood for it and he'd dare anyone to not mess with Sam's hair when he's going down on them.
Sammy picks that minute to tug on Dean's hand and tell him he went potty like a big boy and Dean really doesn't need to feel more like a pervert for fucking his brother, thanks.
"Flashbacks are often times a symptom of a bigger problem," Castiel says.
Dean blinks at Castiel a few more times. Seriously. Was the angel giving him advice on PTSD? "And sometimes they just happen because pain in the ass angels can't keep their holier than thou hands off of Sam," he snaps, then raises his voice to yell, "Quit skulking, Ruby. What the fuck do you want?"
"Just checking in," Ruby says. Most of the wards are keyed up to allow Ruby through, but the ones in the front yard are there to keep everything out, so Dean's not really surprised when she climbs down from their roof like the creepy, demonic stalker she is.
She's back in the old body, coma-girl, the one that hasn't aged a day in four years. Dean wonders if she only pulled the blonde because the body was closer than she'd been when Sam disappeared. It's something she'd do.
Creepily obsessed with his brother.
"I'm not even gonna ask why you were up there," Dean decides.
Ruby grins. "That's sweet of you."
She drops to the ground, Sammy darts out from behind Dean to go join Ryan in what appears to be a game of "attempt to shove this stick up the dog's ass," and Castiel's expression takes on a look like he's just had a bunch of flamin' shit thrown at his head.
"I would prefer if you did not consort with such things as this," Castiel says.
Dean puts one shoulder against the doorjam and rubs his face hard. He could do without this shit, which is why Castiel mostly stays the fuck away and Ruby hovers on the edge of Dean's stupid angelic ability to pick up.
Putting them together is sort of like, well, putting angels and demons in the same room and expecting them to get along. Sam might be able to pull it off. Ruby was freakishly, creepily attached to his brother and'd do whatever the fuck he said, no questions asked.
They've got an agreement. No powers of any sort unless it came out of Sam. Or Dean, if he's feeling particularly shitty and wants to set something on fire. So Ruby liked to taunt and Castiel got tied into tight, feathery knots until one of them snapped.
Then Dean got to pick up after them, joy.
"Yeah, well, I would prefer if you kept your shining paragon ass away from my general," Ruby says with a smile.
"You're an abomination."
"And the big guy upstairs doesn't seem to be doing much about it, now does he?" Ruby stretches her arms above her head and turns on one foot. Dean leans his head against the doorframe and taps the Colt against his thigh.
The only thing keeping him from shooting them is the fact that he can't figure out which one to shoot first. That, and the fact that Ryan's never seen a dead body and he really doesn't want to start him on this particular Winchester trait early.
Castiel tilts his head to one side. "I could erase you from existance with a thought," he says.
"Dear God," Ruby says, one corner of her mouth pulled up while Castiel twitches hard, "Please smite my demonic ass. Amen." She stands there for a few more seconds before spreading her arms wide and saying, "Well, lookie at that, Cas. Still alive. Weird how that works, huh?"
"If you were not one of Sam's," Castiel says blandly, "I would rip you from that body and cleanse you in fire and light."
"Lucky for all of us I am."
"And unlucky for the both of you, I do not fuckin' care who you belong to." Dean raises the Colt and smiles warmly at Sammy when the kid gives him a big eyed stare, dropping the dog's tail in their weird game of follow the leader. "Get the fuck out of my house before I start shootin'."
"Technically, Dean, we're not in your house," Ruby points out.
"And I have news." Castiel's shadow is starting to sprouts wings. Sooner or later, Sammy's gonna notice that, so Dean leans forward to snag the angel by one shoulder and shove him into the early morning shadow the house is casting.
"Spit it out," Dean says with a sigh.
"Uriel has Fallen," Castiel says. There's a minute where his arms jerk and Dean thinks that if Castiel were human he'd have crossed his arms and looked defensive by now. Instead, he just stands there with his head slightly tilted to the side, looking up under his lashes like he can't remember to lift his head all the way up.
Ryan shrieks in affront from somewhere over by Sam's vegetable garden.
A few more seconds tick by. "This is news?" Dean asks blankly.
"Ah, pull the other one, Castiel," Ruby murmurs. She on the other hand, has no problem crossing her arms and looking sarcastic. Dean's gotta hand it to Sam. At least his supernatural wind up pet could work her body.
"What does that mean for us?" Dean asks.
Uriel's been on Dean's shitlist for years, ever since he'd looked at Sam and seen nothin' but a human sliding fast down the road to demon. He's not real surprised that he's actually Fallen, but that means white-eyes and fuck if Dean's prepared to go up against those again.
It's not so bad when you've got two demon killing weapons, a demon, an angel, and your little brother on your side, but if Uriel's anything like Lilith and Alastor, he's gonna play hide and seek to get what he wants. And if he's anything like the bastard Dean knows him to be, God help them all, because the fucker's gonna think that he's on a mission for God and well.
Nothing Dean likes dealin' with more than crazies who think they're on a holy mission. Emphasis on the sarcasm in that sentence.
"He refuses to believe he's Fallen," Castiel says. "He will seek revenge on those he thinks have wronged him--"
"That would be you and Sam. Mostly Sam," Ruby cuts in with a scowl.
"Yes." Castiel turns his head to follow the progress of Dina in the yard, a black blur as she chases after the clods of dirt Sammy's throwing. "Heaven will deal with him."
Dean rubs at his forehead. "Like heaven handled that apocalypse a few years back?" he asks nastily.
Heaven does not have a good track record, as far as Dean's concerned. Between their ingenious plans to raze an entire town to get at one witch and the memory of Anna's big, dark eyes, Dean's not really bankin' on heaven being able to do much of anything.
"What's the plan?" Dean asks a few seconds later, while Castiel exchanges a filthy glance with Ruby. "You just gonna torch whatever area he's in and hope you get him too?"
The big, solemn blue eyes make him roll his eyes in exasperation. "That's the plan, isn't it? You guys are gonna figure out where he is and hope you get him with your holy smiting shit?"
"Yes," Castiel admits.
"Lame," Ruby singsongs.
Dean rubs at his eyes again. He doesn't want to actually, you know, agree with Ruby, but he's. Agreeing with Ruby. There's lame, and then there's an angel trying to figure out a problem.
"Hey," Ruby says, her mouth kicking up into a mocking smile, "How many angels does it take to screw in a lightbulb?"
The blank look Castiel's sporting almost makes Dean feel sorry for the dude. "Shut your mouth, Ruby," Dean finally says with a sigh. Jesus. He was just gonna bury the both of them in the goddamn backyard and be done with it. Sam didn't really need them any more, right?
"There is something else," Castiel says.
"Yeah, 'cause when it rains, man..." Dean flicks his eyes over towards his kid and his baby little brother. Who look like they're digging up Sam's tomatoes, which, you know, whatever, Dean doesn't like tomatoes or anything, and it serves Sam right for ditching him.
But. The bitching. Dean does not want to deal with the bitching from his Sam when he gets back.
"Sam is getting ready to switch places again," Castiel says.
Dean stops trying to figure out whether or not Samy's actually shoved a green tomato in his mouth and savors the feeling of relief that courses through him. "When?"
Castiel just blinks at him. "I would imagine as soon as possible," he says. Then, "Is your brother vomiting in the grass, Dean?"
The angel freakin' leaves him to deal with his upchucking little brother, a thoroughly fascinated Ryan, and the dog. Who keeps trying to eat said upchuck and Dean is really going to get somebody for this.
"I must watch out for Sam," Castiel says unapologetically. He looks down, his face as blank as ever, while Sammy cries and spews what Dean's pretty sure is green tomato and maybe some dirt for good measure. "Have him ready within the next hour or so."
Dean wriggles his fingers under Sammy's arms, heaves the kid up, and tries not to make a face at the residual vomit sliding slowly down his t-shirt. It's not that he objected to being puked on, see? It's just that when Sam's the one doing it, it was usually just because he'd gotten a concussion or something, not because he was stupid enough to eat something he shouldn't have.
That was more Dean's specialty.
"You gonna split too?" Dean asks Ruby.
She holds up her hands and twists her mouth, her lips puckering in distaste. "I said I'd die for him," she says, "I never claimed I'd stick around if he was gonna be disgusting."
"Baby's throwin' up," Ryan informs them both. He's got a stick in one hand and is, God help them all, poking at the puddle of green-ish brown puke.
Dean nudges Dina's nose away with his foot and wonders about his kid. "Yeah, we got that, Ry. Go inside."
"I got a present for you, kid," Ruby says. She tosses her hair behind her shoulder and offers one hand to Ryan. When she realizes Dean's scowling at her, she rolls her eyes, huffs hard, and drops it before Ryan can take it.
Smart kid hadn't even made a move to. Good boy. It's nice to know that that lecture about black eyed people had stuck.
The lecture Sam'd given him about discrimination had been significantly less fun to sit through, Dean figures. It's not his fault the kid had taken black eyes to mean, you know, black eyes and not demon eyes. Ruby demonstrating the eyes was a stroke of genuis, as far as Dean was concerned.
Sam'd been rolling his eyes the entire time.
Better safe than sorry, at any rate. "Give him his present and then beat it, Ruby," Dean says. He rubs one hand up Sammy's back, chafes the back of the kid's neck for a second before he rubs back down.
Sammy makes a miserable little hiccuping noise into his throat and Dean doesn't bother hiding a grimace when something wet and chunky slides down his skin to plop onto his collar. It's a good thing he hasn't bothered to shower or anything, or else he'd be kind of miffed.
Ruby presents Ryan with play dough. Ryan asks if he can eat it and Dean just grabs the kid by one shoulder and steers him back into the house.
"Seriously," he says to Ruby over his shoulder. "Get lost. Don't make me say it again."
"Say it with love next time," Ruby says. She blows Ryan a kiss and climbs back up the to the roof. Dean shades his eyes with the Colt, watching her scramble, and hopes uncharitably that she falls and breaks her demonic neck.
Kind of hard to act like a hot chick if your head was flapping on broken bones.
"Yucky, Dean," Sammy says softly. He coughs, but doesn't garble, so Dean doesn't have to resign himself to getting puked on.
"I know, dude. We'll get you cleaned up." Well, Dean will, at any rate. Ryan's smiles up at him, just the barest slight curve, covered in dirt and dog slobber, Dina wagging her ass right behind him. "You," Dean says down at him, "Go change. I don't care what you wear. Just. Out of the dirty clothes, alright? I'll give you a bath when I'm finished with Sammy."
Ryan's face brightens. "Tie shirt?" he asks hopefully.
Dean's pretty sure the tie-dyed shirt is dirty, and sort of a horrendous eye sore to boot. But he doesn't care and it's not like the kid's gonna keep it on for long, so he shrugs as best he can with deadweight baby brother on his shoulder and says, "Sure, why not."
He watches Ryan scamper off and then Dina almost knocks him off running... wherever the fuck she plans on going without someone to entertain her.
"Alright," Dean says, "It's just you and me now, and, man, lemme tell you, you reek." He hefts Sammy up so that he can look the kid in the eye and gets a wobbly lower lip for his trouble.
He knows his little brother. He feels kind of bad for makin' the kid pout, but if he babied Sammy, that'd just get him a scowling look sooner or later and a foot stomp, the "'m not a baby," following soon afterwards. He can deal with upchucked on Sammy.
He does not want to deal with his baby brother in the middle of a bitch fit.
"Bathtime?" Sammy lisps at him a few seconds later. He chews on his lower lip, makes a face at the taste, and lets his arms and legs dangle in Dean's grip.
Dean snorts at him. "Yeah, kid, bathtime."
The face Sammy pulls is his ultimate bitchface, in miniature. Dean swallows back his laugh and tucks his barfed on brother into his equally barfed on chest for the trip to the bathroom.
Sammy spends a good five minutes smelling everything in the little tubes Sam's got lined up on the shelves, a dozen different motel shampoos and conditioners because they're cheapass bastards and still stay in enough rented rooms to steal them from.
"This one," Sammy says decisively.
Dean does not point out that he's chosen Dean's shampoo, mostly because it'll make Sam make a face when he gets back. Dean's stuff smells like a dude, you know? Not fruity and fluffy and herbally, like some of Sam's shampoos do.
He runs the bath, calls the kid over to make sure it's not too hot, and then spends a good five minutes staring at the cieling because, okay, weird. The last time he saw Sam naked, he was... doing things he wasn't going to think about right now, thanks so much.
Then he gets the fuck over himself. He'd had to oversee Sammy's baths when he was this age anyway and Sam's sort of traumatized him with accounts of four year olds accidentally drowning themselves.
"Daddy!" Ryan screams and it's on the tip of Dean's tongue to yell back and tell the kid not to freakin' scream in the house, that's what outside is for, when Ryan follows it up with, "Daddy! Sammy wants you!"
Sam, Dean thinks. The cup he was using to wet Sammy's head drops from his hands, splashing water up against his already puked on shirt. Dean barely notices. Goddamn, he's missed his brother, and Sam's only been gone a day and a half.
He's whipped and old and it's never felt better, something warm and familiar uncurling in his belly at the thought of seeing Sam again.
Except.
Dean can't exactly drop everything and go running for his brother, even if he wants to. For one, he's gotta finish washing the soap out of Sammy's hair. And then he's gotta put some clothes on him and then he can go stand around and stare creepily at his brother.
"Close your eyes," he tells Sammy. Waits a few seconds while the kid squinches his entire face up tight, his nose crinkling and his mouth pursing, and laughs. "Look for the rainbows," he adds, because Mom had told him that, once upon a time, and he'd have told it to Sammy by now, even if he can't figure out what the fuck it means.
Sammy's face scrunches harder. "Can't see rainbows," he mutters a few seconds later.
"Keep looking," Dean says. He pouts water over the kid's head, the side of one hand flat against Sammy's forehead, just in case. Lather, rinse, repeat, until no more suds drip down onto Sammy's tiny little neck and the kid is just starting to look constipated with how hard he's lookin' for those rainbows.
He gives Sammy a quick scrub down after that while he plays with Ryan's rubber dinosaurs. "Finished," he mutters, leaning back on his heels.
Sammy gives him a big grin and leans forward to pull the plug on the bathtub. Dean rolls his eyes, stands up to get a towel while Sammy puts first one foot, then the other on top of the drain. "You're not gonna get sucked down," he informs the kid.
Ryan's terrified of the Ninja Turtles coming through the drain for him. Sammy always wanted to get sucked down to meet them, at least until that water sprite had reached up one day and almost drowned him.
They didn't take baths after that.
Dean lifts his baby brother out of the bathtub, just leans over and scoops him up in one of the fluffy, brown towels Sam picked out ages ago. "Down!" Sammy demands with a squirm, "Can do it myself!" and Dean just laughs at him.
"Well, yeah," he says, using one corner to smother the water out of Sammy's riot of tangled curls. "But it's faster if I do it and we're runnin' on a schedule now, sweetheart."
If he remembers right, Sam's opened up that weird portal thing into Dean and his room, not Ryan's, which, bummer. Dean could so get out of his pukey shirt right about now, but he really doesn't want to know what younger him would think about Dean waltzing around with a naked Sammy in a towel.
Just, no. Clothes on the kid, then clothes on him.
And he has just enough time to skim a shirt over Sammy's head when Sam's voice intrudes across his skull, amused, affectionate, and more than a little exasperated.
Swear to God, man, Sam says. Hurry the fuck up. I'm tired.
Bitch, bitch, bitch, Dean thinks back, pushing until he feels the slight resistance of Sam's mind so that Sam can pick it up. He helps Sammy into his pants and yells back, "Sam! God fucking dammit, you little bitch!" for his own benefit.
He doesn't pay attention to whatever Sam yells back, because Sammy gives him the evil eye again. "Not a-pposed to swear," he says darkly.
Dean tosses him up in the air and catches him before he can start squealing. "Man, you were an obnoxious brat. Remind me to tell you that, alright?"
He almost drops Sammy when Sam sends something back at him. He only catches the barest edge of it, because Sam's not actively trying to pound it into his head, just teasing, but, Jesus. He could have lived forever without seeing bear porn flashing at him.
No, not furry animal bears. Yeah, the other kind.
He walks into the room, does a double take at the portal thing, because it really is as weird as he remembers it being. He's gonna have to ask Sam how he managed to pull that off, later, when he doesn't look like he's swaying on his feet.
Amplification, maybe? Dean thinks. Herbs and shit to give Sam's psychic-ness a gigantic steriod of a boost. He'll get it out of Sam later.
"You send pictures into my head again, Sam, and I'll kick your ass," he says, instead of asking how Sam's doing and when he's coming back. He does not want to come across as needing to that younger him. The one that's gawking stupidly.
He dumps Sammy on their bed and gives Sam a flat look. "I was cleaning up your weakass stomach's mess. Cut me some slack."
Dean doesn't pay attention to what everyone's saying after that. He knows how this went down, he's already lived it once, he doesn't need to see it again. Instead, he studies Sam and the way he's holding himself like he's expecting a migraine to come on, tense around the shoulders and the neck.
He suddenly remembers that Sam spilled the holy water, about twenty minutes from now. He makes a mental note to find the salve, the stuff Ruby'd made special for Sam when she realized that he had all of the demon's little weaknesses and none of their fun healing power.
His brother doesn't bubble and steam and broil like demons dropped in holy water do, but he burns. Sunburn red, most of the time, unless he's really been fuckin' himself up beforehand and then he might actually blister a little.
Demonic, maybe, but still Dean's little brother and still a major pain in his ass. And Sam hadn't really held that whole angelic thing against him, aside from callin' him Cupid on Valentine's day, so Dean figures it'ld be kind of hypocritical to be pissy because Sam has to avoid the blessed shit sometimes.
When Sammy makes a sudden movement next to him, Dean tunes back in to the conversation. He grabs the tiny, thin shoulder in one hand and looks over at his brother, the big one. "Sam?" he asks. "You need me to do anything special before I send him on through?"
"No," Sam says. He scrubs at his forehead in the way that means he's gonna be out in a few hours, auras and searing pain keepin' him down for the count, then says, "We're protected. It's why we got flung all over the damn place instead of just biting it."
Yeah, makes sense. Dean doesn't want to know what would happen to a normal person if an angel (former angel, a gleeful part of him points out) tried to erase them from existance.
"Remind me to tell Castiel he's full of shit, huh?" he says, just because he can, and leans over to swat Sammy on the ass. "Go on home, kiddo."
Dean watches himself pick up his baby brother while pretending he can't see Sam trying to fend off that headache. Jesus. Hard to believe that he ever looked that young, that unprepared for what was comin'.
Wrapped right around Sammy's finger, though, he sees with an eye roll. He smirks at himself, because that still hasnt' changed, for all that he says no to Sam on a regular basis. The nos never seem to stick unless Sam's in mortal peril, though, and even then, Sam's just as likely to tell him to fuck off and do it anyway.
Sam's got a serious attitude problem.
"When're you gettin' back?" he asks Sam. he wants to give his brother something to focus on, because he's starting to get that grim set to his mouth, that--Sam's holding the line, he's always held the goddamn line, the Hellmouth gaping and horrifying at his back--cant to his head.
"As soon as I get the other me," Sam says. "Why? Miss me?"
Dean snorts. "Yeah, right," he says. He nudges Dina, 'cause the damn dog's gonna be the death of him one day and suddenly realizes that his kid's in the room too, crouched on the floor and eating what's either playdough or crayons.
If it's the playdough, he doesn't care. If it's the crayons, they're gonna have to have words again, him and the brat.
"Your shoulder pair are driving me insane," he continues because it's true. "Seriously. Bury them in the backyard and damn the consequences bonkers."
Sam's usually faster with his jokes than this, Dean thinks clinically. Most of the time, he doesn't have to ask.
"Yeah, you know," he says. He doesn't want to say their names outright, because some surprise are funnest when you live through them, fuckin' Ruby screwin' his brother and all. He motions to his right shoulder, the side Castiel likes to appear on and says, "Angel," and waves to the other with a, "demon.
"Your shoulder pair."
If Sam can still tilt his head back and laugh like that, Dean's not actually all that worried about what this is doing to him. He feels a corner of his mouth kick up because he can never not smile when Sam looks like that, goofy and scrunched up and gorgeous.
"She's gonna kick your ass, man," Sam says on a wheeze, still chuckling under his breath.
"She can try." Dean rubs a hand across his face to hide his smile at the thought of Ruby comin' at him. They might never really get along, but they have an understanding, him and her, which boils down to this: Dean'll watch Sam's back. In the event that Dean can't watch Sam's back, it is Ruby's responsibility to do it and if she doesn't, Dean'll gut her and let his dog eat her intestines. Simple, really.
Sam has a slight smile on his face when Dean looks up again. The ache hits him where he lives, low down and suddenly, God, he just wants nothing else than to have his brother home. It's not funny anymore.
"Come home soon, okay?" he says, sounding needy and not even caring. "Ryan misses you. Little bastard keeps asking me to bring you back."
"You're going to give him a complex if you--"
"Don't stop calling him a bastard, I know."
His brother gives him this soft little look. I'm fine, that look says, even before Sam pushes it out at him, gentle hum rub of Sam's power scraping against Dean's borrowed grace. Dean flicks his eyes over to himself and Sammy, a tactic warning not to push himself too far and conk his ass out before he gets home and Sam quirks an eyebrow back.
"If..." Sam trails off and glances over at the young Dean on that side of the rift. He sighs, absently sweeps his bangs off to one side, and motions towards his Castiel shoulder. "If that one shows up again, let him know that I think I've got it all sorted out. And, uh, if I'm not back soon, let him know that maybe I don't, okay?"
Dean doesn't bother hiding his incredulous snort. He raises his eyebrows at his brother, because seriously, that was the shittiest excuse for a reassurances he's ever heard. And he once had Dad tell him that he was fine when Dean could see his ribs peaking through his skin.
"That's inspiring, Sam," he says. "My faith in you runneth over."
"Jerk," Sam says softly.
"Bitch." Yeah, I miss you too, kiddo.
That's when he notices himself again, bouncing Sammy's wee little foot and looking like he'd rather be anywhere in the world but here. Yeah, it must suck seeing what he doesn't have, not yet, but, seriously.
"You look like you're swallowing a lemon, dude," Dean observes. "Or listening to some of Sam's emo shit."
Pay attention, he wants to hiss. Pay attention and listen, because this is how Sam's heart breaks, these are the pieces. Jess, Dad, Madison, you, you, you, and you, because it's always you who's breaking it.
The best thing for Sam is for you to find your self worth, so suck it up, bitch. You might not be daddy's favorite, but you're Sam's and in the long run that's worth a fuck of a lot more than anything else.
If he could change the past to spare Sam some of that, he would, his perfect future be damned. But he can't and Sam's looking at him like he knows Dean wants to open his mouth.
Don't you dare, Sam's look says, fond and a little exasperated. I survived and you survived. Don't you dare do anything to change that.
"I'm fine," his younger self says.
If that's the way Dean'd always looked when he said it, it's no wonder Sammy would just hit him with the puppy eyes until he talked. Dean's used to thinking of himsefl as having a poker face, not one of those expressive ones like Sam. But, you know, there he was, the envy written into the curve of his own eyebrows and the set of his mouth.
Seriously weird shit going down right now.
"Sure you are," Dean says. Then he hears something go crunch right around ankle level and he bends down to give his kid a look. Ryan smiles back up at him, his teeth stained blue with some chunks stuck in the gaps and, for the love of God, why the fuck did it have to be him?
He grabs the kid around his ihps and swings him up. Ryan makes a noise of protest, his feet and hands and head all hanging as he looks at Dean. "Are you eating something you found on the floor?" Dean asks suspiciously.
Hey, he's holdin' out hope that he found, you know, candy or something down there. Not his crayons. No such luck, Dean sees a second later, because that's the remains of a crayon clutched in Ryab's grubby, dirty hand, the wrapper glued to one sticky finger.
Now, Dean? He'd never really gotten the appeal of eating random shit you found on the floor. As Ryan dimples up at him, Dean can remember about a dozen times Sammy'd done the same thing, half a chewed pencil or a button or a toy car in his mouth. Dean's pretty sure he never tried to stuff crap down his throat that didn't belong, no matter how much Sam makes fun of him for eating.
Kid takes after Sam, sometimes. Dean doesn't have high hopes for him, most days, and then he remembers that Sam's kind of a genius and he guesses that eatin' crayons is alright, as long as the bugger turns out smart.
He must have been thinkin' that kind of loud, Dean realizes a few seconds later. Sam's trying to hide a smile, making some kind of stupid chocking noise like that's not actually worse than just snorting at Dean. His amusement trickles into Dean like a sip of whiskey, warm and obvious.
Dean's too open or Sam's to exhausted to make sure he isn't picking shit out of Dean's brain, which is sometimes the same damn thing.
"On that note, man, I'm gonna leave you to it," Sam says after a few seconds of letting the amusement ease through Dean like. Well, like a freakin' hug, only less sissy and girlie. "Enjoy."
"I am going to get you for this," Dean says direly. He flips his kid up in the air, tossing him so he can catch and get a better grip at the same time and Ryan laughs, high and happy, as Sam disappears from them.
Again.
"I miss Sammy," Ryan says an hour later. Dean's made him brush the blue out of his teeth and he's also confiscated a car that the kid seems damn determined to stuff down his throat, and Ryan's a little pissy about it.
"You're gonna have to get in line, Ry," he says. He knocks his boot against one of Ryan's tiny sneakers. "He'll be home when he gets home."
They're watching some show on the tv, not Spongebob, which Dean sort of digs, no matter how much Sam bitches about a squirrel living underwater or, you know, a sponge talking. Ryan'd wandered into the living room in the middle of the fourth down and climbed his ass onto the coffee table and stared.
Kid's a champion starer when he wants to be. Dean's givin' up on being able to watch the game whenever he wants to, at any rate.
Whatever. Sam says he's got the mentality of a four year old sometimes, so he's okay with watching… whatever it is Ryan wants to watch. It's got a fuzzy yellow dude with a high voice and a crooked tail. It's no Spongebob, but it's better than when the kid was into those floating energy puff ball things.
That? Even Dean couldn't stand watching.
Ryan pulls a face at the screen and says, "Wow wow," at the same time that the little yellow fuzzball does.
Dean may be willing to concede the battle about Ryan watching too much tv to Sam. "Wow wow back to you," he tells the kid.
"Wubzy wants to talk to Widgie," Ryan informs him. He kicks Dean's boot and sticks two fingers in his mouth to mumble around. "And Widgie's mad. Wow wow."
"That made absolutely no friggin' sense, kid," Dean informs Ryan back, just as solemnly. "You sure we can't just watch football? C'mon, it's a man's game. None of this pansypastel fuzzy stuff. Don't you wanna grow up to be a dude?"
"Gonna grow up and be Sammy," Ryan tells him, eyes glued to the screen. "Not a womanisy poop head." Ryan stumbles his way through the longer word, his tongue tying it up and the fingers in his moth pretty much making it gibberish.
Dean only gets what the kid's trying to say because he's had four long years of desciphering Ryan's various noises. And, well, he knows Ryan's heard Sam's rant on male role models a few times before. Seriously. You'd think Sam was a girl the way he went on and on and on abut what was on tv these days.
At least Ryan's grown out of the wanting to grow up and marry Sammy phase. Dean still likes to think he picked Sam to marry because he knows Sam's a giant girl. Heh.
"So that's a no on the football, huh?"
Ryan nods his messy blond head. "No game. Wubzy."
Dean nods companionably and leans his head back against the back of the couch. He can't wait until he can dump babysitting duty back on Sam; it's one thing when Ryan wants to go outside and play or do something other than sit around being boring, but.
You know, Dean usually makes Sam keep an eye on the kid when he's watching tv. Sam'll read right through the various shouts of "wow wow" and "uh oh!" Dean, he can't help but look up at every one of them, making sure Ryan's not bouncing on the coffee table or, you know, cracking his head open trying to do whatever's on the tv.
No Sam means Dean has to sit there and try not to be psychotically overprotective to make up for Sam not being around.
"You got twenty minutes to watch Wubzy," he finally informs Ryan, staring up at the ceiling. "Then I'm confiscating the tv, kiddo, and you're gonna go not eat crayons and find something to do that doesn't involve rottin' your brain."
"Kay," Ryan says. "Five more minutes."
Dean snorts. "I gave you twenty."
"Five more!" Ryan demands.
Dean gives up. Sam better freakin' come back soon.
The wards start screaming about a half hour later, right after Ryan's talked Dean into letting him watch another episode of his Wubzy show. Dean can feel how pissed to hell Sam's wards are, screeching in the back of his skull like somethin' alive.
The doorway thing opens before Dean has a chance to stash Ryan in their version of the panic room, a guest bedroom lined in so much freakin' iron and salt that even Dean feels kind of tingling standing in it. Sa tends to avoid the shit out of it unless he really has to go in.
It stays black for a while, long enough that Ryan starts squirming in Dean's arms and then, freakin' hallelujah, sing choirs of angels, and what the fuck ever Dean can thank, because Sam's eeking through, sideways, because he's a behemoth and has shoulders the size of a car.
Dean doesn't even care.
"Sammy!" Ryan declares. He plants his feet on Dean's chest and lunges for Sam.
Dean just rolls his eyes and tightens his grip. He'd become pretty damn used to keeping a good grip on his kid when he gets excited; he'd used to do it. A lot. "Easy there, Ry," he says. He wants to lunge at Sam too, but, well.
Sam looks beat to hell enough, you know? He's lost his shirt somewhere along the way. Dean's pretty sure he remembers how that happened, vaguely, more the memory of those red, red scars on his wrists than anything else. Well, those, and all the rest of them.
His brother looks more like he's lived through a warzone than Dean does.
"Hey," he says, voice pitched low in deference to the headache Dean can see twisting Sam's face.
A smile tilts up one corner of Sas mouth. "Hey," he says. He reaches out to take Ryan from him and the little brat goes, smiling all the way.
Dean makes a split second decision. "Naptime!" he says cheerily.
Ryan gives him a betrayed look. Sam gives him a look sayin' he's not foolin' anyone. Dean just grins.
Blood and sulfur, his eyes clamped closed against the bright white of unleashed angels and Sam not with me where are you oh God Sammy somewhere outside of his reach. The pervading sound of a million flies buzzing, setting his teeth on edge, amphlified and multiplied because he can't freakin' see and where the fuck is Sam?
Castiel's next to him, pinned by the wings and bleeding somehow, leaking fire and light and fury.
"Don't look," Castiel hisses, his hands grabbing feebly at Dean's jacket, his arms. "Keep your eyes closed, Dean."
And Dean does, because he's seen what angels can do to the average regular smuck, but at the same time everything in him is screamin' for Sam Sam Sammy Sam protect Sam his brother. "Where's Sam?" he snarls. Touching Castiel is like touching fire, it freakin' burns, but his skin isn't peeling away and Dean can live with that.
He'd tried to pry Castiel's wings out, earlier, but that'd just left them both panting and useless. Like this, Castiel can still one-shot the demons that keep tryin' to creep up on them and, well, Dean's grateful. He can't fuckin' well kill what he can't see, the Colt a hot, sweaty weight in his hand.
"Holding the Mouth," Castiel snarls right back at him. "We've failed, Dean, and your brother must be stopped before he can do any more damage."
"You don't fuckin' know that!"
Something dives past his head. Dean can feel the burn of it against the back of his skull and fuck if he can tell whether that was an angel or a demon dying and fuck if he cares. Castiel's answering slash is a sear of light across the backs of his eyelids, so he's pretty sure he might have almost just lost his head.
Not that the angels are any more careful of the handful of humans tryin' to hold the damn line against, well, friggin' everything.
Castiel's grip on his wrist tightens to the point where it almost feels like it's flaking under his hand, flashbacks to Hell Dean does not freakin' need right now. His brother's out there somewhere, dancing to Lilith's tune or not, and Dean is going to save him if it's the last thing he does.
"He must be stopped," Castiel gasps out and then.
Dean's never been real sure how it feels to Sam, to have demon pounding in time to his heart, and he's never been real inclined to find out. He'd always thought that there wasn't a way to find out anyway and when he's proven wrong, well, it's pretty damn spectacular.
When Castiel slams power into him, Dean's back bows and he hears himself scream, distantly. It feels like fire licking up through his arm, like Castiel is just holding him over an open flame and hoping like hell it doesn't burn him out from the inside, divinity slammed in between one breath and the next.
It reminds him of hell, of Anna's freakin' grace, hanging from Uriel's neck.
Castiel's hand falls away from his. "Open your eyes," he demands. Then when Dean's apparantly a little too slow for his liking, because Castiel has just rammed about six thousand tons of shit that doesn't belong into his body, he snaps, "Now, Dean! We do not have time for your frailties."
Dean squints his eyes open. He expects the red tinge to everything, angels and demons flying and dying against each other, burning up like fireworks in the sky. What he doesn't expect is for his eyes to stay in his head and not, you know, melt down his face.
"What the fuck did you do?" he asks, eyes darting around.
"A loan," Castiel says. With his eyes open, Dean's pretty sure the angels in serious trouble. His face is not the bland tax accountant face anymore, but that doesn't really matter. You can always tell when a person was hangin' on, last legs and all. "It will allow you to see. Find your brother. Stop him."
He doesn't have to be told twice. Honest to God, he makes himself hesitate for a few seconds, but Castiel's a sitting duck and Dean doesn't have the manpower to move all the rubble sitting on those shining, not quite there wings. The angel can take care of himself, and if he can't, well fuck him.
It was the goddamn angels's faults they were in this mess, too stuck up and holier than thou to trust in the humans, to trust in Sam and they'd. If they'd doomed them, then Dean didn't give a flying fuck about anything but Sam anyway.
"You gonna be okay?" he asks.
He's already moving away before he can hear the answer, dodging the heavy fall of a body from the sky, the thwump of wings and not quite flesh meeting stone and breaking apart.
Sam, he calls, throwing it out there, Castiel's power bursting through him like white fire. Angels pause to turn and glare at him with eyes like infernos, demons hiss laughter, but on the wind there's a shiver and
Dean.
--and he wakes.
Dean rolls over, the same way he always does when he remembers, but there's no Sam there. He flicks out a hand and scowls into his pillows, groping blindly. Nightmares mean he's got an excuse to wrap himself around Sam's broad shoulders, nuzzle against the back of his neck.
He needs to know his brother was alive and breathing and goddamnit, where was Sam?
His hand encounters something tiny and warm, something that sighs out a breath. Dean freezes, his eyebrows drawing together in the dark, and wonders when the hell Ryan crawled into bed with him and why.
Kid's like a rock most days, sensitive as a post and about as liable to have nightmares as Dean is to declare himself a pretty, pretty princess.
The little hand pats him back. "S'okay, Dean," a high child's voice says. "Bad dream."
Sam. But not his Sam. The distinction tries to break his goddam heart, but it's made of stronger stuff than that, patched together with steel and his little brother's smile (sap alert, he thinks to himself sardonically) and, well. His Sam'll be back soon. In the meantime, he can curl around this teeny baby version of his brother and cradle him to his chest like he's always wanted to do to the adult version.
Damn God anyway, for making Sam roughly the size and shape of a giant.
"Go back to sleep, Sammy," he says once he's got his brat of a brother arranged the way he wants him.
Sammy's tiny sweaty head is tucked back against the hollow of his throat. He kicks Dean in the ribs once before he goes still and breathes out, dropping back off to sleep in a way that Dean's always wanted to bottle up and give back to Sam, twitchy insomniac that he'd become.
He tucks his face into Sammy's hair and tells himself he's not going to remember anything else tonight.
Sometimes when he says that, it works.
Sometimes it doesn't.
Dean remembers--
He slashes out like he'd done when he was first learning how to use knives, a gun, a sword, all raw power and no finesse. Demons snarl and laugh and die on the blade of Castiel's power, carving through them like they're butter and he's super heated a knife just for this purpose.
The Colt's an afterthought, its purely human bark a counterpoint to the buzzing hiss of the demons and the fury of the angels.
"Sammy!" he screams again, then Sammy! when his vocal cords just fill up with soot and dead demon. Sammy!
This way comes to him, a little whisper of sound and Dean turns on his heel, barreling through two angels and a demon. All three of them try to get a grip on him; he slashes through the demon's hand and spits divine borrowed power holy grace at the angels until they back the fuck down, turning away from him to slaughter their way through more hosts, more demons.
He slips on something that he thinks might have been guts at one time, dashed under the feet of a thousand possessed humans, catches himself on a ragged outcrop of rock. There're bodies hiding in the lee of the stone, larger curled protectively around the smaller ones, and Dean would stop to grieve or get pissed, he really would, but you can't get more fuckin' pissed than he is right now and Sam is the only freakin' important thing out there.
The next demon that takes a swipe at him has enough time to look down and open its mouth for a scream before it dies, glowing orange in its death throes. The body flops to the ground still in one piece, not alive if the blank eyes are anything to go by.
Demons, angels, humans. And Lilith still out there, pulling more and more demons from Hell and Sam out there too, holding the Mouth, and Jesus Christ.
He barely even notices the next demon. There's a taste on the air now, nothing as pure as he's learning to recognize the angels to be, nothing as filthy as the taste of demons. Sam. He fires the Colt at the next demon, turns left on the battlefield and tries not to notice the bodies stretched as far as he can see.
Almost there, almost there, but he can feel Sam starting to die a little, deep in his guts, somewhere vital, and he screams a challenge to anything standing between him and his brother. The angel nearest him jerks, turns to look at him with fire in her eyes, measuring.
She raises her sword arm, flaming weapon a beacon as it points. There, she says, her mouthless face still and serene. He'll be my duty soon if you don't hurry. She turns away from him and stabs her sword through the face of an incoming demon, leans over to whisper something to the dying human.
Death in her eyes when she looks up, and Dean knows what she's warning him about and spins to follow her directions. Faster, faster, faster.
Dean makes a note to get her name, later, and thank her. (Suriel won't be alive later, taken out by six white-eyes and Dean's bizarrely proud of her for it, because damn if she didn't take them all down with her.)
Don't you dare, he shouts at Sam, ripping his almost not quite sword from another demon. Don't you do this to me, Sammy, you keep it together, I'm coming, I'm coming.
Because Sam is holding the line, Sam has always held the line against the demons, flirted with it and kept it firm all the same and Dean needs to get there before Sam disappears.
And fuck you, Castiel, Uriel, Raphael and Michael and every other goddamn angel that'd tried to tell him any different.
--and he lies in the dark, breathing even and hard, wishing for his brother back.
He must eventually get to sleep, because he's woken up what he swears has gotta be no more than fifteen minutes later by Ryan clambering onto the bed and parking his ass on Dean's chest. Two tiny fingers attempt to pry one of his eyes open.
Dean rolls the kid over with a growl and traps him under one arm, right next to the other little body currently kicking him in the ribs. "Dude," he says, "No."
Ryan grins up at him. "Awake Dean," he trills.
"Dead Ryan," Dean mutters back. He'd tickle the kids, but Sammy has this weird ingained reaction to tickling that involves kicking Dean in the face with one heel and Ryan kind of. Pukes. A lot.
He's got standing orders not to tickle the kid in his and Sam's bed. Nobody really likes cleaning upchuck out of the bedding.
"What'd you want, brat?" he asks instead.
"Door," he says. Two fingers go into his mouth, and Dean's pretty sure there might be some strands of Sammy's hair joining them. Good thing he's still asleep, because Dean really really really doesn't want to deal with him screaming.
Dean rolls back over onto his back and throws his free arm across his eyes. "They'll go away, Ry. What have I told you about wakin' me up when you're not bleedin' or hungry?"
"Don't," Ryan says easily. He gives an almighty suck on the fingers in his mouth. "Cas at the door."
That gets Dean up. He eases his arm out from under Sammy's head, laughing quietly when the kid's mouth pulls down hard in a pout. He has to stretch before he can stand up, too many damn years of running and breakin' in muscles and he's getting old.
Castiel might have brought him back without any of his old, old injuries, but sometimes it seems like the world'd just taken that for a challenge. Dean rotates a formerly dislocated shoulder to loosen it up, stretches out his legs and then leans over to scoop Ryan up before he can badger Sammy into waking up.
"Be good," he tells Ryan, flipping him over his shoulder. "Don't wake him up. You know how bitchy Sam can get in the morning."
"Dean's growly bear," Ryan informs his back. "Sammy likes morning time."
"Not this Sammy, kiddo." Dean sets Ryan on his feet. "Go play with your leggos or somethin'. Don't swallow any. I'm not buyin' you more if you do."
He's pretty sure that the brat's just going to take that as a challenge, but, really, he's gotta try. Sam likes to blame the swallowing incidents on him, since Sam doesn't buy Ryan anything small enough to fit down his throat. Dean's of the opinion that a few swallowed toys never hurt anyone.
He'd fallen asleep in most of his layers last night, no point in stripping if there wasn't gonna be any fun anyway, so he just stalks throught he hallway, stopping to pull the Colt from the highest shelf in the kitchen.
Angels are all well and good, but Dean didn't get anywhere trusting them to never fuck him over. And lucky him, he had a weapon that could kill anything, even sanctimonious angels that'd read him the riot act for saving his baby brother from hell.
When he opens the door and leans one shoulder against it, Castiel tilts his head to the side and says, "Dean."
"Thought I told you to get lost?" Dean asks. Ryan's crowding up againgst the backs of his legs, eager to go outside in the sun even if the little brat hasn't eaten or dressed yet.
Dean obligingly moves himself out of the way, watching as Ryan rockets off into the front yard, Dina a black blur shoving her way past.
The kid's actually safer outside than in, enough cold iron buried in the ground to choke anything supernatural, symbols painted on the underside of rocks and runes carved into the trees. The trees are planted in a devil's trap pattern, five big, fast growing monsters with all the pretty purple flowers Sam could've ever wanted.
"Something has... come to my attention," Castiel says while they watch Ryan pull a handful of flowers off a low hanging branch. The kid proceeds to chase the dog around, shrieking and waving the flowers.
"Something?" Dean asks. Look, he doesn't pretend to know what the hell goes through his kid's mind. He's just happy Sammy's crashed out on the bed. Ryan won't wander. Sammy probably would without even meaning to, wandering away when something catches his attention.
"Someone," Castiel amends.
"This someone got black eyes?" Dean asks. He thinks he can see a glimpse of her now, sulking off to one side, and then yeah, there's--
The first thing he sees is Ruby. She's a whirlwind of long hair and her knife, lookin' like the bitch demon she is, guarding Sam's back when Dean isn't around to do it himself. The angels are mostly leavin' her alone, Dean realizes, uneasily, and then a second later he sees why.
The Colt barks as Dean sends a bullet into the angel dive-bombing his brother like a freakin' eagle or something, and then he slides forward to slot against Sam's open back, his shoulder blades to his brother's spine. The angel hits the ground with a vaguely worrying thump and Dean'd feel bad about shooting the bastard, but he'd aimed for the hip and it should still be alive.
Wouldn't be, if it decides to come after Sam again.
Sam relaxes against him for a split second before he straightens again.
When Dean glances behind his shoulder, the curve of Sam's cheek is streaked with blood, but he's still awake, still alive.
The gaping maw behind his back is not inspiring confidence, though.
"How're we doin'?" Dean croaks out, his voice almost lost beneath the buzz of flies and the scream of something he's not thinkin' about too closely.
The Hellmouth's holding, Sam says. He answers him inside his skull. Dean'd be a little pissed about that, but Sam sounds exhausted and he knows what the angel said and what he's feeling and Jesus. Just a little longer, Sammy, promise.
Ruby snarls at the next demon that comes at them and Dean figures that she's got Sam's back covered, much as he hates to think that, and he leans back to give Sam something solid to rest his weight on for a second. Then he slides around Sam's front and wedges an arm beneath his brother's when Sam looks like he's gonna go down.
Holding the Mouth could mean a shitload of things, Dean knows, and he sure as fuck knows which one the angels seem to think Sam's doing. But Sam's not holding the Hellmouth open, when Dean gets him situated on his shoulder.
No, his stupid little brother is holding everything in, demons slamming against something invisible as they hiss in their natural form, nothing but black smoke and fury. He glances up at Sam's face, isn't surprised to realize that his nose is dripping blood and there's more beading in his eyelashes and fuck. Fuck.
Lucifer'd pushed his way out in the first wave, his rotting wings spreading with a rasp of decaying flesh. An entire wing of angels had fallen before they'd gotten it together enough to harry him back towards the Mouth and then Lilith.
She'd been shrieking with laughter, climbing on Lucifer's impossibly broad shoulders in her tiny child's body, and she'd started taking everything down for miles, Lawrence ground zero for the apocalypse.
See, the thing was that the angels (and them, by default) had started out fucked and it just got worse from there. The white eyes were the Fallen, after all, and while there weren't that many of them, maybe a hundred, all told, the angels still couldn't take all of them and all of their pets at the same damn time.
Hell's been recruiting for who the fuck knows how long, thousands of years of stupid fuckers selling their souls in exchange for wishes. Humans who've turned into demons, those nasty little black eyed fucks that you can take down with a knife or a gun or just an old fashion exorcism, but there's a fuckton of them out here.
He's never heard of people becoming angels, though, and that's why they're losing. Not enough angels for all the demons and there sure as fuck aren't enough Sam's to go around. Most of the humans that were fighting are already dead or possessed and Dean doesn't look too close at the human bodies dotting the battlefield.
He hates to ask, hates to ask more, but there's only so much he can do and that doesn't involve anything with demons. Can you close it? he pushes at Sam.
He has time to hear Ruby pull her dagger free from another demon, the slick little rasp of flesh parting around metal, before Sam murmurs back, "Can't. Have to hold it."
"Lucifer has to go back in," Ruby says from behind him while Sam sways and grimaces, a blood tear dripping down onto Dean's arm. "If we close the Hellmouth now, we're stuck with him out here and, trust me, Dean, that's a very fuckin' bad idea."
Dean coughs away the smoke rising in his throat and shoves don't you fuckin' dare he's mine divine at the angel hovering above them. "How the fuck are we gonna do that?" Dean hisses.
Don't know, Sam responds. The sway is more pronounced now, the Hellmouth draining pretty much every damn thing his brother has left in him and Dean swallows back a sound of pain when he realizes that Sam's jacket is slowly smoldering under his touch.
He can't see Sam's eyes from this angle. He doesn't try to.
Ruby's looking at him with her black, black eyes when he looks up. "You're celestial, though fuck if I know how you managed to do that," she says with a sneer. "What'd you expect?"
He's always known that Sam was leaned a little more towards the demonic side of the equation, but. Fuck. He covers his hand with his jacket sleeve and hopes to hell he's not going to burn Sam, not that Sam seems with it enough to care.
"Sam?" he asks, then Sammy? when Sam doesn't even twitch. The buzz is getting louder again, setting his teeth on edge and making his bones vibrate. He can't imagine what it feels like for Sam's already fucked up head.
We have to hold the Mouth, Sam says.
Castiel sent me to stop you, Dean responds.
Sam smiles, one of those small, self-deprecating ones, blood caught in the creases of his dimple. Are you going to? he asks.
Dean wants to say yes. He wants to drag his brother away from all this shit, away from his demon guard dog who's already spun away to knife another something, Dean can't even tell if it's an angel or not anymore, the air heavy with smoke and smog and the incessant buzzing of a million demons.
He wants to say yes. The angels are losing, they're losing, and Sam won't last much longer. There might be a God up there, but fuck if he's doing anything about the hell down here and they're going to lose, the least the world owes them is a nicer death than this.
No, Dean murmurs, "No, I'm not gonna." He shifts his grip on Sam and--
Castiel's looking at him from uncomfortably close. Dean blinks and jumps back with a curse. "No," Dean snaps, "Just. No. Personal space, Castiel. Learn it, love it."
"Does that happen to you often?" Castiel asks. He sounds like he's asking about the weather, or maybe about how humans can be so disgusting as to fornicate when they know God is watching. Castiel's sort of a riot a minute when Dean's trying to get laid.
"Only when I've lost my little brother," Dean says flatly.
While he's been spacing, Sammy has apparantly gotten up. He's pressed against Dean's side, his messy head leaning against Dean's thigh while he tugs and pushes and pulls his hair into new and fabulous knots.
Dean'll have to pick those out later, carefully. He sort of wishes Sammy were old enough to have gotten the lecture about keeping his hair neat or getting it butchered off. Not that his Sam actually holds to that anymore.
The last time Dean'd pointed that out, Sam had rolled over in bed and grinned up at him. "Dude," he'd said, "You're the one doin' it. Keep your hands out of my hair and then we'll talk." Which, you know, made him sound like some sort of hair lovin' weirdo. Or a hair puller.
He'll cop to the hair pulling, maybe. But Sam gives freakin' good blowjobs when he's in the mood for it and he'd dare anyone to not mess with Sam's hair when he's going down on them.
Sammy picks that minute to tug on Dean's hand and tell him he went potty like a big boy and Dean really doesn't need to feel more like a pervert for fucking his brother, thanks.
"Flashbacks are often times a symptom of a bigger problem," Castiel says.
Dean blinks at Castiel a few more times. Seriously. Was the angel giving him advice on PTSD? "And sometimes they just happen because pain in the ass angels can't keep their holier than thou hands off of Sam," he snaps, then raises his voice to yell, "Quit skulking, Ruby. What the fuck do you want?"
"Just checking in," Ruby says. Most of the wards are keyed up to allow Ruby through, but the ones in the front yard are there to keep everything out, so Dean's not really surprised when she climbs down from their roof like the creepy, demonic stalker she is.
She's back in the old body, coma-girl, the one that hasn't aged a day in four years. Dean wonders if she only pulled the blonde because the body was closer than she'd been when Sam disappeared. It's something she'd do.
Creepily obsessed with his brother.
"I'm not even gonna ask why you were up there," Dean decides.
Ruby grins. "That's sweet of you."
She drops to the ground, Sammy darts out from behind Dean to go join Ryan in what appears to be a game of "attempt to shove this stick up the dog's ass," and Castiel's expression takes on a look like he's just had a bunch of flamin' shit thrown at his head.
"I would prefer if you did not consort with such things as this," Castiel says.
Dean puts one shoulder against the doorjam and rubs his face hard. He could do without this shit, which is why Castiel mostly stays the fuck away and Ruby hovers on the edge of Dean's stupid angelic ability to pick up.
Putting them together is sort of like, well, putting angels and demons in the same room and expecting them to get along. Sam might be able to pull it off. Ruby was freakishly, creepily attached to his brother and'd do whatever the fuck he said, no questions asked.
They've got an agreement. No powers of any sort unless it came out of Sam. Or Dean, if he's feeling particularly shitty and wants to set something on fire. So Ruby liked to taunt and Castiel got tied into tight, feathery knots until one of them snapped.
Then Dean got to pick up after them, joy.
"Yeah, well, I would prefer if you kept your shining paragon ass away from my general," Ruby says with a smile.
"You're an abomination."
"And the big guy upstairs doesn't seem to be doing much about it, now does he?" Ruby stretches her arms above her head and turns on one foot. Dean leans his head against the doorframe and taps the Colt against his thigh.
The only thing keeping him from shooting them is the fact that he can't figure out which one to shoot first. That, and the fact that Ryan's never seen a dead body and he really doesn't want to start him on this particular Winchester trait early.
Castiel tilts his head to one side. "I could erase you from existance with a thought," he says.
"Dear God," Ruby says, one corner of her mouth pulled up while Castiel twitches hard, "Please smite my demonic ass. Amen." She stands there for a few more seconds before spreading her arms wide and saying, "Well, lookie at that, Cas. Still alive. Weird how that works, huh?"
"If you were not one of Sam's," Castiel says blandly, "I would rip you from that body and cleanse you in fire and light."
"Lucky for all of us I am."
"And unlucky for the both of you, I do not fuckin' care who you belong to." Dean raises the Colt and smiles warmly at Sammy when the kid gives him a big eyed stare, dropping the dog's tail in their weird game of follow the leader. "Get the fuck out of my house before I start shootin'."
"Technically, Dean, we're not in your house," Ruby points out.
"And I have news." Castiel's shadow is starting to sprouts wings. Sooner or later, Sammy's gonna notice that, so Dean leans forward to snag the angel by one shoulder and shove him into the early morning shadow the house is casting.
"Spit it out," Dean says with a sigh.
"Uriel has Fallen," Castiel says. There's a minute where his arms jerk and Dean thinks that if Castiel were human he'd have crossed his arms and looked defensive by now. Instead, he just stands there with his head slightly tilted to the side, looking up under his lashes like he can't remember to lift his head all the way up.
Ryan shrieks in affront from somewhere over by Sam's vegetable garden.
A few more seconds tick by. "This is news?" Dean asks blankly.
"Ah, pull the other one, Castiel," Ruby murmurs. She on the other hand, has no problem crossing her arms and looking sarcastic. Dean's gotta hand it to Sam. At least his supernatural wind up pet could work her body.
"What does that mean for us?" Dean asks.
Uriel's been on Dean's shitlist for years, ever since he'd looked at Sam and seen nothin' but a human sliding fast down the road to demon. He's not real surprised that he's actually Fallen, but that means white-eyes and fuck if Dean's prepared to go up against those again.
It's not so bad when you've got two demon killing weapons, a demon, an angel, and your little brother on your side, but if Uriel's anything like Lilith and Alastor, he's gonna play hide and seek to get what he wants. And if he's anything like the bastard Dean knows him to be, God help them all, because the fucker's gonna think that he's on a mission for God and well.
Nothing Dean likes dealin' with more than crazies who think they're on a holy mission. Emphasis on the sarcasm in that sentence.
"He refuses to believe he's Fallen," Castiel says. "He will seek revenge on those he thinks have wronged him--"
"That would be you and Sam. Mostly Sam," Ruby cuts in with a scowl.
"Yes." Castiel turns his head to follow the progress of Dina in the yard, a black blur as she chases after the clods of dirt Sammy's throwing. "Heaven will deal with him."
Dean rubs at his forehead. "Like heaven handled that apocalypse a few years back?" he asks nastily.
Heaven does not have a good track record, as far as Dean's concerned. Between their ingenious plans to raze an entire town to get at one witch and the memory of Anna's big, dark eyes, Dean's not really bankin' on heaven being able to do much of anything.
"What's the plan?" Dean asks a few seconds later, while Castiel exchanges a filthy glance with Ruby. "You just gonna torch whatever area he's in and hope you get him too?"
The big, solemn blue eyes make him roll his eyes in exasperation. "That's the plan, isn't it? You guys are gonna figure out where he is and hope you get him with your holy smiting shit?"
"Yes," Castiel admits.
"Lame," Ruby singsongs.
Dean rubs at his eyes again. He doesn't want to actually, you know, agree with Ruby, but he's. Agreeing with Ruby. There's lame, and then there's an angel trying to figure out a problem.
"Hey," Ruby says, her mouth kicking up into a mocking smile, "How many angels does it take to screw in a lightbulb?"
The blank look Castiel's sporting almost makes Dean feel sorry for the dude. "Shut your mouth, Ruby," Dean finally says with a sigh. Jesus. He was just gonna bury the both of them in the goddamn backyard and be done with it. Sam didn't really need them any more, right?
"There is something else," Castiel says.
"Yeah, 'cause when it rains, man..." Dean flicks his eyes over towards his kid and his baby little brother. Who look like they're digging up Sam's tomatoes, which, you know, whatever, Dean doesn't like tomatoes or anything, and it serves Sam right for ditching him.
But. The bitching. Dean does not want to deal with the bitching from his Sam when he gets back.
"Sam is getting ready to switch places again," Castiel says.
Dean stops trying to figure out whether or not Samy's actually shoved a green tomato in his mouth and savors the feeling of relief that courses through him. "When?"
Castiel just blinks at him. "I would imagine as soon as possible," he says. Then, "Is your brother vomiting in the grass, Dean?"
The angel freakin' leaves him to deal with his upchucking little brother, a thoroughly fascinated Ryan, and the dog. Who keeps trying to eat said upchuck and Dean is really going to get somebody for this.
"I must watch out for Sam," Castiel says unapologetically. He looks down, his face as blank as ever, while Sammy cries and spews what Dean's pretty sure is green tomato and maybe some dirt for good measure. "Have him ready within the next hour or so."
Dean wriggles his fingers under Sammy's arms, heaves the kid up, and tries not to make a face at the residual vomit sliding slowly down his t-shirt. It's not that he objected to being puked on, see? It's just that when Sam's the one doing it, it was usually just because he'd gotten a concussion or something, not because he was stupid enough to eat something he shouldn't have.
That was more Dean's specialty.
"You gonna split too?" Dean asks Ruby.
She holds up her hands and twists her mouth, her lips puckering in distaste. "I said I'd die for him," she says, "I never claimed I'd stick around if he was gonna be disgusting."
"Baby's throwin' up," Ryan informs them both. He's got a stick in one hand and is, God help them all, poking at the puddle of green-ish brown puke.
Dean nudges Dina's nose away with his foot and wonders about his kid. "Yeah, we got that, Ry. Go inside."
"I got a present for you, kid," Ruby says. She tosses her hair behind her shoulder and offers one hand to Ryan. When she realizes Dean's scowling at her, she rolls her eyes, huffs hard, and drops it before Ryan can take it.
Smart kid hadn't even made a move to. Good boy. It's nice to know that that lecture about black eyed people had stuck.
The lecture Sam'd given him about discrimination had been significantly less fun to sit through, Dean figures. It's not his fault the kid had taken black eyes to mean, you know, black eyes and not demon eyes. Ruby demonstrating the eyes was a stroke of genuis, as far as Dean was concerned.
Sam'd been rolling his eyes the entire time.
Better safe than sorry, at any rate. "Give him his present and then beat it, Ruby," Dean says. He rubs one hand up Sammy's back, chafes the back of the kid's neck for a second before he rubs back down.
Sammy makes a miserable little hiccuping noise into his throat and Dean doesn't bother hiding a grimace when something wet and chunky slides down his skin to plop onto his collar. It's a good thing he hasn't bothered to shower or anything, or else he'd be kind of miffed.
Ruby presents Ryan with play dough. Ryan asks if he can eat it and Dean just grabs the kid by one shoulder and steers him back into the house.
"Seriously," he says to Ruby over his shoulder. "Get lost. Don't make me say it again."
"Say it with love next time," Ruby says. She blows Ryan a kiss and climbs back up the to the roof. Dean shades his eyes with the Colt, watching her scramble, and hopes uncharitably that she falls and breaks her demonic neck.
Kind of hard to act like a hot chick if your head was flapping on broken bones.
"Yucky, Dean," Sammy says softly. He coughs, but doesn't garble, so Dean doesn't have to resign himself to getting puked on.
"I know, dude. We'll get you cleaned up." Well, Dean will, at any rate. Ryan's smiles up at him, just the barest slight curve, covered in dirt and dog slobber, Dina wagging her ass right behind him. "You," Dean says down at him, "Go change. I don't care what you wear. Just. Out of the dirty clothes, alright? I'll give you a bath when I'm finished with Sammy."
Ryan's face brightens. "Tie shirt?" he asks hopefully.
Dean's pretty sure the tie-dyed shirt is dirty, and sort of a horrendous eye sore to boot. But he doesn't care and it's not like the kid's gonna keep it on for long, so he shrugs as best he can with deadweight baby brother on his shoulder and says, "Sure, why not."
He watches Ryan scamper off and then Dina almost knocks him off running... wherever the fuck she plans on going without someone to entertain her.
"Alright," Dean says, "It's just you and me now, and, man, lemme tell you, you reek." He hefts Sammy up so that he can look the kid in the eye and gets a wobbly lower lip for his trouble.
He knows his little brother. He feels kind of bad for makin' the kid pout, but if he babied Sammy, that'd just get him a scowling look sooner or later and a foot stomp, the "'m not a baby," following soon afterwards. He can deal with upchucked on Sammy.
He does not want to deal with his baby brother in the middle of a bitch fit.
"Bathtime?" Sammy lisps at him a few seconds later. He chews on his lower lip, makes a face at the taste, and lets his arms and legs dangle in Dean's grip.
Dean snorts at him. "Yeah, kid, bathtime."
The face Sammy pulls is his ultimate bitchface, in miniature. Dean swallows back his laugh and tucks his barfed on brother into his equally barfed on chest for the trip to the bathroom.
Sammy spends a good five minutes smelling everything in the little tubes Sam's got lined up on the shelves, a dozen different motel shampoos and conditioners because they're cheapass bastards and still stay in enough rented rooms to steal them from.
"This one," Sammy says decisively.
Dean does not point out that he's chosen Dean's shampoo, mostly because it'll make Sam make a face when he gets back. Dean's stuff smells like a dude, you know? Not fruity and fluffy and herbally, like some of Sam's shampoos do.
He runs the bath, calls the kid over to make sure it's not too hot, and then spends a good five minutes staring at the cieling because, okay, weird. The last time he saw Sam naked, he was... doing things he wasn't going to think about right now, thanks so much.
Then he gets the fuck over himself. He'd had to oversee Sammy's baths when he was this age anyway and Sam's sort of traumatized him with accounts of four year olds accidentally drowning themselves.
"Daddy!" Ryan screams and it's on the tip of Dean's tongue to yell back and tell the kid not to freakin' scream in the house, that's what outside is for, when Ryan follows it up with, "Daddy! Sammy wants you!"
Sam, Dean thinks. The cup he was using to wet Sammy's head drops from his hands, splashing water up against his already puked on shirt. Dean barely notices. Goddamn, he's missed his brother, and Sam's only been gone a day and a half.
He's whipped and old and it's never felt better, something warm and familiar uncurling in his belly at the thought of seeing Sam again.
Except.
Dean can't exactly drop everything and go running for his brother, even if he wants to. For one, he's gotta finish washing the soap out of Sammy's hair. And then he's gotta put some clothes on him and then he can go stand around and stare creepily at his brother.
"Close your eyes," he tells Sammy. Waits a few seconds while the kid squinches his entire face up tight, his nose crinkling and his mouth pursing, and laughs. "Look for the rainbows," he adds, because Mom had told him that, once upon a time, and he'd have told it to Sammy by now, even if he can't figure out what the fuck it means.
Sammy's face scrunches harder. "Can't see rainbows," he mutters a few seconds later.
"Keep looking," Dean says. He pouts water over the kid's head, the side of one hand flat against Sammy's forehead, just in case. Lather, rinse, repeat, until no more suds drip down onto Sammy's tiny little neck and the kid is just starting to look constipated with how hard he's lookin' for those rainbows.
He gives Sammy a quick scrub down after that while he plays with Ryan's rubber dinosaurs. "Finished," he mutters, leaning back on his heels.
Sammy gives him a big grin and leans forward to pull the plug on the bathtub. Dean rolls his eyes, stands up to get a towel while Sammy puts first one foot, then the other on top of the drain. "You're not gonna get sucked down," he informs the kid.
Ryan's terrified of the Ninja Turtles coming through the drain for him. Sammy always wanted to get sucked down to meet them, at least until that water sprite had reached up one day and almost drowned him.
They didn't take baths after that.
Dean lifts his baby brother out of the bathtub, just leans over and scoops him up in one of the fluffy, brown towels Sam picked out ages ago. "Down!" Sammy demands with a squirm, "Can do it myself!" and Dean just laughs at him.
"Well, yeah," he says, using one corner to smother the water out of Sammy's riot of tangled curls. "But it's faster if I do it and we're runnin' on a schedule now, sweetheart."
If he remembers right, Sam's opened up that weird portal thing into Dean and his room, not Ryan's, which, bummer. Dean could so get out of his pukey shirt right about now, but he really doesn't want to know what younger him would think about Dean waltzing around with a naked Sammy in a towel.
Just, no. Clothes on the kid, then clothes on him.
And he has just enough time to skim a shirt over Sammy's head when Sam's voice intrudes across his skull, amused, affectionate, and more than a little exasperated.
Swear to God, man, Sam says. Hurry the fuck up. I'm tired.
Bitch, bitch, bitch, Dean thinks back, pushing until he feels the slight resistance of Sam's mind so that Sam can pick it up. He helps Sammy into his pants and yells back, "Sam! God fucking dammit, you little bitch!" for his own benefit.
He doesn't pay attention to whatever Sam yells back, because Sammy gives him the evil eye again. "Not a-pposed to swear," he says darkly.
Dean tosses him up in the air and catches him before he can start squealing. "Man, you were an obnoxious brat. Remind me to tell you that, alright?"
He almost drops Sammy when Sam sends something back at him. He only catches the barest edge of it, because Sam's not actively trying to pound it into his head, just teasing, but, Jesus. He could have lived forever without seeing bear porn flashing at him.
No, not furry animal bears. Yeah, the other kind.
He walks into the room, does a double take at the portal thing, because it really is as weird as he remembers it being. He's gonna have to ask Sam how he managed to pull that off, later, when he doesn't look like he's swaying on his feet.
Amplification, maybe? Dean thinks. Herbs and shit to give Sam's psychic-ness a gigantic steriod of a boost. He'll get it out of Sam later.
"You send pictures into my head again, Sam, and I'll kick your ass," he says, instead of asking how Sam's doing and when he's coming back. He does not want to come across as needing to that younger him. The one that's gawking stupidly.
He dumps Sammy on their bed and gives Sam a flat look. "I was cleaning up your weakass stomach's mess. Cut me some slack."
Dean doesn't pay attention to what everyone's saying after that. He knows how this went down, he's already lived it once, he doesn't need to see it again. Instead, he studies Sam and the way he's holding himself like he's expecting a migraine to come on, tense around the shoulders and the neck.
He suddenly remembers that Sam spilled the holy water, about twenty minutes from now. He makes a mental note to find the salve, the stuff Ruby'd made special for Sam when she realized that he had all of the demon's little weaknesses and none of their fun healing power.
His brother doesn't bubble and steam and broil like demons dropped in holy water do, but he burns. Sunburn red, most of the time, unless he's really been fuckin' himself up beforehand and then he might actually blister a little.
Demonic, maybe, but still Dean's little brother and still a major pain in his ass. And Sam hadn't really held that whole angelic thing against him, aside from callin' him Cupid on Valentine's day, so Dean figures it'ld be kind of hypocritical to be pissy because Sam has to avoid the blessed shit sometimes.
When Sammy makes a sudden movement next to him, Dean tunes back in to the conversation. He grabs the tiny, thin shoulder in one hand and looks over at his brother, the big one. "Sam?" he asks. "You need me to do anything special before I send him on through?"
"No," Sam says. He scrubs at his forehead in the way that means he's gonna be out in a few hours, auras and searing pain keepin' him down for the count, then says, "We're protected. It's why we got flung all over the damn place instead of just biting it."
Yeah, makes sense. Dean doesn't want to know what would happen to a normal person if an angel (former angel, a gleeful part of him points out) tried to erase them from existance.
"Remind me to tell Castiel he's full of shit, huh?" he says, just because he can, and leans over to swat Sammy on the ass. "Go on home, kiddo."
Dean watches himself pick up his baby brother while pretending he can't see Sam trying to fend off that headache. Jesus. Hard to believe that he ever looked that young, that unprepared for what was comin'.
Wrapped right around Sammy's finger, though, he sees with an eye roll. He smirks at himself, because that still hasnt' changed, for all that he says no to Sam on a regular basis. The nos never seem to stick unless Sam's in mortal peril, though, and even then, Sam's just as likely to tell him to fuck off and do it anyway.
Sam's got a serious attitude problem.
"When're you gettin' back?" he asks Sam. he wants to give his brother something to focus on, because he's starting to get that grim set to his mouth, that--Sam's holding the line, he's always held the goddamn line, the Hellmouth gaping and horrifying at his back--cant to his head.
"As soon as I get the other me," Sam says. "Why? Miss me?"
Dean snorts. "Yeah, right," he says. He nudges Dina, 'cause the damn dog's gonna be the death of him one day and suddenly realizes that his kid's in the room too, crouched on the floor and eating what's either playdough or crayons.
If it's the playdough, he doesn't care. If it's the crayons, they're gonna have to have words again, him and the brat.
"Your shoulder pair are driving me insane," he continues because it's true. "Seriously. Bury them in the backyard and damn the consequences bonkers."
Sam's usually faster with his jokes than this, Dean thinks clinically. Most of the time, he doesn't have to ask.
"Yeah, you know," he says. He doesn't want to say their names outright, because some surprise are funnest when you live through them, fuckin' Ruby screwin' his brother and all. He motions to his right shoulder, the side Castiel likes to appear on and says, "Angel," and waves to the other with a, "demon.
"Your shoulder pair."
If Sam can still tilt his head back and laugh like that, Dean's not actually all that worried about what this is doing to him. He feels a corner of his mouth kick up because he can never not smile when Sam looks like that, goofy and scrunched up and gorgeous.
"She's gonna kick your ass, man," Sam says on a wheeze, still chuckling under his breath.
"She can try." Dean rubs a hand across his face to hide his smile at the thought of Ruby comin' at him. They might never really get along, but they have an understanding, him and her, which boils down to this: Dean'll watch Sam's back. In the event that Dean can't watch Sam's back, it is Ruby's responsibility to do it and if she doesn't, Dean'll gut her and let his dog eat her intestines. Simple, really.
Sam has a slight smile on his face when Dean looks up again. The ache hits him where he lives, low down and suddenly, God, he just wants nothing else than to have his brother home. It's not funny anymore.
"Come home soon, okay?" he says, sounding needy and not even caring. "Ryan misses you. Little bastard keeps asking me to bring you back."
"You're going to give him a complex if you--"
"Don't stop calling him a bastard, I know."
His brother gives him this soft little look. I'm fine, that look says, even before Sam pushes it out at him, gentle hum rub of Sam's power scraping against Dean's borrowed grace. Dean flicks his eyes over to himself and Sammy, a tactic warning not to push himself too far and conk his ass out before he gets home and Sam quirks an eyebrow back.
"If..." Sam trails off and glances over at the young Dean on that side of the rift. He sighs, absently sweeps his bangs off to one side, and motions towards his Castiel shoulder. "If that one shows up again, let him know that I think I've got it all sorted out. And, uh, if I'm not back soon, let him know that maybe I don't, okay?"
Dean doesn't bother hiding his incredulous snort. He raises his eyebrows at his brother, because seriously, that was the shittiest excuse for a reassurances he's ever heard. And he once had Dad tell him that he was fine when Dean could see his ribs peaking through his skin.
"That's inspiring, Sam," he says. "My faith in you runneth over."
"Jerk," Sam says softly.
"Bitch." Yeah, I miss you too, kiddo.
That's when he notices himself again, bouncing Sammy's wee little foot and looking like he'd rather be anywhere in the world but here. Yeah, it must suck seeing what he doesn't have, not yet, but, seriously.
"You look like you're swallowing a lemon, dude," Dean observes. "Or listening to some of Sam's emo shit."
Pay attention, he wants to hiss. Pay attention and listen, because this is how Sam's heart breaks, these are the pieces. Jess, Dad, Madison, you, you, you, and you, because it's always you who's breaking it.
The best thing for Sam is for you to find your self worth, so suck it up, bitch. You might not be daddy's favorite, but you're Sam's and in the long run that's worth a fuck of a lot more than anything else.
If he could change the past to spare Sam some of that, he would, his perfect future be damned. But he can't and Sam's looking at him like he knows Dean wants to open his mouth.
Don't you dare, Sam's look says, fond and a little exasperated. I survived and you survived. Don't you dare do anything to change that.
"I'm fine," his younger self says.
If that's the way Dean'd always looked when he said it, it's no wonder Sammy would just hit him with the puppy eyes until he talked. Dean's used to thinking of himsefl as having a poker face, not one of those expressive ones like Sam. But, you know, there he was, the envy written into the curve of his own eyebrows and the set of his mouth.
Seriously weird shit going down right now.
"Sure you are," Dean says. Then he hears something go crunch right around ankle level and he bends down to give his kid a look. Ryan smiles back up at him, his teeth stained blue with some chunks stuck in the gaps and, for the love of God, why the fuck did it have to be him?
He grabs the kid around his ihps and swings him up. Ryan makes a noise of protest, his feet and hands and head all hanging as he looks at Dean. "Are you eating something you found on the floor?" Dean asks suspiciously.
Hey, he's holdin' out hope that he found, you know, candy or something down there. Not his crayons. No such luck, Dean sees a second later, because that's the remains of a crayon clutched in Ryab's grubby, dirty hand, the wrapper glued to one sticky finger.
Now, Dean? He'd never really gotten the appeal of eating random shit you found on the floor. As Ryan dimples up at him, Dean can remember about a dozen times Sammy'd done the same thing, half a chewed pencil or a button or a toy car in his mouth. Dean's pretty sure he never tried to stuff crap down his throat that didn't belong, no matter how much Sam makes fun of him for eating.
Kid takes after Sam, sometimes. Dean doesn't have high hopes for him, most days, and then he remembers that Sam's kind of a genius and he guesses that eatin' crayons is alright, as long as the bugger turns out smart.
He must have been thinkin' that kind of loud, Dean realizes a few seconds later. Sam's trying to hide a smile, making some kind of stupid chocking noise like that's not actually worse than just snorting at Dean. His amusement trickles into Dean like a sip of whiskey, warm and obvious.
Dean's too open or Sam's to exhausted to make sure he isn't picking shit out of Dean's brain, which is sometimes the same damn thing.
"On that note, man, I'm gonna leave you to it," Sam says after a few seconds of letting the amusement ease through Dean like. Well, like a freakin' hug, only less sissy and girlie. "Enjoy."
"I am going to get you for this," Dean says direly. He flips his kid up in the air, tossing him so he can catch and get a better grip at the same time and Ryan laughs, high and happy, as Sam disappears from them.
Again.
"I miss Sammy," Ryan says an hour later. Dean's made him brush the blue out of his teeth and he's also confiscated a car that the kid seems damn determined to stuff down his throat, and Ryan's a little pissy about it.
"You're gonna have to get in line, Ry," he says. He knocks his boot against one of Ryan's tiny sneakers. "He'll be home when he gets home."
They're watching some show on the tv, not Spongebob, which Dean sort of digs, no matter how much Sam bitches about a squirrel living underwater or, you know, a sponge talking. Ryan'd wandered into the living room in the middle of the fourth down and climbed his ass onto the coffee table and stared.
Kid's a champion starer when he wants to be. Dean's givin' up on being able to watch the game whenever he wants to, at any rate.
Whatever. Sam says he's got the mentality of a four year old sometimes, so he's okay with watching… whatever it is Ryan wants to watch. It's got a fuzzy yellow dude with a high voice and a crooked tail. It's no Spongebob, but it's better than when the kid was into those floating energy puff ball things.
That? Even Dean couldn't stand watching.
Ryan pulls a face at the screen and says, "Wow wow," at the same time that the little yellow fuzzball does.
Dean may be willing to concede the battle about Ryan watching too much tv to Sam. "Wow wow back to you," he tells the kid.
"Wubzy wants to talk to Widgie," Ryan informs him. He kicks Dean's boot and sticks two fingers in his mouth to mumble around. "And Widgie's mad. Wow wow."
"That made absolutely no friggin' sense, kid," Dean informs Ryan back, just as solemnly. "You sure we can't just watch football? C'mon, it's a man's game. None of this pansypastel fuzzy stuff. Don't you wanna grow up to be a dude?"
"Gonna grow up and be Sammy," Ryan tells him, eyes glued to the screen. "Not a womanisy poop head." Ryan stumbles his way through the longer word, his tongue tying it up and the fingers in his moth pretty much making it gibberish.
Dean only gets what the kid's trying to say because he's had four long years of desciphering Ryan's various noises. And, well, he knows Ryan's heard Sam's rant on male role models a few times before. Seriously. You'd think Sam was a girl the way he went on and on and on abut what was on tv these days.
At least Ryan's grown out of the wanting to grow up and marry Sammy phase. Dean still likes to think he picked Sam to marry because he knows Sam's a giant girl. Heh.
"So that's a no on the football, huh?"
Ryan nods his messy blond head. "No game. Wubzy."
Dean nods companionably and leans his head back against the back of the couch. He can't wait until he can dump babysitting duty back on Sam; it's one thing when Ryan wants to go outside and play or do something other than sit around being boring, but.
You know, Dean usually makes Sam keep an eye on the kid when he's watching tv. Sam'll read right through the various shouts of "wow wow" and "uh oh!" Dean, he can't help but look up at every one of them, making sure Ryan's not bouncing on the coffee table or, you know, cracking his head open trying to do whatever's on the tv.
No Sam means Dean has to sit there and try not to be psychotically overprotective to make up for Sam not being around.
"You got twenty minutes to watch Wubzy," he finally informs Ryan, staring up at the ceiling. "Then I'm confiscating the tv, kiddo, and you're gonna go not eat crayons and find something to do that doesn't involve rottin' your brain."
"Kay," Ryan says. "Five more minutes."
Dean snorts. "I gave you twenty."
"Five more!" Ryan demands.
Dean gives up. Sam better freakin' come back soon.
The wards start screaming about a half hour later, right after Ryan's talked Dean into letting him watch another episode of his Wubzy show. Dean can feel how pissed to hell Sam's wards are, screeching in the back of his skull like somethin' alive.
The doorway thing opens before Dean has a chance to stash Ryan in their version of the panic room, a guest bedroom lined in so much freakin' iron and salt that even Dean feels kind of tingling standing in it. Sa tends to avoid the shit out of it unless he really has to go in.
It stays black for a while, long enough that Ryan starts squirming in Dean's arms and then, freakin' hallelujah, sing choirs of angels, and what the fuck ever Dean can thank, because Sam's eeking through, sideways, because he's a behemoth and has shoulders the size of a car.
Dean doesn't even care.
"Sammy!" Ryan declares. He plants his feet on Dean's chest and lunges for Sam.
Dean just rolls his eyes and tightens his grip. He'd become pretty damn used to keeping a good grip on his kid when he gets excited; he'd used to do it. A lot. "Easy there, Ry," he says. He wants to lunge at Sam too, but, well.
Sam looks beat to hell enough, you know? He's lost his shirt somewhere along the way. Dean's pretty sure he remembers how that happened, vaguely, more the memory of those red, red scars on his wrists than anything else. Well, those, and all the rest of them.
His brother looks more like he's lived through a warzone than Dean does.
"Hey," he says, voice pitched low in deference to the headache Dean can see twisting Sam's face.
A smile tilts up one corner of Sas mouth. "Hey," he says. He reaches out to take Ryan from him and the little brat goes, smiling all the way.
Dean makes a split second decision. "Naptime!" he says cheerily.
Ryan gives him a betrayed look. Sam gives him a look sayin' he's not foolin' anyone. Dean just grins.
