We're gonna Need a Bigger boat

Continued from Part 2/4




Jess died, and they hunted.

Dad died, and they hunted.

Sam died, Dean made a deal, and they hunted.

Dean died, Dean came back, and they hunted.

So it really isn’t surprising at all to Sam that he went to hell, came back and they’re on the road, hunting.

It’s comforting and constricting at the same time. Like a tight sweater that you don’t want to take off because it’s all you have against the chill of the night.

In the Impala, with Dean driving, the rumble of her muffler under him, the sun shining on his face - Sam doesn’t know any other way for them to cope.

Dean’s singing along with Robert Plant, on key and never missing a word. He’ll sing along honestly and truly until he notices that Sam’s listening and then he’ll ham it up, crooning out the slow notes and wailing out the high ones. He drums along on the steering wheel and Sam laughs at the look of forced concentration on his face.

The road is open in front of them and it’s the only future they have right now. The next town and the next hunt.

They eat at diners and stop for gas twice before they reach the county line. Hartford Oak is barely a speck on the map, surrounded by a whole lot of nothing.

They’re sombre when they reach the town’s welcome sign and its cheerful proclamation that they are a ‘small town with a big heart!’

Dusk is settling, turning the sky orange and dark grey. Dean pulls the car over just past the welcome sign and keys off the ignition.

“How you wanna play this?" he asks.

Sam shrugs. “Small town. We’ll stick out the second we show up."

“Yeah," Dean muses, drumming his thumbs absently on the steering wheel. “Okay," he says suddenly. “Let’s leave the car here and poke around a bit. See if we can get the lay of the land before we decide anything further."

They take a gun and a knife each, Dean with his colt and Sam with Ruby’s knife. Dean’s got the contraption that Death gave them wrapped up in burlap to keep it from clinking and stuffed a small shoulder bag with extra ammo, holy water and gasoline. He slings it crosswise and adjusts it as they walk so that it moves with him but doesn’t get in the way.

Like most small towns, it has a main street, although it’s not much of one. General store, diner, gas pump and a few other business shops comprise the entirety of downtown Hartford Oak.

All the doors are shut, the lights off. The sun drops down below the horizon in minutes, taking most of the light of day with it, leaving the air cooling and slightly spicy. All that’s missing is a roaming tumbling weed rolling across the deserted road.

“Creepy," Dean mutters.

Sam nods. Even in a town this small, there’s usually some kind of life about. A person running late, a shopkeeper closing up, a car left idling while someone picks up one last thing. A dog running loose, happily panting along looking for dropped food.

But here, there’s just nothing and no one.

“I don't hear anything," says Sam.

“Me neither."

“No, I mean, nothing. No crickets, no birds. No rustling. Just… nothing."

Dean stops, placing his hand on Sam’s chest to get him to do the same. He cocks his head to one side and listens for a moment.

There is something, faintly on the air. Sam can hear it now that they’re not moving. It’s quiet, barely loud enough to hear over the sound of his own heartbeat.

Dean jerks his chin forward. “This way," he says.

They move down main street, each of them glancing into the shop windows as they go but there’s no one inside any of them.

Following the slight sound they hear, they turn the corner at the end of the street, and see the community center lit up. The faint murmur they heard before has cleared up and gotten louder as they get closer. It’s the sounds of a party, a mixer. People chatting, music playing, dishes clinking. The general audial mish-mash of a group of people hanging out. Glancing around, Dean motions for Sam to stay put while he crosses the street, hunched low, checking for anyone about.

There’s no one outside.

Dean makes it across the street without incident and Sam hustles up alongside him, both of them crouched low with their backs to the old building.

At some point, it had probably been a barn, or hell, maybe it still is from the smell of horses and hay tickling his nose, Sam thinks.

Sam looks over at Dean who jerks his chin upward to the window and like school boys sneaking out of class, they both edge up and peer over the sill to look through the dusty glass.

Sam’s not sure what he was expecting, but he’s pretty sure it isn’t what he sees.

It looks like a perfectly simple and wholesome country get together. He guesses there’s about three hundred people inside. They’re all seated at long picnic tables covered in cloth gingham, bright red and checkered. Most are chatting with one another, some are eating, digging in with gusto. Barbecue sauce covering their fingers and bibs, corn on the cob, rolls of bread, coleslaw on the side. There’s music coming from a stereo in one corner, something with a mild beat about lost love found again, and a few people are tapping their toes as they munch. They happily lick their digits, smacking their lips and reaching for more.

“I don’t get it," Dean murmurs. “Where’s the crazy?"

Sam shrugs, silent next to his brother, turning his head this way and that, looking over the interior of the community center, searching for something off, something not right.

“Shouldn’t there be naked dancing to music no one hears or something?" Dean adds.

“I dunno," Sam says quietly. “Seems kinda normal."

“Yeah," Dean says ruefully, fingering his gun.

Sam’s eyes flit around and settle on a young woman, at the end of one of the tables. She’s strangely still and silent while those around her are happily talking or eating away, waving their forks and drinks. Her blonde bob is perfectly trimmed and curled under, wrapping neatly around her pert chin. She frowns slightly, looks down at her plate and then around at the people surrounding her.

“Hey," Sam says quietly, slapping the back of his hand against Dean’s chest to get his attention. “Check out the blonde in the blue dress at eleven o’clock."

Dean leans over, eyes slitting as he peers into the barn and sees her.

She’s looks like she just stepped out of the 1950s; pristine and untouchable. She’s glancing around again, her frown growing deeper, creasing her brow, her lips pursing. She’s using her fork to push her food around on her plate, fiddling with it more-so than actually eating. She looks to the space at her side, as if she expects someone to be there and pauses when she finds no one.

She pushes her chair back and slowly stands up, fingertips pressed to the tabletop. Her eyes glance over the large space, searching for something.

No, for someone, Sam thinks. She’s carefully looking at all the people, eyes darting past them once she catalogues them and moves on.

No one is paying any attention to her. At all. Which is odd in itself. In a room full of people at some kind of a party, you would expect at least a few people to look over at her as she stands, as she looks around. Someone should ask her what she’s looking for, ask if she feels alright, or maybe needs a glass of water, or the salt.

But no one even twitches her way.

Her skirt is full, brushing up against the table as she leans slightly on it to peer around.

The music is too loud, the glass and walls to thick, the conversation too steady for him to hear her when she speaks, but her sees her lips move and can read them well enough, the words simple and short.

Where is my baby?

Sam feels his gut clench. That’s what’s missing. That’s what they should have noticed. There are no children inside.

Sure they could all be at home with sitters, but it looks like most of the adult population is at the center, surely one or two families would bring their kids. Especially since it looks exactly like some kind of family party.

But there’s no one under the age of 20, Sam would guess.

Where is my baby? the woman asks again, eyes frantically blinking, moving, searching.

“Sam."

Dean’s voice carries a warning and Sam knows it means Dean’s figured something out, something terrible. He feels Dean’s hand clutch his forearm. He can’t look away from the pretty blonde woman, her face contorting and twisting into something horrible and ghastly as she raises one hand and points.

Limbs trembling, whole body vibrating and still no one is looking at her. No one is acknowledging her. Sam starts to hear a low sound build over the music, off-key and awful. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and gooseflesh rise to the surface of his skin.

It’s coming from her.

She’s wailing, pointing at the table.

At the plate.

Oh, God.

He stares at the table, the red-checkered cloth, the plates of meat, dripping. People are grabbing for more and it slides around on the plate. They lick their fingers and it’s not barbecue sauce. In a perfect moment of monstrous clarity, Sam understands. His hand snakes out and grabs Dean’s arm in a mirror grip.

They’re eating the children.

***

Dean’s seen some gruesome shit in his day. He’s done some gruesome shit. Despite his sometimes cavalier attitude, he takes hunting very seriously. He knows what goes bump in the night. As he and Sam saddled up to the window to peer in, he prepared himself to see all kinds of crazy.

He was expecting naked people, a bonfire, maybe some drums and some wine. Full on Bacchanalia.

The normalcy of what he saw made him pause and then made him feel even more on edge.

Then Sam had pointed out the young blonde woman and Dean’s gut clenched. He’s not so un-self-aware that he doesn’t realize he’s got a soft spot for pretty blonde women because of his mother. Seeing her, in her blue dress, perfect hair, perfect features and knowing that something was about to go bat-shit wrong was a fist in his stomach.

He read her lips as she mouthed the words, Where is my baby?, and he took one look at the plates of food they were all snacking on and he knew. He knew where all the children were.

He thinks he might have said Sam’s name as a warning, because he couldn’t force himself to say the words. They’re eating the children.

He knows immediately as soon as Sam figures it out. Feels Sam’s fingers clench down hard on his forearm, clutching him.

The blonde woman is still standing there, pointing, wailing. She only pauses long enough to gasp in another huge lungful of air before she starts wailing again. The others are oblivious to her and continue on laughing, eating, drinking.

Eating the town’s children.

It’s… horrifying and grisly and he can’t look away, transfixed by the normalcy with which the townsfolk are acting.

Somehow the blonde woman is no longer under the same influence they’re under, she’s broken free or its worn off, Dean’s not sure how it works, only knowing what Death told them, that it’s touch related.

She’s clutching at her head now, shaking it back and forth, screaming wordlessly. She grabs a fork from the table and in a split second before she does it, Dean knows what she’s about to do.

She stabs herself in the eye with the fork, yanking it out with her eyeball spiked far down on the tines and jabs it into the other socket, blinding herself. Blood starts pouring down her face, from her eyes, tissue hanging loose. The fork falls to the table, in front of a young, handsome man who nonchalantly picks it up and plucks the eyeballs off the tines and eats them as though they’re olives on a toothpick, never once breaking his rhythm of eat, drink, be merry.

The blonde is clawing at her face, still screaming, falling to her knees, pulling her hair, tearing at her eye-sockets.

And then Dean hears the laughter.

Low and throaty, under other circumstances, it might even be sexy. It’s the laugh of a woman who is thoroughly entertained. He feels Sam’s fingers tighten imperceptibly on his arm and he knows Sam hears it too. Dean’s able to break his gaze from the ruined blonde woman who’s convulsing on the floor as she continues to gouge at her eye sockets with her fingers. He can’t see anyone out of place in the barn. The rest of the town continuing on their dinner macabre.

But the laughter is still there. Coming from all around them. He stumbles a few steps away, yanking Sam with him. They need to fall back, regroup, figure some shit out. Something other than crouch here stupidly watching the scene in front of them.

Sam staggers a little but follows him and then they’re jogging back down the main drag, back toward the Impala, not stopping to say a word to each other.

The laughter follows them all the way back, stopping only once they get in the car and slam the doors shut.

In the silence it leaves, Dean can only hear his own heavy breathing, matched by Sam’s from their run. He puts his hands on the wheel and stares straight ahead.

“Dean," Sam starts.

“Jesus," he replies.

“Yeah."

They are silent for a few more moments while they catch their breath.

“Okay, we gotta find someplace to hole up in town."

“Maybe I can get online. Do some research," Sam adds.

Dean starts the car and when the radio starts blaring he immediately snaps it off, unable to listen to music right now.

“Death said…" starts Sam and Dean already dreads the words that will likely come out of his mouth. “He said that she sets them up every day again."

“Yeah," Dean murmurs.

“Those children…" Sam continues. “Do you think… will they remember? Do they know…"

Dean clenches his jaw. “I don’t know, Sammy."

He puts the car in gear, tires spitting up gravel and dust as he pulls back onto the road to head toward the last place he wants to go.

Back to town.

***

They hunker down in a farmhouse about four blocks away from town hall. Considering how small the entire town is, being four blocks away is pretty much considered being on the outskirts.

There’s no sign of current inhabitation in the house, although there are traces that the people who lived there left in a hurry.

The smell of burnt coffee lingers in the air and the pot has black sludge crusted onto the bottom. It’s the kind of pot that turned itself off when no one else came around to do it, but not before it evaporated all the water.

There’s a tray of muffins gone stale sitting on top of the stove like someone just left them there to cool. There’s some shuffled pages of what looks like homework on the table and a glass of water.

Dean looks down at the pages for a moment and then picks them up and slams them in a drawer. It’s a good bet whomever the pages belong to won’t be coming back.

The perishables have all gone off, even though most of them were stored in the fridge, but there’s enough staples and canned goods to keep him and Sam going for a few days. Powdered milk, cereal, bottled juice that’s unopened, canned soup and chili. It’s better than they had during a lot of their childhood. They decide to bunk downstairs in front of the TV and leave the upstairs untouched, sacred.

The TV still works, in fact, all the electrical appliances do and there’s even an old computer in the back room wired for dialup. It’s painfully slow and takes Sam a couple of minutes to figure it out, but it gets on the ‘net. He’s got a wireless card for his own laptop, but they like to save that for times they really need it, mooching signals where they can.

In some ways, Dean supposes, they’re like ghosts themselves. Stealing into other people’s houses, using their things and leaving just as easily without leaving much of a trace behind.

Dean heats up some chili on the stove, finds a couple of stale but salvageable rolls in the fridge and bakes them up in the oven to make them more palatable. He’s just setting dinner on the table when Sam lumbers into the kitchen.

It makes his chest tighten how familiar and ordinary it is. Dean cooking dinner and Sam somehow knowing exactly when it’s ready to come in and chow down. It’s a routine they honed years ago when they were little and Dean was the only one allowed to use the stove and somehow, they never grew out of it.

Dean didn’t think he’d have it again.

“Find anything?" he asks Sam, clearing his throat slightly to cover up its roughness.

Sam breaks up his entire bun into little pieces and mashes them all into the chili and Dean hides a smirk. He’s been watching Sammy do that for years too.

“Just surface level stuff. She’s not as well known as other Greco-Roman gods or goddesses. Athena, Aphrodite, Zeus and the like. Most people would know them by their Greek or Roman names. But Lyssa’s more of a… peripheral figure. Interestingly enough, I did find a reference to her as a demon instead of a goddess."

“You think she is?" Dean asks.

Sam makes a face indicating he probably doesn’t but wouldn’t rule it out. “Nah. I think they used demon in the non-biblical sense. She had power, she was bad, ergo, she was a demon, but I don’t think she is one."

“So what’s her story?"

Sam shrugs. “Mostly I find references to her driving Hercules mad, making him kill his entire family. A lot of times in mythology when someone did something they couldn’t or didn’t want to explain they claimed that madness made them do it."

“Like a ‘get out of jail free card’."

Sam nods. “Yeah. I mean, how much of it was actually her…" again he shrugs and eats another mouthful. “She’s also the spirit of rabies for dogs. Actually, I think that’s all she was at first, but then she gets pulled into these other myths. In the Hercules myth, it kind of seems like she doesn’t want to make him mad, but she’s forced into it. She says something like she has no joy in visiting the homes of men."

“Well that’s changed if this town is any indication."

“Yeah. I’ll keep reading but since she’s more of a minor deity, I don’t know how much I’m gonna find."

Dean’s cell phone beeps and he’s nodding at Sam as he pulls it out of his pocket and reads his new text message.

“I’ll be damned," he murmurs.

“What?"

Dean smiles. “Cas is in town."

“Really?"

“Yeah. I kind of mentioned where we were going and maybe he could stop by."

It’s Sam’s turn to smile. “You really are a sentimental sap aren’t you?"

“Shut it, bitch." Dean’s fingers fly over the buttons as he texts Cas their location and directions, and a quick note to avoid town hall.

Too late, Cas texts back. I will see you shortly.

“He’s coming by." Dean slides his phone back into his pocket.

“What’s he like now that he’s, you know, human?"

It’s Dean’s turn to shrug. “I dunno. The same. Different. He won’t burn your eyes out of your sockets anymore. But he’s still got that," Dean waves his fork around, “‘not from here vibe.’ Pretty good hunter. Doesn’t need to waste time researching shit. He knows a lot. ‘s good in a fight, or so Bobby says," Dean adds, eating his dinner.

“You didn’t want to hunt with him?" Sam asks, and Dean notices how Sam keeps his eyes focused on his food as he asks.

Dean swallows. “I made you a promise," he says simply. He doesn’t add that he thought about it but getting out of bed somedays was hard enough, never mind getting up the hutzpah to gank some uglies.

In some ways, it would have been like on Dr. Sexy, when the actress who played Piccolo left and they hired someone else and tried to sell that Piccolo’d been attacked in an alley, her face all cut to shit and she was the same but looked different.

You went along with it because you had to, but you knew it wasn’t the same.

It wasn’t ever going to be the same. You couldn’t just take one person out and sub another one in and expect it to fit the same.

He thinks of Cas like family, he does. But that doesn’t make Cas Sam, or even a Sam shaped replacement.

He’s Cas and he’s got his own Cas-shaped space in Dean’s life.

Maybe if he hadn’t promised Sam to give normal life a shot, he would’ve gone on the road with Cas. Or maybe after a few more months at Lisa’s, tired of faking it and realizing he was never going to make it he would have called Cas up and seen if they could’ve gone on a few hunts together.

And if wishes were horses, beggars would ride, he thinks.

“So," Dean continues finally. “Find out any weaknesses for her?" he asks, brining the conversation back to the hunt.

Sam shakes his head, shaggy mop swaying as he does. “Not yet. But I mean, didn’t Death say she wasn’t all the strong? No stronger than a mortal?"

Dean nodded. “Yeah."

“So I figure all we gotta do is find her."

Dean pokes at his chili with his fork. “Not so sure that’s a good idea."

Sam frowns. “What? Why?"

Dean eats a mouthful and then waves his clean-ish fork around. “With your whole wall situation, maybe getting too close to the bitch who invented crazy isn’t the best plan."

“What am I supposed to do? Lock myself in a padded room for safekeeping?" Sam asks sarcastically.

“Look, I’m just saying, you just got back from…" Dean swallows again. “You just got back. Maybe you should sit this one out. Cas is coming and -"

Sam cuts him off. “Dean, I don’t think Death brought me back just to have me sit on the sidelines. You always do this, treat me like I’m… I’m…" Sam stops, taking a few deep breaths and pausing. “We went through this before I… before," Sam says and Dean immediately remembers their conversation, out by the Impala before Sam said yes to Lucifer.

That's the thing. It's not on me to let you do anything. You're a grown -- well, overgrown man.

It had been hard to say it then and it’s hard to stick to it now. They stare at each other across the table, Sam’s face so earnest and wide-eyed and yet, matured and grown up. Dean nods slowly, poking at his chili again.

“Yeah, I guess we did." Dean says.

“So, no locking me in a room for safe keeping?" Sam asks.

“Not with that Rapunzel hair you got going on. You’d just climb out on it."

Sam smiles and Dean’s face automatically answers with a grin of its own.

“Okay, then," replies Sam.

“Yeah. Okay."

***

Sam’s nervous before Castiel arrives. He keeps replaying scenes from Stull in his mind. Feeling the snap of his fingers and watching Castiel explode outward, feeling Lucifer’s… annoyance more than anything. Like the rage of a petulant child - fast, burning - and then gone in a blink. Lucifer hadn’t given it a second thought.

Sam rubs his sweaty palms on his jeans. He hears a rumble from outside and looks up expectantly at Dean, whose lips are curving into a slight smile as he peers through the window.

Dean opens the door before Cas even has a chance to knock and Sam’s frozen in place as Cas enters the hotel room.

He looks… mussed, relaxed… human.

Sam stands, feeling his fingers twitching slightly as Dean and Cas give each other one armed hugs and manly slaps on the back.

“You son of a bitch," Dean says with good nature. “What are you doing driving around on that death trap?"

Sam can just make out the front wheel of a motorcycle before Cas closes the door behind him and then drops his saddle bag on the motel floor.

“It was a reasonable price and I’ve no need for anything else," Cas says and it’s strange to hear his tone is still somewhat formal. “And at times, it reminds me of flying."

Cas has got worn boots on his feet, old jeans that hang a little too loosely on his thin hips and shirt that Sam recognizes as Dean’s. Come to think of it, the boots kind of look like Bobby’s too.

“Hello, Sam."

Sam snaps his eyes up from Castiel’s dusty boots and finds himself pinned under Cas’ intense blue eyes. It feels like Castiel is looking, searching for something and then his eyebrows relax, his gaze lessening.

“You look well. I’m glad."

Sam nods, not sure what to say. “Yeah, I’m… sorry," he blurts. “I mean, good. I’m good."

“It’s good to see you again."

“You, uh. You too," Sam manages, swallowing hard.

In a move that is so normal, so human Castiel’s lips quirk slightly in a reassuring little smile and Sam feels part of his chest unclench.

“I saw what was happening at the town hall," Castiel says gravely, and Sam guess that's all the time that former apocalypse busting comrades have for nostalgia.

They’re back on the job.

“Yeah," replies Dean grimly, jerking his head over to the small kitchen table where he pulls out a chair and waits for them to do the same. “You even run into this bitch before?"

“Lyssa?" Castiel clarifies unnecessarily. “No. The Greco-Roman pantheon has been quiet for several centuries, with the exception of Cupid who you met recently."

“Thought Cupid was one of your ranks?" Dean asks.

“Cupid’s genesis spans pantheons. He is both a cherub and a incarnate of Eros."

“What, like your daddy recruited him?"

Castiel shrugged. “I am not sure. It was never of any import to me so I never investigated. All I know is that he both is and is not an angel."

“What do you make of what you saw at town hall?" Sam asks.

Castiel pauses. “Though it is grotesque, the eating of children appears many times in Greek mythology. Pelops was killed by his father and served as part of a banquet for the gods, although I believe only his shoulder was consumed."

The almost bland way Castiel tells the story makes the fine hairs on the back of Sam’s neck stand up. He wonders what multitude of horrors Castiel has seen humanity perpetrate on one another over the centuries.

“Of course, the house of Atreus, of which Pelops was a part, was known for their savagery. Atreus, one of Pelops’ sons, fed his brother’s children to him because his brother was sleeping with his wife. One of Atreus’ sons may have also slaughtered his own daughter in order to be favored in war." Castiel paused and frowned. “Although I do not believe she was eaten. It likely all started when Cronos. After castrating and overthrowing his father, he feared the very same would be done to him by his own children, so he swallowed them whole."

Both Sam and Dean stared at Castiel.

“Jesus, don’t you know any happy stories?" Dean asked sarcastically.

“Very few, I’m afraid."

“Well, it looks like she’s worked her mojo on everyone in town. I didn’t take a head count," Dean starts and grimaces slightly at the expression, “but that looked like it could be all of them. And… the kids too."

“But not Lyssa," Cas states, tapping one of his fingers on the table. It’s an oddly human habit - fidgeting - and Sam can’t help but stare at Cas’ finger as it drums up and down on the cheap wood. His fingernails are short, ragged, slightly dirty. Maybe from riding his bike or pumping gas for it. Hell, it could be any number of things. Sam can’t take his eyes off the slender digits, so mortal now with their cracked cuticles and dry, chapped skin.

“Did Death offer any information?" Cas asks.

Dean stands for a moment and gets the toe and thumb locks out of his duffle, tossing them down on the table with loud clatter of metal and wood. “Said to lock her up in these."

“We’ll have to touch her to do that," Cas replies, running his fingers over the metal.

“Figured as much," said Dean. “Death said her touch is what drives people bat-shit."

“As far as I’m aware, yes." Castiel pulled his hands back from the device. “I may know some Enochian chants that could locate her. I could try," he adds with a shrug.

“Really?" Sam asks. “You can still…" he makes a waving motion with his hands.

“I still have the knowledge, but the… ability is in question."

“I won’t look a gift angel in the mouth," Dean says with a shrug.

***

Cas keeps a small bag with chalk, a few runes, some herbs and holy oil in his satchel. Dean watches him unpack the small items on the dining room table. He takes out a small piece of sandpaper and scuffs the finish of the wood so that it will hold the chalk etchings, brushing over the entire table with the sleeve of the henley Dean gave him back when Castiel didn’t have clothes of his own.

Although Cas was with Dean for a long while, while Dean was healing at Bobby’s, it’s still strange to watch him with all his human nuances and gestures. Dean sits on a chair turned backwards watching as Cas sets up, chalking out his spell lines, hands sure and steady. Sam’s leaning against a door jamb watching intently as well. Cas frowns for a moment, fingers twitching, hesitating before he finally rolls the chalk in his fingers and continues on.

“I have a map of the area, in my bag. Could one of you?" Cas asks, his voice still in the same low register as when he was an angel.

Sam is already heading over to Cas’ bag while Cas pours some oil in a bowl and sets it on the table.

“How much of this stuff do you remember?" Dean asks.

“I remember everything," Cas answers simply and then his fingers hesitate slightly again. “Although I can’t remember the underlying principles."

Sam frowns as he hands the map over to Cas who takes it and deftly unfolds it and then refolds it so that the town is more centralized. “What, like you don’t understand it anymore?"

“Yes. I can tell you the exact words to use, the proper sequence, but I am no longer sure why it works. Nor am I able to extrapolate out new spells based on my knowledge."

“Like you memorized the textbook but didn’t learn it," Sam supplies, his eyebrows coming up in a questioning manner.

Castiel looks up at him and after a moment nods slowly. “Yes. I believe the understanding resided in my grace and when that faded…" Cas shrugs and looks back down at the etchings on the table. “It’s why I’m not sure this will work, exactly, and if it doesn’t, I don’t know how to modify the spell to what we need."

“But you think it might?"

“There is power in the words," says Cas. “Despite the fact that I no longer have my grace, the words themselves are a kind of magic."

Sam fidgets. “So… you don’t… I mean… there’s… nothing?" he asks.

Dean twitches. He knows the answer to that question. He asked it himself one dark, long night at Bobby’s after Stull. Hesitatingly, haltingly, just like Sam.

Cas had replied in his near monotone voice that if he had any grace left, he would have used it to heal Dean’s face.

That had been that.

“No," says Castiel to Sam. He doesn’t add any qualifiers this time. “I don’t believe so." Castiel pauses. “Although sometimes… sometimes I think I may hear my brothers and sisters."

Dean sits up a little straighter. “When were you gonna mention this?"

Cas turns his eyes on Dean. “I just did."

“Full disclosure, man. We agreed."

Cas’ lips quirk. “I must have forgotten."

Dean rolls his eyes but there’s no heat behind his expression.

Cas claps his hands together, chalk dust puffing out in a could. “I’m ready."

He spreads the map out on top of the chalked out drawing and begins to chant, low in Enochian. The timbre of his voice is still strong and deep, even without the power of his grace behind it. Dean and Sam watch intently, not moving, not making a sound. At the end of his chanting, Cas picks up the bowl, running his finger along the edge, making it ring tonally before dipping his fingers in and spraying oil across the map. Cas leans forward, watching the map intently, the note of the ringing bowl still dissipating in the room.

“I think… here," he says finally, pointing to a spot on the map.

Sam leans over as Dean stands up and checks out the map as well. The fine droplets of oil are scattered over the map, but one of them has turned a slight shade of green, while the others have stayed clear amber.

Dean eyeballs the location. “Everywhere in this one horse town is damn close to center. That looks just about as good as any place," he shrugs. “That’s it?" he asks Cas.

Castiel shrugs. “Apparently so." His voice is somewhat displeased.

Dean claps him on the shoulder. “Hey, something’s better than nothing."

“Your words are an inspiration. Truly," Castiel deadpans.

***

They spend a quiet night in the farmhouse, the three of them sleeping downstairs. Dean on the couch, Cas on one of the recliners and Sam on the floor since his feet hang over every piece of furniture known to man.

Or so Dean teases.

They’re up with the sun, Sam stretching his long limbs out, groaning with the effort. He looks over at the yellow rays just starting to peak their way through the window.

Dean putters out of the kitchen with a mug of coffee in each hand, handing one to Sam.

“No rest for the wicked, Sammy. Up and at ‘em."

Sam blinks a bit at the coffee and feels Dean’s eyes on him. He looks up. “What?"

“You sleep okay?" Dean asks.

Sam shrugs. “Yeah, why?"

Dean shakes his head minutely. “Nothin.’" He steps over to the recliner and kicks it. Cas’ eyes open immediately and unerringly settle on Dean who hands over the second cup of coffee.

“You too, Sleeping Beauty. Time to get crack-a-lackin.’"

Castiel narrows his eyes at Dean but takes the mug of coffee, slurping it loudly.

“Turns out being a former angel does not mean you’re a morning person," Dean says to Sam with a smirk.

Cas grunts something unintelligible around the rim of his coffee mug, still glaring at Dean.

Dean claps his hands together. “So. Who’s up for a little Greek goddess hunting today?"

There’s another loud slurp of coffee from Castiel before he speaks. “It would probably be for the best if you and Sam ran interference while I try to secure Lyssa in her manacles."

“Glory hound," Dean says dryly.

Sam thinks it’s too early for Castiel to be fond or amused by Dean if the look he’s giving Dean is any indication. “I may not be as susceptible to her powers as you and Sam are."

“You’re full on human now," Dean says with a shrug. “Why wouldn’t you be?"

“I’m merely suggesting I may not be."

Dean looks unimpressed. “So what, you want Sam and I to hang out while you do all the work?"

“Hardly. I imagine Lyssa will be surrounded by townsfolk, who are for all intents and purposes immortal, until she releases them, and stark raving mad."

Well, that was something Sam hadn’t really considered.

“If I were Lyssa," continues Cas, “I’d use them as shields."

“Crafty," Dean replies. “But messy."

It’s Cas’ turn to shrug. “I was a soldier first, and angelic being second."

“Do they feel?" asks Sam. “I mean, technically, they’re probably already dead, but will they feel anything if we… harm them?"

Dean leans in waiting for Cas to answer Sam’s question.

“I don’t know."

Sam’s not sure how he feels about that. On the one hand, he knows the job has to get done. These people are likely already dead. On the other, he thinks about the blonde woman he saw last night. How fragile and delicate she looked. How devastated.

He feels a little fragile himself, truth be told. Back from the pit less than fort-eight hours and already on a hunt.

They rustle up a breakfast of peanut butter on slightly stale toast, mixing water with some powdered milk to wash it down.

Breakfast of champions, thinks Sam.

They weapon up, Dean tucking a knife into his boot and one in his belt, next to his gun. He pockets extra ammo in his coat before turning to Sam. Sam wants to roll his eyes at Dean checking Sam’s weaponry over, making sure Sam’s got Ruby’s knife secured and his own gun loaded up. He manages to stay still by telling himself that Dean needs this security ritual. It’s been about Dean needing it more than Sam’s weaponry not being up to snuff for a long time now. He let’s Dean check him over, managing to keep his huff of indignation to himself even when he’s sure he sees Dean glance over his shoes.

As if his shoelaces would be untied. Jesus, is he four? Dean’s overprotectiveness simultaneously annoys him even as it warms him.

He doesn’t manage to keep his snort of laughter quiet when Dean goes and does the same thing to Cas. Cas wears an oddly befuddled expression on his face as Dean takes his angel sword from him and checks the point for sharpness before holding his hand out for Cas’ gun. Cas turns to look at Sam, who can only offer him a shrug, before he pulls his gun out of his holster and hands it over to Dean. Dean checks the sight, the bullet clip, sort of flips it over in his hand to test the weight and then chambers a round, flicking the safety off and then back on before giving it back to Cas.

Cas gives Dean a look that clearly says ‘Are you quite satisfied now?’ It’s lost on Dean who doesn’t even look up into Cas’ face as he hands the gun back, turning toward the door.

“Let’s go."

***

The Impala is too large, loud and obvious to just drive into town and Cas’ bike is hardly fit for two let alone three. Dean drives the Impala to what he figures is a safe distance from the cross street that Cas’ spell noted on the map and they pull over. He gives her a surreptitious pat on the hood and murmurs that they’ll be right back. He looks up to see both Sam and Cas starting at him baldly.

“What?"

Sam rolls his eyes and Cas frowns, his eyebrows coming together in what Dean still considers his ‘Humans Are Strange’ expression.

Turns out the building that Cas pinpointed with his spell on the map is the town school. They hunker down in the small thatch of bushes off to one side to take stock of the entrance and the building in general. It’s a run down building that’s seen better days. Likely built sometime in the late 60s or 70s if the outside decor is anything to go by. It’s short and squat; brown wood panelling wrapped around every available surface. It has kind of a roundish shape to it. The main entrance is easy enough to spot, stuck damn near in the center of the building. The front doors are solid metal, slightly warped by the years of sun, the paint flaking and peeling away in places showing all the multiple shades of brown its been painted over time. From where they’re crouched Dean can’t make out any other entrances, although he’s sure they must exist. The years of hunting have put Sam and Dean on pretty much the same wave length because just as Dean’s thinking about other entrances Sam leans over.

“I’m guessing there has to at least be one in the back of the building. Possibly one on either side of the building too."

Dean nods and is about to say something when Cas stands up suddenly and starts walking toward the school.

“Cas!" Dean hisses at him. “Son of a-" Dean gets into a half-bent crouch and follows after Cas, who is striding toward the front doors, bold as brass. Sam trails behind, checking their six as he goes.

Dean catches up to Cas. “What the fuck?" He grabs Cas’ shoulder as he whisper-shouts in his face.

Cas shrugs. “There is no one around the exterior, nor watching us from the windows," Cas replies easily.

Dean’s jaw tightens, sending a shock of pain through the formerly fractured bones and he winces. “There’s no ‘I’ in team, Cas," Dean rasps.

Cas frowns again. “Of course there isn’t," he says flatly, and turns back toward the school, pulling open the front doors and stepping inside.

Dean huffs in exasperation and although it’s not really the time or place, Sam can’t help but chuckle a bit at the exchange as he follows Dean in after Cas.

The heat inside the school is stifling. Long summer days of baking in the sun with no windows cracked and no caretakers responsible for turning on the A/C (if there is any) have left the air stuffy, heavy and thick. Guns drawn, eyes alert, their eyes take a moment to adjust to the artificial light. The foyer is as empty as the streets outside were, although here the absence is more profound. There are cheery, colorful drawings of weirdly winged creatures, mushroom cap houses and rock gardens stapled up to a corkboard by the front office and a happy sign proclaims ‘Fairy Land by Mrs. Kitcher’s Grade 1’s!’ Next to it is the intramural schedule for the gym stating that tomorrow the Appaloosas are facing off against the Mustangs after-school. Dean’s eyes continue across the board, taking in the recycling program, the 4-H club notices, the poster for the new library additions.

This town is going to end up a ghost town. It’s already on it’s way there. The outcome of their hunt is that the entire town will likely be dead.

They likely already are dead. They’re just still walking around.

He can’t feel anything but resignation.

“We should split up," says Cas, eyes flittering over the long hallway in front of them, and the two short hallways leading off on either side that bend with the curvature of the building, obscuring the view.

Dean glances down each hallway. He knows Cas is right, and hell, he was probably about to make the same suggestion himself but he hesitates, eyes darting quickly over to Sam who is already nodding and starting to lean to one side.

“Sammy," Dean says sharply and Sam glances up at him. “You be careful."

Sam could give him a frustrated look, maybe a word or two and Dean’s already forming his comeback but Sam seems to get where Dean’s coming from and nods once. “I will. You too."

“Two quick shots in the air if you stumble across this bitch. I’ve got her fancy handcuffs," Dean says, making eye contact with both Cas and Sam. “Back here in thirty."

They both nod solemnly and turn down their respective corridors. Dean pauses, watching both of them walk away for a moment before taking a deep breath and heading down his own.

He walks down the hallway, he can hear faint sounds getting louder and louder. As the hallway curves, he can make out the sounds more easily. Chanting, cheering, bodies shuffling.

Screaming.

Howling.

And the distinct smell of burning protein; flesh, bone and hair.

His face twitches as the scent reaches his nostrils. He thinks inanely of some of the doctors he saw after Stull, telling him how fortunate he is that with all the damage, he didn’t lose his sense of smell.

He’s not feeling so fortunate at the moment. The smell is… horrific. The worst of it is that he knows that smell, is familiar with it and recognizes it immediately for what it is. Underneath the cloying scent is the more innocuous smell of burning wood, almost clean in his nostrils compared to the noxious odor of burning flesh.

He shifts his gun in his grip and keeps moving forward. He sees a set of double doors ahead of him and realizes it’s the school’s gymnasium.

The sounds, and smells are coming from within.

Dean creeps forward, his shoes soft on the linoleum floor, gun low, eyes narrowed. The double doors are old, slightly warped from time and temperature variation and they don’t quite meet in the center.

The smell is seeping out through the crack and he finally gives in and lifts his shirt up over his chin and tucks his nose in the triangle of fabric it makes. Even though he’s been breathing through his mouth, the pungent smell of burning fat and protein is clawing its way into his sinus cavity and settling in, like an old man settling into a couch for a long, long nap. Having his shirt over his face doesn’t stop the odor from reaching his nostrils but at least it gives the impression of something else in the air. The scent of detergent and deodorant, a little bit of gun oil and sweat.

But nothing can mask singed flesh and hair.

As he gets closer, he can see through the crack where the two doors don’t meet. The view is choppy, splintered. He can’t quite put together what he’s seeing at first. People, bodies, limbs, some clothed some not. Moving, shifting.

Flames.

The crowd is dancing, walking, skipping around the flames. Some of the naked people are pulling at the clothing of others, tearing them off and throwing them toward the flames. Others are caught up by themselves, twirling around. Like the macabre barbecue last night, most of them seem oblivious to their surroundings.

He tries to distance himself from the grotesqueness of it all, forcing his gaze from the orgy-type dancing. There’s some sort of bonfire set up in the center, not made well enough to be in the form of a tee-pee or inverted cone. It’s simply piles of school desks, chairs, gym supplies and… and…

Bodies.

As he watches, one person is singled out from the crowd, moving toward the flames. As the rest of the crowd sees the young man approach the fire, they get excited. They cheer, they clap, egging the young man on.

Physically he’s maybe Dean’s age, but something in his eyes makes him seem so much younger. There’s a softness around his eyes that Dean doesn’t have, a gentleness in his face that was long ago scrubbed away by hunting in Dean’s face. His blonde hair is floppy, his body strong but lanky. He looks like he’s been a good old farm boy his whole life.

His eyes are alive with delight and something… perhaps frenzy? Dean’s not sure what the word is. As Dean watches, the crowd continues to cheer, the young man’s smile grows wider and wider.

He throws himself on the pyre.

The crowd erupts. Louder cheering, longer hooting and hollering, more dancing. The young man screams as his body catches fire, he writhes and twists and the crowd loves it, pulling their circle in closer. Some of the onlookers start to waft the smoke from the pyre toward them, like a benediction of incense, breathing it in deeply and Dean gags. He rips the shirt down off his face just in time for him to spit up some of his meagre breakfast of peanut butter on toast. The pressure of being sick makes his sinuses scream in agony. He folds slightly in half, resting his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

He hears a shot ring out in the school building and he listens hard for a second shot, indicating Sam or Cas need help, but none is forthcoming.

All he can hear is the snap-crack of the flames as they consume the young man, the chanting and shouting of the crowd, and somewhere faintly behind it, pitiful and broken whimpering.

The scent of charred flesh is overwhelming and he manages to stumble away slightly, his heart beating in his sinus cavity, his throat raw with bile. Like a talisman, he keeps repeating the same phrase in his head: They’re already dead, you can’t help them. They’re already dead. You can’t help them.

It doesn’t make him feel any better.



Continue on to part 4/4