Chapter Text
Flashes of light and echoes of screaming.
Ash and copper dried on his tongue as he screamed, coating his teeth as he grinned.
There was a blade in his hand; an extension of himself that he rolled affectionately in his palm.
He swiped it forward, his muscles clenching and buzzing, a surge of power building and bursting through his core.
Another flash of light.
Screams, but from demons. They echoed and reverberated. The victim on his rack convulsed and then disappeared; disintegrated into ash, swirling through the rippling, hot wind caused by flames that always licked just far enough to not split skin.
Dean fought and shrieked. His limbs strained as he reached for the brimstone ground, his fingernails clawing for purchase, chipping over stone and slivers of bone. There was chaos around him as he threw himself towards the thorny rack—something pulled him up.
He squeezed his eyes against the white light.
It was trying to pull him up, away from his rack. Dean screamed until his voice was hoarse. Kicking, punching, writhing… Resistance was futile.
He was airbound suddenly, pulled up by his waist. Gentle, caring hands folded him against a chest that was soft, using arms that were strong like metal but smooth to the touch.
It would be years before he stopped fighting.
The suffocating heat was lessened and he began to shiver, desperately mourning his dark, terror-filled crevice in Hell where he had said yes, and the pain had gone away.
It would be years before he relaxed in those arms that held him.
Over time, Dean twined his arms around his rescuer, clinging back. One hand gripped tightly, his fingernails digging into warm, smooth flesh. He gave in.
He knew they were being pursued, he could feel the whooshing of air around his feet as claws swiped at him and his rescuer. He heard the inhuman snarls and shrieks just below them, fading when they fell behind. The monsters bellowed louder and louder as they caught up.
“Run, Dean. We have to run.”
Every time they reached a new level of Hell, the terrain changed, the assailants were different, more vicious. They passed cells, and mutants, caves, and prisoners in cages with bulging eyes or gaping holes in their faces where eyes used to be. But he always did as he was told because as the years passed, he could not imagine Hell without his rescuer. He ran when he was told to run, he hid when he was told to hide, and he never, ever let go of the fingers intertwined with his.
Years ago, he fought against her, begged her to let him stay. But they had spent decades together, and now, Dean didn’t know what life was like without her. Her smell, her voice, her fingers wrapped around his own. She knew of his thirst and she made sure he was sated, her hands on his back as he drank, watching for other attackers. She did not pass judgement, she only guided him up, up, up.
Eight circles of hell; they flew, they ran, they hid, they crawled, they swam. Through fire, and rain, and thorns, and sludge, they never lost each other, and Dean never let her go. The farther up they went, the easier it became to breathe and the clearer it became that he had found the other half of his soul.
They passed through limbo last, and finally, after years, Dean took a breath. In the last fleeting moments of Hell, Dean could breathe.
In a voice that was pride and reverence and warmth, he heard her words near his ear, clear and resounding:
“Dean Winchester has been saved.”
***
Hell.
The only memories Dean had of the place involved pain, and fear, and the feeling of being suffocated. He remembered choking on thick, hot air, and his own blood. Alastair poured acid down his throat, as well as blood, and salt. He choked on ash and fumes. He was drowned and smothered.
He remembered his hands around the handle of blades, and the sound of his own laughter.
So, choking on cold, wet dirt as he climbed out of his own grave was almost nice, almost manageable. He could’ve done without waking up in a stuffy, cold box that stunk like rotted dead people, but at least the wood had decayed enough that he could escape without completely breaking the bones of his fingers or shattering his nails.
It was the thick, sludgy grass and sticky mud that he found the most offensive after a lifetime of heavy heat, dry ash, and the sharp lick of flames. He wasn’t used to cold. Cold was unwelcome, disturbing. With a strangled scream, a panicked bout of gasping for air, and a heart that rammed into his chest so fast he thought he was going to explode, Dean pulled himself out of his grave. He sputtered against the rain as it beat down on his head, and clawed at the slick mud around him.
For the first time in a long time, he felt upset. And ridiculous, of course, that he was upset because of some rain and having to drag himself out of sludge. But when he was half out, thick mud oozing through his fingers and his legs stuck in heavy earth, he hyperventilated for a second, both from sheer terror and from being hit with pure, clean oxygen.
After gathering himself and grunting with effort, Dean dragged his own body out of the earth. Pausing on all fours on top of his now concave grave, he shuddered, his limbs shaking as he tried not to have a panic attack in the dark. He blinked cold rain from his eyes as he looked around.
“The fuck am I?” he croaked, voice cracking in hundreds of embarrassing ways from lack of use.
Of course, no one was around to answer except the thunder that roared over him and lightning that flashed above the treetops a few seconds later, somewhere to his left. Dean looked around his grave site, noticing he’d been buried in the middle of the forest. Nothing else inhabited the space but shrubbery, tall, thin trees, and ground that was covered in dead leaves and twigs. Dean squinted around the darkness, shuddering uneasily as he realised he was alone, with limited visibility, and had no idea where he was.
Still, it was better than Hell.
Shakily, Dean got to his feet, slipping momentarily on the slope of his grave, before he hoisted himself up using a low hanging branch. He pressed his back against the damp, cool trunk of an old tree, taking a brief moment to get used to his legs again. He relaxed his eyes; the tree provided shelter from the rain. While the darkness in the forest inspired a bit of terror in him, his eyes were adjusting. As they did, he realised that he could see a light far in the distance. No, four lights.
Dean patted at his jeans, and felt the welcome lump in his right pocket. A series of thank yous to a god he didn’t believe in fell from his lips in a hushed whisper. He pulled out his keys. He pawed at the keyring in the dark, feeling a series of random keys—to his horror, he didn’t feel the Impala’s big, clunky key—and found his pocket knife, as well as a small flashlight.
Click-click.
The tiny torch shone a concentrated beam of light around the place where he’d clawed his way from death, illuminating the closest trees and bushes in a cool grey cast. Dean shuddered at the impersonality and coldness of his burial, but was thankful he wasn’t in the middle of a graveyard. He didn’t have the most positive associations with graveyards and he was half-grateful he’d been buried somewhere innocuous, to be out of reach of anyone wanting to tear him up for voodoo.
Then again, he wished he hadn’t been buried at all. His body should have been burnt to a crisp and shoved into an urn for his loved ones to cry over. Had Sam and Bobby really been so stupid?
Knowing his flashlight might not last, Dean forced himself to move; following a small, subtle path that led from the bottom edge of his grave into the woods, thankfully towards the four white lights. The woods, generally, tended to be a rather creepy place to be even for Dean, who’d been hunting monsters all his life... and had now been to Hell. There were reasons he liked to hunt with a partner, and creepy dark woods was one of them.
And being pursued through those dark, creepy woods was another one.
Just as the forestry began to thin out, and the white lights got closer, Dean felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and electricity spark in the air. His stomach squeezed, his heart began beating harder than it already was, and he felt the air pull from his lungs. This was how people described feeling before being struck by lightning. How ridiculous would it be for him to be struck only minutes after being resurrected from death?
Static crackled around him and he suddenly felt heat from behind him, growing from a tiny pit. Swallowing his fear, Dean turned around and watched far through the trees where his lonely little grave was; there was a light. It grew and grew, filling the space in the trees, sending beams of light through the cracks in the shrubbery. With it, a ringing sound reached Dean’s ears, quiet, then louder and louder.
Together, the light shone too bright and the sound became too much.
He felt a warm hand wrap around his fingers. For a split second suspended in time, Dean almost let them.
But Dean cried out and yanked his hand away, breaking into a run. He clapped his hands to his ears and grunted in pain as his eyes burned. Fuck this, he thought, dodging through forestry towards the four little lights. His flashlight beam bobbed erratically as he ran for it, bursting out past the tree lines onto a....junkyard?
The cars were piled high, arranged haphazardly, forming aisleways big enough to be driven through, and anyone else would get lost in this maze of abandoned metal, but Dean immediately recognized where he was.
The four white lights were flood lights, towering over a garage with a curved roof and an old house. Dean dropped his hands from his ears, even though the ringing was killing him, and he used his arms to propel himself further. He sprinted through the cars, jumping over tires lain askew and motorcycle parts attached to motorcycles that would never see the day where they would run again. His feet splashed through mud and he screamed as he felt his ears bleed.
Bobby Singer’s house was right there… A safe haven…
The front door burst open and three people poured out, two men, one woman. The woman wasn’t familiar, but those two other silhouettes were recognizable anywhere.
“BOBBY!” Dean bellowed, waving as he sprinted. “SAM! HELP!”
Gunshots rang out in the night, blasting through the horrible, shrill sound emitted by the bright light that pursued Dean. He shielded his head as bullets showered the cars around him and he ducked, sparks flying. Missed shots dented steel.
The blasts must’ve hit the thing behind him too, because the ringing immediately stopped and the light faded away, retreating back into the trees.
Dean panted as he leaned against a rusty car, feeling terror fade away as the heat disappeared, and the cold air of the night filled in the space around him once more. Tipping his head back, Dean let rain fall into his mouth, dampening his dry tongue. Then, he pushed off the car and stood, peering around his barrier. To his surprise, there was no one there.
Dean blinked. “Bobby? Sam?”
Nothing.
Dean slowly approached the house. His boots were drenched in rain-water and mud, his jeans and hands sticky with it. He snapped open his pocket knife with a jerk of his wrist. His muddy boots left tracks up the white, peeling steps, joining the trail leading back into the house.
He took a shaking deep breath as the rain stopped beating down on him under the veranda. Dean inhaled the familiar scent of welded metal, whiskey, and leather wafting in from the open front door. From outside, Dean could see the foyer, glowing in orange flickering light from the study, and for a moment he felt his chest tighten, his eyes stinging in the corners. He never thought he’d be here again, never thought he’d smell that aroma or see that sight.
“Bobby?” Dean called out, his voice wavering.
The muzzle of a gun pressed into his back, right into the curve of his spine.
“Yes?”
That growl didn’t say, ‘Dean, I’m so glad to see you’ or ‘Son, I missed you more than words can say’, it implied that Dean had about four seconds to answer before he got a bullet implanted into his vertebrae.
“Bobby,” Dean said carefully, making sure to be very loud and very clear. His hands slowly came up, palms out, to his shoulders. “Don’t shoot. It’s me. It’s Dean.”
The welcoming view into the house was obscured as Sam’s tall, broad silhouette stepped into the entrance hallway from the kitchen. He was holding a shotgun, and the slow, calculated way he was walking out towards the porch made the skin on Dean’s arms tighten into goosebumps.
“Sammy, it’s m—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Sam snarled, his face shadowed, the lines around his eyes dark and deep as lightning flashed across the sky behind Dean, illuminating the junkyard for a split second. “Dean is dead.”
“How’d you get past the wards, huh?” Bobby snapped from behind him, jutting the muzzle of the gun into Dean’s spine with an aggressive little jab. “This property is warded against every bottom-welling monster and demon I know of.”
“I’m not a monster, Bobby!” Dean said, his eyes wide as Sam raised his gun and stopped a few feet away, his mouth twisting hatefully, eyes dark as they swept over Dean’s face. Dean felt his stomach turn at the expression of distaste he was no doubt receiving from both ends. “Please.”
“Oh, yeah?” Sam mocked, his head tilting a bit. “You just climbed out from the grave all on your own? Found your way back with no problem? Did you resurrect yourself completely intact even though you died six months ago?”
“The sarcasm is strong, Sam!” Dean yelled, his tone annoyed over the howling wind. “Can we talk about this inside where we aren’t in a fuckin’ typhoon?”
Sam’s eyes darted over Dean’s shoulder. He seemed to wordlessly speak to Bobby, before Sam nodded jerkily and started walking backwards, his gun still aimed at Dean’s face. The muzzle of the shotgun behind him pushed into Dean’s back, urging him forward.
Once inside the house, Dean heard the door behind him slam shut. The sound of the thunderstorm was muted, and the smell of Bobby’s place was suddenly all that there was. The ticking grandfather clock, the buzz of the broken refrigerator, and the crackling of the fire suddenly screamed home.
Sam’s face did not.
“You’re gonna walk into the kitchen, and you’re gonna sit in a chair,” Sam said dangerously, jerking his head to his left towards the kitchen. “You’re gonna sit there and let us tie you up, and if you decide that isn’t your style, we’ll shoot you right in your stolen face.”
“My face isn’t st…” But Dean trailed off, knowing it was best to follow orders, because Sam and Bobby’s tones weren’t playful, and there wasn’t any hint of belief in their eyes.
Minutes later, Sam cut the duct tape he’d wound a few tight layers of around Dean’s wrists. Dean grumbled about the fact that Sam was cutting it with his own switchblade that had been confiscated from him during their routine pat down. The restraints around his arms, wrists, and ankles had Dean secured snugly to an uncomfortable old wooden chair in the middle of the kitchen.
“Ow, ow, ow,” Dean muttered as Sam cut him with a silver blade, then a copper one, and finished with gold. He even had an iron bar pressed to his skin—with, of course, no reaction. “I’m not a werewolf, or a ghost, or a wraith, or a siren, or a shapeshifter, you guys! Quit it with the slicing and dicin—mmmrrrpplhh!”
The mouth of a flask was shoved between his lips, his jaw forced open by Bobby’s rough, calloused grip. Although he was alarmed, Dean cooperated and drank down the holy water as he realised how thirsty he was.
“You got anymore of that?” Dean rasped as his jaw was released with a jerk of Bobby’s hand, and he licked his lips. “I’m fucking parched. Hell is dry as fuck, who knew?”
Sam and Bobby exchanged looks, their brows raised, their eyes—for the first time in minutes—looked hopeful. Dean thought he might be close to being released, when Bobby turned away and called up the stairs, “Pam! We need that third eye of yours!”
The woman from the porch that Dean hadn’t recognised came strutting down the steps, scowling.
“Oh, am I allowed downstairs? Does the damsel have permission to play with the boys now… Oh!” Pam, a smokin’ woman with tattoos, kohl-rimmed eyes, and the air of someone who’d been (or currently was) a biker chick, paused in the doorway. Her lips spread into a wide smile and she said with familiarity, like she’d ever met him before that moment, “Dean!”
Sam and Bobby’s mouths dropped open.
“Dean!” Pam repeated, stepping into the room. “You’re alive! You’re back… Oh,” she said again, this time, her words dissolving into a pitying tsk-tsk-tsk. Her face fell, her eyes softened. “Baby, it must’ve been frightening to wake up in the dark like that, wasn’t it? They buried you in a shallow grave, but regardless, the mud’s pretty heavy out that way.” She kneeled down in front of him, her hands gentle as she wiped blood and mud away from the tips of his fingers that he’d used to claw his way out. “You did so well. You made your way back.”
“Dean?” Sam repeated, and when Dean looked up at his brother, Sam’s face was twisted, his eyes glittering.
Bobby’s expression wasn’t too far off, though his face was drained and pale. “You meanin’ to tell me that this...our Dean?”
“Yes,” the woman nodded. “It’s him. I can sense it.”
“Sure am,” Dean piped up, wincing. “Your Dean, in the flesh. Bleeding all over the floor too, might I add.”
Pam slid her hands into her jean pockets, smiling. “You take a damn fine picture, kiddo, but damn, are you ever pretty in person. Even soakin’ wet and dripping mud all over the kitchen floor Bobby just washed, you’re still a ten.”
“Quit hittin’ on my boy,” Bobby growled as he and Sam ducked down and started hacking at the restraints that held Dean down in the chair.
The second he was free, Dean found himself engulfed in a hug that was all muscle, long hair, and flannel. Sam didn’t care that Dean was soaking wet, covered in mud and sludge; he clung onto him like Dean had been missing for years.
“Dean, I...I’m so sorry. God, I’m so sorry. We didn’t know. We didn’t know you’d come back. If-If we knew, we wouldn’t have let you crawl out on your own. We woulda been there so you weren’t alone. God, Dean, I—”
“Quit hoggin’ the zombie!” Bobby barked.
Sam pulled back with a wobbly, tearful grin, which Dean returned happily.
In seconds, his vision was obscured again as Bobby’s warm, softer form came in aggressively, yanking on Dean’s shoulders, and pulling him close.
“Hiya, Bobby,” Dean laughed into his surrogate father’s shoulder, into the puffy, dirty vest that he had missed so much. “Glad to see you missed my stupid face, some things never change. Also, who’s the chick?”
Pam rolled her eyes. “Who you callin’ a ‘chick’? At least have the decency to call me a ‘hot chick’.” She glanced at Bobby fondly. “I’m Bobby’s live-in lady partner, a title I’ve recently added to my resume, but you can just call me Pamela or Pam.”
Dean felt slightly uncomfortable when Bobby pulled away and he was being stared at by two pairs of eyes that looked shocked, and so full of emotion.
“Sorry, Pam. Uh, nice to meet you.” Dean shrugged, rubbing at his wrists. “Wish we’d met under better circumstances.”
Pam moved across the kitchen, tugging open the fridge and pulling out a water bottle. As she turned to him and offered him the drink, she said with a beaming smile, “Glad to have met you at all. We’d been trying to find ways to save you for months, but kept coming up with nothing. I mean, that’s how Bobby and I met.”
Dean glanced at Bobby, only to find him smiling a bit at the floor, a weird expression on his face that Dean had never seen before.
Pamela, nudged Bobby’s hip with hers. “A hunter friend-of-a-friend of ours introduced us. Bobby’d been lookin’ for a psychic that hunters trusted. Invited me over and brought me to your grave site.”
“What for?” Dean asked, his brows furrowing and eyes narrowing.
With a sigh, Bobby looked up at Dean, eyes weary. “I wanted her to tell me if she felt anything, if she could give us any kinda clue as to where exactly in Hell you were, y’know, in case that made a difference.”
Dean’s dry throat got drier and he asked, his voice hoarse. “And what’d you feel?”
Immediately, he regretted asking when Pamela’s expression went a bit dark, a bit sad, and she replied quietly, “Pain. Heat. Bad heat, it felt like my skin was blistering off. I heard screaming and I felt like choking. I…”
She trailed off as she glanced at Sam and Bobby, who both looked disturbed at the description. Dean was sure they hadn’t forgotten it since Pam told them.
“How did you do it?” Sam asked, still staring, his eyes glistening. “How did you get out?”
Butterflies fluttered uncomfortably in Dean’s stomach as he thought about it. He shrugged, looking up and around at everyone. “I dunno. I don’t remember much. I just remember hellhounds, and well...you know.” He glanced at Sam sheepishly. “I guess I went to Hell? Then I woke up in that coffin. The rest is history.”
“Do you think it had anything to do with that light?” Pamela asked.
“Yeah,” Bobby agreed, pointing a finger at Dean. “The reason we were headin’ out in the first place was that light. We saw it glowin’ from the trees through the storm. Grabbed the guns to go check it out, and that’s when we saw you runnin’ at us.”
“I have no idea,” Dean said honestly, though his stomach hurt like he was lying. “Dunno what it was. I was trying to find my way out of the forest, then that light started following me. Nearly exploded my ears with the ringing, but otherwise, I dunno what it was.” Dean swallowed, feeling strange suddenly as he recalled the hot light and the ringing. “I think...I think it was coming from my burial site.”
Everyone shifted uncomfortably, and Dean busied himself with opening his water bottle. Then, pausing as it touched his lips, Dean asked, “Why’d you guys bury me anyway? I’d’ve thought you two woulda salted and burned my haunted ass as soon as the hounds were done with me?”
Sam flinched like he’d been hit, but Bobby sighed. He shrugged, pulling up a chair and settling in beside Dean. The old man was torn between looking sheepish and stubborn, his moustache twitching. “How useful would it have been for us to spend months tryna raise you, if you didn’t have a body to come back to?”
While the sentiment was touching, Dean shook his head, smiling wistfully. “That’s dumb, Bobby.”
“Fine,” Bobby grumbled. “Next time you die, remind me to burn your sorry bones and resurrect you into the neighbourhood dog. It’d serve you right for being ungrateful.”
There was a chorus of snorts from the group, and Dean took the opportunity to drink deeply, groaning involuntarily as the cool water hit his throat. He chugged it. When he lowered the water bottle, twisted in his hand after being drained, Sam was staring at him, his eyes glittering and lips twisted into a dopey smile.
“Hi, Sam.” Dean grinned. “Miss me?”
“No,” Sam said quietly, his head dipping, his smile twitching. “Not at all.”
Pamela looked between them fondly, while Bobby rolled his eyes. “Nah. Idjit only spent six months tryna bust you out. I had to stop him from makin’ a fuckin’ assortment of bad decisions, let me tell you.”
Dean gazed at Sam, shaking his head, but he said to Bobby, “Thanks for that.”
“Yer welcome.” Bobby nodded.
While Pamela looked like she was suddenly inspired, and turned on her heel to go bury herself in the open fridge, Sam broke his stare with Dean and scowled down at Bobby, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah, like you didn’t have your own assortment of dumb ideas.”
Bobby lifted his head and twisted his torso in his chair to glare at Sam. “You wanna sleep outside, boy?”
It couldn’t be helped; Dean grinned as he watched them bicker, then, “So what’d you do to raise me, anyway? Please don’t say one of you guys made a deal,” he groaned. “This Scooby Gang has had enough of demon deals for one lifetime, right?”
Bobby, Sam, and Pam all paused to exchanged looks, then Pam said kindly, though she winced, “I’m sorry, baby. It wasn’t us that raised you. We tried, but...whoever wanted you down there in the first place wasn’t letting you go.”
“We had nothing to offer them,” Sam said bitterly, pacing, looking too big in the small room. Dean briefly wondered when his tall bean pole of a brother suddenly buffed up into The Rock… I need to join a gym, Dean thought briefly.
But then Pamela turned from the counter with a plate she waved in front of his face. Dean’s eyes followed the sandwich she’d made with hungry eyes. His stomach growled as he looked up at her teasing face. “You must be starving.”
Fuck the gym, Dean thought as he grabbed the plate and snatched up the sandwich in one hand, taking a huge bite. He was famished, his stomach squeezing as he felt overcome with hunger.
“Om’gahd,” Dean said around the turkey club, mayo painting the corner of his mouth. “I missed food.”
“You’re welcome,” Pam chuckled.
Bobby smirked up at her, his eyes doing a sweep of her body that made Dean feel like a grossed out kid. “You never make me sandwiches like that.”
Pam leaned down close to Bobby’s face and murmured, “I could hear his stomach growling from the moment he climbed outta that grave. And I’ll start making you sandwiches when you start fixin’ my damn bike. The exhaust bolts rattled off like three weeks ago and I’m itching for a ride.”
Bobby’s moustache twitched as her face got close. “I mean, I got another ride to keep you busy in the meantime—”
Sam groaned, and Dean straight-up choked on a mouthful of sandwich when Bobby and Pam kissed, Pam apparently turned on by cheap pickup lines and grouchy bearded mechanics. Sam rushed to Dean’s side to clap him hard on the back to help clear his airway.
Bobby turned a deep shade of red as he realised what he’d said, while Pam looked smug.
“Why don’t you get Dean set up in the spare bedroom, Bobby?” Pam suggested, sliding into his chair as Bobby jumped to his feet. “Check the linen closet for his clothes. They’re in a brown box on the top shelf.” As Bobby shuffled up the steps, Pam glanced over her shoulder and added, “Careful taking the box down!”
“Cut it out, woman!” Bobby called from upstairs, his voice muffled. “I can lift a box just fine!”
Pamela shrugged at Dean, her brows raised. From the corner of her mouth, she muttered, “Didn’t say ‘lifting’, did I?”
Even though Dean had known Pamela for only a few minutes, he already liked her a lot.
“Sam,” Pamela instructed, her eyes not leaving Dean’s face as she gestured loftily to Sam, who was watching Dean eat like he was scared he’d disappear if he looked away. “Get Dean a beer, will you? There’s none in the fridge, but I bought some on my supply run earlier today.”
Sam nodded, blinking to break his reverie. “Uh, sure. Where?”
“The garage,” Pamela replied. “Grab an umbrella, the rain is only getting worse.”
Sam lumbered away, though he looked reluctant to have Dean out of his sight. As soon as he grabbed an umbrella from a cobb-webbed corner of the kitchen, he ducked outside into the storm, his shoulders curled, already prepared for the wind to fight him.
The door slammed behind him and Dean jumped at the noise, wincing. Pamela’s relaxed face melted away. She stared at Dean, her brows furrowed, eyes sweeping over his face with worry.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
The mouthful of turkey went down dry, his swallow loud. The meal which he’d enjoyed almost as much as bacon, pie, and burgers was suddenly met with resistance. The first few mouthfuls had been great, but he made it halfway through the thing before he realised he felt a bit sick. The thought of finishing it made his mouth dry up.
Still, she was watching so he took another bite and shrugged. “Yeah. Peachy. A bit damp and cold, and I can’t wait to scrub the mud and dead guy smell off me, but otherwise...”
Pamela’s intense stare forced him to trail off, and he lowered the plate with the half-eaten sandwich to his lap. As soon as he stopped moving, he became aware of his hands shaking. He supposed she could see it too, because she reached forward and wrapped her fingers around his.
“Dean...” She tilted her head at him, her eyes narrowing like she was trying to read the small print on his face. “When Bobby brought me to your grave the first time, I did feel you, Dean. I know how you felt down there; the terror, the panic, the rage. I can still feel fear, and now...yearning. Hunger.”
The turkey sandwich got lodged somewhere in his chest and Dean gripped the edge of the plate in his hands. The cold that followed him from the grave settled deep in his bones once more, and the warmth from the fireplace in the next room or from Pam’s clammy hand disappeared
“I had to claw my way out of my own grave,” he murmured, unable to pull his slightly wide gaze away from Pamela’s eyes that seemed to bore into his soul. “I woke up in an old, rotted box in the middle of a forest, with no light and no idea where I was. It was fucked up.”
“You’re...grieving,” she added, eyes squinting. “What are you grieving?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dean whispered, but his voice wavered, and his chest felt tight, like he was lying to her. “I’m just wet, and dirty, and hungry, and tired. I’ve been dead for six months apparently—if that doesn’t give you low blood sugar, then I dunno what does.” And although his joke fell flat, he waved at her vaguely. “You gotta get that third eye checked out, ‘cause after a shower and some shut-eye, I’ll be fine.”
“Was it the light?” she asked, completely ignoring his attempt at deflection. “I saw it, Dean. I don’t think the others noticed, but I saw it reach for you, I saw it take your hand, and I saw—”
Dean broke her freaky-deaky psychic reading with a laugh. He shrugged. “Sorry, Pam. I don’t really know what you’re talking about. Listen, I dunno how much you know about what happened to me, but the clock struck twelve, the hellhounds came with my fuckin’ glass slipper, and I got dragged to Hell. I don’t really remember much, and I’m just really tired—”
Whatever Pamela had been ready to interrupt with died on her tongue. Sam came back in, soaking wet, and with a case of beer under his arm. Upstairs, Bobby cried out and there was a series of thumps that came one after another in quick succession.
Sitting back with a sigh, Pamela shook her head, dark brown waves flopping around her face. “I told him to be careful.”
Bottles clinked as Sam heaved the box up onto the counter and ripped at the cardboard. He rummaged around in the box before turning and handing Pamela and Dean each an amber bottle.
“Glad you’re back, Dean,” he said, pulling up a chair and opening a beer for himself. Dean met his brother’s gaze. The look that could only be described as puppy-dog-eyes made the trembling in Dean’s hands lessen.
“Cheers,” Dean said, clinking the necks of their beers together. He grinned, adding, “to being stupid enough to bury me nearby!”
Sam’s lips twitched a bit, but he seemed downtrodden, nodding jerkily as he raised the bottle to his lips.
Dean watched Sam, took a swig, then lowered the bottle. After wiping his wrist over his lips to pull away a drop of beer, Dean asked, “Why’d you guys bury me so close anyway? I was right on the property line.”
“Yup,” Sam nodded, settling the beer between his legs, the bottle swinging between his fingers. “Bobby wanted you nearby in case you decided you had to haunt some place. Better here with us than out there, and… Well, I wanted you nearby in case we found a way to pull you out of the pit. Thank God I did, too, ‘cause if we weren’t here, who knows if that weird light woulda got you.”
To buy himself a second, Dean drank from his bottle and huffed with laughter, tipping the bottle back down as he let the bitter drink wash over his tongue. He swallowed. “I mean, considering where I came from, I don’t think God had anything to do with it.”
That dejected, sad look took over Sam’s face again, and Dean suddenly realised that Sam felt guilty.
“Hey,” Dean murmured, his voice echoing into his beer bottle as it paused in front of his lips. He lowered it and raised his brows at his brother. “Quit it with the puppy dog eyes.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t raise you myself, Dean,” Sam said, echoing his earlier sentiment.
“It’s all right, Sammy,” Dean replied quietly. “Though I’m damn curious as to how I’m walking and talking right now.”
Pamela, who’d been watching them, crossed her legs and shrugged, turning out her palm and gesturing vaguely with her bottle. “D’you think we should ask your glowy grave friend?”
“My what?” Dean repeated, though his palm was suddenly the only warm place on his body as he recalled the hand gripping his as he’d ran.
“I mean, it seemed to be coming from your grave site,” Pamela explained. “We initially thought someone was trying to dig you up. It looked like a lantern was bobbing around in there. Bobby looked out the window and saw this light where they buried you. I haven’t seen him grab his gun so fast since he saw Sam try to install an iPod jack into your Impala.”
“You what!?” Dean snapped, his head jerking at Sam, his eyes alight with betrayal.
Sam gaped at him, glancing at Pamela like she’d told his darkest secret. “I...I mean… Well, I just…” Sam sighed. “Bobby stopped me.”
“Damn straight I did,” Bobby barked as he trudged down the stairs, re-joining the conversation. “More like ‘iBomination’, that’s what that is. Got no place in a beauty of a car like that.”
As he walked back into the kitchen, Bobby was rubbing at his shoulder. “Pulled out summa your old stuff. It’s a bunch of crap your brother emptied from your duffle after…” Bobby trailed off after glancing at Sam. With an abrupt clear of his throat, Bobby murmured, “Box is on the bed. All your trinkets should be in there. Watch, jewellery, clothes, shoes—”
“Oh!” Pamela nodded. “Shoes, that’s what you had to be careful about.”
The eye roll she received in return was so intense Dean was surprised Bobby’s eyes didn’t get stuck that way.
“Yeah, girl,” Bobby snorted. “You could’ve said ‘look out for the other box of shoes on top of the one you’re lookin’ for, it’s spilly and they’ll hurt on the way down towards your face’, but no, you had to be all cryptic as usual.”
With a mocking wiggle of her overly-adorned fingers, Pamela winked at Dean and said to Bobby, “It helps maintain my spooky aura. What kind of psychic would I be if I was explicitly telling everyone about their future?”
“Well,” Bobby grumbled, shifting in the seat he’d dropped into, “warn me next time your third eye sees ‘bout four sets of dirty boots falling over my head.”
“Noted, baby,” Pamela grinned, reaching over to rub the back of Bobby’s neck fondly. “Anyway, the light; I saw it reaching for you, and I heard it speak.”
“Speak?” Dean, Sam, and Bobby all said together, exchanging confused looks.
“Yeah,” Pamela replied, shrugging and leaning back in her chair, propping up her ankle on her other knee, her shoe and a charmed anklet bouncing. “Heard it before we saw the light. It was saying, ‘you have been saved’.”
“You could hear what it was saying?” Dean asked, perplexed, his eyes wide. “All I heard was this awful ringing. I thought my ear drums were gonna burst.”
“Can you summon it?” Sam asked, tapping Pam on the shoulder. Intensely, he stared at her and gestured around as he continued, “‘Cause if you can, we should try to see if it knows something, or if it raised Dean itself.” Then Sam paused, adding uncomfortably, “Or… ‘saved’ him.”
“I’d need something it touched,” Pamela said, looking uncertain as she looked around the room at the boys.
Every part of Dean felt cold and unwell...except his tinglingly, warm hand. He glanced down at it in realization, and when he looked up, Pam was already smiling.
She nodded down at his hand. “Bingo.”
***
In any other house, setting up for a summoning ritual might be tricky, but Bobby Singer was stocked with blood of lamb, a strange and illegal assortment of animal and human bones, and a plant that Dean was tempted to steal just because he was convinced he could smoke it.
Dean, Sam, Bobby, and Pamela gathered around a small round table that was usually buried under volumes of heavy, ancient dusty texts. They’d pulled it into the center of the room, the boys rearranging the furniture while Pamela arranged the spell ingredients into their proper schematic. She had four candles; green, red, blue, and yellow, arranged around a bowl where she carefully placed crystals as if were some sort of sequence.
“It’s almost ready. Sit,” she instructed, her voice low and wispy. As the boys exchanged looks and sat down at the table with her, she dragged a stick of incense through the air, murmuring under her breath in a language Dean didn’t recognize. The lights in the room were out, the only source of luminosity coming from the smattering of lit candles spread around the room on table tops and books. The four candles in front of them flickered, even though there was no breeze flowing through the room.
They were silent, so the dragging of Pamela’s chair across the floor made them jump. She ignored them and sat down, tucking herself up against the table and holding out her hands, palms up.
“Okay, I need direct contact with where the thing touched you,” she whispered, reaching out for Dean, who slid his hand, still covered in mud and grass, into her grip. Sam and Bobby mimicked the gesture when she waved at them with her free hand and said, “We need to create a circle, get those paws together.”
Once all their palms were pressed against each others tightly, Pamela started speaking.
“Reveal yourself, stranger. We saw you tonight. I heard your voice… Come forth without fear, we mean you no harm.”
Dean sat there, staring around at all the jack-squat that was happening and wondered if it was rude to tell Bobby’s new girlfriend that she was coo-coo for cocoa-puffs, because he wasn’t seeing anything. Nothing seemed to be happening.
But then Pamela’s head jerked a bit, her closed eyes squeezing, her head turning to the side like she was straining to hear a quiet noise. The boys leaned in, staring at her.
“Come closer,” she whispered gently, her brows relaxing. “No… No, I’m not in pain. I can hear you just fine. You’re welcome to speak with me… What? How do you know that about me?”
It was like she was on the phone with someone and they were catching only half of the conversation. Except for the fact that she was holding onto their hands, Pamela seemed to forget all about Sam, Bobby, and Dean.
She’d made contact. She was definitely speaking to someone, but Dean had been hunting monsters for most of his life, so he was instantly wary and distrusting.
A sharp gasp and little jump from Pamela startled her rapt audience again. While he expected a look of pain to cross her face, Pamela looked in awe.
“Oh my…” she breathed, brows raised up onto her forehead, her mouth turning up in the corners. “I… Oh… Mmm… Yes. Yes, of course you can. But only for a moment.”
“Pam,” Bobby murmured, and Dean glanced over to him in time to see worry cross over his features and their joined hands squeeze. “What’s going on, my girl?”
Pamela’s face went slack and her eyes opened slowly.
Her eyes, which had been a muted green, now shone vaguely blue, glowing dully as she gazed down at the table. She seemed to sway side-to-side as whatever it was settled into her body.
“Dean,” she said, her head tilting up to look at him.
Bobby, Sam, and Dean pushed their chairs back abruptly and stumbled away from the table, staring at Pamela in horror. The voice that had come from her mouth didn’t belong to her; it was dozens of voices; male, female, young, old. Dean could swear he heard the growl of lions and the twittering of birds, as well as the subtle hum of bees. It was commanding and airy all at the same time.
“You don’t recognize me,” it said flatly. “On this plane, in this vessel, you don’t remember.”
It was a statement, not a question.
Despite that, Dean had an answer to the question. As the voice—voices?— spoke to him, Dean felt a strange sensation in his stomach; the anxiety—the writhing twist and curl of snakes in his stomach that jerked and snapped whenever he felt fear—suddenly felt calmer. The voice was...familiar, somehow.
“No, I don’t fucking remember,” he replied instead. His face twisted and he jutted his finger at it. “Get out of Pam, you creepy son of a bitch. You can’t just possess people whenever you want!”
A soft blink was the only thing that interrupted the intensely bright stare that focused on Dean.
“The clairvoyant possesses sufficient capabilities to perceive my true visage,” the voice said, the deep rumblings of its speech making Dean’s chest vibrate. “She called to me, and she not only allowed me, but invited me to use her body as a conduit—a vessel—albeit temporarily. She won’t hold me for long. She will soon expire as my grace attempts to settle.”
“A...what!?” Bobby sputtered, reaching back for the gun tucked in his belt. “Expire? Get out of her!”
The thing in Pamela stared at the end of the gun boredly, then glanced up at Bobby and nodded. “Very well. I assumed this vessel would bring you comfort. Perhaps I was wrong.”
“GET OUT OF HER!” Bobby roared, his gun trembling in his hand.
Sam and Dean exchanged looks of fear from either ends of the table, over the top of Bobby’s gun. Bobby couldn’t shoot; he’d hurt Pamela. And it seemed Bobby knew it, too, because his eyes were wide and desperate, an expression Dean would pay good money to never see again. He knew Bobby had lost a wife to possession, and he doubted, while he knew the old man was strong, Bobby would be able to do it again.
Pamela’s head tilted and she nodded again. “I will return in my own Earthly vessel. At midnight, I will return—”
“Not into my house,” Bobby growled. “You better choose another rendezvous point, asshat—”
“What… What about the barn out back?” Sam asked, seeming to remember he had the capability of speech. When he swallowed, looking back at the thing possessing Pam, the glowing eyes were soft.
“Samuel,” it whispered reverently.
Everyone exchanged looks. Sam seemed hesitant, swallowing and pursing his lips, shuffling away every so slightly, his fingers rubbing his palms at his side.
“I will return at midnight,” it said, staring at Sam intently.
Then Pamela’s eyes slid closed and she collapsed back into the chair, her head lolling to the side, dark brown curls bouncing, sliding over her cheeks to obscure her face. Bobby was across the table in seconds, shoving Dean out of the way to get to her.
“Pam?” Bobby asked, sounding more panicked than Dean’d ever heard him as he tapped at her face with a dirty, calloused hand, and cupped her jaw as it tried to loll away, turning it towards him. “Come on, my girl, wake up!”
Sam was kneeled by her side, her wrist in his hand. “She’s alive, Bobby. Her pulse is strong.”
“Move!” Bobby barked, and Sam stumbled back, away from Pam. Before either Winchester could react, Bobby pulled Pamela out of her seat and hoisted her up into his arms. Sam and Dean exchanged looks, their eyebrows shooting up their foreheads, impressed.
“You need help, Bobby?” Sam called as Bobby stomped through the kitchen with Pam’s limp figure in his arms, looking so pissed off that Dean was surprised steam wasn’t shooting out of his ears.
While at first Sam was ignored, halfway up the steps Bobby paused and yelled down to them, “Dean, get your ass in the shower, get dressed, and Sam, you get my guns loaded and knives sharpened. We meet in the barn at 11:30. Get that shit ready to trap whoever the fuck got in my Pam. Grab every spellbook we have; I want no trapping ritual left out, yeh hear?”
Grumpy, annoyed footsteps clunked up the stairs and over their heads into Bobby’s bedroom. Sam and Dean looked down from the ceiling to stare at each other.
“What the fuck was th—” Dean started, but he was cut off when Sam rushed forward and threw his arms round Dean’s neck, burying his face in his shoulder.
“Uh,” Dean chuckled, reaching up to pat Sam on the back. “Hi?”
Under Dean’s hands, Sam’s rib cage expanded and contracted in a few shuddering breaths before Sam breathed with a tremor, “Hi.”
The twisted, nervous feeling in Dean got worse, but this time with added hurt. Sam seemed in pain, and Dean couldn’t fucking stand it when Sam was in pain.
“Hey, man,” Dean murmured, realising Sam was upset, hearing him sniffle into his dirty shirt. “Don’t cry on me, man. I smell like dead guy, it’s embarrassing.”
Sam laughed into the grimy flannel, nodding. “Yeah, you reek.”
They pulled away from each other, hands lingering on shoulders. Sam’s dopey, wobbly smile and shining eyes managed to make Dean feel happy and torn up all at the same time. He was getting a little teary-eyed himself.
“You try being dead for six months and see how you stink after, bitch. Old Spice can only get a guy so far.”
Dean’s joke landed flat as Sam reached up and dragged his palm over his own mouth, the corners of his eyes damp with tears that slowly dragged over tired, dark lines that hadn’t been that deep six months ago.
“Hey, man…” Dean murmured, fingers curling in plaid.
“I tried everything, Dean,” Sam murmured, staring somewhere over Dean’s shoulders. “I tried everything, I swear. I never stopped looking.”
“I know,” Dean said, though a horrible, deep part of him was relieved that he hadn’t been abandoned. Dean patted Sam on the muscle of his bulky arm, moving his hand away for a moment only to poke him in the chest. “Though clearly you didn’t never stop looking. Obviously you had time to pump some serious iron. Where is my limp noodle of a brother? Did you eat him?”
Sam’s bark of laughter was a relief, and Dean felt the rocks in his stomach dissolve, leaving room for a brief glimmer of amusement.
“You’re a jerk,” Sam huffed, wiping at his eyes.
Dean patted Sam on the shoulder, moving towards the stairs.
“I missed you too, bitch.”