Chapter Text
Through the windshield of the idling Impala, Dean watched as the wide, prairie sky turned an inky black in the east, with only a smudge of blood-red crusting the edge of the western horizon. He checked his watch. Again. It wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know: they were running out of time, and Castiel was nowhere to be found.
A tiny, frustrated sigh emanated from the passenger seat, where Sam sat, his long legs bouncing slightly with impatience. Dean eyed his brother, wondering if and when Sammy was going to get around to voicing his opinion on whether or not to pull the plug on this mission. This ‘equal footing’ deal was great in theory, but at times like these, Dean longed for the days when there was a nice, clean chain of command, and every decision didn’t have to be ratified by a committee before action was taken.
“He’s not coming,” Sam said at last, his brow set into its usual deep frown. Dean was starting to forget what his brother looked like without it.
“He’ll show,” Dean replied with conviction. “He’s never let us down before.”
They sat a while longer in silence, as the cobalt blue in the west was hammered into submission by nightfall. Any minute now, the fields surrounding them were going to churn and crack and disgorge an army of soldiers moulded from the earth itself – clay monsters raised by demon sorcery and all but unstoppable. The only weapon they had against these bastards was Castiel, whose angelic presence was capable of subduing them, rendering the soldiers inert...that is, if he got to them before they became fully animated.
As the last vestiges of daylight died in the sky, the ground started to rumble, right on cue. All around them the fallow fields began to percolate, mounds of dirt and grass reforming and taking on a familiarly human shape. In the ditch next to Sam’s window, the bowed earth burst suddenly upwards, the mud and weeds twining together in a sick mockery of sinew and muscle until a fully formed clay man lifted its feet from the ground and lurched shakily forward. It was so close to the car that Dean could clearly see the beetles and worms writhing in the soldier’s muddy skin and how, as the eyeless dirt face turned up towards the dim moonlight, a sinkhole appeared in place of a mouth. A god-awful howling arose from the creature, and it was echoed back by others – countless others, throughout the surrounding farmland.
Sam turned to him with an expression that reeked of I-told-ya-sos, just as a muddy hand slapped up against the passenger-side window. “Dean...”
“Fine,” Dean gave in. What choice did he have? Castiel had missed his window of opportunity, and now the neighbouring town of Red River was going to suffer for it. They could only pray that there would be a town left, come sunrise, and that they’d have a second chance to lay the army to rest when night fell again over these fields.
Dean put the car into gear and pealed out onto the deserted highway. Their headlights sliced through the country darkness, boring holes into the distance without illuminating the scenery around them. It was an oppressive landscape – so open and vast, and yet encased in a blackness so absolute they might as well have been driving through a cave. Ignoring his instinct to slow down to a safe speed, Dean put his foot down and felt the Impala’s motor respond with a grumble. If they could make it into Red River in time to warn people, they might be able to save some of them.
He was so focused on his goal that Dean jumped when his cell phone rang in his jacket pocket. It took a few fumbling tries before he managed to dislodge it, and he flipped it open quickly to put an end to the insistent ringing.
“You better have a damned good excuse, Cas,” he growled into the phone.
There was a slight pause on the other end, and then an unfamiliar, female voice answered him. “Is this Dean?” she asked.
Dean frowned. “Who is this? How’d you get this number?” he shot back, ignoring his brother’s curious glances.
“My name is Michelle Matthews. I’m a nurse at Holy Cross Hospital,” said the woman, more politely than most people would have in response to Dean’s gruffness. “A man was brought into Emergency a few minutes ago, with no ID. Just a cell phone. And your number was the only one on his speed dial.”
A heavy feeling of dread settled on his chest, slowly squeezing at Dean’s heart. “Was this guy wearing a beige trench coat, by any chance?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
There was another pause in which he could hear her conferring with someone in the background. “No coat, but he may have been wearing one before the paramedics began working on him. They had to cut away some of his clothing,” she explained.
“Are you in Red River?” Dean asked, doing his best to sound calm when he was anything but.
“Cold Creek,” she answered. “But he was brought here from Red River. We’re the closest hospital, I’m afraid. There’s nothing much around here but cows.”
“I’m on my way,” said Dean, snapping his phone shut. He cast a quick glance at Sam, who was watching him with wide eyes, waiting to be filled in. “That was the hospital in Cold Creek,” he supplied.
“Castiel?” Sam asked, sounding more surprised than concerned. Dean couldn’t really blame him – this was unprecedented. Cas had battled angels and demons alike and had bounced back without needing so much as a Band-Aid. Still, it irked Dean that his brother didn’t seem even remotely worried.
Dean pursed his lips and nodded. He knew what Sam was going to say next, and he didn’t want to hear it.
“Dean, we have to go to Red River. We have to get those people outta there.”
A flash of anger sparked in Dean’s eyes as he slid his gaze sideways to look at his brother. “This is Cas, Sam,” he ground out between clenched teeth. “We’re going to Cold Creek; end of discussion.”
Sam looked back at him in disbelief. “Right,” he drawled back at him. “This is Cas, Dean. Cas. He’ll be fine, like always. But there’s a town full of people who are going to be sod-fodder if we don’t get them out of Dodge, right now.”
Dean’s nostrils flared and he gripped the steering wheel tight. He knew Sammy was right; that was the kicker. Logic and reason were pointing towards Red River with brightly flashing neon signs, but he couldn’t shake the chest-gripping fear that Castiel needed him. Sure, he’d always healed quickly before, but what if this time was different? The only other time he’d been rendered unconscious, he’d come to as Jimmy Novak. But Jimmy was gone now – whisked off to his eternal reward after Raphael blew him to pieces along with the angel that was borrowing his body. If Cas had been snatched away by the angels again, what would happen to his empty vessel? Would it die? Would Cas have to find a new vessel? For some reason, that thought upset Dean a lot. He didn’t know why; he’d seen demons and angels shucking off bodies in favour of new ones like they were all taking part in some celestial fashion show. But the thought of Cas without those pensive blue eyes just seemed wrong somehow.
“Well?” Sam prodded when Dean didn’t reply.
“If it was Bobby, we wouldn’t be having this discussion,” Dean grumbled.
“Bobby’s family,” Sam stated matter-of-factly.
Dean was about to argue that Castiel was family, too, but that didn’t feel right. Cas wasn’t family; he didn’t fit in with them the way Bobby, Ellen and Jo had. But he fit in with Dean just fine. Cas was something different. Special. At least to Dean he was; and if Sam couldn’t see that, then he obviously didn’t understand how important the angel had become to him. Hell, he didn’t really understand it himself.
The headlights snagged on a road sign welcoming them to the township of Red River. The carved wooden sign had once been brightly painted in greens, yellows and blues, but the paint had long since faded, chipping and cracking in places to reveal the reddish-coloured wood beneath. In the brief moment it was illuminated, the cracks in the painted river on the sign appeared to be bleeding. It sent a shiver down Dean’s spine.
Despite the twitchy, anxious feeling at the base of his skull, Dean took the turnoff into town instead of pushing on towards Cold Creek, which was another fifteen minutes down the highway. “Happy?” he snipped, his shoulders hunching against the chilly wrongness of going against his gut instincts.
“What’s wrong with you?” Sam goaded, looking at him suspiciously.
“Nothing.” The curtness in his voice put a swift end to the conversation. Sam shook his head and sighed before returning his attention to the road, leaving Dean to stew in silence.
A couple of minutes down the road they came across a western-style bar called the Red Barn Tavern on the outskirts of town. The parking lot was jam-packed with trucks and SUVs, with the odd import squeezed in for good measure. The sound of twangy guitar music seeped through the door, which was propped open with a brick. A clutch of smokers huddled near the entrance, closing ranks against the sharp evening breeze.
Dean’s eyebrows rose as he met his brother’s eyes. Sam, too, looked baffled. From the looks of it, the entire town was crammed into the bar, filling it to bursting point. A wild cheer broke out, temporarily drowning out the sound of country music. It was followed by a rhythmic chanting and finally another hooting cheer from the crowd.
“Sounds like my kind of town,” Dean admitted with some reluctance. He slowed the Impala to a crawl, scanning for a place to park. The lot was full, but there were cars perched on the shoulders of the road as far as the eye could see, and about a block away Dean spied a gap that might just fit his baby.
Walking from the car towards the saloon-style bar, Dean couldn’t help noticing the vast number of rifle racks affixed to the trucks and SUVs they passed. With an arsenal like this at their disposal, the people of Red River just might stand a chance, he thought.
They nodded at the squinty-eyed smokers at the door, pushing their way past a clot of half-plastered patrons until they were expelled into the muggy heat of the bar. Warm bodies pressed in on them from every direction, the air heavy with the fug of stale beer and perspiration. Much to Dean’s chagrin, it looked a lot like the synchronous gyrating taking place at the centre of the floor was line dancing. He moaned in spiritual pain over the injustice of it all. Why’d it have to be line dancing?
“What d’you think?” Sam shouted at him, his voice barely penetrating through the clamorous din of the bar, despite being only a foot away.
“I think we got ourselves a posse,” Dean shouted back and was met with an expression of distaste from his brother.
“Now is NOT the time, Dean,” Sam barked at him, confusing him until he figured out the misunderstanding.
“I said ‘POSSE’, you pig!”
Sam’s mouth formed an O of understanding before cracking into a goofy smile. And he always called Dean immature. Go figure!
The current song ended with a few catcalls and hoots from the revellers, and a withered, leathery-faced old man with a busty, pony-tailed barmaid supporting him, took to the podium. A ridiculously large white cowboy hat pushed down past the old man’s ears, obscuring his eyes. He was so tottery that he looked like he might keel over before making it to the microphone.
The crowd quieted instantly when the old geezer blew into the mic, making it give an ear-splitting, electronic squeal. The man’s reedy voice puffed against the sensitive equipment and his audience winced as the speakers squealed again.
“Good evening, Red River,” he wheezed and grinned a crinkly, false-toothed smile at the crowd. “Welcome to Buck Night. As you know, hunting season starts at precisely 12:01 AM, and at 12:02 I will be announcing the winner of the Hummer you all’ve been drooling over for the last four weeks.” There was a smattering of laughter and applause at this announcement, followed by a low-level murmuring which ended only when the mic crackled to life again beneath the old man’s breath. “So until then, eat, drink, and don’t forget to bribe the raffle officials.” His departing wave nearly threw him off balance, but the pretty, young barmaid quickly stepped forward to catch him. The music was blaring again before the old dude had even made it off the stage.
Dean nudged Sam in the ribs and leaned in to speak into his ear. “Let’s get some air.”
Sam nodded in reply, not bothering to attempt a verbal response now that the floor-stomping tunes had kicked into high gear again.
A new batch of smokers eyed them as they exited the building, quickly dismissing them as a non-threat before resuming their carcinogenic pastime. Dean yanked on his brother’s sleeve, guiding him further away from the door so they could talk without being overheard.
“This looks like a good place to make a stand,” Sam said when they were alone.
Dean dipped his head in agreement. “The children of the cornfield won’t get here for a while. They may be deadly as hell, but they’re slow. Plenty of time to get these people armed and secured. You can handle that, can’t you Sammy?” Dean clapped his kid brother on the arm and started walking back to the Impala. Of course he knew he wouldn’t get far without Sam protesting, but it was worth a shot.
“Where’re you going? There’s an army of mud men heading this way, and you’re leaving me?” Sam asked incredulously.
“I’ll be back before the fun starts, Sammy, but I gotta go. I’ve got a bad feeling. I think he needs me.” There was no need to clarify who ‘he’ was, and Dean didn’t stick around to get pulled into another argument on the subject. He had an angel to attend to.