Alchemy, Pt. 3

[wanderamaranth]

<<Part Two

The glass and plastic from Sammy's broken camera was embedded in Dean's palms, forearms and elbows, (shoved into his skin by Alistair, who was nothing if not creative) but this was the least of his concerns. He drug himself across the dirty warehouse floor on them anyways because his legs were unable to support his weight. Dean didn't know what exactly had caused that, either Alistair's knife or his fists, but the end result was the same, so he supposed it didn't really matter. Gritting his teeth, he focused on inching forward, aware that if he made too much noise he was dead, and if he went too slowly he was dead, too.

Chances were pretty good that he was dead, period. But what could Dean say? He was an optimist.

He'd seized the moment when Alistair had stepped out of the room (to get more salt to rub into his wounds, he'd said, and boy, Dean was looking forward to that) and used the key that the man had inadvertently left in Dean's reach to free himself from the chains that held him. Dean estimated he had five, ten minutes at the most to find a place to hide. Running wasn't an option. He had no idea where he was, and his injuries were too great for him to go any distance, anyways. Despite the pokes and prods, the slices and touches, Dean'd forced himself to stay awake and aware of his surroundings, just in case this sort of chance presented itself.

The spot where he'd been stabbed in his side ached with a fierceness Dean hadn't felt from an injury since Sammy'd wrecked the Impala years earlier. That accident had been nearly fatal for Dean, which unfortunately gave him a fairly good indication of the severity of his current wound.

“Deeeeeean,” that horrible voice sang, and Dean tried not to panic. It was close, much too close for comfort. He'd have thought that Alistair had found him if it weren't for the fact that he knew the bastard would be gloating already if he had. An hour in his tender care, Dean estimated, an hour since that bizarre telephone conversation with Novak, and yet it felt as though it had been years.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Alistair continued, a metallic sound that Dean identified as the tip of a knife tapping one of the warehouse's ubiquitous metal pipes. “It'll only hurt for a little while if you show your pretty face now. I promise.”

Dean considered that if a demon popped in front of him right in that moment, he would gladly trade his soul for the opportunity to escape—or at the very, very least, to have Cas on the phone again, so he could ask him to pass along to Sammy how sorry he was. If Sammy was okay himself. If Cas would even do as he asked. That, Dean knew, would never happen. His Razor was long gone, smashed as soon as they'd discovered him talking on it when they pulled him out of the back of the vehicle they'd transported him, and besides, Dean didn't even know if Castiel was someone he could trust. Putting his faith in him was a flimsy hope at best.

“Ah, there you are,” Alistair's cold voice said as one of his clammy hands grasped the back of his neck, the long nails tipping his fingers digging into the skin. Dean sobbed. He couldn't go back with Alistair. He couldn't. He'd break and tell him where every single deposit box was, and he'd already told him the location of too many as it was and if he placed his hands on Dean again then he'd—

Intense heat and blinding bright light burst across Dean's senses. Alistair released his grip on his neck, and Dean didn't care if his blasphemous prayer bargaining with his soul had been answered and this was a demon come to collect him or not. Anything had to be better than remaining on that warehouse floor with Alistair's touch and a sharp knife poised above him.

“You,” Alistair hissed, and there was surprise and caution in the henchman's voice. Dean tried to lift his chin to see who or what could pull those emotions from such a sociopath, but all he saw were flames topping tattered black trousers littered in smoking holes puddling over a man's bare, oddly graceful feet. He blinked, trying to see more, but between wooziness from blood loss and the relieved euphoria of a possible rescue, Dean was unable to focus.

“I do not believe we've ever met,” a man coolly said to Alistair, and holy shit, Dean must be hallucinating, because he knew that voice, and there was no possible way on earth that Castiel Novak of the cheap suits and JCPenny's trench coat had interrupted Alistair's little party on wings of flame. No. Way.

Alistair continued talking, unperturbed that Dean's quiet, nerdy workmate was standing in front of him, burning. “Nevertheless I know who you are. I must admit I'm surprised to see you here. It's much too early for your chivalrous tendencies to override your innate fear of involvement. I was counting on at least a week or two alone with Dean here before you tracked us down.”

Dean fought the urge to vomit. A week or two with Alistair and if Dean wasn't dead he'd sincerely wish he was.

“Unless,” Alistair paused, “you are not exactly what you were advertised to be.” He tsked. “See, this is what happens when you allow others to shop for your ingredients. You end up with an inferior product. And that is just not acceptable, no it is not. I shall be having words with young Megara, make no mistake.”

“Step away from Dean,” the man facing Alistair said, and damn, but it still sounded like Cas. Dean had no idea what Alistair was rambling to him about, and from the confusion clouding Castiel's words, he didn't either.

That wasn't reassuring.

“Make me,” Alistair said, the challenge clear.

Dean rolled over onto his back and forced his eyelids open just in time for the flames surrounding Castiel—and it was Cas!—to go out, and for the man to say in a scarily confident tone, “Fine.” A single rotation of his wrist, and a ball of white-hot flame filled the palm of his hand.

“Ah. I see you've been practicing,” Alistair said. “How...unexpected.” Dean's blood thrummed at the fear he heard from the man. Alistair charged forward, and Castiel threw the fireball.

It hit Alistair square in the chest, knocking him to the ground, his body rolling several feet before coming to rest against a rusted steel barrel. Castiel's eyes were wide, as if he himself couldn't believe what he'd just done, his mouth slightly parted.

Dean must have passed out for a moment, because when he opened his eyes again Castiel was picking him up off the warehouse floor and interspersing apologies with soft encouragements and reassurances.

“Sorry, Cas. Sorry,” Dean said. It was important that he apologize.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Dean. Nothing,” Castiel stressed.

“Thought you were working with them. Thought Bobby was right, but you saved me. Sorry, Cas, I'm sorry.”

Castiel hoisted him into his arms. Their noses bumped as Cas leaned close, making sure to meet Dean's eyes. Blue, blue, Dean thought even as he said, “Sorry,” again, like he'd lost the ability to say any other word.

“Dean,” Castiel said, and if he wasn't speaking so seriously Dean wasn't sure he would believe him, “I forgive you.”

He could feel himself collapse against Cas at those words but could do nothing to stop it. Dean clung to the other man, digging the point of his chin into the musculature of a deceptively sloped shoulder and buried his face against the side of Castiel's neck. Breathing deeply, he caught the faint scent of burnt sweet grass overlaid with the more pungent tang of masculine sweat. Eyes fluttering, he heard a groan and, impossibly, saw movement from the previously still form of Alistair.

“Cas,” Dean said urgently, as Alistair twitched and began to sit up. “Cas!”

Some of his panic must have leached through, because Castiel clutched Dean closer and spun them around, making a movement that should have been clumsy as graceful as Fred sweeping Ginger across a dance floor. Dean felt Castiel's deep inhalation, and when he said, “Hold on tightly,” he didn't have time to question Cas' intentions. Instead he pushed himself closer. The arm around his back tightened, a hot flush and a whoosh of air and Alistair was on his feet, Dean could tell because he was screaming (“mine, mine, you can't take what's mine!”) and Castiel was pulling back his right hand and lobbing another ball of fire. Right after the throw Castiel clamped down hard on Dean's shoulder, causing white-blistering pain joined the myriad of others. It was one pain too many; he felt his feet leaving the ground and then nothing more.

Cinnamon, nutmeg, and the fresh crispness of artificial apple scent and soft hands soothing balm over his aching shoulder were what drug Dean to partial wakefulness.

“Dean,” someone said, and when he opened his eyes it was to see Castiel's staring into his own. His mouth began moving again, but Dean was having difficulty concentrating on the words.

“Dean,” Cas said again, more urgently, his hands coming up to cup Dean's face. He felt the smear of whatever it was Castiel had been rubbing on his shoulder across his cheek. “Dean, where can I take you that's safe?”

“Safe?” Dean heard himself say. “Safe here.”

“No, Dean, no, it's not,” Castiel said. Dean just wanted to let his eyes fall shut again and sleep for a million years. With consciousness came the awareness that he hurt all over, and following closely on the heels of that was the memory of how he'd come to be hurt, and he didn't want to remember that, so sleep it was.

“Dean!” Just why Castiel kept repeating his name was lost on him. Was Cas worried he didn't know himself?

“Yes?” he said, a bit testily even to his own ears.

“Do you know of a safe place I can take you? It's not safe here, that man—the one who had you—recognized me somehow, and he's going to think to look for us here.”

“Bobby,” Dean breathed. “Bobby'll help. He knows everything, that's going on.”

“That's good Dean, good,” Castiel praised him. Dean took this as a cue that he was finally allowed to get back to the important business of sleeping, but Cas shook him.

“What?”

“I don't know how to get ahold of Bobby. Do you have his phone number, an address, anything?”

“Number,” Dean grunted. “In my phone.” He forgot that his trusty Razor was so much junk now.

“Phone,” Castiel said. “Of course.” Instead of fumbling through Dean's pockets, though, Castiel lowered Dean's head back onto a pillow and stepped away. There was the familiar chime of a cell being turned on, and curiosity caused Dean to keep his eyes open just a crack (just for a second, he told himself). There, in Cas' grip, was Sammy's iPhone, recognizable due to the douchy decal he'd insisted on slapping on the back of it.

“Hey, that's Sammy's!” Dean said, then “Bobby: speed dial 2,” before drifting off.

His mouth tasted like ass.

That was Dean's first coherent thought upon waking, followed swiftly by Ow, then oh God, motherfucker, pain! These thoughts he kept to himself in favor of prying an eye slowly open. He was in Bobby's most-recognizable guest room, the one that had been Jo's Wild West playroom as a child before being converted to a bedroom by the addition of a bed with a Navajo print comforter.

Sam was sitting next to the said bed, head in his hands. At Dean's rustle of movement, he lifted his face.

“Oh, God, Dean!” he exclaimed. Dean would have laughed at his brother's flair for the dramatic if he wasn't hurting quite so much.

“What the hell happened?” he croaked instead and great, his voice sounded the way his mouth tasted.

“I was hoping you'd be able to tell me,” Sam said, jumping to his feet. Dean found a cup of water with a bendy-straw being held under his nose. Never one to object to his brother's fussing when he genuinely felt horrible, Dean leaned forward and took a sip.

“Last thing I remember is being in the warehouse, and Alistair...” he stopped at the sudden feeling of panic even saying the man's name manifested, swallowed and then said, “How the hell'd I get out? You come back for me? And how'd we get to Bobby's?”

“I wish to hell it'd been me, Dean,” Sam said, shame crumpling his features. “But it wasn't. Someone else pulled you out.”

“Someone else?”

A familiar, rumpled figure filled the doorway, a steaming bowl held between his hands. Castiel. The sleeves of an unfamiliar light green dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows, revealing narrow wrists and slightly tanned forearms. It was odd seeing Cas in such a way, like seeing a creature you'd normally only encounter at the zoo's dangerous animals exhibits reposed in their natural habitat. Even his blue tie was missing, which Dean had seen Castiel wear even when he switched his usual white shirts for light blue, and the top two buttons of his placket were undone.

At seeing Dean, a relieved smile broke across Castiel's face. It was a wide, so wide his gums showed, and his nose wrinkled just the slightest bit with it. Dean found himself thinking that the dude probably didn't have any problems finding dates when he wanted them, and idly wondered what sort of wingman he'd be.

The word wingman jarred lose a memory of Castiel, sans any shirt at all, even an unfamiliar green one, broad expanses of fire spanning out on either side, looking like a demon from hell. Or, he reconsidered, as the memory of what he pulled him out of followed closely behind, an avenging angel, come to save his sorry-ass soul.

“You're awake,” Castiel was saying, but Dean was less concerned about what Cas was saying and more worried about his obviously faulty and deranged memories.

“You...pulled me out,” he managed to say. Castiel handed the steaming bowl over to Sam, who took it and placed it on the nearby side table.

Something flickered across Castiel's face, some expression that Dean couldn't read, and then it smoothed out into what Dean thought of as his professional calm.

“I'm sorry, Dean.” Licking his lips, he added, “About your shoulder. I should have known, but...I'm still learning...control.”

“My...” Dean jerked and looked down at his left shoulder, which was completely covered in thick white bandages. “That was real?”

“I...yes,” Castiel said, at the same time Sam asked, “What was real?”

Dean didn't answer his brother, instead looking at Cas. He knew without looking in a mirror that his eyes were wide, his mouth gaping open in disbelief.

“Dude,” he forced out. “What are you?”

A wry twist of his lips and Castiel replied, “Would you believe me if I told you I don't know?”

Hours later, and it seemed that Dean was no closer to believing Castiel when he began his explanation.

“So what you're basically saying is that you're some sort of superhero.”

Sighing, Castiel rubbed his eyes and said, “While my abilities may be super-human, I haven't done anything heroic enough to earn the title superhero.”

“Dude,” Dean said, green eyes bright, “You saved my life when lots of folks would have left me there to rot. That's pretty damn heroic to me.”

The weight of Dean's gaze on him sent a long, slow throb through Castiel's belly, not unlike what he'd first felt when his powers began to manifest themselves. He was saved from having to consider what that meant by Sam's re-entry into the room, Bobby on his heels.

“Cas,” Sam hissed, shoving his cell phone at him, “it's for you.”

“I don't understand,” Castiel protested. “Why would someone be calling for me on your number?”

“It's Crowley,” Bobby said. “He called me 'bout five, ten minutes ago, asking if I knew a way to get ahold of you 'sides your home phone number. I told him no, but that you'd mentioned something about going out with the boys the night before, maybe try one of them.”

“Why would you do that?”

It was Dean who answered Castiel. “Because he's maintaining your cover.”

“My what?” The conversation had moved past Castiel's comprehension.

“Aren't you working for the jackass?” Bobby put in.

“Aren't I...only in the way that I am working for you, Bobby,” Castiel said.

“So you're not a mole placed to keep an eye on me,” Dean said with no little satisfaction, giving Bobby as triumphant a look as someone with a bruise that covered one entire half of his face could.

“Just take the phone and agree to whatever he wants,” Sam demanded, thrusting the phone into Castiel's hand.

He did, even tempted as he was to hang up on the editor and pretend that he'd never called.

“Hello?”

“Castiel,” Crowley purred. “You're a difficult man to track down.”

“Crowley,” Castiel growled, unable to keep the edge from his voice. The man was involved in the entire mess, just as much as Meg was, and he was not in the mood for honeyed words.

“Word is Winchester did something reckless enough to land himself in the hospital for a few days. If you were with him last night as Bobby claims then I'm certain you know all about that, though.”

Looking over at where Dean was reclined on Bobby's guest bed in his guest room, which was certainly in no way, shape or form like a hospital, (even if that was exactly what the man really needed) Castiel fought back a growl.

“Is that so?” he replied shortly.

“Ooh, someone's cranky. Must have been a rough night indeed.”

There was no response Castiel could give that wouldn't be incriminating, so he said nothing. Crowley continued the conversation blithely.

“With Winchester out, you're going to have to pick up the slack. Think you're up for it?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, remembering Sam's advice to agree with whatever the man said.

“Good.” Castiel could well imagine Crowley's self-satisfied expression, the way his chin would tuck in close to his chest as he pulled himself upright when he thought he'd accomplished something important. “I want to see you here in an hour, Castiel.”

Speaking slowly, Castiel said, “Today is my day off, Crowley.” Flicking his eyes over to Bobby's, he said, “It was to be Dean's day off today as well.”

“Don't care,” Crowley said cheerfully. “Get here, one hour. You've been doing good work, Castiel. I like a man who...has a fire under him. And keeping Winchester's...head above water can't be an easy feat.”

It seemed that Crowley knew Dean had been injured, and he was insinuating that he knew of Castiel's abilities, that he'd been the one to help him, but Crowley didn't seem angry about it like Castiel suspected he should be, if he was working for Infernus. If anything, he seemed happy.

Castiel was more confused than ever.

“Crowley?”

“One hour, duckie. You, my office. Oh, and give the boys my best before you come, hmm?” Crowley rang off, leaving Castiel to stare at Sam's cell in consternation.

“Well, what did he say?” Bobby demanded.

“He wants me to be at the paper in an hour,” Castiel said.

“That can't be all he said,” Dean shrewdly said. “Conversation was too long if that was all he wanted.”

“He...” Castiel's head was swimming. “His words suggested that he knows what happened last night. Everything,” he added, causing the other men in the room to reflect varying degrees of alarm. “About my abilities, about the fact that Dean was injured, everything.” Swallowing hard, he said, “I can not go there if there is any chance this is a possibility.”

“You think?” Bobby snarked.

“Why?” Sam asked. When Castiel, Bobby and Dean all glared at him, he said, “If Cas went, he might be able to find out for sure if Crowley was up to something.”

“If?” Bobby rumbled. “I think it's a pretty damn clear chance.”

“And I am not willing to take the risk. From Alistair's words, he knew of me, which means that somehow, Infernus does. It could be a trap. It is too dangerous.”

“But if you go in knowing it is—”

“Sammy,” Dean interrupted. “Charlie McGee here is right. Even if it's not about him, they could follow him back here after he leaves the Gazette.” Dean suddenly squirmed. “That is, if you would want to come back, I guess. I mean, I guess there's nothing saying you'd have to, but—"

“Dean,” Castiel stopped him gently, stepping forward and allowing his fingers to run down his arm. “I would. Come back. I wouldn't be able to stay away, wondering about your welfare.”

Bobby and Sam seemed uncomfortable with Castiel's declaration, but it relaxed Dean. He settled back among the pillows. Darkness pooled under his eyes, and Dean leaned to one side as if his ribs pained him, which Castiel supposed they probably did. Exhaustion pulled his eyes shut again despite Dean fighting to stay awake, and the three others in the room stood quietly for a few long moments, watching him.

“We can't stay here,” Sam said finally, speaking Castiel's very thoughts. The younger man looked up quickly as Bobby began to gather air, no doubt for a compelling argument, when Sam said, “I'm sorry, Bobby, but it's just not safe. Not just for us, but for Ellen and Jo, too.”

“You're not going to be safe anywhere,” Bobby argued. “Where you gonna go? You boys are deep in the shit. And Dean's injuries...Christ, he's lucky he's done as well as he has so far, but he needs a hospital, or at the very least a doctor, and frankly I don't trust any of 'em nearby.”

Castiel found himself at Dean's beside, running his hand through the slightly longer shock of hair that hung lank over Dean's forehead. Bobby and Sam would stand there all day and argue if they could, he thought, and knew that they had much, much less time than that if they were going to change their location. Crowley had wanted to see him at the Gazette in an hour. It was not inconceivable that, if his intentions for requesting Castiel's presence there were nefarious, he'd send people out looking for him, and by extension the Winchesters, because he knew that he was with at least Sam. “I may have an idea,” he said softly.

Castiel climbed out of the backseat of the Impala, intent on helping Dean out of the vehicle, but was waved off. “Nah, I'm good Cas, thanks.”

Squinting against the sun glinting off the lake shore spread out in front of them, Sam exited the car and said, “So. Erie, Pennsylvania. Have to say, never really imagined myself here.”

“It is a nice city,” Castiel said defensively. “It boasts first rate medical facilities, a wondrous national park within city limits, and is within easy driving distance of several high density metropolitan areas.”

“Whoa, sorry,” Sam said, holding up his hands. “Didn't mean to offend.”

“You didn't,” Castiel assured him. “I guess I simply feel...safe, here. And I do not appreciate it being disparaged.”

“I think it looks nice, Cas,” Dean said. His attention hadn't moved from the lake, and the small dock nestled against its shore. “You could do with some chairs out there,” he said, and Castiel smiled.

“We'll see about bringing some out, if you'd like to sit outside.”

“Hell yeah.” Smiling himself, Dean pried his eyes away from the lapping water and looked to Castiel, and past him, to the house in which they'd be staying.

“Whoa.”

Castiel, the bastard, just grinned as if he knew exactly what Dean was thinking. “Come,” he said, walking over and taking Dean's arm even though he didn't need the support, thank you very much. “Allow me to show you around.”

Anna Milton greeted them at the door, her smile just as wide and hair brighter than Dean remembered.

“Hey guys! Come on in.”

“Anna's here?” Dean hissed at Castiel. “Why is Anna here?”

Feigning confusion, Castiel replied, “Because it is her house?”

“You didn't tell us that!”

Anna stopped in a breezeway that looked like it led into a large living room. “There a problem, guys?”

Castiel told her. “Dean is upset because I failed to inform them that you would be present here.”

Sam, for his part, just awkwardly waved. “Hey. Nice to meet you.”

Seizing the chance to avoid a complete social meltdown, Anna went to the younger Winchester and held out her hand. “Hi, you must be Sam. I'm Anna. Cas and Dean both have told me a lot about you.”

“Really?” Sam's bright smile seemed to light the corners of the room.

“Anna?” Dean said again, as if he still couldn't believe it.

Sighing, Castiel said to him, quietly, “I'm aware that it may be a bit awkward for you, Dean, but Anna was already here at the lake house, and we needed a place to go on short notice. She wants to help us.”

“How much does she know?” Dean asked.

Cas twitched, but replied readily, “About you and Sam? The minimum. About myself, what I can do?” Dean nodded in encouragement was Cas hesitated. “She knows everything. Dean,” he said, when the other man sighed noisily. “She is my best friend. I have no secrets from her.”

“Anyone else know?” When Castiel paused, obviously wondering why it was important that Dean knew, he said, “It could be dangerous if too many people know, man. For them, as well as us.”

Finally, Castiel said, “Just my brother, Balthazar. And before you ask, no, he's not here, and yes, he can be trusted. Just,” he said significantly, “as Anna can.” Softer, Cas said, “Please. They're my family, as Sam is yours. Let them help us.”

Their eyes met and held. Dean searched Castiel for any signs of doubt, but all he saw was concern and slightly exasperated determination. He nodded.

“Okay, Cas. Okay.”

“Hey, Cas, why don't you help Dean into the kitchen. I made cheesy pasta.”

Castiel visibly brightened. “Cheesy pasta? With zucchini?”

Dean made a face. Anna saw it and she laughed. “Of course with zucchini,” she told Castiel. “But it's easy to pick out if you don't care for it, Dean,” Anna added.

Forcing a friendly expression, Dean said, “I'm sure it's great.” Turning to Cas, he said. “Lead the way, handsome.” The endearment slipped out easily, as if Dean had been secretly wanting to say it for a while. Castiel startled, but Anna and Sam exchanged what was to be the first of many significant looks.

“Um, of course. This way,” Cas said, the tips of his ears pink. Anna gamely stepped in again with the ease of someone certain that an Incident was brewing and adroitly redirected the men's focus. “And while you guys are eating, I'll call the doctor to come and check you out, Dean.”

Dean froze. “Doctor?”

“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Doctor Benton.”

Anna ushered the man in, making noises about taking his jacket or fetching him a cup of coffee, but he refused her, saying, “Please, don't trouble yourself, my dear. It is no problem at all to come out here for one of my favorite patients.”

“Well,” Anna said, and Dean thought it was great fun to watch her sweat it out over one old man. “I didn't exactly call you out here for Castiel, but his friend.” Gesturing to where he was reclined on the sofa, she said, “This is Dean.”

Struggling into a sitting position, Dean stuck out his hand for a shake. The doctor's hand was cold and clammy, simply laying in Dean's grip like a dead fish. He pumped the doctor's hand once anyways, cursorily, and tried not to make a face as he released it. Dean was a bit unnerved by the man's eyes. One was a bright blue, like a Siberian husky's, and the other was a deep chocolate brown that listed slightly to the left. Anna and Castiel both seemed to trust him, though, so Dean tried to tamp down his unease and smiled.

The smile probably would have conveyed more goodwill if Dean's face hadn't at that point been a mottle of blue-purple bruises. They ached from the strain of maintaining a false expression, and the doctor didn't seem very impressed anyway, so he dropped the facade.

“Oh. Well, hello there, Dean. Of course I'm happy to assist any friend of Anna and Castiel,” the doctor said.

Anna squeezed the man's shoulder. “Thank you, Doc. I'm going to give you two some privacy, then.”

They each watched Anna as she left the room. Dean thought that the good doctor's gaze might have lingered a little longer than was strictly polite on Anna's backside, but Dean couldn't really blame the guy. Anna had the sort of ass you'd have to be dead not to appreciate. He was just able to bottle his smirk when Benton turned back to him.

“Well, young man,” Doctor Benton said, flicking that disconcerting gaze from Dean's head to toe, “Anna tells me that you have quite the collection of wounds. She's worried about the possibility of them turning septic. Let's have a look at them, shall we?”

Dean was able to strip off his shirt with a minimal of swearing, but his jeans gave him a bit more difficulty. He made a mental note to ask Sam to dig out his sweatpants for him, wondering what had possessed him to change out of them in the first place. After finally getting them off, he looked for a place to drop them and settled for dropping them in a neat-ish pile on the floor beside the doctor's satchel.

“Nifty,” Dean said, pointing at the symbol pressed into the leather bag. At first glance it looked like a simple circle, but upon closer examination a design was revealed. “It's one of those snakes that eats its tale, right? Like what was on that show Millennium?”

“What? Oh, that,” Doctor Benton said. “Silly thing. Gift from my granddaughter. Have to carry it or she'd get offended, you understand?” He stepped forward and began peeling away Dean's bandages in a perfunctory manner. “She's into that new-age hocus-pocus.”

“Hocus-pocus?” Dean asked, sucking in a sharp breath when the doctor jabbed a finger into one of the slices in his side.

“Hmm? Oh, yes. You know the sort...likes crystal balls and scented candles and incense, that sort of thing.” Humming again, the doctor made an interested noise and said, “Now, tell me if it hurts when I press here.”

Part Four>>