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faith
Three weeks after all hell breaks loose, Sam finds a way.
It’s been three weeks of bunking up at Bobby’s, nursing wounds and mapping out strategies, three weeks of bringing together the network of hunters to face the two hundred rogue demons. It’s been exactly twenty-one days and Dean’s still riding high the Demon’s death and dad’s freedom. Twenty-one days during which Sam’s mind works in a frenzy as he goes through every book Bobby has and every book hunters bring whenever they drop by. Books, internet, beef in BBQ sauce, banter with his brother, the occasional demon hunt, praying, sleep, that’s Sam’s routine.
His mind works even when he’s sleeping and most of the time he wakes up sore, but he doesn’t care. Sleep is not important, because at the back of his mind he hears a steady tick-tock, watches a mental calendar’s leaves flutter away with every passing day.
And on the morning of the twenty first day (kind of like rehab or coming of age) Sam wakes up and the thought is right there at the tip of his mind for grasping, and he’s thinking Gotcha.
Bobby holds his cap with one hand, swiping his forehead.
“You think this will work?” Dean asks.
“I don’t see why not,” Sam says. He grins. “Faith is a wonderful thing.”
And he’s not sure if the faith he refers to is his or faith in faith itself.
The Winchesters turn their heads to Bobby at the same time, like a damn choreography. Bobby grunts.
“I think you just might have something there, boy,” he says. “I’ll be a damned son of a bitch, but you might just have something there, son.”
They’ll wield it.
“I don’t have a choice, Bobby.”
“Won’t be in your control, is all I’m saying. You don’t know how it will play out.”
“I need a back up plan in case I find nothing else. This has got to be my back up plan. I’ll take the risk. He’s Dean, Bobby. He’s my brother. Do you really think there’s any other choice?”
Over the next weeks they map out a careful strategy. They research into archetypes of history and religion and this time it’s Dean that reminds Sam of Providence, Rhode island only some months ago.
Sam smiles. Gotcha, he’s thinking. Gotcha.
“Wasn’t me that did it, Derek,” he says. “Wasn’t me.”
They call up every person they’ve ever saved and can access, all those that are bound to believe after what they’ve seen.
Sam emails Ed Zeddmore and Harry Spengler.
Dean calls up Tara Benchley (who, by the way, still remembers his name and her voice takes a kittenish tone when she realizes who’s on the other end of the line) and she promises to do him that favour, and yes, she’ll talk about it on her next big TV interview, and after she does (Dean watching the screen with that gloat that has Sam thump him on the head) their websites’ hits increase by a lot.
The stories spread.
A man, a guardian being, by the name of Roland (“Roland? Why not Ozzie?” Dean says. “Roland is a name connected to a badass. Subconsciously more people will want to believe, we’ll just fill in a spot already there.”), the patron saint of all hunters, all fighters of light. Stories say he’s stronger than any evil. Some say he’s an angel, others just an avenging spirit, but the point is they say.
And they watch the Tibetan spirit sigil Sam so carefully drew and Sam ponders how easy it is to create an urban myth, plot out a story.
Patron Saint of all hunters, all protectors of life.
It still comes as a shock when Derek appears on their doorstep one day, pale, wounded, but elated.
“He rescued me,” he says. “If it weren’t for him, the demon would have snapped me in two.”
“What about the demon?”
“Poof,” Derek says opening his fingers as if dust is blown by the wind. “Gone. I wasn’t sure I believed it even when you guys told me, but I seen it with my own eyes.”
Sam looks at Dean. Dean looks back at him.
“So what did he look like?” Dean asks.
“Like a hunter. With blue eyes. Unsmiling but goddammit was he quick.”
Demons are easier to find after that.
So they hug Bobby and get in the Impala. They both drive silently to the most abandoned crossroad Dean can find.
Sam wants to bury the box (and funny how inside the box is the trap while outside the box is always a way, Sam’s thinking kind of blurrily with hope and adrenaline), but Dean says no. He’ll do it. No use risking Sam.
“You think this will work?” Dean asks.
“You got to have faith, Dean,” Sam says.
“Do you?”
Sam nods.
So box is in the ground and they wait. And wait. In silence.
Roland shows up ten minutes later. He nods to the boys as one hunter to another. His eyes are blue and hard.
For some reason, they remind Dean of his father.
It’s a kiss between Roland and the redhead.
“Does he even have a soul to trade?” Dean whispers.
“Doesn’t matter,” Sam replies. “Cuz the trade wasn’t about him. It was about her.”
The crossroad demon wipes her mouth. There is none of the cocky smugness Dean remembers in her other incarnations. Now there is fear in her eyes and she backtracks not really suave anymore.
“What the hell are you?” she whispers to the blue eyed man.
“I’m Roland. And I protect my lads. All of them.” Then he turns to the boys.
“Deal’s done,” he says.
“Don’t you ever, ever summon me again, Winchesters,” she says.
And just like that, neither she nor he are there anymore.
There’s just the crossroad, and dust, and a wind rising, and the clot Sam feels in his throat. And just like that and without giving a shit whether Dean wants it or not, he wraps his arms around his brother holding tight and never wanting to let go, thinking Gotcha, Dean. Gotcha.
“God, you’re such a girl,” Dean says. But his arms are around his brother too.
“It’s done?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
Dean nods.
“She sealed it with a kiss. She can’t back down now.”
“Why didn’t he just kill her? Seems like he could have done that.”
“If she died, then Sam would die too,” Dean replies. “So he forced her to plead a deal for her life.”
“Roland doesn’t have a soul.”
“Oh,” Sam smiles. “I don’t know about that. Roland was born on faith. And faith is just a piece of each person’s soul if you think about it.”
Dean lowers his head and quirks an eyebrow.
“I can’t believe we’re related,” he says.
“So,” Bobby says again. “About Roland.”
“Guardian angel of the hunters, Bobby. With the strength to kill demons. I’d say we did good.”
“We tampered with magic.”
“There’s time to think about that,” Dean says. “For now can we just break the whiskey that it’s done?”
“It’s done,” Sam says. “As much as it can be. We have to wait a few more months to be sure, but I bet my life the deal is off.”
“In which case you’d be betting my life, really,” Dean points out. “So what are we going to do now?”
Bobby’s voice is gruff.
“Looks like we’re good at this sorta thing. How about we start our own advertising company?”
-The End.
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