Chapter Text
the birth and death of the day
epilogue
The first thing he hears is the sound of a soft, “What in the entire fuck,” followed by the distinct click of a shotgun.
The ground below him is not soft, and once he has fully come back to his body, things begin to return to him. His name. His parents’ faces.
His brutal death. He remembers screaming, remembers pain, remembers his mother crying—
Adam Milligan opens his eyes and squints at the barrel of the shotgun hovering inches from his nose.
“Aw, hell,” says Bobby.
… … …
“Caroline,” a soft voice whispers brokenly. She wrinkles her nose—it sounds like Stefan, but she can’t see him, can’t force her eyes to focus in the dark. All she can see is shapes, the edges blurred.
“Caroline,” the voice says again. Caroline whirls around, her heart rate beginning to pick up. There’s a window nearby with a crack of light penetrating through the black, and she can begin to make out what looks like—
“Elena,” she whispers, lurching forward; her feet catch on something and she looks down, only to flinch backward in horror.
The crack of light grows and slowly, she can begin to see the carnage around her.
She had nearly tripped over Stefan, who is alive, but barely—the stake in his chest is only millimeters from his heart. Past him, Elena is slumped in a chair, her wrists bound with rope; her eyes make out Damon, crumbled on the floor.
Caroline spins desperately, only to gasp in horror—across the room, are Klaus and Rebekah, daggered, their skin grey. She runs over there first, her mind racing—if she can undagger Klaus and Rebekah, they can help her figure out just what the hell is going on—
“Caroline,” the voice repeats, more insistent now. “Caroline!”
Her entire body jerks, her eyes flying open.
“Caroline,” Dean says as she looks around in shock and despair. “Care, it’s okay. Just a bad dream.”
She swallows hard before looking around, her brain not quite believing that this is real.
They’re in Bobby's ancient truck, pulled over on the side of the road, and her hand is gripping the door handle so tightly her joints ache. A few yards down the road, there’s a sign that reads Tulsa, next 10 miles.
“Okay,” she says softly, her voice shaking. “I’m okay. It was just—so real.” Her fingers come up to rub at her temples and she leans forward, the urge to throw up suddenly overwhelming.
A warm hand settles itself comfortingly on her back as she inhales raggedly. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Not really,” she mumbles, her eyes focusing on the car’s floor mats. She’s terrified that if she closes them, she’ll see it all again—her friends, dying in that dark, dingy room.
“You need a break?”
She nods, her head still cupped in her hands. “Please.”
The only acknowledgement he heard her is the sound of the truck starting before he eases it back into traffic.
Forty-five minutes later, there’s a bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich in front of her. Her stomach rolls but she forces down a few sips of the soup before setting her spoon down.
Dean takes a mammoth bite of his burger before asking casually, “Wanna tell me what that was about?”
Caroline shrugs one shoulder, fiddling with her spoon. “Bad dream.”
“No shit.”
She glares at him. “Really bad dream.”
“Worse than the Sam ones?”
After a moment’s hesitation, she nods once. “It felt more…real, than the Sam ones. It didn’t even feel like a dream—everything was like, in living color, you know?”
Dean chews, considering her. “Okay,” he says finally, “we’ll keep an eye on it.”
She can’t finish her food, but Dean hands her a to-go box and a stern look, so she packs it up and takes it with them.
Tulsa is long in the rear view when she says quietly, “What’s our plan here, Dean?”
He doesn’t look over at her, but she sees out of the corner of her eye that his knuckles whiten around the steering wheel. “Get Sam,” he says flatly, his eyes on the highway ahead of them. “We figure out the rest after that. The three of us.”
Caroline chews her lip anxiously. “What if—”
“No,” he cuts in tartly. “We deal with what ifs later. We haven’t even tried yet.”
Her fingers tighten on the door handle as she silently wars with herself. They haven’t even tried yet, true, but it’s on the tip of her tongue to question him—try what?
It’s later, when they’re standing at a crossroads, Dean digging into the intersection with his bare hands while Caroline shivers in her thin jacket, that the question is answered.
“Seriously?” she demands again. “This is your grand plan? Another Winchester swap? This isn’t The Parent Trap, Dean.”
“Damn,” he deadpans without looking at her. “I thought I looked just like Lindsay Lohan.”
She snorts loudly. “You’re such a heathen, everyone knows the Haley Mills version is superior.”
He stands and wipes his hands on his jeans. “Who?”
Caroline points at him accusingly. “See? Heathen.”
Dean rolls his eyes at her and opens his mouth to retort, but a bored, Scottish drawl cuts him off.
“Not you two again,” Crowley says exasperatedly.
Turning from Caroline, Dean sends him a biting grin, holding his arms out as though they are old friends. “Crowley,” he says with an over the top cheerfulness that makes Caroline cringe. “Interested in a game of Let’s Make a Deal?”
Crowley snorts. “Not in the least. You in particular have nothing to offer.” His dark eyes slide over to where Caroline is shifting her weight from foot to foot in an effort to keep warm, her breath a cloud of white vapor in the night air. “Care to make an offer, sweet?”
Her heartbeat picks up and she takes a handful of quick, eager steps towards him. “Is that an option?” she demands.
Crowley shrugs. “Anything can be bought—or shall I say, bartered.”
There’s static in her ears as hope begins to build in her chest. “I would do anything—”
“What’s the deal, Crowley?” Dean cuts in sharply, shooting her a hard look that very clearly says shut the hell up. “We’re not agreeing to shit before knowing the deal.”
The King of Hell pauses—for dramatic effect, she’s pretty sure. “Don’t you have, say, an angel-killing sword in your possession?”
Dean stills. “Maybe,” he says lowly, narrowing his eyes on where Crowley is standing, his hands in his pockets as though trying to make himself appear as harmless as possible. “Would that get Sam out?”
Crowley snorts, then looks pained, as though the reaction slipped out. Caroline doesn’t buy it, but she can’t put her finger on what his endgame is. “It would get you information, possibly assistance,” he corrects tartly, smoothing the edges of his scarf. “You know the drill, Dean. A soul for a soul.” None of them and Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Well? Are you going to bring me the sword or not?”
For a moment, nobody moves and Caroline holds her breath.
But Dean breaks first, squaring his shoulder and firing off a hearty scowl in Crowley’s direction before making his way over to the Impala trunk.
With Dean momentarily distracted, Caroline seizes the opportunity to offer her own plea. “I can make an offer,” she whispers. “My soul for Sam’s.”
Crowley considers her for long enough that fear and hope begin to twist around her heart in a terrible vine. “Afraid not,” he says finally. “Seems like you’ve already traded it away, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
The penny drops.
“Wait,” she demands in a hiss, “are you freaking serious?”
He shrugs, a tiny smile beginning to curve on his face; and Caroline is, like, eighty-five percent sure he’s enjoying this.
“As a heart attack,” he says. “Can’t trade Sam’s soul for yours because yours, dear heart, is spoken for.”
Denials take shape on her lips but it’s then that Dean storms over, sword gripped in his hand.
“I have conditions,” he announces grimly. Crowley winks at her before turning his attention back to Dean.
“Do you now,” he drawls. “Let’s hear them, then.”
“No using it on Cas,” Dean says immediately. Crowley rolls his eyes, unimpressed.
“I have no intention of using it on your angel.” Crowley examines the sword, his eyes gleaming. It makes Caroline’s stomach twist nervously.
It’s several moments of this, Dean’s foot tapping impatiently on the gravel while Caroline watches as Crowley stares at the blade, the feeling of unease growing.
“Fine,” he says finally, sheathing the sword and turning his attention back to them. “I will help you, since you so clearly have not the foggiest what you’re up against.”
Dean bristles at that, though Caroline tilts her head in silent acknowledgement. He isn’t wrong—they need all the help they can get.
“You’re King of Hell,” Dean says flatly, hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders hunched. “Can’t you just let Sam out?”
Crowley gives a loud snort that makes Dean take a step toward him; Caroline reaches out and grips his arm tightly. “We need his help,” she reminds him quietly, not taking her eyes off of Crowley. She can feel Dean’s tendons move and tighten under her fingers before he finally settles.
“Why,” Dean says coldly, “is that funny.”
“Because, you child,” Crowley snaps, all humor vanished, “your brother is currently locked in a cage with no less than two of the most powerful beings in this dimension, if not the two most powerful beings. You’re asking me to open the door to a cage that is currently all that is standing between your world and literal Hell on earth. You know,” he turns to Caroline, “you should really do the talking for the two of you.”
Caroline glares at him before the pieces of what he has just revealed click into place. “That’s not the only reason you won’t do it,” she says slowly. “You’re King of Hell. Open the door and you’ve suddenly got competition for that title.” Her eyes narrow. “It’s literally against your best interests to help us.”
He sends her a biting smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Mostly true,” he allows, “except I will. Not open the cage, mind you, but get your brother out. In exchange for this—” he holds up the sword, “and a future favor, undetermined at this time.”
“Like what?” Caroline demands just as Dean says, “Fine, we’ll do it.”
Crowley smirks at them. “Clearly, you two have a lot to discuss. You can get back to me on it.”
With that, he’s gone; back, Caroline assumes bleakly, to the depths of Hell.
She turns to Dean. “We can’t just agree to do the literal King of Hell a solid with no conditions or—”
“Not if we want Sam back,” he cuts in tiredly. “Crowley’s our best shot.”
“Gabriel is our best shot,” she shoots back as she follows him to the car. “And you know it. Why are you so sure we can trust freaking Crowley and not Gabriel?”
“Only thing I’m sure of is that we can’t trust Crowley or Gabriel,” Dean retorts, “but we’re out of fucking options, Care. We take this one piece at a time.” He cranks the engine and it roars to life, along with the heat. Caroline eagerly holds her hands up to the vents, letting them thaw out. “We have to start somewhere.”
… … …
They stop in Lawrence, just for two nights, to switch cars with Ellen.
Dean doesn’t say anything, but Caroline watches the way his fingers drum on the steering wheel, the way he checks and re-checks the car’s mirrors, and she knows he hates being here. She doesn’t know as much as she would like to about his and Sam’s life pre-Forbes family, but she knows that in another universe, they spent it here. With both of their parents.
They’ve been on the road for nearly ten days, alternating back roads and interstates, passing through bustling cities and decaying small towns. Lawrence is the first place Dean deems safe enough—or important enough—to stay longer than a single night. Caroline isn’t sure which one is more likely.
He’s passed out on the tiny twin bed near the window, one arm slung over his eyes and she hesitates only briefly before snagging the keys and slipping out.
She finds herself at the local market, staring down blankly at rows of beautiful blooms, a plan slowly tying itself together when the hair on the back of her neck stands up.
“Are you, like, stalking me now?” she asks casually without turning around.
A beat, then a familiar chuckle, and Gabriel says, “Nah, not my style.” He motions to the yellow roses in front of her. “Think she’d like those the best.”
“Did you know her?”
“I knew her. She didn’t know me.”
Caroline is quiet for a long moment before slowly, softly, she asks, “Would she have liked me?”
Gabriel shrugs. “You love her boys. She would have loved you.”
It’s not a satisfying answer. “But would she have liked me?”
There is only silence; Caroline turns to find that he is gone.
She buys the yellow roses.
When Dean wakes up an hour later, she’s sitting at the tiny table in their motel room, the bouquet laying in front of her.
“I want to see it,” she says as soon as he looks over at her. “I want to go to your house. You don’t—I know it’s hard for you. You don’t have to come with me.”
“Care—”
“Seriously, I just need the address. I can go by myself, if it’s—”
“Care,” Dean repeats. “I’ll go with you. Just—I need coffee first.” He pauses, then adds under his breath, “and maybe some tequila.”
… … …
The house is unassuming, with freshly painted shutters and a vibrant red door that Caroline sees Dean half-smile at. The lawn is a neatly trimmed plush green, the siding looks newly power-washed, and the branches of a large, leafy oak tree sprawl over the yard.
“You didn’t have to come with me,” Caroline says again, clutching the flowers tightly in one hand. “I know it’s hard for you, being here.”
Dean shrugs and takes a long sip of his coffee. “It is what it is,” is all he says, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses.
She squeezes his hand before making her way gingerly over to the oak tree, laying the flowers at its base. Bowing her head, she sends a quiet note of gratitude out into the universe—gratitude for John, for Dean, for Sam. For Mary.
“Okay,” she calls out to Dean as she turns back to face him. “Onward to South Dakota.”
He gives her a half-hearted salute with his coffee cup before disappearing into the driver’s side of the car; and over her shoulder, Caroline sneaks a last look at his old house.
“We’ll get him back,” she whispers into the breeze. “I promise, we’ll get him back.”
“Care,” Dean calls from the car. “South Dakota.”
Onward.
... ... ...
fin.