The sun sets in the west and sinks the last orange flame into the horizon. Indiana The small town bar on the border is the first to light up the neon lights.
Warm yellow and dark red lamps cast light spots on the mottled walls, and the jukebox was jammed with half-old discs. Patsy Clay en's voice slowly flowed out, wrapped in the astringent smell of beer foam and the burnt smell of burning tobacco, filling this small shop of less than thirty square meters.
There was a middle-aged man slumped at the back of the bar. His custom-made suit was wrinkled like waste paper that had been kneaded dozens of times. His beer belly stretched the buttons of his shirt to a precarious level. His blond hair, which he usually combed meticulously, was messy on his forehead.
He held half a glass of whiskey between his fingertips, his knuckles turned blue and white from the exertion, and his eyes were full of frustration - this was Zachariah.
The man next to him was as thin as a bamboo pole, with sunken cheeks and heavy bruises under his eye sockets. He wore an ill-fitting gray suit slumped over his shoulders. He lowered his head and stared at the foam at the bottom of the glass without even having the strength to raise his eyes. This was Stuart, a "laid-off" employee who had the same problem as him.
The bearded bartender behind the bar was wiping glasses and glanced at the two of them, mistaking them for two unemployed drunkards.
Zachariah raised his head and took a big gulp of whiskey, the spicy liquid burning his throat.
He pulled out a self-deprecating smile at the corner of his mouth, and his voice was filled with frustration that he had never seen in thousands of years. "Back then, I was rising through the ranks, and I was the outstanding employee of the month, month after month, forever. But the boss assigned this task to me. I can't even handle two poor guys in flannel? Now the whole Heaven is laughing at me."
He slammed the glass down on the bar, and there was a crisp "clang" sound. A few drops of wine sloshed out and splashed on the rough wood grain table, leaving small wet marks.
Stuart drooped his head, picked up the cup and touched it with him. The cup walls collided with him and made a dull sound, "Both of us are the unlucky ones who have been optimized by outsourcing."
Zachariah raised his eyes and glanced at him, with a bit of sympathy in his eyes. "What other 'crime against humanity' have you committed?"
"This is a big deal that only comes once in a thousand years, and I couldn't even get the other party to say a simple 'agree'." Stuart sneered, and the laughter was full of unwillingness.
"In the final analysis, the performance is to meet the standards, right?" Zachariah echoed, the resentment almost bursting through his throat, "Those guys above always only care about results, results, results. They don't understand at all. They haven't been lying in the mud, and they haven't dealt face-to-face with you dirty humans. Am I right?"
"That's right..." Stuart answered subconsciously. He frowned mid-sentence and turned to look at him, "What's dirty?"
Zachariah waved his hand, not bothering to talk about this wording with him, and just poured out his own bitterness. "I mean, what is this thing about loyalty? How long have I been working for these guys? Five thousand years? Six thousand years? Running errands and working hard day and night, kicking me when I say it."
"It sounds like it's been that long, right?" Stuart nodded, empathizing, "I thought I could survive until retirement."
"That's right." Zachariah had just picked up the cup and was about to take another sip when the ground beneath his feet suddenly shook slightly, the whiskey in the cup rippled, and even the peanut shells on the bar rolled twice.
Stuart was stunned and looked up at the shaking chandelier. "Earthquake?"
The drunkenness on Zachariah's face faded away in an instant, and his expression changed slightly - he was too familiar with this kind of vibration. This was not an earthquake, but a summons from Heaven, a tremor caused by high-level holy power penetrating the plane. "No, it's my boss."
As soon as he finished speaking, a harsh high-frequency buzzing sound suddenly exploded, like countless fine needles piercing into the brain. Stuart and the bartender behind the bar instantly covered their ears and screamed, their bodies twitching uncontrollably, sliding along the chairs to the ground, their facial features twisted, and saliva dripped uncontrollably.
Zachariah closed his eyes as expected, with a respectful and uneasy look on his face. He clenched the wine glass tightly with his fingertips, took a deep breath and spoke to the air in a very low voice, "Come on, come at me if you want to punish or scold me, I'm ready."
The other person was silent for a few seconds before a majestic and cold voice came directly into his mind, giving instructions very quickly.
Zachariah's eyes lit up little by little, and his originally depressed expression was instantly replaced by ecstasy, almost crying with joy, "Wait. What? Okay, no problem, anything is fine, as long as I am reinstated. You will never regret it. Thank you, thank you."
After hanging up the "communication", he breathed a long sigh of relief, and his whole body suddenly came to life, even his waist straightened up a lot.
He stretched out his hand to straighten the collar of his wrinkled suit, and smoothed his messy hair. He couldn't help but raise the corners of his mouth. He hummed a tuneless hymn and walked out the door. His steps were so brisk that he seemed to be floating. "Everyone, I'm back again."
His singing floated in the dim bar, intertwined with the screams of the two people on the ground and the old songs on the jukebox.
The lingering sound of the hymn in the bar has not yet dissipated, but there is not even a hint of relaxation in the motel fifty miles away.
The late night wind whipped up sand and dust and slapped against the windows. The heavy blackout curtains blocked all the street lights. Only an old fifteen-watt light bulb on the bedside was on. The dim light made everything in the room feel tired and depressed.
Dean had his back to the door and was stuffing things into his old travel bag.
The worn dark brown leather jacket, with frayed corners, was the one he had worn for almost ten years; Impala's key chain had a small doll hanging on it, which Sam bought with his pocket money when he was a child; and the pearl-handled pistol, the cold metal touch felt heavy from his fingertips.
He moved through each item very slowly, his fingertips gently brushing over these objects, as if he was saying a solemn farewell to the first half of his life.
He had already made up his mind.
Go to Zachariah, agree to be the container of Michael, and exchange yourself for world peace. Even if the price is to be swallowed forever, you will never be able to be Dean·Winchester again.
At least Sam can survive, Haorui can survive, Bobby, Joe, Ellen, Lisa, everyone he cares about can survive, at least Apocalypse can stop.
He has caused too much trouble in his life and owed too many lives, and it is time to pay him back.
Suddenly there was a soft sound of the door lock turning behind him, Dean's back stiffened, and he knew who was chasing him without looking back.
Except for Sam, no one can accurately find where he is hiding.
Sam stood at the door, against the dim light in the corridor, his body stretched very long.
He looked at his brother's back, and his heart felt like it was blocked by a stone, so heavy that it ached.
He clenched his fists and spoke with anger, his voice hoarse. "Who are you packing your luggage to give a surprise to?"
Dean's hand paused, and he slowly turned around. His face had no expression, only a broken-hearted calmness, as if he had been waiting for him for a long time. "How did you find me?"
"It's obvious that you're going to die, right?" Sam took two steps forward, glanced at the neatly packed luggage on the table, and said with uncontrollable sadness in his tone, "I can guess the route of your farewell tour. Lisa How is it over there?"
"I'm not going to die." Dean looked away, not daring to look at him. His eyes fell on the mildew in the corner, and his tone was firm.
"Really?" Sam raised his eyebrows and exposed his disguise mercilessly, "Then Michael doesn't want to use you as his puppet? Crush your consciousness to pieces and occupy your body to fight jihad?"
Dean Pinch your lips and say nothing. Silence is the default.
"What are you doing, brother?" Sam finally couldn't hold back his anger and raised his voice, echoing in the small room, "This is how we end it? You just give up when you say you give up? Fight back from Hell, walk back from Heaven, fight demons and angels, and finally you want to surrender?"
"Well, probably." Dean's voice was very soft, wrapped in inexorable fatigue, like someone who had stayed up all night without a wink and didn't even have the energy to argue.
"What the hell are you talking about here, bro."
Suddenly, a calm voice came from the shadow beside the door. It was not loud, but it was like a stone dropped into water, instantly suppressing the anger in the room.
Bai Haorui stepped in. He was wearing a dark gray sportswear, with a mahogany sword slung across his back. The sword tassel swayed gently with his footsteps, and a light gold Lotus Seal between his eyebrows was looming in the dim light.
He followed Sam all the way here and didn't rush to interrupt. He leaned in the shadows and listened for a long time. He didn't speak until the brothers' quarrel reached the critical point.
He glanced at the luggage on the table, and his eyes fell on the pearl-handled pistol. His tone had no fluctuation, but every word was heartbreaking. "Dean, do you think this is called atonement? You are dead, Heaven Hell will still fight their holy war, and the world will still be burned to ashes. In the battle between Michael and Lucifer, no one will die just because you are obedient. You are not sacrificing, you are handing the knife to others and letting them do whatever they want with your life."
"Otherwise, what else can we do?" Dean suddenly raised his eyes, his eyes filled with red bloodshot eyes. He didn't look at Bai Haorui, his gaze was fixed on Sam's face, more like asking himself, "Aren't you just going to run away in this life? Run Stanford, run to hunt monsters, run away from all the mess. Now that you can't run anymore, you just want me to wait for death with you?"
"Every time I run away, the final result proves that I am wrong." Sam answered immediately. He admitted his past mistakes, but now is definitely not the time to surrender. His voice was pleading, "I beg you, don't give up now. Bobby is looking for a solution in ancient books, and Haorui is also deducing. We still have cards to play."
"Oh, really? Is there anything you can do?" Dean sneered, his tone full of self-deprecation and despair, "You have nothing to do, and you know it in your heart. God doesn't care anymore, just shrink back and act like a turtle, relying on us? Don't deceive yourself, brothers."
"I have to stop you." Sam took a step forward and stood between the luggage and the door, assuming a blocking posture, his eyes particularly firm.
"Okay, you can give it a try." Dean also tensed up, clenched his fists slightly, and was ready to take action, with a cold smile on his lips, "Don't forget, you didn't drink the devil's blood this time. You can't beat me."
"I know." Sam nodded, but his tone was particularly determined, "But I didn't come alone."
As soon as he finished speaking, a sound of flapping wings exploded in the small room, bringing with it the chill of the holy power.
Castiel appeared beside the bed, wearing a windbreaker stained with night dew, his face as dark as ice, and his blue eyes filled with suppressed anger and disappointment.
Dean looked at the two of them, then glanced at Bai Haorui who was leaning against the door, and made a self-deprecating smile with a sour tone, "Okay, it's really okay. After struggling for so long, looking through books, and messing up a lot of things, tonight, tonight, a miracle is going to happen, right? A three-chamber trial?"
"You're not helping at all." Dean glanced at Cass and muttered angrily.
"Really, then why don't I stop here and interfere with your business?" Cass's tone was as cold as ice. He gave up everything Heaven for humanity and these two brothers, and abandoned God who had believed in it for thousands of years. As a result, Dean surrendered so easily? So what is his sacrifice?
"What's wrong with you?" Dean was stunned by his eyes. He had never seen Cass look so angry.
"Reality woke me up." Cass's voice did not rise and fall, but suppressed the surging disappointment, "I thought you would resist to the end, but it turns out that you are no different from those cowardly guys."
Dean closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, only determination remained. "An all-out war is our only choice now. Michael can solve the devil and save most people. This is the lowest cost method."
"But we can't save everyone." Sam immediately retorted, "What about the ordinary people who died in the war? Do they deserve it?"
"We have to think of other ways." Cass added, "We still have time."
"What you said is so easy." Dean's emotions finally broke. His eyes were red, his voice was trembling, and his fingertips were shaking. "If Lucifer burned the world to pieces, and I could have stopped it all, guess what? Wait? All of this debt must be settled on my head. Mom is dead, dad is dead, Joe and Ellen are almost dead, good guy Haorui is almost dead... These debts must be settled on my head. I dragged you in."
Bai Haorui frowned and was about to speak, but Cass stepped forward first.
He raised his hand and pressed Dean's forehead, and the holy power began to circulate slightly. Dean groaned, then lost consciousness as soon as his eyesight went dark, and his body fell softly.
Bai Haorui reacted very quickly, stepped forward and reached out to grab a handful, holding his back firmly.
"Take him away." Cass said in a deep voice, his eyes falling on Dean's pale face. The anger in his tone dissipated a little, leaving only fatigue, "Go back to Bobby's house. Watch him closely."
Sam looked at Dean's pale face, then at Bai Haorui's tense profile, and sighed heavily. He knew that this was just a temporary hold, and the hurdle in Dean's heart would not be easily overcome. It was like a time bomb, and he didn't know when it would explode again.
The night slowly faded, and the morning light filtered in through the blinds in Bobby's living room, cutting out patterns of light and dark on the floor.
The air is mixed with the musty smell of old books, the aroma of burnt coffee, and a faint smell of herbs - the medicine Bai Haorui took when he woke up early in the morning.
Karen's return to the soul incident a while ago consumed Bobby a lot of energy and energy, causing him to suffer from insomnia all night long. Bai Haorui made a prescription for a soothing medicine, and drank a bowl of it every day while staring at him.