The Wheels On The Bus Chapter XII

 In the end, Adam grabs one of the larger pot covers as a shield before Michael kicks the door down for them to storm outside. 

It’s an eerie sight, watching all of the hunters just stare off at the barrier when they should normally notice them, and despite the pep talk, it still makes Adam’s stomach turn a little, but the others are right. There’s a lot more at stake right now. He’ll deal with the fallout later. 

Cas is going to be pissed. His brothers too, but they’ve done stupid shit before, it’s fine. But Cas is going to skin all of them alive for risking Jack. 

They rush to the barrier, as quietly but as quickly as they can. Adam thinks he steps on coagulated blood on the way to the salt line. He winces. 

“Yeah, shit, I’m having second thoughts,” Belphegor says, stopping a little bit behind than everyone else. 

In front of them is a writhing mass of ashy, angry souls. At the sight of the four of them getting close, they start thrashing against the barrier with renewed force. One of them climbs on top of three other people, pushing down harshly. It smiles, very, very wide. The skin from the ends of their lips up to its ears is torn. 

Adam looks away from it. 

“Hm. Anyone else?” Belphegor asks.

Michael grabs the back of his collar with his free hand. The demon puts up his hand and the pan he’s holding. 

“Alright, alright. I’m not going anywhere, captain,” he says. 

“Adam,” Michael says. Adam turns to him, and he seems to hesitate. But he nods. “I’ll be right behind.”

Adam nods back.

Okay. Showtime. Samwise Gamgee didn’t make a speech about the good still in the world worth fighting for just for him to chicken out. 

He takes a single, careful step forward. He looks at the ghosts. They all look excited for this. They know what he’s about to do. Swallowing, he takes another step, and then another, each a little faster than the last if only so he doesn’t change his mind and run back inside the school. 

Finally, his foot is right by the salt line. Nearly nose to nose with him is the ghost of a man missing half a face. He’s smiling too, teeth all bared from the lack of skin on one side and the wide, hungry stretch of lips on the other. The empty eyesocket stares Adam down.

Behind him, he hears the light crunch of leaves. Michael’s right behind him. 

Adam sweeps the salt line with his foot. 

“Get down!”

He does, throwing himself flat on the ground at Michael’s command, making sure that the pan and the pot lid are away from his torso so he doesn’t accidentally break something. He feels hands grab onto his arm as he hits the ground, but not even a second later, a gust of power bursts out, and the sensation disappears. Adam looks up as he hears someone scream.

Belphegor soars above him, shooting straight out of the salt line’s reach, and hits the ground with a grunt and a roll. A frying pan tumbles after him. 

He pushes himself up a second later, enraged. “What the fuck, Michael?!”

But Michael’s already running after him, sprinting past Adam with his own frying pan in hand. Adam immediately remembers what he’s supposed to do and gets up, leaving his pot lid and pan on the ground. He crawls over to the salt line, gathering up the salt in his hands.

“I’ve bought us time, but I don’t know how much. There’s scores of these ghosts coming out of the rift,” Michael says. 

Adam hears Jack take up position behind him, standing guard.

“Well, why the fuck aren’t we getting on, then?” Belphegor asks, standing and limping forward to grab his frying pan. 

“They need to reconnect the salt line first,” Michael says. “Otherwise - “

A guttural, inhuman scream in the distance. Adam pauses for a brief second to look up. 

“Shit,” Belphegor says. 

“Go!” Adam yells, returning to his work. There’s a lot of salt here, and he’s easily scooping them up by the handful and setting them down on the ground. He’ll be done in no time. Jack’s with him anyway. “Go close the rift!”

He doesn’t need to look up to know Michael looks conflicted. “Adam - “

“Go, Michael!” he says, and then laughs. “Just don’t die or I’ll kill your ass.”

He risks a glance up, which proves worth it, because Michael blinks, and then smiles.

“Sure thing, kid,” he says. Then he grabs Belphegor’s arm as he turns, dragging the demon with him as they book it out of the school grounds. 

Adam gathers up all the salt outside of the line, not minding the dirt he’s taking along with it, and nudges them towards the part he’s already reformed. He thins them out, hands shaking slightly, pushing the salt sideways. 

His breath is already frosting. Whatever ghosts Michael had blasted away, there’s already more headed towards them, too many from the fucking rift that they needed to close yesterday. 

“Adam,” Jack says, worriedly.

“I’m almost done,” he says. “Don’t worry.”

He is. There’s only a bit more that he needs to push the salt to, and then he can head back inside. In the distance, Michael and Belphegor are already shadowy figures, running as fast as they can to the cemetery. 

Adam feels something sharp on his cheek - 

“Duck!”

He throws himself flat on the ground, for the second time this night, but quickly turns to keep his eye on the salt line, reaching his hands out to push the last of the salt together. Above him, Jack swings an iron pan at the ghost of a man who looks like he’d crawled straight out of a trench, all skin and bones and a crazed look in his eyes from who knows what, but it’s gone as the iron connects with him, and he disappears into a puff of smoke. 

The salt line reconnects. Adam lets out a huff of relief. 

He sits up, turning to Jack, who looks just as relieved as he is. He would have sat there for the rest of the night if there weren’t any other matters to attend to. 

Slowly, he gathers the pot lid and the frying pan as he stands. He looks around, at the hunters, still looking like they hadn’t seen anything at all, even when the salt line had been broken, a demon had been thrown across a field, and Jack had hit a ghost with a frying pan.

Definitely for the best. They’ll explain everything later, if anyone asks questions. 

And then they hear the screech of a car pulling up on the curb behind them. Adam turns so fast he thinks he pulls a muscle, startled. It’s pure defensive instinct that makes him throw the pot lid at one of the headlights with the accuracy of someone dead set on getting a part in a Marvel movie.

The headlight gets smashed.

“Oh shit,” Adam says, throwing his hands up like that’s going to shield him from whatever consequences this is going to have. He winces, taking a step back from the salt line to put some more distance between himself and his mistake. 

Rowena steps out of the car, staring at him like he’s just busted one of her headlights with a pot lid. 

Which. Yeah. 

-

“You could have flown!” Belphegor yells. He can feel hungry eyes staring at him as he and Michael make their way down the street. 

“Yes, but we - “

“You blasted some ghosts to kingdom come, Michael!” Belphegor says. 

“Exactly. They were ghosts, Belphegor -  the reason why I can’t fly you to hell is the reason why Castiel can heal people but rarely flies these days. Using your wings is significantly a lot more power than simply healing people or blasting some ghosts away,” Michael says. “Now run like you’re being chased out of Heaven.”

Belphegor laughs. “I hate you so fucking much.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

Belphegor prides himself in his intelligence. There aren’t a lot of things he can take pride in - he’s not the best at fighting, as he’s usually behind a desk writing things up or filing things into a folder; he doesn’t have a lot of talents, as being a demon means he doesn’t have any need for them; he’s not the best with people, being already at the bottom of the rung in Heaven and then kicked down the hierarchy in Hell will do that to you - but he is smart. 

He’s crafted a lot of weapons in his time. He’s tinkered with a lot of ingredients and associated concepts with symbols, breathing power into words, manifesting spells that weren’t there beforehand. He’s created his own system of power, one that Hell has never caught onto. It’s the same reason why he’s able to blast ghosts away with grave dirt and put up a barrier using a heart. All of it is about looking at the world through a certain way and thinking, huh, how can I take these simple things, and find a way to infuse them with purpose and power outside of what they already have?

But of course, being a nerd means shit-all when you’re running for your life with the jockiest jock to ever jock - the fucking Prince of the Heavenly Hosts. Michael was a jock, before jocks were invented. Michael could probably benchpress, before benchpresses were invented. Guy probably ran mile dashes in seconds before mile dashes were invented. 

Belphegor doesn’t need lungs, but goddamn, is he out of breath trying to catch up with the guy.

And he’s refusing to fly so his shitty dad won’t find them trying to ruin his shitty story. Figures.

The cemetery is already far away enough by car, but on foot, Belphegor feels like they might as well just run all night, especially with the ghosts that are likely only staying away because they can see how bright Michael’s grace is. But Michael seems to be determined enough, dragging him along even when Belphegor’s feet can barely keep up with him. 

At least this crosses off the running away montage box of his bingo card. 

“Left turn?’ Michael confirms with him as they reach an intersection.

“Left,” Belphegor says. The angel immediately takes a hard left. Belphegor has to shuffle quickly so he doesn’t stumble and break his glasses into his face. “Didn’t you have time to memorize the streets when you crawled out of Hell?”

“We took one route and never turned back,” Michael says.

“Yeah, straight to a diner and then on the path of the Impala.” Belphegor snorts.

He feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise as the temperature drops. Something’s decided it’s brave enough to approach them.

“Mike,” he says.

“Don’t call me that,” Michael says, but he hefts up his frying pan in his other hand. 

“What the fuck happened to your sword?” Belphegor asks. “Not Dean, like, physical manifestation of your grace sword.”

“I have it,” he says.

“Why aren’t you using it?” Belphegor asks.

“It’s a physical manifestation of my grace, as you’ve said,” he says, and waits for Belphegor to get it. 

He does. “Right. Huge power flare. Got it - oh holy fuck.”

There is something standing in the middle of the street. Belphegor doesn’t know what it is, apart from the fact that the dark of the night and the lack of lights from the neighborhood due to all of the residents being away is making it an even dark blotch of a figure in front of them. It looks like the sort of thing that taxi drivers make stories about, the ones that say they got a passenger that told them to drive to a creepy house and when they arrived there, there was no one in the backseat, save for a wet spot and the eerie feeling of being watched. 

Michael runs straight at it. 

Belphegor doesn’t even get a good look at its face. All he knows is that it looks like a rotting corpse; skin greying from decomposition with clumps of flesh already having fallen off, sunken eyes, a shadow where the nose should be, and rotting teeth. 

And then Michael just swings the frying pan at it and runs straight through the spot where it stood like a deranged linebacker. 

Belphegor thinks the ghost really might have left a wet spot, because he slips slightly as Michael pulls him through. 

“You are fucking insane,” Belphegor says. 

“No,” Michael says. “I just know we need to get to Hell fast.”

Belphegor snorts, despite himself. “Can I tell you to go to Hell now, then?”

“Yeah, because you’re coming with me,” Michael says. 

“Shit, Milligan’s rubbed off on you,” he says, laughing again. He might be hysterical.

At the very least, though, it feels less like he’s gonna die.