The Wheels On The Bus Chapter Nine

This is longer than my usual Wheels chapter, but hey, finally some action. Very hard to write it when your character isn't the main character and thus isn't part of the actual action and that's the whole point of the plot. 

-

IX.

The gunshots are coming from the front of the school, so ideally, they should go there to help, but Belphegor is in no capacity to help  and neither is Jack if they’re trying to keep his threat level under wraps, so he grabs the kid and yanks him towards the direction of the gym before he can go anywhere. If there’s anywhere they’re going to gather the civilians if the campus is surrounded, it’ll be the gym. It’s large enough to be able to hold a lot of people at once, and it’s also just one area to monitor as opposed to the multiple rooms of the school building.

“Wait, where are we going?” Jack asks.

“Safety.”

“I thought we were going to help!”

“No, we’re not, because I’m too weak and you’re too strong and we’re trying to let Chuck forget you exist for a moment,” Belphegor says. 

Jack stops running, planting his feet firmly on the floor. Belphegor resorts to grabbing his arm with both hands and tugging him forwards while the boy digs his heels in as best as he can on tiled floor, which is to say, not very well at all.

Certainly a situation to be in, in the middle of the apocalypse. He should have written this down in his card.

“We have to help Sam and Dean!” Jack says. 

“No, we do not,” Belphegor says, still trying to pull him forward while the boy keeps trying to hold his ground. “Listen, they’re hunters. Arguably the best in the world because this universe’s narrative says so. They’re going to do fine, and they’re not going to die.”

“But - “

“Chuck’s not going to let them go out in a little skirmish with ghosts, Jack!” Belphegor says. 

The other hunters might, though, as they don’t have that sort of plot armor protection, but if it comes down to protecting their largest power source that might come handy in the middle of an apocalypse, against risking it all for one isolated moment, he’s willing to call this shot.

It’s not like they have a lot of options to play with this whole thing, really.

“Listen, Jack, this isn’t just about closing the rifts,” Belphegor says, ceasing his struggle and instead stepping closer and lowering his voice. “We agreed to find a way to save this goddamn world using the advantage of not being major players in it. That, plus the fact that you are the most powerful thing in created existence right now means we have two aces in our deck, but we only have those two things. The rest of our deck is pocket lint, a loose thread, and two cents of spare change left from two weeks ago after a grocery trip. Two aces means jack shit when the dealer has rigged the game and we don’t even know all our options and all the rules, so I need you to stay safe for the sake of everything. Do you understand me?”

It’s not even about the world, really.

No, it’s just because if the world goes, he goes. That’s how it is. When Chuck’s done with this universe, it’s all gonna go to shit.

Frankly, if it was anything else Belphegor would have already booked it, gotten a less suspicious body that actually had working human eyes so he could try to see (hehe) what that’s like, and spent his days mind-whammying millionaires into funding his beach vacation. 

But no, there’s an apocalypse that actually concerns him, and Belphegor is a smart demon, so he’s sticking around until this blows over. After this, and maybe after he’ll somehow manage to convince one of the other bastards to fix this body’s eyes, he’ll leg it out of here faster than anyone can say ‘suspicious’.

Jack is staring at him, conflicted. For a kid without a soul, he can be very compassionate. 

“Jack Kline, do you fucking understand me?” Belphegor repeats.

“I…”

Come on. See the logic in the argument.

“I...guess.”

Belphegor’s immediately back to dragging him towards the gym. “Good, now follow me.”

Thankfully, even when he’s hesitant, Jack follows. 

They pass by a few people as they run down the hallway, most of them headed towards the front with guns in hand, so they’re clearly hunters. Belphegor makes sure all of them turn away or barely pay attention to them when they do walk by, so nobody asks questions in case they somehow figure out they’re not civilians around here.

As they turn the corner, he nearly pushes the compulsion at Adam and Michael, who almost bump into them. Cas is with them.

“Great,” Adam says, holding a concerning-looking gun in his hand. Michael’s got one as well. “We don’t have to get you guys after all. Come on, we have to get to the gym.”

Belphegor turns to Jack, whose shoulders relax a little at hearing they’re going to have to go there anyway.

“Sam’s leading a second line of defense in case any of the ghosts get past Dean and the others,” Michael says. “We’re going to be the third.”

On second thought. 

“We’re going to be what,” Belphegor asks. Shit. They’re off the bus, for sure.

“In case anything gets inside the gym.” Castiel steps forward, and now Belphegor notices he’s got two guns. He hands one of them to - 

Belphegor.

Well, that’s sort of better than handing it to the literal toddler who’s admitted to accidentally hurting people with weapons before, but, still.

“What do you expect me to do with this?” Belphegor asks.

“Shoot. It’s rock salt,” Castiel says. “Jack doesn’t know how. Not properly, and not in a sea of people. We need as minimal damage as possible.”

“And you think I can?”

“You can will things to move, Belphegor, even the lowest of demons can do that,” Castiel says, rolling his eyes a bit as he shoves the gun at him. Belphegor fumbles to catch it, letting go of Jack so he doesn’t drop it. Thankfully, the safety is on.

“Yeah, but it’s a sea of people, Castiel,” he says, although he does heft the thing up to inspect it. They have guns in hell, kind of, since as humans progressed, their traumas did too and if there’s anything Hell’s good at, it’s adapting to make people relive that trauma. He’s held one before, but they probably work differently on Earth.

Eh. Worse comes to worse, he can whack someone over the head with it.

“It’s in case of emergency,” Castiel says. “And if that falls through, we have Michael.”

Better than suggesting Jack. Although, Castiel probably also has thought about Chuck turning his attention to his son again if he sets off some alarms and decided, fuck that.

“Fine,” Belphegor says.

He lets the others lead them to the gym. Jack still looks a little concerned about the clear gunshots outside, but he follows his father, silent, until they reach the gym. 

It’s packed with people. There’s so many of them, crammed into every space they can find on the bleachers, on the floor, by the restrooms, up at the commentator’s booth - they barely fit in here, but there’s nowhere for them to go where they can all be supervised at once. 

The hunter by the doors nods to them as they enter. By the restrooms there’s also one more person stationed there with a gun, but that’s about it. They’re the rest of the backup.

“Hopefully, Sam and Dean will be able to deal with it,” Belphegor finds himself muttering.

“They likely will,” Michael says.

“Adam, Michael,” Castiel says, “You two go up to the bleachers. If you spot anything, you have your phones with you.”

“Can’t we just communicate telepathically?” Michael suggests. “Having to take a phone out seems like a waste of what could be precious seconds.”

“You don’t want even five minutes of my unfiltered thoughts, trust me,” Belphegor says.

Michael rolls his eyes. Belphegor thinks that’s a checkpoint he’s just achieved. 

“Just for when something happens,” Michael says.

“Ah.” Belphegor motions to Cas. “Cas, though.”

“I have enough grace for it, I’m not hopeless,” Castiel says. “And Michael has a point. We can’t fumble around for our phones when something’s happening.”

“We’ll keep an ear out, then,” Adam says, nodding to Michael.  “I’ll take the left.”

“Stay alert,” Michael says, before heading towards the right side of the gym, weaving through the sea of people. Adam heads for his station as well.

“Both of you are with me. We’re going to the booth,” Castiel says. 

Belphegor looks down at the gun in his hands, staring at the trigger. “You really want me to try to shoot a gun?” He asks. 

“If it comes down to it, yes,” Castiel says. “So pray that it doesn’t.”

For a moment, Belphegor actually considers doing so.

-

The booth is the highest vantage point they can get in the gym, at least the highest one that’s least crowded, so it’s good that they’re stationed there. Jack is just worriedly sitting along with some civilians while Belphegor and Cas are outside, standing by the rails and looking out at the sea of people in the gym. 

It’s been almost an hour. The gunshots outside still haven’t stopped. 

That’s worrying, although expected. If these are ghosts then they can’t just send them back to hell quickly without burning their bodies. 

“Did someone call Rowena?” Belphegor asks. He hadn’t seen her around earlier, although he did hear Sam and Dean talk about her having to pop by her apartment to grab more spell ingredients.

“Yes,” Castiel says. “Dean did.”

Good. She might be able to make another barrier, repel all the ghosts or something. She’s a smart one, she’ll figure it out. 

But still, the gunshots haven’t stopped, although they have been getting spaced out. Moments of silence and then a round of shooting, and then another moment of silence. Belphegor’s not sure if it’s because they’re slowing the ghosts down or because they have to reload every so often. 

He concentrates on trying to contact Michael in the gym. It’s like rubbing salt on his skin, having to telepathically communicate with an actual angel, but hey, desperate times. 

How many are there, oh warrior saint angel or whatever the fuck they call you.

Many, Michael throws back at him. 

That’s not very helpful, Mike, he thinks. Michael, across the gym, turns to him and motions the barrel of the gun at him. Belphegor laughs to himself.

If you call me that again, the first person I will shoot will be you, he says. There’s too many of them. 

What the fuck do you mean by that?

They’re coming in waves. I can feel them, Michael says. He turns towards  the wall, like he’s trying to look past it. The hunters are keeping them at bay - I believe by a salt circle, but with every wave, their numbers increase. 

If Belphegor had a beating heart, it would fall to his stomach. 

The murmurs of the gym that have tapered off into uneasy silence as people have started falling asleep as the minutes have dragged on is relatively peaceful. Surreal, but peaceful, but - what the fuck is happening outside. 

The barrier around town’s  broken, obviously. Someone needs to repair it and repair it stronger than before, but if the rift’s still open, more ghosts are going to keep pushing at it until it breaks again. That’s what’s happening right now - the rift is open and the ghosts have grown numerous enough to break through the goddamn barrier and now everything is falling to pieces and - 

Calm down, he tells himself. Assess the situation properly.

They need to seal the rift, at least the one in their near vicinity. They need to shut it off and they need to find a way to shove all the ghosts back into Hell. 

He turns to Michael, who somehow senses that he is, because he looks back at him.

What are you thinking? The angel asks.

How do you kill a ghost? Belphegor asks. 

He’s almost sure Michael’s smiling in amusement when he answers. In the first place, can you?

Shut up, I’m trying to think of something. 

We’re surrounded, Michael says. And it will not end, at least not for a very long time, because Hell is almost endless, with the souls it holds. A pause. An angel capable of doing so can burn them out with holy fire. Not the sort that traps us in rings, but divine holy fire.

Like divine wrath holy fire? 

Yes.

You can do that, right? Belphegor asks. You invented divine wrath. 

I didn’t.

Piss off, I don’t remember shit from before I fell, but I do remember trauma, Belphegor says. 

Michael pauses. Then, a small, mental sigh. How the fuck he’s making that noise in his head, Belphegor has no idea. Yes, I can. 

Great, Belphegor says. 

Belphegor.

Yeah?

Do you think we’re off the bus?

Belphegor pauses. Michael, even from far away, clearly looks deep in thought. If they’re on the bus, then they can probably play dirty, but if they’re off the bus, who knows what Chuck’s going to do to add to the ‘drama’ that is the life of the Winchesters. If he doesn’t kill one of Belphegor and the others off, he can still figure out that they could be possible liabilities.

I don’t know, Belphegor says. Honestly, I don’t know. But I do know that everyone here can die, and the only people left standing will be the Winchesters, because that’s how it works, right? 

He looks out at the sea of people in the gym. If this ghost attack is part of Chuck’s plan to make everything feel more high-stakes, or to make everything more tragic if it’s supposed to end with everyone in the school, hunter and civilian, slaughtered, except for the Winchesters, who will then have to live with the guilt of losing a fight that ends in a massacre, then that’s how it works. This won’t end until the Winchesters get the jump on Chuck, or if Chuck kills one or the other, or both.

And honestly, it fucking sucks. 

Everybody dies, Belphegor says. Except for Chuck’s favorite toys.

I see, Michael says. Nothing’s happening inside the gym yet. Do you think that’s enough to risk seeing if we’re on the bus?

Ah. He has a point. Everything’s still contained outside. 

Think so, Belphegor says. What are you thinking, warrior angel?

We have to find as much salt as we can, Michael says. If we’re going to have a chance of even trying to make it out of here alive, then we’re going to make it as hard as possible for ghosts to even find their way around this goddamn school.

-

Michael pitches it to Castiel, if only because he’s probably the only one Castiel will even listen to. 

The plan he comes up with is this: find every single piece of salt in the building, or everything that has an amount of it in order to act as a substitute since they need all the ammo they can get, and arm every civilian with it as a precaution. Then, as another barrier of protection in case Sam and Dean’s defenses are breached, salt every entrance in the school, so if the ghosts get in, they’ll get trapped in a hellhole of a salt maze and have a more difficult time getting inside, whereby Castiel and Michael can then pick them off one by one in controlled bursts of grace. 

Michael makes the argument for Jack and Adam to lay low as Jack being in potential danger of Chuck finding him a threat if he displays power (which Cas has in fact thought of and is fully worried about) and Adam being inexperienced in controlling whatever grace has been transplanted to him. 

After around fifteen minutes of precious time arguing, Castiel yields, looking more and more uneasy the more spaced out the gunshots outside are in that fifteen minutes. Still, Jack and Adam are on salting duty. 

“We can make sure the other hunters don’t suspect anything,” Belphegor says, but Castiel waves the suggestion off.

“We’ll have to cover our tracks in the future and risk more suspicion that way,” he says. “I’ll tell them about the salt plan, but that’ll be it. The only misdirection any of you will be doing is making them believe Michael returned here when he’s supposed to do rounds around the school with me to scout out potential breaches.”

“Good enough, I can manage that,” Adam says.

While Castiel explains to the hunters what’s going on - because explanation didn’t necessarily mean they had to approve it after all, just that it was explained to them, so they don’t start shooting and accusing - the four of them make for the canteen pantry and labs to find everything they can that has salt in it. Jack’s kind enough to find Belphegor a pair of safety gloves so he doesn’t get burned while hauling sacks of salt out of the kitchen.

“Okay, you, Michael and Adam are gonna salt all the hallways and the doorways of the school. Windows too,” Belphegor says, once they’ve gathered all the salt they can find. “I’m gonna go outside and toss this - “ He hefts up a backpack with a bag of salt. “ - to the hunters, and then I’m running back inside, salting the front door with this bad boy - “ he takes out a small lunch box he’s filled with salt before stuffing it back into the pocket of his jacket, heavy and awkward, but fuck it “ - and then finding a place to hide and hoping I don’t die.”

It’s as much as they can do without ringing any alarm bells in Chuck’s head. In fact, Belphegor’s already risking life and limb going out, but he’s the best candidate for it. If Chuck figures out he’s helping, he might ignore him. He’s too much of a low level demon to even be a threat. He’s got a limited amount of mojo, he acts like an idiot all the time exactly for this reason, and he’s barely been in the picture that Chuck might just forget him. 

Belphegor’s just hoping to everything good still on their side that Chuck isn’t watching. That this is just a fluke, somehow. That it’s just the universe’s cause and effect coming into play, taking into account a rift and a fragile barrier, and an empty town with a shit ton of ghosts looking for residents to terrorize in celebration of their freedom. 

If this is Chuck’s doing, then he’s still got enough juice to pull this off and they are so seriously fucked. 

“Be careful,” Jack says. 

“I’ll be fine,” Belphegor says. “Now come on. I don’t want to have to walk out to everyone outside dead because we took our sweet time.”

Adam nods. They’ve already taken long enough. “Jack, do the windows,” he says, stabbing through his salt bag with the pen knife he’s gotten. “Michael and I’ll do the doors. Bel - “ he turns to Belphegor and pauses. “ - don’t fucking die before I can kick your ass for being a piece of shit this whole operation.”

“Shit, Milligan, that almost sounds like you’ll miss me,” Belphegor says, laughing, but he’s already slinging the bag onto his back and carrying the small sack of salt in his arms, taking off running down the hallway.

Fuck. Fuck, he’s really doing this. He’s really risking his not-really-life to avert an apocalypse.

What the fuck. 

Risking his life for a chance to get topside? Maybe. Hell sucked ass anyway and it got boring torturing people after a while, and it got even worse every time he was pushed to do lever duties if someone else got promoted and he got demoted. Crowley was interesting, but also way too focused on setting up office on earth, so there wasn’t a lot of juicy gossip around. Hell got cleaner, but also a lot quieter, since everyone was just forced to wait in a queue. Every other ruler after that was like a speedrun in human history, creating messes and dying really fast before demons like him on the underside of everything really got a word of what they were doing.

It was almost a blessing for them, being so low on the rung they never really got thrown into the action, so while demons were dying left and right, they were just chilling in leaky little rooms that had shitty lighting, filing names and punishments and keeping track of who’s here and where they’re supposed to go. Sometimes, whenever he was demoted yet again, Belphegor watched the torture if it wasn’t too boring. Sometimes he pushed elevator buttons. Sometimes he just sorted files of people who had the same name, which was real torture, no matter what anyone else told him otherwise. 

So yeah, maybe he would have risked it all for a bit of freedom, even though he’d much rather prefer sniping Hell’s latest ruler and taking the crown for himself. But for a fucking apocalypse?

It’s not even like he cares about these people, he just doesn’t want to die. 

“I fucking hate this,” he says, but he keeps running anyway. 

The school’s got a lot of hallways that Michael’s plan might just work. That would put Belphegor in a tight spot, of course, unable to return to the gym, but hopefully, the problem would be solved by then.

Somehow. 

Shit, he’s gonna die. 

“Fucking Winchesters owe me if this works,” he mutters, turning a corner. There’s the front entrance, across a small, dark empty room that seems darker and emptier than usual tonight. “That crosses off Heroic Sacrifice In The Face Of Fuck It All on the bingo card, I guess.”

The glass doors are stained in blood. 

“Fuck.” 

Still, he grabs the bag and unslings it from his arms as he runs. He pushes a glass door open as he reaches it, struggling a little since there’s a dead body right in front of it, along with an unfortunately broken salt line.

Fuck. Fuck. They’re already nearly gotten into the school and someone’s already dead trying to stop them. Shit. 

“Sam!” Belphegor yells, as Sam Winchester, out in the open field, socks a ghost in the face with an iron knuckle. The hunter turns just in time as Belphegor throws the bag of salt at his feet. 

“What - “

“It’s salt!” Belphegor yells. “Throw it like glitter on their faces or whatever!”

A bit of hope lights up in Sam’s face, which Belphegor can now see is battered and bloody. There’s scratches all over him, his shirt is torn and stained, and there’s an ugly purpling line on one of his arms. Ahead, Belphegor can see someone frantically redoing the salt line by thinning out the rest of the unbroken curve , and beyond that, a mass of contorted, angry spirits. 

“Oh, fuck,” he says. 

There’s so many of them, pale and wispy and corpse-like, that they almost seem to pile on top of each other, trying to climb over everyone just to get at the barrier and try to push past it. He doesn’t know where their arms start and end, doesn’t know if this ghost’s neck is broken or if that’s someone else’s. Doesn’t know who’s missing a ribcage or if there’s always been a head peeking out of the empty cavity of their chest. 

Sam grabs the backpack and opens it, frantic, ripping open the salt bag, dumping a good chunk of it into the backpack, before he yells at the hunter trying to redo the salt line. Belphegor’s done here. He’s got to go inside. 

That salt’s not going to do enough.

Where the fuck is Rowena?

“Sam!” Belphegor yells again.

Sam doesn’t turn to him, folding over the open part of the salt bag so he can toss it at the hunter fixing the line, as quickly as he can. “Yeah?” he calls back.

“Where the fuck is Rowena?!” 

“Stuck in ghostly traffic!” Sam barks out a laugh, more hysterical than actually funny. 

Right. Of course. If there’s these many ghosts out, then she’s probably also fighting for her life out there. 

She can probably set up a barrier, though. She can set up a barrier, and everyone can rest for a moment and do a recon, and they can try to close the rift, because they can’t keep relying on Cas and Michael burning everything up, not with Hell’s near endless supply of ghosts crawling out that fucking rift and Cas barely being an angel at this point.

The fucking rift. 

Belphegor has an idea. It’s a very, very bad idea, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and if they’re off the bus, then it’s the only play he can think of on short notice that might not have as big a damage as sacrificing Jack or Michael and doesn’t end with him being fried out of existence.

He’s gonna have to find Lilith’s Crook.

He closes the front doors, then carefully opens the salt-filled lunch box he has to draw a line under them, making sure not to accidentally burn himself with it. Then, hands still shaking - he’s nervous, good god, is he nervous? - he pockets the container and whatever salt is left in it and sits down to the side, closing his eyes, and concentrating, trying to find Jack in the chaos of all the minds in the school.

Jack, can you hear me? He asks. Thank everything Jack’s mind is gold and bright, one hell of a beacon for anyone actually trying to find it. I have a plan. I have a crazy plan and it might just work, but first, I need your help.