Among Us: A Supernatural Novel written by Carver Edlund

Soul Phone

For the fourth time that morning, the strains of Dean's favorite heavy metal riff emanated from the pocket of his dad's old leather jacket.

He whacked the Impala's leather-wrapped steering wheel. Preoccupied, he stared out the dirty windshield as he fished his black flip phone from his pocket. It wasn't like he was going to bother getting out of the car this time, so he left the big block idling, the A/C blasting like an Arctic storm through the dashboard vents. He didn't read the incoming caller ID before answering.

"Sam," he barked into the microphone. He shot another venomous glare out the windshield. "Number twelve is a bust."

"You're not going to check?" Castiel, sitting shotgun, his hands relaxed on his trousered knees, asked.

Dean switched his glare to the angel who had first dragged him out of an extremely pleasant dream and then had teleported him to the Impala before explaining the new plan. A shaky plan, at best. There was no guarantee that any of these hidden places was going to be the right one. Angel-proofing was just one way to hide something, and not even the most effective way. "No, I'm not going to check. It's an outhouse, Cass."

Castiel squinted. What had once been a construction site seemed abandoned now, tucked between a train yard and a bank of gray warehouses. Chain-link enclosed a lot of churned-up yellow dirt, which made the spring sunshine feel like an oppressive weight. Three-quarters of a bare-bones self-storage facility presided over fallen framing, shattered windows still encased in crusty cardboard, and a dumpster bristling with broken doors and sheets of perished drywall.

The teal Port A Potty sat crookedly on a pile of rocky dirt, its door partially caved in, the whole thing decorated with faded graffiti and fresh warding sigils. Dean couldn't read Enochian, the ancient language of angels, but thanks to Anna once demonstrating an angel-banishing blood spell, he could recognize it.

"Still. We must check it to be sure," Castiel said with the utmost confidence that Dean would see it his way.

"It's an OUTHOUSE, Cass!" He rubbed his eye with a thumb, tired and hungry and sick of this mickey mouse, and already feeling guilty for his outburst. He cast a glance sidelong. At the sight of Castiel's kicked-puppy expression, he attempted to reign it in. "Trust me, we do not want to deal with any demons that might be in there."

Castiel tilted his head as he tried to puzzle through what he meant. "I suppose you're right. I do not see how twenty-four people could fit inside such a small structure, let alone however many demons Lilith has recruited."

Dean opened his mouth, and to his surprise, heard laughter gasp out of it. He leaned against the beige-lined door, covering his eyes with his hand, and laughed until he started to sniffle. Castiel sat like a trench-coated tree stump through the whole episode.

"Did I say something funny?" he stiffly asked as soon as Dean had settled down.

"Hoo!" Dean wiped his nose on the back of his hand. He clapped his friend on the shoulder with the other one. The altitude must be getting to him. He hadn't laughed like that in ages. "Never mind. Maybe we'll strike paydirt on the next one."

Castiel nodded approvingly, hinting at a smile. "That's the spirit."

A passing train sounded its horn. Hearing it, Dean realized that he was still holding the phone and that his brother had not answered. "Sam?"

Silence. He pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it. It wasn't on. Then, just as he was about to bring up his call history, it lit up, his ringtone much louder out there in the cab. The caller ID said SAM.

Castiel watched curiously as he pressed TALK. ". . . Sam?"

"How goes it?" Sam sounded far more alert than Dean thought he had any right to be.