FIC: Of Bastard Saints, 12
May. 19th, 2006 08:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: Of Bastard Saints
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance and beanside
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: We make no claim of ownership on the Brothers and Daddy Winchester. No infringement is intended, no money is made.
Author Notes: Set after the episode "Devil's Trap."
WARNINGS: Character maiming, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.
Bruce Campbell had lied to him.
Dean hit the edge of the park bench and rolled off the back, onto his hands. The monster (a huge fugly scaly thing that had no right to move that fast, goddamn it) charged up the bench after him, pouncing on Dean before he could struggle upright. Its fingers latched around his throat, squeezing hard, its long legs wrapping around Dean's ribs. Dean snarled and whipped his elbow up, knocking its arm enough that its grip slackened. Then he jerked his head back, feeling its teeth impact with his scalp and the wet snap of its nose giving. It let him go long enough that Dean could scrape it off on the bench and roll away, reaching for the shotgun in his back-holster.
He had to use the shotgun to prod the damned thing back, pinning the monster to the base of the bench. It snarled and clawed at him, hissing, "Your mother still screams in he-"
Dean pulled the trigger, twitching his head out of the way of the splatter. He watched through narrowed eyes as the thing went through its death throes, then pushed himself wearily up to his feet.
The sight of someone standing by, watching, made Dean glance at the skinny teenager gawking at him. Dean reached into his pocket and flashed a badge. "Animal Control. Move it along."
The teenager hesitated, then reached into his own pocket and pulled out his own card. "PETA, man! Is that jacket leather?"
"Aww, crap," Dean muttered. "Yes, that is a shotgun, thanks for asking."
"Gun control now!"
"... Damn." Dean squinted at the kid. He could shoot him from here. It'd be really satisfying. The Dean (Hammett? Winchester?) handbook of demon hunting, coauthored by Dean himself and by too many horror directors to mention, didn't explicitly tell him not to kill innocent, annoying bystanders. But then, they told him that shooting monsters made them stay down, and that the big ones tended to be slower. Dean had a few new scars that said otherwise.
Screw this. Time to go back to locker, sweet locker. Dean fired another shot into the monster, making the teenager squeak and twitch, then reholstered his shotgun in the back-holster. "Take it up with your congressman."
Funny enough, the teenager seemed to think it wise not to harass Dean as he left.
After a hunt that felt like it'd had him running from one side of the city to the other, Dean had ended up in a city park a few blocks from the locker. He was scratched, bruised, bloody and drenched from the ever-present rain. No wonder every band that came out of this damned city sounded like they needed anti-depressants. Said the man who needed anti-psychotics.
Dean paused outside the storage building, pulling out the battered, water-stained journal. He flipped through his own notes from the past few days, all those things that his old self had apparently thought too obvious to mention.
Some of it was more boring than Dean had expected: research methods, what search terms brought up the best results, because unlike in the movies news bulletins didn't pop up just when Dean was starting to get frustrated. He'd done some digging on amnesia. Enough to see that he apparently didn't have it. Whatever the fuck was wrong with him, he didn't need a neurologist to fix. Maybe an exorcist and a shrink, but not a neurologist.
The rest of it was better. How to shoot a zombie to make sure they stayed down. Why a chainsaw, while satisfying, wasn't a really inconspicuous weapon; it was too hard to get on the bus without people looking at you funny. Also, it had an alarming tendency not to start.
He pulled out a pen and added, Ugly lizard things run faster than you'd think. Shooting in face works. After a moment, Dean wrote, When in doubt, always try shooting in face. And don't make wiseass comments, because that just irritates them.
As he was putting the pen back in his pocket, a slip of paper escaped. Dean grabbed for it automatically, closing the journal one-handed as he studied the Chinese fortune. "There is strength in numbers," Dean mused. "In bed."
There was a warning twinge from Dean's head, along with a sense-memory: Kung Pao chicken from the box, a cheap hotel room with two beds circled by a chalk line, a couple empty beer bottles, warm rough laughter from someone who didn't normally let himself.
"No, really." His own voice, lazy with alcohol and the knowledge he was safe. "These things make so much more sense if you put 'in bed' at the end."
"Son, that's how you deal with everything."
"And?"
Dean closed his eyes and pushed the memory away. He was better off if he left the unnecessary shit alone. Focus on what he needed to survive.
On the other side, someone had scratched out the lucky numbers and written a phone number in its place. Minnesota area code. Well, he'd had good luck with Minnesota so far.
There was no way it could get worse than the frustrating night he'd spent trying all the numbers in his old address book. First he'd had to decode the damned things. He'd used a simple cipher, but it was mind-numbing busy work trying to go through it all. There had been about three pages crammed with numbers. After a while, Dean had just focused on the ones that had a star next to them.
Five of them, he'd gotten an answering machine that told him bluntly, "This number has been disconnected." All the messages had been delivered by the same blank slate of a voice. No explanations, no offering to let Dean try a forwarding number. It was like those people had been wiped cleanly off the map. It'd made Dean's conspiracy-sense tingle uncomfortably.
Three of them, Dean had gotten another, different kind of message. A woman's voice: "This message is in the event of my death. Please tell my children."
"This is Caleb. I'm sorry."
"Elkins. If I'm not answering, I'm probably dead." After a long, grudging moment, the man's rough voice had added, "If you hear this, call John."
Two of them, Dean had dialed and had someone pick up. That was where he got the feeling that in whatever world he was part of, everyone was on high alert. Mostly because he had two very angry people barking that they didn't know where he got this number, but to never fucking call it again, and then hanging up on him.
One of them, the last one Dean'd called, had picked up with a curt, "Jackson Towing." When Dean hadn't answered, recognizing Bobby's drawl, Bobby's voice had sharpened. "Dean? That you? It's all right, boy. Where are y- fuck, don't tell me, the line's not secure. Hold on. Hold on." The shuffle of Bobby struggling with something on the other end of the line. "All right. You okay?" Silence. "Okay. That was a helluva question, I know. We need you to come back in. There's something on your tail. Can't fight this one alone. We can sort things out if you-"
Which was where Dean had hung up on him. He might've taken a head injury, but he knew stalling until a trace could be made.
So. Was it worth the risk of being made? And why the hell was he so afraid of these people catching up with him?
Dean rubbed the worn slip of paper with his thumb, closing his eyes. The memory that had accompanied the fortune had been a good one, one without remembered pain or fear. It'd been a while since Dean had felt a memory that didn't leave him trembling or enraged.
He'd felt... safe. He hadn't felt that way since waking in that hospital bed, somebody rattling off Latin above his head. The locker had given him weaponry, given him control. It hadn't given him someone who could help him figure this whole clusterfuck out.
One of these hunts, quick thinking might not be enough to compensate for going in blind. Dean didn't know a lot about who he'd been, but he knew he didn't want to die.
"Dad- Dad, don't you let it kill me!"
The paper slid through his nerveless fingers. Dean grabbed blindly for it, leaning hard against the wall until the pain eased up again. Jesus. That'd been a bad one, the worst one yet.
Dean reached up, rubbing absently at the scars on his chest. Then he set his jaw and headed to the payphone. Even if the call was a bust, it was only a waste of a few minutes. If they picked up and he got spooked, he'd have time to hang up before they could put a trace on the call.
Bullshit. He just wanted the comfort of that voice again. His luck, the man was dead.
He leaned against the wall beside the payphone, stretching the cord so that he could put something solid against his back. Then he put the money in, drew in a deep breath, and dialed.
This was stupid. So, so stupid. So unbelievably-
"You are being forwarded!" chirped an automated voice. "Hold, please."
Stupid. With a sigh, Dean raised his hand to hang up and walk. Hopefully the fucking thing would give him his quarters back, because he needed to do some laundry. So much for his old self's resources-
After half a ring, the other end picked up. Dean heard that voice answer, "John Winchester."
Pain, searing, unforgiving. Dean heard a pained noise escape him before he could choke it back, doubling around the receiver he was clutching like a lifeline. A thousand images shot through his mind all at once, too much to catch, too fast to focus on. Hurt, comfort, regret and love, trust, and yeah, even a bone-deep quiet happiness.
Dimly, he heard the voice sharpen. "Dean? Son. Stay on the line. I'm coming, it's all right. Where are you? "
Beneath the man's voice (John Winchester, the father Bobby had mentioned, the owner of the voice from the fortune cookie memory, the John Elkins had mentioned, fuck) there was another voice. Dean caught the edge of "-is that?-" before the pain went nova. Like something from a nightmare, he felt the receiver slide from his fingers and couldn't do anything to hold on. His knees started to go out from under him.
Something caught Dean, a brutal grip around his throat pulling him back. Dean watched the phone hit the end of its cord and swing, the distant call of those voices sparking another wave of pain to distract him.
"You see?" came a voice in his ear, poisoned honey slow and sweet. "I told you they didn't need you."
Knowledge locked together, like a clip sliding cleanly into place. Dean knew that voice, knew its poison, knew it was really fucking bad that it had chased him down. The scars at his chest burned. He choked, twisting in its grip, and felt his feet leave the ground as it hauled him up. His vision swam. Dean swung out blindly, trying to hurt it anyway he could.
A second later, Dean hit the wall hard enough that he felt the shotgun cut its long bruise down his spine. His feet still didn't touch the ground. He scrabbled for another weapon, unable to tear his eyes off the horror smirking up at him.
It was a woman, small build and pigtails. The burning eyes didn't match its pointed, sweet face. There was no way it- she- it should've been able to hold him up. Except it wasn't actually touching him, both arms folded across its chest in a stance that was somehow... male.
It let him pull the gun. It let him aim. Dean knew that, knew it couldn't be a good sign, but he did it anyway because that was the only thing he had. It was like trying to put out a bonfire by spitting on it, but at least it was something.
Its eyes searched his face, mouth curving in a smirk. "Go on. Shoot a mother of two in the face, like you did that poor boy on the Interstate. You know, he was going to ask his high school sweetheart to marry him. Tragic, really."
Dean felt his hand shake, traitorously. He shook his head.
"What? That bothers you now? You murdered at least two that I know of-" The thing stopped short, its eyes narrowing suddenly as it stared at Dean. It wasn't the hungry animal look the monster had given him, or the blank-eyed stare of the zombies. It was the look of Valhalla's Grandmother. It was the look of something old, something smart. The thing tipped its head to the side, slowly. Then it smiled, baring teeth in a way that wasn't entirely human. "Now that is interesting. You didn't know. Does that sting? Because I'm telling you now, boy, that's only the start of it. "
From the phone, Dean could hear a terrible quiet. They were waiting, he realized. Waiting to hear him die.
Dean bared his teeth at the thing, at the demon wearing some kid's mother like she was a cheap costume. "I know," he said. "I just don't care."
It opened its mouth. Dean pulled the trigger and watched the woman's head go to wet pieces, barely feeling it as the power dropped him to the concrete. He watched the black ash billow out, leaving only the woman. Only the mother of two, who was never coming home.
The demon had put her in the line of fire. Dean had just finished it. Dean had just-
The murmur of voices from the phone. Dean could hear relief. Even though he'd dropped this woman, John Winchester was relieved.
Couldn't let it have him. Couldn't lead that thing to his father. Couldn't let it kill him, too.
Dean was making noises in his throat. He swallowed them down, and set his teeth until he could trust himself not to make them anymore. Then he stepped over the body and went inside, back to the locker, back to the weaponry and the alcohol. Back to the part of his life that made sense.
He threw up. He shook. He survived.
He started planning, bricking up the hollows inside.
Authors:
nilchance and beansideRating: Adult
Disclaimer: We make no claim of ownership on the Brothers and Daddy Winchester. No infringement is intended, no money is made.
Author Notes: Set after the episode "Devil's Trap."
WARNINGS: Character maiming, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.
Bruce Campbell had lied to him.
Dean hit the edge of the park bench and rolled off the back, onto his hands. The monster (a huge fugly scaly thing that had no right to move that fast, goddamn it) charged up the bench after him, pouncing on Dean before he could struggle upright. Its fingers latched around his throat, squeezing hard, its long legs wrapping around Dean's ribs. Dean snarled and whipped his elbow up, knocking its arm enough that its grip slackened. Then he jerked his head back, feeling its teeth impact with his scalp and the wet snap of its nose giving. It let him go long enough that Dean could scrape it off on the bench and roll away, reaching for the shotgun in his back-holster.
He had to use the shotgun to prod the damned thing back, pinning the monster to the base of the bench. It snarled and clawed at him, hissing, "Your mother still screams in he-"
Dean pulled the trigger, twitching his head out of the way of the splatter. He watched through narrowed eyes as the thing went through its death throes, then pushed himself wearily up to his feet.
The sight of someone standing by, watching, made Dean glance at the skinny teenager gawking at him. Dean reached into his pocket and flashed a badge. "Animal Control. Move it along."
The teenager hesitated, then reached into his own pocket and pulled out his own card. "PETA, man! Is that jacket leather?"
"Aww, crap," Dean muttered. "Yes, that is a shotgun, thanks for asking."
"Gun control now!"
"... Damn." Dean squinted at the kid. He could shoot him from here. It'd be really satisfying. The Dean (Hammett? Winchester?) handbook of demon hunting, coauthored by Dean himself and by too many horror directors to mention, didn't explicitly tell him not to kill innocent, annoying bystanders. But then, they told him that shooting monsters made them stay down, and that the big ones tended to be slower. Dean had a few new scars that said otherwise.
Screw this. Time to go back to locker, sweet locker. Dean fired another shot into the monster, making the teenager squeak and twitch, then reholstered his shotgun in the back-holster. "Take it up with your congressman."
Funny enough, the teenager seemed to think it wise not to harass Dean as he left.
After a hunt that felt like it'd had him running from one side of the city to the other, Dean had ended up in a city park a few blocks from the locker. He was scratched, bruised, bloody and drenched from the ever-present rain. No wonder every band that came out of this damned city sounded like they needed anti-depressants. Said the man who needed anti-psychotics.
Dean paused outside the storage building, pulling out the battered, water-stained journal. He flipped through his own notes from the past few days, all those things that his old self had apparently thought too obvious to mention.
Some of it was more boring than Dean had expected: research methods, what search terms brought up the best results, because unlike in the movies news bulletins didn't pop up just when Dean was starting to get frustrated. He'd done some digging on amnesia. Enough to see that he apparently didn't have it. Whatever the fuck was wrong with him, he didn't need a neurologist to fix. Maybe an exorcist and a shrink, but not a neurologist.
The rest of it was better. How to shoot a zombie to make sure they stayed down. Why a chainsaw, while satisfying, wasn't a really inconspicuous weapon; it was too hard to get on the bus without people looking at you funny. Also, it had an alarming tendency not to start.
He pulled out a pen and added, Ugly lizard things run faster than you'd think. Shooting in face works. After a moment, Dean wrote, When in doubt, always try shooting in face. And don't make wiseass comments, because that just irritates them.
As he was putting the pen back in his pocket, a slip of paper escaped. Dean grabbed for it automatically, closing the journal one-handed as he studied the Chinese fortune. "There is strength in numbers," Dean mused. "In bed."
There was a warning twinge from Dean's head, along with a sense-memory: Kung Pao chicken from the box, a cheap hotel room with two beds circled by a chalk line, a couple empty beer bottles, warm rough laughter from someone who didn't normally let himself.
"No, really." His own voice, lazy with alcohol and the knowledge he was safe. "These things make so much more sense if you put 'in bed' at the end."
"Son, that's how you deal with everything."
"And?"
Dean closed his eyes and pushed the memory away. He was better off if he left the unnecessary shit alone. Focus on what he needed to survive.
On the other side, someone had scratched out the lucky numbers and written a phone number in its place. Minnesota area code. Well, he'd had good luck with Minnesota so far.
There was no way it could get worse than the frustrating night he'd spent trying all the numbers in his old address book. First he'd had to decode the damned things. He'd used a simple cipher, but it was mind-numbing busy work trying to go through it all. There had been about three pages crammed with numbers. After a while, Dean had just focused on the ones that had a star next to them.
Five of them, he'd gotten an answering machine that told him bluntly, "This number has been disconnected." All the messages had been delivered by the same blank slate of a voice. No explanations, no offering to let Dean try a forwarding number. It was like those people had been wiped cleanly off the map. It'd made Dean's conspiracy-sense tingle uncomfortably.
Three of them, Dean had gotten another, different kind of message. A woman's voice: "This message is in the event of my death. Please tell my children."
"This is Caleb. I'm sorry."
"Elkins. If I'm not answering, I'm probably dead." After a long, grudging moment, the man's rough voice had added, "If you hear this, call John."
Two of them, Dean had dialed and had someone pick up. That was where he got the feeling that in whatever world he was part of, everyone was on high alert. Mostly because he had two very angry people barking that they didn't know where he got this number, but to never fucking call it again, and then hanging up on him.
One of them, the last one Dean'd called, had picked up with a curt, "Jackson Towing." When Dean hadn't answered, recognizing Bobby's drawl, Bobby's voice had sharpened. "Dean? That you? It's all right, boy. Where are y- fuck, don't tell me, the line's not secure. Hold on. Hold on." The shuffle of Bobby struggling with something on the other end of the line. "All right. You okay?" Silence. "Okay. That was a helluva question, I know. We need you to come back in. There's something on your tail. Can't fight this one alone. We can sort things out if you-"
Which was where Dean had hung up on him. He might've taken a head injury, but he knew stalling until a trace could be made.
So. Was it worth the risk of being made? And why the hell was he so afraid of these people catching up with him?
Dean rubbed the worn slip of paper with his thumb, closing his eyes. The memory that had accompanied the fortune had been a good one, one without remembered pain or fear. It'd been a while since Dean had felt a memory that didn't leave him trembling or enraged.
He'd felt... safe. He hadn't felt that way since waking in that hospital bed, somebody rattling off Latin above his head. The locker had given him weaponry, given him control. It hadn't given him someone who could help him figure this whole clusterfuck out.
One of these hunts, quick thinking might not be enough to compensate for going in blind. Dean didn't know a lot about who he'd been, but he knew he didn't want to die.
"Dad- Dad, don't you let it kill me!"
The paper slid through his nerveless fingers. Dean grabbed blindly for it, leaning hard against the wall until the pain eased up again. Jesus. That'd been a bad one, the worst one yet.
Dean reached up, rubbing absently at the scars on his chest. Then he set his jaw and headed to the payphone. Even if the call was a bust, it was only a waste of a few minutes. If they picked up and he got spooked, he'd have time to hang up before they could put a trace on the call.
Bullshit. He just wanted the comfort of that voice again. His luck, the man was dead.
He leaned against the wall beside the payphone, stretching the cord so that he could put something solid against his back. Then he put the money in, drew in a deep breath, and dialed.
This was stupid. So, so stupid. So unbelievably-
"You are being forwarded!" chirped an automated voice. "Hold, please."
Stupid. With a sigh, Dean raised his hand to hang up and walk. Hopefully the fucking thing would give him his quarters back, because he needed to do some laundry. So much for his old self's resources-
After half a ring, the other end picked up. Dean heard that voice answer, "John Winchester."
Pain, searing, unforgiving. Dean heard a pained noise escape him before he could choke it back, doubling around the receiver he was clutching like a lifeline. A thousand images shot through his mind all at once, too much to catch, too fast to focus on. Hurt, comfort, regret and love, trust, and yeah, even a bone-deep quiet happiness.
Dimly, he heard the voice sharpen. "Dean? Son. Stay on the line. I'm coming, it's all right. Where are you? "
Beneath the man's voice (John Winchester, the father Bobby had mentioned, the owner of the voice from the fortune cookie memory, the John Elkins had mentioned, fuck) there was another voice. Dean caught the edge of "-is that?-" before the pain went nova. Like something from a nightmare, he felt the receiver slide from his fingers and couldn't do anything to hold on. His knees started to go out from under him.
Something caught Dean, a brutal grip around his throat pulling him back. Dean watched the phone hit the end of its cord and swing, the distant call of those voices sparking another wave of pain to distract him.
"You see?" came a voice in his ear, poisoned honey slow and sweet. "I told you they didn't need you."
Knowledge locked together, like a clip sliding cleanly into place. Dean knew that voice, knew its poison, knew it was really fucking bad that it had chased him down. The scars at his chest burned. He choked, twisting in its grip, and felt his feet leave the ground as it hauled him up. His vision swam. Dean swung out blindly, trying to hurt it anyway he could.
A second later, Dean hit the wall hard enough that he felt the shotgun cut its long bruise down his spine. His feet still didn't touch the ground. He scrabbled for another weapon, unable to tear his eyes off the horror smirking up at him.
It was a woman, small build and pigtails. The burning eyes didn't match its pointed, sweet face. There was no way it- she- it should've been able to hold him up. Except it wasn't actually touching him, both arms folded across its chest in a stance that was somehow... male.
It let him pull the gun. It let him aim. Dean knew that, knew it couldn't be a good sign, but he did it anyway because that was the only thing he had. It was like trying to put out a bonfire by spitting on it, but at least it was something.
Its eyes searched his face, mouth curving in a smirk. "Go on. Shoot a mother of two in the face, like you did that poor boy on the Interstate. You know, he was going to ask his high school sweetheart to marry him. Tragic, really."
Dean felt his hand shake, traitorously. He shook his head.
"What? That bothers you now? You murdered at least two that I know of-" The thing stopped short, its eyes narrowing suddenly as it stared at Dean. It wasn't the hungry animal look the monster had given him, or the blank-eyed stare of the zombies. It was the look of Valhalla's Grandmother. It was the look of something old, something smart. The thing tipped its head to the side, slowly. Then it smiled, baring teeth in a way that wasn't entirely human. "Now that is interesting. You didn't know. Does that sting? Because I'm telling you now, boy, that's only the start of it. "
From the phone, Dean could hear a terrible quiet. They were waiting, he realized. Waiting to hear him die.
Dean bared his teeth at the thing, at the demon wearing some kid's mother like she was a cheap costume. "I know," he said. "I just don't care."
It opened its mouth. Dean pulled the trigger and watched the woman's head go to wet pieces, barely feeling it as the power dropped him to the concrete. He watched the black ash billow out, leaving only the woman. Only the mother of two, who was never coming home.
The demon had put her in the line of fire. Dean had just finished it. Dean had just-
The murmur of voices from the phone. Dean could hear relief. Even though he'd dropped this woman, John Winchester was relieved.
Couldn't let it have him. Couldn't lead that thing to his father. Couldn't let it kill him, too.
Dean was making noises in his throat. He swallowed them down, and set his teeth until he could trust himself not to make them anymore. Then he stepped over the body and went inside, back to the locker, back to the weaponry and the alcohol. Back to the part of his life that made sense.
He threw up. He shook. He survived.
He started planning, bricking up the hollows inside.