FIC: Of Bastard Saints, 16

[nilchance]

Title: Of Bastard Saints
Authors: 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, violence, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.



Palo Alto, home of Stanford U. It was strange, Dean thought. He'd felt pulled through Seattle, unfamiliar with any streets but the ones that drew him towards the storage locker. Palo Alto, he knew like the back of his own hand. It had the feel of a city he'd driven through a lot and at all hours, doing paces through it until he could navigate it dead asleep.

Until he reached the heart of every path through the city, the burnt out building like an amputated limb. That hit him like discord, his heart twisting in his chest. He'd damned near gotten into a car accident on the first pass when he stomped on the brake to stare at it, the pain like a flare igniting in his brain.

The cute little thing working at the disgustingly trendy coffeeshop deep in campus had been surprisingly helpful when Dean stopped to ask her. "Oh, that place? Ugh. Creepy, isn't it? There was a fire a few years ago. A girl died. Kinda sad."

"In that OJ way," had snarked her coworker, who bristled with piercings and a faux Billy Idol sneer. "I can't believe they didn't bust her boyfriend for arson."

The cute one had rolled her eyes at Dean, privately. "Yeah. Some people say it went up in minutes. Couldn't find any gas or anything, though."

"Whatever. The guy took off as soon as the funeral was over. Classic admission of guilt."

"Sure, Oliver Stone. Anyway, it's our local legend. Especially since the last time they tried to build over it, it just burned down again. They're still trying to figure out what to do with it so people stop using it as a make-out spot." The cute one had handed Dean his coffee, frowning. "Hey, you okay?"

Okay. Okay didn't begin to cover what Dean wasn't. Between nearly a week without sleep, too crowded with research and recon to let himself sleep, and the tangible sickness that hit him whenever he looked at that burnt-out wreckage...

He slid the truck he'd picked up in Seattle into an empty spot on the street, stopping to look up and down the sidewalk. It didn't look like he'd been noticed. It was a three-day weekend for the college kids, which meant there were less people hanging around waiting to be turned into collateral damage.

Dean got out of the truck he'd nicknamed the Beast, thumping its side fondly as he headed for the truckbed. Thank fuck there had been a reasonable one available, in black, no less, because that had let Dean bring a small arsenal with him from Seattle and still fit his recent purchases. He touched the Home Depot bag, feeling his nerves stir uneasily at the thought of what he was about to try.

He was Dean Winchester. That meant something. He had to have something that spooked the demon if it was hunting him so hard. Which meant that he had a shot at surviving his stupid psychotic plan.

No more. It ended here.

But first, a couple hours to get ready. It would let him get ready, he knew that. It was waiting to see what he'd do.

Sunset found Dean leaning indolently against the doorway to what had to have been the bedroom. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

He looked around the room, sighing. It was familiar. But no memory sparked from it. Nothing of the brother who he'd lost. Nothing of the father he barely knew. God, he'd give almost anything to remember-

Pain spiked through his head, the memory swimming into focus as though it had just been waiting for him to ask.

They were in a familiar place- a shithole apartment, after the... after something had happened. His father was there, younger, sadder. Like whatever had turned them into this was closer, the grief new.

Dean could see himself there, a five year old version of him. There was a picture book in his lap, and he was reading it quietly, glancing up anxiously once in a while to be sure his father was still there. He was always quiet. Hadn't wanted to talk since their lives had been shattered. Had to be strong for Dad, for-

A soft giggle caught his attention, and Dean looked up at the chubby baby on the floor.

"I think he's getting ready to try to walk," his father said softly from the kitchen table where he'd been sitting, reading, smiling. To the baby, he murmured, "Go ahead, kiddo, you can do it."

The baby pulled itself up, and Dean'd closed the book, focusing on the sweet little face.

His brother let go, wobbled for a moment, and tumbled to his diapered butt with a thump. He didn't cry. Hardly ever did, really, unless it was late and he was crying for their mother. Just screwed his face up and dragged himself up again.

Dean had leaned down, scooped up a rattle and shaken it, getting his little brother's attention. He was closer than his father, easier to reach. "Come on. You can do it. Come on, Sammy," he'd urged.

His father's breath had slid out hard, looked at Dean with such pride, such relief. Such love.

Sam had taken a hesitant step, arms flailing. Then, abruptly, he grinned, toddling over like he'd been doing it for years. He plunked down in front of Dean, grinning toothlessly and grabbing for the rattle.

Dean had scooped him up, kissing his head like he'd seen his father do. "Good job, Sammy."

Then his father was there, pulling both of them into a hug. "Sammy's lucky to have a big brother like you," he said gently.

Dean had smiled up at his father, until Sam had started to squirm, stuck between them. "I don't think Sammy likes that, Dad."

"Too bad for him. I love you, Dean."

The memory slid away, leaving Dean on his knees, tears sliding down his cheeks. "Sammy," he whispered. His brother's name had been Sammy- no. Damn. He'd always hated being called that. It'd been Sam.

Jesus. How could Dean have forgotten that? How could he have lost that? Lost his brother without ever remembering him?

The bricks around the dark void in his chest crumbled, buffeted by a sudden, growing rage.

That thing had taken everything he loved. Everyone who'd loved him.

The rage, the hate, flowed through his body, made the scrapes and bruises fade into the back of his mind. The exhaustion was gone, replaced by hot, singleminded purpose. He would end this. Kill the son of a bitch, and get it over with. And then...he could go home. Go back to where it all began. Then he could rest.

"You want me? Come get me, you evil son of a bitch," he yelled.

"Really, Dean. That's a little dramatic." The demon stepped into the front door, pausing for a moment to give him a sickly sweet smile. It had chosen someone who looked a bit like the man from the memory-like his father.

"You haven't seen dramatic, you cocksucker."

It gave him a delighted smile. "This is fun. What's lit the fuse on your tampon, boy? What do you think you can do to me? I've seen empires rise and fall. Buried a few myself."

Dean bared his teeth and shot from the hip, putting four slugs into the demon's torso. "I think I can kill you," he gritted.

The demon laughed, tilting his head back. "Oh, Dean. Always an optimist." Its hand moved, and Dean found himself flying back, cursing loudly as his back slammed into the crumbling wall. It gave under his weight, the sharp remains of a nail gouging him as Dean twisted to avoid it.

It let him fall, and Dean showed his gratitude by lobbing a set of twin daggers at it. Both caught, stuck in the meat of the host's thigh. "Party tricks," Dean snarled. "What, afraid to get your hands dirty?"

"Y'know," it said, stalking towards him, "you are starting to get irritating. I was going to offer you a place at my side, but now, I'm beginning to think your daddy was right. You're more trouble than you're worth."

Despite the demon's annoyance, the taunt worked. This time, it backhanded him with flesh instead of power. Which was great, except the force of it sent Dean airborne again. Towards the remains of the front door's frame. Shit, wrong direction, Dean thought. He fought to his feet, pulling the shotgun from its sheath. "That all you got?"

"I'm going to kill you," it crooned. "Going to bleed you slowly-no Daddy here to stop me this time. I'm going to take what I want from you, and then, I'm going to go kill your father slowly, just for producing two useless whelps like you and your brother."

Dean pulled the trigger, taking out the host's knee, and scrambled to his feet to stumble towards the bedroom.

"Can't run from me, boy." Its hand grabbed his hair, hauling him back.

Dean turned, ignoring the pain, and kicked it squarely in the stomach. It managed to throw him off balance, too. Dean fell to his back, half in the bedroom, half out.

The demon was on him in a flash, kneeling on his chest. Dean felt its fist impact his jaw, whipping his head to the side, blinding him. The demon reached for the front of his shirt and shredded it, glaring with disdain at the pendant that laid against his breast bone. "Pathetic. Did you think that would save you?"

"Funny," Dean snarled, "you're still not pulling it off."

It planted its foot on Dean's chest, resting weight hard on it to keep him still as the demon reached up to yank off a piece of burnt timber from the doorframe. The demon bent, sliding it under the pendant, preparing to rip it off. As the cool metal eased off Dean's skin, he felt pressure bearing down on him hard. The demon saw his discomfort become pain, and smiled. "All that training, all that time your daddy spent, honing you into his perfect soldier, and this is what it gets you. Just as dead."

"You know one other thing my father taught me, you son of a bitch?" Dean growled. "Fight dirty if you want to win." With every ounce of strength he had, he grabbed the demon's collar, and brought both his feet up into its groin, launching it over him... right into what had the bedroom.

It hissed, coming to its feet, and charged towards him. Three feet away, it stopped, brought up as though by an invisible wall.

Dean climbed to his feet slowly, offering it a smirk as he pulled the black chalk out of his pocket, and pointed at the charred shell of a ceiling. "Seal of Solomon, you son of a bitch."

It laughed, sounding genuinely delighted. "Clever." Eyes on Dean, it paced, pressing at the edges of the Seal. "Won't hold me forever, boy. I'll find you wherever you run."

Dean hefted the machete. "Who said I was going to run?"

He cocked his arm and threw, letting the blade fly at the demon's throat.

There was a satisfying moment as the demon's eyes widened in shock, then a sickening tearing noise as the blade shredded down to the spine. A wet thump as the body caved down, taking the demon to its knees.

Dean smiled, stepping into the room. He moved into the corner to grab his most recent purchase, a top of the line wet vac, charged up and slightly modified. Amazing what a fake credit card and a quick stop for holy water could get you.

The demon stared at him, eyes narrowed. Its ruined throat burbled and convulsed like it wanted to taunt him. But- Jesus, was the fucking thing starting to smirk at him?

Not good. But it had to be better than this.

The machete cleaved the thing's head off with ease, and Dean quickly powered up the shop vac, pressing the widest mouthed attachment he could find to the human's neck. "With water, I bind you," he said. "With earth, I bind you. With fire and air, I bind you."

The demon evacuated the body through the decapitated neck, as Dean had expected. The flowing holy water carried him through its tubing, directly into the crappy goth-ed out hourglass he'd prepared for it with flame, earth, air and water.

When it was done, he opened the body of the vacuum and pulled out the hourglass. Spitting a bit of blood into the holy water, which swirled angrily as the demon struggled to find its way up and out, Dean smiled. "With blood, I bind you, you son of a bitch."

Then he slapped the seal on the end with its etched Devil's Trap, the sound heavy and final.

Quiet. The demon raged in circles around the hourglass, surging violently against the glass. Dean could almost hear the screaming in his head.

Dean slumped against the wall, suddenly fucking exhausted. It was over.

So why did his head feel like it would spilt, his chest aching like he was teetering on the edge of that void?