nilchance | Fic: Of Bastard Saints, 17

Title: Of Bastard Saints
Authors:

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.

"So, where's the sign that says "drug dealers and weapons runners apply here?" Sam asked, looking at the heavy security around the locker complex.

"Seattle's not exactly the smuggling hub of the universe," John said, shooting him a quick, tight smile.

Sam started to reply when pain suddenly spiked in his head, blinding and sharp. The landscape swam out of view. He felt his balance go and flailed for a second, trying to go down. "-Dad?"

Before Sam could fall, John was there, solid against his back. An arm looped around Sam's stomach, tucking him against John's hip before Sam's knees buckled. A hand touched his cheek. Contact. "Sam-"

The world was swallowed.

Sam found himself, elsewhere. From the warm solid weight of his father's arm around him, he knew that this time, he'd dragged his father into it too. "Dad?"

"I'm here." John looked out, over the room. Sparse furniture, water-stained wallpaper, dismal and cheap. Dad seemed to recognize it. "Oh, God."

Sam looked around the cheerless room, noting the much younger version of his father, and the small baby on the floor. "That's me? Oh fuck. Dean's pulling me into his memories, isn't he?"

"Or something like that. And I'm getting dragged along for the ride."

The memory played out. Sam felt something wet on his shoulder, heard the soft intake of breath as his father said hoarsely. "I don't think I ever told him that again. That I loved him."

Sam was silent, lost in his own pain. You're my brother, and I'd die for you. It had never occurred to him how far Dean would go. Had Sam ever thanked him for pulling him out of his burning house...twice, for not letting him fall into the pit of despair after Jess had died?

He had. Dean never accepted it. Protecting Sam was just what he did, whether Sam wanted it or not, whether Sam thanked him or not.

The scene shifted, and they felt Dean, felt the raging anger that filled him. Felt his determination to avenge his dead-oh, shit.

John sucked in a hard breath as the demon appeared, seeing that Dean's resolve didn't change as he saw the horror draw closer. "You can't kill it, Dean, run. Get out of there."

The fight, that horrible sound of fists on flesh as Dean got beaten to hell. The binding, which Sam missed most of because he couldn't breathe past the fear, the anger, the petty little voice that demanded why Dean was the one to drive the knife home, why Sam couldn't have-

Sam felt his father tense, going rigid as Dean bent and spat blood into the open end of the hourglass. John bit off, like Dean could hear him, like he could stop it, "Jesus, Dean, no-"

In slow motion, the blood welled through the holy water. As it spread, it brushed the ash that made up the demon, mingling-

With a sickening snap, the ash seemed to devour the blood. The ash darkened, strengthened, welling up against the glass. As the demon got stronger, Sam saw Dean gasp and stagger. Automatically, Sam reached out to steady him. His hands touched Dean's shoulder, and Sam jerked at the force of something ricocheting through the contact.

There was an aching emptiness, a feeling of walls buckling under the strain. The demon was pushing, hard, and Dean was losing ground.

Without thinking, desperate, Sam reached for Dean, using whatever power he had, his fucking gift to press against those walls, to keep them up, give them reinforcement. Behind him, he felt his father doing the same. What the hell?

The walls held. Trembling, groaning from the strain, but God, they held.

The vision released.

Sam staggered, only his father's grip keeping them both upright. "A shop vac? " Sam rasped, a hysterical note in his voice. "He bound a greater demon with a shop vac? Is that even possible? I mean, the black shit is non corporeal, right? He bound it with a shop vac?"

"Not all the way," John said quietly. His voice was steady, almost calm. "The holy water would suspend the demon, make the black stuff corporeal enough. Then, to throw it in a container with the devil's trap..." John nodded. "That would do it. But he added blood. He tied himself to the binding. Unless he seals the hourglass away, the demon can still get to him. It'll talk to him, try to tempt him. Try to drive him insane. This is bad, Sammy."

There was something in his father's voice. Something he hadn't heard before. It took a moment to place the sound. Fear. John Winchester was afraid, and that scared the hell out of Sam. "Dad," he said fiercely, "this is Dean. Dean's always been solid. He doesn't want money, he doesn't want anything for himself. He'll be okay until we get there."

John's silence was an answer. Not a good one. He steadied Sam, then took a step back. When Sam didn't fall on his face, John went to the thumb-pad lock. It recognized him as 'John Smith', but didn't open. John glanced at Sam.

Still shaking his head (Shop vac? Jesus, Dean), Sam stepped up beside him and pressed his thumb to the pad. The system welcomed 'Samantha', which would've been funnier and more irritating if Sam wasn't still reeling. He followed his father deeper into the storage locker, a labyrinth of empty hallways and lights clicking on one by one to illuminate the blank walls.

Dean wasn't solid. Not this Dean. That absolute blistering rage, that feeling that something vital and solid was about to collapse under the strain...

Because Sam wasn't there. Because he thought Sam was dead.

Sam felt the cool metal of the radio knob under his fingers, and realized belatedly that he was fidgeting with the chain again. Comforting, but not helpful if someone attacked. His head was pounding dully in the aftermath of that vision, and the memory of the look on his father's face as he realized what Dean had done gnawed at Sam in the silence.

Finally, they reached a place where John stopped. Out of habit, Sam waited for his father to pick the lock and was surprised to see that no, he actually had a key for this one. Go figure.

The locker opened into a skeleton of a weapons hold, most of the brackets empty now. There was a small stack of cardboard ammo boxes by the wall, a rumpled sleeping bag on the room's single cot. The room smelled like hell, liquor and gun oil and sickness. There was blood streaked across the floor and one wall. Sam went to sit on the cot, watching for a moment as his father ran his fingers over one of the remaining guns. A flash of white in the corner of his vision made him turn his head, picking up the crumpled piece of paper. Sam recognized the mess of Dean's hand-writing, which was pretty much encryption to anyone who hadn't had to deal with it most of their life.

Hey, read the note. If you're here, something's fucked up your chance at college. If it's me, get your ass back to class and that girl, dumbass. And yeah, I know about the girl. If it's zombies, ration out the hollow-points for the newer ones. They're less squishy.

"I know that," Sam murmured at the note. "Jerk."

So here's the big brother advice, and yeah you have to listen. I'm dead, bitch, let me lecture you. The keys to the Impala are in the stock of the Winchester rifle (ha ha) with the blue inline. You put a dent in her and I'll haunt your ass. Stop listening to Metallica around the Load era, because everything after it is crap. Marry that girl, she's hot and she doesn't take your shit. If you have kids and name one after me, make it the handsome one or I'll haunt your ass for that, too. (If it's a girl, I'm talking full-on chain rattling here, dude. Seriously.) Take it easy on Dad. Be happy.

In less steady handwriting: Tell Dad I'm sorry.

Sam closed his eyes, rubbing his thumb over the last line. "Love you, too," he said softly. Then he raised his head.

There was another note in his father's hand, a drawn look on his face. It was bad. John glanced up, catching Sam's eyes, then shook his head and went to pitch it in the trash.

"Dad," Sam said fiercely.

John hesitated, his hand poised over the trashcan. Sam watched him struggle with something, some decision. Then he sighed and turned back, passing Sam the second note. His hand locked on Sam's wrist before Sam could start reading.

"Your brother," John began, then stopped. He sighed, sitting on the cot beside Sam. "You have to understand what happened when you went to Stanford. We had to separate. He started to-"

The cell phone trilled. John started, then swore and picked up the phone.
"Winchester." A pause. John released Sam's wrist. "I know, Bobby. I've got it under control. I need you to run interference before any jackass gets the bright idea that he's been turned back on us, all right? We've got enough goddamn problems without trying to protect him from our own. He bound the demon." Silence as John listened, his eyes closing. "Yeah, I remember Sinclair. But Dean isn't her. We can get to him. I just need you to give us the time."

The messy scrawl was the only common link between the two. The words were starker, no asides. There was a smear of red across the paper. Sam skimmed it, feeling his heart sink.

I think my name is Dean. Dean Winchester. That doesn't mean anything to me.

I don't know who I expect to read this in a locked room left to a dead man, but I've seen stranger. There are demons, apparently. Or I'm insane. I have dreams I don't understand, nightmares that aren't mine. I have scars I don't remember. I shot a guy on the Interstate and felt nothing. I punched another guy and felt like a monster. None of this makes sense to me. I'm tired, but I keep running because there's something behind me. I remember killing a girl. I have a father, but I don't remember his face. Bothers me. I don't remember a mother. I had a brother. Had a younger brother. I couldn't protect him. I can't even remember his name.

They killed my brother.

I'll kill them all.

Sam closed his eyes and cursed.

There was a click as the phone closed, a creak as John turned to him. John said, softly, "All right, Sam. It's time I tell you something about your brother." John scratched his chin. "Hell, about the whole damned family."

Sam looked up, waiting.

Before John could open his mouth again, the locker door started smoking, and a moment later, a hideous scaly creature stood in the hole it had created.

Without bothering to really look, Sam pulled the rifle off the cot, blasting it point blank with pure rock salt. Unlike Dean, it didn't get up.

"Maybe family sharing should wait until we're out of here," John said, re-holstering his revolver.

Current Mood: accomplished

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From:

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So I've been reading this for a while and I've been really bad about commenting but I figure I should tell you just how fantastic this is. You have them written so well and the pacing of this is really, really well done. Thank you for writing this.

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Especially when you make plans...

Fic: Of Bastard Saints, 17

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