FIC: Of Bastard Saints, 20
May. 27th, 2006 10:38 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, violence, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.
Colorado. Or was it still Wyoming? Damned if Dean could remember anymore. After nineteen hours of driving, he could feel the states running together in a blur of adrenaline and fatigue. It was another state that was all long roads and dry earth and silence. The power rippling off the hourglass had fried the radio a few hundred miles ago. Dean didn't want to know what that power was doing to him after this many hours of exposure.
Christ. He was so fucking tired. He tried thumbing through the journal, but the words stopped making tense. He tried pulling off for a nap, but the dreams- and besides, he'd woken up with something scratching gouges in his windshield.
Dean poured himself another cup of coffee. He could feel the gas station's night cashier watching him, waiting for the inevitable hold-up. Ignored him. Couldn't blame the guy. Dean knew he looked like hell, between road grime and no showers and blood. Some of the blood was even his.
He'll call the cops, boy. Best shoot him.
Dean shook his head. Not because he thought he could push the whispering away; he knew better than that. Because he was answering the voices in his head now. No, he wouldn't shoot the college kid working night shifts. No, he wouldn't, because he didn't want to waste the ammo.
Palming at his eyes, Dean grabbed a bag of pre-shelled peanuts in passing. Protein. Muscle mass. Yeah. He tossed it on the counter, set his coffee down and waited to be rung up. His attention wandered to the road map pinned up behind the kid's head. I-80 to I-15 to I-80 to I-25 to I-76 to I-270 to...
Big hands on his hips, drawing him back into a warm body. Clean soft sheets, a cup of coffee on the nightstand, beer in the refrigerator. He was naked, and he didn't hurt. Those hands touched and soothed, teased and comforted as they slithered over his skin.
The rough voice in his ear: "Come on, baby. I'll take care of you. You'll never hurt again." Long callused fingers slipping under the covers, going all the way south. "Just let me in. I'll love you. Not like they do. Not like-"
"Sir?"
Dean jerked upright again, stalling his hand halfway on its automatic path to his gun. The cashier was staring at him, wide-eyed. Then again, Dean would probably stare too if he saw somebody start to doze on their feet.
Coffee was important. Dean gave the kid a pale smile and a couple crumpled bills, taking his purchases and going out the door. He scratched a quick Devil's Trap on the glass door as he left. These things followed him, and he didn't want a dead cashier on his conscience.
It was surprisingly cold out, a shock buying Dean a few more minutes of alertness. He cleared his throat, absently casing the parking lot, then looked at the truck. There had to be a better way. There just had to be.
With a sigh, he reached in his pocket, pulling out a handful of change and headed to the payphone.
"Jackson Towing," Bobby said, voice hoarse with sleep.
"It's Dean."
"Dean-"
"Just shut up for a minute. I think I fucked up."
Bobby, bless him, didn't hesitate. "We'll fix it, then. What's going on?"
"I bound the demon. In an hourglass. By earth, air, fire, water and blood."
Bobby sucked in a hard breath.
"I bound this sonofabitch to me, didn't I," Dean said flatly.
"Yeah. Yeah, you did. That's...not good." Which sounded like a massive understatement. "You need to come in, Dean. We can find a way-" Bobby started.
"Tell me how to do it," Dean demanded. "I'm not putting anyone else at risk."
"You can't. Someone else has to bind it or the shock'll kill you. We can still fix this, it's not too late-"
"No." Dean sighed. "It's way too goddamn late. Look. Thanks. Sorry I kicked your ass."
"Dean," Bobby said. "Your daddy is about a day behind you. He's looking for you. Turn around, or just stay there, let him come for you. He's the best at what he does. He can handle it."
"No. Tell him to turn around. Don't let him walk into this. I can't- just promise me you'll tell him," Dean said, clutching the phone as though he could will Bobby to obey him.
"Son-"
"Thanks for your help, Bobby. Tell Dad I- I love him. Gotta go." Dean hung up the phone quickly, before he could do something stupid like beg Bobby to come get him or to ask where his father was.
Feeling suddenly even more alone, he walked back to the truck.
The seals were intact, all three layers of them. It was a pain in the ass to seal the hourglass every time he got out to take a piss, but it was relief to get away from the pressure of its power constantly threatening to crack the small bones of Dean's body, the car windows, anything.
He could run. Leave the truck and keep going west, east, anywhere but in the cab with that thing.
He'd bound it. His problem.
Dean undid the seals and climbed inside the cab, wondering what the hell he was going to do if it was raining and he had to piss or get gas. As he closed the door, the power settled in around him. He swallowed hard and locked himself in with the hourglass.
It was silent again. It usually did that after a dream or a stretch of whispering. All the better to make Dean doubt his own mind. It'd been better with the radio.
The truck grumbled sullenly as Dean turned the key, but eventually rolled over. He backed out of the spot and onto the road again, drinking the coffee so fast it scalded his throat. He tossed the plastic cup into the small graveyard of plastic collecting around the hourglass. The plastic was quietly starting to warp where it touched the hourglass, just like the upholstery had scorched a little around it. The glass was cool under Dean's fingers when he'd touched it to check, just to check.
He wanted to stop and call Bobby back. Call John again, and damn the headache. He wanted to stop and lay down arms and wait for them to catch him.
The demons and the things that went bump would catch him first. He'd be pinned down in the truck, surrounded with a limited amount of ammo. The whispering would start. The dreams would come. He'd crack. He'd-
That hadn't been his thought.
Dean reached across the seats, grabbed the hourglass, and shook it hard. Snarled, "Don't fucking do that, you son of a bitch. I'm not an idiot."
There was the fleeting warmth of a hand covering his own. I know that. Why would I want you otherwise?
Shuddering, Dean took his hand back and planted it firmly on the wheel again. It was better if he didn't touch the thing. He needed gloves. He needed to watch the road, empty as it was. But then the hypnotic hum of the tires started to get to him again.
More viciously than necessary, he tore open the peanuts and ate a handful. The crunch and dryness in his mouth made him think of bones. Things moved on the side of the road, white things with black black eyes. Dean didn't look at them, ate quickly. He needed water. Dehydration. Couldn't live off peanuts and coffee indefinitely.
Can't live without sleep, either.
"Fuck you. You're not getting to me." Dean locked his eyes on the road, ignoring the fact that something seemed to be moving on the passenger seat. If he looked, as he'd looked the last thousand times, there would only be the hourglass again.
C'mon, boy. It wouldn't do anyone any good if you drive off the road.
Deliberately, Dean hummed to cover its voice. It was psychotic, probably, but it filled up the loaded silence of the cab. Metallica. Ain't My Bitch. Good times. Road-tripping with the devil. They did say he had the best music-
Dean, the voice sighed, the warm exasperation so familiar it raised the hair on the back of Dean's neck. You only hum Metallica when you're nervous.
It knew the inside of Dean better than Dean did right now. Shaking his head fiercely, Dean gave the road his single-minded focus and started humming louder. The voice fell silent.
In that silence, Dean heard the wings beat. Once. A cracking, leather sound. It was the only warning before there was suddenly a huge clawed scaly thing swinging down in front of his truck.
Dean cursed sharply, swerving into the other lane. The dragon (dragon? Jesus!) swung past him and screamed loud enough that Dean felt the windows vibrate, a terrifyingly human sound. In the rearview, he saw the dragon swoop back up into the darkness above. A brief flash as it blocked out the moon. Then nothing.
"Fuck. Me." Dean leaned into the steering wheel, fumbling for a gun one-handed as he tried to find it again. Black dragon, black sky; he wasn't having much luck. Couldn't be a fucking white dragon, no...
His heart was beating too hard against his ribs. He couldn't think past something in his brain screaming that this didn't happen, that dragons didn't hunt anymore, that there was nothing you could really do against them anyway but die. The journal had said that. His father had told him that. His father-
I was wrong, son.
Dean flicked an annoyed look at the hourglass. "Okay, fucking Vader, you're not my father. Shut the hell up until you can be helpful."
Unfortunately, that didn't provoke any flashes of demonic brilliance.
Okay. Dragons. Okay. Virgins? Well, he was screwed in that category, and he thought that was probably unicorns anyway. If the world was going all fluffy fucking 13 year old girl gone psychotic on him-
That scream tore the night again a split second before Dean felt the impact, a howl of metal as the truck's frame bent on the passenger side. He grabbed the hourglass, hauling it onto his lap and between his knees as a talon probed through the fractured window, tearing the upholstery as it searched for the place where the demon had been. Dean saw golden eyes peer through the window, animal and old as they found him. The dragon stared for a long hungry moment, balancing on the side of the truck as Dean wrenched from one side of the road to the other. The weight was too much, they'd roll into the ditch-
Then the dragon launched itself, gone again.
Dean stared at the crumpled frame, the gaping holes in the shape of the dragon's claws. He remembered- "My car."
The hourglass was silent, hot between his thighs.
"You motherfucker," Dean said slowly. "You trashed my goddamn car."
A shadow fell across the moon. The dragon was coming back for another strike. It was going to-
He remembered his father handing him the keys, the weight of them in his hand, the affection on his father's face. He remembered bleeding on those seats. He remembered Sammy in the passenger seat, laughing. Baby seats and long car trips and tape-decks and literally riding shotgun. His family.
They'd taken everything now. Everything.
The truck shuddered and squealed as the dragon landed hard, its nails scrabbling on the roof for a moment before tearing into the buckling frame. The window came over an inch and hit Dean's shoulder, the splintering glass spraying across his legs and bare arms, tinking softly as it hit the hourglass. Dean heard the leathery rustle of the dragon opening its wings to take off, to haul the truck up and drop it from a few hundred feet.
"Fine," Dean said quietly. "Fine."
Then he shoved the gas pedal to the floor and twisted the wheel to the right as far as it would go.
The truck howled, forced into a tailspin at 70, 80, 90 miles per hour. Dean heard the dragon snarl, felt the blast of heat as it spewed fire in a loose circle around them. The fire sprayed back into the cab, should've burned Dean. Didn't. The only thing that burned Dean was the hourglass.
Around, around, around. Dean heard the roof's metal tear as the dragon peeled it back, struggling to crane around and blow fire. It stank of brimstone, and it was angry, furious. Its anger was nothing compared to Dean's.
Dean met those old, awful eyes and snarled, "Die. All of you. Die."
90, 100, 110.
There was a wet pop, a brittle snap. Dean watched the dragon's wings snap like wood, wrenching back from its body, twisting it so hard that its spine broke. It fell, and it took the truck with it. Dean didn't think. He tucked his body around the hourglass and braced.
The truck rolled. Again. Again. Into a ditch. Down.
Crunch. The truck rocked in place. Stillness.
Dean hung upside down in his seatbelt and was distantly glad for gravity. It kept the blood from running into his eyes. He could hear himself breathing fast and ragged. He could feel the hourglass burning marks into his hands. He was alive.
That's my boy, murmured that rough voice. That's good, Dean.
Dean heard the crunch of gravel. A distant, lowing moan. Funny how zombies sounded like cows.
He turned his head and watched them stagger, counting pairs of rotting legs. He got to thirty before he stopped. He tightened his grip on the hourglass.
You know what you have to do. All you have to do is let me in. Just a little. Won't touch you. I can give you power. I can give you strength.
"Stop," Dean said savagely. Couldn't think, he needed space to think. He couldn't reach his ammo without letting go of the hourglass, which might let the zombies take it and shatter the bindings. He had six shots. He had-
I only want to help you, soldier. I want to get you home. Everything can be fixed.
Something caught Dean's attention on the other side of the truck. More feet, at least twenty more zombies. They moved slow, but they had numbers. He was alone. The windows were shattered, wouldn't keep them out.
He felt strength in his hands, slow and sure and warm. He felt the promise of borrowed power whisper through him. He could live through this.
Do whatever you have to. Just live.
If they killed him, they'd start on his father. They'd start on the others. It had to end with him.
The first of the zombies shuffled close enough to reach him, close enough to touch. It sniffed, moaning as it recognized the scent of blood. Dean pulled his gun, fired off a shot. The zombie tumbled back. The others got louder, stronger, pushing forward towards him.
Five shots. Fifty zombies.
Don't be a damn fool, Dean!
It had to end with him.
Dean closed his eyes.
The power wasn't foul or painful. It flowed in through his hands like it belonged to him, like it had been there all the time. Dean choked anyway, trying not to gag, and flung it out blind.
A second's hesitation. He'd pushed too hard; he felt the backflow of blood in his throat, he felt the pain in his head like something had burst.
Then the fire swelled out in a circle, consuming, devouring. Dean turned his head and watched as the zombies burned. The fire kept going, the circle thinning out as it ate dry grass and bugs and old bits of trash. Finally, too far out, it died away.
Dean realized he was shaking. He should move, run. Had to get to Lawrence. Had to-
Closing his stinging eyes, Dean felt the dampness run up into his hair. He gasped in air and breathed, "Oh god. Oh, god, Dad, I'm so fucking sorry. I'm so-"
Shh, whispered the thing that wasn't his father. It's all right. It's all right.
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, violence, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.
Colorado. Or was it still Wyoming? Damned if Dean could remember anymore. After nineteen hours of driving, he could feel the states running together in a blur of adrenaline and fatigue. It was another state that was all long roads and dry earth and silence. The power rippling off the hourglass had fried the radio a few hundred miles ago. Dean didn't want to know what that power was doing to him after this many hours of exposure.
Christ. He was so fucking tired. He tried thumbing through the journal, but the words stopped making tense. He tried pulling off for a nap, but the dreams- and besides, he'd woken up with something scratching gouges in his windshield.
Dean poured himself another cup of coffee. He could feel the gas station's night cashier watching him, waiting for the inevitable hold-up. Ignored him. Couldn't blame the guy. Dean knew he looked like hell, between road grime and no showers and blood. Some of the blood was even his.
He'll call the cops, boy. Best shoot him.
Dean shook his head. Not because he thought he could push the whispering away; he knew better than that. Because he was answering the voices in his head now. No, he wouldn't shoot the college kid working night shifts. No, he wouldn't, because he didn't want to waste the ammo.
Palming at his eyes, Dean grabbed a bag of pre-shelled peanuts in passing. Protein. Muscle mass. Yeah. He tossed it on the counter, set his coffee down and waited to be rung up. His attention wandered to the road map pinned up behind the kid's head. I-80 to I-15 to I-80 to I-25 to I-76 to I-270 to...
Big hands on his hips, drawing him back into a warm body. Clean soft sheets, a cup of coffee on the nightstand, beer in the refrigerator. He was naked, and he didn't hurt. Those hands touched and soothed, teased and comforted as they slithered over his skin.
The rough voice in his ear: "Come on, baby. I'll take care of you. You'll never hurt again." Long callused fingers slipping under the covers, going all the way south. "Just let me in. I'll love you. Not like they do. Not like-"
"Sir?"
Dean jerked upright again, stalling his hand halfway on its automatic path to his gun. The cashier was staring at him, wide-eyed. Then again, Dean would probably stare too if he saw somebody start to doze on their feet.
Coffee was important. Dean gave the kid a pale smile and a couple crumpled bills, taking his purchases and going out the door. He scratched a quick Devil's Trap on the glass door as he left. These things followed him, and he didn't want a dead cashier on his conscience.
It was surprisingly cold out, a shock buying Dean a few more minutes of alertness. He cleared his throat, absently casing the parking lot, then looked at the truck. There had to be a better way. There just had to be.
With a sigh, he reached in his pocket, pulling out a handful of change and headed to the payphone.
"Jackson Towing," Bobby said, voice hoarse with sleep.
"It's Dean."
"Dean-"
"Just shut up for a minute. I think I fucked up."
Bobby, bless him, didn't hesitate. "We'll fix it, then. What's going on?"
"I bound the demon. In an hourglass. By earth, air, fire, water and blood."
Bobby sucked in a hard breath.
"I bound this sonofabitch to me, didn't I," Dean said flatly.
"Yeah. Yeah, you did. That's...not good." Which sounded like a massive understatement. "You need to come in, Dean. We can find a way-" Bobby started.
"Tell me how to do it," Dean demanded. "I'm not putting anyone else at risk."
"You can't. Someone else has to bind it or the shock'll kill you. We can still fix this, it's not too late-"
"No." Dean sighed. "It's way too goddamn late. Look. Thanks. Sorry I kicked your ass."
"Dean," Bobby said. "Your daddy is about a day behind you. He's looking for you. Turn around, or just stay there, let him come for you. He's the best at what he does. He can handle it."
"No. Tell him to turn around. Don't let him walk into this. I can't- just promise me you'll tell him," Dean said, clutching the phone as though he could will Bobby to obey him.
"Son-"
"Thanks for your help, Bobby. Tell Dad I- I love him. Gotta go." Dean hung up the phone quickly, before he could do something stupid like beg Bobby to come get him or to ask where his father was.
Feeling suddenly even more alone, he walked back to the truck.
The seals were intact, all three layers of them. It was a pain in the ass to seal the hourglass every time he got out to take a piss, but it was relief to get away from the pressure of its power constantly threatening to crack the small bones of Dean's body, the car windows, anything.
He could run. Leave the truck and keep going west, east, anywhere but in the cab with that thing.
He'd bound it. His problem.
Dean undid the seals and climbed inside the cab, wondering what the hell he was going to do if it was raining and he had to piss or get gas. As he closed the door, the power settled in around him. He swallowed hard and locked himself in with the hourglass.
It was silent again. It usually did that after a dream or a stretch of whispering. All the better to make Dean doubt his own mind. It'd been better with the radio.
The truck grumbled sullenly as Dean turned the key, but eventually rolled over. He backed out of the spot and onto the road again, drinking the coffee so fast it scalded his throat. He tossed the plastic cup into the small graveyard of plastic collecting around the hourglass. The plastic was quietly starting to warp where it touched the hourglass, just like the upholstery had scorched a little around it. The glass was cool under Dean's fingers when he'd touched it to check, just to check.
He wanted to stop and call Bobby back. Call John again, and damn the headache. He wanted to stop and lay down arms and wait for them to catch him.
The demons and the things that went bump would catch him first. He'd be pinned down in the truck, surrounded with a limited amount of ammo. The whispering would start. The dreams would come. He'd crack. He'd-
That hadn't been his thought.
Dean reached across the seats, grabbed the hourglass, and shook it hard. Snarled, "Don't fucking do that, you son of a bitch. I'm not an idiot."
There was the fleeting warmth of a hand covering his own. I know that. Why would I want you otherwise?
Shuddering, Dean took his hand back and planted it firmly on the wheel again. It was better if he didn't touch the thing. He needed gloves. He needed to watch the road, empty as it was. But then the hypnotic hum of the tires started to get to him again.
More viciously than necessary, he tore open the peanuts and ate a handful. The crunch and dryness in his mouth made him think of bones. Things moved on the side of the road, white things with black black eyes. Dean didn't look at them, ate quickly. He needed water. Dehydration. Couldn't live off peanuts and coffee indefinitely.
Can't live without sleep, either.
"Fuck you. You're not getting to me." Dean locked his eyes on the road, ignoring the fact that something seemed to be moving on the passenger seat. If he looked, as he'd looked the last thousand times, there would only be the hourglass again.
C'mon, boy. It wouldn't do anyone any good if you drive off the road.
Deliberately, Dean hummed to cover its voice. It was psychotic, probably, but it filled up the loaded silence of the cab. Metallica. Ain't My Bitch. Good times. Road-tripping with the devil. They did say he had the best music-
Dean, the voice sighed, the warm exasperation so familiar it raised the hair on the back of Dean's neck. You only hum Metallica when you're nervous.
It knew the inside of Dean better than Dean did right now. Shaking his head fiercely, Dean gave the road his single-minded focus and started humming louder. The voice fell silent.
In that silence, Dean heard the wings beat. Once. A cracking, leather sound. It was the only warning before there was suddenly a huge clawed scaly thing swinging down in front of his truck.
Dean cursed sharply, swerving into the other lane. The dragon (dragon? Jesus!) swung past him and screamed loud enough that Dean felt the windows vibrate, a terrifyingly human sound. In the rearview, he saw the dragon swoop back up into the darkness above. A brief flash as it blocked out the moon. Then nothing.
"Fuck. Me." Dean leaned into the steering wheel, fumbling for a gun one-handed as he tried to find it again. Black dragon, black sky; he wasn't having much luck. Couldn't be a fucking white dragon, no...
His heart was beating too hard against his ribs. He couldn't think past something in his brain screaming that this didn't happen, that dragons didn't hunt anymore, that there was nothing you could really do against them anyway but die. The journal had said that. His father had told him that. His father-
I was wrong, son.
Dean flicked an annoyed look at the hourglass. "Okay, fucking Vader, you're not my father. Shut the hell up until you can be helpful."
Unfortunately, that didn't provoke any flashes of demonic brilliance.
Okay. Dragons. Okay. Virgins? Well, he was screwed in that category, and he thought that was probably unicorns anyway. If the world was going all fluffy fucking 13 year old girl gone psychotic on him-
That scream tore the night again a split second before Dean felt the impact, a howl of metal as the truck's frame bent on the passenger side. He grabbed the hourglass, hauling it onto his lap and between his knees as a talon probed through the fractured window, tearing the upholstery as it searched for the place where the demon had been. Dean saw golden eyes peer through the window, animal and old as they found him. The dragon stared for a long hungry moment, balancing on the side of the truck as Dean wrenched from one side of the road to the other. The weight was too much, they'd roll into the ditch-
Then the dragon launched itself, gone again.
Dean stared at the crumpled frame, the gaping holes in the shape of the dragon's claws. He remembered- "My car."
The hourglass was silent, hot between his thighs.
"You motherfucker," Dean said slowly. "You trashed my goddamn car."
A shadow fell across the moon. The dragon was coming back for another strike. It was going to-
He remembered his father handing him the keys, the weight of them in his hand, the affection on his father's face. He remembered bleeding on those seats. He remembered Sammy in the passenger seat, laughing. Baby seats and long car trips and tape-decks and literally riding shotgun. His family.
They'd taken everything now. Everything.
The truck shuddered and squealed as the dragon landed hard, its nails scrabbling on the roof for a moment before tearing into the buckling frame. The window came over an inch and hit Dean's shoulder, the splintering glass spraying across his legs and bare arms, tinking softly as it hit the hourglass. Dean heard the leathery rustle of the dragon opening its wings to take off, to haul the truck up and drop it from a few hundred feet.
"Fine," Dean said quietly. "Fine."
Then he shoved the gas pedal to the floor and twisted the wheel to the right as far as it would go.
The truck howled, forced into a tailspin at 70, 80, 90 miles per hour. Dean heard the dragon snarl, felt the blast of heat as it spewed fire in a loose circle around them. The fire sprayed back into the cab, should've burned Dean. Didn't. The only thing that burned Dean was the hourglass.
Around, around, around. Dean heard the roof's metal tear as the dragon peeled it back, struggling to crane around and blow fire. It stank of brimstone, and it was angry, furious. Its anger was nothing compared to Dean's.
Dean met those old, awful eyes and snarled, "Die. All of you. Die."
90, 100, 110.
There was a wet pop, a brittle snap. Dean watched the dragon's wings snap like wood, wrenching back from its body, twisting it so hard that its spine broke. It fell, and it took the truck with it. Dean didn't think. He tucked his body around the hourglass and braced.
The truck rolled. Again. Again. Into a ditch. Down.
Crunch. The truck rocked in place. Stillness.
Dean hung upside down in his seatbelt and was distantly glad for gravity. It kept the blood from running into his eyes. He could hear himself breathing fast and ragged. He could feel the hourglass burning marks into his hands. He was alive.
That's my boy, murmured that rough voice. That's good, Dean.
Dean heard the crunch of gravel. A distant, lowing moan. Funny how zombies sounded like cows.
He turned his head and watched them stagger, counting pairs of rotting legs. He got to thirty before he stopped. He tightened his grip on the hourglass.
You know what you have to do. All you have to do is let me in. Just a little. Won't touch you. I can give you power. I can give you strength.
"Stop," Dean said savagely. Couldn't think, he needed space to think. He couldn't reach his ammo without letting go of the hourglass, which might let the zombies take it and shatter the bindings. He had six shots. He had-
I only want to help you, soldier. I want to get you home. Everything can be fixed.
Something caught Dean's attention on the other side of the truck. More feet, at least twenty more zombies. They moved slow, but they had numbers. He was alone. The windows were shattered, wouldn't keep them out.
He felt strength in his hands, slow and sure and warm. He felt the promise of borrowed power whisper through him. He could live through this.
Do whatever you have to. Just live.
If they killed him, they'd start on his father. They'd start on the others. It had to end with him.
The first of the zombies shuffled close enough to reach him, close enough to touch. It sniffed, moaning as it recognized the scent of blood. Dean pulled his gun, fired off a shot. The zombie tumbled back. The others got louder, stronger, pushing forward towards him.
Five shots. Fifty zombies.
Don't be a damn fool, Dean!
It had to end with him.
Dean closed his eyes.
The power wasn't foul or painful. It flowed in through his hands like it belonged to him, like it had been there all the time. Dean choked anyway, trying not to gag, and flung it out blind.
A second's hesitation. He'd pushed too hard; he felt the backflow of blood in his throat, he felt the pain in his head like something had burst.
Then the fire swelled out in a circle, consuming, devouring. Dean turned his head and watched as the zombies burned. The fire kept going, the circle thinning out as it ate dry grass and bugs and old bits of trash. Finally, too far out, it died away.
Dean realized he was shaking. He should move, run. Had to get to Lawrence. Had to-
Closing his stinging eyes, Dean felt the dampness run up into his hair. He gasped in air and breathed, "Oh god. Oh, god, Dad, I'm so fucking sorry. I'm so-"
Shh, whispered the thing that wasn't his father. It's all right. It's all right.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 02:50 am (UTC)You both know you're tearing my nerves all to hell right?
God I love this story, keeps me sitting on the edge of my seat wanting more!
no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 09:18 pm (UTC)We put up the next bit early, hope that helps! Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 02:55 am (UTC)How in the world are you going to make this all better?
Definitely enjoying the ride!
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Date: 2006-05-28 09:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 03:09 am (UTC)Uh-huh. What he said.
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Date: 2006-05-28 09:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 03:16 am (UTC)This fic is going to keel me dead. or something. Guh.
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Date: 2006-05-28 09:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 03:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 09:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 03:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 09:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 03:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 09:14 pm (UTC)And somewhere, he knows that Sam was a college student, and probably worked crappy jobs, so he'd have to protect the kid. *nod* Thanks so much!
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Date: 2006-05-28 04:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 09:13 pm (UTC)Thanks so much!
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Date: 2006-05-28 04:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 09:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 05:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 09:12 pm (UTC)Thanks!
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Date: 2006-05-28 06:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 09:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 07:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 09:10 pm (UTC)Thanks!
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Date: 2006-05-28 07:40 am (UTC)Awesome, awesome chapter.
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Date: 2006-05-28 09:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 08:08 am (UTC)Dean, baby, get your lovely ass out of there and hide!
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Date: 2006-05-28 09:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 09:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 09:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 09:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 09:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 12:59 pm (UTC)(Oh, and thank you for more Bobby. Bobby makes everything better, as long as he's still got Dean's back. I'm even willing to like Missouri at this point, if she's helping Dean. But that's not a request or anything. :-) Just a grudging acknowledgement. But more Bobby. YEA!!!)
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Date: 2006-05-28 09:07 pm (UTC)We put up the next chapter before we responded, is that okay? *grin*
Thanks so much!
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Date: 2006-05-28 01:27 pm (UTC)And Dean remembering, and Bobby, and the Demon being all fatherly-like and OMG, you're killing me. You are.
Thank you SO much for writing this. This part is pure angst 100%. thank you.
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Date: 2006-05-28 09:05 pm (UTC)I'm glad you're enjoying it. Thanks for the kind words.
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Date: 2006-05-28 04:45 pm (UTC)Excellent again, and wonderfully written action sequences.
I do like this!
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Date: 2006-05-28 09:03 pm (UTC)Thanks!
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Date: 2006-05-28 07:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-28 09:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-05 02:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-05 08:09 pm (UTC)Y'know, it's lines like this, Dean's mental flexibility and his exasperation, that ring truest. He goes from the "FUCK! A DRAGON!" headspace to the "fucking black dragons and their lack of fucking contrast making them fucking inconvenient to KILL" just like the "real" Dean would.