FIC: Of Bastard Saints, 23
May. 30th, 2006 07:58 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.
It was the cursing that woke John, just before twilight.
He sat up quickly, looking for the threat, but there was nothing but the road, and the soft sound of asphalt beneath the van's wheels. "What?"
"Look ahead. To the left," Sam said darkly.
At first, it looked like nothing more than a felled tree, a twisted mass of black branches. Then, shapes detached themselves from the mess: the spines of a wing. A long, curved spine, twisted around a blackened hunk of something. Then, last, the skull, like something out of a horror show.
"Shiiit," John muttered.
"Dad, that looks like-"
"A dragon. Another thing that's supposed to be extinct. Sam, do me a favor. If I say something's extinct, don't believe me." And damn, Sam must've been tired, because he didn't even make a smartass comment. John leaned closer to Sam's side, studying the burnt out metal husk. "What's it curled around?"
"It's-" The vision hit him hard, a flash like backdraft igniting. Sam sucked in a breath, his hands twitching on the wheel. He let off the gas pedal, fumbling for the brakes. "Oh, God."
John laid a hand on his shoulder, waiting until they slowed. "What, Sam? Somebody still in-"
"It's Dean's truck," Sam whispered.
John was out of the car almost before it stopped, stumbling a little as the prosthetic got in his way. The truck was a mess, windows busted, blackened. His stomach clenched as he got closer, seeing the bodies around the truck, charred creatures sprawled in their death throes.
Jesus. No. Not after all this. He couldn't be- Dean was supposed to be holed up in a bar somewhere, flirting and drinking and getting into fistfights, demon be damned, because that was just what Dean did. He survived.
John stopped, staring at the fabric cover over the bed of the truck. It had been slit cleanly open, a small arsenal laying on the ground. He quickly walked over, the prosthetic biting into his thigh-he'd been doing way more than they wanted him to on that thing-and looked at the pile, mentally comparing it to what Dean had taken from the locker.
Missing, one shotgun, double barrel, pump action. Two nine millimeters semis. One thirty eight revolver-the one John had given him on his eighth birthday.
There were other guns-better ones. More firepower. Only one person would take the thirty eight.
That decided, John turned his attention to the bodies, to the scorch marks that ringed the truck. There was one clear spot, he noted. The driver's seat. From there, it spread out in an almost circular pattern, almost as though... Fuck. He'd seen that pattern before. Not beneath his feet, John thought. But he'd seen it.
He closed his eyes and let out a sigh as Sam came up behind him slowly. "He's all right. We'd better keep moving." He glanced at the pile of weapons. "Grab the guns."
Sam, being Sam, balked. "Wait. How the hell do you know he's all right?"
"38's missing." When Sam looked like he wanted to ask, John barked, "Goddamn it, Sam, for once just do as I say."
Sam quickly began gathering them, and John slowly walked back to the van. For a long second, he closed his eyes, leaning against it. The fire. Spreading out from where Dean had been. Dammit. They were too late. The demon had gotten hold of him, sunk its claws in while John was three states back trusting fate like a damned fool.
Glancing at Sam to make sure he was still picking up guns, he reached into the back of the van, retrieving a familiar wooden box. The single bullet slid into the Colt with a tiny click. How could it sound so final?
As Sam hurried up, dumping an armful of weaponry into the back, John slid it under his coat, hiding it. "Got it all?"
"Yeah," Sam said shortly. He didn't protest when John took the wheel, his head still aching in a way that didn't bode well for the rest of the night. The visions had started bleeding together, not so much clear and separate. Just showing him the rip in the world that was Dean's absence, the long wound where he'd gone by with the demon in tow. It was starting to make Sam miss the old days where he could actually wake up from his nightmares.
"I should call Bobby, tell him we're almost at Lawrence. He might be able to come down-" John looked at his cell. "Fuck. Not getting a signal. Remind me when we get to a land line."
"Got it," Sam bit off. His head began throbbing, and a vague image crowded into his head on top of the general white noise. "There's some warehouses out this way, isn't there?"
"About five miles down, why?"
Something pulled at Sam hard. He sat up in his seat, squinting out the window like it had anything to do with his eyes. "Head that way."
John didn't ask anymore. Just nodded and drove.
The warehouses were cut off from the road by patchy, dying trees. The parking lots were empty. Then again, last time John turned on the radio, most places had called a state of emergency on account of apocalypse-type shit going down. Earthquake here, low-lying fog there; one by one, the big cities were getting crippled. Folks were scared.
As they rolled past a sign reading 'Avery Medical Supply', Sam suddenly laid on the brake. He threw on the emergency brake and opened the door without a word. John reached out and stopped him before he could slide out of the cab. Silently, he gestured to himself and the front door. To Sam, and a door around the back of the warehouse.
Sam didn't need to know that there was no back door, something John had found out when he'd tried to break in to it for some supplies last year. It was damned hard to pick the lock when the gash in your arm was bleeding all over your fingers, he remembered. Didn't look like a problem this time. The front door was ajar.
With a tight, pained nod, Sam got out of the truck. John followed him. Hard to be stealthy on gravel with one good leg, but he managed. He watched until he saw Sam go around the corner, until Sam was out of sight. Then he went to the front door, its lock cleanly shot off, and listened.
He could hear the moaning of the zombies. The call and response of mated pairs of gargoyles. The clatter and howling of a poltergeist. All smaller demons, all basically carrion attracted to the aftermath of a greater power.
They'd been called to the houses that the demon touched and burned. Now they were here. The warehouse was intact. Which might mean...
No. It only went after women.
Yeah, and it couldn't be bound, either.
John tightened his grip on the Colt, inhaled, and kicked open the door. It rebounded off the wall, ricocheting back, giving John just enough time to look at the ceiling. His son wasn't pinned there, burning. The demon wasn't in this building. And now there were about a dozen interested meat-eaters staring at John as the door closed.
Yep. That was about how John's day was going.
The sharp retort of a gun came from the side of the building, shortly before Sam came bolting around the corner. "There's no back door," Sam bit off. "But there are zombies."
John nodded. "In there, too."
"We need to get in there, Dad." The chalky look of Sam's face, his too wide eyes, quieted John where he would've insisted on driving on. Seeing John hesitate, Sam said savagely, "Please. It's a strong damn signal, it's- I think he's in there."
John narrowed his eyes at the door, considered their options. Tactics. Those, he could basically do. "Okay, take out the gargoyles first. They're the biggest problems. The poltergeists aren't a big deal, just keep an eye out for anything they might throw at you. The zombies are slow, and most of them look like they're a few days old, so we're going to have to go for the decapitation, unless Dean has some explosive rounds."
"Not that I saw, but it's not exactly a Viewfinder."
First order of business after this was over: make Sam memorize the damned weapons inventory. "Then we do it the old fashioned way," John said. "Got the axes?"
Sam hefted a bag. "Yeah."
"Ready?" John pushed the door open, shotgun held at the ready.
Sam nodded, pulling his own gun out. "Yeah."
John pushed the door open, glancing quickly around. Stone colored heads swiveled towards them, and he quickly let loose with both barrels, watching as the nearest one fell to the ground. "Hit the one next to it, quick."
Sam turned his body, fired, but the shot ricocheted off a building support as the gargoyle's mate dove to check on the fallen one. Sam swore, aiming at one of the other pair as John cursed and pulled his revolver.
The mate of the first gargoyle was taking wing, its unearthly shriek cutting through the lowing of the zombies. "Shit. Now she's pissed at me," John muttered, trying to aim at the moving target.
His first shot failed, and John grabbed Sam's collar, jerking him down as the gargoyle sailed over their heads. It turned, coming back for a second try, and John aimed, squeezing off a rapid volley of shots.
The gargoyle fell to the ground a foot from them, skidding until it touched John's boot.
Sam didn't even flinch, just kept pumping bullets into the other pair. He simply trusted that if he needed to duck, John would let him know. "Zombies getting close!" Sam warned.
"Relax," John said. "Even I can out maneuver these things. The only way someone goes down to a zombie attack is if they get surrounded and overpowered." He holstered the gun, dug in the bag and pulled out a pair of leather gloves.
"Dad, what the hell are you doing?"
"There's a pair for you, too. You'll need it for the grip once you start swinging, and the guts start flying." John hefted the ax.
Sam rolled his eyes, but quickly pulled on the gloves. "They're tight," Sam complained.
"They're Dean's. Don't stretch them out, or he'll kill you." John rolled his eyes. "Actually, I think his old fingerless ones are in there, too, if you'd rather."
Sam quickly dug them out and strapped them on before looking up at the zombies again. They'd progressed about three feet closer. "You weren't kidding about the slow part, were you?"
"Nope." John limped into the warehouse, swinging at the nearest zombie, watching its head fly into the wall with a satisfying thump. "See, nothing to it."
Sam followed, stepping in and preparing to take a swing. Then, the pain stabbed through his head, sending him to his knees on the floor with a harsh noise.
The vision swam up, and he winced. Dean was exhausted, ragged. He'd-oh, God. The demon. He'd used the power on the zombies, and again on- on the woman pinned to the ceiling, twisting and screaming, heat mirages rippling the air around her face.
Sam choked on Dean's desperation, horror, the fear of what he'd become.
End it, end it all. Sam shook his head wildly as the gun slid in Dean's mouth, the thirty eight, his first gun. He reached out without thinking, like he could stop him, like he could grab Dean's wrist before- "No- God, Dean, no-"
"Sam!" John yelled.
Sam raised his head, dimly realizing that John had moved in front of him, was keeping the zombies off him. Was close to being overwhelmed, but wasn't giving an inch.
With a hoarse noise, Sam forced himself to his feet, swinging the axe with arms that felt like lead.
Zombies really were stupid, he quickly realized. It didn't matter that he'd just cleaved one's head off, the next just kept on coming. The bodies began to pile up in front of them, providing a certain amount of cover. Apparently, Sam realized, watching one stumble over the bodies of its comrades, they weren't particularly good at climbing, either.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, they stopped coming. Sam looked around blearily as John walked the perimeter, using the holy water and salt to get rid of the poltergeists. Should go help. Should do something other than stand here, staring at the bloodstains on the floor.
What a clusterfuck.
John came back, stopping in front of Sam. "You wanna tell me what you saw?"
"No," Sam said wearily. Dean wouldn't have wanted- fuck. Wouldn't want, because he wasn't dead yet, goddamn it.
"Let's try that again. Please tell me what you saw," John said evenly. John's voice said plainly that despite the please, it wasn't a request.
"Dean, he-"
John waited, stone faced, to hear Sam force out the ugly words. Dean was possessed. That was what he expected to hear. That was why he'd wanted Bobby in on it. Because, to his shame, he didn't think he could pull the trigger, even to wound his boy.
No. He didn't want to think that he could. That didn't mean it would stop him.
Maybe he should give Sam the Colt. He was apparently a crack shot with the damn thing. Had he not lost his leg, the bullet wouldn't have damaged much at all. But he didn't want to ask it of Sam. Didn't want to put him in that situation again.
"He got in a tight spot, with the zombies back there." Sam sat heavily on the steps leading up to the loft. Word by painful word, he managed to make enough sense of the vision to tell John, even though his mind was screaming that it wasn't- couldn't be- true. "The demon offered power. Dean used it."
"And here?"
"Dean... used it again." Sam glanced past the pile of zombies, to the broken body on the floor.
John limped over, poking at the body with his toe. "Harpy."
"Dad, I'm sure it was possessed."
"No, it was a Harpy, son. Possession doesn't normally create fangs like that." John took the edge of the axe and pressed down on the thing's lower jaw. It unhinged, and an impressive set of fangs slid into place, dripping a viscous liquid. "Venom sacs. If she got them into Dean-
"She did," Sam said, wincing.
"Then he's not going to get far." If John spoke clinically, he could almost convince himself that this wasn't killing him to think about. "Disorientation, lethargy, muscle spasms, paralyzation."
"But it won't kill him?"
"Probably not. They like their prey still warm when they start ripping strips off," John said bluntly.
"Oh." Sam tried not to react, but... Jesus. "There's got to be something else or you'd be out the door by now."
"Good news is, they don't travel in packs. So if he can go to ground in time, he'll be able to wait it out. Which'll make him a bitch to find, but that'll cost him the day's headstart on us. Easier to catch." John looked at the harpy instead of Sam and quietly asked, "How did he use the power?"
"Um." Feeling like a traitor, Sam glanced at the wall behind them.
John's gaze followed Sam's, to the blood, smeared up the wall, to the ceiling. "Oh, fuck."
"He didn't burn her. He pulled back," Sam said quickly. "Then he... left."
"Sam," John said severely.
"Fuck." Sam reached up, scrubbing at his grimy face with the palm of one hand. With a hard sigh, he straightened again and almost managed a steady, "Dean put a gun in his mouth."
John felt his head reel, glanced around the warehouse, and steadied himself. "Obviously he didn't pull the trigger," he said.
"No. He couldn't. Jesus, Dad. Are we too late?" Dad was taking this far too well, Sam thought. But hey, one of them had to hold it together, and it wasn't looking like it would be him, judging by the way he was shaking.
John's hand curled around Sam's chin, forcing him to meet John's eyes. "He hasn't let the demon in. He pulled back when it counted. We'll make it in time, Sammy," he said firmly. "Let's get a move on."
Sam was quiet as they got in the van, heading towards Lawrence.
John drove, eyes darting from one side of the street to the other, as though he expected Dean to be standing there. So close. They had to be so close.
John's cell phone beeped. "I've got a message," he muttered. "Probably Bobby. I should ask him to head down, just in case we need backup."
Sam nodded, shivering violently. "Y-yeah."
Paused at a red light, John shrugged out of his jacket, laying it over Sam. They both knew the problem wasn't the cold.
Sam took it anyway, burrowed in it, closed his eyes, let the scent of his father wash over him, comfort him, remind him of a time when John could fix anything. When Dean was infuriating, stubborn, but reassuringly invincible.
Giving Sam a wan smile, John flipped open his cell phone and hit the number to retrieve messages.
Sam shivered again, but forced a smile for his father as he put the phone to his ear.
It wasn't Bobby. Sam knew it right away. The way his father's hands tightened on the wheel, the way his jaw set was the first clue. The second was the tears, welling in his father's eyes. Shit.
"Dad?"
John swallowed hard. "If I were to say that you really don't want to hear this?"
Sam silently held out his hand.
"I figured." John handed the cell phone over. "Hit one to repeat it."
To Sam's horror, he could see that his father's hand was unsteady. Not by much. It wouldn't compromise his aim. But it was unsteady. He took the phone and held it to his ear, nearly fumbling the damned thing.
For the first second, Sam only heard Dean's voice and felt relief like a gut-punch. Dean's voice, even ragged with fatigue and too damned fast. He gripped the phone tight, trying to breathe. When the message ran its course, Sam hit repeat and actually tried listening to the words.
Jess had a friend (sort of) who did a little too much recreational drug use. She'd wandered over to their house once, high on coke. Dean sounded like she had, that rattling loose jittery speech. "Dad. Hey. It's me. Dean." Yeah, dumbass, because they were crossing the country looking for someone else. "I'm, um, I'm okay. I'm okay. You can stop looking, all right? I understand now. I'm going to fix things. Fix everything. I know what I have to do. It's okay. Just... don't come after me, all right? You've done everything you-" A hitch in Dean's breathing. "Yeah. I love you, okay? And I'm scared shitless, and I want you to- believe me, if you could be- but you need to let me do this. For you. For Mom and Sam and- I need to do this."
The message ended on what might've been a broken sob, or might've just been breathing. Sam let out the breath he'd been holding and sank back into the seat.
"The gate to hell opened in Lawrence," Sam said finally.
"Yeah." John held out a hand for his phone. "Well, technically, it can only fully open on the night of the full moon. So far, it's only been able to spew lower tier demons. Tomorrow night, thought... all bets are off."
Sam didn't move. "Then we know where we'll find Dean."
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.
It was the cursing that woke John, just before twilight.
He sat up quickly, looking for the threat, but there was nothing but the road, and the soft sound of asphalt beneath the van's wheels. "What?"
"Look ahead. To the left," Sam said darkly.
At first, it looked like nothing more than a felled tree, a twisted mass of black branches. Then, shapes detached themselves from the mess: the spines of a wing. A long, curved spine, twisted around a blackened hunk of something. Then, last, the skull, like something out of a horror show.
"Shiiit," John muttered.
"Dad, that looks like-"
"A dragon. Another thing that's supposed to be extinct. Sam, do me a favor. If I say something's extinct, don't believe me." And damn, Sam must've been tired, because he didn't even make a smartass comment. John leaned closer to Sam's side, studying the burnt out metal husk. "What's it curled around?"
"It's-" The vision hit him hard, a flash like backdraft igniting. Sam sucked in a breath, his hands twitching on the wheel. He let off the gas pedal, fumbling for the brakes. "Oh, God."
John laid a hand on his shoulder, waiting until they slowed. "What, Sam? Somebody still in-"
"It's Dean's truck," Sam whispered.
John was out of the car almost before it stopped, stumbling a little as the prosthetic got in his way. The truck was a mess, windows busted, blackened. His stomach clenched as he got closer, seeing the bodies around the truck, charred creatures sprawled in their death throes.
Jesus. No. Not after all this. He couldn't be- Dean was supposed to be holed up in a bar somewhere, flirting and drinking and getting into fistfights, demon be damned, because that was just what Dean did. He survived.
John stopped, staring at the fabric cover over the bed of the truck. It had been slit cleanly open, a small arsenal laying on the ground. He quickly walked over, the prosthetic biting into his thigh-he'd been doing way more than they wanted him to on that thing-and looked at the pile, mentally comparing it to what Dean had taken from the locker.
Missing, one shotgun, double barrel, pump action. Two nine millimeters semis. One thirty eight revolver-the one John had given him on his eighth birthday.
There were other guns-better ones. More firepower. Only one person would take the thirty eight.
That decided, John turned his attention to the bodies, to the scorch marks that ringed the truck. There was one clear spot, he noted. The driver's seat. From there, it spread out in an almost circular pattern, almost as though... Fuck. He'd seen that pattern before. Not beneath his feet, John thought. But he'd seen it.
He closed his eyes and let out a sigh as Sam came up behind him slowly. "He's all right. We'd better keep moving." He glanced at the pile of weapons. "Grab the guns."
Sam, being Sam, balked. "Wait. How the hell do you know he's all right?"
"38's missing." When Sam looked like he wanted to ask, John barked, "Goddamn it, Sam, for once just do as I say."
Sam quickly began gathering them, and John slowly walked back to the van. For a long second, he closed his eyes, leaning against it. The fire. Spreading out from where Dean had been. Dammit. They were too late. The demon had gotten hold of him, sunk its claws in while John was three states back trusting fate like a damned fool.
Glancing at Sam to make sure he was still picking up guns, he reached into the back of the van, retrieving a familiar wooden box. The single bullet slid into the Colt with a tiny click. How could it sound so final?
As Sam hurried up, dumping an armful of weaponry into the back, John slid it under his coat, hiding it. "Got it all?"
"Yeah," Sam said shortly. He didn't protest when John took the wheel, his head still aching in a way that didn't bode well for the rest of the night. The visions had started bleeding together, not so much clear and separate. Just showing him the rip in the world that was Dean's absence, the long wound where he'd gone by with the demon in tow. It was starting to make Sam miss the old days where he could actually wake up from his nightmares.
"I should call Bobby, tell him we're almost at Lawrence. He might be able to come down-" John looked at his cell. "Fuck. Not getting a signal. Remind me when we get to a land line."
"Got it," Sam bit off. His head began throbbing, and a vague image crowded into his head on top of the general white noise. "There's some warehouses out this way, isn't there?"
"About five miles down, why?"
Something pulled at Sam hard. He sat up in his seat, squinting out the window like it had anything to do with his eyes. "Head that way."
John didn't ask anymore. Just nodded and drove.
The warehouses were cut off from the road by patchy, dying trees. The parking lots were empty. Then again, last time John turned on the radio, most places had called a state of emergency on account of apocalypse-type shit going down. Earthquake here, low-lying fog there; one by one, the big cities were getting crippled. Folks were scared.
As they rolled past a sign reading 'Avery Medical Supply', Sam suddenly laid on the brake. He threw on the emergency brake and opened the door without a word. John reached out and stopped him before he could slide out of the cab. Silently, he gestured to himself and the front door. To Sam, and a door around the back of the warehouse.
Sam didn't need to know that there was no back door, something John had found out when he'd tried to break in to it for some supplies last year. It was damned hard to pick the lock when the gash in your arm was bleeding all over your fingers, he remembered. Didn't look like a problem this time. The front door was ajar.
With a tight, pained nod, Sam got out of the truck. John followed him. Hard to be stealthy on gravel with one good leg, but he managed. He watched until he saw Sam go around the corner, until Sam was out of sight. Then he went to the front door, its lock cleanly shot off, and listened.
He could hear the moaning of the zombies. The call and response of mated pairs of gargoyles. The clatter and howling of a poltergeist. All smaller demons, all basically carrion attracted to the aftermath of a greater power.
They'd been called to the houses that the demon touched and burned. Now they were here. The warehouse was intact. Which might mean...
No. It only went after women.
Yeah, and it couldn't be bound, either.
John tightened his grip on the Colt, inhaled, and kicked open the door. It rebounded off the wall, ricocheting back, giving John just enough time to look at the ceiling. His son wasn't pinned there, burning. The demon wasn't in this building. And now there were about a dozen interested meat-eaters staring at John as the door closed.
Yep. That was about how John's day was going.
The sharp retort of a gun came from the side of the building, shortly before Sam came bolting around the corner. "There's no back door," Sam bit off. "But there are zombies."
John nodded. "In there, too."
"We need to get in there, Dad." The chalky look of Sam's face, his too wide eyes, quieted John where he would've insisted on driving on. Seeing John hesitate, Sam said savagely, "Please. It's a strong damn signal, it's- I think he's in there."
John narrowed his eyes at the door, considered their options. Tactics. Those, he could basically do. "Okay, take out the gargoyles first. They're the biggest problems. The poltergeists aren't a big deal, just keep an eye out for anything they might throw at you. The zombies are slow, and most of them look like they're a few days old, so we're going to have to go for the decapitation, unless Dean has some explosive rounds."
"Not that I saw, but it's not exactly a Viewfinder."
First order of business after this was over: make Sam memorize the damned weapons inventory. "Then we do it the old fashioned way," John said. "Got the axes?"
Sam hefted a bag. "Yeah."
"Ready?" John pushed the door open, shotgun held at the ready.
Sam nodded, pulling his own gun out. "Yeah."
John pushed the door open, glancing quickly around. Stone colored heads swiveled towards them, and he quickly let loose with both barrels, watching as the nearest one fell to the ground. "Hit the one next to it, quick."
Sam turned his body, fired, but the shot ricocheted off a building support as the gargoyle's mate dove to check on the fallen one. Sam swore, aiming at one of the other pair as John cursed and pulled his revolver.
The mate of the first gargoyle was taking wing, its unearthly shriek cutting through the lowing of the zombies. "Shit. Now she's pissed at me," John muttered, trying to aim at the moving target.
His first shot failed, and John grabbed Sam's collar, jerking him down as the gargoyle sailed over their heads. It turned, coming back for a second try, and John aimed, squeezing off a rapid volley of shots.
The gargoyle fell to the ground a foot from them, skidding until it touched John's boot.
Sam didn't even flinch, just kept pumping bullets into the other pair. He simply trusted that if he needed to duck, John would let him know. "Zombies getting close!" Sam warned.
"Relax," John said. "Even I can out maneuver these things. The only way someone goes down to a zombie attack is if they get surrounded and overpowered." He holstered the gun, dug in the bag and pulled out a pair of leather gloves.
"Dad, what the hell are you doing?"
"There's a pair for you, too. You'll need it for the grip once you start swinging, and the guts start flying." John hefted the ax.
Sam rolled his eyes, but quickly pulled on the gloves. "They're tight," Sam complained.
"They're Dean's. Don't stretch them out, or he'll kill you." John rolled his eyes. "Actually, I think his old fingerless ones are in there, too, if you'd rather."
Sam quickly dug them out and strapped them on before looking up at the zombies again. They'd progressed about three feet closer. "You weren't kidding about the slow part, were you?"
"Nope." John limped into the warehouse, swinging at the nearest zombie, watching its head fly into the wall with a satisfying thump. "See, nothing to it."
Sam followed, stepping in and preparing to take a swing. Then, the pain stabbed through his head, sending him to his knees on the floor with a harsh noise.
The vision swam up, and he winced. Dean was exhausted, ragged. He'd-oh, God. The demon. He'd used the power on the zombies, and again on- on the woman pinned to the ceiling, twisting and screaming, heat mirages rippling the air around her face.
Sam choked on Dean's desperation, horror, the fear of what he'd become.
End it, end it all. Sam shook his head wildly as the gun slid in Dean's mouth, the thirty eight, his first gun. He reached out without thinking, like he could stop him, like he could grab Dean's wrist before- "No- God, Dean, no-"
"Sam!" John yelled.
Sam raised his head, dimly realizing that John had moved in front of him, was keeping the zombies off him. Was close to being overwhelmed, but wasn't giving an inch.
With a hoarse noise, Sam forced himself to his feet, swinging the axe with arms that felt like lead.
Zombies really were stupid, he quickly realized. It didn't matter that he'd just cleaved one's head off, the next just kept on coming. The bodies began to pile up in front of them, providing a certain amount of cover. Apparently, Sam realized, watching one stumble over the bodies of its comrades, they weren't particularly good at climbing, either.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, they stopped coming. Sam looked around blearily as John walked the perimeter, using the holy water and salt to get rid of the poltergeists. Should go help. Should do something other than stand here, staring at the bloodstains on the floor.
What a clusterfuck.
John came back, stopping in front of Sam. "You wanna tell me what you saw?"
"No," Sam said wearily. Dean wouldn't have wanted- fuck. Wouldn't want, because he wasn't dead yet, goddamn it.
"Let's try that again. Please tell me what you saw," John said evenly. John's voice said plainly that despite the please, it wasn't a request.
"Dean, he-"
John waited, stone faced, to hear Sam force out the ugly words. Dean was possessed. That was what he expected to hear. That was why he'd wanted Bobby in on it. Because, to his shame, he didn't think he could pull the trigger, even to wound his boy.
No. He didn't want to think that he could. That didn't mean it would stop him.
Maybe he should give Sam the Colt. He was apparently a crack shot with the damn thing. Had he not lost his leg, the bullet wouldn't have damaged much at all. But he didn't want to ask it of Sam. Didn't want to put him in that situation again.
"He got in a tight spot, with the zombies back there." Sam sat heavily on the steps leading up to the loft. Word by painful word, he managed to make enough sense of the vision to tell John, even though his mind was screaming that it wasn't- couldn't be- true. "The demon offered power. Dean used it."
"And here?"
"Dean... used it again." Sam glanced past the pile of zombies, to the broken body on the floor.
John limped over, poking at the body with his toe. "Harpy."
"Dad, I'm sure it was possessed."
"No, it was a Harpy, son. Possession doesn't normally create fangs like that." John took the edge of the axe and pressed down on the thing's lower jaw. It unhinged, and an impressive set of fangs slid into place, dripping a viscous liquid. "Venom sacs. If she got them into Dean-
"She did," Sam said, wincing.
"Then he's not going to get far." If John spoke clinically, he could almost convince himself that this wasn't killing him to think about. "Disorientation, lethargy, muscle spasms, paralyzation."
"But it won't kill him?"
"Probably not. They like their prey still warm when they start ripping strips off," John said bluntly.
"Oh." Sam tried not to react, but... Jesus. "There's got to be something else or you'd be out the door by now."
"Good news is, they don't travel in packs. So if he can go to ground in time, he'll be able to wait it out. Which'll make him a bitch to find, but that'll cost him the day's headstart on us. Easier to catch." John looked at the harpy instead of Sam and quietly asked, "How did he use the power?"
"Um." Feeling like a traitor, Sam glanced at the wall behind them.
John's gaze followed Sam's, to the blood, smeared up the wall, to the ceiling. "Oh, fuck."
"He didn't burn her. He pulled back," Sam said quickly. "Then he... left."
"Sam," John said severely.
"Fuck." Sam reached up, scrubbing at his grimy face with the palm of one hand. With a hard sigh, he straightened again and almost managed a steady, "Dean put a gun in his mouth."
John felt his head reel, glanced around the warehouse, and steadied himself. "Obviously he didn't pull the trigger," he said.
"No. He couldn't. Jesus, Dad. Are we too late?" Dad was taking this far too well, Sam thought. But hey, one of them had to hold it together, and it wasn't looking like it would be him, judging by the way he was shaking.
John's hand curled around Sam's chin, forcing him to meet John's eyes. "He hasn't let the demon in. He pulled back when it counted. We'll make it in time, Sammy," he said firmly. "Let's get a move on."
Sam was quiet as they got in the van, heading towards Lawrence.
John drove, eyes darting from one side of the street to the other, as though he expected Dean to be standing there. So close. They had to be so close.
John's cell phone beeped. "I've got a message," he muttered. "Probably Bobby. I should ask him to head down, just in case we need backup."
Sam nodded, shivering violently. "Y-yeah."
Paused at a red light, John shrugged out of his jacket, laying it over Sam. They both knew the problem wasn't the cold.
Sam took it anyway, burrowed in it, closed his eyes, let the scent of his father wash over him, comfort him, remind him of a time when John could fix anything. When Dean was infuriating, stubborn, but reassuringly invincible.
Giving Sam a wan smile, John flipped open his cell phone and hit the number to retrieve messages.
Sam shivered again, but forced a smile for his father as he put the phone to his ear.
It wasn't Bobby. Sam knew it right away. The way his father's hands tightened on the wheel, the way his jaw set was the first clue. The second was the tears, welling in his father's eyes. Shit.
"Dad?"
John swallowed hard. "If I were to say that you really don't want to hear this?"
Sam silently held out his hand.
"I figured." John handed the cell phone over. "Hit one to repeat it."
To Sam's horror, he could see that his father's hand was unsteady. Not by much. It wouldn't compromise his aim. But it was unsteady. He took the phone and held it to his ear, nearly fumbling the damned thing.
For the first second, Sam only heard Dean's voice and felt relief like a gut-punch. Dean's voice, even ragged with fatigue and too damned fast. He gripped the phone tight, trying to breathe. When the message ran its course, Sam hit repeat and actually tried listening to the words.
Jess had a friend (sort of) who did a little too much recreational drug use. She'd wandered over to their house once, high on coke. Dean sounded like she had, that rattling loose jittery speech. "Dad. Hey. It's me. Dean." Yeah, dumbass, because they were crossing the country looking for someone else. "I'm, um, I'm okay. I'm okay. You can stop looking, all right? I understand now. I'm going to fix things. Fix everything. I know what I have to do. It's okay. Just... don't come after me, all right? You've done everything you-" A hitch in Dean's breathing. "Yeah. I love you, okay? And I'm scared shitless, and I want you to- believe me, if you could be- but you need to let me do this. For you. For Mom and Sam and- I need to do this."
The message ended on what might've been a broken sob, or might've just been breathing. Sam let out the breath he'd been holding and sank back into the seat.
"The gate to hell opened in Lawrence," Sam said finally.
"Yeah." John held out a hand for his phone. "Well, technically, it can only fully open on the night of the full moon. So far, it's only been able to spew lower tier demons. Tomorrow night, thought... all bets are off."
Sam didn't move. "Then we know where we'll find Dean."
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Date: 2006-05-31 12:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-31 03:07 am (UTC)