FIC: Of Bastard Saints, 24

[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.



Church floors? Surprisingly uncomfortable. Especially when Dean nearly went face-down on it.

He braced himself on his hands, his forehead pressed against the cool tiles, and felt blindly to be sure that the hourglass was intact. It was. Okay. Time to get back up.

Yep. Anytime now.

Fuck.

Dean raised his head, staring blearily at the holy water font that was so fucking close. He'd just stopped in for a minute, to fill up on holy water and maybe get a quick blessing by osmosis for his guns. And then he'd stopped moving for a second and fallen over. The damned adrenaline he'd stolen from the medical supply warehouse was running out on him, muscles clenching in ways that didn't bode well for continuing on.

When pushing himself upright didn't work, Dean swore and dragged himself painfully across the threshold to the chapel. Amazingly, he didn't combust. He kept at it, hooking his fingernails in the notches between the tiles and hauling himself those few inches, until he could almost see the wall. Then all he had to do was sit up, and he'd be out of-

A pair of black boots stopped in front of Dean's face. Dean blinked at them, then craned his head back to look up at the priest standing above him. "Hey there, padre," he rasped. "Be out of your way in a minute." He squinted, trying to focus on the face above him.

The priest tilted his head. "Need any help?"

Dean gave up on focusing and let his head fall. "Nope. Got it. Thanks." When the boots didn't move, Dean added, "Go away."

"Charming, Dean. Even for you," the priest said dryly.

Oh, great. Dean gave in to the temptation of laying his head back down, then groaned and lifted it again. "Do I have a fucking nametag?"

"No. Just infamy." The priest knelt, thankfully. Up close, his face was almost familiar. "It's Andrew," he said helpfully. "Your father sent me."

"Didn't. Fucking liar."

"Well, yes. But I'm here to help you." Andrew's hand slid under Dean's good shoulder and hauled, rolling Dean over like a sack of laundry. Dean stared up at him, fumbling shakily for a gun, and Andrew sighed. "Save your damn ammo, Winchester. Jesus. And your shot would be crap anyway. You're about to seize."

Dean exhaled through his teeth. There was no way he was getting up from here by himself, not until he got another shot of adrenaline in his system. "There's a syringe and a vial in my bag."

"That's nice," Andrew said, going to the fount. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and drenched it. "Nasty habit, but hey, at least you're prepared. Hold still."

Dean did, squinting at Andrew as the priest knelt again. "Left shoulder."

"No shit. You're bleeding all over the floor."

"You don't sound like a pr-" Dean choked on the rest of that statement as Andrew wrung the holy water out on the bite wounds. There was a moment of searing agony, making the world go white on its edges. Then his vision swam back, and he swore raggedly.

Laying there, his vision blurry and Andrew above him, memory sparked. Dean managed, "Know you. I choked you. The hospital."

Andrew made an absent affirming noise, tugging the remains of Dean's shirt out of the way as he examined the bite wound. "That's had a few hours to get infected, I'm afraid. And I don't keep antibiotics on hand. You ought to get to a doctor. You won't, of course, but you ought to."

"Latin. You were speaking Latin over me," Dean said slowly. "Not an exorcism. What were you-"

"Not now, Dean." Andrew disappeared for a moment, came back with a battered silver chalice in hand. He dipped it in the holy water and knelt by Dean again. "Drink. It won't help much, but it's better than nothing. Burns like a motherfucker."

Dean nodded tiredly, taking the chalice. His hand was shaky; the chalice rattled against his teeth for a second before he managed to swallow. As promised, it hurt like hell. Burned his throat, his stomach, but it gave him back a little clarity. Lowering it, he pushed the chalice back at Andrew. "Thanks. Syringe. Have to keep going."

Someone cleared their throat from out of Dean's range of sight, making him twitch. Andrew held up a hand silently, glancing at the person (the woman?) and nodding. Then he looked down at Dean. "We should get you into a pew."

Shaking his head, Dean pressed his palms flat against the floor and tried to push himself back up. He managed about halfway, which was when Andrew's arms slid through his own and hauled him unceremoniously to his feet. Dean jerked, suddenly on alert at the feeling of someone too damned close behind him, but Andrew had him in the pew before Dean could hit him. Dean barely had time to grab his bag by the strap and haul it with him.

Wobbling in place, Dean glared at Andrew.

Andrew ignored him, looking down at the bag. His expression grew tight. "I could take that for you."

"No. Fuck off." Dean shook his head hard, trying to clear the fog. "Sorry. I'll deal with it, man. My binding, my problem."

"Mm." Andrew continued to stare, his eyes narrowing. "Whatever you want, Dean. It's knocking the crap out of you."

"Managing." Dean raised his head, watching as Andrew glanced again at the person behind him. "Who're you- wait, where the hell are you going?"

Andrew smirked. "There's somebody here with prior claim, man. Call if you need anything."

"I need you to give me the fucking adrenaline-"

With a dismissive wave, Andrew disappeared into an open doorway. His footsteps faded into silence.

Well, crap. Dean dragged a hand through his hair and let it drop, trying to figure out how to steady it enough to get the syringe cap off. Maybe with his teeth. Yeah, and maybe he could stab himself in the face.

Someone moved in the corner of his vision. Dean jerked upright, pulling his gun and aiming it at the woman standing at the end of his pew. "Stay away from me," he bit off.

The blonde woman in the white dress just looked at him, not moving. Her expression was pained. "Oh, Dean," she murmured, soft voice touched with regret. "Honey."

Dean pushed himself back on the pew and shook his head. When she took a tentative step forward, he barked, "Back up. I'll shoot you."

"No, you won't," she said simply. Taking another step forward, she sat on the edge of the pew. "Jesus. I knew you might look rough, but this..."

Narrowing his eyes, Dean tracked the progress of her hand as she reached for him. He could move. Kind of wanted to. But he let her, because he was an idiot like that. Her hand was cool as she smoothed the hair out of his face.

"It's okay," she said after a moment. "You remember me now?"

No. Except that maybe, yeah, he sort of did. He knew her face from half-remembered dreams, from a more recent nightmare. But she was-

"Is it over?" Dean straightened sharply. "Did it work? Did I do it? Make it right?"

His mother looked at him, her expression furrowing. When realization hit, she winced a little. "No, baby. I'm not coming back. Nothing's ever fixing that."

"But-" Dean stared down at the blood on his hands. Self-consciously, he wiped them on his equally bloody jeans. "No. You don't get it. I can change things. I have to, because it's wrong and it's not how it should work, goddamn it. It's not supposed to- I can fix it. I have to keep going until it's done."

"The dead stay dead, Dean. No fix for that."

"Yeah, and people don't set fires with their minds, either, but-" Dean stopped short. "Sorry."

His mother shook her head and shifted forward a little, her hand settling on his head. She combed her fingers through his hair, matted as it was with blood and sweat and thicker things. "It was a long time ago. I'm worried about you now."

"'M fine."

"You're hurting."

"Breathing. 'M fine." Dean raised his eyes, letting himself study the lines of her face and burn them into memory. Then he braced himself, moving to get up. "Mom, I'm sorry. Can't stay here. Needs to be finished."

She shoved his ass back down, hard enough that Dean blinked at her. Mary shook her head, firmly. "Park it. We're not done."

There was only one good answer to that. "Yes ma'am."

"Good. Now." With the crisp tones of a woman used to issuing orders, she said, "You're going to stay here, because the damned gate won't open until tomorrow at moonrise anyway. You're going to sleep. And if we're all very lucky, your father and Sam will get here before you do anything-"

Dean's head snapped up. He stared at his mother. "Sam?" he said finally, hating the desperation in his voice.

She tilted her head a little, considering Dean. "Of course."

Oh, God. "Mom, Sam's... I couldn't..." Dean clenched his fist helplessly and looked away. "He's dead."

Her fingers locked on his chin, pulling Dean's head back around so he had to meet her eyes. "Sam's alive," she said simply, firmly. "Honey, if he was dead, I'd be the first to know."

"Oh." Dean blinked, fast, trying to keep his vision clear. For the first time, he could almost breathe easy. His brother was alive. His brother was okay.

Sam could still be hurt or killed. Sam was alone. And now that Dean knew that pain, he wasn't going back there. Not if he could stop it. Sam needed him. He remembered that, remembered covering his brother's back, promising protection, watching over him as he slept, dragging him from burning buildings and away from shattered mirrors.

He didn't remember Sam's face. But god, he remembered the important thing: Sam needed to live. As long as Dean was alive, Sam would goddamned well live.

"Oh. Jesus." Dean pushed himself up. "I need to go-"

"Your father has him, Dean." His mother's voice had a whipcrack of authority behind it. "You can trust him with Sam until you've slept. But yes, he is alive. And he's fine, honey. Worried like hell over you, but fine."

"He's coming here," Dean said darkly. "With Dad." Damn it, what was his father thinking, dragging Sammy into the line of fire? They weren't supposed to do this. They were supposed to see that he had to finish it. He'd bound it with his blood, and his blood would end this clusterfuck war.

"Yes," his mother said simply. "And there's nothing you can do about that. Trust your father and Sam to protect themselves."

Slowly, Dean sank back against the pew. His vision was starting to blur, damn it. But he could breathe easier now. Sam was alive, okay. He was with Dad. They'd managed not to kill each other without Dean.

Good. If they didn't need him between them, there like a buffer, it'd make things easier. They'd have each other to lean on, after.

Now all he had to do was make it to the gate. Fight his way in and down. Take the son of a bitch back where it belonged.

When he looked up, there was an expression on Mary's face that said she saw through him. That she saw the gun in his mouth, the woman on the ceiling, everything. Then she gave him that sad smile and shifted over, letting him have her shoulder to lean on. Dean leaned, harder than he should, and felt her fingers comb through his hair again. He had to be spiking a fever, because her cool hands felt good on his face.

"The hourglass-"

"Got it, Dean. Good Lord, you're in a church and it's a bound demon. There are rules."

"Okay." Dean rested his cheek against her shoulder and closed his eyes. Just a minute. Then she'd be gone again, and he could go. For now, it was nice. And he was probably leaving bloodstains on her dress, but when he went to lift his head, her hand stopped him. He relaxed grudgingly. "Okay."

"It will be. If you let it." His mother stroked his forehead, his hair, his neck. "When you were little and couldn't sleep, I'd sit on the porch with you and sing. Would that help?"

Dean gave a bittersweet smile. He didn't remember that. "No porch."

"Smartass." She leaned her cheek on the top of his head. "Stairway?"

The memory flared, making him wince automatically. It was a gentle one: a wooden porch, the slow hum of the occasional traffic, the creak of the tree beside their house and the quiet clatter of his father inside doing dishes as she sang low. Peace and comfort.

"God." Dean managed a tired smile. "Yeah. That'd be good."

So she sang, her voice soft and oddly hypnotic. Dean tried to focus enough to stay awake, if even just to hear her manage the bridge like that. He was asleep before she got through two lines.

The sun was setting by the time he woke up, alone. Some of the pain had eased. He still felt wobbly, drained like the aftermath of a fever, but his mind was slightly clearer. He could get more than twenty steps without collapsing.

Had he dreamed it? Was Sam really alive? Too many fucking questions. And not one of them changed a damned thing. It was time to finish this. Once and for all.

He dug in the bag, fumbling for the adrenaline. He was going to need all the help he could get. It was gone, along with his guns. The only thing left in with the hourglass was the pipe bomb he'd found in the storage unit and a box of ammo.

A shadow fell across him, and he looked up, seeing the priest from the night before. "You're going to do it, huh?" Andrew asked.

"Yeah. I have to."

Andrew nodded slightly. "I figured." He held out the syringe. "I'd wait until you get closer to town to take it."

Dean nodded. "Got it."

Andrew held up a duffel bag. "I got you together some extra stuff. Ammo, a couple guns. Cleaned and reloaded the ones you still had, sharpened your machete."

"Why are you helping me?" Dean asked suspiciously.

"To see what you'll do, of course. That's all I ever wanted," Andrew said, flashing him an impish smile as he stood, walking away from Dean. "Good hunting. Go with God, my son."

Comments

[nilchance.livejournal.com]

I think to some extent that though John encouraged Dean to be Sam's protector, Dean would've done it without prompting. Just because that's who Dean is, and who Sam needs him to be. (And because wee!Dean crawled into wee!Sam's crib to hold him after Mary died, otherwise known as the show canon most likely to make my uterus explode.)

Thanks!