FIC: Of Bastard Saints, 26
Jun. 1st, 2006 03:17 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.
Sam was alive.
Dean stared down the barrel of the shotgun, feeling the world still around him. Them. He could feel the pain distantly, that drilling sharp agony behind his eyes as he looked at Sam and remembered a few thousand things at once.
Baby steps. Sam in the passenger seat. Sam's laughter. Hauling Sam from the burning apartment in Palo Alto. Arguments and gunshots, sharing a bottle of tequila on the anniversary of their mother's death, quick and dirty stitches in cheap motel rooms. So much of Dean was tied up, bound in memories of Sam.
And Sam looked back at him, blood-smeared and dirty, tired and whole. His smile could've lit the world.
He was okay. Though about to be crushed by a dead harpy.
Dean forced himself back to the reality, the graveyard strewn with bodies, and shoved his toe under the body. He kicked the harpy to the side and bent, knotting his hand in the front of Sam's jacket and hauling him to his feet. Thank fuck for adrenaline, both synthetic and real, because Sam wasn't light.
Sam was taller than him now. Dean had forgotten that. He'd forgotten so damned much. He'd-
There were tears welling up in Sam's eyes. Dean winced as too many memories of that crowded in on his mind. He reached out, thumping Sam's shoulder. Inadequate, but If Sam touched him, Dean wasn't sure his knees would hold out. "No chick flick moments," he rasped, not entirely sure why that made sense.
Sam made a ragged, incredulous noise that was halfway between laughter and a sob. Then he reached out, grabbing Dean by the jacket and pulling him into a tight hug. "You're alive," Sam whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion.
Dean was briefly grateful that he was too tired to flinch. He let himself lean his head on Sam's shoulder, struggling to still his shivering until he could make himself pull back. Funny; even over the rushing of blood in his ears, the wet shuffle-groan of the ghuls, he could hear Sam breathe.
This was what he'd been fighting for. This was what was worth dying for.
"C'mon," Sam murmured, starting to let him go. "We have to go, we have to get you to a doctor- fuck, you're burning up-"
Okay. He remembered now. Not everything. Enough.
Dean pulled back hard, shaking Sam's hand off. The look on Sam's face-
He knows, the voice whispered, light as spiderwebs. He knows what you've done. What I've done to you. What I'll do to him once you break. You disgust him.
Chaos was still raging around them, the hellhound's snarls. It'd still be there in a second, and from the crack of gunfire, they had some cover. Dean looked at Sam, the lines of his face, feeling memory pounding at the inside of his head. It hurt so bad it was nearly blinding, but Dean didn't blink. Not in the face of the one person who could make Dean keep fighting when all he wanted to do was lay down.
So close. Couldn't stop now.
"Way to give them a target, Sammy. Jesus fucking Christ." Dean shoved the shotgun at Sam hard enough that Sam grunted. "Cover me."
"Dean," Sam said, startled. When Dean took a step back, Sam said again, fiercely, "Dean, you can't-"
"I can," Dean said savagely. "You have to let me do this."
Sam looked at him. Whatever he saw on Dean's face made him blink, tears cutting a clean track down his grimy face. The brother faded; the warrior kicked in. Setting his jaw, Sam hefted the shotgun. "If you die, I'm bringing your sorry ass back. Go."
And strangely enough, because Sam believed he could keep going, Dean could convince himself that it was true.
Dean turned his back on him, picking his way through the bodies. Things lunged for him on all sides, toppling before they could reach him. A shadow demon stretched long fingers towards Dean's face- and a huge goddamn wolf-hound thing caught it like a frisbee, shaking its head fiercely as the shadow whipped around its muzzle.
"Good fido," Dean snarked without pausing.
It growled at Dean softly, but didn't drop its prize. That gave Dean clearance to get to the man leaning in the shadows against the huge-ass mausoleum with the tacky angel statue on its roof. Smart of him to put his back against something. Dean hauled the bag off his shoulder and dropped it at the man's feet. "Watch this." He drew his gun and shoved it at him. "Reload this. Stay here. Got it?"
John stared at his son, at the complete lack of recognition on his bloody face. At the anti-possession amulet, blessedly intact. Part of him wanted to grab Dean and hold on. This was a battle, not the time. If they survived, they'd have time. They wouldn't survive if John broke Dean's focus, if he treated him like a son rather than a third man on the battlefield.
John's heart hurt in his chest. He nodded without a word, studying his son's face.
Time lost or not, memories there or not, Dean understood John's silence better than he should've. Dean paused, considering John for a moment they couldn't afford. Then he flashed a crooked grin and reached out, grabbing John's Bowie knife from the ground where he'd dropped it. "Nice knife. Mind?"
"All yours, soldier. Help your brother clear us an exit." John looked him over, the bloodstained shirt and pale lips and fever-bright eyes, and added with not a little desperation, "If you start to go down, fall back and I'll cover you. You're not dying here. That's an order."
Dean smirked and turned away, drawing his machete and diving back into the clusterfuck.
John started to reload, nudging the bag open with his foot. His breath hissed out as he saw the thing, shoved in the bag, violating the space around it. Damned good thing he hadn't touched it. Damned bad thing that apparently Dean had kept the fucking hourglass in his bag, close enough to poison. John's hand seized automatically on the stock of his shotgun, the trigger tempting his finger. So easy to shatter the glass. So easy to draw the Colt and finish the demon.
John stopped himself. Not yet. Not until they could deal with what it might do to Dean.
It had taken Mary. In a way, it had taken John. But it would not take his boys.
Gritting his teeth, John looked away from the bag and back at his boys. Dean was shoving his way back to Sam, unceremoniously stabbing and shooting until his path was basically clear. He moved like he shouldn't, like he wasn't the same man who left the disconnected, broken message on John's phone.
He moved like Dean.
Finally, Dean reached Sam. Sam gave him a tight sidelong smile and moved, bracing his back against Dean's. It about killed him to do it, but Sam turned away and managed to convince himself that if he looked back, Dean would still be there. He could feel Dean's breathing, hard and fast, the jolt as Dean's machete connected with flesh and bone.
And then Sam couldn't concentrate on much more than surviving, struggling to keep his head above water in the chaos. When he saw his father finish reloading the shotgun, Sam paused for the second it took to look at him, to grab the shotgun with his mind. Shouldn't have worked, but damn, it did. Sam didn't even clock himself with the thing that time. With a lopsided grin he knew looked manic, Sam tossed his father the nine millimeter.
It wasn't supposed to go down like this. John wasn't supposed to be here, against the wall, stuck just watching his boys go and not breathing with every close call, loading and reloading. But damn if it wasn't a beautiful sight. Violent, brutal, but beautiful.
John hadn't taught Dean to move like that. Dean fought like hell, motions so deceptively smooth they almost looked lazy until you saw the damage they left. Sam got clawed up one arm. Dean might've gotten bitten, but he threw the ghul off before John could be sure.
Finally, in the hard rhythm of gunfire and knives striking bone, John felt a lull come on. He ratcheted the shotgun closed again, fired into the face of a zombie that had dragged itself too close, and paused, listening over his own harsh breathing.
Quiet. Too quiet. The gate was still open, a yawning vacuum.
Sam looked at John, panting, his expression a silent question: we're not done, are we?
Then there was the noise that John would hear for years in nightmares. It started low, deceptively familiar, like the sound of a fire consuming dry wood. Then it rose until it ate up the silence, shaking the dry leaves in the trees.
Dean stared into the darkness, saw the glint of scales moving. The hand surged out, clamping down on the dry grass. It guttered into flame, illuminating the mouth of the gate enough to show its eyes. Six eyes. Dean felt his heartbeat stutter as they fixed on him, recognized him. Then the earth broke around the gate as something pushed through, three fucking huge heads over one set of shoulders shoving into the world.
"Aww, fuck me," Dean muttered, reaching back to grab Sam by the shirt. "Move. Movemovemove, goddamn it-"
Sam felt the world tilt as Dean shoved him to the ground, his breath jerking out as Dean fell on top of him and curled over him. He had a second to see the thing (chimera, oh hell) claw its way into the world, to see it snap around and open its mouth. Then Dean shoved his face unceremoniously in the dirt. "Hold your breath," Dean snarled.
For one moment, a single moment, Sam heard the roar of an inferno rushing towards them. Towards Dean, who was covering- oh, God. Sam struggled, and Dean pinned him mercilessly down, and then the heat was on them both.
Like a nightmare, John watched the bullets hit the chimera and ricochet, sparking uselessly off the gravestones. He watched it open its mouth. He watched his boys fall, and the fire towards them like the tide. The flames poured over them, over without touching, and kept right on rolling.
And then John watched Dean get back up, shaking the ash off his clothes and out of his hair. The relief was so stark John couldn't breathe for a moment. Dean bent, grabbing Sam by the collar of his jacket and dragging him over to John, where he dropped him. Dean patted Sam down for injuries, then brushed him off and hauled him upright. Sam wobbled a little, looking pale, and gave John a sidelong "oh holy fuck" look.
Dean looked at John. With the ash and some of the blood smeared off his face, onto Sam's shirt, John could see that Dean looked about three days dead. "Watch him," Dean said, jerking his head at Sam. "I'll take care of the big bitch."
"Dean," John said severely.
"Hey," Sam protested quietly.
Not even looking at either of them, Dean bent and started rummaging through his bag. John grimaced as Dean touched the hourglass with bare skin, making the damned thing flare hungrily. "I landed on you, Sammy. Take a minute, catch your breath. Don't get yourself killed being an idiot. And you can't stop me anyway, so don't waste your time."
"There'll be some coming over on your left side," John informed him, steadying Sam by pushing him back against the mausoleum.
Dean raised his eyes, giving John a look that said he hadn't noticed the small army of zombies wandering out now that the chimera had gone through. His attention had been on Sam. Dangerous, that kind of tunnel vision. It'd get him killed. His pupils were dilated, his eyes feverish. John knew that look, knew that nothing short of John cuffing Dean to something would stop him. "Your problem. Trusting you to cover me, sir."
John reached out, roughly rumpling Dean's hair, and shoved the shoulder that looked relatively unharmed. "Good. Go."
"Dad," Sam gritted, "he can't just-"
Dean shot him a look. "Trust me here, Sammy."
Sam stared at him for a long, ugly moment. Then he swore and nodded, looking away.
With a last glance at Sam, Dean turned, going to step over the crumpled body of a ghul. He paused midstep, asked John, "Ghul?"
"Yeah."
"Fucking A." Dean bent, driving both his machete and the Bowie into the still form. Then he rose and strode towards the chimera, oily blood dripping from the blades. "Yo, bitch!"
His son, John thought with a sort of psychotic fondness, pretty much owned that word. And if he survived, John was going to goddamn well ream him for being an idiot.
Dean reached the chimera, stopping in its path closer than any sane man would go. Dean glanced at the knives, shivering once, and the blades ignited the ghul's oily blood. It burned like napalm, steady. In that light, Dean gave a bloody smile and jerked his chin at the chimera.
The chimera's scream bit through the night, making Sam flinch beside him. Then it lunged, three heads snarling and snapping around Dean as he twisted to avoid them. He moved on defense, just avoiding. Trying to exhaust it? Not the world's best plan, considering.
John saw Dean smile as he came up from a roll, crouching. The dragon head reared back, sparks crackling as it went to ignite its methane breath. Dean never gave it a chance. Diving into a forward roll, he came up with flaming blades crossing the narrow throat connecting the dragon's head. One sharp jerk, and that head tumbled to the side, coming to rest at the foot of a gravestone. Its blood made the stone smoke and hiss.
"Dad! Help here?" Sam barked, jerking John's attention back. He laid down some suppressive fire, thumped Sam, and turned back to shoot a minor demon coming up on Dean's other side.
Dean didn't even flinch as the bullet whipped past him, leaning back to avoid the splatter. That demon's acid blood sprayed across the goat's head, making it jerk and bray wildly. Dean jammed the machete into its jugular before it could recover, and let it jerk sideways to tear out its own throat. Pulling the machete free, he started to turn, only to feel fangs sink into the back of his coat. The tips broke skin, hooking under. The lion's head used that grip to fling Dean sideways and into the base of a statue. Dean felt a sharp 'pop' as his shoulder dislocated.
"Motherfucker," he groaned, and shoved back against the stone, pushing his arm back into joint. He looked around for the machete, found it a few feet away, and didn't have a chance to reach before it surged back into his hand. Sammy. Dean grinned shakily and pushed himself back up, bracing against the statue until his legs were halfway steady. Then, panting, he drew the thirty-eight.
The chimera lunged, remaining head snarling, and Dean stood still in its path. Better aim that way. He waited until its mouth was opening to swallow his hand before pulling the trigger rapidly, emptying the clip. It fell heavily, sliding to a stop just short of his boot. Dean made a face and wiped the blood off his toe onto the grass before it could corrode anything.
There was another shot fired behind Dean's head, a split second warning before John bellowed, "Dean!"
Then something was on him, rot-slick fingers scrabbling on Dean's arms as it tried to climb on his back. Its weight drove him to the ground, something popping in his chest. Dean threw the thing off, barely waiting for it to hit the ground before he kipped up. Hurt like a bitch, but he could manage.
John drew in a sharp breath to curse. Horde. They only ever sent one, dammit. Not three. Fuck. He'd heard about these demons, heard Elkins stories about how many good men had fallen to one after Hiroshima. The warrior caste, sick sadistic things that didn't stop until they or their prey were dead. "Dean," he said, "fall back."
Dean bent, picking up the Bowie knife, and met the eyes of the other two demons, hovering and waiting for him to run. The third rolled to its knees and smoothly up to its feet. Dean shifted on his feet, watching them watch him, waiting.
"Fall. Fucking. Back, Dean!"
Dean shot John a silent look. It wasn't that Dean didn't hear him. It was that he wasn't listening.
Then Dean glanced over John's shoulder at Sam, who had his back to them both, fighting off a zombie with the shotgun as a club. Sam'd been pulled away from the wall by the fight, maintaining a clear tight circle around himself with the rifle and the occasional shot fired. Dean exhaled slowly, seeming to pull strength from the fact that Sam was breathing, and looked away. Crouching, Dean held still for another heartbeat.
He unleashed.
John'd seen his boy in fights. He'd seen him in battle. But he'd never seen him at war. Dean fought like a man who didn't expect to come home. No Sam to protect, no John to cover. Chain lightning, sheer violence, fast and smooth and terrible. No move was wasted. Wherever Dean struck, devastation followed. John saw the demons hit him, saw the flash of a blade coming out wet with Dean's blood, but Dean didn't even slow down.
Then, the third, the one who'd tackled Dean moved behind him, arm drawn back for the killing blow. John's breath hissed in, knowing he'd be too late to warn Dean, knowing that it wouldn't help.
With a sound like a whipcrack, a marble angel snapped off a nearby tomb and hurtled through the air, slamming into the demon, throwing him down.
John glanced towards Sam, seeing the flash of a defiant smile crease his younger son's face. A surge of pride hit him. His boys. Both of them. Warriors to the core. Then, the second wave reached Sam, and he didn't have time to think.
In the time it took for John to lift the rifle to his shoulder, going to help Sam, the first demon was down. He bent, rummaging for more ammo, and felt a smooth cool cylinder under his fingertips. Despite himself, he smiled. Pipe bomb. That was his boy, all right.
When he looked up, the second demon was down. Dean was still moving, blades singing through the air around him, the fires still burning even though the blades were drenched with blood. His blood, red against the black oily gore, ran in sheets down one side of his face, half-blinding him.
Out of the corner of John's eye, he saw Sam put the last zombie down with a sharp kick to its face. Breathing hard, looking like hell, Sam staggered a few steps towards Dean.
With a last explosive movement, Dean buried the machete in the third demon's chest and jerked up. It went down, spasming and spitting blood. Dean stood there for a minute, shoulders slumped, wavering on his feet. Then he sucked in a hard breath and looked at the gate.
The graveyard was empty. There were no other demons coming. They were standing in the gateway, watching, waiting. Afraid. John felt a low laugh rumble up his throat.
Then he saw Dean's face. Saw Dean glance their way, looking at Sammy. Saw the exhaustion. The resolve. And suddenly, John knew.
"No," Sam said tightly. Then, tired as he looked, Sam shoved forward and started to run.
Dean started walking towards the gate, gripping the hilts with blood-slick fingers. He was limping a little, but picking up speed. Then, the back of his jacket pulled from his body, as though Sam thought he could drag him backwards, keep him in place until Sam caught him.
Dean shrugged the jacket off and picked up more speed.
John bent and wrapped his fingers around the pipe bomb. As he brushed the hourglass, he felt that voice... that thing, like a slick hand.
John... you could let him finish it. It could all be over.
John set his jaw and straightened up, pipe bomb in hand. Saw Sam catch up with his brother, plowing into him at the waist, taking them both down.
Swearing, Sam grabbed at Dean's wrists, trying to pin him down. "Stop," he said savagely, "don't you fucking do that to me, don't you-"
Dean didn't even look at Sam, his eyes locked on the gate. His lip twisted. Before Sam could grab onto him, Dean's arm lashed out and struck Sam under the chin, knocking his head back and staggering him. Then Dean shoved him hard, pushing him off and into the unforgiving marble of a tombstone.
Dean was halfway up on his feet, wobbling. Sam couldn't force himself back up, his vision swimming. He reached with power, trying to take Dean's knees out from under him, anything. Anything but-
That was when the lit pipe-bomb sailed past them both, landing squarely in the gates of hell. Dean spun, staring at John. The betrayal in that look...
The percussion of the blast was deafening, stone cracking, bodies tumbling. There was a howl that had nothing to do with ballistics, something bestial and enraged. And then there was silence.
John met Dean's eyes, not flinching. After all this, Dean deserved that much.
Ignoring Sam, Dean began to limp towards John. He gained speed with each step, anger dawning on his face. By the time he reached John, it was just about rage. Dean's hands locked on John's coat, fisting in it as Dean slammed John back against the mausoleum wall.
"What do you want?" Dean snarled. "I was done! I was going to fix it! What else do you want me to do? I was-"
"Dean." John winced as Dean shoved him again, the breath jerked out of him on impact. His hand moved towards the Colt. He stopped it. Not yet. Instead, he grabbed for Dean's arm, trying to forestall him. "It's-" Another impact. John cursed, searching Dean's face for any sign of reason. "Dean, please, goddamn it-"
"What do you want from me?" Dean raged. His eyes were wild with the hunt, with fever. That, John could handle. Not the tears cutting clean streaks on Dean's blood-smeared face. "I was supposed to- this is how it's supposed to- you had to let me! I'm fucking tired, I can't- it's the only- what do you want?!"
As Dean pulled him away from the wall for another shove, John drew in a breath and barked, "Dean Michael Winchester, you will stand down!"
Dean froze. Not soon enough to stop from bouncing John against the wall, but he froze. His eyes searched John's face, and then, haltingly, Dean drew back and stood at ease. He was wavering on his feet.
John reached up an unsteady hand and set it on the back of Dean's neck, forcing Dean to look at him as he said, "I want my son back. That's it."
Dean's breath hitched. He stared at John, his face softening. The madness had been bad. The grief, the pain... that was worse.
"All right." John shook him a little. "It's over, Dean. Time to come home."
He felt Dean tremble, the tension sliding out of him. Dean swallowed hard. "Dad."
"Yeah." Over Dean's shoulder, John saw Sam stumbling painfully over to join them, a bittersweet smile dawning as he saw John's face.
Dean caught John's glance and went rigid, breath catching in his slow horror. He remembered the sound of impact, Sam hitting the gravestone hard. "Sam," he whispered raggedly. He started to turn towards the stone, and John saw his knees buckle. About damn time.
And then Sam was there, catching Dean on the way down.
John grabbed Dean's belt, leading his own strength as Dean collapsed on Sam. Sam sat down hard in the bloody grass, his arms around Dean, gripping like it'd take a miracle to pry his hands loose. Dean was shivering as he sank into Sam, the whites of his eyes showing. His back was sweat-slick and painfully hot against John's hand.
"Hey," Sam murmured against the top of Dean's head, "hey, it's okay, I've got you." His fingers fumbled down Dean's arms, pressing until he found a pulse. Sam closed his eyes, letting himself believe as he felt Dean's heartbeat solid under his fingertips. "We found you. It's okay."
John blinked hard, giving himself a minute to watch his boys. Both alive, both intact. It was enough for the moment. Painfully, he made himself let go of Dean's belt. Rested his hand on Dean's back, feeling the muscles there slide from full spasm into exhausted stillness. Felt Dean breathe, hitching as the adrenaline slowly let him go.
"I'm sorry," John murmured. "It's going to be all right."
Sam gave him a tired, wobbly smile.
Then he reached into his pocket, feeling for the van keys, and started to turn. Didn't want to leave them, not out of his sight for more than a second, but no way was Dean making it to the van. Neither he nor Sam were in any shape to carry him.
Except when he turned, the van was there. It had teeth-marks in the bumper, but it was definitely their conspicuous van. John stared for a moment, then shrugged and went to open the driver's side door. He'd obsess about it later. For now, they needed a goddamn doctor and safe ground to bind the demon.
They'd found Dean. Everything else could be survived.
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.
Sam was alive.
Dean stared down the barrel of the shotgun, feeling the world still around him. Them. He could feel the pain distantly, that drilling sharp agony behind his eyes as he looked at Sam and remembered a few thousand things at once.
Baby steps. Sam in the passenger seat. Sam's laughter. Hauling Sam from the burning apartment in Palo Alto. Arguments and gunshots, sharing a bottle of tequila on the anniversary of their mother's death, quick and dirty stitches in cheap motel rooms. So much of Dean was tied up, bound in memories of Sam.
And Sam looked back at him, blood-smeared and dirty, tired and whole. His smile could've lit the world.
He was okay. Though about to be crushed by a dead harpy.
Dean forced himself back to the reality, the graveyard strewn with bodies, and shoved his toe under the body. He kicked the harpy to the side and bent, knotting his hand in the front of Sam's jacket and hauling him to his feet. Thank fuck for adrenaline, both synthetic and real, because Sam wasn't light.
Sam was taller than him now. Dean had forgotten that. He'd forgotten so damned much. He'd-
There were tears welling up in Sam's eyes. Dean winced as too many memories of that crowded in on his mind. He reached out, thumping Sam's shoulder. Inadequate, but If Sam touched him, Dean wasn't sure his knees would hold out. "No chick flick moments," he rasped, not entirely sure why that made sense.
Sam made a ragged, incredulous noise that was halfway between laughter and a sob. Then he reached out, grabbing Dean by the jacket and pulling him into a tight hug. "You're alive," Sam whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion.
Dean was briefly grateful that he was too tired to flinch. He let himself lean his head on Sam's shoulder, struggling to still his shivering until he could make himself pull back. Funny; even over the rushing of blood in his ears, the wet shuffle-groan of the ghuls, he could hear Sam breathe.
This was what he'd been fighting for. This was what was worth dying for.
"C'mon," Sam murmured, starting to let him go. "We have to go, we have to get you to a doctor- fuck, you're burning up-"
Okay. He remembered now. Not everything. Enough.
Dean pulled back hard, shaking Sam's hand off. The look on Sam's face-
He knows, the voice whispered, light as spiderwebs. He knows what you've done. What I've done to you. What I'll do to him once you break. You disgust him.
Chaos was still raging around them, the hellhound's snarls. It'd still be there in a second, and from the crack of gunfire, they had some cover. Dean looked at Sam, the lines of his face, feeling memory pounding at the inside of his head. It hurt so bad it was nearly blinding, but Dean didn't blink. Not in the face of the one person who could make Dean keep fighting when all he wanted to do was lay down.
So close. Couldn't stop now.
"Way to give them a target, Sammy. Jesus fucking Christ." Dean shoved the shotgun at Sam hard enough that Sam grunted. "Cover me."
"Dean," Sam said, startled. When Dean took a step back, Sam said again, fiercely, "Dean, you can't-"
"I can," Dean said savagely. "You have to let me do this."
Sam looked at him. Whatever he saw on Dean's face made him blink, tears cutting a clean track down his grimy face. The brother faded; the warrior kicked in. Setting his jaw, Sam hefted the shotgun. "If you die, I'm bringing your sorry ass back. Go."
And strangely enough, because Sam believed he could keep going, Dean could convince himself that it was true.
Dean turned his back on him, picking his way through the bodies. Things lunged for him on all sides, toppling before they could reach him. A shadow demon stretched long fingers towards Dean's face- and a huge goddamn wolf-hound thing caught it like a frisbee, shaking its head fiercely as the shadow whipped around its muzzle.
"Good fido," Dean snarked without pausing.
It growled at Dean softly, but didn't drop its prize. That gave Dean clearance to get to the man leaning in the shadows against the huge-ass mausoleum with the tacky angel statue on its roof. Smart of him to put his back against something. Dean hauled the bag off his shoulder and dropped it at the man's feet. "Watch this." He drew his gun and shoved it at him. "Reload this. Stay here. Got it?"
John stared at his son, at the complete lack of recognition on his bloody face. At the anti-possession amulet, blessedly intact. Part of him wanted to grab Dean and hold on. This was a battle, not the time. If they survived, they'd have time. They wouldn't survive if John broke Dean's focus, if he treated him like a son rather than a third man on the battlefield.
John's heart hurt in his chest. He nodded without a word, studying his son's face.
Time lost or not, memories there or not, Dean understood John's silence better than he should've. Dean paused, considering John for a moment they couldn't afford. Then he flashed a crooked grin and reached out, grabbing John's Bowie knife from the ground where he'd dropped it. "Nice knife. Mind?"
"All yours, soldier. Help your brother clear us an exit." John looked him over, the bloodstained shirt and pale lips and fever-bright eyes, and added with not a little desperation, "If you start to go down, fall back and I'll cover you. You're not dying here. That's an order."
Dean smirked and turned away, drawing his machete and diving back into the clusterfuck.
John started to reload, nudging the bag open with his foot. His breath hissed out as he saw the thing, shoved in the bag, violating the space around it. Damned good thing he hadn't touched it. Damned bad thing that apparently Dean had kept the fucking hourglass in his bag, close enough to poison. John's hand seized automatically on the stock of his shotgun, the trigger tempting his finger. So easy to shatter the glass. So easy to draw the Colt and finish the demon.
John stopped himself. Not yet. Not until they could deal with what it might do to Dean.
It had taken Mary. In a way, it had taken John. But it would not take his boys.
Gritting his teeth, John looked away from the bag and back at his boys. Dean was shoving his way back to Sam, unceremoniously stabbing and shooting until his path was basically clear. He moved like he shouldn't, like he wasn't the same man who left the disconnected, broken message on John's phone.
He moved like Dean.
Finally, Dean reached Sam. Sam gave him a tight sidelong smile and moved, bracing his back against Dean's. It about killed him to do it, but Sam turned away and managed to convince himself that if he looked back, Dean would still be there. He could feel Dean's breathing, hard and fast, the jolt as Dean's machete connected with flesh and bone.
And then Sam couldn't concentrate on much more than surviving, struggling to keep his head above water in the chaos. When he saw his father finish reloading the shotgun, Sam paused for the second it took to look at him, to grab the shotgun with his mind. Shouldn't have worked, but damn, it did. Sam didn't even clock himself with the thing that time. With a lopsided grin he knew looked manic, Sam tossed his father the nine millimeter.
It wasn't supposed to go down like this. John wasn't supposed to be here, against the wall, stuck just watching his boys go and not breathing with every close call, loading and reloading. But damn if it wasn't a beautiful sight. Violent, brutal, but beautiful.
John hadn't taught Dean to move like that. Dean fought like hell, motions so deceptively smooth they almost looked lazy until you saw the damage they left. Sam got clawed up one arm. Dean might've gotten bitten, but he threw the ghul off before John could be sure.
Finally, in the hard rhythm of gunfire and knives striking bone, John felt a lull come on. He ratcheted the shotgun closed again, fired into the face of a zombie that had dragged itself too close, and paused, listening over his own harsh breathing.
Quiet. Too quiet. The gate was still open, a yawning vacuum.
Sam looked at John, panting, his expression a silent question: we're not done, are we?
Then there was the noise that John would hear for years in nightmares. It started low, deceptively familiar, like the sound of a fire consuming dry wood. Then it rose until it ate up the silence, shaking the dry leaves in the trees.
Dean stared into the darkness, saw the glint of scales moving. The hand surged out, clamping down on the dry grass. It guttered into flame, illuminating the mouth of the gate enough to show its eyes. Six eyes. Dean felt his heartbeat stutter as they fixed on him, recognized him. Then the earth broke around the gate as something pushed through, three fucking huge heads over one set of shoulders shoving into the world.
"Aww, fuck me," Dean muttered, reaching back to grab Sam by the shirt. "Move. Movemovemove, goddamn it-"
Sam felt the world tilt as Dean shoved him to the ground, his breath jerking out as Dean fell on top of him and curled over him. He had a second to see the thing (chimera, oh hell) claw its way into the world, to see it snap around and open its mouth. Then Dean shoved his face unceremoniously in the dirt. "Hold your breath," Dean snarled.
For one moment, a single moment, Sam heard the roar of an inferno rushing towards them. Towards Dean, who was covering- oh, God. Sam struggled, and Dean pinned him mercilessly down, and then the heat was on them both.
Like a nightmare, John watched the bullets hit the chimera and ricochet, sparking uselessly off the gravestones. He watched it open its mouth. He watched his boys fall, and the fire towards them like the tide. The flames poured over them, over without touching, and kept right on rolling.
And then John watched Dean get back up, shaking the ash off his clothes and out of his hair. The relief was so stark John couldn't breathe for a moment. Dean bent, grabbing Sam by the collar of his jacket and dragging him over to John, where he dropped him. Dean patted Sam down for injuries, then brushed him off and hauled him upright. Sam wobbled a little, looking pale, and gave John a sidelong "oh holy fuck" look.
Dean looked at John. With the ash and some of the blood smeared off his face, onto Sam's shirt, John could see that Dean looked about three days dead. "Watch him," Dean said, jerking his head at Sam. "I'll take care of the big bitch."
"Dean," John said severely.
"Hey," Sam protested quietly.
Not even looking at either of them, Dean bent and started rummaging through his bag. John grimaced as Dean touched the hourglass with bare skin, making the damned thing flare hungrily. "I landed on you, Sammy. Take a minute, catch your breath. Don't get yourself killed being an idiot. And you can't stop me anyway, so don't waste your time."
"There'll be some coming over on your left side," John informed him, steadying Sam by pushing him back against the mausoleum.
Dean raised his eyes, giving John a look that said he hadn't noticed the small army of zombies wandering out now that the chimera had gone through. His attention had been on Sam. Dangerous, that kind of tunnel vision. It'd get him killed. His pupils were dilated, his eyes feverish. John knew that look, knew that nothing short of John cuffing Dean to something would stop him. "Your problem. Trusting you to cover me, sir."
John reached out, roughly rumpling Dean's hair, and shoved the shoulder that looked relatively unharmed. "Good. Go."
"Dad," Sam gritted, "he can't just-"
Dean shot him a look. "Trust me here, Sammy."
Sam stared at him for a long, ugly moment. Then he swore and nodded, looking away.
With a last glance at Sam, Dean turned, going to step over the crumpled body of a ghul. He paused midstep, asked John, "Ghul?"
"Yeah."
"Fucking A." Dean bent, driving both his machete and the Bowie into the still form. Then he rose and strode towards the chimera, oily blood dripping from the blades. "Yo, bitch!"
His son, John thought with a sort of psychotic fondness, pretty much owned that word. And if he survived, John was going to goddamn well ream him for being an idiot.
Dean reached the chimera, stopping in its path closer than any sane man would go. Dean glanced at the knives, shivering once, and the blades ignited the ghul's oily blood. It burned like napalm, steady. In that light, Dean gave a bloody smile and jerked his chin at the chimera.
The chimera's scream bit through the night, making Sam flinch beside him. Then it lunged, three heads snarling and snapping around Dean as he twisted to avoid them. He moved on defense, just avoiding. Trying to exhaust it? Not the world's best plan, considering.
John saw Dean smile as he came up from a roll, crouching. The dragon head reared back, sparks crackling as it went to ignite its methane breath. Dean never gave it a chance. Diving into a forward roll, he came up with flaming blades crossing the narrow throat connecting the dragon's head. One sharp jerk, and that head tumbled to the side, coming to rest at the foot of a gravestone. Its blood made the stone smoke and hiss.
"Dad! Help here?" Sam barked, jerking John's attention back. He laid down some suppressive fire, thumped Sam, and turned back to shoot a minor demon coming up on Dean's other side.
Dean didn't even flinch as the bullet whipped past him, leaning back to avoid the splatter. That demon's acid blood sprayed across the goat's head, making it jerk and bray wildly. Dean jammed the machete into its jugular before it could recover, and let it jerk sideways to tear out its own throat. Pulling the machete free, he started to turn, only to feel fangs sink into the back of his coat. The tips broke skin, hooking under. The lion's head used that grip to fling Dean sideways and into the base of a statue. Dean felt a sharp 'pop' as his shoulder dislocated.
"Motherfucker," he groaned, and shoved back against the stone, pushing his arm back into joint. He looked around for the machete, found it a few feet away, and didn't have a chance to reach before it surged back into his hand. Sammy. Dean grinned shakily and pushed himself back up, bracing against the statue until his legs were halfway steady. Then, panting, he drew the thirty-eight.
The chimera lunged, remaining head snarling, and Dean stood still in its path. Better aim that way. He waited until its mouth was opening to swallow his hand before pulling the trigger rapidly, emptying the clip. It fell heavily, sliding to a stop just short of his boot. Dean made a face and wiped the blood off his toe onto the grass before it could corrode anything.
There was another shot fired behind Dean's head, a split second warning before John bellowed, "Dean!"
Then something was on him, rot-slick fingers scrabbling on Dean's arms as it tried to climb on his back. Its weight drove him to the ground, something popping in his chest. Dean threw the thing off, barely waiting for it to hit the ground before he kipped up. Hurt like a bitch, but he could manage.
John drew in a sharp breath to curse. Horde. They only ever sent one, dammit. Not three. Fuck. He'd heard about these demons, heard Elkins stories about how many good men had fallen to one after Hiroshima. The warrior caste, sick sadistic things that didn't stop until they or their prey were dead. "Dean," he said, "fall back."
Dean bent, picking up the Bowie knife, and met the eyes of the other two demons, hovering and waiting for him to run. The third rolled to its knees and smoothly up to its feet. Dean shifted on his feet, watching them watch him, waiting.
"Fall. Fucking. Back, Dean!"
Dean shot John a silent look. It wasn't that Dean didn't hear him. It was that he wasn't listening.
Then Dean glanced over John's shoulder at Sam, who had his back to them both, fighting off a zombie with the shotgun as a club. Sam'd been pulled away from the wall by the fight, maintaining a clear tight circle around himself with the rifle and the occasional shot fired. Dean exhaled slowly, seeming to pull strength from the fact that Sam was breathing, and looked away. Crouching, Dean held still for another heartbeat.
He unleashed.
John'd seen his boy in fights. He'd seen him in battle. But he'd never seen him at war. Dean fought like a man who didn't expect to come home. No Sam to protect, no John to cover. Chain lightning, sheer violence, fast and smooth and terrible. No move was wasted. Wherever Dean struck, devastation followed. John saw the demons hit him, saw the flash of a blade coming out wet with Dean's blood, but Dean didn't even slow down.
Then, the third, the one who'd tackled Dean moved behind him, arm drawn back for the killing blow. John's breath hissed in, knowing he'd be too late to warn Dean, knowing that it wouldn't help.
With a sound like a whipcrack, a marble angel snapped off a nearby tomb and hurtled through the air, slamming into the demon, throwing him down.
John glanced towards Sam, seeing the flash of a defiant smile crease his younger son's face. A surge of pride hit him. His boys. Both of them. Warriors to the core. Then, the second wave reached Sam, and he didn't have time to think.
In the time it took for John to lift the rifle to his shoulder, going to help Sam, the first demon was down. He bent, rummaging for more ammo, and felt a smooth cool cylinder under his fingertips. Despite himself, he smiled. Pipe bomb. That was his boy, all right.
When he looked up, the second demon was down. Dean was still moving, blades singing through the air around him, the fires still burning even though the blades were drenched with blood. His blood, red against the black oily gore, ran in sheets down one side of his face, half-blinding him.
Out of the corner of John's eye, he saw Sam put the last zombie down with a sharp kick to its face. Breathing hard, looking like hell, Sam staggered a few steps towards Dean.
With a last explosive movement, Dean buried the machete in the third demon's chest and jerked up. It went down, spasming and spitting blood. Dean stood there for a minute, shoulders slumped, wavering on his feet. Then he sucked in a hard breath and looked at the gate.
The graveyard was empty. There were no other demons coming. They were standing in the gateway, watching, waiting. Afraid. John felt a low laugh rumble up his throat.
Then he saw Dean's face. Saw Dean glance their way, looking at Sammy. Saw the exhaustion. The resolve. And suddenly, John knew.
"No," Sam said tightly. Then, tired as he looked, Sam shoved forward and started to run.
Dean started walking towards the gate, gripping the hilts with blood-slick fingers. He was limping a little, but picking up speed. Then, the back of his jacket pulled from his body, as though Sam thought he could drag him backwards, keep him in place until Sam caught him.
Dean shrugged the jacket off and picked up more speed.
John bent and wrapped his fingers around the pipe bomb. As he brushed the hourglass, he felt that voice... that thing, like a slick hand.
John... you could let him finish it. It could all be over.
John set his jaw and straightened up, pipe bomb in hand. Saw Sam catch up with his brother, plowing into him at the waist, taking them both down.
Swearing, Sam grabbed at Dean's wrists, trying to pin him down. "Stop," he said savagely, "don't you fucking do that to me, don't you-"
Dean didn't even look at Sam, his eyes locked on the gate. His lip twisted. Before Sam could grab onto him, Dean's arm lashed out and struck Sam under the chin, knocking his head back and staggering him. Then Dean shoved him hard, pushing him off and into the unforgiving marble of a tombstone.
Dean was halfway up on his feet, wobbling. Sam couldn't force himself back up, his vision swimming. He reached with power, trying to take Dean's knees out from under him, anything. Anything but-
That was when the lit pipe-bomb sailed past them both, landing squarely in the gates of hell. Dean spun, staring at John. The betrayal in that look...
The percussion of the blast was deafening, stone cracking, bodies tumbling. There was a howl that had nothing to do with ballistics, something bestial and enraged. And then there was silence.
John met Dean's eyes, not flinching. After all this, Dean deserved that much.
Ignoring Sam, Dean began to limp towards John. He gained speed with each step, anger dawning on his face. By the time he reached John, it was just about rage. Dean's hands locked on John's coat, fisting in it as Dean slammed John back against the mausoleum wall.
"What do you want?" Dean snarled. "I was done! I was going to fix it! What else do you want me to do? I was-"
"Dean." John winced as Dean shoved him again, the breath jerked out of him on impact. His hand moved towards the Colt. He stopped it. Not yet. Instead, he grabbed for Dean's arm, trying to forestall him. "It's-" Another impact. John cursed, searching Dean's face for any sign of reason. "Dean, please, goddamn it-"
"What do you want from me?" Dean raged. His eyes were wild with the hunt, with fever. That, John could handle. Not the tears cutting clean streaks on Dean's blood-smeared face. "I was supposed to- this is how it's supposed to- you had to let me! I'm fucking tired, I can't- it's the only- what do you want?!"
As Dean pulled him away from the wall for another shove, John drew in a breath and barked, "Dean Michael Winchester, you will stand down!"
Dean froze. Not soon enough to stop from bouncing John against the wall, but he froze. His eyes searched John's face, and then, haltingly, Dean drew back and stood at ease. He was wavering on his feet.
John reached up an unsteady hand and set it on the back of Dean's neck, forcing Dean to look at him as he said, "I want my son back. That's it."
Dean's breath hitched. He stared at John, his face softening. The madness had been bad. The grief, the pain... that was worse.
"All right." John shook him a little. "It's over, Dean. Time to come home."
He felt Dean tremble, the tension sliding out of him. Dean swallowed hard. "Dad."
"Yeah." Over Dean's shoulder, John saw Sam stumbling painfully over to join them, a bittersweet smile dawning as he saw John's face.
Dean caught John's glance and went rigid, breath catching in his slow horror. He remembered the sound of impact, Sam hitting the gravestone hard. "Sam," he whispered raggedly. He started to turn towards the stone, and John saw his knees buckle. About damn time.
And then Sam was there, catching Dean on the way down.
John grabbed Dean's belt, leading his own strength as Dean collapsed on Sam. Sam sat down hard in the bloody grass, his arms around Dean, gripping like it'd take a miracle to pry his hands loose. Dean was shivering as he sank into Sam, the whites of his eyes showing. His back was sweat-slick and painfully hot against John's hand.
"Hey," Sam murmured against the top of Dean's head, "hey, it's okay, I've got you." His fingers fumbled down Dean's arms, pressing until he found a pulse. Sam closed his eyes, letting himself believe as he felt Dean's heartbeat solid under his fingertips. "We found you. It's okay."
John blinked hard, giving himself a minute to watch his boys. Both alive, both intact. It was enough for the moment. Painfully, he made himself let go of Dean's belt. Rested his hand on Dean's back, feeling the muscles there slide from full spasm into exhausted stillness. Felt Dean breathe, hitching as the adrenaline slowly let him go.
"I'm sorry," John murmured. "It's going to be all right."
Sam gave him a tired, wobbly smile.
Then he reached into his pocket, feeling for the van keys, and started to turn. Didn't want to leave them, not out of his sight for more than a second, but no way was Dean making it to the van. Neither he nor Sam were in any shape to carry him.
Except when he turned, the van was there. It had teeth-marks in the bumper, but it was definitely their conspicuous van. John stared for a moment, then shrugged and went to open the driver's side door. He'd obsess about it later. For now, they needed a goddamn doctor and safe ground to bind the demon.
They'd found Dean. Everything else could be survived.