SPN fic: Dazzleland 8B/10
And here's the next bit...
Also, for those lovely lovelies leaving comments -- many thanks and I'll be responding to everything, just as soon as the coffee kicks in. *kisses*
Bit o’ Paris Motel, Niagara Falls NY, Monday, November 27, 2006
Sam had a way of making you pay for things, Dean knew. All weekend, Sam had probably been keeping a tally in that big brainiac head: three days of not talking to me, three days of deflections and misdirections. So far, Sam was collecting on his worry with wegottatalk glances and a false cheerfulness that made Dean want to throw stuff at him. Didn’t help that Dean was brutally hung over this morning, unable to fend off Sam’s chipper chatter. Dean was desperately trying to make a single cohesive sentence.
Here it came.
Was: “You gonna eat that?”
Sam glanced down at the half-eaten bagel on his plate. He sighed, waved his hand a little. “Go ahead. Think you can keep it down?”
Dean grimaced, rubbed his newly-shaved chin. It felt raw, everything about him felt raw or dead. “How long are we gonna to do this school thing?” he blurted out. The inside of his mouth was thick, covered in algae.
“You mean, how long are we staying in Niagara Falls?” Sam asked, staring at Dean so hard it hurt. Dean looked away, picked up the bagel, hoped his stomach could handle it. Sure. Sure it could. He’d make it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything.
“Yeah. How long? What are we here for? Dodged the bullet, didn’t we? So to speak.”
Sam got up, pulled on a button up shirt, selected a tie from the bundle he kept on a hanger like award ribbons. Trophies. Medals of honor. “Just a few more days, until we’re sure.”
“We can stick around. You can stick around. Elise…” Dean swallowed and couldn’t look at Sam. Forced the words out. “She seems nice enough. If you…” Oh man, he needed more coffee.
Sam was looking at him like he’d grown an extra head. “I gotta talk to Billy, figure him out.”
Dean threw down the bagel. “Oh, that’s a great plan, Sammy. That kid’s fucking dangerous. He reads minds, Sam. You wanna talk to him? Fine: We do it together. Let’s go over to his house now and just get it over with.”
Sam had fully transformed himself into teacher mode: tie, jacket, decent shoes. The hair was still typically Sam, though. Still made Dean want to haul his ass to an old fashioned barber, the kind who had a jar full of disinfectant that he dipped his combs into.
“Let me figure him out, Dean. No hurry,” but glanced at Dean as he said it, because there was always reason to hurry. To get to the next thing. People died if they weren’t there.
Dean didn’t care about that as much as he used to. And that made getting up every morning that much harder.
Dean looked away, sipped the coffee. It was terrible, but it was hot. Good enough. “Leave your phone on.”
“Yeah, likewise.”
Time to make amends, but it was hard, it was like bending a stiff limb. Had to be done, because Dean wasn’t made for holding grudges, not when it came to Sam. He’d tried silence. Tried drink and rage and nothing was helping. “Need a ride?” he offered. First time he’d done that. He hated the school, hated watching Sam disappear inside, both then and now.
Fuck. Now Sam was looking at him strangely again. “Sure.” Sam nodded, “Let me get my stuff.”
The only way he could handle it was if he didn’t look. That’s how he dealt with it. Pulled up to the school, and heard Sam slide out, about to say something, catching himself and Dean couldn’t look. The door hesitated, then slammed, tacit agreement: We’re good, aren’t we?
Dean pulled away, checked his watch. He had time. And wove his way north in the city, to Devils Hole, because he still had one or two things to say to Billy Shuter. This time he wasn’t wearing a tie, wasn’t going in as a reporter, didn’t give a shit. This time he was going to get answers. Billy wouldn’t have left for school yet, and Dean didn’t give a rat’s ass if Billy knew what was on his mind. Might scare him into sharing, because that yellow-eyed sonofabitch was around here someplace and although Dean didn’t exactly relish the idea of coming face-to-face with it again, he’d rather it was him than Sam.
He knocked on the door, expecting to hear the shrieks of little girls - those little blondes that Daphne had produced, perfect for placing on pristine beaches and capturing on film. He hadn’t seen any photographs of Billy lounging on the Caymans. He glanced at his watch again. Twenty after eight. Maybe they’d gone away for the holidays. Didn’t think so, not when there were houses to sell. He rang the bell again and looked through the stems of the frosted irises on the narrow side windows. Just the marble hall, one edge of the huge framed photograph, part of the staircase curving up.
He shaded his face with the flat blade of his hand. It was cold, viciously sunny, an attack. Squinted. A single shoe lay at the bottom of the stairs, child-sized. Out of place in the middle of that pristine, cavernous showpiece. And right then, Dean’s stomach gave a slow flip, because this wasn’t going to go down the way he’d imagined it would. He reached behind his back, lifted his coat, drew out the handgun he’d put in there as a matter of course. Dealing with a demon-child? Bring your fucking weapon.
Neighbors would be quick to call the police, so he needed to get in fast, not be seen hanging around. He looked like a criminal, knew it. Worked against him in circumstances like this. A skulker. He took cover behind a vigorous holly bush and jimmied the lock on the side of the house that faced the woods. Damned French doors, easy enough to-
He quietly slid the door to one side just enough to get himself in, closed it again, listening.
He’ll hear me no matter how quiet I am, Dean thought suddenly. Shit. Wonder what his range is? Can he hear through walls? But maybe his skills were as untested and untried as Sam’s. Or as finely tuned as Max’s, precise. Dean didn’t have much of a choice.
The French doors entered into a playroom, a large plastic dollhouse occupying one table, a television, several carpets shaped like ladybugs. A shitload of puzzles and games and boxes with balloon letters and screaming cartoon faces. Unfortunately, the doorway was hung with a plastic beaded curtain. It would make noise. Dean could hear the distant sound of a TV, some nasty morning show, the unmistakable sound of cheery weather guys and forced laughter. He smelled coffee.
Daphne would probably throw the pot in his face, coming in here with a drawn gun, looking like he’d just spent three days sleeping in his car.
Except.
Dean pulled back the beaded curtain with one finger and slipped through to the hallway. The music was louder. Celine Dion, wailing about something. Coffee and morning shows, yes, that seemed in place, but it was too quiet all the same. Shouldn’t there be little kids complaining and a husband wondering if this tie went with that shirt? The average sounds of a family getting ready the morning after a long weekend?
Something isn’t right.
Dean smelled two other things, just hovering below the acrid burn of coffee, mingling: hot gunpowder, almost metallic. And blood, which smelled of iron and peat. Dean pulled up in the hallway, breath coming short. Closed his eyes. Two side steps, boots brushing garden dirt in the hallway. Leaving evidence, goddamn, wished he’d brought gloves because he knew what he was walking into now, but not how far it might extend.
He’d walked into enough houses like this to last him a lifetime. What’s one more? Then, next beat, I can’t do this today. I don’t want to do this today. He was too raw and too dead and way too hung over, exposed in a way that felt dangerous. No choice, Winchester. Take stock. Where will the first body be?
Around the doorway into the kitchen, the TV louder, blasting the countertop. An island with a built-in range. A breakfast counter, the newspaper open, beyond it a square family room, bookshelves filled with cookbooks. In the middle of the eating area, in the corner, Daphne, sitting on the floor with her back against a bookshelf, some of the books tumbled down, resting in her lap. Soaking up the blood.
The gunshot to the head would have killed her instantly. But her pink blouse was also blood-soaked, a shot to her shoulder maybe. And one hand lay by her side, fingers at a weird angle, distorted, perhaps not all there. A defense wound. She’d held up her hand, begging for her life.
Dean was careful not to touch anything, tried to concentrate on making his breathing even, because it was coming too fast.
There was nothing to be done for Daphne, so Dean silently left the kitchen, crossed the marble foyer to the study, stepped over the child’s shoe to get there. Didn’t want to go upstairs, shit, really, really didn’t want to go upstairs. Willem. The father. Where will he be?
The pocket doors to the study were partially open, and Dean turned sideways to slide through them. He still had his gun out, maybe Billy was still around. He doubted it though: either dead of a self-inflicted gunshot, or gone. He knew that. Still, it made him feel better to have it in his hands. A little more in control.
Willem Sr., so big and hale, had an extraordinary amount of blood in him. Well, not technically in him anymore, Dean supposed. Across the blueprints on his desk, dripping down the sides, sprayed across the computer screen, which was still flipping through a screen saver of Shuter Real Estate’s current listings.
Dean left the room, still not hearing anything. C’mon, keep moving, secure the scene.
He stopped on the first step of the stairs, just stood there. The kids’ll be up there and no matter the number of times you saw it, you never got used to seeing dead kids. He took a deep breath then placed one foot on the next step. Then the one after that. Up the stairs, forcing every step.
One child’s shoe. Where was the other one?
In the bedroom, of course. Dean had been hoping for two girls cowering in the closet, scared shitless. That was the best-case scenario. This, though. This wasn’t best case.
She was maybe ten, probably younger. Dean had trouble pinpointing her age for a couple of different reasons: the angle of her body as it rested across the four-poster bed. The white blonde hair covering her face. The blood.
His eye stopped its cataloging of details with her hand, inexplicably: she was wearing one of those rings that dentists gave to little girls, the kind you could squeeze to fit your finger. A pink sparkly piece of plastic passing for a gemstone.
That’s enough. Dean turned away, breathing shallowly, trying not to think of anything, failing. Please let this be a murder-suicide. Please. Quickly scanned the room for the girl’s sister, kept looking, not sure what filled him, not rage, it was too pure for that, a kind of need, a need to find and need to make it stop.
Two girls in the photograph in the foyer, one older than the child dead in the bedroom. He was shaking now, too much coffee, too little sleep, driving his body and soul past the point of easy return. No Billy, no second sister.
Billy’s room was covered in magazine cut-outs and newspaper articles, each detailing weird deaths. Looked kinda like their own motel room, in a strange way. Still no Billy, no sign of the other sister. Maybe some kind of next steps, though, some explanation of why. Kid like this? Check his computer. Dean tapped the mouse with one finger and the computer hummed to life.
Several windows opened on the desktop, a number of web sites: something on demonology, a site devoted to the Columbine shootings. The Niagara Falls Gazette, June 8, 2001. The headline stopped Dean cold and he felt all the blood run from his face: Local boy in Falls tragedy.
Oh my god, he thought, seeing that. Remembering what had happened and why. Remembering what had followed. Oh, Sam, and after the weekend of silence, it was like being stabbed in the heart.
He slid open his phone.
They hadn’t dodged the bullet, not by a long shot.
--
Niagara Falls State Park, Niagara Falls NY, June 7, 2001
Sam had forgotten how wet it got down here, how loud. Around midnight, moon starting to wane, bright because of that, brighter because of the cheesy floodlights. They’d have plenty of freaking light to not summon a demon, all right. Dad would be able to see what an idiot he was being by the combined craptastic colors of two nations.
He’d waited for Dean and their father to leave the apartment, still arguing about bait, given them twenty minutes, then taken the Impala. Dean would probably kill him.
Not that he’d have to worry about that, because Dad would definitely kill him.
Sam wasn’t too sure what he was going to do, he just knew it was such a profoundly bad idea, Dean and John - two of the most misguided fucking heroes on the planet - to be down at the Falls when the ghost of every wrong-headed daredevil to go over in a barrel, kayak or jetski was playing Red Rover with their heads. Sure, Dad. See if a demon pops up. In the meantime, Dean, why don’t you take one more try at jumping over the barrier?
Those two were like an exercise in Darwinism and left alone wouldn’t last the night.
Left alone, and Sam didn’t want to think about it. He wasn’t their keeper, they weren’t his responsibility. Yet here he was. Maybe because of what Toad had pointed out: Dean was in danger down here. Not Sam. And their fucking father couldn’t see it.
He parked the car well away from where he saw Dad’s truck glowering darkly in the upper parking lot. Unless plans had changed on the drive over, Sam knew where they were going: Luna Island, nestled between Bridal Veil and the American Falls.
One or two other cars were in the lot - rangers, probably, or maybe lovers drawn out by the change in weather. It was the season. Sam didn’t really want to think about that either, balled up all that thwarted affection and ardor and sucked it back.
Sam would stop Dean if he’d won the argument about being bait; that much Sam knew. Dad would get so irate that Sam was down here that the entire evening’s work would be put off for another night. And if Dad had won the argument, then Sam could watch surreptitiously and help if help was needed. Besides, he was kinda looking forward to seeing Dad’s face when no demon appeared.
Told you so, he thought, loping down the pathway, across the pedestrian bridge, avoiding the lit ranger station by the Nikola Tesla statue, which had always cracked Dean up. Tesla, of course, inventor of alternating current. Heavy metal band. Why not? Niagara Falls was a place of peculiar confluences for all of them.
Down the stairs and across the plank footbridge to Luna Island, cat quiet, because this was really courting trouble with his father, was poking him with a sharp stick. No, he reminded himself, this was standing up for yourself, was being your own man. Sam couldn’t hear voices, could only see the play of light and hear the amazing encompassing roar of the Falls themselves. The air was saturated, like last night and the sprinklers except this was serious business, this wasn’t anything like playful, like drunk teens on a golf course.
This was sudden death and Sam knew it.
Lights and water and noise all combined to momentarily dazzle him and he stood one foot on the bridge, one on the island, transfixed by the weirdness and the power. He didn’t notice he wasn’t alone until he was pushed to the ground, face-first, a strong forearm hard against the back of his neck, forcing his nose and mouth into the wet grass, someone’s knee jammed against the small of his back, all the proportions and weights recognizable from a thousand fights over the years, some serious, some play, some hard practice.
“Dean,” he groaned, got some dirt in his mouth for his trouble.
“You are gonna get me into so much trouble, man,” but he didn’t sound angry, not at all. More glad Sam was here.
The next voice was angry, of course. “Sam,” it started and Sam was hauled up by the collar of his jean jacket, stood on his feet not six inches from his father.
You didn’t sneak up on John Winchester, that’s what his face said. Sam dusted himself off, Dean stepping away, already separating himself.
“Don’t start with me,” Sam snapped back. “Which one of you is the bait?”
Dean looked at their father, awaiting his judgment, eyes unreadable in the bizarre artificial light.
John’s face was stony, nothing soft about it. “I am.” Without hesitation, and John jerked his chin towards the park entrance. “You get home. We’ve got work to do.” That was it. A dismissal.
But Sam shook his head. “I don’t hear the ghosts, Dad. Dean? He hears them. Worry about him, not me. All you’re thinking about is a demon.” John raised an eyebrow, blinked. “I’m not like you. I need some proof. Proof that I’m wrong.”
John stood silently for a moment, bouncing on the balls of his feet, dark hair slicked back with mist, beading on his scruffy beard and eyelashes. A thin gleam of tooth. “Stay back and don’t get in the way.” He shifted his gaze to Dean, who Sam now noticed was tense as a piano wire. “What are you hearing?”
Using him.
Dean hitched one shoulder uncomfortably, like he was getting called on the carpet for something. “The usual.” Didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to get in the middle of it. Fucking chicken. Take a fucking stand, Dean.
“You don’t understand anything, do you?” Sam growled at their father, and Dean sighed, hands coming up.
“Sam,” he warned, low. Trying prove their father wrong, too, in his own way, by putting John’s theory to the test. Unfortunately, Sam didn’t have the sort of mouth that shut up easily.
“So, what now?” Sam demanded, and John matched his stare.
“Now? You stay here. Dean, you come with me.”
And they turned, moon bright as daylight. Floodlights making everything blue and pink as a baby’s nursery.
Difficult to miss what was so clearly there, by the edge of the precipice.
At the far edge of the island, where the iron railing bent to the corner, over which the American Falls dropped into froth, into atomized water, a figure was climbing over the top rung, a dark silhouette against the mad water. Outlined in silver.
Had beat the Winchesters at their own stupid, pointless game.
“Shit,” John breathed, stepping forward three paces. Too far for him to recognize the figure.
But Sam had better eyes, had the sort of mind that put things together fast as a supercomputer. A golf course, voices calling you to glory. A willing sacrifice. Being right didn’t seem quite so important after all. In fact, being right was going to be a death sentence.
“Oh god,” he moaned and Dean’s already troubled stare bounced between all three: father, brother, jumper at the rail.
Toad.
--
Niagara Falls High School, Monday November 27, 2006
Morning classes had started, but Sam had a spare. He hadn’t told Dean that, was grateful for the ride, didn’t want to turn down any small thing that Dean freely offered. Sam grabbed a coffee in the staff room, relaxed on the couch, taking the time to read the newspaper while his mind whirred away like a machine. He heard the pledge of allegiance. Almost fell asleep again, head jerking up.
A good night, last night. Sam had taken Elise out for dinner, gone back to her place. Stayed longer than he’d planned, and fallen asleep in her bed, only to wake at about three in the morning, realizing that he should get back, that no matter what stage of angry, drunk or hung over Dean was, he’d still worry about Sam.
Dean spent a lot of time worrying about him, Sam now knew.
He looks at me differently now, since the cabin. Since the demon had said what he had. What had Dean babbled to Andy Gallagher, compelled by Andy’s gift? Sam was worrying him. So not just worried about him. Dad say anything before he died? No, nothing, Dean had said.
Dean was lying and it was slowly killing him and Sam knew it. He rubbed his temple, wished Carcetti would find someone else to do the announcements, because her voice was designed to put you under faster than surgical-grade narcotics.
The Homecoming Dance is…our Daredevils had a successful run… all members of the decorating committee should meet Ms. Simon in the gym to…Mr. Isbister is holding the annual Geology Fair in the…
And there, he’d almost fallen asleep again.
Except for a series of sharp cracks, distant. Probably somewhere down near the science labs. Maybe a kid had lit something up…but Sam knew the sound of gunfire, knew exactly what it sounded like, and was sitting up before he’d really processed it, was trying to pull together all the clues from his senses and memories. Was standing alone in the staff room when his phone trilled and he forgot for a minute that it was his. Slowly, he stepped into the corridor, heard faint screaming. Three more shots.
Opened his phone to answer.
“Sam,” Dean’s voice, not calm. “Sam, you need to get out of there.”
--
You didn’t forget the smell of formaldehyde. The science labs reeked of it, conjured up memories of experiments with frogs and fetal pigs, and Billy couldn’t really decide if he liked the smell or not. He told Marcus - happy to have the gun Billy had promised him last night, eager to do exactly what Billy told him to - to take out the Biology class. Stupid Emily Dando was there, cleverly partnered up with Matt Outerbridge, her best friend’s boyfriend. She’d already fucked him, Billy knew. Her best friend, Kaitlyn, was in Algebra right now. Billy would be sure to tell her about her friend.
He knew Marcus secretly liked Emily. He could shoot her, or fuck her, or whatever. Billy didn’t care, as long as Marcus kept the others at bay long enough for Billy to find Mr. Winchester. He was working his way to the humanities classrooms, but wanted to take out a few classes first. Wanted to prove himself. Look what I can do, Mr. Winchester. Not useless.
In control. He lit one of the smoke flares his dad had kept in the emergency kit in the trunk of the Lexus, like he was going to crash the luxury automobile in the wilds of Sarajevo or something. Choking on the fumes, he threw it into a classroom. There were shrieks, and people were running in the hallways, but not many, because Billy had really good aim. Three more shots, gratified by the blood against the terrazzo floor, the way they fell all limp and surprised.
First thing he’d shot were the speakers in every classroom. Fucking Carcetti’s voice. Drive anyone nuts.
Don’t get distracted. Find Winchester. He’ll help you.
Billy turned the corner into the corridor leading to the humanities wing, partway to the gym. He didn’t want to go near the office, was pretty sure the cops had been phoned by now. Marcus called to him, but Billy didn’t turn. The gym. He’d go to the gym. Mr. Winchester would be there, wouldn’t he? Because he’d heard Carcetti before he’d shot out that last speaker. Ms. Simon was in the gym taking down the Thanksgiving decorations, probably putting up Christmas ones, and where she was, Mr. Winchester wouldn’t be far behind.
Sam Winchester saved people. He’ll save me. He’ll know what’s going on. The yellow-eyed man said so. Said that he was like me, had plans for us, glorious plans. Everything made sense now.
Erica stood in the hallway, books clutched to her chest, just staring at her brother like he was a monster. Not so different from how she normally looked at him, really. Except today he had four guns on him. Two knives. Four grenades and the same again in flares. And blood, that too.
He smiled at her. “Where were you this morning?” he asked. “You missed it. Didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to them.”
Her mouth opened, then shut. She’d just turned thirteen, looked more like Billy than he liked, same gray eyes, except hers were the color of rainclouds. “Billy?” she asked.
“Where were you?” he asked again, but screamed it, didn’t realize that’s what was going to come out until it happened.
And Erica’s last thoughts were: At track practice you fucking moron. Then: What do you mean, ‘goodbye’? He held off until understanding started to surface in her mind, till she got it, then Billy brought their dad’s revolver up, aimed and fired. At this close range, he didn’t miss.
--
Niagara Falls, 2001
John got there first, but Toad turned around, saw him and shouted, “Stay back!”
John’s hand came up behind him fingers splayed outwards, not looking back, warding both his boys away and Dean grabbed his arm. Sam tried to jerk it away but Dean was firm.
“Hang on,” Dean whispered. “Let’s see what happens.”
Sam was putting it together, twisting it until all the pieces started to fall into place like a Rubik’s cube, two sides complete, close. Turn, see the pattern, adjust, turn. Toad knew. Toad knew what it would take. Knew about heroes, didn’t believe it was a demon at work here.
Which meant that hanging on, doing what Dean suggested, wasn’t an option.
He twisted out of Dean’s grip, edged forward, joined his father. Toad was looking in their direction, but Sam couldn’t tell if he was seeing them - broken glasses, bright commercial lights, the mist, always the mist. Not to mention the ghosts, which must be deafening.
“Toad!” Sam called. “Toad, get down from there, man. You’re scaring me.”
Slowly, Toad shook his head, determined. “Don't worry about me, Sam. I can do this.”
Sam took one step forward and Toad swayed slightly. Sam stopped, held out a hand, even though Toad was much too far away to take it. More of a plea. Come down. “Toad, it won’t do any good, it won’t make anything better.”
But Toad was smiling and one hand pulled through his curly wet hair in a familiar gesture. “It’s not suicide, Sam. Willing sacrifice, remember? That’s what it’s going to take. You’re right.” Wet, and dark and this was so wrong, to get a civilian involved in this. To get a kid involved with this. And Sam had been the one to do it, not John, not Dean. Him.
Shocked, Sam realized that his father had pulled him back and that Dean was now beside him, his face pale, worrying one lip.
John was looking around, eyes searching the darker corners. Hand coming from behind his belt, a gun loaded with bullets blessed by a bishop. “Give it a minute, boys. He’s up there now, let’s see what comes to make the deal.”
Sam couldn’t breathe. Forced air in, because he needed to talk. Needed to set this fucking straight. “Dad?” that soft, only because the air was slowly creaking in. “Dad? You gotta be fucking out of your mind.”
John’s chin snapped back, but Sam couldn’t read his eyes, the light was behind him. “This is the hand we’ve been dealt. You want to end this or not?”
But Sam was past arguing, because this was life and death and Dad wasn’t getting it. Didn’t understand - or worse, didn’t care - that Toad wasn’t the bait. Toad was the sacrifice.
Toad was playing Sam’s game, not John’s.
It wasn’t mist on Sam’s face, it was tears and they were warm and salt as blood. Sam didn’t make it two steps before his father’s hand was on his shoulder, pulling him back firmly, grip too strong to break except with a blow.
“Stay back, let me handle it.” Sam didn’t quite know what his father meant by ‘handling’ this, might still be talking about handling whatever demon he thought was going to appear. Might not be talking about helping Toad, because John didn’t understand that Toad was planning on following through. On being a willing sacrifice.
Because he could hear the voices, just the same as Dean.
Sam glanced quickly at Dean, but he wasn’t there anymore. Dean was already heading towards Toad, and John realized this just at the same moment. Sam had the reach, but not the resolve, not the same single-mindedness that his father had honed to a razor-edge.
“Dean!” John shouted, and Dean faltered, looked back, bloodless face washed in lurid color, eyes wide. He stopped, had been called.
Enough of a distraction, though, and Sam took it. Sam moved quickly; Toad had swung both feet over the side, was now balanced imperfectly on the Falls side of the wet slippery railing. “Toad! Don’t-”
“Stop him!” John shouted as Sam brushed past Dean, who responded immediately to that tone in their father’s voice and tackled Sam to the ground, pinning him. Sound of feet on gravel as their father pounded by - the gun still out like there was something to hunt - and Sam pulled his elbow back only to swing it mercilessly around, smashing it into Dean’s throat.
His brother collapsed to his knees, a whine of trapped air whistling through a bruised larynx. Sam was on his feet in an instant, still trying to get to the railing, but it might as well have been the moon.
John raised one hand, maybe to stay Toad - Sam wanted to believe that - but Toad angled away, gaze to the dazzling lights across the river, the towers and the neon, and didn’t so much jump as just let gravity take him.
It was soft and quiet, like so much of what Toad was. His fall made no difference in the quality of the water’s rush, just as it had always been. One second there, the next gone.
John pressed against the railing for a long moment, staring down, one hand stroking the post distractedly like he was petting a dog. Sam watched, the tears coming in earnest now, though no sobs, nothing like crying, just tears. He blinked furiously, wiped his face on his sleeve. He stood still, not wanting to look, just staring blindly.
Finally, his father walked slowly towards them, his back bent like he had suddenly aged years, shoulders hunched up, tucking the gun into his waistband as he came. Dean was still on his hands and knees beside Sam, breath rasping.
Sam couldn’t do anything about that. Could do nothing for either of them. Any of them.
John bent to help Dean to a stand, ran one hand down the side of his son’s face, checking him like he was a lame horse. Reassuring himself. He might have done the same to Sam then, but something in Sam’s posture stopped him.
Dean blinked, fingers gingerly touching his throat. He made a move as though to reach out to Sam, who was only a foot or two away, but his hand fell uselessly to his side, instinctively understanding that the distance was too great. Instead, he dropped his head, voice so low and strained that Sam could barely hear it.
“They’re gone,” Dean whispered, then coughed wetly. Shook his head like he had water stuck in his ears. “Can’t hear them anymore.”
And Sam turned from both of them, started to walk.
--
TBC
-
And on to Chapter 9
Also, for those lovely lovelies leaving comments -- many thanks and I'll be responding to everything, just as soon as the coffee kicks in. *kisses*
Bit o’ Paris Motel, Niagara Falls NY, Monday, November 27, 2006
Sam had a way of making you pay for things, Dean knew. All weekend, Sam had probably been keeping a tally in that big brainiac head: three days of not talking to me, three days of deflections and misdirections. So far, Sam was collecting on his worry with wegottatalk glances and a false cheerfulness that made Dean want to throw stuff at him. Didn’t help that Dean was brutally hung over this morning, unable to fend off Sam’s chipper chatter. Dean was desperately trying to make a single cohesive sentence.
Here it came.
Was: “You gonna eat that?”
Sam glanced down at the half-eaten bagel on his plate. He sighed, waved his hand a little. “Go ahead. Think you can keep it down?”
Dean grimaced, rubbed his newly-shaved chin. It felt raw, everything about him felt raw or dead. “How long are we gonna to do this school thing?” he blurted out. The inside of his mouth was thick, covered in algae.
“You mean, how long are we staying in Niagara Falls?” Sam asked, staring at Dean so hard it hurt. Dean looked away, picked up the bagel, hoped his stomach could handle it. Sure. Sure it could. He’d make it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything.
“Yeah. How long? What are we here for? Dodged the bullet, didn’t we? So to speak.”
Sam got up, pulled on a button up shirt, selected a tie from the bundle he kept on a hanger like award ribbons. Trophies. Medals of honor. “Just a few more days, until we’re sure.”
“We can stick around. You can stick around. Elise…” Dean swallowed and couldn’t look at Sam. Forced the words out. “She seems nice enough. If you…” Oh man, he needed more coffee.
Sam was looking at him like he’d grown an extra head. “I gotta talk to Billy, figure him out.”
Dean threw down the bagel. “Oh, that’s a great plan, Sammy. That kid’s fucking dangerous. He reads minds, Sam. You wanna talk to him? Fine: We do it together. Let’s go over to his house now and just get it over with.”
Sam had fully transformed himself into teacher mode: tie, jacket, decent shoes. The hair was still typically Sam, though. Still made Dean want to haul his ass to an old fashioned barber, the kind who had a jar full of disinfectant that he dipped his combs into.
“Let me figure him out, Dean. No hurry,” but glanced at Dean as he said it, because there was always reason to hurry. To get to the next thing. People died if they weren’t there.
Dean didn’t care about that as much as he used to. And that made getting up every morning that much harder.
Dean looked away, sipped the coffee. It was terrible, but it was hot. Good enough. “Leave your phone on.”
“Yeah, likewise.”
Time to make amends, but it was hard, it was like bending a stiff limb. Had to be done, because Dean wasn’t made for holding grudges, not when it came to Sam. He’d tried silence. Tried drink and rage and nothing was helping. “Need a ride?” he offered. First time he’d done that. He hated the school, hated watching Sam disappear inside, both then and now.
Fuck. Now Sam was looking at him strangely again. “Sure.” Sam nodded, “Let me get my stuff.”
The only way he could handle it was if he didn’t look. That’s how he dealt with it. Pulled up to the school, and heard Sam slide out, about to say something, catching himself and Dean couldn’t look. The door hesitated, then slammed, tacit agreement: We’re good, aren’t we?
Dean pulled away, checked his watch. He had time. And wove his way north in the city, to Devils Hole, because he still had one or two things to say to Billy Shuter. This time he wasn’t wearing a tie, wasn’t going in as a reporter, didn’t give a shit. This time he was going to get answers. Billy wouldn’t have left for school yet, and Dean didn’t give a rat’s ass if Billy knew what was on his mind. Might scare him into sharing, because that yellow-eyed sonofabitch was around here someplace and although Dean didn’t exactly relish the idea of coming face-to-face with it again, he’d rather it was him than Sam.
He knocked on the door, expecting to hear the shrieks of little girls - those little blondes that Daphne had produced, perfect for placing on pristine beaches and capturing on film. He hadn’t seen any photographs of Billy lounging on the Caymans. He glanced at his watch again. Twenty after eight. Maybe they’d gone away for the holidays. Didn’t think so, not when there were houses to sell. He rang the bell again and looked through the stems of the frosted irises on the narrow side windows. Just the marble hall, one edge of the huge framed photograph, part of the staircase curving up.
He shaded his face with the flat blade of his hand. It was cold, viciously sunny, an attack. Squinted. A single shoe lay at the bottom of the stairs, child-sized. Out of place in the middle of that pristine, cavernous showpiece. And right then, Dean’s stomach gave a slow flip, because this wasn’t going to go down the way he’d imagined it would. He reached behind his back, lifted his coat, drew out the handgun he’d put in there as a matter of course. Dealing with a demon-child? Bring your fucking weapon.
Neighbors would be quick to call the police, so he needed to get in fast, not be seen hanging around. He looked like a criminal, knew it. Worked against him in circumstances like this. A skulker. He took cover behind a vigorous holly bush and jimmied the lock on the side of the house that faced the woods. Damned French doors, easy enough to-
He quietly slid the door to one side just enough to get himself in, closed it again, listening.
He’ll hear me no matter how quiet I am, Dean thought suddenly. Shit. Wonder what his range is? Can he hear through walls? But maybe his skills were as untested and untried as Sam’s. Or as finely tuned as Max’s, precise. Dean didn’t have much of a choice.
The French doors entered into a playroom, a large plastic dollhouse occupying one table, a television, several carpets shaped like ladybugs. A shitload of puzzles and games and boxes with balloon letters and screaming cartoon faces. Unfortunately, the doorway was hung with a plastic beaded curtain. It would make noise. Dean could hear the distant sound of a TV, some nasty morning show, the unmistakable sound of cheery weather guys and forced laughter. He smelled coffee.
Daphne would probably throw the pot in his face, coming in here with a drawn gun, looking like he’d just spent three days sleeping in his car.
Except.
Dean pulled back the beaded curtain with one finger and slipped through to the hallway. The music was louder. Celine Dion, wailing about something. Coffee and morning shows, yes, that seemed in place, but it was too quiet all the same. Shouldn’t there be little kids complaining and a husband wondering if this tie went with that shirt? The average sounds of a family getting ready the morning after a long weekend?
Something isn’t right.
Dean smelled two other things, just hovering below the acrid burn of coffee, mingling: hot gunpowder, almost metallic. And blood, which smelled of iron and peat. Dean pulled up in the hallway, breath coming short. Closed his eyes. Two side steps, boots brushing garden dirt in the hallway. Leaving evidence, goddamn, wished he’d brought gloves because he knew what he was walking into now, but not how far it might extend.
He’d walked into enough houses like this to last him a lifetime. What’s one more? Then, next beat, I can’t do this today. I don’t want to do this today. He was too raw and too dead and way too hung over, exposed in a way that felt dangerous. No choice, Winchester. Take stock. Where will the first body be?
Around the doorway into the kitchen, the TV louder, blasting the countertop. An island with a built-in range. A breakfast counter, the newspaper open, beyond it a square family room, bookshelves filled with cookbooks. In the middle of the eating area, in the corner, Daphne, sitting on the floor with her back against a bookshelf, some of the books tumbled down, resting in her lap. Soaking up the blood.
The gunshot to the head would have killed her instantly. But her pink blouse was also blood-soaked, a shot to her shoulder maybe. And one hand lay by her side, fingers at a weird angle, distorted, perhaps not all there. A defense wound. She’d held up her hand, begging for her life.
Dean was careful not to touch anything, tried to concentrate on making his breathing even, because it was coming too fast.
There was nothing to be done for Daphne, so Dean silently left the kitchen, crossed the marble foyer to the study, stepped over the child’s shoe to get there. Didn’t want to go upstairs, shit, really, really didn’t want to go upstairs. Willem. The father. Where will he be?
The pocket doors to the study were partially open, and Dean turned sideways to slide through them. He still had his gun out, maybe Billy was still around. He doubted it though: either dead of a self-inflicted gunshot, or gone. He knew that. Still, it made him feel better to have it in his hands. A little more in control.
Willem Sr., so big and hale, had an extraordinary amount of blood in him. Well, not technically in him anymore, Dean supposed. Across the blueprints on his desk, dripping down the sides, sprayed across the computer screen, which was still flipping through a screen saver of Shuter Real Estate’s current listings.
Dean left the room, still not hearing anything. C’mon, keep moving, secure the scene.
He stopped on the first step of the stairs, just stood there. The kids’ll be up there and no matter the number of times you saw it, you never got used to seeing dead kids. He took a deep breath then placed one foot on the next step. Then the one after that. Up the stairs, forcing every step.
One child’s shoe. Where was the other one?
In the bedroom, of course. Dean had been hoping for two girls cowering in the closet, scared shitless. That was the best-case scenario. This, though. This wasn’t best case.
She was maybe ten, probably younger. Dean had trouble pinpointing her age for a couple of different reasons: the angle of her body as it rested across the four-poster bed. The white blonde hair covering her face. The blood.
His eye stopped its cataloging of details with her hand, inexplicably: she was wearing one of those rings that dentists gave to little girls, the kind you could squeeze to fit your finger. A pink sparkly piece of plastic passing for a gemstone.
That’s enough. Dean turned away, breathing shallowly, trying not to think of anything, failing. Please let this be a murder-suicide. Please. Quickly scanned the room for the girl’s sister, kept looking, not sure what filled him, not rage, it was too pure for that, a kind of need, a need to find and need to make it stop.
Two girls in the photograph in the foyer, one older than the child dead in the bedroom. He was shaking now, too much coffee, too little sleep, driving his body and soul past the point of easy return. No Billy, no second sister.
Billy’s room was covered in magazine cut-outs and newspaper articles, each detailing weird deaths. Looked kinda like their own motel room, in a strange way. Still no Billy, no sign of the other sister. Maybe some kind of next steps, though, some explanation of why. Kid like this? Check his computer. Dean tapped the mouse with one finger and the computer hummed to life.
Several windows opened on the desktop, a number of web sites: something on demonology, a site devoted to the Columbine shootings. The Niagara Falls Gazette, June 8, 2001. The headline stopped Dean cold and he felt all the blood run from his face: Local boy in Falls tragedy.
Oh my god, he thought, seeing that. Remembering what had happened and why. Remembering what had followed. Oh, Sam, and after the weekend of silence, it was like being stabbed in the heart.
He slid open his phone.
They hadn’t dodged the bullet, not by a long shot.
--
Niagara Falls State Park, Niagara Falls NY, June 7, 2001
Sam had forgotten how wet it got down here, how loud. Around midnight, moon starting to wane, bright because of that, brighter because of the cheesy floodlights. They’d have plenty of freaking light to not summon a demon, all right. Dad would be able to see what an idiot he was being by the combined craptastic colors of two nations.
He’d waited for Dean and their father to leave the apartment, still arguing about bait, given them twenty minutes, then taken the Impala. Dean would probably kill him.
Not that he’d have to worry about that, because Dad would definitely kill him.
Sam wasn’t too sure what he was going to do, he just knew it was such a profoundly bad idea, Dean and John - two of the most misguided fucking heroes on the planet - to be down at the Falls when the ghost of every wrong-headed daredevil to go over in a barrel, kayak or jetski was playing Red Rover with their heads. Sure, Dad. See if a demon pops up. In the meantime, Dean, why don’t you take one more try at jumping over the barrier?
Those two were like an exercise in Darwinism and left alone wouldn’t last the night.
Left alone, and Sam didn’t want to think about it. He wasn’t their keeper, they weren’t his responsibility. Yet here he was. Maybe because of what Toad had pointed out: Dean was in danger down here. Not Sam. And their fucking father couldn’t see it.
He parked the car well away from where he saw Dad’s truck glowering darkly in the upper parking lot. Unless plans had changed on the drive over, Sam knew where they were going: Luna Island, nestled between Bridal Veil and the American Falls.
One or two other cars were in the lot - rangers, probably, or maybe lovers drawn out by the change in weather. It was the season. Sam didn’t really want to think about that either, balled up all that thwarted affection and ardor and sucked it back.
Sam would stop Dean if he’d won the argument about being bait; that much Sam knew. Dad would get so irate that Sam was down here that the entire evening’s work would be put off for another night. And if Dad had won the argument, then Sam could watch surreptitiously and help if help was needed. Besides, he was kinda looking forward to seeing Dad’s face when no demon appeared.
Told you so, he thought, loping down the pathway, across the pedestrian bridge, avoiding the lit ranger station by the Nikola Tesla statue, which had always cracked Dean up. Tesla, of course, inventor of alternating current. Heavy metal band. Why not? Niagara Falls was a place of peculiar confluences for all of them.
Down the stairs and across the plank footbridge to Luna Island, cat quiet, because this was really courting trouble with his father, was poking him with a sharp stick. No, he reminded himself, this was standing up for yourself, was being your own man. Sam couldn’t hear voices, could only see the play of light and hear the amazing encompassing roar of the Falls themselves. The air was saturated, like last night and the sprinklers except this was serious business, this wasn’t anything like playful, like drunk teens on a golf course.
This was sudden death and Sam knew it.
Lights and water and noise all combined to momentarily dazzle him and he stood one foot on the bridge, one on the island, transfixed by the weirdness and the power. He didn’t notice he wasn’t alone until he was pushed to the ground, face-first, a strong forearm hard against the back of his neck, forcing his nose and mouth into the wet grass, someone’s knee jammed against the small of his back, all the proportions and weights recognizable from a thousand fights over the years, some serious, some play, some hard practice.
“Dean,” he groaned, got some dirt in his mouth for his trouble.
“You are gonna get me into so much trouble, man,” but he didn’t sound angry, not at all. More glad Sam was here.
The next voice was angry, of course. “Sam,” it started and Sam was hauled up by the collar of his jean jacket, stood on his feet not six inches from his father.
You didn’t sneak up on John Winchester, that’s what his face said. Sam dusted himself off, Dean stepping away, already separating himself.
“Don’t start with me,” Sam snapped back. “Which one of you is the bait?”
Dean looked at their father, awaiting his judgment, eyes unreadable in the bizarre artificial light.
John’s face was stony, nothing soft about it. “I am.” Without hesitation, and John jerked his chin towards the park entrance. “You get home. We’ve got work to do.” That was it. A dismissal.
But Sam shook his head. “I don’t hear the ghosts, Dad. Dean? He hears them. Worry about him, not me. All you’re thinking about is a demon.” John raised an eyebrow, blinked. “I’m not like you. I need some proof. Proof that I’m wrong.”
John stood silently for a moment, bouncing on the balls of his feet, dark hair slicked back with mist, beading on his scruffy beard and eyelashes. A thin gleam of tooth. “Stay back and don’t get in the way.” He shifted his gaze to Dean, who Sam now noticed was tense as a piano wire. “What are you hearing?”
Using him.
Dean hitched one shoulder uncomfortably, like he was getting called on the carpet for something. “The usual.” Didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to get in the middle of it. Fucking chicken. Take a fucking stand, Dean.
“You don’t understand anything, do you?” Sam growled at their father, and Dean sighed, hands coming up.
“Sam,” he warned, low. Trying prove their father wrong, too, in his own way, by putting John’s theory to the test. Unfortunately, Sam didn’t have the sort of mouth that shut up easily.
“So, what now?” Sam demanded, and John matched his stare.
“Now? You stay here. Dean, you come with me.”
And they turned, moon bright as daylight. Floodlights making everything blue and pink as a baby’s nursery.
Difficult to miss what was so clearly there, by the edge of the precipice.
At the far edge of the island, where the iron railing bent to the corner, over which the American Falls dropped into froth, into atomized water, a figure was climbing over the top rung, a dark silhouette against the mad water. Outlined in silver.
Had beat the Winchesters at their own stupid, pointless game.
“Shit,” John breathed, stepping forward three paces. Too far for him to recognize the figure.
But Sam had better eyes, had the sort of mind that put things together fast as a supercomputer. A golf course, voices calling you to glory. A willing sacrifice. Being right didn’t seem quite so important after all. In fact, being right was going to be a death sentence.
“Oh god,” he moaned and Dean’s already troubled stare bounced between all three: father, brother, jumper at the rail.
Toad.
--
Niagara Falls High School, Monday November 27, 2006
Morning classes had started, but Sam had a spare. He hadn’t told Dean that, was grateful for the ride, didn’t want to turn down any small thing that Dean freely offered. Sam grabbed a coffee in the staff room, relaxed on the couch, taking the time to read the newspaper while his mind whirred away like a machine. He heard the pledge of allegiance. Almost fell asleep again, head jerking up.
A good night, last night. Sam had taken Elise out for dinner, gone back to her place. Stayed longer than he’d planned, and fallen asleep in her bed, only to wake at about three in the morning, realizing that he should get back, that no matter what stage of angry, drunk or hung over Dean was, he’d still worry about Sam.
Dean spent a lot of time worrying about him, Sam now knew.
He looks at me differently now, since the cabin. Since the demon had said what he had. What had Dean babbled to Andy Gallagher, compelled by Andy’s gift? Sam was worrying him. So not just worried about him. Dad say anything before he died? No, nothing, Dean had said.
Dean was lying and it was slowly killing him and Sam knew it. He rubbed his temple, wished Carcetti would find someone else to do the announcements, because her voice was designed to put you under faster than surgical-grade narcotics.
The Homecoming Dance is…our Daredevils had a successful run… all members of the decorating committee should meet Ms. Simon in the gym to…Mr. Isbister is holding the annual Geology Fair in the…
And there, he’d almost fallen asleep again.
Except for a series of sharp cracks, distant. Probably somewhere down near the science labs. Maybe a kid had lit something up…but Sam knew the sound of gunfire, knew exactly what it sounded like, and was sitting up before he’d really processed it, was trying to pull together all the clues from his senses and memories. Was standing alone in the staff room when his phone trilled and he forgot for a minute that it was his. Slowly, he stepped into the corridor, heard faint screaming. Three more shots.
Opened his phone to answer.
“Sam,” Dean’s voice, not calm. “Sam, you need to get out of there.”
--
You didn’t forget the smell of formaldehyde. The science labs reeked of it, conjured up memories of experiments with frogs and fetal pigs, and Billy couldn’t really decide if he liked the smell or not. He told Marcus - happy to have the gun Billy had promised him last night, eager to do exactly what Billy told him to - to take out the Biology class. Stupid Emily Dando was there, cleverly partnered up with Matt Outerbridge, her best friend’s boyfriend. She’d already fucked him, Billy knew. Her best friend, Kaitlyn, was in Algebra right now. Billy would be sure to tell her about her friend.
He knew Marcus secretly liked Emily. He could shoot her, or fuck her, or whatever. Billy didn’t care, as long as Marcus kept the others at bay long enough for Billy to find Mr. Winchester. He was working his way to the humanities classrooms, but wanted to take out a few classes first. Wanted to prove himself. Look what I can do, Mr. Winchester. Not useless.
In control. He lit one of the smoke flares his dad had kept in the emergency kit in the trunk of the Lexus, like he was going to crash the luxury automobile in the wilds of Sarajevo or something. Choking on the fumes, he threw it into a classroom. There were shrieks, and people were running in the hallways, but not many, because Billy had really good aim. Three more shots, gratified by the blood against the terrazzo floor, the way they fell all limp and surprised.
First thing he’d shot were the speakers in every classroom. Fucking Carcetti’s voice. Drive anyone nuts.
Don’t get distracted. Find Winchester. He’ll help you.
Billy turned the corner into the corridor leading to the humanities wing, partway to the gym. He didn’t want to go near the office, was pretty sure the cops had been phoned by now. Marcus called to him, but Billy didn’t turn. The gym. He’d go to the gym. Mr. Winchester would be there, wouldn’t he? Because he’d heard Carcetti before he’d shot out that last speaker. Ms. Simon was in the gym taking down the Thanksgiving decorations, probably putting up Christmas ones, and where she was, Mr. Winchester wouldn’t be far behind.
Sam Winchester saved people. He’ll save me. He’ll know what’s going on. The yellow-eyed man said so. Said that he was like me, had plans for us, glorious plans. Everything made sense now.
Erica stood in the hallway, books clutched to her chest, just staring at her brother like he was a monster. Not so different from how she normally looked at him, really. Except today he had four guns on him. Two knives. Four grenades and the same again in flares. And blood, that too.
He smiled at her. “Where were you this morning?” he asked. “You missed it. Didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to them.”
Her mouth opened, then shut. She’d just turned thirteen, looked more like Billy than he liked, same gray eyes, except hers were the color of rainclouds. “Billy?” she asked.
“Where were you?” he asked again, but screamed it, didn’t realize that’s what was going to come out until it happened.
And Erica’s last thoughts were: At track practice you fucking moron. Then: What do you mean, ‘goodbye’? He held off until understanding started to surface in her mind, till she got it, then Billy brought their dad’s revolver up, aimed and fired. At this close range, he didn’t miss.
--
Niagara Falls, 2001
John got there first, but Toad turned around, saw him and shouted, “Stay back!”
John’s hand came up behind him fingers splayed outwards, not looking back, warding both his boys away and Dean grabbed his arm. Sam tried to jerk it away but Dean was firm.
“Hang on,” Dean whispered. “Let’s see what happens.”
Sam was putting it together, twisting it until all the pieces started to fall into place like a Rubik’s cube, two sides complete, close. Turn, see the pattern, adjust, turn. Toad knew. Toad knew what it would take. Knew about heroes, didn’t believe it was a demon at work here.
Which meant that hanging on, doing what Dean suggested, wasn’t an option.
He twisted out of Dean’s grip, edged forward, joined his father. Toad was looking in their direction, but Sam couldn’t tell if he was seeing them - broken glasses, bright commercial lights, the mist, always the mist. Not to mention the ghosts, which must be deafening.
“Toad!” Sam called. “Toad, get down from there, man. You’re scaring me.”
Slowly, Toad shook his head, determined. “Don't worry about me, Sam. I can do this.”
Sam took one step forward and Toad swayed slightly. Sam stopped, held out a hand, even though Toad was much too far away to take it. More of a plea. Come down. “Toad, it won’t do any good, it won’t make anything better.”
But Toad was smiling and one hand pulled through his curly wet hair in a familiar gesture. “It’s not suicide, Sam. Willing sacrifice, remember? That’s what it’s going to take. You’re right.” Wet, and dark and this was so wrong, to get a civilian involved in this. To get a kid involved with this. And Sam had been the one to do it, not John, not Dean. Him.
Shocked, Sam realized that his father had pulled him back and that Dean was now beside him, his face pale, worrying one lip.
John was looking around, eyes searching the darker corners. Hand coming from behind his belt, a gun loaded with bullets blessed by a bishop. “Give it a minute, boys. He’s up there now, let’s see what comes to make the deal.”
Sam couldn’t breathe. Forced air in, because he needed to talk. Needed to set this fucking straight. “Dad?” that soft, only because the air was slowly creaking in. “Dad? You gotta be fucking out of your mind.”
John’s chin snapped back, but Sam couldn’t read his eyes, the light was behind him. “This is the hand we’ve been dealt. You want to end this or not?”
But Sam was past arguing, because this was life and death and Dad wasn’t getting it. Didn’t understand - or worse, didn’t care - that Toad wasn’t the bait. Toad was the sacrifice.
Toad was playing Sam’s game, not John’s.
It wasn’t mist on Sam’s face, it was tears and they were warm and salt as blood. Sam didn’t make it two steps before his father’s hand was on his shoulder, pulling him back firmly, grip too strong to break except with a blow.
“Stay back, let me handle it.” Sam didn’t quite know what his father meant by ‘handling’ this, might still be talking about handling whatever demon he thought was going to appear. Might not be talking about helping Toad, because John didn’t understand that Toad was planning on following through. On being a willing sacrifice.
Because he could hear the voices, just the same as Dean.
Sam glanced quickly at Dean, but he wasn’t there anymore. Dean was already heading towards Toad, and John realized this just at the same moment. Sam had the reach, but not the resolve, not the same single-mindedness that his father had honed to a razor-edge.
“Dean!” John shouted, and Dean faltered, looked back, bloodless face washed in lurid color, eyes wide. He stopped, had been called.
Enough of a distraction, though, and Sam took it. Sam moved quickly; Toad had swung both feet over the side, was now balanced imperfectly on the Falls side of the wet slippery railing. “Toad! Don’t-”
“Stop him!” John shouted as Sam brushed past Dean, who responded immediately to that tone in their father’s voice and tackled Sam to the ground, pinning him. Sound of feet on gravel as their father pounded by - the gun still out like there was something to hunt - and Sam pulled his elbow back only to swing it mercilessly around, smashing it into Dean’s throat.
His brother collapsed to his knees, a whine of trapped air whistling through a bruised larynx. Sam was on his feet in an instant, still trying to get to the railing, but it might as well have been the moon.
John raised one hand, maybe to stay Toad - Sam wanted to believe that - but Toad angled away, gaze to the dazzling lights across the river, the towers and the neon, and didn’t so much jump as just let gravity take him.
It was soft and quiet, like so much of what Toad was. His fall made no difference in the quality of the water’s rush, just as it had always been. One second there, the next gone.
John pressed against the railing for a long moment, staring down, one hand stroking the post distractedly like he was petting a dog. Sam watched, the tears coming in earnest now, though no sobs, nothing like crying, just tears. He blinked furiously, wiped his face on his sleeve. He stood still, not wanting to look, just staring blindly.
Finally, his father walked slowly towards them, his back bent like he had suddenly aged years, shoulders hunched up, tucking the gun into his waistband as he came. Dean was still on his hands and knees beside Sam, breath rasping.
Sam couldn’t do anything about that. Could do nothing for either of them. Any of them.
John bent to help Dean to a stand, ran one hand down the side of his son’s face, checking him like he was a lame horse. Reassuring himself. He might have done the same to Sam then, but something in Sam’s posture stopped him.
Dean blinked, fingers gingerly touching his throat. He made a move as though to reach out to Sam, who was only a foot or two away, but his hand fell uselessly to his side, instinctively understanding that the distance was too great. Instead, he dropped his head, voice so low and strained that Sam could barely hear it.
“They’re gone,” Dean whispered, then coughed wetly. Shook his head like he had water stuck in his ears. “Can’t hear them anymore.”
And Sam turned from both of them, started to walk.
--
TBC
-
And on to Chapter 9