He Who Fights Monsters - Chapter Eight
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CHAPTER EIGHT
The pedal is almost flat under her foot as they hurtle toward Pontiac. The road here is straight, with a few lazy curves she takes too wide and on two wheels. It’s getting on two in the morning and she’s got the road to herself. She sticks to the scenic route, keeping away from streetlights and city limits and speed-trap zones.
You're supposed to take a victory lap, not a victory nap, Ruby thinks to herself, as she watches Sam sleep next to her in the passenger seat, huddled up in a hoodie and slumped against the door, temple resting against the glass, his damp hair frizzing and curling along his nape as it dries. He’s peaceful, now; quiet at least. There's still crusted maroon embedded in his fingernails, the crevices of his knuckles, and the corners of his mouth. He hadn't had the patience or energy to clean properly after the fight, and Ruby's half-hearted attempts at soaping him up hadn't accomplished much.
Spying an exit, she takes it. Sam needs real food in him and probably some water - he hadn’t drunk enough after the fight and she wouldn’t be surprised if he’s in dehydration territory, complete with the headaches and sore muscles. Fast food would be ideal. Well not for him, but for her. Someplace quick, twenty-four-seven, right off the highway and preferably serving fries, but she’d settle for just about anything. She glances over at him and in the sulfuric glow of the streetlights, he looks pale, brow furrowed in unease. And maybe some blood and a hand job wouldn’t hurt, she thinks to herself.
::: ::: :::
Sam's eyes open on a highway framed by a wide passenger seat window. It takes him a few seconds to process the details enough to know he's not in the Impala. His legs have just as much room, but the height's all wrong. He turns, neck stiff, head throbbing and wrapped in a chemical haze. His body's exhausted, and one look down at his bruised knuckles reminds him why. Max, Ava, Jake. He remembers taking them all down, and Dean looking on with pride.
No, not Dean. Just his brain playing tricks. Or maybe it was Dean. Sam's not really sure. His brain feels sluggish and faded. He remembers Ruby feeding him pills before they left The Abyss. Xanax, maybe, or Ativan. Maybe even Valium. Something in the benzodiazepine class for sure.
Ruby's in the driver's seat. Ruby, not Dean. Not Dean.
"We'll be there in another five minutes or so," she says when she sees him looking.
He almost asks where they're going, and then he remembers. Dean. They're going to get Dean. "He's not angry at me anymore," Sam says, even though he hadn’t mean to say it out loud.
Ruby's eyes flick to his, but she doesn't say anything.
"He was cheering for me."
"We all were, Butterfly."
He hates that name, and she knows it. He tries to tell her, but his jaws won't open. Headlights from an oncoming car stream through the windshield and in their light, Sam can see a halo around Ruby's head. It's made of sulfurous light and dissipates when they take a turn onto the off ramp.
"Not a butterfly," he says, finally getting his mouth to work. There's a tickle in his throat and he coughs into his cupped fist over and over until he finally hacks up something. When he looks down at his hand, there's a black feather lying in his palm. He holds it up to show Ruby, but it drips liquid off his skin leaving red stains on the knees of his jeans.
Ruby glances at him, her expression unreadable, and for an awful moment he doesn’t know which would be worse - for the feather to be real, or a figment of his overactive imagination. She stares at him for a beat longer and then reaches down between them, hands him a bottle of water. “Drink up. There’s a chicken sandwich if you want it,” A pause. “Grilled,” she adds. “You still need to eat.”
::: ::: :::
Ruby squats beside an open grave just outside of Pontiac, Illinois, watching Sam dig with an easy grace that only comes with long practice and muscle memory. She isn’t keeping watch, not in the way Sam would’ve stood guard at his brother’s back. She probably should, seeing how she’s got a price on her head. But, at the same time, she isn’t afraid, isn’t perturbed by the concept of someone coming after them. For one, she’s gotten Sam this far through the Levels so there’s at least a grudging respect, if not fear, and for another, Dean’s the property of Lilith and there’s not many who would dare cross her nor the one who’d apprenticed him. Thirdly, there’s no spirit to charge up angrily at being disturbed since Dean’s soul was well and truly ensconced in Hell. In the light of the Colman lantern by her feet, she can see the muscles of Sam's back bunching and rippling as he bends low, drives the shovel into the soft, dry earth, and lift, loss it over it shoulder where it lands on the opposite side of the grave.
Soon there’s a thump as the shovel hits something hard and hollow and Sam casts his shovel aside to brush the remaining dirt off the coffin lid with his hands, taking the same care a paleontologist would take with fossilized bones. She gets the sense that he normally wouldn’t bother, would break through the lid with the shovel any other time for a salt-and-burn. He steps to the side when he reaches wood and pries the lid open with a grunt.
Instantly, he recoils, the back of his wrist pressed to his nose, mouth.
She blinks, doesn’t flinch. Truthfully, she’s mildly surprised at Sam’s reaction… Lucifer knows he’d seen riper bodies than this. Then again, she supposes, it’s probably different when the corpse is your own brother. She leans forward, peering into the grave. It’s hard to tell in the shadows and from this angle, but Dean is looking better than she’d expected. Just over three months buried and as far as she can tell, he’s a little discolored, a little shriveled up, but he’s nowhere as far along the decomposition process as she’d thought he’d be. At least he hasn’t gone all bloated and squishy and covered with maggots having a field day. Abstractly, she wonders if there's anything left of Susanna's funeral garb.
“Sam!” She snaps. “We don’t have time for this. Hop to.”
For an instant, it’s almost as though she’d said the wrong thing. A flinch shudders through Sam’s frame and he shrinks from her. Then he straightens and she sees the moment he composes himself, stuffs it all down. He glances up at her.
“This is wrong,” he says.
She looks up at him. “What? You mean Dean being in the truck?” She shrugs. “It’s really your own loss. You wouldn’t let me drive that sweet ride of yours.”
“It’s Dean’s car,” Sam says instantly. “I was just taking care of it. I promised I would. I should’ve done a better job. He’s gonna be so pissed. I should clean it up…” He trails off as she places a palm on the center of his chest.
“Stop,” she interrupts him. “Focus here. First things first,” she searches Sam’s eyes for understanding, for some sign he’s still with her. He fixes his gaze. “First, you gotta clean him up, make sure there’s no maggots in his ears and nose and all that jazz. Dean can’t have a useless, rotting vessel now can we?”
Sam shakes his head, clenches his jaw. There’s a hard swallow and then: “Would you pull that tarp over?” He doesn’t say please even though she half expects him to.
She does and Sam lifts Dean onto the blue plastic material. He climbs out, wraps the corpse as tenderly as any infant, and rises to his feet. After a long moment, he looks up from Dean’s swaddled corpse and meets her gaze with deadened eyes.
“Could…” his voice is raw, hopeless. “D’you mind cleaning up and meeting me at the shack. I can’t…”
She closes the gap between them, placing her hand on his forearm. Corded muscle and ridged veins tremble beneath her fingers. "Consider it done,” she tells him gently. “You go on ahead. I’ll walk.”
::: ::: :::
Sam drives Dean to the old empty shack he'd holed up in months ago. Before Ruby took him under her wing and showed him his true potential. Once inside, he lights a few of the candle-stumps left from his last stay there and surveys the main room.
Even at first glance, it’s clear that nobody's been there in the interim except a few mice- probably because he’d been nice enough to leave behind a half-eaten pizza that’s since gone moldy. But that doesn’t stop him from thoroughly searching and securing the premises. He isn’t going to take any chances.
He tosses what’s left of the meal out the door, and uses the torn-off cardboard lid from the box to roughly sweep a portion of the floor clear before going back to car.
He carries his brother through the door, lays him down on the wood floor in front of the fireplace, setting Dean’s head down as gently as he can. No sense in giving Dean a concussion on top of everything else. He brings the votive candles closer and kneels on the cleared floor. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Sam uses his knife to cut open the tarp. He starts with the legs, noting where the denim is saturated - mostly the left thigh - with old blood despite the cleaning, stitching, and fresh clothes he’d given his brother before burial, and then works his way up Dean's torso, finally cutting through the heavy fabric covering his head. A bit of loose earth falls out of Dean's hair, and Sam brushes his fingers through it, fingers shaking. He's careful not to touch Dean's skin. He's not ready for that yet.
He looks older, Sam thinks. And it's a ridiculous thought, but it’s the first he has. Dean's skin is wrinkled and leathery, deep grooves around his eyes and mouth. As he gently cuts the shirt off of his brother's torso, the sight of vertical slashes swollen and barely being held together with catgut makes his breath catch - instantly, in his mind’s ear, he can hear his brother’s agonizing screams mixed with Lilith's laughter.
He clenches his hands into fists, closes his eyes, and centers himself before he loses control. Exhaling, he reopens his eyes, reaches out and carefully runs his finger along one of the cuts. He hadn’t remembered them being so distinctive and clean; his memory distorted by the sheer quantity of blood and the sounds of hounds snarling. Even in the dim light, he can see the discoloration of Dean’s skin, the dark purpling of his back, where all the blood has pooled. Effects of post-mortem, he tells himself. It's worse once he gets Dean’s jeans off.
Sam cleans his brother methodically, carefully, and as gently as he can, barely even flinching when a maggot squirms out from an opening in the large gash across his brother’s thigh. Sam had stitched it as best he could at the time but he remembers he’d been sloppy. He'd barely been able to see, eyes filling with tears faster than he could blink.
Now his eyes are dry. This isn't the time for sorrow. He has a job to do. He has to get Dean’s body ready for tomorrow because tomorrow… tomorrow everything will be okay again. It's nearly midnight, according to the old wall clock somebody left behind in the abandoned house - it’s still running, somehow.
Sam runs the soaked cloth over Dean’s forehead, his brother’s skin absorbing the oil. Ruby had told him what it was, but he can't remember. Something she’d prepared with herbs and animal remains, but it's enchanted and will restore Dean to whatever his state had been before the moment of death, even replenishing the gallon or two of blood Dean’d lost. Ruby promised him her spell would keep working, but it's so slow-moving it's still a surprise when it does.
He goes to his duffel and pulls out the spool of catgut and thick sickle-shaped needle he needs to fix the stitches and gets to work. He makes sure the wounds are completely clean before sealing the skin neatly, stitches tight and small, and redresses Dean into a t-shirt and jeans. He doesn’t bother with the multiple layers his brother usually wears; there’s no sense in manhandling a deadweight and ripping out fresh stitches.
When he's done all he can, he sits back on his heels. His legs and arms feel shaky and he realizes he hasn't had anything to eat or drink all day. He's not sure how long he stays there; watching his brother sleep, but it's a long time.
Ruby comes back at some point. "You should get some rest. You need your strength for tomorrow.” She pauses. “Or should I say today?”
"I'll be fine."
"You haven't had anything to drink."
"I know."
Ruby makes an annoyed-sounding huff. "And how exactly are you planning to take down Alastair without enough fuel?"
"I have enough."
"No, Sam. You don't."
"I took down the last three." He meets her gaze. "And a whole lot of others."
"Yeah and Alastair's stronger than all of them put together."
"Just give me some more time."
"You've been here all night. You only have twelve hours left before the fight." She puts her hand on his shoulder. "Just come with me for five minutes." She pauses. “Just five minutes,” her voice is gentle. “I swear.”
"No."
"Sam-"
"Do you have any idea what Dean would say if he knew I was doing this?" Sam shakes his head and watches his brother. If he lets his vision go blurry enough he can almost see Dean breathing. "I can't do this with him here."
"He's not here. Not really. This is just his body." She moves closer to Sam, cups her small hand under his chin, trying to turn his face towards her. "You know that, right?"
"I don't want him to see."
"He won't see. He's dead! And he's going to stay that way if you don't do what you need to do to win."
Sam ignores her, and watches Dean's ribs move up and down ever so slightly. "Leave."
"No. Sam-"
Sam grabs her with his mind and hurtles her across the room, sending her crashing out through the window.
::: ::: :::
“I just need a little,” Ruby says, holding up one of the syringes she’d stolen from the hospital. The cuts and bruises on her face and shoulders from smashing through the window are already fully healed.
Lilith watches her warily, big blue child eyes feigning innocence. Ruby exhales sharply and plays along with the game.
“It’ll only stick for a second,” Ruby says, her voice flat and devoid of any real reassurance. “I promise you’ll get a lollipop if you’re good.”
Lilith blinks at her. “I like licorice better.”
Ruby makes a face. “Licorice is gross,” she says and freezes instantly, terrified she’s offended Hell's Queen in some way.
Instead of incinerating her, Lilith only laughs, high and discordant and shrill. “They’re Dean’s favorite.” She sobers, pushes out her lower lip into a pout. “Not anymore, though. They look too much like insides.” A pause. “Taste like insides too.” She holds out her arm.
Wordlessly, Ruby ties off the strip of rubber around the girl’s upper arm. Lilith’s veins are thin, delicate, strands of blue running just beneath the flesh, as she rests the needle against the tissue. Pressing harder, Ruby breaks through the skin and, pulling off the tourniquet, she slowly fills the syringe. Setting the maroon-filled vial into the silk-inlaid mahogany box Lilith’s given her; she picks up another and repeats the procedure. There are five in all.
As Ruby closes the lid and latches the tiny clasp, she sees Lilith out of the corner of her eye peer down at the pinprick wound in the bend of her arm, catches a bead of blood on her forefinger and brings it to her mouth, sucking it off. Lilith smiles around her finger, the tip of it still caught in her teeth as Ruby straightens. She withdraws it and reaches out with her hand to pull a shard of glass from the top of Ruby’s shoulder.
It comes away slick with dark glossy maroon and the wound slowly closes, muscle, sinew mending. Lilith holds it up to the light, looking into the lurid redness as it throws shadows around her.
“That should be enough,” she says, her eyes rolling white for a heartbeat. "Give him these and he'll be ours for good."
Ruby wants to believe Lilith. She's the first, the wisest of them all. But she can't stop herself from saying "I hope you're right."
Lilith wipes the sharp piece of glass clean on her skirt as she stands. She smears the palms of her hands against her sides, leaving streaks of red and brown dirt. "I am. There's no going back for him after this."
"But his brother-"
"Dean’s played his part. He was the beginning, and Sam's the end. We only have five seals left to break." She takes Ruby's hand and squeezes it with her sticky fingers. "Have faith. Sam will do what he needs to do."
"How can you be so sure?" Ruby asks, looking into her borrowed child's eyes.
Lilith runs her small thumb over the back of Ruby's hand. "Because our Father chose Sam. Just like he chose me, and just like he chose you." She lets go of Ruby's hand and spins on her heel, poofy dress flaring out at the sides. "Stop worrying, silly," she says as she starts to skip away. "We're going to save the world."
::: ::: :::
on to chapter nine