When Heroes Go Down (They Go Down Fast) 11/12
Title: When Heroes Go Down (They Go Down Fast) 11/12
Author: buffyaddict13
Rating: a strong R for language and a lot of violence. some of it's fairly gory. sorry folks. the end of the world isn't a shiny happy place.
Characters/Pairings: Sam, Dean, Andy, OCs. Gen.
Summary: The war is at hand. It’s demon against man and we’re losing the fight. The special children are wreaking havoc across the land, side by side with demons. Dean is on a desperate hunt to find and save his brother while leading a small band of survivors to a final showdown.
A/N 1: The showdown I mention in the summary? This is it, people. We've pretty much reached the end.
A/N 2: Triple glitter cheese scoops of thanks to
kroki_refur for the beta. If it’s any good, it’s because of her brilliance. If it sucks, well, that's on me. Lastly, the title is from a Suzanne Vega song.
Disclaimer: I own nothing Winchestery. If I did, the boys would talk more.
As the end is drawing near
Standing proud, I wont give in to fear
As I die a legend will be born
I will stand, I will fight
You’ll never take me alive
I’ll stand my ground
I won’t go down.
You won’t break me
You won’t make me
You won’t take me,
Under blood red skies.
--Judas Priest
Chapter 11
Now.
The demon's hand moves so fast Dean can't track it, but he knows it moves, because the fucker’s standing there holding a bullet in his hand. The demon looks at it, amused, and tosses it in the air. He catches it with a flourish and holds it between his thumb and index finger, the way an appraiser might admire a ring. He whistles. "Nice shot, Dean. Been practicing, I see." The demon raises his voice and flicks the bullet away like a bug. "I'd just like to take this opportunity to point out that Winchester over there is a halfway decent shot. You might want to keep an eye out." The demon chuckles and the noise is like fingernails on a chalkboard. "Hey, that reminds me." The smile straightens into a thin, angry line. "Where is Sam? I'm waiting."
ooooo
Then.
Sam stares down at the page, but the words crawl like ants. He rubs his eye, tries again, but the letters still won't cooperate. He drops his head onto his chest and kneads the iron muscles in his neck with one hand, rubs at his forehead with the other. The pain (noise, static, fear) in his head is worse. His empty eye socket aches.
He's trying to find some forgotten ritual, spell, sigil that resembles hope. Something that will increase their chances against the coming demons. A Latin phrase, a sentence in Sanskrit, a previously undiscovered symbol to impart safety, or knowledge, or both. But there's nothing except page after page of shifting print.
He shuts the book with a snap and tosses it onto the floor. He doesn't want Bobby's book, he wants Bobby. But Bobby's gone, just like all the rest.
The gym is mostly empty. It's late afternoon, most people are training for the coming battle. The rest are looking after the children, helping the sick or injured, working in the garden or bartering for goods in one of the remaining stores. The people left in the gym give Sam a wide berth. Most people here do. They look at him with a combination of fear and awe that does nothing to ease his aching head. Yesterday, an old man spat at him and called him a bastard and a murderer. Only one of the epithets is true. Later, a group of children playing tag stop their game when he passes and look at him like he's a savior. Sam wants to believe that the old man and the kids are both wrong.
He keeps to himself as much as possible, although its easier said than done with Rose around. Dean understands, thank God. He keeps Sam surrounded by a select few, Andy, Craig, Luke, Ash and Jeff. Their familiarity provides a needed respite from curious-or suspicious--eyes. Sam wants to tell Dean he doesn't need to do that, doesn't need to treat him like he's breakable, but truthfully, it's been a long time since Sam's felt whole.
Footsteps echo on the gym floor and he looks up, expecting (hoping for) Dean. It's Monica and Rose. Rosey looks subdued, her hand wrapped firmly around her mother's. She looks so young, so fragile, Sam is briefly thankful he has no children of his own.
The pair thread their way through the sleeping bags, cots, and duct-taped lawn chairs. Sam pats the floor next to him and musters up a smile. "Hi guys."
Rosey positions herself next to Sam, but Monica remains standing. The sincerity of her own smile matches Sam's. "Hi Sam. Do you...do you have a minute?"
Sam spreads his hands, accommodating. "For you guys, always. What can I do for you?"
Monica twists the wedding ring on her finger nervously. She speaks to Sam, but her eyes are focused on Rosey's shoes. "I was wondering if you could talk to Rosey about her dream."
Sam looks down at the little girl, brows furrowed. "You had a bad dream?" He wonders how many times she's dreamed about him. "Or a vision?"
"A dream." She gives an oblong stain on her shirt intense scrutiny. "An' it’s dumb cuz it doesn’t sound scary when I say it out loud." The girl swallows and her mouth pulls down into a look of misery. "But it was bad."
"What was it about?" Sam asks gently. "I have bad dreams too," he admits.
Rose considers Sam's admission for a long moment and then sighs heavily. It's a sound that's entirely too grown up. "There was a bird, only he looked broken. Like a toy. And his beak was made of scissors, sort of. He kept flying around me and I knew he was gonna…" she flicks a quick look to her mom, then to Sam. "He wanted to hurt me. He wanted to stab me with his scissor-beak. An’ I started to cry and I told him 'shoo, go away,' an’ he just laughed." She looks at him with wide trusting eyes. "But birdies can’t laugh, right? And they don't have scissor parts, neither."
Sam thinks of all the nightmares he's had over the years and prays her future will be kinder. "In dreams, they can do anything."
Rose draws her knees up and manages to look even more miserable. "But then the bad bird said he was gonna kill you. And then he flew away. Which was good. But he dropped something and I thought it was a feather cuz I like feathers, even if they're from mean birdies, but when I looked…it wasn't a feather." Her voice trembles. "It was an eye. And that’s when I woke up. I put my pillow over my head cuz I don't want that bird to take my eye away." She looks at Sam's eye patch and fidgets uncertainly.
Sam strokes her hair and Monica hands her daughter a crumpled tissue. "I think that dream was a message, Rose." Sam asks the question even though he already knows the answer. "Did the bird have yellow eyes?"
Rosey nods, eyes wide with surprise. "How did you know?"
"I have dreams about that bird sometimes too. It’s a blue heron. It’s the demon that’s...he’s…helped make the world the way it is now."
Rose looks at him steadily. "You mean sucky?"
Sam can't help a brief burst of laughter. That's one way of putting it. He nods, smiling faintly. "Yeah. Sucky."
She wrinkles her nose. "So…the yellow-eyed demon is a bird?"
"No. It’s just a shape he takes in my-or your-dreams sometimes. And you’re gonna be safe, Rosey. Your mom is real brave and smart and she’s gonna protect you. So am I." He holds her gaze. "We all will. And that eye you saw? I don’t think that was yours, sweetie. I think that was mine."
Rosey’s mouth forms an exaggerated O of disgust. "Gross!"
Sam smiles thinly. "Gross is right. That demon was just trying to scare you. But don’t worry, about it, okay?" She looks worried, and he presses on. "And I’m gonna be safe too. I’ve got Dean and Andy and all my friends." Sam taps the tip of her nose and the worry is replaced with a toothy grin. "Now you get some good sleep. No more creepy dreams, okay? You can dream of teddy bears and..." he racks his brain for girly things. "And fairies."
Rose rolls her eyes disdainfully. "That stuff is boring. I like castles and knights." She mimes waving a sword. "Knights with big giant swords are the best! We’re in a castle now and this is the keep," she explains, gesturing around them. She points toward the doors. "Out there is a moat with a big dragon thing! It eats scissor-beak birds up to a million feet away!" She beams, clearly pleased with this new world.
Monica pries Rose away from Sam. "Come on Sir Rosalot. It’s time for bed. You run and say goodnight to the dragon. I’ll be there in a second."
Rose runs off, one hand holding imaginary reins, the other still swinging an invisible sword. "Watch out demons! I got a magic sword!" she yells.
Monica exhales and runs a hand over her ponytail. "Is that all? The dream was just…a warning? Of what, exactly?"
Sam reaches for the book. "It means the Yellow-Eyed Demon is on his way."
ooooo
Now.
"What's your name?" Sam snaps at the wounded Sixer.
"Lauren."
Sam nods curtly. "Okay. Lauren, you can help by encouraging the demons to get out of here."
"By 'encourage' he means set them on fire and stuff," Andy clarifies.
An old man with black eyes throws a nearby hunter to the ground. Lauren points at the demon and a stream of fire shoots from her hand into the demon's chest. The demon howls and scrambles back toward the fence. Lauren wipes a smear of blood from her chin. "I think I can do that."
"Andy, come with me. Hannah, you and Lauren try to see if there's anybody else willing or able to help, and meet us by the gate. Got it?"
Hannah nods. "Be careful." She hurries toward a lost-looking Sixer while Lauren sends another demon stumbling backwards amidst a torrent of fire.
"I will if you will," Sam calls back. He and Andy make their way toward Dean. It's not easy going.
Chaos encircles him. A demon tosses a woman with an angular face and panicked eyes like a doll. A man, no longer possessed, clings to the trunk of a tree, weeping. Ash and several other hunters pick three One Army soldiers off with deadly accuracy. Nessa crouches behind a ramshackle car and empties her rifle into a hulking demon. When the bullets run out she pulls out a silver knife painstakingly etched with Latin. She throws the blade and it flies, sure and swift, into the demon's chest. The demon staggers and falls, disintegrating before it reaches the ground.
Something that looks like a little girl but isn't jitters toward Jeff. Ash drags Jeff aside in time to save his friend, but not himself. The demon latches long claws into his back. Ash screams and drops his weapon. The demon girl falls upon her prey, teeth snapping and claws clicking. Sam thinks Get. Off. He shoves the girl-demon-thing through the smoky air with his mind and into the smoldering school.
Andy's voice cuts through the bedlam like a blade, each word imbued with steely authority. "Demonic forces, unclean spirits, all wicked legions, assemblies and sects, we adjure you. Leave this place. We bind you and cast you down into the bottomless Pit from whence you came."
Sam's hand is steady on Andy's arm and he thinks let this work, please let this work. Sweat beads on his forehead and cements his shirt to his back. When he shouts "Leave this place," several Sixers are knocked off their feet. Half a dozen demons disintegrate into nothingness, and three more are pulled shrieking out of their human hosts. Pillars of black smoke are sucked up and away, into the wounded sky and out of existence.
ooooo
Then.
"Okay," Monica says. "Try it."
Vanessa takes a deep breath and concentrates. Left foot in front, right foot back. Heels in a straight line, both knees bent. She rests on the ball of her back foot and points both arms at the target, chest height. She lifts the knife behind her head, swings forward like she's chopping wood and shifts her weight forward. She lets the knife go. Her aim is wide and the knife thunks into the tree far below the painted bullseye. "Shi-"
Monica pokes her finger toward Rosey and Nessa manages a clumsy transformation to "-ugar."
"Hush," Monica admonishes, but her eyes are bright with laughter. "You did much better." She grins. "You actually got it in the tree that time."
Vanessa smiles back, tries to will the tension out of her shoulders. "I know. I just feel like...I’ll never get it."
"You will. You are. Just remember. You’re-"
"Standing on a straight line," Nessa finishes. "Both arms line up, both heels line up. Like I’m walking a tightrope to the target."
Monica nods, pleased. "Exactly."
Ash strides up. He nods affably to both women. "Ladies."
"Any luck with the ham radio?" Monica asks.
At Nessa’s expression, Ash explains. "Every morning and night we check the AM and FM frequencies for radio broadcasts." He lifts a shoulder. "Thought I caught some Morse Code for a minute, but then…nothing. Just static." He looks down at Rosey and winks. "But we’ll keep trying, won’t we?"
Rosey nods. "Gotta find some Meh Tally Cuh."
Ash beams and holds his hand up for a high-five. Rosey slaps his palm enthusiastically.
Monica shoots Ash a long suffering look. "How many times do I have to say it? No Metallica around Rosey."
"Yeah, yeah," Ash says, but he winks at the little girl. She giggles.
Monica rolls her eyes and turns to Nessa. "Do you see what I have to put up with around here? Rose's favorite babysitter is a redneck hillbilly with a mullet."
"I'll have you know I keep my hair in a very attractive ponytail these days," Ash points out, patting his hair. "And Metallica's good music. It's got a good beat." He grins. "And it's easy to dance to."
Rose proceeds to jump up and down, head bobbing like it's about to fall off. Vanessa stares. Either the kid is having a seizure or she's dancing.
Ash nods approvingly and flashes a thumbs up. "Nice moves, little lady."
ooooo
Now.
The yellow-eyed demon claps his hands in mock appreciation. "Well done, Sammy. Well done. You and that midget sure make quite the team." He flicks his hand and Andy jerks backwards, but Sam's ready. He braces for it, thinks no and stay here, dammit. If he lets go Andy's as good as dead, so that means he's not. Letting. Go. Simple. He clamps his other hand around Andy's arm and holds his friend steady. Andy screams, and Sam's afraid he just broke his friend's arm, but there's no snap, no bone or blood. There's just Andy, gasping for breath, still intact, face ashen, feet on the ground.
The demon looks thoughtful and nods slightly. "Is that what you think? That you can save your friends? It's a nice thought, Sam. It's a lovely thought, really, but I’m afraid it's not exactly accurate." He lifts his arms and a wave of something (wind? sound?) sends Jeff and a dozen other hunters through the air and smashing through windows, throws them against buildings. "You don't want to come with me because you're afraid of hurting people, is that right? That's very noble Sam, but don't you understand? You kill whether you're with me or not. Look around you. Look what you've brought to this place, to these people."
Sam keeps his eyes on the demon, he won't take the bait. He didn't start this. This isn't his fault. (Not this time.)
The demon rolls his eyes. "Oh sure, destroying demons is fine and dandy, but what about the meat suits, huh Sam? Do you think we're walking around in plastic?" He touches his face gently. "No sirree, Sammy. This one is nice and fresh."
"Don't you listen, Sam," Dean growls. "Don't you listen. He's just trying to mess with your head. We're trying to save lives. He'd just as soon kill us all as look at us and you know it."
"I don't give a fuck what you're wearing," Lauren shouts, and a cable of fire arcs toward the demon. He catches it like a rope, one-handed, and pulls Lauren toward him. The fire dissolves and Lauren screams and stumbles, falls to her knees. A soldier steps out from behind the demon, and even through the dust and smoke Sam can see who it is. It's Jason.
Andy screams don't!, but his words are paper and they blow away. Jason rests his hand on Lauren's head, almost tenderly. Her body jerks, limbs flailing, and then she slumps forward, face first. Dead.
Sam breathes rapidly through his nose, heart hammering. No. Nononono. This is wrong. All wrong.
"Did you think you saved her, with that little Simon Says magic trick?" the demon asks derisively. He waves his hands and Nessa and Hannah are pulled before him, arms pinned to their sides. Hannah's face twists in terror, but Nessa stands tall, face stoic.
Dean positions himself in front of his brother. He lifts his chin, lip curling. "Let them go."
"Sure thing," the demon says, full of good cheer. "Just hand over Sam and we'll get a move on. I don't know if you realize this, but I've got a pretty full agenda. Places to go, people to kill. I didn't come to Ass Crack, New Mexico for the sight-seeing, Dean-o. I'm just here to collect my wayward soldier." The demon turns flat ocher eyes on Sam. "What's it gonna be, Sammy? Are you ready to come home or are you still AWOL? How about a little encouragement, huh? You wanna see me break your little friends like a piñata?" The demon rubs his hands together. "I wonder what's inside." He rolls forward on the balls of his feet like an excited kid. "I'm hoping for Tootsie Rolls, myself."
Hannah and Nessa huddle together. Despite her tears, Hannah lifts her head in defiance, mirroring Vanessa. Nessa struggles to throw another knife, but her arms won't cooperate.
David's mutterings segue into sobs, and he strokes his wife's skeletal hand. The demon huffs an exaggerated sigh of annoyance and gestures sharply toward the weeping man. David's head twists abruptly and Sam can hear the snap of his neck breaking from where he stands. David falls forward onto his wife's body. "Can you believe that guy? Jeez, what a downer," the demon laments. He crosses his fingers and grins at the frozen women. "Here's hoping for something tasty."
A rock flies through the air with a crack and smashes one of the Sixers flanking the yellow-eyed demon. The Sixer clamps his hands to his eye and collapses with a shriek. A second rock hits a Sixer in the forehead and he drops like Goliath. A third fist-sized rock smashes into a woman with beetle-black eyes. She scowls and scans the area for the culprit. Before she can spot Luke and his baseball bat behind an overturned bench, Dean shoots her between the eyes. The demon screams in rage, but her words fade away as a thin stream of black smoke pours from her mouth.
The yellow-eyed demon speaks through clenched teeth. "Sam Winchester, your little friends are starting to piss me off." He waves his hand and a gun flies from a nearby Sixer's belt into his hand. "Let's see if I can move things along." Before Sam has a chance to speak, to think, the gun goes off and Vanessa drops, blood spouting from her head. The gun fires again and Hannah falls, her blood spattering polka-dots on Sam's shoes. "You might think I pulled that trigger, Sam, but this is on you." The demon points the gun at Dean. "Whadya think, Sam? When I shoot Dean, do you think he'll be able to catch the bullet like I did?"
ooooo
Then.
Nessa tries again. And again. And when she hits the outer edge of the target she's so excited, so relieved she actually shrieks "I did it!"
Monica beams. "I knew you could!"
Nessa massages her aching hand and turns to check for Owen and Lisa. Owen and Rosey are sword fighting with bent sticks. Lisa's nowhere to be seen. Nessa doesn't want to worry about the girl, she tells herself she's not responsible, but it feels like a lie because if she doesn't look after her, who will? David can barely look after himself.
Monica catches her expression and glances toward Rose, then back to Nessa. "Something wrong?"
Nessa shakes her head, walks to the target and pulls out the silver knife. "Not really. I just…I was looking for Lisa. I feel like I’m some kind of half-assed de-facto Mom to her-and Owen-and I have no idea what I'm doing. When I’m not terrified by demons and diseases I'm terrified of seriously messing up the kids." She sighs. "This isn't supposed to be my life, you know?"
"First of all, you're not messing anyone up, so get that thought out of your head. Secondly, I don't think any of us want this life."
"I know, that's not want I meant," Nessa says guiltily. "I just mean…I feel so…fucking clueless. And I hate it."
Monica smiles weakly. "Welcome to the club, hon. We're all clueless."
Nessa rolls her eyes. "Oh come on, I've seen you with Rose. You're a wonderful mom."
"I don't know who-or what-you're comparing me to, but thanks," Monica says with a grin. "And I know you feel alone, but you're not. We can help. I can help. Look, you keep practicing and I'll go check on Lisa, make sure she eats something."
Nessa's throat burns, suddenly tight, so she just nods. "Thank you," she manages. "I'd really appreciate that."
Monica claps her hands together. "Good. I'll be back in ten minutes." She points to the target. "I expect you'll be hitting the bullseye every time from now on."
Nessa stares, horrified.
Monica grins, eyes crinkling. "Kidding." She's still chuckling when she walks away.
Nessa watches the older woman go. Owen sees her watching and waves. Nessa waves back. And then she turns back to the target and thinks left foot in front, right foot back.
ooooo
Now
Lisa stares at her father's body, slack-jawed and blank-eyed. She blinks slowly, sluggishly, and lifts her face to Sam. He can't hear her, but he can read her lips. Why? she asks. Jess' voice rings in his head, echoing Lisa Why Sam, why? Why Sam, why? Sam swallows. He looks at Nessa and Hannah and his eye burns with hot tears, his throat constricts to the size of a straw.
"What's it gonna be?" The demon demands and Sam knows this is it, it's now or never, because there's no fucking way (none at all) he's letting Dean die. There's been so much (too much) death already. He lets go of Andy and moves beside Dean. No more.
"No," Sam shouts, the word a deadlier kind of bullet than what's in his gun. Power surges through him, no, not power, purpose, and sound recedes until the only noise is the adrenaline-fueled hammering of his heart. There's a pressure in the back of his head. In his chest. It's like being underwater. Sounds are muted, but he has perfect clarity. Dean calls his name and he can feel the ripples of sound move toward him. He wants to tell Dean he's okay, that this is all perfectly normal. This is simply
my destiny this is my
He can see everything so clearly, it's seeing with both eyes, with a hundred eyes: a handful of demons there, twice that many Sixers near Yellow-Eyes. A few of them harass hunters. Some of the soldiers Andy freed fight back, protecting a battered-looking Jeff and an unconscious Ash. One of the TOA soldiers is telekinetic like Hannah is (was), and a broken bicycle zigs toward Dean, but Sam thinks no and it stops, hanging in the air like a giant rusted insect.
destiny this is my destiny I will
Every object in a ten foot radius shudders, then lifts into the air. First one foot, then five, then twenty. Rocks zoom in a complicated trajectory above their heads. The bicycle spins. A bench hovers. Broken boards from the school drift like leaves. A lost shoe dangles, yellow shoelaces flutter like wings.
save you I will help you I am
Sam can feel the vibrations of the demon talking and he sends the bike rushing toward him. The demon moves his hand to send it away, but it comes like a missile, deadly and unstoppable and lands mere inches away, knocking Jason and another Sixer over like startled bowling pins.
sorry for everything and this is my chance my destiny
Sam thinks falland the orbiting rocks rain like hail upon the demons and Sixers. The gaping hunters and civilians are spared.
Ashes blow around him, grey specks fall in Sam's hair, on his face and eyelashes. The acrid stench of smoke is heavy in the air, the smell of destruction. The air is hazy with dust. Vanessa and David and Hannah and dozens of other bodies lie before him, demons, Sixers, hunters, friends. The pressure (hum, voltage, power, purpose) in his head increases and a tear tracks through the soot on Sam's face.
ooooo
Then.
The three of them sit in companionable silence. Dean hands Sam some aspirin and he swallows it dry, makes a spectacular bitchface, one of his better ones, really, and drops his head into his hands.
"How’s your head?" Andy asks.
"How’s your chest?" Sam returns through his hands and Andy chuckles.
"Touché, dude."
"You two sound like a couple of whiny old ladies over there," Dean says. "Thank God you’ve got me. I’m the secret to winning this thing, you know," he grins, wishing it were true. He’d do anything to take this off Sam’s shoulders. Maybe after the battle, they can relax, take it easy. Just for a while. They can have a few days of nothing more to worry about than locating Cheetos that haven't gone stale. No headaches, no guilt, no fear, nothing but some well thought-out pranks, baked potatoes and Ash's private stash of beer.
Andy’s fingers rub absently at his chest and Dean tosses a playing card at him. "Knock it off, you big baby."
Andy looks at the card and rolls his eyes. "In one breath you call me a grandma, in the next I’m a baby. Which is it?"
"I think the word we should be looking for is 'crazy'," Sam mutters. "Clearly, we’re crazy to be sitting here playing poker."
Dean lifts an eyebrow. "So does that mean you don’t want your card?" To Andy he adds, "Nice poker face, by the way."
"Shut up," Andy says. "I’m particularly worried about you winning myimaginary money."
Dean slides a card toward Sam. Sam glances at it briefly before lowering his head and digging his knuckles back into his temples. Dean wants to tell Sam to lie down, to try and sleep, but there’s no point. Every time he tries to push Sam to rest Sam acts as if Dean’s voice is only audible to dogs. Or Andy. He’s starting to retreat into himself again and that scares Dean as much as any oncoming demons or Sixers. Maybe more. Sam’s complexion is almost gray, the skin beneath his eyes a mottled purple. He looks like he’s already been through a war (he has), and Dean doesn’t know what to do.
Sam sighs, as if reading Dean’s mind. "I’m fine dude. Just flip the cards up."
Dean rolls his eyes. "Sure you are. If ‘fine’ means ‘you look like shit.’" But he discards the top card from the deck and flips the next three face up onto the floor: the five of hearts, the six of spades, and the ten of diamonds.
"Speaking of shit," Andy grumps, and tosses his cards at Dean. "I’m out."
"Me too," Sam says.
Dean frowns at the pair of Jacks in his hand. "Dude," he protests, "you didn’t even look at the cards."
ooooo
Now.
He’ll never admit to Sam, not even with his dying breath, but when Sam starts doing an impression of a ginormous--and uglified--Jean Grey and making with the floaty shit and the freeze frame, Dean is well beyond terrified. There’s not a word for the amount of scared shitless he is. Seeing the yellow-eyed demon is creepy as hell, sure, but he’s seen him before. Superpower Sammy, on the other hand, is a new one. Sure, the kid's flung demons around and made Andy sound like the great and powerful Oz, but watching stones fly around like little planets makes Dean’s gut clench. He can't help thinking back to that cramped kitchen with all those plates and chairs floating in midair.
What does it mean that Sam can do this without any real training? It's not like there's a Jedi Master handy for this kind of supernatural shit. But no matter what Sam's doing with rocks or chairs or bikes, it's still Sam. It's still Sammy. So he wrestles the dread firmly into the back pocket of his brain, because this? Is not the time to freak out. This is the time to kick that demon's ass. He risks a quick look for Monica and Craig. They’re both unhurt, which is good, and they’re in position, which is better.
Sam’s face shines with sweat and something else. Something...ethereal. Which is a pansy-ass fairy girly word that he'll never admit knowing, much less say aloud. But it fits. The fear that's been snoozing in Dean’s stomach snaps awake and gives his guts a hearty squeeze before clambering through his rib cage and up into his throat. Sam’s eye is fixed and unmoving and for a long horrible (endless) moment Dean thinks what if he’s gone again, what if?
Andy calls Dean's name above the din, and flashes him a bug-eyed what the fuck is happening face.
Dean’s shrugs helplessly. I don’t have a fucking clue.
ooooo
Then.
Sam leaves the cards on the cot and gets to his feet, and Dean forgets all about Texas Hold ’Em because Sam moves gracefully, lithe, and not like an old man. His face has lost that ever-present pinched look of pain, it’s smooth and clear and his eye is bright and full of something Dean can’t (doesn’t want to) read. He turns his neck side-to-side and it pops once, twice. He holds his arms out toward Dean and Andy in a get up gesture. Dean and Andy exchange glances. Dean doesn’t need the help, but Andy does.
"Guys. Listen. I just wanted....I want to say...thanks. For everything," Sam blurts, and Dean tries out Sam’s I-can’t-hear-you trick. If this is going where he thinks it is, no way is he listening. But Andy’s an emo little bitch like Sam and he hugs the giant freak like Sam's magnetized and Andy’s made of iron.
"Hey, man, you’re totally welcome," Dean returns, all smiles. "Remember that time I shot you in the head? Cuz you’re right, dude, good times."
Sam flashes Dean a look that says stop saying words, asshole, and grabs Dean’s arm. He drags him close and throws an arm around him. "Hey!" Dean yelps. "I was just kiddin’. Watch the fabric. Watch the arm. What the fuck?" But he knows, he knows what the fuck it is, and he thinks if he pretends, if he ignores, maybe the force of his denial (which is pretty freakin’ huge, by the way) can keep them safe for just a little longer.
"Shut up," Sam hisses into his ear. "You never gave up on me. Not even when I gave up on myself. So thank you for that." Sam’s breath is hot against Dean's face and he wants to pull away. He also wants to stay here forever. He doesn’t need Cheetos. He doesn’t need anything. Just Sam. Okay, fine, Andy can stay too.
"You stuck with me through everything. You could have kept going once we got here, left me behind."
"That’s the stupidest-" Dean huffs in exasperation, but Sam interrupts before he can really get going on just how stupid.
"So thanks," Sam says, which somehow sounds a lot like shut the hell up.
"I wanted to leave you," Andy says blandly, "but I was stuck in a hospital bed. By the time I could get around--" he shrugs, "too lazy." He pats his arm. "Plus I had to show off the new tat."
Sam grins. "Sucks to be you, then."
Andy nods solemnly. "It sure does."
Sam blinks at Dean and warbles out, "I just had to tell you...you know, that I.." Sam takes a deep breath but Dean pokes him hard in the chest.
"That I’m completely awesome and way better looking than the two of you sad sacks?" Dean makes his best look how hot I am face to demonstrate. "I think pretty much everyone knows that by now." He steps back and shoots Sam a hard look. Don’t do this.
Sam stares back, stubborn as hell. I have to. I love you.
Dean's shoulders slump and he looks away. He sighs and scratches his chin awkwardly. He counts to five, adding Mississippi to each number. Finally, he lets his gaze slide back to Sam’s. I love you too, Sparky. He thinks maybe Sam didn’t pick up on the Sparky bit, but that’s okay. As long as he knows the rest.
Andy wipes his eyes and grins like he’s just scored the best weed ever. "I love you guys too."
"Yeah, well, if you so much as think about getting a tattoo of my handsome face on any part of your anatomy whatsoever, you will seriously regret it, Gallagher. I’m warning you right now." And if he doesn’t get out of here soon he’s gonna start weeping like a little girl. Shit. Sam’s fingers tighten on his arm and he’s just about got a killer insult loaded on the tip of his tongue when Sam’s face tightens. Not in pain this time, but concentration.
"Listen," Sam whispers, and all the good humor, the camaraderie is gone. Just like that.
Dean listens like Sam says. He can hear a woman (doesn’t sound right, something’s wrong) screaming. The screams sound like bent nails and rust and he gapes at Sam.
"What the hell…is that?" Now he can hear David yelling. And Ash and Jeff. There’s a whole snarl of voices outside.
"It’s starting," Sam says simply. "Get your weapons. And the bullets. They're ready."
Dean grabs up his .45 and a shotgun. He slides a knife into the sheath in his boot. He tries to catch Sam’s attention, tries to send him mental messages of you can do this and you're gonna get through this, but Sam’s already stalking toward the door like he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life, and Dean thinks maybe he has.
ooooo
Now.
The hum inside Sam's head bursts out of him, bright as sun. He bends that light, uses its glow to hold everything still. Steady. Calm. The effort doesn't hurt exactly, but the pressure in his head goes up another notch.
"You're not my destiny. You're not my Commander. You're nothing." Sam's voice is low and dangerous and the gun sweeps out of the demon's hand and shatters like porcelain. "You have no power over me or my brother."
The demon looks momentarily nonplussed, but recovers quickly. He slides his now-empty hand into a pocket. "You can't kill me without the Colt," he says indifferently, "not for good. So what's the point?"
"Maybe not," Sam agrees, "but I can sure as hell inconvenience you." Sam's smile is deadly. "You're done here." Sam's voice is brittle with rage. "Go back to hell."
The demon rolls his eyes. "You-"
"You're done here." Sam repeats. He takes a deep breath and shakes himself, he feels like he's coming out a trance. Breaking the surface. He gives the signal. "Now!"
Time unfreezes. A gunshot rings out like a bell and a red stain blooms on the demon's chest. Monica ducks back behind the charred wall of the school.
"Consecrated bullets," Sam explains. "Filled with holy water. Engraved with protective seals. It's a real bitch to make them." He shows his teeth, and if he could see his own expression, he wouldn't recognize himself. "That's gotta sting."
Craig fires the second shot and it hits the demon in the forehead. He rocks backwards, arms thrown wide. Jason charges toward the professor, but Andy's stop and force the Sixer onto his hands and knees. The two remaining Sixers drop onto their stomachs, faces pressed to the ground.
Sam nods almost imperceptibly at Dean, the signal for the third shot. Dean fires and this time the bullet hits its mark. The demon lands flat on his back, mouth open in stunned fury. There's no sound, only smoke spiraling away. "That was for Mom and Dad," Dean whispers hoarsely. He glances at his brother. And for Sam, you son of a bitch.
The smoke whips back and forth like a great black snake, and then it's gone.
ooooo
When the smoke vanishes, there's a new kind of chaos. This one involves Andy and Jeff dealing with the Sixers, Craig and Luke trying to comfort a stone-faced Lisa, and Monica-as well as a handful of other hunters--performing as much first aid as their limited supplies and even more limited knowledge allow.
"That was…that was really something, Sam," Dean says huskily. Sam hasn't moved for the past five minutes. His complexion is the color of milk and he's staring at the sky like he's half expecting the demon to put in an encore appearance. Sam's jaw is set and he's radiating a don't touch me vibe, so Dean doesn't. But he's definitely invading Sam's personal space, cuz that's what big brothers do.
Dean coughs, clears his throat. "You freaked me out a little back there," Dean admits, careful to keep his voice light. He's willing to admit he was freaked, but he's not about to admit how much..
Sam finally looks at him and Dean can see the tension drain from Sam's posture, his face. He blinks and rubs a hand across his mouth. "Dean. I think…I think we did it." Sam looks absolutely stunned, as if he just discovered he can speak a new language, or fly.
Dean grins. "No way, man. You did it. If you hadn't kept Yellow Eyes busy with your freaky telekinetic shit we wouldn’t have been able to pull it off." He hopes his voice reflects exactly how proud he is.
Sam grins back. "You're a good shot."
"Damn skippy."
Sam laughs and so does Dean. It's a sound that still makes him feel like he can do anything. Making Sam laugh might be the only thing better that killing monsters. There will be time to mourn Hannah and Nessa later, time for doubt and worry. But this moment is theirs. He's not used to being on the winning end of things, and it's a nice change of pace.
"What do you think it means? Is he gone for good?" Sam asks like the giant wet blanket he is.
"Way to suck the feel-good out of the moment, Sam." Dean shrugs, a smile ghosting his face. "I'm voting for the gone for good option. But at the very least it'll take a good long while for him to crawl back out of hell." Dean glances toward the Sixers. "And if there's a rematch, our chances don't look half bad."
Sam's face clouds and he chews at his bottom lip, that brief flash of ease gone. His jaw sets. "I need to talk to Jason."
Dean's eyes narrow. "Okay, actually, Sam? You don't. I thought you were done with that whole punish yourself bullshit."
Sam shakes his head, forehead creasing. "It's not that. I just need to make sure there's…I need to make sure the windows are shut."
Dean quirks an eyebrow. "Is that your lame way of saying you wanna check if he's still, you know, all natural born killer or not?"
Sam tosses a half-hearted bitchface at Dean and heads toward Andy. Dean chuckles and ambles after him. It's crazy how happy Sam's Mr. Pissy Pants routine makes him nowadays, and it's no wonder. Given the choice between nearly catatonic suicidal despair and Cranky McBitchy, well, he'll take bitchy-ass Sam any day of the week.
Some of the Sixer soldiers are still in stumbly despondent mode, some of them look a toe nail's width from bawling, and a few stare into space like there's a hidden message on the horizon. Jason is one of the latter.
Dean gets a bad feeling just from looking at the guy. He calls after Sam. "Dude, wait up." Sam slows his pace so Dean can catch up. "Just do me a favor, don't let that guy touch you. I saw what he can do."
"You have no idea what he can do," Sam says grimly. He gets that I suck look in his eye again and Dean wonders if Sam first had that look before everything went to shit or after. It's not a look Dean likes. He decides there's something about the look on Jason's face he likes even less.
The Sixer nods to Sam. "I didn't think I'd see you again."
Sam looks pained. Dean wonders if he's thinking of what happened to April. "Yeah."
Jason bows his head and rubs his temples. "I feel so…I don't know what to do. The things I did, Sam." He lifts his face and his eyes plead. "Help me." Jason sways unsteadily.
Sam steps forward and grabs Jason's arm, supporting him. And really, that right there, is so Sam. Always wanting to help, to make up for shit, to be Mr. Sensitive. Dean sees the glint before Sam does. Sam's not looking for it, he's too busy being nice. But nice guys finish last, isn't that what they say? The knife is in Jason's hand. Dean opens his mouth to warn Sam, his hand reaches for his gun but Jason is fast. He pivots and the blade cuts Sam's throat like butter.
The warning shrivels and dies on Dean's tongue. His brain grinds to a halt. But his hand still seems to work because his finger squeezes the trigger and Jason drops with a thud. Gravity's playing favorites because Sam falls slowly. He's got both hands to his throat but the blood runs through his fingers like it's got a mind of its own, like it's just been waiting for this chance to escape. Sam's hands are bright red, his shirt's already soaking through. Dean falls to his knees and catches Sam. Sam's a fucking giant, but he's light, he's a fucking feather and Dean doesn't feel anything but Sam's hair tickling his face and the warmth of Sam's blood on his trembling hand.
Fuck, no Dean thinks. This isn't right. We won. We won. "No," he babbles, "No, Sam. It's okay, I'm here, I'm right here, Sammy and you're not going anywhere." His voice is broken because it's hitching up and down like he's just hit puberty, but it doesn't matter. He's trembling almost as bad as Sam, but he holds on, as if holding onto Sam is enough to keep him alive. There's an army of Sixers standing around, gaping like morons, all of them useless. He doesn't need pyrotechnics or super strength or visions or telekinesis, he needs someone who can fucking help. He needs a needle and thread and a pint (a fucking liter) of Type O blood.
A sliver of Dean's mind registers the fact that Andy's blubbering. He's screeching at the Sixers to get out of the fucking way you assholes and Craig is screaming Sam's name and Rosey is crying and Monica is saying hush baby, hush. Sam's eye rolls in its socket and it feels like years before it manages to focus on Dean. Sam lifts a slick shaking hand to Dean's face. The blood from Sam's neck flows faster, like water from a faucet.
Dean clasps Sam's hand and presses it to his stubbled cheek and thinks Sammy don't leave me, please don't. He thinks, this happened before, we were in the kitchen, I didn't want to shoot you but I did. You were on the floor and I was so afraid you were going to die but you didn't. You lived. You lived then and you better fucking live now. Don't be a goddamn quitter, Sam. Don't.
Sam tries to talk but all that comes out of his throat is a horrific burbling sound that makes Dean want to eat his gun right then and there. Pink froth bubbles between Sam's fingers and Dean starts to cry.
Someone's kneeling beside him and they're trying to move Dean's hand from Sam's neck and Dean yells "Fuck you! Get off him!" but somehow the words don't cooperate and his venomous shout collapses into a desperate moan.
"I can help." Luke's voice is thin and calm and it's a voice Dean's longed to hear, but not like this. It's a voice Dean desperately wants to believe. The boy's small freckled hand gently pushes Dean's rough one aside. "Let me try, Dean," Luke says softly and Dean does, because he has no other choice.
Author: buffyaddict13
Rating: a strong R for language and a lot of violence. some of it's fairly gory. sorry folks. the end of the world isn't a shiny happy place.
Characters/Pairings: Sam, Dean, Andy, OCs. Gen.
Summary: The war is at hand. It’s demon against man and we’re losing the fight. The special children are wreaking havoc across the land, side by side with demons. Dean is on a desperate hunt to find and save his brother while leading a small band of survivors to a final showdown.
A/N 1: The showdown I mention in the summary? This is it, people. We've pretty much reached the end.
A/N 2: Triple glitter cheese scoops of thanks to
kroki_refur for the beta. If it’s any good, it’s because of her brilliance. If it sucks, well, that's on me. Lastly, the title is from a Suzanne Vega song.
Disclaimer: I own nothing Winchestery. If I did, the boys would talk more.
As the end is drawing near
Standing proud, I wont give in to fear
As I die a legend will be born
I will stand, I will fight
You’ll never take me alive
I’ll stand my ground
I won’t go down.
You won’t break me
You won’t make me
You won’t take me,
Under blood red skies.
--Judas Priest
Chapter 11
Now.
The demon's hand moves so fast Dean can't track it, but he knows it moves, because the fucker’s standing there holding a bullet in his hand. The demon looks at it, amused, and tosses it in the air. He catches it with a flourish and holds it between his thumb and index finger, the way an appraiser might admire a ring. He whistles. "Nice shot, Dean. Been practicing, I see." The demon raises his voice and flicks the bullet away like a bug. "I'd just like to take this opportunity to point out that Winchester over there is a halfway decent shot. You might want to keep an eye out." The demon chuckles and the noise is like fingernails on a chalkboard. "Hey, that reminds me." The smile straightens into a thin, angry line. "Where is Sam? I'm waiting."
ooooo
Then.
Sam stares down at the page, but the words crawl like ants. He rubs his eye, tries again, but the letters still won't cooperate. He drops his head onto his chest and kneads the iron muscles in his neck with one hand, rubs at his forehead with the other. The pain (noise, static, fear) in his head is worse. His empty eye socket aches.
He's trying to find some forgotten ritual, spell, sigil that resembles hope. Something that will increase their chances against the coming demons. A Latin phrase, a sentence in Sanskrit, a previously undiscovered symbol to impart safety, or knowledge, or both. But there's nothing except page after page of shifting print.
He shuts the book with a snap and tosses it onto the floor. He doesn't want Bobby's book, he wants Bobby. But Bobby's gone, just like all the rest.
The gym is mostly empty. It's late afternoon, most people are training for the coming battle. The rest are looking after the children, helping the sick or injured, working in the garden or bartering for goods in one of the remaining stores. The people left in the gym give Sam a wide berth. Most people here do. They look at him with a combination of fear and awe that does nothing to ease his aching head. Yesterday, an old man spat at him and called him a bastard and a murderer. Only one of the epithets is true. Later, a group of children playing tag stop their game when he passes and look at him like he's a savior. Sam wants to believe that the old man and the kids are both wrong.
He keeps to himself as much as possible, although its easier said than done with Rose around. Dean understands, thank God. He keeps Sam surrounded by a select few, Andy, Craig, Luke, Ash and Jeff. Their familiarity provides a needed respite from curious-or suspicious--eyes. Sam wants to tell Dean he doesn't need to do that, doesn't need to treat him like he's breakable, but truthfully, it's been a long time since Sam's felt whole.
Footsteps echo on the gym floor and he looks up, expecting (hoping for) Dean. It's Monica and Rose. Rosey looks subdued, her hand wrapped firmly around her mother's. She looks so young, so fragile, Sam is briefly thankful he has no children of his own.
The pair thread their way through the sleeping bags, cots, and duct-taped lawn chairs. Sam pats the floor next to him and musters up a smile. "Hi guys."
Rosey positions herself next to Sam, but Monica remains standing. The sincerity of her own smile matches Sam's. "Hi Sam. Do you...do you have a minute?"
Sam spreads his hands, accommodating. "For you guys, always. What can I do for you?"
Monica twists the wedding ring on her finger nervously. She speaks to Sam, but her eyes are focused on Rosey's shoes. "I was wondering if you could talk to Rosey about her dream."
Sam looks down at the little girl, brows furrowed. "You had a bad dream?" He wonders how many times she's dreamed about him. "Or a vision?"
"A dream." She gives an oblong stain on her shirt intense scrutiny. "An' it’s dumb cuz it doesn’t sound scary when I say it out loud." The girl swallows and her mouth pulls down into a look of misery. "But it was bad."
"What was it about?" Sam asks gently. "I have bad dreams too," he admits.
Rose considers Sam's admission for a long moment and then sighs heavily. It's a sound that's entirely too grown up. "There was a bird, only he looked broken. Like a toy. And his beak was made of scissors, sort of. He kept flying around me and I knew he was gonna…" she flicks a quick look to her mom, then to Sam. "He wanted to hurt me. He wanted to stab me with his scissor-beak. An’ I started to cry and I told him 'shoo, go away,' an’ he just laughed." She looks at him with wide trusting eyes. "But birdies can’t laugh, right? And they don't have scissor parts, neither."
Sam thinks of all the nightmares he's had over the years and prays her future will be kinder. "In dreams, they can do anything."
Rose draws her knees up and manages to look even more miserable. "But then the bad bird said he was gonna kill you. And then he flew away. Which was good. But he dropped something and I thought it was a feather cuz I like feathers, even if they're from mean birdies, but when I looked…it wasn't a feather." Her voice trembles. "It was an eye. And that’s when I woke up. I put my pillow over my head cuz I don't want that bird to take my eye away." She looks at Sam's eye patch and fidgets uncertainly.
Sam strokes her hair and Monica hands her daughter a crumpled tissue. "I think that dream was a message, Rose." Sam asks the question even though he already knows the answer. "Did the bird have yellow eyes?"
Rosey nods, eyes wide with surprise. "How did you know?"
"I have dreams about that bird sometimes too. It’s a blue heron. It’s the demon that’s...he’s…helped make the world the way it is now."
Rose looks at him steadily. "You mean sucky?"
Sam can't help a brief burst of laughter. That's one way of putting it. He nods, smiling faintly. "Yeah. Sucky."
She wrinkles her nose. "So…the yellow-eyed demon is a bird?"
"No. It’s just a shape he takes in my-or your-dreams sometimes. And you’re gonna be safe, Rosey. Your mom is real brave and smart and she’s gonna protect you. So am I." He holds her gaze. "We all will. And that eye you saw? I don’t think that was yours, sweetie. I think that was mine."
Rosey’s mouth forms an exaggerated O of disgust. "Gross!"
Sam smiles thinly. "Gross is right. That demon was just trying to scare you. But don’t worry, about it, okay?" She looks worried, and he presses on. "And I’m gonna be safe too. I’ve got Dean and Andy and all my friends." Sam taps the tip of her nose and the worry is replaced with a toothy grin. "Now you get some good sleep. No more creepy dreams, okay? You can dream of teddy bears and..." he racks his brain for girly things. "And fairies."
Rose rolls her eyes disdainfully. "That stuff is boring. I like castles and knights." She mimes waving a sword. "Knights with big giant swords are the best! We’re in a castle now and this is the keep," she explains, gesturing around them. She points toward the doors. "Out there is a moat with a big dragon thing! It eats scissor-beak birds up to a million feet away!" She beams, clearly pleased with this new world.
Monica pries Rose away from Sam. "Come on Sir Rosalot. It’s time for bed. You run and say goodnight to the dragon. I’ll be there in a second."
Rose runs off, one hand holding imaginary reins, the other still swinging an invisible sword. "Watch out demons! I got a magic sword!" she yells.
Monica exhales and runs a hand over her ponytail. "Is that all? The dream was just…a warning? Of what, exactly?"
Sam reaches for the book. "It means the Yellow-Eyed Demon is on his way."
ooooo
Now.
"What's your name?" Sam snaps at the wounded Sixer.
"Lauren."
Sam nods curtly. "Okay. Lauren, you can help by encouraging the demons to get out of here."
"By 'encourage' he means set them on fire and stuff," Andy clarifies.
An old man with black eyes throws a nearby hunter to the ground. Lauren points at the demon and a stream of fire shoots from her hand into the demon's chest. The demon howls and scrambles back toward the fence. Lauren wipes a smear of blood from her chin. "I think I can do that."
"Andy, come with me. Hannah, you and Lauren try to see if there's anybody else willing or able to help, and meet us by the gate. Got it?"
Hannah nods. "Be careful." She hurries toward a lost-looking Sixer while Lauren sends another demon stumbling backwards amidst a torrent of fire.
"I will if you will," Sam calls back. He and Andy make their way toward Dean. It's not easy going.
Chaos encircles him. A demon tosses a woman with an angular face and panicked eyes like a doll. A man, no longer possessed, clings to the trunk of a tree, weeping. Ash and several other hunters pick three One Army soldiers off with deadly accuracy. Nessa crouches behind a ramshackle car and empties her rifle into a hulking demon. When the bullets run out she pulls out a silver knife painstakingly etched with Latin. She throws the blade and it flies, sure and swift, into the demon's chest. The demon staggers and falls, disintegrating before it reaches the ground.
Something that looks like a little girl but isn't jitters toward Jeff. Ash drags Jeff aside in time to save his friend, but not himself. The demon latches long claws into his back. Ash screams and drops his weapon. The demon girl falls upon her prey, teeth snapping and claws clicking. Sam thinks Get. Off. He shoves the girl-demon-thing through the smoky air with his mind and into the smoldering school.
Andy's voice cuts through the bedlam like a blade, each word imbued with steely authority. "Demonic forces, unclean spirits, all wicked legions, assemblies and sects, we adjure you. Leave this place. We bind you and cast you down into the bottomless Pit from whence you came."
Sam's hand is steady on Andy's arm and he thinks let this work, please let this work. Sweat beads on his forehead and cements his shirt to his back. When he shouts "Leave this place," several Sixers are knocked off their feet. Half a dozen demons disintegrate into nothingness, and three more are pulled shrieking out of their human hosts. Pillars of black smoke are sucked up and away, into the wounded sky and out of existence.
ooooo
Then.
"Okay," Monica says. "Try it."
Vanessa takes a deep breath and concentrates. Left foot in front, right foot back. Heels in a straight line, both knees bent. She rests on the ball of her back foot and points both arms at the target, chest height. She lifts the knife behind her head, swings forward like she's chopping wood and shifts her weight forward. She lets the knife go. Her aim is wide and the knife thunks into the tree far below the painted bullseye. "Shi-"
Monica pokes her finger toward Rosey and Nessa manages a clumsy transformation to "-ugar."
"Hush," Monica admonishes, but her eyes are bright with laughter. "You did much better." She grins. "You actually got it in the tree that time."
Vanessa smiles back, tries to will the tension out of her shoulders. "I know. I just feel like...I’ll never get it."
"You will. You are. Just remember. You’re-"
"Standing on a straight line," Nessa finishes. "Both arms line up, both heels line up. Like I’m walking a tightrope to the target."
Monica nods, pleased. "Exactly."
Ash strides up. He nods affably to both women. "Ladies."
"Any luck with the ham radio?" Monica asks.
At Nessa’s expression, Ash explains. "Every morning and night we check the AM and FM frequencies for radio broadcasts." He lifts a shoulder. "Thought I caught some Morse Code for a minute, but then…nothing. Just static." He looks down at Rosey and winks. "But we’ll keep trying, won’t we?"
Rosey nods. "Gotta find some Meh Tally Cuh."
Ash beams and holds his hand up for a high-five. Rosey slaps his palm enthusiastically.
Monica shoots Ash a long suffering look. "How many times do I have to say it? No Metallica around Rosey."
"Yeah, yeah," Ash says, but he winks at the little girl. She giggles.
Monica rolls her eyes and turns to Nessa. "Do you see what I have to put up with around here? Rose's favorite babysitter is a redneck hillbilly with a mullet."
"I'll have you know I keep my hair in a very attractive ponytail these days," Ash points out, patting his hair. "And Metallica's good music. It's got a good beat." He grins. "And it's easy to dance to."
Rose proceeds to jump up and down, head bobbing like it's about to fall off. Vanessa stares. Either the kid is having a seizure or she's dancing.
Ash nods approvingly and flashes a thumbs up. "Nice moves, little lady."
ooooo
Now.
The yellow-eyed demon claps his hands in mock appreciation. "Well done, Sammy. Well done. You and that midget sure make quite the team." He flicks his hand and Andy jerks backwards, but Sam's ready. He braces for it, thinks no and stay here, dammit. If he lets go Andy's as good as dead, so that means he's not. Letting. Go. Simple. He clamps his other hand around Andy's arm and holds his friend steady. Andy screams, and Sam's afraid he just broke his friend's arm, but there's no snap, no bone or blood. There's just Andy, gasping for breath, still intact, face ashen, feet on the ground.
The demon looks thoughtful and nods slightly. "Is that what you think? That you can save your friends? It's a nice thought, Sam. It's a lovely thought, really, but I’m afraid it's not exactly accurate." He lifts his arms and a wave of something (wind? sound?) sends Jeff and a dozen other hunters through the air and smashing through windows, throws them against buildings. "You don't want to come with me because you're afraid of hurting people, is that right? That's very noble Sam, but don't you understand? You kill whether you're with me or not. Look around you. Look what you've brought to this place, to these people."
Sam keeps his eyes on the demon, he won't take the bait. He didn't start this. This isn't his fault. (Not this time.)
The demon rolls his eyes. "Oh sure, destroying demons is fine and dandy, but what about the meat suits, huh Sam? Do you think we're walking around in plastic?" He touches his face gently. "No sirree, Sammy. This one is nice and fresh."
"Don't you listen, Sam," Dean growls. "Don't you listen. He's just trying to mess with your head. We're trying to save lives. He'd just as soon kill us all as look at us and you know it."
"I don't give a fuck what you're wearing," Lauren shouts, and a cable of fire arcs toward the demon. He catches it like a rope, one-handed, and pulls Lauren toward him. The fire dissolves and Lauren screams and stumbles, falls to her knees. A soldier steps out from behind the demon, and even through the dust and smoke Sam can see who it is. It's Jason.
Andy screams don't!, but his words are paper and they blow away. Jason rests his hand on Lauren's head, almost tenderly. Her body jerks, limbs flailing, and then she slumps forward, face first. Dead.
Sam breathes rapidly through his nose, heart hammering. No. Nononono. This is wrong. All wrong.
"Did you think you saved her, with that little Simon Says magic trick?" the demon asks derisively. He waves his hands and Nessa and Hannah are pulled before him, arms pinned to their sides. Hannah's face twists in terror, but Nessa stands tall, face stoic.
Dean positions himself in front of his brother. He lifts his chin, lip curling. "Let them go."
"Sure thing," the demon says, full of good cheer. "Just hand over Sam and we'll get a move on. I don't know if you realize this, but I've got a pretty full agenda. Places to go, people to kill. I didn't come to Ass Crack, New Mexico for the sight-seeing, Dean-o. I'm just here to collect my wayward soldier." The demon turns flat ocher eyes on Sam. "What's it gonna be, Sammy? Are you ready to come home or are you still AWOL? How about a little encouragement, huh? You wanna see me break your little friends like a piñata?" The demon rubs his hands together. "I wonder what's inside." He rolls forward on the balls of his feet like an excited kid. "I'm hoping for Tootsie Rolls, myself."
Hannah and Nessa huddle together. Despite her tears, Hannah lifts her head in defiance, mirroring Vanessa. Nessa struggles to throw another knife, but her arms won't cooperate.
David's mutterings segue into sobs, and he strokes his wife's skeletal hand. The demon huffs an exaggerated sigh of annoyance and gestures sharply toward the weeping man. David's head twists abruptly and Sam can hear the snap of his neck breaking from where he stands. David falls forward onto his wife's body. "Can you believe that guy? Jeez, what a downer," the demon laments. He crosses his fingers and grins at the frozen women. "Here's hoping for something tasty."
A rock flies through the air with a crack and smashes one of the Sixers flanking the yellow-eyed demon. The Sixer clamps his hands to his eye and collapses with a shriek. A second rock hits a Sixer in the forehead and he drops like Goliath. A third fist-sized rock smashes into a woman with beetle-black eyes. She scowls and scans the area for the culprit. Before she can spot Luke and his baseball bat behind an overturned bench, Dean shoots her between the eyes. The demon screams in rage, but her words fade away as a thin stream of black smoke pours from her mouth.
The yellow-eyed demon speaks through clenched teeth. "Sam Winchester, your little friends are starting to piss me off." He waves his hand and a gun flies from a nearby Sixer's belt into his hand. "Let's see if I can move things along." Before Sam has a chance to speak, to think, the gun goes off and Vanessa drops, blood spouting from her head. The gun fires again and Hannah falls, her blood spattering polka-dots on Sam's shoes. "You might think I pulled that trigger, Sam, but this is on you." The demon points the gun at Dean. "Whadya think, Sam? When I shoot Dean, do you think he'll be able to catch the bullet like I did?"
ooooo
Then.
Nessa tries again. And again. And when she hits the outer edge of the target she's so excited, so relieved she actually shrieks "I did it!"
Monica beams. "I knew you could!"
Nessa massages her aching hand and turns to check for Owen and Lisa. Owen and Rosey are sword fighting with bent sticks. Lisa's nowhere to be seen. Nessa doesn't want to worry about the girl, she tells herself she's not responsible, but it feels like a lie because if she doesn't look after her, who will? David can barely look after himself.
Monica catches her expression and glances toward Rose, then back to Nessa. "Something wrong?"
Nessa shakes her head, walks to the target and pulls out the silver knife. "Not really. I just…I was looking for Lisa. I feel like I’m some kind of half-assed de-facto Mom to her-and Owen-and I have no idea what I'm doing. When I’m not terrified by demons and diseases I'm terrified of seriously messing up the kids." She sighs. "This isn't supposed to be my life, you know?"
"First of all, you're not messing anyone up, so get that thought out of your head. Secondly, I don't think any of us want this life."
"I know, that's not want I meant," Nessa says guiltily. "I just mean…I feel so…fucking clueless. And I hate it."
Monica smiles weakly. "Welcome to the club, hon. We're all clueless."
Nessa rolls her eyes. "Oh come on, I've seen you with Rose. You're a wonderful mom."
"I don't know who-or what-you're comparing me to, but thanks," Monica says with a grin. "And I know you feel alone, but you're not. We can help. I can help. Look, you keep practicing and I'll go check on Lisa, make sure she eats something."
Nessa's throat burns, suddenly tight, so she just nods. "Thank you," she manages. "I'd really appreciate that."
Monica claps her hands together. "Good. I'll be back in ten minutes." She points to the target. "I expect you'll be hitting the bullseye every time from now on."
Nessa stares, horrified.
Monica grins, eyes crinkling. "Kidding." She's still chuckling when she walks away.
Nessa watches the older woman go. Owen sees her watching and waves. Nessa waves back. And then she turns back to the target and thinks left foot in front, right foot back.
ooooo
Now
Lisa stares at her father's body, slack-jawed and blank-eyed. She blinks slowly, sluggishly, and lifts her face to Sam. He can't hear her, but he can read her lips. Why? she asks. Jess' voice rings in his head, echoing Lisa Why Sam, why? Why Sam, why? Sam swallows. He looks at Nessa and Hannah and his eye burns with hot tears, his throat constricts to the size of a straw.
"What's it gonna be?" The demon demands and Sam knows this is it, it's now or never, because there's no fucking way (none at all) he's letting Dean die. There's been so much (too much) death already. He lets go of Andy and moves beside Dean. No more.
"No," Sam shouts, the word a deadlier kind of bullet than what's in his gun. Power surges through him, no, not power, purpose, and sound recedes until the only noise is the adrenaline-fueled hammering of his heart. There's a pressure in the back of his head. In his chest. It's like being underwater. Sounds are muted, but he has perfect clarity. Dean calls his name and he can feel the ripples of sound move toward him. He wants to tell Dean he's okay, that this is all perfectly normal. This is simply
my destiny this is my
He can see everything so clearly, it's seeing with both eyes, with a hundred eyes: a handful of demons there, twice that many Sixers near Yellow-Eyes. A few of them harass hunters. Some of the soldiers Andy freed fight back, protecting a battered-looking Jeff and an unconscious Ash. One of the TOA soldiers is telekinetic like Hannah is (was), and a broken bicycle zigs toward Dean, but Sam thinks no and it stops, hanging in the air like a giant rusted insect.
destiny this is my destiny I will
Every object in a ten foot radius shudders, then lifts into the air. First one foot, then five, then twenty. Rocks zoom in a complicated trajectory above their heads. The bicycle spins. A bench hovers. Broken boards from the school drift like leaves. A lost shoe dangles, yellow shoelaces flutter like wings.
save you I will help you I am
Sam can feel the vibrations of the demon talking and he sends the bike rushing toward him. The demon moves his hand to send it away, but it comes like a missile, deadly and unstoppable and lands mere inches away, knocking Jason and another Sixer over like startled bowling pins.
sorry for everything and this is my chance my destiny
Sam thinks falland the orbiting rocks rain like hail upon the demons and Sixers. The gaping hunters and civilians are spared.
Ashes blow around him, grey specks fall in Sam's hair, on his face and eyelashes. The acrid stench of smoke is heavy in the air, the smell of destruction. The air is hazy with dust. Vanessa and David and Hannah and dozens of other bodies lie before him, demons, Sixers, hunters, friends. The pressure (hum, voltage, power, purpose) in his head increases and a tear tracks through the soot on Sam's face.
ooooo
Then.
The three of them sit in companionable silence. Dean hands Sam some aspirin and he swallows it dry, makes a spectacular bitchface, one of his better ones, really, and drops his head into his hands.
"How’s your head?" Andy asks.
"How’s your chest?" Sam returns through his hands and Andy chuckles.
"Touché, dude."
"You two sound like a couple of whiny old ladies over there," Dean says. "Thank God you’ve got me. I’m the secret to winning this thing, you know," he grins, wishing it were true. He’d do anything to take this off Sam’s shoulders. Maybe after the battle, they can relax, take it easy. Just for a while. They can have a few days of nothing more to worry about than locating Cheetos that haven't gone stale. No headaches, no guilt, no fear, nothing but some well thought-out pranks, baked potatoes and Ash's private stash of beer.
Andy’s fingers rub absently at his chest and Dean tosses a playing card at him. "Knock it off, you big baby."
Andy looks at the card and rolls his eyes. "In one breath you call me a grandma, in the next I’m a baby. Which is it?"
"I think the word we should be looking for is 'crazy'," Sam mutters. "Clearly, we’re crazy to be sitting here playing poker."
Dean lifts an eyebrow. "So does that mean you don’t want your card?" To Andy he adds, "Nice poker face, by the way."
"Shut up," Andy says. "I’m particularly worried about you winning myimaginary money."
Dean slides a card toward Sam. Sam glances at it briefly before lowering his head and digging his knuckles back into his temples. Dean wants to tell Sam to lie down, to try and sleep, but there’s no point. Every time he tries to push Sam to rest Sam acts as if Dean’s voice is only audible to dogs. Or Andy. He’s starting to retreat into himself again and that scares Dean as much as any oncoming demons or Sixers. Maybe more. Sam’s complexion is almost gray, the skin beneath his eyes a mottled purple. He looks like he’s already been through a war (he has), and Dean doesn’t know what to do.
Sam sighs, as if reading Dean’s mind. "I’m fine dude. Just flip the cards up."
Dean rolls his eyes. "Sure you are. If ‘fine’ means ‘you look like shit.’" But he discards the top card from the deck and flips the next three face up onto the floor: the five of hearts, the six of spades, and the ten of diamonds.
"Speaking of shit," Andy grumps, and tosses his cards at Dean. "I’m out."
"Me too," Sam says.
Dean frowns at the pair of Jacks in his hand. "Dude," he protests, "you didn’t even look at the cards."
ooooo
Now.
He’ll never admit to Sam, not even with his dying breath, but when Sam starts doing an impression of a ginormous--and uglified--Jean Grey and making with the floaty shit and the freeze frame, Dean is well beyond terrified. There’s not a word for the amount of scared shitless he is. Seeing the yellow-eyed demon is creepy as hell, sure, but he’s seen him before. Superpower Sammy, on the other hand, is a new one. Sure, the kid's flung demons around and made Andy sound like the great and powerful Oz, but watching stones fly around like little planets makes Dean’s gut clench. He can't help thinking back to that cramped kitchen with all those plates and chairs floating in midair.
What does it mean that Sam can do this without any real training? It's not like there's a Jedi Master handy for this kind of supernatural shit. But no matter what Sam's doing with rocks or chairs or bikes, it's still Sam. It's still Sammy. So he wrestles the dread firmly into the back pocket of his brain, because this? Is not the time to freak out. This is the time to kick that demon's ass. He risks a quick look for Monica and Craig. They’re both unhurt, which is good, and they’re in position, which is better.
Sam’s face shines with sweat and something else. Something...ethereal. Which is a pansy-ass fairy girly word that he'll never admit knowing, much less say aloud. But it fits. The fear that's been snoozing in Dean’s stomach snaps awake and gives his guts a hearty squeeze before clambering through his rib cage and up into his throat. Sam’s eye is fixed and unmoving and for a long horrible (endless) moment Dean thinks what if he’s gone again, what if?
Andy calls Dean's name above the din, and flashes him a bug-eyed what the fuck is happening face.
Dean’s shrugs helplessly. I don’t have a fucking clue.
ooooo
Then.
Sam leaves the cards on the cot and gets to his feet, and Dean forgets all about Texas Hold ’Em because Sam moves gracefully, lithe, and not like an old man. His face has lost that ever-present pinched look of pain, it’s smooth and clear and his eye is bright and full of something Dean can’t (doesn’t want to) read. He turns his neck side-to-side and it pops once, twice. He holds his arms out toward Dean and Andy in a get up gesture. Dean and Andy exchange glances. Dean doesn’t need the help, but Andy does.
"Guys. Listen. I just wanted....I want to say...thanks. For everything," Sam blurts, and Dean tries out Sam’s I-can’t-hear-you trick. If this is going where he thinks it is, no way is he listening. But Andy’s an emo little bitch like Sam and he hugs the giant freak like Sam's magnetized and Andy’s made of iron.
"Hey, man, you’re totally welcome," Dean returns, all smiles. "Remember that time I shot you in the head? Cuz you’re right, dude, good times."
Sam flashes Dean a look that says stop saying words, asshole, and grabs Dean’s arm. He drags him close and throws an arm around him. "Hey!" Dean yelps. "I was just kiddin’. Watch the fabric. Watch the arm. What the fuck?" But he knows, he knows what the fuck it is, and he thinks if he pretends, if he ignores, maybe the force of his denial (which is pretty freakin’ huge, by the way) can keep them safe for just a little longer.
"Shut up," Sam hisses into his ear. "You never gave up on me. Not even when I gave up on myself. So thank you for that." Sam’s breath is hot against Dean's face and he wants to pull away. He also wants to stay here forever. He doesn’t need Cheetos. He doesn’t need anything. Just Sam. Okay, fine, Andy can stay too.
"You stuck with me through everything. You could have kept going once we got here, left me behind."
"That’s the stupidest-" Dean huffs in exasperation, but Sam interrupts before he can really get going on just how stupid.
"So thanks," Sam says, which somehow sounds a lot like shut the hell up.
"I wanted to leave you," Andy says blandly, "but I was stuck in a hospital bed. By the time I could get around--" he shrugs, "too lazy." He pats his arm. "Plus I had to show off the new tat."
Sam grins. "Sucks to be you, then."
Andy nods solemnly. "It sure does."
Sam blinks at Dean and warbles out, "I just had to tell you...you know, that I.." Sam takes a deep breath but Dean pokes him hard in the chest.
"That I’m completely awesome and way better looking than the two of you sad sacks?" Dean makes his best look how hot I am face to demonstrate. "I think pretty much everyone knows that by now." He steps back and shoots Sam a hard look. Don’t do this.
Sam stares back, stubborn as hell. I have to. I love you.
Dean's shoulders slump and he looks away. He sighs and scratches his chin awkwardly. He counts to five, adding Mississippi to each number. Finally, he lets his gaze slide back to Sam’s. I love you too, Sparky. He thinks maybe Sam didn’t pick up on the Sparky bit, but that’s okay. As long as he knows the rest.
Andy wipes his eyes and grins like he’s just scored the best weed ever. "I love you guys too."
"Yeah, well, if you so much as think about getting a tattoo of my handsome face on any part of your anatomy whatsoever, you will seriously regret it, Gallagher. I’m warning you right now." And if he doesn’t get out of here soon he’s gonna start weeping like a little girl. Shit. Sam’s fingers tighten on his arm and he’s just about got a killer insult loaded on the tip of his tongue when Sam’s face tightens. Not in pain this time, but concentration.
"Listen," Sam whispers, and all the good humor, the camaraderie is gone. Just like that.
Dean listens like Sam says. He can hear a woman (doesn’t sound right, something’s wrong) screaming. The screams sound like bent nails and rust and he gapes at Sam.
"What the hell…is that?" Now he can hear David yelling. And Ash and Jeff. There’s a whole snarl of voices outside.
"It’s starting," Sam says simply. "Get your weapons. And the bullets. They're ready."
Dean grabs up his .45 and a shotgun. He slides a knife into the sheath in his boot. He tries to catch Sam’s attention, tries to send him mental messages of you can do this and you're gonna get through this, but Sam’s already stalking toward the door like he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life, and Dean thinks maybe he has.
ooooo
Now.
The hum inside Sam's head bursts out of him, bright as sun. He bends that light, uses its glow to hold everything still. Steady. Calm. The effort doesn't hurt exactly, but the pressure in his head goes up another notch.
"You're not my destiny. You're not my Commander. You're nothing." Sam's voice is low and dangerous and the gun sweeps out of the demon's hand and shatters like porcelain. "You have no power over me or my brother."
The demon looks momentarily nonplussed, but recovers quickly. He slides his now-empty hand into a pocket. "You can't kill me without the Colt," he says indifferently, "not for good. So what's the point?"
"Maybe not," Sam agrees, "but I can sure as hell inconvenience you." Sam's smile is deadly. "You're done here." Sam's voice is brittle with rage. "Go back to hell."
The demon rolls his eyes. "You-"
"You're done here." Sam repeats. He takes a deep breath and shakes himself, he feels like he's coming out a trance. Breaking the surface. He gives the signal. "Now!"
Time unfreezes. A gunshot rings out like a bell and a red stain blooms on the demon's chest. Monica ducks back behind the charred wall of the school.
"Consecrated bullets," Sam explains. "Filled with holy water. Engraved with protective seals. It's a real bitch to make them." He shows his teeth, and if he could see his own expression, he wouldn't recognize himself. "That's gotta sting."
Craig fires the second shot and it hits the demon in the forehead. He rocks backwards, arms thrown wide. Jason charges toward the professor, but Andy's stop and force the Sixer onto his hands and knees. The two remaining Sixers drop onto their stomachs, faces pressed to the ground.
Sam nods almost imperceptibly at Dean, the signal for the third shot. Dean fires and this time the bullet hits its mark. The demon lands flat on his back, mouth open in stunned fury. There's no sound, only smoke spiraling away. "That was for Mom and Dad," Dean whispers hoarsely. He glances at his brother. And for Sam, you son of a bitch.
The smoke whips back and forth like a great black snake, and then it's gone.
ooooo
When the smoke vanishes, there's a new kind of chaos. This one involves Andy and Jeff dealing with the Sixers, Craig and Luke trying to comfort a stone-faced Lisa, and Monica-as well as a handful of other hunters--performing as much first aid as their limited supplies and even more limited knowledge allow.
"That was…that was really something, Sam," Dean says huskily. Sam hasn't moved for the past five minutes. His complexion is the color of milk and he's staring at the sky like he's half expecting the demon to put in an encore appearance. Sam's jaw is set and he's radiating a don't touch me vibe, so Dean doesn't. But he's definitely invading Sam's personal space, cuz that's what big brothers do.
Dean coughs, clears his throat. "You freaked me out a little back there," Dean admits, careful to keep his voice light. He's willing to admit he was freaked, but he's not about to admit how much..
Sam finally looks at him and Dean can see the tension drain from Sam's posture, his face. He blinks and rubs a hand across his mouth. "Dean. I think…I think we did it." Sam looks absolutely stunned, as if he just discovered he can speak a new language, or fly.
Dean grins. "No way, man. You did it. If you hadn't kept Yellow Eyes busy with your freaky telekinetic shit we wouldn’t have been able to pull it off." He hopes his voice reflects exactly how proud he is.
Sam grins back. "You're a good shot."
"Damn skippy."
Sam laughs and so does Dean. It's a sound that still makes him feel like he can do anything. Making Sam laugh might be the only thing better that killing monsters. There will be time to mourn Hannah and Nessa later, time for doubt and worry. But this moment is theirs. He's not used to being on the winning end of things, and it's a nice change of pace.
"What do you think it means? Is he gone for good?" Sam asks like the giant wet blanket he is.
"Way to suck the feel-good out of the moment, Sam." Dean shrugs, a smile ghosting his face. "I'm voting for the gone for good option. But at the very least it'll take a good long while for him to crawl back out of hell." Dean glances toward the Sixers. "And if there's a rematch, our chances don't look half bad."
Sam's face clouds and he chews at his bottom lip, that brief flash of ease gone. His jaw sets. "I need to talk to Jason."
Dean's eyes narrow. "Okay, actually, Sam? You don't. I thought you were done with that whole punish yourself bullshit."
Sam shakes his head, forehead creasing. "It's not that. I just need to make sure there's…I need to make sure the windows are shut."
Dean quirks an eyebrow. "Is that your lame way of saying you wanna check if he's still, you know, all natural born killer or not?"
Sam tosses a half-hearted bitchface at Dean and heads toward Andy. Dean chuckles and ambles after him. It's crazy how happy Sam's Mr. Pissy Pants routine makes him nowadays, and it's no wonder. Given the choice between nearly catatonic suicidal despair and Cranky McBitchy, well, he'll take bitchy-ass Sam any day of the week.
Some of the Sixer soldiers are still in stumbly despondent mode, some of them look a toe nail's width from bawling, and a few stare into space like there's a hidden message on the horizon. Jason is one of the latter.
Dean gets a bad feeling just from looking at the guy. He calls after Sam. "Dude, wait up." Sam slows his pace so Dean can catch up. "Just do me a favor, don't let that guy touch you. I saw what he can do."
"You have no idea what he can do," Sam says grimly. He gets that I suck look in his eye again and Dean wonders if Sam first had that look before everything went to shit or after. It's not a look Dean likes. He decides there's something about the look on Jason's face he likes even less.
The Sixer nods to Sam. "I didn't think I'd see you again."
Sam looks pained. Dean wonders if he's thinking of what happened to April. "Yeah."
Jason bows his head and rubs his temples. "I feel so…I don't know what to do. The things I did, Sam." He lifts his face and his eyes plead. "Help me." Jason sways unsteadily.
Sam steps forward and grabs Jason's arm, supporting him. And really, that right there, is so Sam. Always wanting to help, to make up for shit, to be Mr. Sensitive. Dean sees the glint before Sam does. Sam's not looking for it, he's too busy being nice. But nice guys finish last, isn't that what they say? The knife is in Jason's hand. Dean opens his mouth to warn Sam, his hand reaches for his gun but Jason is fast. He pivots and the blade cuts Sam's throat like butter.
The warning shrivels and dies on Dean's tongue. His brain grinds to a halt. But his hand still seems to work because his finger squeezes the trigger and Jason drops with a thud. Gravity's playing favorites because Sam falls slowly. He's got both hands to his throat but the blood runs through his fingers like it's got a mind of its own, like it's just been waiting for this chance to escape. Sam's hands are bright red, his shirt's already soaking through. Dean falls to his knees and catches Sam. Sam's a fucking giant, but he's light, he's a fucking feather and Dean doesn't feel anything but Sam's hair tickling his face and the warmth of Sam's blood on his trembling hand.
Fuck, no Dean thinks. This isn't right. We won. We won. "No," he babbles, "No, Sam. It's okay, I'm here, I'm right here, Sammy and you're not going anywhere." His voice is broken because it's hitching up and down like he's just hit puberty, but it doesn't matter. He's trembling almost as bad as Sam, but he holds on, as if holding onto Sam is enough to keep him alive. There's an army of Sixers standing around, gaping like morons, all of them useless. He doesn't need pyrotechnics or super strength or visions or telekinesis, he needs someone who can fucking help. He needs a needle and thread and a pint (a fucking liter) of Type O blood.
A sliver of Dean's mind registers the fact that Andy's blubbering. He's screeching at the Sixers to get out of the fucking way you assholes and Craig is screaming Sam's name and Rosey is crying and Monica is saying hush baby, hush. Sam's eye rolls in its socket and it feels like years before it manages to focus on Dean. Sam lifts a slick shaking hand to Dean's face. The blood from Sam's neck flows faster, like water from a faucet.
Dean clasps Sam's hand and presses it to his stubbled cheek and thinks Sammy don't leave me, please don't. He thinks, this happened before, we were in the kitchen, I didn't want to shoot you but I did. You were on the floor and I was so afraid you were going to die but you didn't. You lived. You lived then and you better fucking live now. Don't be a goddamn quitter, Sam. Don't.
Sam tries to talk but all that comes out of his throat is a horrific burbling sound that makes Dean want to eat his gun right then and there. Pink froth bubbles between Sam's fingers and Dean starts to cry.
Someone's kneeling beside him and they're trying to move Dean's hand from Sam's neck and Dean yells "Fuck you! Get off him!" but somehow the words don't cooperate and his venomous shout collapses into a desperate moan.
"I can help." Luke's voice is thin and calm and it's a voice Dean's longed to hear, but not like this. It's a voice Dean desperately wants to believe. The boy's small freckled hand gently pushes Dean's rough one aside. "Let me try, Dean," Luke says softly and Dean does, because he has no other choice.