When Heroes Go Down (They Go Down Fast) 2/12
Title: When Heroes Go Down (They Go Down Fast) 2/12
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: i know you're all sick of apocafics, but I’ve had this idea in my head for a while. I think there will be at least 6 chapters to this story, and each chapter is going to be pretty longish. a big heaping scoop of thanks to
kroki_refur for betaing this. 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. thanks also to
estei and
indysaur for all their kind words regarding chapter 1. and thank you to *everyone* who's read my fic so far. i hug you all! <3
Disclaimer: I own nothing winchestery. alas. alack. it’s all you, kripke.
I hurt myself today
To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real
The needle tears a hole
The old familiar sting
Try to kill it all away
But I remember everything
If I could start again
A million miles away
I would keep myself
I would find a way-Johnny Cash
Chapter 2
Now.
Sam lies on the too-small bed, listening. His head hurts, but it’s hurt worse. He moves his fingers over the eye patch and it’s smooth beneath his skin.
They’re talking about him. Again. They think he doesn’t know, but he does - he might be (mostly) blind, but he’s not deaf.
He rolls over to stare at the wall. White plaster looks back. This is what he wants to be. White plaster. A clean slate. A new start. But he is none of those things.
He is a murderer recovering from a gunshot wound.
In the next room, Dean says, "It’s been two days and he hasn’t done anything."
"He cried," Izzy points out.
Sam can hear the exasperation in Dean’s voice. "He hasn’t tried to hurt any of us. He’s shown remorse. He’s acting like Sam."
Sam shuts his eye. Remorse. What a fucking waste of letters. It doesn’t begin to describe how he feels. What he owes.
"How did you know it would work?" Andy asks.
"I didn’t. But after what happened with Ava I thought there might be a chance. That’s why I used the .22 caliber bullet, because there’s less force. And that’s why I aimed for the eye, so I wouldn’t hit the midline."
Dean keeps talking but Sam stops listening.
He wishes he could pull himself into the blank wall and disappear. He reaches out one long arm and touches the wall with tentative fingers.
All he has to do is punch through the wall and go inside. Get away. Run. Hide.
He doesn’t know how to get away from himself.
ooooo
Then.
He no longer thinks in terms of destiny or right or wrong. He thinks in terms of destruction and pain and death. The hunters (not special like he is) have a word for it. Letifer. Death dealer. That’s what he is. The Yellow Eyed Demon (Commander, Master) whispers into his ear at night and Sam listens. He obeys his orders, because, in another life, a different commander taught him how.
There are some humans (weak) who are blind to the coming glory. Sam is a soldier fighting to rid the earth of the stink of humanity, and one day (soon) the demons will return to their rightful place.
The small group cowers before him. Two men and a child. Sam smiles at them, his face shining with empathy and trust. "Do you know who I am?" he asks gently. He pulls a long blade out of a sheath on his belt. "I’ll show you." He plunges the knife into the child’s throat and pulls. Blood spurts, baptizing them all.
ooooo
Now.
Sam’s own scream wakes him. He scrambles off the mattress and wedges himself into the small space between the wall and the bed.
He’s shivering and he rubs his face, desperate to get the blood off. It takes a minute for him to realize there isn’t any. It was a nightmare (memory).
Sam licks his cracked lips, breathing hard. He blinks the sweat out of his eye, and that’s when he sees the figure in the chair. His heart constricts and he jerks back, slamming his head against the wall in panic. "No!" It’s the Yellow-Eyed Demon come to reclaim its property.
"Sam."
Sam relaxes a fraction, just a fraction, because the voice belongs to Dean. He remains against the wall, his face taut with tension and fear.
Dean gets up, moves to Sam’s bed. He pats the rumpled blankets. "Dude, it’s okay. Sit down."
Sam wants to laugh but the sound comes out wrong, high and strangled. "Okay? Nothing’s okay!" His voice wobbles, but the accusation is still evident. "You should have killed me when you had the chance."
Dean puts a hand on Sam’s arm. "I did kill you." He meets Sam’s good eye. "I killed the part of you that was wrong. I killed the monster you turned into."
Sam shakes his head. "I’m still a monster." He brings his hands to his head, grabs fistfuls of hair and yanks. The pain helps, but just barely. "In here. I remember what I did." His voice is a harsh rasp, thick with rust and regret. "I can’t get it out. I can’t stand seeing the things I did."
Dean is silent for a long moment. When he finally speaks, he pulls Sam close. Sam resists, then lets himself be pulled away from the wall. "You have to try and think about something else," Dean tells him.
Sam is incredulous. "What?" His mind is filled with horror, there is nothing else.
Dean puts an arm on Sam’s shoulder and meet’s Sam’s gaze. "You need to tell me what The Demon is planning."
Sam’s good eye on fixes on Dean blankly.
Dean takes a deep breath. "And is there a chance we can stop him?"
ooooo
Sam refuses to travel with them unless Dean ties his hands behind his back. Dean bitches about it, but finally agrees just so they can get moving. They’ve already been in Milwaukee too long.
On the outskirts of Green Bay, Izzy is the first to see the message spray-painted across a deserted overpass. She elbows Andy. "Look."
Tall shaky letters read: YOU WILL FIND HOPE IN TRUTH.
Dean squints at the letters. "What the hell?"
"Keep walking," Sam says.
Andy looks up at Sam. "Do you know what it means?"
"It means we’re going to Truth or Consequences, New Mexico."
"What’s there?" Dean wants to know.
Sam keeps his eyes on the concrete in front of him. He doesn’t look at anything but the highway. He counts his steps so that numbers fill his head instead of the faces of those he’s killed. He pauses at five hundred fifty-two and says, "Our last chance."
ooooo
Dean opens his eyes to find Andy squatting next to him. "You have to take my weapons," he says. His face is red; he’s been crying.
Dean is instantly awake, his eyes on the shotgun in Andy’s hands. He pushes himself up onto his elbows. "What’s going on?"
Andy won’t meet Dean’s gaze. "He wants me to kill you," he whispers. "I won’t. I keep telling the fucker no, but I’m tired, Dean. I’m so tired and I’m scared all the time." He slides his gun across the dead grass. "Take it."
Sam watches them, his back against a tree. His hands are no longer tied, but a thick rope anchors him to the tree trunk. The rope forces him to sit upright and he’s glad. He never wants to sleep again. He can feel Andy’s misery. His terror. It’s almost visible. He pulls his knees up and wraps his arms around them. "Andy."
Andy turns to look at him. His eyes shine in the firelight.
Sam crooks a finger. "Come here."
Andy takes a few steps toward Sam. He gets close, but not too close. "What?"
"I can help you. But I need you to come closer."
Andy is clearly hesitant, but he seats himself within reaching distance of Sam. The exhaustion and dread hangs over Andy like a shadow. "I know how you feel," Sam says. "You’re afraid. Afraid you’ll be like me."
Andy shifts, uncomfortable. "Sam..."
Sam smiles but his face is etched with sorrow. "I don’t want you to be like me either," Sam says hoarsely. He reaches out and puts his hand on Andy’s forehead. He can almost hear the Demon’s voice, it feels like ants crawling over his skin. And some part of Sam’s mind reaches into Andy and shuts it off. It’s like listening to static one minute, blessed silence the next. Just like that, off.
Andy pushes himself away from Sam, gaping in shock. "What...what did you do?"
Izzy shifts at the sound of Andy’s raised voice, but she doesn’t wake up.
Dean moves to stand in front of Sam. "What happened?"
Andy’s face can’t hold on to one single emotion. He switches between amazement, suspicion, and relief. He blinks at Dean and points to Sam, like a third-grade tattletale. "He did something to me!"
Dean’s eyes bore into Sam. "What’d you do?"
Sam accepts their doubt, their skepticism. It’s what he deserves. "I think I took...The Demon out of his head. I don’t think he’ll be able to come into Andy’s dreams anymore."
Now it’s Dean’s turn to look shocked. "What? How?"
Sam shakes his head. "I’m not sure. I just knew that I could. It was like...I could see his misery and I wanted to take it away."
Dean barks out an angry laugh. "And put it where, exactly?"
Sam is silent.
"Did you take it? Somehow...absorb it like a fucking X-Man? Because I hate to tell you Sam, you’re already..." Dean sighs heavily and trails off.
"Fucked up?" Sam suggests.
Dean glares. "I didn’t say that."
"But it’s what you think." Sam looks from Dean to Andy, then at the sleeping form of Isobelle. "It’s what you all think. And you’re right." Sam leans his head against the rough bark and stares up at the empty night. "You know why I make you tie my hands?" He strains half-heartedly against the rope that binds him to the tree. "Why I want you to tie me up?"
"Because you’re afraid you’ll hurt us," Andy says.
Sam tilts his head. "No, Andy. I won’t hurt you. That’s over. There’s only one person I want to hurt now. There’s only one person who deserves punishment." A tear rolls down his cheek, silver in the moonlight.
"Sam." Dean’s voice is a warning. "Don’t say it." Sam smiles and his face holds so much pain Dean has to look away.
"Me," Sam says softly. "I think about death all the time. All the people I killed. And now I just want to kill me." His smile turns bright and bitter. "And I will. I’m just waiting. I’ll help you as much as I can, but then I’m done. I’m done."
Andy starts pacing. "Stop talking that way, man. You...you just helped me." He manages a shaky laugh. "You have no idea how much you helped me." He leans down to look into Sam’s face. "You saved me, Sam. You saved me."
Sam nods. "Good. I’m glad. But saving you doesn’t make up for what I’ve done," his voice shakes. "I can’t live with it. You have no idea what I’ve done." His voice rises. "And I can’t tell you. Because if I tell you, you’ll kill me right now." Sam’s mouth twists in revulsion. "I’m the things we hunt." He smacks his head against the tree.
Dean shakes his head. "No, Sam. Listen-"
"You listen!" Sam screams. "I know it wasn’t fair to ask you to kill me. It wasn’t then and it isn’t now. I know better. I can do it myself." He takes a shuddering breath, straining for control. "But not yet."
"Shut up," Dean spits. "I didn’t chase your ass for the past year and get you back just so you could kill yourself."
Sam clenches his teeth. "Is this the part where you tell me I’m a selfish bastard? Because we did that already. I got the memo, Dean." Another tear leaks from his eye and he hits his head again. "But you don’t know what it’s like. You have no idea."
ooooo
Then.
The woman begs for mercy and her desperate sobs are music. He loops the rope around her neck and tosses the other end over the branch. Her face is wet with tears and snot and blood, and he laughs. This is what the humans are now, mewling and helpless in the face of death.
Sam pulls the rope effortlessly and her feet lift off the ground. She makes a strangled cry, her eyes wide with terror. He pulls her close and kisses her hard bites her tongue, her lips, and tastes the salty tang of her blood. He steps back and spits in her face. Her own blood spatters across her nose like freckles. "It’s time to go," he says, and ties the rope off. Her eyes roll and her feet kick, but it’s useless. There’s no help for her now.
Sam is turning away, whistling, when he sees the two children. A boy and a girl, no older than ten. He lowers himself to their level, smiling with bloodstained teeth. "I have a present for you," he tells them. A knife appears in each hand.
ooooo
Now.
Sam strains hard against the rope, tries to shake the children’s ruined faces from his mind. He can still taste the woman’s blood. He chokes and cries and his head thuds against broken bark.
Fuck.
Fuck it all.
His mother died for (him) this? And Jess? So he could become a monster and kill innocent people-innocent children? Why? What’s the point? Why should he live when so many died (because of him)?
He can’t.
(Thud.)
Stand it.
(Thud.)
Any more.
(Thud.)
And then Sam feels something behind his head but he can’t stop, can’t stop, and now Dean’s swearing, shaking his hand.
Andy fumbles with the rope and he and Dean wrestle Sam to the ground but it’s not much use because now he’s just hitting his head on the ground and screaming what’s the fucking point and get off me and Dean is scared shitless.
Suddenly Izzy is in the middle of everything and grabs a fistful of Sam’s hair. She holds his head still, looking down at him, listening to his frenzied breathing, and glares. "You’re making it fucking hard to sleep, you know that?"
Dean and Andy stare at her, momentarily dumbstruck. Then Dean laughs shakily and puts his hands on either side of Sam’s face. "The girl’s got a point, Sam. You have to calm down."
Sam just turns his face away.
Dean lies down next to his brother and puts one arm around him. He holds Sam as close as he can, even though it’s awkward because Sam’s curled into himself like he’s trying to disappear. He runs one hand through Sam's blood-matted hair and picks out bits of bark. Dean rests his forehead against Sam's shoulder, hoping he can transfer some of his own strength into Sam.
ooooo
They’re skirting what’s left of St. Louis when the tank rolls into view. It’s coming toward them, rolling awkwardly over the dead cars still scattered across Highway 54. Dean looks for Izzy and she shrugs at him - Izzy speak for no demon vibes.
Dean’s in the lead. He doesn’t want to be, he’s trying to keep in step with Sam, but Sam keeps lagging behind. His hands are tied again, and he keeps stumbling over chunks of broken concrete. Dean knows Sam isn’t paying attention to his surroundings, because even half blind with his hands tied behind his back (literally), Sam can kick his ass in the speed and grace department. Only Sam isn’t paying attention to speed or grace or the ground he’s walking on. He’s trapped in memories that won’t let him go. Memories Dean is afraid to ask about.
Dean kicks a rock out of Sam’s path and elbows him. "Dude. We’ve got company."
Sam lifts his head and blinks. Shaggy hair falls into his good eye, and he shakes his head in annoyance. He stares at the tank.
Andy comes up behind them. "What do you think? The real army or some kind of TOA trick?"
Dean frowns. "If it’s our military, then they’re probably in worse shape than we are."
Izzy waves at the tank, an over here gesture. She grins at Dean. "Maybe we can hitch a ride."
"My feet would die of gratitude," Andy mutters, and Dean nods. His dogs are way past barking: they’re in whimpering territory now. His boots are strung together with more hope than leather at this point, and the thought of a ride is worth the risk of conversation.
The tank rumbles toward them, creaks over the remains of a motorcycle, and comes to a stop about twenty feet away. There’s a clank, and a hatch at the rear of tank drops down to form a ramp. A voice shouts in their direction. "Who the fuck are you?"
"Christo," Dean shouts, holding empty hands up, palms out. Andy drops down behind a nearby car, gun ready, watchful.
A soldier appears, machine gun in hand. He scowls at Dean’s motley group. "Christo? What the fuck kind of name is that? Who are you?"
Dean rolls his eyes and lowers his hands. Definitely not a demon. "Easy, tiger. I’m just a regular guy. My name is Dean, these are my friends. None of us are demons or Sixers. We were wondering if maybe we could hitch a ride."
The scowl falls off the man’s face and he leans against the tank, head back. "Oh, thank Christ. I thought you were more of those demon fucks or those fucked up X-kids."
Andy steps out from behind the car, gun pointed at the ground. "Where are you going?"
The closer Dean gets to him, the younger the soldier looks. He looks too thin and too pale, a huge bruise shading the left side of his face. The soldier shrugs. "Fuck if I know. The rest of my unit is gone." His voice wavers. "It’s just me and the staff sergeant, but he’s fucked up."
"What’s your name?" Dean asks. "Or do I just call you G.I. Joe?"
The man runs a hand through short oily hair. "SPC Patrick Wackler. You can call me Trick if you want."
Dean stares at him. "Yeah…I’m going to call you Patrick, but thanks. You said your staff sergeant is fucked? I take it you don’t mean in a good way?"
Patrick laughs bitterly. "I don’t think there is a good way nowadays."
Sam steps forward, squints at the specialist. "Can we help?"
The soldier’s eyes bounce back and forth between Sam’s eyepatch and his bound hands. He looks at Dean. "What is this?"
"I tried to steal some of their food," Sam says smoothly, "and I got caught. They’re letting me travel with them, but only if I behave." He moves his hands weakly. "This helps me improve my attitude."
Dean snorts. "It’s gonna take more than that to improve your attitude." He casts a quick wink at Sam. Nice one.
Sam nods slightly, looks away. Thanks.
Patrick shoots a glare at Sam, but says nothing. He turns back to Dean. "We don’t have any food to steal."
"We’ve got some apples," Izzy pipes up. "Does that work as bus fare?"
Patrick smiles at her. "Maybe."
"The only problem is, we’re heading in the other direction," Dean tells him. "Back the way you came."
Patrick lifts one shoulder. "All I do is go up and down this goddamn highway," he says. "My unit is gone, the base is gone, my family is gone..." his voice trails off. He manages a tight smile. "I’ve been looking for survivors, and I guess I finally found some."
Izzy walks over and hands him an apple. "Can you get us to Tulsa?" she asks.
Patrick considers, squinting up at the sky. "I don’t think so. We’re almost out of fuel." He scratches the bridge of his nose. "Maybe close to the Oklahoma border though."
Dean flashes a bright grin. "That’s good enough for me."
Patrick directs them toward the back of the tank. "Where are you folks trying to get to?"
"Truth or Consequences, New Mexico," Andy says.
Patrick’s forehead creases. "What’s there? Family?"
Dean shakes his head. "Nope. Something better."
Patrick studies Dean’s face, curious. "Yeah? What’s that?"
"Hope."
ooooo
There’s just enough room inside the tank. Patrick sits up front, driving. The staff sergeant is curled against the back wall of the tank, his head on a backpack, eyes closed. Dean sits closest to Patrick; Andy, Sam, and Izzy take up the remainder of the seats. The gunner turret is empty.
The inside of the tank is cramped and loud, and it reeks of sweat and urine. "This here is my home, sweet home," Patrick yells over the sound of the engine. "This baby’s a M2A2 and we can go about a hundred more miles until the diesel runs out."
They jostle along in relative silence for a few minutes until Dean asks, "What happened to your sergeant?"
"A Sixer did something to him," Patrick says, his face going blank. "We were attacked ten days ago. There were two of them. One of them set the regular sarge on fire and killed three of the other men. The other Sixer did something...else. Jimmy hasn’t been the same since. We’re the only two that got away." Patrick’s jaw works. "At first, he just screamed, I couldn’t get him to shut up. Five days ago he just went quiet. He stopped talking, stopped eating, stopped doing anything. I try to make him drink but..." Patrick’s chin trembles and he clears his throat. "Well. It don’t look too good."
Dean glances at Sam during the exchange but Sam’s head is down. He’s staring into his lap. Dean’s pretty sure the noise of the tank drowned out the news about the Sixers. Patrick shakes his head in disgust. "This whole thing is so fucked up. Right from the get-go." His lip curls. "We didn’t have a chance. I mean, a lot of us came over from Desert Storm, you know? We’re used to fighting people. Normal people. Not all this fucked up Harry Potter shit."
Dean’s incredulous. "They didn’t train you at all?"
"Train us? How?" Patrick scoffs. "What the fuck do you do with a demon?"
Dean’s teeth clench. "For starters, you use silver and holy water. And Latin." He slouches in his seat. "What a gigantic fuck-all."
Patrick snorts. "That, my friend, is an understatement." He glances at Dean. "Are you serious about the holy water and Latin shit?"
Dean nods. "As a heart attack."
"Well it would have been nice to know that a little earlier," Patrick snaps, "because it’s pretty fuckin hard to shock and awe a demon. We were going through ammo like it was water and they’re smashing our tanks like pinÞatas. Lighting our guys on fire like they’re wood.” He brushes a hand across his eyes. “And when we’re not being fucked up the ass by demons, we’ve got the Sixers trying to pick us off.”
Dean reaches a tentative hand toward Patrick’s shoulder, then stops. He leans forward instead. "I’m sorry, man. I wish we could have had a chance to train you properly."
"Well hell, it’s not over yet, is it? Do you hear a fat lady singing?"
Dean snorts. "I guess I don’t. Not yet, anyway. We’d be happy to help you."
"Good. You can start by telling me what the fuck a Christo is."
oooooo
The M2A2 gives up the ghost earlier than expected. Patrick manages to drive the tank off the road and into a parched field, dead husks of corn crunching beneath the heavy wheel track. They pile out of the tank beneath the moon’s weak light; Andy and Patrick unload Jimmy as gently as they can, and they set up camp behind the tank.
They eat some apples that aren’t quite rotten, a few crackers, and some of the shoe-flavored jerky. Patrick sits against the side of the tank. He picks up a dried ear of corn and taps it idly against one boot. "So what’s so great about Truth or Consequences, New Mexico?"
No one says anything for a long moment, then Dean grins. "I like the sound of it."
Patricks nods. "I saw some graffiti a while back. Painted on the side of a concrete retaining wall." He smiles thinly. "You know what it said?"
Dean watches him. "I can guess."
"What do you think it means, finding hope in Truth and all that shit?"
Sam’s hands are untied and he’s playing with a thin strip of jerky. "Second chances," he says, his voice soft and a little wistful. He reaches out to Dean. "Do you want this?"
Dean frowns. Patrick looks hard at Sam. "What’s the matter? You only like food you can steal?"
Dean’s frown pulls tight, and he swallows down a series of shut the fuck ups. It’s not Patrick’s fault he thinks Sam’s a thief. Let it go. "You should eat," he tells Sam.
Sam drops the food into Dean’s lap. "I’m not very hungry," he says, and stands. He wipes his hands against the thighs of his jeans and starts toward the far edge of the field.
"Hey," Dean calls after him, heart lurching. "Where do you think you’re going?"
Sam stops and turns back to Dean. "To talk to Izzy."
Sure enough, now Dean can see a dark shape walking amongst the ruined stalks. An Izzy shape. Dean huffs and waves Sam off.
"Why do you let that asshole travel with you?" Patrick demands.
Dean turns back to Patrick, his eyes hard and flat. "Because that asshole is my brother."
Patrick gapes at Dean in confusion. Dean holds his gaze, his eyes burning holes into Patrick’s face. Patrick reads the just drop it loud and clear. So he does.
ooooo
"Do you ever look up at the sky and think it’s just black construction paper?" Izzy wonders. She smiles in the darkness. "Like maybe God is playing with scissors and poking holes in the universe? And the stars are just the light from heaven shining through?"
Sam glances up at the night sky and hunches his shoulders. "Not really. Stars are just balls of flaming gas."
Izzy wrinkles her nose. "You’re a ball of flaming gas."
Sam blinks, then snorts laughter. "What...what does that even mean?"
Izzy shrugs, then smiles. "I don’t know. It just sounded funny."
"Do you really think the stars are holes God made with giant scissors?"
Izzy considers. "They don’t have to be giant scissors." She pauses, then sighs. "No. Not really." She looks pensive in the moonlight. "But wouldn’t it be cool?"
"I don’t know." Sam’s hands are clasped together behind his back - he’s used to the position now. "I don’t know if I believe in God anymore."
They walk the edge of the field together. "You used to?"
"I think so," Sam says softly. "It’s hard to remember sometimes. I used to believe in angels, and hope and forgiveness." His voice takes on a hard edge. "I don’t really believe in any of that now."
Izzy doesn’t answer right away. She bends down and picks up a few corn husks. "When I was little my mom used to make dolls out of corn husks," she finally says.
Sam lifts an eyebrow. "She did?"
She nods. "Yeah." She laughs and rolls her eyes. "They were ugly as shit. She used to make those little dried up apple face dolls too." She shudders. "You know, the ones that look like they’ll come alive at night and stab you with a paring knife?"
Sam grins. "I think we hunted something like that once."
"You know what else my mom used to do?"
"What?"
"She was always spouting little sayings. The kind you’d stitch onto a pillow or something." Izzy’s grin turns rueful. "Of course once my voices started, she sort of ran out of helpful homilies. But you know what she said that’s stuck with me?"
Sam shakes his head.
"She said...the person who forgives others, but not himself, can never be happy."
Sam avoids her gaze. "She must have needed a really big pillow for that one."
Izzy glares at him. "Sam."
Sam stops walking, takes a step back. "Izzy. I get what you’re trying to say. And - and I know you’re just trying to be nice. But I can’t...it doesn’t..." he takes a halting breath. "I-just can’t. You don’t know the things I’ve done. " He takes another step. "You can’t know. You can’t."
He turns and walks away, long strides through the dark.
And then he’s running.
ooooo
Andy’s beside the campfire, almost asleep. He’s not really thinking about anything, except maybe how tired he is. Before the world went to hell, he never knew you could be this tired and live.
Sam’s voice makes him jump. "Andy."
Andy jerks into a sitting position. "Jesus, Sam. Sneak up, much?"
Sam drops to his knees and holds his hands out in front of him. "Tie my hands."
Andy stares at him. "What? No." But Sam’s face is a pale oval of desperation. Andy bites his lip. "Just...just go to sleep."
Sam makes a sound low in his throat. Andy can’t tell exactly what it means, but he definitely doesn’t like it. "Sleep? Are you fucking kidding me?" Sam’s voice is a growl.
"Uh, maybe I should get Dean." Andy looks around, spots Dean talking to the army guy over by the tank.
Sam’s hand closes over Andy’s. Andy looks down at Sam’s hand; thinks, his hands are fucking huge. "No. He’ll just...he won’t want to. I...," Sam shakes his head quickly, as if a cloud of gnats are buzzing around his ears. "I...keep thinking, and it makes me want to...makes it hard to sleep," he finishes. He swallows and keeps staring at Andy, his eyes much too wide.
Andy opens his mouth, closes it. He sighs and pulls the rope out of his pack. "Okay," he says, agreeing against his better judgment. "Put your hands out."
Sam smiles and exhales, as if Andy just gave him a fucking compliment, rather than just agreeing to tie him up. Andy wraps the rope around Sam’s wrists and pulls tight, knotting the rope the way Dean showed him. He looks up at Sam. "How’s that?"
Sam looks down at his hands. He flexes, and red welts pop up along his wrists almost immediately. Andy grimaces. "Shit. I’m sorry, let me-"
Sam pushes himself up and away before Andy can reach him. "No. You did good. Thanks, Andy." He walks a few feet away and sits himself down, cross-legged, away from the firelight.
Andy lies back against the dry earth. He doesn’t feel tired anymore.
ooooo
When Dean wakes up the next morning he finds Patrick bent over Jimmy. He walks over, tentative. "Patrick?"
Patrick looks up. His eyes are red-rimmed, but his face is blank. He puts a trembling hand on his friend’s chest. "He’s dead."
Dean sighs. He’s had it up to here with pain and loss and death. He wishes he hadn’t gotten up yet. Wishes he could just skip this part. Wishes he and Sam were about a million miles from here with nothing to worry about except ugly motel rooms and pissy ghosts. Instead, he does his best Sam impersonation. He doesn’t have the puppy dog eyes, but he can do heartfelt and sincere when he has to. "I’m sorry," he says quietly. And he is.
Patrick stays with them. Nobody says much about it. By late afternoon, Dean spots a sign that reads Tulsa in 5 miles and thinks thank God. And beyond the sign, off the highway, is something that makes his feet stop in mid-step.
He stares for a long moment, then runs to the shoulder of the road.
Sam appears at his side. "Are you okay?"
Dean has no words. Coherent thought has left for parts unknown. He points instead, mouth hanging open, waiting for flies.
Sam follows Dean’s finger and blinks.
And then Izzy’s dragging Andy over, screaming at the top of her lungs. "Holy Christ on a crutch you guys, it’s a fucking cow!"
And it is.
Bessy or Daisy or whatever the fuck is standing in the middle of a backyard munching what’s left of the grass beneath a towering oak tree. It looks so out of place that Dean rubs his eyes. He’s dreaming. He’s got to be.
But Patrick and Andy are scrambling down the embankment and toward the crumpled barb-wire fence that separates the highway from the residential neighborhood.
The cow is still there, chewing calmly.
"I don’t believe it," Dean breathes. He slaps Sam on the back, his face lit with something that might be joy. "Dude, we’re gonna eat fucking steak tonight."
Izzy’s already chasing Andy, yelling here cow, nice cow in saccharine tones.
Sam allows Dean to lead him down the gravel slope and over the fence.
Izzy ruffles Andy’s hair, giggling. "Just tell it to lie down and die."
He rolls his eyes at her. "I’m gonna tell you to lie down and die if you don’t shut up."
The cow turns her head and blinks at all them, unconcerned.
Dean rubs the stubble edging his jaw. "Everybody hold on," he says quietly, "are we even alone out here?"
Izzy tilts her head, listens. She nods. "We’re not picking anything up."
The backyard is quiet. There’s a rusted swing set and a green plastic turtle-shaped sandbox. There’s something Dean’s pretty sure is a human femur sticking out of the sand like a shovel handle. The houses around them don’t look damaged. They stand tall and silent, judging.
Dean points to the sandbox. "Let’s look around a little before we break out the buffet," Dean suggests quietly. "Maybe there’s canned food around here. Clothes. Boots. And maybe the folks here aren’t too eager to share."
Izzy turns toward a blank window. "I’d give my left boob for toilet paper and tampons."
Andy chuckles and Dean cracks a weary smile. "Classy, Iz." He nods toward the house Izzy is eyeballing. "Why don’t you, Andy, and Patrick check the house."
Patrick casts a doubtful look at Izzy. "Why don’t you come?" he suggests. "Andy and Sam can kill the fatted calf."
"No." Sam’s voice is too loud.
Dean can almost hear Sam start to crack and he puts a firm hand on Patrick’s shoulder, gives him a gentle push. "We’re fine. You check the house."
Patrick is clearly annoyed, but he follows orders. Dean watches him go, and it feels strange to be the one giving orders, not taking them. Even after all these months, he’s not used to being in charge. It feels like a mistake. But so far, no one seems to have noticed.
"And be careful," Dean hisses. He turns back to Sam.
"Sam, what the-"
Sam’s trying to get up the embankment and back onto the highway. Between the loose gravel and his tied hands, he’s not having much luck. But then his shoes find purchase and he’s going, going, gone.
ooooo
Then.
They’re lined up along the road like cattle. Five of them, all on hands and knees. Most cry or beg, but two of them are silent.
Jason steps forward, rests his hand on an elderly man’s head. Sam can see a few wisps of white hair and a speckling of liver spots along the man’s scalp. The man’s voice is thin and reedy, almost musical. "Please. Please don’t-"
Jason’s hand tightens against the man’s head, and he pitches forward bonelessly. Blood gushes from the old man’s eyes, nose and mouth. The woman next to him trembles on her hands and knees, but she doesn’t beg. She doesn’t cry. She just looks up at Sam with large, resigned eyes.
The Sixer grins at Sam. "Your turn," he says with a flourish.
Sam grins back. Once, in another life, he was possessed. The details are murky now, buried between yellowed pages of memory. He remembers he had no control over his body. The demon dealt death with Sam’s hands and he was helpless to stop it.
Now Sam is in control. His hands deal death of their own volition. He has the power to do whatever he wants, whenever he wants. And what he wants is to kill. He kills for the Commander, because it’s his job, because it’s what he does. But he also kills because he likes it.
The woman watches him with wide rolling eyes and Sam winks at her.
Jason sighs loudly next to him. "Hurry up and kill the fucking cow, Samuel," he huffs. "We’ve got things to do, places to be."
"Shut up," Sam snaps, irritated. "I like to take my time." He pulls his knife from its sheath and touches the woman’s limp hair with the blade. He looks at her with soulful eyes, almost tenderly. "Do you like pain?" he asks her, as if he’s asking if she likes ice cream. He squats in front of her, touches her cheek gently. "Because I do."
ooooo
Now.
Sam’s feet slap the pavement. He runs as hard and fast as he can but it’s not fast enough because he doesn’t know how to outrun memory. He can hear Dean hollering behind him, but he doesn’t stop-can’t stop.
He steps on a rock and skids and falls into a stalled green Chevy. His shoulder bounces off the hood and pain jolts down his arm. He can’t catch himself because his hands are still tied, and the momentum throws him off the car and tumbling onto the ground. He lands on one hip and lies still, pain radiating through his muscles.
Dean arrives, his fingers assessing damage before he’s at a full stop. Sam wants to tell him not to bother, that all the damage is inside his head, but he keeps silent, breathing hard.
"Jesus, Sam. This isn’t a good time to go out for track." Dean unties the rope around Sam’s wrists and shoves it into his back pocket.
Dean stands and offers a hand to Sam, and Sam takes it and lets Dean pull him up, shrugging, his mouth a stubborn line. He can’t tell Dean about this. He wants to choke down the memories, but they keep clawing their way out. It’s what he deserves, he knows that, but it’s hard, it’s so hard to keep breathing with the knowledge of what he’s done. His past is a chain wound around his head and his heart, and each day it pulls tighter, it pulls him apart.
Dean puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder, shakes him a little. "Sam, we’ve got to talk about this."
Sam wants to laugh, because how many times have those words come out of his mouth? How many times over the years has he begged Dean for any little scrap of what’s in his head? And now Dean wants to talk? Sam feels sorry for him. Talking won’t help. It’s too late for talking. It’s too late for everything.
Sam hangs his head, shoulders slumped. "Dean, I didn’t mean to-" he jerks his head up, eyes wide.
Dean’s hand squeezes Sam’s shoulder. "What?"
"Something’s wrong."
Dean snorts. "Fuckin A, Sherlock. We both know that."
Sam shrugs Dean’s hand off, turns back toward the house their friends went into. "No. Something…else." He can feel it in the pit of his stomach, in the way the hairs along his arms stand up. He grabs Dean’s arm and pulls him back in the direction they came. "Come on."
Dean jogs beside him. "Is it your Spidey sense?"
"It’s something," Sam grunts, already breaking into the lead.
ooooo
The back door is locked. So is the front. Andy shatters the front window with the butt of his gun, and Izzy climbs through and unlocks the front door. Patrick and Andy enter slowly, guns drawn. "Christo!" Andy calls.
Silence greets them.
Dust motes dance above an old television set. A faded family photo adorns one wall, four faces smiling out at an empty room. "Hello?" Izzy calls. "Is anyone here?"
They make their way into the kitchen. It’s chaos. Silverware and broken dishes litter the floor. A butcher knife flaking dried blood sticks out of a cutting board. There’s more blood on the wall, in the sink, on the handle of the back door. In the corner there’s a broken doll. Patrick bends down to pick a white object off the floor, then flinches and drops it, shaking his hand as if he’s been burned.
"What is it?" Izzy asks.
"I think it was a dog ear," he says, voice thick with disgust.
Andy frowns. "I don’t know about this place." He flicks a look from Izzy to Patrick. "You think they had the Disease here?"
Izzy worries at her lower lip. "I hope not."
Patrick kicks the severed ear across the room. "A more important question is, do they have running water?"
Andy reaches out and turns on the tap. Water dribbles out. "Looks like."
Izzy opens a large cupboard. "And there’s soup. Oh my God!" She pulls out a box and holds it up triumphantly. "And Pop-Tarts!"
"So far, so good," Andy says. "Let’s check the next room."
The kitchen leads into a dining room, complete with a large oak table and an upright piano. Sprawled on the floor is a woman. Brown stringy hair obscures part of her face, but the visible part of her face is wrinkled and leathery. A fly crawls across one cheek. The skin is stretched tight across her face, the shape of her skull prominent: she’s a skeleton in a flowered dress.
Izzy’s hand goes to her mouth. "Is she…dead?"
"I think so," Andy says.
Patrick moves closer, squats beside her. "She certainly looks dead. She looks like a fucking zombie."
The woman moves cat quick. One minute she’s a zombie on the floor, the next she’s got one spidery hand over Patrick’s and is driving a screwdriver down through both their hands and into dusty floorboards.
Patrick shrieks in pain, but the woman just throws her head back and laughs. She pulls the screwdriver out and raises it to stab Patrick again, but Andy’s got her beneath stick-thin arms and is pulling her away.
Izzy backs against the piano, screaming, "She’s got the Disease! She’s sick!"
The woman struggles against Andy, flailing with the bloody screwdriver. She gets an elbow against his chest and sends him sprawling. She looks mostly dead, but she’s strong.
The back door smashes in, and then Sam and Dean are in the kitchen. Dean’s got his gun drawn, and Sam hangs back a little, hands at his sides. "What’s going on?" Dean barks.
Patrick cradles his wounded hand against his chest, his M-9 pistol aimed at the woman’s face. His voice is shrill and spirals higher with each word. "That bitch has the Disease and she fucking stabbed me. She stabbed me!"
The woman turns in a slow circle, her eyes skittering from face to face. "I’m gonna kill you all," she hisses. "I’m gonna tear off your skin and break your bones."
"Sorry, I’m gonna have to take a rain check on that," Dean says. He shows her his gun and flips the safety off.
But Patrick shoots first. The woman’s head explodes into pulp.
"Fuck!" Andy screams and wipes at his face. "Get it off, get it off!"
"I had her," Dean yells, pissed, "what the fuck was that?" He stalks across the room and pulls the M-9 out of Patrick’s hand. "What if you got Andy infected?"
"I’m more interested in me getting infected," Patrick bites back.
Izzy’s at Andy’s side, wiping his face off with her shirt. "It’s okay," she whispers. "I think you’re okay."
The woman is a heap on the floor and Dean starts pacing. "Shit," he says. "Shit."
"What do we do?" Andy asks.
"My parents died from this," Patrick says. "My whole fucking town died from this."
"Maybe you’ll be okay," Sam says softly. "Maybe you won’t get sick."
Dean runs a hand through his hair. It stands up in soft spikes. "Look Patrick, I’m sorry, but…" He frowns and taps the barrel of the gun against his leg.
Patrick’s eyes slit. "You are not shooting me. You think that’s the answer?" He’s incredulous. Furious.
"I don’t know what the answer is!" Dean yells.
Patrick’s face is pale, his forehead beaded with sweat. "I’m not going to hurt anybody."
Dean shakes his head, resigned. "You don’t know that."
Izzy puts an arm around Andy. "Are you okay?"
Andy looks stunned. "I…I don’t know."
"Can you make Patrick calm down?" she asks.
Patrick turns suspicious eyes on Andy. "What does that mean? Make me calm down, how?"
"It doesn’t mean anything," Dean holds a hand out. "Let’s all take a breath, here."
"Fuck that!" Patrick spits. "I was just stabbed with a screwdriver and you all think I’m about to go on some kind of rampage."
"We don’t think that," Sam says. "Nobody thinks that."
Patrick glares at Sam. "Don’t talk to me. I don’t know what your deal is, but the fact they keep you tied up like a dog tells me you are one fucked-up dude. And I don’t feel like being patronized by any fucked-up dudes right now."
The empathy drains out of Sam’s face and he nods woodenly. "Fine."
"He’s trying to help," Dean snaps.
"How?" Patrick screams. "How can any of you help? Do any of you assholes have a cure I don’t know about?"
Andy pushes himself to his feet. Most of the blood is off his face, but his hair is still matted with bits of gore and bone. "Calm down," Andy tells Patrick, "everything will be okay."
Patrick pulls in a shuddering breath. "Yeah. All right. Everything will be okay," he repeats. He closes his eyes, lets his shoulders relax. His eyes snap back open. "What the fuck? Was that?" He puts his good hand to his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. "You doing some kind of mind trick on me?" Patrick’s eyes bulge. "Are you a Sixer?"
Andy and Dean exchange a look, neither one answers.
"Answer me!" Patrick demands.
Sam steps forward. "I’m a Sixer."
Dean glares at his brother. "Do you really think now’s the time to tell the truth, Sam?" he whispers angrily.
Patrick puts a hand to his forehead. "That’s why you keep him tied up! You all know what he is!"
"That’s not why-we don’t-" Dean scowls. "You don’t understand."
"I’m a Sixer too," Andy says. Izzy squeezes his hand tightly.
Patrick sways. He looks sick. "Fuck me," he breathes. "I’ve been traveling with the goddamn enemy."
"We’re not the enemy," Dean insists. "We’re not."
"Tell that to my staff sergeant, you asshole," Patrick grits out.
"Calm down!" Andy bellows.
The tension eases out of Patrick and he nods slowly. "You’re right. I am calm. Thank you." He takes a step toward Andy. "But I’m still going to kill you. I’m going to kill all of you."
The gun trembles in Dean’s hand. "Patrick, come on. Try to fight it."
Patrick smiles. He looks peaceful. "Fight it? The only thing I want to fight is you." He reaches out and grabs Andy by the throat. "I’m going to crush your fucking windpipe, you freak."
"Let go of him!" Izzy screams. She grabs Patrick’s ear and yanks. "I’ll cut your head off if you hurt him."
The gunshot is loud. Patrick twists away from Andy, his arms flung wide, blood dripping from his hand. A flower of blood blooms over the front of his shirt. He stares at Izzy and blinks. He frowns. "Is it hot in here?" he asks. And then he‘s on the floor.
Chapter 3
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: i know you're all sick of apocafics, but I’ve had this idea in my head for a while. I think there will be at least 6 chapters to this story, and each chapter is going to be pretty longish. a big heaping scoop of thanks to
kroki_refur for betaing this. 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. thanks also to
estei and
indysaur for all their kind words regarding chapter 1. and thank you to *everyone* who's read my fic so far. i hug you all! <3
Disclaimer: I own nothing winchestery. alas. alack. it’s all you, kripke.
I hurt myself today
To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real
The needle tears a hole
The old familiar sting
Try to kill it all away
But I remember everything
If I could start again
A million miles away
I would keep myself
I would find a way-Johnny Cash
Chapter 2
Now.
Sam lies on the too-small bed, listening. His head hurts, but it’s hurt worse. He moves his fingers over the eye patch and it’s smooth beneath his skin.
They’re talking about him. Again. They think he doesn’t know, but he does - he might be (mostly) blind, but he’s not deaf.
He rolls over to stare at the wall. White plaster looks back. This is what he wants to be. White plaster. A clean slate. A new start. But he is none of those things.
He is a murderer recovering from a gunshot wound.
In the next room, Dean says, "It’s been two days and he hasn’t done anything."
"He cried," Izzy points out.
Sam can hear the exasperation in Dean’s voice. "He hasn’t tried to hurt any of us. He’s shown remorse. He’s acting like Sam."
Sam shuts his eye. Remorse. What a fucking waste of letters. It doesn’t begin to describe how he feels. What he owes.
"How did you know it would work?" Andy asks.
"I didn’t. But after what happened with Ava I thought there might be a chance. That’s why I used the .22 caliber bullet, because there’s less force. And that’s why I aimed for the eye, so I wouldn’t hit the midline."
Dean keeps talking but Sam stops listening.
He wishes he could pull himself into the blank wall and disappear. He reaches out one long arm and touches the wall with tentative fingers.
All he has to do is punch through the wall and go inside. Get away. Run. Hide.
He doesn’t know how to get away from himself.
ooooo
Then.
He no longer thinks in terms of destiny or right or wrong. He thinks in terms of destruction and pain and death. The hunters (not special like he is) have a word for it. Letifer. Death dealer. That’s what he is. The Yellow Eyed Demon (Commander, Master) whispers into his ear at night and Sam listens. He obeys his orders, because, in another life, a different commander taught him how.
There are some humans (weak) who are blind to the coming glory. Sam is a soldier fighting to rid the earth of the stink of humanity, and one day (soon) the demons will return to their rightful place.
The small group cowers before him. Two men and a child. Sam smiles at them, his face shining with empathy and trust. "Do you know who I am?" he asks gently. He pulls a long blade out of a sheath on his belt. "I’ll show you." He plunges the knife into the child’s throat and pulls. Blood spurts, baptizing them all.
ooooo
Now.
Sam’s own scream wakes him. He scrambles off the mattress and wedges himself into the small space between the wall and the bed.
He’s shivering and he rubs his face, desperate to get the blood off. It takes a minute for him to realize there isn’t any. It was a nightmare (memory).
Sam licks his cracked lips, breathing hard. He blinks the sweat out of his eye, and that’s when he sees the figure in the chair. His heart constricts and he jerks back, slamming his head against the wall in panic. "No!" It’s the Yellow-Eyed Demon come to reclaim its property.
"Sam."
Sam relaxes a fraction, just a fraction, because the voice belongs to Dean. He remains against the wall, his face taut with tension and fear.
Dean gets up, moves to Sam’s bed. He pats the rumpled blankets. "Dude, it’s okay. Sit down."
Sam wants to laugh but the sound comes out wrong, high and strangled. "Okay? Nothing’s okay!" His voice wobbles, but the accusation is still evident. "You should have killed me when you had the chance."
Dean puts a hand on Sam’s arm. "I did kill you." He meets Sam’s good eye. "I killed the part of you that was wrong. I killed the monster you turned into."
Sam shakes his head. "I’m still a monster." He brings his hands to his head, grabs fistfuls of hair and yanks. The pain helps, but just barely. "In here. I remember what I did." His voice is a harsh rasp, thick with rust and regret. "I can’t get it out. I can’t stand seeing the things I did."
Dean is silent for a long moment. When he finally speaks, he pulls Sam close. Sam resists, then lets himself be pulled away from the wall. "You have to try and think about something else," Dean tells him.
Sam is incredulous. "What?" His mind is filled with horror, there is nothing else.
Dean puts an arm on Sam’s shoulder and meet’s Sam’s gaze. "You need to tell me what The Demon is planning."
Sam’s good eye on fixes on Dean blankly.
Dean takes a deep breath. "And is there a chance we can stop him?"
ooooo
Sam refuses to travel with them unless Dean ties his hands behind his back. Dean bitches about it, but finally agrees just so they can get moving. They’ve already been in Milwaukee too long.
On the outskirts of Green Bay, Izzy is the first to see the message spray-painted across a deserted overpass. She elbows Andy. "Look."
Tall shaky letters read: YOU WILL FIND HOPE IN TRUTH.
Dean squints at the letters. "What the hell?"
"Keep walking," Sam says.
Andy looks up at Sam. "Do you know what it means?"
"It means we’re going to Truth or Consequences, New Mexico."
"What’s there?" Dean wants to know.
Sam keeps his eyes on the concrete in front of him. He doesn’t look at anything but the highway. He counts his steps so that numbers fill his head instead of the faces of those he’s killed. He pauses at five hundred fifty-two and says, "Our last chance."
ooooo
Dean opens his eyes to find Andy squatting next to him. "You have to take my weapons," he says. His face is red; he’s been crying.
Dean is instantly awake, his eyes on the shotgun in Andy’s hands. He pushes himself up onto his elbows. "What’s going on?"
Andy won’t meet Dean’s gaze. "He wants me to kill you," he whispers. "I won’t. I keep telling the fucker no, but I’m tired, Dean. I’m so tired and I’m scared all the time." He slides his gun across the dead grass. "Take it."
Sam watches them, his back against a tree. His hands are no longer tied, but a thick rope anchors him to the tree trunk. The rope forces him to sit upright and he’s glad. He never wants to sleep again. He can feel Andy’s misery. His terror. It’s almost visible. He pulls his knees up and wraps his arms around them. "Andy."
Andy turns to look at him. His eyes shine in the firelight.
Sam crooks a finger. "Come here."
Andy takes a few steps toward Sam. He gets close, but not too close. "What?"
"I can help you. But I need you to come closer."
Andy is clearly hesitant, but he seats himself within reaching distance of Sam. The exhaustion and dread hangs over Andy like a shadow. "I know how you feel," Sam says. "You’re afraid. Afraid you’ll be like me."
Andy shifts, uncomfortable. "Sam..."
Sam smiles but his face is etched with sorrow. "I don’t want you to be like me either," Sam says hoarsely. He reaches out and puts his hand on Andy’s forehead. He can almost hear the Demon’s voice, it feels like ants crawling over his skin. And some part of Sam’s mind reaches into Andy and shuts it off. It’s like listening to static one minute, blessed silence the next. Just like that, off.
Andy pushes himself away from Sam, gaping in shock. "What...what did you do?"
Izzy shifts at the sound of Andy’s raised voice, but she doesn’t wake up.
Dean moves to stand in front of Sam. "What happened?"
Andy’s face can’t hold on to one single emotion. He switches between amazement, suspicion, and relief. He blinks at Dean and points to Sam, like a third-grade tattletale. "He did something to me!"
Dean’s eyes bore into Sam. "What’d you do?"
Sam accepts their doubt, their skepticism. It’s what he deserves. "I think I took...The Demon out of his head. I don’t think he’ll be able to come into Andy’s dreams anymore."
Now it’s Dean’s turn to look shocked. "What? How?"
Sam shakes his head. "I’m not sure. I just knew that I could. It was like...I could see his misery and I wanted to take it away."
Dean barks out an angry laugh. "And put it where, exactly?"
Sam is silent.
"Did you take it? Somehow...absorb it like a fucking X-Man? Because I hate to tell you Sam, you’re already..." Dean sighs heavily and trails off.
"Fucked up?" Sam suggests.
Dean glares. "I didn’t say that."
"But it’s what you think." Sam looks from Dean to Andy, then at the sleeping form of Isobelle. "It’s what you all think. And you’re right." Sam leans his head against the rough bark and stares up at the empty night. "You know why I make you tie my hands?" He strains half-heartedly against the rope that binds him to the tree. "Why I want you to tie me up?"
"Because you’re afraid you’ll hurt us," Andy says.
Sam tilts his head. "No, Andy. I won’t hurt you. That’s over. There’s only one person I want to hurt now. There’s only one person who deserves punishment." A tear rolls down his cheek, silver in the moonlight.
"Sam." Dean’s voice is a warning. "Don’t say it." Sam smiles and his face holds so much pain Dean has to look away.
"Me," Sam says softly. "I think about death all the time. All the people I killed. And now I just want to kill me." His smile turns bright and bitter. "And I will. I’m just waiting. I’ll help you as much as I can, but then I’m done. I’m done."
Andy starts pacing. "Stop talking that way, man. You...you just helped me." He manages a shaky laugh. "You have no idea how much you helped me." He leans down to look into Sam’s face. "You saved me, Sam. You saved me."
Sam nods. "Good. I’m glad. But saving you doesn’t make up for what I’ve done," his voice shakes. "I can’t live with it. You have no idea what I’ve done." His voice rises. "And I can’t tell you. Because if I tell you, you’ll kill me right now." Sam’s mouth twists in revulsion. "I’m the things we hunt." He smacks his head against the tree.
Dean shakes his head. "No, Sam. Listen-"
"You listen!" Sam screams. "I know it wasn’t fair to ask you to kill me. It wasn’t then and it isn’t now. I know better. I can do it myself." He takes a shuddering breath, straining for control. "But not yet."
"Shut up," Dean spits. "I didn’t chase your ass for the past year and get you back just so you could kill yourself."
Sam clenches his teeth. "Is this the part where you tell me I’m a selfish bastard? Because we did that already. I got the memo, Dean." Another tear leaks from his eye and he hits his head again. "But you don’t know what it’s like. You have no idea."
ooooo
Then.
The woman begs for mercy and her desperate sobs are music. He loops the rope around her neck and tosses the other end over the branch. Her face is wet with tears and snot and blood, and he laughs. This is what the humans are now, mewling and helpless in the face of death.
Sam pulls the rope effortlessly and her feet lift off the ground. She makes a strangled cry, her eyes wide with terror. He pulls her close and kisses her hard bites her tongue, her lips, and tastes the salty tang of her blood. He steps back and spits in her face. Her own blood spatters across her nose like freckles. "It’s time to go," he says, and ties the rope off. Her eyes roll and her feet kick, but it’s useless. There’s no help for her now.
Sam is turning away, whistling, when he sees the two children. A boy and a girl, no older than ten. He lowers himself to their level, smiling with bloodstained teeth. "I have a present for you," he tells them. A knife appears in each hand.
ooooo
Now.
Sam strains hard against the rope, tries to shake the children’s ruined faces from his mind. He can still taste the woman’s blood. He chokes and cries and his head thuds against broken bark.
Fuck.
Fuck it all.
His mother died for (him) this? And Jess? So he could become a monster and kill innocent people-innocent children? Why? What’s the point? Why should he live when so many died (because of him)?
He can’t.
(Thud.)
Stand it.
(Thud.)
Any more.
(Thud.)
And then Sam feels something behind his head but he can’t stop, can’t stop, and now Dean’s swearing, shaking his hand.
Andy fumbles with the rope and he and Dean wrestle Sam to the ground but it’s not much use because now he’s just hitting his head on the ground and screaming what’s the fucking point and get off me and Dean is scared shitless.
Suddenly Izzy is in the middle of everything and grabs a fistful of Sam’s hair. She holds his head still, looking down at him, listening to his frenzied breathing, and glares. "You’re making it fucking hard to sleep, you know that?"
Dean and Andy stare at her, momentarily dumbstruck. Then Dean laughs shakily and puts his hands on either side of Sam’s face. "The girl’s got a point, Sam. You have to calm down."
Sam just turns his face away.
Dean lies down next to his brother and puts one arm around him. He holds Sam as close as he can, even though it’s awkward because Sam’s curled into himself like he’s trying to disappear. He runs one hand through Sam's blood-matted hair and picks out bits of bark. Dean rests his forehead against Sam's shoulder, hoping he can transfer some of his own strength into Sam.
ooooo
They’re skirting what’s left of St. Louis when the tank rolls into view. It’s coming toward them, rolling awkwardly over the dead cars still scattered across Highway 54. Dean looks for Izzy and she shrugs at him - Izzy speak for no demon vibes.
Dean’s in the lead. He doesn’t want to be, he’s trying to keep in step with Sam, but Sam keeps lagging behind. His hands are tied again, and he keeps stumbling over chunks of broken concrete. Dean knows Sam isn’t paying attention to his surroundings, because even half blind with his hands tied behind his back (literally), Sam can kick his ass in the speed and grace department. Only Sam isn’t paying attention to speed or grace or the ground he’s walking on. He’s trapped in memories that won’t let him go. Memories Dean is afraid to ask about.
Dean kicks a rock out of Sam’s path and elbows him. "Dude. We’ve got company."
Sam lifts his head and blinks. Shaggy hair falls into his good eye, and he shakes his head in annoyance. He stares at the tank.
Andy comes up behind them. "What do you think? The real army or some kind of TOA trick?"
Dean frowns. "If it’s our military, then they’re probably in worse shape than we are."
Izzy waves at the tank, an over here gesture. She grins at Dean. "Maybe we can hitch a ride."
"My feet would die of gratitude," Andy mutters, and Dean nods. His dogs are way past barking: they’re in whimpering territory now. His boots are strung together with more hope than leather at this point, and the thought of a ride is worth the risk of conversation.
The tank rumbles toward them, creaks over the remains of a motorcycle, and comes to a stop about twenty feet away. There’s a clank, and a hatch at the rear of tank drops down to form a ramp. A voice shouts in their direction. "Who the fuck are you?"
"Christo," Dean shouts, holding empty hands up, palms out. Andy drops down behind a nearby car, gun ready, watchful.
A soldier appears, machine gun in hand. He scowls at Dean’s motley group. "Christo? What the fuck kind of name is that? Who are you?"
Dean rolls his eyes and lowers his hands. Definitely not a demon. "Easy, tiger. I’m just a regular guy. My name is Dean, these are my friends. None of us are demons or Sixers. We were wondering if maybe we could hitch a ride."
The scowl falls off the man’s face and he leans against the tank, head back. "Oh, thank Christ. I thought you were more of those demon fucks or those fucked up X-kids."
Andy steps out from behind the car, gun pointed at the ground. "Where are you going?"
The closer Dean gets to him, the younger the soldier looks. He looks too thin and too pale, a huge bruise shading the left side of his face. The soldier shrugs. "Fuck if I know. The rest of my unit is gone." His voice wavers. "It’s just me and the staff sergeant, but he’s fucked up."
"What’s your name?" Dean asks. "Or do I just call you G.I. Joe?"
The man runs a hand through short oily hair. "SPC Patrick Wackler. You can call me Trick if you want."
Dean stares at him. "Yeah…I’m going to call you Patrick, but thanks. You said your staff sergeant is fucked? I take it you don’t mean in a good way?"
Patrick laughs bitterly. "I don’t think there is a good way nowadays."
Sam steps forward, squints at the specialist. "Can we help?"
The soldier’s eyes bounce back and forth between Sam’s eyepatch and his bound hands. He looks at Dean. "What is this?"
"I tried to steal some of their food," Sam says smoothly, "and I got caught. They’re letting me travel with them, but only if I behave." He moves his hands weakly. "This helps me improve my attitude."
Dean snorts. "It’s gonna take more than that to improve your attitude." He casts a quick wink at Sam. Nice one.
Sam nods slightly, looks away. Thanks.
Patrick shoots a glare at Sam, but says nothing. He turns back to Dean. "We don’t have any food to steal."
"We’ve got some apples," Izzy pipes up. "Does that work as bus fare?"
Patrick smiles at her. "Maybe."
"The only problem is, we’re heading in the other direction," Dean tells him. "Back the way you came."
Patrick lifts one shoulder. "All I do is go up and down this goddamn highway," he says. "My unit is gone, the base is gone, my family is gone..." his voice trails off. He manages a tight smile. "I’ve been looking for survivors, and I guess I finally found some."
Izzy walks over and hands him an apple. "Can you get us to Tulsa?" she asks.
Patrick considers, squinting up at the sky. "I don’t think so. We’re almost out of fuel." He scratches the bridge of his nose. "Maybe close to the Oklahoma border though."
Dean flashes a bright grin. "That’s good enough for me."
Patrick directs them toward the back of the tank. "Where are you folks trying to get to?"
"Truth or Consequences, New Mexico," Andy says.
Patrick’s forehead creases. "What’s there? Family?"
Dean shakes his head. "Nope. Something better."
Patrick studies Dean’s face, curious. "Yeah? What’s that?"
"Hope."
ooooo
There’s just enough room inside the tank. Patrick sits up front, driving. The staff sergeant is curled against the back wall of the tank, his head on a backpack, eyes closed. Dean sits closest to Patrick; Andy, Sam, and Izzy take up the remainder of the seats. The gunner turret is empty.
The inside of the tank is cramped and loud, and it reeks of sweat and urine. "This here is my home, sweet home," Patrick yells over the sound of the engine. "This baby’s a M2A2 and we can go about a hundred more miles until the diesel runs out."
They jostle along in relative silence for a few minutes until Dean asks, "What happened to your sergeant?"
"A Sixer did something to him," Patrick says, his face going blank. "We were attacked ten days ago. There were two of them. One of them set the regular sarge on fire and killed three of the other men. The other Sixer did something...else. Jimmy hasn’t been the same since. We’re the only two that got away." Patrick’s jaw works. "At first, he just screamed, I couldn’t get him to shut up. Five days ago he just went quiet. He stopped talking, stopped eating, stopped doing anything. I try to make him drink but..." Patrick’s chin trembles and he clears his throat. "Well. It don’t look too good."
Dean glances at Sam during the exchange but Sam’s head is down. He’s staring into his lap. Dean’s pretty sure the noise of the tank drowned out the news about the Sixers. Patrick shakes his head in disgust. "This whole thing is so fucked up. Right from the get-go." His lip curls. "We didn’t have a chance. I mean, a lot of us came over from Desert Storm, you know? We’re used to fighting people. Normal people. Not all this fucked up Harry Potter shit."
Dean’s incredulous. "They didn’t train you at all?"
"Train us? How?" Patrick scoffs. "What the fuck do you do with a demon?"
Dean’s teeth clench. "For starters, you use silver and holy water. And Latin." He slouches in his seat. "What a gigantic fuck-all."
Patrick snorts. "That, my friend, is an understatement." He glances at Dean. "Are you serious about the holy water and Latin shit?"
Dean nods. "As a heart attack."
"Well it would have been nice to know that a little earlier," Patrick snaps, "because it’s pretty fuckin hard to shock and awe a demon. We were going through ammo like it was water and they’re smashing our tanks like pinÞatas. Lighting our guys on fire like they’re wood.” He brushes a hand across his eyes. “And when we’re not being fucked up the ass by demons, we’ve got the Sixers trying to pick us off.”
Dean reaches a tentative hand toward Patrick’s shoulder, then stops. He leans forward instead. "I’m sorry, man. I wish we could have had a chance to train you properly."
"Well hell, it’s not over yet, is it? Do you hear a fat lady singing?"
Dean snorts. "I guess I don’t. Not yet, anyway. We’d be happy to help you."
"Good. You can start by telling me what the fuck a Christo is."
oooooo
The M2A2 gives up the ghost earlier than expected. Patrick manages to drive the tank off the road and into a parched field, dead husks of corn crunching beneath the heavy wheel track. They pile out of the tank beneath the moon’s weak light; Andy and Patrick unload Jimmy as gently as they can, and they set up camp behind the tank.
They eat some apples that aren’t quite rotten, a few crackers, and some of the shoe-flavored jerky. Patrick sits against the side of the tank. He picks up a dried ear of corn and taps it idly against one boot. "So what’s so great about Truth or Consequences, New Mexico?"
No one says anything for a long moment, then Dean grins. "I like the sound of it."
Patricks nods. "I saw some graffiti a while back. Painted on the side of a concrete retaining wall." He smiles thinly. "You know what it said?"
Dean watches him. "I can guess."
"What do you think it means, finding hope in Truth and all that shit?"
Sam’s hands are untied and he’s playing with a thin strip of jerky. "Second chances," he says, his voice soft and a little wistful. He reaches out to Dean. "Do you want this?"
Dean frowns. Patrick looks hard at Sam. "What’s the matter? You only like food you can steal?"
Dean’s frown pulls tight, and he swallows down a series of shut the fuck ups. It’s not Patrick’s fault he thinks Sam’s a thief. Let it go. "You should eat," he tells Sam.
Sam drops the food into Dean’s lap. "I’m not very hungry," he says, and stands. He wipes his hands against the thighs of his jeans and starts toward the far edge of the field.
"Hey," Dean calls after him, heart lurching. "Where do you think you’re going?"
Sam stops and turns back to Dean. "To talk to Izzy."
Sure enough, now Dean can see a dark shape walking amongst the ruined stalks. An Izzy shape. Dean huffs and waves Sam off.
"Why do you let that asshole travel with you?" Patrick demands.
Dean turns back to Patrick, his eyes hard and flat. "Because that asshole is my brother."
Patrick gapes at Dean in confusion. Dean holds his gaze, his eyes burning holes into Patrick’s face. Patrick reads the just drop it loud and clear. So he does.
ooooo
"Do you ever look up at the sky and think it’s just black construction paper?" Izzy wonders. She smiles in the darkness. "Like maybe God is playing with scissors and poking holes in the universe? And the stars are just the light from heaven shining through?"
Sam glances up at the night sky and hunches his shoulders. "Not really. Stars are just balls of flaming gas."
Izzy wrinkles her nose. "You’re a ball of flaming gas."
Sam blinks, then snorts laughter. "What...what does that even mean?"
Izzy shrugs, then smiles. "I don’t know. It just sounded funny."
"Do you really think the stars are holes God made with giant scissors?"
Izzy considers. "They don’t have to be giant scissors." She pauses, then sighs. "No. Not really." She looks pensive in the moonlight. "But wouldn’t it be cool?"
"I don’t know." Sam’s hands are clasped together behind his back - he’s used to the position now. "I don’t know if I believe in God anymore."
They walk the edge of the field together. "You used to?"
"I think so," Sam says softly. "It’s hard to remember sometimes. I used to believe in angels, and hope and forgiveness." His voice takes on a hard edge. "I don’t really believe in any of that now."
Izzy doesn’t answer right away. She bends down and picks up a few corn husks. "When I was little my mom used to make dolls out of corn husks," she finally says.
Sam lifts an eyebrow. "She did?"
She nods. "Yeah." She laughs and rolls her eyes. "They were ugly as shit. She used to make those little dried up apple face dolls too." She shudders. "You know, the ones that look like they’ll come alive at night and stab you with a paring knife?"
Sam grins. "I think we hunted something like that once."
"You know what else my mom used to do?"
"What?"
"She was always spouting little sayings. The kind you’d stitch onto a pillow or something." Izzy’s grin turns rueful. "Of course once my voices started, she sort of ran out of helpful homilies. But you know what she said that’s stuck with me?"
Sam shakes his head.
"She said...the person who forgives others, but not himself, can never be happy."
Sam avoids her gaze. "She must have needed a really big pillow for that one."
Izzy glares at him. "Sam."
Sam stops walking, takes a step back. "Izzy. I get what you’re trying to say. And - and I know you’re just trying to be nice. But I can’t...it doesn’t..." he takes a halting breath. "I-just can’t. You don’t know the things I’ve done. " He takes another step. "You can’t know. You can’t."
He turns and walks away, long strides through the dark.
And then he’s running.
ooooo
Andy’s beside the campfire, almost asleep. He’s not really thinking about anything, except maybe how tired he is. Before the world went to hell, he never knew you could be this tired and live.
Sam’s voice makes him jump. "Andy."
Andy jerks into a sitting position. "Jesus, Sam. Sneak up, much?"
Sam drops to his knees and holds his hands out in front of him. "Tie my hands."
Andy stares at him. "What? No." But Sam’s face is a pale oval of desperation. Andy bites his lip. "Just...just go to sleep."
Sam makes a sound low in his throat. Andy can’t tell exactly what it means, but he definitely doesn’t like it. "Sleep? Are you fucking kidding me?" Sam’s voice is a growl.
"Uh, maybe I should get Dean." Andy looks around, spots Dean talking to the army guy over by the tank.
Sam’s hand closes over Andy’s. Andy looks down at Sam’s hand; thinks, his hands are fucking huge. "No. He’ll just...he won’t want to. I...," Sam shakes his head quickly, as if a cloud of gnats are buzzing around his ears. "I...keep thinking, and it makes me want to...makes it hard to sleep," he finishes. He swallows and keeps staring at Andy, his eyes much too wide.
Andy opens his mouth, closes it. He sighs and pulls the rope out of his pack. "Okay," he says, agreeing against his better judgment. "Put your hands out."
Sam smiles and exhales, as if Andy just gave him a fucking compliment, rather than just agreeing to tie him up. Andy wraps the rope around Sam’s wrists and pulls tight, knotting the rope the way Dean showed him. He looks up at Sam. "How’s that?"
Sam looks down at his hands. He flexes, and red welts pop up along his wrists almost immediately. Andy grimaces. "Shit. I’m sorry, let me-"
Sam pushes himself up and away before Andy can reach him. "No. You did good. Thanks, Andy." He walks a few feet away and sits himself down, cross-legged, away from the firelight.
Andy lies back against the dry earth. He doesn’t feel tired anymore.
ooooo
When Dean wakes up the next morning he finds Patrick bent over Jimmy. He walks over, tentative. "Patrick?"
Patrick looks up. His eyes are red-rimmed, but his face is blank. He puts a trembling hand on his friend’s chest. "He’s dead."
Dean sighs. He’s had it up to here with pain and loss and death. He wishes he hadn’t gotten up yet. Wishes he could just skip this part. Wishes he and Sam were about a million miles from here with nothing to worry about except ugly motel rooms and pissy ghosts. Instead, he does his best Sam impersonation. He doesn’t have the puppy dog eyes, but he can do heartfelt and sincere when he has to. "I’m sorry," he says quietly. And he is.
Patrick stays with them. Nobody says much about it. By late afternoon, Dean spots a sign that reads Tulsa in 5 miles and thinks thank God. And beyond the sign, off the highway, is something that makes his feet stop in mid-step.
He stares for a long moment, then runs to the shoulder of the road.
Sam appears at his side. "Are you okay?"
Dean has no words. Coherent thought has left for parts unknown. He points instead, mouth hanging open, waiting for flies.
Sam follows Dean’s finger and blinks.
And then Izzy’s dragging Andy over, screaming at the top of her lungs. "Holy Christ on a crutch you guys, it’s a fucking cow!"
And it is.
Bessy or Daisy or whatever the fuck is standing in the middle of a backyard munching what’s left of the grass beneath a towering oak tree. It looks so out of place that Dean rubs his eyes. He’s dreaming. He’s got to be.
But Patrick and Andy are scrambling down the embankment and toward the crumpled barb-wire fence that separates the highway from the residential neighborhood.
The cow is still there, chewing calmly.
"I don’t believe it," Dean breathes. He slaps Sam on the back, his face lit with something that might be joy. "Dude, we’re gonna eat fucking steak tonight."
Izzy’s already chasing Andy, yelling here cow, nice cow in saccharine tones.
Sam allows Dean to lead him down the gravel slope and over the fence.
Izzy ruffles Andy’s hair, giggling. "Just tell it to lie down and die."
He rolls his eyes at her. "I’m gonna tell you to lie down and die if you don’t shut up."
The cow turns her head and blinks at all them, unconcerned.
Dean rubs the stubble edging his jaw. "Everybody hold on," he says quietly, "are we even alone out here?"
Izzy tilts her head, listens. She nods. "We’re not picking anything up."
The backyard is quiet. There’s a rusted swing set and a green plastic turtle-shaped sandbox. There’s something Dean’s pretty sure is a human femur sticking out of the sand like a shovel handle. The houses around them don’t look damaged. They stand tall and silent, judging.
Dean points to the sandbox. "Let’s look around a little before we break out the buffet," Dean suggests quietly. "Maybe there’s canned food around here. Clothes. Boots. And maybe the folks here aren’t too eager to share."
Izzy turns toward a blank window. "I’d give my left boob for toilet paper and tampons."
Andy chuckles and Dean cracks a weary smile. "Classy, Iz." He nods toward the house Izzy is eyeballing. "Why don’t you, Andy, and Patrick check the house."
Patrick casts a doubtful look at Izzy. "Why don’t you come?" he suggests. "Andy and Sam can kill the fatted calf."
"No." Sam’s voice is too loud.
Dean can almost hear Sam start to crack and he puts a firm hand on Patrick’s shoulder, gives him a gentle push. "We’re fine. You check the house."
Patrick is clearly annoyed, but he follows orders. Dean watches him go, and it feels strange to be the one giving orders, not taking them. Even after all these months, he’s not used to being in charge. It feels like a mistake. But so far, no one seems to have noticed.
"And be careful," Dean hisses. He turns back to Sam.
"Sam, what the-"
Sam’s trying to get up the embankment and back onto the highway. Between the loose gravel and his tied hands, he’s not having much luck. But then his shoes find purchase and he’s going, going, gone.
ooooo
Then.
They’re lined up along the road like cattle. Five of them, all on hands and knees. Most cry or beg, but two of them are silent.
Jason steps forward, rests his hand on an elderly man’s head. Sam can see a few wisps of white hair and a speckling of liver spots along the man’s scalp. The man’s voice is thin and reedy, almost musical. "Please. Please don’t-"
Jason’s hand tightens against the man’s head, and he pitches forward bonelessly. Blood gushes from the old man’s eyes, nose and mouth. The woman next to him trembles on her hands and knees, but she doesn’t beg. She doesn’t cry. She just looks up at Sam with large, resigned eyes.
The Sixer grins at Sam. "Your turn," he says with a flourish.
Sam grins back. Once, in another life, he was possessed. The details are murky now, buried between yellowed pages of memory. He remembers he had no control over his body. The demon dealt death with Sam’s hands and he was helpless to stop it.
Now Sam is in control. His hands deal death of their own volition. He has the power to do whatever he wants, whenever he wants. And what he wants is to kill. He kills for the Commander, because it’s his job, because it’s what he does. But he also kills because he likes it.
The woman watches him with wide rolling eyes and Sam winks at her.
Jason sighs loudly next to him. "Hurry up and kill the fucking cow, Samuel," he huffs. "We’ve got things to do, places to be."
"Shut up," Sam snaps, irritated. "I like to take my time." He pulls his knife from its sheath and touches the woman’s limp hair with the blade. He looks at her with soulful eyes, almost tenderly. "Do you like pain?" he asks her, as if he’s asking if she likes ice cream. He squats in front of her, touches her cheek gently. "Because I do."
ooooo
Now.
Sam’s feet slap the pavement. He runs as hard and fast as he can but it’s not fast enough because he doesn’t know how to outrun memory. He can hear Dean hollering behind him, but he doesn’t stop-can’t stop.
He steps on a rock and skids and falls into a stalled green Chevy. His shoulder bounces off the hood and pain jolts down his arm. He can’t catch himself because his hands are still tied, and the momentum throws him off the car and tumbling onto the ground. He lands on one hip and lies still, pain radiating through his muscles.
Dean arrives, his fingers assessing damage before he’s at a full stop. Sam wants to tell him not to bother, that all the damage is inside his head, but he keeps silent, breathing hard.
"Jesus, Sam. This isn’t a good time to go out for track." Dean unties the rope around Sam’s wrists and shoves it into his back pocket.
Dean stands and offers a hand to Sam, and Sam takes it and lets Dean pull him up, shrugging, his mouth a stubborn line. He can’t tell Dean about this. He wants to choke down the memories, but they keep clawing their way out. It’s what he deserves, he knows that, but it’s hard, it’s so hard to keep breathing with the knowledge of what he’s done. His past is a chain wound around his head and his heart, and each day it pulls tighter, it pulls him apart.
Dean puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder, shakes him a little. "Sam, we’ve got to talk about this."
Sam wants to laugh, because how many times have those words come out of his mouth? How many times over the years has he begged Dean for any little scrap of what’s in his head? And now Dean wants to talk? Sam feels sorry for him. Talking won’t help. It’s too late for talking. It’s too late for everything.
Sam hangs his head, shoulders slumped. "Dean, I didn’t mean to-" he jerks his head up, eyes wide.
Dean’s hand squeezes Sam’s shoulder. "What?"
"Something’s wrong."
Dean snorts. "Fuckin A, Sherlock. We both know that."
Sam shrugs Dean’s hand off, turns back toward the house their friends went into. "No. Something…else." He can feel it in the pit of his stomach, in the way the hairs along his arms stand up. He grabs Dean’s arm and pulls him back in the direction they came. "Come on."
Dean jogs beside him. "Is it your Spidey sense?"
"It’s something," Sam grunts, already breaking into the lead.
ooooo
The back door is locked. So is the front. Andy shatters the front window with the butt of his gun, and Izzy climbs through and unlocks the front door. Patrick and Andy enter slowly, guns drawn. "Christo!" Andy calls.
Silence greets them.
Dust motes dance above an old television set. A faded family photo adorns one wall, four faces smiling out at an empty room. "Hello?" Izzy calls. "Is anyone here?"
They make their way into the kitchen. It’s chaos. Silverware and broken dishes litter the floor. A butcher knife flaking dried blood sticks out of a cutting board. There’s more blood on the wall, in the sink, on the handle of the back door. In the corner there’s a broken doll. Patrick bends down to pick a white object off the floor, then flinches and drops it, shaking his hand as if he’s been burned.
"What is it?" Izzy asks.
"I think it was a dog ear," he says, voice thick with disgust.
Andy frowns. "I don’t know about this place." He flicks a look from Izzy to Patrick. "You think they had the Disease here?"
Izzy worries at her lower lip. "I hope not."
Patrick kicks the severed ear across the room. "A more important question is, do they have running water?"
Andy reaches out and turns on the tap. Water dribbles out. "Looks like."
Izzy opens a large cupboard. "And there’s soup. Oh my God!" She pulls out a box and holds it up triumphantly. "And Pop-Tarts!"
"So far, so good," Andy says. "Let’s check the next room."
The kitchen leads into a dining room, complete with a large oak table and an upright piano. Sprawled on the floor is a woman. Brown stringy hair obscures part of her face, but the visible part of her face is wrinkled and leathery. A fly crawls across one cheek. The skin is stretched tight across her face, the shape of her skull prominent: she’s a skeleton in a flowered dress.
Izzy’s hand goes to her mouth. "Is she…dead?"
"I think so," Andy says.
Patrick moves closer, squats beside her. "She certainly looks dead. She looks like a fucking zombie."
The woman moves cat quick. One minute she’s a zombie on the floor, the next she’s got one spidery hand over Patrick’s and is driving a screwdriver down through both their hands and into dusty floorboards.
Patrick shrieks in pain, but the woman just throws her head back and laughs. She pulls the screwdriver out and raises it to stab Patrick again, but Andy’s got her beneath stick-thin arms and is pulling her away.
Izzy backs against the piano, screaming, "She’s got the Disease! She’s sick!"
The woman struggles against Andy, flailing with the bloody screwdriver. She gets an elbow against his chest and sends him sprawling. She looks mostly dead, but she’s strong.
The back door smashes in, and then Sam and Dean are in the kitchen. Dean’s got his gun drawn, and Sam hangs back a little, hands at his sides. "What’s going on?" Dean barks.
Patrick cradles his wounded hand against his chest, his M-9 pistol aimed at the woman’s face. His voice is shrill and spirals higher with each word. "That bitch has the Disease and she fucking stabbed me. She stabbed me!"
The woman turns in a slow circle, her eyes skittering from face to face. "I’m gonna kill you all," she hisses. "I’m gonna tear off your skin and break your bones."
"Sorry, I’m gonna have to take a rain check on that," Dean says. He shows her his gun and flips the safety off.
But Patrick shoots first. The woman’s head explodes into pulp.
"Fuck!" Andy screams and wipes at his face. "Get it off, get it off!"
"I had her," Dean yells, pissed, "what the fuck was that?" He stalks across the room and pulls the M-9 out of Patrick’s hand. "What if you got Andy infected?"
"I’m more interested in me getting infected," Patrick bites back.
Izzy’s at Andy’s side, wiping his face off with her shirt. "It’s okay," she whispers. "I think you’re okay."
The woman is a heap on the floor and Dean starts pacing. "Shit," he says. "Shit."
"What do we do?" Andy asks.
"My parents died from this," Patrick says. "My whole fucking town died from this."
"Maybe you’ll be okay," Sam says softly. "Maybe you won’t get sick."
Dean runs a hand through his hair. It stands up in soft spikes. "Look Patrick, I’m sorry, but…" He frowns and taps the barrel of the gun against his leg.
Patrick’s eyes slit. "You are not shooting me. You think that’s the answer?" He’s incredulous. Furious.
"I don’t know what the answer is!" Dean yells.
Patrick’s face is pale, his forehead beaded with sweat. "I’m not going to hurt anybody."
Dean shakes his head, resigned. "You don’t know that."
Izzy puts an arm around Andy. "Are you okay?"
Andy looks stunned. "I…I don’t know."
"Can you make Patrick calm down?" she asks.
Patrick turns suspicious eyes on Andy. "What does that mean? Make me calm down, how?"
"It doesn’t mean anything," Dean holds a hand out. "Let’s all take a breath, here."
"Fuck that!" Patrick spits. "I was just stabbed with a screwdriver and you all think I’m about to go on some kind of rampage."
"We don’t think that," Sam says. "Nobody thinks that."
Patrick glares at Sam. "Don’t talk to me. I don’t know what your deal is, but the fact they keep you tied up like a dog tells me you are one fucked-up dude. And I don’t feel like being patronized by any fucked-up dudes right now."
The empathy drains out of Sam’s face and he nods woodenly. "Fine."
"He’s trying to help," Dean snaps.
"How?" Patrick screams. "How can any of you help? Do any of you assholes have a cure I don’t know about?"
Andy pushes himself to his feet. Most of the blood is off his face, but his hair is still matted with bits of gore and bone. "Calm down," Andy tells Patrick, "everything will be okay."
Patrick pulls in a shuddering breath. "Yeah. All right. Everything will be okay," he repeats. He closes his eyes, lets his shoulders relax. His eyes snap back open. "What the fuck? Was that?" He puts his good hand to his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. "You doing some kind of mind trick on me?" Patrick’s eyes bulge. "Are you a Sixer?"
Andy and Dean exchange a look, neither one answers.
"Answer me!" Patrick demands.
Sam steps forward. "I’m a Sixer."
Dean glares at his brother. "Do you really think now’s the time to tell the truth, Sam?" he whispers angrily.
Patrick puts a hand to his forehead. "That’s why you keep him tied up! You all know what he is!"
"That’s not why-we don’t-" Dean scowls. "You don’t understand."
"I’m a Sixer too," Andy says. Izzy squeezes his hand tightly.
Patrick sways. He looks sick. "Fuck me," he breathes. "I’ve been traveling with the goddamn enemy."
"We’re not the enemy," Dean insists. "We’re not."
"Tell that to my staff sergeant, you asshole," Patrick grits out.
"Calm down!" Andy bellows.
The tension eases out of Patrick and he nods slowly. "You’re right. I am calm. Thank you." He takes a step toward Andy. "But I’m still going to kill you. I’m going to kill all of you."
The gun trembles in Dean’s hand. "Patrick, come on. Try to fight it."
Patrick smiles. He looks peaceful. "Fight it? The only thing I want to fight is you." He reaches out and grabs Andy by the throat. "I’m going to crush your fucking windpipe, you freak."
"Let go of him!" Izzy screams. She grabs Patrick’s ear and yanks. "I’ll cut your head off if you hurt him."
The gunshot is loud. Patrick twists away from Andy, his arms flung wide, blood dripping from his hand. A flower of blood blooms over the front of his shirt. He stares at Izzy and blinks. He frowns. "Is it hot in here?" he asks. And then he‘s on the floor.
Chapter 3