When Heroes Go Down (They Go Down Fast) 4/12
Title: When Heroes Go Down (They Go Down Fast) 4/12
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 , the bestest beta who ever betaed. and thank you to everyone who's been reading this. your kind words mean the world to me. feedback tastes like ambrosia, y'all.
Disclaimer: I own nothing winchestery. but i'm keeping my fingers crossed, yo.
Hey you, standing in the road
always doing what you're told,
Can you help me?
Hey you, out there beyond the wall,
Breaking bottles in the hall,
Can you help me?
Hey you, don't tell me there's no hope at all
Together we stand, divided we fall.
-- Pink Floyd
Chapter 4
Then.
They’re sitting on the front steps of the Chicago Art Institute. The bronze lions flanking the entrance are gone, torn from their bases and sent through the plate glass windows of the shops across the street. Sam sits patiently with Jason and April, waiting for the Yellow-Eyed Demon. The Commander. Sam cleans his gun while he waits -- he likes to keep his hands busy. Jason smokes a cigarette. April plays with the leather bracelet around her wrist.
Chicago is quiet today. The cacophony of the previous few days-endless screams, gun shots, car alarms, shattering glass, explosions, squealing tires-has faded. There aren’t many survivors left, Sam doesn’t care about the ones skulking in churches and basements. A vision brought him here a week ago. The hunters he came to kill are dead now, his job done. It’s time to move on.
The sound of approaching footsteps makes all three heads turn. A teenage boy walks toward them, a long leather coat flapping out behind him. He smiles at them, nods. "How are my favorite kids?" he asks, with something that sounds like affection. Yellow eyes flicker from the young face. Sam barely even registers the body the demon wears; it’s just a disguise, it doesn’t mean anything. Power radiates from it, and Sam returns the smile.
The demon settles himself on the step next to Sam. "You did good," he says. He gestures toward a stalled taxi. A woman lies on the sidewalk, her face turned away, one arm outstretched. It looks as if she’s napping right on the pavement, as if waiting for a taxi took too damn long. The pooled blood haloed around her head tells a different story.
"You’re one of my favorites, Sammy," the Commander says. His amber eyes shift to Jason and April. "You all are. And you made Chicago into a nice little wasteland, just for me." He lifts an eyebrow. "You’ll be rewarded, you know. This is our world now. And most humans don’t get that," the demon muses. "They keep looking for some reason we’re here. Something complicated and grand, when really, it’s just our turn. You had the earth for a good fucking while. Now it’s our turn to walk in the sun, and you can burn in hell." The teenager’s arm reaches out to pat Sam’s knee. "No offense. I’m speaking in generalities. It’s not like you’ll burn in hell. Not if you play your cards right."
Sam finishes reassembling the gun, stuffs the old rag back into his pocket. "I’ve always been pretty good at poker," he says.
The demon nods, appraising Sam’s face. "I don’t doubt that for a minute. "
ooooo
Now.
Sam mutters in his sleep, restless. His dreams are full of blood and smoke. He walks down a narrow alley, the brick walls on either side of him warped and crumbling. His hand trails along one wall, as if reading Braille. He can feel the baleful glare of a thousand eyes heavy on his shoulders. He glimpses pale irises pressed against narrow gaps between bricks, watching.
Accusing.
The air is thick with the smell of smoke, his throat is sore and his eyes water. At the end of the alley is a stained porcelain sink. An antique mirror hangs above it, fine cracks webbing the spotted surface. Sam looks at his broken face, and his reflection looks back, both eyes intact and watchful. Sudden words smear across glass, red letters spilling toward the sink: Truth. He can see now that there’s something written on his forehead, and he leans closer to the mirror, studying the black lines. He focuses on the block letters tattooed across his skin, reads them backwards. Lies.
Sam turns a rusty spigot and brown water spurts out of the tap. It clears after a moment, and Sam puts his hands beneath the water. No matter how much he scrubs, the blood won’t come off; his skin is stained red.
A tall bird materializes from the smoke and walks toward him. It has a long scissoring beak and bright yellow eyes, and Sam thinks it might be a heron. "You can’t stop us," the bird says casually. "Our numbers are many. Yours are few."
It doesn’t matter, Sam thinks at the bird, still scrubbing his hands.
"I know what you dream," the bird says. "You think you can stop what’s going to happen in New Mexico?" The beak snaps shut and Sam swears it’s smiling. "You won’t. You’re not going to find truth. You’re going to find the consequences of your actions. Of your sins."
You’re wrong.
"Am I?" the bird tilts his head toward the mirror. Sam’s attention shifts back to it just as it shatters. Silver shards fly at him, and he feels several pieces lodge in his face, his head. He feels no pain.
"You should be dead, you know." The bird opens its mouth and something drops onto the ground at Sam’s feet. "He shot you. He wanted you to die." The bird’s voice is thin and sharp. It hurts in a way the glass can’t. "Dean lies awake at night, wishing you were gone, forever and ever, amen."
Get out of here.
The bird watches Sam for a long moment with its topaz eyes. "You can’t wash away the things you’ve done," it says and twitches away on stiff legs. Its head turns back, one eye glittering. "I think you dropped something." It takes another step before it folds itself into the shadow of a nearby wall.
Sam pulls a long sliver of glass out of his face, lets it fall to the ground. There, beside the bloody glass is a marble. He bends down. Not a marble, after all, an eye. His eye.
Watching.
ooooo
Sam jerks awake, disoriented. He’s on the ground. He brings bound hands to his face and remembers the pain and loss, rubs a thumb across the worn cloth of the eye patch and lets out a thin breath.
He knows Dean didn’t want to kill him, no matter what his subconscious says. On the other hand, he can’t really argue the fact that he should be dead. Deserves to be dead. He turns his head and sees the others still asleep, safe within the salt circle. Morning’s pale fingers push the remains of night away. A few scattered birds fly overhead, silent.
You think you can stop what’s going to happen in New Mexico? You won’t.
Sam rolls over and pushes himself up. He kneels next to Dean, touches his shoulder gently. "Dean."
Dean’s eyes blink open. In another life he would have rolled away, asked for five more minutes. Demanded coffee. Now he’s awake in an instant, ready. "What is it?"
"We need to get going."
Dean looks past Sam to Izzy’s sleeping form. "Did she--?"
Sam shakes his head. "No. I had a dream." At Dean’s look he quickly adds, "Not a vision. Just a…a dream. But it makes me want to get going. I know the demon is heading to New Mexico and I want to get there first."
Dean starts rolling up his sleeping bag. He doesn’t even question Sam. His mouth says, "Okay. I’m gonna take a leak and then we’ll wake the others. Okay?" His eyes say, we’ll get there. It’ll be okay.
Sam doesn’t think anything will be okay ever again, but he nods. He’s lost now, without hope or destiny, and trusting Dean is all he has left. It’s the one thing he still knows how to do.
ooooo
It’s been close to an hour since anyone spoke. They pick their way down the highway, careful and quiet. Interstate 44 bisects what remains of the downtown area, and Andy wonders what Oklahoma City would look like from an aerial view. He imagines the grid of empty streets as broken stitches, the people bled away. He can see the remains of the National Cowboy Hall of Fame and Western Heritage Center off to the right. To the left is the ruined university. They move past the broken shells of hotels, motels, stores and apartment buildings. A starving cat, ribs pushing through matted fur, watches them warily from the hood of a car.
Isobel gave the alert a while ago: demons nearby. In Midwest City to the southwest, and maybe Del City which is even closer. They can see a thick pillar of smoke behind them, like an ashen obelisk holding up the sky. Andy reads the graffitied signs and looks at the rolling waves of smoke, guesses the air force base is on fire.
At times like this, when it’s quiet and his nerves are shot, Andy thinks of Tracy. She could always make him feel better. She had an inherent gentleness, a softness about her that he loved. Still loves, really -- he never stopped loving her. Even now, he can remember the feel of her arms around him after Doc died. (Anson killed him.) He can also remember the look in her eyes after she realized what he could do. That one look makes him feel like shit. Dirty. Like a freak. He can’t even begin to understand what Sam feels like.
Izzy’s up ahead, fist pressed to her mouth. She’s crying to herself, something about what the demons are up to. Andy doesn’t want to know. Dean’s in the lead-as usual-and he looks pissed -- he’s looked that way ever since Izzy sounded the alarm. Oklahoma City was supposed to be a chance to stock up on salt and food and supplies; instead it’s just another trap to avoid. Andy rubs his neck, tries to work out a little of the tension. It feels like there’s a metal rod rammed right up his back and into his skull.
Sam’s next to him, shuffling like a zombie. He was silent even before Izzy said anything. He seemed to have two modes now: silent or freaked the fuck out. Andy wishes he knew how to help, because he likes Sam, despite the things he’s done. Sam took away the nightmares, and for that he’ll always be grateful. Always.
They keep walking, lips compressed into lines, eyes turned inwards. Andy rubs his neck again and thinks, we’re all just fucking zombies now.
ooooo
By the time noon has come and gone they’re on the far side of the city. Izzy’s a little calmer now, and they risk stopping a few minutes to rest and eat. She keeps muttering under her breath to Claudia and blinking, like she can’t quite see. "Fucking demons," she mutters. "Ugly fuckers."
Dean raises his water bottle. "I’ll drink to that." He chokes down a mouthful of warm water, makes a face, and puts the bottle back in his pack. "So we’re safe now?"
Izzy regards him with a baleful look.
Dean rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean."
Izzy sighs. "It seems quiet now. Nothing up ahead or directly on either side." She uses the hem of her shirt to wipe her nose. "Do you like poetry?"
Dean chews on a piece of licorice. It tastes like plastic. Old plastic. He shakes his head. "I’m more of a limerick guy," he admits. "Why? You wanna give a poetry reading?"
"I’ve got a poem stuck in my head," she mumbles and turns away. Her blond hair is lank and greasy.
"We should go," Sam says. The granola bar Dean gave him is still in his lap, unopened.
"Dude, you didn’t eat," Dean says, eyes dark. "You’re no good to us if you collapse on the way."
Sam tosses the granola bar back to Dean. "I’m not hungry. I’ll eat later."
"What’s the rush?" Andy wonders. "I thought we were making okay time."
Sam clasps his hands together. His wrists are raw and scabbed from the constant rubbing of the rope. He doesn’t seem to notice. "I think it’s important that we get there as soon as possible," he says carefully.
Dean stares at Sam’s granola bar, debates whether to save it or eat it himself. He shrugs and unwraps it. He might as well eat it. If Sam tips over he’ll need the strength to haul his ass along.
"We don’t even know what’s there," Andy says. "For all you know, we’re walking into a trap." Andy stands, brushes crumbs from his face, his shirt. "I mean, we’ve all got this idea that there’s something actually waiting for us in New Mexico. That there will be people in Truth or Consequences. But we don’t know."
Dean lifts an eyebrow. "You got someplace else you need to be, Andrew?" He emphasizes Andy’s full name.
Sam looks at Andy. "I know," he says softly. "There are people there. Humans."
Andy looks skeptical. "How do you know? Because of some graffiti?"
Sam shakes his head, closes his eyes. Dean watches him carefully. He gets to his feet and moves closer to Sam.
Sam’s eyes flick back open. "I had a vision."
ooooo
Then.
Sam moves through the house slowly. He can feel Dean approaching, and he’s excited. He ends up in the kitchen and studies the colorful drawing stuck to the refrigerator. It’s a crayoned square of a house and stick figures; childish script reads "my home." The picture jogs something in a far recess of Sam’s memory, but not enough to push anything loose. He pushes the mental itch away, and continues his circuit of the kitchen.
Sam’s going to repay Dean for all the years he took care of him. A chair slides back from the kitchen table and he sits. He’ll try to reason with Dean, try to bring him over to their (winning) side. The Commander’s side. But if he can’t…then he’ll kill him. He’ll do it fast, so Dean doesn’t suffer. He won’t even know what happened. That’s how Sam wants it, because he does love Dean, and he won’t let the Commander or the other demons or his fellow Sixers touch him. Dean is his. Once, a long time ago, he was Dean’s.
He sits at the kitchen table and waits, whistling a little. Some old Metallica song, and that makes him smile. How very Dean of him. That’s when the vision hits.
The kitchen breaks into pieces of broken glass that reassemble into a different reality. There’s no pain during visions now, just a hum in his head, a sense of energy and being connected. Two men stand outside a large block building. One holds a rifle. The other drops a rosary into a pail of water, speaking Latin. There are fragments of other people, a praying woman, a laughing child. A woman scavenges among the toppled shelves of a small market for salt and herbs. The image flickers then refocuses on the sign above the window: Truth or Consequences Co-op.
The vision ends. Sam blinks a few times, memorizing details. There are humans in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. And some of them-maybe all of them-are hunters. He nods to himself. The hunters won’t last long -- he’ll kill them all with a song in his heart and a spring in his step. A noise on the front porch breaks into his thoughts, and he stands, calm and ready. Finding the hunters will come later. After Dean.
The screen door creaks. A familiar voice calls out, "Sam?"
ooooo
Now.
Sam just stands there, head down, and something inside Dean breaks a little to see Sam like that. He steps next to him so they brush shoulders, just to let Sam know I’m here. Sam tips his head toward Dean, but keeps his face down, the brim of the baseball cap shielding his face. I know.
Andy and Izzy are both on their feet now, staring at Sam. Andy’s voice is hoarse when he speaks. "Do you think the hunters are still there?"
Sam shrugs. "I think so. It feels like they are. And if we can get there, then maybe I can help. Maybe I can stop the…" he trails off.
"Stop what?" Izzy wants to know.
Sam shuffles his feet and hunches his shoulders.
Andy pulls at his lower lip, thinking. "You think other Sixers are on their way there?"
Sam lifts his head slightly and shrugs. "Maybe."
Andy shifts his attention to Dean. "Did you know about this?"
Dean bends to pick up his pack. "Some of it." He mind shifts back to the conversation he had with Sam weeks ago. You need to tell me what The Demon is planning. And is there a chance we can stop him?
He has no idea if anyone is still alive in Truth or Consequences or not. But he’s hoping. And that, in itself, is something.
ooooo
"I’ve gotta pee."
They’re near Weatherford and Dean doesn’t really want to stop. But he wants to listen to Izzy bitch him out to her invisible friends even less, so he slows his pace and sighs. "Hurry up then."
Izzy rolls her eyes. "I will, dad," she snarks, and heads toward a towering billboard a few hundred feet away. The sign is faded and ripped, but the advertisement for Verizon Wireless is still visible. Dean scowls at the billboard and sinks onto the dusty asphalt. Andy takes a drink of water. Sam scratches obsessively at the bandage on his arm. Dean stretches out a leg and knocks Sam’s foot, and Sam turns to him, the what? plain on his face.
Dean gives his head a little shake. "Don’t do that."
Sam sighs loudly and lets his arms drop. "If you don’t want me to itch then tie me back up." He sounds a little pissy, and frankly, Dean’s glad. He’ll take a whiny Sam over a silent (suicidal) one any day. Which is a real kick in the ass, because once upon a time Dean would have paid good money to get this kind of quality silence from Sam. But not anymore, because when Sam is silent it means he’s remembering, and Dean really doesn’t want him doing that.
Dean rests both palms on the ground behind him and stretches, rolls his shoulders. "Sammy, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re getting a little kinky in your old age." He ignores Sam’s glower and winks. "From now on, if you wanna get tied up, you’re gonna have to find a four poster bed and a nasty girl to do it for you, cuz I’m done. We’re getting closer to New Mexico, and I want you to be hands free." He meets Sam’s gaze and the message is loud and clear: If we run into something big and bad you’re not gonna be much help with your hands tied, are you?
Sam nods reluctantly. Okay. His arms are folded across his chest and his fingers tap out a frantic Morse code of distress along the sleeves of his shirt.
"Hey!" The sound of a man’s voice brings Dean to his feet, and he and Sam instinctively position themselves side by side in front of Andy. There’s a man with a little boy running up the North Eastern Avenue on-ramp. He waves one arm wildly and shouts "Christo!"
Dean pulls out his gun, waiting. "Christo," he calls back. His voice is amiable enough, but his body is wired with tension.
The man slows to a fast walk, and now Dean can see he’s limping. The tousle-haired boy he’s pulling in his wake stumbles to keep up. The man reminds Dean of someone, but he can’t quite place who. The man pulls at the left sleeve of his shirt and Dean’s grip tightens on his gun. He said Christo, so it’s unlikely he’s a demon, but he could be a Sixer. Or a fucked-up human.
"I’m not a demon," the man says, and raises the inside of his bare arm to Dean. There, stippled across dark skin, is a carefully tattooed Seal of Solomon. Above it is a thin cross, below it is a slightly lopsided shield knot. "The seal came out best," he says. He looks tired and sounds out of breath.
Dean points his weapon at the ground. "You did these?"
"Yeah. I figure sooner or later we’ll be coming across demons who can say Christo without flinching. But are they going to tattoo a protection symbol on their, uh, host’s skin? I’ve heard cases where they’ll mark the skin to keep them in, but not to keep them out."
Dean casts a sideways look at Sam, but neither man speaks. Andy eyes the boy. "What about him?"
The man shakes his head. "He’s with me. He doesn’t speak. But he’s not a demon." The man wipes his hand on the front of his shirt, offers it to Dean. "My name’s Craig, by the way. Craig Thomson."
Dean stares at Craig’s hand, but he doesn’t take it. After a long awkward moment, Craig lets it drop. Dean casts a quick glance over his shoulder for Izzy, and turns back to Craig and the boy. He hates to ask, but he has to. "How do you know the kid’s not a demon?"
Craig lifts an eyebrow, and Dean realizes the dude sort of looks like the black guy from the Shawshank Redemption. The actor with the girl’s name. "Well, the fact that I’m still alive is a good indication."
Dean frowns. He glances at Sam, but Sam seems to have checked out. He’s staring at the ground, his eye unfocused. Andy meets Dean’s gaze. "We could have him write it," he suggests weakly.
Dean rolls his eyes and looks hard at the kid. He looks ten, maybe eleven, with light brown hair, brilliant blue eyes and a smattering of freckles across his nose. The eyes refuse to look at him, and Dean wonders if the kid and Sam are looking at the same nothing.
"Is he, uh, your kid?" Dean asks.
Craig shakes his head. "I found him in Nebraska. He was trapped in a car with his mother." He pauses. "She’s dead."
Dean bends down on one knee. "Dude, can you say Christo?" he asks. The boy says nothing. Dean tries again. "What’s your name?" Dean glances up at Craig. "Do you know?"
Craig sighs. "I don’t. And I don’t know if he does either. He’s never said a word to me."
"Maybe he can’t talk." Andy snaps his fingers. "He’s, you know…what do they call it? Mute."
Craig puts a protective hand on the boy’s shoulder. "I don’t think he’s mute. And he’s certainly not deaf."
"Do you have any paper?" Dean asks Craig. On Craig’s look he eyes Andy. "Do you?"
Izzy arrives finally, eyeing the newcomers with a mixture of curiosity and caution. "They’re not demons," she says.
Dean exhales in relief. "Good." He manages a grin that’s more or less real. This time he offers Craig his hand. Craig smiles back and they shake.
ooooo
"Do you mind if we walk with you for a while?" Craig asks. "It’s nice to have someone to talk to." He pats the boy’s arm and gives the top of head a fond smile. "No offense."
"Where are you headed?" Izzy wants to know.
"New Mexico," Craig replies. "This is going to sound weird, but-"
Dean interrupts him. "Dude. Look around. What could possibly sound weird now?"
Craig smiles. "You have a point, friend. I saw a message spray-painted across the highway back in Indiana. Some sort of you’re not alone if you go to Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, deal. I’ve been making my way there at a snail’s pace ever since."
"Do you always trust random graffiti to tell you where to go?" Dean asks.
Craig shrugs. "It’s not like I have anywhere else to be. I won’t be grading papers for a long while, I’m afraid."
Andy takes a drink from his water bottle, offers it to Craig. "You’re a teacher?"
"I was. Professor of Theology at Valparaíso University."
Dean nods. "Ah. That explains how you knew the kind of symbols to tattoo on your arm."
Craig takes a drink and hands the bottle back to Andy. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Exactly. My dad always used to bitch about my studying theology. He said it was a bunch of bedtime stories and myths." Craig squints into the horizon. "Doesn’t seem much like bedtime stories anymore."
ooooo
Sam’s trying hard to keep it together. He’s gone back to counting his steps, because that at least keeps his mind off the whispers. Sam’s silent, but nothing else is - everything calls to him now, pulls at him. The professor and the kid don’t affect him much. Dean’s been talking to Craig for hours now, about the tattoos, types of apotrope, protective sigils, exorcism rituals. All Sam can hear is the glint of Izzy’s knife, the weight of Dean’s gun. Every chunk of concrete tossed alongside the road, every overpass is a promise. Pain is everywhere, ready and waiting, and he can’t believe he never noticed it before.
He blinks the sweat out of his eyes and concentrates on walking. Three hundred seventy-five, three hundred seventy-six, three hundred seventy-seven. He could get Izzy’s knife before anyone knows what’s happening and shove it into his skull. His arm. His chest.
Sam grits his teeth and keeps walking for Dean. Dean is his anchor, holding him steady (holding him down, keeping him here). Without Dean he'd be lost (could finally let go). Sam bites at a fingernail (he needs to do something with his hands, they're always there) and tries to think. He needs to try harder, be better. He promised he wouldn’t hurt himself and he won’t. Dean wants him to be okay, they all want him to be okay. Dean deserves to have Sam be (act) okay. And Sam's feet keep moving as he counts: three hundred seventy-eight, three hundred seventy-nine, three hundred eighty.
Most of the time, he feels brittle and empty, as if he’s made of broken glass and everything fits together wrong. It’s like his skin-his body-is made of a thousand birds straining to fly in opposite directions. If he can just figure out how to let go, he’ll be free. He can just fly away.
He’s on step three hundred ninety-five when there’s a hand on his arm. He stops walking and waits; Dean will tell him what to do. "Earth to Sam," Dean says, and Sam smiles because that’s what Dean wants.
Sam pulls the baseball cap off and runs a hand through matted hair. "Are we stopping?"
"Everybody’s tired. I think we’ll have dinner and hit the hay early." Dean grins. "Guess what the professor’s got."
Sam opens his mouth, tries hard to formulate a response. As usual, Dean saves him. "Salt. The bastard has salt, can you believe it? He read in some old textbook that salt wards off demons and spirits. Looks like we just might live through another night, Sammy."
Sam smiles and it feels wrong, but Dean doesn’t freak out, so he must look passable. "That’s great."
Dinner is three cans of pork and beans; they pass the warmed cans around and eat with their fingers. Sam doesn’t want to eat, but Dean glares until he gives in. He can feel Craig watching him as well. Part of Sam’s mind wonders if Craig knows him-knows about him-but Craig just smiles and Sam lets the thought go. Dessert is a few bruised apples and the last of the licorice. The boy sits between Dean and Craig during the meal. He still doesn’t speak, but he has a decent appetite.
By the time the fire dies down, Andy has finished pouring the salt circle around their camp. The boy is staring into a few smoldering embers when Dean speaks. "You know something? I knew another kid who didn’t like to talk. This was a few years ago, now. His name was Lucas. He was a good kid," Dean says quietly. "He was just having some weird shi-ah, crap going on around him." Dean clears his throat. Sam listens. For some reason, the sound of Dean’s voice in the firelight, in the hush of twilight, makes everything almost bearable. "Now, I don’t know you that well yet, but I can tell from looking at you that you’re a good kid. Since I don’t know your name, is it okay if I call you Luke?"
The boy looks at Dean intently, but that’s all.
"Also, there’s a pretty cool movie about a guy named Luke and his super cool friend Han…" Dean trails off. "You probably don’t care much about old movies right now though…what with everything that’s happened to you." Dean sighs, picks at a fraying lace on his boot. "If you don’t want me to call you Luke, I won’t. But it’d be nice to call you something besides dude all the time." Dean elbows Sam. "That’s already what I call my goofy brother, here."
Sam’s throat closes up at this. Even now, Dean thinks of Sam (murderer) as his little brother. He tries to breathe and makes a sound like he’s just been kicked in the throat. Dean turns to him, concern on his face. "You okay?"
Fuck no, and I never will be again. Sam just coughs. "Yeah." Dean looks a little uncertain, but the sound of the boy shifting on the ground pulls his attention from Sam.
The boy nods slowly and Dean grins. "Nice to meetcha, Luke."
ooooo
An anemic rain comes with the dawn. It’s more mist than rain, really, but it’s persistent, and by the time they’re up and walking, everyone’s soaked to the skin. The sky is leaden and the group’s mood feels just as heavy. Izzy mutters every now and then to Claudia, but other than that, they squelch through puddles and Dean thinks he would gladly forfeit one of his kidneys for a cup of strong hot coffee.
Dean spots the bird from the corner of his eye. A big motherfucker of a thing, maybe a crane or heron, he’s not sure. Sam stops dead and Dean almost runs into him. "Dude. Watch it." The bird cocks its head and peers in their direction before lifting off in a blur of wings. Dean’s ready to move on, but Sam acts like the bird means something. "Sammy?"
Sam watches the bird until it’s just grey on grey. He turns to Dean and blinks. Water droplets bead the brim of his cap. "What?"
Dean searches his brother’s weary face for some kind of clue to what’s really going on. There was time when he knew Sam’s thoughts better than his own, but that time is gone. "It’s just a bird, Sam. Not a ghost. Let’s go."
Sam nods stiffly and starts walking again. Dean flicks the condensation from his face. "This weather sucks out loud."
"Hey, guys!" Izzy waves from up ahead. She’s pointing to a green rectangular sign that reads Elk City.
Andy links arms with Izzy and they twirl each other in a circle, yahooing and high-fiving each other like fools. "Thank God for supplies!" Andy yells, grinning into the rain.
"I’d hold off on that thanks until we actually have something to be thankful for," Dean says, but he can’t help feeling just a little excited. It feels like forever since they’ve had fresh water. They need more thread, needles, socks, food, bandages. His mind flicks back to the tattoo on the professor’s arm. And maybe some ink.
ooooo
Elk City is quiet. Cars are still parked along streets, houses are still standing. Within a few minutes of walking past a Chili’s, Perkins, and a Goodwill, it’s obvious the Disease killed this city, not demons. They stay together, Craig’s arm around Luke, as they wander past deserted buildings.
Dean keeps a sharp eye out for crazies, but there’s nothing but the cold mist and the sound of their footsteps. Izzy cups her hands around her face and looks into the empty dining room of a restaurant. Each table is still set with menus and decorative candles. Sam nudges Dean’s arm. "Look."
A grocery store looms beyond the restaurant. "Thank you Jesus," Izzy whispers, and starts running.
"Isobel," Dean hisses, using his best don’t fuck with me voice. "Get your ass back here. We stay together." He doesn’t have to remind her about Patrick: the look in her eyes tells him she gets the message.
The gas station across from the grocery store is the first indication that something went wrong here. The gasoline pumps are all gone - all that’s left are bits of twisted metal and scorched concrete. "What do you want to bet they’re all like that?" Andy says.
"I’m not taking that bet." Dean’s lips purse. "I think you’re right." He shrugs. "But we can check later. Right now, let’s hit the store." He looks at Craig. "You got a weapon, Professor?"
The professor pulls a claw hammer out of his jacket pocket. The hammer head looks heavy and slightly misshapen. The claw looks as if it’s been recently sharpened.
Dean nods in approval. "Works for me."
The automatic doors open when they approach the grocery store entrance. Most of the lights are burnt out, but two or three of the fluorescents buzz and flicker toward the back of the store. They fan out carefully, Dean in the lead, Sam next, then Andy, Izzy, and Craig with Luke. They take turns rounding each end cap, making sure there’s no one waiting in an aisle for them. The store is empty, but the outside looks infinitely better than the inside.
Rust-colored footprints trail up and down the aisles. Several cash registers are overturned and broken on the floor. Crumpled tens and twenties are glued to the tiles, mired in dried blood. Once they’re sure they’re alone, they travel the length of the grocery store in silence, weaving between toppled displays, overturned carts, and the occasional discarded shoe or sweatshirt. The entire meat and dairy sections have gone bad, and the smell is enough to keep them as far as possible from that end of the store. Black clouds of flies float above the coolers, and for one sickening second, before he hears the hum, Dean thinks, demon.
The whole place makes Dean’s skin crawl, and he wants to get back to the open road yesterday. He gives them fifteen minutes to grab all the shit they can stuff into their assorted bags: salt, bottled water, crackers, power bars, chips--anything with a dubiously long shelf life. Dean finds M&Ms and tube socks by the check out; he’s good to go. Izzy suggests staying there for the night, but Dean won’t hear of it. Surprisingly, neither will Sam. Sam’s got one arm wrapped around his stomach and he’s wearing a glazed look which doesn’t bode well for any of them.
Back out on the deserted street they make another quick stop at a Wal-Mart for bullets, Indian ink, flashlights, and a baseball bat for Luke. Craig won’t let the boy have a gun or knife, but he agrees to the bat. Luke swings experimentally, then nods at Dean. Good enough. They all trade in their piece-of-shit shoes for new ones, except for Sam - the store doesn’t carry his size. Dean wants to crack a joke, call him on his sasquatch-sized feet, but Sam’s grey complexion stops him cold.
By the time they exit the store it’s nearly dark. The good news is the rain has stopped; the bad news is the streets are no longer deserted. Figures roam aimlessly through yards and streets. Some watch the little group from front stoops and porches, some from dark windows. Dean puts a hand on Sam’s arm. "Is this what you felt coming?"
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don’t think so."
The professor hangs back, fear etched into every line on his face. "What…what’s happening?"
Izzy’s muttering furiously to herself. "-have killed you to say something before?" She scowls. "They’re not demons. They’re-"
"Ghosts," Sam finishes.
A pale sea of faces flickers all around them. Dean picks up whispers that sound more like static than words.
please help me
couldn’t stop myself
know what’s happening to
the Disease and I couldn’t
Dean lifts his shotgun-freshly filled with rock salt-and braces himself. "Get behind me," he orders, voice low. He can hear Andy shift behind him as he pulls out his own gun.
Sam ignores the order and walks right past him. The unsteady ocean parts for him, pale hands reaching toward his face, his arms, his chest.
Dean stares open-mouthed at the sight of his brother wandering through a crowd of fucking caspers, and then panic ratchets through him, jumpstarting his vocal cords. "Sam," he grits, "what the hell are you doing? Those things could-"
"They’re just lost," Sam says quietly. "They’re trapped here."
"Can we help them?" Izzy asks, a little too eager. "Is this the salt and burn part?"
"The salt and burn part needs bodies, Iz. Do you see any?"
"Most of the bodies are gone," Sam continues. "But they’re stuck here. Left behind."
"Well, I’m real sorry about that, but we’ve gotta go." Dean grimaces as he tentatively steps around and through the figures flanking Sam.
"Jesus Christ, Sam, what are you doing? They could kill you-us-in a matter of seconds. And you just go marching along like it’s a freakin parade?"
"They won’t hurt us," Sam says.
Dean is skeptical. Izzy seems more excited than scared. He wonders if it’s because she’s been able to hear their voices all along, if maybe this is what she sees every day. Dean shivers. No thanks. He stalks after Sam. "So what’s the plan, Haley Joel, you think we’re going to waste the next six months putting these poor bastards to rest?" He hesitates and casts an awkward glance at the nearby figures. A few of them flicker on and off like a bad light bulb. He can feel their eyes on him, but they let him pass. The ghosts let all of them pass.
Craig and Andy make their way down the street, mouths agape, eyes wide. The only one who seems as unaffected as Sam is Luke. They boy just swings his baseball bat at his side like a pendulum. When they reach the end of the road and turn back toward the highway, Dean risks a look over his shoulder.
The street is empty. There’s nothing but a thin snake of steam coming off the sidewalks, a few puddles, and crushing silence. Dean stops dead. "What the fuck was that?" His hand reaches out and catches Sam’s shoulder. "Sam. Seriously. Did you know they were just going to let us go--that they were just gonna disappear?"
Sam’s good eye looks away. Dean can’t read his expression in the dying light, but the stoop of his shoulders reveals Sam’s mood louder than words. "I don’t know anything, Dean. Just that they wanted my help. They wanted my help and I couldn’t give it to them." His voice is thick with regret.
Dean stares at Sam. "Dude, they’re just ghosts. If they’re not trying to kill me, I don’t much care. We’ve released a thousand of them over the years." He frowns. "What I don’t get, is why there were so excited to see you."
Sam’s eye finally slides to Dean’s face. "Don’t you get it?" he whispers, and there’s an emotion there Dean can’t quite (doesn’t want to) put his finger on.
"Get what?"
Sam takes a step closer. He’s doing the I’m looming thing. "That I’m one of them."
Dean hides his shock behind annoyance. He sighs heavily, blowing his lips out, but his hand stays on Sam’s shoulder. "You’re…a ghost," he says slowly. He wags an eyebrow. "That’s what you’re telling me?"
Sam shrugs Dean’s hand off. "All I know is that I feel dead most of the time." Sam glares and there’s a thin wire of rage running through his words. "The only difference between me and them is you can still see me."
"Is that the only difference?" Dean demands. "I’m pretty sure I can whack you upside the head, too," he says, glaring. He demonstrates with a flick of his wrist. Sam doesn’t even flinch.
They stare at each other.
Andy guides the rest of the group back toward the highway. Dean watches their progress from the corner of his eye. "Dude," he focuses his full attention back on Sam. "You have got to quit being so melodramatic. You are more of a girl than most of the women I’ve slept with."
Sam’s nostrils flare and his eye narrows.
Part of Dean is pissed at Sam’s behavior, the other part is doing fucking cartwheels that Sam’s actually feeling something, anything, besides guilt.
"I don’t know what I’m doing," Sam says finally. "I feel like there’s all this pressure that everyone wants me to be okay, to be normal-" he chokes out a bark of laughter, "-like I can be that, when all I feel is like I’m this fucking shell masquerading as a person. And you’re all gonna get tired of waiting for me to be okay." He swallows hard and wraps his arms around himself. "But I promise I’m trying, Dean. I’m trying so hard. Every day it feels like I’m dying, but I’m trying for you, Dean. I know you want me to live, so I am. I’m not hurting myself. I’m…just…I can’t. I don’t. Uhh." Sam turns his back to Dean, his body bent so tightly in on itself it looks like he’s going to snap in half.
Dean moves in front of Sam, puts a hand on each side of Sam’s head and pulls him upright. Sam’s forehead leans against Dean’s. "I’m trying, Dean. I owe you that. I owe you so much."
Dean’s stomach clenches at the grief in Sam’s voice, but he’s trying too. As much as Sam’s trying not to run screaming off an overpass, Dean’s trying to play it cool. He’s trying not to think about Dana’s face. He’s trying not to think about Sam digging around in his arm with a big-ass knife like he’s looking for lost treasure. He’s trying not to think about the sound of Sam’s screams after he (he shot Sam, he shot Sam) shot Sam. He’s trying not to keep Sam tethered to him at all times, although, to tell the truth, that’s pretty much what he wants after everything that’s happened. He’s trying to pretend he’s okay with the huge amount of fucked up Sam is; with the silence, the crying, the way he doesn’t want to eat and barely sleeps.
Dean lets out a pent-up breath. "I know you’re trying," he says softly. "I know you are and I’m glad, Sam. I’m thankful. But I’m trying too, here. Not just to take care of you, to keep you safe-" Sam makes a noise at this, but Dean barrels on, "-but to get everybody to New Mexico in one piece. I’m doing kind of a piss-poor job, Sam, and I know you don’t want to hear this, but I could use your help. Just a little."
Sam nods, his head bumping lightly against Dean’s. "I know. I can do it. I can help. I’d do anything for you." The last few words sound a little wet and crumpled, like old tissues in a pocket. Dean keeps his eyes closed, because he knows Sam’s good eye is leaking like an old roof, and I’d do anything for you is just begging for a wise-ass retort, but he doesn’t say a word. Because he and Sam are actually talking, no, communicating is the word Sam (the old Sam) would use. And Dean can’t help thinking fuck me twice and feel more than a little wonderment at the fact you can’t get more touchy-feely than this shit, and he’s glad.
And that’s when Sam pulls away and clamps his fingers back to the bridge of his nose.
"What’s wrong? More ghosts?" Dean asks, his hands dropping loosely to Sam’s neck.
Sam shakes his head, his voice stretched rubber band tight. "We saw the ghosts because there’s a…there’s, um, a disturbance…"
Dean snorts and this time he can’t resist. "In what? The force?"
Sam’s forehead crinkles and he takes a few steps toward a side street, away from the highway. "I don’t know how to describe it. It, uh, just feels wrong. There’s something…I can just. I can sense. Um. Ahh."
And that’s when they hear the screaming. It starts thin and frail and grows into a piercing shriek. Dean can hear a worried babble of voices coming from his friends but his brain doesn’t register what they’re saying. His brain is too busy registering that Sam’s running toward the screams. And like always, Dean follows.
ooooo
The girl is crouched in the center of a blacktop parking lot. A puddle near her foot shines like a mirror. She’s trapped in the center of a whirling maelstrom of leaves, newspaper, food wrappers. Her hands are pressed to either side of her head and her screams feel (sound) like glass in Sam’s head.
The energy crackles around her like a corona. The rushing wind blows the cap off Sam’s head, musses his hair. A broken cassette tape veers off its trajectory and slices the air above Dean’s ear. Both Dean’s gun and his gaze are trained on the girl; without turning his head he asks Sam, "Is she a demon?"
"Christo!" Sam shouts through the mad spiral around the girl.
"Fuck Christo," she shrieks. "Help me! I can’t stop it! I don’t know what to do!" She’s on her hands and knees now, fingers splayed and pressed white against the ground.
Sam takes a deep breath. He concentrates, like he did with Andy. It’s like adjusting a picture that’s gone crooked, smoothing the wrinkles out of a quilt. He steps toward the girl, eyes closed, and walks into her tornado. A piece of newspaper is momentarily trapped against his chest, then resumes its orbit. He can hear Dean’s panicked cry behind him, but he’s safe enough. He’s in the eye of the storm with the girl.
She’s sobbing now. "I don’t know what’s happening!" An aluminum can flashes by like a shooting star. The energy around them makes the hair on Sam’s arms, on the back of his neck, stand up.
He reaches for her hand, and her skin is slick with sweat. She’s rank with fear. "It’s okay," he says - and then it is. The feeling of wrongness is gone. The ache in his head shorts out. With their hands linked they’ve become a chain. He has no idea how he knows this, how he knows what to do, but he doesn’t have time for his own terror because hers is overwhelming. "Like this," he grits out, and the whirlwind of detritus slows and slows, until the bits of paper and junk and cans hang in the air like the world’s weirdest mobile. She blinks. Sam looks over the top of an old leather glove at Dean. Dean looks shocked, like Sam’s just punched him. Or left him.
"What-" Dean begins, but the girl cuts him off.
"How did you do that?" she demands. Her voice wavers and so does the junk suspended around them.
"I…I don’t know," Sam admits.
Her hand trembles in his. "You’re a Sixer?"
"I. Um." He sighs. "Yes."
She tries to take a step back, but he’s still holding her hand. He lets go. "I don’t want to hurt you," he says. "I just want to help." And he does. He just wants to help (to make up for).
The bits of newspaper, the cans, glove, everything drops to the ground. One can bounces and rolls towards Dean’s foot. "Why…why didn’t you just kill me?" she asks, clearly surprised.
Suddenly Sam is exhausted. He can barely stand. "I don’t want to kill you," he says and he feels nauseous. Does she know him? Does she recognize him?
"But you’re a Sixer."
Andy’s voice reaches them. "Not all Sixers work with the demons." He’s next to Dean now. So are Izzy and Craig and Luke. Sam can’t read Craig’s face, but Luke looks torn between fear and awe, like maybe Sam just performed a fucking fantastic trick. Like he’s part Penn and Teller and not just a freak.
The girl turns wet eyes back to Sam. "You saved me," she says. Her voice sounds the way Luke’s face looks. "You saved me." She drops to her knees and clutches at Sam’s hand.
Sam stumbles away from her grasp. He finds her gratitude far more disturbing than suspicion or animosity. "What? No. I just helped you figure out what to do. Don’t…don’t thank me."
She’s not listening. "Thank you." She tries to grab for his leg (his leg!), but Sam jerks away, bile rising in his throat. He’s no savior. He’s a monster. What’s wrong with her? Did he hurt her? Confuse her? He trips and falls backwards, landing hard on his ass and elbow. He grunts in pain.
Dean steps forward and slides his arms around the girl, yanks her bodily to her feet. "That’s enough hero worship for now. Give him some room."
The girl’s dark hair is pulled back into a messy braid, black tendrils framing the pale moon of her face. She stretches a hand out in front of her. "Am I a Sixer too?" She points to a crushed can and it lifts off the ground. She blinks and it’s gone, a bit of silver flashing across the parking lot. Her whole face pulls downward in a silent O of fear. "No. It can’t be." She looks from Sam to Andy and back to Sam. "I can’t be."
"I’m sorry," Sam says. He doesn’t know what else to say.
The girl turns on her heel and runs off into the night, torn skirt flying out behind her, dark braid swinging against her back.
"Sam…" Dean holds a hand out for his brother, helps him up. Sam doesn’t look at Dean. He can hear the myriad of questions buried in the single syllable: What the fuck was that? What did you do? Just how much should I be freaking out about this?
Craig clears his throat, studies Dean. "So you have two Sixers traveling with you?"
Dean meets Craig’s gaze, lifts his chin. "You got a problem with that?"
Craig chuckles softly. "You have got yourself some interesting travel companions, my friend," he says. "Something tells me this is going to be one hell of a trip."
Dean glances at Sam. "You don’t know the half of it."
Chapter 5
previous chapters here: at my journal
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 , the bestest beta who ever betaed. and thank you to everyone who's been reading this. your kind words mean the world to me. feedback tastes like ambrosia, y'all.
Disclaimer: I own nothing winchestery. but i'm keeping my fingers crossed, yo.
Hey you, standing in the road
always doing what you're told,
Can you help me?
Hey you, out there beyond the wall,
Breaking bottles in the hall,
Can you help me?
Hey you, don't tell me there's no hope at all
Together we stand, divided we fall.
-- Pink Floyd
Chapter 4
Then.
They’re sitting on the front steps of the Chicago Art Institute. The bronze lions flanking the entrance are gone, torn from their bases and sent through the plate glass windows of the shops across the street. Sam sits patiently with Jason and April, waiting for the Yellow-Eyed Demon. The Commander. Sam cleans his gun while he waits -- he likes to keep his hands busy. Jason smokes a cigarette. April plays with the leather bracelet around her wrist.
Chicago is quiet today. The cacophony of the previous few days-endless screams, gun shots, car alarms, shattering glass, explosions, squealing tires-has faded. There aren’t many survivors left, Sam doesn’t care about the ones skulking in churches and basements. A vision brought him here a week ago. The hunters he came to kill are dead now, his job done. It’s time to move on.
The sound of approaching footsteps makes all three heads turn. A teenage boy walks toward them, a long leather coat flapping out behind him. He smiles at them, nods. "How are my favorite kids?" he asks, with something that sounds like affection. Yellow eyes flicker from the young face. Sam barely even registers the body the demon wears; it’s just a disguise, it doesn’t mean anything. Power radiates from it, and Sam returns the smile.
The demon settles himself on the step next to Sam. "You did good," he says. He gestures toward a stalled taxi. A woman lies on the sidewalk, her face turned away, one arm outstretched. It looks as if she’s napping right on the pavement, as if waiting for a taxi took too damn long. The pooled blood haloed around her head tells a different story.
"You’re one of my favorites, Sammy," the Commander says. His amber eyes shift to Jason and April. "You all are. And you made Chicago into a nice little wasteland, just for me." He lifts an eyebrow. "You’ll be rewarded, you know. This is our world now. And most humans don’t get that," the demon muses. "They keep looking for some reason we’re here. Something complicated and grand, when really, it’s just our turn. You had the earth for a good fucking while. Now it’s our turn to walk in the sun, and you can burn in hell." The teenager’s arm reaches out to pat Sam’s knee. "No offense. I’m speaking in generalities. It’s not like you’ll burn in hell. Not if you play your cards right."
Sam finishes reassembling the gun, stuffs the old rag back into his pocket. "I’ve always been pretty good at poker," he says.
The demon nods, appraising Sam’s face. "I don’t doubt that for a minute. "
ooooo
Now.
Sam mutters in his sleep, restless. His dreams are full of blood and smoke. He walks down a narrow alley, the brick walls on either side of him warped and crumbling. His hand trails along one wall, as if reading Braille. He can feel the baleful glare of a thousand eyes heavy on his shoulders. He glimpses pale irises pressed against narrow gaps between bricks, watching.
Accusing.
The air is thick with the smell of smoke, his throat is sore and his eyes water. At the end of the alley is a stained porcelain sink. An antique mirror hangs above it, fine cracks webbing the spotted surface. Sam looks at his broken face, and his reflection looks back, both eyes intact and watchful. Sudden words smear across glass, red letters spilling toward the sink: Truth. He can see now that there’s something written on his forehead, and he leans closer to the mirror, studying the black lines. He focuses on the block letters tattooed across his skin, reads them backwards. Lies.
Sam turns a rusty spigot and brown water spurts out of the tap. It clears after a moment, and Sam puts his hands beneath the water. No matter how much he scrubs, the blood won’t come off; his skin is stained red.
A tall bird materializes from the smoke and walks toward him. It has a long scissoring beak and bright yellow eyes, and Sam thinks it might be a heron. "You can’t stop us," the bird says casually. "Our numbers are many. Yours are few."
It doesn’t matter, Sam thinks at the bird, still scrubbing his hands.
"I know what you dream," the bird says. "You think you can stop what’s going to happen in New Mexico?" The beak snaps shut and Sam swears it’s smiling. "You won’t. You’re not going to find truth. You’re going to find the consequences of your actions. Of your sins."
You’re wrong.
"Am I?" the bird tilts his head toward the mirror. Sam’s attention shifts back to it just as it shatters. Silver shards fly at him, and he feels several pieces lodge in his face, his head. He feels no pain.
"You should be dead, you know." The bird opens its mouth and something drops onto the ground at Sam’s feet. "He shot you. He wanted you to die." The bird’s voice is thin and sharp. It hurts in a way the glass can’t. "Dean lies awake at night, wishing you were gone, forever and ever, amen."
Get out of here.
The bird watches Sam for a long moment with its topaz eyes. "You can’t wash away the things you’ve done," it says and twitches away on stiff legs. Its head turns back, one eye glittering. "I think you dropped something." It takes another step before it folds itself into the shadow of a nearby wall.
Sam pulls a long sliver of glass out of his face, lets it fall to the ground. There, beside the bloody glass is a marble. He bends down. Not a marble, after all, an eye. His eye.
Watching.
ooooo
Sam jerks awake, disoriented. He’s on the ground. He brings bound hands to his face and remembers the pain and loss, rubs a thumb across the worn cloth of the eye patch and lets out a thin breath.
He knows Dean didn’t want to kill him, no matter what his subconscious says. On the other hand, he can’t really argue the fact that he should be dead. Deserves to be dead. He turns his head and sees the others still asleep, safe within the salt circle. Morning’s pale fingers push the remains of night away. A few scattered birds fly overhead, silent.
You think you can stop what’s going to happen in New Mexico? You won’t.
Sam rolls over and pushes himself up. He kneels next to Dean, touches his shoulder gently. "Dean."
Dean’s eyes blink open. In another life he would have rolled away, asked for five more minutes. Demanded coffee. Now he’s awake in an instant, ready. "What is it?"
"We need to get going."
Dean looks past Sam to Izzy’s sleeping form. "Did she--?"
Sam shakes his head. "No. I had a dream." At Dean’s look he quickly adds, "Not a vision. Just a…a dream. But it makes me want to get going. I know the demon is heading to New Mexico and I want to get there first."
Dean starts rolling up his sleeping bag. He doesn’t even question Sam. His mouth says, "Okay. I’m gonna take a leak and then we’ll wake the others. Okay?" His eyes say, we’ll get there. It’ll be okay.
Sam doesn’t think anything will be okay ever again, but he nods. He’s lost now, without hope or destiny, and trusting Dean is all he has left. It’s the one thing he still knows how to do.
ooooo
It’s been close to an hour since anyone spoke. They pick their way down the highway, careful and quiet. Interstate 44 bisects what remains of the downtown area, and Andy wonders what Oklahoma City would look like from an aerial view. He imagines the grid of empty streets as broken stitches, the people bled away. He can see the remains of the National Cowboy Hall of Fame and Western Heritage Center off to the right. To the left is the ruined university. They move past the broken shells of hotels, motels, stores and apartment buildings. A starving cat, ribs pushing through matted fur, watches them warily from the hood of a car.
Isobel gave the alert a while ago: demons nearby. In Midwest City to the southwest, and maybe Del City which is even closer. They can see a thick pillar of smoke behind them, like an ashen obelisk holding up the sky. Andy reads the graffitied signs and looks at the rolling waves of smoke, guesses the air force base is on fire.
At times like this, when it’s quiet and his nerves are shot, Andy thinks of Tracy. She could always make him feel better. She had an inherent gentleness, a softness about her that he loved. Still loves, really -- he never stopped loving her. Even now, he can remember the feel of her arms around him after Doc died. (Anson killed him.) He can also remember the look in her eyes after she realized what he could do. That one look makes him feel like shit. Dirty. Like a freak. He can’t even begin to understand what Sam feels like.
Izzy’s up ahead, fist pressed to her mouth. She’s crying to herself, something about what the demons are up to. Andy doesn’t want to know. Dean’s in the lead-as usual-and he looks pissed -- he’s looked that way ever since Izzy sounded the alarm. Oklahoma City was supposed to be a chance to stock up on salt and food and supplies; instead it’s just another trap to avoid. Andy rubs his neck, tries to work out a little of the tension. It feels like there’s a metal rod rammed right up his back and into his skull.
Sam’s next to him, shuffling like a zombie. He was silent even before Izzy said anything. He seemed to have two modes now: silent or freaked the fuck out. Andy wishes he knew how to help, because he likes Sam, despite the things he’s done. Sam took away the nightmares, and for that he’ll always be grateful. Always.
They keep walking, lips compressed into lines, eyes turned inwards. Andy rubs his neck again and thinks, we’re all just fucking zombies now.
ooooo
By the time noon has come and gone they’re on the far side of the city. Izzy’s a little calmer now, and they risk stopping a few minutes to rest and eat. She keeps muttering under her breath to Claudia and blinking, like she can’t quite see. "Fucking demons," she mutters. "Ugly fuckers."
Dean raises his water bottle. "I’ll drink to that." He chokes down a mouthful of warm water, makes a face, and puts the bottle back in his pack. "So we’re safe now?"
Izzy regards him with a baleful look.
Dean rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean."
Izzy sighs. "It seems quiet now. Nothing up ahead or directly on either side." She uses the hem of her shirt to wipe her nose. "Do you like poetry?"
Dean chews on a piece of licorice. It tastes like plastic. Old plastic. He shakes his head. "I’m more of a limerick guy," he admits. "Why? You wanna give a poetry reading?"
"I’ve got a poem stuck in my head," she mumbles and turns away. Her blond hair is lank and greasy.
"We should go," Sam says. The granola bar Dean gave him is still in his lap, unopened.
"Dude, you didn’t eat," Dean says, eyes dark. "You’re no good to us if you collapse on the way."
Sam tosses the granola bar back to Dean. "I’m not hungry. I’ll eat later."
"What’s the rush?" Andy wonders. "I thought we were making okay time."
Sam clasps his hands together. His wrists are raw and scabbed from the constant rubbing of the rope. He doesn’t seem to notice. "I think it’s important that we get there as soon as possible," he says carefully.
Dean stares at Sam’s granola bar, debates whether to save it or eat it himself. He shrugs and unwraps it. He might as well eat it. If Sam tips over he’ll need the strength to haul his ass along.
"We don’t even know what’s there," Andy says. "For all you know, we’re walking into a trap." Andy stands, brushes crumbs from his face, his shirt. "I mean, we’ve all got this idea that there’s something actually waiting for us in New Mexico. That there will be people in Truth or Consequences. But we don’t know."
Dean lifts an eyebrow. "You got someplace else you need to be, Andrew?" He emphasizes Andy’s full name.
Sam looks at Andy. "I know," he says softly. "There are people there. Humans."
Andy looks skeptical. "How do you know? Because of some graffiti?"
Sam shakes his head, closes his eyes. Dean watches him carefully. He gets to his feet and moves closer to Sam.
Sam’s eyes flick back open. "I had a vision."
ooooo
Then.
Sam moves through the house slowly. He can feel Dean approaching, and he’s excited. He ends up in the kitchen and studies the colorful drawing stuck to the refrigerator. It’s a crayoned square of a house and stick figures; childish script reads "my home." The picture jogs something in a far recess of Sam’s memory, but not enough to push anything loose. He pushes the mental itch away, and continues his circuit of the kitchen.
Sam’s going to repay Dean for all the years he took care of him. A chair slides back from the kitchen table and he sits. He’ll try to reason with Dean, try to bring him over to their (winning) side. The Commander’s side. But if he can’t…then he’ll kill him. He’ll do it fast, so Dean doesn’t suffer. He won’t even know what happened. That’s how Sam wants it, because he does love Dean, and he won’t let the Commander or the other demons or his fellow Sixers touch him. Dean is his. Once, a long time ago, he was Dean’s.
He sits at the kitchen table and waits, whistling a little. Some old Metallica song, and that makes him smile. How very Dean of him. That’s when the vision hits.
The kitchen breaks into pieces of broken glass that reassemble into a different reality. There’s no pain during visions now, just a hum in his head, a sense of energy and being connected. Two men stand outside a large block building. One holds a rifle. The other drops a rosary into a pail of water, speaking Latin. There are fragments of other people, a praying woman, a laughing child. A woman scavenges among the toppled shelves of a small market for salt and herbs. The image flickers then refocuses on the sign above the window: Truth or Consequences Co-op.
The vision ends. Sam blinks a few times, memorizing details. There are humans in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. And some of them-maybe all of them-are hunters. He nods to himself. The hunters won’t last long -- he’ll kill them all with a song in his heart and a spring in his step. A noise on the front porch breaks into his thoughts, and he stands, calm and ready. Finding the hunters will come later. After Dean.
The screen door creaks. A familiar voice calls out, "Sam?"
ooooo
Now.
Sam just stands there, head down, and something inside Dean breaks a little to see Sam like that. He steps next to him so they brush shoulders, just to let Sam know I’m here. Sam tips his head toward Dean, but keeps his face down, the brim of the baseball cap shielding his face. I know.
Andy and Izzy are both on their feet now, staring at Sam. Andy’s voice is hoarse when he speaks. "Do you think the hunters are still there?"
Sam shrugs. "I think so. It feels like they are. And if we can get there, then maybe I can help. Maybe I can stop the…" he trails off.
"Stop what?" Izzy wants to know.
Sam shuffles his feet and hunches his shoulders.
Andy pulls at his lower lip, thinking. "You think other Sixers are on their way there?"
Sam lifts his head slightly and shrugs. "Maybe."
Andy shifts his attention to Dean. "Did you know about this?"
Dean bends to pick up his pack. "Some of it." He mind shifts back to the conversation he had with Sam weeks ago. You need to tell me what The Demon is planning. And is there a chance we can stop him?
He has no idea if anyone is still alive in Truth or Consequences or not. But he’s hoping. And that, in itself, is something.
ooooo
"I’ve gotta pee."
They’re near Weatherford and Dean doesn’t really want to stop. But he wants to listen to Izzy bitch him out to her invisible friends even less, so he slows his pace and sighs. "Hurry up then."
Izzy rolls her eyes. "I will, dad," she snarks, and heads toward a towering billboard a few hundred feet away. The sign is faded and ripped, but the advertisement for Verizon Wireless is still visible. Dean scowls at the billboard and sinks onto the dusty asphalt. Andy takes a drink of water. Sam scratches obsessively at the bandage on his arm. Dean stretches out a leg and knocks Sam’s foot, and Sam turns to him, the what? plain on his face.
Dean gives his head a little shake. "Don’t do that."
Sam sighs loudly and lets his arms drop. "If you don’t want me to itch then tie me back up." He sounds a little pissy, and frankly, Dean’s glad. He’ll take a whiny Sam over a silent (suicidal) one any day. Which is a real kick in the ass, because once upon a time Dean would have paid good money to get this kind of quality silence from Sam. But not anymore, because when Sam is silent it means he’s remembering, and Dean really doesn’t want him doing that.
Dean rests both palms on the ground behind him and stretches, rolls his shoulders. "Sammy, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re getting a little kinky in your old age." He ignores Sam’s glower and winks. "From now on, if you wanna get tied up, you’re gonna have to find a four poster bed and a nasty girl to do it for you, cuz I’m done. We’re getting closer to New Mexico, and I want you to be hands free." He meets Sam’s gaze and the message is loud and clear: If we run into something big and bad you’re not gonna be much help with your hands tied, are you?
Sam nods reluctantly. Okay. His arms are folded across his chest and his fingers tap out a frantic Morse code of distress along the sleeves of his shirt.
"Hey!" The sound of a man’s voice brings Dean to his feet, and he and Sam instinctively position themselves side by side in front of Andy. There’s a man with a little boy running up the North Eastern Avenue on-ramp. He waves one arm wildly and shouts "Christo!"
Dean pulls out his gun, waiting. "Christo," he calls back. His voice is amiable enough, but his body is wired with tension.
The man slows to a fast walk, and now Dean can see he’s limping. The tousle-haired boy he’s pulling in his wake stumbles to keep up. The man reminds Dean of someone, but he can’t quite place who. The man pulls at the left sleeve of his shirt and Dean’s grip tightens on his gun. He said Christo, so it’s unlikely he’s a demon, but he could be a Sixer. Or a fucked-up human.
"I’m not a demon," the man says, and raises the inside of his bare arm to Dean. There, stippled across dark skin, is a carefully tattooed Seal of Solomon. Above it is a thin cross, below it is a slightly lopsided shield knot. "The seal came out best," he says. He looks tired and sounds out of breath.
Dean points his weapon at the ground. "You did these?"
"Yeah. I figure sooner or later we’ll be coming across demons who can say Christo without flinching. But are they going to tattoo a protection symbol on their, uh, host’s skin? I’ve heard cases where they’ll mark the skin to keep them in, but not to keep them out."
Dean casts a sideways look at Sam, but neither man speaks. Andy eyes the boy. "What about him?"
The man shakes his head. "He’s with me. He doesn’t speak. But he’s not a demon." The man wipes his hand on the front of his shirt, offers it to Dean. "My name’s Craig, by the way. Craig Thomson."
Dean stares at Craig’s hand, but he doesn’t take it. After a long awkward moment, Craig lets it drop. Dean casts a quick glance over his shoulder for Izzy, and turns back to Craig and the boy. He hates to ask, but he has to. "How do you know the kid’s not a demon?"
Craig lifts an eyebrow, and Dean realizes the dude sort of looks like the black guy from the Shawshank Redemption. The actor with the girl’s name. "Well, the fact that I’m still alive is a good indication."
Dean frowns. He glances at Sam, but Sam seems to have checked out. He’s staring at the ground, his eye unfocused. Andy meets Dean’s gaze. "We could have him write it," he suggests weakly.
Dean rolls his eyes and looks hard at the kid. He looks ten, maybe eleven, with light brown hair, brilliant blue eyes and a smattering of freckles across his nose. The eyes refuse to look at him, and Dean wonders if the kid and Sam are looking at the same nothing.
"Is he, uh, your kid?" Dean asks.
Craig shakes his head. "I found him in Nebraska. He was trapped in a car with his mother." He pauses. "She’s dead."
Dean bends down on one knee. "Dude, can you say Christo?" he asks. The boy says nothing. Dean tries again. "What’s your name?" Dean glances up at Craig. "Do you know?"
Craig sighs. "I don’t. And I don’t know if he does either. He’s never said a word to me."
"Maybe he can’t talk." Andy snaps his fingers. "He’s, you know…what do they call it? Mute."
Craig puts a protective hand on the boy’s shoulder. "I don’t think he’s mute. And he’s certainly not deaf."
"Do you have any paper?" Dean asks Craig. On Craig’s look he eyes Andy. "Do you?"
Izzy arrives finally, eyeing the newcomers with a mixture of curiosity and caution. "They’re not demons," she says.
Dean exhales in relief. "Good." He manages a grin that’s more or less real. This time he offers Craig his hand. Craig smiles back and they shake.
ooooo
"Do you mind if we walk with you for a while?" Craig asks. "It’s nice to have someone to talk to." He pats the boy’s arm and gives the top of head a fond smile. "No offense."
"Where are you headed?" Izzy wants to know.
"New Mexico," Craig replies. "This is going to sound weird, but-"
Dean interrupts him. "Dude. Look around. What could possibly sound weird now?"
Craig smiles. "You have a point, friend. I saw a message spray-painted across the highway back in Indiana. Some sort of you’re not alone if you go to Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, deal. I’ve been making my way there at a snail’s pace ever since."
"Do you always trust random graffiti to tell you where to go?" Dean asks.
Craig shrugs. "It’s not like I have anywhere else to be. I won’t be grading papers for a long while, I’m afraid."
Andy takes a drink from his water bottle, offers it to Craig. "You’re a teacher?"
"I was. Professor of Theology at Valparaíso University."
Dean nods. "Ah. That explains how you knew the kind of symbols to tattoo on your arm."
Craig takes a drink and hands the bottle back to Andy. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Exactly. My dad always used to bitch about my studying theology. He said it was a bunch of bedtime stories and myths." Craig squints into the horizon. "Doesn’t seem much like bedtime stories anymore."
ooooo
Sam’s trying hard to keep it together. He’s gone back to counting his steps, because that at least keeps his mind off the whispers. Sam’s silent, but nothing else is - everything calls to him now, pulls at him. The professor and the kid don’t affect him much. Dean’s been talking to Craig for hours now, about the tattoos, types of apotrope, protective sigils, exorcism rituals. All Sam can hear is the glint of Izzy’s knife, the weight of Dean’s gun. Every chunk of concrete tossed alongside the road, every overpass is a promise. Pain is everywhere, ready and waiting, and he can’t believe he never noticed it before.
He blinks the sweat out of his eyes and concentrates on walking. Three hundred seventy-five, three hundred seventy-six, three hundred seventy-seven. He could get Izzy’s knife before anyone knows what’s happening and shove it into his skull. His arm. His chest.
Sam grits his teeth and keeps walking for Dean. Dean is his anchor, holding him steady (holding him down, keeping him here). Without Dean he'd be lost (could finally let go). Sam bites at a fingernail (he needs to do something with his hands, they're always there) and tries to think. He needs to try harder, be better. He promised he wouldn’t hurt himself and he won’t. Dean wants him to be okay, they all want him to be okay. Dean deserves to have Sam be (act) okay. And Sam's feet keep moving as he counts: three hundred seventy-eight, three hundred seventy-nine, three hundred eighty.
Most of the time, he feels brittle and empty, as if he’s made of broken glass and everything fits together wrong. It’s like his skin-his body-is made of a thousand birds straining to fly in opposite directions. If he can just figure out how to let go, he’ll be free. He can just fly away.
He’s on step three hundred ninety-five when there’s a hand on his arm. He stops walking and waits; Dean will tell him what to do. "Earth to Sam," Dean says, and Sam smiles because that’s what Dean wants.
Sam pulls the baseball cap off and runs a hand through matted hair. "Are we stopping?"
"Everybody’s tired. I think we’ll have dinner and hit the hay early." Dean grins. "Guess what the professor’s got."
Sam opens his mouth, tries hard to formulate a response. As usual, Dean saves him. "Salt. The bastard has salt, can you believe it? He read in some old textbook that salt wards off demons and spirits. Looks like we just might live through another night, Sammy."
Sam smiles and it feels wrong, but Dean doesn’t freak out, so he must look passable. "That’s great."
Dinner is three cans of pork and beans; they pass the warmed cans around and eat with their fingers. Sam doesn’t want to eat, but Dean glares until he gives in. He can feel Craig watching him as well. Part of Sam’s mind wonders if Craig knows him-knows about him-but Craig just smiles and Sam lets the thought go. Dessert is a few bruised apples and the last of the licorice. The boy sits between Dean and Craig during the meal. He still doesn’t speak, but he has a decent appetite.
By the time the fire dies down, Andy has finished pouring the salt circle around their camp. The boy is staring into a few smoldering embers when Dean speaks. "You know something? I knew another kid who didn’t like to talk. This was a few years ago, now. His name was Lucas. He was a good kid," Dean says quietly. "He was just having some weird shi-ah, crap going on around him." Dean clears his throat. Sam listens. For some reason, the sound of Dean’s voice in the firelight, in the hush of twilight, makes everything almost bearable. "Now, I don’t know you that well yet, but I can tell from looking at you that you’re a good kid. Since I don’t know your name, is it okay if I call you Luke?"
The boy looks at Dean intently, but that’s all.
"Also, there’s a pretty cool movie about a guy named Luke and his super cool friend Han…" Dean trails off. "You probably don’t care much about old movies right now though…what with everything that’s happened to you." Dean sighs, picks at a fraying lace on his boot. "If you don’t want me to call you Luke, I won’t. But it’d be nice to call you something besides dude all the time." Dean elbows Sam. "That’s already what I call my goofy brother, here."
Sam’s throat closes up at this. Even now, Dean thinks of Sam (murderer) as his little brother. He tries to breathe and makes a sound like he’s just been kicked in the throat. Dean turns to him, concern on his face. "You okay?"
Fuck no, and I never will be again. Sam just coughs. "Yeah." Dean looks a little uncertain, but the sound of the boy shifting on the ground pulls his attention from Sam.
The boy nods slowly and Dean grins. "Nice to meetcha, Luke."
ooooo
An anemic rain comes with the dawn. It’s more mist than rain, really, but it’s persistent, and by the time they’re up and walking, everyone’s soaked to the skin. The sky is leaden and the group’s mood feels just as heavy. Izzy mutters every now and then to Claudia, but other than that, they squelch through puddles and Dean thinks he would gladly forfeit one of his kidneys for a cup of strong hot coffee.
Dean spots the bird from the corner of his eye. A big motherfucker of a thing, maybe a crane or heron, he’s not sure. Sam stops dead and Dean almost runs into him. "Dude. Watch it." The bird cocks its head and peers in their direction before lifting off in a blur of wings. Dean’s ready to move on, but Sam acts like the bird means something. "Sammy?"
Sam watches the bird until it’s just grey on grey. He turns to Dean and blinks. Water droplets bead the brim of his cap. "What?"
Dean searches his brother’s weary face for some kind of clue to what’s really going on. There was time when he knew Sam’s thoughts better than his own, but that time is gone. "It’s just a bird, Sam. Not a ghost. Let’s go."
Sam nods stiffly and starts walking again. Dean flicks the condensation from his face. "This weather sucks out loud."
"Hey, guys!" Izzy waves from up ahead. She’s pointing to a green rectangular sign that reads Elk City.
Andy links arms with Izzy and they twirl each other in a circle, yahooing and high-fiving each other like fools. "Thank God for supplies!" Andy yells, grinning into the rain.
"I’d hold off on that thanks until we actually have something to be thankful for," Dean says, but he can’t help feeling just a little excited. It feels like forever since they’ve had fresh water. They need more thread, needles, socks, food, bandages. His mind flicks back to the tattoo on the professor’s arm. And maybe some ink.
ooooo
Elk City is quiet. Cars are still parked along streets, houses are still standing. Within a few minutes of walking past a Chili’s, Perkins, and a Goodwill, it’s obvious the Disease killed this city, not demons. They stay together, Craig’s arm around Luke, as they wander past deserted buildings.
Dean keeps a sharp eye out for crazies, but there’s nothing but the cold mist and the sound of their footsteps. Izzy cups her hands around her face and looks into the empty dining room of a restaurant. Each table is still set with menus and decorative candles. Sam nudges Dean’s arm. "Look."
A grocery store looms beyond the restaurant. "Thank you Jesus," Izzy whispers, and starts running.
"Isobel," Dean hisses, using his best don’t fuck with me voice. "Get your ass back here. We stay together." He doesn’t have to remind her about Patrick: the look in her eyes tells him she gets the message.
The gas station across from the grocery store is the first indication that something went wrong here. The gasoline pumps are all gone - all that’s left are bits of twisted metal and scorched concrete. "What do you want to bet they’re all like that?" Andy says.
"I’m not taking that bet." Dean’s lips purse. "I think you’re right." He shrugs. "But we can check later. Right now, let’s hit the store." He looks at Craig. "You got a weapon, Professor?"
The professor pulls a claw hammer out of his jacket pocket. The hammer head looks heavy and slightly misshapen. The claw looks as if it’s been recently sharpened.
Dean nods in approval. "Works for me."
The automatic doors open when they approach the grocery store entrance. Most of the lights are burnt out, but two or three of the fluorescents buzz and flicker toward the back of the store. They fan out carefully, Dean in the lead, Sam next, then Andy, Izzy, and Craig with Luke. They take turns rounding each end cap, making sure there’s no one waiting in an aisle for them. The store is empty, but the outside looks infinitely better than the inside.
Rust-colored footprints trail up and down the aisles. Several cash registers are overturned and broken on the floor. Crumpled tens and twenties are glued to the tiles, mired in dried blood. Once they’re sure they’re alone, they travel the length of the grocery store in silence, weaving between toppled displays, overturned carts, and the occasional discarded shoe or sweatshirt. The entire meat and dairy sections have gone bad, and the smell is enough to keep them as far as possible from that end of the store. Black clouds of flies float above the coolers, and for one sickening second, before he hears the hum, Dean thinks, demon.
The whole place makes Dean’s skin crawl, and he wants to get back to the open road yesterday. He gives them fifteen minutes to grab all the shit they can stuff into their assorted bags: salt, bottled water, crackers, power bars, chips--anything with a dubiously long shelf life. Dean finds M&Ms and tube socks by the check out; he’s good to go. Izzy suggests staying there for the night, but Dean won’t hear of it. Surprisingly, neither will Sam. Sam’s got one arm wrapped around his stomach and he’s wearing a glazed look which doesn’t bode well for any of them.
Back out on the deserted street they make another quick stop at a Wal-Mart for bullets, Indian ink, flashlights, and a baseball bat for Luke. Craig won’t let the boy have a gun or knife, but he agrees to the bat. Luke swings experimentally, then nods at Dean. Good enough. They all trade in their piece-of-shit shoes for new ones, except for Sam - the store doesn’t carry his size. Dean wants to crack a joke, call him on his sasquatch-sized feet, but Sam’s grey complexion stops him cold.
By the time they exit the store it’s nearly dark. The good news is the rain has stopped; the bad news is the streets are no longer deserted. Figures roam aimlessly through yards and streets. Some watch the little group from front stoops and porches, some from dark windows. Dean puts a hand on Sam’s arm. "Is this what you felt coming?"
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don’t think so."
The professor hangs back, fear etched into every line on his face. "What…what’s happening?"
Izzy’s muttering furiously to herself. "-have killed you to say something before?" She scowls. "They’re not demons. They’re-"
"Ghosts," Sam finishes.
A pale sea of faces flickers all around them. Dean picks up whispers that sound more like static than words.
please help me
couldn’t stop myself
know what’s happening to
the Disease and I couldn’t
Dean lifts his shotgun-freshly filled with rock salt-and braces himself. "Get behind me," he orders, voice low. He can hear Andy shift behind him as he pulls out his own gun.
Sam ignores the order and walks right past him. The unsteady ocean parts for him, pale hands reaching toward his face, his arms, his chest.
Dean stares open-mouthed at the sight of his brother wandering through a crowd of fucking caspers, and then panic ratchets through him, jumpstarting his vocal cords. "Sam," he grits, "what the hell are you doing? Those things could-"
"They’re just lost," Sam says quietly. "They’re trapped here."
"Can we help them?" Izzy asks, a little too eager. "Is this the salt and burn part?"
"The salt and burn part needs bodies, Iz. Do you see any?"
"Most of the bodies are gone," Sam continues. "But they’re stuck here. Left behind."
"Well, I’m real sorry about that, but we’ve gotta go." Dean grimaces as he tentatively steps around and through the figures flanking Sam.
"Jesus Christ, Sam, what are you doing? They could kill you-us-in a matter of seconds. And you just go marching along like it’s a freakin parade?"
"They won’t hurt us," Sam says.
Dean is skeptical. Izzy seems more excited than scared. He wonders if it’s because she’s been able to hear their voices all along, if maybe this is what she sees every day. Dean shivers. No thanks. He stalks after Sam. "So what’s the plan, Haley Joel, you think we’re going to waste the next six months putting these poor bastards to rest?" He hesitates and casts an awkward glance at the nearby figures. A few of them flicker on and off like a bad light bulb. He can feel their eyes on him, but they let him pass. The ghosts let all of them pass.
Craig and Andy make their way down the street, mouths agape, eyes wide. The only one who seems as unaffected as Sam is Luke. They boy just swings his baseball bat at his side like a pendulum. When they reach the end of the road and turn back toward the highway, Dean risks a look over his shoulder.
The street is empty. There’s nothing but a thin snake of steam coming off the sidewalks, a few puddles, and crushing silence. Dean stops dead. "What the fuck was that?" His hand reaches out and catches Sam’s shoulder. "Sam. Seriously. Did you know they were just going to let us go--that they were just gonna disappear?"
Sam’s good eye looks away. Dean can’t read his expression in the dying light, but the stoop of his shoulders reveals Sam’s mood louder than words. "I don’t know anything, Dean. Just that they wanted my help. They wanted my help and I couldn’t give it to them." His voice is thick with regret.
Dean stares at Sam. "Dude, they’re just ghosts. If they’re not trying to kill me, I don’t much care. We’ve released a thousand of them over the years." He frowns. "What I don’t get, is why there were so excited to see you."
Sam’s eye finally slides to Dean’s face. "Don’t you get it?" he whispers, and there’s an emotion there Dean can’t quite (doesn’t want to) put his finger on.
"Get what?"
Sam takes a step closer. He’s doing the I’m looming thing. "That I’m one of them."
Dean hides his shock behind annoyance. He sighs heavily, blowing his lips out, but his hand stays on Sam’s shoulder. "You’re…a ghost," he says slowly. He wags an eyebrow. "That’s what you’re telling me?"
Sam shrugs Dean’s hand off. "All I know is that I feel dead most of the time." Sam glares and there’s a thin wire of rage running through his words. "The only difference between me and them is you can still see me."
"Is that the only difference?" Dean demands. "I’m pretty sure I can whack you upside the head, too," he says, glaring. He demonstrates with a flick of his wrist. Sam doesn’t even flinch.
They stare at each other.
Andy guides the rest of the group back toward the highway. Dean watches their progress from the corner of his eye. "Dude," he focuses his full attention back on Sam. "You have got to quit being so melodramatic. You are more of a girl than most of the women I’ve slept with."
Sam’s nostrils flare and his eye narrows.
Part of Dean is pissed at Sam’s behavior, the other part is doing fucking cartwheels that Sam’s actually feeling something, anything, besides guilt.
"I don’t know what I’m doing," Sam says finally. "I feel like there’s all this pressure that everyone wants me to be okay, to be normal-" he chokes out a bark of laughter, "-like I can be that, when all I feel is like I’m this fucking shell masquerading as a person. And you’re all gonna get tired of waiting for me to be okay." He swallows hard and wraps his arms around himself. "But I promise I’m trying, Dean. I’m trying so hard. Every day it feels like I’m dying, but I’m trying for you, Dean. I know you want me to live, so I am. I’m not hurting myself. I’m…just…I can’t. I don’t. Uhh." Sam turns his back to Dean, his body bent so tightly in on itself it looks like he’s going to snap in half.
Dean moves in front of Sam, puts a hand on each side of Sam’s head and pulls him upright. Sam’s forehead leans against Dean’s. "I’m trying, Dean. I owe you that. I owe you so much."
Dean’s stomach clenches at the grief in Sam’s voice, but he’s trying too. As much as Sam’s trying not to run screaming off an overpass, Dean’s trying to play it cool. He’s trying not to think about Dana’s face. He’s trying not to think about Sam digging around in his arm with a big-ass knife like he’s looking for lost treasure. He’s trying not to think about the sound of Sam’s screams after he (he shot Sam, he shot Sam) shot Sam. He’s trying not to keep Sam tethered to him at all times, although, to tell the truth, that’s pretty much what he wants after everything that’s happened. He’s trying to pretend he’s okay with the huge amount of fucked up Sam is; with the silence, the crying, the way he doesn’t want to eat and barely sleeps.
Dean lets out a pent-up breath. "I know you’re trying," he says softly. "I know you are and I’m glad, Sam. I’m thankful. But I’m trying too, here. Not just to take care of you, to keep you safe-" Sam makes a noise at this, but Dean barrels on, "-but to get everybody to New Mexico in one piece. I’m doing kind of a piss-poor job, Sam, and I know you don’t want to hear this, but I could use your help. Just a little."
Sam nods, his head bumping lightly against Dean’s. "I know. I can do it. I can help. I’d do anything for you." The last few words sound a little wet and crumpled, like old tissues in a pocket. Dean keeps his eyes closed, because he knows Sam’s good eye is leaking like an old roof, and I’d do anything for you is just begging for a wise-ass retort, but he doesn’t say a word. Because he and Sam are actually talking, no, communicating is the word Sam (the old Sam) would use. And Dean can’t help thinking fuck me twice and feel more than a little wonderment at the fact you can’t get more touchy-feely than this shit, and he’s glad.
And that’s when Sam pulls away and clamps his fingers back to the bridge of his nose.
"What’s wrong? More ghosts?" Dean asks, his hands dropping loosely to Sam’s neck.
Sam shakes his head, his voice stretched rubber band tight. "We saw the ghosts because there’s a…there’s, um, a disturbance…"
Dean snorts and this time he can’t resist. "In what? The force?"
Sam’s forehead crinkles and he takes a few steps toward a side street, away from the highway. "I don’t know how to describe it. It, uh, just feels wrong. There’s something…I can just. I can sense. Um. Ahh."
And that’s when they hear the screaming. It starts thin and frail and grows into a piercing shriek. Dean can hear a worried babble of voices coming from his friends but his brain doesn’t register what they’re saying. His brain is too busy registering that Sam’s running toward the screams. And like always, Dean follows.
ooooo
The girl is crouched in the center of a blacktop parking lot. A puddle near her foot shines like a mirror. She’s trapped in the center of a whirling maelstrom of leaves, newspaper, food wrappers. Her hands are pressed to either side of her head and her screams feel (sound) like glass in Sam’s head.
The energy crackles around her like a corona. The rushing wind blows the cap off Sam’s head, musses his hair. A broken cassette tape veers off its trajectory and slices the air above Dean’s ear. Both Dean’s gun and his gaze are trained on the girl; without turning his head he asks Sam, "Is she a demon?"
"Christo!" Sam shouts through the mad spiral around the girl.
"Fuck Christo," she shrieks. "Help me! I can’t stop it! I don’t know what to do!" She’s on her hands and knees now, fingers splayed and pressed white against the ground.
Sam takes a deep breath. He concentrates, like he did with Andy. It’s like adjusting a picture that’s gone crooked, smoothing the wrinkles out of a quilt. He steps toward the girl, eyes closed, and walks into her tornado. A piece of newspaper is momentarily trapped against his chest, then resumes its orbit. He can hear Dean’s panicked cry behind him, but he’s safe enough. He’s in the eye of the storm with the girl.
She’s sobbing now. "I don’t know what’s happening!" An aluminum can flashes by like a shooting star. The energy around them makes the hair on Sam’s arms, on the back of his neck, stand up.
He reaches for her hand, and her skin is slick with sweat. She’s rank with fear. "It’s okay," he says - and then it is. The feeling of wrongness is gone. The ache in his head shorts out. With their hands linked they’ve become a chain. He has no idea how he knows this, how he knows what to do, but he doesn’t have time for his own terror because hers is overwhelming. "Like this," he grits out, and the whirlwind of detritus slows and slows, until the bits of paper and junk and cans hang in the air like the world’s weirdest mobile. She blinks. Sam looks over the top of an old leather glove at Dean. Dean looks shocked, like Sam’s just punched him. Or left him.
"What-" Dean begins, but the girl cuts him off.
"How did you do that?" she demands. Her voice wavers and so does the junk suspended around them.
"I…I don’t know," Sam admits.
Her hand trembles in his. "You’re a Sixer?"
"I. Um." He sighs. "Yes."
She tries to take a step back, but he’s still holding her hand. He lets go. "I don’t want to hurt you," he says. "I just want to help." And he does. He just wants to help (to make up for).
The bits of newspaper, the cans, glove, everything drops to the ground. One can bounces and rolls towards Dean’s foot. "Why…why didn’t you just kill me?" she asks, clearly surprised.
Suddenly Sam is exhausted. He can barely stand. "I don’t want to kill you," he says and he feels nauseous. Does she know him? Does she recognize him?
"But you’re a Sixer."
Andy’s voice reaches them. "Not all Sixers work with the demons." He’s next to Dean now. So are Izzy and Craig and Luke. Sam can’t read Craig’s face, but Luke looks torn between fear and awe, like maybe Sam just performed a fucking fantastic trick. Like he’s part Penn and Teller and not just a freak.
The girl turns wet eyes back to Sam. "You saved me," she says. Her voice sounds the way Luke’s face looks. "You saved me." She drops to her knees and clutches at Sam’s hand.
Sam stumbles away from her grasp. He finds her gratitude far more disturbing than suspicion or animosity. "What? No. I just helped you figure out what to do. Don’t…don’t thank me."
She’s not listening. "Thank you." She tries to grab for his leg (his leg!), but Sam jerks away, bile rising in his throat. He’s no savior. He’s a monster. What’s wrong with her? Did he hurt her? Confuse her? He trips and falls backwards, landing hard on his ass and elbow. He grunts in pain.
Dean steps forward and slides his arms around the girl, yanks her bodily to her feet. "That’s enough hero worship for now. Give him some room."
The girl’s dark hair is pulled back into a messy braid, black tendrils framing the pale moon of her face. She stretches a hand out in front of her. "Am I a Sixer too?" She points to a crushed can and it lifts off the ground. She blinks and it’s gone, a bit of silver flashing across the parking lot. Her whole face pulls downward in a silent O of fear. "No. It can’t be." She looks from Sam to Andy and back to Sam. "I can’t be."
"I’m sorry," Sam says. He doesn’t know what else to say.
The girl turns on her heel and runs off into the night, torn skirt flying out behind her, dark braid swinging against her back.
"Sam…" Dean holds a hand out for his brother, helps him up. Sam doesn’t look at Dean. He can hear the myriad of questions buried in the single syllable: What the fuck was that? What did you do? Just how much should I be freaking out about this?
Craig clears his throat, studies Dean. "So you have two Sixers traveling with you?"
Dean meets Craig’s gaze, lifts his chin. "You got a problem with that?"
Craig chuckles softly. "You have got yourself some interesting travel companions, my friend," he says. "Something tells me this is going to be one hell of a trip."
Dean glances at Sam. "You don’t know the half of it."
Chapter 5
previous chapters here: at my journal