When Heroes Go Down (They Go Down Fast) 6/12
Title: When Heroes Go Down (They Go Down Fast) 6/12
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 8 or 9 chapters to this story, and each chapter is going to be pretty longish. ginormous hugs to my beautiful, talented and sparkly wifey
kroki_refur , the bestest beta ever. and thank you to everyone who's been reading this. your kind words mean the world to me. feedback tastes better than chocolate, yo. the title comes from a suzanne vega song. ALSO, after AHBL 1 and 2, this is officially 100% AU.
Disclaimer: I own nothing winchestery. sucks to be me.
When heroes go down
They go down fast
So don’t expect any time to
Equivocate the past.
When heroes go down
They land in flame
So don’t expect any slow and careful
Settling of blame.
--Suzanne Vega
Chapter 6
A noise wakes him. A rustle. Flapping. He opens his eye to see the bird staring at him, the heron, just standing there, less than three feet away. Its yellow eyes watch Sam lazily. "I thought he said nothing bad was going to happen to you," it says casually, as if they’re old friends.
Sam scrambles into a sitting position, wary and on guard before he’s fully awake. How did it get here? Why didn’t he wake up earlier?
The bird smirks, eyes bright with contempt. "Didn’t he say as long as he was around, he wouldn’t let anything happen to you? I think maybe Dean’s definition of bad leaves something to be desired."
Sam keeps his gaze locked on the heron, but one hand slides behind him, feeling for his gun. Get out of here.
"Are you going to make me, Samuel? You and what army?" Its head turns, one amber eye focused on something behind Sam.
Sam risks a look over his shoulder and his stomach cramps with shock, then dread. They’re gone. Dean, Andy, Izzy. Craig and Luke. All of them-gone. He’s sitting alone in an empty circle. No, not quite alone. Sam stares at the heron, heart thundering. "What did you do?"
"Me? I didn’t do anything." The bird pecks sharply at a wing, grooming itself, then raises its head and stares steadily at Sam. "But I’m afraid you did." It jerks its beak towards him. "Take a look."
Sam looks down at his hands. They’re covered in blood. It’s crusted under his fingernails, embedded into the lines of his knuckles, his palms, his pores. His skin is stained scarlet all the way to his elbows. His brain shuts down. He can’t manage anything beyond no. No. I didn’t do this. I didn’t.
"No," Sam chokes on the word. "You’re lying."
The heron cocks its head. "Am I?" It rears up in a flash of motion, head high and wings flapping so hard Sam feels the rush of air on his face. It lunges at him, beak a snapping razor, slashes at his throat. It’s over before Sam can even register what happened. His bloody fingers clutch at the torn skin of his neck, but it’s too late. His own blood is flowing now, hot and fast, and there’s no time, no time for regret, no time to feel thankful.
ooooo
Dean’s trying to trim the thing on his face that passes-just barely--for a beard when Sam cries out. Dean hesitates, eyes on Sam, watchful, but Sam stays silent so he turns back to the chipped hand mirror and raises the scissors. That’s when Sam starts bucking, a gasping scream ripping from his throat.
Dean doesn’t remember dropping the mirror and scissors, but he must have, because when he gets to Sam, his hands are free. He pulls Sam into a sitting position and crouches in front of him. It’s another nightmare, he’s sure of it, but his eyes flick over Sam’s face and chest just to be sure, just to check (no blood, there’s no blood). Sam’s eye opens and it rolls wildly for a moment while he wheezes, hands flailing. Dean snaps his fingers in front of Sam’s face until his gaze lands on Dean. That’s when Sam manages a ragged breath and goes still. He blinks at his hands, then at Dean. "Are you…are you okay?" Sam’s voice is a harsh rasp.
There’s a flurry of activity around them. Izzy’s there with a water bottle and Andy’s hovering, face tense. They’ve been jerked awake by Sam’s screams before, but it’s not something you can get used to. Craig and Luke watch the commotion from their sleeping bags, Luke’s eyes round with worry.
"I’m not the one who just woke up screaming bloody murder," Dean points out. "So, yeah, I’m okay. I’m guessing you’re not."
Sam inhales, lets the breath out slowly. One hand ghosts across his throat and then drops back into lap. "I’m okay."
Dean’s not convinced, but he lets it go. For now.
ooooo
Sam’s sure Dean will try to pry the truth out of him later, but right now he’s grateful for the reprieve. In the distance, he hears the guttural caw of a bird (the bird) -three quick bursts of sound-and he pushes himself to his feet.
He doesn’t know if the dreams have any portentous meaning or not, but he can’t risk it. They have to keep moving, get to New Mexico (before it’s too late). Maybe the dreams aren’t omens and his brain is just broken, maybe the bullet in his skull is poisoning him, slowly but surely, twisting his thoughts. Either way, he doesn’t blame Dean for anything, not one thing. He knows if it were up to Dean nothing bad would ever happen to him. If it were up to Dean, Sam would be a lawyer right now and married to Jess. Dad would still be alive. So would Steve Wandell. So would the forty-three people he killed (forty-three) during those eight months of hell (only it hadn’t felt like hell, no, not then). He can’t remember all of the names, but he remembers the faces (he’ll never forget), and they’re with him now, always, embedded in his brain like shrapnel, like Dean’s bullet. Every time he closes his eyes there’s a face waiting. Maybe he’ll get better, maybe he can go on living, but he’ll never be able to forget. Or to forgive.
ooooo
Luke’s the one who sees the bikes first. They’re lying on the highway, abandoned, a backpack next to the smaller one, its contents strewn across the concrete. There’s no one else around. The boy runs toward the bikes, smiling, but Dean calls him back: it could be a trap. Luke stops, but he looks annoyed, like Dean’s being an ass for no reason. Dean scans the area carefully, on the lookout for movement, for anything that looks (feels) wrong.
"We’re alone," Izzy says instantly. She bites her lip, listening to something no one else hears. "There’s nobody else around."
Dean nods, but he doesn’t feel much better. He walks a few steps closer to the bikes. They’re old, dinosaur bicycles freckled with rust. The larger one is blue with a white wicker basket that’s seen better days, the smaller pink with a banana seat and plastic tassels waving from the handle bars. Sam picks up a rock and tosses it at the blue one. It bounces off the rear fender with a sharp clang. There’s no explosion, no demons, no nothing.
Dean bends down and gingerly pokes the backpack. He peers inside and then scrambles backwards, cursing. "Shit!"
Sam grabs Dean’s arm, pulls him up. "What?"
Andy’s already got his gun out and Craig pushes Luke behind him. "Everything okay?"
Dean nods. "Yup. No problem. Just an old shoe." He smiles, sheepish. "Took me by surprise." He punts the backpack across the median and on to the other side of the highway. Luke’s all smiles again and runs over to the smaller bike.
Sam puts his face by Dean’s ear. "What was it really?"
"It was a shoe," Dean says. He’s still smiling, but it’s slipping fast. His voice drops like a stone. "But there was still a foot in it."
ooooo
The first thing Luke does is pull the bike up and hop on, like he’s part monkey. Sam wants to protest, the tires are probably flat, the chain might be broken, but Luke’s already gone, his legs pedaling furiously. He coasts in a wide circle, tassels fluttering, glowing with happiness. The bike doesn’t falter, doesn’t waver. He’s steady and confident and it’s absolutely beautiful to watch.
The second thing Luke does is ride up to Sam. He pedals backwards, braking, and the bike skids to a stop. The kid’s hair is windblown and his cheeks are flushed-not with fever, but excitement. He points at Sam, then to the other bike.
Sam regards the other bike with two parts amusement and one part trepidation. "Uh, Luke. I haven’t ridden a bike in a while…" he offers weakly.
There’s a tarnished bell attached to the handle bars. Luke presses the lever and a tinny brrrring spears the afternoon quiet. "How about Izzy?" Sam suggests. "She’s a little shorter and the bike might-"
Luke’s answer is another brrring!
Dean gives Sam an encouraging shove toward the bike. "Jeez, Sam. If it’ll make him quit that racket, get on the damn bike."
Sam aims a glare in Dean’s direction.
"Scout a little down the highway," Dean suggests. "Once you guys-and by that I mean you, Sammy-can manage not to fall on your ass, we can figure out how many of us can pile onto those things."
Izzy bounces on her tiptoes. "Me! I can fit on!"
Andy grins and pulls her close. "No way. I’m getting a ride."
"You’re both going to trail behind us like the losers you are," Dean threatens and elbows Sam closer to the bike.
Sam rights the bike and sighs. He feels like one of those bears in the circus that has to ride the little tricycle. Granted, he’s not quite the size of the bear, and the bike is much larger than a tricycle, but still. Luke rolls past again, his face bright. His smile goes all the way up to those big blue eyes, and Sam shakes his head, a rueful smile on his lips. Now he knows what Dean means when he whines about Sam’s puppy dog eyes. The tires look okay, and he swings a leg across the bike. He sighs heavily and mutters, "I can’t do this."
"That’s what you said when you were five, too. You did it then, and you’ll do it now." Dean rolls his eyes. "Dude. You have the shining. I think you can ride a freakin’ bike."
Sam isn’t so sure. He sits gingerly on the seat, feeling like an idiot. He feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to see Craig smiling at him. "You can do it, son."
"Luke’s gonna be in New Mexico by the time you get your ass in gear," Dean laughs. "Come on, I’ll give you a push." Dean puts a steadying hand on the back of the bike seat.
Sam swallows, puts a foot on the pedal and pushes down, the other foot follows suit. Dean runs along behind him, still laughing.
And then Sam’s flying. Not really flying, but this must be what it feels like. His feet know what to do and he’s five years old again, hurtling down the sidewalk while Dean races to keep up, shouting encouragement and pumping his fist in the air.
Sam throws his head back and laughs, his hair blowing, and races toward Luke. This-the speed of the bike beneath him, the rush of wind on his face-this feels like freedom, this feels like hope. Luke grins and flashes Sam a thumbs-up. Sam laughs harder, and returns the gesture.
And they soar beneath the clouds.
ooooo
Dean watches them go, bikes racing in tandem. From behind it looks like big Sam and little Sam, and Dean feels pulled between the past and present. Sam looks back over his shoulder and flashes a smile at Dean that’s so pure, so honest, so real that Dean has to blink back tears.
Luke rings the stupid little bell again and they grow smaller and smaller until they’re just specks in the distance. "Hey, come back!" Izzy shouts, but Dean shakes his head.
"Let them go," he says. "They’ll come back." And he knows they will. He wipes at his eyes and bitches about dust and wind, but he doesn’t care if Izzy believes him or not. There’s a hot ache in his throat, but he can’t stop smiling. Sammy. His Sam is back. Maybe not for good (not yet, but he will be, just you wait), but he’s there.
Dean and the others follow after Sam and Luke, still visible on the outstretched arm of the highway. Izzy and Andy are grinning like conspirators, and Craig’s talking about Luke. Dean nods periodically and his mouth makes noises, but his brain is full of Sam and the look on his face.
Finally, finally, things are getting back to normal. Okay, normal is the wrong word, because the world has gone to shit, but it’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay, because he has Sam and he has friends, and in a couple of days they’ll be in New Mexico.
"Dean."
He glances at Izzy, but he’s still not quite listening, because his head is full of plans. Plans for the future, plans for New Mexico, when he and Sam can finally stay in one place for more than one lousy night. They can have a home. The thought makes him giddy like a twelve year old girl, but he can’t help it, because it’s about fucking time to make plans, to hope, and maybe, just maybe, to dream.
"Dean!" Izzy cries again, and this time she’s pumped up the volume and there’s a spike of fear in her voice.
Dean’s grin shatters and his mouth tastes like sand. He doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to hear what she’s going to say because he already knows. It’s not fair. Not now.
She grips his arm and her fingers are steel and part of Dean’s brain thinks, damn, she’s stronger than she looks, but the rest is desperately trying to backpedal away from the fear, trying to go back five fucking seconds to when everything was okay.
"Dean. Dean!"
Izzy’s shrieking now, and her face is a white oval of terror. Dean snarls what? and he hates her-just a little-for ruining the moment with a reality he doesn’t want.
She squeezes his arm harder and her lips move and Dean swears the words don’t quite match her mouth. "Demons! Up ahead. Two of them!"
Dean looks down at Izzy’s hand on his arm. Two demons are waiting for Sam and Luke. For all of them. He lets the rage at Izzy, at the fuck-up that is his life go, and a cold calm settles over him. There’s no time for anger or fear, there’s only time to run like hell (to protect Sam).
His feet are moving and he’s barking orders, pulling out his gun while he flat-out sprints down the highway. Andy and Izzy are on his heels, breathing hard, and Dean can hear the metallic snick-snick of the cartridge as Andy checks to make sure his gun is loaded. He can hear Izzy’s panicked mutterings to Claudia, or maybe she’s talking to Andy, he can’t tell. "Sam!" Dean yells, trying to aim his voice like an arrow. "Sam! Luke! Get back here!"
There they are, circling each other, and there’s the fucking chime of the bell. There’s a stitch in his side and it feels like a blade jammed between his ribs, but it doesn’t matter, because he has to get to Sam.
Dean waves an arm. "Sam!"
Andy’s yelling too, and Dean punches his shoulder. "Do it," he growls, "Obi-Wan them back here."
Andy nods, his face tense, and he calls out, "Come back here," in a voice laced with something that makes the hairs on Dean’s arms bristle. Dean knows the whammy won’t work on Sam, but it’ll work on Luke, and that’s just as good. Sam will follow the boy, Dean’s sure of it. Besides, they’re flailing around like a bunch of crazy-ass Mexican jumping beans and if Sam doesn’t realize something’s up by now, he’s a fucking moron.
But Sam’s not a fucking moron-or any other kind-because he’s on his way back. The smile is long gone from his face, and even though he’s still too far to see clearly, Dean knows Sam’s forehead is creased with worry lines.
Sam’s bike wobbles and he half tips, half falls over. He catches himself, but slides off the bike, his long legs eating up the distance between him and Dean. Sam is scowling, eyebrows pulled down. "Dean, you know my vision is messed up, how long have you been waving for us?"
"There are two demons," Dean says and the words can’t get out fast enough. "Izzy says they’re close, did you-" But Dean never has a chance to finish, because Sam’s bike is flying through the air. It spins madly into the windshield of a stalled sports car in the eastbound lane. Pieces of glass go flying, and a pedal whizzes past Sam’s head.
Dean’s eyes tick off their surroundings. A field to their left surrounded by a tottering wooden fence. The first trickles of a suburb to the right, a handful of tract houses and a gas station. Walking toward them are a man and woman. The demons. Dean’s instinct is to head toward the city where there’s more shelter, but he has visions of the gas station exploding around them, fire raining down.
Luke’s off his bike, running toward Craig, and then he’s in the air, his mouth an open circle of terror, and he’s dropped into the ditch near the dilapidated fence.
There’s too much screaming now, and Dean has no idea if it’s Craig or Luke or Sam, hell, maybe it’s him, and they’re all running toward Luke. Luke’s bike catches Craig in the back and he goes sprawling. Dean’s relieved to see the professor start crawling toward Luke immediately and throw himself over the boy.
His relief is short-lived when he realizes Sam is making his way toward the demons, his arms outstretched. "Get down on the ground!" Sam commands, and then, "Andy! I need you!"
Dean lunges for Andy’s arm, but all of a sudden Dean’s too slow or Andy’s too fast-he can’t tell which-and Andy’s racing for Sam. Sam grabs Andy’s arm and yells again, "Get on the ground!"
The power emanating from the words makes Dean’s teeth ache. He can almost see the words in the air, hot and heavy and metallic. Even standing a few hundred feet away, Dean’s legs tremble in an attempt to obey Sam’s voice.
The demons shriek in protest, but they both drop to their knees. "You’re no match for us, human," the man spits at Sam, then grins. "Or should I say, Sixer? I know who you are Sammy. Your master is waiting for you."
"I don’t have a master," Sam grits and aims a kick at the demon’s head. His aim is off, either due to stress or his vision, and the force of the impact lands on the demon’s shoulder. Still, it knocks the demon flat on his back. But the woman is on her feet now, and throws a punch that sends Sam over the fence and into the field.
"Sam!" The sound of the gunshots alerts Dean to the fact he’s pulling the trigger before he’s conscious of the movement of his finger. "How do you like the silver bullets, you assholes?" he shouts. Both demons jerk from the impact of the bullets, but they don’t die.
Nearby Dean can hear the muttering of Latin, and he realizes it’s Craig making his way through an exorcism. The woman pushes herself upright as Dean reloads his gun.
Sam’s on his feet again, running toward Andy. He tackles Andy, pushing him to the ground, just as the woman points a hand where Andy had been standing.
"You bastards!" Izzy screams and she’s scrambling from behind a car, silver knife glinting in the sun, but before it reaches its mark the woman lifts Izzy off her feet and throws her into the fence.
"Stop!" Sam shouts. He’s holding Andy’s arm again and his voice is the sound of a hammer. It makes Dean think of the stories Sam used to tell him when they were kids, stories about Thor and Odin. The demons stop, black eyes burning with rage. Craig finishes the exorcism, and the man throws back his head and shrieks the demon out. The curl of black demon-smoke twists up and away.
The man falls to his knees, hands in front of him, blinking furiously. "What. Is. Happening?" he moans. He turns and looks up at the woman. "Lisa? Are you okay?" He pushes himself to his feet, but the other demon grips the man’s head and gives a violent jerk. They all hear the snap of the man’s spine. She lets his body drop to the ground.
"You might stop me, but you won’t stop all of us," she says through bared teeth, then grins at Sam, licks her lips. "And you, Sam, are one of us."
"No!" Sam lashes out with his hand and the demon is thrown backwards-pulled by an invisible wire-until she connects with an overturned trailer. She bounces off and lands face-down on the pavement.
Sam drops into a crouch, his head cradled in his hands. "Gah." His voice drops even lower. "Dean."
Dean pulls Sam into a one-armed embrace. "Sammy? You okay?" He’s not going to ask about the telekinesis shit or the voice of doom right now, because Sam looks pale and sweaty and sick.
Sam nods and eyes Dean blearily. "I’m…okay." Dean turns to Andy. "What about you?"
Andy seems to have borrowed Sam’s panic! face, because he looks this close to falling down. "I think so."
"Craig?"
"I’m okay," comes Craig’s voice. "And I think Luke’s all right. He’s out cold, but nothing feels broken."
"Izzy?"
There’s no answer.
Dean and Sam exchange a look. Dean tries again. "Isobel?"
And then Andy’s face seems to collapse in on itself and he’s running toward the fence shrieking at the top of his lungs. At first Dean doesn’t get it, because hey, there’s Izzy, and everything’s fine. She’s lying amongst pieces of the broken fence, but she’s there. Only everything isn’t fine, it’s the fucking opposite of fine, because she’s not next to the fence, she’s on top of the fence, and a fucking piece of wood is sticking up through her chest where absolutely nothing should ever be sticking up.
"Oh fuck," Dean breathes, and nobody else says anything, because that pretty much sums it all up, right there.
ooooo
Of course, when he turns his attention back to the demon, it’s gone. But there’s no time now for the demon. There’s only time for praying and swearing and rifling through the first aid supplies, like maybe if he checks just one more time there’ll be a gigantic pair of magic tweezers that’ll pull the post out of Izzy and let her live. But there’s nothing. Nothing.
And it only took five minutes. Five minutes from feeling the beginnings of hope to looking down into the gory mess of Izzy’s chest. Hope? Who is he kidding? There’s no more hope. All that’s left is despair, regret and loss. And there’s plenty of those to go around.
Craig is watching over Luke. The kid is still unconscious, but seeing how there’s no pieces of wood sticking out of him, Dean figures he’ll be okay. Dean kneels beside Izzy, her right hand in his. Andy’s on her left side, holding her other hand, and Sam’s positioned behind her head, brushing the hair out of her face. Izzy’s eyes are open, but she’s not saying much. She keeps singing this little song that makes Dean want to yell at her to shut up, just shut up, so he clamps his teeth down hard enough to make his jaw hurt.
"I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there's a pair of us-don’t tell!
They'd banish us, you know."
Andy’s face is the color of old wax. "It’s an Emily Dickinson poem," he says tonelessly. "She likes Emily Dickinson poetry. She used to say that poem was about her and Claudia."
Sam’s face is twisted with pain. His eyes are wet and his face is red, as if he’s been slapped. He brushes her hair with trembling fingers. "Izzy," he whispers, "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry."
Suddenly Izzy’s eyes roll back and then refocus on Andy. "Get me out of here," she gasps.
"Hey Iz, it’s okay, we’re here."
She turns to look at Dean. "How’d I get back in the hospital?" Her words are vaguely slurred.
Dean blinks down at her. "You’re…you’re not in the hospital, Izzy. We’re on our way to New Mexico. Do you…do you remember?"
Izzy squints up at Dean, then looks from Sam to Andy. "Huh. I thought…was back ina hospital. I can’t hear Claudia. Medication used to take her away. Where’s Claudia?" She shifts her focus back to Sam. "You’re giving me headache. Move," she instructs, and Sam scrambles next to Dean. He puts a hand on her shoulder, keeps the other hand twined in her hair.
Dean feels a bubble of laughter hitch in his chest, because even now, Izzy is still a bossy bitch. And he loves her for it. Oh fuck. Fuck.
"Claudia’s here," Andy says, tears running down his face. "Don’t worry about that, okay?"
Izzy’s face starts to crumple. "But I don’t hear her. Don’t hear anyone. I’m all…all alone."
Andy shakes his head vehemently. "No, babe. You’re not alone. We’re here. We’ll never let you be alone. Never."
Izzy sniffs and her face relaxes slightly. She tries to smile. "My boys," she whispers. "My boys are here…" her eyes slide closed and her head lolls to one side.
"No!" Andy shouts. He shakes her arm and Dean squeezes Izzy’s hand. "Stay with us," Andy begs. "Izzy, open your eyes."
Izzy’s eyes flicker open and she stares up at Andy. "Wha? What’s happening? Feel all…funny."
"There were demons, Iz," Dean says. "You warned us. You did a real good job, too. Everybody’s okay." Except for you.
Izzy’s eyes clear and she turns her head, straining to see past Dean. "Is Luke okay?"
Dean pats her hand. "Luke’s okay."
Izzy lifts her head with some effort, and her eyes go round as she looks down at her chest. "Shit." She manages a shaky laugh. "That can’t…be good, huh?"
"I’m sorry, Izzy," Andy says and his voice breaks into a sob. "I…I love you."
Izzy smiles at him. "You’re pretty okay yourself, Andy Gallagher." Her head drops back onto the grass and she pulls her hand free from Dean to pat Sam’s arm. "Your aura is so pretty," she says. "It looks like there’s a rainbow all around me."
"Izzy," Sam starts. "Please. Hold on."
"I don’t think I want to," she says. "You know what I miss?" She turns to Dean and he shakes his head. "I miss the smell of Dove soap. It’s so…pretty. So good. That’s what I hope heaven smells like. If there is a heaven." She coughs wetly Her lips are flecked with blood. "I’m tired. Wanna sleep."
Andy drops his head onto Izzy’s arm. "Izzy," he whispers. "Please."
"Hurry up and get to New Mexico," she says. "Buncha lazy asses."
"You’ve got to come with us, Iz," Dean says and his throat feels ten sizes too big, each breath is like he’s trying to force a watermelon down a straw. "Come on, now, Isobel. Come on."
"Nah. You g’on."
Andy’s crying openly now, her hand pressed to his face. Sam stares down at her, his huge hand covering hers, eyes dry, his face stone. Dean begs her to stay with them. He promises, cajoles, and finally pleads through his tears, but Izzy is done talking. She just closes her eyes and smiles, until Sam jerks and looks down at her hand. He blinks once, twice, then lays it at her side.
Andy’s eyes leak more tears and he kisses her hand. "No," he says, shaking his head. "No, Izzy. No."
Dean leans back on his heels. His hand moves to Izzy’s neck and he feels for her pulse. There’s nothing but stillness beneath his fingers.
ooooo
The three of them remain huddled around Izzy’s body. Endless minutes tick by. An ant crawls over the toe of Sam’s shoe. And then Andy’s hand reaches out to grasp Sam’s shoulder. Sam looks from Andy’s hand fisted in the fabric of his jacket to Andy’s face. His eyes are red and raw, his mouth a tight slash. "Bring her back." His voice sounds like splinters.
Sam stares at Andy, uncomprehending. "What?"
Andy jumps to his feet and pulls Sam up with him. "I said bring her back!"
Sam looks down at Izzy’s face. Does she look peaceful? He thinks so, maybe a little. He has to believe she’s at peace now, in a better place. He blinks at Andy. "I…how?"
"How the hell do I know?" Andy growls. "You fixed me. You fixed that Sixer the other night." He lets go of Sam’s jacket and points to Izzy. "Fix her."
Sam shakes his head. "Andy, I can’t. I wish I could, but I can’t."
Dean moves slowly to his feet, positioning himself between the other two men.
Andy’s face twists into a look of fury, of rage, and he hisses, "Fix her."
Sam puts his hands to his head. "Andy, you can’t make me fix her, I don’t know how. I’m not…I’m not a doctor."
Andy’s lip curls. "Well you’re something, aren’t you? You’ve got something in you that knows how to…how to do things. So do this. Save her, Sam. Please."
"Come on Andy," Dean says softly. "It’s too late, man."
Andy turns his rage on Dean. "Shut up! I’m not talking to you, I’m talking to him!"
"I wish I could save her," Sam says, and he does. He wants to more than anything. He doesn’t want her to be gone. But he can’t. He can’t.
Andy stares at Sam a minute longer, than drops back to Izzy’s side. He puts a hand on her face. "Wake up," he says. Then louder, "Wake up." Sam can feel the power in Andy’s words, but they have no effect now. Andy’s voice hitches but he tries again. "Please Izzy. For me. Just. Wake. Up."
Sam walks around Izzy and puts a tentative hand on Andy’s shoulder. "Andy. Stop. You can’t-"
Andy leans into Sam and shoves him backward. "Then you do it, Sam. You’re the special one. You’re the one with all the fucking power. You bring her back."
The desolation in Andy’s face makes Sam want to run, or scream, or hit something. He can’t very well hit Andy, though, not now, not like this, so he stumbles away from him. "It doesn’t work like that!" Sam protests. He feels sick and tired, and his head is pounding.
"Then how does it work?" Andy screams.
"I don’t know!" Sam screams back. Their voices boomerang around the field. He doesn’t know how he helps people. It’s a mystery. It’s intuitive. It’s like knowing how to walk, how to breathe. It’s instinct. He can help focus someone’s ability-or his own-but neither he nor Andy can heal. "I can’t bring her back, Andy, I’m sorry."
Andy’s stares at Sam for a long moment, and then he hisses, "Then what good are you?"
"I know you’re upset, Andy," Dean warns, "but you better watch your mouth."
"No!" Andy shouts, spittle spraying toward Dean, "I won’t. Who’s the one that traipsed all over the country looking for his crazy ass?" Andy demands, pointing at Sam. "I did. I stayed with you, Dean. Me. I was there, not Sam. And you’re going to take his side?" Andy rolls his eyes, gives himself an exaggerated smack on the forehead. "Of course you are. Because he’s your brother. Your fucking special Sammy, and we all know that he’s the only one that matters. But Jesus, Dean. I stayed with you. I’m still here. Why can’t you take my side just once? Just one time."
"There aren’t any sides here," Dean insists. "It’s not like I can make Sammy bring her back. He’s not a healer, he’s got death visions, Andy. Do you really think that’s going to help right now?"
Sam digs a finger into his temple, trying to push the pain away. Why couldn’t he have had a vision? Why couldn’t he have been allowed to save her? Hadn’t he seen (caused) enough death? Why did it have to be Izzy? She deserved so much better than this.
Andy’s arms drop to his sides and he visibly deflates. He seems to grow smaller, feebler before their eyes. "Please," he whispers, "couldn’t you just try?"
"Andy," Dean’s voice holds a warning.
Sam lowers himself next to Izzy. He takes a hitching breath and wraps one hand around the bloody spike of wood. He closes his eye, turns his head, and pulls. It comes out with a wet sucking sound that makes Sam's stomach heave. He tosses the broken wood into the ditch and puts a trembling hand on each side of Izzy's head. Please Izzy, he thinks, come back to us. Not just for me. For Andy. He needs you. We need you. Please, God, if you can hear me, take me instead. Take me instead of her. Bring her back. He waits five seconds, then ten, twenty. A minute ticks by. Nothing happens. Izzy’s still dead and Sam is still useless.
Andy’s voice slips back into monotone. "Sam."
Sam’s standing in front of Andy, but he doesn’t know how he got there. He’s yelling, but the words don’t feel like they’re coming from him. He feels distant, wants to float away, but the words pouring out of his mouth feel like bits of lead keeping him here. "Jesus Christ, Andy, I tried! If I could save her, don’t you think I would? Don’t you think I’d save my mom? And Jess? And everyone I killed?" His arms are shoving Andy backwards and Andy’s staring up at him now, all traces of anger gone. "Don’t you think I’d save myself? I can’t save anyone Andy. Do you get that? Do you understand? I can’t save Izzy, I can’t save anyone." And there’s the sound of someone screaming and it might be him, but he’s not sure. Andy and Dean are trying to grab him, which is interesting, because five seconds ago Andy was really pissed off, but now he just looks upset and more than a little scared.
Sam doesn’t want them holding him back (holding him down), so he shakes them loose. It’s easier than he expects and there, across the field, is a tree. He’s running for the tree because there’s something in him, something that needs to escape, something that’s clawing at his guts trying to get out, and there’s only one way to set it free. He pulls his fist back and slams it into the tree’s mottled trunk and the overwhelming sense of relief pushes the blinding flash of pain away. He pulls his arm back again, and has time for another punch, and another, before Dean and Andy are on him again, yanking him back from the tree.
From a great distance he can feel the fire searing in his hand and up his arm and into his shoulder, and he welcomes it. He closes his eyes and waits for the flames to set him free, to purify him at last.
ooooo
"What the fuck did you do to him?" Dean roars, this far from punching Andy’s head in.
"I didn’t do anything," Andy sobs, and they drag Sam back toward Izzy’s prone body. Craig’s with them now, holding one of Sam’s legs, because Sam’s a fucking giant and he weighs about twelve tons.
"How’s Luke?" Dean grunts as they settle Sam to the ground.
"Better than Sam," Craig says. The older man’s hands are shaking.
"Is he still out?"
Luke’s not still out. In fact, he’s stumbling toward them right now. He’s got a peaked, shell-shocked look that Dean doesn’t like, but at least he’s conscious, which is more than Dean can say for Sam. "Did you do that to him?" Dean hisses. "Did you make him run into that tree?" There’s a part of him that actually wants Andy to say why yes I did, Dean, because wouldn’t that be better than admitting Sam freaked the fuck out and tried to shove his hand inside a tree trunk?
Andy shakes his head. "I didn’t, Dean. I swear it. I know I said some…some horrible things but-"
Dean cuts him with a look. "Look, Andy, Izzy’s dead. We’re all upset. I get it, okay?"
Andy nods miserably and stares at the ground. A fat tear rolls down his face.
Craig jogs toward Luke. "Hey there, buddy, how are you feeling?" He puts a hand around Luke’s shoulders and pulls the boy close.
Lucas squirms away, his big cobalt eyes fastened on Izzy. He looks up at Craig, then over to Dean. His eyes are like spotlights, and Dean can’t get away from their beam. Luke tilts his head ever so slightly toward Izzy. Is she…?
Dean manages a hesitant nod. "I’m sorry Luke, she-" He doesn’t know if he finishes the sentence or not because a piercing howl punctures his ear drums and stabs directly into his brain. It’s Luke.
Dean can see the whites of Luke’s eyes as the kid crawls over to Izzy. He screams the whole way, and it’s the worst sound Dean has ever heard. It’s worse than his mother screaming in the fire, it’s worse than the sound Sam made after Dean shot him. He’s never heard anything so terrible in his whole life, and he’s not a praying man, not by a long shot, but he prays right now that he never hears anything like it again. Craig crouches next to Luke and pulls him away from Izzy. It’s like he’s immune to the jagged wailing, and he just rocks the boy, his voice a low rumbling over Luke’s shrill cries. It feels like years before Luke quiets into tortured sobs.
Dean falls backward onto his ass, more exhausted than he’s been in months, maybe years. His mouth tastes like dirt and metal, and he’s soaked in sweat. Sam breathes softly beside him-limp and mute-and Dean thinks maybe, maybe Izzy’s the lucky one after all.
ooooo
He wakes to the sound of the Impala’s engine and almost weeps with relief. He can’t remember the last time he heard it.
Dean’s got an arm out the window, his elbow dappled with late afternoon sunlight. He grins over at Sam. "Hey there Rip Van Winkle. I was beginning to think you were never going to wake up."
Sam reaches for his water bottle and takes a drink. "Sorry," he says. "How long was I out?"
"A couple of hours. And I’m just about bored enough to listen to you, so good timing, man."
"How much longer to Wisconsin?" Sam asks, smoothing the rumpled newspaper in his lap. He scowls down at the paper. "I can’t wait to catch this fucker and exorcise it right back to hell."
"That’s assuming it is a demon and not something else."
"Like what?"
Dean shrugs, takes a sip of his coffee, makes a face. "Ugh. This is nasty. Tastes like tar. I don’t know Sam, maybe it’s a good ol’ fashioned witch. Or a raw head. Sure, they like kids, but they can’t be too finicky, can they? I mean, five dead in Milwaukee, who knows how many more this thing’s killed?"
Sam reaches for a map on the dashboard, checks their location, and sighs. "We’ve got another few hours."
Dean nods. "What letter are we up to?"
Sam peers into the battered tape box. "M."
Dean considers. "Okay then, how about Mötley Crüe?"
Sam makes a disgusted face. "No."
"Fine, but that’s the only pass you get. You sure you want to use it on Mötley?"
"I’m sure."
"Suit yourself. Then…Megadeth."
"Aw Dean, I thought you were going to go with Metallica," Sam protests.
"That’s the obvious choice," Dean grins. "Come on, I could have picked Molly Hatchet."
"Megadeth it is," Sam says and reaches into the box. "Which one? Peace Sells?"
"You know it," Dean says, and cranks the volume knob as soon as Sam pops the tape in.
A large conversion van looms ahead of them, and Dean slows down to switch lanes. As they move left, Sam glances at the van and sees two faces pressed against the back window watching him. A boy and a girl, their faces pale and scored with stitches. The girl points a finger at Sam, and he stares back at her open-mouthed.
Her lips move, and it takes him a second to figure out what she said. You did this. Sam blinks, and then there’s just a bored toddler in the backseat of the van flashing Sam an owlish look.
Dean yells over the sound of Dave Mustaine’s voice. "What’re you staring at?"
"Nothing," Sam says, but he can feel the first seeds of unease take root.
ooooo
"How long has he been like this?" Craig asks. Dean’s sitting cross-legged beside Sam. Sam’s eye is open, and he blinks occasionally, but he’s gone. There’s nobody home. Sammy has left the building. He won’t respond to anything Dean does, not even when Dean flicks him on the forehead or pokes at his injured hand.
Sam’s hand looks bad, but at least it gives Dean something to do. "You can’t just leave me here, you bitch," Dean mutters, wrapping gauze around Sam’s hand. "How am I supposed to feel superior to you if you just sit there?" He spent a good half hour pulling bits of bark out of Sam’s knuckles. The hand’s swollen to the size of the grapefruit, but there’s not much he can do about it here, so he wraps it and keeps it elevated, and occasionally, in an attempt to get a rise out of Sam, he jabs it with an index finger.
Dean doesn’t feel like talking-he certainly doesn’t have anything to say-but his mouth won’t stop going. He feels as if the words are a bridge, a link to Sam, and if he stops talking, Sammy really will drift away. And that? Is unacceptable. "You looked real good on that bike, Sam. I was proud of you for getting on, you know? For facing your fear. I am proud of you." Dean amends. "Of course, I’d been even prouder of you if you’d wake the fuck up."
Dean leans down, puts his head next to Sam’s. "And no matter what Andy said, you couldn’t have saved her, Sam. None of us could have. This is not your fault. Well, this coma shit is sort of your fault, but Izzy dying wasn’t. You did the best you could and that’s all you can do, right? So how about telling me to shut up, huh?" Dean wipes at his face, sniffs hard. "Remember how I used to say you talked too much? I don’t feel that way any more, Sam. I don’t. I’ll never make fun of you again if you just wake up." Dean shifts, rests a hand on his knee. "Okay, I probably will make fun of you because I’m kind of a jerk that way. But I still want you to wake up, Sammy. More than anything."
And Sam blinks, his gaze focused skyward, while a heron flies overhead.
ooooo
When dusk comes, Craig helps build a fire. The moon shines like a silver dollar above the trees. Andy’s sitting a few feet from Izzy when Craig sits down next to him. Craig sets an apple and a cup of applesauce in front of Andy. "You should eat something," the professor says quietly.
Andy shakes his head. "I’m not hungry."
Craig sighs wearily. "I know that, son. But you need to keep up your strength."
"I just want her to wake up."
"I know."
"How can I just leave her here?" Andy wants to know. "I need her. I need her to be with me." His voice breaks. "And if I can’t have her, I need something that belonged to her, you know? Something tangible. Something I can hold in my hand, because that’s what Izzy was. She was here. You couldn’t help but see her. And she could always make me smile. She had so much laughter for such a sad girl." Andy turns to look at Craig. "I loved her. I loved her and I didn’t realize it until it was too late."
Craig shakes his head. "It wasn’t too late, Andy. Not if you had one chance to tell her. If you told that girl you loved her just one time, then it wasn’t too late. Dying is a hard thing, son, but if you die loved, you’re still lucky. And Isobel was a lucky woman. I didn’t know her that well, but I liked the woman I saw. She was a fine girl, Andy. You remember that. She cared about you." Craig pats Andy’s shoulder. "And I know that doesn’t much help right now, but someday it might."
Andy smiles and nods but he doesn’t have much else to say. The only person he feels like talking to is Izzy and he’s not sure she’s listening anymore.
ooooo
It takes him over an hour of stumbling back and forth in the dark before he finds the knife. It’s lying in the ditch next to the road, buried to the hilt in mud. Andy pulls it out and wipes it on the grass. Izzy’s knife. She had picked it out because it was, in her words, pretty. The handle’s inlaid with a wide band of mother of pearl. It isn’t much, but it’s his knife now. And he knows exactly what to do with it.
ooooo
Luke has wedged himself between Dean and Sam, and Craig’s lying on Sam’s other side. A salt line encircles them all. Dean is bone tired, but he can’t sleep. He keeps listening to Sam, listening for some sign of presence, but so far there’s nothing but the steady rhythm of his breathing. Luke is snoring softly. He finally cried himself to sleep and he’s been out for the past few hours. Maybe his silence can find a way to communicate with Sam’s.
Dean turns his head. Andy is still keeping watch over Izzy. Since the initial blow-up he’s barely left Izzy’s side. Dean isn’t looking forward to the morning. The little morale they’d been clinging to is long gone, and New Mexico feels a world away. I don’t know what to do. I can’t do this alone. Don’t make me do this alone, Sammy, he thinks, and closes his eyes. He waits restlessly for sleep, and it’s a long time coming.
ooooo
"I had the weirdest dream."
Dean pulls into the parking ramp. It’s ten stories tall, and even though it’s almost nine at night it’s still half full. It’s also where the latest killings took place. Dean slips the EMF meter into his pocket and regards Sam with a curious look. "What kind of dream? Like a premonition?"
Sam shakes his head. "No. It was just…dark. And strange."
Dean pokes a finger in Sam’s chest. "Just like you."
"Very funny." Sam stuffs his hands into his coat pockets and follows Dean around the car. He doesn’t know how to explain just how bad the dream was. "It was like, most of the world died from that Croatoan disease. And there were demons everywhere. And I sort of went evil. And you shot my eye out."
"Sam, what the hell? I shot your eye out?"
"Yeah. I wore a patch."
"Like you were a pirate?"
"Dean, I wasn’t a pirate. Are you even listening to me?"
"Yes I’m listening to you. It’d be a hell of a lot easier if you made sense."
"It was just…really vivid. Like usually, you start to forget what your dream was about when you wake up…but this-" Sam’s voice cracks, and he’s embarrassed, because it was just a dream, but it felt-feels-so real. Even now he can remember most of it, the faces of the dead and that lingering feeling of being utterly and completely lost. He tries to hide his emotions behind a cough, but Dean’s got that look on his face that says nice try, loser.
"Instead of thinking about your end-of-the-world pirate dream, why don’t you help me with this friggin’ case, huh?"
Sam stares at the ground. There’s a wad of pink chewing gum next to his foot. Dean doesn’t get it. He just doesn’t get it, and Sam has no idea how to make him understand. Then again, maybe it’s good Dean doesn’t understand. He wouldn’t wish the memory of that world on anyone. He sighs. "Yeah. Okay." He glances around their level, notes the position of the elevator and the door leading to the stairway, and nods toward the door. "Over there."
They head over to the stairway and Dean pulls the door open. It squeaks in protest. Dean grunts. "Homey."
Sam huffs in amusement, and then they’re looking at a flight of concrete stairs that leads up into darkness and down into darkness. "So these look safe."
Dean pulls out the EMF and waves it around. Nothing happens.
Sam jogs up the stairs, then peers down at Dean over the railing. "This is where she was hanged. Rope tied to the railing and pushed over the side."
"It’s where she was hung," Dean corrects.
"Dude, it’s hanged."
"That just sounds stupid."
Sam’s eyebrows jerk. "You sound stupid."
Dean glowers and starts after Sam. The EMF meter shrills an alarm half-way up the stairs, and he looks from the meter to Sam. "Huh."
Sam’s grinning back at his brother when a movement above him catches his eye. He blinks and peers up into the gloom. A face peers back at him. "Dean!" Sam yells, and he raises his shotgun.
The woman’s face is black, her tongue protruding. A rope still hangs from her neck and there’s a piece of paper pinned to her shirt. Even in the semi-darkness Sam can read the rusty letters: Hey bro, you’re a little late. "What the hell?" Sam breathes.
The woman’s mouth doesn’t move, but he can hear her just the same. You did this.
Sam tries to protest, but he can’t. He focuses on the dream-was there a woman hanging from a tree? Did he-
The sound of the shotgun in the enclosed space is like thunder. Salt shot scatters the woman into nothingness. Dean turns to Sam. "Are you okay?"
Sam’s pretty sure he’s not.
ooooo
Dean opens his eyes to Sam’s back. Sam’s curled away from him, and Dean props himself up an elbow and shakes his arm. "Sam? Sammy?"
"He’s the same," Craig says. He’s eating a handful of cereal. "I’ve been trying to get him to react for the past half hour, but I haven’t had any luck."
Dean exhales loudly. He sits up and glances around for Luke and Andy. They’re both by Izzy. Great.
Craig follows Dean’s gaze. "Let them be," the professor says. "They’re mourning."
"So am I," Dean snaps. Then he feels guilty and sighs. "Look, Professor. I didn’t mean to yell at you. It’s just…"
"Everything sucks ass? Isn’t that what you kids say?"
Dean can’t help chuckling. Not just at the fact Craig called him a kid, but at the sound of the phrase sucks ass coming out of the professor’s mouth.
"Yeah, I guess it is," Dean agrees. He feels for Sam’s pulse. It’s strong and steady, but the jerk still won’t wake up. "I don’t know what to do," Dean admits. "I can fight ghosts and demons and raw heads and shtrigas, but I don’t know how to fight a…coma. It’s not like I can just blast him with rock salt and wake him up."
Craig’s lips pull into a smile. "I don’t think that would work."
"Me neither. But he’s the one that says we need to get to New Mexico, and now we’re stuck here because of him. It’s so frustrating." Not to mention terrifying.
"How is he?"
Dean looks up into Andy’s face. Andy looks gray and haggard, and much older than the day before. Dean shrugs. "The same."
Andy settles himself inside the salt circle next to Dean. Luke comes up beside Craig and sits on the older man’s knee.
"You guys want one?" Andy holds two energy bars out. Dean and Craig each take one.
"Thanks," Dean mutters. The energy bars taste like a horrible combination of sawdust and caramel, but it’s better than nothing, or at least that’s what he tells himself. Dean’s gaze falls on Andy’s wrist. He’s wearing a bracelet woven from narrow blond braids. Dean take a bite of the bar and swallows. "Nice bracelet," he says quietly.
Andy nods. He meets Dean’s gaze without flinching. "Thanks. I know it’s weird and morbid, but I don’t care. I needed something of hers."
"I get it," Dean says, and he does. He knows plenty about weird and morbid, and he’s in no position to judge Andy. "You know," he says softly, "we’re going to have to burn her."
Andy nods and now his eyes slide away from Dean’s. "I know. But can we…can we wait until Sam wakes up?"
Dean’s not sure he wants to wait that long-not that it will be that long of course-but he nods. "Sure." He goes back to eating his breakfast and they fall into silence. Sam’s silence is the loudest of all.
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 8 or 9 chapters to this story, and each chapter is going to be pretty longish. ginormous hugs to my beautiful, talented and sparkly wifey
kroki_refur , the bestest beta ever. and thank you to everyone who's been reading this. your kind words mean the world to me. feedback tastes better than chocolate, yo. the title comes from a suzanne vega song. ALSO, after AHBL 1 and 2, this is officially 100% AU.
Disclaimer: I own nothing winchestery. sucks to be me.
When heroes go down
They go down fast
So don’t expect any time to
Equivocate the past.
When heroes go down
They land in flame
So don’t expect any slow and careful
Settling of blame.
--Suzanne Vega
Chapter 6
A noise wakes him. A rustle. Flapping. He opens his eye to see the bird staring at him, the heron, just standing there, less than three feet away. Its yellow eyes watch Sam lazily. "I thought he said nothing bad was going to happen to you," it says casually, as if they’re old friends.
Sam scrambles into a sitting position, wary and on guard before he’s fully awake. How did it get here? Why didn’t he wake up earlier?
The bird smirks, eyes bright with contempt. "Didn’t he say as long as he was around, he wouldn’t let anything happen to you? I think maybe Dean’s definition of bad leaves something to be desired."
Sam keeps his gaze locked on the heron, but one hand slides behind him, feeling for his gun. Get out of here.
"Are you going to make me, Samuel? You and what army?" Its head turns, one amber eye focused on something behind Sam.
Sam risks a look over his shoulder and his stomach cramps with shock, then dread. They’re gone. Dean, Andy, Izzy. Craig and Luke. All of them-gone. He’s sitting alone in an empty circle. No, not quite alone. Sam stares at the heron, heart thundering. "What did you do?"
"Me? I didn’t do anything." The bird pecks sharply at a wing, grooming itself, then raises its head and stares steadily at Sam. "But I’m afraid you did." It jerks its beak towards him. "Take a look."
Sam looks down at his hands. They’re covered in blood. It’s crusted under his fingernails, embedded into the lines of his knuckles, his palms, his pores. His skin is stained scarlet all the way to his elbows. His brain shuts down. He can’t manage anything beyond no. No. I didn’t do this. I didn’t.
"No," Sam chokes on the word. "You’re lying."
The heron cocks its head. "Am I?" It rears up in a flash of motion, head high and wings flapping so hard Sam feels the rush of air on his face. It lunges at him, beak a snapping razor, slashes at his throat. It’s over before Sam can even register what happened. His bloody fingers clutch at the torn skin of his neck, but it’s too late. His own blood is flowing now, hot and fast, and there’s no time, no time for regret, no time to feel thankful.
ooooo
Dean’s trying to trim the thing on his face that passes-just barely--for a beard when Sam cries out. Dean hesitates, eyes on Sam, watchful, but Sam stays silent so he turns back to the chipped hand mirror and raises the scissors. That’s when Sam starts bucking, a gasping scream ripping from his throat.
Dean doesn’t remember dropping the mirror and scissors, but he must have, because when he gets to Sam, his hands are free. He pulls Sam into a sitting position and crouches in front of him. It’s another nightmare, he’s sure of it, but his eyes flick over Sam’s face and chest just to be sure, just to check (no blood, there’s no blood). Sam’s eye opens and it rolls wildly for a moment while he wheezes, hands flailing. Dean snaps his fingers in front of Sam’s face until his gaze lands on Dean. That’s when Sam manages a ragged breath and goes still. He blinks at his hands, then at Dean. "Are you…are you okay?" Sam’s voice is a harsh rasp.
There’s a flurry of activity around them. Izzy’s there with a water bottle and Andy’s hovering, face tense. They’ve been jerked awake by Sam’s screams before, but it’s not something you can get used to. Craig and Luke watch the commotion from their sleeping bags, Luke’s eyes round with worry.
"I’m not the one who just woke up screaming bloody murder," Dean points out. "So, yeah, I’m okay. I’m guessing you’re not."
Sam inhales, lets the breath out slowly. One hand ghosts across his throat and then drops back into lap. "I’m okay."
Dean’s not convinced, but he lets it go. For now.
ooooo
Sam’s sure Dean will try to pry the truth out of him later, but right now he’s grateful for the reprieve. In the distance, he hears the guttural caw of a bird (the bird) -three quick bursts of sound-and he pushes himself to his feet.
He doesn’t know if the dreams have any portentous meaning or not, but he can’t risk it. They have to keep moving, get to New Mexico (before it’s too late). Maybe the dreams aren’t omens and his brain is just broken, maybe the bullet in his skull is poisoning him, slowly but surely, twisting his thoughts. Either way, he doesn’t blame Dean for anything, not one thing. He knows if it were up to Dean nothing bad would ever happen to him. If it were up to Dean, Sam would be a lawyer right now and married to Jess. Dad would still be alive. So would Steve Wandell. So would the forty-three people he killed (forty-three) during those eight months of hell (only it hadn’t felt like hell, no, not then). He can’t remember all of the names, but he remembers the faces (he’ll never forget), and they’re with him now, always, embedded in his brain like shrapnel, like Dean’s bullet. Every time he closes his eyes there’s a face waiting. Maybe he’ll get better, maybe he can go on living, but he’ll never be able to forget. Or to forgive.
ooooo
Luke’s the one who sees the bikes first. They’re lying on the highway, abandoned, a backpack next to the smaller one, its contents strewn across the concrete. There’s no one else around. The boy runs toward the bikes, smiling, but Dean calls him back: it could be a trap. Luke stops, but he looks annoyed, like Dean’s being an ass for no reason. Dean scans the area carefully, on the lookout for movement, for anything that looks (feels) wrong.
"We’re alone," Izzy says instantly. She bites her lip, listening to something no one else hears. "There’s nobody else around."
Dean nods, but he doesn’t feel much better. He walks a few steps closer to the bikes. They’re old, dinosaur bicycles freckled with rust. The larger one is blue with a white wicker basket that’s seen better days, the smaller pink with a banana seat and plastic tassels waving from the handle bars. Sam picks up a rock and tosses it at the blue one. It bounces off the rear fender with a sharp clang. There’s no explosion, no demons, no nothing.
Dean bends down and gingerly pokes the backpack. He peers inside and then scrambles backwards, cursing. "Shit!"
Sam grabs Dean’s arm, pulls him up. "What?"
Andy’s already got his gun out and Craig pushes Luke behind him. "Everything okay?"
Dean nods. "Yup. No problem. Just an old shoe." He smiles, sheepish. "Took me by surprise." He punts the backpack across the median and on to the other side of the highway. Luke’s all smiles again and runs over to the smaller bike.
Sam puts his face by Dean’s ear. "What was it really?"
"It was a shoe," Dean says. He’s still smiling, but it’s slipping fast. His voice drops like a stone. "But there was still a foot in it."
ooooo
The first thing Luke does is pull the bike up and hop on, like he’s part monkey. Sam wants to protest, the tires are probably flat, the chain might be broken, but Luke’s already gone, his legs pedaling furiously. He coasts in a wide circle, tassels fluttering, glowing with happiness. The bike doesn’t falter, doesn’t waver. He’s steady and confident and it’s absolutely beautiful to watch.
The second thing Luke does is ride up to Sam. He pedals backwards, braking, and the bike skids to a stop. The kid’s hair is windblown and his cheeks are flushed-not with fever, but excitement. He points at Sam, then to the other bike.
Sam regards the other bike with two parts amusement and one part trepidation. "Uh, Luke. I haven’t ridden a bike in a while…" he offers weakly.
There’s a tarnished bell attached to the handle bars. Luke presses the lever and a tinny brrrring spears the afternoon quiet. "How about Izzy?" Sam suggests. "She’s a little shorter and the bike might-"
Luke’s answer is another brrring!
Dean gives Sam an encouraging shove toward the bike. "Jeez, Sam. If it’ll make him quit that racket, get on the damn bike."
Sam aims a glare in Dean’s direction.
"Scout a little down the highway," Dean suggests. "Once you guys-and by that I mean you, Sammy-can manage not to fall on your ass, we can figure out how many of us can pile onto those things."
Izzy bounces on her tiptoes. "Me! I can fit on!"
Andy grins and pulls her close. "No way. I’m getting a ride."
"You’re both going to trail behind us like the losers you are," Dean threatens and elbows Sam closer to the bike.
Sam rights the bike and sighs. He feels like one of those bears in the circus that has to ride the little tricycle. Granted, he’s not quite the size of the bear, and the bike is much larger than a tricycle, but still. Luke rolls past again, his face bright. His smile goes all the way up to those big blue eyes, and Sam shakes his head, a rueful smile on his lips. Now he knows what Dean means when he whines about Sam’s puppy dog eyes. The tires look okay, and he swings a leg across the bike. He sighs heavily and mutters, "I can’t do this."
"That’s what you said when you were five, too. You did it then, and you’ll do it now." Dean rolls his eyes. "Dude. You have the shining. I think you can ride a freakin’ bike."
Sam isn’t so sure. He sits gingerly on the seat, feeling like an idiot. He feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to see Craig smiling at him. "You can do it, son."
"Luke’s gonna be in New Mexico by the time you get your ass in gear," Dean laughs. "Come on, I’ll give you a push." Dean puts a steadying hand on the back of the bike seat.
Sam swallows, puts a foot on the pedal and pushes down, the other foot follows suit. Dean runs along behind him, still laughing.
And then Sam’s flying. Not really flying, but this must be what it feels like. His feet know what to do and he’s five years old again, hurtling down the sidewalk while Dean races to keep up, shouting encouragement and pumping his fist in the air.
Sam throws his head back and laughs, his hair blowing, and races toward Luke. This-the speed of the bike beneath him, the rush of wind on his face-this feels like freedom, this feels like hope. Luke grins and flashes Sam a thumbs-up. Sam laughs harder, and returns the gesture.
And they soar beneath the clouds.
ooooo
Dean watches them go, bikes racing in tandem. From behind it looks like big Sam and little Sam, and Dean feels pulled between the past and present. Sam looks back over his shoulder and flashes a smile at Dean that’s so pure, so honest, so real that Dean has to blink back tears.
Luke rings the stupid little bell again and they grow smaller and smaller until they’re just specks in the distance. "Hey, come back!" Izzy shouts, but Dean shakes his head.
"Let them go," he says. "They’ll come back." And he knows they will. He wipes at his eyes and bitches about dust and wind, but he doesn’t care if Izzy believes him or not. There’s a hot ache in his throat, but he can’t stop smiling. Sammy. His Sam is back. Maybe not for good (not yet, but he will be, just you wait), but he’s there.
Dean and the others follow after Sam and Luke, still visible on the outstretched arm of the highway. Izzy and Andy are grinning like conspirators, and Craig’s talking about Luke. Dean nods periodically and his mouth makes noises, but his brain is full of Sam and the look on his face.
Finally, finally, things are getting back to normal. Okay, normal is the wrong word, because the world has gone to shit, but it’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay, because he has Sam and he has friends, and in a couple of days they’ll be in New Mexico.
"Dean."
He glances at Izzy, but he’s still not quite listening, because his head is full of plans. Plans for the future, plans for New Mexico, when he and Sam can finally stay in one place for more than one lousy night. They can have a home. The thought makes him giddy like a twelve year old girl, but he can’t help it, because it’s about fucking time to make plans, to hope, and maybe, just maybe, to dream.
"Dean!" Izzy cries again, and this time she’s pumped up the volume and there’s a spike of fear in her voice.
Dean’s grin shatters and his mouth tastes like sand. He doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to hear what she’s going to say because he already knows. It’s not fair. Not now.
She grips his arm and her fingers are steel and part of Dean’s brain thinks, damn, she’s stronger than she looks, but the rest is desperately trying to backpedal away from the fear, trying to go back five fucking seconds to when everything was okay.
"Dean. Dean!"
Izzy’s shrieking now, and her face is a white oval of terror. Dean snarls what? and he hates her-just a little-for ruining the moment with a reality he doesn’t want.
She squeezes his arm harder and her lips move and Dean swears the words don’t quite match her mouth. "Demons! Up ahead. Two of them!"
Dean looks down at Izzy’s hand on his arm. Two demons are waiting for Sam and Luke. For all of them. He lets the rage at Izzy, at the fuck-up that is his life go, and a cold calm settles over him. There’s no time for anger or fear, there’s only time to run like hell (to protect Sam).
His feet are moving and he’s barking orders, pulling out his gun while he flat-out sprints down the highway. Andy and Izzy are on his heels, breathing hard, and Dean can hear the metallic snick-snick of the cartridge as Andy checks to make sure his gun is loaded. He can hear Izzy’s panicked mutterings to Claudia, or maybe she’s talking to Andy, he can’t tell. "Sam!" Dean yells, trying to aim his voice like an arrow. "Sam! Luke! Get back here!"
There they are, circling each other, and there’s the fucking chime of the bell. There’s a stitch in his side and it feels like a blade jammed between his ribs, but it doesn’t matter, because he has to get to Sam.
Dean waves an arm. "Sam!"
Andy’s yelling too, and Dean punches his shoulder. "Do it," he growls, "Obi-Wan them back here."
Andy nods, his face tense, and he calls out, "Come back here," in a voice laced with something that makes the hairs on Dean’s arms bristle. Dean knows the whammy won’t work on Sam, but it’ll work on Luke, and that’s just as good. Sam will follow the boy, Dean’s sure of it. Besides, they’re flailing around like a bunch of crazy-ass Mexican jumping beans and if Sam doesn’t realize something’s up by now, he’s a fucking moron.
But Sam’s not a fucking moron-or any other kind-because he’s on his way back. The smile is long gone from his face, and even though he’s still too far to see clearly, Dean knows Sam’s forehead is creased with worry lines.
Sam’s bike wobbles and he half tips, half falls over. He catches himself, but slides off the bike, his long legs eating up the distance between him and Dean. Sam is scowling, eyebrows pulled down. "Dean, you know my vision is messed up, how long have you been waving for us?"
"There are two demons," Dean says and the words can’t get out fast enough. "Izzy says they’re close, did you-" But Dean never has a chance to finish, because Sam’s bike is flying through the air. It spins madly into the windshield of a stalled sports car in the eastbound lane. Pieces of glass go flying, and a pedal whizzes past Sam’s head.
Dean’s eyes tick off their surroundings. A field to their left surrounded by a tottering wooden fence. The first trickles of a suburb to the right, a handful of tract houses and a gas station. Walking toward them are a man and woman. The demons. Dean’s instinct is to head toward the city where there’s more shelter, but he has visions of the gas station exploding around them, fire raining down.
Luke’s off his bike, running toward Craig, and then he’s in the air, his mouth an open circle of terror, and he’s dropped into the ditch near the dilapidated fence.
There’s too much screaming now, and Dean has no idea if it’s Craig or Luke or Sam, hell, maybe it’s him, and they’re all running toward Luke. Luke’s bike catches Craig in the back and he goes sprawling. Dean’s relieved to see the professor start crawling toward Luke immediately and throw himself over the boy.
His relief is short-lived when he realizes Sam is making his way toward the demons, his arms outstretched. "Get down on the ground!" Sam commands, and then, "Andy! I need you!"
Dean lunges for Andy’s arm, but all of a sudden Dean’s too slow or Andy’s too fast-he can’t tell which-and Andy’s racing for Sam. Sam grabs Andy’s arm and yells again, "Get on the ground!"
The power emanating from the words makes Dean’s teeth ache. He can almost see the words in the air, hot and heavy and metallic. Even standing a few hundred feet away, Dean’s legs tremble in an attempt to obey Sam’s voice.
The demons shriek in protest, but they both drop to their knees. "You’re no match for us, human," the man spits at Sam, then grins. "Or should I say, Sixer? I know who you are Sammy. Your master is waiting for you."
"I don’t have a master," Sam grits and aims a kick at the demon’s head. His aim is off, either due to stress or his vision, and the force of the impact lands on the demon’s shoulder. Still, it knocks the demon flat on his back. But the woman is on her feet now, and throws a punch that sends Sam over the fence and into the field.
"Sam!" The sound of the gunshots alerts Dean to the fact he’s pulling the trigger before he’s conscious of the movement of his finger. "How do you like the silver bullets, you assholes?" he shouts. Both demons jerk from the impact of the bullets, but they don’t die.
Nearby Dean can hear the muttering of Latin, and he realizes it’s Craig making his way through an exorcism. The woman pushes herself upright as Dean reloads his gun.
Sam’s on his feet again, running toward Andy. He tackles Andy, pushing him to the ground, just as the woman points a hand where Andy had been standing.
"You bastards!" Izzy screams and she’s scrambling from behind a car, silver knife glinting in the sun, but before it reaches its mark the woman lifts Izzy off her feet and throws her into the fence.
"Stop!" Sam shouts. He’s holding Andy’s arm again and his voice is the sound of a hammer. It makes Dean think of the stories Sam used to tell him when they were kids, stories about Thor and Odin. The demons stop, black eyes burning with rage. Craig finishes the exorcism, and the man throws back his head and shrieks the demon out. The curl of black demon-smoke twists up and away.
The man falls to his knees, hands in front of him, blinking furiously. "What. Is. Happening?" he moans. He turns and looks up at the woman. "Lisa? Are you okay?" He pushes himself to his feet, but the other demon grips the man’s head and gives a violent jerk. They all hear the snap of the man’s spine. She lets his body drop to the ground.
"You might stop me, but you won’t stop all of us," she says through bared teeth, then grins at Sam, licks her lips. "And you, Sam, are one of us."
"No!" Sam lashes out with his hand and the demon is thrown backwards-pulled by an invisible wire-until she connects with an overturned trailer. She bounces off and lands face-down on the pavement.
Sam drops into a crouch, his head cradled in his hands. "Gah." His voice drops even lower. "Dean."
Dean pulls Sam into a one-armed embrace. "Sammy? You okay?" He’s not going to ask about the telekinesis shit or the voice of doom right now, because Sam looks pale and sweaty and sick.
Sam nods and eyes Dean blearily. "I’m…okay." Dean turns to Andy. "What about you?"
Andy seems to have borrowed Sam’s panic! face, because he looks this close to falling down. "I think so."
"Craig?"
"I’m okay," comes Craig’s voice. "And I think Luke’s all right. He’s out cold, but nothing feels broken."
"Izzy?"
There’s no answer.
Dean and Sam exchange a look. Dean tries again. "Isobel?"
And then Andy’s face seems to collapse in on itself and he’s running toward the fence shrieking at the top of his lungs. At first Dean doesn’t get it, because hey, there’s Izzy, and everything’s fine. She’s lying amongst pieces of the broken fence, but she’s there. Only everything isn’t fine, it’s the fucking opposite of fine, because she’s not next to the fence, she’s on top of the fence, and a fucking piece of wood is sticking up through her chest where absolutely nothing should ever be sticking up.
"Oh fuck," Dean breathes, and nobody else says anything, because that pretty much sums it all up, right there.
ooooo
Of course, when he turns his attention back to the demon, it’s gone. But there’s no time now for the demon. There’s only time for praying and swearing and rifling through the first aid supplies, like maybe if he checks just one more time there’ll be a gigantic pair of magic tweezers that’ll pull the post out of Izzy and let her live. But there’s nothing. Nothing.
And it only took five minutes. Five minutes from feeling the beginnings of hope to looking down into the gory mess of Izzy’s chest. Hope? Who is he kidding? There’s no more hope. All that’s left is despair, regret and loss. And there’s plenty of those to go around.
Craig is watching over Luke. The kid is still unconscious, but seeing how there’s no pieces of wood sticking out of him, Dean figures he’ll be okay. Dean kneels beside Izzy, her right hand in his. Andy’s on her left side, holding her other hand, and Sam’s positioned behind her head, brushing the hair out of her face. Izzy’s eyes are open, but she’s not saying much. She keeps singing this little song that makes Dean want to yell at her to shut up, just shut up, so he clamps his teeth down hard enough to make his jaw hurt.
"I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there's a pair of us-don’t tell!
They'd banish us, you know."
Andy’s face is the color of old wax. "It’s an Emily Dickinson poem," he says tonelessly. "She likes Emily Dickinson poetry. She used to say that poem was about her and Claudia."
Sam’s face is twisted with pain. His eyes are wet and his face is red, as if he’s been slapped. He brushes her hair with trembling fingers. "Izzy," he whispers, "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry."
Suddenly Izzy’s eyes roll back and then refocus on Andy. "Get me out of here," she gasps.
"Hey Iz, it’s okay, we’re here."
She turns to look at Dean. "How’d I get back in the hospital?" Her words are vaguely slurred.
Dean blinks down at her. "You’re…you’re not in the hospital, Izzy. We’re on our way to New Mexico. Do you…do you remember?"
Izzy squints up at Dean, then looks from Sam to Andy. "Huh. I thought…was back ina hospital. I can’t hear Claudia. Medication used to take her away. Where’s Claudia?" She shifts her focus back to Sam. "You’re giving me headache. Move," she instructs, and Sam scrambles next to Dean. He puts a hand on her shoulder, keeps the other hand twined in her hair.
Dean feels a bubble of laughter hitch in his chest, because even now, Izzy is still a bossy bitch. And he loves her for it. Oh fuck. Fuck.
"Claudia’s here," Andy says, tears running down his face. "Don’t worry about that, okay?"
Izzy’s face starts to crumple. "But I don’t hear her. Don’t hear anyone. I’m all…all alone."
Andy shakes his head vehemently. "No, babe. You’re not alone. We’re here. We’ll never let you be alone. Never."
Izzy sniffs and her face relaxes slightly. She tries to smile. "My boys," she whispers. "My boys are here…" her eyes slide closed and her head lolls to one side.
"No!" Andy shouts. He shakes her arm and Dean squeezes Izzy’s hand. "Stay with us," Andy begs. "Izzy, open your eyes."
Izzy’s eyes flicker open and she stares up at Andy. "Wha? What’s happening? Feel all…funny."
"There were demons, Iz," Dean says. "You warned us. You did a real good job, too. Everybody’s okay." Except for you.
Izzy’s eyes clear and she turns her head, straining to see past Dean. "Is Luke okay?"
Dean pats her hand. "Luke’s okay."
Izzy lifts her head with some effort, and her eyes go round as she looks down at her chest. "Shit." She manages a shaky laugh. "That can’t…be good, huh?"
"I’m sorry, Izzy," Andy says and his voice breaks into a sob. "I…I love you."
Izzy smiles at him. "You’re pretty okay yourself, Andy Gallagher." Her head drops back onto the grass and she pulls her hand free from Dean to pat Sam’s arm. "Your aura is so pretty," she says. "It looks like there’s a rainbow all around me."
"Izzy," Sam starts. "Please. Hold on."
"I don’t think I want to," she says. "You know what I miss?" She turns to Dean and he shakes his head. "I miss the smell of Dove soap. It’s so…pretty. So good. That’s what I hope heaven smells like. If there is a heaven." She coughs wetly Her lips are flecked with blood. "I’m tired. Wanna sleep."
Andy drops his head onto Izzy’s arm. "Izzy," he whispers. "Please."
"Hurry up and get to New Mexico," she says. "Buncha lazy asses."
"You’ve got to come with us, Iz," Dean says and his throat feels ten sizes too big, each breath is like he’s trying to force a watermelon down a straw. "Come on, now, Isobel. Come on."
"Nah. You g’on."
Andy’s crying openly now, her hand pressed to his face. Sam stares down at her, his huge hand covering hers, eyes dry, his face stone. Dean begs her to stay with them. He promises, cajoles, and finally pleads through his tears, but Izzy is done talking. She just closes her eyes and smiles, until Sam jerks and looks down at her hand. He blinks once, twice, then lays it at her side.
Andy’s eyes leak more tears and he kisses her hand. "No," he says, shaking his head. "No, Izzy. No."
Dean leans back on his heels. His hand moves to Izzy’s neck and he feels for her pulse. There’s nothing but stillness beneath his fingers.
ooooo
The three of them remain huddled around Izzy’s body. Endless minutes tick by. An ant crawls over the toe of Sam’s shoe. And then Andy’s hand reaches out to grasp Sam’s shoulder. Sam looks from Andy’s hand fisted in the fabric of his jacket to Andy’s face. His eyes are red and raw, his mouth a tight slash. "Bring her back." His voice sounds like splinters.
Sam stares at Andy, uncomprehending. "What?"
Andy jumps to his feet and pulls Sam up with him. "I said bring her back!"
Sam looks down at Izzy’s face. Does she look peaceful? He thinks so, maybe a little. He has to believe she’s at peace now, in a better place. He blinks at Andy. "I…how?"
"How the hell do I know?" Andy growls. "You fixed me. You fixed that Sixer the other night." He lets go of Sam’s jacket and points to Izzy. "Fix her."
Sam shakes his head. "Andy, I can’t. I wish I could, but I can’t."
Dean moves slowly to his feet, positioning himself between the other two men.
Andy’s face twists into a look of fury, of rage, and he hisses, "Fix her."
Sam puts his hands to his head. "Andy, you can’t make me fix her, I don’t know how. I’m not…I’m not a doctor."
Andy’s lip curls. "Well you’re something, aren’t you? You’ve got something in you that knows how to…how to do things. So do this. Save her, Sam. Please."
"Come on Andy," Dean says softly. "It’s too late, man."
Andy turns his rage on Dean. "Shut up! I’m not talking to you, I’m talking to him!"
"I wish I could save her," Sam says, and he does. He wants to more than anything. He doesn’t want her to be gone. But he can’t. He can’t.
Andy stares at Sam a minute longer, than drops back to Izzy’s side. He puts a hand on her face. "Wake up," he says. Then louder, "Wake up." Sam can feel the power in Andy’s words, but they have no effect now. Andy’s voice hitches but he tries again. "Please Izzy. For me. Just. Wake. Up."
Sam walks around Izzy and puts a tentative hand on Andy’s shoulder. "Andy. Stop. You can’t-"
Andy leans into Sam and shoves him backward. "Then you do it, Sam. You’re the special one. You’re the one with all the fucking power. You bring her back."
The desolation in Andy’s face makes Sam want to run, or scream, or hit something. He can’t very well hit Andy, though, not now, not like this, so he stumbles away from him. "It doesn’t work like that!" Sam protests. He feels sick and tired, and his head is pounding.
"Then how does it work?" Andy screams.
"I don’t know!" Sam screams back. Their voices boomerang around the field. He doesn’t know how he helps people. It’s a mystery. It’s intuitive. It’s like knowing how to walk, how to breathe. It’s instinct. He can help focus someone’s ability-or his own-but neither he nor Andy can heal. "I can’t bring her back, Andy, I’m sorry."
Andy’s stares at Sam for a long moment, and then he hisses, "Then what good are you?"
"I know you’re upset, Andy," Dean warns, "but you better watch your mouth."
"No!" Andy shouts, spittle spraying toward Dean, "I won’t. Who’s the one that traipsed all over the country looking for his crazy ass?" Andy demands, pointing at Sam. "I did. I stayed with you, Dean. Me. I was there, not Sam. And you’re going to take his side?" Andy rolls his eyes, gives himself an exaggerated smack on the forehead. "Of course you are. Because he’s your brother. Your fucking special Sammy, and we all know that he’s the only one that matters. But Jesus, Dean. I stayed with you. I’m still here. Why can’t you take my side just once? Just one time."
"There aren’t any sides here," Dean insists. "It’s not like I can make Sammy bring her back. He’s not a healer, he’s got death visions, Andy. Do you really think that’s going to help right now?"
Sam digs a finger into his temple, trying to push the pain away. Why couldn’t he have had a vision? Why couldn’t he have been allowed to save her? Hadn’t he seen (caused) enough death? Why did it have to be Izzy? She deserved so much better than this.
Andy’s arms drop to his sides and he visibly deflates. He seems to grow smaller, feebler before their eyes. "Please," he whispers, "couldn’t you just try?"
"Andy," Dean’s voice holds a warning.
Sam lowers himself next to Izzy. He takes a hitching breath and wraps one hand around the bloody spike of wood. He closes his eye, turns his head, and pulls. It comes out with a wet sucking sound that makes Sam's stomach heave. He tosses the broken wood into the ditch and puts a trembling hand on each side of Izzy's head. Please Izzy, he thinks, come back to us. Not just for me. For Andy. He needs you. We need you. Please, God, if you can hear me, take me instead. Take me instead of her. Bring her back. He waits five seconds, then ten, twenty. A minute ticks by. Nothing happens. Izzy’s still dead and Sam is still useless.
Andy’s voice slips back into monotone. "Sam."
Sam’s standing in front of Andy, but he doesn’t know how he got there. He’s yelling, but the words don’t feel like they’re coming from him. He feels distant, wants to float away, but the words pouring out of his mouth feel like bits of lead keeping him here. "Jesus Christ, Andy, I tried! If I could save her, don’t you think I would? Don’t you think I’d save my mom? And Jess? And everyone I killed?" His arms are shoving Andy backwards and Andy’s staring up at him now, all traces of anger gone. "Don’t you think I’d save myself? I can’t save anyone Andy. Do you get that? Do you understand? I can’t save Izzy, I can’t save anyone." And there’s the sound of someone screaming and it might be him, but he’s not sure. Andy and Dean are trying to grab him, which is interesting, because five seconds ago Andy was really pissed off, but now he just looks upset and more than a little scared.
Sam doesn’t want them holding him back (holding him down), so he shakes them loose. It’s easier than he expects and there, across the field, is a tree. He’s running for the tree because there’s something in him, something that needs to escape, something that’s clawing at his guts trying to get out, and there’s only one way to set it free. He pulls his fist back and slams it into the tree’s mottled trunk and the overwhelming sense of relief pushes the blinding flash of pain away. He pulls his arm back again, and has time for another punch, and another, before Dean and Andy are on him again, yanking him back from the tree.
From a great distance he can feel the fire searing in his hand and up his arm and into his shoulder, and he welcomes it. He closes his eyes and waits for the flames to set him free, to purify him at last.
ooooo
"What the fuck did you do to him?" Dean roars, this far from punching Andy’s head in.
"I didn’t do anything," Andy sobs, and they drag Sam back toward Izzy’s prone body. Craig’s with them now, holding one of Sam’s legs, because Sam’s a fucking giant and he weighs about twelve tons.
"How’s Luke?" Dean grunts as they settle Sam to the ground.
"Better than Sam," Craig says. The older man’s hands are shaking.
"Is he still out?"
Luke’s not still out. In fact, he’s stumbling toward them right now. He’s got a peaked, shell-shocked look that Dean doesn’t like, but at least he’s conscious, which is more than Dean can say for Sam. "Did you do that to him?" Dean hisses. "Did you make him run into that tree?" There’s a part of him that actually wants Andy to say why yes I did, Dean, because wouldn’t that be better than admitting Sam freaked the fuck out and tried to shove his hand inside a tree trunk?
Andy shakes his head. "I didn’t, Dean. I swear it. I know I said some…some horrible things but-"
Dean cuts him with a look. "Look, Andy, Izzy’s dead. We’re all upset. I get it, okay?"
Andy nods miserably and stares at the ground. A fat tear rolls down his face.
Craig jogs toward Luke. "Hey there, buddy, how are you feeling?" He puts a hand around Luke’s shoulders and pulls the boy close.
Lucas squirms away, his big cobalt eyes fastened on Izzy. He looks up at Craig, then over to Dean. His eyes are like spotlights, and Dean can’t get away from their beam. Luke tilts his head ever so slightly toward Izzy. Is she…?
Dean manages a hesitant nod. "I’m sorry Luke, she-" He doesn’t know if he finishes the sentence or not because a piercing howl punctures his ear drums and stabs directly into his brain. It’s Luke.
Dean can see the whites of Luke’s eyes as the kid crawls over to Izzy. He screams the whole way, and it’s the worst sound Dean has ever heard. It’s worse than his mother screaming in the fire, it’s worse than the sound Sam made after Dean shot him. He’s never heard anything so terrible in his whole life, and he’s not a praying man, not by a long shot, but he prays right now that he never hears anything like it again. Craig crouches next to Luke and pulls him away from Izzy. It’s like he’s immune to the jagged wailing, and he just rocks the boy, his voice a low rumbling over Luke’s shrill cries. It feels like years before Luke quiets into tortured sobs.
Dean falls backward onto his ass, more exhausted than he’s been in months, maybe years. His mouth tastes like dirt and metal, and he’s soaked in sweat. Sam breathes softly beside him-limp and mute-and Dean thinks maybe, maybe Izzy’s the lucky one after all.
ooooo
He wakes to the sound of the Impala’s engine and almost weeps with relief. He can’t remember the last time he heard it.
Dean’s got an arm out the window, his elbow dappled with late afternoon sunlight. He grins over at Sam. "Hey there Rip Van Winkle. I was beginning to think you were never going to wake up."
Sam reaches for his water bottle and takes a drink. "Sorry," he says. "How long was I out?"
"A couple of hours. And I’m just about bored enough to listen to you, so good timing, man."
"How much longer to Wisconsin?" Sam asks, smoothing the rumpled newspaper in his lap. He scowls down at the paper. "I can’t wait to catch this fucker and exorcise it right back to hell."
"That’s assuming it is a demon and not something else."
"Like what?"
Dean shrugs, takes a sip of his coffee, makes a face. "Ugh. This is nasty. Tastes like tar. I don’t know Sam, maybe it’s a good ol’ fashioned witch. Or a raw head. Sure, they like kids, but they can’t be too finicky, can they? I mean, five dead in Milwaukee, who knows how many more this thing’s killed?"
Sam reaches for a map on the dashboard, checks their location, and sighs. "We’ve got another few hours."
Dean nods. "What letter are we up to?"
Sam peers into the battered tape box. "M."
Dean considers. "Okay then, how about Mötley Crüe?"
Sam makes a disgusted face. "No."
"Fine, but that’s the only pass you get. You sure you want to use it on Mötley?"
"I’m sure."
"Suit yourself. Then…Megadeth."
"Aw Dean, I thought you were going to go with Metallica," Sam protests.
"That’s the obvious choice," Dean grins. "Come on, I could have picked Molly Hatchet."
"Megadeth it is," Sam says and reaches into the box. "Which one? Peace Sells?"
"You know it," Dean says, and cranks the volume knob as soon as Sam pops the tape in.
A large conversion van looms ahead of them, and Dean slows down to switch lanes. As they move left, Sam glances at the van and sees two faces pressed against the back window watching him. A boy and a girl, their faces pale and scored with stitches. The girl points a finger at Sam, and he stares back at her open-mouthed.
Her lips move, and it takes him a second to figure out what she said. You did this. Sam blinks, and then there’s just a bored toddler in the backseat of the van flashing Sam an owlish look.
Dean yells over the sound of Dave Mustaine’s voice. "What’re you staring at?"
"Nothing," Sam says, but he can feel the first seeds of unease take root.
ooooo
"How long has he been like this?" Craig asks. Dean’s sitting cross-legged beside Sam. Sam’s eye is open, and he blinks occasionally, but he’s gone. There’s nobody home. Sammy has left the building. He won’t respond to anything Dean does, not even when Dean flicks him on the forehead or pokes at his injured hand.
Sam’s hand looks bad, but at least it gives Dean something to do. "You can’t just leave me here, you bitch," Dean mutters, wrapping gauze around Sam’s hand. "How am I supposed to feel superior to you if you just sit there?" He spent a good half hour pulling bits of bark out of Sam’s knuckles. The hand’s swollen to the size of the grapefruit, but there’s not much he can do about it here, so he wraps it and keeps it elevated, and occasionally, in an attempt to get a rise out of Sam, he jabs it with an index finger.
Dean doesn’t feel like talking-he certainly doesn’t have anything to say-but his mouth won’t stop going. He feels as if the words are a bridge, a link to Sam, and if he stops talking, Sammy really will drift away. And that? Is unacceptable. "You looked real good on that bike, Sam. I was proud of you for getting on, you know? For facing your fear. I am proud of you." Dean amends. "Of course, I’d been even prouder of you if you’d wake the fuck up."
Dean leans down, puts his head next to Sam’s. "And no matter what Andy said, you couldn’t have saved her, Sam. None of us could have. This is not your fault. Well, this coma shit is sort of your fault, but Izzy dying wasn’t. You did the best you could and that’s all you can do, right? So how about telling me to shut up, huh?" Dean wipes at his face, sniffs hard. "Remember how I used to say you talked too much? I don’t feel that way any more, Sam. I don’t. I’ll never make fun of you again if you just wake up." Dean shifts, rests a hand on his knee. "Okay, I probably will make fun of you because I’m kind of a jerk that way. But I still want you to wake up, Sammy. More than anything."
And Sam blinks, his gaze focused skyward, while a heron flies overhead.
ooooo
When dusk comes, Craig helps build a fire. The moon shines like a silver dollar above the trees. Andy’s sitting a few feet from Izzy when Craig sits down next to him. Craig sets an apple and a cup of applesauce in front of Andy. "You should eat something," the professor says quietly.
Andy shakes his head. "I’m not hungry."
Craig sighs wearily. "I know that, son. But you need to keep up your strength."
"I just want her to wake up."
"I know."
"How can I just leave her here?" Andy wants to know. "I need her. I need her to be with me." His voice breaks. "And if I can’t have her, I need something that belonged to her, you know? Something tangible. Something I can hold in my hand, because that’s what Izzy was. She was here. You couldn’t help but see her. And she could always make me smile. She had so much laughter for such a sad girl." Andy turns to look at Craig. "I loved her. I loved her and I didn’t realize it until it was too late."
Craig shakes his head. "It wasn’t too late, Andy. Not if you had one chance to tell her. If you told that girl you loved her just one time, then it wasn’t too late. Dying is a hard thing, son, but if you die loved, you’re still lucky. And Isobel was a lucky woman. I didn’t know her that well, but I liked the woman I saw. She was a fine girl, Andy. You remember that. She cared about you." Craig pats Andy’s shoulder. "And I know that doesn’t much help right now, but someday it might."
Andy smiles and nods but he doesn’t have much else to say. The only person he feels like talking to is Izzy and he’s not sure she’s listening anymore.
ooooo
It takes him over an hour of stumbling back and forth in the dark before he finds the knife. It’s lying in the ditch next to the road, buried to the hilt in mud. Andy pulls it out and wipes it on the grass. Izzy’s knife. She had picked it out because it was, in her words, pretty. The handle’s inlaid with a wide band of mother of pearl. It isn’t much, but it’s his knife now. And he knows exactly what to do with it.
ooooo
Luke has wedged himself between Dean and Sam, and Craig’s lying on Sam’s other side. A salt line encircles them all. Dean is bone tired, but he can’t sleep. He keeps listening to Sam, listening for some sign of presence, but so far there’s nothing but the steady rhythm of his breathing. Luke is snoring softly. He finally cried himself to sleep and he’s been out for the past few hours. Maybe his silence can find a way to communicate with Sam’s.
Dean turns his head. Andy is still keeping watch over Izzy. Since the initial blow-up he’s barely left Izzy’s side. Dean isn’t looking forward to the morning. The little morale they’d been clinging to is long gone, and New Mexico feels a world away. I don’t know what to do. I can’t do this alone. Don’t make me do this alone, Sammy, he thinks, and closes his eyes. He waits restlessly for sleep, and it’s a long time coming.
ooooo
"I had the weirdest dream."
Dean pulls into the parking ramp. It’s ten stories tall, and even though it’s almost nine at night it’s still half full. It’s also where the latest killings took place. Dean slips the EMF meter into his pocket and regards Sam with a curious look. "What kind of dream? Like a premonition?"
Sam shakes his head. "No. It was just…dark. And strange."
Dean pokes a finger in Sam’s chest. "Just like you."
"Very funny." Sam stuffs his hands into his coat pockets and follows Dean around the car. He doesn’t know how to explain just how bad the dream was. "It was like, most of the world died from that Croatoan disease. And there were demons everywhere. And I sort of went evil. And you shot my eye out."
"Sam, what the hell? I shot your eye out?"
"Yeah. I wore a patch."
"Like you were a pirate?"
"Dean, I wasn’t a pirate. Are you even listening to me?"
"Yes I’m listening to you. It’d be a hell of a lot easier if you made sense."
"It was just…really vivid. Like usually, you start to forget what your dream was about when you wake up…but this-" Sam’s voice cracks, and he’s embarrassed, because it was just a dream, but it felt-feels-so real. Even now he can remember most of it, the faces of the dead and that lingering feeling of being utterly and completely lost. He tries to hide his emotions behind a cough, but Dean’s got that look on his face that says nice try, loser.
"Instead of thinking about your end-of-the-world pirate dream, why don’t you help me with this friggin’ case, huh?"
Sam stares at the ground. There’s a wad of pink chewing gum next to his foot. Dean doesn’t get it. He just doesn’t get it, and Sam has no idea how to make him understand. Then again, maybe it’s good Dean doesn’t understand. He wouldn’t wish the memory of that world on anyone. He sighs. "Yeah. Okay." He glances around their level, notes the position of the elevator and the door leading to the stairway, and nods toward the door. "Over there."
They head over to the stairway and Dean pulls the door open. It squeaks in protest. Dean grunts. "Homey."
Sam huffs in amusement, and then they’re looking at a flight of concrete stairs that leads up into darkness and down into darkness. "So these look safe."
Dean pulls out the EMF and waves it around. Nothing happens.
Sam jogs up the stairs, then peers down at Dean over the railing. "This is where she was hanged. Rope tied to the railing and pushed over the side."
"It’s where she was hung," Dean corrects.
"Dude, it’s hanged."
"That just sounds stupid."
Sam’s eyebrows jerk. "You sound stupid."
Dean glowers and starts after Sam. The EMF meter shrills an alarm half-way up the stairs, and he looks from the meter to Sam. "Huh."
Sam’s grinning back at his brother when a movement above him catches his eye. He blinks and peers up into the gloom. A face peers back at him. "Dean!" Sam yells, and he raises his shotgun.
The woman’s face is black, her tongue protruding. A rope still hangs from her neck and there’s a piece of paper pinned to her shirt. Even in the semi-darkness Sam can read the rusty letters: Hey bro, you’re a little late. "What the hell?" Sam breathes.
The woman’s mouth doesn’t move, but he can hear her just the same. You did this.
Sam tries to protest, but he can’t. He focuses on the dream-was there a woman hanging from a tree? Did he-
The sound of the shotgun in the enclosed space is like thunder. Salt shot scatters the woman into nothingness. Dean turns to Sam. "Are you okay?"
Sam’s pretty sure he’s not.
ooooo
Dean opens his eyes to Sam’s back. Sam’s curled away from him, and Dean props himself up an elbow and shakes his arm. "Sam? Sammy?"
"He’s the same," Craig says. He’s eating a handful of cereal. "I’ve been trying to get him to react for the past half hour, but I haven’t had any luck."
Dean exhales loudly. He sits up and glances around for Luke and Andy. They’re both by Izzy. Great.
Craig follows Dean’s gaze. "Let them be," the professor says. "They’re mourning."
"So am I," Dean snaps. Then he feels guilty and sighs. "Look, Professor. I didn’t mean to yell at you. It’s just…"
"Everything sucks ass? Isn’t that what you kids say?"
Dean can’t help chuckling. Not just at the fact Craig called him a kid, but at the sound of the phrase sucks ass coming out of the professor’s mouth.
"Yeah, I guess it is," Dean agrees. He feels for Sam’s pulse. It’s strong and steady, but the jerk still won’t wake up. "I don’t know what to do," Dean admits. "I can fight ghosts and demons and raw heads and shtrigas, but I don’t know how to fight a…coma. It’s not like I can just blast him with rock salt and wake him up."
Craig’s lips pull into a smile. "I don’t think that would work."
"Me neither. But he’s the one that says we need to get to New Mexico, and now we’re stuck here because of him. It’s so frustrating." Not to mention terrifying.
"How is he?"
Dean looks up into Andy’s face. Andy looks gray and haggard, and much older than the day before. Dean shrugs. "The same."
Andy settles himself inside the salt circle next to Dean. Luke comes up beside Craig and sits on the older man’s knee.
"You guys want one?" Andy holds two energy bars out. Dean and Craig each take one.
"Thanks," Dean mutters. The energy bars taste like a horrible combination of sawdust and caramel, but it’s better than nothing, or at least that’s what he tells himself. Dean’s gaze falls on Andy’s wrist. He’s wearing a bracelet woven from narrow blond braids. Dean take a bite of the bar and swallows. "Nice bracelet," he says quietly.
Andy nods. He meets Dean’s gaze without flinching. "Thanks. I know it’s weird and morbid, but I don’t care. I needed something of hers."
"I get it," Dean says, and he does. He knows plenty about weird and morbid, and he’s in no position to judge Andy. "You know," he says softly, "we’re going to have to burn her."
Andy nods and now his eyes slide away from Dean’s. "I know. But can we…can we wait until Sam wakes up?"
Dean’s not sure he wants to wait that long-not that it will be that long of course-but he nods. "Sure." He goes back to eating his breakfast and they fall into silence. Sam’s silence is the loudest of all.
previous chapters here: at my journal