(Fic) Chasing Lu - Friday - sncross_bigbang
Constantine can see it, and if he thinks about what he’s looking at he can hear them. If he really tunes in, takes a deep breath and concentrates, he can feel them, the way they coat the air.
Like it’s spilled into the atmosphere, their power dims lights and tilts wills.
Fucking Demons, he thinks, stepping out of the cab. He grips the duffle bag, feels the plastic dig into soft flesh of his palm and tries not to step into the puddle that they’ve parked into - Armani’s expensive.
He can feel Dean at his back, turned inside out and coiled, so tied up in the situation that he can’t see past his brother. If Constantine gets the chance, he’ll kill Sam, and the strange thing is, he’s pretty much okay with dying doing it. It’s not like he’s going to Hell anymore.
Chas pops the trunk and stands close to John, and if John didn’t feel divinity radiating off of him, he’d think Chas was still a kid, that he’d brushed off, been thrown about like a bouncy ball and Constantine hadn’t lead him to his death.
But Chas just looks at him and it’s the small smirk on his lips that tells John he’s still got a friend in Chas.
“Spare me” Constantine scoffs as Chas bumps against his shoulder and hands him Agatha’s cross, the gold heavy in his palm and the ornate flowers and carvings digging into the skin of his hand. But it’ll come in useful, hopefully.
The silence eats away at him, the way he can’t hear LA, the rumble of cars, screeching echoes of sirens - it isn’t the fact there aren’t any people on the sidewalks, because nobody walks in LA.
Their footsteps echo down the straight asphalt of the road, still holding heat from the day as the Motel sighs flicker and stutter, red neon. He already knows everyone in there is either possessed or dead.
“Shit!” It’s nearly a roar and it’s almost a shock when he uncases his wings, the gust from them traveling up the back of Constantine’s neck as he stares at Chas’ clenched fists and back at the motel.
It’s a typical set-up, two stories with maybe 10 rooms on each level, one window for each room and a decaying staircase, but the lights flicker, pitching light across the cracked cement of the parking lot. “We cannot enter.” Castiel’s voice is cool, but the undercurrent that runs through it ripples the air and when John really concentrates, he can see blue hues across the flaking plaster of the motel.
There’s something painted there, like invisible ink across the building, it holds its own power as Chas silently fumes next to him. And then it clicks, something changes and he realizes. Angel traps.
“Shit” Constantine sighs as he drops the duffle bag and pulls out the shotgun. It’s heavy as he holds the underbelly of the barrel, cool but it soon takes on the heat of his hands as he flicks his gaze to Dean. “Guess it’s just you and me, Princess” he jibes, swinging the shot gun onto his shoulder. He spits out the used-up gum from his mouth and pops in another one, grimacing as the taste coats his mouth.
“You’re an asshole, you know that?” Dean shoots back as Castiel hands him a sawed-off, simple wood grip, and John can see the way Dean weighs it, comfortable in his grip.
“You have no idea” Constantine laughs back, and somehow it feels like they’re walking straight into Hell.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sam can feel his throat burn, his stomach turn and bunch, cramping as it tries to fill him up. Maybe this is his punishment, he thinks as he tries to scream past the blood.
He tried puking it up, but it’s like it’s hooked onto his insides as he screams; it bubbles in his mouth, spilling and dribbling out the corners of his lips and onto the flesh of his cheeks.
He panics, tries to breathe past it, but it’s not even like drowning when the blood slinks into the softness of his lungs, wet gasps seeping into the silence of the room.
This is his punishment, he thinks. The angels told him.
The angels. The angels.
The angels.
“There are no angels here, Sammy.” She smiles, wide and proud, as Sam tries to breathe and it’s the depthless white of her eyes that makes him scream.
“Dean!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When they clear the reception, it looks just as if they’d checked in yesterday, but it’s when they turn to the back that they see a burning pot of coffee and the skin of a thirty-something nailed up like a wall hanging.
The worst part is, there’s no body.
The whistling starts.
Elvis Presley? Dean mouths at Constantine as they duck behind the receptionist’s desk, the smell clogging the air as the bell above the door trills merrily. The footsteps are confident and Dean can hear the skip in them as they get closer to the desk.
It’s a man that walks into the back room, his black greased hair shiny in the cheap fluorescent glow of the office as he sighs happily, looking at the skin. His glasses are thick-rimmed and he’s round-faced. That’s when Constantine pops up, gun trained on the guy, and the lip-curled scowl John is wearing makes Dean aim his own sawed-off at the guy.
“Darius, you little shit.” It’s the look on Darius’ face that’s almost amusing, slack-jawed fear and color blooming high on his cheekbones - a demon scared of a little old human. Cool.
“Constantine-please, man, I didn’t-I-I was just in the neighborhood! I ain’t part of anything, I swear!” Darius bleats, voice panicky and high as he holds his hands up in a placating gesture.
“I should deport your scrawny ass back downstairs-“ Constantine advances, his finger toying with the trigger, and if Dean didn’t know better he could swear he saw a bead of sweat drip down Darius’ temple.
“No! I swear, I’m up here legit and everything. C’mon, man, give me a break, I couldn’t-I couldn’t say no, please don’t send me back!” Darius’ words are almost believable as Constantine’s mouth tilts in a sharp smirk.
“Alright, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t deport your sorry ass. And don’t try and pull anything, I’ll know if you’re lying, Darius.” Constantine takes his finger a millimeter off the trigger.
“Okay-okay. Umm-c’mon, I can’t fucking concentrate with that thing in my face!” Darius snarls, but it’s thready and horse as he flicks a look down the barrel of the shotgun, swallowing past the Texas pin of his bootlace tie.
“One.” It’s cool and straight and the terror that fills Darius’ face is almost instantaneous.
“I’ll talk! Alright! I’ll talk!”
“What room are they in, Darius?”
“You know I can’t tell you that.” Darius’ voice wobbles, his eyes flinching between the barrel of the shotgun and Constantine’s eyes.
“Two.”
Dean can see it, Darius trying to decide how much time he’s got left before his acquired body gets its head blown off and he gets sent down. It’s in his black eyes, the way he’s trying to decide between three or ten. Dean would guess it’s three.
“Alright! Alright! They’re in room 15, Room 15!” He squeals like a gutted pig and Dean can’t help but grimace at the pitch, starting to feel the itch at the back of his neck - if this guy keeps screaming like that, they’re going to get caught.
“Fine, Darius I believe you, now fuck off” Constantine sighs, lowering his shotgun, and Darius bolts. His legs aren’t long and he bangs into the reception desk, but he tries anyway, just reaching the ding of the door bell when Constantine blows his head off.
“Holy shit” Dean says faintly. It’s messy, blood and brain matter sprayed in chucks, the streak even extending into the parking lot as the barrel of the shotgun smokes, lazy and hot.
“I never get tired of that.” Constantine smirks and snatches key 15. It’s the hop, skip, trip of the adrenaline as John leads the way, Dean trying to sidestep the brain but still ending up stepping in a big chunk of what might have being the frontal lobe. They sprint across the parking lot, and that’s when Dean spots her. The Impala. But it isn’t like he doesn’t notice - four wobbly white scratches, gouged out along the whole right side, and the back window in shards.
“Sonofabitch!” Dean punches his fist through the air and grits his teeth.
“Sort it out later!” Constantine hisses and Dean’s fingers ache to survey the damage as they take the stairs two by two. “You don’t fuck with man’s automobile. I’m gonna kill em’ all!” Dean growls out as they stalk down the walkway.
It’s not really blindsiding - more like being completely assreamed - when Dean gets thrown into the window of room 25, the glass cracking and splintering, and it’s the few shards that cut into the soft flesh at the nape of his neck that really sucks. Dean manages to block a punch to the face, but gets a fist to the gut instead, a whoosh of air being forced out of his lungs, and he tries to cough some of it back into his body.
The boom of the shotgun resonates and jackknifes his arm as he aims it up into the demon’s face, the bloods hot as it sprays on his own face. He’s bathed in red as the corpse crumples to the floor with a wet thud.
That’s gonna hurt like a bitch, Dean thinks morosely as he drops his sawed-off and pulls off the demon that has his knee in John’s bellybutton. Constantine groans and rolls onto his hands and knees, fingers splaying out for the shotgun as Dean presses the barrel of his Glock to the demon’s head. The readhead smiles and flits her eyes to black.
“You can’t save him. Sameal is going to rise and scorch the Earth, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Lililth will take the throne and all those loyal will be rewarded!” She cackles.
“Really?” Constantine replies breathily, a jagged crook to his fleeting grin, and punches her square in the nose.
The crack of a nose breaking always makes Dean feel a little queasy, but the creepiest thing how she keeps on laughing. Even cupping her hands over the gushing split of her broken nose, she still laughs.
“Crazy bitch.” John sneers, and starts reciting Latin like it’s his mother tongue. The laughing cuts off in wet, chocking sobs as she starts spitting up black; it curls and writhes back down, the glow of Hell opening up as the body slides against the wall, limp and lifeless.
Dean only thinks it an act of courtesy to close her eyes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The brass, almost-gold of the room number turns Dean’s stomach as he and Constantine stand outside.
There’s a low constant hum that leaks out, the wood groaning and the glass of the windows bowing, and it feels like being in front of a burning casket for Dean, the heat fanning against his face, color blossoming high in his cheekbones as his eyes feel dry against the heat.
The night air seems so far away as Dean turns a look to John, and they nod and count in silence.
One.
They both load the chambers. The click, snick and roll seems so loud to Dean.
Two.
Constantine tries to shrug off the sound of it, like it’s trying to leak into his head, the sound of them all.
Three.
Dean feels the air catch high in his throat as he lifts his foot and they both boot through the door, wood splintering as they react on instinct. Two in the left corner and four ringed round the bed.
Where Lilith is.
Where Sam is.
The cracking and straight sounds of gunfire ring out. Dean aims for Lilith, straddled on Sam with a bright smile on her face and her arms red with blood, and he feels a blinding flash of hope as the bullet fires true.
It’s almost heartbreaking when one of the four around the bed leaps in front, taking it straight to the forehead and burning out. John takes out the last three in a shower of gore that paints the walls; some pierce the plaster board walls through and through as he pops the cylinder.
Dean aims and it feels like electricity, the beat of his heart flooding his ears, and it’s like pulling the trigger on Azazel again, the sweat-kick and the smell of
gunpowder.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Lilith’s tone is smooth and teasing as she leans
her head back, swaying the dark cascade of her hair and cocking a look at them
both, a sharp, predatory smile playing on her lips.
The cold edge of a blade scrapes against Dean’s throat, the hot breath of the
demon behind him biting at the cuts on his neck. Constantine doesn’t look any better. The blades are curved and in a distant part of him, Dean knows that if they die, it isn’t going to be quick.
And the worst part is, he doesn’t feel the fear he should, the bottom of his
stomach doesn’t drop at the idea of losing his life, but at the fact that he might fail Sam all over again.
“I’m so glad you could make it, Dean, just in time to be your brother’s best man.
But I do feel bad for Constantine, I would have gotten him a pretty little number. He could have been a bridesmaid! Oh, wouldn’t that have been exciting!” Her laugh holds a cold edge as it fills the room.
Sam’s back bows and his skin seems tattooed with black, every vein painted with
the poison that courses through. His eyes shine golden in the dim light and it takes all of Dean not to look away. Sam’s mouth is red with blood, his arms stretched out wide, the muscles bunching through the shirt, and it looks like he’s trying to scream. His eyes are glazed and fire yellow.
She strokes the back of her hand across Sam’s cheek, and the affection in it
spears through Dean as he shunts forward, the blade biting into his Adam’s
apple as he growls.
“Get your stinking hands off him.”
“Jealous, Dean? Well, what if I did this?” she goads, leaning, curving her body
against the broad expanse of Sam, placing a gentle kiss on his blood-soaked
lips, licking the taste of herself from them.
Dean tries not to rear, but it’s still a hot pike through his stomach as she bites her
bottom lip and hums with contentment. “Still so soft” she giggles and reaches around to the back pocket of her jeans. The blade she pulls out is silver and the wood of the handle is dark, old and wrinkled, like it could turn to ash any moment.
“When this is over, I think I’ll let him keep you as a pet, would you like that,
Dean?” It’s a genuine question as she raises the knife.“Oh, and before I forget, kill him” she instructs, the vague tilt of her shoulders to Constantine making Dean look over. It feels like watching a train wreck and a plane fall out of the sky at the same time, he just doesn’t know where to put his eyes.
The knife pulls back and Dean can see red bleed through, but it stops, the world
seems to slow, sluggish like molasses. Dean can feel it in the way he doesn’t move with the guy’s breathing behind him - the breath on his neck isn’t there, but the weight of the blade still is.
Dean sees a chance and he takes it, knocking the demon’s arm from around his
waist and planting a bullet in his head.
That’s when he spots a guy in the corner chair, can’t help himself, pulls the trigger.
The guy’s head whips back and Dean sees the strange curve of the man’s smile as he drops his head back lazily, eyes trained on Constantine with his smile going sharp at the edges.
“Dude, what are you looking so smug about?” Dean slurs half-heartedly, the adrenaline starting to fade as he lets the Glock dangle from his fingers.
“Alotta things. “ The bullet appears between white teeth, like a little fuck you as he cocks his eyebrow and grinds the round, and spits the silver at Dean’s feet.
And it’s just enough to get the hair on everybody’s necks standing on end.
John just smirks, a light tilt of his mouth, before spitting blood and uttering “That’s a pretty nasty habit you got there, Lu”.
“John, John, John. Still getting yourself into trouble, I see.” He lets out a manic little giggle and stands, his moves graceful even as he steps through the blood that soaks into the carpet.
“Well, it’s the weekend, what’s a guy supposed to do?” Constantine stiffens visibly, and Dean gets more of a look at the man - late 40’s, tattoos spire up his neck past the white color of his shirt. It’s a full white suit, perfect and clean, but then the shadows deepen, the light shrinks and Dean can feel the temperature drop, his breath pluming just in front of his face.
“Well, boys will be boys. And I see you’re keeping your own interesting company.” Dean feels pinned as Lu turns to him, the flashbacks blinding him. “I do like your use of piano wire, Dean. Not original, but very creative” Lu leers. He takes the hand of the demon that’s frozen and uncurls it from Constantine’s throat.
“I hope this isn’t another one of your cons, John.” His tone seems to tease, but the undercurrent sets Dean’s teeth on edge as Lu presses up close into Constantine’s space.
“C’mon, Lu, doing the right thing isn’t conning.” John’s voice tries for light but his whole frame seems bunched and taut.
Lu sneers and scoffs, turning his back on them both.
“The Sacrifice. Loopholes, loopholes. But you wouldn’t get yourself into trouble without a reason and you certainly wouldn’t get involved with a suicide mission expert like Dean Winchester, so what is your angle?”
“How long has it been since you’ve seen old Sameal?” And it’s the look on Lu’s
face that makes the whole room static.
“Eternity is such a long time, John, I need to be entertained” Lu sighs as he looks
at Lilith and Sam. He plucks the knife from her fingers, twirls and weighs it in his hands as he clicks his fingers, and Lilith’s hands come down hard on Sam’s chest.
“Lucifer” she whispers. The terror seems to resonate through her voice as she
stumbles off the bed.
“You really thought Samael would be resurrected without my knowledge.” Lu
slicks a hand through his hair.
Lilith backs into a corner. “I did it for you, my love! I swear!” she pleads.
“I am very disappointed, Lilith.” Dean can see the way she panics, and the scream that rips from her throat as she spills out of Ruby’s body nearly deafens Dean and John.
The smoke spirals through the cheap air-con as Ruby’s body collapses.
Lucifer turns to Sam, cocking his head as sits down on the edge of the bed and Dean feels a bubble form in his throat, watching Lucifer’s hand reach out to Sam.“No!” Dean tries to swallow past it as he raises his gun, desperation coating his skin, and squeezes the trigger.
His feet leave the ground as he’s hurled against the wall; it dents, cracks against his weight. Dean can’t even scream as Lucifer runs a hand through Sam’s hair, thumbing his forehead.
Sam’s body bends and quakes, shaking the bed as the lights squeal and burst, it’s the scream that shatters the windows, splintering as they blow out and lets in the night air.
Suddenly, he bolts upright, his heavy breathing filling the air as he holds onto his throat and the black veins of his flesh trace back. Sam starts to retch, dry heaving over the side of the bed and the scent of sulfur permeates the air as he throws up black. It eats away at the threadbare carpet as Sam sobs through the lurches of obsidian that spew out of his mouth.
Moments later, he slumps back onto the bed, eyes rolling back into his head, mouth smeared with dried copper red and black.
Dean doesn’t know whether he’s broken a rib as he limps over to Sam, crashing onto the bed, his fingers scrabbling for a pulse.
Please, please please and then no, not again, he’s still here loops through Dean’s head, tears burning in his eyes. And there it is, the faint drum, the almighty beat that makes Dean feel like a collapsing stack of cards as he presses his face against the slowly rising mass of his brother’s chest.
Friday-part 2
Like it’s spilled into the atmosphere, their power dims lights and tilts wills.
Fucking Demons, he thinks, stepping out of the cab. He grips the duffle bag, feels the plastic dig into soft flesh of his palm and tries not to step into the puddle that they’ve parked into - Armani’s expensive.
He can feel Dean at his back, turned inside out and coiled, so tied up in the situation that he can’t see past his brother. If Constantine gets the chance, he’ll kill Sam, and the strange thing is, he’s pretty much okay with dying doing it. It’s not like he’s going to Hell anymore.
Chas pops the trunk and stands close to John, and if John didn’t feel divinity radiating off of him, he’d think Chas was still a kid, that he’d brushed off, been thrown about like a bouncy ball and Constantine hadn’t lead him to his death.
But Chas just looks at him and it’s the small smirk on his lips that tells John he’s still got a friend in Chas.
“Spare me” Constantine scoffs as Chas bumps against his shoulder and hands him Agatha’s cross, the gold heavy in his palm and the ornate flowers and carvings digging into the skin of his hand. But it’ll come in useful, hopefully.
The silence eats away at him, the way he can’t hear LA, the rumble of cars, screeching echoes of sirens - it isn’t the fact there aren’t any people on the sidewalks, because nobody walks in LA.
Their footsteps echo down the straight asphalt of the road, still holding heat from the day as the Motel sighs flicker and stutter, red neon. He already knows everyone in there is either possessed or dead.
“Shit!” It’s nearly a roar and it’s almost a shock when he uncases his wings, the gust from them traveling up the back of Constantine’s neck as he stares at Chas’ clenched fists and back at the motel.
It’s a typical set-up, two stories with maybe 10 rooms on each level, one window for each room and a decaying staircase, but the lights flicker, pitching light across the cracked cement of the parking lot. “We cannot enter.” Castiel’s voice is cool, but the undercurrent that runs through it ripples the air and when John really concentrates, he can see blue hues across the flaking plaster of the motel.
There’s something painted there, like invisible ink across the building, it holds its own power as Chas silently fumes next to him. And then it clicks, something changes and he realizes. Angel traps.
“Shit” Constantine sighs as he drops the duffle bag and pulls out the shotgun. It’s heavy as he holds the underbelly of the barrel, cool but it soon takes on the heat of his hands as he flicks his gaze to Dean. “Guess it’s just you and me, Princess” he jibes, swinging the shot gun onto his shoulder. He spits out the used-up gum from his mouth and pops in another one, grimacing as the taste coats his mouth.
“You’re an asshole, you know that?” Dean shoots back as Castiel hands him a sawed-off, simple wood grip, and John can see the way Dean weighs it, comfortable in his grip.
“You have no idea” Constantine laughs back, and somehow it feels like they’re walking straight into Hell.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sam can feel his throat burn, his stomach turn and bunch, cramping as it tries to fill him up. Maybe this is his punishment, he thinks as he tries to scream past the blood.
He tried puking it up, but it’s like it’s hooked onto his insides as he screams; it bubbles in his mouth, spilling and dribbling out the corners of his lips and onto the flesh of his cheeks.
He panics, tries to breathe past it, but it’s not even like drowning when the blood slinks into the softness of his lungs, wet gasps seeping into the silence of the room.
This is his punishment, he thinks. The angels told him.
The angels. The angels.
The angels.
“There are no angels here, Sammy.” She smiles, wide and proud, as Sam tries to breathe and it’s the depthless white of her eyes that makes him scream.
“Dean!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When they clear the reception, it looks just as if they’d checked in yesterday, but it’s when they turn to the back that they see a burning pot of coffee and the skin of a thirty-something nailed up like a wall hanging.
The worst part is, there’s no body.
The whistling starts.
Elvis Presley? Dean mouths at Constantine as they duck behind the receptionist’s desk, the smell clogging the air as the bell above the door trills merrily. The footsteps are confident and Dean can hear the skip in them as they get closer to the desk.
It’s a man that walks into the back room, his black greased hair shiny in the cheap fluorescent glow of the office as he sighs happily, looking at the skin. His glasses are thick-rimmed and he’s round-faced. That’s when Constantine pops up, gun trained on the guy, and the lip-curled scowl John is wearing makes Dean aim his own sawed-off at the guy.
“Darius, you little shit.” It’s the look on Darius’ face that’s almost amusing, slack-jawed fear and color blooming high on his cheekbones - a demon scared of a little old human. Cool.
“Constantine-please, man, I didn’t-I-I was just in the neighborhood! I ain’t part of anything, I swear!” Darius bleats, voice panicky and high as he holds his hands up in a placating gesture.
“I should deport your scrawny ass back downstairs-“ Constantine advances, his finger toying with the trigger, and if Dean didn’t know better he could swear he saw a bead of sweat drip down Darius’ temple.
“No! I swear, I’m up here legit and everything. C’mon, man, give me a break, I couldn’t-I couldn’t say no, please don’t send me back!” Darius’ words are almost believable as Constantine’s mouth tilts in a sharp smirk.
“Alright, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t deport your sorry ass. And don’t try and pull anything, I’ll know if you’re lying, Darius.” Constantine takes his finger a millimeter off the trigger.
“Okay-okay. Umm-c’mon, I can’t fucking concentrate with that thing in my face!” Darius snarls, but it’s thready and horse as he flicks a look down the barrel of the shotgun, swallowing past the Texas pin of his bootlace tie.
“One.” It’s cool and straight and the terror that fills Darius’ face is almost instantaneous.
“I’ll talk! Alright! I’ll talk!”
“What room are they in, Darius?”
“You know I can’t tell you that.” Darius’ voice wobbles, his eyes flinching between the barrel of the shotgun and Constantine’s eyes.
“Two.”
Dean can see it, Darius trying to decide how much time he’s got left before his acquired body gets its head blown off and he gets sent down. It’s in his black eyes, the way he’s trying to decide between three or ten. Dean would guess it’s three.
“Alright! Alright! They’re in room 15, Room 15!” He squeals like a gutted pig and Dean can’t help but grimace at the pitch, starting to feel the itch at the back of his neck - if this guy keeps screaming like that, they’re going to get caught.
“Fine, Darius I believe you, now fuck off” Constantine sighs, lowering his shotgun, and Darius bolts. His legs aren’t long and he bangs into the reception desk, but he tries anyway, just reaching the ding of the door bell when Constantine blows his head off.
“Holy shit” Dean says faintly. It’s messy, blood and brain matter sprayed in chucks, the streak even extending into the parking lot as the barrel of the shotgun smokes, lazy and hot.
“I never get tired of that.” Constantine smirks and snatches key 15. It’s the hop, skip, trip of the adrenaline as John leads the way, Dean trying to sidestep the brain but still ending up stepping in a big chunk of what might have being the frontal lobe. They sprint across the parking lot, and that’s when Dean spots her. The Impala. But it isn’t like he doesn’t notice - four wobbly white scratches, gouged out along the whole right side, and the back window in shards.
“Sonofabitch!” Dean punches his fist through the air and grits his teeth.
“Sort it out later!” Constantine hisses and Dean’s fingers ache to survey the damage as they take the stairs two by two. “You don’t fuck with man’s automobile. I’m gonna kill em’ all!” Dean growls out as they stalk down the walkway.
It’s not really blindsiding - more like being completely assreamed - when Dean gets thrown into the window of room 25, the glass cracking and splintering, and it’s the few shards that cut into the soft flesh at the nape of his neck that really sucks. Dean manages to block a punch to the face, but gets a fist to the gut instead, a whoosh of air being forced out of his lungs, and he tries to cough some of it back into his body.
The boom of the shotgun resonates and jackknifes his arm as he aims it up into the demon’s face, the bloods hot as it sprays on his own face. He’s bathed in red as the corpse crumples to the floor with a wet thud.
That’s gonna hurt like a bitch, Dean thinks morosely as he drops his sawed-off and pulls off the demon that has his knee in John’s bellybutton. Constantine groans and rolls onto his hands and knees, fingers splaying out for the shotgun as Dean presses the barrel of his Glock to the demon’s head. The readhead smiles and flits her eyes to black.
“You can’t save him. Sameal is going to rise and scorch the Earth, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Lililth will take the throne and all those loyal will be rewarded!” She cackles.
“Really?” Constantine replies breathily, a jagged crook to his fleeting grin, and punches her square in the nose.
The crack of a nose breaking always makes Dean feel a little queasy, but the creepiest thing how she keeps on laughing. Even cupping her hands over the gushing split of her broken nose, she still laughs.
“Crazy bitch.” John sneers, and starts reciting Latin like it’s his mother tongue. The laughing cuts off in wet, chocking sobs as she starts spitting up black; it curls and writhes back down, the glow of Hell opening up as the body slides against the wall, limp and lifeless.
Dean only thinks it an act of courtesy to close her eyes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The brass, almost-gold of the room number turns Dean’s stomach as he and Constantine stand outside.
There’s a low constant hum that leaks out, the wood groaning and the glass of the windows bowing, and it feels like being in front of a burning casket for Dean, the heat fanning against his face, color blossoming high in his cheekbones as his eyes feel dry against the heat.
The night air seems so far away as Dean turns a look to John, and they nod and count in silence.
One.
They both load the chambers. The click, snick and roll seems so loud to Dean.
Two.
Constantine tries to shrug off the sound of it, like it’s trying to leak into his head, the sound of them all.
Three.
Dean feels the air catch high in his throat as he lifts his foot and they both boot through the door, wood splintering as they react on instinct. Two in the left corner and four ringed round the bed.
Where Lilith is.
Where Sam is.
The cracking and straight sounds of gunfire ring out. Dean aims for Lilith, straddled on Sam with a bright smile on her face and her arms red with blood, and he feels a blinding flash of hope as the bullet fires true.
It’s almost heartbreaking when one of the four around the bed leaps in front, taking it straight to the forehead and burning out. John takes out the last three in a shower of gore that paints the walls; some pierce the plaster board walls through and through as he pops the cylinder.
Dean aims and it feels like electricity, the beat of his heart flooding his ears, and it’s like pulling the trigger on Azazel again, the sweat-kick and the smell of
gunpowder.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Lilith’s tone is smooth and teasing as she leans
her head back, swaying the dark cascade of her hair and cocking a look at them
both, a sharp, predatory smile playing on her lips.
The cold edge of a blade scrapes against Dean’s throat, the hot breath of the
demon behind him biting at the cuts on his neck. Constantine doesn’t look any better. The blades are curved and in a distant part of him, Dean knows that if they die, it isn’t going to be quick.
And the worst part is, he doesn’t feel the fear he should, the bottom of his
stomach doesn’t drop at the idea of losing his life, but at the fact that he might fail Sam all over again.
“I’m so glad you could make it, Dean, just in time to be your brother’s best man.
But I do feel bad for Constantine, I would have gotten him a pretty little number. He could have been a bridesmaid! Oh, wouldn’t that have been exciting!” Her laugh holds a cold edge as it fills the room.
Sam’s back bows and his skin seems tattooed with black, every vein painted with
the poison that courses through. His eyes shine golden in the dim light and it takes all of Dean not to look away. Sam’s mouth is red with blood, his arms stretched out wide, the muscles bunching through the shirt, and it looks like he’s trying to scream. His eyes are glazed and fire yellow.
She strokes the back of her hand across Sam’s cheek, and the affection in it
spears through Dean as he shunts forward, the blade biting into his Adam’s
apple as he growls.
“Get your stinking hands off him.”
“Jealous, Dean? Well, what if I did this?” she goads, leaning, curving her body
against the broad expanse of Sam, placing a gentle kiss on his blood-soaked
lips, licking the taste of herself from them.
Dean tries not to rear, but it’s still a hot pike through his stomach as she bites her
bottom lip and hums with contentment. “Still so soft” she giggles and reaches around to the back pocket of her jeans. The blade she pulls out is silver and the wood of the handle is dark, old and wrinkled, like it could turn to ash any moment.
“When this is over, I think I’ll let him keep you as a pet, would you like that,
Dean?” It’s a genuine question as she raises the knife.“Oh, and before I forget, kill him” she instructs, the vague tilt of her shoulders to Constantine making Dean look over. It feels like watching a train wreck and a plane fall out of the sky at the same time, he just doesn’t know where to put his eyes.
The knife pulls back and Dean can see red bleed through, but it stops, the world
seems to slow, sluggish like molasses. Dean can feel it in the way he doesn’t move with the guy’s breathing behind him - the breath on his neck isn’t there, but the weight of the blade still is.
Dean sees a chance and he takes it, knocking the demon’s arm from around his
waist and planting a bullet in his head.
That’s when he spots a guy in the corner chair, can’t help himself, pulls the trigger.
The guy’s head whips back and Dean sees the strange curve of the man’s smile as he drops his head back lazily, eyes trained on Constantine with his smile going sharp at the edges.
“Dude, what are you looking so smug about?” Dean slurs half-heartedly, the adrenaline starting to fade as he lets the Glock dangle from his fingers.
“Alotta things. “ The bullet appears between white teeth, like a little fuck you as he cocks his eyebrow and grinds the round, and spits the silver at Dean’s feet.
And it’s just enough to get the hair on everybody’s necks standing on end.
John just smirks, a light tilt of his mouth, before spitting blood and uttering “That’s a pretty nasty habit you got there, Lu”.
“John, John, John. Still getting yourself into trouble, I see.” He lets out a manic little giggle and stands, his moves graceful even as he steps through the blood that soaks into the carpet.
“Well, it’s the weekend, what’s a guy supposed to do?” Constantine stiffens visibly, and Dean gets more of a look at the man - late 40’s, tattoos spire up his neck past the white color of his shirt. It’s a full white suit, perfect and clean, but then the shadows deepen, the light shrinks and Dean can feel the temperature drop, his breath pluming just in front of his face.
“Well, boys will be boys. And I see you’re keeping your own interesting company.” Dean feels pinned as Lu turns to him, the flashbacks blinding him. “I do like your use of piano wire, Dean. Not original, but very creative” Lu leers. He takes the hand of the demon that’s frozen and uncurls it from Constantine’s throat.
“I hope this isn’t another one of your cons, John.” His tone seems to tease, but the undercurrent sets Dean’s teeth on edge as Lu presses up close into Constantine’s space.
“C’mon, Lu, doing the right thing isn’t conning.” John’s voice tries for light but his whole frame seems bunched and taut.
Lu sneers and scoffs, turning his back on them both.
“The Sacrifice. Loopholes, loopholes. But you wouldn’t get yourself into trouble without a reason and you certainly wouldn’t get involved with a suicide mission expert like Dean Winchester, so what is your angle?”
“How long has it been since you’ve seen old Sameal?” And it’s the look on Lu’s
face that makes the whole room static.
“Eternity is such a long time, John, I need to be entertained” Lu sighs as he looks
at Lilith and Sam. He plucks the knife from her fingers, twirls and weighs it in his hands as he clicks his fingers, and Lilith’s hands come down hard on Sam’s chest.
“Lucifer” she whispers. The terror seems to resonate through her voice as she
stumbles off the bed.
“You really thought Samael would be resurrected without my knowledge.” Lu
slicks a hand through his hair.
Lilith backs into a corner. “I did it for you, my love! I swear!” she pleads.
“I am very disappointed, Lilith.” Dean can see the way she panics, and the scream that rips from her throat as she spills out of Ruby’s body nearly deafens Dean and John.
The smoke spirals through the cheap air-con as Ruby’s body collapses.
Lucifer turns to Sam, cocking his head as sits down on the edge of the bed and Dean feels a bubble form in his throat, watching Lucifer’s hand reach out to Sam.“No!” Dean tries to swallow past it as he raises his gun, desperation coating his skin, and squeezes the trigger.
His feet leave the ground as he’s hurled against the wall; it dents, cracks against his weight. Dean can’t even scream as Lucifer runs a hand through Sam’s hair, thumbing his forehead.
Sam’s body bends and quakes, shaking the bed as the lights squeal and burst, it’s the scream that shatters the windows, splintering as they blow out and lets in the night air.
Suddenly, he bolts upright, his heavy breathing filling the air as he holds onto his throat and the black veins of his flesh trace back. Sam starts to retch, dry heaving over the side of the bed and the scent of sulfur permeates the air as he throws up black. It eats away at the threadbare carpet as Sam sobs through the lurches of obsidian that spew out of his mouth.
Moments later, he slumps back onto the bed, eyes rolling back into his head, mouth smeared with dried copper red and black.
Dean doesn’t know whether he’s broken a rib as he limps over to Sam, crashing onto the bed, his fingers scrabbling for a pulse.
Please, please please and then no, not again, he’s still here loops through Dean’s head, tears burning in his eyes. And there it is, the faint drum, the almighty beat that makes Dean feel like a collapsing stack of cards as he presses his face against the slowly rising mass of his brother’s chest.
Friday-part 2