|| SPN || AR || R || Slash ||
masterpost
prologue
part 1
It's easier getting out of the City than it is getting into it. There's still a hold up, though, as another guard marches up to where James is waiting with Sam and Dean. There's a small group of teenagers behind the man, and they shift uneasily, made up faces dark and smeared.
"Sirs," James turns to address Sam and Dean after the other guard leaves. He hands Sam a slip of paper. "A note from Mr. Porter."
Dawn happened while they were hidden away in the official's building. The light, though, is still weak and watery, street lamps buzzing ineffectually around them. Sam looks ashen when he's done reading. "They're going with us. Porter's granted them access to Downtown for...personal reasons?" Sam stares at the girl in front. Her face is still chubby but it's bleak, closed off. "We're asked to make sure they find lodging. And apparently, Porter's also sending along some 'communication units' for us."
The kids shift until there's a clear path behind them. Dean sees a large crate. Dean shakes his head, because what the fuck? This Porter dude has the same entitlement issues that Bobby does. It's ridiculous, but he's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. "Who are they?"
"I'm Bethany Vaughn." The girl's voice is soft and high pitched, and she doesn't name any of the kids behind her.
They're stuck. Dean knows they have the room back at Briar Pointe, and he also knows there's a reason for sending these kids along. A debt, maybe, that Dean's not sure he owes. Sam ends up shrugging, motioning them to go ahead of them when the ferry arrives. The last kid, a burly looking boy drags the crate on a cart that bounces and creaks as he boards.
"Well," Dean spares James a nod as they get on the ferry themselves. He'll be fuckin' ecstatic to get back to Drenn. "Alright, then."
**
Bobby's waiting for them in Riverside when they make it back across. He takes one look at the ragtag bunch of kids trailing them and shakes his head. "I'd've taken the van if I knew we were gonna have company."
But they load the crate onto the back of his truck and get the kids situated and holding on tight, before Dean and Sam cram themselves into the cab with Bobby. Dean manages to get Sam's shoulder out from digging into his and then asks, "what are you doin' here?"
"Well, decided I should come by Riverside, check up on things."
Sam's a massive lump by the window, so Dean just turns on the truck's radio, an infrequent luxury nowadays, and leans back into the worn bench seat. "You knew." Everything, he adds silently. Bobby with his fuckin' spiderweb. Man hoards secrets like East Main hoards canned goods.
Bobby sighs, brows low under his cap. "Not everything," he says and jerks his head toward the small window at the back of the truck's cab.
**
Sam skips out as soon as they pull into Briar Pointe's garage. Truck barely has time to stop before he's jumping out, long legs eating up the distance to the stairs leading into the apartment building.
Bobby and Dean take longer, getting the kids off the truck, getting the crate into a huge room they converted for the stockpiled supplies. All the nonperishable food, stacks and stacks of cans and bags, and the freezers and refrigerators lined up and humming with power. Better here for most of the meats and easily spoiled stuff, because electricity in the rest of the building isn't consistent, flickering on and then dying for hours before it cuts back on. Down here, there's enough backup systems to keep things running, and they always keep power low except for the essentials.
It's a new way to live. Constantly monitoring everything, scoping out areas, staying indoors, staying in East Main's buildings, keeping the small infirmary up and running as best they can. It takes energy and time, though, to keep the wards up, constantly redoing them as they fade. Sometimes not for days, sometimes in hours, depending on how close the horde gets to East Main on any given day.
It works, everyone has enough space, which is good because these kids Porter shoved off on them aren't the only new editions since Dean'd moved his group here. People trickle in, somehow finding out about it. People stuck in between groups, people not wanting to stay in the place they were caught out at. Whatever reason, they find East Main, get through the tests and spread out until it's a whole fuckin' village inside, and they all kind of look at Dean like he knows everything.
"Nice what you've done with the place."
Dean laughs and immediately regrets it. The sound bounces off the walls, and it's too strained and awkward. He's aware of the kids lingering behind him: dark, shuffling forms unwilling to get too near Dean or Bobby. "You saw where my brother went," he tells them. "Shoo." They won't get far, not when Ellen knows Sam and Dean went to the City. She'll be on the alert for anything. Dean's pretty sure she can handle squaring the group of newcomers away.
When they're gone, Dean takes out the card Porter gave him, twists his fingers so that the penciled numbers are visible to Bobby. "Friend of yours?"
"Maybe." They're both aware that's not an answer. "What happened across the river?"
Dean sighs, slips the card back into his pocket. He can feel the thin edges of it high on his thigh. "Massacre, I guess. The Moores, all of 'em. Sam had to i.d. his girl's body. John...his family. Sounds like it's different than the creep. I'm thinkin' it's a whole different game over in the City." The way Bobby's lips tighten, how he nods with the news, gives it away. He knew.
"Get your damn head outta your ass, boy." The words are rough, jerk Dean out of his anger. Bobby shuffles around, shifting tools in a tray and coming away with a pry bar. The crate gives up its lid with a groan when Bobby sets to work, and nestled in packing material are the comm units, close to what Dean wore over in the City. Dozens of them. "Well, these'll last even when everything else goes."
"Bobby..." Dean trails off, open crate glaring up at him. "Porter talked about the horde." The name still feels weird in his mouth, and he gives it too much emphasis, but they need to call it something besides smoke, god knows. "In the back districts of the City, and - the sickness or whatever was in the City proper. But it was like they were related - "
Bobby winces, tosses the comm unit he'd picked up, and it bounces back into the crate. "You know about John. He brought a lot of what we hunt into this place. It's why he didn't have the best reputation in our circle. But what you call the horde - it killed Mary, killed a lot of people when it somehow got through the wards around WinCore. It left Ellen a widow, and it got my Karen, too." Bobby shrugs, and the motion is jerky and forced.
"So, what? It broke out again?"
"Looks like, except this time Downtown's affected, which makes sense since WinCore was forced to move its research labs over here."
"How did John get control back, if it broke out twice before?" Bobby raises an eyebrow. "Hunters? Then how come it didn't work this time?"
"Maybe it's mutating, shifting from outside to inside, or multiplying. We know it's demonic, we just don't know anything else. It was too explosive this time. I mean, it got everywhere fast and by the time hunters could get to it, the City stepped in and shut down everything. Far as I know, anyone trying to get across the river's detained. I haven't heard anything from anyone who told me they were going over."
Dean remembers voices, rising high with alarm, and heavy doors slamming. "It doesn't sit right, Bobby. If anything, what Porter talked about sounded like possession."
"No, can't be." Bobby shakes his head. "The horde never did nothin' like that. It always just...killed." Bobby looks apologetic, but Dean's not stupid, and he definitely ain't blind. Bobby's got that leave-me-alone look going on, the one that always means he's thinking something through.
When he starts muttering to himself, Dean leaves Bobby fiddling with the comm units and goes upstairs.
Dean had a feeling Sam'd still be up, and he is, lights on and long limbs splayed and limp over the rucked up sheets on his mattress.
"I'm sorry, Sam." The words are rough, but it gets his brother's head turned, gets eyes looking at him.
Sam laughs, then, curling up into it like it hurts, like it's something he can't help. "No," he says when he gets his breath back. "Okay. I dreamed about it, Dean. Her."
"What? What'd you mean?"
"Jess dying. Days before it happened. I had dreams about the horde, too. About...things. I know there's stuff going on, Dean. Everybody does. It's more than just...this. But you don't tell them." Because, Dean thinks, there'd be panic, fear, when all he has are vague outlines, widespread hidden patterns. "You don't tell me and I gotta know why. Is it. Are you scared of me, that I'm just like the rest of the marked? That I'm a freak?"
"God, fuck, Sammy. No." It comes out garbled, all in a rush, but he can't help it. He doesn't. He doesn't think that, but he doesn't know how to say, I just want to protect you, Sammy, my whole life all I've wanted to do is protect you. He doesn't know how to say, and I can't. I can't do that anymore and I don't know what to do about it.
He can't say that, so he just blurts, "I think we should get into WinCore."
He's never seen someone ever do a double take, but he's surprised when Sam manages not to break his neck whipping it around so fast. "What?"
"I'm telling you I think we should check out WinCore."
"Why?"
"Why what," Dean replies, "why tell you? Or why WinCore? 'Cause if it's the first, well, why not? You ain't some kid, I get that. If you're asking why WinCore, it's 'cause that's where everything started. Probably. And we should get a look around."
"God, Dean." It's low, and Sam's just blank enough that Dean can't tell what the words mean. "Yeah. Sounds like we should."
**
It's true, what he told Sam, but Bobby's smug looks aren't easy to bear once Dean tells him what he plans to do. The I-told-you-so is written all over him, and it makes Dean want to throw up his hands, say no, I've changed my mind, just to spite him.
But enough time's passed since the horde came that its absence is a conspicuous sight, suddenly having days of clear sky off to the east where it's usually just black. A moving, writhing black.
Maybe it's a sign, but Dean's thinking it's not for anything good. He'll take it, though, get a willing group together and go while the coast is too obviously clear, because if anything's left, beyond what Bobby can tell him, then it'll be there, where John kept all these things locked up until he couldn't.
Because there's more, and those are Bobby's words and Dean's surety. There's always more, and it's over in the City; it's where Dean's not looking, where no one's been looking, since they've been too busy with surviving. Maybe it's time, Dean thinks, to see if they can find some kind of answer.
He winds up with who he suspected - Sam; Jo, even with Ellen glaring daggers at everyone around her daughter; Frank. Then Victoria steps up and that maybe surprises him, but it's not a bad idea. And then Ruby does, and he almost says hell no. But Sam's watching, eyes dark when they flick to Dean. He nods, then, although his teeth feel like they're snapping in his head he's gritting them so hard.
They take a stripped down utility van, because there aren't many options as far as cars, but with traveling it's safer to have as much enclosed space as possible.
Dean doesn't know how so many cars got trashed so quickly, but the ones East Main had found along Skyline Drive were rusted or eaten through, like acid was poured into the systems. The chipped metal husks out toward Riverside turned out to be useless, eerie implications of a failed exodus. The only ones that worked were ones left in parking garages or farther north, like Ellen's, and most of those were claimed by other groups staying near those areas.
The only sounds Dean hears is the rumble and creak as the van moves over the road; everything else is silent. They get quick glimpses of faces and weapons where windows and doors aren't barricaded, but nobody steps out or waves them down.
The destruction through the more crowded districts is worse, like the horde razed every layer of stone it could find, or blew out windows and caved in roofs. If no one does repairs, at least starts them, people are going to be living in rubble, in shored-up caves pitted along the side of what used to be Downtown's main highway.
They'd probably be willing, if sinking under the earth meant getting away from the damn static in the air.
The districts thin out when they head east. Around this area the only thing for miles is farmland. The ground is usually rich, fallow fields. Dean remembers black earth while passing through during harvests, when Bobby'd haul old junkers for people. Crops would be piled high, on the back of tractors. Hay'd be bundled and left in the fields.
Now, it's still black. But it's dry, dead, the air smelling like burning tires. There are no farmhouses left, only battered slats of wood, maybe a frame of one wall, probably all that's left of a newer addition.
The air crackles here. It's thick and electric, almost as if the destruction buzzes along the arm that Dean has propped on the open window. The road's broken in places, and he has to slow to a crawl to navigate in some places. There's not even the quickest peek of a face anywhere.
"They have storm cellars. Every farmhouse does." Frank would know, having grown up in the rural districts. His breath is loud and Dean spares him a glance. Frank meets it. "They wouldn't ward." Dean hears what he doesn't say: they wouldn't know to. Not like Dean did, not like Jo did.
He keeps his eyes stuck on the road after that, keeping them wide and open even when the dryness burns like sand. He can feel the images surging behind his eyes, splashes of meat and blood spattered on hard packed dirt walls, between rows and rows of canned preserves. He doesn't want to see it.
**
WinCore has about three hundred acres surrounding its Downtown facilities. It had made front page news back when the deal was brokered, according to Bobby, seeing as how it was one of the biggest investments in the poorer side of the City. It occasionally had still made front page news when Dean was growing up, but the stories were more shadowed, more like rumors about what was being done behind barbed shock fences, in the massive steel-enforced building.
According to those stories, WinCore had built a mini-city around the main building. Barracks and mess hall and salle. A self-contained military base for the guards handpicked to work for the Winchester name.
Only now Dean knows that's not true. There were some guards, but mostly it was scientists and whatever hunter John had a need for. Even Caleb had told him that most hunters specialized. Black dogs, or demons. Rawheads or zombies. A hunter could take any job, but they usually only know so much off the top of their heads. Bobby, apparently, is the only hunter that knows a lot about almost every creature. "Answer man," Caleb had said, and Dean hopes the man's alright where ever he is.
Bobby's worked for John. After Karen had both worked for and died in service to the Winchesters, Bobby'd come looking for answers. John had let him in, had used him for his knowledge when Bobby started researching the supernatural. And apparently John had known Bobby well enough to feel comfortable letting the man raise his own damn kids after Mary died.
And Bobby had said, "be careful when you get on that land. We did our damnedest to make sure whatever WinCore brought in stayed contained, but obviously not everything worked. So either whatever creatures are there are dead or wandering around." Bobby had said, "You pack for bear, boys, and you don't linger. You get in and out as quick as you can."
But now they've got to get through the forested lot that surrounds the building. It's daylight, but as they pass the broken, bent tangle of barbwire and gate, he flicks on the van's highbeams. It's dark, through here, trees thick and twisted, road showing the first signs of months and months of disuse. It's a winding road, cracked with roots and tree limbs, and Dean mutters, "fuckin' really? He had to do the whole castle in the creepy forest thing?"
Frank doesn't answer. He fidgets endlessly, making the bucket seat squeak and groan. Dean's fighting not to do the same. He knows the restless, frantic feeling - the horde might not be visible, yet, but it's around somewhere.
The van's quiet and Dean's trying to concentrate on the road when Frank asks, "what's that?"
Dean holds his breath, and without that noise he can hear it. Something like breaking twigs in the distance, like a fleet of something moving in the woods. A steady noise to go along with the thick, staticy air.
"Maybe it's the van," Frank whispers. He's turned forward, now, and still. Dean can hear movement in the back, someone shifting over and over.
"Not like we can just stop, though." It's gritted, broken by the bumps in the road. "Everyone hold on."
As they pick up speed, the noise grows into a high pitched keening. Whatever's in the woods, or giving the illusion of being there, is crashing now, and Dean can hear, "son of a bitch," come drifting over the sound of wind and speed as they careen along the hardpacked road.
He almost drives the van into some type of outbuilding. One minute there's nothing and then a second later there's damaged, crumbling wall filling his windshield. "Shit!" He turns the wheel, feels bodies slamming into the back of the his seat. Frank's bunched up, knees drawn in tight, arms stiff and locked, braced on the dashboard.
They won't be able to drive up to the main building itself. Better to unload here, Dean thinks. He cuts the engine and gets out. "It's quiet."
"As soon as we stopped, I think," Sam says. They've already gotten into the carryalls, split the weapons and comms units between them, and Sam shoves the rest of it at Dean and Frank. "Here. I think the quicker we get under some kind of cover the better."
Dean can't find any fault with that, and he notices that they spread themselves out as they walk to the ring of dark buildings. Sam and Dean forward and center, Jo and Frank at the ends and Ruby on Sam's side and Victoria on Dean's. They're spaced almost evenly, close enough that anyone could get help, but far enough that an attack wouldn't get everyone at the same time.
He's almost tempted to stop and explore the buildings they pass, but he knows if they find anything it'll be in the holding facility itself, not in the powerless, hollow husks dotting the pathway. They don't have time, he thinks, and the shock of it races along his spine. They don't have time.
**
The inside of WinCore is a mess. Dean steps over tipped machines, clicking on his flashlight in the gloom and hearing one by one as the others do the same. The mechanical shit is fried, scorch marks along the floor and walls, papers scattered all over the place.
He makes his way along one hallway, steps echoing heavily in the quiet. There's blood, streaks of it sticking to corners, outlining animal tracks close to the thick baseboards. When he sees the prints, wide paws with tappered nails, he pulls out the gun tucked into his waistband, and says, "watch it, guys."
They can smell the rot before they even hit the first room. Dean's stomach churns, and he can hear Frank's muted prayers. As he stops by the half open door, he motions the others on ahead to different areas, and they break into pairs: Ruby and Sam, Jo and Victoria. He can feel Frank's hyper stillness at his back, but he ignores it in favor of shoving the door open and ducking into the room.
It's a lot of steel, Dean thinks, for what essentially looks like a waiting room. Chairs are scattered everywhere, legs bent and twisted. There's a counter, trashed computers behind it, and doors on either side, both open.
"Dean."
He whips his flashlight in the direction of Frank's voice. He's staring hard toward the far door, and Dean follows his line of sight.
They must have tried to get out that door. It's the carnage that Dean's seen before: exploded bits of flesh and blood covering everything, even the ceiling. Dean doesn't want to know what could do that, act like a bomb going off inside people. Doesn't want to know, but he's pretty sure he doesn't have a choice about that.
"Come on," he says, and Frank makes his way over to Dean, face pale in the flashlight's beam. He wants to say something, but all that's willing to come out is, it's what we expected to find. It might be the truth, but he doubts it'd really help.
At least there are no faces. They can pretend the mess isn't human.
"Dean."
He shoves his gun in his pants for a minute, reaches back where Frank's lagging, drags him forward, praying Frank isn't so nervous to shoot him for the sudden movement. "We can go through the other door, it's clean."
"None of this makes any sense."
Frank's arm is stiff, muscles tight under Dean's palm, and he drops his hand, rests it on the butt of his gun. "I don't think it's supposed to."
**
"Holy shit!" It's Frank's voice, then the man himself working his way over broken furniture to stand beside him and lean down to get a closer look. "Man, I wish I had a camera." The dog snake Dean's found takes the opportunity to jerk, and it sends Frank flying into the air, almost cartwheeling over a broken chair. "Fuck, it's still alive!"
Dean can feel his own lips tighten. The thing is covered in crusted rust-colored streaks, like blood is seeping out of the thing's pores. The thing won't last long, and Dean wonders how long it's been laying here, slowly dying. Its face ripples, showing inch long fangs on one side, and their broken, hollow counterparts on the other. Poison, Dean thinks, snake fangs.
He slips his gun from the back of his pants. Consecrated iron rounds. Shot to the head'll kill just about anything. It's loud when he pulls the trigger - the jerk something he feels travel up his wrist. It's not quite a clean shot; there's a sharp yip and the thing convulses once, then twice, blood and brain splattering the floor and the toes of Dean's boots before he can step clear.
"Jesus," Dean mutters, backing away. They're on the top floor after checking in with the rest of the group, Victoria and Jo excited about something in the basement, a file or papers or something. Something big enough that the rush of voices was less subdued, more clear than Sam and Ruby's.
Speaking of, Dean can see them outside, can see the stiff lines of Sam's back that tells Dean his brother's pissed. Or scared. It's only when Ruby turns enough that Dean can see her face, even from this distance, that he starts to worry. Something's not right. The two forms are gesturing wildly, and Sam makes to reach out, like he's going to grab Ruby, when he suddenly seems to hit an invisible wall.
Sam stumbles from the force of it, and falls backward onto the stone steps leading to the main doors of WinCore. Dean spits out, "goddammit," but before he can even leave the window, the sight outside turns black. Pressure pours down onto him, filling his ears with a crackling power, knocking his feet from under him.
The horde.
He's pressed to the floor, sticky blood leeching into his skin. He can barely make out the window, can barely see past the horde to where the sky was a moment before. He grits his teeth, waits for the whirling smoke to seep under unwarded windows, but it doesn't. It folds in on itself until it's a black twister, being pulled away from the window, from the sky, to the ground.
Dean can feel his muscles twitch, and he reaches for the comm, waits to see if it'll crackle to life. When it does, he wheezes out, "stay where you are," and almost immediately after hears Victoria's voice raised in question. He ignores her, gets his knees and hands under himself and pushes off, hoping the jelly feeling in his legs is just that, a feeling.
When they make it down the fuckin' million flights of stairs, Sam's kneeling beside Ruby's body. It's still light enough to see the thick black smoke of the horde swirling around the top of WinCore's roof, like it's in fuckin' time-out or some shit. Dean wants to run or fight, anger and fear mixing at the sight of it, running through his veins.
It's still light enough to see the knife sticking out of Ruby's chest. Ruby's knife. She's dead, and Dean stares for a moment before clicking on his comm, telling everyone to meet outside.
"It didn't hurt me," Sam says when Dean's still feet away. No one else is close, they're holding back, but Dean can feel them all the same, his very own stunned human wall. "But she was calling it here. I - I could feel it, Dean."
He felt it. Jesus. "Sam, it's okay." They need to get up, get away. The weight of the horde presses down on him, and Dean fights back the urge to panic. "Sam." Said again because his brother's not moving, not taking his eyes off of Ruby's corpse, and the horde is thickening, swirling around the steep crest of the WinCore building. Dean can see it, black and pulsating. It's not swooping down, and maybe Dean'll wonder why later, maybe he won't like the answer. Right now, though, they need to take the unexpected reprieve and get out of here before they can't. "Come on," and he gets Sam high on his arms, near his pits, and pulls, pretty sure he'd drag his brother if he had to. Sam gets his feet underneath himself and pushes off. Maybe he doesn't need Dean's help now, but Dean keeps a hand on him all the same.
They're following behind the rest, Jo's blond ponytail a beacon in the gloom of the forest, but Dean stumbles, almost falls and brings Sam with him, when he hears, "her eyes were black."
But Dean knows Sam had been watching, had been waiting for something to happen.
**
No one says anything. Not on the way back, Victoria and Jo clutching piles of papers, only releasing them when the deep ruts in the road forces them to relinquish them into Sam's hands so that they can hold on to the sides of the van.
Frank's riding in the back. No one had looked at each other, either, once they got to the truck. Just got in, got on, and hurried the fuck out of there.
Sam's a blackhole to the right of Dean, no looks and no sounds but the crinkle of paper. It's too dark to read, but Sam's head is bent anyway, eyes probably trying to burn a hole through the stack in his lap.
"We just left her there," Sam says when they reach the edges of Reavistown and things are brutally familiar.
By then it's only the glow from the van's radio. The green light mixes with Sam's tan, throwing black and yellow tints across his skin. "Too late now." And Dean thinks, you didn't say anything. You didn't want to say anything.
**
It's over. Just like that. No questions and no answers, they just pack up the rest of Ruby's stuff and drag it back to Briar Pointe's basement. Some new kids move into her old room.
One less mouth to feed, one less can of food, one less person to have to scavenge supplies for from a dwindling supply. One less person to complain.
Dean thinks about the horde, how it's constant, now, visible in the distance and sometimes outside the doors of East Main's stretch of buildings. He thinks about how they're supposed to stay alive when there's no new food supplies. They'd eaten all the fresh stuff in the first few weeks, and what little was left they had to watch spoil and turn. Everything's canned or frozen, and Dean doesn't know how they're going to replace it, once those things are gone, too. They haven't seen any animals around Downtown. Not even carrion birds, not even insects.
It's dead.
Crops are dead, and there's no suitable space in Downtown itself to garden, anyway. It'd take time and effort, and more protection than they can afford.
Something's gotta give, and Dean thinks it'll be them. It'll be them, and so when he thinks about Ruby, her body laid out like some weird offering at the stone steps of WinCore, he doesn't say anything.
He looks at the group he's got huddling behind closed doors, the ones shrieking when the wind blows, and knows there's going to be more joining her.
**
He gathers up the papers Victoria and Jo found in WinCore, and goes through them with Bobby and Sam. There are forms, what look like inventory sheets, waivers, and then what can only be described as laboratory write ups.
They piece the picture together with notes that have footers like lycanthrope id #: 295 or something similar. And it's startling but not unexpected, not when Bobby's told them what WinCore Dynamics was interested in studying (and when Dean had asked why hunters would tolerate a company like WinCore, let alone help researchers get their hands on specimens and cover up security breaches, Bobby'd just looked at him, said, "it's more lucrative than actual hunting. That's why.") It's not until Dean spies subject 134 that he perks up.
The notes read: Subject 134. Description: black smoke accompanied by strong odor (sulfur). Acquisition forms signed and dated by one, John Winchester.
Notes: shows no apparent intellect, unresponsive to stimuli. Can and will permeate flesh of (id #: 6783) rat. Cellular activity within (id #: 6783) rat suggests implosion of cell walls when invaded. Affects seen externally when rat (id #: 6783) exploded.
Subject 134. Notes: agitation observed. Still unresponsive to standard stimuli. No pain reaction.
Subject 134. Notes: agitation still present. Movement pronounced. Under supervisor's orders, salt is introduced into observation room. Subject shows what could be termed avoidance behavior (circling, hesitation to approach salt, quick retreat).
Subject 134...
Dean shows it to Bobby and Sam, says, "the horde." It's not really all that much more than what they already knew. But it's physical proof. Proof that John really did bring all this shit down on them, like Bobby'd said.
"Well," Bobby says, like that's an answer in itself. Maybe it is, but Dean shares a look with Sam before leaning into his chair, trying to bite back stupid, pointless anger. John's dead. Almost everyone associated with WinCore is dead. That should be enough. Be fair.
"Still doesn't explain what Porter said. About people getting violent and suicidal. Seems to be more than just a reaction to the horde," Dean finally says, and Sam seems to flinch with the reminder of the City.
"No," Bobby gets up, and Dean can hear the pop and crack of his bones as he paces. "But once you let in one thing, it ain't long before something else can find its own way in." Bobby shrugs, "and if hunters got wind of somethin' too big goin' on 'round here, well. They ain't heroes - they'd run quicker'n anyone else if they knew it was that dangerous."
"And they'd know first, too," Sam adds. "If what you said about John is true. They'd be working for WinCore, bringing in whatever WinCore was interested in."
And then getting the hell out of there as soon as they could, Dean thinks. Except something still doesn't fit right with that theory. It feels like something's missing, but Dean can't tell what. Even Sam and Bobby look uncomfortable, like there's something they should all be able to see.
Or, Dean thinks, like something's being hidden. Dean wants to flinch with the amount of paranoia in that thought, but he can't dispel it. Christ, he thinks as he watches his hands gather up the papers like he doesn't have control over their actions anymore. Bobby and Sam are stiff and silent after that. Awkward.
**
Word starts spreading like wildfire about the trip into WinCore property, and Dean was half-expecting it. The gossip isn't about Ruby, not the way she died, but about the horde, how it had come, how Sam had survived it.
Like Rose.
Word spreads, and people get angry, see it as just one more difference that makes the marked too alien, too frightening, especially when no one knows why a handful can survive something no one else can.
Dean expects that, too. What he doesn't expect, not really, not in a million fuckin' years to be exact, is what comes with it. He's in the weapons locker with Frank, heating knives and letting holy water rest on the hot blades until it steams off. It's something, a last minute defense against demons. The knives should work against anything else besides the horde, and these weapons have the added bonus of saving East Main's limited supply of bullets.
The walls of the room are old stone surrounded by earth, so it takes awhile for any sound to travel through the walls. When it does, it almost sounds like an angry swarm of bees, high pitched, constant voices swelling around a lighter note of fear and begging.
"The fuck?" Dean throws down the knife he's holding, blade cool, now, water burned away. He walks to one of the reinforced windows. The rectangular window is ground level and the panes are murky so when people pass by it only looks like a stampede of dirty shoes too near his head. But he can still tell the frantic sound of running, of what sounds like heavy weights being dragged along broken ground. He's moving up the stairs, two at a time, suddenly sure this is going to end nowhere good.
When he makes it outside, the stampede of feet turns into a circle of angry faces that matches the voices he heard. There are people in the middle of it, shockingly familiar, and worse a kid. Rose, one of the special children.
They're all special children. Rounded up, some bruised and bloody. And there's Sam, at the front, arm slung over his ribs, standing tall and facing everyone down.
Dean pushes his way through until he's even with Sam. "What the fuck is going on?"
"They were coming after Lily, Dean." Sam's voice is hoarse, ragged, and he's gasping, trying to bend at the waist and only managing to straighten with a wince. Bruised, Dean thinks. Broken ribs tend to be a bit more painful. "She was showing us what happens with the gloves off and some of them saw." Dean sees Sam's flick of a wave, focused at the muttering, dirty crowd around them. There's more separation there than Dean counted on, more than the City's tolls and papers. The lines of self-imposed delineation more observed here, too.
Dean looks around. There's Gabe, right at the head, and his crazy eyebrows and lanky frame are intent. So this is what a mob looks like. No pitchforks, though. No burning torches, but the people surrounding them want damage; want blood, even in the face of a scared little girl.
"They're marked!" Someone yells, and the crowd begins to surge again, hiding whoever spoke. "They're marked by evil, and they're going to kill us all!"
"No, wait!" Dean's pushing back when hands shove at him. He can hear the crack of fist on bone, hear the cut off yelps. "I said wait!" And it's loud enough to startle most of the people, enough that Dean can use his forearms, toss people out of his way. Enough that Frank pops up, blades out and glinting, the twin blades' appearance alone carving out a wider path for them to walk. "There's a kid here, for fuck's sake!"
There are more people coming. Head of the new pack is the couple Dean'd saw when Rose was sharing her story. Mom and Dad, and Dean waves at them, watches their steps hurry them toward the growing mob.
There's more blood on Sam's face, and even Ava has a growing set of bruises on her arms. Lily's covering Rose, gloved hands wrapped around the little girl's body, and Sam steps forward when Rose does, walks with her up to her parents. She doesn't go all the way, though, peters out half way there when her mother just stares, stiff and still and almost disinclined to acknowledge her kid.
Her father says, "what happened?"
"They're evil!" It's a new voice, but it sets up a chant of "marked! Marked! Marked!" It's almost impossible to hear over, but he can see Rose's tear streaked face, the dust wet and making trails down her cheeks. He doesn't need to hear what her parents say, because he sees them shake their heads, stumble away, mother already turning her back. He doesn't need to hear to know that when Rose's mouth opens she's screaming, would be running after her parents' retreating backs if Sam wasn't holding onto her, eyeing the crowd, and keeping her with him.
He doesn't need to hear to know she's begging. He can see the shape of her mouth form please, please, please and mommy, come back. It's in the way she wears herself out quickly, limp and lifeless in Sam's arms. It's in the way all the special children huddle around her, trying to keep the mob away, trying not to be stunned.
"Shut up!" He screams it, but there's still determined voices, so he goes for the nearest person, hits knee, feels the crack even through his boot, and one scream turns into pain, gets a horrified silence from the rest. The guy's screams turn to whimpers. "Fuckin' shut up!" There are no more sounds except the rustle of feet over broken pavement, shoes kicking chunks of disturbed road out of the way. Even the guy - stupid, nameless, faceless - with the busted knee cap is muffled.
Exactly what Dean asked for, and it grates. It's a cold day, wind whipping down, shepherded down the road by broken buildings. "What the fuck are you doin'?" And he rounds on the bigger group first. The ones with clenched fists and blood on their mind. "There are kids, what the fuck were you thinking?"
"You heard them," and it's not anyone he thought would answer. He'd expected maybe Gabe, 'cause he sure as fuck isn't scared to speak his mind every fuckin' chance he gets, but it's one of the marked, Anseem. "We're marked by the devil or something. They're going to kill us."
"Shut up," Sam and Dean both say it. A solid thwap sound lets Dean know Sam'd smacked the smaller man. "Look," Dean says, and he doesn't like the cold faces, the stiff bodies; it doesn't look like winning. "Maybe she shouldn't have - "
"No, it wasn't." It's Sam, now, voice strangled, like he's angry. But Dean can remember people crowded into corners, scared of their neighbors, what they could do. Wrong, he thinks, and can't believe Sam would have any other term for it. "It wasn't, Dean. We aren't wrong."
"Sam," and he doesn't want to get into it here, not when every word makes the crowd shift uneasily, but he keeps his voice level and grits out the truth. "You gotta admit, what these people can do is dangerous."
"Get 'em out of here!" It starts the fight up again. People are shoving, trying to get to the center, to where Sam and Rose are. Dean's yelling, and he's not even sure what he's saying. He's too busy wishing for knives like Frank, because fuck if he's not getting people to listen every time the metal flashes, every time a bead of blood slicks someone's skin.
Or maybe a gun, end it all here, if people are so willing to kill each other.
There are more people coming, and for a moment Dean's about to lose it, seeing more bodies joining the fray, more fists to dodge and legs to kick out from under people. But it's Victoria, it's Jo, it's, fuck, it's Ellen and Bobby, and they dive in, start beating people back.
He can hear Bobby cussing, screaming, "get gone! Go!" No one listens to it, really, except a small few. Everyone wants to stay, Dean knows that, wants to see how this plays out.
"We'll go." It's Sam's voice that says it, and Dean sees a thin rivulet of blood sliding down Rose's face, maybe from a thrown rock or a fall, if Sam let her fall.
"No." Dean shakes his head. There's sweat getting into his eyes, blood of his own. Some people still wear jewelry, thin rings made out of cheap metal and plaster, thin and rough and good to slice faces open, apparently. Blood to match runs down Dean's wrists when he lifts his hands. Knuckles are busted open, tight skin stretched on his hands, already starting to swell. "No, there's no way we're shoving anyone out there. It's too dangerous."
"It didn't hurt Rose. It didn't hurt me. It won't hurt any of the rest of us, either." It's damning, those words, but Sam says it quietly. Smart enough, finally, to figure out that it's not reassuring. It's not something anyone wants to hear.
"That means shit, Sam," and Dean turns to his brother. The mob's corralled, for now, by people with sharper weapons and meaner smiles. He doesn't have to watch them. He has to watch Sam. "We don't know what that means, alright? And I'm not letting you go out there, when we don't know fuckin' anything about it!"
Sam nudges Rose forward, like a shield. Or an excuse. "I don't think you have a choice. They're not going to give you one."
"Bullshit." Because it is, it has to be. "They don't get to decide - "
"If not them, who? We're a handful of people out of dozens, no, hundreds by now."
"Where would you go? What part?" And he's thinking about it, feeling eyes on him like always, now. Not just me, not anymore, he tells himself. Then, on top of that thought: why, Sam? Fuckin' christ, why?
Sam looks east, looks at the group almost cowering behind him except for Jake, who stands out and to Sam's right. "The finance district? Remember, Bobby said there were some whole buildings there. We could - we could use one with electricity." And Dean thinks that'd be a miracle, to find one that far from central Downtown still working, even if they are intact. Electricity's iffy here, with transformer fires knocking out power more and more often.
Dean thinks, what about food? Water? Medicine? He says, "we do a sweep." Because there are other groups around, now, people who stayed behind when Dean moved his group to East Main, more people who came from other districts, who made it across the New River. They might not know what Sam and the other special children can do, which is good, but they don't know Sam or the other kids with him, which isn't so good.
"Nothing hurt us," Sam replies. Dean can hear the implications under it. Didn't hurt us. It's been killing you. Dean just shrugs it off.
He says, "we take a car, load it with supplies, get you set up. We'll make a schedule, okay, and get you more stuff regularly." People shift and mutter, but no one vetoes it, which is smart. Dean's already seeing red. "You take comms." He waves a hand when Sam opens his mouth. Dried blood pulls at the hairs on his arm, cracks with the movement. "We've got plenty. Those kids brought boxes full. They've got good range, and powerful batteries, and we need a way to stay in contact."
It's a nightmare, that's the only way Dean can make sense of this, because it doesn't add up. This doesn't add up. He knows Ruby was off her rocker, everyone did, but they stopped her. She's been gone, dead, a while now.
And Sam, Sam was fuckin' crazy with Jess's death, and. This was nothing a week ago, a month ago. Now, now they're running a kid, a fuckin' twelve year old, out of East Main, and no one's saying no.
Dean's not saying no.
**
He doesn't say no. Not when they're boxing shit up, Bobby grumbling about damn fools and stupid brothers, fumbling around with books and notes. Dean notices he doesn't protest, either. Not really. His mouth might be a white line slashed in his face, and his eyes fuckin' burn a hole into Dean's brain, but Bobby doesn't step in the way, doesn't say stop. Just watches as everyone piles into the rusty old van and slides the back door shut, precious cars behind them, swallowing reserves of gas, to get belongings to where the marked are being exiled to.
He stays with the marked for a few days after getting their belongings boxed up and moved into the old Cash building. Every time Sam looks askance at him, he just says, "this is stupid, Sam, you guys can't live here, like this. Let's go back." Sam always shakes his head, turns away and fiddles with one of the million books he had carted over. "Then I'm staying for awhile. I wanna see how you're gonna be."
That settles it. Sam knows he'd never actually get Dean to leave before he's ready, and Dean knows Frank can more than adequately see to Dean's usual stuff.
On Dean's second day, Sam finally sits beside him. "Not so different from East Main." No, Dean thinks, it's not. Just quieter and more alive in ways it shouldn't be. "I wanted this, I think. Some part of me did, anyway." It surprises Dean, because Sam had looked heartbroken when East Main had said enough, had said leave.
"I didn't." And Sam laughs, something warm and deep in it, and Dean says, "how am I going to know that you're okay? How am I supposed to just leave you here?" I need you with me, I need you.
"Maybe...turn around and walk away?"
Dean feels his heart skid to a stop, it's short and painful, and he's grabbing Sam before he can stop himself. It's a small relief to feel Sam's warmth under his hands, to feel his skin, and the shifts of his movement as he turns in toward Dean. "Shut up, Sam. How could you even - "
He moves his hands enough to grip Sam's face, tilt it and keep it there when Dean kisses him, bites at Sam's lips until he opens up, and Dean can sink deeper, feel his brother's warmth seeping into him and surrounding him. He doesn't stop until he's panting, Sam's gasping, and even then it's just for a breath, because the air's too cold, too empty, without his brother, and Dean would rather have whatever Sam doesn't need.
Has only wanted that since he could remember. It's not an easy thing, wanting his brother, but it's not a new thing, either, not by a long shot. Sam's known, too, last words to Dean before moving to Pipers Gap, to Jess, "I'm not running away from anything," in answer to Dean's pointed question, "that's the problem."
As close as either of them ever got to pointing it out, talking about it. Dean had left their apartment, then, had let Sam pack and leave, had come home to quiet, dingy rooms and a note. He's got Sam back now, bitter and hard, but Dean's claim was always first, even if he wasn't last. That difference is good enough, now, when it's his hands on Sam, when it's Sam's smooth skin touching his.
"Dean, Dean," Sam tries to turn his head, but Dean won't let go, and the words are pressed between them. "What are we doing?"
"I don't know." All he knows is there's no way to get enough, not now, when he faces going into East Main alone. It's not enough to push Sam to the floor, to cover him, to sink between his brother's thighs and feel everything. Dean wants more than that, and he doesn't even know what's beyond it. It should be ours, he thinks, when they're rutting against each other, clothes pushed haphazardly out of the way. This should have always been ours.
He's pushing hard into Sam's solid warmth, wanting to leave marks, bruises. Scars. And he feels Sam's hands on him, tracing and slow, a press here and there, against his shoulders and his spine. It's too soft, and it makes him rougher, clawing where Sam pets, biting where Sam kisses, and Sam whispers, "it's okay, Dean, it's okay," when Dean knows it's not. It's not, he should be doing more, fighting harder, saying something, and he isn't. Won't.
Because Sam's one, and there are hundreds of everyone else.
**
Sam tells him about trying to call the horde. They're stretched out on Sam's nest of blankets, thick stagnant air keeping them too warm, keeping the smell of sex too close, when Sam says, "it should be easy, especially with all of us doing it."
Dean shifts where they're touching, sweat sticky and wanting to get away from it. "Tell you the truth," he says, "I'm not sure how I feel about you saying it'll be easy to summon that thing."
Sam laughs, and it's not the first time Dean's thought Sam's sense of humor was off. "That's because it's not summoning, Dean. The horde's on this plane, so we're not dragging it from where it's come from. We're giving it a direction to come to since it's already here." He stops. Then, "Hopefully a well warded direction."
"Why?" The familiar anger builds, and it helps. Keeps his mind off the fact that he's laying naked and sweaty right beside the brother he just fucked. "Why do you want this so bad, Sam? The horde kills things, and just because it hasn't been you or any of the...marked, doesn't mean it won't be."
"And if we can? If we can do something to it, or at least encourage it to go somewhere else or stay put?" Sam's looking at him like he's crazy, and Dean's eyes almost cross, his brother too close and slightly blurry. "And I think we can. There's something about us, Dean, besides super strength or telekinesis. There's something else."
Maybe it's because Sam's so set on it, but Dean wants to fight, say no. Say, hell no, Sam, what are you fuckin' thinkin'? But then, if Dean'd had his way they wouldn't be out of East Main, wouldn't be surrounded by empty buildings and sneering faces every time he steps out of the room Sam called for his own. He shrugs and it's awkward, constrained by his brother's body. Sam's weight is suddenly a weird, meaningless thing - just a press of skin, of heat, and only that. There's not a moment of holy shit or, we had sex. It just is, and Sam's face is clear, like nothing's different.
He thinks, you killed Ruby for doing the same thing. Calling the horde. What makes you so different? Then he thinks, black eyes. He thinks about how sure Sam sounded. Black eyes.
Dean looks away from Sam, up toward the cracked ceiling. "If you say so, Sammy."
**
They set out to call the horde on the second to last day of Dean's stay. "Nothing to hide," Sam says. "I want you to know what we're doing." And Dean hears, don't be afraid of me. I'm not a freak. So he nods, and watches as Lily talks Rose into staying behind, sitting in a nest of blankets and surrounded by a salt circle.
You'll be fine, he hears her say to the little girl. Just stay put and we'll be back in a little while. I mean it. Stay here. Rose nods, pale and scared, at the orders.
He walks with Sam and the rest of the marked to the outskirts of the finance district. They're close, painfully close, to the black masked towers of WinCore. He can see the horde pulsating, flowing around and around, eerie and clueless, and he has to fight back his words, the things that say, don't; the things that say, this'll kill us all.
He doesn't know what Sam's looking for, or how his brother knows how to find whatever it is. But they get to a half-burned out husk of a building and then start climbing what stairs are left, and when they've gone as high as the floors allow, Sam nods to the rest of the marked and they sit. Dean sneaks to the back of them, and off to the side. He can tell by the heat against his face that Sam's keeping track of where he goes.
It's probably a good thing, too, because when it starts - whatever it is they actually do - Dean doesn't have a clue. First it's clear, just the marked and him, just the old building, patterns scuffed out on the floor and half a wall missing so Dean can see gray sky and the spread of buildings all the way to the horizon. Then the next, it's black as night, but it's not as quiet or as still. The air's filled with a hissing, a dry crackling sound like tinder being set fire, or like a million ciccadas are trying to speak all at once.
He doesn't know what Sam does, after that, but it never touches any of the marked, gets no nearer to him than the outside of the circle Sam sits in. It's like a wall, a stronger warding than anything Bobby's shown them. More powerful than sigils, at least as far as he can see, the control's more definite anyway, and Dean thinks, we could use this.
A word, maybe, a phrase. He can see mouths moving, he just can't hear them, can't get a sense for it. They stay that way for a minute or an hour or a day, Dean can't tell. He's smart enough not to move, doesn't have to wait for Sam to tell him that'd probably be a bad idea, but his legs ache and his nose feels raw from the stench that seems to follow the horde.
He hopes that they're getting whatever they need (and what could they need, besides killing it or banishing or whatever, and Dean doesn't think their luck will work like that, weird abilities aside), and soon, because his experience has always been the longer you tempt something the angrier it gets. The more it wants its freedom, and he just hopes Sam remembers that, remembers that there are other people - the marked, Dean's group, the rest of them in the City and even Haven.
Sam.
Maybe him, most of all, because Dean's already given enough up. He's given up having Sam there with him, given up the right to look out for him, everything that Dean's ever done since Bobby came into his home some eighteen years ago, took him and Sam from the life they would have had. So maybe the last thing he wants is to watch Sam become something else, something that even he has to fear, where this - the black swirling thick and pungent around him, mouth moving and sharp voice finally trailing higher than the hisses, but still no words, none that Dean can define - even this doesn't warn him away.
Eventually it's over, took long enough that Dean could start to think it's a bizzarre camp out with a really bad case of mosquitoes, but he sees the horde...undulate, dry crackle ratcheting up 'til it's digging into his ears loud enough for him to press his hands over his ears, press fingers in to lessen it. Then Sam waves his hand, a circle and a line, and it sweeps out, sudden and fast enough to make Dean finally - finally - flinch.
It's quiet after the horde recedes, and Dean stands, edges closer to his brother. His ears protest it, recall the dry hiss; his nose relays faint traces of sulfur; his eyes pretend to see the dark outline of the cloud.
"It's gone," Sam says, maybe because he's feeling the effects, too, or because Dean's face gives everything away when Sam locks eyes with him. Dean doesn't know, doesn't care, only nods his head along with the words. Right, yeah. Good. "It's only temporary, though. We couldn't." Sam grabs Dean's arm as the rest of the marked pushes past him, ignoring him save for quick glances, a few sneers. Sam gets them turned around, following the retreating backs at a slower pace. "We can't banish it, or whatever. Just - nudge it around."
Strings, Dean thinks, when the rest of the marked finally bypass the jam Sam made by holding onto Dean. Everyone has strings to pull. But he says, "so?"
"It feels like fuel, I guess."
"Fuel," Dean parrots, and watches the marked break off singly and in pairs. He wants to ask Sam what they're doing, but it's not his place, he knows that. "How do you mean?"
"I don't know." Sam moves his hand away, shoves it into his pocket. "Like, maybe it's getting strength from somewhere else? I don't know, it's not clear."
That's only one way to cut the deck, Dean knows. "Strengthening something else?"
Sam stops, so abrupt that Dean gets a step, two, ahead of him before slowing himself. "Sam?"
"Yeah," Sam says. "Could be."
**
So, they maybe have more than before. An idea that the horde isn't the single demon in the vicinity. Maybe, if what Sam felt stays true. Dean wants to ask if he's satisfied, if calling the horde was enough, but Sam looks tired, exhausted, and Dean manages to keep the thoughts to himself.
The building's empty except for them. Apparently the marked are loners by nature, or something. Eager to take advantage of the space, of the ability to survive something no one else can. And since they're left with all that space, Dean can't escape the creak and groan of the building around them, the sound of something dripping, a door slamming shut because of an errant gust of wind.
Dean hates silence. He hates sappy, mushy moments, although he's had more of those than is possibly good for him. He likes brash noise and squabbling, where everything else can ride underneath the sounds. Sam isn't the same. Candlelit dinners and soft music is more his taste, or was before, at least. Dean knows that, and even if it makes Dean cringe, he has to give his brother something.
"I don't want to lose you." The words are butchered, chopped into pieces to fit in his mouth, but he has to say it. He doesn't want to lose Sam to East Main's fear, to Sam's powers, to everything Dean's not supposed to want.
"You won't," Sam says, and he presses close, oozes under Dean's arm. It's weird for them now, and Dean has to fight the urge to push him away. "We've got the comms, and I can still find you." Dean nods, because Sam expects it. "Look. I know we were stupid, doing anything with our abilities while we were inside East Main, but I know we can do this. Maybe here we can do what we need to to help out."
"Sam..."
"No. We've got these powers, for whatever reason. They're good weapons, Dean, and we just can't let that go." Sam's breath is warm against his skin, each word digging in, pinning him in place.
"'We?' Sam, I haven't seen you do a damn thing like these other kids can, and how the fuck is bending spoons going to help us, anyway?"
It's almost rhetorical. Dean can't decide whether he's expecting Sam to scoff or to cave. To look at him and say, you're right. Let's go back to East Main.
Even though Sam's sure they can't. At least not the special kids, the marked like even they've taken to calling themselves, like it's a fuckin' badge of honor or something.
Sam's sure, so sure he storms out, yells his head off whenever Dean brings it up now. Sam's sure, and with the clock running out, increasing calls over the comm letting Dean know East Main wants him back, he's starting to come to that conclusion himself. The special kids aren't welcome, and there are too many people in East Main for Dean and Bobby and Ellen to overrule. There'd be no way to make sure the special kids would be safe.
No way to make sure East Main was really safe, if the marked pulled a stunt like calling the horde while they were there.
Spoon benders. But maybe not, Dean knows it's not, knows that Sam isn't normal. Knows it, can't question how Sam was drawn to everyone with some kind of power, can't question what Sam told him. Visions - about Jess, about the horde. All before it happened.
Dean's suddenly grateful that no one else knows about it. Nightmares, people said when Sam's screams echoed down the hallway. Poor boy. And Sam had never said differently, all those times. Dean never asked, still doesn't. Already happened, he tells himself. Too late for Sam to help.
"Dean." Sam's close enough to kiss. Smell and sound, and Dean knows he could, now. Already has done it, kissed and fucked, hushed and slow so no one could hear. He could reach out, touch, and Sam would just lean into it, say yes. Yes, Dean.
Dean can't, though. Doesn't want to.
Sam says, "you know me," and Dean catches the lie riding underneath.
Desperate laughter after Jess. Dark eyes watching Ruby.
Dean doesn't know what to make of those things, if there's anything to make of them. He doesn't respond, just studies his brother until Sam turns away.
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