Tracce
“Why did you kill my mother?”
The fire crackled, shooting sparks though the darkness. He’d decided to spend the night in the woods, under the stars, and Azazel hadn’t objected. The thing looked at him differently now, less as an annoyance and more as an equal. It was unpleasant but necessary.
“She made a deal,” the demon said, settling against a tree.
“What kind of a deal?”
“Your dad found himself dead before his time. Mary couldn’t let go of him any more than you can let go of Dean. She made a deal and I just followed the rules. You Winchesters are all about sacrifice.”
“She sold herself and me. To you.”
“Not exactly, didn’t explain to her why you were important. She didn’t need to know.”
“Where are all the other ones? The kids from the visions?”
“They don’t exist in this world. Didn’t bother with them this time around. You could say I finally decided to put all my eggs in one basket and see how that turns out.”
Sam grunted,
“Seems to be turning out all right for you.”
“So far. Now you need to do the rest.”
“Like what.”
The demon shifted, in those few moments surprisingly human, as if he was trying to find a more comfortable seat,
“Well, for starters, you need to open the gates of hell.”
Sam gaped at him,
“You’re kidding, right? Do I look stupid? I remember what happened the last time I did that.”
“No,” Azazel lifted one finger, a teacher correcting a student,
“You saw what happened when Ava opened the gates of hell. An impulsive little shit that couldn’t be controlled. You saw what happened when Jake opened the gates too, and that boy was dumber than a bag of hammers. You’ve never willingly opened the gates.”
“How the fuck would it be any different?”
“Because you could control them. Every demon that rises from the pit could be yours, to be used in any way you see fit. Think about it. You could set a dozen of them to watch Dean, to make sure he never even stubs his toe. Your own army.”
“Of demons,” Sam clarified.
Azazel shrugged, stretching out his legs,
“What difference does it make, as long as you’ve got a leash on them? They’re no worse than pit bulls. Slightly smarter maybe.”
“And how do you propose I leash hundreds of demons?”
“Power. Me at your right hand. It’d be easy, like I said, they’re not very bright.”
It was actually making a creepy sort of sense.
“People are gonna die.”
“People are gonna die anyway Sam. You know that, you’ve seen it happen. Every decision you make, regardless of what it is, always results in people dying. At least this way, you can choose who to save.”
“Dean.”
Azazel rolled his eyes,
“Obviously.”
“My parents. All the hunters.”
“All the hunters? That seems a bit excessive. Most of them are gonna be trying to find a way to kill you.”
“All the hunters,” Sam repeated firmly.
Azazel shrugged,
“They’ll be more trouble than they’re worth. But fine. All the hunters.”
“And I want Mary and John out of hell, I want them in Heaven.”
“When you open the gates you’ll be letting them out. Heaven will collect those that belong.”
Sam took a deep breath,
“All right. What do I need to do?”
--
He could hear them.
On the way back to Bobby’s he’d been alone in the car, the music as loud as it could go without blowing the speakers. Loud enough to make it hard to think clearly. He’d vaguely hoped they would all go their separate ways afterwards. Somewhere far away from him.
But no. Bobby’s place had apparently become the meeting grounds. That was all right though, because only Dean knew where Bobby hid the good booze. Before Ellen’s truck had even made it into the driveway, Dean was out back, warming the hood of the rusty Beetle. Not quite drunk yet, but he was on his way there as quickly as possible.
Two mornings ago, Sam had sat in the same place. Faded blue jeans and a tee shirt stretched tight across his shoulders, the sun catching highlights in his hair. He’d sat there, peaceful, with his cup of coffee, soaking up the warmth. Until Dean came along. Subtle as a hammer.
‘What if I want things to go back to the way they were?’ he’d said.
At first there were only murmurs. But soon enough he could hear Olivia, the pitch of her voice carrying on the breeze.
“Bullshit Bobby, we all saw--“
What did they see? Not the same thing Dean saw. Because Dean had been so close, almost close enough to touch, to reach out and stop it. Close enough to recognize every shift of muscle under Sam’s shirt, every line of his face. Dean saw his brother step in front of a bullet to protect the demon that had killed their mother. Saw him reach for the demon’s hand willingly, and let himself be taken.
‘I’m only alive when I’m out there in the dirt and the filth with the bleeders and the screamers and the dead. And now here, with you.’
And Dean had believed him.
“You knew! Both of you knew the kid had demon blood in him, that he was fucking dangerous and you never said--“
“--walked us into a trap!”
“Are we rescuing demons now?”
Dean wished they’d close the fucking kitchen window. Wished they would all just go away and leave him alone. The Colt was digging into his back and he shifted on the hood, the bottle almost slipping out of his fingers. He tightened his grip on it. There had been a choice, clear as day. And he knew it, staring into the eyes of a kid, a man that was his brother, that had for a short time, been his entire world. There was always a fucking choice.
He’d made one when he took the kid with him, yanked him out of the ambulance and into the sewers. When he’d shared a bottle with him in that vomit inducing motel room, asked him about his parents, about his life. When he’d tangled his fingers in all that infuriatingly soft hair and kissed him, not caring about the consequences. When he’d faced him out here, two mornings ago, and took the cowardly way out. All a series of choices, leading to that one moment, to that last choice, staring down the barrel of the Colt and seeing Sam at the other end, shielding a demon with his body. Three bullets and it would’ve all been over. One for Sam, one for the demon, and the last one for Dean. Three bodies in the dirt.
“--could be anywhere, how are we supposed to--“
“Call him. Right now. I don’t care if--“
“--can’t trust him with this one, you know that.”
Dean slid lower on the warm metal, feeling the sharp edge of the broken windshield scrape his skull.
How stupid it all seemed now. How little it mattered. All the stomach twisting guilt, the nausea of knowing he’d fucked his own little brother, the imaginary disgust on the face of a long dead father and a vague fear of judgment from a God who neither knew nor cared. With one cowardly decision he’d doomed Sam. With another, he’d doomed the world. But oddly enough, he only regretted that first one.
‘I want the reason I threw my life away. I want you.’
And Dean had said no. Because he’d been too fucking dumb to realize that the kid already had him. No amount of denial would have changed a thing. He was Sam’s from the moment he saw him in that ambulance, standing tall and unafraid, pointing a cop gun at Dean’s head. Long before he’d tasted him, before he’d opened him up with his fingers and his tongue, long before he’d sunk inside of him feeling like he was finally home. Maybe from the moment dad had thrust Sam’s six month old body into Dean’s arms, telling him to run and not look back. Maybe from the moment Sam was born. Dean had belonged to him always. He’d just been too much of a coward to recognize it. Until it was too late.
There was a hush inside now. Dean closed his eyes when the screen door creaked. He could muster only slight irritation that they wouldn’t even let him mourn in peace. Slight because the bottle was almost empty now, and soon enough, he wouldn’t be able to feel much of anything except bone deep sadness. And really, what else should a man feel when he’d truly lost everything?
Was this how Sam had felt when Dean had walked out on him? This dark hole in his chest, impossible to fill with anything, an entire bottle of expensive scotch barely even making a dent in the abyss.
“Ash is on his way,” Bobby said,
“He thinks he can find-- the demon. Track him down.”
Dean shifted again and almost slid off. The ground was moving. Too much booze way too quickly. He rubbed his eyes and his fingers came away damp. Had it been raining when he came out here? He couldn’t remember.
“You should come inside, before that bottle hits you.”
“Too late,” Dean heard himself rasp.
The sun had gone down but he’d warmed the metal with his body and he didn’t want to go inside. He didn’t want to look at them all. He didn’t care what they were thinking, what they had to say, what their plans were. None of that mattered.
“I’m sorry,” Bobby said.
“Yeah,” he croaked, “me too.”
--
He watched the fog rise above the field, the sky shifting from indigo to pale blue to deep orange right in front of his eyes. As last mornings went, this one was glorious. He hoped Dean was somewhere watching. Not because it would be Dean’s last. No, Sam would make sure Dean saw many more mornings like this, years and years of beautiful sunrises and sunsets, long into old age. But he hoped they were sharing this one, across the states, across the country, that Dean was somewhere watching this furious orange dissolving into gold. They’d seen so little beauty together, aside from each other. So much time wasted because neither one had known how short it would all be.
“I need to sleep,” he said.
Azazel was somewhere behind him, maybe watching the sunrise, maybe measuring Sam, it didn’t really matter. He wasn’t lying. It had been a long time since he’d slept without interruptions, without dreams. His last good night’s sleep was in Litchfield, with taste of Dean still lingering in his mouth.
“Not chickening out, are we?”
“I’m still human. I need to recharge my batteries. Hell gates to open, armies of demons to control, all that shit needs energy and I’m fucking tired.”
“There’s a farmhouse over that hill. The owners-- have decided to go on a vacation.”
Sam almost snorted. Once upon a time that would have made him nauseous. But he didn’t have it left in him to care. And he hadn’t been lying either, he was exhausted down to his bones, his vision swimming.
“Are they vacationing anywhere where I’ll be able to smell them?”
Azazel chuckled,
“No. I don’t believe so.”
“Good. Give me until tonight.”
--
Dean nursed a cup of coffee silently, far away from the table and the people surrounding it. They’d been expanding so much effort into avoiding his eyes that he figured he might as well make it easy on them. Ash had been the only one who wasn’t hell bent on pretending Dean didn’t exist. And Ash had nothing to offer but pity. It took all of two seconds for Dean to fervently wish that Ash had decided to ignore him too. He didn’t think anything could affect him any more, but he’d been wrong, yet again.
He couldn’t see the map but he didn’t need to see it. He’d already pieced it together, the moment Ash had started talking. The largest devil’s trap the world had ever seen in the middle of Wyoming, lines drawn in railroad steel by Samuel Colt himself. Attracting demons like a magnet.
Was it there to keep the demons out? Or was it there to keep something in? They debated over it furiously, Olivia and Ellen bumping heads as always until Bobby physically pushed his way in between them. Dean only listened with half an ear. What difference did it make? The demon would be there, Sam would be there. Dean had all the information he needed.
He still had the Colt, safely tucked in the back of his belt. No one even noticed when he got up and made his way upstairs. He hadn’t planned on bringing anything else with him, but he’d spent the night in his old room, smelling Sam on the sheets and pillowcases. Imagining Sam’s body pressed against the mattress, long limbs sprawled out, hair tangled. Sam’s filthy, sweaty tee shirt wrapped around his wrist. He’d left it behind, on the floor, in the same place he’d found it. Now that he knew where he was going, how the day would end, he wanted it again.
His own tee shirt went flying into the dusty corner of the room. Sam’s was saturated with his scent, so thick that he could almost hear his voice, see the dimples in his cheeks when he smiled. He abandoned the sling too. The time to worry about some bits of shattered bone was long gone. He’d need both of his hands today.
No one noticed him come back down the stairs. No one saw him slip out the front door. By the time they heard the tell tale roar of the Impala’s engine, it was too late to try and stop him.
--
The steel groaned again, the earth shivering under Sam’s feet. He let go for a moment so he could breathe deeply, so he could focus.
“I told you this isn’t necessary. You know what to do.”
“I’m surprised you trust me to do it on my own. Because I sure as hell don’t trust you enough to leave you out here.”
Azazel huffed and Sam grinned. He could exasperate a demon. That was definitely something to put on the list of accomplishments.
He took deep, long breaths, feeling his rib cage expand, feeling the oxygen flood his brain. That had been one of the tricks Azazel had taught him. Simple oxygen. He’d been wasting his supplies before because he hadn’t realized that demon blood was different. Each red blood cell of an ordinary human can carry about a billion oxygen molecules. This was basic anatomy and physiology shit Sam had learned in his first year of college. Demon blood though, demon blood was a mutation, each cell carrying dozens of billions or more. And he couldn’t be absolutely sure, but he had an inkling that his bone marrow was dumping more red blood cells in his system than was normal or safe for an every day person. It shouldn’t matter because he wasn’t an ordinary human being and obviously, none of those rules really applied to him. But still, it made him curious enough to regret not having the time to research it properly, knowing he would never get the opportunity to dissect a demon and place his hands on all the differences.
“The sun is going down,” Azazel said.
“Good. It would’ve felt weird, opening the gates of hell in broad daylight.”
The railroad tracks glowed. He could feel them, the high carbon steel alloy, hard and sleek. He could almost sense the enormous waves of heat it took to mold them, to make them as flexible as plastic. Over two thousand degrees fahrenheit at least. He couldn’t produce that kind of heat. He knew now what he was capable of, how far he could push this thing.
He smiled to himself.
He couldn’t melt the railroad tracks. But he could break them.
--
It took a while to map out the graveyard. The fucking place was huge and disorganized, no sense or reason to the layout. But eventually he settled as close to the center as he could. From the top of the mausoleum, he could see in all directions, his vision only slightly hampered by the nearby trees. The sun was going down and that would make it all so much harder. He only had a limited amount of bullets. But all he had to do was pull off two shots. It didn’t matter if there were none left for him; he didn’t need special bullets. Dad’s old handgun would do the job just as well.
Settling in the corner of the flat roof, he stretched out his legs and rested the Colt against his stomach. It was almost comfortable, watching the day die down for the last time, listening to the far off cry of birds and the rustle of breeze through the leaves.
He’d lived one hell of a life, no questions about it. There were very few memories that weren’t blood stained or colored with pain of broken bones and bruises. But all in all, he’d had his share of sex, booze, and rock and roll. More women than he could count, a few people he could always rely on, he’d had his baby that never let him down, and at the end of it all he’d fallen in love. Already, he’d lived longer and gotten more than he could’ve ever expected. More than he deserved, really. And yeah, maybe twenty four was a little young to take the dive but his life expectancy had always been uncertain. John had lived to see his forties, Bobby and Rufus a decade or more. That shit was uncommon in their line of business. He didn’t feel sorry for himself. There were a few regrets, most of them tied in with the last week or so, things he should’ve done differently, ways this whole thing could’ve been avoided. But thinking about that crap never changed anything. What’s done is done.
Still, maybe it was the setting sun or the hush of the graveyard, or the comforting weight of the Colt against his skin, but he felt melancholy. His fingers gripped the edge of the tee shirt, Sam’s tee shirt, and he started humming to himself softly.
“Hey Jude, don’t make it bad
take a sad song and make it better...”
Chapter 19 →