Hold On Until Dawn Chapter 18b/19
Dean sat at one of the remaining dining room chairs, head in his hand. He’d been at it for over an hour, slicing Nathan’s skin with hundreds of shallow cuts similar to those Schneider’s betrayal left on his heart. Blood slowly flowed from the wounds in tributaries over pale skin, merging to create rivers that ran with gravity’s pull to fall in irregular drips into the growing pool under Schneider’s chair.
And the third angel poured out his bowl into the rivers and the fountains of the waters; and it became blood.
Dean shook his head at the random verse, no matter how apropos it was. Contrary to popular belief, Dean had read the Bible, parts of it several times, even before he was up to his ass in angels. He spent most of his life in motels and even the seediest places were paid a visit by the Gideons. When he was younger, watching Sam while Dad was away, and late night cable programming failed him, he would pull the hardback volume from the drawer and thumb through it. He had to admit, from a militaristic point of view, the Old Testament battles were strategic genius. It always amazed him though, the parts that stayed with him over the years, creeping into his internal dialogue at the oddest times.
“How, Nate?” Dean rolled his forehead against his palm to look over where John was still sitting in his chair near Nathan. His father was considering Schneider with a look of confusion, his voice heavily laden with exhaustion. The anger that had burned so brightly, taunting Nathan as Dean carved, was gone, replaced by a desperate despair. “How could you do that? We were friends. You saved my life.”
Nathan’s head lolled on his shoulders and the corners of his mouth pulled up in a cruel smile. He chuckled quietly, shaking his head.
“Tell me,” John’s voice was low, “I want to know.” When Nathan still didn’t answer, just continued smiling, John grew louder. “Goddamnit, say something! I want answers!”
“Want in one hand and shit in the other,” Nathan sing-songed.
“Why Sammy?” John continued his interrogation, ignoring Nathan’s words. “What made you go after my son? God, Nate, my son.”
Nathan let his head fall back and stared directly into John’s eyes. “Because he was there and I could. And let me tell you what, Johnny boy, your little Sammy or should I say not-so-little Sammy, he was the best fuck I ever had. So hot and tight and…”
“You sonuvabitch!” Dean snatched up the knife from the table and stormed towards the bound man.
“You gonna do it, boy?” Nathan sneered, watching Dean approach, rage lighting his green eyes with a deadly fire. “You gonna do what your useless daddy thinks you capable of? Huh? You gonna make me beg for death? Make me call out for God like your whore brother called out for you? You heard him on the tapes, didn’t you? Blubbering like a goddamn baby, crying for Dean and Daddy to save him,” he said the end in a mocking whine. “You know,” he leaned as far forward as he could while restrained and whispered, “that was my favorite part. It’s when I knew I’d truly broken him. It wasn’t me pounding into him until he was a bloody mess or the disbelieving betrayal that did it, it was knowing no one was coming for him. That he was all alone.”
“Enough,” Dean growled and swung the knife in an arc toward Schneider’s side, burying the blade to the hilt between his ribs with unerring precision. Nathan’s eyes widened in shock, coughing and sputtering as blood filled his windpipe and dribbled over his lips. Dean slid the knife free, wiping the bloody metal on the shoulder of Nathan’s shirt. Nathan gasped ragged, gurgling breaths, his chest moving asymmetrically as the left lung deflated and blood filled the empty space. Pink, frothy bubbles formed and popped along the gash.
“A thousand ways, Nathan and that was just one,” John smirked, “Nine hundred and ninety-nine still to go.”
Dean slid the knife under the open neck of Nathan’s shirt, the tip dragging along Nathan’s collarbone, an angry red line appearing in its wake, then down the man’s chest, the sharpened edge catching the fabric and slicing it from collar to hem. He dipped the point into the shallow pockmarks left behind by the grains of salt and dug it into pierce on his side, rotating the handle to widen the opening, tearing the muscles and allowing the blade to scrape against the surrounding ribs.
John watched as Dean slid the knife free, blood soaking into the tattered remains of Nathan’s polo, and wiped the flat of the blade across his old friend’s toned stomach, smearing the smooth skin crimson in a serpentine pattern toward the waistband of the bound man’s chinos. “You know, us Winchesters believe in Old Testament justice.” His eyes traced the dripping zig-zags over Nathan’s abdomen then followed Dean’s hand as it guided the knife along the edge of the khaki material, skin pinking from the continuous movement and gentle pressure.
“Eye for an eye,” Dean said calmly, threatening point ghosting down, over where Nathan’s flaccid member was barely visible lying against his right leg. Nathan fought the overwhelming urge to fidget, worried that any movement might part him from precious pieces of his anatomy.
“Mmhmm,” John hummed, enjoying the sweat he could see clearly beading on Nathan’s forehead and neck. “Where they cut off your hand for stealing, your tongue for lying.”
“Your dick for raping,” Dean poised the knife straight down over where Nathan’s balls rounded out his pants as they lay against the hardwood seat. He pressed down and even though the bite of the razor sharp tip was muted by two layers of clothing, Nathan shuddered at the implied threat, his breathing shallowing even more. He turned to Dean and saw nothing but the cold detachment of his judge, jury and executioner.
Dean pushed harder, the knife piercing through the double fabric, and Nathan whimpered. Pain seared between his legs, a warm trickle tickling the sensitive skin, and he felt the overwhelming urge to vomit.
“Nine hundred and ninety-“
“Dean, stop!” Sam’s voice was quiet, tired but rang with authority.
“Pretty Boy,” Nathan panted, “you come for that ride I promised you?” He chuckled, a raspy, wet sound, at Sam’s barely there gasp. “Little,” he coughed, “little tied up, right now, so you might have to do all the work.”
Dean’s hand stilled, knife not moving forward or backward. He kept his eyes trained on Nathan and spoke over his shoulder. “Nice job keeping Sammy away from here, you oversized baby.”
Castiel stepped from the shadows, his narrowed eyes the only indication of his annoyance. “Your brother agreed that you should not have pursued this mortal and insisted that I bring him to you.”
“Pretty Boy! You brought your tax accountant boyfriend,” Nathan leered. “Is that your way of asking for a threesome?”
“Sammy,” John leaned forward in his seat, cringing at the lingering pain in his leg, not liking how pale his youngest had become, “maybe Cas should get you out of here. Dean and I have this covered.”
Sam shook his head and crossed the room, stopping behind Dean. “Dean, please. He’s human, just a man. You can’t - “ Sam trailed off.
“My hero,” Nathan breathed, swollen eyes fluttering as he tried to bat them, “come to - come to save me.“
“He hurt you, Sammy!” Dean argued, “He r- took from you, from others. He killed that Hill woman, that Bradford kid and Mason - your friend Mason. Because of him, Tracy Blackman is mourning her sons. He needs to pay for those things.”
“Yes, Dean,” Sam curled his fingers over Dean’s bicep, staying the arm before it could inflict anymore damage. His forehead dropped to the back of his brother’s shoulder and he murmured into the soft flannel, barely audible over Nathan’s rasping breaths, “he did those things and probably more we don’t know about and he’ll pay for all of it, but not like this. We have to let the law handle it.”
“The law?!” Dean laughed, the sound cold and cruel to his own ears. “We both know that the law is flawed. One little technicality and this shit,” he pressed forward against Sam’s grip, the knife cutting a millimeter deeper, “would be walking free. Free to hurt someone else. Where’s the justice in that?! He’s evil, Sammy. Just as evil as the things that we’ve sworn to kill.”
“Dean, please,” Sam pleaded again, tugging lightly on Dean’s arm. “You can’t do this. This isn’t what we’re about. This isn’t what you’re about. Human’s human, no matter how much evil lives in their heart. Please, don’t do this.”
“Sammy,” he protested, eyes flicking to John who sat in his chair, eyes volleying between his two sons. Their father’s face looked as conflicted as Dean felt - the need for revenge, for payback, warring with the inability to tell Sam no. He straightened, the knife still held firmly in his grip, but no longer threatening Nathan so intimately. His body still screamed for action, his heart beating in the thudding rhythm of battle.
“Please, Dean,” Sam circled around him, placing himself between his brother and Nathan and gently pushing Dean’s weapon wielding hand back further. Leaving his hand on Dean’s wrist and laying his other on Dean’s chest, he tried to get Dean’s focus on him. “I’ve followed you my whole life. I know you better than anyone ever has or will. This isn’t you.”
Castiel cleared his throat, reminding everyone of his presence, and stepped forward. "I will take charge of this....man, Dean. The murder of a fellow human would taint your soul and despite what you think, you have a pure one. I have seen it. You are a warrior, Dean Michael Winchester, a good man, a righteous man, and I will not allow you to damage yourself...your soul, over this stain of a human."
“Now wait just a minute, bird boy,” John stood, ire building, “Dean has every right…”
"I'm not righteous, Cas!” Dean spat, interrupting, and rounded on the angel, “I'm not God's warrior or an angel or some noble fucking hero. I'm a brother....a man whose lover has been hurt, and I want vengeance. I want to make this bastard sorry he ever thought he could take what didn’t belong to him, take what’s mine, and not you, God or fucking hell will stop me." He snapped his head back to Nathan when the man took a surprised, gargled breath and narrowed his eyes when the bound man’s pale face morphed into a knowingly smug sneer. From the corner of Dean’s eye, he could see his father’s tense form and he could feel Sam’s hand tighten around his arm. It hit him then that he’d called Sam his lover, revealed their most safely guarded secret to his father and his brother’s tormentor. He’d artfully dodged the issue earlier, only to confirm it now.
“Righteous means a lot of things, Dean, it does not necessarily mean you are saintly.”Castiel continued like Dean hadn’t just dropped the emotional equivalent of an atomic bomb in the room. “It means you have honor, that you are worthy. And you are. You are worthy of God's love, of your brother's. Killing Nathan will not give you Sam's forgiveness....saving him will. Do you think Sam wants his brother - his lover - the man he loves, admires and sleeps with every night to destroy his soul?” The angel paused, giving weight to his words and letting them sink into Dean’s mind. “I was sent by God himself to watch over you and your brother. I have seen how strong and dedicated you both are, and I am proud to call you both a friend as well as my charges. However, our friendship does not negate the fact that you, body and soul, are under my protection. I will not allow this....creature to damage you, physically or spiritually. I will deal with him, Dean. You will not kill him because I forbid it."
“Sent by God?” Nathan’s voice was thready, “Jesus, was it a five gallon bucket of Kool-Aid?”
“Shut up, Nathan or I’ll kill you myself,” John bellowed, “and you, you feathered freak, stay out of this. The word of your Father is bathed in blood so I think we’ve heard enough from the pacifistic harp player!”
“Do not try me, John Winchester!” Castiel’s voice boomed, rattling the windows, and lightning flashed casting the shadow of a large set of black wings across the wall behind the angel. Sam flinched at the noise and light and Dean reached back to lay a comforting hand on his hip. “Dean’s soul will not be forfeit over this man!”
"He needs to die!” Dean bristled, hovering the knife above Nathan’s heart. Than man’s lips were bluing and the veins of his neck were standing out in sharp relief. Bubbles popped at the site of his wound with each breath. “I’ve spent my life hunting evil things. He’s an evil thing! He tortured my baby brother, the man I love more than anything! He destroyed countless lives, raped and killed people, how does that not justify death? He deserves it and a damn sight worse!" Tears were flowing fast and hot down Dean’s cheeks, dripping from the edge of his jaw. He could feel Sam’s rapid, shallow breaths on the back of his neck and the heat of his body, where his brother had moved closer whether to seek comfort or give it, Dean wasn’t sure.
"Whether his actions deserve death is not in question, Dean, only your right to deliver it. I am sorry but on this I will not be swayed. I am taking Nathan Schneider far away. You will not see him again and he will be unable to harm another soul. That I can promise."
"So you get to kill him? What the hell, Cas?!" Dean seethed, the tip of the blade indenting the skin over Schneider’s sternum. John rose from his seat to stand near his sons.
"I never said anything about death. You hunt the supernatural...you must've learned there are punishments worse than death and rest assured I will put this to the test. Your brother will be avenged, as will all the young men he hurt. But death, death is the easy way out, a quick absolution for heinous sins,” Castiel’s eyes froze to glaciers and his voice hardened to steel, for the first time since the Winchester’s met him exhibiting the fear-inspiring nature of his kind, “He does not deserve quick."
Dean stared at the edge of the knife. Two inches. That’s all it would take and it would be over. Two little inches, less than the length of his thumb.
“Dean?” John’s voice was close and quiet, the normal authority and brass gone. “Son?”
“Dean?” Sam’s breath ghosted over his ear, strong arms snaked around his body, one around his waist and the other his chest. His warm hand rested over Dean’s heart, willing it to calm its racing rhythm. “Please!”
Dean stared evenly at the sniveling man before him, his wrist twitching in indecision before he leaned back into Sam’s steady presence. Closing his eyes, he rested his head back on his brother’s shoulder. “Sammy,” he breathed.
Thick, calloused fingers gently encircled his wrist while others slowly and carefully pulled the handle free of his grasp. “It’s over.”
Dean barely registered his father’s words, instead focusing on the tender hand rubbing soothing circles on his chest and the low words in his ear. A soft mantra on repeat. “Thank you. It’s okay. I’m here.”
“Sam, puh-please. D-did you h-hear what he said,” Nathan panted for breath, bubbles of blood popping along his lips, “he was going to d-do to me? Don’t let them hurt me,” he weakly stretched his leg out to Sam in supplication. “Please!”
Dean turned, enclosing Sam in his arms, and pushed him back, away from the seeking foot, using his body as a shield as John moved between his sons and his former friend. Lightning flashed again and Castiel suddenly appeared at Nathan’s side. “You have inflicted enough pain on Samuel. You will not address him again.” He reared back, his fist connecting with Nathan’s jaw in a violent uppercut that lifted the man and chair from the floor before they landed on their side.
Castiel smoothed down the sides of his trenchcoat and rolled his shoulders. Turning to the three Winchesters, he considered their awestruck faces. “Do not forget that angels are warriors in God’s army, not harp playing pacifists.” He nodded, disappearing with Nathan with a touch to the unconscious man’s forehead.
John breathed out a sigh, turning to cup a hand around the back of his boys’ necks to bring them in close. He pressed a kiss to their temples, arms sliding down around their shoulders, holding them tight. Leaning his cheek against Dean’s forehead, he huffed a laugh. “Remind me not to pick on the tax accountant angel anymore.”
And the third angel poured out his bowl into the rivers and the fountains of the waters; and it became blood.
Dean shook his head at the random verse, no matter how apropos it was. Contrary to popular belief, Dean had read the Bible, parts of it several times, even before he was up to his ass in angels. He spent most of his life in motels and even the seediest places were paid a visit by the Gideons. When he was younger, watching Sam while Dad was away, and late night cable programming failed him, he would pull the hardback volume from the drawer and thumb through it. He had to admit, from a militaristic point of view, the Old Testament battles were strategic genius. It always amazed him though, the parts that stayed with him over the years, creeping into his internal dialogue at the oddest times.
“How, Nate?” Dean rolled his forehead against his palm to look over where John was still sitting in his chair near Nathan. His father was considering Schneider with a look of confusion, his voice heavily laden with exhaustion. The anger that had burned so brightly, taunting Nathan as Dean carved, was gone, replaced by a desperate despair. “How could you do that? We were friends. You saved my life.”
Nathan’s head lolled on his shoulders and the corners of his mouth pulled up in a cruel smile. He chuckled quietly, shaking his head.
“Tell me,” John’s voice was low, “I want to know.” When Nathan still didn’t answer, just continued smiling, John grew louder. “Goddamnit, say something! I want answers!”
“Want in one hand and shit in the other,” Nathan sing-songed.
“Why Sammy?” John continued his interrogation, ignoring Nathan’s words. “What made you go after my son? God, Nate, my son.”
Nathan let his head fall back and stared directly into John’s eyes. “Because he was there and I could. And let me tell you what, Johnny boy, your little Sammy or should I say not-so-little Sammy, he was the best fuck I ever had. So hot and tight and…”
“You sonuvabitch!” Dean snatched up the knife from the table and stormed towards the bound man.
“You gonna do it, boy?” Nathan sneered, watching Dean approach, rage lighting his green eyes with a deadly fire. “You gonna do what your useless daddy thinks you capable of? Huh? You gonna make me beg for death? Make me call out for God like your whore brother called out for you? You heard him on the tapes, didn’t you? Blubbering like a goddamn baby, crying for Dean and Daddy to save him,” he said the end in a mocking whine. “You know,” he leaned as far forward as he could while restrained and whispered, “that was my favorite part. It’s when I knew I’d truly broken him. It wasn’t me pounding into him until he was a bloody mess or the disbelieving betrayal that did it, it was knowing no one was coming for him. That he was all alone.”
“Enough,” Dean growled and swung the knife in an arc toward Schneider’s side, burying the blade to the hilt between his ribs with unerring precision. Nathan’s eyes widened in shock, coughing and sputtering as blood filled his windpipe and dribbled over his lips. Dean slid the knife free, wiping the bloody metal on the shoulder of Nathan’s shirt. Nathan gasped ragged, gurgling breaths, his chest moving asymmetrically as the left lung deflated and blood filled the empty space. Pink, frothy bubbles formed and popped along the gash.
“A thousand ways, Nathan and that was just one,” John smirked, “Nine hundred and ninety-nine still to go.”
Dean slid the knife under the open neck of Nathan’s shirt, the tip dragging along Nathan’s collarbone, an angry red line appearing in its wake, then down the man’s chest, the sharpened edge catching the fabric and slicing it from collar to hem. He dipped the point into the shallow pockmarks left behind by the grains of salt and dug it into pierce on his side, rotating the handle to widen the opening, tearing the muscles and allowing the blade to scrape against the surrounding ribs.
John watched as Dean slid the knife free, blood soaking into the tattered remains of Nathan’s polo, and wiped the flat of the blade across his old friend’s toned stomach, smearing the smooth skin crimson in a serpentine pattern toward the waistband of the bound man’s chinos. “You know, us Winchesters believe in Old Testament justice.” His eyes traced the dripping zig-zags over Nathan’s abdomen then followed Dean’s hand as it guided the knife along the edge of the khaki material, skin pinking from the continuous movement and gentle pressure.
“Eye for an eye,” Dean said calmly, threatening point ghosting down, over where Nathan’s flaccid member was barely visible lying against his right leg. Nathan fought the overwhelming urge to fidget, worried that any movement might part him from precious pieces of his anatomy.
“Mmhmm,” John hummed, enjoying the sweat he could see clearly beading on Nathan’s forehead and neck. “Where they cut off your hand for stealing, your tongue for lying.”
“Your dick for raping,” Dean poised the knife straight down over where Nathan’s balls rounded out his pants as they lay against the hardwood seat. He pressed down and even though the bite of the razor sharp tip was muted by two layers of clothing, Nathan shuddered at the implied threat, his breathing shallowing even more. He turned to Dean and saw nothing but the cold detachment of his judge, jury and executioner.
Dean pushed harder, the knife piercing through the double fabric, and Nathan whimpered. Pain seared between his legs, a warm trickle tickling the sensitive skin, and he felt the overwhelming urge to vomit.
“Nine hundred and ninety-“
“Dean, stop!” Sam’s voice was quiet, tired but rang with authority.
“Pretty Boy,” Nathan panted, “you come for that ride I promised you?” He chuckled, a raspy, wet sound, at Sam’s barely there gasp. “Little,” he coughed, “little tied up, right now, so you might have to do all the work.”
Dean’s hand stilled, knife not moving forward or backward. He kept his eyes trained on Nathan and spoke over his shoulder. “Nice job keeping Sammy away from here, you oversized baby.”
Castiel stepped from the shadows, his narrowed eyes the only indication of his annoyance. “Your brother agreed that you should not have pursued this mortal and insisted that I bring him to you.”
“Pretty Boy! You brought your tax accountant boyfriend,” Nathan leered. “Is that your way of asking for a threesome?”
“Sammy,” John leaned forward in his seat, cringing at the lingering pain in his leg, not liking how pale his youngest had become, “maybe Cas should get you out of here. Dean and I have this covered.”
Sam shook his head and crossed the room, stopping behind Dean. “Dean, please. He’s human, just a man. You can’t - “ Sam trailed off.
“My hero,” Nathan breathed, swollen eyes fluttering as he tried to bat them, “come to - come to save me.“
“He hurt you, Sammy!” Dean argued, “He r- took from you, from others. He killed that Hill woman, that Bradford kid and Mason - your friend Mason. Because of him, Tracy Blackman is mourning her sons. He needs to pay for those things.”
“Yes, Dean,” Sam curled his fingers over Dean’s bicep, staying the arm before it could inflict anymore damage. His forehead dropped to the back of his brother’s shoulder and he murmured into the soft flannel, barely audible over Nathan’s rasping breaths, “he did those things and probably more we don’t know about and he’ll pay for all of it, but not like this. We have to let the law handle it.”
“The law?!” Dean laughed, the sound cold and cruel to his own ears. “We both know that the law is flawed. One little technicality and this shit,” he pressed forward against Sam’s grip, the knife cutting a millimeter deeper, “would be walking free. Free to hurt someone else. Where’s the justice in that?! He’s evil, Sammy. Just as evil as the things that we’ve sworn to kill.”
“Dean, please,” Sam pleaded again, tugging lightly on Dean’s arm. “You can’t do this. This isn’t what we’re about. This isn’t what you’re about. Human’s human, no matter how much evil lives in their heart. Please, don’t do this.”
“Sammy,” he protested, eyes flicking to John who sat in his chair, eyes volleying between his two sons. Their father’s face looked as conflicted as Dean felt - the need for revenge, for payback, warring with the inability to tell Sam no. He straightened, the knife still held firmly in his grip, but no longer threatening Nathan so intimately. His body still screamed for action, his heart beating in the thudding rhythm of battle.
“Please, Dean,” Sam circled around him, placing himself between his brother and Nathan and gently pushing Dean’s weapon wielding hand back further. Leaving his hand on Dean’s wrist and laying his other on Dean’s chest, he tried to get Dean’s focus on him. “I’ve followed you my whole life. I know you better than anyone ever has or will. This isn’t you.”
Castiel cleared his throat, reminding everyone of his presence, and stepped forward. "I will take charge of this....man, Dean. The murder of a fellow human would taint your soul and despite what you think, you have a pure one. I have seen it. You are a warrior, Dean Michael Winchester, a good man, a righteous man, and I will not allow you to damage yourself...your soul, over this stain of a human."
“Now wait just a minute, bird boy,” John stood, ire building, “Dean has every right…”
"I'm not righteous, Cas!” Dean spat, interrupting, and rounded on the angel, “I'm not God's warrior or an angel or some noble fucking hero. I'm a brother....a man whose lover has been hurt, and I want vengeance. I want to make this bastard sorry he ever thought he could take what didn’t belong to him, take what’s mine, and not you, God or fucking hell will stop me." He snapped his head back to Nathan when the man took a surprised, gargled breath and narrowed his eyes when the bound man’s pale face morphed into a knowingly smug sneer. From the corner of Dean’s eye, he could see his father’s tense form and he could feel Sam’s hand tighten around his arm. It hit him then that he’d called Sam his lover, revealed their most safely guarded secret to his father and his brother’s tormentor. He’d artfully dodged the issue earlier, only to confirm it now.
“Righteous means a lot of things, Dean, it does not necessarily mean you are saintly.”Castiel continued like Dean hadn’t just dropped the emotional equivalent of an atomic bomb in the room. “It means you have honor, that you are worthy. And you are. You are worthy of God's love, of your brother's. Killing Nathan will not give you Sam's forgiveness....saving him will. Do you think Sam wants his brother - his lover - the man he loves, admires and sleeps with every night to destroy his soul?” The angel paused, giving weight to his words and letting them sink into Dean’s mind. “I was sent by God himself to watch over you and your brother. I have seen how strong and dedicated you both are, and I am proud to call you both a friend as well as my charges. However, our friendship does not negate the fact that you, body and soul, are under my protection. I will not allow this....creature to damage you, physically or spiritually. I will deal with him, Dean. You will not kill him because I forbid it."
“Sent by God?” Nathan’s voice was thready, “Jesus, was it a five gallon bucket of Kool-Aid?”
“Shut up, Nathan or I’ll kill you myself,” John bellowed, “and you, you feathered freak, stay out of this. The word of your Father is bathed in blood so I think we’ve heard enough from the pacifistic harp player!”
“Do not try me, John Winchester!” Castiel’s voice boomed, rattling the windows, and lightning flashed casting the shadow of a large set of black wings across the wall behind the angel. Sam flinched at the noise and light and Dean reached back to lay a comforting hand on his hip. “Dean’s soul will not be forfeit over this man!”
"He needs to die!” Dean bristled, hovering the knife above Nathan’s heart. Than man’s lips were bluing and the veins of his neck were standing out in sharp relief. Bubbles popped at the site of his wound with each breath. “I’ve spent my life hunting evil things. He’s an evil thing! He tortured my baby brother, the man I love more than anything! He destroyed countless lives, raped and killed people, how does that not justify death? He deserves it and a damn sight worse!" Tears were flowing fast and hot down Dean’s cheeks, dripping from the edge of his jaw. He could feel Sam’s rapid, shallow breaths on the back of his neck and the heat of his body, where his brother had moved closer whether to seek comfort or give it, Dean wasn’t sure.
"Whether his actions deserve death is not in question, Dean, only your right to deliver it. I am sorry but on this I will not be swayed. I am taking Nathan Schneider far away. You will not see him again and he will be unable to harm another soul. That I can promise."
"So you get to kill him? What the hell, Cas?!" Dean seethed, the tip of the blade indenting the skin over Schneider’s sternum. John rose from his seat to stand near his sons.
"I never said anything about death. You hunt the supernatural...you must've learned there are punishments worse than death and rest assured I will put this to the test. Your brother will be avenged, as will all the young men he hurt. But death, death is the easy way out, a quick absolution for heinous sins,” Castiel’s eyes froze to glaciers and his voice hardened to steel, for the first time since the Winchester’s met him exhibiting the fear-inspiring nature of his kind, “He does not deserve quick."
Dean stared at the edge of the knife. Two inches. That’s all it would take and it would be over. Two little inches, less than the length of his thumb.
“Dean?” John’s voice was close and quiet, the normal authority and brass gone. “Son?”
“Dean?” Sam’s breath ghosted over his ear, strong arms snaked around his body, one around his waist and the other his chest. His warm hand rested over Dean’s heart, willing it to calm its racing rhythm. “Please!”
Dean stared evenly at the sniveling man before him, his wrist twitching in indecision before he leaned back into Sam’s steady presence. Closing his eyes, he rested his head back on his brother’s shoulder. “Sammy,” he breathed.
Thick, calloused fingers gently encircled his wrist while others slowly and carefully pulled the handle free of his grasp. “It’s over.”
Dean barely registered his father’s words, instead focusing on the tender hand rubbing soothing circles on his chest and the low words in his ear. A soft mantra on repeat. “Thank you. It’s okay. I’m here.”
“Sam, puh-please. D-did you h-hear what he said,” Nathan panted for breath, bubbles of blood popping along his lips, “he was going to d-do to me? Don’t let them hurt me,” he weakly stretched his leg out to Sam in supplication. “Please!”
Dean turned, enclosing Sam in his arms, and pushed him back, away from the seeking foot, using his body as a shield as John moved between his sons and his former friend. Lightning flashed again and Castiel suddenly appeared at Nathan’s side. “You have inflicted enough pain on Samuel. You will not address him again.” He reared back, his fist connecting with Nathan’s jaw in a violent uppercut that lifted the man and chair from the floor before they landed on their side.
Castiel smoothed down the sides of his trenchcoat and rolled his shoulders. Turning to the three Winchesters, he considered their awestruck faces. “Do not forget that angels are warriors in God’s army, not harp playing pacifists.” He nodded, disappearing with Nathan with a touch to the unconscious man’s forehead.
John breathed out a sigh, turning to cup a hand around the back of his boys’ necks to bring them in close. He pressed a kiss to their temples, arms sliding down around their shoulders, holding them tight. Leaning his cheek against Dean’s forehead, he huffed a laugh. “Remind me not to pick on the tax accountant angel anymore.”