SPN Fic: Madness Is The Emergency Exit [Part Four]
Part Four
Wyoming’s host to a poltergeist. It’s in a church. Dean laughs when Sam tells him the priests thought it was a sign from God the first time the statue of Mary moved. Mary - the other Mary - laughs with her son. It was a sign from God until people starting getting crucified. Dean tells Sam that it’s proof that there isn’t a God. If there was one, he wouldn’t let this kind of thing happen. Sam shrugs. Perhaps he doesn’t know.
They try to mingle with the congregation but it’s a small town, out of the way. They notice new people, strangers. The priest corners them after the service, tells them that they don’t belong. It’s just the light, the candles. Their eyes just seem black.
The priest tells them that Jesus died for their sins. Dean laughs and says he would rather die for his own sins thank you very much.
The poltergeist attacks then, sends Dean hurdling against the crucifix. Clearly it thought it would be funny. The priest drops to his knees, clasps his hands together and lifts his eyes to the ceiling. Leaping over the pews, Sam heads for the North wall. They’ve smashed the other walls in to put gris-gris bags in place - not that the priest knows it yet - but not the North wall. Dean stumbles to his feet, fires salt wildly into the air until it rains like rice on a wedding.
Sam tries kicking in the wall and does more damage to his toe than the plaster. There’s a small metal statue of Jesus sitting on a table nearby. Muttering an apology, he swings it at the wall. Jesus’ head smashes a neat hole through the Church and Sam shoves the gris-gris bag inside.
Nothing seems to happen but he supposes that’s not surprising. There are no dead bodies with a poltergeist, no pretty pool of blood. There’s no fun. Dean’s still firing randomly but there’s no malicious force to blow him away so Sam just laughs at his brother. Then Dean turns to the priest, levelling his Glock at the cowering creature. There’s no fun with poltergeists.
“Let’s see if your God’s real.” Sam reaches his brother and wraps a hand around the barrel. He looks at Dean sharply, tells him that they can’t kill a priest in his church. Dean wonders if they can kill him outside and Sam shakes his head. No killing the priest, no burning the church.
Holstering his gun, Dean mutters and complains, glares at his brother. Sam ignores him. They can’t kill the clergy. They can’t kill the ones who’ve given their life to what they believe, not if they aren’t sinners. It’s not right. Sam believes in his brother’s sweat and collateral damage. The Winchester brothers, they worship and pray. They just don’t share the same gods. Dean turns to Sam and his eyes are black in the candlelight.
They ring the church in gasoline. Sam drops the match and laughs and laughs. The church stands in a ring of fire and Dean bares his knives in a massacre. They decimate the town and it feels like God’s work. When Impala roars away, only the church is still standing.
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“Wait,” Sam pushes his brother out of the way. He wants to try something. Dean just sighs, rolls his eyes. Crouching down next to the demon’s corpse, Sam pulls out the knife Dean gave him for Easter. It’s perfectly sharp, glinting in afternoon sun. Carefully he pushes the knife into the nape of the corpse’s neck, the blade sliding easily in. Tongue between his teeth, he draws it the length of the spine, stopping just above the hips.
Scuffing his foot in the dirt, Dean asks what he’s doing
“Be patient.” The elder Winchester huffs, kicks aimlessly at the demon’s disembodied head. Pulling the skin back, Sam grabs the rib cage and pulls. There’s a snap crackle pop as the bones break apart, splitting open like a flower bud blossoming. Smirking Sam reaches in and grabs the lungs, organs slick and squishy in his hands. Pulling them out, he spreads them over the demon’s shoulders, blood-covered wings.
Crouching down next to his brother, Dean tells him that it’s beautiful, this artwork he’s made.
“It’s called the Blood Eagle.” Sam grins widely at Dean, leaning back against his brother. “Some claim that Vikings used to do it to their defeated victims.” He turns back to look at his handiwork. Headless body flown to the underworld by its lungs. He asks Dean if he likes it.
Hands push him back into the grass. Blood smears on skin and there’s breath hot on his neck. “I love it, Sammy.”
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There are vampires in Colorado, building a nest where humans dwell like fast food joints. Bobby tips them off about it, tells them that the blood-sucking bastards are killing hundreds of people. Dean looks at Sam and they agree they’ll take the job. Bobby orders them to be careful, tells them that there’s a lot of vampires, maybe even too many. He must’ve got his information wrong. It takes the brothers ten minutes to kill them all.
As Sam strings one of the bodies from the ceiling, Dean finds a gun cradled in a velvet cushion box. It’s a colt, older than anything Dean’s seen. Beside it, nestled in the purple velvet, are five bullets, each engraved with numbers. There are intricate patterns etched into the colt’s metal and a pentagram carved into the butt. On the barrel he can read the words non timebo mala. Sam tells him it means ‘I will fear no evil’.
They take it to Bobby and he handles it as though it is made of glass. It’s The Colt, the original Colt, made in 1835 by Samuel Colt himself. Bobby levels the gun at Dean, peers down the sights. He tells them that this gun’s supernatural. Sam grins at Dean, jagged scar across his face. Bobby tells them that this gun can kill anything.
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They’ve built a new religion on blood and guts and gore. Slaughter is their salvation, Mary their prophet. Dean writes a new bible on his brother’s back, nails biting into skin. There’s no God or Devil in their religion, no scum from Hell or Host of Heaven. There’s no right or wrong, just brothers and tangled limbs. Brothers that need death to make sense of life.
Then, dazzled by the neon eyes of the Vegas strip, Dean loses his faith for one night. Just for one night he watches red water swirl in the drain and wonders why? Why is he so fucked up? Why is he so in love with his brother? Why are they so broken that to fit in the world they first need to break it?
He loses his religion, crawls between the sheets and fingers the gun under his pillow. It’s solid metal, reassurance of reality, reminder of sin. Recoiling, he moves it to the bedside table, turns away. Sam clambers in behind him, all big hands and floppy hair. A puppy who doesn’t understand and is this all Dean’s fault? He carried his brother from the fire, held on and never let go and perhaps he held too tight. All the cracks in Sam, did Dean put them there?
Hands ghost along his spine, fingertips traversing the Himalayas. Intrepid explorers, Dean knows they can feel the tension, can feel the wall building between them. Arms pull him backwards, roll him over so brown eyes meet green and Sam knows but they’ve never been the talk-it-through types.
They don’t say a word. Just a name. Sam says Dean and Dean says Sam and it fits like planets in orbit. Sam’s the Sun and Dean’s his Earth. Prayer given and prayer returned. They worship in a standard single bed, their temple of choice, their sacred sanctuary. Sam moans his faith and Dean listens.
The neon eyes cast shadows over the brothers, hide them from the world and Dean understands. There’s no God, no Devil, no right or wrong. Scarred brothers split in two. Sam is his religion. Sam is Dean’s salvation.
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There’s a shapeshifter in St. Louis, Missouri. It steals Dean’s name, voice, face. It makes a new skin. Sam’s so angry he’s shaking and pacing the room as Dean tries to soothe him. Unfortunately soothing has never been Dean’s strongest skill. Fortunately Sam responds well to being fucked by his brother.
Dean’s cock saves the town and that’s a thought Dean never expected to think. The shapeshifter loses Dean’s head and arms and toes. It loses its shape until all that’s left is a jigsaw puzzle crime scene and a woodchipper.
Dean saves the town but not the town hall. Yellow flames eat the warped wood. They have to pay, Sam says. They have to pay for harbouring a dangerous criminal. His fingers tangle in the amulet’s cord and Dean just grins. They lose the police an hour later on the I-70. They can’t keep up, not with the Winchesters.
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On their way through Cicero, Illinois, their faces stare at them from TV screens. America’s Most Wanted tells the nation the FBI need the Winchester brothers. They’ve become a story to stain the history books, a blemish on the American dream, a tale of destruction to rival barbarians of old. They’re a story for the part of every person that’s fascinated with the perverse.
... a rampage of death and destruction... survivors identified two white males suspected to be the notorious Winchester brothers... arrested previously for grave desecration, impersonating priests... exact numbers have not been released... body count said to be in the hundreds... worst case of multiple mass murder in American history... experts at a loss... armed and dangerous... stay away... do not approach...
Dean’s ecstatic, overjoyed, revels in the attention. Sam has to drag his brother from the electronic store window. White teeth sharp and pointed, he grins at Sam.
“You see that, Sammy?” He doesn’t notice the worried glances of passer-bys. “We’re on TV, you and me.”
You and I, Sam corrects but his brother doesn’t hear grammar.
“Mickey and Mallory.” His eyes flick to the screens one last time before Sam manages to drag him into an alley, away from the ever-watching eyes of the street. “They even counted the bodies for us, Sammy.”
There’s no warning, no sign to denote the changing of the tide. The blood in Sam’s body switches tracks and suddenly he’s at the whim of his brother’s smile. Suddenly he’s slamming Dean up against the alley-way wall, hidden in half-shadows and harder than fucking diamond.
“They counted every corpse for us.”
There are no calm measured movements. Clouds have hidden the moon and the seas boil. Dean rips at Sam’s belt, more animal than man. No opposable thumbs to assist him. Sam’s hands are big gigantic paws that can’t work a zipper.
Eventually they succeed, meet skin on skin in moans slick with sweat. Sam doesn’t slow, he’s too far gone to return now. Growling meaningless he spins his brother around and shoves Dean face-first against the brick wall.
“Do you know what that means?”
Their moans fill the alley, long and loud as Sam shoves deep into his brother’s body. It’s hot hot heat, all that fire Dean holds for Sam so his brother won’t combust. Twenty metres away feet beat rhythms on the pavement, innocent, ignorant, oblivious to the decadence that breathes the same air.
“They matched up all the heads with their bodies.”
Breath huffs heavily from Dean’s mouth as Sam pulls back then snaps his hips forward. Green eyes twist to meet his and Sam forces his brother’s face around to get at those lips that are still forming words to make his mind crazed. Up against the brick wall in the shadows, they’re separated by coloured cloth but Sam thinks they’ve melded together.
“I’ve been counting too, Sammy.”
There’s no sweetness, no romance. There’s rubbish at Sam’s feet and he’s desperately thrusting into his brother’s flesh. It’s wild and animalistic. It’s the basest of instincts, the most abject of actions. It’s raw, vicious, violent, crude and God, Sam thinks there’s nothing more beautiful. God, Sam thinks his brother’s so damn beautiful. And God, Sam thinks, got it all wrong.
“Want to know how many we’ve killed, little brother?”
Half the fire’s in Dean but Sam thinks he’ll explode anyway. Little brother. It’s so debased, wrong, tainted, depraved; there are no words to give to the Winchesters. He slams harder into Dean and feels blood trickle from his brother’s hip-bones, pressed against the brick. Bonny and Clyde, Mickey and Mallory. They never had anything like this.
Dean cranes his head back, presses his mouth against Sam’s ear and whispers a number.
Sam’s vision blurs as he comes. Mindless, bestial, he sinks his teeth into his brother’s shoulder, tastes blood. Against him Dean spasms like he’s being electrocuted, lightning bolt electricity shocking his nerves. Fingers dig into Sam’s skin. The world spins and stops and warps around them. Dean’s head knocks against Sam’s and he’s still whispering, still muttering words. Mindless, animalistic.
“Little brother, little brother.”
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In Delaware Dean gets bored. Bored, bored, bored. Nothing monster to kill, nothing supernatural to salt and burn. He calls Bobby again and again until the only answer’s the infinite dial tone. Nothing. He paces the room, flicks through the TV channels, watches white static. He orbits Sam, sitting in the middle of the room reading, planet and moon. Planet and asteroid, planet and spy satellite like human and fly.
It doesn’t take long for Sam to snap. He pulls out his gun, points it at Dean’s chest and tells him that their heartbeats are out of sync. He doesn’t say anything, just glares at his brother but Dean understands. That doesn’t mean he gives in. They’re off-beat, out of tune, but he still huffs and grumbles as he leaves. Sam ignores him, already lost in his book once more.
Dean finds a bar, drinks more than he should and picks a fight. A fist leaves imprints on his skin and he thinks Sam’s going to be jealous. Sam’s going to be jealous he didn’t get a turn. The commentator in his head laughs as Dean blocks the next blow. ‘Let’s get ready to rumbbbbllllleeee!’ Five minutes later the bar’s quiet and Dean’s the last man standing. The cops aren’t there yet and Dean wants to try something.
The bottle’s cold in his palm, still wet from the three dollar beer it held. There’s a man on the ground starting to come round, still soft putty in Dean’s hands. Open wide and say ‘aaaahhhhhh’. It’s been on TV before and Dean’s always wanted to try it. He slips the broken bottle end between the man’s lips, pushes the edge against the corner of his mouth. Blood runs down the victim’s chin like teardrop pleas. Dean splits his face from ear to ear. Open wide and say ‘AAAAAHHHHHHH!’
Black and whites are first on the scene, nervous, uncertain. It’s silent inside except for something, someone, sobbing in the corner. They pick their way through demolition. Someone, something, smiles up at them with tears running down cheeks like blood trails. Glasgow grin, Cheshire Cat smile, it stretches from ear to ear.
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There are secrets in Roosevelt Asylum, secrets hidden like creaks and groans in the night. A ghost infects Sam, gets under his skin and brings up all that molten magma anger. It colours the world black and white, saps away green eyes until there’s a fake standing in front of Sam. Fake brother with white eyes and black teeth, inverted imitation.
Anger surges, white horses on wave crests. How dare this creature pretend to be Dean, mock him like a shape-shifter and live. False idol, effigy in flesh and blood. How has he not seen through the pretense? He turns the gun on black and white Dean. Its eyes go worry-wide, shock-wide. Incognito, it thought the disguise would last forever.
He’s so angry, so furious. All of this has been a lie. A fake brother standing by his side, promising love and monsters while he crossed his fingers. Broken brothers fixing each other, all a lie. He screams at faux Dean, asks him why, and Mary screams with him. Salvation and saviour unmasked. It’s all one big hoax, all one big joke.
The match lights, little wooden stick holding Prometheus dreams. It’s bright orange in a shaded world. Sam see it, watches the colour tumble through the air, slow motion streak on black. The body catches fire. Salt and burn, recipe for redemption, exorcism of smoke and ash. The bones char and colour rushes back to the world. Green eyes, there’s nothing he’d rather see.
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They spin through Bobby’s scrap-yard maybe once a month, grinning, breathing hard, glancing over their shoulders. Every time he welcomes them with cold beers and uneasy smiles. He can’t help it, that automatic reaction to the Winchester presence, fake smiles and a shotgun in the corner. It’s as if he can tell when they’re coming, begins checking his armoury a few days before they arrive.
There’s no sense to it, no sense at all. He knows, Bobby knows, that these boys will never hurt him. Goose pimples creep along his arms, run shivers down his spine. His back’s against the wall before he can stop himself. Accidental flinch, avoid eye contact. Cold metal pistol in the small of his back, it doesn’t feel like safety anymore.
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At a bar in San Francisco a wide-smiling electrician leans against the bar next to Sam. There’s a beer in his hand and a wobble in his step. Fingers run down Sam’s arm, push all the hairs in the wrong direction. His name is Chad, whispered inches from Sam’s lips. There’s a hitch in his breath and distantly Sam contemplates whether he might be insane or simply drunk.
Dean breaks his hand on Chad’s wide smile. No one stops him as bits of tooth and bone become knuckle dusters. Horror freezes them as though time has stopped. It hasn’t. No one can stop time. It goes on, every second another punch. Sam throws his head back and laughs and Mary laughs with him.
“He’s not yours,” Dean hisses at Chad the electrician but the words are meaningless to a mind distracted by stars.
Then his broken hands are grabbing Sam’s head, fingers digging in like they’re trying to reach his broken brain. Their lips meet, collide and crash like cymbals. They’re electric circuits, a generator to power the world. Raw, untamed, a lightning storm across skin.
Around them time has started again and there are hands pulling them apart. There’s anger on the faces around them and someone’s calling the cops. Dip underwater, predator instincts beneath the surface. Sam breaks his hand to match Dean’s. Symmetrical, paired together with the metric system of two-halves-make-a-whole. They raze the bar, leave the cops counting ash clouds. Broken hands, broken brains, broken brothers, no one can stop them.
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Sam loves the human body in all its complexities, playing card house defying gravity. He studies anatomy in dissections and dismemberments. He maps the human body with muscles that cling to bone, sinews and tendons like puppet strings. He follows the spaghetti threads of the nervous system then investigates the circulatory system with all its veins and arteries like vampire straws. The organs are counted and catalogued, shape size, placement, importance, all noted for future use.
He maps the human body through corpses then wraps himself in his brother’s warmth and worships it. There’s nothing more beautiful. The clench and draw of muscle, the pounding Morse code heartbeat, all that strength in something so easy to break. Tongue on skin, he feels the pulse of life, listens to the sound of breathing, lungs expanding and contracting. He catches green eyes, stares at pupils blow open like black-holes into Dean’s brain. And Sam, Sam is in love with the human condition.
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Humans are stupid. They’re so fucking stupid. Dean’s going to kill them all. He’s going to hang them from hooks and use them for target practise. He’s going to skin them and use their insides as werewolf bait. He’s going to go on a rampage, a massacre. This town, it isn’t going to survive.
They’ve taken Sam, separated the brothers for almost a day now. Stupid fuckers. They should know not to mess with Dean’s brother. It takes five dead nobodies before he finds somebody who knows where Sam is. The pathetic man, he pisses himself before Dean snaps his neck. There’s a nest by the river where they take the ones to be hunted.
He parks the Impala a kilometre out, doesn’t want to get his baby hurt. Doesn’t want to burn his baby by accident. There’s an aching in his joints now, an itch under his skin that he scratches with shaking hands. Withdrawal symptoms. Dean needs his brother and everywhere he looks, Mary’s burning.
The sentries die all too easily. Hands muffling gurgled screams, Dean slits their throats one-by-one. He blows the door open with a Molotov cocktail and doesn’t stop to watch the flames catch on. Sam’s in the second room, tied to a chair. There are six humans with him. They all die.
Then Dean’s blades are slicing through rope and Sam’s hands are on his skin, taking him apart. He’s pressed against the wooden wall, splinters catching in his skin like promises. Mindless he wraps his legs around Sam, forgets decency and embarrassment, forgets the flames and humans. Gun in hand, he shoots anything that moves and forgets the world. There’s nothing but ‘Sam, Sam, Sammy.’
Stupid fucking humans. When the Winchester’s are whole again, joined and merged into one, Dean collects the heads and presents them to his brother. Sam grins all dimples and soft skin. All knife-edge teeth and fire-light eyes and there’s nothing Dean won’t do to see that smile.
They burn the town, run the river red. Stupid humans. They have to pay for trying to take Sam from Dean. Mary nods, agrees, picture perfect in white cotton nightdress.
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Dean still gets hard at the mention of America’s Most Wanted and Sam’s only seconds behind. With their faces plastered across the nation Sam thought it would be difficult to pass unnoticed. He thought they would be noticed on every street corner. Thought that the receptionists and bartenders, clerks and assistants, would see the blood on their hands.
As it turns out, people don’t remember faces. They only remember their names. The Winchesters, they’re just fairy-tale villains, mindless, faceless. They don’t need motivations, just black hearts. Every town they pass through has caught on to the story, picked up the new monstrous threat to hang over those who misbehave.
“Be good or the Winchesters will get you.”
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Tampa’s hot and humid in summer, sweat-stains darkening clothes. Sam’s half-naked and spread out across the bonnet of the Impala, feet dangling in front of the grill. The sky’s reflected in the expanding metal beneath Sam and he’s shut, holding up the heavens. Dean grins and pads over to his brother.
They’ve stopped at a scenic route not far from the MacDill Air Force Base. Just a demon possession. There’s still blood on their clothes so Dean’s left them to soak in a bucket of water. There’s a rumble from far away, not an aeroplane, thunder from a future storm. Grey clouds are starting to gather, energy crackling and sparking across the sky.
Careful not to scratch his baby, Dean yanks his brother’s legs until Sam’s dangling off the front of the hood. Skin slicked with sweat, he slides easily down until Sam’s hips fit perfectly to Dean’s. There’s question in his eyes, lazily lidded in the humidity. Idly Dean pulls The Colt out from the waistband of his pants and presses the barrel above Sam’s heart, holding him down. There’s no protest beyond hitched breath.
The first drops of rain begin to fall and Dean leans down to lick them from his brother’s skin, unbuttoning his jeans. Light flashes around them, sudden like sparks to start a fire. A hand wraps around Dean’s wrist and he holds the gun tighter. With his knife he cuts through Sam’s jeans and later on he’ll be bitched at but now his little brother just moans beneath him.
Thunder crack, sound shockwave radiating from where Heaven meets the Earth. Dean pulls the trigger and the hammer clicks disappointment. Sam bucks beneath him, body twisting to find contact. Cocking the gun, Dean drags him desperately closer, holds him down against the warm metal of the Impala. They’re both slick with sweat and Dean slides easily into the tight heat of his brother. Sam hisses, breath sharp between his teeth, neck arched backwards.
Friction grates between them, fire burning along the fuse. The flames leap and Sam’s free hand pulls Dean deeper. Lightning strikes again and Dean’s thrusting viciously against his brother, fingernails digging into soft skin. Thunder chases behind, drowning out Sam’s half-crazed moans. Rain’s falling thick and fast, evaporating as soon as it hits their heated skin. Lightning bolts sear across the sky like angel’s veins. Instantly thunder follows the storm right above them.
Dean comes hard and fast, caught in the crackle of electricity around them. He pulls the trigger. The firing pin snaps into the empty chamber. Beneath the cold metal Sam convulses as he falls over the edge, barrel pressed to his heart.
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| Part Five |