And All The World Drops Dead (Part Two)

[mentholpixie]

And All The World Drops Dead

Prompt: Gen. Season 2. Gordon does more than just try and blow Sam to bits and pieces and he's a more formidable foe than even Dean realized. Much h/c with tied!up Dean trying desperately to save Sam.

Part Two

Sam whimpers, fucking whimpers, and Dean would kill Gordon just for making that sound come out of Sam's mouth but he's already got a huge fucking list of things he's going to kill the dick for. Sam's hands are scrabbling at Gordon's grip on his hair, and Dean refuses to put the pieces together, to think of the answer to Gordon's question, because Gordon might be a sick fuck but he can't really be planning to -

Elbow pressed hard into Sam's back, holding him against the desk with one arm, Gordon reaches down and Dean can't see what he's reaching for, the stupid desk is in the way and the stupid cuffs won't let him stand up but Gordon's fumbling with something and there's no way, no way he's going to, nah, he wouldn't-

Sam chokes on a gasp, eyes flying open, struggling harder but Gordon's got him good, and Gordon leans back over him and laughs.

“Gonna make you scream like the demon bitch you are.”

Dean loses it. Gordon thrusts forward and Sam screams and Dean's vision is suddenly clouded with red. He can hear the pipe he's cuffed to groaning and screeching from the strain as he desperately pulls against it, the thin metal slicing into his wrist until it's a mess of broken skin, dripping blood down his fingers but he doesn't feel it and Sammy won't stop screaming and he thinks he might actually literally explode from the rage that's tearing through his blood.

“You motherfucker!” he bellows. “You motherfucker, I'm gonna fucking kill you! Let him go, fuck, you let him go, you fucking bastard, I'm gonna kill you!”

He's in an all out battle with the wall he's cuffed to, kicking his feet against it and pulling and he really doesn't give a damn if he rips his fucking hand off because Jesus, fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck? And Sammy's making these choked off little gasping sounds between screams that are gonna be haunting Dean's dreams for the rest of his life, he just knows it, and Gordon's fucking grinning and grunting and nothing Dean yells at him makes him stop.

“Fuck!” He smacks his fist against the concrete, hard enough to send sharp rods of pain up into his wrist, and he lets his head crack back against the wall, caught in a horrifying trap of furious despair.

Sam's screams eventually quieten down to sobs, harsh and brutal, and the desk shakes with the force Gordon is slamming against it, and the kid's got his hands up over his head but he's not fighting any more, just crying and hiding his face and it's too much. It's all wrong and too much fucked up in one place and time and how the fuck is this happening?

“It's okay, Sammy,” Dean calls desperately because these handcuffs aren't coming undone, this pipe isn't breaking and his stupid hand refuses to tear itself off so what else can he do but fucking lie to the kid? “It's all right. I'm here, Sammy, it's okay, please...”

He doesn't know what it is he's pleading for. He thinks he might be crying himself and he really doesn't give a fuck, even though Gordon's watching him, only watching him, with this mad gloating look in his eyes, the fucking... fucking... there's not even a curse word strong enough to describe him.

It feels like days have past before Gordon finally finishes with a deep moan, fingers clenching so tightly in Sam's hair that it jerks his head up so Dean can see Sam's face in a mess of blood and tears and sweat, just for a moment before Gordon lets go and steps back. Sam falls to the floor behind the desk.

Gordon fixes Dean with a triumphant smirk as he does up his belt, before sneering down at his feel, at Sammy. He crouches down out of sight and Dean hears him whisper something but he can't make out what.

Then he stands and heads for the stairs, scooping up his knife as he goes. Dean feels like he's frozen in place (regardless of the cuffs) by the horror of what has just happened, but also paralysed by relief. Maybe it makes him a terrible person, a terrible brother, but as soon as he woke up and saw Sammy tied to that freaking chair he knew that his kid brother was going to die, and now Gordon's going and Sam's still alive so there's a win in here somewhere if he looks for it really fucking hard. His throat hurts from yelling and there's nothing he can threaten Gordon with that he hasn't already screamed at him and he can't follow through on anything anyway so he stays silent and watches Gordon leave.

The older hunter's boots clang on the metal steps. He doesn't look back but Dean can see him smiling and the door closes behind him with a bang.

The room is oppressively quiet, except for Sam's harsh breathing, pained and stuttering from behind the desk, and Dean's, adrenaline and horror-stricken. All Dean can see of Sam is one of his hands, freckled with dark spots that must be blood, and he doesn't know what to say. What the fuck is he supposed to say?

“Sammy?” His own voice surprises him, sounds out of place, loud but hoarse in the silence. Reflex wants him to ask Sam if he's okay but fuck, of course he's not okay. Dean doesn't understand how this just happened. This isn't supposed to happen.

“Sam?” he asks again, when the lack of response has started to freak him out. Gordon probably had at least a dozen weapons on him, carefully concealed by his clothing. He could have slit Sam's throat while he was whispering something to the kid and now Sammy might be choking on his own blood just out of Dean's eyesight. “Sammy, answer me. Come on, kid.”

He runs his cuff-free hand down his face, not entirely surprised to find it wet, and leans his head back against the wall, closing his eyes as he listens hard. Come on, Sammy...

“Yeah, just...” Sam's voice comes eventually, muffled like he's got his arm over his face, thick and rasping from sobbing and screaming. Fuck. “Jus'... gimme a minute.”

The minute turns into several before Dean finally hears movement. He opens his eyes in time to see Sam's hand vanish behind the desk, then Sam pulls himself up. Kid's got his head down and he's shaking so bad Dean's surprised he can stand. His bare arms look almost white in the thin lighting and his underclothes are splattered with bloodstains, soaked into the t-shirt's collar, dripped down his front. Dean determinedly doesn't look at his boxers as he slowly rounds the desk, hands clutching it as though it's the only thing holding him upright.

It is, it turns out. The desk ends and Sam takes all of two steps unsupported before he falls to his knees with a bitten off cry.

“How bad?” Dean asks, leaning as far forward as his cuffs will allow, God damned stupid cuffs. Sam needs him and all he can do is kneel here.

Sam breathes for a moment, hair falling in a curtain over his eyes. “Think m'ribs are busted,” he murmurs finally, and his hand flutters up to his face like something might be busted there too but he doesn't offer anything else and Dean doesn't ask.

Sam tries to get to his feet but moans and gives up pretty quick, choosing the easier option of crawling, and the sight of it makes Dean's blood boil. Nothing, no one, should have had the chance to reduce Sam to this beaten, broken thing that he sees now. He doesn't know if he's angrier at Gordon for doing this or himself for not stopping this.

Sam pauses by the chair he was held in when his hand lands on a clump of damp hair, fingers curling around it for a moment. Dean can't see his face with his head bowed the way it is but the kid's perfectly positioned for him to see his hair and it renews his fury all over again. It's a mess, longer hair interrupted randomly by short hacked at patches, dishevelled and stiff with sweat. Dean's relieved that Sammy's bangs are still intact (which is kind of weird 'cause he's always moaning that Sam should cut them so he doesn't have to flip them out of his face sixteen million times a day) but he's not sure whether a motel room barber shop will be able to fix it, or even a professional barber shop, without cutting off most of the rest of the kid's hair just to even it out.

Then Sam moves on and Dean forces down his rage so that he's got some semblance of control going on by the time the kid reaches him. It's hard to maintain though, especially now that he can see Sam's injuries up close. One of his eyes is swelling shut, bruises forming on what was once clear skin. His nose is still dripping blood steadily down his chin, that and a split lip that Dean can tell will require stitching, maybe the cut about his eyebrow too, and the gash across his cheekbone is probably going to scar, the way it's torn open. He reeks of blood and sex and Dean wants to throw up.

“Sammy,” Dean says, reaching out but stopping before he makes contact. He doesn't know how to continue. He wishes he had some clothes he could give the kid.

Sam's eyes flick up to his, flat and dulled by the shadows thrown from the single light bulb - or are those just Sam's eyes now? - then back down. He shifts himself so he's leaning against the wall beside Dean, resting his head against it and turned on his side with one arm clamped over his ribs. It looks uncomfortable but Dean's had broken ribs before and he knows there's no such thing as comfortable when they're involved, not to mention...

Dean's eyes flash down involuntarily and catch on the dark stains on Sam's thighs before he wrenches his gaze back upwards. They're both silent and still for a moment, shell-shocked, Sam's shaky breathing and a dripping pipe forming some sort of hypnotic rhythm, then Sam mutters something, voice too shattered to make out, and reaches awkwardly for his damp and blood-speckled sock.

“What-?” Dean starts but then Sam pulls out a paper-clip and Dean is stunned into silence. It's like... like finding the Holy Grail or something, this tiny miracle that's too little, too late to change anything that's happened but still miraculous enough to be their saving grace. It's 'rescue' and 'escape' twisted up into a bit of metal.

“He di'n't check m' socks,” Sam mumbles, fumbling the thing as he moves it to the cuff around Dean's wrist.

Really, it's ridiculous that Sam thinks he can even attempt to pick the lock himself. His hands are practically vibrating, he's shivering like they're in some sort of giant freezer rather than a slightly chilly basement and his pupils are so dilated his eyes look almost black. Yeah, he can't be thinking too clear right now. Kid's in shock, probably got a concussion too, bruises darkening and blood drying on his face.

Dean should really be doing some first aid but there's these bloody handcuffs to take care of first and it's not like he has anything useful on him.

Slowly, Dean reaches out and covers Sam's hand with his, gently prying the paper-clip from his grasp. Sam doesn't resist, just lets him take it.

“I got this, Sammy,” he says.

Sam glances at him, then away, curling back against the wall. Dean follows his gaze to the desk and wants to say something to stop the kid from looking but there's nothing (nothing that will make this right) so he focuses on the lock.

His hands are shaking too, he realizes. He doesn't notice until he sets about twisting the paper-clip into the proper position, so it takes longer than he'd like to get the cuff off of his wrist. He contemplates taking the handcuffs - Never know when they might come in handy - but once his wrist is free, he forgets about it completely because Sammy.

He raises his unshackled hands to the sides of Sam's face, turning it into the light (away from The Desk) so he can better inspect the injuries. It's automatic.

“It's not too bad.” He's lying, of course. That's automatic too. But it's not as if he's going to tell the kid that it looks like he smashed face-first into a brick wall at high speed.

Sam just kind of stares at him, like he's got no idea what Dean's talking about, and Dean moves one hand to scrub at his own face. He needs to say something.

“Sammy-”

“Don't.” Sam reacts to something in his tone, a lot faster than he's reacted to anything else so far. He closes his eyes, swallows roughly and tips his head back against the wall. He's wrecked, Dean can see it plainly. Kid looks a few moments away from passing out. Dean can tell that staying conscious is a battle for him. “Just... don't. Not now. We gotta go.”

“Damn straight, we gotta go. Go rip Gordon's fucking head off,” Dean mutters, low and dangerous, glaring murderously at the door at the top of the stairs.

“No,” Sam kind of gasps, eyes flashing open.

“Sam-”

“Please don't leave me alone down here.” It comes out in a rush, like if Sam doesn't say it fast enough, Dean will be gone by the time he's finished. His hand tangles in Dean's shirt sleeve.

So, fuck. Well, he didn't really think that through. No way in hell is he leaving Sam alone in this basement but the kid's got a point. He's not getting out of here without Dean's help and Dean can't exactly help if he's busy pounding Gordon's face in. Sam comes first and Sam needs to get out of here.

Dean rests his own hand over Sam's on his sleeve, twisting their fingers together. “I'm not leaving you,” he says, quick to reassure, pulling himself together. Priorities, Dean. Escape now, revenge later. Even if he really really wants to kill that sonuvabitch right the fuck now. “I'm getting you out of here, okay?”

Sam nods but his grip doesn't lessen any, as if he's still worried that Dean might just run off. It's the shock, or the concussion. Sam knows that Dean wouldn't just ditch him.

“Okay.” Dean plots their path, looking from the door at the top of the stairs and back to Sam. This is gonna suck. “Lets get going then. You ready?”

Sam nods again. He sure as hell doesn't look ready for anything other than a coma but he lets go of Dean's sleeve.

Dean stands and takes a brief moment to shake the pins and needles out of his legs. How long have they been here anyway? His watch and phone are gone so he can't check. Then he shrugs out of his leather jacket. It's not enough but at least it's something to combat the shock, though the struggle to get it on Sam makes him wonder if it was really worth it. Kid seems to appreciate it, even though getting his arms through the sleeves leaves him sweating and gasping (damn near sobbing really, but Dean doesn't say anything and gives Sam a moment to compose himself while he checks out his own wounded wrist.

He really did a number on himself. Now that he's inspecting it it's starting to really hurt and he can see some spots that will need a few stitches. Damn. But he's got other things to worry about now, how he's gonna sew up his own wrist - 'cause Sam sure ain't in any state to do it - is just going to have to be figured out later.

Dean intends to wait for Sam's breathing to calm down a bit but Sam's impatient.

“Lets go,” the kid says, even though he's still panting, demands really, in his own ragged kind of way, and Dean doesn't argue.

There's probably no way he can get Sam standing without hurting him so he just goes for the easiest option; he crouches down and puts his hands under Sam's arms, checking to make sure Sam knows what he's doing before, as carefully as he can, he pulls Sam to his feet.

Sam moans what sounds like a smothered scream, stumbles and lists against him heavily. Dean can feel every shudder through the thin fabric of the kid's t-shirt as he quickly redistributes his weight to stop them both from falling. He really hopes that a brief head-rush is responsible for this near-faint because Sam's heavy and injured so if Dean has to carry his brother out it's gonna be hell on his broken ribs, and on Dean's back, and it will take a lot longer than either of them want.

“We'll do this again,” Sam murmurs into Dean's shoulder, sounding vaguely delirious.

“What?” Dean asks, because what?

“Every day until you tell me what I want to know,” Sam continues dully, not moving his head from Dean's chest. His eyes are closed. “That's what he said before he left.”

A full body shiver shakes Sam in his arms and Jesus, kid, why are you telling him this now? Now, when he's trying so hard to be gentle and to not let his rage carry him up the stairs to Gordon so he can kill that sonuvabitch in the worse way possible (which he hasn't quite figured out just yet but he will because he's Dean fucking Winchester and he knows how to get freaking creative with this sort of thing).

“Yeah, well, just forget about it,” Dean orders gruffly. He can't quite stop his hands from gripping Sam tighter. “I'm getting you outta here and he's not coming anywhere near us ever again.” Except for when Dean kills the bastard, and then Sam's gonna be far away, somewhere safe.

“Okay.” Dean takes charge again when Sam doesn't answer, because Sam needs him to. “You ready to move?”

Sam nods against his shoulder and lets Dean manoeuvre him into position. This is easier; doing, planning, not thinking about what's happened, just thinking about what's going to happen, how they'll escape, trying to guess what that door up there will open into.

Dean carefully pulls Sam's arm over his shoulders and clamps down on his wrist, snaking his other arm around Sam's waist. Sam's head lolls forward, giving Dean another glimpse of his massacred hair. He raises his gaze and determinedly stares forward, because he needs to focus, not let himself drown in his rage.

Without the rage, he feels empty. Hollowed as if this one terrible thing has stunned the rest of his emotions out of him, or maybe he used them all up in the unfathomable time they've been in this basement. Everything feels different now, feels diluted and warped. He's in some kind of suspended state of disbelief and the only two things circling his head are Get Sam Out and Make Gordon Pay.

It's a slow walk across the damp concrete. He uses most of his energy just holding Sam upright. (Did he mention that Sam's heavy? Even if he looks unbelievably fragile right now.) They pass the chair, littered with the torn remains of Sam's clothes and scatterings of butchered hair. There's blood smeared on the floor.

Dean gives The Desk a wide berth, even though it would be the most direct route to the stairs. No way in hell is he making Sam get any closer to that thing than is necessary. He's got this crazy urge to salt and burn it, as if that would somehow put the memories to rest, but no, that desk is going to haunt them and there's nothing he can do about it.

The stairs are harder but Dean's impressed. Sam's obviously just as, if not more, eager to leave than he is, and as many times as Sam wavers, threatens to fall or just black out completely, half the time he manages to catch himself before Dean needs to.

It's that Winchester determination. The kid's a mess but he's holding it together, for now, at least, and Dean's so fucking proud of him Sam's paper-clip is, like, literally saving their lives and that thought is so ridiculous that Dean almost wants to laugh hysterically. But it's not actually that ridiculous because paper-clips have got them out of serious trouble before so maybe that hysteria is coming from somewhere else. Whatever.

Reaching the top of the stairs feels similar to what those crazy people who climb mountains must feel when they get to the top, a great feat of endurance and will, but what's he gonna do, throw a party? This isn't even the finish line and he can't see Sam's face but the shake of his shoulders makes Dean think that the kid might be crying. Whether it's pain or shock, Dean's not sure, but it reminds him that no matter how much Sammy seems to be holding it together and how close they seem to be to escaping, this isn't over yet and just getting out of this house isn't going to fix it.

There's a bit of a dilemma now because he needs to pick the lock to the basement door and the easiest way to do that is to crouch down so he can see what he's doing. The light's limited enough and Sammy is actually better at picking these kind of locks than he is, so this is going to be tricky. But the real problem is what he's going to do with Sam. He can't hold him up if he needs both hands on the paper-clip.

“Sam,” he starts, but the kid must be with it enough to decipher his train of thought because he makes an effort to hold more of his own weight.

“Mm,” he mumbles resignedly, swiping a shaky hand over his eyes before looking up, as if he's embarrassed about crying in front of Dean. Jesus, this kid. So Dean brings a hand up to Sam's face, cupping his cheek gently and using his thumb to smudge the tear trail there.

“It's okay, Sammy,” he murmurs.

Sam lets out this hiccuping sob and Dean thinks that maybe the kid's just reached his limit and they're headed for meltdown in three, two... but Sam just takes this deep wavering breath and pulls himself back together, this fucking kid, Dean doesn't know how he does it, how he's doing it, but they're still on a timer so Dean gets back to work.

He carefully leans Sam against the wall, standing because getting him to sit down and then stand up again would just be cruel, broken ribs and all. He meets Sam's eyes, bright in the dim light and in contrast with the blood on his face.

“Just... stay still,” he orders gently. “If you feel like you're gonna fall over, tell me. All right?” No way is he letting Sam tumble down these stairs.

Sam nods wearily, bracing himself with one hand flat against the wall. Dean waits a moment to make sure he's steady before he gets down on one knee to inspect the key hole.

He has to twist the paper-clip again to make it fit and it's fiddly and tedious and he makes it take longer by trying to be quick about it but fuck, he just wants to get out, get Sammy out, find his baby and keep driving until all of this is a long way behind them.

He takes a deep breath, checks to make sure Sam's not in any imminent danger of toppling over, and refocuses. He slips the paper-clip into the hole, letting his training guide the movements of his fingers, holds his breath until...

Click. The door unlocks smoothly. Dean exhales and slides the paper-clip into his pocket, hauling himself to his feet. He feels old, older than he did when he first woke up down here. He grabs Sam, who kind of startles at the contact but doesn't freak out or anything, just leans into him as he readies them both for walking again. Sam feels small, Dean realizes. He feels like he's ages but Sam feels young and broken, and shit, that's just so wrong.

Anyway. Dean forces himself to think forward. This is going to be the hard part. The harder part. He doesn't know where Gordon is in the house, doesn't even know for sure if it is a house, it could be anything really but either way, Gordon's out there somewhere and they need to get by him.

“Okay, Sammy?” Dean murmurs into the kid's hair.

Sam makes a wordless noise that Dean optimistically translates into, 'Yup, still here, ready to go.'

“Just let me do the work. Keep your feet under you and stay quiet.”

Sam nods against his chest. Dean pulls him closer and edges the door open.

He's greeted by the barrel of a shotgun, Gordon looming behind it.

“Think I'm stupid, Dean-o?” Gordon grins.

Dean barely has time to register the malicious gleam in the hunters eyes, the way Sammy tenses up against him before he's shoving the kid aside, leaping back to avoid the door that Gordon slams inward. Sam yelps (because being pushed into a wall when you're as messed up as he is has gotta be a dozen different kinds of painful but it beats being fucking shot) and they both struggle to avoid falling down the stairs, and the gun goes off with an explosive bang that leaves Dean's ears ringing like that might just actually be all he'll be able to hear for the rest of his life. He swears he feels the bullet graze past his cheek, a swift rush of heated air against his skin. He launches himself forward.

He lets the rage he's been trying to smother break free and it's so intense that he actually goes blind with it - he always thought that was just a turn of phrase - but that's okay, because his fists seem to be drawn to Gordon's face like magnets and he feels them connect over and over before the butt of the shotgun nails him in the stomach. He doubles over and falls back, feels himself teeter on the edge of a stair - he's gonna go down, shit, he's gonna go down - then someone grabs his shirt, pulling him back and his vision clears in just enough time to register Sammy before Gordon grabs the kid by the shoulder and spins him roughly into the wall. Sam crumples, sliding down a few steps.

Dean fucking leaps forward and grabs a hold of the bastard's fist as he raises it to strike and he twists and he takes a lot of satisfaction in hearing Gordon hiss. (Not enough though. He wants to make this sonuvabitch scream.)

He doesn't waste time. Manoeuvrability is fucked on the stairs, torture is a drawn out business and no way is he risking Sam just so he can get a few more hits in. Keeping his grip on Gordon's arm, he tugs hard, pulling the dick away from his kid brother so that he trips down a couple of steps, then he raises his fist and, as hard as he can, smashes it into Gordon's face, sending Gordon tumbling down the stairs.

Gordon rolls, out of control, clanging against each step. He loses his grip on the shotgun about half way down and it clatters to a stop in the middle of the stair case. Gordon continues to the bottom, sprawling onto the concrete with a sickening crack.

Dean steadies himself on the guard rail, adrenaline slowly draining from his system as the basement falls silent around him. He jumps when Sam appears next to him, because how the hell is that kid back on his feet? But recovers quickly when Sam sways, and grabs his arms to keep him upright.

“You okay?” he kind of demands, trying to get a good look at Sam's face.

Sam either refuses to meet his eye or is just too tired to lift his head but Dean can tell that the kid's looking at Gordon, spread out and unconscious, face down with a small halo of blood around his head.

“Izze dead?” Sam asks, words slurring together. He sways again.

Dean guides him down onto the top step before he can fall. Kid lets himself be man-handled without protest, leaning his head against the wall as soon as it's close enough.

“Hang on a minute,” Dean says, and waits for Sam to acknowledge him. When he doesn't, Dean squeezes his shoulder gently and crouches down on the stairs. “Hey.”

Sam blinks at him from under tangled bangs.

“You with me, Sammy?”

“Mm,” Sam replies non-committally, eyes sliding closed.

“Hey!” Dean says sharply, and Sam's eyes open again. “Sorry, kiddo, no sleeping yet.”

Sam looks at him for a long moment, like he can't figure out why Dean would be so cruel as to not let him give in to unconsciousness, but eventually he seems to understand and makes an effort to open his half-mast eyelids, or at least, the one that isn't swollen shut, sitting up a little straighter.

“That's it. Just, stay awake and I'll be right back.”

Sam nods and Dean squeezes his shoulder again before starting down the stairs.

He goes slowly, making his footsteps soundless. He's pretty sure Gordon's out for the count but he'll be damned if he makes the mistake of underestimating him again. He picks up the shotgun on his way and checks to see whether it's still loaded. It is. They're probably lucky that it didn't fire off any stray bullets during Gordon's tumble.

The closer he gets, the more sure he is that this battle is over. Finally, once he's at the bottom of the stairs, there's enough light to clearly see the unnatural angle of Gordon's neck. The sizeable gash on his forehead is still bleeding a little but there's no heartbeat to pump the blood out.

Dean feels a strange mix of relief and disappointment. Gordon's dead, which he's freaking ecstatic about, but it was too quick and simple an end for such a monster. Dean wanted him to suffer.

Dean thinks about shooting the body at his feet anyway but it would be a waste of a bullet so he settles for booting the cunt hard in the ribs. Gordon may not feel it but it makes him feel better.

Then he turns away because the only thing that matters now is bleeding and broken at the top of the stairs. Dean takes the steps three at a time until he's back by Sam's side. They should leave, someone may have heard the gunshot, but Dean sinks down on the stair beside Sam anyway. Kid's still conscious because he's stubborn like that and he looks from Gordon's still form to Dean.

“He's dead,” Dean says, even though Sam must know that. It's not like Dean would have left Gordon alive down there.

Sam lets out a shaky breath, covering his face with his hands. Dean slings a careful arm over the kid's shoulders and pulls him in against his chest and Sam twists his hands into Dean's t-shirt and fucking clings to him as he cries, and Dean sits there and holds him, babbling a chorus of 'it's okay, I'm here, I got you, Sammy, it's okay' and he promises himself that somehow, in some fucking way, he's going to fix this. He is going to fix this, just fucking watch him.

The End

Sequel: And Arbitrary Blackness Gallops In