Lessons Returns
It's been a month since my last post and almost six since my last update and if you're still out there reading this journal, I thank you for your patience!
Lessons: I rewrote it. Gave it a big, giant overhaul that now requires anyone who's still interested to start reading from CHAPTER FIVE. As annoying as that must be, I've taken the story in a whole new direction and lopped off later chapters to replace them with sparkling new ones. 1-5 has also been tightened, with events rearranged and dialogue spruced, but for those who can't be bothered reading from the beginning (and, really, who could be lol) it's only from chap 5 onwards that things are drastically changed.
I'm much much happier with this version - it feels more strong and polished and I enjoyed writing it so I hope you guys enjoy reading it. I've just the drafts of 9 and 10 completed, just need to polish 'em a bit (poke me with a stick if it starts taking too long).
REMEMBER: You must START FROM CHAPTER FIVE!
Title: Lessons 8/10
Rating: R for language and violence
Cateory: Gen
Timeline: After 'Provenance' but before 'Dead Man's Blood'
Disclaimer: I lay claim to nothing.
Summary: Murders at a college campus lead the brothers on a ghost hunt where Dean seems likely to become the next victim.
A/N: Much heaping of gratitude to
dodger_winslow for all her priceless editing help - her hints and thorough suggestions have carried through to every chap and piece of writing since :D
Chapter 8:
Once, when they were younger, Dean pushed Sam off the top of an old slide set. He hadn’t meant to. They’d been mucking around, using the slide as a makeshift watchtower, and they’d started arguing. He could never remember about what. He’d shoved Sam and the kid tripped over his own feet. Dean had reached out and tried to catch him, but Sam fell too quickly. He toppled over the low bars and landed on the ground, flat on his stomach. Dean never forgot the sound Sam’s body made when it hit the dirt floor. It was a curt, hollow thump, followed immediately with a sound like air releasing from a valve.
Dean had sprung down the ladder, falling to his hands and knees as he jumped the last few steps. He ran to Sam’s side, horrified by what he’d done. Sam was lying there, gaping like a fish and making strange wheezing noises as he tried to suck in air that refused to enter. Dean tried to help, but Sam pushed him away and ran inside, gasping and crying.
He’d only been winded by the fall, and seemed to forget about it after a few hours, but Dean didn’t forget. The scare had ingrained in him a lesson, and he refused to ever be the one to hurt Sam again. The lesson stayed, the memory faded.
Until now.
Now that thump was all Dean could hear as he pushed through the crowd, frantically scanning the people around him. An invisible hand tightened around his heart with every person that wasn’t Sam. Too short, too pudgy, too buff, too dark, wrong sex, wrong hair, wrong clothes.
Dean stopped and blinked back tears, trying to breathe. He was too close to the front of the crowd, too close to the body that these sick strangers were staring at and murmuring about and jostling him to get closer to.
“Hey, there you are.”
Dean heard the voice, he recognized it, he just had trouble reacting. He looked up and saw Sam weaving through the crowd. Right height, right build, right face. His bruises were even in the right place. Dean opened his mouth to say something, but instead found himself grabbing Sam in a tight hug. It was short and he was only able to use one arm, the other now hanging useless, and he quickly stepped back, but it still surprised Sam.
“Uh?” Sam frowned slightly.
“You’re lucky I don’t beat your ass!”
Sam raised his eyebrows and a few people turned to look at him, but Dean didn’t care. “What the hell are you doing out here, huh?”
Sam pointed vaguely at the surrounding crowd. “I heard screams.”
Dean wanted so badly to yell at him right then for not realizing he was a big, tall glaring target to any enemy that Dean made and that he had to be more careful, he had to. But he was so damn relieved that he was afraid tears would replace any attempts to play the pissed off big brother. “Next time wait for me,” he said. “I’m sure as hell not letting you get all the evil action.”
Dean couldn’t tell if Sam realized what he’d thought happened. Sam seemed distracted. He kept glancing at the front of the crowd, then back at Dean.
“Dean, there’s something-”
Dean pushed passed him, not waiting for him to finish the sentence. Carefully keeping his injured arm close, he strode through the crowd, against the tide as they started moving aside to let the paramedics through.
Dean stopped short. Blood stained the pavement, slowly spreading out, and the guy’s neck sat a funny angle. His eyes stared vacantly. It was Joey.
The professor’s voice reentered Dean’s head:
“On your shoulders.”
Sam stood a few feet behind Dean, looking down at the scuffed pavement. This wasn’t fair. He stepped next to Dean, watching him from the corner of his eye. Dean was just staring at Joey’s body, expressionless.
“We’ll find whoever’s doing this,” Sam said quietly.
Dean slowly looked up at him, something unreadable passing through his eyes. “I already did.”
Sam frowned, but before he could ask what that meant, he noticed Dean’s gaze shift to something behind him. Sam turned to find Chris staring at Joey’s body, eyes red and expression slack with shock. As if noticing their attention, he looked up and slowly walked over.
“Hey,” he said numbly, turning again to look at Joey.
“Hey,” Sam said softly, not really knowing what else to say. Dean remained quiet.
“He just…jumped,” Chris said, still in shock, talking in monotone. “I was walking passed the dorms, he called out from the window, I said ‘You’ve slept through the day, you douche’ and he laughed and he flipped me off and then he climbed out the window and…fell. Jesus.” He looked at Dean then. “He just asked Brenda out, you know. She said yes. I…I don’t get it. Jesus.” He ran his hands through his hair and started shaking his head.
“I’m sorry.”
Sam glanced at Dean in surprise. He sounded guilty. Dean noticed Sam staring and coughed, shifting his weight. He glanced at Chris one more time before abruptly turning and walking away.
“I’m really sorry for your loss, Chris,” Sam said quickly, watching Dean’s retreating back. “Joey was a good guy.”
Chris just nodded numbly and lowered himself to the ground, pulling his legs to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, staring at Joey’s body. Sam hesitated, wanting to say something more. He felt bad about just leaving him, but his concern for Dean was stronger. He hurried after his brother and found him pacing in front of the faculty building.
“This is my fault.”
“What? Dean, no it’s not.”
Dean ignored him. “Professor Linberg, he’s the big bad. He knows I killed Damien and he’s pissed off so he killed Joey to…to piss me off.”
“Are you sure?” Sam asked, startled by the revelation.
“Yes, I’m sure!” Dean snapped. “A wall of spears, letter opener resistant, loves hearing himself talk. He’s the guy.”
“A wall of spears…” Sam mumbled, growing cold. “Blood, symbols, a body falling from the window…” He glanced back as paramedics loaded Joey’s body into the ambulance. “Wall of spears…” There were only two images left in his vision - the fire and…and himself shouting Dean’s name.
“Almost time to kick Death in the balls, huh?”
Sam looked up; he hadn’t realized Dean was listening. Dean had a crooked smile on his face.
“Make sure to steal his scythe, too,” Sam said with a small smile. “It’ll make a nice addition to our weapon collection. For the future. You know, down the line, way down.”
Dean should’ve rolled his eyes or called Sam a pansy. But he just glanced away and drew his injured arm closer. “I’m glad it wasn’t you,” he mumbled. Sam could barely hear him over the wind that had picked up and begun tossing their hair and making everyone’s clothes flap in a cacophony of rustling fabric. “But it’s going to be if I don’t end this. I’m killing that son of a bitch.”
The wind increased, drowning the end of his threat and bringing to them a wave of loose leaf posters that fluttered passed their legs, a few wrapping themselves around their arms. Dean pulled a bright yellow one from where it clung to his forearm. He turned against the wind to read the big black print. “Tonight. Party to End All Parties. Well, that’s ominous.”
“That’s more ominous,” Sam said, nodding behind Dean. Susie stood at the end of the pavement, outlined by the purple sky as evening fell and brought with it slanted shadows and stronger wind. She wore a jacket wrapped tightly against the cold and her hair was lashing and whipping in the wind. She strode forward, her high-heeled boots hammering against the pavement as she approached, the resolute rhythm cutting through the wind and sirens.
She stopped a few feet away. Her eyes were still red, but her expression was cold. “The party tonight. It’s going to be big. You want to be there. Lots of drunk students; susceptible minds. The Professor will be there too. His power is stronger than Damien’s; he doesn’t need me to brand his victims first. He usually doesn’t get involved; just plans, just observes. He will tonight. Stress and alcohol…there’s going to be a student brawl. Just devastating. The media’s gonna love it. Bloodbath. Columbine for the big kids.”
“Why are you telling us this?” Sam asked, shivering as the cold wind snaked through his clothes.
Susie’s gaze slid to Dean. “I want you both to know what’s going to happen. I want to watch you try to stop it. I want to watch you fail. I want you to wade through all these students’ blood and know it spilled in vengeance. I want you to know all this as you die trying to prevent the massacre that you brought on.” Her face crumbled. “I want Damien back,” she whispered. “The heroes always win, right? You’re not going to this time. Guess that makes you the bad guys.” She turned swiftly and walked away.
“That’s not real rah rah educational of you,” Sam called after her in the absence of a quip from Dean.
“We’ll work it in somehow,” she answered, not bothering to turn her head.
Sam glanced at Dean. He stood still, watching Susie’s retreating back. The clouds overhead and the setting sun lengthened his shadow and deepened the bags under his eyes. The shadows cast by his eyelashes crisscrossed his face, hiding his eyes’ expression beneath them. He looked like he could fade away.
“It’s rude to stare. Punk.”
“You look like shit.”
Dean’s gaze flickered towards him. “At least I have an excuse.”
“But you still won’t come to the hospital with me, right?”
“Hospitals are overrated; never any hot nurses about.”
Sam nodded and bit his lip. “Do you think the party’s even happening? I mean, with Joey’s death…”
In the distance, music began playing, thumping the ground and mixing with the howling wind. Students were making their way to the abandoned buildings, trickling over the lawn in small clusters. Sam’s heart sank.
Dean cracked a small smile. “Showtime.”
Dean opened the Impala’s trunk and let his eyes travel their weapons. The guns and scythes and crosses and crossbows. He reached out and grabbed his favorite shotgun, reached out and grabbed a few small pistols, a few extra bullets, extra rock salt. He lifted his bag and let it rest in the open trunk, unzipping it and shoving in the weapons. He flung the bag over his good shoulder and went to close the trunk, but paused. He let his eyes travel over all the weapons one last time. Each brought with it a story: a hunt completed, a hunt survived.
He slowly reached up and gripped the trunk, feeling the metal beneath his fingers. He slammed it shut, and though the sound was one of thousands of the same floating in his memories, this time it felt different, distinct. He reached out and pulled the keys from the trunk, listening to them jangle in his hand and remembering the first time his dad handed them to him.
“I’ll be back in a second,” he said abruptly, tossing the bag at Sam’s feet and pocketing the keys.
Sam looked up and nodded, before returning to his perch against the car. He was flipping through the pages of an old book, trying one last time to figure out those symbols.
Dean shoved open the door to the closest bathroom, checking under the stalls to make sure none were occupied, then locked the door behind him. He sighed in exhaustion and sagged against the small sink, gripping it for support. A tap dripped, the water rhythmically clinking against the ceramic, and the pipes overheard gargled in sporadic bursts. Apart from that, it was silent. Dean wasn’t even sure he heard his own breathing. He glanced up at the mirror. It was distorted at the edges, giving the room a bowl shape - a greenish yellow frame for the sunken face and scared eyes staring back. That wasn’t him, was it? He didn’t get hurt or scared, or at least not so that mirrors were able to catch and reflect it.
Dean turned away and leaned against the sink. He pulled his phone from his pocket. Through a fog that seemed to edge onto his senses, Dean accessed the phonebook and watched the names scroll passed the small screen. He stopped on ‘Dad’ and stared at it for a second. He pressed dial and held the phone to his ear. He knew how many rings to count, knew the click that meant the answering machine had picked up, knew that message by heart.
“You’ve reached John Winchester…”
Dean threw the phone across the room. It hit the wall and shattered, bouncing off and scattering across the floor in a thousand pieces. He’d used his injured arm and a hot pain flashed through him.
“Dammit!” Dean yelled, pushing away from the sink and running a hand through his hair. His shoulder continued to throb and he gritted his teeth and pressed his fists to his eyes as tears threatened.
Was he going to die? Was this how it ended? Before he found his dad and put his family back together? How many more students would be killed because of him? Because he’d pissed off Dr. Evil and hadn’t been able to end it before anyone else got hurt. He’d messed up. The bad guys were meant to come after him alone: The one that points the trigger, the one that runs after the danger. They weren’t meant to go after anyone in between because there wasn’t meant to be anyone in between. Dean had messed up. He’d slipped and entered the world that he was protecting and the bad guys had followed.
Dean drew a shaky breath. “Get a grip.”
He stared at his shattered phone for a second then turned back to the sink and splashed some water on his face.
“Found anything?” Dean asked, ambling back to Sam. He leaned against the car and glanced at the book Sam was still scanning. His jacket crinkled with the movement.
Sam let out a frustrated breath and snapped the book shut. The action caused a small puff of dust to float into the air. “No, but I have an idea: we hack the room to pieces. Screw discrepancy.”
“Finally thinking like your older brother, huh?”
Sam unceremoniously tossed the book into the backseat. “Well, when there’s no other choice...”
“We need to burn them,” Dean interrupted.
“No! No fire.”
Dean sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Dude, you know unless we completely destroy a mark of power, the power stays bound. We need to torch the place.”
“No, Dean,” Sam said, face set.
“Sam!” Dean yelled. “I know what you saw in your vision, okay, but they’re called visions for a reason, they happen.” Dean looked away. “I can’t have any more deaths on my conscience, Sammy, we gotta burn the place.”
Sam’s face softened and he sighed, looking away. “Okay,” he said after a moment. “But…we’re being careful, no crazy Rambo moves. We have to be careful, Dean.”
Dean grabbed his bag from where he’d tossed it by Sam’s feet. “Let’s go save the world then.”
Sam snorted softly and lifted his own bag onto his shoulder. His hair flopped into his eyes with the movement.
They walked in silence, their footsteps slapping the pavement almost in tune with the music thumping the ground. The sky was streaked purple and orange and their shadows stretched before them.
Dean’s shoulder felt heavy and tight, but he tried to ignore it. He glanced at the buildings as they passed them. Lights shone from within the windows and he could see people’s dark outlines as they moved around. The line of trees in the distance swayed in the fading light. A few birds flew from the cluster, little black dots fading into the purple sky. He shook his head slightly, annoyed that his concentration was drifting.
More annoying was the way Sam kept glancing at him; the boy wanted to say something.
“Betchya I can still pick up, looking like this,” Dean said before Sam had a chance to speak.
Sam smiled slightly. “Before or after we stop the ‘massacre’?”
Dean shrugged. “Before and after.”
Sam rolled his eyes and slowed down. They’d reached the old lot. It was brimming with people. Stereos were set up on the grass outside as well as in the old building. People danced and sat and stood, talking, laughing, eating. Kegs were set up all over the place and the grass was already littered with discarded cups and empty bottles.
“Is that Chris?” Sam asked in surprise, squinting through the dark.
“Guess he’s mourning his friend like the guy would’ve wanted: by getting wasted.” Dean fished some packets of matches from his bag and tossed one to Sam. “He’s going to be joining Joey real soon if we don’t end this.”
“Dean.” Sam reached out and stopped him.
Dean looked down at the hand on his jacket then up at Sam’s hesitant face. “What?”
Before Sam could say anything, a scream tore into the night. They were running before the shriek ended.
A fight had begun near the side of the old building and was steadily growing as people threw themselves into the brawl, fists flying. One person already lay curled on the grass, blood running from a stab wound in his side made by a broken beer bottle. A girl continued to scream as she tried to staunch the blood with her hands.
Sam and Dean ducked through the fists and flying bottles, hurrying to kneel by their side. “What happened?” Sam asked, removing the girl’s hands and pressing a discarded sweatshirt against the gushing wound. He exchanged a look with Dean. It was bad.
The girl shrieked again as a bottle shattered close by and another guy fell to the ground.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered, eyeing the crowd and wisely deciding not to get involved.
“I-I don’t know,” she sobbed, staring at her boyfriend, or whoever the guy was. “We were all just talking and suddenly Pete takes a swing at Matt and Matt retaliates and then everyone’s fighting and people are breaking beer bottles and Matt...he...he stabbed Pete and there’s all this blood and I-I can’t stop the bleeding.” She wiped some hair from her face leaving a streak of blood on her forehead.
“Get down!” Dean yelled, shoving the girl and Sam to the ground as a bottle whizzed over their heads. A crash sounded nearby and more screams rang out, followed by loud shouts and further scuffles.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean repeated, cautiously removing himself from his protective position over Sam and the girl.
“Come on, you gotta move from here,” Sam said, jumping up and grabbing Pete by the arms.
Dean followed suit, grabbing the guy’s legs. They moved him, as carefully as they could, to what they hoped was a safe distance from the growing chaos.
“Call an ambulance,” Sam instructed the girl, who immediately knelt by Pete’s side again.
Sam and Dean left them shielded by the trees and hurried back.
“Sammy, man, I’ve been in a lot of fights, and I can tell you that they don’t get this crazy outside of the movies or, you know, Christmas dinner.”
“Guess that’s what happens when you mix alcohol and evil, mind-controlling bastards,” Sam said. Then his eyes widened and he jumped into the fray, grabbing a guy by the arm before he could plunge a knife into a girl’s neck. “Get out of here,” Sam yelled at her, twisting the guy’s arm behind his back and forcing him to drop the knife. The girl stood frozen for a second, then kicked her attacker in the groin and ran.
Sam let go of the boy’s arm and let him double over in pain, satisfied that he was out for the count. Dean, having managed to squeeze himself through the crowd, punched him in the face for good measure and grinned as the guy slumped to the ground.
“Let’s go,” Dean said, slapping Sam’s jacket.
Sam looked hesitant, eyes traveling over the people cowering behind upturned tables, over the people holding knifes and broken bottles and planks of wood torn from god knows where, and over the people rolling injured on the grass.
“Sam, come on,” Dean repeated. “We can stand out here all night defending the weak and all that, or we can torch those symbols and end this thing ten times faster.”
Sam nodded and reluctantly turned his back, cringing as more screams bit into the night.
Inside the building, people were watching the fights from windows, arms wrapped around each other in comfort.
“He can’t risk bringing the fight too close to the room with the symbols,” Sam realized. “These old walls aren’t exactly stable.”
“Well, we’re bringing it to him.” Dean drew his bag forward and pulled out a canister of kerosene.
Everyone in the room screamed and stumbled backwards as one of the windows shattered and a body fell through.
Sam hurried forward. The fall had cut up the guy’s face and blood ran from him in rivulets. Sam grabbed him beneath the shoulders and carefully pulled him the rest of the way into the room. He felt for a pulse.
“He alive?” Dean asked. The guy looked young.
“Yeah,” Sam muttered. “Just.”
Anger coursing through him, Dean unscrewed the kerosene can and began dousing the room.
“What are you doing?” a girl asked in alarm. She had a mess of curly red hair.
“Torching the place,” Dean said, shaking the can. “Get out, all of you.”
“What? Are you fucking out of your mind? We can’t go out there!”
“You stay in here, you burn,” Sam yelled, surprising Dean. Sam gestured at the unconscious body by his feet. “Here, you have to take him with you. But be careful. Stick to the side, don’t try to cut through the fighting, avoid eye contact and get to the trees. Then wait for an ambulance.”
Nobody moved. Dean sighed and glanced at Sam, who nodded. Dean struck a match and held it above the kerosene-soaked floor. “Goodness gracious, great balls of fire.”
“Alright!” the girl yelled. “We’re leaving.”
“Knew you college kids were smart.” Dean shook out the mach.
“Who the hell are you?” a gangly kid with frosted tips asked on his way to the door, a disgusted look on his face.
“Two crazy pyromaniacs,” Dean said.
Sam showed a few of the students how to pick up the unconscious boy and watched nervously as they carried the guy to the door. Dean would’ve helped but he didn’t trust his own strength. He felt like he was quivering from the inside out and knew that only adrenaline was keeping him from collapsing.
Once the students had left, he and Sam dug their fingers into the wood planks covering the hole that led into room of symbols and pulled until they felt it give way. The planks snapped from the wall, revealing the professor standing in the middle of the room, arms raised and lips moving in a silent spell. The symbols were glowing.
The professor’s lips didn’t stop moving, but his gaze slid to theirs. He grinned. An invisible energy knocked into Sam and Dean and they found themselves flying into the opposite wall, their backs slamming against the rotting wood.
Sam groaned and pulled himself up, cringing with the effort. “You okay?” he wheezed, turning to Dean.
“I’m pissed off.” Dean used the wall to steady himself, blinking a few times to clear his wavering vision. He wasn’t out of this fight. Not yet. His vision focused and landed on the yellow liquid running down the floor. He surged forward and grabbed the upturned kerosene can before all the fluid ran out. “Here,” he said, shoving it into Sam’s hands. “I’m going to distract him.”
“No, Dean,” Sam said, in the same tone he’d used on those kids. He passed back the canister. “I’ll distract him. And if you want to argue,” Sam quickly added before Dean could protest, “how many fingers am I holding up?”
Dean sighed. “Two, you idiot. But okay, I get the point. Go, tall one, distract. But hey,” he grabbed Sam’s jacket, stopping him. “You get yourself hurt, I’m shaving off your eyebrows.”
“Ditto,” Sam said, before bolting into the room and flying at the professor before either he or Dean could react.
“Shit!” Dean yelled, hurrying after him and flinging the fluid across the room as the professor threw Sam off him. Sam collided with a wall and slumped, stunned.
“Hey!” Dean yelled, getting the professor’s attention before he could advance on his brother.
The professor turned, his eyes traveling to the lit match in Dean’s fingers. Dean grinned and let it drop. The flame caught instantly, racing through the building, snaking up the walls, spitting ferociously. The heat that sprang forward with the flames stung Dean’s eyes.
“Sam! C’mon!” Dean jumped the rows of flames that were steadily reaching higher and helped Sam from the ground. They covered their heads and ran for the exit.
“Dean!” Sam yelled. He’d stopped and was staring back at the room.
Dean turned to find the professor’s lips still moving in chant. He had one hand lifted out towards the flames, magically keeping them at bay and pushing them from the symbol’s reach. “Give us a break!”
Just as he said it, the professor’s eyes locked with Dean’s and he and Sam again found themselves tossed like rag dolls, smashing through the front door and landing in a painful heap on the grass outside.
Dean groaned. “I didn’t mean break our bones.”
Sam tried to pull himself into a sitting position but his hand slipped on the grass. He looked at it and gasped. His hand was red. Sam quickly jumped up off the ground and Dean followed, if a bit slower. They turned in circles, eyes cast downward, noting how the grass shone brown. It was slick with blood.
“Whose is that?” Sam whispered.
“Take your pick,” Dean said, casting his eyes over the huge fight that had engulfed the party.
The shouts and screams almost drowned out the fire crackling from the building. Bodies were being flung and hit and clothing torn, tables upturned and stereos tumbling to the ground in a jumble of sparks. Dean took it all in with disbelief. They were surrounded. Fucking surrounded by possessed, drunken college kids.
“Look out!”
At Sam’s shout, Dean whipped around and had to spring out of the way to avoid being bowled over by a duo locked in a runaway battle of fists. The duo fell to the ground and continued attacking. One bit the other on the arm. Dean frowned and was about to step in when he felt someone collide into him. He fell to the ground, the wind knocked out of him. Trying to catch his breath, Dean grabbed the slick grass and pulled himself out from under the body pinning him. He scrambled up, only to have to duck another blow while simultaneously grabbing a foot before it could kick him in the stomach. He flipped the foot’s owner to the ground, risking a look in Sam’s direction.
Sam was fighting his own growing group of assailants. All wore dazed expressions, and all were ruthless and unrelenting in their moves, diving in danger’s way just for a chance to land a punch or kick. Dean tried to reach him, but was again bowled to the ground. Gritting his teeth, Dean quickly rolled away and sprung up, eyeing the crowd circling him growing frustration.
“Cut it out!” Pain sparked through his shoulder but he ignored it. A few of the possessed students edged forward. “I mean it!” Dean’s eyes widened when he saw a table leg flying in his direction. He ducked, only to again find himself tackled to the ground. Dammit! He didn’t have time for this! He had to help Sam.
From the corner of his eye, he could tell Sam was actually fairing better than him, uninhibited by fresh injuries, but Dean’s pride wouldn’t take being beat up by a bunch of college nerds, possessed or not. He scrambled up and eyed each assailant as they began circling him again. “I was trained by an ex marine, trust funds won’t buy you that, kiddies.”
He managed to break through the circle of students without hurting anyone too badly. Breath ragged, sweat running down his face and eyes stinging from the heat as flames licked through the building’s old walls, Dean stumbled to where Sam still fought.
A guy wearing a checkered shirt and tight pants ran into the brawl and appeared about to jump Sam. Then Dean saw the glint of metal.
“Sam!” Dean shouted, running forward.
Sam turned but only managed to widen his eyes before the knife plunged, tearing a jagged path down his upper arm. Sam dropped to his knees with a cry, hand flying to the gash.
Dean reached the scene and grabbed the guy’s wrist, twisting the knife away and punching him across the face. He fell, hard. Dean picked up the knife and tossed it as far as he could.
“Run,” Sam panted, face contorted in pain, nodding at the next group of would-be assailants. They turned and bolted, skidding and stumbling on the slick grass.
“Over here,” Dean grabbed Sam by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him behind an upturned picnic table that sat just beyond the fighting. They slumped against it, breathing hard and letting their heads rest against the split plastic.
Dean swallowed, his throat dry and scratchy. He glanced at his brother. Blood ran through Sam’s fingers as he held them tightly against the wound. “You okay?”
Sam just nodded, lifting his hand to look at the bloodied gash. “It’s no spear through the shoulder.”
“It sucks that we can say that.”
“How’s your head?” Sam asked, nodding at a spot on Dean’s forehead.
Dean felt his head in surprise. Sticky blood met his touch. “Just a scratch,” he mumbled, worried that he hadn’t been able to feel it. Dean shook off the concern and glanced back at the fighting. The flames from the building were growing larger, bathing the scene in a wavering orange light and crackling so loudly he could barely hear the grunts of pain and frantic scuffling that had consumed his hearing whilst in the midst of the fighting.
He let out a frustrated breath and pounded the grass. Sam too glanced back behind them and then shut his eyes, banging his head against the table. “We’re being run from the hunt by a bunch of frat boys! Do you realize how absurd that is?”
“And we’re hiding behind a plastic table,” Dean added.
“And not just frat boys,” Sam continued. “I swear Brenda tried to kick me.”
“This is not the big bang I planned to go out in.”
Sam glanced at him. He looked angry. He opened his mouth but a bloodcurdling scream cut off whatever he’d been about to say. It lasted only a second before it was abruptly silenced. Sam grew pale, and Dean knew the look reflected his own.
“People are dying,” Sam whispered.
Dean looked back at the scene playing out behind them. He looked at the blood splattered grass, then at the fire wrapping itself around the exits. He listened to the shouts and to his brother’s ragged breaths. And he heard the professor’s voice in his head: On your shoulders...
Something dark grew in him then, hardening him. He knew what he had to do.
Dean pulled himself up. Sam’s arm shot out and grabbed him. “What are you doing?” he asked, alarmed.
“I have to destroy those symbols. I can’t have a bloodbath on my conscience, Sammy. I can’t.”
Sam scrambled up. “It’s suicide, going back there, you know that right?”
“I know; that’s why you’re staying here.”
It took a second for Sam to respond. “What?” he yelled, jumping in front of Dean and holding out an arm, stopping him.
“Sam,” Dean growled. “We don’t have time for this!”
“You’re right, we don’t, so get over the hero complex. We do this together or not at all.” His voice sounded thick but he looked like he was ready to lash out.
“Dammit, Sammy.” Dean wanted to yell and get angry, order Sam to stay here and demand he not argue. “Let me do this,” he whispered instead, imploring Sam because he never could demand anything from the kid.
For a second Sam looked like he was about to crumple, but his face hardened instead and he roughly pushed passed Dean. “No,” he said, defiantly striding for the building.
Dean reached out and grabbed his arm. “You’re a little shit, you know that?”
“Why is my life more important than yours?” Sam yelled.
“It just is!” Dean swallowed and looked away. “Don’t hate me when you wake up.”
“What?” Sam frowned.
Knowing he had no other choice, Dean reeled back his fist and swung it at Sam’s head, hitting him squarely across the jaw. Sam swayed for a second before falling to his knees, dazed.
Dean blinked in surprise. “How didn’t that knock you out?”
Cursing fate for making him do this a second time, he hit Sam again, cringing as his fist connected with a hollow thump. Sam fell unconscious to the ground. “Sorry, Sammy,” he said. “But geez you have a hard head.”
Carefully hooking his arms beneath Sam’s shoulders, Dean dragged his limp brother back behind the table, leaning him against it in what he hoped was a comfortable position. Reluctant to leave him alone, Dean scanned the surrounding area and noticed Chris and a few of his friends standing behind some trees, watching the carnage from a safe distance.
“Hey!” Dean yelled.
The shout startled them and they instinctively backed up.
“Chris, buddy, come over here”
“You come over here!”
Brat. “Come on, man, I need a favor.”
“What sort of favor?’
“Would you just get over here!”
Chris glanced at his friends then slowly ambled over, stepping back every time noise from the fighting startled him. Dean sighed impatiently. At this rate everyone would be dead by the time he moved out from behind this frickin’ table.
“The world’s gone twilight zone crazy, man,” Chris said when he finally reached Dean. “Or we’re in a fucking nightmare. Pinch me.”
“Pinch yourself. How much have you had to drink tonight?” Dean glanced back at the fire and had to stop himself from bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“Half a beer,” Chris answered.
“You sure that’s it?” He couldn’t risk Chris getting possessed while Sam was defenseless.
“Yeah, I-I couldn’t without Joey, you know?”
“Okay, good, can you watch my brother while he’s out?”
Chris looked down at Sam, noticing him for the first time. “Whoa, dude, is he hurt or wasted? Well, yeah, doesn’t matter I guess. Sure, yeah sure, I’ll make sure he’s isn’t knifed or anything.”
Dean nodded, relieved. “Thanks, man. Um, when he wakes up, tell him…” Tell him I love him and that I’m sorry and that he better live one hell of a life and die surrounded by stupid fat grandchildren. “Tell him to put a cold one on the bruise. Works better than ice.”
Taking one last look at Sam’s slumped body, Dean turned and barreled through the crowd, rushing into the burning building.
***
[Mood|
]
Lessons: I rewrote it. Gave it a big, giant overhaul that now requires anyone who's still interested to start reading from CHAPTER FIVE. As annoying as that must be, I've taken the story in a whole new direction and lopped off later chapters to replace them with sparkling new ones. 1-5 has also been tightened, with events rearranged and dialogue spruced, but for those who can't be bothered reading from the beginning (and, really, who could be lol) it's only from chap 5 onwards that things are drastically changed.
I'm much much happier with this version - it feels more strong and polished and I enjoyed writing it so I hope you guys enjoy reading it. I've just the drafts of 9 and 10 completed, just need to polish 'em a bit (poke me with a stick if it starts taking too long).
REMEMBER: You must START FROM CHAPTER FIVE!
Title: Lessons 8/10
Rating: R for language and violence
Cateory: Gen
Timeline: After 'Provenance' but before 'Dead Man's Blood'
Disclaimer: I lay claim to nothing.
Summary: Murders at a college campus lead the brothers on a ghost hunt where Dean seems likely to become the next victim.
A/N: Much heaping of gratitude to
dodger_winslow for all her priceless editing help - her hints and thorough suggestions have carried through to every chap and piece of writing since :D
Chapter 8:
Once, when they were younger, Dean pushed Sam off the top of an old slide set. He hadn’t meant to. They’d been mucking around, using the slide as a makeshift watchtower, and they’d started arguing. He could never remember about what. He’d shoved Sam and the kid tripped over his own feet. Dean had reached out and tried to catch him, but Sam fell too quickly. He toppled over the low bars and landed on the ground, flat on his stomach. Dean never forgot the sound Sam’s body made when it hit the dirt floor. It was a curt, hollow thump, followed immediately with a sound like air releasing from a valve.
Dean had sprung down the ladder, falling to his hands and knees as he jumped the last few steps. He ran to Sam’s side, horrified by what he’d done. Sam was lying there, gaping like a fish and making strange wheezing noises as he tried to suck in air that refused to enter. Dean tried to help, but Sam pushed him away and ran inside, gasping and crying.
He’d only been winded by the fall, and seemed to forget about it after a few hours, but Dean didn’t forget. The scare had ingrained in him a lesson, and he refused to ever be the one to hurt Sam again. The lesson stayed, the memory faded.
Until now.
Now that thump was all Dean could hear as he pushed through the crowd, frantically scanning the people around him. An invisible hand tightened around his heart with every person that wasn’t Sam. Too short, too pudgy, too buff, too dark, wrong sex, wrong hair, wrong clothes.
Dean stopped and blinked back tears, trying to breathe. He was too close to the front of the crowd, too close to the body that these sick strangers were staring at and murmuring about and jostling him to get closer to.
“Hey, there you are.”
Dean heard the voice, he recognized it, he just had trouble reacting. He looked up and saw Sam weaving through the crowd. Right height, right build, right face. His bruises were even in the right place. Dean opened his mouth to say something, but instead found himself grabbing Sam in a tight hug. It was short and he was only able to use one arm, the other now hanging useless, and he quickly stepped back, but it still surprised Sam.
“Uh?” Sam frowned slightly.
“You’re lucky I don’t beat your ass!”
Sam raised his eyebrows and a few people turned to look at him, but Dean didn’t care. “What the hell are you doing out here, huh?”
Sam pointed vaguely at the surrounding crowd. “I heard screams.”
Dean wanted so badly to yell at him right then for not realizing he was a big, tall glaring target to any enemy that Dean made and that he had to be more careful, he had to. But he was so damn relieved that he was afraid tears would replace any attempts to play the pissed off big brother. “Next time wait for me,” he said. “I’m sure as hell not letting you get all the evil action.”
Dean couldn’t tell if Sam realized what he’d thought happened. Sam seemed distracted. He kept glancing at the front of the crowd, then back at Dean.
“Dean, there’s something-”
Dean pushed passed him, not waiting for him to finish the sentence. Carefully keeping his injured arm close, he strode through the crowd, against the tide as they started moving aside to let the paramedics through.
Dean stopped short. Blood stained the pavement, slowly spreading out, and the guy’s neck sat a funny angle. His eyes stared vacantly. It was Joey.
The professor’s voice reentered Dean’s head:
“On your shoulders.”
Sam stood a few feet behind Dean, looking down at the scuffed pavement. This wasn’t fair. He stepped next to Dean, watching him from the corner of his eye. Dean was just staring at Joey’s body, expressionless.
“We’ll find whoever’s doing this,” Sam said quietly.
Dean slowly looked up at him, something unreadable passing through his eyes. “I already did.”
Sam frowned, but before he could ask what that meant, he noticed Dean’s gaze shift to something behind him. Sam turned to find Chris staring at Joey’s body, eyes red and expression slack with shock. As if noticing their attention, he looked up and slowly walked over.
“Hey,” he said numbly, turning again to look at Joey.
“Hey,” Sam said softly, not really knowing what else to say. Dean remained quiet.
“He just…jumped,” Chris said, still in shock, talking in monotone. “I was walking passed the dorms, he called out from the window, I said ‘You’ve slept through the day, you douche’ and he laughed and he flipped me off and then he climbed out the window and…fell. Jesus.” He looked at Dean then. “He just asked Brenda out, you know. She said yes. I…I don’t get it. Jesus.” He ran his hands through his hair and started shaking his head.
“I’m sorry.”
Sam glanced at Dean in surprise. He sounded guilty. Dean noticed Sam staring and coughed, shifting his weight. He glanced at Chris one more time before abruptly turning and walking away.
“I’m really sorry for your loss, Chris,” Sam said quickly, watching Dean’s retreating back. “Joey was a good guy.”
Chris just nodded numbly and lowered himself to the ground, pulling his legs to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, staring at Joey’s body. Sam hesitated, wanting to say something more. He felt bad about just leaving him, but his concern for Dean was stronger. He hurried after his brother and found him pacing in front of the faculty building.
“This is my fault.”
“What? Dean, no it’s not.”
Dean ignored him. “Professor Linberg, he’s the big bad. He knows I killed Damien and he’s pissed off so he killed Joey to…to piss me off.”
“Are you sure?” Sam asked, startled by the revelation.
“Yes, I’m sure!” Dean snapped. “A wall of spears, letter opener resistant, loves hearing himself talk. He’s the guy.”
“A wall of spears…” Sam mumbled, growing cold. “Blood, symbols, a body falling from the window…” He glanced back as paramedics loaded Joey’s body into the ambulance. “Wall of spears…” There were only two images left in his vision - the fire and…and himself shouting Dean’s name.
“Almost time to kick Death in the balls, huh?”
Sam looked up; he hadn’t realized Dean was listening. Dean had a crooked smile on his face.
“Make sure to steal his scythe, too,” Sam said with a small smile. “It’ll make a nice addition to our weapon collection. For the future. You know, down the line, way down.”
Dean should’ve rolled his eyes or called Sam a pansy. But he just glanced away and drew his injured arm closer. “I’m glad it wasn’t you,” he mumbled. Sam could barely hear him over the wind that had picked up and begun tossing their hair and making everyone’s clothes flap in a cacophony of rustling fabric. “But it’s going to be if I don’t end this. I’m killing that son of a bitch.”
The wind increased, drowning the end of his threat and bringing to them a wave of loose leaf posters that fluttered passed their legs, a few wrapping themselves around their arms. Dean pulled a bright yellow one from where it clung to his forearm. He turned against the wind to read the big black print. “Tonight. Party to End All Parties. Well, that’s ominous.”
“That’s more ominous,” Sam said, nodding behind Dean. Susie stood at the end of the pavement, outlined by the purple sky as evening fell and brought with it slanted shadows and stronger wind. She wore a jacket wrapped tightly against the cold and her hair was lashing and whipping in the wind. She strode forward, her high-heeled boots hammering against the pavement as she approached, the resolute rhythm cutting through the wind and sirens.
She stopped a few feet away. Her eyes were still red, but her expression was cold. “The party tonight. It’s going to be big. You want to be there. Lots of drunk students; susceptible minds. The Professor will be there too. His power is stronger than Damien’s; he doesn’t need me to brand his victims first. He usually doesn’t get involved; just plans, just observes. He will tonight. Stress and alcohol…there’s going to be a student brawl. Just devastating. The media’s gonna love it. Bloodbath. Columbine for the big kids.”
“Why are you telling us this?” Sam asked, shivering as the cold wind snaked through his clothes.
Susie’s gaze slid to Dean. “I want you both to know what’s going to happen. I want to watch you try to stop it. I want to watch you fail. I want you to wade through all these students’ blood and know it spilled in vengeance. I want you to know all this as you die trying to prevent the massacre that you brought on.” Her face crumbled. “I want Damien back,” she whispered. “The heroes always win, right? You’re not going to this time. Guess that makes you the bad guys.” She turned swiftly and walked away.
“That’s not real rah rah educational of you,” Sam called after her in the absence of a quip from Dean.
“We’ll work it in somehow,” she answered, not bothering to turn her head.
Sam glanced at Dean. He stood still, watching Susie’s retreating back. The clouds overhead and the setting sun lengthened his shadow and deepened the bags under his eyes. The shadows cast by his eyelashes crisscrossed his face, hiding his eyes’ expression beneath them. He looked like he could fade away.
“It’s rude to stare. Punk.”
“You look like shit.”
Dean’s gaze flickered towards him. “At least I have an excuse.”
“But you still won’t come to the hospital with me, right?”
“Hospitals are overrated; never any hot nurses about.”
Sam nodded and bit his lip. “Do you think the party’s even happening? I mean, with Joey’s death…”
In the distance, music began playing, thumping the ground and mixing with the howling wind. Students were making their way to the abandoned buildings, trickling over the lawn in small clusters. Sam’s heart sank.
Dean cracked a small smile. “Showtime.”
Dean opened the Impala’s trunk and let his eyes travel their weapons. The guns and scythes and crosses and crossbows. He reached out and grabbed his favorite shotgun, reached out and grabbed a few small pistols, a few extra bullets, extra rock salt. He lifted his bag and let it rest in the open trunk, unzipping it and shoving in the weapons. He flung the bag over his good shoulder and went to close the trunk, but paused. He let his eyes travel over all the weapons one last time. Each brought with it a story: a hunt completed, a hunt survived.
He slowly reached up and gripped the trunk, feeling the metal beneath his fingers. He slammed it shut, and though the sound was one of thousands of the same floating in his memories, this time it felt different, distinct. He reached out and pulled the keys from the trunk, listening to them jangle in his hand and remembering the first time his dad handed them to him.
“I’ll be back in a second,” he said abruptly, tossing the bag at Sam’s feet and pocketing the keys.
Sam looked up and nodded, before returning to his perch against the car. He was flipping through the pages of an old book, trying one last time to figure out those symbols.
Dean shoved open the door to the closest bathroom, checking under the stalls to make sure none were occupied, then locked the door behind him. He sighed in exhaustion and sagged against the small sink, gripping it for support. A tap dripped, the water rhythmically clinking against the ceramic, and the pipes overheard gargled in sporadic bursts. Apart from that, it was silent. Dean wasn’t even sure he heard his own breathing. He glanced up at the mirror. It was distorted at the edges, giving the room a bowl shape - a greenish yellow frame for the sunken face and scared eyes staring back. That wasn’t him, was it? He didn’t get hurt or scared, or at least not so that mirrors were able to catch and reflect it.
Dean turned away and leaned against the sink. He pulled his phone from his pocket. Through a fog that seemed to edge onto his senses, Dean accessed the phonebook and watched the names scroll passed the small screen. He stopped on ‘Dad’ and stared at it for a second. He pressed dial and held the phone to his ear. He knew how many rings to count, knew the click that meant the answering machine had picked up, knew that message by heart.
“You’ve reached John Winchester…”
Dean threw the phone across the room. It hit the wall and shattered, bouncing off and scattering across the floor in a thousand pieces. He’d used his injured arm and a hot pain flashed through him.
“Dammit!” Dean yelled, pushing away from the sink and running a hand through his hair. His shoulder continued to throb and he gritted his teeth and pressed his fists to his eyes as tears threatened.
Was he going to die? Was this how it ended? Before he found his dad and put his family back together? How many more students would be killed because of him? Because he’d pissed off Dr. Evil and hadn’t been able to end it before anyone else got hurt. He’d messed up. The bad guys were meant to come after him alone: The one that points the trigger, the one that runs after the danger. They weren’t meant to go after anyone in between because there wasn’t meant to be anyone in between. Dean had messed up. He’d slipped and entered the world that he was protecting and the bad guys had followed.
Dean drew a shaky breath. “Get a grip.”
He stared at his shattered phone for a second then turned back to the sink and splashed some water on his face.
“Found anything?” Dean asked, ambling back to Sam. He leaned against the car and glanced at the book Sam was still scanning. His jacket crinkled with the movement.
Sam let out a frustrated breath and snapped the book shut. The action caused a small puff of dust to float into the air. “No, but I have an idea: we hack the room to pieces. Screw discrepancy.”
“Finally thinking like your older brother, huh?”
Sam unceremoniously tossed the book into the backseat. “Well, when there’s no other choice...”
“We need to burn them,” Dean interrupted.
“No! No fire.”
Dean sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Dude, you know unless we completely destroy a mark of power, the power stays bound. We need to torch the place.”
“No, Dean,” Sam said, face set.
“Sam!” Dean yelled. “I know what you saw in your vision, okay, but they’re called visions for a reason, they happen.” Dean looked away. “I can’t have any more deaths on my conscience, Sammy, we gotta burn the place.”
Sam’s face softened and he sighed, looking away. “Okay,” he said after a moment. “But…we’re being careful, no crazy Rambo moves. We have to be careful, Dean.”
Dean grabbed his bag from where he’d tossed it by Sam’s feet. “Let’s go save the world then.”
Sam snorted softly and lifted his own bag onto his shoulder. His hair flopped into his eyes with the movement.
They walked in silence, their footsteps slapping the pavement almost in tune with the music thumping the ground. The sky was streaked purple and orange and their shadows stretched before them.
Dean’s shoulder felt heavy and tight, but he tried to ignore it. He glanced at the buildings as they passed them. Lights shone from within the windows and he could see people’s dark outlines as they moved around. The line of trees in the distance swayed in the fading light. A few birds flew from the cluster, little black dots fading into the purple sky. He shook his head slightly, annoyed that his concentration was drifting.
More annoying was the way Sam kept glancing at him; the boy wanted to say something.
“Betchya I can still pick up, looking like this,” Dean said before Sam had a chance to speak.
Sam smiled slightly. “Before or after we stop the ‘massacre’?”
Dean shrugged. “Before and after.”
Sam rolled his eyes and slowed down. They’d reached the old lot. It was brimming with people. Stereos were set up on the grass outside as well as in the old building. People danced and sat and stood, talking, laughing, eating. Kegs were set up all over the place and the grass was already littered with discarded cups and empty bottles.
“Is that Chris?” Sam asked in surprise, squinting through the dark.
“Guess he’s mourning his friend like the guy would’ve wanted: by getting wasted.” Dean fished some packets of matches from his bag and tossed one to Sam. “He’s going to be joining Joey real soon if we don’t end this.”
“Dean.” Sam reached out and stopped him.
Dean looked down at the hand on his jacket then up at Sam’s hesitant face. “What?”
Before Sam could say anything, a scream tore into the night. They were running before the shriek ended.
A fight had begun near the side of the old building and was steadily growing as people threw themselves into the brawl, fists flying. One person already lay curled on the grass, blood running from a stab wound in his side made by a broken beer bottle. A girl continued to scream as she tried to staunch the blood with her hands.
Sam and Dean ducked through the fists and flying bottles, hurrying to kneel by their side. “What happened?” Sam asked, removing the girl’s hands and pressing a discarded sweatshirt against the gushing wound. He exchanged a look with Dean. It was bad.
The girl shrieked again as a bottle shattered close by and another guy fell to the ground.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered, eyeing the crowd and wisely deciding not to get involved.
“I-I don’t know,” she sobbed, staring at her boyfriend, or whoever the guy was. “We were all just talking and suddenly Pete takes a swing at Matt and Matt retaliates and then everyone’s fighting and people are breaking beer bottles and Matt...he...he stabbed Pete and there’s all this blood and I-I can’t stop the bleeding.” She wiped some hair from her face leaving a streak of blood on her forehead.
“Get down!” Dean yelled, shoving the girl and Sam to the ground as a bottle whizzed over their heads. A crash sounded nearby and more screams rang out, followed by loud shouts and further scuffles.
“Son of a bitch,” Dean repeated, cautiously removing himself from his protective position over Sam and the girl.
“Come on, you gotta move from here,” Sam said, jumping up and grabbing Pete by the arms.
Dean followed suit, grabbing the guy’s legs. They moved him, as carefully as they could, to what they hoped was a safe distance from the growing chaos.
“Call an ambulance,” Sam instructed the girl, who immediately knelt by Pete’s side again.
Sam and Dean left them shielded by the trees and hurried back.
“Sammy, man, I’ve been in a lot of fights, and I can tell you that they don’t get this crazy outside of the movies or, you know, Christmas dinner.”
“Guess that’s what happens when you mix alcohol and evil, mind-controlling bastards,” Sam said. Then his eyes widened and he jumped into the fray, grabbing a guy by the arm before he could plunge a knife into a girl’s neck. “Get out of here,” Sam yelled at her, twisting the guy’s arm behind his back and forcing him to drop the knife. The girl stood frozen for a second, then kicked her attacker in the groin and ran.
Sam let go of the boy’s arm and let him double over in pain, satisfied that he was out for the count. Dean, having managed to squeeze himself through the crowd, punched him in the face for good measure and grinned as the guy slumped to the ground.
“Let’s go,” Dean said, slapping Sam’s jacket.
Sam looked hesitant, eyes traveling over the people cowering behind upturned tables, over the people holding knifes and broken bottles and planks of wood torn from god knows where, and over the people rolling injured on the grass.
“Sam, come on,” Dean repeated. “We can stand out here all night defending the weak and all that, or we can torch those symbols and end this thing ten times faster.”
Sam nodded and reluctantly turned his back, cringing as more screams bit into the night.
Inside the building, people were watching the fights from windows, arms wrapped around each other in comfort.
“He can’t risk bringing the fight too close to the room with the symbols,” Sam realized. “These old walls aren’t exactly stable.”
“Well, we’re bringing it to him.” Dean drew his bag forward and pulled out a canister of kerosene.
Everyone in the room screamed and stumbled backwards as one of the windows shattered and a body fell through.
Sam hurried forward. The fall had cut up the guy’s face and blood ran from him in rivulets. Sam grabbed him beneath the shoulders and carefully pulled him the rest of the way into the room. He felt for a pulse.
“He alive?” Dean asked. The guy looked young.
“Yeah,” Sam muttered. “Just.”
Anger coursing through him, Dean unscrewed the kerosene can and began dousing the room.
“What are you doing?” a girl asked in alarm. She had a mess of curly red hair.
“Torching the place,” Dean said, shaking the can. “Get out, all of you.”
“What? Are you fucking out of your mind? We can’t go out there!”
“You stay in here, you burn,” Sam yelled, surprising Dean. Sam gestured at the unconscious body by his feet. “Here, you have to take him with you. But be careful. Stick to the side, don’t try to cut through the fighting, avoid eye contact and get to the trees. Then wait for an ambulance.”
Nobody moved. Dean sighed and glanced at Sam, who nodded. Dean struck a match and held it above the kerosene-soaked floor. “Goodness gracious, great balls of fire.”
“Alright!” the girl yelled. “We’re leaving.”
“Knew you college kids were smart.” Dean shook out the mach.
“Who the hell are you?” a gangly kid with frosted tips asked on his way to the door, a disgusted look on his face.
“Two crazy pyromaniacs,” Dean said.
Sam showed a few of the students how to pick up the unconscious boy and watched nervously as they carried the guy to the door. Dean would’ve helped but he didn’t trust his own strength. He felt like he was quivering from the inside out and knew that only adrenaline was keeping him from collapsing.
Once the students had left, he and Sam dug their fingers into the wood planks covering the hole that led into room of symbols and pulled until they felt it give way. The planks snapped from the wall, revealing the professor standing in the middle of the room, arms raised and lips moving in a silent spell. The symbols were glowing.
The professor’s lips didn’t stop moving, but his gaze slid to theirs. He grinned. An invisible energy knocked into Sam and Dean and they found themselves flying into the opposite wall, their backs slamming against the rotting wood.
Sam groaned and pulled himself up, cringing with the effort. “You okay?” he wheezed, turning to Dean.
“I’m pissed off.” Dean used the wall to steady himself, blinking a few times to clear his wavering vision. He wasn’t out of this fight. Not yet. His vision focused and landed on the yellow liquid running down the floor. He surged forward and grabbed the upturned kerosene can before all the fluid ran out. “Here,” he said, shoving it into Sam’s hands. “I’m going to distract him.”
“No, Dean,” Sam said, in the same tone he’d used on those kids. He passed back the canister. “I’ll distract him. And if you want to argue,” Sam quickly added before Dean could protest, “how many fingers am I holding up?”
Dean sighed. “Two, you idiot. But okay, I get the point. Go, tall one, distract. But hey,” he grabbed Sam’s jacket, stopping him. “You get yourself hurt, I’m shaving off your eyebrows.”
“Ditto,” Sam said, before bolting into the room and flying at the professor before either he or Dean could react.
“Shit!” Dean yelled, hurrying after him and flinging the fluid across the room as the professor threw Sam off him. Sam collided with a wall and slumped, stunned.
“Hey!” Dean yelled, getting the professor’s attention before he could advance on his brother.
The professor turned, his eyes traveling to the lit match in Dean’s fingers. Dean grinned and let it drop. The flame caught instantly, racing through the building, snaking up the walls, spitting ferociously. The heat that sprang forward with the flames stung Dean’s eyes.
“Sam! C’mon!” Dean jumped the rows of flames that were steadily reaching higher and helped Sam from the ground. They covered their heads and ran for the exit.
“Dean!” Sam yelled. He’d stopped and was staring back at the room.
Dean turned to find the professor’s lips still moving in chant. He had one hand lifted out towards the flames, magically keeping them at bay and pushing them from the symbol’s reach. “Give us a break!”
Just as he said it, the professor’s eyes locked with Dean’s and he and Sam again found themselves tossed like rag dolls, smashing through the front door and landing in a painful heap on the grass outside.
Dean groaned. “I didn’t mean break our bones.”
Sam tried to pull himself into a sitting position but his hand slipped on the grass. He looked at it and gasped. His hand was red. Sam quickly jumped up off the ground and Dean followed, if a bit slower. They turned in circles, eyes cast downward, noting how the grass shone brown. It was slick with blood.
“Whose is that?” Sam whispered.
“Take your pick,” Dean said, casting his eyes over the huge fight that had engulfed the party.
The shouts and screams almost drowned out the fire crackling from the building. Bodies were being flung and hit and clothing torn, tables upturned and stereos tumbling to the ground in a jumble of sparks. Dean took it all in with disbelief. They were surrounded. Fucking surrounded by possessed, drunken college kids.
“Look out!”
At Sam’s shout, Dean whipped around and had to spring out of the way to avoid being bowled over by a duo locked in a runaway battle of fists. The duo fell to the ground and continued attacking. One bit the other on the arm. Dean frowned and was about to step in when he felt someone collide into him. He fell to the ground, the wind knocked out of him. Trying to catch his breath, Dean grabbed the slick grass and pulled himself out from under the body pinning him. He scrambled up, only to have to duck another blow while simultaneously grabbing a foot before it could kick him in the stomach. He flipped the foot’s owner to the ground, risking a look in Sam’s direction.
Sam was fighting his own growing group of assailants. All wore dazed expressions, and all were ruthless and unrelenting in their moves, diving in danger’s way just for a chance to land a punch or kick. Dean tried to reach him, but was again bowled to the ground. Gritting his teeth, Dean quickly rolled away and sprung up, eyeing the crowd circling him growing frustration.
“Cut it out!” Pain sparked through his shoulder but he ignored it. A few of the possessed students edged forward. “I mean it!” Dean’s eyes widened when he saw a table leg flying in his direction. He ducked, only to again find himself tackled to the ground. Dammit! He didn’t have time for this! He had to help Sam.
From the corner of his eye, he could tell Sam was actually fairing better than him, uninhibited by fresh injuries, but Dean’s pride wouldn’t take being beat up by a bunch of college nerds, possessed or not. He scrambled up and eyed each assailant as they began circling him again. “I was trained by an ex marine, trust funds won’t buy you that, kiddies.”
He managed to break through the circle of students without hurting anyone too badly. Breath ragged, sweat running down his face and eyes stinging from the heat as flames licked through the building’s old walls, Dean stumbled to where Sam still fought.
A guy wearing a checkered shirt and tight pants ran into the brawl and appeared about to jump Sam. Then Dean saw the glint of metal.
“Sam!” Dean shouted, running forward.
Sam turned but only managed to widen his eyes before the knife plunged, tearing a jagged path down his upper arm. Sam dropped to his knees with a cry, hand flying to the gash.
Dean reached the scene and grabbed the guy’s wrist, twisting the knife away and punching him across the face. He fell, hard. Dean picked up the knife and tossed it as far as he could.
“Run,” Sam panted, face contorted in pain, nodding at the next group of would-be assailants. They turned and bolted, skidding and stumbling on the slick grass.
“Over here,” Dean grabbed Sam by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him behind an upturned picnic table that sat just beyond the fighting. They slumped against it, breathing hard and letting their heads rest against the split plastic.
Dean swallowed, his throat dry and scratchy. He glanced at his brother. Blood ran through Sam’s fingers as he held them tightly against the wound. “You okay?”
Sam just nodded, lifting his hand to look at the bloodied gash. “It’s no spear through the shoulder.”
“It sucks that we can say that.”
“How’s your head?” Sam asked, nodding at a spot on Dean’s forehead.
Dean felt his head in surprise. Sticky blood met his touch. “Just a scratch,” he mumbled, worried that he hadn’t been able to feel it. Dean shook off the concern and glanced back at the fighting. The flames from the building were growing larger, bathing the scene in a wavering orange light and crackling so loudly he could barely hear the grunts of pain and frantic scuffling that had consumed his hearing whilst in the midst of the fighting.
He let out a frustrated breath and pounded the grass. Sam too glanced back behind them and then shut his eyes, banging his head against the table. “We’re being run from the hunt by a bunch of frat boys! Do you realize how absurd that is?”
“And we’re hiding behind a plastic table,” Dean added.
“And not just frat boys,” Sam continued. “I swear Brenda tried to kick me.”
“This is not the big bang I planned to go out in.”
Sam glanced at him. He looked angry. He opened his mouth but a bloodcurdling scream cut off whatever he’d been about to say. It lasted only a second before it was abruptly silenced. Sam grew pale, and Dean knew the look reflected his own.
“People are dying,” Sam whispered.
Dean looked back at the scene playing out behind them. He looked at the blood splattered grass, then at the fire wrapping itself around the exits. He listened to the shouts and to his brother’s ragged breaths. And he heard the professor’s voice in his head: On your shoulders...
Something dark grew in him then, hardening him. He knew what he had to do.
Dean pulled himself up. Sam’s arm shot out and grabbed him. “What are you doing?” he asked, alarmed.
“I have to destroy those symbols. I can’t have a bloodbath on my conscience, Sammy. I can’t.”
Sam scrambled up. “It’s suicide, going back there, you know that right?”
“I know; that’s why you’re staying here.”
It took a second for Sam to respond. “What?” he yelled, jumping in front of Dean and holding out an arm, stopping him.
“Sam,” Dean growled. “We don’t have time for this!”
“You’re right, we don’t, so get over the hero complex. We do this together or not at all.” His voice sounded thick but he looked like he was ready to lash out.
“Dammit, Sammy.” Dean wanted to yell and get angry, order Sam to stay here and demand he not argue. “Let me do this,” he whispered instead, imploring Sam because he never could demand anything from the kid.
For a second Sam looked like he was about to crumple, but his face hardened instead and he roughly pushed passed Dean. “No,” he said, defiantly striding for the building.
Dean reached out and grabbed his arm. “You’re a little shit, you know that?”
“Why is my life more important than yours?” Sam yelled.
“It just is!” Dean swallowed and looked away. “Don’t hate me when you wake up.”
“What?” Sam frowned.
Knowing he had no other choice, Dean reeled back his fist and swung it at Sam’s head, hitting him squarely across the jaw. Sam swayed for a second before falling to his knees, dazed.
Dean blinked in surprise. “How didn’t that knock you out?”
Cursing fate for making him do this a second time, he hit Sam again, cringing as his fist connected with a hollow thump. Sam fell unconscious to the ground. “Sorry, Sammy,” he said. “But geez you have a hard head.”
Carefully hooking his arms beneath Sam’s shoulders, Dean dragged his limp brother back behind the table, leaning him against it in what he hoped was a comfortable position. Reluctant to leave him alone, Dean scanned the surrounding area and noticed Chris and a few of his friends standing behind some trees, watching the carnage from a safe distance.
“Hey!” Dean yelled.
The shout startled them and they instinctively backed up.
“Chris, buddy, come over here”
“You come over here!”
Brat. “Come on, man, I need a favor.”
“What sort of favor?’
“Would you just get over here!”
Chris glanced at his friends then slowly ambled over, stepping back every time noise from the fighting startled him. Dean sighed impatiently. At this rate everyone would be dead by the time he moved out from behind this frickin’ table.
“The world’s gone twilight zone crazy, man,” Chris said when he finally reached Dean. “Or we’re in a fucking nightmare. Pinch me.”
“Pinch yourself. How much have you had to drink tonight?” Dean glanced back at the fire and had to stop himself from bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“Half a beer,” Chris answered.
“You sure that’s it?” He couldn’t risk Chris getting possessed while Sam was defenseless.
“Yeah, I-I couldn’t without Joey, you know?”
“Okay, good, can you watch my brother while he’s out?”
Chris looked down at Sam, noticing him for the first time. “Whoa, dude, is he hurt or wasted? Well, yeah, doesn’t matter I guess. Sure, yeah sure, I’ll make sure he’s isn’t knifed or anything.”
Dean nodded, relieved. “Thanks, man. Um, when he wakes up, tell him…” Tell him I love him and that I’m sorry and that he better live one hell of a life and die surrounded by stupid fat grandchildren. “Tell him to put a cold one on the bruise. Works better than ice.”
Taking one last look at Sam’s slumped body, Dean turned and barreled through the crowd, rushing into the burning building.
***
[Mood|
]