Lessons Chapter 9
I suck. I know. I suck at updating at a sane rate. Ah well...real life sure is distracting sometimes! But here's chapter nine. It's shorter than usual, but I really wanted to end it where it does.
Chapter 9:
The room was bathed in sea of orange, and the heat was enough to take Dean’s breath away. But the noise…the noise was like being trapped inside the memory of his burning house.
Shaking off the thought, Dean blinked passed the smoke. He could just make out the back room. It was still intact. Pulling his jacket up over his nose to guard himself from the smoke, Dean pulled his gun from his waistband. He could see the professor just beyond the haphazard opening, keeping the fire at bay. That son of a bitch wasn’t getting out of here alive.
Keeping his gun close, Dean hurried forward. He lifted the weapon and pulled the trigger just as the professor noticed his entrance. The surprised look flew off Linberg’s face as rock salt exploded from the barrel, hitting him squarely in the chest.
“Weren’t expecting that, were you?” Dean tossed the gun aside and drew out a small canister, this time hurling the fluid directly over the symbols. Cursing his shaking hands, willing himself faster, Dean drew a match and flicked it onto the walls. The liquid glowed orange for half a second, illuminating the symbols, then burst into flames.
“No!”
Linberg was back on his feet, eyes traveling with the fire as it raced over the symbols.
“Argh!” Linberg cried out and fell to one knee, clutching his stomach, face contorted in pain. For a second he was quiet, resting his forehead on his knee. Then he spoke in a voice mangled with barely controlled rage: “You know what? I’d planned to kill the people you cared about. That fat friend, your brother, your fake classmates. I’d planned to let you live with the knowledge of the pain you wrought…but I’ve changed my mind.” He looked up and locked eyes with Dean. “I want to hurt you more.” He sprung up and catapulted forward with surprising speed, grabbing Dean by his shirt lapels and slamming him against one of the flaming walls.
Dean’s eyes widened as the smell of burning cloth assaulted his senses. He shoved Linberg away, who stumbled backwards and laughed as Dean tore off the jacket, stamping out the flames.
“Laugh in the face of death type, huh?” Dean spat. It hadn’t passed his attention that Linberg’s strength was weakening, and would continue to weaken as the symbols burned. He just had to survive that long.
“I’m not the one facing death.” Linberg swung his fist, but Dean ducked into a roll and grabbed a plank of wood on his way up. He snapped it in half over his knee and plunged it into Linberg’s back.
The professor screamed, but he didn’t fall. Seething, he reached behind himself and pulled the wood out, stumbling slightly as it came loose. “You can’t kill me,” he snarled, tossing aside the plank of wood.
“Not yet, but soon.” Dean nodded at the flames steadily engulfing the symbols. Soon they’d be destroyed and Linberg’s immortality would disappear. Soon Dean would get his chance to end this.
Linberg glanced at the symbols, the light reflecting a fear in his eyes. He licked his lips slowly, almost thoughtfully, and turned to smile at Dean. Then, taking Dean by surprise, Linberg shoved passed him and bolted for the door.
“Hey,” Dean yelled. “Son of a bitch!” He catapulted himself after Linberg, tackling him to the floor. He couldn’t let him escape. Not now. Linberg could have a backup somewhere in his dark magic stash - a way to remain immortal if these symbols were ever destroyed. Dean wasn’t going to let that happen. Linberg shoved Dean aside and tried to roll away, but Dean punched him once and sprung up first, placing himself between Linberg and the exit. He ignored the flames flickering closer.
Eyes trained on Dean, Linberg slowly pulled himself up and brushed the dirt from his jacket. His calm movements couldn’t mask the panic in his eyes. “Shall we do the civilized thing and take this outside?”
“Sorry, I left my civilized way and fencing sword in the Middle Ages.”
Linberg’s face twitched and his lips stretched back, almost snarling. He glanced back at the burning symbols, and then fought a groan, his hands clutching his side, as more of his power dissipated. He swung his gaze back to the door that Dean was blocking. “Don’t be a fool. By the time those symbols burn away, this whole building will have burnt with them. We’ll both die.”
The flames were drawing closer, edging onto their only exit. Dean could feel their heat on his back, feel his face grow warmer and his clothes dampen with sweat. The fire was crackling so loudly he couldn’t hear anything beyond it, nothing from the outside. It was just him and Linberg and a decision that rest on his shoulders.
Linberg’s eyes bore into Dean’s. They were filled with hatred and panic. And something else: triumph. Linberg only studied negative human emotions. He didn’t believe in heroes. But neither did Dean. So he silently asked Sam to forgive him for not being one. And he smiled. “I’m roasty toasting your insides.”
Whatever happened next, it was worth it to see Linberg’s face slacken in shock before reddening in anger. “You’re a right fuck up and I’m going to see you in hell!”
Dean waggled his finger. “Language.”
Linberg lurched forward and Dean took the hit, falling to the ground and snagging Linberg’s arm on his way down. Linberg wrapped his fingers into fists around Dean’s shirt and slammed him repeatedly against the floor. But the only thing that mattered was making sure Linberg didn’t get out of here, making sure Dean held onto him in a grip that no beating could release.
Which didn’t mean he wouldn’t take the low blow if the opportunity presented itself: Dean kneed Linberg in the groin and pushed him away. As Linberg groaned and doubled over, Dean sprung up and barreled into him. They tumbled into one of the burning tables, their bodies extinguishing the flames.
John had always taught Dean that it only took one mistake to kiss his life goodbye. Dean grew up understanding that he was always one slip from the bad guy’s reach. As Dean felt the table splinter and collapse beneath him - the sound merging with the crash of a few overheard beams that could no longer withstand the heat - as the fire ate into the building’s core and licked closer to his head, Dean made the mistake. It was ironic really: he was so intent on ignoring his injuries that he’d forgotten to shield them. Never let them attack your weak spot, that was something else John had taught him. He wished he’d remembered it.
Linberg had grabbed a piece of wood and slammed it down on Dean’s shoulder, right on top of the damaged flesh. Dean gasped as hot pain flashed through him. He’d made his mistake, he’d slipped, and now Linberg had the upper hand and wasn’t letting go.
Dean felt himself lifted, felt the sweet sensation of air rush passed him a second before he slammed into a hot wall that splintered and collapsed on impact. Embers and wood rained down on him. Dean forced himself from the wreckage, forced himself to blink passed the smoke, forced himself to tackle Linberg one more time as he tried again to escape. Linberg flung Dean from his back. The smoke and heat and pain slowed Dean’s senses and he didn’t have time to prepare himself for the fall. He landed awkwardly on one knee with a sickening crunch and a blinding burst of red that stole his vision for a second.
Linberg strode forward and pulled Dean from the floor, digging his fingers into Dean’s wounded shoulder. He hit Dean in the face with a loud, hollow smack. Dean’s head whipped back and there was silence for a second. The world slowed down and the fire stopped advancing to become a blanket of orange light instead. He remembered the lights that used to hang above Sam’s crib, turning in circles and bathing his brother orange. So there was a time when the colour hadn’t meant pain and loss. There was a time when it had danced on Sammy’s chubby cheeks as the boy laughed and watched him. Dean smiled as his baby brother cooed and he couldn’t tell if the sound was from inside his memory or if he really was standing by the crib. A second later, the sounds of fire and collapsing wood returned with a rush and Dean fell to the ground as blood splattered the floor, but he didn’t care. He didn’t mind dying by the light of a fire anymore.
Groggily, Dean turned to see a fist flying towards his face. He let his gaze drift to the ceiling and watched the bright embers float down before something cracked and pain stole his vision. Linberg hit him again and again, and all Dean could do was shut his eyes and try to block out the sound of flesh hitting flesh. His flesh. But just as a black blanket began to descend, blocking out the pain, it stopped. Dean listened and waited but no last blow came. He almost wished it would. The pain was returning, spreading from a million different spots on his face and he could taste blood and feel the hot air tug at split skin. Dean opened his eyes and found Linberg staring at the door in horror.
Dean turned his head. The door was engulfed by flames, the last inch of wood consumed in front of their eyes. Dean laughed. He laughed a deep, long laugh that shook his body and made tears run from his eyes. He laughed like his life had all been one big joke and this was the punch line. He tried to pull himself up, but his left leg refused to move. Dean glanced down at it. His jeans were torn at the knee and something white peeked out from the cloth. He laughed harder and shifted his weight so that he could draw himself up on his good knee. The world spun and spun around him in circles, faster and faster, brighter and brighter, like those lights above Sammy’s crib. Then the spinning stopped and he locked eyes with the professor. He grinned.
“What the hell is so funny!”
“I’m going out in a blaze of glory. Literally,” Dean said. “Come on, that’s funny.”
Linberg charged at him, but Dean refused to move. He watched the professor approach and, letting his instincts take control, letting them consume any sense of caution or care that used to hold him back, Dean waited until Linberg was within reach then grabbed him, hit him to the ground, drew him close and snapped his neck. It took less than a second.
Dean blinked and the adrenaline retreated, blinked again and the pain retreated with it. He looked down at Linberg’s still face. Before his eyes, it decomposed just as Damien’s body had. Dean shoved the body away in disgust and it crumbled, the fire greedily pouncing on the remains.
A block of burning wood fell just beside Dean’s legs. Dean flinched as the flames singed his skin. He knew he had to move. He knew it, but he didn’t want to. If he let his concentration slip, which wasn’t hard, the heat could be warm like a blanket. The smoke choking him could actually be death’s hands easing him to sleep. The falling embers and collapsing wood just a show for his departure. And the tears on his cheeks he’d just ignore.
He blinked and found the floor staring back at him at a skewered angle. Blinked again and saw that the floor was now dancing and flickering and glowing orange. Blinked again and a feeling like the sun’s warm rays bathed his face. He could no longer feel his body’s coughing fits. He knew he was dying when all he could feel was his dad’s arms around him, lifting him into the air, when all he could see was his mother dressed in green and brown, no white to be seen. He knew he was dying when he heard Sam laughing happily. He knew he was dying, but he didn’t care. He laughed with Sam and held onto his dad and watched his mother’s smiling face.
Chapter 9:
The room was bathed in sea of orange, and the heat was enough to take Dean’s breath away. But the noise…the noise was like being trapped inside the memory of his burning house.
Shaking off the thought, Dean blinked passed the smoke. He could just make out the back room. It was still intact. Pulling his jacket up over his nose to guard himself from the smoke, Dean pulled his gun from his waistband. He could see the professor just beyond the haphazard opening, keeping the fire at bay. That son of a bitch wasn’t getting out of here alive.
Keeping his gun close, Dean hurried forward. He lifted the weapon and pulled the trigger just as the professor noticed his entrance. The surprised look flew off Linberg’s face as rock salt exploded from the barrel, hitting him squarely in the chest.
“Weren’t expecting that, were you?” Dean tossed the gun aside and drew out a small canister, this time hurling the fluid directly over the symbols. Cursing his shaking hands, willing himself faster, Dean drew a match and flicked it onto the walls. The liquid glowed orange for half a second, illuminating the symbols, then burst into flames.
“No!”
Linberg was back on his feet, eyes traveling with the fire as it raced over the symbols.
“Argh!” Linberg cried out and fell to one knee, clutching his stomach, face contorted in pain. For a second he was quiet, resting his forehead on his knee. Then he spoke in a voice mangled with barely controlled rage: “You know what? I’d planned to kill the people you cared about. That fat friend, your brother, your fake classmates. I’d planned to let you live with the knowledge of the pain you wrought…but I’ve changed my mind.” He looked up and locked eyes with Dean. “I want to hurt you more.” He sprung up and catapulted forward with surprising speed, grabbing Dean by his shirt lapels and slamming him against one of the flaming walls.
Dean’s eyes widened as the smell of burning cloth assaulted his senses. He shoved Linberg away, who stumbled backwards and laughed as Dean tore off the jacket, stamping out the flames.
“Laugh in the face of death type, huh?” Dean spat. It hadn’t passed his attention that Linberg’s strength was weakening, and would continue to weaken as the symbols burned. He just had to survive that long.
“I’m not the one facing death.” Linberg swung his fist, but Dean ducked into a roll and grabbed a plank of wood on his way up. He snapped it in half over his knee and plunged it into Linberg’s back.
The professor screamed, but he didn’t fall. Seething, he reached behind himself and pulled the wood out, stumbling slightly as it came loose. “You can’t kill me,” he snarled, tossing aside the plank of wood.
“Not yet, but soon.” Dean nodded at the flames steadily engulfing the symbols. Soon they’d be destroyed and Linberg’s immortality would disappear. Soon Dean would get his chance to end this.
Linberg glanced at the symbols, the light reflecting a fear in his eyes. He licked his lips slowly, almost thoughtfully, and turned to smile at Dean. Then, taking Dean by surprise, Linberg shoved passed him and bolted for the door.
“Hey,” Dean yelled. “Son of a bitch!” He catapulted himself after Linberg, tackling him to the floor. He couldn’t let him escape. Not now. Linberg could have a backup somewhere in his dark magic stash - a way to remain immortal if these symbols were ever destroyed. Dean wasn’t going to let that happen. Linberg shoved Dean aside and tried to roll away, but Dean punched him once and sprung up first, placing himself between Linberg and the exit. He ignored the flames flickering closer.
Eyes trained on Dean, Linberg slowly pulled himself up and brushed the dirt from his jacket. His calm movements couldn’t mask the panic in his eyes. “Shall we do the civilized thing and take this outside?”
“Sorry, I left my civilized way and fencing sword in the Middle Ages.”
Linberg’s face twitched and his lips stretched back, almost snarling. He glanced back at the burning symbols, and then fought a groan, his hands clutching his side, as more of his power dissipated. He swung his gaze back to the door that Dean was blocking. “Don’t be a fool. By the time those symbols burn away, this whole building will have burnt with them. We’ll both die.”
The flames were drawing closer, edging onto their only exit. Dean could feel their heat on his back, feel his face grow warmer and his clothes dampen with sweat. The fire was crackling so loudly he couldn’t hear anything beyond it, nothing from the outside. It was just him and Linberg and a decision that rest on his shoulders.
Linberg’s eyes bore into Dean’s. They were filled with hatred and panic. And something else: triumph. Linberg only studied negative human emotions. He didn’t believe in heroes. But neither did Dean. So he silently asked Sam to forgive him for not being one. And he smiled. “I’m roasty toasting your insides.”
Whatever happened next, it was worth it to see Linberg’s face slacken in shock before reddening in anger. “You’re a right fuck up and I’m going to see you in hell!”
Dean waggled his finger. “Language.”
Linberg lurched forward and Dean took the hit, falling to the ground and snagging Linberg’s arm on his way down. Linberg wrapped his fingers into fists around Dean’s shirt and slammed him repeatedly against the floor. But the only thing that mattered was making sure Linberg didn’t get out of here, making sure Dean held onto him in a grip that no beating could release.
Which didn’t mean he wouldn’t take the low blow if the opportunity presented itself: Dean kneed Linberg in the groin and pushed him away. As Linberg groaned and doubled over, Dean sprung up and barreled into him. They tumbled into one of the burning tables, their bodies extinguishing the flames.
John had always taught Dean that it only took one mistake to kiss his life goodbye. Dean grew up understanding that he was always one slip from the bad guy’s reach. As Dean felt the table splinter and collapse beneath him - the sound merging with the crash of a few overheard beams that could no longer withstand the heat - as the fire ate into the building’s core and licked closer to his head, Dean made the mistake. It was ironic really: he was so intent on ignoring his injuries that he’d forgotten to shield them. Never let them attack your weak spot, that was something else John had taught him. He wished he’d remembered it.
Linberg had grabbed a piece of wood and slammed it down on Dean’s shoulder, right on top of the damaged flesh. Dean gasped as hot pain flashed through him. He’d made his mistake, he’d slipped, and now Linberg had the upper hand and wasn’t letting go.
Dean felt himself lifted, felt the sweet sensation of air rush passed him a second before he slammed into a hot wall that splintered and collapsed on impact. Embers and wood rained down on him. Dean forced himself from the wreckage, forced himself to blink passed the smoke, forced himself to tackle Linberg one more time as he tried again to escape. Linberg flung Dean from his back. The smoke and heat and pain slowed Dean’s senses and he didn’t have time to prepare himself for the fall. He landed awkwardly on one knee with a sickening crunch and a blinding burst of red that stole his vision for a second.
Linberg strode forward and pulled Dean from the floor, digging his fingers into Dean’s wounded shoulder. He hit Dean in the face with a loud, hollow smack. Dean’s head whipped back and there was silence for a second. The world slowed down and the fire stopped advancing to become a blanket of orange light instead. He remembered the lights that used to hang above Sam’s crib, turning in circles and bathing his brother orange. So there was a time when the colour hadn’t meant pain and loss. There was a time when it had danced on Sammy’s chubby cheeks as the boy laughed and watched him. Dean smiled as his baby brother cooed and he couldn’t tell if the sound was from inside his memory or if he really was standing by the crib. A second later, the sounds of fire and collapsing wood returned with a rush and Dean fell to the ground as blood splattered the floor, but he didn’t care. He didn’t mind dying by the light of a fire anymore.
Groggily, Dean turned to see a fist flying towards his face. He let his gaze drift to the ceiling and watched the bright embers float down before something cracked and pain stole his vision. Linberg hit him again and again, and all Dean could do was shut his eyes and try to block out the sound of flesh hitting flesh. His flesh. But just as a black blanket began to descend, blocking out the pain, it stopped. Dean listened and waited but no last blow came. He almost wished it would. The pain was returning, spreading from a million different spots on his face and he could taste blood and feel the hot air tug at split skin. Dean opened his eyes and found Linberg staring at the door in horror.
Dean turned his head. The door was engulfed by flames, the last inch of wood consumed in front of their eyes. Dean laughed. He laughed a deep, long laugh that shook his body and made tears run from his eyes. He laughed like his life had all been one big joke and this was the punch line. He tried to pull himself up, but his left leg refused to move. Dean glanced down at it. His jeans were torn at the knee and something white peeked out from the cloth. He laughed harder and shifted his weight so that he could draw himself up on his good knee. The world spun and spun around him in circles, faster and faster, brighter and brighter, like those lights above Sammy’s crib. Then the spinning stopped and he locked eyes with the professor. He grinned.
“What the hell is so funny!”
“I’m going out in a blaze of glory. Literally,” Dean said. “Come on, that’s funny.”
Linberg charged at him, but Dean refused to move. He watched the professor approach and, letting his instincts take control, letting them consume any sense of caution or care that used to hold him back, Dean waited until Linberg was within reach then grabbed him, hit him to the ground, drew him close and snapped his neck. It took less than a second.
Dean blinked and the adrenaline retreated, blinked again and the pain retreated with it. He looked down at Linberg’s still face. Before his eyes, it decomposed just as Damien’s body had. Dean shoved the body away in disgust and it crumbled, the fire greedily pouncing on the remains.
A block of burning wood fell just beside Dean’s legs. Dean flinched as the flames singed his skin. He knew he had to move. He knew it, but he didn’t want to. If he let his concentration slip, which wasn’t hard, the heat could be warm like a blanket. The smoke choking him could actually be death’s hands easing him to sleep. The falling embers and collapsing wood just a show for his departure. And the tears on his cheeks he’d just ignore.
He blinked and found the floor staring back at him at a skewered angle. Blinked again and saw that the floor was now dancing and flickering and glowing orange. Blinked again and a feeling like the sun’s warm rays bathed his face. He could no longer feel his body’s coughing fits. He knew he was dying when all he could feel was his dad’s arms around him, lifting him into the air, when all he could see was his mother dressed in green and brown, no white to be seen. He knew he was dying when he heard Sam laughing happily. He knew he was dying, but he didn’t care. He laughed with Sam and held onto his dad and watched his mother’s smiling face.