Title: Over the Hills & Far Away - CHAPTER 4A
Author(s):
operationhadesArtist:
evian_forkWarning: few curse words, once or twice, primarily from Dean, and, uh, John.
Summary: Sam was a fourteen year old mutant when he walked in on an injured Dean staring up at the barrel of a gun held by John Winchester. And after that, with Sam at the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning and Dean throwing John, every other hunter in the country, and a pissed Yellow Eyed Demon of their trail, thing's only get progressively worse.
4A
CHAPTER FOUR
“Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.” - Confucius
Sunday, May 1st, 3:46 pm:
The abandoned cabin deep in the woods was probably the dumbest place Dean could have decided to go, but as he limped through the trees and greenery, wincing at the pull of far too many aches and bruises caused by a Rugaru, he decided he just didn't give a damn, and that it would be really unlikely he'd get caught here after three years of playing hide and seek with hunters. The little cabin was as bad as it'd always been, almost falling apart as it loomed quietly in its solitude, surrounded by nothing but nature. Dean circled the clearing before going anywhere near the cabin, watching it to see if it was empty, if there were any other tracks around the area that weren't of animal origin. Only once he'd deemed it empty and that the coast was clear did he limp his way to the cabin, opening up the door and coughing at the cloud of dust that attacked him.
The inside was almost as bad as the outside - certainly not capable of standing up to any fierce weather, anyway - but not as bad as some of the places Dean had holed up in as of late. Being a lone hunter on the run from both hunters and the law was a serious cramp in his style, something Dean hadn't expected to last so long those three years ago when he'd left Sammy at the stupidly lavish mansion for mutants. But at least now he knew the difference between a mutant and a monster, right? Now, whenever he took a case and realised somebody wasn't so much as a shapeshifter but an actual mutant, he didn't automatically pump them full of silver, which would've been really awkward if he had and horrible for his conscience. Though thankfully he hadn't yet run into any shapeshifting mutants. Just a chick that could turn into a werewolf, called something like... Rain? Who knew. Weird chick.
Werewolves not being affected by the lunar cycle aside, Dean dropped the duffel bag towards a corner, taking out a bag of salt he always kept on him and promptly did up the windows and entrances. He went outside the cabin to the end of the clearing and cut a long line down his palm, wincing at the brief flash of pain, watching the blood well up until there was enough for him to use. Quickly, wary of the sun beating down on his back and putting him in plain sight of anyone lurking around, Dean drew a wide circle on the tree branch, a few clicks into the forest, painting a protection symbol - he'd been forced to learn - onto it with easy strokes. He did the same with four other trees, circling around his cabin in a wide arc and mixing the symbols up - two for protection, one for stealth and one to weaken anything strong enough to get past all his preparations. He went inside the cabin and repeated the procedure, so used to it after having done it for the past year or so, ever since that bitch Meg had gotten a whiff of his blood and could find him at the drop of a hat.
It was for the best, theoretically, that she was still dogging his heels. It meant she didn't know where Sam was, didn't have a clue about the Westchester Mansion, didn't know that Sam was - to put it bluntly - a psychic. He still didn't like to think of his little brother as a mutant, as something different. Psychics he could understand; apparently there was a woman in Lawrence who Dad had gone too and trusted called Missouri, though Dean hadn't gone to see her because Dad trusted her. Any sort of person Dad believed in was someone who would shoot Dean first on sight. And anybody Dad hadn't verified just didn't strike Dean as the real deal. Still, psychics were human that just had a sixth sense stronger than most people, but mutants? That sounded like they were a whole different race, something different, and Dean just couldn't get behind that.
At least Sam was still safe.
Cabin proofing done, Dean collapsed onto a thrift mattress, ignoring the plumes of dust that rose up at the impact, and made himself comfortable. Gun under pillow, knife wrapped around his ankle, Dean toed off his boots and fidgeted until he'd found a position that didn't bother any of the injuries he'd sustained from an irritated Wendigo.
His eyes fluttered closed, coming to a stop once his vision was clouded by darkness. And with such an inviting colour seducing him to unconsciousness, Dean fell asleep.
. . .
Beep.
“Hey Pastor, it's us, Walt 'n Roy. You're on speaker.”
Jim... stared down at his phone, eyebrows rising up before bringing it back up to his ear. “Ah yes, Walt, Roy, how are you both?”
One of the men coughed awkwardly, most likely Roy from the sound. Roy always was the more... squeamish, of the two. “We're good, Pastor. Just got a question for ya.”
Any other hunter would've said “shoot”, or maybe “fire away”, but Jim was always sensitive about word choices such as those. “Please, ask.”
“Well,” Walt began, sounding surprisingly hesitant. “It's just, we didn't know the crazy fuck John Winchester made up with his boy, Dean.”
Jim froze, clenching the phone harder to his ear. “Walt, what are you talking about?”
“Uh.”
“No, Walt, Dean is dead. A monster is using his face. Nothing has changed. What are you talking about?”
Roy cursed at the other end, nothing coming from them for a while before Walt spoke up again. “I saw Dean up in that ol' cabin of Singer's, Pastor.”
“When?”
“'Bout afternoon? Maybe three or four?”
Again, any other hunter would've blasphemed by now, but Jim was a man of the Lord and had far more restraint, despite wanting nothing more than to let loose a barrage of curses. “Walt, Roy, both of you must listen to me very carefully. Get out of there as fast as you can. That isn't Dean. It's a monster working for The Demon.”
“The Demon? John Winchester's fabled demon?”
Of course John's tale would be something right out of legend among hunters. He became even more famous after one son got killed and the other kidnapped, now also presumed dead by the majority. Everybody generally kept their opinion to themselves, though, because John was still searching high and low for both, his alive youngest son and the creature that had killed his oldest. Jim closed his eyes, grief overtaking him for a moment, remembering the last time he'd seen Dean, the last time he'd talked to Sam. John was a good man, and his kids had been wonderful kids, the best, most adapted kids he'd ever seen, and none of them deserved the bad fortune that constantly befell them.
“Pastor?”
Jim opened his eyes, blinking a few times to clear the haze of accumulated liquid before he coughed to clear his throat. “Yes, I'm here. And yes, The Demon. I have to call Bobby Singer and pass on the message, make sure John is aware of this. Remember, Walt, Roy, stay away from there. It's not worth losing two hunters over a creature we still know very little about.”
The two (very barely just so) hunters gave their assent, mixing it with goodbyes before hanging up. Pastor Jim Murphy stared down at his phone in mute shock, mind going a mile a second as to why the creature wearing Dean's face would be at Bobby's old cabin, and now of all times. It reeked of a trap, especially the timing, just when John had started noticing signs of his demon, putting together storms and cattle mutilations to track the demon's route, and now he had to call him to add another worry onto his load.
Sighing, Jim punched in the number to Bobby's, knowing without even trying John wouldn't pick up his phone. The dial tone lasted only three beats before Bobby's gruff greeting came through the phone, making Jim smile despite himself.
“Hello, Bobby.” He greeted pleasantly, giving a small prayer that Walt and Roy had taken his advice and weren't going to try something stupid. “How are you?”
Bobby hummed in thought for a bit before chuckling. “As much as I like talkin' to ya, Jim, I know you didn't call just to check up on me. Usually you do that around noon.”
Jim looked at a nearby clock, noting the time with a wry grin. Noon was around the time Bobby started in on the drinks, and it was already six pm in the evening. “I don't suppose you've gotten any word from John lately, have you?”
A grunt. “He went to see that Wendigo problem with the hikers, I think. Said something about someone already takin' care of it.”
Jim nodded, glad to see John wouldn't be too far from the cabin. “Bobby, I just got a call from Walt and Roy.”
“Those two idiots? I'm surprised they're still alive.”
“Bobby. That old cabin of yours, the one John used to take his boys to back when they were...” Young? Still learning how to shoot and salt windows? Alive? “Walt and Roy say they saw Dean there.” Bobby didn't reply immediately, going deadly silent until Jim was afraid he'd somehow lost contact. “Bobby...?”
“Jim, I'mma have to call you back.”
Jim sighed, shoulders drooping at the tone of his friend. “Bobby...”
But he'd already hung up the phone.
. . .
Monday, May 2nd, 2:45am:
Figured the son of a bitch would dirty up the trees.
“... John, wait for me, don't just rush in there...”
He didn't recognise the symbols, painted so crudely over the tree's bark in blood, except for two. Why the bastard felt it needed protection was beyond him, but considering what John was planning on doing to it, the bastard needed all the protection it could get.
“... We still got no clue as to what it is, John, or how to kill it...”
The cabin was only a few clicks away, smack dab in the middle of the small clearing, a dark silhouette against the dark of the night. It looked exactly like it'd done every other time John had been here, be it when he'd come with his two boys in tow or the years following when they'd been taken from him. He stomped down on the thoughts, refusing to give in to the grief he still harboured, pushing it down deep into the place where he kept his emotions of Mary locked up. Tonight, today, whatever, he'd at least get redemption for his boys, for not being there for them, for not knowing something was wrong until that damn hunt when something had pushed him away without touching him. He should've noticed something wrong about Dean - about the bastard pretending to be his son - maybe wonder what had brought about some of the rebellion Sam had started to grow into, the obvious side effect of being under that thing's thumb every hour of the day. Dammit, he couldn't believe he'd left that son of a bitch with his boy, with his youngest, and now he'd lost both. And the monster that had taken them away from him was right there, in the cabin, and John had the element of surprise on his side.
Tracking through the trees, John moved towards the cabin, hunching down so he couldn't be seen through what little remained of the windows. He hadn't seen any actual sign of life around the area except for the sigils on the tree. He'd hacked off two of the symbols he hadn't recognised with his pen knife until all that was left behind was the mauled trunk, not willing to take any chances on them being something that could hinder him. Sigils were powerful - even more so when drawn when blood - and the fact that the creature knew this only showed just how dangerous it was.
“... It smells too much like a trap, ya idjit, don't go...”
He had three different guns. One silver, the other consecrated iron, the third rock salt. He had six different kinds of knife on him, of every different material he could think of, almost all dipped in holy water. If none of that worked, he knew exorcisms better than Bobby, from Latin to Sumerian to Old Arabic, to deal with demons of all strength, including the Fallen, and the powerful Djinn's of Islamic Lore that were constantly mistaken for demons. John was prepared, he could do this, he could gank this ugly son of a bitch and find out where the bastard had stashed his kids at too. Then he'd drive there without stopping, find his boys, and put this all behind him like a bad chapter.
No other options.
He loaded all three up, made sure every single one of his weapons were in the same perfect condition he'd left them in, then moved forwards towards the cabin's lone entrance. Best bet he had was to take the creature by surprise, go in there gun blazing, shooting silver bullets from his right hand and rock salt from his left, because the creatures usually affected by silver had no qualms with rock salt, and the creatures usually affected by rock salt and no qualms with silver. If neither of them worked, he'd unload consecrated iron into the son of a bitch, and work from there.
With that in mind, he prepared himself, slowed down his breathing till it barely made a sound, then sprang forward and kicked the cabin's door down with his thick boot. The door splintered apart, just as he knew he would, and he pushed right through the jagged remains into the cabin, eyes sweeping through the place until they landed on the shocked figure of... of...
Dean.
The sight was like a punch to the gut, stealing his breath and forcing him to falter for a moment, and that momentary pause of surprise was enough time for the creature still wearing his first born's face to scramble to his feet.
“Dad...”
Shit, John thought wildly, the bastard was still using that game. Of course he was, no normal father would ever be able to shoot something that even looked like their son, but John was a hunter, John was a damn good hunter, and John knew this wasn't his boy, but the thing that took his boys away from him.
“You sonuvabitch!” He snarled viciously, aiming both guns at the bastard's wide eyes. “What did you do to my boys?”
The creature's palms came up, devoid of any weapon, held out to keep John from shooting. “Dad, calm down.” The bastard continued. “I'm not... I'm not a-” Something creaked, catching the monster's attention, but John wasn't wont to be distracted by a parlour trick like that. Instead, he watched as the thing parading as his son tensed, body going taut just like Dean's did, eyes widening and fixing on something just behind John's shoulder. It was like a stupid trick of “look over there”, using the distraction to run away, something so human and below anything a demon or something working with one would do. And that's when he heard it-
“Hello, Johnny,”
And that's when he smelt it-
“Fancy seeing you here.”
Rotten eggs.
. . .
Oh, oh, oh, the faces - priceless, really. Azazel grinned, flashing teeth at the two Winchester's staring at him in mute shock. He climbed into the cabin, raising his legs higher than usual to avoid the annoying bits of wood still clinging to the frame of what had once been the door, chuckling to himself a little. “Oh, Johnny, Johnny, Johnny.” He tutted, brushing off some imaginary lint from his jacket. “It's been a while, hasn't it? What, maybe about... Sixteen years? Almost seventeen?”
He confidently strolled into the cabin, looking around the place with a critical eye. The place was even more run down than he'd have thought. “My, what a lovely little place you have here.” A pause. “Very... Lived in.”
John's head swivelled over to his son, only barely able to keep a hold on his emotions. “So you are working for the demon, you bastard.” He growled out, which most certainly caught Azazel's waning attention.
Slightly surprised by the words, he turned to look at the mentioned eldest with raised eyebrows, looking up and down in silent appraisal. “You?” He questioned incredulously, jabbing a finger in Dean's direction and looking to John. “Him? Evil? Is this some twenty first century joke? He sure as hell isn't working for me.” Before either of the two could respond, he waved a hand, pushing them both towards opposite sides of the room. They landed with a satisfying thud, Dean especially cracking his skull against the wall a bit more forcefully than Azazel intended. Oh, who was he kidding? He completely intended it, if only to get rid of the most pressing amount of violence he had for the boy. “Now, now, I'm sure we can all chat. I just need to know something right of the bat.”
“I'm going to fucking kill you.” John hissed from his place, all bravado and bark, but no bite. “I swear to God-”
“Sorry Johnny boy.” He chirped. “Seems like your god isn't in the building. See, I don't think you have that little ol' gun you've been searching for lately. You know, something a little birdy told me about? The Colt? Meaning you can't do jacksquat.”
John froze, face going blank.
And Azazel just smiled.
“Yep. Thought so. Can't find it, can you? Went disappearing after your friend Elkins got munched on by some conveniently placed vampires, huh? A shame, really. Let's hope for your sake your other... friends... don't meet the same fate.”
He spun on his heels, turning his back to a seething John, and swaggered up to a surprisingly silent Dean. From what he knew of the boy - which was very little considering he'd never cared much for the waste before that whole 'let's hide Sammy' thing - Deano was just as much as a brave talker as his papa, with even less bite than a chihuahua. “So, little guard dog. Where is he?”
Dean replied by spitting at him.
Azazel laughed, wiping away the remnants from his cheek and flicking it off towards the floor. He shared a glance with John - at least, he tried to share a glance with John, but John was being a bit too stubborn and didn't feel like commemorating with him on the humour behind Dean's actions - and applied a bit more pressure to Dean's ribs, forcing them to slightly cave in. Smiling as Dean hissed in pain, Azazel leaned in closer, eyes blinking a murky deep yellow, before speaking up.
“Oh, boy.” He purred, voice a deep, low, vibration. “You really thought you could hide Sam from me, Dean?” A gasp of surprise came from behind, and this time, Azazel successfully shared a glance with John. “I wondered why the guard dog wasn't trailing after your tail, John, I really did. What? Did he hide little Sammy from you too? Real bitchy move, isn't it?”
John looked so torn, pushed up against the wall as he was, realising he'd been wrong on whatever it was he'd been threatening Dean with. From what Azazel had heard, poor little Johnny had thought something looking like his little soldier had up and taken his two boys, because surely Dean would never betray him and run off with Sam. Oh no, of course it had to be something else that did it. Azazel snorted to himself, chuckling a bit at all the family drama he'd apparently walked in on - but hey, he'd seen his chance when the cabin had suddenly lit up like a homing beacon thanks to the blood his daughter had swiped from the boy. Even if that had been months ago, and Dean was surprisingly very good at hiding himself. And maybe even good at a little exorcism here and there - he really didn't like having his daughter sent back to Hell - especially when she said she had news on the littlest Winchester's location.
Good thing good ol' John had broken that stealth sigil. And that weakening one. Ouch, if that had still been in place, things would've been far more irritating, and then he wouldn't have been able to enjoy all this fun the Winchester's were bestowing upon him.
“Speaking of family,” Azazel piped up, stroking Dean's jaw with a finger. “I hope you know you're both going to die here today. Especially you, Deano. Can't have you running around like you are. Way too much of a liability, really.”
Dean bared his teeth, the intimidating gesture weakened by the red life fluid trickling down his chin. Azazel eased up a bit on the pressure, having forgotten himself for a moment there, and only grinned harder. “I'll make it quick though, if you tell me where he is. Your cute little brother. Where,” he clawed into Dean's insides, rupturing something. “Is,” Dean gritted his teeth, hissing and spitting out the blood that instantly welled up in his mouth. “He?”
“Let him go you bitch!”
“Oh, shut up John.”
“Urgh!”
The grunt had Dean rearing from the wall, trying to push past the paralyses holding him there, eyes wide and staring at his convulsing father. “D-Dad!”
“How cute.” Azazel chuckled, patting Dean on the chest like a close friend. “But it's just you, me, and the old man here, Dean. And I've got all the time in the world to get you speaking.”
He grinned, sharp and bright, flashing teeth at the younger Winchester.
“Too bad your daddy doesn't.”
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