The Other Son: Chapter Twenty-One
Title: The Other Son
Author: revenant_scribe
Chapter Twenty-One: REFRACTION
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warnings: AU, wincest, semi-spoilers for 1.18 'Something Wicked'. Violence!
A/N: There is no new Winchester being added into the mix here. This is definitely not one of those fics. Please leave a review! It keeps my muse happy and makes my day!!
Summary: Sam knows there are a lot of things about his father that he will never understand, or agree with -- the first and foremost being why John Winchester is so unnerved by his son's visions. It's why Sam goes alone to Fitchburg when images of the town's 'welcome' sign flash through his head while he's driving and leave him reeling for hours after. He's only looking for a hunt, but what he finds is about to turn Sam's entire world upside-down, and threaten its very foundations.
chapter twenty-one | REFRACTION
Sam gasped for air, his hands gripping with diminishing strength the arms that kept him pinned - cut-off the oxygen. He struggled to remember how to break a hold, how to get free but with each passing second his memories slipped away, his rational thought slipped away until there was only one thought: breathe breathe breathe, have to breathe! In a last panicked effort he kicked his knee up, striking against the man’s hold hard enough that the grip went lax, and with the first intake of oxygen came rational thought, came a new kind of panic. “Dean!” he shouted, only to have his effort to stand cut short as the man again got a hold of him, his breath hot against Sam’s neck.
Sam struggled, broke the grip and dove for the gun that had slid to rest a few feet from where he stood, and as the man came forward once more Sam fired, the bullet piercing the man’s shoulder, and just as he toppled to the ground Sam swung the butt of the gun, clipped the man’s temple so his eyes rolled up into his head. Sam didn’t stay make certain he was, but ran from the room, checked the hallway and the two bedrooms and even the bathroom. “Dean!” he called again. The panic was rising. It had all been a mistake, right from the start, and Sam should have known, should have seen it all before it came to this. Now it very well could be too late. His lover could be lost, or dead. The door to the cabin slammed against the wall as he exited, stumbled down the steps as the panic turned to relief, turned to realization. “Dean?” He was disbelieving. There was nothing that could make the scene that he confronted make sense. Nothing to explain my Gordon Walker was sprawled in front of the impala in a pool of crimson, a clean sweeping arch of red running from his left shoulder to his right hip. Nothing to explain why Dean stood, his body coiled like a cobra - prepared to strike again - a knife in his hand, red like the ground he stood on, like cherry lollipops. The look Dean wore was one Sam had seen only once before - in a vision. “Okay,” Sam said, more to himself that to his lover. “We’ll figure this out.” But Dean’s only response was a snarl of a smirk that twisted one corner of his mouth upward, bared his teeth. And then his eyes rolled black.
……………………..
One Week Earlier:
……………………..
Sam exhaled and pressed his forehead to the back of Dean’s neck, waited and took in a long slow breath, smelled the familiarity of the body beneath him, Dean’s shampoo and his sweat and a bit of Sam’s own smell as well, mixing there on the slick skin beneath him. He darted his tongue out and flicked it across the bumps of Dean’s spine and listened to Dean groan, “Fuckin’ move, Sammy.” But Sam didn’t move. His flickering tastes of Dean’s skin turned to kisses, and then again into broad licks, and when Dean’s body tightened around his cock -- coaxing him to move -- Sam bit down on the juncture between Dean’s neck and shoulder and sucked and bit until it was dark and red, and then sucked some more, until Dean was bucking beneath him from the pleasure-pain, and then he pulled out and slid back in, slow but hard and Dean shuddered in that way that Sam knew from experience meant that -- for that moment at least -- he completely owned his lover. Sam took full control of what was his, one hand pressing into the mattress by Dean’s head to keep his body propped up as he thrust, and the other couldn’t stop moving -- touching. He tugged on Dean’s hair, tipped the man’s head back so he could lay claim to his lover’s mouth and fuck his tongue into that damp heat the way his cock was fucking Dean’s body; then his hand moved down Dean’s neck and stroked across the black ink of the henna tattoo, clutched at a slim him, smoothed up the damp back. Sam felt half-starved, like nothing would ever be enough, like he could spent the rest of eternity buried inside Dean, with his scent on Dean’s body and Dean’s scent on Sam’s, with their mouths pressed together, and their bodies joined and no air separating them and it would never be enough. He thought about fucking Dean until the other man forgot anything and everything except Sam’s name, could say nothing but “Sam, Sammy, Sam!” which he was doing right then, because that was all he needed, all that really mattered. Thought about fucking away the pain and the hurt and insecurity and doubt until there was nothing beyond the need for more more more. Until there was no world outside of the bed they were lying on, nothing but fists clutching and twisting the sheets beneath them, toes clenching and unclenching and the aching need to fill themselves up with the other.
When he came it was like all thought and energy had been exorcised and he collapsed down, careful to land beside Dean rather than on top of him, and when he was able to blink his eyes open he took-in the scratches on Dean’s back, the red bruises where his mouth had drawn the blood to just beneath his lover’s skin. He felt darkly possessive, and the red bruise on the side of Dean’s throat -- the one that would be impossible to hide unless Dean wore a turtle neck, ridiculous in the summer heat -- filled Sam with enough energy to grab at Dean’s shoulder and push him over onto his back, and then lay claim to that place just beneath Dean’s collarbone and he set to work on another mark. Dean didn’t complain, only raised a hand lethargically and let it rest on the back of Sam’s head, neither encouraging nor discouraging -- seeming more to understand Sam’s need. When Sam was done, he tucked his head beside Dean’s, buried his nose just beneath the other man’s right ear where he could smell nothing but Dean, where he could see the proof their bond spelled out in the bruises on Dean’s body. “Fuck, I can’t breathe,” Dean said, still trying to work on slowing his racing heartbeat -- Sam could feel it bump bump beneath his palm, he pressed an understanding kiss beneath Dean’s ear and closed his eyes.
Sam opens his eyes to a motel room dark in the hours before sunrise, with an empty bed. It’s all wrong because the bed shouldn’t be empty, he knows that more than anything, and it worries him more than the fact that the motel room he is sitting in is different from the one he went to bed in. He’s about to call for Dean because there is a bubbling, irrational sort of panic filling him, but then he notices the figure in the opposite bed and knows two things at once -- he is dreaming, and the Dean he is looking for is not the Dean that is missing from this moment. His rational mind is no match for the panic that is rising in him, the wrongness of waking-up in this bed alone, even though he is so much older now -- used to it. His body still screams with the wrongness, and he goes to the only source -- save one -- that he trusts to fix it. “Daddy,” he finds himself saying, “Dad, dad.” He is simultaneously appalled at hearing his own adult voice calling out so desperately, as he is terrified that the figure he is shaking will not wake-up. “Daddy, we have to go, we have to find Dean.” But John is fast sleep, he’s lying there, gripping a gun and so fast asleep that if he didn’t know before that moment, Sam would have known right then that this was a dream. He turns back to the bed, and now he can what he missed before -- or maybe it wasn’t there to see, but it is now. Scratches on the headboard, blankets in disarray, Sam takes a step and slips on something on the floor, he lands in a puddle of red.
The dream is gory in a way that Sam doesn’t think the reality was. Or maybe it was. He doesn’t remember it, not really -- or maybe he remembers it all too well. “Dean!” There is a fierce wind blowing outside, but Sam only wants to wake-up, to send this all back to wherever he had kept it all locked away. This isn’t how it had happened, he knows that. There’s no point to any of it, he needs to wake-up. But he doesn’t. There is light drifting in from the windows and Sam sees that there is a swoop of red that leads towards the door, and he gets to his feet and follows even though every part of him is screaming to turn back, to hide away, to wake-up. He pauses with his hand on the door -- tries to will himself into wakefulness -- but when that fails, he twists the handle and lets the wind blow the door wide open and is surprised when he has no reaction to what lies beyond. He is suddenly completely numb, feeling only a calmness and sense of detachment -- which is not right at all because outside the world is grey-beige and bleak. The wind blows and there is a large dead tree, and a steady creak-creak of rope swinging back and forth on the branch as the body is blown -- the body.
Sam shies away from thinking about it, walks out of the motel and stands there and looks out at the trees growing up out of the marsh land, looks at the twisted roots and gnarled branches reaching up into a sepia sky and doesn’t think about anything except whether the dream is done with him yet. “Sammy” a voice calls, and he is suddenly very confused because he isn’t sure if it’s his dad calling from inside the motel room, or if the voice is coming from the marsh -- from the body. “Sammy, Sammy” the voice chants, and Sam really doesn’t know which way to go. Maybe they are both calling him, maybe only one of them. Maybe his dad is in trouble, and the body is already dead so really he should go to his dad and make sure he’s okay. “Sammy, Sammy” it gets louder, in rhythm with the creak of the swinging rope, the swaying body. Sam doesn’t want to leave his Dean alone. “Sammy, Sammy.”
“Sam!” Dean’s shout finally ripped Sam out of the clutches of the nightmare, and his eyes flew open and he sucked in air and felt both immediate relief at seeing Dean’s bright green eyes -- so alive -- and disappointed that it was not a little boy that greeted him, ready and able to wipe away the nightmare, his very existence proof that it had all been a lie -- cooked-up by his unconsciousness in the night. Instead, his own lover’s face is a reminder to Sam that the nightmare had only been a twisted mockery of long-suppressed memory. “You’re okay,” Dean said, “Take it easy.” Dean’s face clearly displayed his uncertainty at their role-reversal, Dean was usually the one with the nightmares. After a moment, Dean yawned and blinked heavily. “Can you get back to sleep?” Sam thought about the difference in their coping. Dean was so used to nightmares that he hardly fussed about them; but Sam could help but fuss whenever Dean woke-up clearly disturbed by where he had been taken in his dreams. At that moment, though, Sam couldn’t have been more relieved that Dean hadn’t bother to ask what it was he had dreamt, had leapt instead to the only important point.
“Yeah, I can. Give me a second.” Dean nodded his head and curled up against Sam’s side and a moment later, was fast asleep. Sam thought he could still hear a steady, rhythmic, creaking.
………………………….
Sam awoke the next morning to an empty bed in a motel room, and had to stop and sort out dream from reality. Dean’s bag was still on the floor at the foot of the bed, but his shoes were gone, and Sam figured his lover had gone in search of food. He stretched and stared at the ceiling, thought about his nightmare and why he should be dreaming about his brother like that after so long. If there was a time to relive those horrible moments, it should have been after he had spoken with John, been forced to recall some of the things he had willfully forgotten. There wasn’t any sense to be had of it, though, and after a while of mulling through it all, Sam decided it was best to just let it go. He brushed his teeth and washed his face and then checked his watch., smiled to himself as he noticed the lone sock hooked on the handle of a drawer. He snatched it off and dropped it on top of Dean’s bag as he reached for his cell and pressed one. It rang once and Sam heard the familiar rhythm of Dean’s cell phone. He let his arm drop to his side, the phone still ringing, and followed the sounds until he found Dean’s cell, buried beneath his T-shirt and jeans, sitting on the chair beneath the window. Sam flipped his cell closed and swore under his breath, tried to think whether he should panic or not.
Two hours later, Sam was far beyond panicking. He’d called everyone he could think of (with the exception of his father) and had them call everyone they could think of. He’d phoned Sophia and after they had both spent a solid half hour yelling at the other one in a thinly veiled effort to both convey their concern and alleviate their own sense of guilt, she had actually sorted him out enough that when he hung up he began to actually act like a hunter. He checked the salt lines and the protection charms and the sigils and from that, could make out enough to be fairly confident that nothing had waltzed in and taken Dean. There was no sign of struggle -- Dean had even gotten dressed. So that meant that the man had likely walked out on his own two legs.
Sam went from panicked to pissed -- and then back to panicked, because that was almost worse. Was worse. Left far too many options. Dean might have had second thoughts and left to return to Fitchburg; or maybe he just wanted to get away from Sam -- Sam had to admit that maybe he had been a bit overbearing, mothering in a way that Dean really didn’t need. Maybe the demons came and called him out somehow, coaxed him away from the protection. More and more possibilities began to come to him until finally Sam just sat down on the bed and let his head drop into his hands. He needed Dean, he needed to know he was okay, he would settle for just that little bit, but there was nothing for him to do. Frustrated, Sam picked up his cell and grabbed the keys and left the motel. Maybe there would be some sign of Dean somewhere in the town. Maybe someone had seen him, had spoken to him. Had some little piece of information that could set Sam in a direction to find what he had lost.
………………………..
The phone rang at three o’clock Wednesday morning and that was the first time that it occurred to Sam that it was late and he should probably be sleeping. He was seated on the bed in the same motel that Dean had vanished from, and he was surrounded by papers, some notes he jotted down from interviews he’d done with some of the townspeople who had seen someone that maybe, possibly, could have been Dean. There were articles from the internet and the newspaper of possible hunts -- something that maybe could have been involved in Dean’s disappearance. Sam refused to think about demons, about demonic weapons and how Dean fit into a puzzle too big for Sam to really comprehend, he kept it small and practical and tried to convince himself that he was thinking about ghouls because those were more likely than demons. So Jo’s call was about the most unwanted thing he could think of.
“What does this have to do with Dean?” Sam demanded, interrupting her description -- information too painful to hear.
There was a sigh on the other end of the line, like Jo couldn’t believe that he had to ask. “The way they were killed, Sam. It was precise, like -- hunter precise. The weaponry and stuff and the sigils -- taunting, you know? It couldn’t be a hunter, I mean, there are some wack-jobs sure, but this is totally out there. Completely personal the way they were killed, like everything left behind was intentional -- a message. Only no one is left alive who gets what the message means. No one that’s been found, anyway. I just think -- well, you said yourself that demons go after psychics especially, and Dean was already kind of the top of the demonic Most Wanted list so … maybe this could be something.”
“Dean isn’t possessed.”
“You can’t be sure of that.”
“You think so? How about the sigil that I put on him myself? The salt he would have had to walk over to get out of the motel. There were any number of protections in our room. There was no way he was possessed.”
“Well, maybe a demon lured him out and then … I dunno, did something to the mark and possessed him. You can’t sit there on your ass when there could be a real lead here.”
“When you get separated from someone, and you don’t have a way set-up between you to track each other down, then you stay put. Otherwise you’re both running around trying to find the other and just missing each other every time.”
“Or you’re both just sitting on your butts.” She paused and seem to come to a decision. When she spoke again, there was a flippant sort of resignation in her tone. “Fine, do whatever. But you should know that there are hunters rallying, looking for some sort of retribution. These deaths were ugly and these hunters have friends. So if you’re so certain that there is no possible way Dean could be linked to this, then sit there and wait for him to decide to come and find you. Otherwise, you might want to check this out for yourself before Gordon and whole whack of unsavories descend on the scene, fuck up the evidence, and run off looking for blood.” The dial tone interrupts his reply, and Sam frowns. Then he packs a bag.
……………………………….
Sam pulls into a motel in Prudence, Pennsylvania and is halfway to his room when a door opens on the second floor and a very familiar voice calls his name. “Jo? What the hell are you doing here?”
“I came just in case you were too thick-headed to check this out.” She leans against the open door, crosses her arms over her chest and cocks her head to the side, her eyes assessing. “It’s probably nothing, Sam. But just in case. I mean, we really have nothing else to go on. I’m checking out every possible lead.”
“I know.” Because there is no way that Dean butchered two hunters, just no way at all. But it’s something to do. Something to take his mind off of the fact that it had been four days with no sign of Dean, no word from him. “What have you got?” Jo stood aside and Sam dropped his motel key into his pocket, dropped his bag by the door as he closed it and followed her to the desk, where a stack of papers show the amount of work Jo has put into the murders. “Did you know them?” Sam asked, he wanted her to deny it because if Jo knew the two men who bit it then the potential for things to get more complicated was high, and the last thing Sam wanted was further complications.
Jo shrugged noncommittally. “They came to the bar, but most hunters do. My mum sorta knew ‘em, but not close. I think the only reason she let me come out here was because she knew that there are a truckload of other hunters around here looking for some info. As far as what I got, there’s not much left to really look at.” She handed over two folders -- autopsy reports. Sam scanned through it quick enough, checked out the reports on the crime scene and found himself relaxing a little the more he read.
An hour later, Sam dropped the last folder onto the desk and shook his head. “There’s no way Dean knew either of these guys. And whoever killed them definitely had an axe to grind. We’re on the wrong track.”
Jo nodded. “I sort of figured.”
It was her tone more than anything. “But what?”
Jo couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “But I talked to Henry’s son.” Henry had been the first victim, cut-up pretty bad, died of blood loss. His body had been found in the middle of what the police had described as pagan symbols. Sam knew better -- from the photographs Henry had been put in a devil’s trap and tortured. Odd, considering the man had a mark on his upper arm that prevented demonic possession. “Apparently Henry had been real close to Lou, best friends -- y’know. They hunted together and that’s why they retired in the same town. But Henry’s son said he saw a guy come by the house when he was on his way out to cut some wood. Sam … the guy matched Dean’s description.”
“What, 6’1’’, dirty blond hair? That could be anyone.” Jo pursed her lips. “It’s not Dean.”
………………………………..
Gordon Walker sat in a corner of the bar, blended into the shadows like he was a fixture in the place. “Sam Winchester,” he greeted. Sam didn’t know exactly why his feet had brought him to the edge of Gordon’s table. “Have a seat.”
Sam dropped into a chair and set his beer down on the table. Most days Sam did what he could to mask his height, to appear unthreatening and friendly. Right then, Sam felt coiled and ready to strike and he figured Gordon could see that. “Didn’t think you’d want to chat,” Sam admitted, like they were merely old acquaintances happening on each other by chance. Gordon gave a dark grin and then shrugged one shoulder in such a way that Sam thought the man was feeling Sam out just the same way as Sam was feeling him out. “Jo said you knew Henry and Lou. I was sorry to hear about what happened.”
“Hm,” Gordon said. He took a long pull of beer and narrowed his eyes some. “You know what I’m gonna do when I find the sonofabitch who hurt them?”
Sam was a little startled by the frankness. “Maybe this isn’t the place to be talking like that.”
Gordon shrugged again. “I suppose when we go, we go bloody. Just the way it’s gotta be. Sooner or later the past comes back for you. It’s inevitable.” Sam wondered what Gordon meant by ‘the past’, whether he meant it specific or not. “So what brings you out here. And where’s your sidekick.”
“Dean’s back at the motel,” Sam lied. He left it at that. Dean had promised him that Gordon wouldn’t hunt him down any longer, not after his head had been crammed full of Dean’s memories -- of how life with Dean’s level of empathy and ability had taken him places he would do anything to avoid. Didn’t mean that Sam had to trust the man, there was a vindictive streak in him that made Gordon Walker the last person Sam was likely to trust on the planet.
Gordon’s look got sharp and he leaned forward just a little. “Could use his talents, y’know. Help us track the thing that’s killing our own.”
Sam wanted to punch the man, to say that Dean wasn’t a tool, wasn’t an EMF meter to be used according to convenience. “Unfortunately, we’re heading out first thing tomorrow.”
“That is unfortunate. Tomorrow’s when things are about to get fun.”
“I thought you said you were having trouble tracking the thing down.”
Gordon gave an open mouthed grin, his beer half-way to his lips and seemed to laugh as he drank. “Naw, we know what did it. And we’re ready.” Sam figured Gordon was pretty drunk, and he wasn’t the best company at the best of times, so he tipped back his glass and finished off his own beer before he clapped Gordon n the shoulder and left the bar. He’d walked from the motel, and that’s where he headed, his mind already turning back to thoughts of Dean. He’d meant what he’d said, Sam had every intention of leaving Prudence the next morning. He’d done a follow-up on Jo’s research, had spoken with the townspeople, including Henry’s kid, and there was nothing to really suggest that Dean had anything to do with the murders. Gordon seemed to know -- or what -- had done the killing, so Sam was pretty certain there was nothing that would help him find Dean.
Still, as he toppled into bed, he fell immediately into a dream of fire and a steady creak creaking and a shadowed figure hanging still. Sam grabbed his clothes and shoved them into his bag, tossed the bag in the impala and checked out of the motel and was on his way out of Prudence before the sun was even up his body thrumming with agitation. Nothing was right, he’d lost his brother, now he’d lost his lover. His dad was off doing god only knew what, and there were demons circling like vultures just waiting to snatch the few things Sam had to hold onto out of his clutches -- if they hadn’t already. His foot pressed into the gas peddle and he was just done, just fed up with trying to hold everything all together and figure things out.
The vision hit like a sledgehammer -- quick but brutal. Just a scream, and nails dragging across wood, and black eyes and then a smirk -- a dark twist of familiar lips and Sam gasped and slammed on the brakes. Those were Dean’s lips. He caught his breath and dropped his head to the steering wheel. “Where the hell are you?” he asked the silence. “Are you okay? Just tell me you’re okay.”
When his breathing was steady, Sam sat back in his seat and took the car out of park -- wondered when he had the clarity of mind to even put it into park and like so many times before, found himself grudgingly feeling a sense of appreciation for the grueling training his dad had inflicted on him, because more often than not, he operated on instinct. Which was maybe why he noticed Gordon’s car parked by the clapboard house beside a pick-up and a van. There was a light on by the door, but the house was otherwise dark. Sam pulled to the side of the road and, with slow and practiced movements, got out of the car, grabbed some gear from the trunk, and approached the house.
He wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for. Was he worried about Gordon? About what Gordon was after? There was the sound of s skirmish, breaking glass and a screen door slamming shut out back. Sam cocked his gun and with his other hand, opened the front entrance. There wasn’t much to be said of the place. A lingering smell of damp and moth balls. As he moved through the front way he could hear broken glass crunching beneath his booted feet. He moved down the darkened hallway, his eyes adjusting slowly in the dark, and just as he neared the first door there was a shout -- his name. Dean calling his name! And then Sam was grabbed and yanked into a room just to the side, he lost his grip on his gun when he was struck, and someone exploited his momentary distraction, a moment later Sam toppled onto the ground, a bulky figure on top of him, hands around his neck and he couldn’t breath, could barely think how to move and with every passing second his memory faded…
………………………………………………..
“Dean,” Sam said, tried to keep his voice steady as he spoke. The thing inside Dean blinked back at him, the eyes black as night and that sick grin still twisting Dean’s features. “Let him go.”
“I can’t,” the thing said. “He wants me here. With him.”
“You’re lying.” The grin widened. “Dean.” Sam was horrified at the sound, his voice was more a whimper than a command, had practically broken as he spoke the name aloud.
“It’s not what it looks like,” the thing said. He stood up straighter, lowered the knife but did not step forward -- did not step away from Gordon’s body.
“It looks like you just killed a friend of mine.”
“Gordon Walker, a friend of yours?” The disbelief was clear and Sam couldn’t argue with it. “Maybe not after you know what he had planned for you, Sammy.”
“Don’t” Sam snarled, “call me Sammy.”
“You think I would have killed him if he’d been on my side?”
“You’re a demon.”
“I am Dean.”
“You’re not him!” Sam screamed.
“You’re right. I’m not. Not entirely. But he wanted me here.”
“You keep saying that …” but it clicked in one horrible moment. Became all too clear. The vision that had never made sense, had never been complete and had been so easily set aside in the chaos of what had followed. “Avatar.”
“My name is Astaroth.” Sam cocked the gun and raised it. The thing only quirked an eyebrow -- a look Sam had seen on Dean’s face so many times, only this time it wasn’t Dean making the face. “Shoot me and you kill him. You won’t do any damage to me.”
“Get out.”
“I will not.”
“Get out or I’ll rip you out of him myself.”
“I will not go. I have made a pact and it is not your orders that are mine to obey.”
Things were falling into place, slowly pieces were fitting into each other, and the more Sam stood there, the more he began to realize. “You killed those hunters.”
“That was my revenge. It was part of the deal.”
“Good. You got what you came for, now go.”
“For all that you claim to understand and know, you are a simpleton, Sam Winchester. It might be fine for you to speak to me in this way, I am, after all, a demon. But you are seriously mistaken if you continue in this way toward my host. There is a wealth of knowledge that is not yours at this moment. I can help you. He understood that. He understands far more than either you or your thick-headed father, blinded by prejudice with minds dimmed with thoughts of revenge can even begin to fathom. Continue like this, Little Winchester, and you’ll lose the lover you hold the same as you lost your brother.”
Sam didn’t mean to shoot. Or he did. Dean twisted back and fell to the ground beside Gordon, and Sam didn’t hesitate, just crossed the distance and forcibly dragged Dean’s body up from the ground and yanked and shoved until they were through the house and back by the car. “Shit,” Dean said -- Sam knew it was Dean who spoke from the tone. “You shot me.”
“You’re god damned right I shot you. Now sit down and shut up.”
“Sam,” Dean said. But Sam was wielding a white pencil, marking the car door and the roof. “Those won’t work, but I won’t move. I can explain. Let me explain.”
“There is nothing you can say that will justify what you’ve done,” Sam said. “You idiot. You have no idea! I thought you maybe would have picked something up after what we’ve hunted and seen since Fitchburg, but you’re still a complete idiot, aren’t you? I’m doing everything in my power to keep you from the demons, and you keep throwing yourself at them!”
“Astaroth is different.”
“Demons are all the same!” Sam slammed the car door shut and circled to the driver’s side. When he was seated he started the car and gunned the engine, then sat back in the seat. “You invited him?”
“Yes.” It was no consolation that Dean sounded so solemn.
“Send him out.”
“No.”
Sam’s jaw clenched and his fingers flexed around the steering wheel, and then he peeled away from the curb and into the road. “Where are we going?” Dean asked.
“To Bobby’s.”
“Why?”
“You don’t know what you’ve done,” Sam said. He noted, in some distant part of his mind, that he spoke slow and deep, like his dad always did when he was angry. Fierce, with rough edges in his tone. Sam always thought that quiet chilled voice was more terrifying than when his dad would yell. “If you won’t send him out, and he won’t leave, then I’ll rip him from you. But the demons aren’t taking you.”
<< END CHAPTER >>
[MASTER POST]
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Author: revenant_scribe
Chapter Twenty-One: REFRACTION
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warnings: AU, wincest, semi-spoilers for 1.18 'Something Wicked'. Violence!
A/N: There is no new Winchester being added into the mix here. This is definitely not one of those fics. Please leave a review! It keeps my muse happy and makes my day!!
Summary: Sam knows there are a lot of things about his father that he will never understand, or agree with -- the first and foremost being why John Winchester is so unnerved by his son's visions. It's why Sam goes alone to Fitchburg when images of the town's 'welcome' sign flash through his head while he's driving and leave him reeling for hours after. He's only looking for a hunt, but what he finds is about to turn Sam's entire world upside-down, and threaten its very foundations.
chapter twenty-one | REFRACTION
Sam gasped for air, his hands gripping with diminishing strength the arms that kept him pinned - cut-off the oxygen. He struggled to remember how to break a hold, how to get free but with each passing second his memories slipped away, his rational thought slipped away until there was only one thought: breathe breathe breathe, have to breathe! In a last panicked effort he kicked his knee up, striking against the man’s hold hard enough that the grip went lax, and with the first intake of oxygen came rational thought, came a new kind of panic. “Dean!” he shouted, only to have his effort to stand cut short as the man again got a hold of him, his breath hot against Sam’s neck.
Sam struggled, broke the grip and dove for the gun that had slid to rest a few feet from where he stood, and as the man came forward once more Sam fired, the bullet piercing the man’s shoulder, and just as he toppled to the ground Sam swung the butt of the gun, clipped the man’s temple so his eyes rolled up into his head. Sam didn’t stay make certain he was, but ran from the room, checked the hallway and the two bedrooms and even the bathroom. “Dean!” he called again. The panic was rising. It had all been a mistake, right from the start, and Sam should have known, should have seen it all before it came to this. Now it very well could be too late. His lover could be lost, or dead. The door to the cabin slammed against the wall as he exited, stumbled down the steps as the panic turned to relief, turned to realization. “Dean?” He was disbelieving. There was nothing that could make the scene that he confronted make sense. Nothing to explain my Gordon Walker was sprawled in front of the impala in a pool of crimson, a clean sweeping arch of red running from his left shoulder to his right hip. Nothing to explain why Dean stood, his body coiled like a cobra - prepared to strike again - a knife in his hand, red like the ground he stood on, like cherry lollipops. The look Dean wore was one Sam had seen only once before - in a vision. “Okay,” Sam said, more to himself that to his lover. “We’ll figure this out.” But Dean’s only response was a snarl of a smirk that twisted one corner of his mouth upward, bared his teeth. And then his eyes rolled black.
……………………..
One Week Earlier:
……………………..
Sam exhaled and pressed his forehead to the back of Dean’s neck, waited and took in a long slow breath, smelled the familiarity of the body beneath him, Dean’s shampoo and his sweat and a bit of Sam’s own smell as well, mixing there on the slick skin beneath him. He darted his tongue out and flicked it across the bumps of Dean’s spine and listened to Dean groan, “Fuckin’ move, Sammy.” But Sam didn’t move. His flickering tastes of Dean’s skin turned to kisses, and then again into broad licks, and when Dean’s body tightened around his cock -- coaxing him to move -- Sam bit down on the juncture between Dean’s neck and shoulder and sucked and bit until it was dark and red, and then sucked some more, until Dean was bucking beneath him from the pleasure-pain, and then he pulled out and slid back in, slow but hard and Dean shuddered in that way that Sam knew from experience meant that -- for that moment at least -- he completely owned his lover. Sam took full control of what was his, one hand pressing into the mattress by Dean’s head to keep his body propped up as he thrust, and the other couldn’t stop moving -- touching. He tugged on Dean’s hair, tipped the man’s head back so he could lay claim to his lover’s mouth and fuck his tongue into that damp heat the way his cock was fucking Dean’s body; then his hand moved down Dean’s neck and stroked across the black ink of the henna tattoo, clutched at a slim him, smoothed up the damp back. Sam felt half-starved, like nothing would ever be enough, like he could spent the rest of eternity buried inside Dean, with his scent on Dean’s body and Dean’s scent on Sam’s, with their mouths pressed together, and their bodies joined and no air separating them and it would never be enough. He thought about fucking Dean until the other man forgot anything and everything except Sam’s name, could say nothing but “Sam, Sammy, Sam!” which he was doing right then, because that was all he needed, all that really mattered. Thought about fucking away the pain and the hurt and insecurity and doubt until there was nothing beyond the need for more more more. Until there was no world outside of the bed they were lying on, nothing but fists clutching and twisting the sheets beneath them, toes clenching and unclenching and the aching need to fill themselves up with the other.
When he came it was like all thought and energy had been exorcised and he collapsed down, careful to land beside Dean rather than on top of him, and when he was able to blink his eyes open he took-in the scratches on Dean’s back, the red bruises where his mouth had drawn the blood to just beneath his lover’s skin. He felt darkly possessive, and the red bruise on the side of Dean’s throat -- the one that would be impossible to hide unless Dean wore a turtle neck, ridiculous in the summer heat -- filled Sam with enough energy to grab at Dean’s shoulder and push him over onto his back, and then lay claim to that place just beneath Dean’s collarbone and he set to work on another mark. Dean didn’t complain, only raised a hand lethargically and let it rest on the back of Sam’s head, neither encouraging nor discouraging -- seeming more to understand Sam’s need. When Sam was done, he tucked his head beside Dean’s, buried his nose just beneath the other man’s right ear where he could smell nothing but Dean, where he could see the proof their bond spelled out in the bruises on Dean’s body. “Fuck, I can’t breathe,” Dean said, still trying to work on slowing his racing heartbeat -- Sam could feel it bump bump beneath his palm, he pressed an understanding kiss beneath Dean’s ear and closed his eyes.
Sam opens his eyes to a motel room dark in the hours before sunrise, with an empty bed. It’s all wrong because the bed shouldn’t be empty, he knows that more than anything, and it worries him more than the fact that the motel room he is sitting in is different from the one he went to bed in. He’s about to call for Dean because there is a bubbling, irrational sort of panic filling him, but then he notices the figure in the opposite bed and knows two things at once -- he is dreaming, and the Dean he is looking for is not the Dean that is missing from this moment. His rational mind is no match for the panic that is rising in him, the wrongness of waking-up in this bed alone, even though he is so much older now -- used to it. His body still screams with the wrongness, and he goes to the only source -- save one -- that he trusts to fix it. “Daddy,” he finds himself saying, “Dad, dad.” He is simultaneously appalled at hearing his own adult voice calling out so desperately, as he is terrified that the figure he is shaking will not wake-up. “Daddy, we have to go, we have to find Dean.” But John is fast sleep, he’s lying there, gripping a gun and so fast asleep that if he didn’t know before that moment, Sam would have known right then that this was a dream. He turns back to the bed, and now he can what he missed before -- or maybe it wasn’t there to see, but it is now. Scratches on the headboard, blankets in disarray, Sam takes a step and slips on something on the floor, he lands in a puddle of red.
The dream is gory in a way that Sam doesn’t think the reality was. Or maybe it was. He doesn’t remember it, not really -- or maybe he remembers it all too well. “Dean!” There is a fierce wind blowing outside, but Sam only wants to wake-up, to send this all back to wherever he had kept it all locked away. This isn’t how it had happened, he knows that. There’s no point to any of it, he needs to wake-up. But he doesn’t. There is light drifting in from the windows and Sam sees that there is a swoop of red that leads towards the door, and he gets to his feet and follows even though every part of him is screaming to turn back, to hide away, to wake-up. He pauses with his hand on the door -- tries to will himself into wakefulness -- but when that fails, he twists the handle and lets the wind blow the door wide open and is surprised when he has no reaction to what lies beyond. He is suddenly completely numb, feeling only a calmness and sense of detachment -- which is not right at all because outside the world is grey-beige and bleak. The wind blows and there is a large dead tree, and a steady creak-creak of rope swinging back and forth on the branch as the body is blown -- the body.
Sam shies away from thinking about it, walks out of the motel and stands there and looks out at the trees growing up out of the marsh land, looks at the twisted roots and gnarled branches reaching up into a sepia sky and doesn’t think about anything except whether the dream is done with him yet. “Sammy” a voice calls, and he is suddenly very confused because he isn’t sure if it’s his dad calling from inside the motel room, or if the voice is coming from the marsh -- from the body. “Sammy, Sammy” the voice chants, and Sam really doesn’t know which way to go. Maybe they are both calling him, maybe only one of them. Maybe his dad is in trouble, and the body is already dead so really he should go to his dad and make sure he’s okay. “Sammy, Sammy” it gets louder, in rhythm with the creak of the swinging rope, the swaying body. Sam doesn’t want to leave his Dean alone. “Sammy, Sammy.”
“Sam!” Dean’s shout finally ripped Sam out of the clutches of the nightmare, and his eyes flew open and he sucked in air and felt both immediate relief at seeing Dean’s bright green eyes -- so alive -- and disappointed that it was not a little boy that greeted him, ready and able to wipe away the nightmare, his very existence proof that it had all been a lie -- cooked-up by his unconsciousness in the night. Instead, his own lover’s face is a reminder to Sam that the nightmare had only been a twisted mockery of long-suppressed memory. “You’re okay,” Dean said, “Take it easy.” Dean’s face clearly displayed his uncertainty at their role-reversal, Dean was usually the one with the nightmares. After a moment, Dean yawned and blinked heavily. “Can you get back to sleep?” Sam thought about the difference in their coping. Dean was so used to nightmares that he hardly fussed about them; but Sam could help but fuss whenever Dean woke-up clearly disturbed by where he had been taken in his dreams. At that moment, though, Sam couldn’t have been more relieved that Dean hadn’t bother to ask what it was he had dreamt, had leapt instead to the only important point.
“Yeah, I can. Give me a second.” Dean nodded his head and curled up against Sam’s side and a moment later, was fast asleep. Sam thought he could still hear a steady, rhythmic, creaking.
………………………….
Sam awoke the next morning to an empty bed in a motel room, and had to stop and sort out dream from reality. Dean’s bag was still on the floor at the foot of the bed, but his shoes were gone, and Sam figured his lover had gone in search of food. He stretched and stared at the ceiling, thought about his nightmare and why he should be dreaming about his brother like that after so long. If there was a time to relive those horrible moments, it should have been after he had spoken with John, been forced to recall some of the things he had willfully forgotten. There wasn’t any sense to be had of it, though, and after a while of mulling through it all, Sam decided it was best to just let it go. He brushed his teeth and washed his face and then checked his watch., smiled to himself as he noticed the lone sock hooked on the handle of a drawer. He snatched it off and dropped it on top of Dean’s bag as he reached for his cell and pressed one. It rang once and Sam heard the familiar rhythm of Dean’s cell phone. He let his arm drop to his side, the phone still ringing, and followed the sounds until he found Dean’s cell, buried beneath his T-shirt and jeans, sitting on the chair beneath the window. Sam flipped his cell closed and swore under his breath, tried to think whether he should panic or not.
Two hours later, Sam was far beyond panicking. He’d called everyone he could think of (with the exception of his father) and had them call everyone they could think of. He’d phoned Sophia and after they had both spent a solid half hour yelling at the other one in a thinly veiled effort to both convey their concern and alleviate their own sense of guilt, she had actually sorted him out enough that when he hung up he began to actually act like a hunter. He checked the salt lines and the protection charms and the sigils and from that, could make out enough to be fairly confident that nothing had waltzed in and taken Dean. There was no sign of struggle -- Dean had even gotten dressed. So that meant that the man had likely walked out on his own two legs.
Sam went from panicked to pissed -- and then back to panicked, because that was almost worse. Was worse. Left far too many options. Dean might have had second thoughts and left to return to Fitchburg; or maybe he just wanted to get away from Sam -- Sam had to admit that maybe he had been a bit overbearing, mothering in a way that Dean really didn’t need. Maybe the demons came and called him out somehow, coaxed him away from the protection. More and more possibilities began to come to him until finally Sam just sat down on the bed and let his head drop into his hands. He needed Dean, he needed to know he was okay, he would settle for just that little bit, but there was nothing for him to do. Frustrated, Sam picked up his cell and grabbed the keys and left the motel. Maybe there would be some sign of Dean somewhere in the town. Maybe someone had seen him, had spoken to him. Had some little piece of information that could set Sam in a direction to find what he had lost.
………………………..
The phone rang at three o’clock Wednesday morning and that was the first time that it occurred to Sam that it was late and he should probably be sleeping. He was seated on the bed in the same motel that Dean had vanished from, and he was surrounded by papers, some notes he jotted down from interviews he’d done with some of the townspeople who had seen someone that maybe, possibly, could have been Dean. There were articles from the internet and the newspaper of possible hunts -- something that maybe could have been involved in Dean’s disappearance. Sam refused to think about demons, about demonic weapons and how Dean fit into a puzzle too big for Sam to really comprehend, he kept it small and practical and tried to convince himself that he was thinking about ghouls because those were more likely than demons. So Jo’s call was about the most unwanted thing he could think of.
“What does this have to do with Dean?” Sam demanded, interrupting her description -- information too painful to hear.
There was a sigh on the other end of the line, like Jo couldn’t believe that he had to ask. “The way they were killed, Sam. It was precise, like -- hunter precise. The weaponry and stuff and the sigils -- taunting, you know? It couldn’t be a hunter, I mean, there are some wack-jobs sure, but this is totally out there. Completely personal the way they were killed, like everything left behind was intentional -- a message. Only no one is left alive who gets what the message means. No one that’s been found, anyway. I just think -- well, you said yourself that demons go after psychics especially, and Dean was already kind of the top of the demonic Most Wanted list so … maybe this could be something.”
“Dean isn’t possessed.”
“You can’t be sure of that.”
“You think so? How about the sigil that I put on him myself? The salt he would have had to walk over to get out of the motel. There were any number of protections in our room. There was no way he was possessed.”
“Well, maybe a demon lured him out and then … I dunno, did something to the mark and possessed him. You can’t sit there on your ass when there could be a real lead here.”
“When you get separated from someone, and you don’t have a way set-up between you to track each other down, then you stay put. Otherwise you’re both running around trying to find the other and just missing each other every time.”
“Or you’re both just sitting on your butts.” She paused and seem to come to a decision. When she spoke again, there was a flippant sort of resignation in her tone. “Fine, do whatever. But you should know that there are hunters rallying, looking for some sort of retribution. These deaths were ugly and these hunters have friends. So if you’re so certain that there is no possible way Dean could be linked to this, then sit there and wait for him to decide to come and find you. Otherwise, you might want to check this out for yourself before Gordon and whole whack of unsavories descend on the scene, fuck up the evidence, and run off looking for blood.” The dial tone interrupts his reply, and Sam frowns. Then he packs a bag.
……………………………….
Sam pulls into a motel in Prudence, Pennsylvania and is halfway to his room when a door opens on the second floor and a very familiar voice calls his name. “Jo? What the hell are you doing here?”
“I came just in case you were too thick-headed to check this out.” She leans against the open door, crosses her arms over her chest and cocks her head to the side, her eyes assessing. “It’s probably nothing, Sam. But just in case. I mean, we really have nothing else to go on. I’m checking out every possible lead.”
“I know.” Because there is no way that Dean butchered two hunters, just no way at all. But it’s something to do. Something to take his mind off of the fact that it had been four days with no sign of Dean, no word from him. “What have you got?” Jo stood aside and Sam dropped his motel key into his pocket, dropped his bag by the door as he closed it and followed her to the desk, where a stack of papers show the amount of work Jo has put into the murders. “Did you know them?” Sam asked, he wanted her to deny it because if Jo knew the two men who bit it then the potential for things to get more complicated was high, and the last thing Sam wanted was further complications.
Jo shrugged noncommittally. “They came to the bar, but most hunters do. My mum sorta knew ‘em, but not close. I think the only reason she let me come out here was because she knew that there are a truckload of other hunters around here looking for some info. As far as what I got, there’s not much left to really look at.” She handed over two folders -- autopsy reports. Sam scanned through it quick enough, checked out the reports on the crime scene and found himself relaxing a little the more he read.
An hour later, Sam dropped the last folder onto the desk and shook his head. “There’s no way Dean knew either of these guys. And whoever killed them definitely had an axe to grind. We’re on the wrong track.”
Jo nodded. “I sort of figured.”
It was her tone more than anything. “But what?”
Jo couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “But I talked to Henry’s son.” Henry had been the first victim, cut-up pretty bad, died of blood loss. His body had been found in the middle of what the police had described as pagan symbols. Sam knew better -- from the photographs Henry had been put in a devil’s trap and tortured. Odd, considering the man had a mark on his upper arm that prevented demonic possession. “Apparently Henry had been real close to Lou, best friends -- y’know. They hunted together and that’s why they retired in the same town. But Henry’s son said he saw a guy come by the house when he was on his way out to cut some wood. Sam … the guy matched Dean’s description.”
“What, 6’1’’, dirty blond hair? That could be anyone.” Jo pursed her lips. “It’s not Dean.”
………………………………..
Gordon Walker sat in a corner of the bar, blended into the shadows like he was a fixture in the place. “Sam Winchester,” he greeted. Sam didn’t know exactly why his feet had brought him to the edge of Gordon’s table. “Have a seat.”
Sam dropped into a chair and set his beer down on the table. Most days Sam did what he could to mask his height, to appear unthreatening and friendly. Right then, Sam felt coiled and ready to strike and he figured Gordon could see that. “Didn’t think you’d want to chat,” Sam admitted, like they were merely old acquaintances happening on each other by chance. Gordon gave a dark grin and then shrugged one shoulder in such a way that Sam thought the man was feeling Sam out just the same way as Sam was feeling him out. “Jo said you knew Henry and Lou. I was sorry to hear about what happened.”
“Hm,” Gordon said. He took a long pull of beer and narrowed his eyes some. “You know what I’m gonna do when I find the sonofabitch who hurt them?”
Sam was a little startled by the frankness. “Maybe this isn’t the place to be talking like that.”
Gordon shrugged again. “I suppose when we go, we go bloody. Just the way it’s gotta be. Sooner or later the past comes back for you. It’s inevitable.” Sam wondered what Gordon meant by ‘the past’, whether he meant it specific or not. “So what brings you out here. And where’s your sidekick.”
“Dean’s back at the motel,” Sam lied. He left it at that. Dean had promised him that Gordon wouldn’t hunt him down any longer, not after his head had been crammed full of Dean’s memories -- of how life with Dean’s level of empathy and ability had taken him places he would do anything to avoid. Didn’t mean that Sam had to trust the man, there was a vindictive streak in him that made Gordon Walker the last person Sam was likely to trust on the planet.
Gordon’s look got sharp and he leaned forward just a little. “Could use his talents, y’know. Help us track the thing that’s killing our own.”
Sam wanted to punch the man, to say that Dean wasn’t a tool, wasn’t an EMF meter to be used according to convenience. “Unfortunately, we’re heading out first thing tomorrow.”
“That is unfortunate. Tomorrow’s when things are about to get fun.”
“I thought you said you were having trouble tracking the thing down.”
Gordon gave an open mouthed grin, his beer half-way to his lips and seemed to laugh as he drank. “Naw, we know what did it. And we’re ready.” Sam figured Gordon was pretty drunk, and he wasn’t the best company at the best of times, so he tipped back his glass and finished off his own beer before he clapped Gordon n the shoulder and left the bar. He’d walked from the motel, and that’s where he headed, his mind already turning back to thoughts of Dean. He’d meant what he’d said, Sam had every intention of leaving Prudence the next morning. He’d done a follow-up on Jo’s research, had spoken with the townspeople, including Henry’s kid, and there was nothing to really suggest that Dean had anything to do with the murders. Gordon seemed to know -- or what -- had done the killing, so Sam was pretty certain there was nothing that would help him find Dean.
Still, as he toppled into bed, he fell immediately into a dream of fire and a steady creak creaking and a shadowed figure hanging still. Sam grabbed his clothes and shoved them into his bag, tossed the bag in the impala and checked out of the motel and was on his way out of Prudence before the sun was even up his body thrumming with agitation. Nothing was right, he’d lost his brother, now he’d lost his lover. His dad was off doing god only knew what, and there were demons circling like vultures just waiting to snatch the few things Sam had to hold onto out of his clutches -- if they hadn’t already. His foot pressed into the gas peddle and he was just done, just fed up with trying to hold everything all together and figure things out.
The vision hit like a sledgehammer -- quick but brutal. Just a scream, and nails dragging across wood, and black eyes and then a smirk -- a dark twist of familiar lips and Sam gasped and slammed on the brakes. Those were Dean’s lips. He caught his breath and dropped his head to the steering wheel. “Where the hell are you?” he asked the silence. “Are you okay? Just tell me you’re okay.”
When his breathing was steady, Sam sat back in his seat and took the car out of park -- wondered when he had the clarity of mind to even put it into park and like so many times before, found himself grudgingly feeling a sense of appreciation for the grueling training his dad had inflicted on him, because more often than not, he operated on instinct. Which was maybe why he noticed Gordon’s car parked by the clapboard house beside a pick-up and a van. There was a light on by the door, but the house was otherwise dark. Sam pulled to the side of the road and, with slow and practiced movements, got out of the car, grabbed some gear from the trunk, and approached the house.
He wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for. Was he worried about Gordon? About what Gordon was after? There was the sound of s skirmish, breaking glass and a screen door slamming shut out back. Sam cocked his gun and with his other hand, opened the front entrance. There wasn’t much to be said of the place. A lingering smell of damp and moth balls. As he moved through the front way he could hear broken glass crunching beneath his booted feet. He moved down the darkened hallway, his eyes adjusting slowly in the dark, and just as he neared the first door there was a shout -- his name. Dean calling his name! And then Sam was grabbed and yanked into a room just to the side, he lost his grip on his gun when he was struck, and someone exploited his momentary distraction, a moment later Sam toppled onto the ground, a bulky figure on top of him, hands around his neck and he couldn’t breath, could barely think how to move and with every passing second his memory faded…
………………………………………………..
“Dean,” Sam said, tried to keep his voice steady as he spoke. The thing inside Dean blinked back at him, the eyes black as night and that sick grin still twisting Dean’s features. “Let him go.”
“I can’t,” the thing said. “He wants me here. With him.”
“You’re lying.” The grin widened. “Dean.” Sam was horrified at the sound, his voice was more a whimper than a command, had practically broken as he spoke the name aloud.
“It’s not what it looks like,” the thing said. He stood up straighter, lowered the knife but did not step forward -- did not step away from Gordon’s body.
“It looks like you just killed a friend of mine.”
“Gordon Walker, a friend of yours?” The disbelief was clear and Sam couldn’t argue with it. “Maybe not after you know what he had planned for you, Sammy.”
“Don’t” Sam snarled, “call me Sammy.”
“You think I would have killed him if he’d been on my side?”
“You’re a demon.”
“I am Dean.”
“You’re not him!” Sam screamed.
“You’re right. I’m not. Not entirely. But he wanted me here.”
“You keep saying that …” but it clicked in one horrible moment. Became all too clear. The vision that had never made sense, had never been complete and had been so easily set aside in the chaos of what had followed. “Avatar.”
“My name is Astaroth.” Sam cocked the gun and raised it. The thing only quirked an eyebrow -- a look Sam had seen on Dean’s face so many times, only this time it wasn’t Dean making the face. “Shoot me and you kill him. You won’t do any damage to me.”
“Get out.”
“I will not.”
“Get out or I’ll rip you out of him myself.”
“I will not go. I have made a pact and it is not your orders that are mine to obey.”
Things were falling into place, slowly pieces were fitting into each other, and the more Sam stood there, the more he began to realize. “You killed those hunters.”
“That was my revenge. It was part of the deal.”
“Good. You got what you came for, now go.”
“For all that you claim to understand and know, you are a simpleton, Sam Winchester. It might be fine for you to speak to me in this way, I am, after all, a demon. But you are seriously mistaken if you continue in this way toward my host. There is a wealth of knowledge that is not yours at this moment. I can help you. He understood that. He understands far more than either you or your thick-headed father, blinded by prejudice with minds dimmed with thoughts of revenge can even begin to fathom. Continue like this, Little Winchester, and you’ll lose the lover you hold the same as you lost your brother.”
Sam didn’t mean to shoot. Or he did. Dean twisted back and fell to the ground beside Gordon, and Sam didn’t hesitate, just crossed the distance and forcibly dragged Dean’s body up from the ground and yanked and shoved until they were through the house and back by the car. “Shit,” Dean said -- Sam knew it was Dean who spoke from the tone. “You shot me.”
“You’re god damned right I shot you. Now sit down and shut up.”
“Sam,” Dean said. But Sam was wielding a white pencil, marking the car door and the roof. “Those won’t work, but I won’t move. I can explain. Let me explain.”
“There is nothing you can say that will justify what you’ve done,” Sam said. “You idiot. You have no idea! I thought you maybe would have picked something up after what we’ve hunted and seen since Fitchburg, but you’re still a complete idiot, aren’t you? I’m doing everything in my power to keep you from the demons, and you keep throwing yourself at them!”
“Astaroth is different.”
“Demons are all the same!” Sam slammed the car door shut and circled to the driver’s side. When he was seated he started the car and gunned the engine, then sat back in the seat. “You invited him?”
“Yes.” It was no consolation that Dean sounded so solemn.
“Send him out.”
“No.”
Sam’s jaw clenched and his fingers flexed around the steering wheel, and then he peeled away from the curb and into the road. “Where are we going?” Dean asked.
“To Bobby’s.”
“Why?”
“You don’t know what you’ve done,” Sam said. He noted, in some distant part of his mind, that he spoke slow and deep, like his dad always did when he was angry. Fierce, with rough edges in his tone. Sam always thought that quiet chilled voice was more terrifying than when his dad would yell. “If you won’t send him out, and he won’t leave, then I’ll rip him from you. But the demons aren’t taking you.”
<< END CHAPTER >>
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