Fic: Capture the Flag 21/24
Title: Capture the Flag
Author: triquetralmoon
Rating: R
Genre: H/C (respiratory illness, PTSD)
Warnings: Swearing, violence, flashbacks of graphic torture
Spoilers: Season 4, this is set in between Criss Angel Is a Douchebag and Sex and Violence.
Summary: A soldier in the war to stop the apocalypse, Dean is running himself into the ground as he runs away from his time in Hell. What he pegs as a simple sickness soon becomes something much more deadly. The Winchesters can never catch a break. For some soldiers, the war is never over.
Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 / Chapter 13 / Chapter 14 / Chapter 15 / Chapter 16 / Chapter 17 / Chapter 18 / Chapter 19 / Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Promises, Promises
Nearing midnight Sam dropped off Bobby and Dean in front of the foreclosed house. It was kind of a sad sight, because - if Dean was honest about it, he thought more than a little about how different life might have been if he'd gotten to stay in one place as a kid, or since dad died, or before he died, or since coming back from Hell.
A home - it all seemed a fantastical idea.
It was still fantastical, of course, because leaving hunting was about as real an option as being President of the good ol' US of A. Still, here stood an ordinary house that reminded him a little of the kind of house Gumby girl had in Cicero. It was on an ordinary street. It was empty. And it wasn't the only one.
Whatever family had lived here had long since vacated the premises; the heavily weeded grass of the front lawn incongruous to the well-manicured landscaping of other homes. With only the streetlamps on, the lawns in various stages of growth told the tale of how many houses in this corner of suburbia were empty and for just how long.
Dean took shallow breaths, but the clean scent of freshly mown grass still tickled his nose. It took him a moment to figure out just what he was being reminded of.
The best sandwich he had ever eaten. His mother sitting with him at the kitchen table. A secret wish that yielded a life that felt so right and so wrong at the same time.
That lawn looks like it could use some mowin'.
The ache in his chest intensified and he knew damn well it had nothing to do with illness.
Bobby's hand on his shoulder had Dean's eyelids blinking back the burn; he shielded his face in the crook of his elbow, grateful for the camouflage of coughing.
"You alright?" Bobby asked quietly.
"Yeah, let's get inside." Dean rubbed the wetness away from his eyes. "Must be 'llergic to suburbia."
Bobby gave Dean's shoulder a firm pat and guided him up the path to the side door attached to the garage, easily picking his way in. He set Dean up in what must've been a family room at one point, a great bay window with a cushioned bench seat facing the Cole's residence - a perfect location to keep watch.
Whoever was doing real estate on the place had kept it minimally furnished, everything in beige or white slipcovers. They sat together in companionable silence, checking the gear while they waited for Sam.
Dean began going over the weaponry from top to bottom, Bobby started doing the same to him with a look that brooked no complaint about it. Doogie had stowed a digital pulse oximeter in Dean's little going away present and the older hunter was not at all impressed with the readout, immediately setting up the portable oxygen tank and handing Dean the mask to put on. Hating to admit he's goddamn relieved at the sight of it, Dean stuck his nose and mouth greedily into the rubbery plastic and wheezed in and out.
He didn't even realize his eyes had closed and he may have slipped out of it until something unyielding was stuck into his ear - waking him right the fuck up.
:::
"Easy, Dean." Sam said, "just taking your temp."
Dean blinked heavily. "When'd you get here?"
"Always been down here with you, man." Sam's smile shifted to a frown of mocking concern.
Something was definitely not right here.
"You're shivering. Let's do something about that."
And then Alastair doused Dean in gasoline and set him on fire.
"Stay with me, Dean." Not Alastair's voice, Cole's voice - but the demon's mouth moving with his forked tongue was all he could focus on.
:::
Someone shrieked, maybe it was him. There was a commotion - besides the fact that he's burning alive - flesh sizzling, blistering, charring - burning alive to death - and he heard the sound of thousands of grains of salt being tossed and scattering as they hit the hard-wood floors. And then someone was shaking him.
"C'mon, Dean!" Cool hands caressed his face. "Bobby, get the salt line down before he comes back. Crap, where's the thermometer?"
Something unyielding stuck in his ear and Dean knew he’d already been through this bullshit and punched out before Alastair figured out that Dean was up to speed. His fist smacked into the solidity of someone’s jaw. His knuckles were grazed and it felt fucking good to put the hurt on someone else.
"Shit, Dean! Easy, easy...just taking your temp."
"Fuck you, Alastair...Cole...whatthefuckever." Dean found the breath to emphasize each of the next three words. "You're. Not. Sam."
Not-Sam's shoulder's sagged and his head bowed. He tried to reach toward Dean, but was immediately shied away from, slapped at until the coughing began. Thick acidic goop caught in Dean's throat while his lungs tried to churn it forward, and Not-Sam (maybe Sam?) began pounding him on the back frantically.
Alastair never had worry in his eyes. Alastair never had worry in his eyes because he'd just torture until he got the result he wanted.
And Cole wanted him to die, wanted him to die just like this rather than going down violently.
Considering the contortions his body was making - he still considered this kinda violent, but he got the point.
He finally coughed out frothing streams of infection mottled bloody and black. Sam held him while he caught his breath, secured the oxygen mask over his face again.
"Hey, Sam." Dean murmured, spent. His head was lolling forward on his brother's chest, but now at least he knew it was his brother's chest. He felt the gigantic hands pressing the back of his head, comforting.
"Hey, man. Stay with us."
Dean felt himself swung to the floor gently, two pairs of hands, wet towels and icepacks being placed strategically. The stabbing pain to his ribs was a serrated bagel knife carving its way in slow, until he felt cool fluid push into the goddamn IV line Sam was so keen to have put in.
If I get through this, I should probably tell Sam that he was right about that.
The realization poked through the fog of fever and pain. Recently he's been more like his dad with Sam than ever before in his life. It's become all about what Sam was doing wrong, all about his potential to screw up. And, Dean knew, a lot of that could be his own baggage. He went to Hell and graciously accepted his promotion, relished the responsibilities and the vacation package. Those were his failings, not his brother's.
Sam's hand was still in his hair when he became aware of the morphine working. Relief.
Ten minutes later, Dean's eyes snapped open. It was like reality decided to play Dog Pile On Dean.
He realized he's staring at crown molding painted Eggshell Fantasy or some shit. That fact alone irritated him, nevermind being invaded by a ghost on a cellular level. "The fuck?"
"You're okay. It was Cole fucking with you again. Salt lines are up. You're okay." Sam tightened his grip around Dean's wrist, simultaneously grappling for a pulse. Dean's eyes sharpen to the details of his brother's exhausted face. The kid looked about two steps away from losing it. Even as he was watching, Sam pulled out a flask and sucked on it like a baby to the breast.
"I have some?" Dean asked, licking his lips.
Sam jumped a little, obviously surprised that Dean was watching him, and capped the flask hastily, tucking it somewhere out of Dean's line of sight. "Whiskey's not a good idea for you right now."
Dean wanted to shoot back that whiskey was always a good idea, but Sam lifted his head and brought a straw to his lips, tucked it under the oxygen mask. Cool water - rinsing him clean.
"Bobby?" Dean called.
"Hey, whatever you need man, I can get it." Sam said firmly.
"Needa know where Bobby is." Dean smirked before taking another sip of water.
Dean heard a gruff voice from the other side of the room. "Right here, kid."
Dean lifted up his head, raised himself up on his elbows, all the while ignoring Sam's huff of protest. He'd bet anything Bobby was sitting in the great bay window, binoculars in his lap and his nose in a book.
"Bobby..."
Thick layers of puffy pink fiberglass insulation had somehow unrolled in his lungs; there was no way he was going to be able to get out what he wanted to say. He flopped back down on the couch cushion they'd given him as a pillow, frustration making his already hot skin feel fiery. Sam gave his arm a squeeze and stood up, started rifling through things.
He came back with a pad of paper and a pen and the nebulizer to boot, then helped Dean to sit up against the wall. Dean shot a grateful look at his brother and began scrawling a note while Sam was setting the machine up, then sat there holding the mist spewing mouthpiece near Dean's face.
Bobby walked over and sat himself on the floor near Dean. It is a strange sight, to be sure - Bobby Singer pulling up a piece of carpet.
"Whatcha got for me, boy?" Bobby asked.
Dean held up a finger and finished scribbling his thought, then ripped the notebook paper out with a flourish and handed it to the older hunter.
"The ghost has the juice to possess me if he wanted. He wants me dead so bad, why doesn't he just Puppetmaster me and get it over with?"
Bobby sighed. "I've been looking up the subtleties of what ectoplasm means, not getting any answers either. I think you're right, he has thirty years and something he considers a mission - he definitely has the ability to take you over."
Sam's face went white, blood rushing out of his head at the idea that this ghost could go beyond deathly illness - just take Dean over and grab one of the guns. That he could go out with Ruby and come back to his brother's brain matter on the floor.
Bobby continued. "Maybe he doesn't know he can. Or.."
Dean looked at his friend sharply, stifling a cough and breathing in the chemical-tasting mist. Things felt slightly more open, especially as he's able to cough more shit up. Shit he doesn't want to look at anymore, but Sam was glancing at it like it a barometer of how much ghost is in him, which - to be fair - made sense. But still - it was friggin' weird to have someone inspecting his mucus.
"Or?"
"Or he wants you to make the decision to die. I mean, sure, he is prompting the hell out of you, making living real hard to do when you can't breathe. But he keeps coming back and asking you to give in." Bobby shook his head like he didn't like the idea.
"He's a real gentleman." Sam snarked at no one in particular, then sighed. "He knows we're here. Knows Dean is here. We're not going to have the drop on him."
Bobby shrugs. "Least we know he knows."
"We gotta go in." Sam replied and shifted his crouch, holding the wall for balance. "You got the hot dogs ready?"
"Hot dogs?" Dean asked, taking the nebulizer mouthpiece from his brother's hands.
"For the dog. Stuffed the sleeping pills in 'em." Bobby answered.
Dean smirked. "Dogs for a dog?" It seemed a bit like feeding Big Bird chicken nuggets.
"Toss 'em, McGuire" Dean said, nodding to Sam. "I'll play lookout."
Sam handed the oxygen mask to Dean and then paused for a moment before standing up. "Promise me you'll stay here."
"Sam..." Dean shifted a glance up to Bobby to see if he was listening in. True to form, Bobby had wandered away, a fake whistle on his lips.
"Dean, please. We'll be in and out, but if we burn the flag and he's still after you... Just stay behind the salt, man. Promise me."
Sam was fiddling idly with the knob on the oxygen tank. When Dean finally caught his brother's gaze he saw some nameless fear caught in between the blues and greens. Maybe not so nameless. Maybe the fear of holding your brother's corpse in your arms.
"You want me to pinky swear?" Dean asked, trying to keep it light.
That earned him a bitchface. "Dean, I'm serious."
"I know. Yeah, okay, I promise. Relax."
Sam didn't say anything, but his eyes were screaming thanks.
Part 22
Author: triquetralmoon
Rating: R
Genre: H/C (respiratory illness, PTSD)
Warnings: Swearing, violence, flashbacks of graphic torture
Spoilers: Season 4, this is set in between Criss Angel Is a Douchebag and Sex and Violence.
Summary: A soldier in the war to stop the apocalypse, Dean is running himself into the ground as he runs away from his time in Hell. What he pegs as a simple sickness soon becomes something much more deadly. The Winchesters can never catch a break. For some soldiers, the war is never over.
Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 / Chapter 13 / Chapter 14 / Chapter 15 / Chapter 16 / Chapter 17 / Chapter 18 / Chapter 19 / Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Promises, Promises
Nearing midnight Sam dropped off Bobby and Dean in front of the foreclosed house. It was kind of a sad sight, because - if Dean was honest about it, he thought more than a little about how different life might have been if he'd gotten to stay in one place as a kid, or since dad died, or before he died, or since coming back from Hell.
A home - it all seemed a fantastical idea.
It was still fantastical, of course, because leaving hunting was about as real an option as being President of the good ol' US of A. Still, here stood an ordinary house that reminded him a little of the kind of house Gumby girl had in Cicero. It was on an ordinary street. It was empty. And it wasn't the only one.
Whatever family had lived here had long since vacated the premises; the heavily weeded grass of the front lawn incongruous to the well-manicured landscaping of other homes. With only the streetlamps on, the lawns in various stages of growth told the tale of how many houses in this corner of suburbia were empty and for just how long.
Dean took shallow breaths, but the clean scent of freshly mown grass still tickled his nose. It took him a moment to figure out just what he was being reminded of.
The best sandwich he had ever eaten. His mother sitting with him at the kitchen table. A secret wish that yielded a life that felt so right and so wrong at the same time.
That lawn looks like it could use some mowin'.
The ache in his chest intensified and he knew damn well it had nothing to do with illness.
Bobby's hand on his shoulder had Dean's eyelids blinking back the burn; he shielded his face in the crook of his elbow, grateful for the camouflage of coughing.
"You alright?" Bobby asked quietly.
"Yeah, let's get inside." Dean rubbed the wetness away from his eyes. "Must be 'llergic to suburbia."
Bobby gave Dean's shoulder a firm pat and guided him up the path to the side door attached to the garage, easily picking his way in. He set Dean up in what must've been a family room at one point, a great bay window with a cushioned bench seat facing the Cole's residence - a perfect location to keep watch.
Whoever was doing real estate on the place had kept it minimally furnished, everything in beige or white slipcovers. They sat together in companionable silence, checking the gear while they waited for Sam.
Dean began going over the weaponry from top to bottom, Bobby started doing the same to him with a look that brooked no complaint about it. Doogie had stowed a digital pulse oximeter in Dean's little going away present and the older hunter was not at all impressed with the readout, immediately setting up the portable oxygen tank and handing Dean the mask to put on. Hating to admit he's goddamn relieved at the sight of it, Dean stuck his nose and mouth greedily into the rubbery plastic and wheezed in and out.
He didn't even realize his eyes had closed and he may have slipped out of it until something unyielding was stuck into his ear - waking him right the fuck up.
:::
"Easy, Dean." Sam said, "just taking your temp."
Dean blinked heavily. "When'd you get here?"
"Always been down here with you, man." Sam's smile shifted to a frown of mocking concern.
Something was definitely not right here.
"You're shivering. Let's do something about that."
And then Alastair doused Dean in gasoline and set him on fire.
"Stay with me, Dean." Not Alastair's voice, Cole's voice - but the demon's mouth moving with his forked tongue was all he could focus on.
:::
Someone shrieked, maybe it was him. There was a commotion - besides the fact that he's burning alive - flesh sizzling, blistering, charring - burning alive to death - and he heard the sound of thousands of grains of salt being tossed and scattering as they hit the hard-wood floors. And then someone was shaking him.
"C'mon, Dean!" Cool hands caressed his face. "Bobby, get the salt line down before he comes back. Crap, where's the thermometer?"
Something unyielding stuck in his ear and Dean knew he’d already been through this bullshit and punched out before Alastair figured out that Dean was up to speed. His fist smacked into the solidity of someone’s jaw. His knuckles were grazed and it felt fucking good to put the hurt on someone else.
"Shit, Dean! Easy, easy...just taking your temp."
"Fuck you, Alastair...Cole...whatthefuckever." Dean found the breath to emphasize each of the next three words. "You're. Not. Sam."
Not-Sam's shoulder's sagged and his head bowed. He tried to reach toward Dean, but was immediately shied away from, slapped at until the coughing began. Thick acidic goop caught in Dean's throat while his lungs tried to churn it forward, and Not-Sam (maybe Sam?) began pounding him on the back frantically.
Alastair never had worry in his eyes. Alastair never had worry in his eyes because he'd just torture until he got the result he wanted.
And Cole wanted him to die, wanted him to die just like this rather than going down violently.
Considering the contortions his body was making - he still considered this kinda violent, but he got the point.
He finally coughed out frothing streams of infection mottled bloody and black. Sam held him while he caught his breath, secured the oxygen mask over his face again.
"Hey, Sam." Dean murmured, spent. His head was lolling forward on his brother's chest, but now at least he knew it was his brother's chest. He felt the gigantic hands pressing the back of his head, comforting.
"Hey, man. Stay with us."
Dean felt himself swung to the floor gently, two pairs of hands, wet towels and icepacks being placed strategically. The stabbing pain to his ribs was a serrated bagel knife carving its way in slow, until he felt cool fluid push into the goddamn IV line Sam was so keen to have put in.
If I get through this, I should probably tell Sam that he was right about that.
The realization poked through the fog of fever and pain. Recently he's been more like his dad with Sam than ever before in his life. It's become all about what Sam was doing wrong, all about his potential to screw up. And, Dean knew, a lot of that could be his own baggage. He went to Hell and graciously accepted his promotion, relished the responsibilities and the vacation package. Those were his failings, not his brother's.
Sam's hand was still in his hair when he became aware of the morphine working. Relief.
Ten minutes later, Dean's eyes snapped open. It was like reality decided to play Dog Pile On Dean.
He realized he's staring at crown molding painted Eggshell Fantasy or some shit. That fact alone irritated him, nevermind being invaded by a ghost on a cellular level. "The fuck?"
"You're okay. It was Cole fucking with you again. Salt lines are up. You're okay." Sam tightened his grip around Dean's wrist, simultaneously grappling for a pulse. Dean's eyes sharpen to the details of his brother's exhausted face. The kid looked about two steps away from losing it. Even as he was watching, Sam pulled out a flask and sucked on it like a baby to the breast.
"I have some?" Dean asked, licking his lips.
Sam jumped a little, obviously surprised that Dean was watching him, and capped the flask hastily, tucking it somewhere out of Dean's line of sight. "Whiskey's not a good idea for you right now."
Dean wanted to shoot back that whiskey was always a good idea, but Sam lifted his head and brought a straw to his lips, tucked it under the oxygen mask. Cool water - rinsing him clean.
"Bobby?" Dean called.
"Hey, whatever you need man, I can get it." Sam said firmly.
"Needa know where Bobby is." Dean smirked before taking another sip of water.
Dean heard a gruff voice from the other side of the room. "Right here, kid."
Dean lifted up his head, raised himself up on his elbows, all the while ignoring Sam's huff of protest. He'd bet anything Bobby was sitting in the great bay window, binoculars in his lap and his nose in a book.
"Bobby..."
Thick layers of puffy pink fiberglass insulation had somehow unrolled in his lungs; there was no way he was going to be able to get out what he wanted to say. He flopped back down on the couch cushion they'd given him as a pillow, frustration making his already hot skin feel fiery. Sam gave his arm a squeeze and stood up, started rifling through things.
He came back with a pad of paper and a pen and the nebulizer to boot, then helped Dean to sit up against the wall. Dean shot a grateful look at his brother and began scrawling a note while Sam was setting the machine up, then sat there holding the mist spewing mouthpiece near Dean's face.
Bobby walked over and sat himself on the floor near Dean. It is a strange sight, to be sure - Bobby Singer pulling up a piece of carpet.
"Whatcha got for me, boy?" Bobby asked.
Dean held up a finger and finished scribbling his thought, then ripped the notebook paper out with a flourish and handed it to the older hunter.
"The ghost has the juice to possess me if he wanted. He wants me dead so bad, why doesn't he just Puppetmaster me and get it over with?"
Bobby sighed. "I've been looking up the subtleties of what ectoplasm means, not getting any answers either. I think you're right, he has thirty years and something he considers a mission - he definitely has the ability to take you over."
Sam's face went white, blood rushing out of his head at the idea that this ghost could go beyond deathly illness - just take Dean over and grab one of the guns. That he could go out with Ruby and come back to his brother's brain matter on the floor.
Bobby continued. "Maybe he doesn't know he can. Or.."
Dean looked at his friend sharply, stifling a cough and breathing in the chemical-tasting mist. Things felt slightly more open, especially as he's able to cough more shit up. Shit he doesn't want to look at anymore, but Sam was glancing at it like it a barometer of how much ghost is in him, which - to be fair - made sense. But still - it was friggin' weird to have someone inspecting his mucus.
"Or?"
"Or he wants you to make the decision to die. I mean, sure, he is prompting the hell out of you, making living real hard to do when you can't breathe. But he keeps coming back and asking you to give in." Bobby shook his head like he didn't like the idea.
"He's a real gentleman." Sam snarked at no one in particular, then sighed. "He knows we're here. Knows Dean is here. We're not going to have the drop on him."
Bobby shrugs. "Least we know he knows."
"We gotta go in." Sam replied and shifted his crouch, holding the wall for balance. "You got the hot dogs ready?"
"Hot dogs?" Dean asked, taking the nebulizer mouthpiece from his brother's hands.
"For the dog. Stuffed the sleeping pills in 'em." Bobby answered.
Dean smirked. "Dogs for a dog?" It seemed a bit like feeding Big Bird chicken nuggets.
"Toss 'em, McGuire" Dean said, nodding to Sam. "I'll play lookout."
Sam handed the oxygen mask to Dean and then paused for a moment before standing up. "Promise me you'll stay here."
"Sam..." Dean shifted a glance up to Bobby to see if he was listening in. True to form, Bobby had wandered away, a fake whistle on his lips.
"Dean, please. We'll be in and out, but if we burn the flag and he's still after you... Just stay behind the salt, man. Promise me."
Sam was fiddling idly with the knob on the oxygen tank. When Dean finally caught his brother's gaze he saw some nameless fear caught in between the blues and greens. Maybe not so nameless. Maybe the fear of holding your brother's corpse in your arms.
"You want me to pinky swear?" Dean asked, trying to keep it light.
That earned him a bitchface. "Dean, I'm serious."
"I know. Yeah, okay, I promise. Relax."
Sam didn't say anything, but his eyes were screaming thanks.
Part 22