Fic: Capture the Flag 22/24
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.
Author's Note: Final chapters and epilogue will be up Sunday evening. (I'm in EST)
Author's Note 2: No puppies were harmed in the writing of this fic.
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
Chapter 22
Exit Strategy
Bobby and Sam dressed in dark colors and headed across the street, avoiding the dim glow cast by the streetlight. The dog began barking almost as soon as they get close to the tall privacy fence surrounding Mrs. Cole's backyard. Sam backed up a few steps and immediately started tossing the laced hot dogs over the long planks of cedar. They could hear the dog scrabbling on the concrete patio tiles, eager to munch on the snack. It was a smart dog, apparently, because it charged at the fence, long claws making muted scratching noises against the soft wood, nose level with Sam's pocket - trying to snuff out more kibble. The dog that was supposed to be one very unreasonable mutt was soon making soft whuffing noises along with the occasional whine. He ran up and down along the fence cheerfully.
"I thought you said this dog was Cujo?" Sam whispered to Bobby.
"When I saw 'im he was." The silhouette of the older hunter shrugged in the dark. "I dunno. Maybe all he needs is a snack and he's happy."
"Guess so." Sam murmured. The dog was digging his paws underneath the fence. Sam crouched down and gave the pup a quick pat on one of his front paws. He got licked for his trouble.
They heard the dog yawn loudly and his trotting pace along the fence line began to slow down. A few more muffled whines later and then total stillness had Sam peeking under the wooden slats to get a look at the dog.
"He out?" Sam heard Bobby ask.
Sam got up on his knees. "Yeah, he’s out. He’ll be okay, right? I mean, you know how much to give him?"
"’Course, kid. Rumsfeld didn’t exactly go to the vet easy, but he always came back fine."
Sam let out a deep breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding for the fate of a dog he didn’t have any attachment to. Sam gave Bobby a quick nod and used an unraveled coat hanger to make quick work of the latch on the other side of the fence's gate. They both hastily headed into the backyard, away from the possibility that some insomniac neighbor might catch sight of them, and got busy hefting the snoozing pup onto the wrong side of the fence, covering him up with a camouflage tarp behind some bushes before heading back inside the gate.
Sam quickly got out his phone to text Dean, "We’re go on your mark."
It took a minute, but soon they heard the sound of a phone inside the house ringing. They almost doubt that she’s going wake up to answer it, but whatever Dean said worked. Bobby and Sam both pressed their bodies up against the back wall as Mrs. Cole peeked out into her yard, verifying the conspicuous lack of dog.
Their position didn't provide line of sight to the driveway, blocking their view of the car leaving, so the plan was for Dean to let them know when it’s clear to head into the house. The reply came back in record time: "Go. Be careful."
Sam didn’t have any trouble sabotaging the alarm, the circuitry was simple enough. He felt a sudden jolt of missing Dean, not having his brother beside him when he did actually have to cut the blue wire. Dean always loved it when life imitated the movies, and these days those simple joys were all they had. Sam promised himself he’d remember to let Dean know after this is all over.
Bobby picked the lock as soon as Sam gave the go ahead and the two of them stole along the shadows of the front parlor, the large display case quite obviously the focal point of the room. They took a long look at the shelves, which only held the flag and some old photographs. There was nothing else held in the glass cabinet that looked like it could be human remains, at least not what they could see from across the room.
The house was eerily quiet, the sound of their stealthy footsteps seeming louder as every sound in the room echoed off of the dark wooden paneling. Sam flicked on the EMF and they weren’t surprised at the low-key hum that rang out. With each step closer to encased flag, the noise kicked up a notch - the change in frequency like the wail on a guitar’s whammy bar.
Bobby shifted his grip on the iron crowbar he’d brought along, a container of salt ready in his other hand. Still, the spook wasn’t making itself known.
Sam and Bobby shared a look.
Sam stepped into place before the glass tower and took a deep breath, got his wire cutters ready. The alarm was put in place by the same company as the house alarm, so once again he cut the blue wire. Still, all was calm.
Then Sam opened the door and everything went to hell.
Bobby was flung across the room, trying to catch the breath that was knocked out of him as he hit the coffee table. It took a few moments to blink away his double vision, but he heard the commotion going on in the background that told him Sam was still going for the flag. When he was able to focus again he saw the younger hunter using the small salt shaker he had on him to ward the ghost off, but Cole was phasing back so fast Sam was never getting a chance to get the flag out of its small triangular case, his hands fumbling with the clasp. Bobby located where his crow bar got dropped and was making his way to it when Sam was pushed headfirst into the cabinet.
The sound was awful, an explosion of tinkling glass. Sam fell to the floor, his lacerated face a smear of red, glittering with the shards still stuck in his skin. Bobby couldn’t tell if he was still awake, the younger hunter’s eyes hard to find under the soggy lanks of bloodied hair that were in the way.
Just inches away from the crowbar and it was flung out of his reach, landing somewhere behind the worn floral-patterned couch. Bobby looked up and saw Corporal Cole standing in front of Sam.
Sam’s nose began bleeding black.
Stiff-backed, the soldier pivoted sharply toward Bobby.
"You really think you’re helping them? Either of them?" the ghost asked.
"I could ask you the same thing." Bobby sniped, trying to buy time as his eyes scanned the room for the salt.
With a shudder, Sam awoke coughing and puking ectoplasm, thick ropes of shiny black ooze falling from his mouth onto the shag carpet. Cole thrust a hand toward Bobby and tossed him another couple of feet, incorporeal boots treading across the floor with military precision until he was looming over his next target.
"You already lost your brother once, man. Do you really want to go through that again? To be alone in the world, without your platoon, without your brothers?"
Sam tried to form some sort of answer, but quickly found he’d choke if he tried to talk, his mouth immediately filling up with bitter ghost spunk.
Bobby yelled as he tried to get up again. "Don’t listen to him, Sam."
"You shut up!" Cole hollered. A blast of force once again took hold of Bobby’s body, this time hurtling him into the wall, his head knocking senselessly against a shelf.
Now it was just the ghost - and Sam.
:::
:::
Dean heard the door close behind Bobby and Sam and immediately began tapping out an anxious rhythm on his knee. As the minutes ticked by he did what he and Sam always did to pass the time, a time-honored tradition started by John Winchester. If Monster X started attacking, what was your game plan? The game, if it ever was really a game, was more fun nowadays, especially now that there was no stopwatch involved.
Dean's mind wandered over various creatures, figuring out the best way to waste them, even in his current condition. The only time he had trouble was when he had to pose the question John always made them ask.
How do you make a quick retreat? Always know your exits, Dean.
The exit itself, wasn't a problem. It was the quick part. How does a dude who can't take a breath without a tank manage to get out of dodge by himself?
Dean's eyes scanned the room for anything he could make use of until he came upon the small portable oxygen canister Bobby had originally taken out of his massive first aid toolbox. Dean smirked a little.
Too easy.
Still, if he was holding it in his hands, he wouldn't have room for a weapon or the car keys. Sam's half-empty backpack was sitting on the chair. He could stuff the tank in the backpack, carry it that way.
Dean didn't have time to congratulate himself on coming up with a speedy answer, more tiresome coughing coming as an unpleasant interruption. He used his shoulder to wipe his face, damp flannel feeling gross instead of comforting. "Ugh."
Beware fuglies of the world, I'll come there and sweat all over you.
His ears perked up to a thump in the distance. A thump that could have been anything, but Dean's senses were primed for exactly that - anything.
They're fine, they're fine. And it isn't like you can take a ghost out without some noise, jackass.
Still, Dean was already pushing himself up on his knees, grabbing the backpack with one hand and emptying the rest of its contents out onto the floor.
I'm not breaking my promise, Sam. I'm just being prepared, y'know? For when you get back, so we can leave before the cops get here.
When he stood up his vision darkened, the bland colors of the room swimming before him. If it wasn't for the chair he was standing near, he would have been most assuredly sprawled on his ass. He was gripping the back of the recliner tightly when he heard the tinkling of breaking glass.
Before he knew what he was doing he had the small aluminum tank connected to his mask, stuffed into the backpack, and over his shoulder. He'd promised, Sam. And if he kept his promise and something happened to Sam, to Bobby? Then that promise and a fiver will get him one of those crazy latte whip things Sam drinks.
Besides, Sammy comes out of this okay and he'll have a nice long time to sulk over it. And a sulking Sammy is a happy Sammy, or something.
Shotgun in one hand, a crossbow with iron-tipped bolts in the other, Dean made his way across the room taking slow deliberate breaths. Instinct was telling him he didn't have time to be felled by a coughing fit or six.
And just as he was about to cross the threshold of the doorway something in his lungs exploded. Or it felt that way, like hunks of his insides were being pulled to the outside on spiny crochet hooks. Screw the pain the pleurisy was causing, this - this was agony. This was pain Alastair would have been proud to have caused, the Dean began hacking, leaning against the doorframe to keep himself upright against the sensation his chest was being crushed, wetness splattering into the oxygen mask and dribbling down his chin. He wiped his arm on his face.
Blood, of course.
Looking down, he noticed the glittering white salt line.
Are you friggin' kidding me?
The ectoplasm in him was apparently bound to the room, him stepping across the barrier like stepping forward with bits of his lungs bolted into place. With an eye roll, he nudged a path for himself with his boot, grateful that his toenails didn't decide to randomly burst into flame as well.
More distant sounds of crashing furniture snapped Dean’s attention past the scorching in his chest. He made his way out the front door of the house, each step costing him more and more air. More than that - the closer he got to the house, it felt like someone was turning up the knob on an oven, until finally someone blew the pilot light out and left him shaking from cold, the pool of sweat that was at his collar and the small of his back turning icy in the night air.
He was a foot away from the Cole’s front lawn when he felt eyes on the back of his head. Dean didn’t know how, but he knew there were eyes on the back of his head. He knew it wasn’t a neighbor or stray dog either.
"Tsk, tsk. If you're having trouble with those pesky lungs of yours, I could arrange to have them removed."
Fucking Alastair. But it was the fever, right? Not real, not even a little bit. Dean turned to make his way back to the house.
"I wouldn’t walk away from me if I were you, Dean-o." Despite the use of a nickname that used to have fond memories of his dad attached, the voice was unforgiving, stony. A voice that always got what it wanted - especially from Dean.
Dean held his ground, closed his eyes for a moment and refused to turn around. The house was sitting in foreboding silence now, the churning in his gut telling him that he did not have time to duke it out with an imaginary frenemy.
I'm comin', guys.
Part 23
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.
Author's Note: Final chapters and epilogue will be up Sunday evening. (I'm in EST)
Author's Note 2: No puppies were harmed in the writing of this fic.
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
Chapter 22
Exit Strategy
Bobby and Sam dressed in dark colors and headed across the street, avoiding the dim glow cast by the streetlight. The dog began barking almost as soon as they get close to the tall privacy fence surrounding Mrs. Cole's backyard. Sam backed up a few steps and immediately started tossing the laced hot dogs over the long planks of cedar. They could hear the dog scrabbling on the concrete patio tiles, eager to munch on the snack. It was a smart dog, apparently, because it charged at the fence, long claws making muted scratching noises against the soft wood, nose level with Sam's pocket - trying to snuff out more kibble. The dog that was supposed to be one very unreasonable mutt was soon making soft whuffing noises along with the occasional whine. He ran up and down along the fence cheerfully.
"I thought you said this dog was Cujo?" Sam whispered to Bobby.
"When I saw 'im he was." The silhouette of the older hunter shrugged in the dark. "I dunno. Maybe all he needs is a snack and he's happy."
"Guess so." Sam murmured. The dog was digging his paws underneath the fence. Sam crouched down and gave the pup a quick pat on one of his front paws. He got licked for his trouble.
They heard the dog yawn loudly and his trotting pace along the fence line began to slow down. A few more muffled whines later and then total stillness had Sam peeking under the wooden slats to get a look at the dog.
"He out?" Sam heard Bobby ask.
Sam got up on his knees. "Yeah, he’s out. He’ll be okay, right? I mean, you know how much to give him?"
"’Course, kid. Rumsfeld didn’t exactly go to the vet easy, but he always came back fine."
Sam let out a deep breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding for the fate of a dog he didn’t have any attachment to. Sam gave Bobby a quick nod and used an unraveled coat hanger to make quick work of the latch on the other side of the fence's gate. They both hastily headed into the backyard, away from the possibility that some insomniac neighbor might catch sight of them, and got busy hefting the snoozing pup onto the wrong side of the fence, covering him up with a camouflage tarp behind some bushes before heading back inside the gate.
Sam quickly got out his phone to text Dean, "We’re go on your mark."
It took a minute, but soon they heard the sound of a phone inside the house ringing. They almost doubt that she’s going wake up to answer it, but whatever Dean said worked. Bobby and Sam both pressed their bodies up against the back wall as Mrs. Cole peeked out into her yard, verifying the conspicuous lack of dog.
Their position didn't provide line of sight to the driveway, blocking their view of the car leaving, so the plan was for Dean to let them know when it’s clear to head into the house. The reply came back in record time: "Go. Be careful."
Sam didn’t have any trouble sabotaging the alarm, the circuitry was simple enough. He felt a sudden jolt of missing Dean, not having his brother beside him when he did actually have to cut the blue wire. Dean always loved it when life imitated the movies, and these days those simple joys were all they had. Sam promised himself he’d remember to let Dean know after this is all over.
Bobby picked the lock as soon as Sam gave the go ahead and the two of them stole along the shadows of the front parlor, the large display case quite obviously the focal point of the room. They took a long look at the shelves, which only held the flag and some old photographs. There was nothing else held in the glass cabinet that looked like it could be human remains, at least not what they could see from across the room.
The house was eerily quiet, the sound of their stealthy footsteps seeming louder as every sound in the room echoed off of the dark wooden paneling. Sam flicked on the EMF and they weren’t surprised at the low-key hum that rang out. With each step closer to encased flag, the noise kicked up a notch - the change in frequency like the wail on a guitar’s whammy bar.
Bobby shifted his grip on the iron crowbar he’d brought along, a container of salt ready in his other hand. Still, the spook wasn’t making itself known.
Sam and Bobby shared a look.
Sam stepped into place before the glass tower and took a deep breath, got his wire cutters ready. The alarm was put in place by the same company as the house alarm, so once again he cut the blue wire. Still, all was calm.
Then Sam opened the door and everything went to hell.
Bobby was flung across the room, trying to catch the breath that was knocked out of him as he hit the coffee table. It took a few moments to blink away his double vision, but he heard the commotion going on in the background that told him Sam was still going for the flag. When he was able to focus again he saw the younger hunter using the small salt shaker he had on him to ward the ghost off, but Cole was phasing back so fast Sam was never getting a chance to get the flag out of its small triangular case, his hands fumbling with the clasp. Bobby located where his crow bar got dropped and was making his way to it when Sam was pushed headfirst into the cabinet.
The sound was awful, an explosion of tinkling glass. Sam fell to the floor, his lacerated face a smear of red, glittering with the shards still stuck in his skin. Bobby couldn’t tell if he was still awake, the younger hunter’s eyes hard to find under the soggy lanks of bloodied hair that were in the way.
Just inches away from the crowbar and it was flung out of his reach, landing somewhere behind the worn floral-patterned couch. Bobby looked up and saw Corporal Cole standing in front of Sam.
Sam’s nose began bleeding black.
Stiff-backed, the soldier pivoted sharply toward Bobby.
"You really think you’re helping them? Either of them?" the ghost asked.
"I could ask you the same thing." Bobby sniped, trying to buy time as his eyes scanned the room for the salt.
With a shudder, Sam awoke coughing and puking ectoplasm, thick ropes of shiny black ooze falling from his mouth onto the shag carpet. Cole thrust a hand toward Bobby and tossed him another couple of feet, incorporeal boots treading across the floor with military precision until he was looming over his next target.
"You already lost your brother once, man. Do you really want to go through that again? To be alone in the world, without your platoon, without your brothers?"
Sam tried to form some sort of answer, but quickly found he’d choke if he tried to talk, his mouth immediately filling up with bitter ghost spunk.
Bobby yelled as he tried to get up again. "Don’t listen to him, Sam."
"You shut up!" Cole hollered. A blast of force once again took hold of Bobby’s body, this time hurtling him into the wall, his head knocking senselessly against a shelf.
Now it was just the ghost - and Sam.
:::
:::
Dean heard the door close behind Bobby and Sam and immediately began tapping out an anxious rhythm on his knee. As the minutes ticked by he did what he and Sam always did to pass the time, a time-honored tradition started by John Winchester. If Monster X started attacking, what was your game plan? The game, if it ever was really a game, was more fun nowadays, especially now that there was no stopwatch involved.
Dean's mind wandered over various creatures, figuring out the best way to waste them, even in his current condition. The only time he had trouble was when he had to pose the question John always made them ask.
How do you make a quick retreat? Always know your exits, Dean.
The exit itself, wasn't a problem. It was the quick part. How does a dude who can't take a breath without a tank manage to get out of dodge by himself?
Dean's eyes scanned the room for anything he could make use of until he came upon the small portable oxygen canister Bobby had originally taken out of his massive first aid toolbox. Dean smirked a little.
Too easy.
Still, if he was holding it in his hands, he wouldn't have room for a weapon or the car keys. Sam's half-empty backpack was sitting on the chair. He could stuff the tank in the backpack, carry it that way.
Dean didn't have time to congratulate himself on coming up with a speedy answer, more tiresome coughing coming as an unpleasant interruption. He used his shoulder to wipe his face, damp flannel feeling gross instead of comforting. "Ugh."
Beware fuglies of the world, I'll come there and sweat all over you.
His ears perked up to a thump in the distance. A thump that could have been anything, but Dean's senses were primed for exactly that - anything.
They're fine, they're fine. And it isn't like you can take a ghost out without some noise, jackass.
Still, Dean was already pushing himself up on his knees, grabbing the backpack with one hand and emptying the rest of its contents out onto the floor.
I'm not breaking my promise, Sam. I'm just being prepared, y'know? For when you get back, so we can leave before the cops get here.
When he stood up his vision darkened, the bland colors of the room swimming before him. If it wasn't for the chair he was standing near, he would have been most assuredly sprawled on his ass. He was gripping the back of the recliner tightly when he heard the tinkling of breaking glass.
Before he knew what he was doing he had the small aluminum tank connected to his mask, stuffed into the backpack, and over his shoulder. He'd promised, Sam. And if he kept his promise and something happened to Sam, to Bobby? Then that promise and a fiver will get him one of those crazy latte whip things Sam drinks.
Besides, Sammy comes out of this okay and he'll have a nice long time to sulk over it. And a sulking Sammy is a happy Sammy, or something.
Shotgun in one hand, a crossbow with iron-tipped bolts in the other, Dean made his way across the room taking slow deliberate breaths. Instinct was telling him he didn't have time to be felled by a coughing fit or six.
And just as he was about to cross the threshold of the doorway something in his lungs exploded. Or it felt that way, like hunks of his insides were being pulled to the outside on spiny crochet hooks. Screw the pain the pleurisy was causing, this - this was agony. This was pain Alastair would have been proud to have caused, the Dean began hacking, leaning against the doorframe to keep himself upright against the sensation his chest was being crushed, wetness splattering into the oxygen mask and dribbling down his chin. He wiped his arm on his face.
Blood, of course.
Looking down, he noticed the glittering white salt line.
Are you friggin' kidding me?
The ectoplasm in him was apparently bound to the room, him stepping across the barrier like stepping forward with bits of his lungs bolted into place. With an eye roll, he nudged a path for himself with his boot, grateful that his toenails didn't decide to randomly burst into flame as well.
More distant sounds of crashing furniture snapped Dean’s attention past the scorching in his chest. He made his way out the front door of the house, each step costing him more and more air. More than that - the closer he got to the house, it felt like someone was turning up the knob on an oven, until finally someone blew the pilot light out and left him shaking from cold, the pool of sweat that was at his collar and the small of his back turning icy in the night air.
He was a foot away from the Cole’s front lawn when he felt eyes on the back of his head. Dean didn’t know how, but he knew there were eyes on the back of his head. He knew it wasn’t a neighbor or stray dog either.
"Tsk, tsk. If you're having trouble with those pesky lungs of yours, I could arrange to have them removed."
Fucking Alastair. But it was the fever, right? Not real, not even a little bit. Dean turned to make his way back to the house.
"I wouldn’t walk away from me if I were you, Dean-o." Despite the use of a nickname that used to have fond memories of his dad attached, the voice was unforgiving, stony. A voice that always got what it wanted - especially from Dean.
Dean held his ground, closed his eyes for a moment and refused to turn around. The house was sitting in foreboding silence now, the churning in his gut telling him that he did not have time to duke it out with an imaginary frenemy.
I'm comin', guys.
Part 23