"Lost and Found: The Stand"
Title: The Stand
’Verse: Lost and Found
Author: LadyMacbeth
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Sam/Dean/Priestly
Word Count: 2503
Disclaimer: “Supernatural” and all its characters belong to the genius that is Eric Kripke. I make no profit.
Warning: Incestuous slash. You no like, you no look.
Summary: Missouri reveals a secret to the boys that send them on a journey to Santa Cruz where they find a brother they never knew and an even darker revelation that none of them saw coming.
The story so far:
1. Santa Cruz
2. The Road to Missouri
3. Revelations
4. Look Back, Leap Forward
5. Second Sight
6. Fury and Fitchburg
7. Conjoined
8. Distant Voices
9. The Warning
10. Wrought Asunder
11. Family Ties
12. Black Dog
13. Splitting Down the Seems
14. Spiral
15. Trinity
16. The Arrival
17. The Apology
18. Imminence
“Are you scared?” Priestly whispers that night, head pillowed by Dean’s arms.
The night is cool and silent, a stark contrast to the red hot noise that had echoed across the scrapped cars and dirt only hours ago.
Dean doesn’t answer right away. He breathes steady, staring up at the ceiling, trying his best to hold off a shiver. He considers lying, but ultimately decides against it.
“Yes,” he whispers back.
“So am I,” Priestly murmurs, turning his face against Dean’s side, burrowing in tight.
Sam snores gently in the dark, snuggled up against Priestly’s back. His arm is thrown across Priestly’s middle, and his breathe tickles the back of his neck.
“He’ll be here soon,” Dean says suddenly, body going still. “Today, I think.”
Priestly feels an electric surge sizzle beneath his skin. He lifts his head to look his brother in the eye.
Dean stares up at the ceiling, almost through it. His eyes glow bright.
“Are you sure?” Priestly whispers, unable to keep the waver of fear from his voice.
For a moment, the room goes cold. Priestly shivers despite himself and presses himself closer to his twin. Sam snuffles and mumbles, tightening his grip on Priestly’s torso.
Dean finally turns and meets Priestly’s gaze. His eyes continue to grow fiercely.
He nods.
“Yeah,” he says, eyes burning brighter. “Mark my words. By sunset, that son of a bitch will be on our doorstep.”
*****
The smell of bacon rouses Dean from his sleep a little after nine in the morning.
He wakes slowly, the smell playing with his dream before he realizes it doesn’t belong. His eyes peel open to slits, wary of the sunlight streaming into the room, far too cheery for what the rest of the day has in store.
He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand, groaning, trying jump start his brain.
After a muffled curse at the blistering and unrelenting light, Dean pulls himself out of bed, raising his arms into the sky in a stretch and wincing when one of his shoulders pop.
The delicious smell hits him harder when he opens the door, accompanied by the scent of eggs the sound of fat sizzling. Dean’s stomach rumbles tellingly, halfway to the kitchen, warning the cook of his approach.
Bobby turns away from the stove, the muffled sunlight framing his head and shoulders like an aura. Twenty years seem to slide off the old hunter as a slow smile breaks his face. His eyes still crinkle in the corners, but somehow Dean can’t imagine Bobby without them.
Still standing in the hallway, Dean resists the insane urge to breakdown and cry.
“Mornin’ boy,” Bobby says softly. “Why don’t you go wake the others. I’ve got fresh coffee and breakfast cooking.”
It occurs to Dean suddenly that Bobby’s place has been the closest thing to a home to him since Lawrence. He feels something tighten in his chest at the realization, and the urge to breakdown gets stronger.
“Go on, son,” Bobby says, even gentler, like he can see into Dean’s head, “go get your brothers. I don’t want this gettin’ cold on ‘em.”
All Dean can do is nod. He fears for a moment that some of the emotion bubbling in his chest will break free, and he’ll make a fool of himself, but he manages to push it back into the dark recesses of his heart.
“Ya, Bobby,” he says instead. “I’ll go get ‘em.”
*****
Dean manages to catch Bobby after breakfast, offering to help him wash dishes.
The old hunter pretends to be surprised, but Dean can see it in his eyes, something that says he’s actually been expecting the impending conversation, which is funny, considering Dean is still unsure as to what it is he’s going to say.
“Bobby,” he starts, already regretting strolling into the kitchen without a plan of attack. He rings the dishtowel in his heads, hating how nervous he feels. “Listen…” Dean realizes his gaze has fallen upon his shoes. He drags his eyes back up slowly. He stalls, clearing his throat. He has no idea how to proceed. Life with John has not prepared him for this kind of situation. There were never calm talks, each speaker considering the others words. There were orders, talking at someone instead of with. Heartfelt discussions, ones started with thank you and ending in I love you just didn’t happen.
For the second time this morning, the emotion Dean feels threatens to choke him. Bobby’s eyes stare back into his, grey and deep. His eyes have seen so much terror and pain, yet they’re not cold.
“Bobby,” Dean chokes out again, eyes dropping, losing his nerve. He can’t do it. He can’t say all the things rattling around his head. They’ll sound too much like goodbye.
“Don’t.”
The solid word echoes with finality. Dean jerks his head up, vision blurring slightly. But he’s not crying. At least not yet.
Bobby’s hands, strong and heavy, fall onto his shoulders, anchoring him to this moment. The old hunter’s eyes are back, boring into his. They threaten to cripple Dean.
“Don’t you dare thank me for anything, boy,” Bobby says gruffly, brow furrowing. His hands tighten emphatically. He shakes Dean just a little. “Don’t you dare. I’d do anything for you boys. Anything. You’re...” Bobby’s voice cracks. “You’re like sons to me. If I could take this weight off your shoulders, I would. I’d do it in a second. But I can’t. So don’t you thank me for anything.”
Something in Dean breaks, and his rules of engagement are thrown out the window. He wrestles himself free of Bobby’s grip and wraps the man in a crushing hug. It takes every remaining ounce of restraint he’s got left to keep from crying.
“It’ll be okay, son,” Bobby says after a moment, getting over the shock. He pats Dean’s back. “It’s gonna be okay.”
*****
After breakfast, the plans begin.
Despite Bobby’s protestations, the boys refuse to stay. They’re not going to bring the devil to his doorstep.
There’s an old cemetery less than twenty miles up the road. A small church stands within its center, and Sam figures it’s the best place to make their stand. It’s out of the way enough that civilians won’t get in the way and the church has long been deserted, but the biggest draw of all is that it’ll plant Dean right in the center of a massive deposit of spiritual energy.
Sam plans for everyone to be loaded up with weapons, every kind they’ve got. He’s still not one hundred percent sure what will work and what won’t, so he wants everything in their arsenal to be right at their fingertips.
He’s spent the last couple days memorizing as many different protective and entrapment symbols as he can, stuffing diagrams of the more elaborate ones in his pockets. Spells and exorcism chants are also locked away in his head, not wanting to rely on having a book in front of him at the right moment.
Priestly loads himself up with as many weapons as he can carry. He also straps two pouches full of silver ball bearings onto his belt. In one of his pockets, he carries what’s left of the charms. In his other, he carries a flask full of holy water. He has five blessed, silver knives hidden on his body.
Dean straps weapons onto himself like he’s about to film a remake of Rambo. He tells the others straight up that he is not fucking around, and that he intends to kill this son of a bitch dead, even if it means getting up close and personal. As he says this, his eyes flare up and everyone’s hair stands on end. The static electricity crackles in the air.
Bobby’s about half a step out the door behind Sam and Priestly when Dean stops him. He reminds the old hunter that it’s their fight. “It’s us he wants,” Dean says. The pain and resolve in his eyes make it hard to argue. “I don’t want anyone else getting hurt over this.”
“Listen, Dean,” Bobby starts, but Dean raises a palm and halts his words.
“No, you listen. I’m not going to let you die for us, Bobby. I’ve lost too much family already. If something should happen to one of us… any of us, I hope you’ll be there to pick up the pieces. I know that’s a damn unfair thing to ask, but you’re the only one I trust to do it. You’ve never let us down, Bobby. You’ve never let us down, and we aim to return the favour. We’re coming back, and when we do, I hope to find more of your fine country dining waiting for us.”
Bobby lets out a wet sound that seems like a cross between a laugh and a sob. His eyes are glassy when he grabs Dean by the shoulders again and pulls him into a hug.
“Alright, son,” he whispers over Dean’s shoulders. “Go make that son of a bitch cry.”
*****
It’s just after five when the boys pull up to the cemetery.
Dean insists on parking it outside the property. God forbid something happen to his baby.
They gather their supplies from the trunk, dropping them off in the church, one at a time.
The first time Dean crosses over into the cemetery, he gasps audibly and nearly drops his armload of weaponry. His eyes flare up and his mouth drops open. Both Sam and Priestly freeze by the car, holding their breath, praying to God they’re not about to witness another psychic overload.
But after a moment, Dean’s mouth closes and his eyes dim slightly. He nods to no one in particular, readjusts the items in his arms, and continues on his way.
*****
It’s almost six by the time the boys are comfortable in the church. Everything they need is inside, deposited at different points for easy accessibility. Salt lines are laid down, devil’s traps are drawn, goofer dust is scattered, and charms are nailed above every door and window.
Priestly is up in the decrepit bell tower with the sniper rifle. The stairs that lead up to the tiny space have long since fallen away into rubble, so the telekinetic had had to levitate himself up. From the tower, he is able to see for miles, even farther through the sniper scope. Sam and Dean are relying on him to take the first shots at the Beast, hopefully wounding it, at least, before it storms the church.
Sam paces the main floor of the old building, unable to sit still. He checks and rechecks equipment, symbols and salt, and calls up to Priestly every five to ten minutes. He can’t help but feel like he has to work just a little bit harder. He feels he has to earn his place here, at his brothers’ sides. The prophecy was only ever about the twins. Sam hopes, deep down, that his presence will throw a monkey wrench into the whole thing.
Dean tries not to get too distracted by Sam’s movement. He tries to keep his attention on the voices surrounding him. He concentrates hard, sifting through them, weeding out the malicious and unhelpful. He knows that if he’s lucky, the dead will feed him information. He’s learned that certain spirits are more intuitive: they know things before they happen. Dean is relying on them to warn him; he’s relying on his gifts to keep them alive through this fight.
*****
The sun is nearly ready to set when Dean suddenly rises from his seat on the floor.
Sam stops suddenly in his movements, having not seen his brother stir for almost an hour. Priestly, too, must sense something, because he calls down from the tower, asking what’s wrong.
Dean looks Sam dead in the face, eyes screaming green, static rising in the air.
When he opens his mouth, it sounds like three or four different voices speaking through him.
“He’s here,” they say.
*****
The Beast is just emerging from the trees, about three miles away from its prey when it feels a sharp, searing pain tear through its left shoulder.
It drops to its knee in surprise, and is rewarded with a high pitched buzzing sound, flying just overhead.
The Beast lets out a string of curses in its ancient language. There’s blood in its palm and the smell of burnt flesh lingers in the air.
There’s a crack off in the distance, and the Beast’s head snaps backwards. A disgusting, splintering sound echoes in the woods, and the Beast realizes it has taken another bullet in one of his horns.
The wound in its shoulder stings like pure silver, making the Beast curse again.
The Destroyers are prepared. Something it was not quite expecting. They have drawn first blood.
Unacceptable.
The Beast rises to his feet with a bloody roar. He doesn’t flinch when another bullet flies by his head. Instead, he roars again and breaks into a run, charging the little church in the distance.
*****
“Jesus Christ! That thing is fucking huge!” Priestly yelps, sounding terrified. He silently curses himself. Had he not been so scared, he probably would have made a clean head shot.
“Don’t worry, man,” Sam calls up to him. “It looks like you got him in the chest, at least. Those bullets are blessed silver. It won’t put him down, but I bet it stings like a bitch.”
“Yeah, you popped him real good, bro,” Dean chimes in, a hint of John creeping into his voice, “but that fucker is fast, and we’re running out of daylight. Tag him again, if you can. Go for the head if you think you have the shot, otherwise aim for the legs. We want to hinder this bastard’s movements as much as we can. He’s fast, he’s big, and he looks plenty mean. We don’t know what kind of tricks he has up his sleeve, so we want to get in as many hits as we can before he tries to hit us.” His eyes glow fiercely as he turns to Sam. “When he gets within range, I want you to fire at will. Make the shots count, Sammy, because once our ammo runs out, we’re going to be hurting. Priestly and I have our powers, but you’ll be left vulnerable. I can’t have that happen. Make ‘em count, Sammy.”
All Sam can do is nod. Overhead, the sniper rifle cracks again, and the giant red monstrosity in the distance stumbles, regaining his footing at the last moment.
Dean stares out the window with a ferocious intensity Sam has never seen. The air all around him crackles, making the hair on Sam’s arms stand on end. His eyes are so bright they light up the darkening room. When Dean pulls his right hand into a tight fist, it bursts into flame.
“Get ready, Sammy,” he growls, as another shot snaps the air. “Here he comes.”
*****
To be continued…
’Verse: Lost and Found
Author: LadyMacbeth
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Sam/Dean/Priestly
Word Count: 2503
Disclaimer: “Supernatural” and all its characters belong to the genius that is Eric Kripke. I make no profit.
Warning: Incestuous slash. You no like, you no look.
Summary: Missouri reveals a secret to the boys that send them on a journey to Santa Cruz where they find a brother they never knew and an even darker revelation that none of them saw coming.
The story so far:
1. Santa Cruz
2. The Road to Missouri
3. Revelations
4. Look Back, Leap Forward
5. Second Sight
6. Fury and Fitchburg
7. Conjoined
8. Distant Voices
9. The Warning
10. Wrought Asunder
11. Family Ties
12. Black Dog
13. Splitting Down the Seems
14. Spiral
15. Trinity
16. The Arrival
17. The Apology
18. Imminence
“Are you scared?” Priestly whispers that night, head pillowed by Dean’s arms.
The night is cool and silent, a stark contrast to the red hot noise that had echoed across the scrapped cars and dirt only hours ago.
Dean doesn’t answer right away. He breathes steady, staring up at the ceiling, trying his best to hold off a shiver. He considers lying, but ultimately decides against it.
“Yes,” he whispers back.
“So am I,” Priestly murmurs, turning his face against Dean’s side, burrowing in tight.
Sam snores gently in the dark, snuggled up against Priestly’s back. His arm is thrown across Priestly’s middle, and his breathe tickles the back of his neck.
“He’ll be here soon,” Dean says suddenly, body going still. “Today, I think.”
Priestly feels an electric surge sizzle beneath his skin. He lifts his head to look his brother in the eye.
Dean stares up at the ceiling, almost through it. His eyes glow bright.
“Are you sure?” Priestly whispers, unable to keep the waver of fear from his voice.
For a moment, the room goes cold. Priestly shivers despite himself and presses himself closer to his twin. Sam snuffles and mumbles, tightening his grip on Priestly’s torso.
Dean finally turns and meets Priestly’s gaze. His eyes continue to grow fiercely.
He nods.
“Yeah,” he says, eyes burning brighter. “Mark my words. By sunset, that son of a bitch will be on our doorstep.”
*****
The smell of bacon rouses Dean from his sleep a little after nine in the morning.
He wakes slowly, the smell playing with his dream before he realizes it doesn’t belong. His eyes peel open to slits, wary of the sunlight streaming into the room, far too cheery for what the rest of the day has in store.
He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand, groaning, trying jump start his brain.
After a muffled curse at the blistering and unrelenting light, Dean pulls himself out of bed, raising his arms into the sky in a stretch and wincing when one of his shoulders pop.
The delicious smell hits him harder when he opens the door, accompanied by the scent of eggs the sound of fat sizzling. Dean’s stomach rumbles tellingly, halfway to the kitchen, warning the cook of his approach.
Bobby turns away from the stove, the muffled sunlight framing his head and shoulders like an aura. Twenty years seem to slide off the old hunter as a slow smile breaks his face. His eyes still crinkle in the corners, but somehow Dean can’t imagine Bobby without them.
Still standing in the hallway, Dean resists the insane urge to breakdown and cry.
“Mornin’ boy,” Bobby says softly. “Why don’t you go wake the others. I’ve got fresh coffee and breakfast cooking.”
It occurs to Dean suddenly that Bobby’s place has been the closest thing to a home to him since Lawrence. He feels something tighten in his chest at the realization, and the urge to breakdown gets stronger.
“Go on, son,” Bobby says, even gentler, like he can see into Dean’s head, “go get your brothers. I don’t want this gettin’ cold on ‘em.”
All Dean can do is nod. He fears for a moment that some of the emotion bubbling in his chest will break free, and he’ll make a fool of himself, but he manages to push it back into the dark recesses of his heart.
“Ya, Bobby,” he says instead. “I’ll go get ‘em.”
*****
Dean manages to catch Bobby after breakfast, offering to help him wash dishes.
The old hunter pretends to be surprised, but Dean can see it in his eyes, something that says he’s actually been expecting the impending conversation, which is funny, considering Dean is still unsure as to what it is he’s going to say.
“Bobby,” he starts, already regretting strolling into the kitchen without a plan of attack. He rings the dishtowel in his heads, hating how nervous he feels. “Listen…” Dean realizes his gaze has fallen upon his shoes. He drags his eyes back up slowly. He stalls, clearing his throat. He has no idea how to proceed. Life with John has not prepared him for this kind of situation. There were never calm talks, each speaker considering the others words. There were orders, talking at someone instead of with. Heartfelt discussions, ones started with thank you and ending in I love you just didn’t happen.
For the second time this morning, the emotion Dean feels threatens to choke him. Bobby’s eyes stare back into his, grey and deep. His eyes have seen so much terror and pain, yet they’re not cold.
“Bobby,” Dean chokes out again, eyes dropping, losing his nerve. He can’t do it. He can’t say all the things rattling around his head. They’ll sound too much like goodbye.
“Don’t.”
The solid word echoes with finality. Dean jerks his head up, vision blurring slightly. But he’s not crying. At least not yet.
Bobby’s hands, strong and heavy, fall onto his shoulders, anchoring him to this moment. The old hunter’s eyes are back, boring into his. They threaten to cripple Dean.
“Don’t you dare thank me for anything, boy,” Bobby says gruffly, brow furrowing. His hands tighten emphatically. He shakes Dean just a little. “Don’t you dare. I’d do anything for you boys. Anything. You’re...” Bobby’s voice cracks. “You’re like sons to me. If I could take this weight off your shoulders, I would. I’d do it in a second. But I can’t. So don’t you thank me for anything.”
Something in Dean breaks, and his rules of engagement are thrown out the window. He wrestles himself free of Bobby’s grip and wraps the man in a crushing hug. It takes every remaining ounce of restraint he’s got left to keep from crying.
“It’ll be okay, son,” Bobby says after a moment, getting over the shock. He pats Dean’s back. “It’s gonna be okay.”
*****
After breakfast, the plans begin.
Despite Bobby’s protestations, the boys refuse to stay. They’re not going to bring the devil to his doorstep.
There’s an old cemetery less than twenty miles up the road. A small church stands within its center, and Sam figures it’s the best place to make their stand. It’s out of the way enough that civilians won’t get in the way and the church has long been deserted, but the biggest draw of all is that it’ll plant Dean right in the center of a massive deposit of spiritual energy.
Sam plans for everyone to be loaded up with weapons, every kind they’ve got. He’s still not one hundred percent sure what will work and what won’t, so he wants everything in their arsenal to be right at their fingertips.
He’s spent the last couple days memorizing as many different protective and entrapment symbols as he can, stuffing diagrams of the more elaborate ones in his pockets. Spells and exorcism chants are also locked away in his head, not wanting to rely on having a book in front of him at the right moment.
Priestly loads himself up with as many weapons as he can carry. He also straps two pouches full of silver ball bearings onto his belt. In one of his pockets, he carries what’s left of the charms. In his other, he carries a flask full of holy water. He has five blessed, silver knives hidden on his body.
Dean straps weapons onto himself like he’s about to film a remake of Rambo. He tells the others straight up that he is not fucking around, and that he intends to kill this son of a bitch dead, even if it means getting up close and personal. As he says this, his eyes flare up and everyone’s hair stands on end. The static electricity crackles in the air.
Bobby’s about half a step out the door behind Sam and Priestly when Dean stops him. He reminds the old hunter that it’s their fight. “It’s us he wants,” Dean says. The pain and resolve in his eyes make it hard to argue. “I don’t want anyone else getting hurt over this.”
“Listen, Dean,” Bobby starts, but Dean raises a palm and halts his words.
“No, you listen. I’m not going to let you die for us, Bobby. I’ve lost too much family already. If something should happen to one of us… any of us, I hope you’ll be there to pick up the pieces. I know that’s a damn unfair thing to ask, but you’re the only one I trust to do it. You’ve never let us down, Bobby. You’ve never let us down, and we aim to return the favour. We’re coming back, and when we do, I hope to find more of your fine country dining waiting for us.”
Bobby lets out a wet sound that seems like a cross between a laugh and a sob. His eyes are glassy when he grabs Dean by the shoulders again and pulls him into a hug.
“Alright, son,” he whispers over Dean’s shoulders. “Go make that son of a bitch cry.”
*****
It’s just after five when the boys pull up to the cemetery.
Dean insists on parking it outside the property. God forbid something happen to his baby.
They gather their supplies from the trunk, dropping them off in the church, one at a time.
The first time Dean crosses over into the cemetery, he gasps audibly and nearly drops his armload of weaponry. His eyes flare up and his mouth drops open. Both Sam and Priestly freeze by the car, holding their breath, praying to God they’re not about to witness another psychic overload.
But after a moment, Dean’s mouth closes and his eyes dim slightly. He nods to no one in particular, readjusts the items in his arms, and continues on his way.
*****
It’s almost six by the time the boys are comfortable in the church. Everything they need is inside, deposited at different points for easy accessibility. Salt lines are laid down, devil’s traps are drawn, goofer dust is scattered, and charms are nailed above every door and window.
Priestly is up in the decrepit bell tower with the sniper rifle. The stairs that lead up to the tiny space have long since fallen away into rubble, so the telekinetic had had to levitate himself up. From the tower, he is able to see for miles, even farther through the sniper scope. Sam and Dean are relying on him to take the first shots at the Beast, hopefully wounding it, at least, before it storms the church.
Sam paces the main floor of the old building, unable to sit still. He checks and rechecks equipment, symbols and salt, and calls up to Priestly every five to ten minutes. He can’t help but feel like he has to work just a little bit harder. He feels he has to earn his place here, at his brothers’ sides. The prophecy was only ever about the twins. Sam hopes, deep down, that his presence will throw a monkey wrench into the whole thing.
Dean tries not to get too distracted by Sam’s movement. He tries to keep his attention on the voices surrounding him. He concentrates hard, sifting through them, weeding out the malicious and unhelpful. He knows that if he’s lucky, the dead will feed him information. He’s learned that certain spirits are more intuitive: they know things before they happen. Dean is relying on them to warn him; he’s relying on his gifts to keep them alive through this fight.
*****
The sun is nearly ready to set when Dean suddenly rises from his seat on the floor.
Sam stops suddenly in his movements, having not seen his brother stir for almost an hour. Priestly, too, must sense something, because he calls down from the tower, asking what’s wrong.
Dean looks Sam dead in the face, eyes screaming green, static rising in the air.
When he opens his mouth, it sounds like three or four different voices speaking through him.
“He’s here,” they say.
*****
The Beast is just emerging from the trees, about three miles away from its prey when it feels a sharp, searing pain tear through its left shoulder.
It drops to its knee in surprise, and is rewarded with a high pitched buzzing sound, flying just overhead.
The Beast lets out a string of curses in its ancient language. There’s blood in its palm and the smell of burnt flesh lingers in the air.
There’s a crack off in the distance, and the Beast’s head snaps backwards. A disgusting, splintering sound echoes in the woods, and the Beast realizes it has taken another bullet in one of his horns.
The wound in its shoulder stings like pure silver, making the Beast curse again.
The Destroyers are prepared. Something it was not quite expecting. They have drawn first blood.
Unacceptable.
The Beast rises to his feet with a bloody roar. He doesn’t flinch when another bullet flies by his head. Instead, he roars again and breaks into a run, charging the little church in the distance.
*****
“Jesus Christ! That thing is fucking huge!” Priestly yelps, sounding terrified. He silently curses himself. Had he not been so scared, he probably would have made a clean head shot.
“Don’t worry, man,” Sam calls up to him. “It looks like you got him in the chest, at least. Those bullets are blessed silver. It won’t put him down, but I bet it stings like a bitch.”
“Yeah, you popped him real good, bro,” Dean chimes in, a hint of John creeping into his voice, “but that fucker is fast, and we’re running out of daylight. Tag him again, if you can. Go for the head if you think you have the shot, otherwise aim for the legs. We want to hinder this bastard’s movements as much as we can. He’s fast, he’s big, and he looks plenty mean. We don’t know what kind of tricks he has up his sleeve, so we want to get in as many hits as we can before he tries to hit us.” His eyes glow fiercely as he turns to Sam. “When he gets within range, I want you to fire at will. Make the shots count, Sammy, because once our ammo runs out, we’re going to be hurting. Priestly and I have our powers, but you’ll be left vulnerable. I can’t have that happen. Make ‘em count, Sammy.”
All Sam can do is nod. Overhead, the sniper rifle cracks again, and the giant red monstrosity in the distance stumbles, regaining his footing at the last moment.
Dean stares out the window with a ferocious intensity Sam has never seen. The air all around him crackles, making the hair on Sam’s arms stand on end. His eyes are so bright they light up the darkening room. When Dean pulls his right hand into a tight fist, it bursts into flame.
“Get ready, Sammy,” he growls, as another shot snaps the air. “Here he comes.”
*****
To be continued…