What Doesn't Kill You
Hi Y’all
This is the Dragons, coming to you live from an entirely different part of Oz. Two more days and I will be out of Dragons stealth mode and back in Perth… BUT…since the prompt this week was such a stinking clanger, I have hijacked the internetz from Dad of Dragons and slapped this baby together for your reading torture. I am, as usual, very sorry about it in general.
*must sleep now*
Title: What Doesn’t Kill You
Author:
pdragon76
Wordcount: 4600ish
Rating: M (for usual sailormouth shenanigans)
Spoilers: Through AHBL2
Summary: When the boys can’t see round that pesky egg timer, a little external intervention is in order.
Disclaimer: All things Supernatural belong to Kripke and not me (Rinse & repeat).
A/N: Beta’d by the lovely
ailleann23on super short notice. Ta muchly for the pickups and the what the hey?s. Any remaining niggles, wtf’s or humdingers are mine, all mine. Inspired by challenge #17 over at
found_fic_spn. Ta also to Alan, who had the misfortune of being both ex-Army and the guy buying me lunch on the day I needed to know about shotguns and what you can do with them. Yes, you are still gorgeous, and welcome to buy me lunch anytime. *has the dragon sighs just a tad*
It was the third possessed priest in six months. What the fuck was up with that?
Dean hit the gas coming out of the turn into the straight, fishtailed a little onto the gravel shoulder and sent the beef cattle in the roadside field scattering. Hanging over the back of the front seat, Sam hugged the leather as the Impala straightened. The blue Mustang in front of them hit the brakes and swerved wildly into the Impala’s path and Dean eased off the gas and touched the brake, threw Sam a look across the car.
“Why can’t these demons ever drive? Or you think it’s priests in general that drive like asshats and possession just exacerbates it?”
Searching frantically through their gear in the backseat, Sam was unwilling to be drawn into a debate. “Please tell me this isn’t the saltgun back here.”
Dean shook his head, took the chicane into the trees one-handed. “Saltgun’s in the trunk.”
“’Cause at this range, salt’s a condiment, dude. He’s not gonna stop because I’ve oversalted his Mustang.”
Dean threw a look over his shoulder. “What is that, the twelve gauge? They are definitely live rounds, man. We gonna do this today or what?”
Sam swung back around and Dean ducked sideways as the muzzle of the shotgun nearly collected him on the way through.
“Church, Sam. Bend at the top of the hill. When you’re ready.”
Sam was cranking the window down. He levered up and paused, one arm out of the car and bent up onto the roof.
“Keep her straight.”
Dean shot him a glance. “You think?”
“Just…don’t hit anything.”
“Dude, last time anyone fell out of this car, you were driving. I got it. Quit stalling and get your ass out the window.”
Dean heard the slap of the shotgun on the roof of the car as Sam twisted out the window, hip against the door frame. However awkward it looked, one leg jammed between the seat and the door, toe of the other boot hooked beneath the dash, Dean knew from experience it took a decent knock to toss you when you were braced like that. He stepped on the gas again, closed the distance between the Impala and the Mustang up the straight, swung into the wrong lane to give Sam an angle on the tires. A second later, he heard the familiar boom of the shotgun’s blast. Inside the car, Sam’s boot twitched beneath the dash and he twisted through his hips as he racked for shot number two.
Dean realized he was firing on the front tire just a fraction of a second too late.
“Back tire, back tire, BACK TIRE,” he hollered.
The Mustang’s front dipped as the Sam’s second shot found its mark. The front tire flapped and Dean swore as the car veered violently left into their path.
“Sam!” He dragged the name out long and loud enough for his brother to make the translation. Get your ass back in the car NOW. He held off on the brake until Sam’s shoulder cleared the top of the open window frame, then he stood on the pedal.
Dean winced as Sam shot forward and hit the dash, yelping. The Mustang’s back end swung out, front fender looming and for a second Dean thought they were going to miss it until the Impala’s wheels locked and she slid, momentum carrying them in a drift to the right. He turned the wheel into the slide, pumped the brake twice until the seized discs released. To his right, Sam was struggling up from underneath the dash.
“Stay down, stay down.”
Dean touched the gas, and the Impala’s front tires gripped as she straightened but not enough. The Mustang clipped them hard on the driver side fender and the headlights popped, metal folding. The Impala pivoted violently, spun on her center. Dean got an instinctive hand up, took the brunt of his impact with the driver side window against his knuckles and his left ear. It rattled his skull and sent a party of cracks webbing out across the glass but when the Impala hit the retaining wall outside the church on the passenger side - second fucking panel - and jolted to a halt he was more or less in one piece.
Sam was all arms and legs, jammed down beneath the dashboard, none of them moving.
“Sam.” Dean fisted his fingers on his left hand, opened them up again. Not broken. That’s a start. He raised two fingers to his ear where his jaw ended and brought them away bloody, couldn’t tell if was from inside his ear or out. Hoped it was out. “Sammy.”
Sam groaned, began to unfold and through the windshield Dean saw the Mustang, nose up against the church steps and driver door hanging open. The priest was halfway up the stairs. He glanced back at Sam.
“You okay, man?”
Sam brought a hand up, slapped the seat, looking for purchase. “Dude, that really hurt.”
“You in one piece?”
“I think so.”
“Okay good then, get your exorcist geek on and meet me in there. I’ll put him on his ass.”
Sam’s scrabble upwards picked up pace as Dean cracked the door.
“Dude, wait.”
But he was already out the door, slamming it shut on Sam’s frantic shout. “Dean, I said wait!”
* * * * * * *
Dean popped the trunk and found the saltgun. It wasn’t much defense against a demon but the smattering of scars across his chest and his vivid memory both told him it was as good a way as any to get someone down on the ground without killing them. He gave the front end of the Impala a cursory glance as he passed, shook his head at the broken lamps, the crumpled metal. Both panels. Unbelievable. Motherfucking sonuvabitch. He brought the shotgun up as he took the stairs, inched forwards into the foyer. Back at the car he could hear Sam still shouting his name. Both fucking panels. I should blow his demon infested, priest head off.
He’d got just inside the inner doors and was edging along the back pew when the air shifted at his collar and he spun, too late, into the priest’s enthusiastically applied elbow. It caught him hard in the cheek, lit up fireworks across his ear and knocked him sideways. Dean hit the pew hard with his hip and lost his footing, managed to catch the wooden backrest as he went down and take the weight out of the fall. The priest followed him as he fell and Dean rolled right as he brought his fist down hard, knuckled the floor instead of Dean’s throat with an audible crack. The guy had an arm on him for a man of the cloth. And while it wasn’t in the capacity of his personal savior, Dean had to admit he was giving Jesus Christ some thought as he came up on his knees in time to scissor block a kick to his face. He twisted his wrist and looped a forearm around the guy’s ankle, lifted up and shoved forward as he stood, sent the priest onto his back with a roar. Dean stomped unceremoniously at his throat, pinning him to the church floor.
“Uh uh. Stay down.”
He looked around for the shotgun. “I just nearly sent my brother through my fucking windshield, you demonic son of a bitch.” The priest arched beneath his foot and Dean dropped down on one knee against his chest, slugged him hard in the face twice until he slackened beneath him. He shook his hand, inspected a freshly split knuckle.
The priest wasn’t moving. Dean rolled off him, crawled toward the shotgun. It was a reckless and stupid lapse of reason and he knew it the moment his fingers closed around the barrel and the priest’s boot came down on top of his hand. Never turn your back on a mark, you stupid asshole. Fuck, those demons move quick.
Sam’s shout from the doorway told him he’d seen the whole thing.
Whoops. Dean evaluated the turn of events. Grease Lightning here doesn’t kill me, Sam will.
The priest leant forward, ground his boot down, and not for the first time the ring on Dean’s finger saved him a couple of broken digits. It hurt alright, but it lacked the intended effect. Dean gripped hard against the barrel and yanked back towards his chest. It cost him most of the skin off the knuckles of his right hand, but it sent the priest back a step and gave him time to swing the muzzle up and rack the pump action. He fired as the priest stepped forward and swept his hand through, and the rock salt sprayed the air beside the demon’s shoulder. Then the weapon was out of his hands and the butt was swinging back round before he had time to bring an arm up in defense. He copped it hard across the side of his damaged ear and lost track of everything as stars exploded behind his temple and the church walls tilted and fuzzed.
“Dean!”
He brought a hand up blindly in front of him at Sam’s shouted warning, caught the butt of the shotgun with a lucky sweep as the priest jacked it down into his face. It clattered out of the demon’s hands towards the church doors as Sam opened fire from the doorway.
The priest tottered sideways, fell. Dean rolled onto his stomach, hands against his ringing temples as the dark fog coursed out of the priest’s mouth and up over them both to the church window.
“You stupid ass,” Sam hauled him up by the sleeve of his jacket. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Seriously, is that the fucking plan now?”
Dean blinked at him blankly, palm against his bloodied ear and his free hand groping the air beside Sam’s outstretched arm. Sam was shaking his gun at him, the anger coming off him in palpable waves.
“Why don’t you just blow your head off right here you stupid, dumb son of a bitch?”
Dean lifted his hand away from the side of his head, inspected the bloody smear across his palm. He gave Sam a slow, questing shake of his head.
“Hey?” he asked, and then Sam was grappling at the front of Dean’s shirt as the sheet of white went up and his knees gave out.
* * * *
“Holy mother of God, Dean, you tryin’ to turn your Daddy in his grave?”
Ellen’s gaze lingered on the mangled Impala in the dusty lot as she stood aside to let the boys pass into the front bar. Dean threw her an irritated glance as Sam guided him through the doorway.
“Fuck off, Ellen,” he growled, and she raised her eyebrows at him.
“Channeling him too, by the sound of things. You boys okay?”
“It’s just a scratch. He’ll clean up okay,” Sam muttered, gave Ellen an apologetic smile as they passed her. “Can we crash?”
Ellen waved them back towards the rooms. “Course.”
She watched them disappear down the hallway, threaded her way back through the tables to the bar. It had become a semi-regular event, the unannounced arrival of those Winchester boys on the doorstep in need of a bed or a job or both. She didn’t mind. When it came to indulging stray dogs you could do a lot worse than the Winchester breed. Dean had his father’s manners through and through when his blood was up, but he was charming and intense at room temperature. Throw in Sam’s polite, unassuming demeanor and you had a welcome respite from most of the other hunters who crossed the threshold of her rebuilt bar.
Since the business in Wyoming nine months ago, there was no point pretending they were anything other than family. Sam’s bloody-minded search for a loophole in Dean’s crossroads deal had bridged whatever gaps remained in Ellen’s handle on John’s boys. Which reminded her…Cincinnati. Damn it.
When Sam emerged a half an hour later, Ellen was leaning on the bar polishing glasses. It was monkey work and a complete waste of time. There wasn’t a single patron of the establishment who gave a shit what was stuck to the sides of the glass they were drinking out of, but it beat doing the mountain of other crap she was avoiding.
“Your brother okay?” she asked as Sam sat down heavily at the bar, flipped open his laptop.
He looked up at her distractedly, waved a hand in the direction of the back rooms. “He’s fine. Calling Bobby about those front quarter panels.”
Ellen watched him for a moment, the glow of the laptop screen lending his face a ghostly blue pale in the dimly lit bar.
“My lead fell through,” she said after a pause. No point holding off or dancing around it.
Sam looked up.
“Cincinnati,” she elaborated, though she could see from the look on Sam’s face she didn’t need to. “It’s a no go. I was gonna call, but now here you are.”
Sam closed his eyes, took a deep breath and let it out through his nose, lips pursed. Then he opened his eyes and blinked at the laptop screen, nodded.
“Okay,” he said tersely.
“I’m sorry, Sam. I really am.”
“Okay,” Sam repeated. Ellen felt the charge off him across the bar, a windup toy wound too far, springs about to snap.
“You wanna talk about it?”
“Talk about what?” He tapped at the keyboard, narrowed his eyes at the screen.
“Whatever’s bugging you. Besides the obvious. ” Ellen hooked a beer out of the fridge beneath the counter, dropped it on the bar beside him. Sam ignored it.
“You know what? It doesn’t even matter. The guy in Cincinnati-” Sam slammed the laptop lid shut “- the zero other ideas I have right now? None of it matters because he’s gonna get his ass killed on a fucking salt and burn.”
Ellen cocked her head, the edges of her lips twitching down. “It’s a knock on the head, Sam. Just a scratch. You said he’s fine.”
“This time. He’s tail-spinning, Ellen. I mean, he lost traction when Dad died but this is…he’s pinballing. He’s got both barrels of the shotgun in his mouth and he’s just begging for someone to pull the trigger for him.”
Ellen narrowed her eyes at him. John Winchester had raised a couple of smart boys. She knew that. But they were still boys. And man, oh man, were they dumb sometimes. Especially when it came to each other.
“He’s scared, Sam.”
Sam wiped his palm across his lips. Ellen couldn’t tell if he found the notion of his brother being afraid terrifying or irritating. Maybe it was both playing out there beneath that shaggy mess of hair.
“I swear to God, Ellen. I don’t know what to do.”
“Sam, in your own ways, you boys are so much like your daddy it’s…well, it’s scary.”
Sam snorted. “Yeah, exactly. And look where that got him.”
“No, Sam. Look where that got Dean. Your brother’s never been one to do anything by halves, and he is his own brand of Winchester stubborn. If there’s a freight train coming, he’s gonna meet it head on. He ain’t ever been the type sit around and wait on anyone or anything.”
“So what, I’m supposed to sit back and let him beat the crossroads demon to it?”
“Guy’s running down one hell of an egg timer, Sam. But as long as I’ve known you boys, your brother’s never done a thing that hasn’t come down to fighting demons or keeping your sorry ass safe. Sounds like maybe you’ve forgotten that.”
Ellen crossed her arms, leaned back against the bar. Sam sighed, ran a hand through his hair. He scratched at the top of the beer with his thumb but made no move to open it.
“You know what I keep thinking?” Sam kept his eyes on the beer bottle in front of him. “I keep thinking all this time I’ve been researching and chasing leads and hitting brick walls and dead ends? It was that minute after he told me. Back in Wyoming. You know? He told me, and I thought: I’m gonna fix this. I can fix this. I hadn’t even cracked the laptop or bent the spine on a book and I knew I could fix this.”
He looked up at her and the smile he gave her was so pained and compromised and lonely and guilty that it brought her off the counter. She leaned forward on her elbows in front of him.
“You can. You will. We will.”
He shook his head at the top of his beer. “The more I look… I don’t feel it anymore, Ellen. I’m running out of time and I know he knows it. So then even looking gets hard…This last week, I just…I haven’t looked at anything. I got this message on my phone from some guy in Cleveland and I haven’t even called him back.”
“Sam, I wish I could tell you this was going to be okay. And I don’t know what’s gonna happen. I know you’re scared, maybe more scared than he is. But you know what I do know?”
“What?”
“If Dean was sitting there right now, he’d be calling Cleveland. And if Cleveland didn’t work out, he’d be on the road to the next city. And then the next, and then the next. Because for you? That boy doesn’t stop for traffic lights or food or sleep or broken bones. He’d drag his ass half dead from east coast to west for you.”
“So I call Cleveland, right? And when that falls apart, then what?”
“Same thing we all do, hon. You keep going.”
* * * * * *
Ellen dropped the beer onto the chassis of the Impala beside Dean and leaned against the driver panel.
She watched him working the bolts down inside the lamp housing until it became obvious to the both of them that he was ignoring her.
“You’re scarin’ your brother, Dean.”
Dean froze, spanner mid-turn, then resumed twirling.
“You two tag teaming now?” He flipped the spanner, leaned it up on the carburetor and rubbed a greasy finger under his nose. He looked her in the eye while he turned the bolt the rest of the way with his fingers, dealt her a long, guarded stare.
“We need to be?”
Dean dropped the nut onto the car frame, picked up the spanner and tapped the next bolt. “Look, Ellen, all due respect but you don’t know shit about shit, so…”
Oh, I know plenty about you Winchesters, kid. Ellen folded her arms while Dean nestled the spanner around the bolt and gave it some elbow. He curled his lip, flexed through his forearm.
“Bitch,” he breathed and Ellen cocked her eyebrow as he glanced at her. “The bolt, Ellen. I’m talking to the fucking bolt.”
He shook his head at the engine, blinked long when she started up again.
“Dean, maybe it’s none of my business but you’ve been doing this job since you were knee high to a grasshopper and I’ve seen enough to know you’re not clumsy, and you’re sure as shit not accident prone. Sam says you’re getting sloppy, making mistakes. I say you’re not.”
“Ellen.” It was almost a growl, and Dean pushed back from the Impala, reinforced the warning with a steely glare that reminded her so much of John that she shook her head a little, an awed smile tugging unexpectedly at her lips.
“Don’t Ellen me, Dean. I know you think it’s gonna be better for him somehow if you bite it before this deal comes due, but I’m here to tell you that is twenty four carat bullshit, Sunshine.”
Dean threw the spanner into the engine block so hard it bounced back out and hit the dirt beside the front tire. He turned and sat on the radiator, hands fisted on the frame either side of his hips. He looked like he was about to unfurl on her like a tsunami. But Ellen kept talking.
“Any way he loses you, it’s gonna be his fault. Get it? If it’s a demon, or a busted up car, or you blow your fucking head off or you wait it out and pay up…he’s gonna make it his fault. Do you understand that?”
Dean dug the heel of his boot into the dirt beneath the Impala, shifted his glare from her to the doors of the front bar fifty yards away.
“I’m not waiting around for any black dog, Ellen. I’m not doing it. If I go, I go doing the job. End of story.” He scowled. “Who said anything about me blowing my head off? Jesus.”
“Last I heard we still got twelve weeks to sort this mess out. Little early to be striking matches for your blaze of glory, isn’t it?”
Dean came up off the hood, snagged the beer beside him as he went. He twisted the top off and threw it on the ground. He shook his head, looked her in the eye, and all the anger seemed to drain out of him. The smile he gave her was jaded, bitter and bone-weary.
“Come on, Ellen. Nine months. He’s been dragging my ass from one end of the country to the other for nine months and it’s been dead ends and ass fuck central from whoa to go. There was a way outta this, we’d be cracking open the cigar box by now. And it’s okay. Really. I never thought it was gonna pan out any other way. But I ain’t sitting on my ass waiting for the hell hounds.” He winked, took a swig from his beer. “I’ll tell you that for free.”
“He’s not an idiot, Dean.”
“No, he’s not, Ellen,” Dean bristled. “Never said he was.”
“Then stop treating him like one. He’s earned your trust.”
Dean’s face turned to stone. “Hey, don’t start with me about Sam and trust, Ellen. You got no clue.”
“No, that’s where you’re wrong, Dean. I got a clue. The only surprise here is that you don’t. You don’t wanna talk about Sam and trust, fine. But you drop your bundle now, you’re telling him he’s failed you. And the game’s not over, you ass. You want to pull the pin before the final quarter, that’s your business. But I’ll tell you this for free, kid: I catch you trying to step off the field before that final siren goes, I’ll come down on your ass so hard and so fast you’ll be wishing for a black dog by the time I’m done with you.”
Dean was staring her down impassively as she stopped talking, and she returned the gaze, hands on her hips, while his frustration and anger tussled with a dawning realization. For a second she thought he was going to hurl that beer bottle across the lot. Instead he took a long swig from it, studied the dusty earth beside her boots.
“You done?” he said finally, and his voice was soft, stripped.
And she nearly was. “You boys are like family. And I got a world of time for you both, probably more than you know.” She threw her hands wide. “That boy followed you back into this job, Dean. Those visions, Cold Oak, this deal? He didn’t ask for any of it. Anymore than you did.”
Ellen left him there staring at his dusty boots, and headed inside.
* * * * * *
“So apparently I’m a jerk and I’m sorry.”
It had taken him until after they’d left Bobby’s yard in South Dakota to say it, so when Dean got back into the car after a gas stop and came right out with the apology, Sam twisted on the leather, back against the passenger door. His lips twitched in amusement. Dean Winchester may be his own brand of stubborn, but put a wall between the two of them? Guaranteed, Dean was the first to step up with the sledgehammer, every time. Sam raised his eyebrows.
“Apparently you’re sorry, or you are sorry?”
Dean rubbed his eyebrow with the heel of his hand. “Oh my God, you’re gonna make this hard. Why am I not surprised?”
Sam shook his head. “Hey, you’ve been an ass, man. That thing back at the church? You think I was pissed? Dad would have knocked you halfway into next week for that.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I still got twelve weeks, Dean. I’m still looking.”
“I know.” He went to start the engine, paused. “You know, Sam, I took that stupid deal so you could have a life.” He waved a hand through the windshield at the world in general. “And not this one, man. I know this isn’t what you want. Never has been.”
Sam held up a hand. “Dean...”
“No, Sam, let me say this. I know I dragged you back into this, but twelve weeks from now, one way or another, this can all be over for you. You could go back to school, get married, have kids. Whatever. You know what it is that you want. We got that yellow eyed son of a bitch, and there’s plenty of hunters around can pick up your slack if you want to take a step back. And I know you don’t want to talk about that shit right now and that’s fine, I know you’re just afraid to admit it because you’re afraid of…I don’t know…failing or something stupid like that. But you know what? Fuck that. Fuck your fear. You know what you want which is a hell of a lot more than most other people so… don’t be afraid or ashamed…just go out and fucking get it.”
“Jesus, are you done?”
“I’m just sayin’. It’s okay, man. I’m okay with it. And I’ll watch my six. You got your twelve weeks, so you can ditch the amateur psych hour.” Dean pointed a finger at Sam. “You and Ellen? You’re giving me a fuckin’ headache.”
Sam shook his head slowly, laughed. “You know you’re a fucking asshole, right? I mean, that speech you just made? You’ve been working on that how long, like a day and a half? And none of it matters ‘cause a year from now I’m still gonna be stuck in this fucking car with your moody ass.”
Dean started the engine, threw his hands in the air when Sam suddenly cracked his door and leapt out.
“Where are you going now, you fucking fidget?”
Sam dug his cell out of his pocket, bent to look back in the car window.
“I gotta return a phone call.”
“You gotta return a phone call. Now. When I’ve apologized, and I’m done bitchin’ at you and I’ve started the vehicle. Now, you need to get out of the car and return a phone call?” His eyebrow nearly twisted clean off his head.
“It’ll only take a second.”
“I’m just clarifying, because ordinarily, this is exactly the sort of indecisive, wishy-washy crap that makes me wanna beat the shit outta you. Continually.
“Just give me a minute here, will you? We’re goin’ to Cleveland. Look at a map or something.”
“Cleveland?” Dean ducked his head down to look at his brothers retreating back. “What the fuck is in Cleveland?”
Sam looked at his watch, did some calculations. “Us. In about two days.”
Dean snorted, shook his head at the windshield. “Two days?” he asked no one in particular. “What, are we driving Miss Daisy?”
Dean cocked an eyebrow at him across the front seat as Sam pulled the Impala door shut, gave him a wink and the cowboy grin that always set Sam’s stomach like concrete.
“Two days? You grandma. Fifty bucks says we’re there by 5 o’clock tomorrow.”
This is the Dragons, coming to you live from an entirely different part of Oz. Two more days and I will be out of Dragons stealth mode and back in Perth… BUT…since the prompt this week was such a stinking clanger, I have hijacked the internetz from Dad of Dragons and slapped this baby together for your reading torture. I am, as usual, very sorry about it in general.
*must sleep now*
Title: What Doesn’t Kill You
Author:
pdragon76
Wordcount: 4600ish
Rating: M (for usual sailormouth shenanigans)
Spoilers: Through AHBL2
Summary: When the boys can’t see round that pesky egg timer, a little external intervention is in order.
Disclaimer: All things Supernatural belong to Kripke and not me (Rinse & repeat).
A/N: Beta’d by the lovely
ailleann23on super short notice. Ta muchly for the pickups and the what the hey?s. Any remaining niggles, wtf’s or humdingers are mine, all mine. Inspired by challenge #17 over at
found_fic_spn. Ta also to Alan, who had the misfortune of being both ex-Army and the guy buying me lunch on the day I needed to know about shotguns and what you can do with them. Yes, you are still gorgeous, and welcome to buy me lunch anytime. *has the dragon sighs just a tad*
It was the third possessed priest in six months. What the fuck was up with that?
Dean hit the gas coming out of the turn into the straight, fishtailed a little onto the gravel shoulder and sent the beef cattle in the roadside field scattering. Hanging over the back of the front seat, Sam hugged the leather as the Impala straightened. The blue Mustang in front of them hit the brakes and swerved wildly into the Impala’s path and Dean eased off the gas and touched the brake, threw Sam a look across the car.
“Why can’t these demons ever drive? Or you think it’s priests in general that drive like asshats and possession just exacerbates it?”
Searching frantically through their gear in the backseat, Sam was unwilling to be drawn into a debate. “Please tell me this isn’t the saltgun back here.”
Dean shook his head, took the chicane into the trees one-handed. “Saltgun’s in the trunk.”
“’Cause at this range, salt’s a condiment, dude. He’s not gonna stop because I’ve oversalted his Mustang.”
Dean threw a look over his shoulder. “What is that, the twelve gauge? They are definitely live rounds, man. We gonna do this today or what?”
Sam swung back around and Dean ducked sideways as the muzzle of the shotgun nearly collected him on the way through.
“Church, Sam. Bend at the top of the hill. When you’re ready.”
Sam was cranking the window down. He levered up and paused, one arm out of the car and bent up onto the roof.
“Keep her straight.”
Dean shot him a glance. “You think?”
“Just…don’t hit anything.”
“Dude, last time anyone fell out of this car, you were driving. I got it. Quit stalling and get your ass out the window.”
Dean heard the slap of the shotgun on the roof of the car as Sam twisted out the window, hip against the door frame. However awkward it looked, one leg jammed between the seat and the door, toe of the other boot hooked beneath the dash, Dean knew from experience it took a decent knock to toss you when you were braced like that. He stepped on the gas again, closed the distance between the Impala and the Mustang up the straight, swung into the wrong lane to give Sam an angle on the tires. A second later, he heard the familiar boom of the shotgun’s blast. Inside the car, Sam’s boot twitched beneath the dash and he twisted through his hips as he racked for shot number two.
Dean realized he was firing on the front tire just a fraction of a second too late.
“Back tire, back tire, BACK TIRE,” he hollered.
The Mustang’s front dipped as the Sam’s second shot found its mark. The front tire flapped and Dean swore as the car veered violently left into their path.
“Sam!” He dragged the name out long and loud enough for his brother to make the translation. Get your ass back in the car NOW. He held off on the brake until Sam’s shoulder cleared the top of the open window frame, then he stood on the pedal.
Dean winced as Sam shot forward and hit the dash, yelping. The Mustang’s back end swung out, front fender looming and for a second Dean thought they were going to miss it until the Impala’s wheels locked and she slid, momentum carrying them in a drift to the right. He turned the wheel into the slide, pumped the brake twice until the seized discs released. To his right, Sam was struggling up from underneath the dash.
“Stay down, stay down.”
Dean touched the gas, and the Impala’s front tires gripped as she straightened but not enough. The Mustang clipped them hard on the driver side fender and the headlights popped, metal folding. The Impala pivoted violently, spun on her center. Dean got an instinctive hand up, took the brunt of his impact with the driver side window against his knuckles and his left ear. It rattled his skull and sent a party of cracks webbing out across the glass but when the Impala hit the retaining wall outside the church on the passenger side - second fucking panel - and jolted to a halt he was more or less in one piece.
Sam was all arms and legs, jammed down beneath the dashboard, none of them moving.
“Sam.” Dean fisted his fingers on his left hand, opened them up again. Not broken. That’s a start. He raised two fingers to his ear where his jaw ended and brought them away bloody, couldn’t tell if was from inside his ear or out. Hoped it was out. “Sammy.”
Sam groaned, began to unfold and through the windshield Dean saw the Mustang, nose up against the church steps and driver door hanging open. The priest was halfway up the stairs. He glanced back at Sam.
“You okay, man?”
Sam brought a hand up, slapped the seat, looking for purchase. “Dude, that really hurt.”
“You in one piece?”
“I think so.”
“Okay good then, get your exorcist geek on and meet me in there. I’ll put him on his ass.”
Sam’s scrabble upwards picked up pace as Dean cracked the door.
“Dude, wait.”
But he was already out the door, slamming it shut on Sam’s frantic shout. “Dean, I said wait!”
* * * * * * *
Dean popped the trunk and found the saltgun. It wasn’t much defense against a demon but the smattering of scars across his chest and his vivid memory both told him it was as good a way as any to get someone down on the ground without killing them. He gave the front end of the Impala a cursory glance as he passed, shook his head at the broken lamps, the crumpled metal. Both panels. Unbelievable. Motherfucking sonuvabitch. He brought the shotgun up as he took the stairs, inched forwards into the foyer. Back at the car he could hear Sam still shouting his name. Both fucking panels. I should blow his demon infested, priest head off.
He’d got just inside the inner doors and was edging along the back pew when the air shifted at his collar and he spun, too late, into the priest’s enthusiastically applied elbow. It caught him hard in the cheek, lit up fireworks across his ear and knocked him sideways. Dean hit the pew hard with his hip and lost his footing, managed to catch the wooden backrest as he went down and take the weight out of the fall. The priest followed him as he fell and Dean rolled right as he brought his fist down hard, knuckled the floor instead of Dean’s throat with an audible crack. The guy had an arm on him for a man of the cloth. And while it wasn’t in the capacity of his personal savior, Dean had to admit he was giving Jesus Christ some thought as he came up on his knees in time to scissor block a kick to his face. He twisted his wrist and looped a forearm around the guy’s ankle, lifted up and shoved forward as he stood, sent the priest onto his back with a roar. Dean stomped unceremoniously at his throat, pinning him to the church floor.
“Uh uh. Stay down.”
He looked around for the shotgun. “I just nearly sent my brother through my fucking windshield, you demonic son of a bitch.” The priest arched beneath his foot and Dean dropped down on one knee against his chest, slugged him hard in the face twice until he slackened beneath him. He shook his hand, inspected a freshly split knuckle.
The priest wasn’t moving. Dean rolled off him, crawled toward the shotgun. It was a reckless and stupid lapse of reason and he knew it the moment his fingers closed around the barrel and the priest’s boot came down on top of his hand. Never turn your back on a mark, you stupid asshole. Fuck, those demons move quick.
Sam’s shout from the doorway told him he’d seen the whole thing.
Whoops. Dean evaluated the turn of events. Grease Lightning here doesn’t kill me, Sam will.
The priest leant forward, ground his boot down, and not for the first time the ring on Dean’s finger saved him a couple of broken digits. It hurt alright, but it lacked the intended effect. Dean gripped hard against the barrel and yanked back towards his chest. It cost him most of the skin off the knuckles of his right hand, but it sent the priest back a step and gave him time to swing the muzzle up and rack the pump action. He fired as the priest stepped forward and swept his hand through, and the rock salt sprayed the air beside the demon’s shoulder. Then the weapon was out of his hands and the butt was swinging back round before he had time to bring an arm up in defense. He copped it hard across the side of his damaged ear and lost track of everything as stars exploded behind his temple and the church walls tilted and fuzzed.
“Dean!”
He brought a hand up blindly in front of him at Sam’s shouted warning, caught the butt of the shotgun with a lucky sweep as the priest jacked it down into his face. It clattered out of the demon’s hands towards the church doors as Sam opened fire from the doorway.
The priest tottered sideways, fell. Dean rolled onto his stomach, hands against his ringing temples as the dark fog coursed out of the priest’s mouth and up over them both to the church window.
“You stupid ass,” Sam hauled him up by the sleeve of his jacket. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Seriously, is that the fucking plan now?”
Dean blinked at him blankly, palm against his bloodied ear and his free hand groping the air beside Sam’s outstretched arm. Sam was shaking his gun at him, the anger coming off him in palpable waves.
“Why don’t you just blow your head off right here you stupid, dumb son of a bitch?”
Dean lifted his hand away from the side of his head, inspected the bloody smear across his palm. He gave Sam a slow, questing shake of his head.
“Hey?” he asked, and then Sam was grappling at the front of Dean’s shirt as the sheet of white went up and his knees gave out.
* * * *
“Holy mother of God, Dean, you tryin’ to turn your Daddy in his grave?”
Ellen’s gaze lingered on the mangled Impala in the dusty lot as she stood aside to let the boys pass into the front bar. Dean threw her an irritated glance as Sam guided him through the doorway.
“Fuck off, Ellen,” he growled, and she raised her eyebrows at him.
“Channeling him too, by the sound of things. You boys okay?”
“It’s just a scratch. He’ll clean up okay,” Sam muttered, gave Ellen an apologetic smile as they passed her. “Can we crash?”
Ellen waved them back towards the rooms. “Course.”
She watched them disappear down the hallway, threaded her way back through the tables to the bar. It had become a semi-regular event, the unannounced arrival of those Winchester boys on the doorstep in need of a bed or a job or both. She didn’t mind. When it came to indulging stray dogs you could do a lot worse than the Winchester breed. Dean had his father’s manners through and through when his blood was up, but he was charming and intense at room temperature. Throw in Sam’s polite, unassuming demeanor and you had a welcome respite from most of the other hunters who crossed the threshold of her rebuilt bar.
Since the business in Wyoming nine months ago, there was no point pretending they were anything other than family. Sam’s bloody-minded search for a loophole in Dean’s crossroads deal had bridged whatever gaps remained in Ellen’s handle on John’s boys. Which reminded her…Cincinnati. Damn it.
When Sam emerged a half an hour later, Ellen was leaning on the bar polishing glasses. It was monkey work and a complete waste of time. There wasn’t a single patron of the establishment who gave a shit what was stuck to the sides of the glass they were drinking out of, but it beat doing the mountain of other crap she was avoiding.
“Your brother okay?” she asked as Sam sat down heavily at the bar, flipped open his laptop.
He looked up at her distractedly, waved a hand in the direction of the back rooms. “He’s fine. Calling Bobby about those front quarter panels.”
Ellen watched him for a moment, the glow of the laptop screen lending his face a ghostly blue pale in the dimly lit bar.
“My lead fell through,” she said after a pause. No point holding off or dancing around it.
Sam looked up.
“Cincinnati,” she elaborated, though she could see from the look on Sam’s face she didn’t need to. “It’s a no go. I was gonna call, but now here you are.”
Sam closed his eyes, took a deep breath and let it out through his nose, lips pursed. Then he opened his eyes and blinked at the laptop screen, nodded.
“Okay,” he said tersely.
“I’m sorry, Sam. I really am.”
“Okay,” Sam repeated. Ellen felt the charge off him across the bar, a windup toy wound too far, springs about to snap.
“You wanna talk about it?”
“Talk about what?” He tapped at the keyboard, narrowed his eyes at the screen.
“Whatever’s bugging you. Besides the obvious. ” Ellen hooked a beer out of the fridge beneath the counter, dropped it on the bar beside him. Sam ignored it.
“You know what? It doesn’t even matter. The guy in Cincinnati-” Sam slammed the laptop lid shut “- the zero other ideas I have right now? None of it matters because he’s gonna get his ass killed on a fucking salt and burn.”
Ellen cocked her head, the edges of her lips twitching down. “It’s a knock on the head, Sam. Just a scratch. You said he’s fine.”
“This time. He’s tail-spinning, Ellen. I mean, he lost traction when Dad died but this is…he’s pinballing. He’s got both barrels of the shotgun in his mouth and he’s just begging for someone to pull the trigger for him.”
Ellen narrowed her eyes at him. John Winchester had raised a couple of smart boys. She knew that. But they were still boys. And man, oh man, were they dumb sometimes. Especially when it came to each other.
“He’s scared, Sam.”
Sam wiped his palm across his lips. Ellen couldn’t tell if he found the notion of his brother being afraid terrifying or irritating. Maybe it was both playing out there beneath that shaggy mess of hair.
“I swear to God, Ellen. I don’t know what to do.”
“Sam, in your own ways, you boys are so much like your daddy it’s…well, it’s scary.”
Sam snorted. “Yeah, exactly. And look where that got him.”
“No, Sam. Look where that got Dean. Your brother’s never been one to do anything by halves, and he is his own brand of Winchester stubborn. If there’s a freight train coming, he’s gonna meet it head on. He ain’t ever been the type sit around and wait on anyone or anything.”
“So what, I’m supposed to sit back and let him beat the crossroads demon to it?”
“Guy’s running down one hell of an egg timer, Sam. But as long as I’ve known you boys, your brother’s never done a thing that hasn’t come down to fighting demons or keeping your sorry ass safe. Sounds like maybe you’ve forgotten that.”
Ellen crossed her arms, leaned back against the bar. Sam sighed, ran a hand through his hair. He scratched at the top of the beer with his thumb but made no move to open it.
“You know what I keep thinking?” Sam kept his eyes on the beer bottle in front of him. “I keep thinking all this time I’ve been researching and chasing leads and hitting brick walls and dead ends? It was that minute after he told me. Back in Wyoming. You know? He told me, and I thought: I’m gonna fix this. I can fix this. I hadn’t even cracked the laptop or bent the spine on a book and I knew I could fix this.”
He looked up at her and the smile he gave her was so pained and compromised and lonely and guilty that it brought her off the counter. She leaned forward on her elbows in front of him.
“You can. You will. We will.”
He shook his head at the top of his beer. “The more I look… I don’t feel it anymore, Ellen. I’m running out of time and I know he knows it. So then even looking gets hard…This last week, I just…I haven’t looked at anything. I got this message on my phone from some guy in Cleveland and I haven’t even called him back.”
“Sam, I wish I could tell you this was going to be okay. And I don’t know what’s gonna happen. I know you’re scared, maybe more scared than he is. But you know what I do know?”
“What?”
“If Dean was sitting there right now, he’d be calling Cleveland. And if Cleveland didn’t work out, he’d be on the road to the next city. And then the next, and then the next. Because for you? That boy doesn’t stop for traffic lights or food or sleep or broken bones. He’d drag his ass half dead from east coast to west for you.”
“So I call Cleveland, right? And when that falls apart, then what?”
“Same thing we all do, hon. You keep going.”
* * * * * *
Ellen dropped the beer onto the chassis of the Impala beside Dean and leaned against the driver panel.
She watched him working the bolts down inside the lamp housing until it became obvious to the both of them that he was ignoring her.
“You’re scarin’ your brother, Dean.”
Dean froze, spanner mid-turn, then resumed twirling.
“You two tag teaming now?” He flipped the spanner, leaned it up on the carburetor and rubbed a greasy finger under his nose. He looked her in the eye while he turned the bolt the rest of the way with his fingers, dealt her a long, guarded stare.
“We need to be?”
Dean dropped the nut onto the car frame, picked up the spanner and tapped the next bolt. “Look, Ellen, all due respect but you don’t know shit about shit, so…”
Oh, I know plenty about you Winchesters, kid. Ellen folded her arms while Dean nestled the spanner around the bolt and gave it some elbow. He curled his lip, flexed through his forearm.
“Bitch,” he breathed and Ellen cocked her eyebrow as he glanced at her. “The bolt, Ellen. I’m talking to the fucking bolt.”
He shook his head at the engine, blinked long when she started up again.
“Dean, maybe it’s none of my business but you’ve been doing this job since you were knee high to a grasshopper and I’ve seen enough to know you’re not clumsy, and you’re sure as shit not accident prone. Sam says you’re getting sloppy, making mistakes. I say you’re not.”
“Ellen.” It was almost a growl, and Dean pushed back from the Impala, reinforced the warning with a steely glare that reminded her so much of John that she shook her head a little, an awed smile tugging unexpectedly at her lips.
“Don’t Ellen me, Dean. I know you think it’s gonna be better for him somehow if you bite it before this deal comes due, but I’m here to tell you that is twenty four carat bullshit, Sunshine.”
Dean threw the spanner into the engine block so hard it bounced back out and hit the dirt beside the front tire. He turned and sat on the radiator, hands fisted on the frame either side of his hips. He looked like he was about to unfurl on her like a tsunami. But Ellen kept talking.
“Any way he loses you, it’s gonna be his fault. Get it? If it’s a demon, or a busted up car, or you blow your fucking head off or you wait it out and pay up…he’s gonna make it his fault. Do you understand that?”
Dean dug the heel of his boot into the dirt beneath the Impala, shifted his glare from her to the doors of the front bar fifty yards away.
“I’m not waiting around for any black dog, Ellen. I’m not doing it. If I go, I go doing the job. End of story.” He scowled. “Who said anything about me blowing my head off? Jesus.”
“Last I heard we still got twelve weeks to sort this mess out. Little early to be striking matches for your blaze of glory, isn’t it?”
Dean came up off the hood, snagged the beer beside him as he went. He twisted the top off and threw it on the ground. He shook his head, looked her in the eye, and all the anger seemed to drain out of him. The smile he gave her was jaded, bitter and bone-weary.
“Come on, Ellen. Nine months. He’s been dragging my ass from one end of the country to the other for nine months and it’s been dead ends and ass fuck central from whoa to go. There was a way outta this, we’d be cracking open the cigar box by now. And it’s okay. Really. I never thought it was gonna pan out any other way. But I ain’t sitting on my ass waiting for the hell hounds.” He winked, took a swig from his beer. “I’ll tell you that for free.”
“He’s not an idiot, Dean.”
“No, he’s not, Ellen,” Dean bristled. “Never said he was.”
“Then stop treating him like one. He’s earned your trust.”
Dean’s face turned to stone. “Hey, don’t start with me about Sam and trust, Ellen. You got no clue.”
“No, that’s where you’re wrong, Dean. I got a clue. The only surprise here is that you don’t. You don’t wanna talk about Sam and trust, fine. But you drop your bundle now, you’re telling him he’s failed you. And the game’s not over, you ass. You want to pull the pin before the final quarter, that’s your business. But I’ll tell you this for free, kid: I catch you trying to step off the field before that final siren goes, I’ll come down on your ass so hard and so fast you’ll be wishing for a black dog by the time I’m done with you.”
Dean was staring her down impassively as she stopped talking, and she returned the gaze, hands on her hips, while his frustration and anger tussled with a dawning realization. For a second she thought he was going to hurl that beer bottle across the lot. Instead he took a long swig from it, studied the dusty earth beside her boots.
“You done?” he said finally, and his voice was soft, stripped.
And she nearly was. “You boys are like family. And I got a world of time for you both, probably more than you know.” She threw her hands wide. “That boy followed you back into this job, Dean. Those visions, Cold Oak, this deal? He didn’t ask for any of it. Anymore than you did.”
Ellen left him there staring at his dusty boots, and headed inside.
* * * * * *
“So apparently I’m a jerk and I’m sorry.”
It had taken him until after they’d left Bobby’s yard in South Dakota to say it, so when Dean got back into the car after a gas stop and came right out with the apology, Sam twisted on the leather, back against the passenger door. His lips twitched in amusement. Dean Winchester may be his own brand of stubborn, but put a wall between the two of them? Guaranteed, Dean was the first to step up with the sledgehammer, every time. Sam raised his eyebrows.
“Apparently you’re sorry, or you are sorry?”
Dean rubbed his eyebrow with the heel of his hand. “Oh my God, you’re gonna make this hard. Why am I not surprised?”
Sam shook his head. “Hey, you’ve been an ass, man. That thing back at the church? You think I was pissed? Dad would have knocked you halfway into next week for that.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I still got twelve weeks, Dean. I’m still looking.”
“I know.” He went to start the engine, paused. “You know, Sam, I took that stupid deal so you could have a life.” He waved a hand through the windshield at the world in general. “And not this one, man. I know this isn’t what you want. Never has been.”
Sam held up a hand. “Dean...”
“No, Sam, let me say this. I know I dragged you back into this, but twelve weeks from now, one way or another, this can all be over for you. You could go back to school, get married, have kids. Whatever. You know what it is that you want. We got that yellow eyed son of a bitch, and there’s plenty of hunters around can pick up your slack if you want to take a step back. And I know you don’t want to talk about that shit right now and that’s fine, I know you’re just afraid to admit it because you’re afraid of…I don’t know…failing or something stupid like that. But you know what? Fuck that. Fuck your fear. You know what you want which is a hell of a lot more than most other people so… don’t be afraid or ashamed…just go out and fucking get it.”
“Jesus, are you done?”
“I’m just sayin’. It’s okay, man. I’m okay with it. And I’ll watch my six. You got your twelve weeks, so you can ditch the amateur psych hour.” Dean pointed a finger at Sam. “You and Ellen? You’re giving me a fuckin’ headache.”
Sam shook his head slowly, laughed. “You know you’re a fucking asshole, right? I mean, that speech you just made? You’ve been working on that how long, like a day and a half? And none of it matters ‘cause a year from now I’m still gonna be stuck in this fucking car with your moody ass.”
Dean started the engine, threw his hands in the air when Sam suddenly cracked his door and leapt out.
“Where are you going now, you fucking fidget?”
Sam dug his cell out of his pocket, bent to look back in the car window.
“I gotta return a phone call.”
“You gotta return a phone call. Now. When I’ve apologized, and I’m done bitchin’ at you and I’ve started the vehicle. Now, you need to get out of the car and return a phone call?” His eyebrow nearly twisted clean off his head.
“It’ll only take a second.”
“I’m just clarifying, because ordinarily, this is exactly the sort of indecisive, wishy-washy crap that makes me wanna beat the shit outta you. Continually.
“Just give me a minute here, will you? We’re goin’ to Cleveland. Look at a map or something.”
“Cleveland?” Dean ducked his head down to look at his brothers retreating back. “What the fuck is in Cleveland?”
Sam looked at his watch, did some calculations. “Us. In about two days.”
Dean snorted, shook his head at the windshield. “Two days?” he asked no one in particular. “What, are we driving Miss Daisy?”
Dean cocked an eyebrow at him across the front seat as Sam pulled the Impala door shut, gave him a wink and the cowboy grin that always set Sam’s stomach like concrete.
“Two days? You grandma. Fifty bucks says we’re there by 5 o’clock tomorrow.”