World's Forgotten Boys - Chapter 27b/28 - Sam/Dean
Fic title: World's Forgotten Boys (link goes to masterpost)
Chapter: 27b/28
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Ross/OFC
Rating: R for violence and language
Word Count: 6009
Summary: Ross Winchester knows three things to be true: his father, John, is a hero; he’s going to be the best hunter in the goddamn world; and his two older brothers are in love with each other. An AU-version of seasons one and two where the Winchester Brothers mean Dean and Sam and Ross, where John is still missing, where Mary and Jess are still dead, and where Dean and Sam are still obsessed with each other.
Warnings: Okay, so this chapter doesn't end so well, it is very angsty. However, rest assured that this is not the final chapter and this is not how things are going to end. If you need me to get specific about why it's so angsty then I've spoiler-tagged it: major character death
A/N: As with the part 1, this is unbeta-ed. The gorgeous and very sexy banner below was made by the awesome violateraindrop There is also this fabulous sketch of Ross, done by the lovely talented roxymissrose which if you haven't already seen, you must go and check out now, it is so perfectly Ross <3
This is dedicated to my dear friend, andreth47
Chapter 27, Part II
The demon stops the car outside a roadhouse bar which Ross doesn’t recognise. It pulls up in a spray of gravel and sits there for a few seconds, staring through the windshield. The place is in darkness, not surprising, given that it’s not yet 5am according to the display on the dash. It’s going to be dark for at least another two hours at this time of year. The thought really doesn’t make him feel better, despite how nocturnal his life has always been, everything always feels more hopeless at night.
The demon opens the door and climbs out of the car. It takes its sweet time strolling up to the building, like it’s just out for a couple of drinks, like it’s showing off for an unseen audience, acting all deliberately cool and nonchalant. It’s weird, and what is even weirder, what’s really starting to creep Ross out, is that the demon’s actually fucking shut up for the first time since it jumped him. Instead, it’s giving off this strange sort of nervous anticipation feeling, way different from the smug gloating which seems to be the bastard’s default mode.
The main door to the bar isn’t even locked. Whoever lives here is either epically stupid or epically trusting. Then again, this is the ass-end of nowhere, West Texas, and there probably aren’t that many people around for miles in any direction, just, like, old farmers and ranchers and shit like that. Still though, this is a bar, and there’s always plenty of shit worth stealing in a bar so the owner has to be pretty fucking dumb.
The demon pushes the door open and steps inside. It’s big, like, one of those big roadhouse type bars Dad used to like hanging out in, with beat-up wood floorboards and a long polished bar along one side, moonlight glinting off the bottles ranged on the shelves behind the bar. Stools and chairs are stacked up on tables and the place is deathly silent, making the sound of Ross’s boot heels ring out even louder.
The demon takes a couple of steps and hesitates. It’s still giving off that intense, anticipatory feeling, and it’s making Ross freak out even more than he is already doing. It’s weird how quickly he can get used to something, and he’s gotten used to the demon running its big fucking mouth off these past few hours. Now that it’s gone all silent, it’s like things are suddenly way more serious, like they’ve come to the end of something, or maybe the beginning of something. Whatever it is, it is freaking him the fuck out. He wishes suddenly he had a weapon on him, though, God, duh, that’s probably like the worst fucking idea ever considering he’s currently possessed by a fucking demon. But still, he feels naked without something in his hand, a knife, a gun, whatever, though God, if he is gonna waste his breath wishing for something, he’d wish that this sonofabitch would get the fuck out of him, but hey, that’s a waste of breath.
The demon takes a couple more steps, then stumbles, like it’s collided into something. It tries again, but the same invisible barrier rears up and flings it back, trapping it in place. It whips around, gaze darting up and down, and then Ross sees it, drawn faint and spidery over the well-worn floor: a devil’s trap. The bastard is caught in a fucking devil’s trap. Someone knew they were coming.
The overhead lights thunder on, casting harsh fluorescent light across the room. Two people step out from behind the bar, a woman holding a shotgun, and a teenage boy holding a super-soaker. The kid looks about thirteen, skinny and tall, with short black hair and dark glowering eyes which are locked on Ross. The woman looks like she’s in her late thirties and she's hot in that cougar kinda way with big dark eyes and big dark hair. She’s wearing tight jeans, an even tighter sweater and cowboy boots and she looks like she knows what she’s doing with that shotgun.
“George, honey,” the woman says. Her voice is rich, Southern, and eerily familiar.
The kid takes a step forward, pumps the super-soaker, and before Ross can think what the hell, he’s spraying him with holy water. The demon screams, the sound and sensation clawing up through Ross’s chest, to his throat, past his lips, in a ragged, painful wail that tears at his vocal chords. The demon writhes inside him, burning and shuddering and clawing at Ross’s insides, and he thinks belatedly about all those demons they’ve dosed with holy water before, and how they must’ve been affecting the human hosts too and how they’ve never even thought about the poor fucked-up human inside.
“That’s enough,” the woman says.
The kid obeys, and takes a step back. The woman hasn’t taken her eyes off the demon - off Ross - all this time, still staring at him down the barrel of the shotgun.
“You think I wouldn’t know you were coming? I’m psychic, you sonofabitch!” she spits out.
The demon chuckles. “I know that, baby. It’s why we were so darn good together. You remember the good times, don’t you? ‘Cause I do. I never had anyone as sweet as you. Like honey, like delicious, soft honey. Even this,” it waves a hand, taking in Ross’s body, “doesn’t feel half as sweet as you did. Still, it’s the next best thing. After all, you aren't gonna shoot me, not when you might ruin this real pretty packaging.” It puts its hand on Ross’s crotch and thrusts forward like it’s doing some super fucking lame parody of a Michael Jackson dance move. “If you would only step a little closer though, the fun we might have.” It glides Ross’s tongue over his teeth and leers at her.
She stares back at him, stony-faced and flint-eyed. “This is rock-salt, you stupid asshole. It won’t kill him but it’ll sure make you scream.”
“Oh, how I’d love to make you scream, baby,” it leers again. “Just remember the fun we had together? Do you remember? We were like this.” It knots its fingers together. “Like we were made for each other. Why’d you have to kick me out, sweetheart? I know you haven't had half as much fun since.”
“George, baby, the book, go get the book,” she says.
The kid doesn’t hesitate, just turns and slides back behind the bar, holding the super-soaker over his shoulder like he’s in one of those boring Western movies that Dean likes so much. The woman doesn’t change her position, just keeps staring at him down the barrel of her shotgun.
“Oh, sweetheart, why’d you have to be like that?” the demon purrs. “All I wanted was to bring us together, to reunite you with your long lost boy after all this time. How does it feel to see your baby boy all grown? He’s all man now, I can tell you that. Got a real way with the ladies, this one.”
He sees her hesitate, the mask slip for a nano-second. The demon sees it too and Ross can feel the surge of malevolent glee.
“He still hasn’t figured out who you are. Seriously, he’s his daddy’s son and that’s for sure, not an ounce of smarts in him. Not like you, not like my girl." The demon pauses as if it's waiting for her to say something, but she just licks her lips, adjusts her grip on the weapon. The demon chuckles delightedly and continues, "He’s pretty, isn't he? Just like his momma. And I can tell you what he’s been thinking about you…” It lets out a dirty kinda laugh and strokes Ross's hand over his chest, like, fucking preening and purring at her. “Still, incest - it’s the Winchester family hobby. And you know that, don’t you, baby? You knew soon as you looked at John’s big strong boys. Ahhh, Sam and Dean, if only they were here too, for a real family reunion. But do you know what Sammy and Dean-o have been doing to your baby boy? Do you know how the three of them pass those long, lonely nights together? John did. He knew.”
“Mom.” The kid emerges from behind the bar, holding out an old dusty book. The woman drags her eyes reluctantly away from the demon to take it from him. The book looks like one of the thousands of ancient boring things Bobby has, and Ross feels the demon hesitate, a tiny speck of nervousness wrinkle through him. She places the rifle on the bar and takes a step forward, ushering the kid behind her.
“George, now go,” she says.
“Mom…”
“I said go. Get out of here. I don’t want you seeing this. I mean it.” She’s using a Mom voice and Ross knows now, he’s staring at her through the demon’s eyes but he knows who she is now. He watches the kid leave and sees her set her shoulders again, opening the book purposefully and not looking at him.
Mom, he thinks. He never got to call her that. She was Momma to him. He was too little for Mom. But it’s her. It’s really his mom. He hears the demon chuckle, echoing Ross’s thoughts. “Yeah, that’s right, sweet-cheeks. Looking hot for a dead chick, huh?”
I thought she was dead. Dad said that-
“Your daddy lied, he lied about a lot of things, Ross,” the demon interrupts. “Oh, and your brothers too. Sam and Dean, they passed through here, when was it? Three or four months ago? Did they tell you about that? Did they mention that they met your mom and your little brother? Yeah, that’s right, that kid is your little bro. You should be thanking me, Rossy-Boy, bringing you all together like this, telling you the truth at last.”
No, no, it’s not. They wouldn’t. They’d tell me, they tell me if she was alive.
“’Cause they’ve always been straight with you? They’ve never lied to you before; they’ve never kept secrets from you. Dean’s never kept huge, life-altering secrets from you. Oh, wait…” The demon’s enjoying this, it’s getting off on it, and it really shouldn’t be able to enjoy itself right now. It’s caught in a fucking devil’s trap. It’s about to be sent back to hell to rot. It’s not supposed to be having fun.
“Don’t listen to it,” the woman says. “It’s full of crap.”
“Ah, but it’s not crap. Rossy-boy knows that,” the demon mocks. “He remembers you. He remembers how you abandoned him.”
“Only ‘cause you took me!” the woman busts out. She presses her lips together and curls her fingers tight around the book in her hands, like she’s regretting the outburst. In contrast, the demon is practically giddy with excitement, overjoyed at getting a reaction from her.
“Aww, there’s my girl,” coos the demon, “there’s my firecracker, my luscious little Angela.”
Angela… the name pings in his brain. The photograph Dad gave him years ago, the photograph of his mom, the pretty laughing woman with dark wavy hair holding the dark-haired, serious-eyed toddler on her knee. Angela and Ross, 1986, written on the back in Dad’s scratchy handwriting. “Don’t forget her Ross,” Dad had told him. “Don’t forget about your mom.” He did though, he forgot. At some point along the line, he stopped caring, stopped wondering about her.
He watches her set her shoulders, straighten her posture and raise the book. She starts speaking, her voice loud and clear: “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio, infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta, diabolica.” Inside him, he feels the demon shudder as the words penetrate; clawing at his insides like it’s trying to cling on as every word loosens its hold on Ross’s body. He drops to the floor, knees hitting the wooden boards hard. “Ergo draco maledicte, et omnis legio diabolica-“
“Winchester!”
The door smashes open, Angela whips her head up and spins around. The demon quits shaking and lurches to its feet again, gaining control of Ross’s body once more, the ritual interrupted. A guy is standing silhouetted in the doorway to the bar, a shotgun in his hand. He fires once… twice… The shots hurtle through the air, whistling over Ross’s left shoulder and into a stack of chairs piled up against the far wall. Fragments of upholstery and wood go flying, the chairs collapse with a tremendous crash, and the guy strides into the room.
“Winchester,” he repeats, voice dripping with hate. “There you are. Finally caught up with you. I swore I’d get you back for what you did.”
Ross - and the demon - gape at the newcomer. Whoever the hell he is he is one dramatic dude, standing there like he’s the fucking T-1000, about to take his revenge for... Christ, Ross has no goddamn clue what for. The guy takes another step forward into the light, and Ross finally recognises him. It’s the guy from that hunt in New York State he did months ago with Sarah, the one with the weirdo vegetarian vampires. That super-intense hunter guy he beat to a pulp. Now the revenge thing makes more sense. The guy - Gordon Walker, he remembers him now - is staring at him with such intense hatred that the demon’s practically vibrating out of his skin, delighted and amused. “Well, now, Ross, this is interesting,” it coos.
“Gordon, this really isn’t a good time,” Angela cuts in, her voice tight. And wait a goddamned minute… do they, like, know each other?
“Stay out of this,” Gordon says, not even bothering to look at her, his eyes locked on Ross. “This is between me and him.” He raises his hand dramatically to point at Ross. “I have unfinished business with this little bastard.”
Angela snorts, “If you’d look a little closer you’d see that ain’t Ross Winchester, that’s a demon, you stupid dick.”
Gordon hesitates and Ross watches his gaze roll over him, over the devil’s trap on the floor, then back up to his face again. The demon bats his eyelashes and preens, enjoying the attention, and Gordon’s eyes narrow even further until they’re just two glinting slits.
“Then I’ll be taking care of two evil sonsofbitches at once,” he says, speaking with that freaky unnatural calm Ross is now beginning to remember from their last encounter.
“Over my dead body you will!” Angela slams the book down onto the bar, and moves, putting her body between Gordon and the demon. “You’re not touching a hair on his head. Now stand back and let me finish this goddamn exorcism!”
Gordon pivots on her. “I don’t like raising my hand to a woman, but that doesn’t mean I won’t if I have to. I got no fight with you, Angela, you know that. I understand you might feel sentimental towards this kid, considering your arrangement with his old man, but this - this is between me and him. He put me in hospital for three months. I got a score to settle with him.”
Her eyes narrow and she takes a step towards him. “This is my bar, and that is my boy, and you ain’t getting any closer to him! Get the hell outta here before I call the goddamn cops and-“
“Friends, please!” the demon interrupts. “All this fighting over little ole me. Why can’t we all just get along? Hug it out. C’mon over here, Mommy, I’ll show you how the Winchesters like to treat close family.” It raises Ross’s eyebrows and leers at Angela. “And you, big boy,” it waggles Ross’s eyebrows at Gordon, “you can wait your turn. We got plenty of love to spread around. This hot piece of ass has awesome recovery time.”
Gordon snarls, like, actually freaking snarls, and lifts the shotgun to fire off two more blasts. The demon dives to the floor, Angela screams and Ross feels the shots fly way too fucking close over the top of his head, practically grazing his skull. He hears Gordon pump the shotgun, ready for another shot, but before he can fire again Angela yells something and launches herself at Gordon, making a grab for the shotgun. Gordon bats her away like she’s nothing and she tumbles into a pile of chairs and tables which tip and cascade to the floor, burying her like a freaking avalanche.
He - it - he’s not even sure anymore where he begins and the demon ends, the thing is wrapped so tightly around him, its greasy blank entrails in his mind, snaking and sliming their way through every thought and emotion. They’re lying on the floor, him and his demonic parasite, and they can hear Gordon breathing, tight and controlled, hear him calmly reload the shotgun, hear Angela’s pained whimpers. The demon’s not going to die from that gun, but he will. Fucking Gordon Walker is going to kill him. Of all the people, on all the hunts he’s been on, he’s going to die at the hands of a crazy-ass hunter, and what’s even worse, he’s going to die possessed by a fucking demon.
He wishes suddenly that Dean and Sam were here, with him. He’s always known that he’d go out bloody, but he never thought he’d go out alone. He always thought that at least one of his brothers would be there with him, that he wouldn’t have to do this on his own. He’s never been good on his own. But it’s pointless wishing for anything different right now. Sam and Dean aren’t here, they’re… wherever the hell they are, fuck, they probably don’t even know he’s gone. That demonic sonofabitch played them all so fucking well, him, Sarah... Shit, Sarah. He thinks of how he left her, tied to that bed, bruised and hurt and beyond traumatised. He did that to her. That’s all on him.
At least, if he’s gonna die here right now then maybe the demon won’t get away after all. It’s still trapped pretty good and solid, and Gordon might be seriously fucked in the head, but he’s still a hunter, he wouldn’t let a demon get away, no freaking way. Maybe that’s why the demon’s shut up again; it knows that it’s screwed to hell and back, like, literally. But shit, if Ross is gonna die any second now then it would be nice to be able to close his eyes and let it happen, to curl up on this floor, even with the damn splinters jabbing into his cheek, and to just… let it happen. Maybe it won’t be so bad, the whole dying thing, he’ll get to see Dad again, and that - God - he would like that more than anything, just to see Dad again. But right now, he ain’t the one driving this stupid useless body and he can’t even close his own goddamn eyes because the demon’s not even going to give him that. The demon’s eyes - his eyes - are wide open and focussed on the inked lines of the devil’s trap, and there’s this spot where the inky lines have gotten scuffed, one edge looking like it’s worn away a little. In fact…
The demon notices in the same split second it registers in Ross’s brain. It’s on its feet before Ross finishes processing the thought - the devil’s trap is broken - and then it’s lunging out, a wave of psychic power smashing through the bar like a thunderclap. The shotgun in Gordon’s hand hurtles across the room, through a window in a terrifying explosion of glass. The demon turns its attention to Gordon, flicks its wrist, and Gordon is flung backwards and into the far wall. The demon twitches his fingers and Gordon’s body starts to slide up the wall until his feet are dangling a few inches above the floor. The demon grins, rolls Ross’s shoulders, and steps elegantly out of the devil’s trap.
It turns Ross’s head and looks down at where Angela is lying under the pile of furniture. It waves a hand and the furniture rolls away. She gets slowly to her feet, her eyes locked warily on Ross’s face, her body shaking. The demon smiles at her, and twitches his fingers again, flinging her across the room and up against the same section of wall as Gordon. They’re both dangling there like life-size corn dollies. The demon sighs when it’s done, all job well done. It rolls Ross’s shoulders again, turning his head this way and that, working the cricks out of his neck. It’s gone back to enjoying itself again, revelling in the power which hums and crackles through Ross’s body like an EMF meter.
The demon saunters towards its two prisoners and stops in front of Angela. He lifts Ross’s hand to stroke the side of her face. She whimpers and tries to turn her head out of the touch, but she can’t, of course she can’t, she’s frozen in place. The demon cups her cheek and drags its thumb almost lovingly over her bottom lip.
“Mmm, just wait till I’ve dealt with this loser, then we’ll be reunited, my luscious Angelita, and it’ll be so good. I promise it will be so good.” He leans in, plants a hard kiss to the corner of her mouth, hand going up to grip the back of her neck. “You smell so sweet, baby, just like I remember.” He leans back and smiles at her, giving her cheek one last, lingering pat, before he moves onto Gordon.
“You’re gonna roast in hell, Winchester,” Gordon spits out.
The demon rolls its eyes. “Yeah, whatever.” It puts Ross’s hands on Gordon’s neck and twists. Ross hears the bones crack and splinter, giving and crumbling so ridiculously easily under his fingers. The demon takes a step back, Ross’s hands drop to his sides and Gordon’s lifeless body slides down the wall and slumps to the floor. The demon wrinkles its nose in distaste and kicks Gordon’s body aside with the toe of Ross’s boot. “Now, where were we?” It says, turning back to Angela.
“Ross!”
The demon pauses, huffs out an irritated breath. Ross can feel it rolling its eyes again, thinking, What the fuck now? How many more goddamn interruptions? But this one is different, this voice Ross knows better than he knows his own voice, and Ross feels a smile roll across his face as the demon also realises who it is.
“Sammy,” the demon says. “Finally. I was waiting for you two to turn up. But what’s this? Where’s your older and dumber boyfriend? Don’t tell me you came here all on your lonesome. Killing you won’t be nearly so fun if Dean-o isn't here to watch.”
“Get out of him!” Sam grits out. He’s holding his Beretta, got it trained on Ross, not that that’s going to do anything to help, but it’s probably making Sam feel better which Ross totally understands. “Get out of him, or I swear to God, I’ll-“
“What?” the demon interrupts. “What will you do? Bend a spoon at me. Think at me real hard.” It snorts contemptuously. “No, I didn’t think so. No, honey-buns. You can wait your turn, too!” It waves a hand and Sam flies across the room, slamming up against the opposite wall.
“Now, who shall I deal with first, I wonder,” the demon says musingly, tapping his index finger against Ross’s chin.
Don’t hurt him, Ross thinks desperately.
“Wait, what was that, littlest bro? You got something to say?” the demon pauses, thrilled, and cocks Ross’s head, catching Ross’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
Don’t hurt my brother. Please, I’ll - I’ll let you-
“What? What will you let me? Where I’m standing kiddo, you got nothing to bargain with. I already got your cute ass, and really, considering all the wear and tear, it's not even that cute anymore.” It snorts amusedly. “What else you got?”
I won’t struggle. I’ll let you use me. If you let Sam go, I’ll let you do what you want.
The demon snorts, laughter fizzing out of Ross’s nose and mouth. “Oh please. Stop, just stop. You’re hurting me with the pathetic. Let’s face it, little bro, you’re a waste of skin. You’re nothing. Your daddy was nothing, your brothers are nothing, your momma, sure, I gotta admit I got a real soft spot for her. But as I already got her exactly where I want her,” it breaks off, blows a kiss at Angela, “there’s nothing you got that I want, Rossy-boy. So I’m gonna finish off gigantor over there, then I’m gonna finish off you, just like you finished off my daddy - you remember that? Do you remember killing my daddy? Well, I'm gonna kill all your family, Ross, all of them. Wherever Dean is, I'm gonna find him and kill him too. Maybe I'll do it dressed as you, or maybe I'll put on something fancier for that particular party."
“Ross,” Sam pleads, “Ross, please…”
The demon raises Ross’s hand and makes a fist. The words choke from Sam’s throat as his face pales, pained, hacking gurgles rising up through his throat.
“Sorry? What was that?” the demon says, walking towards Sam. “Didn’t quite catch that.”
Sam gasps and gurgles for breath, his eyes lock on Ross’s face, wide and desperate and pleading. He looks kinda ridiculous, his eyes bulging, his forehead huge and straining, lips opening and closing like a dying fish. The demon relaxes his fist and Sam heaves in a whoosh of breath, the air rattling through his lungs.
“How’s it feel to be iced by something wearing your little bro’s face, huh, Sammy? Kinda poetic, don’t you think? All those times, Ross wished you dead, all those times he wished you’d stay permanently locked away in your comfortable college-boy lifestyle, all those times he wished you weren’t around, ruining his life, crushing his dreams, stealing his big brother from him. With you gone - well, littlest bro finally gets exactly what he always wanted: his big brother all to himself. You know, it’s a real shame neither of them will be around to enjoy it.”
Bullshit, that’s bullshit, I don’t want that, I never wanted that!
“Methinks you’re protesting just a little too much there, sweetheart,” the demons says. It darts Sam a conspiratorial look, “He’s trying to make out like he hasn’t wished you dead dozens of times before.”
I haven’t! And if I did, then I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it.
“For the love of Lucifer, shut up! You know you used to be amusing Ross, the angst, the desperation, messing with you - it was kinda fun, but now... you are so freaking pathetic that it’s just boring.”
The demon raises his hand again and clenches his fist. Sam chokes, shudders, throat convulsing. Thick, frothy blood splutters out of his mouth and splatters his chin. The demon saunters towards him, puts one hand to the wall above Sam’s shoulder and stares down into his face. “Not lookin’ so hot there, Sammy.”
What are you doing to him?
“Just rearranging his insides. You’ll like the results. Very Jackson Pollock.”
“Ross,” Sam whispers. Tears seep free from the corner of his eyes, roll down his cheeks, mingling with the dried blood on his lips and chin. His eyes lock on Ross’s face, bore into him. “Please, Ross.”
“That’s enough,” the demon growls. It clenches Ross’s fist again.
The scream dies on Sam’s lips, his body spasms, his eyes roll closed. He’s dying, Ross thinks, he’s dying. The demon - it - me - I’m killing him. I’m killing Sam. He can feel the demon inside him, stretching and flexing and enjoying the power, revelling in it.
Blood drips from Sam’s slack lips and onto his plaid shirt. Ross stares at the shirt, mesmerised, he remembers stealing that shirt from Sam’s bag a couple of weeks ago when he was out of clean clothes. It was stupidly big, just like its owner, the sleeves hung over Ross’s wrists and got in the way, but unlike his own stuff, it was clean. Sam was really pissed with him and bitched for fucking hours about it, so Ross offered to do the laundry just to get him to shut the hell up. Sam still insisted on going with him, though, because he has this thing where he thinks Ross is incapable of doing the damn laundry, like, Ross is that retarded, like he didn’t spend years while Sam was off at Stanford doing the fucking laundry. And so they went to do it together and Sam kept bitching about the stupid fugly shirt, and so Ross pushed him up against one of the dryers and made out with him, right there, in full view of everybody in the freaking Laundromat just to get him to shut up. Of course Sam being Sam just reacted in his usual over-the-top way and grabbed hold of Ross and licked and ate at his mouth, devouring his tongue in that way he had where he kissed like he wanted to suck out your soul.
No, Ross thinks, the word like a spade to the back of the head. No. This is not happening again. I lost my dad ‘cause of you bastards, you are not taking my brother from me.
The demon hesitates, the power crackles, fizzes out like a faulty firework. The black, oily essence vibrates inside Ross, flickering and slithering through his bloodstream. “What are you doing, Ross?” it hisses out, sounding seriously pissed.
Ross ignores it. He’s concentrating... concentrating harder than he ever has in his stupid, sorry life. He can feel the demon trying to hide from him, trying to slink and skitter away like a spider in a dark corner, but he’s not letting it get away, not this time.
“You’re not gonna win, kiddo,” the demon hisses again, but it’s running scared now, not as cocky as it was, and there’s an edge of uncertainty and even fear to its voice.
Ross ignores it. He watches Sam’s eyes flutter open, weak and hazy, and he reaches. Using all the power he can muster, he snatches for it. The demon flails, wails and thrashes, but Ross has it now. He has the sonofabitch, he can feel it, he can feel his own power, his own whatever the fuck it is, and he’s stronger than that bastard right now, and he has it.
He reels from the sudden return to his body, his arms and legs and hands and feet returning to his control like agonising pins and needles. He stumbles forward, and feels someone - Sam - that’s Sam, that’s Sammy - released from the demon’s power now, and Sam’s holding him up, his enormous man-paws on Ross’s shoulders, steadying him.
“Ross, hey, hey, Ross, you okay?”
Ross jerks his head up, clutches onto Sam. Sam’s face is a mess, blood and snot and tears and bruises around his throat and neck. “I have it, Sammy. The demon, I have it…”
“It’s okay, I got you,” Sam says. His hands fall to Ross’s face, his big palms cupping Ross’s face. “Take it, take what you need.”
He doesn’t think, everything instinctive, just as Dad always taught them. He covers Sam’s hands with his own. The touch is electric, like, literally, electric, the same jolt to his system as in that cabin all those months ago. A blinding, deafening crack, and his insides are exploding, shattering into a million fucking pieces, and he’s reeling, falling and tumbling to the floor, and Sam is with him, and the demon is gone, like, just... gone. Not exorcised, but gone. Annihilated. Torn to shreds. And that was them: him and Sam, they did it, they killed the demon with the power of their freaking minds.
He’s not sure when he comes around or how long he’s out for, but they’re on the floor, both he and Sam are lying on the floor, their arms and legs all tangled up like cell phone chargers at the bottom of a duffle bag. Around them, chairs and tables and stools and pictures and even the freaking light fittings lie in splinters, like a bomb has ripped through the entire bar.
His head is throbbing, his chest heaving up and down as he regains his breath. Sam is a heavy, dead weight on top of him and he squirms, tries to roll his brother off him. Distantly, he can hear someone calling his name, but his head is throbbing so much and he feels like he’s been deafened, like a bomb really has gone off.
He drags his tongue around his mouth, tries to find his voice. “Sammy?” It comes out a croak, his lips barely making the words. He tries again: “Sam?”
Sam isn’t moving.
The realisation snaps into his brain like a gunshot, and instantly he’s scrabbling out from under his brother, deadened, shell-shocked limbs finally responding like they should. He rolls Sam onto his back and leans over him.
“Sam? Sammy?”
There’s no puff of air against his cheek, no beat-beat-beat of a pulse under his fingertips, Sam's chest is not going up and down like it should be.
“Ross?”
He whips his head around, sees Angela leaning over him, looking down at Sam.
“He - he - he ain’t breathing, he - he - please-“
Angela falls to her knees on the other side of Sam. Her hands go to Sam’s head, tipping it back, finding the airway, just as Dad always taught them. She makes a fist over Sam’s chest with both hands and starts to pump. He sees a tear splash onto Sam’s face, and realises distantly that it’s one of his. He didn’t even notice when he started crying. Angela finishes the first set and dives in for the two breaths, then she starts again, massaging Sam’s chest.
He’s waiting for it to be okay. He’s waiting for Sam to lurch up, to cough and splutter and reach out for him, like they do on TV. He’s waiting for it to happen because he knows that it will happen. Of course it will happen. Of course Sam will be okay.
Time passes and Ross loses count of how many reps Angela has done, how many times she’s pressed down on his brother’s heart, how many times she’s cupped his chin and breathed into his mouth. He’s only aware of the moment she lifts her hands from Sam’s chest and sits back on her haunches, her head bowed. Ross watches her unmoving, not saying anything. Finally, she raises her head and he notices that she’s crying. Her eyes are red and watery and there are slimy trails down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry, baby,” she says. “But he…”
Ross looks away from her face, from her mouth saying those words that he’s just not going to hear. He’s just not. He’s not listening to that. He looks down into Sam’s face, his gaping eyes, his slack mouth, the dried blood on his lips. His hair is a mess, tangled and sweaty and falling in his eyes like it usually does. He hears Angela get to her feet, her steps stumbling and unsure as she makes her way through the bombed-out chaos of her bar. He hears voices, Angela’s voice, and a kid’s voice, that kid’s voice, his little brother. He’d totally forgotten about him.
He leans over Sam, putting his lips to Sam’s. They feel moist and they smell of blood. Both things aren’t that unusual for Sammy. He gives him a kiss, turns his face so his nose nuzzles into Sam’s cheek, his lips catching on Sam’s stubble. He slides one hand under Sam’s head, fingers tangling in his messy, greasy hair, and leans over him so he can slide his other hand under Sam’s body. He heaves Sam onto his lap and pulls him in tight. He presses his face into Sam’s neck and breathes in the scent of his skin.
He doesn’t know how long he sits there holding his brother. He’s not aware of time, of Angela trying to speak to him, of the kid hovering around somewhere in the background. He only knows that he has to keep Sam safe, he has to keep hold of him until Dean gets there. He’s not letting go until Dean gets there. Dean will know what to do.
next chapter
Chapter: 27b/28
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Ross/OFC
Rating: R for violence and language
Word Count: 6009
Summary: Ross Winchester knows three things to be true: his father, John, is a hero; he’s going to be the best hunter in the goddamn world; and his two older brothers are in love with each other. An AU-version of seasons one and two where the Winchester Brothers mean Dean and Sam and Ross, where John is still missing, where Mary and Jess are still dead, and where Dean and Sam are still obsessed with each other.
Warnings: Okay, so this chapter doesn't end so well, it is very angsty. However, rest assured that this is not the final chapter and this is not how things are going to end. If you need me to get specific about why it's so angsty then I've spoiler-tagged it: major character death
A/N: As with the part 1, this is unbeta-ed. The gorgeous and very sexy banner below was made by the awesome violateraindrop There is also this fabulous sketch of Ross, done by the lovely talented roxymissrose which if you haven't already seen, you must go and check out now, it is so perfectly Ross <3
This is dedicated to my dear friend, andreth47
Chapter 27, Part II
The demon stops the car outside a roadhouse bar which Ross doesn’t recognise. It pulls up in a spray of gravel and sits there for a few seconds, staring through the windshield. The place is in darkness, not surprising, given that it’s not yet 5am according to the display on the dash. It’s going to be dark for at least another two hours at this time of year. The thought really doesn’t make him feel better, despite how nocturnal his life has always been, everything always feels more hopeless at night.
The demon opens the door and climbs out of the car. It takes its sweet time strolling up to the building, like it’s just out for a couple of drinks, like it’s showing off for an unseen audience, acting all deliberately cool and nonchalant. It’s weird, and what is even weirder, what’s really starting to creep Ross out, is that the demon’s actually fucking shut up for the first time since it jumped him. Instead, it’s giving off this strange sort of nervous anticipation feeling, way different from the smug gloating which seems to be the bastard’s default mode.
The main door to the bar isn’t even locked. Whoever lives here is either epically stupid or epically trusting. Then again, this is the ass-end of nowhere, West Texas, and there probably aren’t that many people around for miles in any direction, just, like, old farmers and ranchers and shit like that. Still though, this is a bar, and there’s always plenty of shit worth stealing in a bar so the owner has to be pretty fucking dumb.
The demon pushes the door open and steps inside. It’s big, like, one of those big roadhouse type bars Dad used to like hanging out in, with beat-up wood floorboards and a long polished bar along one side, moonlight glinting off the bottles ranged on the shelves behind the bar. Stools and chairs are stacked up on tables and the place is deathly silent, making the sound of Ross’s boot heels ring out even louder.
The demon takes a couple of steps and hesitates. It’s still giving off that intense, anticipatory feeling, and it’s making Ross freak out even more than he is already doing. It’s weird how quickly he can get used to something, and he’s gotten used to the demon running its big fucking mouth off these past few hours. Now that it’s gone all silent, it’s like things are suddenly way more serious, like they’ve come to the end of something, or maybe the beginning of something. Whatever it is, it is freaking him the fuck out. He wishes suddenly he had a weapon on him, though, God, duh, that’s probably like the worst fucking idea ever considering he’s currently possessed by a fucking demon. But still, he feels naked without something in his hand, a knife, a gun, whatever, though God, if he is gonna waste his breath wishing for something, he’d wish that this sonofabitch would get the fuck out of him, but hey, that’s a waste of breath.
The demon takes a couple more steps, then stumbles, like it’s collided into something. It tries again, but the same invisible barrier rears up and flings it back, trapping it in place. It whips around, gaze darting up and down, and then Ross sees it, drawn faint and spidery over the well-worn floor: a devil’s trap. The bastard is caught in a fucking devil’s trap. Someone knew they were coming.
The overhead lights thunder on, casting harsh fluorescent light across the room. Two people step out from behind the bar, a woman holding a shotgun, and a teenage boy holding a super-soaker. The kid looks about thirteen, skinny and tall, with short black hair and dark glowering eyes which are locked on Ross. The woman looks like she’s in her late thirties and she's hot in that cougar kinda way with big dark eyes and big dark hair. She’s wearing tight jeans, an even tighter sweater and cowboy boots and she looks like she knows what she’s doing with that shotgun.
“George, honey,” the woman says. Her voice is rich, Southern, and eerily familiar.
The kid takes a step forward, pumps the super-soaker, and before Ross can think what the hell, he’s spraying him with holy water. The demon screams, the sound and sensation clawing up through Ross’s chest, to his throat, past his lips, in a ragged, painful wail that tears at his vocal chords. The demon writhes inside him, burning and shuddering and clawing at Ross’s insides, and he thinks belatedly about all those demons they’ve dosed with holy water before, and how they must’ve been affecting the human hosts too and how they’ve never even thought about the poor fucked-up human inside.
“That’s enough,” the woman says.
The kid obeys, and takes a step back. The woman hasn’t taken her eyes off the demon - off Ross - all this time, still staring at him down the barrel of the shotgun.
“You think I wouldn’t know you were coming? I’m psychic, you sonofabitch!” she spits out.
The demon chuckles. “I know that, baby. It’s why we were so darn good together. You remember the good times, don’t you? ‘Cause I do. I never had anyone as sweet as you. Like honey, like delicious, soft honey. Even this,” it waves a hand, taking in Ross’s body, “doesn’t feel half as sweet as you did. Still, it’s the next best thing. After all, you aren't gonna shoot me, not when you might ruin this real pretty packaging.” It puts its hand on Ross’s crotch and thrusts forward like it’s doing some super fucking lame parody of a Michael Jackson dance move. “If you would only step a little closer though, the fun we might have.” It glides Ross’s tongue over his teeth and leers at her.
She stares back at him, stony-faced and flint-eyed. “This is rock-salt, you stupid asshole. It won’t kill him but it’ll sure make you scream.”
“Oh, how I’d love to make you scream, baby,” it leers again. “Just remember the fun we had together? Do you remember? We were like this.” It knots its fingers together. “Like we were made for each other. Why’d you have to kick me out, sweetheart? I know you haven't had half as much fun since.”
“George, baby, the book, go get the book,” she says.
The kid doesn’t hesitate, just turns and slides back behind the bar, holding the super-soaker over his shoulder like he’s in one of those boring Western movies that Dean likes so much. The woman doesn’t change her position, just keeps staring at him down the barrel of her shotgun.
“Oh, sweetheart, why’d you have to be like that?” the demon purrs. “All I wanted was to bring us together, to reunite you with your long lost boy after all this time. How does it feel to see your baby boy all grown? He’s all man now, I can tell you that. Got a real way with the ladies, this one.”
He sees her hesitate, the mask slip for a nano-second. The demon sees it too and Ross can feel the surge of malevolent glee.
“He still hasn’t figured out who you are. Seriously, he’s his daddy’s son and that’s for sure, not an ounce of smarts in him. Not like you, not like my girl." The demon pauses as if it's waiting for her to say something, but she just licks her lips, adjusts her grip on the weapon. The demon chuckles delightedly and continues, "He’s pretty, isn't he? Just like his momma. And I can tell you what he’s been thinking about you…” It lets out a dirty kinda laugh and strokes Ross's hand over his chest, like, fucking preening and purring at her. “Still, incest - it’s the Winchester family hobby. And you know that, don’t you, baby? You knew soon as you looked at John’s big strong boys. Ahhh, Sam and Dean, if only they were here too, for a real family reunion. But do you know what Sammy and Dean-o have been doing to your baby boy? Do you know how the three of them pass those long, lonely nights together? John did. He knew.”
“Mom.” The kid emerges from behind the bar, holding out an old dusty book. The woman drags her eyes reluctantly away from the demon to take it from him. The book looks like one of the thousands of ancient boring things Bobby has, and Ross feels the demon hesitate, a tiny speck of nervousness wrinkle through him. She places the rifle on the bar and takes a step forward, ushering the kid behind her.
“George, now go,” she says.
“Mom…”
“I said go. Get out of here. I don’t want you seeing this. I mean it.” She’s using a Mom voice and Ross knows now, he’s staring at her through the demon’s eyes but he knows who she is now. He watches the kid leave and sees her set her shoulders again, opening the book purposefully and not looking at him.
Mom, he thinks. He never got to call her that. She was Momma to him. He was too little for Mom. But it’s her. It’s really his mom. He hears the demon chuckle, echoing Ross’s thoughts. “Yeah, that’s right, sweet-cheeks. Looking hot for a dead chick, huh?”
I thought she was dead. Dad said that-
“Your daddy lied, he lied about a lot of things, Ross,” the demon interrupts. “Oh, and your brothers too. Sam and Dean, they passed through here, when was it? Three or four months ago? Did they tell you about that? Did they mention that they met your mom and your little brother? Yeah, that’s right, that kid is your little bro. You should be thanking me, Rossy-Boy, bringing you all together like this, telling you the truth at last.”
No, no, it’s not. They wouldn’t. They’d tell me, they tell me if she was alive.
“’Cause they’ve always been straight with you? They’ve never lied to you before; they’ve never kept secrets from you. Dean’s never kept huge, life-altering secrets from you. Oh, wait…” The demon’s enjoying this, it’s getting off on it, and it really shouldn’t be able to enjoy itself right now. It’s caught in a fucking devil’s trap. It’s about to be sent back to hell to rot. It’s not supposed to be having fun.
“Don’t listen to it,” the woman says. “It’s full of crap.”
“Ah, but it’s not crap. Rossy-boy knows that,” the demon mocks. “He remembers you. He remembers how you abandoned him.”
“Only ‘cause you took me!” the woman busts out. She presses her lips together and curls her fingers tight around the book in her hands, like she’s regretting the outburst. In contrast, the demon is practically giddy with excitement, overjoyed at getting a reaction from her.
“Aww, there’s my girl,” coos the demon, “there’s my firecracker, my luscious little Angela.”
Angela… the name pings in his brain. The photograph Dad gave him years ago, the photograph of his mom, the pretty laughing woman with dark wavy hair holding the dark-haired, serious-eyed toddler on her knee. Angela and Ross, 1986, written on the back in Dad’s scratchy handwriting. “Don’t forget her Ross,” Dad had told him. “Don’t forget about your mom.” He did though, he forgot. At some point along the line, he stopped caring, stopped wondering about her.
He watches her set her shoulders, straighten her posture and raise the book. She starts speaking, her voice loud and clear: “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio, infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta, diabolica.” Inside him, he feels the demon shudder as the words penetrate; clawing at his insides like it’s trying to cling on as every word loosens its hold on Ross’s body. He drops to the floor, knees hitting the wooden boards hard. “Ergo draco maledicte, et omnis legio diabolica-“
“Winchester!”
The door smashes open, Angela whips her head up and spins around. The demon quits shaking and lurches to its feet again, gaining control of Ross’s body once more, the ritual interrupted. A guy is standing silhouetted in the doorway to the bar, a shotgun in his hand. He fires once… twice… The shots hurtle through the air, whistling over Ross’s left shoulder and into a stack of chairs piled up against the far wall. Fragments of upholstery and wood go flying, the chairs collapse with a tremendous crash, and the guy strides into the room.
“Winchester,” he repeats, voice dripping with hate. “There you are. Finally caught up with you. I swore I’d get you back for what you did.”
Ross - and the demon - gape at the newcomer. Whoever the hell he is he is one dramatic dude, standing there like he’s the fucking T-1000, about to take his revenge for... Christ, Ross has no goddamn clue what for. The guy takes another step forward into the light, and Ross finally recognises him. It’s the guy from that hunt in New York State he did months ago with Sarah, the one with the weirdo vegetarian vampires. That super-intense hunter guy he beat to a pulp. Now the revenge thing makes more sense. The guy - Gordon Walker, he remembers him now - is staring at him with such intense hatred that the demon’s practically vibrating out of his skin, delighted and amused. “Well, now, Ross, this is interesting,” it coos.
“Gordon, this really isn’t a good time,” Angela cuts in, her voice tight. And wait a goddamned minute… do they, like, know each other?
“Stay out of this,” Gordon says, not even bothering to look at her, his eyes locked on Ross. “This is between me and him.” He raises his hand dramatically to point at Ross. “I have unfinished business with this little bastard.”
Angela snorts, “If you’d look a little closer you’d see that ain’t Ross Winchester, that’s a demon, you stupid dick.”
Gordon hesitates and Ross watches his gaze roll over him, over the devil’s trap on the floor, then back up to his face again. The demon bats his eyelashes and preens, enjoying the attention, and Gordon’s eyes narrow even further until they’re just two glinting slits.
“Then I’ll be taking care of two evil sonsofbitches at once,” he says, speaking with that freaky unnatural calm Ross is now beginning to remember from their last encounter.
“Over my dead body you will!” Angela slams the book down onto the bar, and moves, putting her body between Gordon and the demon. “You’re not touching a hair on his head. Now stand back and let me finish this goddamn exorcism!”
Gordon pivots on her. “I don’t like raising my hand to a woman, but that doesn’t mean I won’t if I have to. I got no fight with you, Angela, you know that. I understand you might feel sentimental towards this kid, considering your arrangement with his old man, but this - this is between me and him. He put me in hospital for three months. I got a score to settle with him.”
Her eyes narrow and she takes a step towards him. “This is my bar, and that is my boy, and you ain’t getting any closer to him! Get the hell outta here before I call the goddamn cops and-“
“Friends, please!” the demon interrupts. “All this fighting over little ole me. Why can’t we all just get along? Hug it out. C’mon over here, Mommy, I’ll show you how the Winchesters like to treat close family.” It raises Ross’s eyebrows and leers at Angela. “And you, big boy,” it waggles Ross’s eyebrows at Gordon, “you can wait your turn. We got plenty of love to spread around. This hot piece of ass has awesome recovery time.”
Gordon snarls, like, actually freaking snarls, and lifts the shotgun to fire off two more blasts. The demon dives to the floor, Angela screams and Ross feels the shots fly way too fucking close over the top of his head, practically grazing his skull. He hears Gordon pump the shotgun, ready for another shot, but before he can fire again Angela yells something and launches herself at Gordon, making a grab for the shotgun. Gordon bats her away like she’s nothing and she tumbles into a pile of chairs and tables which tip and cascade to the floor, burying her like a freaking avalanche.
He - it - he’s not even sure anymore where he begins and the demon ends, the thing is wrapped so tightly around him, its greasy blank entrails in his mind, snaking and sliming their way through every thought and emotion. They’re lying on the floor, him and his demonic parasite, and they can hear Gordon breathing, tight and controlled, hear him calmly reload the shotgun, hear Angela’s pained whimpers. The demon’s not going to die from that gun, but he will. Fucking Gordon Walker is going to kill him. Of all the people, on all the hunts he’s been on, he’s going to die at the hands of a crazy-ass hunter, and what’s even worse, he’s going to die possessed by a fucking demon.
He wishes suddenly that Dean and Sam were here, with him. He’s always known that he’d go out bloody, but he never thought he’d go out alone. He always thought that at least one of his brothers would be there with him, that he wouldn’t have to do this on his own. He’s never been good on his own. But it’s pointless wishing for anything different right now. Sam and Dean aren’t here, they’re… wherever the hell they are, fuck, they probably don’t even know he’s gone. That demonic sonofabitch played them all so fucking well, him, Sarah... Shit, Sarah. He thinks of how he left her, tied to that bed, bruised and hurt and beyond traumatised. He did that to her. That’s all on him.
At least, if he’s gonna die here right now then maybe the demon won’t get away after all. It’s still trapped pretty good and solid, and Gordon might be seriously fucked in the head, but he’s still a hunter, he wouldn’t let a demon get away, no freaking way. Maybe that’s why the demon’s shut up again; it knows that it’s screwed to hell and back, like, literally. But shit, if Ross is gonna die any second now then it would be nice to be able to close his eyes and let it happen, to curl up on this floor, even with the damn splinters jabbing into his cheek, and to just… let it happen. Maybe it won’t be so bad, the whole dying thing, he’ll get to see Dad again, and that - God - he would like that more than anything, just to see Dad again. But right now, he ain’t the one driving this stupid useless body and he can’t even close his own goddamn eyes because the demon’s not even going to give him that. The demon’s eyes - his eyes - are wide open and focussed on the inked lines of the devil’s trap, and there’s this spot where the inky lines have gotten scuffed, one edge looking like it’s worn away a little. In fact…
The demon notices in the same split second it registers in Ross’s brain. It’s on its feet before Ross finishes processing the thought - the devil’s trap is broken - and then it’s lunging out, a wave of psychic power smashing through the bar like a thunderclap. The shotgun in Gordon’s hand hurtles across the room, through a window in a terrifying explosion of glass. The demon turns its attention to Gordon, flicks its wrist, and Gordon is flung backwards and into the far wall. The demon twitches his fingers and Gordon’s body starts to slide up the wall until his feet are dangling a few inches above the floor. The demon grins, rolls Ross’s shoulders, and steps elegantly out of the devil’s trap.
It turns Ross’s head and looks down at where Angela is lying under the pile of furniture. It waves a hand and the furniture rolls away. She gets slowly to her feet, her eyes locked warily on Ross’s face, her body shaking. The demon smiles at her, and twitches his fingers again, flinging her across the room and up against the same section of wall as Gordon. They’re both dangling there like life-size corn dollies. The demon sighs when it’s done, all job well done. It rolls Ross’s shoulders again, turning his head this way and that, working the cricks out of his neck. It’s gone back to enjoying itself again, revelling in the power which hums and crackles through Ross’s body like an EMF meter.
The demon saunters towards its two prisoners and stops in front of Angela. He lifts Ross’s hand to stroke the side of her face. She whimpers and tries to turn her head out of the touch, but she can’t, of course she can’t, she’s frozen in place. The demon cups her cheek and drags its thumb almost lovingly over her bottom lip.
“Mmm, just wait till I’ve dealt with this loser, then we’ll be reunited, my luscious Angelita, and it’ll be so good. I promise it will be so good.” He leans in, plants a hard kiss to the corner of her mouth, hand going up to grip the back of her neck. “You smell so sweet, baby, just like I remember.” He leans back and smiles at her, giving her cheek one last, lingering pat, before he moves onto Gordon.
“You’re gonna roast in hell, Winchester,” Gordon spits out.
The demon rolls its eyes. “Yeah, whatever.” It puts Ross’s hands on Gordon’s neck and twists. Ross hears the bones crack and splinter, giving and crumbling so ridiculously easily under his fingers. The demon takes a step back, Ross’s hands drop to his sides and Gordon’s lifeless body slides down the wall and slumps to the floor. The demon wrinkles its nose in distaste and kicks Gordon’s body aside with the toe of Ross’s boot. “Now, where were we?” It says, turning back to Angela.
“Ross!”
The demon pauses, huffs out an irritated breath. Ross can feel it rolling its eyes again, thinking, What the fuck now? How many more goddamn interruptions? But this one is different, this voice Ross knows better than he knows his own voice, and Ross feels a smile roll across his face as the demon also realises who it is.
“Sammy,” the demon says. “Finally. I was waiting for you two to turn up. But what’s this? Where’s your older and dumber boyfriend? Don’t tell me you came here all on your lonesome. Killing you won’t be nearly so fun if Dean-o isn't here to watch.”
“Get out of him!” Sam grits out. He’s holding his Beretta, got it trained on Ross, not that that’s going to do anything to help, but it’s probably making Sam feel better which Ross totally understands. “Get out of him, or I swear to God, I’ll-“
“What?” the demon interrupts. “What will you do? Bend a spoon at me. Think at me real hard.” It snorts contemptuously. “No, I didn’t think so. No, honey-buns. You can wait your turn, too!” It waves a hand and Sam flies across the room, slamming up against the opposite wall.
“Now, who shall I deal with first, I wonder,” the demon says musingly, tapping his index finger against Ross’s chin.
Don’t hurt him, Ross thinks desperately.
“Wait, what was that, littlest bro? You got something to say?” the demon pauses, thrilled, and cocks Ross’s head, catching Ross’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
Don’t hurt my brother. Please, I’ll - I’ll let you-
“What? What will you let me? Where I’m standing kiddo, you got nothing to bargain with. I already got your cute ass, and really, considering all the wear and tear, it's not even that cute anymore.” It snorts amusedly. “What else you got?”
I won’t struggle. I’ll let you use me. If you let Sam go, I’ll let you do what you want.
The demon snorts, laughter fizzing out of Ross’s nose and mouth. “Oh please. Stop, just stop. You’re hurting me with the pathetic. Let’s face it, little bro, you’re a waste of skin. You’re nothing. Your daddy was nothing, your brothers are nothing, your momma, sure, I gotta admit I got a real soft spot for her. But as I already got her exactly where I want her,” it breaks off, blows a kiss at Angela, “there’s nothing you got that I want, Rossy-boy. So I’m gonna finish off gigantor over there, then I’m gonna finish off you, just like you finished off my daddy - you remember that? Do you remember killing my daddy? Well, I'm gonna kill all your family, Ross, all of them. Wherever Dean is, I'm gonna find him and kill him too. Maybe I'll do it dressed as you, or maybe I'll put on something fancier for that particular party."
“Ross,” Sam pleads, “Ross, please…”
The demon raises Ross’s hand and makes a fist. The words choke from Sam’s throat as his face pales, pained, hacking gurgles rising up through his throat.
“Sorry? What was that?” the demon says, walking towards Sam. “Didn’t quite catch that.”
Sam gasps and gurgles for breath, his eyes lock on Ross’s face, wide and desperate and pleading. He looks kinda ridiculous, his eyes bulging, his forehead huge and straining, lips opening and closing like a dying fish. The demon relaxes his fist and Sam heaves in a whoosh of breath, the air rattling through his lungs.
“How’s it feel to be iced by something wearing your little bro’s face, huh, Sammy? Kinda poetic, don’t you think? All those times, Ross wished you dead, all those times he wished you’d stay permanently locked away in your comfortable college-boy lifestyle, all those times he wished you weren’t around, ruining his life, crushing his dreams, stealing his big brother from him. With you gone - well, littlest bro finally gets exactly what he always wanted: his big brother all to himself. You know, it’s a real shame neither of them will be around to enjoy it.”
Bullshit, that’s bullshit, I don’t want that, I never wanted that!
“Methinks you’re protesting just a little too much there, sweetheart,” the demons says. It darts Sam a conspiratorial look, “He’s trying to make out like he hasn’t wished you dead dozens of times before.”
I haven’t! And if I did, then I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it.
“For the love of Lucifer, shut up! You know you used to be amusing Ross, the angst, the desperation, messing with you - it was kinda fun, but now... you are so freaking pathetic that it’s just boring.”
The demon raises his hand again and clenches his fist. Sam chokes, shudders, throat convulsing. Thick, frothy blood splutters out of his mouth and splatters his chin. The demon saunters towards him, puts one hand to the wall above Sam’s shoulder and stares down into his face. “Not lookin’ so hot there, Sammy.”
What are you doing to him?
“Just rearranging his insides. You’ll like the results. Very Jackson Pollock.”
“Ross,” Sam whispers. Tears seep free from the corner of his eyes, roll down his cheeks, mingling with the dried blood on his lips and chin. His eyes lock on Ross’s face, bore into him. “Please, Ross.”
“That’s enough,” the demon growls. It clenches Ross’s fist again.
The scream dies on Sam’s lips, his body spasms, his eyes roll closed. He’s dying, Ross thinks, he’s dying. The demon - it - me - I’m killing him. I’m killing Sam. He can feel the demon inside him, stretching and flexing and enjoying the power, revelling in it.
Blood drips from Sam’s slack lips and onto his plaid shirt. Ross stares at the shirt, mesmerised, he remembers stealing that shirt from Sam’s bag a couple of weeks ago when he was out of clean clothes. It was stupidly big, just like its owner, the sleeves hung over Ross’s wrists and got in the way, but unlike his own stuff, it was clean. Sam was really pissed with him and bitched for fucking hours about it, so Ross offered to do the laundry just to get him to shut the hell up. Sam still insisted on going with him, though, because he has this thing where he thinks Ross is incapable of doing the damn laundry, like, Ross is that retarded, like he didn’t spend years while Sam was off at Stanford doing the fucking laundry. And so they went to do it together and Sam kept bitching about the stupid fugly shirt, and so Ross pushed him up against one of the dryers and made out with him, right there, in full view of everybody in the freaking Laundromat just to get him to shut up. Of course Sam being Sam just reacted in his usual over-the-top way and grabbed hold of Ross and licked and ate at his mouth, devouring his tongue in that way he had where he kissed like he wanted to suck out your soul.
No, Ross thinks, the word like a spade to the back of the head. No. This is not happening again. I lost my dad ‘cause of you bastards, you are not taking my brother from me.
The demon hesitates, the power crackles, fizzes out like a faulty firework. The black, oily essence vibrates inside Ross, flickering and slithering through his bloodstream. “What are you doing, Ross?” it hisses out, sounding seriously pissed.
Ross ignores it. He’s concentrating... concentrating harder than he ever has in his stupid, sorry life. He can feel the demon trying to hide from him, trying to slink and skitter away like a spider in a dark corner, but he’s not letting it get away, not this time.
“You’re not gonna win, kiddo,” the demon hisses again, but it’s running scared now, not as cocky as it was, and there’s an edge of uncertainty and even fear to its voice.
Ross ignores it. He watches Sam’s eyes flutter open, weak and hazy, and he reaches. Using all the power he can muster, he snatches for it. The demon flails, wails and thrashes, but Ross has it now. He has the sonofabitch, he can feel it, he can feel his own power, his own whatever the fuck it is, and he’s stronger than that bastard right now, and he has it.
He reels from the sudden return to his body, his arms and legs and hands and feet returning to his control like agonising pins and needles. He stumbles forward, and feels someone - Sam - that’s Sam, that’s Sammy - released from the demon’s power now, and Sam’s holding him up, his enormous man-paws on Ross’s shoulders, steadying him.
“Ross, hey, hey, Ross, you okay?”
Ross jerks his head up, clutches onto Sam. Sam’s face is a mess, blood and snot and tears and bruises around his throat and neck. “I have it, Sammy. The demon, I have it…”
“It’s okay, I got you,” Sam says. His hands fall to Ross’s face, his big palms cupping Ross’s face. “Take it, take what you need.”
He doesn’t think, everything instinctive, just as Dad always taught them. He covers Sam’s hands with his own. The touch is electric, like, literally, electric, the same jolt to his system as in that cabin all those months ago. A blinding, deafening crack, and his insides are exploding, shattering into a million fucking pieces, and he’s reeling, falling and tumbling to the floor, and Sam is with him, and the demon is gone, like, just... gone. Not exorcised, but gone. Annihilated. Torn to shreds. And that was them: him and Sam, they did it, they killed the demon with the power of their freaking minds.
He’s not sure when he comes around or how long he’s out for, but they’re on the floor, both he and Sam are lying on the floor, their arms and legs all tangled up like cell phone chargers at the bottom of a duffle bag. Around them, chairs and tables and stools and pictures and even the freaking light fittings lie in splinters, like a bomb has ripped through the entire bar.
His head is throbbing, his chest heaving up and down as he regains his breath. Sam is a heavy, dead weight on top of him and he squirms, tries to roll his brother off him. Distantly, he can hear someone calling his name, but his head is throbbing so much and he feels like he’s been deafened, like a bomb really has gone off.
He drags his tongue around his mouth, tries to find his voice. “Sammy?” It comes out a croak, his lips barely making the words. He tries again: “Sam?”
Sam isn’t moving.
The realisation snaps into his brain like a gunshot, and instantly he’s scrabbling out from under his brother, deadened, shell-shocked limbs finally responding like they should. He rolls Sam onto his back and leans over him.
“Sam? Sammy?”
There’s no puff of air against his cheek, no beat-beat-beat of a pulse under his fingertips, Sam's chest is not going up and down like it should be.
“Ross?”
He whips his head around, sees Angela leaning over him, looking down at Sam.
“He - he - he ain’t breathing, he - he - please-“
Angela falls to her knees on the other side of Sam. Her hands go to Sam’s head, tipping it back, finding the airway, just as Dad always taught them. She makes a fist over Sam’s chest with both hands and starts to pump. He sees a tear splash onto Sam’s face, and realises distantly that it’s one of his. He didn’t even notice when he started crying. Angela finishes the first set and dives in for the two breaths, then she starts again, massaging Sam’s chest.
He’s waiting for it to be okay. He’s waiting for Sam to lurch up, to cough and splutter and reach out for him, like they do on TV. He’s waiting for it to happen because he knows that it will happen. Of course it will happen. Of course Sam will be okay.
Time passes and Ross loses count of how many reps Angela has done, how many times she’s pressed down on his brother’s heart, how many times she’s cupped his chin and breathed into his mouth. He’s only aware of the moment she lifts her hands from Sam’s chest and sits back on her haunches, her head bowed. Ross watches her unmoving, not saying anything. Finally, she raises her head and he notices that she’s crying. Her eyes are red and watery and there are slimy trails down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry, baby,” she says. “But he…”
Ross looks away from her face, from her mouth saying those words that he’s just not going to hear. He’s just not. He’s not listening to that. He looks down into Sam’s face, his gaping eyes, his slack mouth, the dried blood on his lips. His hair is a mess, tangled and sweaty and falling in his eyes like it usually does. He hears Angela get to her feet, her steps stumbling and unsure as she makes her way through the bombed-out chaos of her bar. He hears voices, Angela’s voice, and a kid’s voice, that kid’s voice, his little brother. He’d totally forgotten about him.
He leans over Sam, putting his lips to Sam’s. They feel moist and they smell of blood. Both things aren’t that unusual for Sammy. He gives him a kiss, turns his face so his nose nuzzles into Sam’s cheek, his lips catching on Sam’s stubble. He slides one hand under Sam’s head, fingers tangling in his messy, greasy hair, and leans over him so he can slide his other hand under Sam’s body. He heaves Sam onto his lap and pulls him in tight. He presses his face into Sam’s neck and breathes in the scent of his skin.
He doesn’t know how long he sits there holding his brother. He’s not aware of time, of Angela trying to speak to him, of the kid hovering around somewhere in the background. He only knows that he has to keep Sam safe, he has to keep hold of him until Dean gets there. He’s not letting go until Dean gets there. Dean will know what to do.
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