SpN fic: Tail Gunner 3/5
5/16/07 11:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Tail Gunner
Fandom: SpN
Pairing:Sam/Dean, eventually
Rating:R
Word count::3329
Summary: some people are born soldiers, some are made into soldiers.
Warning: R rating for violence
“Wake up.”
Dean woke up at once, opened his eyes and found himself staring into his dad’s eyes. They were wide and clear—too bright. “Dad.”
Dean was moving even as he spoke, shoving his thumbs in the waistband of his sweats. His middle was a hollow aching hole and his mind was as blank as he could make it. It wasn’t so bad anymore.
“Wake Sam up, the time’s right.”
Sammy…no. Not Sammy, no, not… “No, please, Dad. He thinks you’re a hero, he thinks…”
Dad looked puzzled--annoyed. “What are you talking about boy? It’s time for Sam to grow up—hell, he's a year older than you were your first time. There’s a werewolf up on the ridge—not turned yet, but soon. We’re going to get him. Tonight, before he’s too strong.” Dad got up from where he crouched on the side of the bed, staring into Dean’s eyes. “Come on,” he said, and ran the back of his hand down Dean’s cheek, soft and fleeting like the touch of a bird’s wing, and left their room.
Dean wanted to throw up. He’d much rather by far that Dad take him into the living room instead of lead Sam into hell like the both of them.
“Sammy. Sammy…” He shook Sam’s arm, and Sammy woke with a smile and looped his sleep warm arm around his neck.
“Dean, how come you’re awake,” he murmured and pulled him back down. “Come back to sleep.” His mouth moved warm and soft against Dean’s neck. Dean shuddered.
“Hey, kid, wake up. Dad wants to take you out tonight.”
Like a switch being flipped, Sammy came wide awake. “Tonight? Really?” He scrambled out of bed and even in the dark of the bedroom; he could see Sam’s face glowing. “What are we going after? Vampire? Ghoul? Ghost...” He stopped and gaped at Dean. “Not a—a demon? Oh wow, my first night out--”
Dean grabbed his shoulders and gave him a hard shake. “Knock it the fuck off! This isn’t a game—we’re not going out to play ball. People are going to die!”
Sam pulled away. “What’s wrong with you? People aren’t going to die, monsters are. We help people. That’s what we do.”
“Jesus God, Sammy--” Dean grabbed him and kissed him, hard, forcing his tongue into Sam’s mouth, biting at it, biting Sam’s lip. He stopped, hands clawed over Sammy’s shoulder. Shook him again. “*That’s* real, hang on to that—no matter what else you feel tonight, that’s the only true thing.”
Sam staggered back when Dean let him go, gulping and wiping his mouth. “Dean!” He swallowed, and yanked at his boxers. “What was that—damn, Dean…Dean…” Sam wound down, too shocked to speak again, his tongue touched his lip over and over.
Dean didn’t know himself. At that moment, it had just seemed like the right thing to do--like his last chance and—and grabbing for something before it was lost.“Shit—get dressed. Boots—dark clothes, nothing reflective or bright, okay?” Dean threw himself into the business of preparing, trying to quiet his racing mind, trying to avoid Sam’s eyes. “--nothing too baggy or too tight—the navy cargo pants will do. Tuck the tops.” Dean turned away and dressed quickly, aware that Sammy watched his every move. Dean tossed him a black blade and jerked his chin towards the doorway. “Let’s go.”
Dad was in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette and drinking a mug of coffee.
“There’s coffee in the pot, and toast—Dean, don’t let him eat more than a slice or two,” he said, and walked outside into the dark.
Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sammy grab for the pile of toast on the counter. His lip quirked in a smile, before the reality of what was ahead of them killed it. “You heard him, sport. Curb your appetite.”
“Ha—bet that must be hard for you to follow--hey, how come *you’re* eating more than toast?”
Dean looked up from his drippy egg and bacon muffin. “Fuck, I’m used to it. Trust me—you’ll be thankful you didn’t eat much, after.” Dean could tell Sammy wanted to wiggle like a puppy from excitement, the bizarre incident in the bedroom already forgotten. He sighed.
He remembered the sharp buzz of that excitement, the sure knowledge what they were about to do was Just and Godly--he could hear Dad saying it in his mind, just and godly, always in ten foot tall caps. He used to feel that way too, a million, million years ago. Now, he felt like he was about to go club baby seals. He shivered and dropped the muffin. “Let’s go, kid.”
******
There was a small cabin, more a shack, at the bottom of a shallow rise. Chinks in the walls let dim sparks of light out into the darkness—the single window in the rear wall of the cabin was blacked out.
They were at the top of the ridge above the cabin, hidden in the woods. Sammy held the Glock he’d gotten for his birthday the year that he'd turned twelve—finally about to use it. Dean had the sawed off in his hands--watched for a signal from his dad. “Don’t fire Sammy; not unless Dad tells you to,” he murmured. “No matter what happens, okay?”
Sammy’s eyes were huge and black in the low light. He knew ‘no matter what happens’ was code for ‘even if I’m in trouble, do nothing but what Dad tells you.’ Sam swallowed hard. “Okay,” he whispered back.
Dean settled back on his heels and waited. It was different hunting in the woods—not like hunting in the suburbs or the city. In the woods mostly, he felt a little less like a monster. He felt that sides were…even. A little more even. Dean chewed on his lip, and waited for Dad's signal. This thing…he was thinking, beginning to think…maybe it was murder.
Maybe…Dad. Dad was....
An owl called and he snapped to attention, he dropped back behind Sammy like they’d been doing it for years, making sure they weren’t being tailed—his eyes swiveling around the area as they moved, ready to protect Sam to the best of his ability.
“Where to, Dean?” Another haunting call, and Dean pointed to his left, down the ridge, and pressed his finger against Sam’s mouth. ‘No more talking.’ Sammy nodded, and moved out with him. They circled wide, and ended up on the edge of the dark yard of the little cabin. Dad was on the opposite side of the yard from him, holding up a crossbow. Dean knew the bolts he carried were silver tipped… “Get ready, Sammy,” he breathed—could feel Sammy at his side, taut, alert--
He saw Dad point at Sammy and walk his fingers in the air and Dean shook his head savagely. ‘Nono.’
Dad pointed at him—aimed the bow at him. Dean squeezed his eyes shut—opened them again. Turned to Sammy. “Take the shotgun, give me the fuckin’ Glock and stay behind me,” he whispered harshly.
“No! Dad wants me to go first!”
“It’s too dangerous—shit!” Sammy pushed Dean over and ran light as a feather to the front door of the shack—kicked it open. “No, Sammy--” You’re just fucking bait to him, he wanted to scream but habit and discipline ground into him—beat into him—kept him silent.
Sam flew in the front door; Dad went through the rear window, landed on the floor firing. One bolt went through the man’s shoulder--when he dropped, one black bolt pinned his leg to the wooden floor of the shack.
Screaming went on and on, too much for one throat.
One corner of the shack was red with blood, and stank of blood and shit and piss…there was something in the corner, something that flopped and screamed at the end of a chain.
The bolt pinned a naked man to the floor, he screamed and screamed, until Dad kicked him in the chest. Dean heard something crack, and the guy shut up finally, lay there coughing and groaning.
Dad walked over to the screaming thing on the chain and shook his head. Jerked his chin towards the guy pinned to the floor, looked at Dean. “Told you it was a monster, didn’t I?” The thing on the chain shivered, and became a terrified woman. She pushed back until the wall stopped her, moaning and shaking.
The table under the window Dad broke through was covered with normal household tools. They were streaked black and red. The top of the table was covered with a plastic drop cloth, the kind that were maybe a dollar a pack at hardware stores. It glittered wetly in the light of a couple of Coleman lanterns here and there in the single room. A stainless steel tub sat in the opposite corner, a tub like theirs, filled with clean water. There were hooks on the wall, and a suit and white shirt hung there, on the floor, expensive shoes and socks, a tie and underclothing were folded on top of them. They sat neatly against the wall…there was so much red all over, but not there.
He heard a low moan of horror behind him. Dean didn’t look. Washing blood out of clothes and off weapons was different than standing in the middle of it, still fresh, still hot—and this? It wasn’t even that bad. He thought he heard a quiet sob, and did turn then. Sammy was white, the gun in his hand shook. Dean frowned, but Sammy gulped. “It's—it's okay, Dean, my finger's not on the trigger.”
Dean nodded and turned back to his dad. “Well?”
“We fix it. We kill the wolf.”
The man on the floor started to laugh. “You can’t hurt me, you can’t touch me. The moon—the moon will protect me, you fuckin’ normals!”
Dad stomped on the guy’s hand and it crunched under his boot. “Not against us, it won’t.”
The guy screamed and laughed and Dean kicked him in the head to shut him up. His head bounced against the floor, and Dean kicked him again--knocked him cold. Dad nodded.
“Good job.” He bent and ripped the arrows out of the guy. “Tie him up, Dean.”
Dean swallowed bile. Did what he was told. The man was tied and chained to a chair, thin chains of cheap silver necklaces looped around and around him.
Sammy shuddered, and wiped his hands, the guy’s skin was slick with sweat and blood. “Dad…now what?”
“We wait until the moon is high. The silver will make him weak, hold him in place. We’ll have to find out if he infected any others.” He pulled a thin knife from an inside pocket in his jacket. “Go get me that screw driver off the table—bring the pliers too.”
Sammy nodded, swallowed. “Okay.”
Dean asked what about the…the woman? The woman...the victim. The other victim.
“Take care of her.” Dad tossed him the buck knife. “Make it quick. She’s infected--she’s covered in bite marks.”
Dean looked over his shoulder; Sammy was staring at the semi-conscious woman, tears in his eyes. Dean hesitated and Sammy said, “She’d thank you for it if she could Dean, she knows what’s going to happen to her if you don’t, right Dad?”
Dad stopped and stared at Sammy, really looked at him, and slowly raised his hand, let it rest on Sammy’s shoulder, Squeezed. “Right, boy. Right.”
Dean crouched next to the woman, who had the misfortune to have been captured by a sadist who thought he was a werewolf. She was—had been—pretty. Dean ripped off a piece of duct tape and pressed it over her mouth. Her eyes rolled aimlessly, tracking nothing. Tears ran slowly, down over the tape, dripping over his hand, but Dean was pretty certain it was just a physiological reaction and nothing to do with any emotion. He didn’t think she was capable of that anymore. There were strips of mangled, torn skin on her arms, and burns along her collarbone…one arm was broken, fingers, wrist—all broken--bites, deep, open, and worried at the edges, covered her….
He smoothed the stiff ropes of her hair back from her face and told her over and over it was going to be okay. She didn’t hear him, he knew, but it made him feel better. She was going to die, but not alone, and not with someone getting off on her pain. He closed her eyes, and they stayed closed. He laid a hand on her pitifully thin chest, trying to avoid livid cuts and burns. Her heart beat fast, fast like Sammy’s. He flipped the knife in his hand over and slashed her throat, one cut, deep, neat, and sufficient. A killing stroke. She jerked once, and her head lolled loose over his arm. He tilted her so she bled out on the already deep red floor. He didn’t cry—there was no point.
A high bubbling scream distracted him.
“You fucking bastard, you freak—you wait, you wait, soon you’ll pray for death!”
“You can’t move—you can’t change—the silver binds you, monkshood binds you. And shut the fuck up before you make me shove this screwdriver through your eye.” Dad leaned over the guy, and lit a cigarette. “You like to smoke? Looks like it. There’s butts all over the floor over there. You want one?”
The guy shoved back on the chair, making the legs jump and skitter. “Get the fuck off me—"
‘me’ spiraled up into a high pitched scream when Dad rolled the glowing end of the cigarette over the soft skin behind the guy’s ear.
The scream trailed off in a sob. “The moon’s coming up, and when I change…” he shuddered and cried. “I’ll kill you all.”
Dean walked over and smacked him, hard as he could. “How does it feel? Hurts, does it, you fucker? How do you think she felt?"
The guy opened a tear gummed eye and snarled. Blood drooled over his lip. “Sheep. Meat. Fuck you, meat.”
Dad took a deep drag of the cigarette, glanced at his watch. “Yeah, well, the moon’s almost up and you’re about done.” He pulled a long knife from the scabbard in his boot, and grabbed a handful of the guy’s hair.
The man threw his head back, and a howl tore out of his throat—he raged and twisted in the chair, and his frantic movement bucked the chair across the floor—he writhed and twisted in his bonds in a horrible, unearthly way, his screams and howls split the night—“help me—help me—it hurts, it hurts so much"—words left him became inarticulate growls and howls, moaning…his head dropped forward, and he was still for a second—and then lunged against the ropes, mouth opened, growling, slobbering, baring his entirely human teeth, snarling his entirely human growls. “You see, you see?” he growled. “Cower before your better, meat!
Dean gaped at the asshole in the chair and Dad blew his brains out a second later—Sammy jumped and Dean figured he was the only one who heard the little breathy scream….
“Did you see boys, did you see? Just and Godly, Sam. Just and Godly. He took lives, but he paid with his—paid with his immortal soul. Dean, you go get the ground ready—remember, salt, sulfur *and* monkshood—Sam. Pull yourself together, damn it. We don’t have time for this.” He whirled around and stomped out of the cabin, flinging the remains of the door wide.
Sammy stood, a tall thin statue of a boy, white-faced—so pale his lips were chalk-white. He shuddered once or twice—“Dean...” his mouth opened and closed, like a fish out of water and he went from white faced to pale green.
Dean jumped up and grabbed him, rushed him out into the clean air, held his head while he threw up, painfully, loud and shaking like a reed in the wind, racked with chills and sweat and—and—
“Did you see, Dean, did you see?” Sam gasped. “…you’re probably used to it…” he gagged and drooped forward again, struggled to throw up, but his stomach was empty. “Oh—oh-I’m being such a baby.” He fell back against Dean, and Dean was shocked at how cold he was—it was like holding a snowman. His arms curled around Sammy’s thin chest, he covered the thin chill arms with his own, and pressed his cheek against his brother’s ice cold one, willing his heat to fill him.
“Sammy, Sam…hey, kiddo…what did you see?” Dean asked softly, and held his breath, waited.
Sammy said slowly, “I saw…a monster. I saw Dad execute a monster.” He sounded positive, louder---sure.
fuckfuckfuckfuckDean nodded. “Come on, let’s clean up and get the fuck out of here.”
******
They lay in darkness in the back seat of the car, music soft on the radio. Sammy was wrapped around him; head shoved so hard under his chin, Dean could barely breathe. He rubbed little circles on his back, crooned little nonsense words over and over. Sam was wracked with shudders, his teeth chattered on and off. “I know, I know, it’s bad the first time, it’s always bad the first time…” Dean held him tight and tried not to feel anything but concern for Sam.
They pulled off onto some side road, rutted and pockmarked with holes and in such bad repair it was probably seldom used.
Dad shut off the car. “Dean.” He got out and walked off to the side. Dean could just make him out in the dark…a match flared and glowed in his dad’s cupped hands briefly.
He peeled Sam off. “Back in a minute, kid.” Brushed his lips across his forehead. “Sit tight, okay?”
He met Dad in the dark. His head was down, the cigarette he was smoking hid in his curved hand—hiding the glow. “Listen Dean, you need to keep him together. He’s…taking this harder than you did. He’s got potential, but—” Dad made a face. “He’s not…not the same stuff as you and me. I’m not sure that he…” Dad dropped his head to his hands and took a long drag, let smoke boil out of his mouth and nose. “Yeah. He could be dangerous to us.” He stared at Dean. “I’m counting on you son. I don’t want anything to happen to Sam. You understand me?”
Dean swallowed against the bitter taste in his mouth. “Yeah, Dad. I hear you. Don’t worry. Sam’ll be just fine. I promise.”
“Good. You do what you have to to keep him in line. Whatever it takes.” He glanced at Dean, snuffed the fire between his fingers before dropping the butt. Dean watched him scuff a hole in the sand and bury it…what the fuck? Was he going crazy? Crazier? Because it almost sounded like Dad was telling him…fuck. He must be going nuts.
“The hell are you waiting for, boy? Let’s roll.”
Dean walked back to the car, his mind racing. Maybe…maybe, Dad just put Sammy’s life in his hands. Again, he thought. The feeling was stronger than ever, filling him, the feeling that he was the only thing standing between Sam and death.
******
After, Dad disappeared for a few weeks and Dean was so fucking grateful.
Dad came home and he had a shit load of papers, IDs, all excellent counterfeits. They told the story of Dean and Sam Winchester, and their dad, John, who moved frequently around the country. There were school records and shot records and everything they needed to…to start a new kind of life. Sammy looked confused by it all, but Dean just sighed and made a mental list of what he’d have to toss and what Sammy’d be allowed to take with.
part 4
Fandom: SpN
Pairing:Sam/Dean, eventually
Rating:R
Word count::3329
Summary: some people are born soldiers, some are made into soldiers.
Warning: R rating for violence
“Wake up.”
Dean woke up at once, opened his eyes and found himself staring into his dad’s eyes. They were wide and clear—too bright. “Dad.”
Dean was moving even as he spoke, shoving his thumbs in the waistband of his sweats. His middle was a hollow aching hole and his mind was as blank as he could make it. It wasn’t so bad anymore.
“Wake Sam up, the time’s right.”
Sammy…no. Not Sammy, no, not… “No, please, Dad. He thinks you’re a hero, he thinks…”
Dad looked puzzled--annoyed. “What are you talking about boy? It’s time for Sam to grow up—hell, he's a year older than you were your first time. There’s a werewolf up on the ridge—not turned yet, but soon. We’re going to get him. Tonight, before he’s too strong.” Dad got up from where he crouched on the side of the bed, staring into Dean’s eyes. “Come on,” he said, and ran the back of his hand down Dean’s cheek, soft and fleeting like the touch of a bird’s wing, and left their room.
Dean wanted to throw up. He’d much rather by far that Dad take him into the living room instead of lead Sam into hell like the both of them.
“Sammy. Sammy…” He shook Sam’s arm, and Sammy woke with a smile and looped his sleep warm arm around his neck.
“Dean, how come you’re awake,” he murmured and pulled him back down. “Come back to sleep.” His mouth moved warm and soft against Dean’s neck. Dean shuddered.
“Hey, kid, wake up. Dad wants to take you out tonight.”
Like a switch being flipped, Sammy came wide awake. “Tonight? Really?” He scrambled out of bed and even in the dark of the bedroom; he could see Sam’s face glowing. “What are we going after? Vampire? Ghoul? Ghost...” He stopped and gaped at Dean. “Not a—a demon? Oh wow, my first night out--”
Dean grabbed his shoulders and gave him a hard shake. “Knock it the fuck off! This isn’t a game—we’re not going out to play ball. People are going to die!”
Sam pulled away. “What’s wrong with you? People aren’t going to die, monsters are. We help people. That’s what we do.”
“Jesus God, Sammy--” Dean grabbed him and kissed him, hard, forcing his tongue into Sam’s mouth, biting at it, biting Sam’s lip. He stopped, hands clawed over Sammy’s shoulder. Shook him again. “*That’s* real, hang on to that—no matter what else you feel tonight, that’s the only true thing.”
Sam staggered back when Dean let him go, gulping and wiping his mouth. “Dean!” He swallowed, and yanked at his boxers. “What was that—damn, Dean…Dean…” Sam wound down, too shocked to speak again, his tongue touched his lip over and over.
Dean didn’t know himself. At that moment, it had just seemed like the right thing to do--like his last chance and—and grabbing for something before it was lost.“Shit—get dressed. Boots—dark clothes, nothing reflective or bright, okay?” Dean threw himself into the business of preparing, trying to quiet his racing mind, trying to avoid Sam’s eyes. “--nothing too baggy or too tight—the navy cargo pants will do. Tuck the tops.” Dean turned away and dressed quickly, aware that Sammy watched his every move. Dean tossed him a black blade and jerked his chin towards the doorway. “Let’s go.”
Dad was in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette and drinking a mug of coffee.
“There’s coffee in the pot, and toast—Dean, don’t let him eat more than a slice or two,” he said, and walked outside into the dark.
Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sammy grab for the pile of toast on the counter. His lip quirked in a smile, before the reality of what was ahead of them killed it. “You heard him, sport. Curb your appetite.”
“Ha—bet that must be hard for you to follow--hey, how come *you’re* eating more than toast?”
Dean looked up from his drippy egg and bacon muffin. “Fuck, I’m used to it. Trust me—you’ll be thankful you didn’t eat much, after.” Dean could tell Sammy wanted to wiggle like a puppy from excitement, the bizarre incident in the bedroom already forgotten. He sighed.
He remembered the sharp buzz of that excitement, the sure knowledge what they were about to do was Just and Godly--he could hear Dad saying it in his mind, just and godly, always in ten foot tall caps. He used to feel that way too, a million, million years ago. Now, he felt like he was about to go club baby seals. He shivered and dropped the muffin. “Let’s go, kid.”
There was a small cabin, more a shack, at the bottom of a shallow rise. Chinks in the walls let dim sparks of light out into the darkness—the single window in the rear wall of the cabin was blacked out.
They were at the top of the ridge above the cabin, hidden in the woods. Sammy held the Glock he’d gotten for his birthday the year that he'd turned twelve—finally about to use it. Dean had the sawed off in his hands--watched for a signal from his dad. “Don’t fire Sammy; not unless Dad tells you to,” he murmured. “No matter what happens, okay?”
Sammy’s eyes were huge and black in the low light. He knew ‘no matter what happens’ was code for ‘even if I’m in trouble, do nothing but what Dad tells you.’ Sam swallowed hard. “Okay,” he whispered back.
Dean settled back on his heels and waited. It was different hunting in the woods—not like hunting in the suburbs or the city. In the woods mostly, he felt a little less like a monster. He felt that sides were…even. A little more even. Dean chewed on his lip, and waited for Dad's signal. This thing…he was thinking, beginning to think…maybe it was murder.
Maybe…Dad. Dad was....
An owl called and he snapped to attention, he dropped back behind Sammy like they’d been doing it for years, making sure they weren’t being tailed—his eyes swiveling around the area as they moved, ready to protect Sam to the best of his ability.
“Where to, Dean?” Another haunting call, and Dean pointed to his left, down the ridge, and pressed his finger against Sam’s mouth. ‘No more talking.’ Sammy nodded, and moved out with him. They circled wide, and ended up on the edge of the dark yard of the little cabin. Dad was on the opposite side of the yard from him, holding up a crossbow. Dean knew the bolts he carried were silver tipped… “Get ready, Sammy,” he breathed—could feel Sammy at his side, taut, alert--
He saw Dad point at Sammy and walk his fingers in the air and Dean shook his head savagely. ‘Nono.’
Dad pointed at him—aimed the bow at him. Dean squeezed his eyes shut—opened them again. Turned to Sammy. “Take the shotgun, give me the fuckin’ Glock and stay behind me,” he whispered harshly.
“No! Dad wants me to go first!”
“It’s too dangerous—shit!” Sammy pushed Dean over and ran light as a feather to the front door of the shack—kicked it open. “No, Sammy--” You’re just fucking bait to him, he wanted to scream but habit and discipline ground into him—beat into him—kept him silent.
Sam flew in the front door; Dad went through the rear window, landed on the floor firing. One bolt went through the man’s shoulder--when he dropped, one black bolt pinned his leg to the wooden floor of the shack.
Screaming went on and on, too much for one throat.
One corner of the shack was red with blood, and stank of blood and shit and piss…there was something in the corner, something that flopped and screamed at the end of a chain.
The bolt pinned a naked man to the floor, he screamed and screamed, until Dad kicked him in the chest. Dean heard something crack, and the guy shut up finally, lay there coughing and groaning.
Dad walked over to the screaming thing on the chain and shook his head. Jerked his chin towards the guy pinned to the floor, looked at Dean. “Told you it was a monster, didn’t I?” The thing on the chain shivered, and became a terrified woman. She pushed back until the wall stopped her, moaning and shaking.
The table under the window Dad broke through was covered with normal household tools. They were streaked black and red. The top of the table was covered with a plastic drop cloth, the kind that were maybe a dollar a pack at hardware stores. It glittered wetly in the light of a couple of Coleman lanterns here and there in the single room. A stainless steel tub sat in the opposite corner, a tub like theirs, filled with clean water. There were hooks on the wall, and a suit and white shirt hung there, on the floor, expensive shoes and socks, a tie and underclothing were folded on top of them. They sat neatly against the wall…there was so much red all over, but not there.
He heard a low moan of horror behind him. Dean didn’t look. Washing blood out of clothes and off weapons was different than standing in the middle of it, still fresh, still hot—and this? It wasn’t even that bad. He thought he heard a quiet sob, and did turn then. Sammy was white, the gun in his hand shook. Dean frowned, but Sammy gulped. “It's—it's okay, Dean, my finger's not on the trigger.”
Dean nodded and turned back to his dad. “Well?”
“We fix it. We kill the wolf.”
The man on the floor started to laugh. “You can’t hurt me, you can’t touch me. The moon—the moon will protect me, you fuckin’ normals!”
Dad stomped on the guy’s hand and it crunched under his boot. “Not against us, it won’t.”
The guy screamed and laughed and Dean kicked him in the head to shut him up. His head bounced against the floor, and Dean kicked him again--knocked him cold. Dad nodded.
“Good job.” He bent and ripped the arrows out of the guy. “Tie him up, Dean.”
Dean swallowed bile. Did what he was told. The man was tied and chained to a chair, thin chains of cheap silver necklaces looped around and around him.
Sammy shuddered, and wiped his hands, the guy’s skin was slick with sweat and blood. “Dad…now what?”
“We wait until the moon is high. The silver will make him weak, hold him in place. We’ll have to find out if he infected any others.” He pulled a thin knife from an inside pocket in his jacket. “Go get me that screw driver off the table—bring the pliers too.”
Sammy nodded, swallowed. “Okay.”
Dean asked what about the…the woman? The woman...the victim. The other victim.
“Take care of her.” Dad tossed him the buck knife. “Make it quick. She’s infected--she’s covered in bite marks.”
Dean looked over his shoulder; Sammy was staring at the semi-conscious woman, tears in his eyes. Dean hesitated and Sammy said, “She’d thank you for it if she could Dean, she knows what’s going to happen to her if you don’t, right Dad?”
Dad stopped and stared at Sammy, really looked at him, and slowly raised his hand, let it rest on Sammy’s shoulder, Squeezed. “Right, boy. Right.”
Dean crouched next to the woman, who had the misfortune to have been captured by a sadist who thought he was a werewolf. She was—had been—pretty. Dean ripped off a piece of duct tape and pressed it over her mouth. Her eyes rolled aimlessly, tracking nothing. Tears ran slowly, down over the tape, dripping over his hand, but Dean was pretty certain it was just a physiological reaction and nothing to do with any emotion. He didn’t think she was capable of that anymore. There were strips of mangled, torn skin on her arms, and burns along her collarbone…one arm was broken, fingers, wrist—all broken--bites, deep, open, and worried at the edges, covered her….
He smoothed the stiff ropes of her hair back from her face and told her over and over it was going to be okay. She didn’t hear him, he knew, but it made him feel better. She was going to die, but not alone, and not with someone getting off on her pain. He closed her eyes, and they stayed closed. He laid a hand on her pitifully thin chest, trying to avoid livid cuts and burns. Her heart beat fast, fast like Sammy’s. He flipped the knife in his hand over and slashed her throat, one cut, deep, neat, and sufficient. A killing stroke. She jerked once, and her head lolled loose over his arm. He tilted her so she bled out on the already deep red floor. He didn’t cry—there was no point.
A high bubbling scream distracted him.
“You fucking bastard, you freak—you wait, you wait, soon you’ll pray for death!”
“You can’t move—you can’t change—the silver binds you, monkshood binds you. And shut the fuck up before you make me shove this screwdriver through your eye.” Dad leaned over the guy, and lit a cigarette. “You like to smoke? Looks like it. There’s butts all over the floor over there. You want one?”
The guy shoved back on the chair, making the legs jump and skitter. “Get the fuck off me—"
‘me’ spiraled up into a high pitched scream when Dad rolled the glowing end of the cigarette over the soft skin behind the guy’s ear.
The scream trailed off in a sob. “The moon’s coming up, and when I change…” he shuddered and cried. “I’ll kill you all.”
Dean walked over and smacked him, hard as he could. “How does it feel? Hurts, does it, you fucker? How do you think she felt?"
The guy opened a tear gummed eye and snarled. Blood drooled over his lip. “Sheep. Meat. Fuck you, meat.”
Dad took a deep drag of the cigarette, glanced at his watch. “Yeah, well, the moon’s almost up and you’re about done.” He pulled a long knife from the scabbard in his boot, and grabbed a handful of the guy’s hair.
The man threw his head back, and a howl tore out of his throat—he raged and twisted in the chair, and his frantic movement bucked the chair across the floor—he writhed and twisted in his bonds in a horrible, unearthly way, his screams and howls split the night—“help me—help me—it hurts, it hurts so much"—words left him became inarticulate growls and howls, moaning…his head dropped forward, and he was still for a second—and then lunged against the ropes, mouth opened, growling, slobbering, baring his entirely human teeth, snarling his entirely human growls. “You see, you see?” he growled. “Cower before your better, meat!
Dean gaped at the asshole in the chair and Dad blew his brains out a second later—Sammy jumped and Dean figured he was the only one who heard the little breathy scream….
“Did you see boys, did you see? Just and Godly, Sam. Just and Godly. He took lives, but he paid with his—paid with his immortal soul. Dean, you go get the ground ready—remember, salt, sulfur *and* monkshood—Sam. Pull yourself together, damn it. We don’t have time for this.” He whirled around and stomped out of the cabin, flinging the remains of the door wide.
Sammy stood, a tall thin statue of a boy, white-faced—so pale his lips were chalk-white. He shuddered once or twice—“Dean...” his mouth opened and closed, like a fish out of water and he went from white faced to pale green.
Dean jumped up and grabbed him, rushed him out into the clean air, held his head while he threw up, painfully, loud and shaking like a reed in the wind, racked with chills and sweat and—and—
“Did you see, Dean, did you see?” Sam gasped. “…you’re probably used to it…” he gagged and drooped forward again, struggled to throw up, but his stomach was empty. “Oh—oh-I’m being such a baby.” He fell back against Dean, and Dean was shocked at how cold he was—it was like holding a snowman. His arms curled around Sammy’s thin chest, he covered the thin chill arms with his own, and pressed his cheek against his brother’s ice cold one, willing his heat to fill him.
“Sammy, Sam…hey, kiddo…what did you see?” Dean asked softly, and held his breath, waited.
Sammy said slowly, “I saw…a monster. I saw Dad execute a monster.” He sounded positive, louder---sure.
fuckfuckfuckfuckDean nodded. “Come on, let’s clean up and get the fuck out of here.”
They lay in darkness in the back seat of the car, music soft on the radio. Sammy was wrapped around him; head shoved so hard under his chin, Dean could barely breathe. He rubbed little circles on his back, crooned little nonsense words over and over. Sam was wracked with shudders, his teeth chattered on and off. “I know, I know, it’s bad the first time, it’s always bad the first time…” Dean held him tight and tried not to feel anything but concern for Sam.
They pulled off onto some side road, rutted and pockmarked with holes and in such bad repair it was probably seldom used.
Dad shut off the car. “Dean.” He got out and walked off to the side. Dean could just make him out in the dark…a match flared and glowed in his dad’s cupped hands briefly.
He peeled Sam off. “Back in a minute, kid.” Brushed his lips across his forehead. “Sit tight, okay?”
He met Dad in the dark. His head was down, the cigarette he was smoking hid in his curved hand—hiding the glow. “Listen Dean, you need to keep him together. He’s…taking this harder than you did. He’s got potential, but—” Dad made a face. “He’s not…not the same stuff as you and me. I’m not sure that he…” Dad dropped his head to his hands and took a long drag, let smoke boil out of his mouth and nose. “Yeah. He could be dangerous to us.” He stared at Dean. “I’m counting on you son. I don’t want anything to happen to Sam. You understand me?”
Dean swallowed against the bitter taste in his mouth. “Yeah, Dad. I hear you. Don’t worry. Sam’ll be just fine. I promise.”
“Good. You do what you have to to keep him in line. Whatever it takes.” He glanced at Dean, snuffed the fire between his fingers before dropping the butt. Dean watched him scuff a hole in the sand and bury it…what the fuck? Was he going crazy? Crazier? Because it almost sounded like Dad was telling him…fuck. He must be going nuts.
“The hell are you waiting for, boy? Let’s roll.”
Dean walked back to the car, his mind racing. Maybe…maybe, Dad just put Sammy’s life in his hands. Again, he thought. The feeling was stronger than ever, filling him, the feeling that he was the only thing standing between Sam and death.
After, Dad disappeared for a few weeks and Dean was so fucking grateful.
Dad came home and he had a shit load of papers, IDs, all excellent counterfeits. They told the story of Dean and Sam Winchester, and their dad, John, who moved frequently around the country. There were school records and shot records and everything they needed to…to start a new kind of life. Sammy looked confused by it all, but Dean just sighed and made a mental list of what he’d have to toss and what Sammy’d be allowed to take with.
part 4
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5/17/07 05:24 am (UTC)Oh, and BTW, Clark, Lex and Chloe miss you. :P
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5/17/07 05:39 am (UTC)Heeeey, nice icon!
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5/17/07 05:42 am (UTC)Ayup, said one comment ho to the other... ;)