SpN: Non Timebo Mala 13/?
12/11/09 01:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Non Timebo Mala
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OMCs, Sam/OMCs, Dean/Sam
Rating: R for violence
Word Count: 3308
Spoilers: might be considered spoilery for All Hell Breaks Loose
Summary: Sam Winchester is looking for the ultimate weapon, one that will destroy the demon who destroyed his family. Dean Kane was raised to be a maker of weapons. He was just the man Sam needed.
Notes/Warnings: This is my AU version of the Colt's making. Increeeedibly AU. It's completely a child of my wild imaginings. Warnings for sex ( brief het and M/M, incest, rape.) Sections will have individual warnings. Character death in this section
At his soft snort, the drover turned in the saddle, caught Dean's eyes, and smirked before looking away again. They moved up the street, the trio, and as they moved past, the older rider's head snapped towards Dean. He looked at him the whole time they moved past, staring wide eyed at Dean for a long minute, before shaking his head ruefully and ignoring him after that one long stare. The boy looked at the man, back at Dean and openly stared now. Dean flushed, wanting to smile but fighting it and then…he saw the boy go pale and his horse slewed sideways. The fair-haired man said something to the boy--he nodded, and they rode off.
Samuel
Sam followed John, leading the horses through the knee deep grass. The dog was running on their heels, keeping clear of the horses, but making play lunges at the back of Sam's boots. The dog was damn good at dodging a kick, Sam had to admire his skill at that. He was a lot less pleased that both pairs of his pants had little ragged holes in the legs…"Shit--cut it out, you little bastard."
John snorted, dropped the horse's reins. He stretched, looked around and said, "Fuck, Sam. Here's good as any," and Sam agreed. It was a pretty good spot, a large, shallow bowl sculpted out of the earth. The bowl provided a little shelter from the wind, so the fire would take good there. A lot of dead wood was scattered about, and looked to be dry. The horses stepped delicately over a narrow rivulet cutting the bowl in half--the dog dashed past them and threw itself face first into the water, making happy snuffling sounds, the horses nickered in pleasure. The stream was fresh and cold. Sam was pleased with that. Maybe he could talk John into making some stew.
They shook out their bedrolls, ground tied the horses and John started to clear a spot for the fire pit. Sam set off to find some stones to line the pit with. He walked out a ways from John and the animals, walked until it was just him and the quiet and the dark sky above. He pulled off his hat and worried it in his hands. His fingers swept over the brim…felt the ghost imprint of that one bright drop of blood….
He shuddered, and tried to put any thought out of his head but the fire, and coffee, and some stew…had to admit though, the last few days, he'd felt damn uncomfortable. Like something was tracking him, coming out of the dark after him. He kept tossing looks over his shoulder, waiting…"in nomine Domini…" he muttered, feeling part silly and part comforted. Shit. Ever since he'd seen Green Eyes, he'd felt it. Something was bearing down on him and he wasn't ashamed to admit he was scared.
That guy he'd seen smoking on the barber shop porch…those eyes…they'd looked like the eyes he dreamt of, the eyes that made him wake up choking down a scream. Sam wrinkled his nose. No, that wasn't quite right…something, eyes, yeah but…shit. Sam shrugged. Whatever it was kept slipping away like a tadpole on a slick rock. Damn, that boy was awful fine to look at, though. Damn pretty them eyes, and Jesus, that mouth. Sam swallowed and dropped his head. Just the sorta guy who wouldn’t give him the time of day. He'd gotten just the sort of look off of him Sam expected from fellas like that--disgust. Knowing it was so still made his blood boil. Sam wasn't a fool, knew damn well what he looked like and what he attracted…bastards who didn't look at him that way because they didn’t bother looking at all. Ugly piece of shit Just wanted a body that didn’t mind a few bruises and little blood....
"Well, shit, makin' my own self sick—cryin' over spilt milk like a damn calf." What he needed was a good hard tumble. Being around John twenty-four hours a day kind of put the brakes to that—hell, jerking off wasn't in the cards either. Sam huffed. Oh well, he thought, there was no sense in whining about it. John had to be feeling somewhat the same. Can't wait to be shed of me, I'll bet….
He finished gathering up the stones, got back to the fire and found John had a good pile of firewood, and had started a fire already. Sam finished the pit and set a couple of flat rocks to warm the coffee pot on. John had the frying pan already hot and cooking bacon. "Corn cakes too, if you add some water to the mix."
Sam nodded, and set to work. It wasn't too long before they had coffee and bacon, and corncakes frying in the grease. Sam kicked back and watched John work. "Coffee smells awful good."
"Yeah. That old rancher, the one gave us the coats, gave up some nice coffee too. Split it with Caleb before he headed back home. Good stuff, pure beans, ready ground."
"Yeah? Must be why it smells so good." Sam couldn’t help grinning. He'd had his fill of "coffee", stuff made out of roasted peas or some such. Real, fresh coffee…that was a luxury. He flipped up the collar of his coat and sighed, content for a moment. The coats the rancher had given them were well worn, but powerful warm and that's what counted. Well worth staking out the herd for a night or two, more'n worth what he'd had to trade to get the poison needed to kill the paisa.
He waited while John fixed cups for them; he tipped some of their precious sugar in Sam's-- black for him. John only took it black unless they were holed up for longer than a few days. Sam had no idea why, but—more sugar to use meant he had his coffee nice and sweet. The coffee and the coats were more than they usually got for 'helping'. They were a nice exchange for killing the paisa that wanted to work through the rancher's herd. The damn thing had breathed fire, and shook scales at them like a pint-sized dragon but if they hadn't scotched it, it would have gone on to the rancher and his family. That was just evil's way…it wasn't content to just be. It had to grow and grow, until it destroyed everything that was good….
Sam leaned back and gazed at the snow capped peaks in the distance. Winter was coming up on them pretty quickly, and Sam was looking forward to spending it at Robert Singer's place. John had plenty to keep him busy, cross checking what he'd written in his journal during the last half year with Robert's books, and Sam looked forward to the books, period.
"So, Samuel." John hunched over his plate, eating like he always did—fast and single-minded. A lot like the dog. "What'ya say—sure it's ghosts causing the ruckus out there in Clearwater?"
Sam set his plate aside and nodded, watched the ugly dog slurp the plate clean before it flopped down next to him with a growl. "Yep. Restless or baleful, that's the only question." Sam hoped liked hell it was just an unrested spirit. Usually they just didn't understand that they were dead and so most times it just took a little talking and a little prayer to get them to move along. Baleful…that was something different. They'd come to a violent end in some way—sometimes innocent, sometimes not--and wreaked havoc around them. That being the case, him and John would have to dig it up, cleanse it with salt, and burn it.
'Course, that was if they could get past it without having it rip their guts out or pop out their eyes like shelling peas, he thought….He rolled a cigarette and passed one to John, lit one for himself.
They smoked quietly for a bit, the only sound the crackling of the fire, the huff and snort of the horses breathing, settling for the night. The dog lay on its side, legs kicking in some kind of doggy dream. Be right nice, Sam thought, if it wasn't colder than a well digger's ass….he threw another few sticks of wood onto the fire. They'd get the ghost and head up to Robert's and hunker down until spring and he could fucking barely well wait. Plus, there was a camp between Clearwater and the mountains, and there was always someone there not too picky about who they'd fuck, maybe he'd be lucky enough to give John the slip….
After the spirit manifested as a sharp toothed, long clawed monster and tried to rip John's head off, they were pretty darn certain it was baleful. Hence the two of them, standing the thing down, all alone in a little shack in Clearwater, the residents of which seemed to have taken themselves off for parts unknown the minute Sam and John had ridden into town.
Sam was in the back room of the shack, holding the spirit off, jacking salt-filled shell after shell into the shot gun and blowing it to shattery bits. It wasn't a foolproof exercise—Sam had been raked plenty by its claws, but the cuts were shallow, and stung more than hurt, though blood flowed pretty generously and made his hands a little slippery. He shouted out of the blown out window--"Come on John, gotta find them bones!"
"Boy, I'm doing my level best. Whyn't you—shit!" There was a loud thump, and John's steady cursing told him that the spirit had sussed out that Sam was not the one to charge.
Sam pushed out of the window, just in time to see John being tumbled across the back yard like dandelion fluff. The spirit swept its arms wide and John howled, slammed up against the house wall so hard that Sam was terrified he'd broken something. Sam dashed towards him, pushing a shell into the shot gun….
Flying across the yard, he saw how close John had been to unearthing the spirit's remains. The dog was still in the hole, digging like its life depended on it, which was pretty much true. Sam figured they'd be better served if he finished digging it up while John provided a distraction…kind of.
"Dad! Exorcism!" An exorcism should make an unclean thing hesitate, and there was no doubt that this spirit was unclean. It had lost all semblance of humanity, had no remembrance of what it meant to be human—it was all monster now. John flipped across the yard until he fetched up against a small shed. Sam had to admit John Winchester was the most stubborn sonofa bitch that ever walked the earth—beat up and bloody, Sam could still hear the man shouting out the words to Michael's prayer.
"Sancte Michael Archangele,
defende nos in proelio—"
The thing screeched, it wavered and thinned and Sam dug dirt like he was a fucking gopher, flinging it wildly until the shovel hit something with a clang. He threw the dog out of the hole, jagged cold spikes ramming through his chest non-stop. John was screaming out the words now, and the thing was crouching on his chest, scratching through his shirt, not yet sinking its claws in…it popped in and out of existence, but John's voice was getting thin. Time was running out, and Sam wasn't going to lose John like that.
A prayer of thanks blurted out of him as he hacked at the lid with the shovel's edge—thanks that the fucking bastard had been buried on his own land, and in a proper casket, or they'd be sifting the fucking yard for the bits and pieces that tended to migrate when tissue rotted away in dirt. He drew in a deep breath when the salt hit the body and the thing's shrieks drowned out John's voice. When Sam sprayed the remains with the blessed oil and dropped a match into the box, it lit so damn fast he almost lost eyebrows, and the baleful spirit exploded….
"Shit. You—you okay, Da--John?"
"Bloody but still in possession of m'guts." His eyes fixed on Sam out of a blood streaked mask. "If you'd moved a little faster, we woulda been out of this a little more whole. But timely digging--and we cleared it out."
Sam clenched his jaws together tight to keep from saying anything. He didn’t respond to John's barbs often, but it still gave him a headache--*ass ache*--clenching it in. He huffed out a noise meant to be a laugh. He expected nothing but what he got, and arguing didn’t change much, so why bother? "Yup. You had it halfway there—I just had to clean it up."
"That's true." John levered himself off the ground with a bitten back groan, tossed Sam a nod and a wave, and headed towards the horses.
John decided they should camp overnight in the shack before heading out in the morning, and that was something an exhausted Sam heartily bid an amen to. They basked a bit in the uncommon feeling of being in agreement before bedding down. Sam had just started to drift down into sleep when the dog jumped up, bristled as a porcupine and growling like it had hydrophobia—foam collected in the corners of its snarl and for all it was a bad tempered mutt, Sam had never seen it look quite like this. It's big head swung back and forth, searching, and its eyes rolled, white surrounding the black. It looked fit to kill, and scared to death. Sam and John scrambled out of their bedrolls, reaching for their weapons only to have them fly out of range. The dog dropped to the floor with a strangled squeak, motionless and moaning.
The sound of slow clapping broke the sudden silence.
"Oh nice work, taking out the cranky ghost there. You can thank me for that; a little fuel to the fire was all it needed to overcome its shyness. So, hey, long time no see, hunh? Look at you boys…you look good. Samuel, little older since the last time I saw you. Studly, though…wait…is it too early for that word? Oh well. It's time, Sammy. Time for you to step up to the plate. It's shoo-oow time…."
The man coming out of the shadow was middle height, middle weight, brown hair and brown eyes…not ugly, not handsome, just…middling. Sam and John tried to rip themselves free of the hold he'd somehow put on them. The man laughed, a nice laugh, full of Sunday school and spring picnics. His smile was sweet enough to make Sam want to smile back at him, so as not to disappoint—until the man's eyes rolled black as oil….
John groaned, "Sam, Sam, it's the Demon. It's him!" John was caught up, skewered with his own memories, the demon he feared (and wished for) was not the demon his son feared….
HIM HIM HIM Sam's heart raced with fear--no, no—it was coming back for him. "Dia Gratia," he gasped, "Dia Gratia, oh God, help me—"
"Sorry, Sammy. It itches, but it doesn't make me feel unwelcome. Well—I am a little hurt," he smiled. "And no, Sammy, I'm not going to rape you. *That* idiot jumped the gun. Payback kid—he's been screaming your name in hell ever since then. Azazel sure wasn’t pleased. But it's not my job to protect the kids if they won't listen. Now this is what's going to happen—the Boss wants me to give you a little something that's going to come in handy a few generations down the line…and I promise you, you'll hardly notice it. It won’t change a damn thing about you—you'll be no worse than you are now. All you gotta do is open wide and say ahh." It chuckled at the horror in Sam's face. "Now, now; you get your mind out of the gutter. That's not what I meant, l told you rape wasn't in the cards…though the way you fear it is enough to make me reconsider. Let me tell you, sport, these suits are all kinds of fun…" His eyes flashed black again and he grinned. "Lots of fun. Now, your old man here, we don't need him much for anything anymore. Soooo, say good bye to Sammy, old man."
It turned its attention to John, he gestured and John started sliding up the wall, gasping in pain. He jammed against the corner of ceiling and wall, and then with a wet crack, started moving across the ceiling, leaving streaks of blood.
"Stop it! Let him go, let him go!"
"I'll stop," he said and pinned Sam against the wall. He bracketed Sam with his arms, leaned into him and smiled, that friendly, soft kind of smile.
"This is it. Big things going to happen." He pressed his lips against Sam's unresisting mouth. Forced Sam's lips apart with his tongue. "You do taste sweet," he said. "Now…" He slipped a fingertip into his mouth and bit down. Sam heard the pop of the pierced skin, smelt the blood welling up in the cut, and then he was pushing the bloody finger into Sam's mouth. Sam pushed against it with his tongue, tried to gag the blood back up, but the demon just shoved the finger so deep into Sam's mouth, almost into his throat, that Sam had no choice but to swallow.
"Don’t freak Sammy baby. You won’t, I promise you, you won't feel a thing. You'll never know, never feel the difference…" He grinned into Sam's eyes and Sam thought, liar, liar, he *could* feel it, filling him with sickness, turning everything good in him to ashes, filling him with darkness, ruining every part of him left that loved….
He pressed his mouth to Sam's cheek and whispered, "Or maybe, yeah, maybe I lied. Maybe you will feel something. But here's the thing, you're not the Sam who can do anything with it…funny, hunh? Well. Maybe you'll have to be there." He looked upward, where John screamed silently. Sam looked up too, eye wide over the demon's hand, throat working frantically but there was nothing he could do—to stop swallowing, to save his dad. The demon looked thoughtful and moved it's free hand, drew a line in the air.
John's belly opened, but slowly, blood fell like rain and Sam screamed and screamed—there came a sound like wet silk ripping and his dad's eyes opened wider—so much pain reflected in them and all Sam could do was watch.
Dad, Dad, Dad, no, no, no, not you Dad
His dad's guts fell, looped over him, slithered down his body to pool around his feet on the floor…..
"Whoa, that was kind of neat…I bet the Boss would love that." He licked Sam's tears, whipped his hand away and slathered his tongue over his palm. "See ya in a few, sport."
There was no one across from him, nothing but blank wall. Sam blinked and blinked. He couldn't understand the demon—its words made no sense. It was like trying to prise the meaning out of some foreign language…He lifted his eyes. He was still there, his dad, still plastered against the ceiling like a pinned butterfly, his gut a gaping hole but his eyes were empty. He was gone. Sam was grateful for that. Dad was free of pain, forever free of it, Sam prayed, forever free.
Sam blinked, and just that suddenly, his dad's body, and the rafters it was pinned to, burst into flames.
The flames spread out like ink in water, flowing over the ceiling, licking up paint and wood and the old pine boards snapped and exploded. Sam dropped to his face on the floor and was thankful to go, he hadn't been happy to be alive for a long, long time and he was so tired of being tired. He closed his eyes and sighed, waiting—and a sharp ripping pain tore through his shoulder.
The dog had its teeth latched into Sam's shoulder and pulled, Sam screamed with the pain of it but the dog locked its big, ugly jaws in him and pulled and pulled until they were in the yard, the night lit by the shack as it burned to the ground.
part 14
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/OMCs, Sam/OMCs, Dean/Sam
Rating: R for violence
Word Count: 3308
Spoilers: might be considered spoilery for All Hell Breaks Loose
Summary: Sam Winchester is looking for the ultimate weapon, one that will destroy the demon who destroyed his family. Dean Kane was raised to be a maker of weapons. He was just the man Sam needed.
Notes/Warnings: This is my AU version of the Colt's making. Increeeedibly AU. It's completely a child of my wild imaginings. Warnings for sex ( brief het and M/M, incest, rape.) Sections will have individual warnings. Character death in this section
At his soft snort, the drover turned in the saddle, caught Dean's eyes, and smirked before looking away again. They moved up the street, the trio, and as they moved past, the older rider's head snapped towards Dean. He looked at him the whole time they moved past, staring wide eyed at Dean for a long minute, before shaking his head ruefully and ignoring him after that one long stare. The boy looked at the man, back at Dean and openly stared now. Dean flushed, wanting to smile but fighting it and then…he saw the boy go pale and his horse slewed sideways. The fair-haired man said something to the boy--he nodded, and they rode off.
Sam followed John, leading the horses through the knee deep grass. The dog was running on their heels, keeping clear of the horses, but making play lunges at the back of Sam's boots. The dog was damn good at dodging a kick, Sam had to admire his skill at that. He was a lot less pleased that both pairs of his pants had little ragged holes in the legs…"Shit--cut it out, you little bastard."
John snorted, dropped the horse's reins. He stretched, looked around and said, "Fuck, Sam. Here's good as any," and Sam agreed. It was a pretty good spot, a large, shallow bowl sculpted out of the earth. The bowl provided a little shelter from the wind, so the fire would take good there. A lot of dead wood was scattered about, and looked to be dry. The horses stepped delicately over a narrow rivulet cutting the bowl in half--the dog dashed past them and threw itself face first into the water, making happy snuffling sounds, the horses nickered in pleasure. The stream was fresh and cold. Sam was pleased with that. Maybe he could talk John into making some stew.
They shook out their bedrolls, ground tied the horses and John started to clear a spot for the fire pit. Sam set off to find some stones to line the pit with. He walked out a ways from John and the animals, walked until it was just him and the quiet and the dark sky above. He pulled off his hat and worried it in his hands. His fingers swept over the brim…felt the ghost imprint of that one bright drop of blood….
He shuddered, and tried to put any thought out of his head but the fire, and coffee, and some stew…had to admit though, the last few days, he'd felt damn uncomfortable. Like something was tracking him, coming out of the dark after him. He kept tossing looks over his shoulder, waiting…"in nomine Domini…" he muttered, feeling part silly and part comforted. Shit. Ever since he'd seen Green Eyes, he'd felt it. Something was bearing down on him and he wasn't ashamed to admit he was scared.
That guy he'd seen smoking on the barber shop porch…those eyes…they'd looked like the eyes he dreamt of, the eyes that made him wake up choking down a scream. Sam wrinkled his nose. No, that wasn't quite right…something, eyes, yeah but…shit. Sam shrugged. Whatever it was kept slipping away like a tadpole on a slick rock. Damn, that boy was awful fine to look at, though. Damn pretty them eyes, and Jesus, that mouth. Sam swallowed and dropped his head. Just the sorta guy who wouldn’t give him the time of day. He'd gotten just the sort of look off of him Sam expected from fellas like that--disgust. Knowing it was so still made his blood boil. Sam wasn't a fool, knew damn well what he looked like and what he attracted…bastards who didn't look at him that way because they didn’t bother looking at all. Ugly piece of shit Just wanted a body that didn’t mind a few bruises and little blood....
"Well, shit, makin' my own self sick—cryin' over spilt milk like a damn calf." What he needed was a good hard tumble. Being around John twenty-four hours a day kind of put the brakes to that—hell, jerking off wasn't in the cards either. Sam huffed. Oh well, he thought, there was no sense in whining about it. John had to be feeling somewhat the same. Can't wait to be shed of me, I'll bet….
He finished gathering up the stones, got back to the fire and found John had a good pile of firewood, and had started a fire already. Sam finished the pit and set a couple of flat rocks to warm the coffee pot on. John had the frying pan already hot and cooking bacon. "Corn cakes too, if you add some water to the mix."
Sam nodded, and set to work. It wasn't too long before they had coffee and bacon, and corncakes frying in the grease. Sam kicked back and watched John work. "Coffee smells awful good."
"Yeah. That old rancher, the one gave us the coats, gave up some nice coffee too. Split it with Caleb before he headed back home. Good stuff, pure beans, ready ground."
"Yeah? Must be why it smells so good." Sam couldn’t help grinning. He'd had his fill of "coffee", stuff made out of roasted peas or some such. Real, fresh coffee…that was a luxury. He flipped up the collar of his coat and sighed, content for a moment. The coats the rancher had given them were well worn, but powerful warm and that's what counted. Well worth staking out the herd for a night or two, more'n worth what he'd had to trade to get the poison needed to kill the paisa.
He waited while John fixed cups for them; he tipped some of their precious sugar in Sam's-- black for him. John only took it black unless they were holed up for longer than a few days. Sam had no idea why, but—more sugar to use meant he had his coffee nice and sweet. The coffee and the coats were more than they usually got for 'helping'. They were a nice exchange for killing the paisa that wanted to work through the rancher's herd. The damn thing had breathed fire, and shook scales at them like a pint-sized dragon but if they hadn't scotched it, it would have gone on to the rancher and his family. That was just evil's way…it wasn't content to just be. It had to grow and grow, until it destroyed everything that was good….
Sam leaned back and gazed at the snow capped peaks in the distance. Winter was coming up on them pretty quickly, and Sam was looking forward to spending it at Robert Singer's place. John had plenty to keep him busy, cross checking what he'd written in his journal during the last half year with Robert's books, and Sam looked forward to the books, period.
"So, Samuel." John hunched over his plate, eating like he always did—fast and single-minded. A lot like the dog. "What'ya say—sure it's ghosts causing the ruckus out there in Clearwater?"
Sam set his plate aside and nodded, watched the ugly dog slurp the plate clean before it flopped down next to him with a growl. "Yep. Restless or baleful, that's the only question." Sam hoped liked hell it was just an unrested spirit. Usually they just didn't understand that they were dead and so most times it just took a little talking and a little prayer to get them to move along. Baleful…that was something different. They'd come to a violent end in some way—sometimes innocent, sometimes not--and wreaked havoc around them. That being the case, him and John would have to dig it up, cleanse it with salt, and burn it.
'Course, that was if they could get past it without having it rip their guts out or pop out their eyes like shelling peas, he thought….He rolled a cigarette and passed one to John, lit one for himself.
They smoked quietly for a bit, the only sound the crackling of the fire, the huff and snort of the horses breathing, settling for the night. The dog lay on its side, legs kicking in some kind of doggy dream. Be right nice, Sam thought, if it wasn't colder than a well digger's ass….he threw another few sticks of wood onto the fire. They'd get the ghost and head up to Robert's and hunker down until spring and he could fucking barely well wait. Plus, there was a camp between Clearwater and the mountains, and there was always someone there not too picky about who they'd fuck, maybe he'd be lucky enough to give John the slip….
After the spirit manifested as a sharp toothed, long clawed monster and tried to rip John's head off, they were pretty darn certain it was baleful. Hence the two of them, standing the thing down, all alone in a little shack in Clearwater, the residents of which seemed to have taken themselves off for parts unknown the minute Sam and John had ridden into town.
Sam was in the back room of the shack, holding the spirit off, jacking salt-filled shell after shell into the shot gun and blowing it to shattery bits. It wasn't a foolproof exercise—Sam had been raked plenty by its claws, but the cuts were shallow, and stung more than hurt, though blood flowed pretty generously and made his hands a little slippery. He shouted out of the blown out window--"Come on John, gotta find them bones!"
"Boy, I'm doing my level best. Whyn't you—shit!" There was a loud thump, and John's steady cursing told him that the spirit had sussed out that Sam was not the one to charge.
Sam pushed out of the window, just in time to see John being tumbled across the back yard like dandelion fluff. The spirit swept its arms wide and John howled, slammed up against the house wall so hard that Sam was terrified he'd broken something. Sam dashed towards him, pushing a shell into the shot gun….
Flying across the yard, he saw how close John had been to unearthing the spirit's remains. The dog was still in the hole, digging like its life depended on it, which was pretty much true. Sam figured they'd be better served if he finished digging it up while John provided a distraction…kind of.
"Dad! Exorcism!" An exorcism should make an unclean thing hesitate, and there was no doubt that this spirit was unclean. It had lost all semblance of humanity, had no remembrance of what it meant to be human—it was all monster now. John flipped across the yard until he fetched up against a small shed. Sam had to admit John Winchester was the most stubborn sonofa bitch that ever walked the earth—beat up and bloody, Sam could still hear the man shouting out the words to Michael's prayer.
"Sancte Michael Archangele,
defende nos in proelio—"
The thing screeched, it wavered and thinned and Sam dug dirt like he was a fucking gopher, flinging it wildly until the shovel hit something with a clang. He threw the dog out of the hole, jagged cold spikes ramming through his chest non-stop. John was screaming out the words now, and the thing was crouching on his chest, scratching through his shirt, not yet sinking its claws in…it popped in and out of existence, but John's voice was getting thin. Time was running out, and Sam wasn't going to lose John like that.
A prayer of thanks blurted out of him as he hacked at the lid with the shovel's edge—thanks that the fucking bastard had been buried on his own land, and in a proper casket, or they'd be sifting the fucking yard for the bits and pieces that tended to migrate when tissue rotted away in dirt. He drew in a deep breath when the salt hit the body and the thing's shrieks drowned out John's voice. When Sam sprayed the remains with the blessed oil and dropped a match into the box, it lit so damn fast he almost lost eyebrows, and the baleful spirit exploded….
"Shit. You—you okay, Da--John?"
"Bloody but still in possession of m'guts." His eyes fixed on Sam out of a blood streaked mask. "If you'd moved a little faster, we woulda been out of this a little more whole. But timely digging--and we cleared it out."
Sam clenched his jaws together tight to keep from saying anything. He didn’t respond to John's barbs often, but it still gave him a headache--*ass ache*--clenching it in. He huffed out a noise meant to be a laugh. He expected nothing but what he got, and arguing didn’t change much, so why bother? "Yup. You had it halfway there—I just had to clean it up."
"That's true." John levered himself off the ground with a bitten back groan, tossed Sam a nod and a wave, and headed towards the horses.
John decided they should camp overnight in the shack before heading out in the morning, and that was something an exhausted Sam heartily bid an amen to. They basked a bit in the uncommon feeling of being in agreement before bedding down. Sam had just started to drift down into sleep when the dog jumped up, bristled as a porcupine and growling like it had hydrophobia—foam collected in the corners of its snarl and for all it was a bad tempered mutt, Sam had never seen it look quite like this. It's big head swung back and forth, searching, and its eyes rolled, white surrounding the black. It looked fit to kill, and scared to death. Sam and John scrambled out of their bedrolls, reaching for their weapons only to have them fly out of range. The dog dropped to the floor with a strangled squeak, motionless and moaning.
The sound of slow clapping broke the sudden silence.
"Oh nice work, taking out the cranky ghost there. You can thank me for that; a little fuel to the fire was all it needed to overcome its shyness. So, hey, long time no see, hunh? Look at you boys…you look good. Samuel, little older since the last time I saw you. Studly, though…wait…is it too early for that word? Oh well. It's time, Sammy. Time for you to step up to the plate. It's shoo-oow time…."
The man coming out of the shadow was middle height, middle weight, brown hair and brown eyes…not ugly, not handsome, just…middling. Sam and John tried to rip themselves free of the hold he'd somehow put on them. The man laughed, a nice laugh, full of Sunday school and spring picnics. His smile was sweet enough to make Sam want to smile back at him, so as not to disappoint—until the man's eyes rolled black as oil….
John groaned, "Sam, Sam, it's the Demon. It's him!" John was caught up, skewered with his own memories, the demon he feared (and wished for) was not the demon his son feared….
HIM HIM HIM Sam's heart raced with fear--no, no—it was coming back for him. "Dia Gratia," he gasped, "Dia Gratia, oh God, help me—"
"Sorry, Sammy. It itches, but it doesn't make me feel unwelcome. Well—I am a little hurt," he smiled. "And no, Sammy, I'm not going to rape you. *That* idiot jumped the gun. Payback kid—he's been screaming your name in hell ever since then. Azazel sure wasn’t pleased. But it's not my job to protect the kids if they won't listen. Now this is what's going to happen—the Boss wants me to give you a little something that's going to come in handy a few generations down the line…and I promise you, you'll hardly notice it. It won’t change a damn thing about you—you'll be no worse than you are now. All you gotta do is open wide and say ahh." It chuckled at the horror in Sam's face. "Now, now; you get your mind out of the gutter. That's not what I meant, l told you rape wasn't in the cards…though the way you fear it is enough to make me reconsider. Let me tell you, sport, these suits are all kinds of fun…" His eyes flashed black again and he grinned. "Lots of fun. Now, your old man here, we don't need him much for anything anymore. Soooo, say good bye to Sammy, old man."
It turned its attention to John, he gestured and John started sliding up the wall, gasping in pain. He jammed against the corner of ceiling and wall, and then with a wet crack, started moving across the ceiling, leaving streaks of blood.
"Stop it! Let him go, let him go!"
"I'll stop," he said and pinned Sam against the wall. He bracketed Sam with his arms, leaned into him and smiled, that friendly, soft kind of smile.
"This is it. Big things going to happen." He pressed his lips against Sam's unresisting mouth. Forced Sam's lips apart with his tongue. "You do taste sweet," he said. "Now…" He slipped a fingertip into his mouth and bit down. Sam heard the pop of the pierced skin, smelt the blood welling up in the cut, and then he was pushing the bloody finger into Sam's mouth. Sam pushed against it with his tongue, tried to gag the blood back up, but the demon just shoved the finger so deep into Sam's mouth, almost into his throat, that Sam had no choice but to swallow.
"Don’t freak Sammy baby. You won’t, I promise you, you won't feel a thing. You'll never know, never feel the difference…" He grinned into Sam's eyes and Sam thought, liar, liar, he *could* feel it, filling him with sickness, turning everything good in him to ashes, filling him with darkness, ruining every part of him left that loved….
He pressed his mouth to Sam's cheek and whispered, "Or maybe, yeah, maybe I lied. Maybe you will feel something. But here's the thing, you're not the Sam who can do anything with it…funny, hunh? Well. Maybe you'll have to be there." He looked upward, where John screamed silently. Sam looked up too, eye wide over the demon's hand, throat working frantically but there was nothing he could do—to stop swallowing, to save his dad. The demon looked thoughtful and moved it's free hand, drew a line in the air.
John's belly opened, but slowly, blood fell like rain and Sam screamed and screamed—there came a sound like wet silk ripping and his dad's eyes opened wider—so much pain reflected in them and all Sam could do was watch.
Dad, Dad, Dad, no, no, no, not you Dad
His dad's guts fell, looped over him, slithered down his body to pool around his feet on the floor…..
"Whoa, that was kind of neat…I bet the Boss would love that." He licked Sam's tears, whipped his hand away and slathered his tongue over his palm. "See ya in a few, sport."
There was no one across from him, nothing but blank wall. Sam blinked and blinked. He couldn't understand the demon—its words made no sense. It was like trying to prise the meaning out of some foreign language…He lifted his eyes. He was still there, his dad, still plastered against the ceiling like a pinned butterfly, his gut a gaping hole but his eyes were empty. He was gone. Sam was grateful for that. Dad was free of pain, forever free of it, Sam prayed, forever free.
Sam blinked, and just that suddenly, his dad's body, and the rafters it was pinned to, burst into flames.
The flames spread out like ink in water, flowing over the ceiling, licking up paint and wood and the old pine boards snapped and exploded. Sam dropped to his face on the floor and was thankful to go, he hadn't been happy to be alive for a long, long time and he was so tired of being tired. He closed his eyes and sighed, waiting—and a sharp ripping pain tore through his shoulder.
The dog had its teeth latched into Sam's shoulder and pulled, Sam screamed with the pain of it but the dog locked its big, ugly jaws in him and pulled and pulled until they were in the yard, the night lit by the shack as it burned to the ground.
part 14
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(no subject)
12/11/09 06:11 am (UTC)Second, YAY story!!!!
*scampers off to devour*
(no subject)
12/11/09 06:37 am (UTC)Um, okay. *sniffle* That was not what I was expecting, so. . . you got me there. Totally didn't see that coming. Fuckin' A, man.
So some food for thought on this section:
Is Sam wearing that possessed!guy's hat?! Or is he just "remembering" the drop of blood on a different hat, not necessarily the one in his hands? Cos if he *is* hauling that same hat around. . . yikes. I mean, I knew Sam was messed up (and here I thought he was forever traumatized at the *beginning* of this chapter. . . ), but that's scary!Sam behavior there.
Scary!Sam is fucking terrifying. I'm serious. He's the stuff of nightmares.
Second, the slip-up where Sam almost calls John "Dad" is heartbreaking (I think I've written that word in every comment to this story *eyes you*). Followed by John's dismissal and scolding, and then. . . by his, you know, death. . . that's a moment right there.
The demon (still not sure "who" it is BTW, but I'm patient if I need to be. . . should I have figured it out by now, or is it coming later?) was just as a demon should be: skeazy and psycho. Using "studly" and all the hints about what's to come in this family's future waaaaaaaay down the line -- this is why I love you. Also, Michael's Prayer?
God, this is just such an awesome story. Really. Can you write more stories? I mean, can you just write all the time? Cos this stuff blows me away. I am in awe. I'm awefull right now. You impress and shame the hell out of me.
How do you come up with this stuff?! *goes back to kneeling*
(no subject)
12/11/09 04:22 pm (UTC)The demon is a just a lieutenant, so there won't be more action as far as he's concerned. I say that now, knowing how tricky my brain can be...*g* I *love* writing the demons, they're so much fun to play with!
I tell you, writing this thing is the most fun I've had with a fic since maybe A Young Kryptonian. They're poles apart in subject matter but the way it flows, the fun I have thinking about it, is the same. :)
You are like the wind beneath my wings--have I told you that? *huggles*
(no subject)
12/11/09 06:03 pm (UTC)Seriously, massive amounts of goodness. Red is right--those little things, "stud" and Michael's prayer are masterful. John's death was horrible, and I feel so awful for him. He didn't even get to say goodbye to Sam.
Oh. And Sammy? He is so fucked. Dean, when you see Sam coming? RUN. RUN FAR FUCKING AWAY.
(no subject)
12/12/09 12:28 pm (UTC)I couldn't love you more than if we were related--wait a min--YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!!! WE ARE!!!
(no subject)
12/11/09 08:08 pm (UTC)*cries*
Why, John, couldn't you have left your son with *one* word of praise or softness?
*sniffles*
*shudders*
Horrible stuff, bay-bee. In that really fucked up good way.
(no subject)
12/12/09 12:42 pm (UTC)oh gosh, I know! John just figured actions spoke louder than words. Which is so not true. You know what, I liked this John better than any other John I wrote, though. Weird, no?
Again --*HUGS*--and thank you so much! I *love* how no matter what the story, you hang in there with me!
(no subject)
12/11/09 09:16 pm (UTC)(no subject)
12/12/09 12:27 pm (UTC)(no subject)
12/12/09 05:38 am (UTC)(no subject)
12/12/09 12:25 pm (UTC)(no subject)
12/13/09 10:42 pm (UTC)(no subject)
12/14/09 08:30 pm (UTC)(no subject)
12/14/09 09:16 pm (UTC)Couldn't Dean just bake him cookies?
Let's think..his mother was killed by a demon when he was an infant, along with his older brother he has been told by his father who has been dragging him around on this very f'ed up vengeance quest. Oh oh yeah and he got raped by some demon-lite and sounds like his sex life hasn't improved much
he just got fed demon blood and witnessed his father being murdered via eviseration
Nope ManPain of this magnitude --> http://fanlore.org/wiki/Manpain
Needs something more than cookies. They need something superspecial. Like a nice big helping of magical heaping you know what! -->
http://winegourmet.wordpress.com/2009/05/13/12/
(no subject)
12/14/09 09:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
12/14/09 04:33 pm (UTC)wow, you get your hands on characters and this ends up being their theme song
:D
(no subject)
12/14/09 08:31 pm (UTC)(no subject)
12/14/09 08:57 pm (UTC)