SpN: Non Timebo Mala part 34
9/24/10 01:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Non Timebo Mala
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/Sam
Rating:NC-17
Word Count:6817
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; thus, expect anachronisms and flagrant display of personal fanon.
Dean
All the long winter, Dean watched Sam. The man had changed—more than Dean could have ever thought possible when that wolfling first showed up on his doorstep. Now there he sat, lamplight turning his hair a tarnished copper, cat's eyes catching the light…Sam was comfortable in a rocking chair Pa had made long, long winters ago, his long legs were stretched out across the floor, a book open in his hands and a small frown on his lips. Dean smiled to himself. There was something they shared--Sam in a book was Sam in another world. Dean was sure at this moment, he could run a herd of cattle through the place and Sam would never turn a hair.
Dean turned from his study of Sam, and went to the stove. He lifted the lid on a pot of stew, considered if it was done or needed a while longer. He caught Sam twitching in the corner of his eye—he wasn't quite in the real world yet, but the good smell of baking bread was beginning to call him back. Dean grinned. Man ate like he was a still a growing boy, and not eye to eye with Dean, a grown man. Dean poured water into the kettle that always sat at the edge of the fireplace. He spooned tea out into a couple of mugs and cocked his hip against the kitchen window ledge, settled in to wait for the water to boil. His eyes drifted to the sea of white outside the window. Snow filled the yard, the paddock, climbed the red barn walls and sat as high as the bottom ledge of the forge windows. The mountains were white, the sky was white…he imagined he could smell the cold water/tin scent of the snow. An errant wind blew through the yard and tossed flakes into the air, he shivered as he watched them swirl back to the ground. Warmth snuck up his back, wafted against his neck, and then a welcome weight settled around his waist. Sam splayed his hand over Dean's hip, with his nose, nudged at his temple.
"Hungry." And his belly loudly agreed.
Dean tried to keep from smiling, and huffed, "Than you best be feeding yourself."
"You got soup on the stove and bread—you plan not to share with me?" Sam's voice was a smile, and his lips were heat skating against the soft skin of Dean's neck. He couldn't help that his eyes slid shut—that damn Hunter had a spell on him something fierce. Sam chuckled against his throat, knowing full well what he was doing to Dean. Eyes still closed, Dean leaned harder into Sam's solid warmth and sighed.
These were the best days of his life.
Even when he'd wake up late at night alone and find Sam at the kitchen table, staring at Colt's gun, rubbing his hand across the leaves etched into the rear of the barrel, running his thumb over the legend carved along its length. Even when he saw the cold distance in Sam's eyes, the hard set of his mouth—he felt that these were his best days of his life. And when Sam would catch him watching, lift his eyes to Dean's and the distance receded and heat flooded back into them…well, there was no arguing. These were absolutely the best days of his life.
They ate the stew with enthusiasm—Dean liked food, liked making it, and feeding Sam was something he'd come to like a powerful lot. Sam moaned like he was in ecstasy, worked his way through a couple of bowls, ignored Dean tossing bits of sopping bread to the dog crouching hopefully under his chair. Dean laughed at him when he complained anyway, Sam said, so why bother trying to stop him? Dean agreed—it was stupid to try. Sam huffed and accused Dean of calling him an idiot and it went on from there—like it did most times.
This was the way their days went, what they did. They argued over who would get up on the roof when the weather cleared and knock the snow down, who was going to dig a path out to the barn. They argued over whether they'd have corncakes or hotcakes for breakfast, and if the apples in the cellar were worth going out in the snow for. They argued, a lot, and laughed, a lot. They read to each other in the long evenings or they played cards or sang together and Dean got past his shyness and plucked sometimes on an old guitar he'd found in a trunk that sat at the end of Pa's bed. Sam told him he had a talent but Dean just scoffed. He figured that boy would say just about anything to get in his pants—something Dean found no fault with.
And at night, most nights, they lay wrapped up in each other, closer than peas in a pod, cocooned in their own heat. Dean loved this, like he loved everything about Sam in his life. Loved taking Sam apart, showing him how it could be when both parties wanted it. In Dean's mind, he called what they were doing love, might be fool enough to feel it but he'd learned his lesson—was never fool enough to say it out loud and chase Sam off. Hell, maybe Sam knew about Dean's foolish heart, maybe he didn't. What Dean knew was Sam thought he was going to dead that boss demon and ride on out of Dean's life…yeah, that wasn't the way the trail ended. Dean Kane did not let go like that—least ways, he didn't anymore.
Sam spread out over his bed was a sight he wasn't giving up easy… all long, lean legs and arms and body, skin brown with years of sun. His history was drawn into his skin, silver tracing of scars, dimpled and pocked with what he'd gone through and still beautiful. There was something about laying side by side, comparing himself--white and brown where he wasn't red, and speckled like a trout--to Sam, long lean and golden and even scarred up just so beautiful, that made him feel safe. At home. Sometimes he wanted to be so close to Sam that he ached, wished he could crawl right inside him, under his skin, wrapped up in Sam forever, the heat and the smell of him. Wanted to dive right into the heart of him.
When he bent Sam over a pillow, spread him wide, greased fingers sliding into his tight heat, spreading him open, what shivered through him was more than he'd felt with anyone.
"Dean, Dean, Dean…." One word, all Sam would say, but his name coming from Sam's lips was enough to make him want to spend—the way Sam said it. Like he was calling out his love, his need....
Change, change in everything—in the way Sam arched to meet him, spread his legs wider for Dean, lifted his hips so his ass opened to him where before he'd lay stiff under him like a man expecting to die. The way he'd beg with his body for Dean to move when Dean was deep inside him and still, basking in the warm, tight press of Sam on every inch of him—he felt smug at that, that he could teach this wild thing how good it was to bend, to open—and hell yeah, he moved, reveled in the slick slid of his prick, in and out of Sam, the way Sam melted into it like butter in a hot pan. Dean needed it, the way he needed to reach under Sam and pull a release out of him that made the rafters quake—he came so loud, and so long and the way he shook, the way he yelled, always, always pulled Dean right after him.
This is the way it should always be, he'd mutter and Sam could only nod, no voice to answer Dean with.
And then, at last, there was a scent of green growing things and sun warmed earth on the air. Snow left the lower parts of the mountains; there was a steady drip-drip of water from the eaves. With the melting snow came lakes of mud that made moving around the yard an adventure. Every time Sam walked across the yard, cursing as the wet seeped into his boots and the mud tried to suck his footwear right off, Dean had to smile, thinking of Tobe standing on the porch, all thunder-faced, glaring at his young, mud-coated self. He used to get his hindparts warmed pretty regular until the lakes dried up…so here it was, spring come 'round again. Dean sighed. Couldn't say he was happy to see this particular spring, not at all.
* * * *
"See you're getting ready."
Sam had his bag open on the bed, his few clothes spread out, his extra pair of boots sitting on the rug. He nodded, not looking at Dean, so Dean sat at the end of the bed. "No need to fear you're hurting me, you know. I knew this day was coming, man. It's what we worked for."
The look Sam gave him was grateful. "I do appreciate everything you've done for me—you went farther than you ever needed to, and I'm…I'm grateful."
"Yeah, well, you needn't say it like this is good-bye. Dean stood, folded his arms over his chest and tilted a look at Sam. "I decided, I'm coming with you."
Sam started to argue, like Dean knew he would. "Look here--" he broke in on Sam's stuttered protests, "—I can come riding beside you, or come riding after you. I'm a dab hand at hiding behind various twigs and shrubs, so you'd never see me." Sam laughed a bit at that, and turned a rueful look on Dean.
"There's no way I can talk you out of it, is there?" Sam rubbed his face, and sighed. "You're not going to make it easy for me protect you, are you?"
Dean felt a sharp stab of angry hurt. "Protect me? Heck, who's the oldest here? S'my job to protect you!" It felt truer than most anything ever had. Dean knew he was in the right and he glowered at Sam, dared him to refuse that.
Sam naturally bristled up like a wildcat, growled, "I know more about this business than you do, been doing it my whole damn life—" and in the next instance he slumped, sighed,"--and if there's one thing I've learned, it's to recognize a stiff-necked ornery mule when I see one. But I'm gonna need to know you'll do as I say out there. It might mean your life."
"I'm not stupid—I know you know more," Dean said. "And I promise, I know who's callin' the shots with this. It…it just doesn't sit right with me. Feel like I should be the one out front, making sure you're okay."
Sam rolled up a pair of pants and stuffed them in his pack. "Mostly that's because along with bein' a stubborn SOB, you got the heart of a meddlin' old woman."
Dean smirked and leaned back on Sam's bed, "Now, now—don’t you go calling yourself an old woman," he said. He watched Sam blush—he'd got it plain, that Dean meant he owned his heart, and why not? Sam held his. They'd look out for each other. Watch each other's backs like brothers. Closer than that--like lovers ought to.
* * * *
That evening, Sam brought the gun into Dean's room and laid it on his night stand. He undressed, and knelt on the end of the bed. Dean watched him crawl up the bed, stopping when he was between Dean's knees. "I can't believe this is it. The end of all this…."
Dean grabbed Sam's arms, squeezed. He held Sam's gaze and said, "You're going to win out, Sam. You're going to put that animal down." Sam bit his lip, and dropped his head. Dean took him by the arms and shook him. "You'll win out, Sam. I know it right into my bones. I know it like I know myself."
"Then…then after…will you come with me—join me?"
"Doing what?" Dean was honestly puzzled. Why would Sam want him to give up the forge?
"Come Hunting, Dean. You'll never be able to help as many people here as you can with me. Please come with me, let's be together always. It was supposed to be like that. Didn't you dream about me, like I did about you? You know you did," he said forcefully.
Dean said, "Yes…it was you, I know it now. And I dreamt of it…a thing with yellow eyes. You always came together in my dreams…."
"Because I was supposed to kill it. That's what I was born for. I'm sure of it. And if that's the truth, than so's the fact of you and me together—for the rest of our lives, Dean. Together."
Dean nodded. He had no idea if Sam was right or not. It could be true, why not? Why shouldn't it be? They deserved it. And Sam wanted so much to believe it—and so did Dean.
Samuel
The shadows of the clouds high above them swept over waves of young grass dotted with the silver and purple of larkspur and sage. The swiftly moving shadows threw the land in and out of light. Sam took a moment to breathe in deep. The thick, calming scent of sage and warm grass filled his nose, tickled his throat…a quick slap of cool wind reminded them that spring was still working up to summer. They hadn't talked much since the morning coffee, but it was okay. It was a comfortable, contemplative silence, this lack of words. The earth around them made up for it, the low drone of bees, the call of grouse in the brush…there was a rhythm to it that Sam found himself unconsciously moving to, a hum deep in his chest leaking out and Dean nodded, picked up the song and hummed along with him….
"We're going to have success, Sam, don't you doubt it."
Sam swept his fingers over the brim of the bowler and eyed Dean with a small smile. "I know it," he said. "I got faith." in you he thought, but kept it to himself. Dean laughed and kicked Raphael into a trot, headed towards the head of the trail. When he got to the top of the rise, he called back to Sam, pointed downwards of the trail. "Looks like Sweetwater down below."
The town was quiet compared to Osage, or even Bristol. Here in the heart of it, seemed even the insects kept quiet--no buzz or click, no thrum of wings. No horse whickered; no nanny bleated…no dog barked. The dust of the streets did nothing to muffle their horse's footfall; the silence was thick enough to wade through. It seemed almost a living thing, dogging their heels. The clink of their tack, jingle of metal and glass on their horses—the breaths they took--echoed in the canyon of the buildings. Sam glanced at Dean and Dean shrugged but the care he took not to make a sound was evidence of how the silence rasped on his own nerves.
There were people on the streets, few but more than Sam expected from the oppressive silence. Those people cast them looks as they rode by, bleak, worn at the edges, dark as if they were afraid to look, but too afraid not to. Desperation was in the tight press of their lips, fear in the turn of their heads. The town was full to the brim with the air of…waiting. Sam muttered Dei Gratia under his breath every few feet but no one reacted. A very few looked relieved to see the sigils painted on the black horse's rump, but no eyes rolled liquid black, no one winced at the glitter of silver and iron, bits of sea glass and turquoise, braided into its mane. Dean had his medicine bag out of his shirt, stroking it as he looked uneasily about…ever since Sam had explained just how very much a valuable piece of protection it was, he took to touching it frequently. Sam was pleased with that, but more pleased with the solid, silver-plated knife Mr. Kane had once upon a time made for Dean, and that Dean had tucked into the top of his boot.
The Colt was a warm, heavy weight against Sam's belly, shifting and rubbing against his skin as the motion of the horse made him rock in the saddle. He knew that thing was here, knew all signs had pointed them in the right direction…Dean rode up close enough that their knees bumped. "You okay, Sam? It's really…awfully quiet here, don't you think?"
Sam nodded, looked Dean up and down, taking in the pallor of his skin, the way he worried his lip, and for once, it didn't make him want to take that over himself. "You scared?" he asked.
"Hell yes, I'm scared. Scared half to death. I know what these things can do…almost every night of my life, I dream of them…" Dean shuddered, and managed a small smile for Sam. "But I dreamed of you too, and I know, like an amen in a prayer, that you're going to win. I have no doubt of that, none whatsoever, Sam Winchester."
"If I do win, it's because I had you behind me Dean, I've come to count on you more than anyone I've ever known. Without you…" Sam shook his head.
Dean kicked Sam in the ankle. "I didn't do anything but what you laid out for me—" Whatever else Dean was about to say got cut off when the dog scrambled upright in the saddle and a growl rolled out of him, so loud it was like a shout in the unnatural quiet—deep so his whole body trembled with it. His eyes were locked on a hotel-slash-saloon at the top of the road, and Sam knew. In that place, his destiny waited on him.
A woman and her child hurrying across the street started at their presence, gazed wide eyed at Sam and Dean as they rode slowly past. Her eyes locked on Sam's face, her expression a careful blank but her eyes screaming help us, please….the closer they rode to the hotel, the more desperate the expressions, the paler the faces, the eyes…the eyes pleaded for help….
And then they were at the porch fronting the hotel's saloon, and there the air changed—figuratively, and literally. Sam picked up the dull coppery scent in the air, the thick, almost sweet stink of rotting meat under it. Dean let out a yell as the dog leaped from his saddle and scrambled towards the back of the hotel.
"Dog! Dog, where the hell are you—where's he going?"
Sam swore. "How the hell should I know? The little bastard--" Shit, Sam thought, the dog probably caught the stink of hell on the bodies lounging around the hotel's porch. No reason why he should ride this train off the cliff with Sam. How the fuck he wished he could get Dean not to ride that train with him. Shook his head. "Maybe the damn sonofa bitch is finally getting smart. Getting while the getting's good. Don't know, don't care—"
"God damn it Sam Winchester, you persist in being an ignoramus of the first water, don’t you?" He jumped off Raphael's back, ran over to Sam and grabbed a fistful of Sam's pant leg. "It's not lack of aim that'll kill you, it's lack of faith. You said you had it--you better be sure before you go in, 'cause sure as hell, that bastard camping up in there is ready for you, I'd bet."
Sam looked down into Dean's face, and was seized with an almost painful desire to kiss him, right there on the street in broad daylight, in front of god and everyone…he leaned forward, and said so low that Dean just barely heard him, "Fuck yes, I have faith. I believe in you with all my heart—you said I'm gonna win. So be it. And you better know, I love you."
Dean blushed a bright red, and the grip on Sam's pants turned into a stealthy, quick caress of his knee. "I know. Me too. Let's go kill us an evil sonofa bitch."
They dismounted, expecting a rush towards them, but the people on the porch melted away, leaving a clear path through the doors and into the saloon. Inside, the clink of glass and the slosh of liquor into those glasses were familiar enough sounds. Normal, Sam thought, but for the lingering smell…and then he heard it…crying, begging, pleading, shuddering cries for God, for mother, father, for help.
There was a man leaning against the piano that no doubt usually provided a background to the goings on of the saloon but this day… probably for many days, Sam thought, there was only the pain-filled sobbing drifting up from the floor. Under those floorboards, in the hotel's cellar, something horrible was happening.
The man lounging against the piano stood lazily upright and smiled, his teeth were glazed with red, and his eyes were black. "Hello boys, come to play a game with us?"
"I've come to kill you," Sam said.
The man laughed. "Oo-kay. But I didn't do anything to you—yet. Well, maybe I helped, but I was following orders." It laughed again. Pointed towards the ceiling. "Following orders that came from on high."
Sam's face twisted in horror. "You—you're mad—and a liar."
"Not that on high, idiot. Second floor, my lord and master resides there. He's been waiting for you."
Dean shouted suddenly and staggered, falling against Sam. A couple of men were dropped to the floor behind him, howling and curled over their smoking hands. Sam yanked Dean against him. "Shit--you okay? Dean?" He yanked Dean's hands away from his chest and ripped open his charred shirt. There was a burn mark in the center of his chest.
"Yeah…yeah. I'm fine. They—" He scrabbled at the blistered spot where the bag should be. "Where the hell—"
The piano player lunged towards Dean. "You! Hiding in plain sight, fucker! Motherfucking hex bags—"
Sam shoved Dean towards the door, shouting, "Get your knife, head back to the horses. You're safer on Pal right now than anywhere else!"
Dean ran, and Sam felt a quick clench in his heart before turning back to the man with the bloody teeth. The other demons didn’t seem inclined to chase after Dean; their black eyes were trained on Sam. He was glad Dean and that dog were headed towards safety—he prayed they were. Now, he had business to attend to. He reached towards the Colt, still tucked behind his shirt, when the demon player raised his arm. "Come with me," and before Sam could spit out a refusal, he was falling into blackness, falling into a darkness thicker than sleep.
His head thumped worse than anything he'd ever felt before, it was like an army of imps were hacking at his brains with a pickaxe while dynamiting their way through his skull. He couldn't hold back a moan, and when it broke free, he opened his eyes, and instead of feeling dirt under him, or the filth and dark of an alleyway as usual when he came to like this, he was flat on his back on a thick Persian carpet, smelled cigars and expensive liquor, sex and blood…he was looking at handmade wallpaper and gilt-framed landscapes….
"You're awake at last. I was beginning to think I'd have to wake you myself," a slightly high-pitched voice split the silence. "You've been a pain in my ass for a while now, you and your daddy. You were supposed to turn to my side, you know. That was the deal with the blood and all. Sorry about that first time experience, that was the…overzealous behavior of someone who's still on the rack right now, will be for a few hundred years. She'll never get out, not if I have anything to say about it. Faithless little back-stabbing—anyway, I'm not here to talk office politics—"
Sam's pounding head did nothing to help him understand just what the demon was talking about. It was speaking English but might as well have been speaking a foreign language for all Sam knew just what the hell it was getting at. He blinked, and watched the portly little man wander around the room, balancing glass and a cigar. It wore a tailored suit, and a white shirt with onyx studs. There were streaks of dried blood across the crisp white. It turned away from Sam, and Sam hitched himself upright, pulled the Colt from his belt. He held it chest height and figured how to take the shot. He wanted it quick now; he wanted this over and done with. He took a step forward and the little man who looked like a banker whirled to face him.
"Anh-anh-anh. Naughty." It sketched a wave with its chubby hand and Sam flew across the room, slammed into a wall hard enough to knock one of the gilt framed paintings to the floor. He felt something crunch inside and pain bloomed bright. "You sonofa bitch," he wheezed, "you scum sucking, filth eating, disease fucking bastard! Who—"
"Belial. Remember the name, because you'll be screaming it in a few minutes, and then I promise you, for eternities in hell." Belial laughed, and the sound that came out of that body's mouth was like the buzzing of a million flies, the hollow, little-bones-in-a-cup, shake of a rattler's tail, the risp-rasp of beetle wings sliding together….
Sam took a shallow breath in, all his compressed lungs would allow. "I'm going to kill you," he wheezed, "for my mother, for my brother, for my father…."
Belial's eyes flashed a mottled yellow, the laughter died away. "Oh sonny-boy, you can try to kill me for your mother, or your dear old dad, but turns out you're the one gonna kill your brother. Bringing him right here to me…now I found him in the waking world, I won't let him hide again. Imagine that--Dean Winchester, all grown up. Fit as a fiddle and as ready to be played. Been played. Given up by the man he trusted."
"You're lying. Dad told me, told me about finding mom's body, my brother's…."
It spoke to him in Dad's voice, thick with pain and sorrow, "Your brother's blood. It was awful Sammy, they'd torn at her, spread her out all over the porch, the wood soaked all red in her blood, and…and…" its voice hitched and Sam screamed breathless curses at it, tears washed over his face….
"And they took your brother, there was nothing left…" It spoke again in the slightly high-pitched voice of the body it'd stolen. "Remember when he told you that story, little Sammy, how you didn’t sleep for a month? Just waiting to be et up? Well, it's your lucky day," it smiled, and the portly banker's face split wide in a grin. "Guess what? You've got family! A brother to be precise, a beautiful brother, tall and strong and cock-sucking lips to die for—but you know all about that, don't you, boy? We're going to have so much fun. Hey, maybe I should give you one last shot at him, hunh? Give him one last time to fuck you, take you up in those big strong arms, smelling of sweat and iron …well, ain't that a kick in the pants. Little Sammy Winchester, Boy Pervert. Think we made you into that?"
Sam's chest squeezed tight, painful. His ears filled with the roaring sound of his own blood, with the tripping beat of his heart…"Dean. You're not—you're not talking about—"
"Dean Kane. Or Dean Winchester, actually. Your brother! Brothers in arms. In each other's arms. Awww. Don’t you love the big reveal? Kinda explains why you had that instant connection? I couldn't have made it funnier if I tried. Love this. But now, it's time to say goodnight Gracie. You won't get that for another hundred years or so, but when you do, you'll laugh so hard you'll cough a lung up—if you've got one when we're done. And now," it raised a pudgy hand and said, "It's time to clear Azazel's pieces off the board. No meat suits, no end game. No winner but me."
Sam worked hard not to scream but it felt like a burning claw was opening him from the inside, trying to unlatch his ribs like a gate. The hand holding the Colt was plastered tight to his chest…if he could move it just a bit, tilt the barrel just enough—another claw ripped him open, tore though his skin and out through his clothes and hot blood sprayed. Belial laughed that horrible laugh and then, a hollow boom and crack rang out in the room and it flailed wildly. Cursed, kicked out and Sam heard a high pitched series of yelps--
"No!" The dog went flying into Sam's legs, squeaked like a mouse when he slammed against Sam's knees and dropped, hitting the floor like a rag doll.
Sam cried from the pain of being set on fire inside, mixed in with his tears of pain were tears for his dog, his loyal soul, the only living thing that had ever loved him just for him—"No, nonono—"
Another splintering crack rang out. The door split down the middle with a shriek of rending wood, and chunks and slivers of door flew inward, into the room. Sam turned his head, fighting against the demon's momentarily weakened hold and saw an axe head splinter more wood, saw the door falling apart and then, Dean was charging into the room, somehow spraying water as he ran. Sam let his throbbing head drop back against the wall. If he hadn't felt like he was being burned alive, he would have laughed—the whole fucking thing was almost comical.
Dean didn't waste one second looking at Sam, he wasted not one word asking if he was okay. He just squeezed the water skin he'd filled with water from the forge, full of salt and iron and good as blessed, at the pudgy shape of the former banker. Belial howled, clawed at his face where the water lashed burning stripes into it, and threw one hand out with a shout. Caught Dean with his power and flung him into the wall were Sam was trapped like a fly in pine sap. Dean, Belial let drop to the floor for some reason, and Sam's heart raced ragged and wild seeing the wide smears of blood Dean drew down the wall with him. Sam could see he bled from a hundred small cuts …but still he managed to stagger to his feet, and let himself be pushed into the wall again. Belial was on him in a moment, his flesh red and black and blistered, screaming in rage.
"I'm going to rip your eyeballs out and fuck your brain," he screamed. "I'm going to shove your guts out through your ass and thread 'em right into your mouth—"
"So shove, you pile of horse shit," Dean hissed, and spit right in the demon's eye. It whipped its head back, and Sam could hear small bones cracking as its eye boiled and the socket burned. Dean croaked out a laugh and opened his mouth. Sam saw a piece of metal in Dean's mouth and managed a weak laugh himself—Dean had iron in his mouth. When Belial wrapped pudgy fingers around his throat, and moved to rip it out, Dean spit the metal into his face, ripped a handful of salt out of his pocket and shoved most of it into the demon's mouth, what was left of its eyes, his nose. Belial went berserk, its control slipping enough to so that Dean could reach into an inner pocket of his jacket and he pulled something out, screamed, "Now, Sam, now!" He threw a bomb at Belial--a fistful of goofer dust: pepper, ground wing bones of a raven, sulfur, sage, salt. And anvil dust. Poison for evil things.
It ripped its hands away and Dean dropped, still bleeding from those multiple slashes but--
Sam was moving, Belial was distracted—
He raised their gun, the Colt--
Belial reeled in shock, amazed that it was hurting, that the trash it'd been about to destroy had bit it back—"You *hurt* me!"
Sam was squeezing the trigger as it moved.
Belial caught the movement and coughed out a laugh. "A gun? A gun? That's not going to stop me, not for long--" it started to say, and the air cracked around a silly noise, a laughable sound, the sound of a cap gun. But Belial's head jerked back, mouth dropping open as it watched blood start to pulse out of a little hole in his chest— more and more blood dripped and spurted and poured down its chest, blackening its vest. "But…but you can’t, you can't—" fire bloomed inside its mouth, jumped and crackled and lit it up inside like a roman candle. It was alive, and then, and then it died.
Sam dropped flat to the hotel room floor, his head whirled, his heart was tripping wildly…"Dean!"
"I'm okay, I'm breathing, I swear, I'm…is it dead?"
Sam groaned. "It worked, Dean, the gun worked. One bullet and it's gone—forever." Sam crawled over to the huddled still shape of the dog, picked up him up and cradled him in his lap. Stroked the flat, blood-smeared head.
"Sam…" Dean crawled over and pushed himself behind Sam's back. Sam leaned gratefully back into his heat. He was freezing, shaking…Dean's fingers danced over Sam's hands, over the dog's head. "Sam…he's fine. He's okay, isn't he? Ran right past me, the stubborn little son-of-a-bitch…"
Sam's breath caught in his chest and his eyes burned. It was stupid and foolish to mourn a raggedy mutt, not after finally achieving his goal, after avenging his family. He should be happy, he should be…"Hey, don't die, please, don't die…I'm sorry. Don't leave me…"
There was blood all over the dog, blood all over Sam and the floor and—everywhere.
Dean wrapped his arms tight around Sam; Sam felt the warm press of lips at his temple. "Lay back, Sam. It's okay, he's okay, it's going to be all right—"
The dog lifted its head and licked Sam's fingers. Sam realized then that his fingers were covered in blood, his arm throbbed with pain…and that the blood all over everything was his. He blinked; fell back against the warm solid wall of Dean behind him. Blackness rushed in from the corners of everything and he was, but it was, it was good. It was over….
Dean
Sam was white and cold and Dean felt a rushing, screaming, thing beating black wings in the back of his skull and in the corners of his eyes. "Sam…Sam!" The abomination was dead, the fat little banker it wore lay on the floor, skin loose and runny on the bones, mottled green and purple--dead months, looked like. And Sam was white and cold and still on his lap. "Sam! Sam…."
The dog whined, it moaned and licked at Sam's face until Dean had to push him away. "No—sit, sit down, damn it." The dog threw himself under Sam's long legs and whined, softer but still…
Dean took Sam's hands in his, and wished his warmth into them, tried to rub warmth into Sam's white, cold, hands.
"SAMMY!"
Sam's eyelids jerked and shivered and Dean's chest gripped tight around a breath—released it in a sob. Sam groaned, and Dean's hold on Sam's hand was turned to Sam's grip on him, tight enough to grind the little bones together and the strength of that pain was like a gift from heaven.
"Sam, Sam, come on, we need to get out of here…."
There was a commotion on the bottom floor. The clatter of chairs, tables crashing to the ground, screaming and wet thuds, the kind of sound that Sam regretted he recognized came up the stairs.
"We need to get the hell out, Sammy, before we're trapped in--"
A head flew into the room, bits of flesh and broken bone trailing after it through what was left of the doorway. It listed as it rolled to a stop and Dean was looking into the flat dead eyes of the piano player. A cadaverously thin man followed the head through the door, stepping carefully over the gore. He took a deep sniff. Tilted his head at Sam and Dean and sneered, its eyes shifting to an oil-slick blackness. "Lucky. Fucking lucky Winchester anti-luck. Azazel will be pleased as shit you made it—he'd of been pissed off if he hadda scrap his plans at this stage of the game. Cleared out some competition, too. How'd you do it, hunh?"
Dean slid the Colt casually to Sam, who shoved it to his back, and sat up, pointed at the demon. "You. Get out. Now." He held his hands up, ignoring how they trembled and began speaking, quickly, clearly, and with force, "in nomine et virtute Domini Nostri Jesu Christi, eradicare et effugare a Dei Ecclesia—"
The skeletal face twisted, and for an awful second Dean could see its true face writhing under the false skin. "Fuck, leave off, I'm going. Suggest you do the same—the good townspeople are about to burn this joint to the ground and I doubt they'll be sprinkling holy water around to see who's who." It sneered again and leapt straight out the room's window. Dean heard it drop to the ground, heard it grunt as a wet crack came back to them….
He smelled smoke then, shoved his shoulder under Sam's arm and hiked him to his feet. With luck and the determination of the barely sane and completely terrified, Dean got them both out to the porch roof. Dean handed Sam down to the ground, wincing when the man dropped the last foot or two and hit the ground with a chewed off shout of pain. Didn't matter—he was up quickly, holding his hands out for the dog. Dean said a quick prayer that Sam's hands weren't shaking that badly, and tossed the dog to him.
"Sonofa bitch—I got him, come on quick, Dean, move!" Sam yelled back up to him and Dean cursed—more of a deeply felt and foul-mouthed prayer for their lives--and let himself dangle off the porch roof, dropped with a wince. Sam linked arms with him and they dashed away from the burning hotel. Wasn't long before they were both on horseback, the dog stretched over the saddle in front of Sam and them riding like devils were chasing them….
Behind them the hotel burned, the flames leaped high and lit up the late afternoon sky, the smoke rose like a thick black column into the sky. There was the final end of Belial, the monster that had destroyed all Sam held dear—but couldn't destroy Samuel Winchester.
It should have been better after that. It should have been everything he wanted, but that thing hung over him. That warning, that revelation. He wished the thing lied, they lied in their nature…but they were happy to tell the truth if the truth was more destructive. And in this Sam had no doubt…it told the truth.
But…Dean didn't feel like his brother. He felt closer to him than even John had been but not a thing like his brother. He just couldn't be…Sam laughed bitterly. If he told himself that often enough maybe he'd start to believe it. It was true, and giving proof of the taint that blood put in him, he didn't even really care. He wanted Dean; Dean was the thing most in this world that made him happy. Why should he give that up? Who said he had to?
No one need ever know. Shit, everyone who did know was dead. Dean was his in every way. Why should he give him up?
He deserved Dean for everything else that had been taken away.
And still, he couldn't bring himself to touch him. Dean would know eventually in the way he pulled away from him, the way he deflected his kisses, his hands….
What was he going to do?
tbc
part 35
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Dean/Sam
Rating:NC-17
Word Count:6817
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; thus, expect anachronisms and flagrant display of personal fanon.
All the long winter, Dean watched Sam. The man had changed—more than Dean could have ever thought possible when that wolfling first showed up on his doorstep. Now there he sat, lamplight turning his hair a tarnished copper, cat's eyes catching the light…Sam was comfortable in a rocking chair Pa had made long, long winters ago, his long legs were stretched out across the floor, a book open in his hands and a small frown on his lips. Dean smiled to himself. There was something they shared--Sam in a book was Sam in another world. Dean was sure at this moment, he could run a herd of cattle through the place and Sam would never turn a hair.
Dean turned from his study of Sam, and went to the stove. He lifted the lid on a pot of stew, considered if it was done or needed a while longer. He caught Sam twitching in the corner of his eye—he wasn't quite in the real world yet, but the good smell of baking bread was beginning to call him back. Dean grinned. Man ate like he was a still a growing boy, and not eye to eye with Dean, a grown man. Dean poured water into the kettle that always sat at the edge of the fireplace. He spooned tea out into a couple of mugs and cocked his hip against the kitchen window ledge, settled in to wait for the water to boil. His eyes drifted to the sea of white outside the window. Snow filled the yard, the paddock, climbed the red barn walls and sat as high as the bottom ledge of the forge windows. The mountains were white, the sky was white…he imagined he could smell the cold water/tin scent of the snow. An errant wind blew through the yard and tossed flakes into the air, he shivered as he watched them swirl back to the ground. Warmth snuck up his back, wafted against his neck, and then a welcome weight settled around his waist. Sam splayed his hand over Dean's hip, with his nose, nudged at his temple.
"Hungry." And his belly loudly agreed.
Dean tried to keep from smiling, and huffed, "Than you best be feeding yourself."
"You got soup on the stove and bread—you plan not to share with me?" Sam's voice was a smile, and his lips were heat skating against the soft skin of Dean's neck. He couldn't help that his eyes slid shut—that damn Hunter had a spell on him something fierce. Sam chuckled against his throat, knowing full well what he was doing to Dean. Eyes still closed, Dean leaned harder into Sam's solid warmth and sighed.
These were the best days of his life.
Even when he'd wake up late at night alone and find Sam at the kitchen table, staring at Colt's gun, rubbing his hand across the leaves etched into the rear of the barrel, running his thumb over the legend carved along its length. Even when he saw the cold distance in Sam's eyes, the hard set of his mouth—he felt that these were his best days of his life. And when Sam would catch him watching, lift his eyes to Dean's and the distance receded and heat flooded back into them…well, there was no arguing. These were absolutely the best days of his life.
They ate the stew with enthusiasm—Dean liked food, liked making it, and feeding Sam was something he'd come to like a powerful lot. Sam moaned like he was in ecstasy, worked his way through a couple of bowls, ignored Dean tossing bits of sopping bread to the dog crouching hopefully under his chair. Dean laughed at him when he complained anyway, Sam said, so why bother trying to stop him? Dean agreed—it was stupid to try. Sam huffed and accused Dean of calling him an idiot and it went on from there—like it did most times.
This was the way their days went, what they did. They argued over who would get up on the roof when the weather cleared and knock the snow down, who was going to dig a path out to the barn. They argued over whether they'd have corncakes or hotcakes for breakfast, and if the apples in the cellar were worth going out in the snow for. They argued, a lot, and laughed, a lot. They read to each other in the long evenings or they played cards or sang together and Dean got past his shyness and plucked sometimes on an old guitar he'd found in a trunk that sat at the end of Pa's bed. Sam told him he had a talent but Dean just scoffed. He figured that boy would say just about anything to get in his pants—something Dean found no fault with.
And at night, most nights, they lay wrapped up in each other, closer than peas in a pod, cocooned in their own heat. Dean loved this, like he loved everything about Sam in his life. Loved taking Sam apart, showing him how it could be when both parties wanted it. In Dean's mind, he called what they were doing love, might be fool enough to feel it but he'd learned his lesson—was never fool enough to say it out loud and chase Sam off. Hell, maybe Sam knew about Dean's foolish heart, maybe he didn't. What Dean knew was Sam thought he was going to dead that boss demon and ride on out of Dean's life…yeah, that wasn't the way the trail ended. Dean Kane did not let go like that—least ways, he didn't anymore.
Sam spread out over his bed was a sight he wasn't giving up easy… all long, lean legs and arms and body, skin brown with years of sun. His history was drawn into his skin, silver tracing of scars, dimpled and pocked with what he'd gone through and still beautiful. There was something about laying side by side, comparing himself--white and brown where he wasn't red, and speckled like a trout--to Sam, long lean and golden and even scarred up just so beautiful, that made him feel safe. At home. Sometimes he wanted to be so close to Sam that he ached, wished he could crawl right inside him, under his skin, wrapped up in Sam forever, the heat and the smell of him. Wanted to dive right into the heart of him.
When he bent Sam over a pillow, spread him wide, greased fingers sliding into his tight heat, spreading him open, what shivered through him was more than he'd felt with anyone.
"Dean, Dean, Dean…." One word, all Sam would say, but his name coming from Sam's lips was enough to make him want to spend—the way Sam said it. Like he was calling out his love, his need....
Change, change in everything—in the way Sam arched to meet him, spread his legs wider for Dean, lifted his hips so his ass opened to him where before he'd lay stiff under him like a man expecting to die. The way he'd beg with his body for Dean to move when Dean was deep inside him and still, basking in the warm, tight press of Sam on every inch of him—he felt smug at that, that he could teach this wild thing how good it was to bend, to open—and hell yeah, he moved, reveled in the slick slid of his prick, in and out of Sam, the way Sam melted into it like butter in a hot pan. Dean needed it, the way he needed to reach under Sam and pull a release out of him that made the rafters quake—he came so loud, and so long and the way he shook, the way he yelled, always, always pulled Dean right after him.
This is the way it should always be, he'd mutter and Sam could only nod, no voice to answer Dean with.
And then, at last, there was a scent of green growing things and sun warmed earth on the air. Snow left the lower parts of the mountains; there was a steady drip-drip of water from the eaves. With the melting snow came lakes of mud that made moving around the yard an adventure. Every time Sam walked across the yard, cursing as the wet seeped into his boots and the mud tried to suck his footwear right off, Dean had to smile, thinking of Tobe standing on the porch, all thunder-faced, glaring at his young, mud-coated self. He used to get his hindparts warmed pretty regular until the lakes dried up…so here it was, spring come 'round again. Dean sighed. Couldn't say he was happy to see this particular spring, not at all.
"See you're getting ready."
Sam had his bag open on the bed, his few clothes spread out, his extra pair of boots sitting on the rug. He nodded, not looking at Dean, so Dean sat at the end of the bed. "No need to fear you're hurting me, you know. I knew this day was coming, man. It's what we worked for."
The look Sam gave him was grateful. "I do appreciate everything you've done for me—you went farther than you ever needed to, and I'm…I'm grateful."
"Yeah, well, you needn't say it like this is good-bye. Dean stood, folded his arms over his chest and tilted a look at Sam. "I decided, I'm coming with you."
Sam started to argue, like Dean knew he would. "Look here--" he broke in on Sam's stuttered protests, "—I can come riding beside you, or come riding after you. I'm a dab hand at hiding behind various twigs and shrubs, so you'd never see me." Sam laughed a bit at that, and turned a rueful look on Dean.
"There's no way I can talk you out of it, is there?" Sam rubbed his face, and sighed. "You're not going to make it easy for me protect you, are you?"
Dean felt a sharp stab of angry hurt. "Protect me? Heck, who's the oldest here? S'my job to protect you!" It felt truer than most anything ever had. Dean knew he was in the right and he glowered at Sam, dared him to refuse that.
Sam naturally bristled up like a wildcat, growled, "I know more about this business than you do, been doing it my whole damn life—" and in the next instance he slumped, sighed,"--and if there's one thing I've learned, it's to recognize a stiff-necked ornery mule when I see one. But I'm gonna need to know you'll do as I say out there. It might mean your life."
"I'm not stupid—I know you know more," Dean said. "And I promise, I know who's callin' the shots with this. It…it just doesn't sit right with me. Feel like I should be the one out front, making sure you're okay."
Sam rolled up a pair of pants and stuffed them in his pack. "Mostly that's because along with bein' a stubborn SOB, you got the heart of a meddlin' old woman."
Dean smirked and leaned back on Sam's bed, "Now, now—don’t you go calling yourself an old woman," he said. He watched Sam blush—he'd got it plain, that Dean meant he owned his heart, and why not? Sam held his. They'd look out for each other. Watch each other's backs like brothers. Closer than that--like lovers ought to.
That evening, Sam brought the gun into Dean's room and laid it on his night stand. He undressed, and knelt on the end of the bed. Dean watched him crawl up the bed, stopping when he was between Dean's knees. "I can't believe this is it. The end of all this…."
Dean grabbed Sam's arms, squeezed. He held Sam's gaze and said, "You're going to win out, Sam. You're going to put that animal down." Sam bit his lip, and dropped his head. Dean took him by the arms and shook him. "You'll win out, Sam. I know it right into my bones. I know it like I know myself."
"Then…then after…will you come with me—join me?"
"Doing what?" Dean was honestly puzzled. Why would Sam want him to give up the forge?
"Come Hunting, Dean. You'll never be able to help as many people here as you can with me. Please come with me, let's be together always. It was supposed to be like that. Didn't you dream about me, like I did about you? You know you did," he said forcefully.
Dean said, "Yes…it was you, I know it now. And I dreamt of it…a thing with yellow eyes. You always came together in my dreams…."
"Because I was supposed to kill it. That's what I was born for. I'm sure of it. And if that's the truth, than so's the fact of you and me together—for the rest of our lives, Dean. Together."
Dean nodded. He had no idea if Sam was right or not. It could be true, why not? Why shouldn't it be? They deserved it. And Sam wanted so much to believe it—and so did Dean.
The shadows of the clouds high above them swept over waves of young grass dotted with the silver and purple of larkspur and sage. The swiftly moving shadows threw the land in and out of light. Sam took a moment to breathe in deep. The thick, calming scent of sage and warm grass filled his nose, tickled his throat…a quick slap of cool wind reminded them that spring was still working up to summer. They hadn't talked much since the morning coffee, but it was okay. It was a comfortable, contemplative silence, this lack of words. The earth around them made up for it, the low drone of bees, the call of grouse in the brush…there was a rhythm to it that Sam found himself unconsciously moving to, a hum deep in his chest leaking out and Dean nodded, picked up the song and hummed along with him….
"We're going to have success, Sam, don't you doubt it."
Sam swept his fingers over the brim of the bowler and eyed Dean with a small smile. "I know it," he said. "I got faith." in you he thought, but kept it to himself. Dean laughed and kicked Raphael into a trot, headed towards the head of the trail. When he got to the top of the rise, he called back to Sam, pointed downwards of the trail. "Looks like Sweetwater down below."
The town was quiet compared to Osage, or even Bristol. Here in the heart of it, seemed even the insects kept quiet--no buzz or click, no thrum of wings. No horse whickered; no nanny bleated…no dog barked. The dust of the streets did nothing to muffle their horse's footfall; the silence was thick enough to wade through. It seemed almost a living thing, dogging their heels. The clink of their tack, jingle of metal and glass on their horses—the breaths they took--echoed in the canyon of the buildings. Sam glanced at Dean and Dean shrugged but the care he took not to make a sound was evidence of how the silence rasped on his own nerves.
There were people on the streets, few but more than Sam expected from the oppressive silence. Those people cast them looks as they rode by, bleak, worn at the edges, dark as if they were afraid to look, but too afraid not to. Desperation was in the tight press of their lips, fear in the turn of their heads. The town was full to the brim with the air of…waiting. Sam muttered Dei Gratia under his breath every few feet but no one reacted. A very few looked relieved to see the sigils painted on the black horse's rump, but no eyes rolled liquid black, no one winced at the glitter of silver and iron, bits of sea glass and turquoise, braided into its mane. Dean had his medicine bag out of his shirt, stroking it as he looked uneasily about…ever since Sam had explained just how very much a valuable piece of protection it was, he took to touching it frequently. Sam was pleased with that, but more pleased with the solid, silver-plated knife Mr. Kane had once upon a time made for Dean, and that Dean had tucked into the top of his boot.
The Colt was a warm, heavy weight against Sam's belly, shifting and rubbing against his skin as the motion of the horse made him rock in the saddle. He knew that thing was here, knew all signs had pointed them in the right direction…Dean rode up close enough that their knees bumped. "You okay, Sam? It's really…awfully quiet here, don't you think?"
Sam nodded, looked Dean up and down, taking in the pallor of his skin, the way he worried his lip, and for once, it didn't make him want to take that over himself. "You scared?" he asked.
"Hell yes, I'm scared. Scared half to death. I know what these things can do…almost every night of my life, I dream of them…" Dean shuddered, and managed a small smile for Sam. "But I dreamed of you too, and I know, like an amen in a prayer, that you're going to win. I have no doubt of that, none whatsoever, Sam Winchester."
"If I do win, it's because I had you behind me Dean, I've come to count on you more than anyone I've ever known. Without you…" Sam shook his head.
Dean kicked Sam in the ankle. "I didn't do anything but what you laid out for me—" Whatever else Dean was about to say got cut off when the dog scrambled upright in the saddle and a growl rolled out of him, so loud it was like a shout in the unnatural quiet—deep so his whole body trembled with it. His eyes were locked on a hotel-slash-saloon at the top of the road, and Sam knew. In that place, his destiny waited on him.
A woman and her child hurrying across the street started at their presence, gazed wide eyed at Sam and Dean as they rode slowly past. Her eyes locked on Sam's face, her expression a careful blank but her eyes screaming help us, please….the closer they rode to the hotel, the more desperate the expressions, the paler the faces, the eyes…the eyes pleaded for help….
And then they were at the porch fronting the hotel's saloon, and there the air changed—figuratively, and literally. Sam picked up the dull coppery scent in the air, the thick, almost sweet stink of rotting meat under it. Dean let out a yell as the dog leaped from his saddle and scrambled towards the back of the hotel.
"Dog! Dog, where the hell are you—where's he going?"
Sam swore. "How the hell should I know? The little bastard--" Shit, Sam thought, the dog probably caught the stink of hell on the bodies lounging around the hotel's porch. No reason why he should ride this train off the cliff with Sam. How the fuck he wished he could get Dean not to ride that train with him. Shook his head. "Maybe the damn sonofa bitch is finally getting smart. Getting while the getting's good. Don't know, don't care—"
"God damn it Sam Winchester, you persist in being an ignoramus of the first water, don’t you?" He jumped off Raphael's back, ran over to Sam and grabbed a fistful of Sam's pant leg. "It's not lack of aim that'll kill you, it's lack of faith. You said you had it--you better be sure before you go in, 'cause sure as hell, that bastard camping up in there is ready for you, I'd bet."
Sam looked down into Dean's face, and was seized with an almost painful desire to kiss him, right there on the street in broad daylight, in front of god and everyone…he leaned forward, and said so low that Dean just barely heard him, "Fuck yes, I have faith. I believe in you with all my heart—you said I'm gonna win. So be it. And you better know, I love you."
Dean blushed a bright red, and the grip on Sam's pants turned into a stealthy, quick caress of his knee. "I know. Me too. Let's go kill us an evil sonofa bitch."
They dismounted, expecting a rush towards them, but the people on the porch melted away, leaving a clear path through the doors and into the saloon. Inside, the clink of glass and the slosh of liquor into those glasses were familiar enough sounds. Normal, Sam thought, but for the lingering smell…and then he heard it…crying, begging, pleading, shuddering cries for God, for mother, father, for help.
There was a man leaning against the piano that no doubt usually provided a background to the goings on of the saloon but this day… probably for many days, Sam thought, there was only the pain-filled sobbing drifting up from the floor. Under those floorboards, in the hotel's cellar, something horrible was happening.
The man lounging against the piano stood lazily upright and smiled, his teeth were glazed with red, and his eyes were black. "Hello boys, come to play a game with us?"
"I've come to kill you," Sam said.
The man laughed. "Oo-kay. But I didn't do anything to you—yet. Well, maybe I helped, but I was following orders." It laughed again. Pointed towards the ceiling. "Following orders that came from on high."
Sam's face twisted in horror. "You—you're mad—and a liar."
"Not that on high, idiot. Second floor, my lord and master resides there. He's been waiting for you."
Dean shouted suddenly and staggered, falling against Sam. A couple of men were dropped to the floor behind him, howling and curled over their smoking hands. Sam yanked Dean against him. "Shit--you okay? Dean?" He yanked Dean's hands away from his chest and ripped open his charred shirt. There was a burn mark in the center of his chest.
"Yeah…yeah. I'm fine. They—" He scrabbled at the blistered spot where the bag should be. "Where the hell—"
The piano player lunged towards Dean. "You! Hiding in plain sight, fucker! Motherfucking hex bags—"
Sam shoved Dean towards the door, shouting, "Get your knife, head back to the horses. You're safer on Pal right now than anywhere else!"
Dean ran, and Sam felt a quick clench in his heart before turning back to the man with the bloody teeth. The other demons didn’t seem inclined to chase after Dean; their black eyes were trained on Sam. He was glad Dean and that dog were headed towards safety—he prayed they were. Now, he had business to attend to. He reached towards the Colt, still tucked behind his shirt, when the demon player raised his arm. "Come with me," and before Sam could spit out a refusal, he was falling into blackness, falling into a darkness thicker than sleep.
His head thumped worse than anything he'd ever felt before, it was like an army of imps were hacking at his brains with a pickaxe while dynamiting their way through his skull. He couldn't hold back a moan, and when it broke free, he opened his eyes, and instead of feeling dirt under him, or the filth and dark of an alleyway as usual when he came to like this, he was flat on his back on a thick Persian carpet, smelled cigars and expensive liquor, sex and blood…he was looking at handmade wallpaper and gilt-framed landscapes….
"You're awake at last. I was beginning to think I'd have to wake you myself," a slightly high-pitched voice split the silence. "You've been a pain in my ass for a while now, you and your daddy. You were supposed to turn to my side, you know. That was the deal with the blood and all. Sorry about that first time experience, that was the…overzealous behavior of someone who's still on the rack right now, will be for a few hundred years. She'll never get out, not if I have anything to say about it. Faithless little back-stabbing—anyway, I'm not here to talk office politics—"
Sam's pounding head did nothing to help him understand just what the demon was talking about. It was speaking English but might as well have been speaking a foreign language for all Sam knew just what the hell it was getting at. He blinked, and watched the portly little man wander around the room, balancing glass and a cigar. It wore a tailored suit, and a white shirt with onyx studs. There were streaks of dried blood across the crisp white. It turned away from Sam, and Sam hitched himself upright, pulled the Colt from his belt. He held it chest height and figured how to take the shot. He wanted it quick now; he wanted this over and done with. He took a step forward and the little man who looked like a banker whirled to face him.
"Anh-anh-anh. Naughty." It sketched a wave with its chubby hand and Sam flew across the room, slammed into a wall hard enough to knock one of the gilt framed paintings to the floor. He felt something crunch inside and pain bloomed bright. "You sonofa bitch," he wheezed, "you scum sucking, filth eating, disease fucking bastard! Who—"
"Belial. Remember the name, because you'll be screaming it in a few minutes, and then I promise you, for eternities in hell." Belial laughed, and the sound that came out of that body's mouth was like the buzzing of a million flies, the hollow, little-bones-in-a-cup, shake of a rattler's tail, the risp-rasp of beetle wings sliding together….
Sam took a shallow breath in, all his compressed lungs would allow. "I'm going to kill you," he wheezed, "for my mother, for my brother, for my father…."
Belial's eyes flashed a mottled yellow, the laughter died away. "Oh sonny-boy, you can try to kill me for your mother, or your dear old dad, but turns out you're the one gonna kill your brother. Bringing him right here to me…now I found him in the waking world, I won't let him hide again. Imagine that--Dean Winchester, all grown up. Fit as a fiddle and as ready to be played. Been played. Given up by the man he trusted."
"You're lying. Dad told me, told me about finding mom's body, my brother's…."
It spoke to him in Dad's voice, thick with pain and sorrow, "Your brother's blood. It was awful Sammy, they'd torn at her, spread her out all over the porch, the wood soaked all red in her blood, and…and…" its voice hitched and Sam screamed breathless curses at it, tears washed over his face….
"And they took your brother, there was nothing left…" It spoke again in the slightly high-pitched voice of the body it'd stolen. "Remember when he told you that story, little Sammy, how you didn’t sleep for a month? Just waiting to be et up? Well, it's your lucky day," it smiled, and the portly banker's face split wide in a grin. "Guess what? You've got family! A brother to be precise, a beautiful brother, tall and strong and cock-sucking lips to die for—but you know all about that, don't you, boy? We're going to have so much fun. Hey, maybe I should give you one last shot at him, hunh? Give him one last time to fuck you, take you up in those big strong arms, smelling of sweat and iron …well, ain't that a kick in the pants. Little Sammy Winchester, Boy Pervert. Think we made you into that?"
Sam's chest squeezed tight, painful. His ears filled with the roaring sound of his own blood, with the tripping beat of his heart…"Dean. You're not—you're not talking about—"
"Dean Kane. Or Dean Winchester, actually. Your brother! Brothers in arms. In each other's arms. Awww. Don’t you love the big reveal? Kinda explains why you had that instant connection? I couldn't have made it funnier if I tried. Love this. But now, it's time to say goodnight Gracie. You won't get that for another hundred years or so, but when you do, you'll laugh so hard you'll cough a lung up—if you've got one when we're done. And now," it raised a pudgy hand and said, "It's time to clear Azazel's pieces off the board. No meat suits, no end game. No winner but me."
Sam worked hard not to scream but it felt like a burning claw was opening him from the inside, trying to unlatch his ribs like a gate. The hand holding the Colt was plastered tight to his chest…if he could move it just a bit, tilt the barrel just enough—another claw ripped him open, tore though his skin and out through his clothes and hot blood sprayed. Belial laughed that horrible laugh and then, a hollow boom and crack rang out in the room and it flailed wildly. Cursed, kicked out and Sam heard a high pitched series of yelps--
"No!" The dog went flying into Sam's legs, squeaked like a mouse when he slammed against Sam's knees and dropped, hitting the floor like a rag doll.
Sam cried from the pain of being set on fire inside, mixed in with his tears of pain were tears for his dog, his loyal soul, the only living thing that had ever loved him just for him—"No, nonono—"
Another splintering crack rang out. The door split down the middle with a shriek of rending wood, and chunks and slivers of door flew inward, into the room. Sam turned his head, fighting against the demon's momentarily weakened hold and saw an axe head splinter more wood, saw the door falling apart and then, Dean was charging into the room, somehow spraying water as he ran. Sam let his throbbing head drop back against the wall. If he hadn't felt like he was being burned alive, he would have laughed—the whole fucking thing was almost comical.
Dean didn't waste one second looking at Sam, he wasted not one word asking if he was okay. He just squeezed the water skin he'd filled with water from the forge, full of salt and iron and good as blessed, at the pudgy shape of the former banker. Belial howled, clawed at his face where the water lashed burning stripes into it, and threw one hand out with a shout. Caught Dean with his power and flung him into the wall were Sam was trapped like a fly in pine sap. Dean, Belial let drop to the floor for some reason, and Sam's heart raced ragged and wild seeing the wide smears of blood Dean drew down the wall with him. Sam could see he bled from a hundred small cuts …but still he managed to stagger to his feet, and let himself be pushed into the wall again. Belial was on him in a moment, his flesh red and black and blistered, screaming in rage.
"I'm going to rip your eyeballs out and fuck your brain," he screamed. "I'm going to shove your guts out through your ass and thread 'em right into your mouth—"
"So shove, you pile of horse shit," Dean hissed, and spit right in the demon's eye. It whipped its head back, and Sam could hear small bones cracking as its eye boiled and the socket burned. Dean croaked out a laugh and opened his mouth. Sam saw a piece of metal in Dean's mouth and managed a weak laugh himself—Dean had iron in his mouth. When Belial wrapped pudgy fingers around his throat, and moved to rip it out, Dean spit the metal into his face, ripped a handful of salt out of his pocket and shoved most of it into the demon's mouth, what was left of its eyes, his nose. Belial went berserk, its control slipping enough to so that Dean could reach into an inner pocket of his jacket and he pulled something out, screamed, "Now, Sam, now!" He threw a bomb at Belial--a fistful of goofer dust: pepper, ground wing bones of a raven, sulfur, sage, salt. And anvil dust. Poison for evil things.
It ripped its hands away and Dean dropped, still bleeding from those multiple slashes but--
Sam was moving, Belial was distracted—
He raised their gun, the Colt--
Belial reeled in shock, amazed that it was hurting, that the trash it'd been about to destroy had bit it back—"You *hurt* me!"
Sam was squeezing the trigger as it moved.
Belial caught the movement and coughed out a laugh. "A gun? A gun? That's not going to stop me, not for long--" it started to say, and the air cracked around a silly noise, a laughable sound, the sound of a cap gun. But Belial's head jerked back, mouth dropping open as it watched blood start to pulse out of a little hole in his chest— more and more blood dripped and spurted and poured down its chest, blackening its vest. "But…but you can’t, you can't—" fire bloomed inside its mouth, jumped and crackled and lit it up inside like a roman candle. It was alive, and then, and then it died.
Sam dropped flat to the hotel room floor, his head whirled, his heart was tripping wildly…"Dean!"
"I'm okay, I'm breathing, I swear, I'm…is it dead?"
Sam groaned. "It worked, Dean, the gun worked. One bullet and it's gone—forever." Sam crawled over to the huddled still shape of the dog, picked up him up and cradled him in his lap. Stroked the flat, blood-smeared head.
"Sam…" Dean crawled over and pushed himself behind Sam's back. Sam leaned gratefully back into his heat. He was freezing, shaking…Dean's fingers danced over Sam's hands, over the dog's head. "Sam…he's fine. He's okay, isn't he? Ran right past me, the stubborn little son-of-a-bitch…"
Sam's breath caught in his chest and his eyes burned. It was stupid and foolish to mourn a raggedy mutt, not after finally achieving his goal, after avenging his family. He should be happy, he should be…"Hey, don't die, please, don't die…I'm sorry. Don't leave me…"
There was blood all over the dog, blood all over Sam and the floor and—everywhere.
Dean wrapped his arms tight around Sam; Sam felt the warm press of lips at his temple. "Lay back, Sam. It's okay, he's okay, it's going to be all right—"
The dog lifted its head and licked Sam's fingers. Sam realized then that his fingers were covered in blood, his arm throbbed with pain…and that the blood all over everything was his. He blinked; fell back against the warm solid wall of Dean behind him. Blackness rushed in from the corners of everything and he was, but it was, it was good. It was over….
Sam was white and cold and Dean felt a rushing, screaming, thing beating black wings in the back of his skull and in the corners of his eyes. "Sam…Sam!" The abomination was dead, the fat little banker it wore lay on the floor, skin loose and runny on the bones, mottled green and purple--dead months, looked like. And Sam was white and cold and still on his lap. "Sam! Sam…."
The dog whined, it moaned and licked at Sam's face until Dean had to push him away. "No—sit, sit down, damn it." The dog threw himself under Sam's long legs and whined, softer but still…
Dean took Sam's hands in his, and wished his warmth into them, tried to rub warmth into Sam's white, cold, hands.
"SAMMY!"
Sam's eyelids jerked and shivered and Dean's chest gripped tight around a breath—released it in a sob. Sam groaned, and Dean's hold on Sam's hand was turned to Sam's grip on him, tight enough to grind the little bones together and the strength of that pain was like a gift from heaven.
"Sam, Sam, come on, we need to get out of here…."
There was a commotion on the bottom floor. The clatter of chairs, tables crashing to the ground, screaming and wet thuds, the kind of sound that Sam regretted he recognized came up the stairs.
"We need to get the hell out, Sammy, before we're trapped in--"
A head flew into the room, bits of flesh and broken bone trailing after it through what was left of the doorway. It listed as it rolled to a stop and Dean was looking into the flat dead eyes of the piano player. A cadaverously thin man followed the head through the door, stepping carefully over the gore. He took a deep sniff. Tilted his head at Sam and Dean and sneered, its eyes shifting to an oil-slick blackness. "Lucky. Fucking lucky Winchester anti-luck. Azazel will be pleased as shit you made it—he'd of been pissed off if he hadda scrap his plans at this stage of the game. Cleared out some competition, too. How'd you do it, hunh?"
Dean slid the Colt casually to Sam, who shoved it to his back, and sat up, pointed at the demon. "You. Get out. Now." He held his hands up, ignoring how they trembled and began speaking, quickly, clearly, and with force, "in nomine et virtute Domini Nostri Jesu Christi, eradicare et effugare a Dei Ecclesia—"
The skeletal face twisted, and for an awful second Dean could see its true face writhing under the false skin. "Fuck, leave off, I'm going. Suggest you do the same—the good townspeople are about to burn this joint to the ground and I doubt they'll be sprinkling holy water around to see who's who." It sneered again and leapt straight out the room's window. Dean heard it drop to the ground, heard it grunt as a wet crack came back to them….
He smelled smoke then, shoved his shoulder under Sam's arm and hiked him to his feet. With luck and the determination of the barely sane and completely terrified, Dean got them both out to the porch roof. Dean handed Sam down to the ground, wincing when the man dropped the last foot or two and hit the ground with a chewed off shout of pain. Didn't matter—he was up quickly, holding his hands out for the dog. Dean said a quick prayer that Sam's hands weren't shaking that badly, and tossed the dog to him.
"Sonofa bitch—I got him, come on quick, Dean, move!" Sam yelled back up to him and Dean cursed—more of a deeply felt and foul-mouthed prayer for their lives--and let himself dangle off the porch roof, dropped with a wince. Sam linked arms with him and they dashed away from the burning hotel. Wasn't long before they were both on horseback, the dog stretched over the saddle in front of Sam and them riding like devils were chasing them….
Behind them the hotel burned, the flames leaped high and lit up the late afternoon sky, the smoke rose like a thick black column into the sky. There was the final end of Belial, the monster that had destroyed all Sam held dear—but couldn't destroy Samuel Winchester.
It should have been better after that. It should have been everything he wanted, but that thing hung over him. That warning, that revelation. He wished the thing lied, they lied in their nature…but they were happy to tell the truth if the truth was more destructive. And in this Sam had no doubt…it told the truth.
But…Dean didn't feel like his brother. He felt closer to him than even John had been but not a thing like his brother. He just couldn't be…Sam laughed bitterly. If he told himself that often enough maybe he'd start to believe it. It was true, and giving proof of the taint that blood put in him, he didn't even really care. He wanted Dean; Dean was the thing most in this world that made him happy. Why should he give that up? Who said he had to?
No one need ever know. Shit, everyone who did know was dead. Dean was his in every way. Why should he give him up?
He deserved Dean for everything else that had been taken away.
And still, he couldn't bring himself to touch him. Dean would know eventually in the way he pulled away from him, the way he deflected his kisses, his hands….
What was he going to do?
tbc
part 35
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