[Fic] The Most Cursed Name, pt 2

[agelade]

The Most Cursed Name
A Supernatural Story
Rating: R (Language, Violence), Gen
Betas: quakerhobbit, caladria
Warnings/Tags: Season 4, demon blood, discussions of hell, possession
Written for spnaufestival


Part Two

The next day, Sam wakes up to the door slamming. Dean's up and dressed before Sam, for once. He's gone out for breakfast already, maybe a peace offering for being a dick about Sam's ribs. Or maybe a thank you for killing the bad guy. Or maybe he was just hungry.
"He rises," Dean crows. "Up and at 'em, kiddo. We got Seals to protect and crap."

Sam rubs his eyes. He's slept in. A lot. The sun is out. Dean's sweating.

"Dude, you need a shower."

"This is the stink of the righteous, my brother. I return with fresh kills for the family unit." He tosses a wrapped breakfast sandwich of some sort onto the table.

"Seriously, you're gross."

"The car's an oven. Not my fault."

Sam raises a brow. "You're wearing like three layers and it's 80 degrees out there, idiot."

Dean's smile turns false. One hand goes to his forearm, tugs the long sleeve down to his wrist. "Yeah, well..."

Sam stares, expectant.

"I just uh. Don't want." Dean kinda gives up, looks pissed.

"Is this about Hell?" Sam asks, serious and quiet.

"Just shut the hell up about it, okay?"

"Okay." Whatever Dean needs. But Sam thinks he gets it. Dean needs to feel protected, feel ownership of himself. Sam gets it and feels like an asshole for not noticing before that Dean must have been wearing long sleeves since Hell. Feels like an asshole and makes sure to get up first the next morning to get breakfast.



It's two weeks later, it's just after nightfall, and they are pushing forward against strong winds toward the center of a storm.

Literally.

At the center is a symbol, long-buried under the oldest church in Applecreek, Michigan, exposed by the hard work of a construction company recently under new management. Castiel says it's the "Phoenician Crest," and it's a Seal.

Of course it is.

"We're not making headway!" he calls to Dean. They're barely able to keep on their feet against the wind. Making forward progress is way out of scope. "We gotta stop the storm!"

"And how do you propose we do that!" Dean calls.

Sam frowns, braces himself with a boot dug deep into the dirt; it collects behind the line of his sole as the wind batters him back and back, and he shields his face and looks around for inspiration.

In the near distance, he sees a vague green light coming from just behind the old parson's house. Some kind of spell work, the light of which was invisible in the orange sunset.

"There," he says, and starts toward it. "You keep trying." He gestures at the creatures - demons, probably - advancing from the other side of the storm. "You gotta get there first, Dean!"

Dean's face is unreadable for a moment - probably deciding whether to trust Sam to handle this on his own - but then he nods, and puts his back into fighting the wind.

Sam heads toward the parson's house, a small single-story house they briefly searched through but didn't search behind in their haste. The wind is at his back now, but it's almost more hazardous this way, threatening to push him forward faster than he can keep his feet under him, but he makes it finally, he bursts onto the scene just at the edge of the windstorms's radius to find three people standing around a bonfire of green light and static electricity. They stare at him, he stares at them, and then they come, all at once they come.

He fights them hand to hand, he fought more than this when Dean was in the Pit, fought them without Ruby's help, fought them while drunk, fought them fueled on pain alone, then pain and vengeance, then pain and vengeance and a desperate need to see Dean again no matter the circumstances. And then with blood.

That is all gone now. He has Dean, he will never have vengeance, he has learned to live with pain. None of it is fuel now. Now there is no blood.

Still, he can do it. In the place of pain and vengeance and Dean is something simpler, purer, something that feels like home: save the world.

He wishes he could do it without killing these three humans. His blade sinks into the chest of a girl in a torn pink blouse with sorority letters on it. The other two are on him then, and he hits the ground hard. The knife skitters from his hand across the stubbly grass, he's down to hand to hand in this fight against creatures stronger and older by far, with just that simpler, purer fuel, and he gets the mid-60's businessman in the face with his elbow and he throws his arm out to find the blade but he can't, it's too far, and the other woman is on him and she bites him, right in the neck and he grunts and he curses and then the exorcism pours out of his mouth.

If he can't kill them, and he can't fight them, he can talk. He can always talk.

When they're gone, he's bleeding from the neck, from a gash on his face, and there's a stabbing pain when he takes a breath, but he's alone with two unconscious people and one dead person and an altar it takes him about fifteen seconds to dismantle.

When he finds Dean - or rather when Dean finds him, passed out on the ground - he looks worried and pissed.

"What happened?" Sam says.

Dean pulls him up by the jacket front and he says, "You tell me."

Sam shakes his head to clear it, blinks a little, pain is everywhere. He puts a hand up to his neck and it comes away bloody. That explains the light-headedness, he looks up at Dean for a hand, for some assistance, it has to be obvious he's not quite up to standing at the moment, but Dean just glares.

Sam sighs, sits there leaning back on his arms while the world spins around him. "Three demons, some kind of altar. I think the wind storm was some kind of... anti-theft device. As soon as the demons triggered the alarm, the windstorm started to push everything away, keeping the Seal safe. The altar had some old Phoenician Egret runes carved into the burning wood - I think they were trying to weaken the windstorm so their friends could get in and destroy the Seal."

Dean watches him, finally nods but he doesn't look super happy about it. "The storm went into super sonic mode at some point, I guess when you destroyed the altar. The demons trying to get at it ran off, and as soon as they were gone, the storm vanished."

Sam nods. "I guess that's that then. One Seal saved."

Dean still hasn't helped him up. He's still watching Sam.

"What."

"You took on three demons?"

"Yeah?"

"Alone."

"Yeah."

Dean nods, his hands tighten into fists, he looks off like he's marshalling his composure. "I thought we talked about this, Sam-"

"Wait, no." Sam frowns. "I didn't -"

"Didn't what?" Dean gestures at the bodies lying on the ground around them. "I only see one stab wound here, Sammy. You wanna explain?"

"I exorcised them-"

"Yeah, I guessed that-"

"Dean, stop. I did it the old-fashioned way, okay?"

"While fighting them."

"Yeah. I dropped the knife, I couldn't reach it, it was all I could do, okay?" Sam watches Dean, his slow brain just now realizing Dean's been standing here for a while trying to convince himself of something. Long enough that he's checked over the bodies for causes of death before even attempting to rouse Sam or dress his neck wound. Sam slumps, shakes his head. "Nevermind, man. Whatever." He leans forward to try to get to his feet, and Dean's there, got his hand around Sam's upper arm and he pulls Sam up, faster than Sam can keep up with and Sam's falling into Dean, Dean's arms patting at his chest as he mutters, "Whoa, take it easy little brother," and detaches himself once he's sure Sam can stand on his own.

Dean doesn't look at him the whole way back to the motel. He's still pissed. Sam braces himself.

It takes an hour sitting in silence for it to bubble over. It's a spectacular mess, even by their standards.

"That you would just lie to my face-"

"Dean, I'm not lying-"

"I'm supposed to believe that? After the things I've seen you do? I mean what are you, Sam? What are you turning into?"

"You say that like you think I'm some sort of..." Sam looks away.

Dean advances, lets the silence drag, then. "Some sort of monster, Sammy?" he says quietly.

Sam doesn't meet his gaze.

"Why would you use that word, Sam?" he says, and it's quiet too. It's careful, measured, dangerous.

"I didn't."

"No. You didn't."

Sam risks a look. Dean's nodding, considering.

"You oughta just own it, Sammy," he says. "This whole monster thing. Lying to me - and the things Dad and I did just to protect you, when all along you were-"

"Don't you dare invoke Dad in this, don't you dare-"

"Why, because he'd be so proud of whatever you are?"

"I guess we'll never know-"

Dean's eyes go bright and Sam is staggering back before he realizes what's happened, he's staggering back and into the little motel table and he and it are going over. He's on his ass and his mouth is bleeding and Dean's shoulders are heaving.

"You don't know anything," Dean says, breathless, and Sam realizes his mistake.

"I wasn't blaming you, Dean," he says from the ground. He's wary, wary in a way he hasn't been around Dean before, something about that brightness in his eyes.

Dean blinks and a little of that shine vanishes. He doesn't move.

"Dean, I wasn't - I don't blame you for Dad dying. I don't. Dean."

Dean swallows, looks away, finally. "You know, this thing you're doin', Sam," he says. His voice is like a whisper. "This thing you've become? I didn't sell my soul for this, Sam."

Sam sags, falls fully against the wall behind him, stares into the middle distance. "I know." He rubs his nose. Takes a deep breath. "But I'm not doing anything, Dean. I'm not becoming anything."

Dean rolls his eyes, shuffles his shoulders like he's being put-upon, and offers Sam a hand up. "Whatever."

"I'm not."

"I believe you. I guess."

Sam takes his hand and again, Dean hauls him up like Sam weighs nothing. Dean steers him into the bathroom, sits him on the toilet seat and starts water running. "I do believe you, Sam," he says. His voice is quiet again, but it's different, there's a roughness to it. "I just-"

"I know," Sam says.

"No, you don't." Dean drops the cloth he's wetting into the sink and stands up, backs away a step, doesn't look up at Sam. "Sammy, I. You gotta understand, I just - I was on that path, you know? Down under. I was walking down that road and I - I've seen what... Sam I just can't watch you take that path, I just want to save you from what I watched happen-"

"Dean," Sam says. Dean's never spoken about Hell again, not since that first tearful admission, and even that wasn't this... thoughtful. "Dean, it's okay. I'm not doing anything. I'm not-"

Dean shakes himself together and comes at Sam's face with the wet towel. "Okay, calm down," he grumbles, almost enough like himself that Sam can laugh.

But he can't yet. "Dean. Thanks."

"Don't thank me until after I've stitched up this neck of yours." He flashes a grin at Sam with an eyebrow that promises miles of teasing.

Sam laughs.



"Hey," Dean calls from the driver's seat.

"I know, I know. Pie." Sam rolls his eyes, but they've been good. Better, anyway. Dean winks at him and drives off toward the bar. Sam heads toward the little convenience store for supplies.

The store's got instant coffee and road food, some wrapped sandwiches in the to-go case, and Sam picks up a little of everything. They've been good. Well, they've been better. Dean likes to eat. Dean wants this unhealthy crap to remember that he's topside, to remember that his body is his to trash if he wants to, and Sam gets it. So Sam gets trash for Dean and a couple of sandwiches, a sixer of the cheapest beer, and the cashier tells him where the nearest - only - motel is.

He walks.

The night is just coming on, stars starting to poke through the canopy. Dean's food weighs heavy in his hand, Dean is real and he's here and it's everything Sam wanted during those four desperate months, so he'll carry this weight - the crap food in the bag swinging into his leg over and over, the guilt of not being able to save Dean, the shame of what he'd done while Dean was gone - he'll carry this weight.

They're waiting for him - the only room left in the only motel in town, if he'd known they were being stalked, he'd have been more careful - but they are waiting for him when he opens the door.

He doesn't smell it at first. He crosses the motel room, drops Dean's food off on the table, heads to the bathroom to do the bare essentials of bedding down in a new place, and when he comes out to put some of the food into the mini fridge, there they are and the smell of sulfur hits him.

Dean's food crashes to the ground when one of the three demons full-body tackles him backward into the table. Sam's breath goes out of him and then he's in survival mode, knife out and across the room into the second demon before she can even wipe the sneer off her face. But now he's weaponless, and he mutters the beginning of the exorcism-

And the first demon's hands are around his neck, choking off his words. Sam's knee is in the guy's groin; as the demon doubles over briefly, Sam twists out of his grip and lunges for the knife stuck in the corpse, only to find himself flattened to the ground by the third demon - demons come in threes, is that a saying? - and feels something crack in his chest. He flails back behind him and his hand loops into the handle of the bag with the sixer in it. She's almost knocked out cold after he's swung it at her head, and if she hadn't been a demon, she'd have ended up with brain damage, probably.

But as it stands, it's still Sam against two uninjured, pissed off demons. He opens his mouth to try another exorcism, and the guy demon swings a hand; Sam flies into the wall, wind stolen.

"I heard you were tougher than this," the guy says. He pushes his hand forward and Sam feels the pressure on his chest burn as it strains the integrity of his ribcage. He can't breathe, but he glares, he glares.

The guy laughs. "Wow. This is what everyone's so afraid of?" He steps closer, step step and every step increases the pressure. Black spots crowd in from the periphery of Sam's vision. "I thought you were some kinda demon hunter kid."

The woman crosses her arms next to the guy. There's blood running down her face, but the demon doesn't care to heal it. Running blood probably means the demon's host is still alive. Probably means she could still-

Sam closes his eyes. He can't. Even if he wanted to, he hasn't seen Ruby in so long now, and he hasn't gotten good enough at it yet, and-

The pressure eases. He can breathe, barely, but it's something. He opens his eyes to see the two demons are turned away from him, conferencing. He can, if he can get it off fast enough, he can maybe save the hosts-

"Exorcizamus-"

"Oh no," the guy says, and the woman brings her fist up in front of her - Sam's front jerks forward, and then he's across the room collapsing against the wall. Fuck. But before he can get himself together, the guy is there, bashes him in the face a couple of times, blood bursts into his mouth, Sam is fighting to get himself upright and get control of this situation. He kicks up and out, catching the guy in the chin and sending him reeling back. They will not just sit quietly so Sam can exorcise them. But- he eyes them warily, they watch him, curious, and when he thinks he has enough air for it, he takes off for the bathroom.

They give chase, Sam heads for the window, throws it open like he might escape. The woman rushes in after him, drags him from the window with a gesture and flings him back into the main room. When she tries to come back after him, she freezes at the edge of the bathmat on the floor and shrieks in frustration.

Sam grins, bloody teeth, and turns to the other demon. "I couldn't even fit through that window," he says. "Come on now, this is what everyone's so afraid of?"

The guy demon has the presence of mind to look worried. Sam watches him eyeball every inch of space that is covered by a duffel bag or a ratty rug. He looks around him at the carpet that covers the whole room, probably wondering if he's been trapped this whole time, if all Sam needs to do is leave the room and this guy will be stuck. Sam grins, playing man with the upper hand, saunters around the room like he knows something this guy doesn't.

Problem is, he doesn't have any more tricks up his sleeve. Putting down the first of the devil's trapped items in the bathroom had been step one of a fifteen step plan he doesn't even think Dean knows the full extent of, something he's done for years but that still needs to be done.

Sam glances over at the rug between the two beds, hoping he looks like he's trying to be inconspicuous about it, just enough that the guy will suspect Sam has traps everywhere - and his eye happens to catch the handle of the knife sticking out of the chest of the demon he'd taken down first. He circles around the man still watching him warily, backs over that rug; the demon still in play won't come near him if he thinks he'll be trapped. And he grabs the hilt of the knife.

A moment later, he's leaping for the guy, feels the blade bite through flesh, but not on target. The demon roars in pain and brings his whole weight down on Sam, elbow in between the shoulderblades and Sam goes down on that already cracked rib, he can feel the blood choking upward, he can taste the metallic burn, he's not going to make it this time. The demon flips him and bangs his fist into Sam's face twice, and things go dark.

He's only out a few seconds, he figures, because he's blinking into the carpet and he's still alive and the knife is in his hand and the demon is on the phone.

"No, like I'm telling you, nothing. He ain't got it. No boss, I'm sure." He listens for a bit, or maybe Sam blacks out again.

The next thing he hears is Dean yelling his name outside the motel door. Sam pries his eyes open, he's got to warn Dean there's a demon in here. He can see Dean in the window, out in the parking lot with his phone against his ear.

"Dean," he starts, but his voice is raspy, and the demon turns to him, raises his boot, Sam squeezes his eyes shut in anticipation, but the door bursts open and Dean's there, phone in hand, eyes going first to Sam on the floor, then to the demon about to kick his little brother's face in. The righteous fury in Dean's face is enough; Sam lets his eyes close and listens to Dean take out the trash. "Bathroom," he mutters when things go quiet, and smiles at Dean's soft curse. Another round of fight, of crunch and big brother badass, and Sam remembers nothing until he wakes up on his bed, fully clothed with bandages already covering the stitched gash on his cheekbone.

The next day, Dean asks him to show him all the room-proofing tricks Sam has been doing all these years.



The Death of Enoch is a seal. There are more than three demons this time, and Sam smiles to himself about it. Maybe demons come in threes is more a suggestion than a rule.

"What's he smiling about?"

"I dunno."

One demon has him by the neck; blood drools out of his mouth and over the demon's knuckles. The other six demons are rifling through their research on Enoch's location. Dean's out cold on the floor.

Out cold and he hasn't moved, and that is worrying. Also worrying: the black spots dancing in front of Sam's eyes.

"Just take him out. We got the other one to torture if we need to."

Sam shifts his bleary gaze to the one who said that, a stiff-haired lady in a tracksuit who probably has grandkids or pugs or something and would definitely never have said "we got one to torture if we need to," and to her this is a nightmare, worse than a nightmare, it's the end of the world, and it will be if-

But he knows he's rationalizing. Yes, he'd like to save that grandma. But more importantly, he can't let Dean go through anymore torture at a demon's hands.

He can't he can't -

Sam raises his hand, tries to unknot that power at the back of his mind. He envisions it like an evil little ball of oily yarn, from which he teases a strand little by little until the whole thing falls apart and the power just surges-

The demons look at him and hold their breath, frozen in place.

Waiting.

They wait.

Sam waits.

Nothing happens.

He tries again, desperate.

The demons look a little more relaxed, but still warily watch his hand tremble in the air between him and them. The veins in his forearm stand up with the effort, he's getting lightheaded.

He exhales again. He can't do it. Fuck.

The demons grin, slowly, then they're just laughing at him, at the pathetic loser, the toothless dog. Sam looks up, half-passed out. They don't know what he knows, so he smiles, blood teeth.

Only one of the demons has the presence of mind to look worried about that smile. As he turns to look behind him, Dean's knife thrusts upward through his jaw. The others smoke out on the spot. Sam drops to the ground, lays there panting until Dean shoves him with his foot.

"What the fuck was that?" Dean says.

Whoops.

"I didn't think you were awake-"

"So if I can't see it, it's okay?" Dean doesn't even help him up, just storms around shuffling papers together and kicking shit and knocking things over. "What the fucking hell, Sam? We talked about this. You promised me. And now-"

"Dean, they were going to torture you, and I couldn't-"

"Oooh now you couldn't. Where were you when it was actually happening, huh? Oh that's right, not getting my ass out of hell. No, you were slumming it up with that bitch. Tell me how that worked out for ya, Sammy? Did it get your poor selfless brother back, or did it, right, yeah, it did, it got you a good lay and some neato psychic powers. Awesome. Good to know you got my back now."

"Dean that's not how it was-"

"No? Then why'd an angel have to save me, if what you were doin' was gettin' me back?"

Sam gets up from the ground. "Stop it! I'm not doing anything, you just saw me not do anything!"

Dean sweeps a lamp off the little table onto the floor. "You tried!" He advances on Sam, grabs Sam's jacket when Sam backs away. "You're lying to my face, and you don't even care, you don't even see what this is gonna turn you into, that it's gonna make you something-"

"What!"

"Something evil, Sam. It's gonna make you what you always were gonna become." Dean pulls Sam close, Sam can smell the whiskey. "You were always evil, I knew it even when we were kids."

"No."

"You knew it too."

"No!"

"You gotta stop it-"

"I'm not doing anything-"

Dean's left hook spins him; blood bursts in his mouth, coppery tang.

"Liar!"

Dean's fist crashes into Sam's face and Sam goes to his knees, blinking in shock. "Dean-"

"Don't you open your fucking mouth! Don't you say a fucking word to me!" Another hit, and Sam is down, and Dean keeps coming, until Sam is reduced to just pressing upward, trying to get Dean off of him, pushing up on Dean's face.

Dean doesn't stop until he is exhausted. He falls backward onto his ass, breathing hard.

Sam is wheezing, coughing blood. He feels limp. He doesn't know what just happened, all he can hear is that Dean is crying, Dean is begging for something, he catches the words I'm sorry oh God, please I'm sorry Sammy and then he feels hands on his face and when he wakes up, he wakes up in sweats under the blankets in his bed, wounds dressed. There's a glass of water and painkillers on the nightstand next to him.

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