Fic: House of Cards: State of Grace 5/6
The time has come and you're all alone,
And you know you're not dreaming.
It's heaven's door, you're ringing on the bell,
Will they let you in, or you going to hell?
Litchfield, Maine
August 22nd, 1996
Heat burned down his spine, a dull throb that spread out from his shoulders, blood pounding through his veins, making his head explode over and over again. He didn't move, didn't give in to the groan churning in his stomach, just let his body hang limply from his aching shoulders, head forward so that his chin brushed against his chest, eyes lightly closed.
He listened, struggling to focus through the pain and heard slow footsteps, the soft murmur of voices he didn't recognise, searching the dark for the one sound that mattered.
Sammy.
From the moment he'd seen his brother's eyes widen in shock, he'd known they were royally screwed. One man - or whatever the hell those things were, ‘cause they sure as hell weren't anything human - he could have dealt with, but the assurance in the biker's grin had told him all he needed to know about the odds. He'd taken a few steps back to stand over his brother as he heard leaves crunch behind him, felt Sammy scrunch himself into a tiny ball as the first blows began to rain down on him.
For a few heartbeats he'd managed to hold them off, ducking and weaving with a frantic speed he knew he couldn't keep up. His knuckles ached, stinging from the blows that could have put Rocky down for the count. These guys, in their matching leather, just shrugged them off and came right back at him, until one punch snaked past his guard and slammed into his back, his knees buckling as white hot fire slashed through his kidneys. Reeling with the pain, he couldn't stop the fists that came at his head, dimly felt the skin above his eye split, blood trickling hot down his face.
Then it was over.
He'd finally come to, feeling the night-chill in the air, knowing he'd been out for too long. His arms were tied tightly behind him, pulled harshly up against a heater, pushing his shoulders forward painfully. The muscles in his back trembled, burning with the strain and the bruises as he listened through the pounding in his head, searching the low jumble of noises he could make out for anything familiar.
When it came, all thought of pretence blew out of his mind. His brother's soft moan brought his head snapping up and he lunged wildly against the ropes, making the heater rattle behind him. The sound bounced around the space and he dimly recognised the shadows of the basement in his peripheral vision. His stomach twisted as he remembered his brother's innocent joy at the dusty, cluttered space when they'd explored the old house together, two days ago.
"Sam?"
The three men, still wearing their matching jackets, laughed as he called out, voice raspy from the swelling boot-print on his throat.
"Sammy, you okay kiddo?"
He didn't wait for an answer, just turned a hot, searing glare on the tall, lean man leading the mirth.
"Let him go. You hurt him, you lay one hand on him and I'll kill you. Swear to God."
"Ah, Dean, I'd love to see you try."
Dean froze when he heard his name in the quiet, amused voice, settling warily back as the man approached, crouching just out of reach and staring at him. He kept one eye on his brother, groggily pushing himself to his knees, nursing his head.
"What the hell do you want?"
The man smiled, considering him.
"You know, when I found the pair of you, I thought your daddy was crazy, hunting with kids in tow. You're a liability, a distraction." He reached out, ran a hand down the bruises on the side of Dean's head, the ring on his finger digging gently into the imprint it had left over his cheekbone and the Winchester flinched away with a snarl.
"Screw you," he ground out, voice harsh and angry when inside he was screaming, the mention of his father confirmation of his worst nightmare. He'd failed. John was gone, had to be, would never have let these things come after them alive, and he'd messed it up, let them take his brother. Something opened up inside him, yawning black and cold around his heart and he clenched his fists, fought against the bonds again, relishing the pain that burned his arms as strained muscles tightened, the skin beneath the ropes chafing and splitting.
The man chuckled, patting his cheek gently, the malice in his cold, flat eyes making the tender gesture a mockery.
"Then when I saw you fight, I knew why he thought he could leave you. He was wrong, of course, but I can understand why he would think you'd be safe." He stood, sauntered away from the restrained hunter and part of Dean's mind noted the logo, bright across the back of the leather jacket.
The Immortals.
The Death's Head grinning at him was all he needed to see to piece together the clues he'd been instinctively gathering without even consciously noticing; their eerie strength and speed, the chill in their touch, perceptible even through the fire of the blows, the unnatural light in their eyes and the faintest grey tint to their skin...
"Revenants," he blurted out, "You're revenants?"
"See? I knew there had to be more to you than there seemed to be."
The man smiled at him, almost proudly, wandering idly around the basement.
"You know, coming out here almost saved you. I found your motel easy enough, you think about clearing up the mess in your room before you booked? The manager was a little pissed about that."
Dean sneered at the dead man, looked past him to his brother, huddled on the floor, his mind racing as he frantically tried to pull together the scraps of plans darting through his head.
"But you'd gone, just disappeared and there was no trail left to follow. You're better at covering your tracks than your daddy is, that's for sure. Not good enough, though."
He forced himself not to flinch at the words as they echoed in his head. Not good enough .You couldn't stop them, couldn't save Sammy and now you're helpless.
He watched as the man stepped closer to his brother, brushing a gentle hand through his dishevelled hair, the boy shrinking away with a low moan and Dean threw himself forward against the ropes again, yelling furiously. The revenant laughed again, pulled Sam up against him, his brother stilling as the dead man's arm wound around his chest and hugged him close. Sam's eyes were wide, terrified, boring into Dean as he fell into them, drowning in the desperate trust there.
He surged against the ropes, over and over, feeling blood dripping from his wrists and not caring at all as the revenant roared with laughter, the other two dead men coming forward at his languid gesture. They slammed him back against the heater, the back of his skull cracking sharply against the metal, stars blinding him, his head ringing so loudly that he barely heard Sam cry his name.
He crumpled to the floor, arms still twisted behind him; head hanging low as he fought the dark trying to swallow him whole. The whisper in his ear made his blood run cold, razor-sharp through his veins.
"And I could use a boy as smart as your brother. Your Daddy killed my family, so I figure I'll just take his to replace them. Starting with little Sammy..."
"No," he forced out, teeth gritted against the pain as he tried to lift his head, against the terror shaking every inch of him.
"You know how a revenant is made, Dean?"
The dead man's breath tickled his ear, the side of his face as he shook his head, mute denial of the question, of the threat he was powerless to stop.
"First, the body has to die. Slowly, painfully, so that the spirit lingers for a while."
Sammy.
"Then the spirit is bound back into the body, but the spell isn't complete yet. Oh no, there's one more thing to make a revenant."
No. Please... "Sammy..." please don't...
He couldn't focus enough to work out what he'd said, what he'd only thought, the revenant's voice drifting through his mind, pushing him away from the world as he tried to lift his head, tried to listen past the horror ringing in his ears.
"He has to feed to be complete, Dean. He has to kill. And who do you think we'll be bringing to dinner? Poor Sammy. He'll never forget, you know. He'll live forever, and he'll never forget the taste of your blood."
Dean moaned, low in his throat, his tenuous grip on the world slipping, tears springing into his eyes and stinging the cuts and scrapes on his face as he forced his head up, one agonising inch at a time, his heart pounding in time to his brother's sobbing cries.
"Sammy... please..."
His vision tunnelled, greyed out as he saw the other two revenants close in on the boy, barely more than a child, everything he lived for and he wept as he tumbled into the dark. He felt the dead man beside him drag a sharp nail across his throat, the smell of his blood welling up from the deep scratch following him into the emptiness that rang with the sound of his world ending.
~~HoC~~
Litchfield, Maine
October 28th, 2008
The house hadn't changed.
Somehow, that made it worse, disorienting him, a jarring sense of stepping back in time shaking him as he crouched by the front door, lock picks in hand. Somehow, he almost expected to walk in and find the shotgun still beside the door, a line of salt laid carefully across the threshold.
They weren't there. He led Bobby into the hall, the pistol in his hand heavy with the weight of the consecrated iron rounds as he held it ready. The two hunters crept over the groaning floorboards, avoiding the sagging patches where the wood had rotted through. Bobby stepped close to him as they neared the stairs, breathing in his ear,
"I don't like this, Sam. Where the hell are they?"
Sam shrugged, not liking the oppressive silence any more than the older man did, but still struggling to shake off the memories of being thirteen again, waking up to hear his brother's voice calling his name.
He didn't hear Bobby echo the memory, didn't feel the older man shake him as he slid to his knees, lost in the sight of the shadows wreathing the dead men as they laughed at Dean's angry, worried cries rasping through the quiet. When the leader pulled him close, arm snaking cold around his chest, he sought his brother's eyes, searching for the reassurance that had always been there, even when he hadn't realised he needed it.
It wasn't there now.
He shivered, tried to fight off the arm locked around him as he saw his big brother throw himself at the restraints again and again, pain twisting his face but never stopping until the other two men threw him back into the metal heater with a sickening thud.
He fell from the dead man's grasp, lay choking on the floor, vision dimming as he watched the revenant walk over to his brother, now slumped against the heater, moaning softly as he struggled to lift his head. The dead man crouched beside him, whispering softly in his ear as the others closed in on Sam, their chill settling over him, turning his world to black emptiness until he heard shouts and cries, a roar of fury punctuated by a shotgun blast that seemed to shake the world to its foundations.
He struggled up onto his elbows, head spinning, heart stopping as he listened to someone call his brother's name, voice so thick with tears he didn't recognise it until he managed to pry one eye open and see his father, cradling his brother's still figure, blood spattering them both.
Sam crawled over the floorboards, never noticing the pools of black, black blood that he dragged himself through. He almost crawled into his father's lap, reaching out to grip his brother's hand as John pulled him close, murmuring his brother's name again, his name...
"Sam!"
He lifted his head, found himself wrapped in Bobby's arms, shivering convulsively as the hunter whispered in his ear.
"You back with me, kid?"
"What happened?"
"You tell me. You just dropped. Damn near gave me a freakin' heart attack."
Sam pulled himself away, sinking back against the wall, suddenly aware he was panting heavily.
"I just... I remembered...when the revenants had us..."
"You okay now?"
He took a deep breath, smelling mildew and decay, and something else beneath it.
Blood.
Bobby caught his look, nodded slightly.
"Yeah. Place reeks of it. They were here. You know this place Sam, where would they take him?"
Sam thought for a moment, slowly pulling himself up the wall to his feet. He remembered the short time they'd spent in this house, the late summer nights starting to cool as the season wound to a close and they explored the place. It didn't take long for him to recognise the shadowy room where he'd woken up in the memory; the basement had felt different to the rest of the house even then.
"Basement."
"Sure?"
"Yeah."
He led the way to the kitchen, straining his ears for any sound of the revenants, for any sign of his brother. There was nothing, just a house that he feared, with a sickening wrench in his chest, was empty.
No. I'm not too late. I can't be.
He stopped outside the door to the stairs, laid one hand against it and felt the chill settle in to his skin.
Here. They were here.
His boot slammed against the door, a jolt shivering up his spine as the solid slab of wood didn't move. He kicked it again and again, suddenly frantic with the need to get through it. He barely paused to catch his balance between each blow, dimly aware of Bobby's boot landing right next to his, knowing just one thing: the absolute certainty that his brother was on the other side.
The door finally broke, the lock tearing out of the wood. He was through and down the short stairs before it had even slipped free of the jamb and clattered to the steps, gun half-raised as he stared blindly, desperately into the dark.
"Dean?" he whisper-called, hoarse with the effort of being heard without making too much noise, the hairs on the back of his neck crawling with the sensation of unseen eyes watching him.
His vision slowly adjusted, the room dissolving into muted greys as he peered around him, finally registering the stench of blood and filth, of rot and decay.
"Dean?"
Smaller this time, hesitant, suddenly unsure, thirteen years old again and waking up to see his brother, blood-spattered, limp and pale in his father's arms, face streaked with John's tears and his own.
"Sam?"
His heart leaped, crashed back down as he placed Bobby's voice a fraction too late. He shook his head, took another, slow step into the room, attention caught by a shape in the corner. Not his brother, the huddled figure was too small to be a fully-grown adult, but long hair and gangly arms were still somehow horribly familiar. He gulped, crouching slowly next to the corpse and rolling the boy gently, whispering his own name.
"Sam..."
"The missing boy?"
He nodded, reached out to close the dark, staring eyes and froze, finally registering the blood caked around the boy's lips, the dark veins twisting across his cheeks, still plump with baby fat, bruised with mud in a familiar pattern.
Dean's footprint.
He'd seen it a thousand times, left in water on the floors of countless motel bathrooms, in blood once, after his brother had carried him, barely conscious, across a stream lined with razor-sharp slate, boots slung around his neck ready for the three-mile hike back to the car.
His head snapped up, gaze suddenly sharp, sure again, turning unerringly to the far corner. An involuntary whimper escaped him as he saw a deeper shadow there and he scrambled across the floor, the wet, thick air choking him as he saw pale skin, ripped and stained black with blood, bruises mottling the legs and bare feet beneath the mud and filth.
Bobby's "Sam, wait!" couldn't stop him reaching out, rolling the still, bloodied figure towards him and he moaned softly, low in his throat as his brother's face lolled against his wrist, eyes hooded and staring emptily, accusingly at him. He shuddered, snatched his hand back as his mind echoed with the sound of his brother's screams, the howling of the hellhound he'd never heard but that had still haunted his dreams for so long.
Not again. I can't, Dean, please. Not again.
He gathered Dean to him, tearing at the sodden ropes around his wrists until they fell apart, cradling his brother in his arms, sobbing in relief at the feel of slow, slight breaths puffing against his neck, a weak pulse beating under his fingers as barely healed wounds broke open and spilled fresh blood onto him
Bobby watched the brothers, feeling his heart break as tears splashed onto pale skin. Something twisted inside him, hatred and a burning vengeance he hadn't felt in years, not since he'd watched a cloud of black smoke scream out of some nameless girl's throat and howl as it was dragged into the lines of the trap scrawled in his blood. All he'd seen that night, as the demon he'd hunted for years was finally sent screaming back to hell was a cloud of dark hair, tumbling across his face on their wedding night, drenched in the crimson that spilled down the hilt of the knife in his hand.
Now, he couldn't tear his gaze away from the clouded, bloodied jade that stared vacantly into nothing, as dead inside as his wife's had been, all those years ago, for all that the boy still breathed.
The grizzled hunter suddenly realised his own lungs were screaming and dragged in a stumbling, gasping gulp of the fetid air, rank with the damp scent of mould beneath the sharper tang of blood. The sudden rush of oxygen made him dizzy as he stepped forward, lifting a hand to Sam's shoulder. The younger man turned on him, eyes wild, teeth bared in a feral snarl that did nothing to disguise the grief twisting his face, and Bobby forced down the flinch that tried to shiver through him at the sight.
"Sam, come on boy. We need to get him out of here," he said, softly, voice as gentle as he could make it through the tears clogging his throat. He squeezed the boy's shoulder a little, just enough to offer support, careful not to step any closer and crowd him. He didn't know what he would have done if the terrified rage hadn't just drained out of the distraught Winchester, didn't know what he could have said to bring him back.
Instead, Sam sagged against his hand, head dropping back to meet his brother's empty stare as his shoulders heaved.
"Come on," Bobby repeated, tugging gently until Sam stood, cradling the battered figure in his arms as easily as if his brother was a child. He steered the pair back out of the cellar, leaving the dead boy behind, suppressing another shiver as he saw just how much like a young Sam he looked, and knew just what it would have cost Dean to stop him.
And he finally knew what it would take to break Dean Winchester.
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