Oktoberfest '09 - The End is the Beginning is the End [Part I]
Title: The End is the Beginning is the End [PART I]
Authors: continuum, famira
Beta: None
Word Count: 8387/15500
Rating: R
Character(s): Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Ruby, "Alexander"/Alistair, Martin Landel, Peter Petrelli, Nathan Petrelli (namedrop), Genjo Sanzo (namedrop), Euphemia li Britannia (unnamed cameo)
Pairing(s): Sam/Ruby, possible one-sided Alistair/Dean
Summary: Dean expects dying to be a get-out-of-jail-free card and Sam expects to be left alone, but really: they should both know better by now
Notes: Serves as a prequel for Post-Apocalypse Winchesters. Also, comes with MUSIC PIMPAGE (Winchester Oktoberfest FST). This is 1/2.
1.
Dean Winchester wakes up a dead man.
His eyes fly open.
Try to suck in a breath. Can't. Lungs aren't working, his chest still, and he can't move his arms or legs, feeling a stiffness creeping in on him, starting from his feet and hands like frostbite. Oh God, runs over and over in his mind, oh God. Where the hell is he? Where's Sam? Dean can't remember the last few...minutes? Hours? He remembers eating breakfast in the cafeteria, something about meeting Sam again and...then a huge blank. Dean's eyes dart around, willing himself not to panic but just being unable to move his own body when he tells it to is enough to make him start reconsidering. All he can see is this blinding bright light shining above him, right in his face. Hot. Not sun hot. But hot enough not to be comfortable. A shadow blocks the light briefly and suddenly it's angled down, enough that Dean can see.
There's a man standing over him, a tall dude with a beard and mustache and for a second, he thinks he knows the guy. He can't remember where. Dean stares up at him, bleary-eyed, having trouble tracking him just because it feels like even doing this is too hard all of a sudden.
"Hello, Dean. It's good to see you again. You know, for awhile there, I was getting worried we wouldn't be able to talk today."
Dean can't reply back. He can't control his vocal chords for some reason. The man leans over him, puts a hand on his arm, and gets real close, staring into his eyes as if he can understand him anyway. Disappointed, the man tsks.
"Well, we'll work on the talking part later," he says with a smile. "Do you remember who I am?"
Dean thinks he does. He's seen him before, he knows he has...but when he tries to think of a name, he blanks on it. The man frowns.
"Oh Dean, Dean, Dean. Are you sure?"
And that's when the man's eyes roll right into the back of their sockets. There's only white, swirling softly as if there's smoke in there. White-Eyes leans closer.
"I'll teach you how to talk. We'll have ourselves a nice little chat."
Dean doesn't know how they can "chat" when he can't even talk. White-Eyes pulls away, and leaves him there on the cold surface. Voices of people, not just White-Eyes, except he can't see them. It's only when White-Eyes comes back, shows him the first knife, and stabs him suddenly with it that Dean discovers he's strapped down to the table, his body jerking on its own against the straps around his ankles and wrists, right into the metal bar strapped across his chest. Dean might not remember how to use his voice, but apparently that's not a problem as White-Eyes works him over, the knife shining in the light and coming back with an almost methodical precision as it slides into his thigh even as he tries to jerk away. Why aren't the other people helping him? There's beeps of machinery and...
What sounds like typing on a keyboard. They're taking notes on this.
They're taking notes on him.
Dean's voice dies on him maybe hours into it. The worst thing is when White-Eyes takes a break, 'cause now Dean sits there on the table, in a body that doesn't seem like his anymore, mouth parted in a silent gasp and panting despite his lungs not working, and it's the worst waiting for him to start up all over again. The tears of pain are still drying. White-Eyes wipes his hands off almost delicately with a towel one of the assistants gives him, staining it red and then passing it off to wander back to him.
"Why don't you tell me what you remember last? Do you remember the dogs?" White-Eyes asks conversationally. "Yes? No?"
Dean seriously can't remember this man, aside from his face. Something about giving him a business card. Flower on it, right? He can't even remember the last hours of his life, just walking the halls of the institute with Sammy. Even if he did, he can't answer. He just mutely glares up at White-Eyes. Dean knows he'll find a way out of here. He thinks he's lost some blood, but he'll find a way out, just like he always has. They can't keep him here. Maybe being paralyzed - or whatever - like this will wear off and he can snake outta these cuffs. They haven't made demands, so he doesn't know if there's anything he can give to get him some breathing space.
He'll come back for White-Eyes when he gets out. Dean's already in the middle of making plans on how to gank the bastard when suddenly he's getting a scalpel across his neck, slitting it down to the jugular.
Dean Winchester is dead. But there's no blacking out.
He wonders if this is Hell. He doesn't remember getting killed, but normal guys don't survive getting their throats slit. At one point White-Eyes helps prop his head up, washing away the blood from his neck and his chin from when it came bubbling up past his lips, and Dean gets a glimpse of the rest of him. He's literally missing a good chunk of his chest and stomach, one of his damn ribs exposed, his insides a red paste. Big ugly claw marks raking him open almost from his chest to his hips.
Dean's stuck on the table when White-Eyes leaves with his staff. Just before clicking off the lights, he bends down to whisper in Dean's ear.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Dean. You don't know how long I've been looking forward to this. I hope you remember what happened when I come back in the morning."
The light flicks off, leaving him in the dark to think that over.
2.
The lights flick off, and Sam doesn't turn on his flashlight. He doesn't leave the room. He hasn't left since that night. The night it happened. Though maybe he should start labeling them a bit clearer because there are so many of that nights at this point that he's not so sure how to differentiate between them.
He thinks that other people don't have to worry about how they're going to refer to that one night their brother got dragged to Hell over the other night the same thing happened.
There's a lot he remembers about that night. It should be a blur, but it's not. He remembers, very clearly, the door slamming shut one minute before midnight. Five days later, he still doesn't know why, can only guess it was a spirit. Hope it was a spirit because the alternative is too much to contemplate.
But five days is a lot of time to think. It's occurred to Sam, many times over, that the last thought through his mind, the last thing he desperately wanted, was that he wouldn't have to watch Dean die all over again.
Sam is not unaware of what his thoughts are capable of.
He remembers he sat there with Dean's blood congealing beside him until morning. He remembers, especially clearly, that he wasn't surprised. Shock, someone else might've called it, but Sam knows better. He knows the difference. He knows that he can't say he didn't see this one coming.
He knows, but will never admit, that he doesn't feel any different from when Dean was alive. He's not any angrier at himself and he's not feeling any guiltier. He doesn't hate himself any more or less. He doesn't hate Dean any more or less for selling his soul. He doesn't resent Dean any more or less for being able to say, I gave him everything, and then not giving Sam the chance to do the same.
And if he's honest, if he's really honest, he remembers sitting there until morning and thinking:
Been there, done that.
So it's been five days and he's still sitting here in the dark. He's stripped and reassembled his Glock more times than he can count. There are people dying outside his door every night, more and more every day, but he's sitting in here. He knows the body count's gone up. He checks. He's not sure why, but he does. He thinks he's just trying to see if there will ever be a figure that might get him to care.
The number sits at 183. Twelve are people he's spoken to in passing. Three are people he's gotten to know.
One is his brother.
(He cares.)
3.
It's on the third day White-Eyes makes him a deal, only it's less of a deal and more of an ultimatum.
"I want you to remember something for me," he says as he's picking up a "tool" from the tray held by the nurse. White-Eyes makes sure it's visible because I want you to see we got you the very best supposedly. Dean's already bleeding and it's early in the morning, he thinks, he's not sure, and there's times when he thinks he'll black out, even looks forward to it. But then White-Eyes will reach over and pat him gently on the cheek with a warm hand, rousing him him awake. "That's your homework every day, my boy. If you remember something I ask you, it will be a light day for you. Every week you keep it up, I'll undo one of these restraints and when I get to this," he taps the metal bar, "you can walk free. I won't stop you. It'll be well-earned. How's that sound?"
Dean can't nod. It's like everything his body does, it does on its own and he's trapped inside it like a prisoner along for the ride. Sometimes it can't even move, frozen on him. But it seems somehow, he doesn't know how, White-Eyes just has to look at him, see something in his eyes and he understands. For all that talk about a "connection" between them, Dean thinks maybe White-Eyes has a point. He shouldn't be able to read him like this, but he does. White-Eyes picks up a needle, filled with some kinda black liquid, shot through with blue, tapping the side of it to remove any air bubbles.
"I'll start with an easy one. Do you remember how you died?"
He tries, he really does. White-Eyes gazes into his eyes, shakes his head, and then sticks that needle deep into the side of his neck. Dean can feel it moving through him and it's like he's being crushed in deep water.
"You got torn apart by hellhounds, Dean. Your time was up, which makes you mine for however long it takes to get what I want from you," White-Eyes sighs. Somehow it sounds almost happy. "So far, you're not off to a good start, are you?"
Whatever was in that needle is running deep in his dead veins. Even the touch of White-Eye's hand against his forehead, smoothing back his hair, is hyper-sensitive.
It's not gonna be a light day.
Dean's still got some voice in him when White-Eyes chooses his weapon of choice - it's an art, he says lovingly - and starts all over again on him. By the time he finishes, they have to spray down the table Dean's lying on, letting the blood flush to the floor drain under the cadaver table.
4.
Three days later, Sam opens his door. He opens it because there's blood seeping underneath it, a thick pool oozing slowly inside. He stares at it for awhile, detached curiosity, as the red inches over the white tiled floors. He wonders if someone has died out there, right in front of his door. He wonders if it's too late to help, then decides it would be. There's too much blood. No one survives from that much blood.
He would know.
When there's enough blood that he'll have to sidestep it to reach the doorknob, he opens the door. He's not sure what he expects to find out there. He tries to imagine what it could be, but the possibilities are pretty endless and in the end, it's all the same. The dead are always the same.
What he doesn't expect to find is Ruby. She's got a bloody knife in one hand. He can tell from the way it shines in the dim light that the blood is fresh, about as fresh as the...whatever it is at her feet. It's not alive. She looks vaguely annoyed, but that's nothing new.
He didn't hear anything, so he's pretty sure she brought it here just so she could kill it outside his door. He should be kinda disturbed. He's not.
He looks from her to the dead thing to her and says, "You could've knocked."
But they both know he never would've opened the door if she had.
In fact, he's thinking about shutting it right now. The only thing that stops him is that he doesn't care enough about whether she's here or not to bother putting effort into removing her presence. He can guess what she wants from him well enough. He's just not entirely certain why she wants it. Why she wants him out there, why she's even showing up at all, what it is that he's even worth to her that makes her come back.
It's not about Lilith anymore. Lilith is over.
But they're both still here and Sam's not entirely sure Ruby knows the concept of over any more than he does.
Ruby makes a snide remark as she goes inside, casually stepping over the puddle of black-red blood. She's moving with an edged laziness and it clicks, too late. It clicks and he abruptly realizes she has something to tell him. That's why she's here. He can tell; they've done this together long enough. He can't imagine what news she has to deliver. He's afraid to imagine what and he realizes, with a suddenness that surprises even him, he doesn't want to know. Whatever it is, he doesn't want to hear it. He won't.
The way she looks at him makes it clear she knows that he's caught on.
She says, "Sam-" but that's about as far as she gets because he's pretty goddamn serious about not wanting to know. Sam's got a lot of experience dealing with Ruby; there are a few ways to shut her up and none of them involve asking nicely. He shoves her against the wall, hard enough that she bangs her head, but she never lets go of the knife. It dangles between her fingers, like an offering, and somewhere along the way between the bed and the floor, he cuts himself on the same knife he used on her just a few seconds earlier.
His elbow is still bleeding when she runs her finger along the cut and places it between her lips. It's a thoughtless motion, but Sam knows that there is nothing thoughtless about anything Ruby does.
She peers curiously up at the ceiling from where she lies beside him, tangled in the sheets on the ground. "Never thought you'd stop destroying heaven and earth for him," she says. "You know. Literally speaking."
Sam thinks about how he can send her back to Hell right here, right now. He can do it without breaking a sweat; she's taught him well. But he won't and they both know it, so he grabs her bloodied knife off the floor and gives it back, drops it between her breasts without looking.
"Get out."
She sits up and reaches for her shirt, taking her time. "Whatever, Sam," she says, but she's got her fingers trailing through his hair and she sounds fond, and maybe a little like she feels sorry for him, like she knows something about him he doesn't.
It is four months before Sam will realize that the world is ending.
5.
Dad's been through Hell. He's still burning in Hell, but knowing him, he's probably holding out 'cause he's a stubborn bastard.
Holding out better than Dean is, probably. It's that terrible hour when Dean can hear activity outside the lab's door, which means the staff have shown up and are getting ready before they start the tests all over. That means he's only got an hour to try to dredge up another memory, another stupid homework he might fail like the others and so far, he hasn't had a single cuff removed. He fails again that day, and it's a stupid question, like what's your favorite food or something. Something he totally should've been able to get, except when he tried to say, it was like the memory simply wasn't there. Plucked out.
So there's still all his cuffs, and that bar, and he's still on that cadaver table, staring up at that same light for hours on end. Days. He's started to forget just how long it's been since he woke up a prisoner in his own body.
Bits and pieces of him are just a dull haze now, sliding away when White-Eyes injects him every day with that blue-black liquid, and then starts their day with a flourish of his knife. It's becoming a tradition, like clockwork. Just for him.
Again Dean hears the noises in the preparation room, or whatever it is. He still can't remember how he got to Landels Institute. Dean's not sure why he's having these problems, although maybe it has to do with the feeling of floating he's been having for the past few weeks after he's thought about Dad last. It starts out slow, so slow it sneaks up on a guy, and he isn't sure if it isn't 'cause of getting tortured every day for no goddamn good reason or if it's something else. When he disconnects like that, he has a hard time focusing on his homework. Maybe it's those needles, then pills, they keep forcing on him. All he knows is sometimes it feels like he's just hovering inside himself.
It's not so bad when it happens. Sometimes during the torture - the "experiments", as White-Eyes calls them - he'll experience that floating sensation and it's almost like a rest. Dean feels a strange distance growing between him and his body - his corpse, he remembers, 'cause he believes White-Eyes when the monster says he's dead as a doornail. When his body gets stabbed or cut or prodded (they don't touch the tattoo), he can't feel it as much. It's like it's happening to someone else. It's not a bad place to be, being anyone else but him.
White-Eyes knows when this happens and he backs off then, knowing Dean won't appreciate his work if he's floating like that. The bastard waits until it wears off.
The monster is talking to him now, but Dean can't understand the sounds and it takes a long moment of watching his lips move to understand him.
Dean, do you remember John Winchester? Tell me who he is, and I'll keep my promise to help you.
Dean knows the name's familiar. It's his name too, and there's a face, gruff orders. Sam bitching back. Walking out and not looking back. But somehow over that week, it's gotten foggy, little details that make up everything already starting to fade on him. Dean grabs at them desperately. More often than not, he can't hold onto them. It drives him up the wall, not being able to answer something he should know how to. Right now he's floating again, and he thinks White-Eyes can't hurt him again. Not this time. He's too far away from everything, even trapped in his body, and he can't get at him. He can wait all he wants.
White-Eyes hums to himself as he shows Dean the crystal glass of water. It's really a nice glass, catching the light and reflecting it as White-Eyes cups it in his hands. The monster seems even happier today, cheerful. White-Eyes smiles.
Then he throws the water on him.
The next thing Dean knows, he's spasming in the restraints, almost convulsing. Steam hisses off him and Dean's dragged back from floating as he thrashes on the cadaver table, the water burning like nothing else has. More click-click-click of the keyboard, distant to his ears but furious. Whoever's typing is having a hell of a field day. Dean hopes they get carpel tunnel.
He doesn't even remember what that is, but he hopes it anyway.
6.
Sometimes, Sam thinks about what Dad would say if he were here. He's not sure if there's anything to say because really, when your son's in Hell (twice) and the other might as well be called demon and get it over with-well.
There's only so much you can chalk up to a neglectful childhood.
For the most part, though, Sam avoids thinking about Dad. He's avoided thinking about a lot of things, so he's got plenty of practice. He's discovered, for instance, that going for a walk keeps him from thinking too much. It's the only reason why he's taken up to heading out, leaving as soon as the doors unlock.
It has a little to do with his roommate. Peter hits a bit too close to home. Always has; it just hadn't bothered him before, but it does now. Sam's not one to subscribe by the old adage that misery loves company. He doesn't want to talk about it and he doesn't want to know how much Peter might understand what it's like to lose a brother.
So as soon as the locks click, he grabs his gun and leaves and if Peter's watching him, he doesn't want to know about that, either.
His steps are slow and unhurried.The halls aren't the most ideal place to go for a stroll, but Sam's okay with it. He can't see the difference between here or out there or anywhere else; it's dark and narrow and Dean's still dead and things want to kill him.
-Except they don't, really. He's noticed. It's hard not to when everyone else around him keeps getting torn apart and he hasn't gotten a scratch. He doesn't know why. All he knows is that it's not because he's been spared.
(It's because Dean's bled enough for the both of them, he can't help but think.)
Not, of course, that it matters. He's here, in this world, wherever it is, and he's long given up believing that he will ever find the answers to anything that will tell him where to go next. He remembers the first time Dean died-he remembers wanting. Wanting Lilith dead, wanting Dean back.
He's not sure what he wants now. It doesn't seem worth it to bother; it's not like he's ever going to get it.
Or maybe that's what he's afraid of. That he'll get what he wants. He got what he wanted the first time around, and he's not so naïve anymore to think that getting Dean back again is what will fix everything. He knows better now.
The walls are flickering, rusty stains that disappear as soon as he blinks. It's been happening a lot lately, if he thinks about it, like the building's about ready to fall apart, too, like there's nothing left to hold it together anymore, either. The flickering continues all the way up the stairs and down the hall. He doesn't always walk the same route, but he always ends up in the same place. He always finds himself inside the chapel.
He's not sure why. There's a lot he does these days without much consideration. Sometimes he thinks he's just waiting for the day he can't set foot inside anymore. He's pretty sure that day is coming. It should bother him, but he's been straddling this line between human and (monster) something not for so long, it'd be nice if the universe would just push him off to one side or the other already.
(One side or the other; now there's a goddamn joke. He knows there's only one side he can ever be on if there's going to be a side at all.)
When he gets to the chapel, the first cracks are already appearing in the fountain. A thin river of blood trickles down the curved side. He considered, once, using this thing to trade places with Dean; he knows what that fountain, does, after all. But he knows, too, that fixing this mess is never going to be so easy. There is no fixing this mess.
Or it's what he tells himself, anyway. He's not going to deny it makes him feel better-this is the closest he will ever come to letting go.
The pews go row by row, though the wood looks a bit more worn than they used to, but he doesn't sit. Instead, he leans against the wall beside the door and watches the blood run from the fountain and onto the floor. He knows that by the end of the night, the room will look like it's been hit by the first plague. He knows because this isn't the first time he's stood here, watching the blood slowly pool.
This is not the first time he's stood anywhere watching the blood slowly pool.
And it occurs to him: something is about to happen. He's not oblivious. He knows an omen when he sees one.
But the thought is fleeting. He lets himself forget. He'd rather not consider it when he can't bring himself to give a damn, anyway. He'd rather just be here. It's quiet and he's alone. It's hardly peaceful, but when the lights go out, this is the next best thing. There are too many people during the day, and every time he looks at someone, he thinks, Why do you deserve to live?, and it's a thought that strikes with such clarity it scares even him.
There is a rosary that hangs on the doorknob when he turns to leave. He blinks, surprised. It's made of a deep cherry wood with silver links, not an expensive piece, but elegant enough. It isn't the institute's; there's no religious paraphernalia in the chapel and it wasn't here when he came in. But it's here now. He could be imagining it. It's a little hard to tell these days, with things flickering in and out of focus, appearing and reappearing.
The rosary swings lightly from where it hangs. Behind him, the thick flow of blood is creeping closer to his heel. He hesitates. He hasn't touched a rosary or made holy water in months; he hasn't had a need to when he can do it with his mind. And if he has to be honest, there's a part of him that's not certain he's physically capable of touching holy water anymore, let alone blessing it. He almost decides to leave the stupid thing, just walk away and pretend he never saw it; he doesn't want to know. But want and need are different things.
He closes his hand around the crucifix. It does not burn his fingers. Whether he's disappointed or relieved, he'd be damned if he could say.
It is three months before Sam will realize the world is ending.
7.
"Good morning, Dean," is the first thing White-Eyes says. He draws up a stool to sit next to the cadaver table, chin propped thoughtfully in one hand. "So? Maybe today will be different, hm?"
Dean Winchester can't even remember the damn homework question.
But maybe it doesn't matter, 'cause somehow he's started to figure out how to make his body work again after he woke up in it. He starts small, his dead eyes on the monster, and it takes everything he's got to make his mouth move. His voice is harsh, broken, but it's still there somehow, strange to his own ears when this time it's not screaming:
"Screw you, you dickless douchebag."
It's the first thing Dean's said in months.
It feels like his body's a damn puppet, and he remembers the words but not what it feels like to just think about talking and have it already happen: getting his mouth to coordinate means he needs a friggen battle plan just to string together a sentence. White-Eyes leans back, surprised, and - maybe this is the worst part - then he gets this delighted look Dean realizes is pride, like he's been handed a winning lotto number outta the gutter or something. If Dean thinks he's hated him before, oh man, that's nothing to what he's feeling now. It's ugly, this growing thing inside him, but it's what kept him sane and not just a gibbering mess on the table when he's getting the hooks or left alone in the dark, the voices on the other side of the door dying away.
Okay, maybe not all the time. There's been times where he ends up incoherent, trapped shaking inside his own meat suit. White-Eyes is good at what he does, after all, and Dean knows it after being his personal pet project.
White-Eyes smiles, showing his teeth. Dean gets the sinking feeling this is gonna go south real quick.
"Already learning," White-Eyes says. "I thought it'd take much longer, to be honest with you," he reaches out to pat Dean's stomach, which has been stitched closed yesterday with plastic, like some kind of giant game of Operation. "We'll have you talking again. I'll be with you all the way, Dean."
He turns then and dismisses the rest of his staff. It's just White-Eyes and Dean, and Dean knows he's about to go knee deep in shit here when White-Eyes rolls up his sleeves past his elbows and makes the first cut in his arm down to the bone, something Dean almost doesn't feel this time 'cause he knows it's nothing compared to what he could be doing when he feels particularly creative. Dean watches him. White-Eyes stopped asking about "John Winchester" a month ago, so if he's asking about that again, it's just a waste of time.
White-Eyes doesn't ask anything this time.
Just gives him one of those special smiles, reserved only for Dean, and then gets to work, doing whatever he can to make Dean break and beg with his new found control of his mouth. Dean thinks it's impossible since it was so hard the first time, but White-Eyes can be very...encouraging, when he wants to.
But it's the breaks he's starting to fear the most. After awhile, you can get used to everything hurting, despite being dead, and it just turns into this constant pain that starts to get tolerable after a point until White-Eyes suddenly pulls the thin metal - iron? - stake out of him and moves away from the table. The bastard lights up a smoke with bloody fingers, reaching out and toying with a jar of white powder almost absently.
He talks about home, how he wants to go back. How Dean'll like it too, when he's finished with him. How he's got such plans. Dreams. He'll teach him everything he knows.
Dean didn't think it was possible to hate someone so much. He's literally shaking and trembling inside his own corpse with it.
Somehow he knows this isn't him. This rage, it's not him, so he tries to think about something else.
Sam. Dean's thought about him during those nights by himself, staring up at that darkened light above him, and Sammy is the thing that got him to forget about trying to frantically remember some damn homework question and focus on something else. Dean doesn't know where his little brother is, but he thinks he's alive. He has to be. Maybe he doesn't know where he is, but knowing that kid, he'd be looking for him 'cause he still remembers everything about Sammy and his brother's the most stubborn person he knows, period. Dean still doesn't remember getting torn apart by those hellhounds. He just hopes Sam wasn't there for that, he really doesn't. It's not something he wants Sam to see...
And he doesn't want Sam to give up looking for him if he thinks he's dead.
When White-Eyes begins grinding in that white powder in the cut in his arm and Dean's body convulses away from it on its own, the blood oozing from the cut boiling and popping like oil, evaporating, Dean's thinking of Sam in the part of him that isn't consumed by agony.
He clings to the thought of Sam out there. Sam'll find him. Sooner or later, he'll white knight his way in here.
One day he'll be able to get off this table.
By the time White-Eyes is finished giving him his personal attention, Dean can't even think straight and remember he's supposed to hate the bastard and work on trying to control the rest of his body.
The only thing that makes sense that night as the lights click off is Sam, Sammy and it's over and over and over again, until the next morning.
8.
The weather's not getting warmer even though it's supposed to be nearing spring. When Sam steps outside, the grass is brown and crunches beneath his feet. If he's calculated it right, he knows the moon is supposed to be nearly full, too. But it's not there at all.
He could've counted wrong, though.
It only takes two minutes in before he realizes something is following him. One hour later, it's still there. He can hear it breathing, heavy and wet, and the panting gives away exactly what it is. Not a hellhound, but not too far off, either.
It's not stalking him. He's hunted enough; if it were, he'd be able to tell. It's just following him, as though it's lost. Maybe it is. The dogs usually come in packs, after all, and this one is alone.
That makes two of them.
He's asked himself, of course, why it's not shredding him two pieces right this instant. He's asked that ever since he's realized that it's not just that he's somehow avoiding these creatures. It's that they're not coming after him. Because they see him. They look right at him and watch him go by, and the first time he looked back, the cat had sat on its haunches and peered at him in the same way he's seen it do with one of its own.
The implications of that is not something he wants to linger on.
This is the first time anything's actively followed him, though, and it's strange enough that he finds himself wondering about it beyond superficial curiosity. He slows, and then stops, and he hears it stop behind him. When he turns around, it's standing there and as he watches, its ear droops and droops and then falls right off. A maggot crawls out of the hole, fat and round.
-That wasn't really something he needed to see. It's slightly disconcerting.
He's not sure what to do with the animal. He should kill it. It might not care for him, but he's got no doubt any other patient would get mangled in a second. Then again, what does that matter? If not this one, something else is gonna do the same thing. It's not like one dead pseudo-hellhound will make a difference.
But it's looking at him, like he has the answers or something, and it's only a goddamn mutant dog for Christ's sake, but he suddenly hates the way it's been trailing after him all night and it's been two months since he's actually hunted, since he's put anything down, and he wants to put a bullet in its head.
So he does.
The blood is black and thick like molasses and there's not much of it. As he walks away, the large birds are already descending on the carcass. They've been scavenging more. Not many virgins around these days, he supposes. The kids were always the first ones to bite it, anyway. It's not hard to see what the current demographic is. There haven't been new patients in months.
Sam feels like he notices these things out of habit. He turns them over idly in his head and if he has too much on his mind, sometimes he'll even sit down, see what he can figure out. He's come up with answers, he has. But he asks himself what it's worth, and the answer is always the same.
He doesn't know yet that this will change.
He doesn't know it even as he makes his way back inside, through the halls of the institute. He doesn't realize he's looking for Ruby until he opens the door to (Dean's room) M2 on a hunch and sees her standing there. She looks smug. He can't decide whether he wants to bleed her or fuck her, but he does know that she been waiting for him. She has, he can tell, and this.
This is when he understands what she's so obviously figured out long before he did.
She taps her foot; slow, with deliberate patience, arms across her chest. Of course she's not in a hurry; she knows what he'll do. She's always known him too well. He both hates her and is grateful for that at the same time, though right now, he mostly just hates her. Because he understands perfectly well that she was fully aware when she brought this up that night what would happen. She was fully aware that Sam, after all this time, has not learned to let go.
And he knows he won't come back from this. He's done it too many times not to know, and deep down, Sam's never been oblivious to how far he's gone, how much further he'll go. He's lied to himself too much not to recognize what it is he's covering up.
He shuts the door quietly behind him and says, "Tell me," and she does.
It is two months before Sam will realize the world is ending.
9.
Sam Winchester is the only thing that seems to still stick to Dean.
He still remembers his brother's face, how he laughs, how he looks when he gets his bed short-sheeted and Dean just grins back totally shameless. Dean's held onto his little brother for...okay, he doesn't know how long anymore. There's just a growing blur. Dean figures he can deal with it. Sam's still sharp and clear, he can still recall his voice. It's still good. It's the kick in the ass he needs, and every night, when he realizes he keeps failing at the homework, he instead strains to get more control of his body. If it pisses off White-Eyes though, he can't tell. The bastard just goes through the usual. If he actually manages to say something, anything at all, or move his corpse when he's not being tortured, White-Eyes rewards him with a break.
Like he's some friggen dog. Good Spot, jump Spot.
Scream a little scream, Spot.
Good boy.
Dean's pretty sure White-Eyes knows he hates those breaks.
White-Eyes knows he's onto something. He's still screaming and gibbering in the tests, especially when they start to get creative with the white powder and water combos, but he feels like so long as he's got Sammy, they can't get at him no matter what they do. When White-Eyes gives him another break - the friggen heartless bastard, drawing this out - Dean's head lolls against the table's cold metal, eyes half-closed as he catches his breath, deathly pale face flecked with his own blood, barely even feeling that weird drug in him this time around. He'll make it, Dean tells himself feverishly, he'll make it for Sam. He's gotta be able to walk and move when Sammy finds him, he's gotta be useful so Sammy won't be dragging him around like dead weight. It's not even if Sam finds him, 'cause Dean can't even accept that anymore, it's just when.
Sam'll come rescue him. Dean won't even give him crap for it. He'll just be happy to get the hell outta here.
Dean's eyes are glazed over as he pants quietly, not even sure why he's still panting when his lungs don't work. Maybe it's a reflex. Hasn't been cut out of him yet. It's not like White-Eyes isn't working on it. Around him, he can hear White-Eyes's staff working; ever since he's managed to learn how to move his head and fingers, he's been able to get a look around the room. It's big, decorated with all kinds of glowing symbols on the walls that he thinks he should know but can't remember anymore, and there are other empty tables up against the wall. No roomies. Machines up near his left, with wires trailing down and attached to him, monitoring his "progress". Sometimes they take samples from him, a little cut of skin here, some blood there, but after White-Eyes it's so minor he doesn't even feel them do it. They're probably doing it now, Dean's head tilted and getting a good look of a nurse's ass as she stands next to him, bending over his legs.
Pink panties. Nice, a part of him thinks dizzily, and he has no idea anymore where stuff like that comes from.
The nurse doesn't even look at him. Dean knows he's just meat to her. Just a job. White-Eyes is the only one who seems to think he's special, who cares.
His hand twitches, fingers clenching, but there's no way he can pop his way outta these cuffs. Not yet. He'll get there, if he could just get two seconds to concentrate and if White-Eyes would stop giving him homework.
The homework thing has been there as long as he can remember. He doesn't even try to answer anymore when White-Eyes comes every morning, but that's beside the point - Dean hears it in his head now, relentless questions about who he used to be, and it's a struggle to drag himself from trying to automatically answer them in his head and focus on Sam. He can't afford to go into circles chasing his own tail, spending hours trying to remember when he needs to focus on helping Sam when he gets here.
It eventually dawns on Dean as he recovers on the cadaver table that this break is shaping up to be a weirdly long one.
That's when the door opens, and the voices of the staff around him suddenly go quiet. It's someone he's never heard before:
"How's the progress, Alexander?"
"Better than expected," White-Eyes says mildly. But Dean's not fooled. He's spent so long with the monster he can pick out the tone in his voice. It's so faint he barely even senses it, but there's a level of disdain. "Why don't you take a look yourself, Mr. Landel?"
Landel comes over. Dean can't explain it, White-Eyes is nothing but polite, but somehow he thinks the monster is annoyed at the intruder's interruption, although judging by everyone else's reactions, Landel isn't some random guy. Dean feels White-Eyes cup his face, turning it to face the light again, and he blinks up at the two men, glassy-eyed. There's another shadow peering down at him, arms crossed behind his back.
"The subject," a faint pause, as if White-Eyes stops himself from sounding too overly familiar with his toy, "was killed several months ago by mauling. As you can see right here," a hand on his stitched up stomach. "Our attempts to revive him were entirely successful, but his use of motor controls are still returning. It's not an instantaneous process. However, it's going faster than I initially predicted, so I think we can expect to go into the next phase by early next week."
Dean's eyes shift from Landel to White-Eyes, unconsciously seeking him out. Christ, he hates the bastard, but at least he's one he knows. Landel's just a big mystery and right now, Dean doesn't have it in him to deal with surprises. Landel grabs something from one of the nurses - a sterile glove snaps on - and then prods Dean, shining a light into his eyes. Then he examines Dean, checking over each and every injury methodically, some of them somehow healing - Dean has no idea how they do that when he's a stiff, except maybe it's those pills they test on him - touching the iron rod shoved right between his ribs and still stuck in there since this morning. Landel's hand reaches out and touches something on his chest. An unfamiliar gloved finger traces some triangle he can't see over his heart.
"This tattoo your work?" Landel asks.
White-Eyes's hand on his stomach tightens slightly. Possessively. "No. The subject acquired it from someone, or did it to himself, when he was still alive. I haven't removed it or touched it in any way."
"Is there a reason why?"
"It's a devil's trap. It's keeping him secured as much as the restraints are."
Landel looks down, his shadow holding a clipboard. Files of some kind, Dean thinks. He happens to glance over at White-Eyes, sees the monster looking at him, and for a second, he feels something for the man, like they're sharing something when their eyes meet. White-Eyes dips his head slightly - apologetically? - and Dean has no idea what's gonna happen next for the first time in his new dead life. Before, it's just been Day-Torture, Night-Trying to Stay Sane, and then it repeats. That's just how it's supposed to be, except right now, it's not and Dean flounders. Landel seems to be in charge, someone who has a say over White-Eyes, and it friggen blows his damn mind. He can't even process it. Landel rifles through the pages.
They talk over him like he doesn't exist. Which, technically, is kinda true.
"Says he has a brother who's still one of our patients. Could be another subject."
"This one is more than adequate," White-Eyes says, the pride bleeding through. His voice is clipped. "It won't be necessary. I'm getting excellent results."
"Don't be stubborn. You have plenty of room and the best facilities for at least four more patients, Alexander. With the patients we get weekly, we can afford some additions to your program." A pause. White-Eyes probably shook his head. "Well then, there are other programs we have running who need fresh participants."
Dean's petrified. Sam. Landel wants to go after Sam. Dean groans then, trying to get enough coordination to work his mouth, pulling at those invisible strings. His head lolls, glaring up at Landel's shadow.
"I'll fucking kill you if you get near my brother," he grits out. He's pissed to find it comes out in a hoarse whisper. It doesn't even sound remotely threatening to him.
Landel just chuckles, studying Dean's eyes like a prize racehorse.
That now-familiar rage overwhelms him again, Dean fixed in a death stare on the man's shadow. Weirdly enough, it's White-Eyes who comes to the rescue.
"In my professional opinion it'd be wiser to leave his brother alone," White-Eyes sweeps in, almost as delicately as he can handle a machete and make it an art. "The next phase of the program hinges on a little give, a little take, Martin. The subject needs this. It's touch-and-go from here on out, and taking this away won't help, especially since he's the prototype and I'll remind you again this isn't a factory. If I press too hard, too quickly, he'll be useless, forcing us to start all over."
White-Eyes glances down at Dean, "Each individual requires a different method, which takes time and my full undivided attention. Once we've laid the groundwork with this one, then I can start on more, but until then, I wouldn't suggest it. There are other patients I can most certainly recommend for the other institute programs, anyway. Better ones even. I believe we have a 'Genjyo Sanzo' in freeze, yes?"
Dean hates today already. It's only been less than an hour and everything he knows is getting turned on its head. Now he can't tell how much he loathes White-Eyes and how much of him is grateful for protecting Sammy. He's poked and prodded some more, White-Eyes made to run through all the tests, from the water to the white powder to more iron, and soon Dean's spasming on the table even though in the back of his mind, he senses White-Eyes is just trying to get Martin Landel outta the room as fast as he can. It takes awhile to satisfy the stranger, Dean jerking up against the cuffs and the metal bar, causing it to rattle and groan dangerously. Eventually Martin Landel leaves with the new report. White-Eyes stands next to the cadaver table watching him go, arms crossed over his chest as Dean tries to blink the water out of his face: the water's painful even when he's not getting splashed, and he can feel every drop trickling a burning trail down his skin.
One seeps a slow, torturous path down his eyebrow and into his friggen eye. His gasps sound loud and haggard in his ears.
White-Eyes kicks everyone out of the room. Dean gets he's upset but he finds out how pissed off he is.
For the first time ever, White-Eyes just hacks into him. Sloppy as hell. There's no art to it. He just drives into him relentlessly with the knife, a bowie knife Dean almost thinks is familiar, and works him over in a fury. It's so fast and hard Dean doesn't have time to get used to it before White-Eyes stabs him a final time in the base of his neck, just above the collarbone, and leaves the bowie buried up to the hilt before stalking out without even cleaning the blood off Dean or turning off the light.
The first thought Dean has, once he gets used to the feeling of a knife friggen stuck in him, is goddamit, I can't move. The bastard pinned him.
But he also saved Sam, or at least gave Sam more time to find him, and that's not helping Dean right now.
Dean squints up at the light blinding him, and waits for tomorrow morning.
Part II
Authors: continuum, famira
Beta: None
Word Count: 8387/15500
Rating: R
Character(s): Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Ruby, "Alexander"/Alistair, Martin Landel, Peter Petrelli, Nathan Petrelli (namedrop), Genjo Sanzo (namedrop), Euphemia li Britannia (unnamed cameo)
Pairing(s): Sam/Ruby, possible one-sided Alistair/Dean
Summary: Dean expects dying to be a get-out-of-jail-free card and Sam expects to be left alone, but really: they should both know better by now
Notes: Serves as a prequel for Post-Apocalypse Winchesters. Also, comes with MUSIC PIMPAGE (Winchester Oktoberfest FST). This is 1/2.
1.
Dean Winchester wakes up a dead man.
His eyes fly open.
Try to suck in a breath. Can't. Lungs aren't working, his chest still, and he can't move his arms or legs, feeling a stiffness creeping in on him, starting from his feet and hands like frostbite. Oh God, runs over and over in his mind, oh God. Where the hell is he? Where's Sam? Dean can't remember the last few...minutes? Hours? He remembers eating breakfast in the cafeteria, something about meeting Sam again and...then a huge blank. Dean's eyes dart around, willing himself not to panic but just being unable to move his own body when he tells it to is enough to make him start reconsidering. All he can see is this blinding bright light shining above him, right in his face. Hot. Not sun hot. But hot enough not to be comfortable. A shadow blocks the light briefly and suddenly it's angled down, enough that Dean can see.
There's a man standing over him, a tall dude with a beard and mustache and for a second, he thinks he knows the guy. He can't remember where. Dean stares up at him, bleary-eyed, having trouble tracking him just because it feels like even doing this is too hard all of a sudden.
"Hello, Dean. It's good to see you again. You know, for awhile there, I was getting worried we wouldn't be able to talk today."
Dean can't reply back. He can't control his vocal chords for some reason. The man leans over him, puts a hand on his arm, and gets real close, staring into his eyes as if he can understand him anyway. Disappointed, the man tsks.
"Well, we'll work on the talking part later," he says with a smile. "Do you remember who I am?"
Dean thinks he does. He's seen him before, he knows he has...but when he tries to think of a name, he blanks on it. The man frowns.
"Oh Dean, Dean, Dean. Are you sure?"
And that's when the man's eyes roll right into the back of their sockets. There's only white, swirling softly as if there's smoke in there. White-Eyes leans closer.
"I'll teach you how to talk. We'll have ourselves a nice little chat."
Dean doesn't know how they can "chat" when he can't even talk. White-Eyes pulls away, and leaves him there on the cold surface. Voices of people, not just White-Eyes, except he can't see them. It's only when White-Eyes comes back, shows him the first knife, and stabs him suddenly with it that Dean discovers he's strapped down to the table, his body jerking on its own against the straps around his ankles and wrists, right into the metal bar strapped across his chest. Dean might not remember how to use his voice, but apparently that's not a problem as White-Eyes works him over, the knife shining in the light and coming back with an almost methodical precision as it slides into his thigh even as he tries to jerk away. Why aren't the other people helping him? There's beeps of machinery and...
What sounds like typing on a keyboard. They're taking notes on this.
They're taking notes on him.
Dean's voice dies on him maybe hours into it. The worst thing is when White-Eyes takes a break, 'cause now Dean sits there on the table, in a body that doesn't seem like his anymore, mouth parted in a silent gasp and panting despite his lungs not working, and it's the worst waiting for him to start up all over again. The tears of pain are still drying. White-Eyes wipes his hands off almost delicately with a towel one of the assistants gives him, staining it red and then passing it off to wander back to him.
"Why don't you tell me what you remember last? Do you remember the dogs?" White-Eyes asks conversationally. "Yes? No?"
Dean seriously can't remember this man, aside from his face. Something about giving him a business card. Flower on it, right? He can't even remember the last hours of his life, just walking the halls of the institute with Sammy. Even if he did, he can't answer. He just mutely glares up at White-Eyes. Dean knows he'll find a way out of here. He thinks he's lost some blood, but he'll find a way out, just like he always has. They can't keep him here. Maybe being paralyzed - or whatever - like this will wear off and he can snake outta these cuffs. They haven't made demands, so he doesn't know if there's anything he can give to get him some breathing space.
He'll come back for White-Eyes when he gets out. Dean's already in the middle of making plans on how to gank the bastard when suddenly he's getting a scalpel across his neck, slitting it down to the jugular.
Dean Winchester is dead. But there's no blacking out.
He wonders if this is Hell. He doesn't remember getting killed, but normal guys don't survive getting their throats slit. At one point White-Eyes helps prop his head up, washing away the blood from his neck and his chin from when it came bubbling up past his lips, and Dean gets a glimpse of the rest of him. He's literally missing a good chunk of his chest and stomach, one of his damn ribs exposed, his insides a red paste. Big ugly claw marks raking him open almost from his chest to his hips.
Dean's stuck on the table when White-Eyes leaves with his staff. Just before clicking off the lights, he bends down to whisper in Dean's ear.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Dean. You don't know how long I've been looking forward to this. I hope you remember what happened when I come back in the morning."
The light flicks off, leaving him in the dark to think that over.
2.
The lights flick off, and Sam doesn't turn on his flashlight. He doesn't leave the room. He hasn't left since that night. The night it happened. Though maybe he should start labeling them a bit clearer because there are so many of that nights at this point that he's not so sure how to differentiate between them.
He thinks that other people don't have to worry about how they're going to refer to that one night their brother got dragged to Hell over the other night the same thing happened.
There's a lot he remembers about that night. It should be a blur, but it's not. He remembers, very clearly, the door slamming shut one minute before midnight. Five days later, he still doesn't know why, can only guess it was a spirit. Hope it was a spirit because the alternative is too much to contemplate.
But five days is a lot of time to think. It's occurred to Sam, many times over, that the last thought through his mind, the last thing he desperately wanted, was that he wouldn't have to watch Dean die all over again.
Sam is not unaware of what his thoughts are capable of.
He remembers he sat there with Dean's blood congealing beside him until morning. He remembers, especially clearly, that he wasn't surprised. Shock, someone else might've called it, but Sam knows better. He knows the difference. He knows that he can't say he didn't see this one coming.
He knows, but will never admit, that he doesn't feel any different from when Dean was alive. He's not any angrier at himself and he's not feeling any guiltier. He doesn't hate himself any more or less. He doesn't hate Dean any more or less for selling his soul. He doesn't resent Dean any more or less for being able to say, I gave him everything, and then not giving Sam the chance to do the same.
And if he's honest, if he's really honest, he remembers sitting there until morning and thinking:
Been there, done that.
So it's been five days and he's still sitting here in the dark. He's stripped and reassembled his Glock more times than he can count. There are people dying outside his door every night, more and more every day, but he's sitting in here. He knows the body count's gone up. He checks. He's not sure why, but he does. He thinks he's just trying to see if there will ever be a figure that might get him to care.
The number sits at 183. Twelve are people he's spoken to in passing. Three are people he's gotten to know.
One is his brother.
(He cares.)
3.
It's on the third day White-Eyes makes him a deal, only it's less of a deal and more of an ultimatum.
"I want you to remember something for me," he says as he's picking up a "tool" from the tray held by the nurse. White-Eyes makes sure it's visible because I want you to see we got you the very best supposedly. Dean's already bleeding and it's early in the morning, he thinks, he's not sure, and there's times when he thinks he'll black out, even looks forward to it. But then White-Eyes will reach over and pat him gently on the cheek with a warm hand, rousing him him awake. "That's your homework every day, my boy. If you remember something I ask you, it will be a light day for you. Every week you keep it up, I'll undo one of these restraints and when I get to this," he taps the metal bar, "you can walk free. I won't stop you. It'll be well-earned. How's that sound?"
Dean can't nod. It's like everything his body does, it does on its own and he's trapped inside it like a prisoner along for the ride. Sometimes it can't even move, frozen on him. But it seems somehow, he doesn't know how, White-Eyes just has to look at him, see something in his eyes and he understands. For all that talk about a "connection" between them, Dean thinks maybe White-Eyes has a point. He shouldn't be able to read him like this, but he does. White-Eyes picks up a needle, filled with some kinda black liquid, shot through with blue, tapping the side of it to remove any air bubbles.
"I'll start with an easy one. Do you remember how you died?"
He tries, he really does. White-Eyes gazes into his eyes, shakes his head, and then sticks that needle deep into the side of his neck. Dean can feel it moving through him and it's like he's being crushed in deep water.
"You got torn apart by hellhounds, Dean. Your time was up, which makes you mine for however long it takes to get what I want from you," White-Eyes sighs. Somehow it sounds almost happy. "So far, you're not off to a good start, are you?"
Whatever was in that needle is running deep in his dead veins. Even the touch of White-Eye's hand against his forehead, smoothing back his hair, is hyper-sensitive.
It's not gonna be a light day.
Dean's still got some voice in him when White-Eyes chooses his weapon of choice - it's an art, he says lovingly - and starts all over again on him. By the time he finishes, they have to spray down the table Dean's lying on, letting the blood flush to the floor drain under the cadaver table.
4.
Three days later, Sam opens his door. He opens it because there's blood seeping underneath it, a thick pool oozing slowly inside. He stares at it for awhile, detached curiosity, as the red inches over the white tiled floors. He wonders if someone has died out there, right in front of his door. He wonders if it's too late to help, then decides it would be. There's too much blood. No one survives from that much blood.
He would know.
When there's enough blood that he'll have to sidestep it to reach the doorknob, he opens the door. He's not sure what he expects to find out there. He tries to imagine what it could be, but the possibilities are pretty endless and in the end, it's all the same. The dead are always the same.
What he doesn't expect to find is Ruby. She's got a bloody knife in one hand. He can tell from the way it shines in the dim light that the blood is fresh, about as fresh as the...whatever it is at her feet. It's not alive. She looks vaguely annoyed, but that's nothing new.
He didn't hear anything, so he's pretty sure she brought it here just so she could kill it outside his door. He should be kinda disturbed. He's not.
He looks from her to the dead thing to her and says, "You could've knocked."
But they both know he never would've opened the door if she had.
In fact, he's thinking about shutting it right now. The only thing that stops him is that he doesn't care enough about whether she's here or not to bother putting effort into removing her presence. He can guess what she wants from him well enough. He's just not entirely certain why she wants it. Why she wants him out there, why she's even showing up at all, what it is that he's even worth to her that makes her come back.
It's not about Lilith anymore. Lilith is over.
But they're both still here and Sam's not entirely sure Ruby knows the concept of over any more than he does.
Ruby makes a snide remark as she goes inside, casually stepping over the puddle of black-red blood. She's moving with an edged laziness and it clicks, too late. It clicks and he abruptly realizes she has something to tell him. That's why she's here. He can tell; they've done this together long enough. He can't imagine what news she has to deliver. He's afraid to imagine what and he realizes, with a suddenness that surprises even him, he doesn't want to know. Whatever it is, he doesn't want to hear it. He won't.
The way she looks at him makes it clear she knows that he's caught on.
She says, "Sam-" but that's about as far as she gets because he's pretty goddamn serious about not wanting to know. Sam's got a lot of experience dealing with Ruby; there are a few ways to shut her up and none of them involve asking nicely. He shoves her against the wall, hard enough that she bangs her head, but she never lets go of the knife. It dangles between her fingers, like an offering, and somewhere along the way between the bed and the floor, he cuts himself on the same knife he used on her just a few seconds earlier.
His elbow is still bleeding when she runs her finger along the cut and places it between her lips. It's a thoughtless motion, but Sam knows that there is nothing thoughtless about anything Ruby does.
She peers curiously up at the ceiling from where she lies beside him, tangled in the sheets on the ground. "Never thought you'd stop destroying heaven and earth for him," she says. "You know. Literally speaking."
Sam thinks about how he can send her back to Hell right here, right now. He can do it without breaking a sweat; she's taught him well. But he won't and they both know it, so he grabs her bloodied knife off the floor and gives it back, drops it between her breasts without looking.
"Get out."
She sits up and reaches for her shirt, taking her time. "Whatever, Sam," she says, but she's got her fingers trailing through his hair and she sounds fond, and maybe a little like she feels sorry for him, like she knows something about him he doesn't.
It is four months before Sam will realize that the world is ending.
5.
Dad's been through Hell. He's still burning in Hell, but knowing him, he's probably holding out 'cause he's a stubborn bastard.
Holding out better than Dean is, probably. It's that terrible hour when Dean can hear activity outside the lab's door, which means the staff have shown up and are getting ready before they start the tests all over. That means he's only got an hour to try to dredge up another memory, another stupid homework he might fail like the others and so far, he hasn't had a single cuff removed. He fails again that day, and it's a stupid question, like what's your favorite food or something. Something he totally should've been able to get, except when he tried to say, it was like the memory simply wasn't there. Plucked out.
So there's still all his cuffs, and that bar, and he's still on that cadaver table, staring up at that same light for hours on end. Days. He's started to forget just how long it's been since he woke up a prisoner in his own body.
Bits and pieces of him are just a dull haze now, sliding away when White-Eyes injects him every day with that blue-black liquid, and then starts their day with a flourish of his knife. It's becoming a tradition, like clockwork. Just for him.
Again Dean hears the noises in the preparation room, or whatever it is. He still can't remember how he got to Landels Institute. Dean's not sure why he's having these problems, although maybe it has to do with the feeling of floating he's been having for the past few weeks after he's thought about Dad last. It starts out slow, so slow it sneaks up on a guy, and he isn't sure if it isn't 'cause of getting tortured every day for no goddamn good reason or if it's something else. When he disconnects like that, he has a hard time focusing on his homework. Maybe it's those needles, then pills, they keep forcing on him. All he knows is sometimes it feels like he's just hovering inside himself.
It's not so bad when it happens. Sometimes during the torture - the "experiments", as White-Eyes calls them - he'll experience that floating sensation and it's almost like a rest. Dean feels a strange distance growing between him and his body - his corpse, he remembers, 'cause he believes White-Eyes when the monster says he's dead as a doornail. When his body gets stabbed or cut or prodded (they don't touch the tattoo), he can't feel it as much. It's like it's happening to someone else. It's not a bad place to be, being anyone else but him.
White-Eyes knows when this happens and he backs off then, knowing Dean won't appreciate his work if he's floating like that. The bastard waits until it wears off.
The monster is talking to him now, but Dean can't understand the sounds and it takes a long moment of watching his lips move to understand him.
Dean, do you remember John Winchester? Tell me who he is, and I'll keep my promise to help you.
Dean knows the name's familiar. It's his name too, and there's a face, gruff orders. Sam bitching back. Walking out and not looking back. But somehow over that week, it's gotten foggy, little details that make up everything already starting to fade on him. Dean grabs at them desperately. More often than not, he can't hold onto them. It drives him up the wall, not being able to answer something he should know how to. Right now he's floating again, and he thinks White-Eyes can't hurt him again. Not this time. He's too far away from everything, even trapped in his body, and he can't get at him. He can wait all he wants.
White-Eyes hums to himself as he shows Dean the crystal glass of water. It's really a nice glass, catching the light and reflecting it as White-Eyes cups it in his hands. The monster seems even happier today, cheerful. White-Eyes smiles.
Then he throws the water on him.
The next thing Dean knows, he's spasming in the restraints, almost convulsing. Steam hisses off him and Dean's dragged back from floating as he thrashes on the cadaver table, the water burning like nothing else has. More click-click-click of the keyboard, distant to his ears but furious. Whoever's typing is having a hell of a field day. Dean hopes they get carpel tunnel.
He doesn't even remember what that is, but he hopes it anyway.
6.
Sometimes, Sam thinks about what Dad would say if he were here. He's not sure if there's anything to say because really, when your son's in Hell (twice) and the other might as well be called demon and get it over with-well.
There's only so much you can chalk up to a neglectful childhood.
For the most part, though, Sam avoids thinking about Dad. He's avoided thinking about a lot of things, so he's got plenty of practice. He's discovered, for instance, that going for a walk keeps him from thinking too much. It's the only reason why he's taken up to heading out, leaving as soon as the doors unlock.
It has a little to do with his roommate. Peter hits a bit too close to home. Always has; it just hadn't bothered him before, but it does now. Sam's not one to subscribe by the old adage that misery loves company. He doesn't want to talk about it and he doesn't want to know how much Peter might understand what it's like to lose a brother.
So as soon as the locks click, he grabs his gun and leaves and if Peter's watching him, he doesn't want to know about that, either.
His steps are slow and unhurried.The halls aren't the most ideal place to go for a stroll, but Sam's okay with it. He can't see the difference between here or out there or anywhere else; it's dark and narrow and Dean's still dead and things want to kill him.
-Except they don't, really. He's noticed. It's hard not to when everyone else around him keeps getting torn apart and he hasn't gotten a scratch. He doesn't know why. All he knows is that it's not because he's been spared.
(It's because Dean's bled enough for the both of them, he can't help but think.)
Not, of course, that it matters. He's here, in this world, wherever it is, and he's long given up believing that he will ever find the answers to anything that will tell him where to go next. He remembers the first time Dean died-he remembers wanting. Wanting Lilith dead, wanting Dean back.
He's not sure what he wants now. It doesn't seem worth it to bother; it's not like he's ever going to get it.
Or maybe that's what he's afraid of. That he'll get what he wants. He got what he wanted the first time around, and he's not so naïve anymore to think that getting Dean back again is what will fix everything. He knows better now.
The walls are flickering, rusty stains that disappear as soon as he blinks. It's been happening a lot lately, if he thinks about it, like the building's about ready to fall apart, too, like there's nothing left to hold it together anymore, either. The flickering continues all the way up the stairs and down the hall. He doesn't always walk the same route, but he always ends up in the same place. He always finds himself inside the chapel.
He's not sure why. There's a lot he does these days without much consideration. Sometimes he thinks he's just waiting for the day he can't set foot inside anymore. He's pretty sure that day is coming. It should bother him, but he's been straddling this line between human and (monster) something not for so long, it'd be nice if the universe would just push him off to one side or the other already.
(One side or the other; now there's a goddamn joke. He knows there's only one side he can ever be on if there's going to be a side at all.)
When he gets to the chapel, the first cracks are already appearing in the fountain. A thin river of blood trickles down the curved side. He considered, once, using this thing to trade places with Dean; he knows what that fountain, does, after all. But he knows, too, that fixing this mess is never going to be so easy. There is no fixing this mess.
Or it's what he tells himself, anyway. He's not going to deny it makes him feel better-this is the closest he will ever come to letting go.
The pews go row by row, though the wood looks a bit more worn than they used to, but he doesn't sit. Instead, he leans against the wall beside the door and watches the blood run from the fountain and onto the floor. He knows that by the end of the night, the room will look like it's been hit by the first plague. He knows because this isn't the first time he's stood here, watching the blood slowly pool.
This is not the first time he's stood anywhere watching the blood slowly pool.
And it occurs to him: something is about to happen. He's not oblivious. He knows an omen when he sees one.
But the thought is fleeting. He lets himself forget. He'd rather not consider it when he can't bring himself to give a damn, anyway. He'd rather just be here. It's quiet and he's alone. It's hardly peaceful, but when the lights go out, this is the next best thing. There are too many people during the day, and every time he looks at someone, he thinks, Why do you deserve to live?, and it's a thought that strikes with such clarity it scares even him.
There is a rosary that hangs on the doorknob when he turns to leave. He blinks, surprised. It's made of a deep cherry wood with silver links, not an expensive piece, but elegant enough. It isn't the institute's; there's no religious paraphernalia in the chapel and it wasn't here when he came in. But it's here now. He could be imagining it. It's a little hard to tell these days, with things flickering in and out of focus, appearing and reappearing.
The rosary swings lightly from where it hangs. Behind him, the thick flow of blood is creeping closer to his heel. He hesitates. He hasn't touched a rosary or made holy water in months; he hasn't had a need to when he can do it with his mind. And if he has to be honest, there's a part of him that's not certain he's physically capable of touching holy water anymore, let alone blessing it. He almost decides to leave the stupid thing, just walk away and pretend he never saw it; he doesn't want to know. But want and need are different things.
He closes his hand around the crucifix. It does not burn his fingers. Whether he's disappointed or relieved, he'd be damned if he could say.
It is three months before Sam will realize the world is ending.
7.
"Good morning, Dean," is the first thing White-Eyes says. He draws up a stool to sit next to the cadaver table, chin propped thoughtfully in one hand. "So? Maybe today will be different, hm?"
Dean Winchester can't even remember the damn homework question.
But maybe it doesn't matter, 'cause somehow he's started to figure out how to make his body work again after he woke up in it. He starts small, his dead eyes on the monster, and it takes everything he's got to make his mouth move. His voice is harsh, broken, but it's still there somehow, strange to his own ears when this time it's not screaming:
"Screw you, you dickless douchebag."
It's the first thing Dean's said in months.
It feels like his body's a damn puppet, and he remembers the words but not what it feels like to just think about talking and have it already happen: getting his mouth to coordinate means he needs a friggen battle plan just to string together a sentence. White-Eyes leans back, surprised, and - maybe this is the worst part - then he gets this delighted look Dean realizes is pride, like he's been handed a winning lotto number outta the gutter or something. If Dean thinks he's hated him before, oh man, that's nothing to what he's feeling now. It's ugly, this growing thing inside him, but it's what kept him sane and not just a gibbering mess on the table when he's getting the hooks or left alone in the dark, the voices on the other side of the door dying away.
Okay, maybe not all the time. There's been times where he ends up incoherent, trapped shaking inside his own meat suit. White-Eyes is good at what he does, after all, and Dean knows it after being his personal pet project.
White-Eyes smiles, showing his teeth. Dean gets the sinking feeling this is gonna go south real quick.
"Already learning," White-Eyes says. "I thought it'd take much longer, to be honest with you," he reaches out to pat Dean's stomach, which has been stitched closed yesterday with plastic, like some kind of giant game of Operation. "We'll have you talking again. I'll be with you all the way, Dean."
He turns then and dismisses the rest of his staff. It's just White-Eyes and Dean, and Dean knows he's about to go knee deep in shit here when White-Eyes rolls up his sleeves past his elbows and makes the first cut in his arm down to the bone, something Dean almost doesn't feel this time 'cause he knows it's nothing compared to what he could be doing when he feels particularly creative. Dean watches him. White-Eyes stopped asking about "John Winchester" a month ago, so if he's asking about that again, it's just a waste of time.
White-Eyes doesn't ask anything this time.
Just gives him one of those special smiles, reserved only for Dean, and then gets to work, doing whatever he can to make Dean break and beg with his new found control of his mouth. Dean thinks it's impossible since it was so hard the first time, but White-Eyes can be very...encouraging, when he wants to.
But it's the breaks he's starting to fear the most. After awhile, you can get used to everything hurting, despite being dead, and it just turns into this constant pain that starts to get tolerable after a point until White-Eyes suddenly pulls the thin metal - iron? - stake out of him and moves away from the table. The bastard lights up a smoke with bloody fingers, reaching out and toying with a jar of white powder almost absently.
He talks about home, how he wants to go back. How Dean'll like it too, when he's finished with him. How he's got such plans. Dreams. He'll teach him everything he knows.
Dean didn't think it was possible to hate someone so much. He's literally shaking and trembling inside his own corpse with it.
Somehow he knows this isn't him. This rage, it's not him, so he tries to think about something else.
Sam. Dean's thought about him during those nights by himself, staring up at that darkened light above him, and Sammy is the thing that got him to forget about trying to frantically remember some damn homework question and focus on something else. Dean doesn't know where his little brother is, but he thinks he's alive. He has to be. Maybe he doesn't know where he is, but knowing that kid, he'd be looking for him 'cause he still remembers everything about Sammy and his brother's the most stubborn person he knows, period. Dean still doesn't remember getting torn apart by those hellhounds. He just hopes Sam wasn't there for that, he really doesn't. It's not something he wants Sam to see...
And he doesn't want Sam to give up looking for him if he thinks he's dead.
When White-Eyes begins grinding in that white powder in the cut in his arm and Dean's body convulses away from it on its own, the blood oozing from the cut boiling and popping like oil, evaporating, Dean's thinking of Sam in the part of him that isn't consumed by agony.
He clings to the thought of Sam out there. Sam'll find him. Sooner or later, he'll white knight his way in here.
One day he'll be able to get off this table.
By the time White-Eyes is finished giving him his personal attention, Dean can't even think straight and remember he's supposed to hate the bastard and work on trying to control the rest of his body.
The only thing that makes sense that night as the lights click off is Sam, Sammy and it's over and over and over again, until the next morning.
8.
The weather's not getting warmer even though it's supposed to be nearing spring. When Sam steps outside, the grass is brown and crunches beneath his feet. If he's calculated it right, he knows the moon is supposed to be nearly full, too. But it's not there at all.
He could've counted wrong, though.
It only takes two minutes in before he realizes something is following him. One hour later, it's still there. He can hear it breathing, heavy and wet, and the panting gives away exactly what it is. Not a hellhound, but not too far off, either.
It's not stalking him. He's hunted enough; if it were, he'd be able to tell. It's just following him, as though it's lost. Maybe it is. The dogs usually come in packs, after all, and this one is alone.
That makes two of them.
He's asked himself, of course, why it's not shredding him two pieces right this instant. He's asked that ever since he's realized that it's not just that he's somehow avoiding these creatures. It's that they're not coming after him. Because they see him. They look right at him and watch him go by, and the first time he looked back, the cat had sat on its haunches and peered at him in the same way he's seen it do with one of its own.
The implications of that is not something he wants to linger on.
This is the first time anything's actively followed him, though, and it's strange enough that he finds himself wondering about it beyond superficial curiosity. He slows, and then stops, and he hears it stop behind him. When he turns around, it's standing there and as he watches, its ear droops and droops and then falls right off. A maggot crawls out of the hole, fat and round.
-That wasn't really something he needed to see. It's slightly disconcerting.
He's not sure what to do with the animal. He should kill it. It might not care for him, but he's got no doubt any other patient would get mangled in a second. Then again, what does that matter? If not this one, something else is gonna do the same thing. It's not like one dead pseudo-hellhound will make a difference.
But it's looking at him, like he has the answers or something, and it's only a goddamn mutant dog for Christ's sake, but he suddenly hates the way it's been trailing after him all night and it's been two months since he's actually hunted, since he's put anything down, and he wants to put a bullet in its head.
So he does.
The blood is black and thick like molasses and there's not much of it. As he walks away, the large birds are already descending on the carcass. They've been scavenging more. Not many virgins around these days, he supposes. The kids were always the first ones to bite it, anyway. It's not hard to see what the current demographic is. There haven't been new patients in months.
Sam feels like he notices these things out of habit. He turns them over idly in his head and if he has too much on his mind, sometimes he'll even sit down, see what he can figure out. He's come up with answers, he has. But he asks himself what it's worth, and the answer is always the same.
He doesn't know yet that this will change.
He doesn't know it even as he makes his way back inside, through the halls of the institute. He doesn't realize he's looking for Ruby until he opens the door to (Dean's room) M2 on a hunch and sees her standing there. She looks smug. He can't decide whether he wants to bleed her or fuck her, but he does know that she been waiting for him. She has, he can tell, and this.
This is when he understands what she's so obviously figured out long before he did.
She taps her foot; slow, with deliberate patience, arms across her chest. Of course she's not in a hurry; she knows what he'll do. She's always known him too well. He both hates her and is grateful for that at the same time, though right now, he mostly just hates her. Because he understands perfectly well that she was fully aware when she brought this up that night what would happen. She was fully aware that Sam, after all this time, has not learned to let go.
And he knows he won't come back from this. He's done it too many times not to know, and deep down, Sam's never been oblivious to how far he's gone, how much further he'll go. He's lied to himself too much not to recognize what it is he's covering up.
He shuts the door quietly behind him and says, "Tell me," and she does.
It is two months before Sam will realize the world is ending.
9.
Sam Winchester is the only thing that seems to still stick to Dean.
He still remembers his brother's face, how he laughs, how he looks when he gets his bed short-sheeted and Dean just grins back totally shameless. Dean's held onto his little brother for...okay, he doesn't know how long anymore. There's just a growing blur. Dean figures he can deal with it. Sam's still sharp and clear, he can still recall his voice. It's still good. It's the kick in the ass he needs, and every night, when he realizes he keeps failing at the homework, he instead strains to get more control of his body. If it pisses off White-Eyes though, he can't tell. The bastard just goes through the usual. If he actually manages to say something, anything at all, or move his corpse when he's not being tortured, White-Eyes rewards him with a break.
Like he's some friggen dog. Good Spot, jump Spot.
Scream a little scream, Spot.
Good boy.
Dean's pretty sure White-Eyes knows he hates those breaks.
White-Eyes knows he's onto something. He's still screaming and gibbering in the tests, especially when they start to get creative with the white powder and water combos, but he feels like so long as he's got Sammy, they can't get at him no matter what they do. When White-Eyes gives him another break - the friggen heartless bastard, drawing this out - Dean's head lolls against the table's cold metal, eyes half-closed as he catches his breath, deathly pale face flecked with his own blood, barely even feeling that weird drug in him this time around. He'll make it, Dean tells himself feverishly, he'll make it for Sam. He's gotta be able to walk and move when Sammy finds him, he's gotta be useful so Sammy won't be dragging him around like dead weight. It's not even if Sam finds him, 'cause Dean can't even accept that anymore, it's just when.
Sam'll come rescue him. Dean won't even give him crap for it. He'll just be happy to get the hell outta here.
Dean's eyes are glazed over as he pants quietly, not even sure why he's still panting when his lungs don't work. Maybe it's a reflex. Hasn't been cut out of him yet. It's not like White-Eyes isn't working on it. Around him, he can hear White-Eyes's staff working; ever since he's managed to learn how to move his head and fingers, he's been able to get a look around the room. It's big, decorated with all kinds of glowing symbols on the walls that he thinks he should know but can't remember anymore, and there are other empty tables up against the wall. No roomies. Machines up near his left, with wires trailing down and attached to him, monitoring his "progress". Sometimes they take samples from him, a little cut of skin here, some blood there, but after White-Eyes it's so minor he doesn't even feel them do it. They're probably doing it now, Dean's head tilted and getting a good look of a nurse's ass as she stands next to him, bending over his legs.
Pink panties. Nice, a part of him thinks dizzily, and he has no idea anymore where stuff like that comes from.
The nurse doesn't even look at him. Dean knows he's just meat to her. Just a job. White-Eyes is the only one who seems to think he's special, who cares.
His hand twitches, fingers clenching, but there's no way he can pop his way outta these cuffs. Not yet. He'll get there, if he could just get two seconds to concentrate and if White-Eyes would stop giving him homework.
The homework thing has been there as long as he can remember. He doesn't even try to answer anymore when White-Eyes comes every morning, but that's beside the point - Dean hears it in his head now, relentless questions about who he used to be, and it's a struggle to drag himself from trying to automatically answer them in his head and focus on Sam. He can't afford to go into circles chasing his own tail, spending hours trying to remember when he needs to focus on helping Sam when he gets here.
It eventually dawns on Dean as he recovers on the cadaver table that this break is shaping up to be a weirdly long one.
That's when the door opens, and the voices of the staff around him suddenly go quiet. It's someone he's never heard before:
"How's the progress, Alexander?"
"Better than expected," White-Eyes says mildly. But Dean's not fooled. He's spent so long with the monster he can pick out the tone in his voice. It's so faint he barely even senses it, but there's a level of disdain. "Why don't you take a look yourself, Mr. Landel?"
Landel comes over. Dean can't explain it, White-Eyes is nothing but polite, but somehow he thinks the monster is annoyed at the intruder's interruption, although judging by everyone else's reactions, Landel isn't some random guy. Dean feels White-Eyes cup his face, turning it to face the light again, and he blinks up at the two men, glassy-eyed. There's another shadow peering down at him, arms crossed behind his back.
"The subject," a faint pause, as if White-Eyes stops himself from sounding too overly familiar with his toy, "was killed several months ago by mauling. As you can see right here," a hand on his stitched up stomach. "Our attempts to revive him were entirely successful, but his use of motor controls are still returning. It's not an instantaneous process. However, it's going faster than I initially predicted, so I think we can expect to go into the next phase by early next week."
Dean's eyes shift from Landel to White-Eyes, unconsciously seeking him out. Christ, he hates the bastard, but at least he's one he knows. Landel's just a big mystery and right now, Dean doesn't have it in him to deal with surprises. Landel grabs something from one of the nurses - a sterile glove snaps on - and then prods Dean, shining a light into his eyes. Then he examines Dean, checking over each and every injury methodically, some of them somehow healing - Dean has no idea how they do that when he's a stiff, except maybe it's those pills they test on him - touching the iron rod shoved right between his ribs and still stuck in there since this morning. Landel's hand reaches out and touches something on his chest. An unfamiliar gloved finger traces some triangle he can't see over his heart.
"This tattoo your work?" Landel asks.
White-Eyes's hand on his stomach tightens slightly. Possessively. "No. The subject acquired it from someone, or did it to himself, when he was still alive. I haven't removed it or touched it in any way."
"Is there a reason why?"
"It's a devil's trap. It's keeping him secured as much as the restraints are."
Landel looks down, his shadow holding a clipboard. Files of some kind, Dean thinks. He happens to glance over at White-Eyes, sees the monster looking at him, and for a second, he feels something for the man, like they're sharing something when their eyes meet. White-Eyes dips his head slightly - apologetically? - and Dean has no idea what's gonna happen next for the first time in his new dead life. Before, it's just been Day-Torture, Night-Trying to Stay Sane, and then it repeats. That's just how it's supposed to be, except right now, it's not and Dean flounders. Landel seems to be in charge, someone who has a say over White-Eyes, and it friggen blows his damn mind. He can't even process it. Landel rifles through the pages.
They talk over him like he doesn't exist. Which, technically, is kinda true.
"Says he has a brother who's still one of our patients. Could be another subject."
"This one is more than adequate," White-Eyes says, the pride bleeding through. His voice is clipped. "It won't be necessary. I'm getting excellent results."
"Don't be stubborn. You have plenty of room and the best facilities for at least four more patients, Alexander. With the patients we get weekly, we can afford some additions to your program." A pause. White-Eyes probably shook his head. "Well then, there are other programs we have running who need fresh participants."
Dean's petrified. Sam. Landel wants to go after Sam. Dean groans then, trying to get enough coordination to work his mouth, pulling at those invisible strings. His head lolls, glaring up at Landel's shadow.
"I'll fucking kill you if you get near my brother," he grits out. He's pissed to find it comes out in a hoarse whisper. It doesn't even sound remotely threatening to him.
Landel just chuckles, studying Dean's eyes like a prize racehorse.
That now-familiar rage overwhelms him again, Dean fixed in a death stare on the man's shadow. Weirdly enough, it's White-Eyes who comes to the rescue.
"In my professional opinion it'd be wiser to leave his brother alone," White-Eyes sweeps in, almost as delicately as he can handle a machete and make it an art. "The next phase of the program hinges on a little give, a little take, Martin. The subject needs this. It's touch-and-go from here on out, and taking this away won't help, especially since he's the prototype and I'll remind you again this isn't a factory. If I press too hard, too quickly, he'll be useless, forcing us to start all over."
White-Eyes glances down at Dean, "Each individual requires a different method, which takes time and my full undivided attention. Once we've laid the groundwork with this one, then I can start on more, but until then, I wouldn't suggest it. There are other patients I can most certainly recommend for the other institute programs, anyway. Better ones even. I believe we have a 'Genjyo Sanzo' in freeze, yes?"
Dean hates today already. It's only been less than an hour and everything he knows is getting turned on its head. Now he can't tell how much he loathes White-Eyes and how much of him is grateful for protecting Sammy. He's poked and prodded some more, White-Eyes made to run through all the tests, from the water to the white powder to more iron, and soon Dean's spasming on the table even though in the back of his mind, he senses White-Eyes is just trying to get Martin Landel outta the room as fast as he can. It takes awhile to satisfy the stranger, Dean jerking up against the cuffs and the metal bar, causing it to rattle and groan dangerously. Eventually Martin Landel leaves with the new report. White-Eyes stands next to the cadaver table watching him go, arms crossed over his chest as Dean tries to blink the water out of his face: the water's painful even when he's not getting splashed, and he can feel every drop trickling a burning trail down his skin.
One seeps a slow, torturous path down his eyebrow and into his friggen eye. His gasps sound loud and haggard in his ears.
White-Eyes kicks everyone out of the room. Dean gets he's upset but he finds out how pissed off he is.
For the first time ever, White-Eyes just hacks into him. Sloppy as hell. There's no art to it. He just drives into him relentlessly with the knife, a bowie knife Dean almost thinks is familiar, and works him over in a fury. It's so fast and hard Dean doesn't have time to get used to it before White-Eyes stabs him a final time in the base of his neck, just above the collarbone, and leaves the bowie buried up to the hilt before stalking out without even cleaning the blood off Dean or turning off the light.
The first thought Dean has, once he gets used to the feeling of a knife friggen stuck in him, is goddamit, I can't move. The bastard pinned him.
But he also saved Sam, or at least gave Sam more time to find him, and that's not helping Dean right now.
Dean squints up at the light blinding him, and waits for tomorrow morning.
Part II