|| SPN || AR || R || Slash ||
masterpost
prologue
part 1
part 2
part 3
part 4
Bad news. Dean knows it just from the looks, the pale, bruised skin under the runner's eyes, the choked way she said Marissa when Dean had asked her name. The tears in clothes (and they look like claw marks, Dean notes, or sharp nails shredding the material along the girl's stomach and legs) and the gouges underneath, long since crusted maroon and sealed shut.
"Sir," she says and her voice is ragged, caught on the edge of panting. "Militia's caught on the edge of the City. The demons - they've broke through, and we were. We were the only ones to make it out of Haven."
"Who?" There's some groups almost as deadly as the demons. Dean's run into them before, learned the hard way what damage they can do.
"Lazzara's 2nd."
**
Dean first tries to call Porter's number. Over and over again, and no one picks up. It's the same on the comm - he can't get a hold of Sam, either, so he leaves the office, heads toward the lobby.
"Hey," he stops the nearest person, "the girl that came before the rest of the refugees - Marissa - where'd she go?"
"Uh, down to the infimary? Everyone's under quarantine in the clinic."
When he gets there, the nurses and doctors don't want to let him in, but he pushes at them, yells, "the fuck? We've already been exposed to anything they might be carrying!" Because they still don't have a system for these kind of emergencies - no sure way to fully detain any newcomers until they can be sorted out and dealt with.
That's mainly because the buildings on East Main Street are rickety, crumbling things. They were before the horde and they definitely are now. Can't seal off any rooms outside the infirmary itself, and now that patrols have increased, those rooms are needed for the wounded, because the equipment is either too sensitive or too bulky to move to other areas in East Main. Infirmary or nothing, the nurses told Dean when he'd brought up moving the "clinic" to another area so that the actual clinic could be converted to cells to hold refugees.
The doctor, who he barely ever sees, anyway, guy's always gone or busy or whatever, grumbles at Dean's words, but waves him down the hall. "Good luck finding anyone in that mess." The hallways and exam rooms are crowded, people spilling out in messy groups, and Dean just prays they don't have an emergency before these people are cleared.
The people here are as thin faced as anyone in Drenn, but they whisper incessantly, some kneeling and bowing and Dean remembers what Sam said. Religious fervor. It's a strange sight, and maybe that would have been it, just some zealots crowding a clinic hallway, but he can see the fever, that twisted bit that lets him know these guys could be dangerous. A cult, he thinks, preaching about the end of the world at the end of the world.
"Have you - " he gets waved away, some more like giving him the finger than just a dismissal, and he thinks this new desperation isn't going to blend well with East Main.
"Hey!" He finally yells it, banging the wall with his fist; it gets people turning toward him. "I need to find the runner. A girl named Marissa." People shuffle, eyes dead and legs restless. Dean snarls, "now."
It's stuffy and quiet until a man steps forward, greasy hair and shaggy, patchy beard framing a mouth missing a few teeth. "I think I saw some people take her through there," and he points to the back of the hall, to where double doors seal off the emergency center from the rest of the clinic.
When he finds her, she's as small as he first thought she was. A teenager, maybe, all dirty, broken skin and knobs of bone. She looks frightened, but he doesn't take the time to reassure her, barks out, "what else do you know?"
There are machines around her, though they're turned off. She'd have blood tests done, being the one to show scratches and marks. She looks around and, apparently not seeing an out, she says, "only that the City is closed off. There are guards along the borders that'll kill you if you try to get cross their barricades. Haven is gone, and there were people tearing kids apart, you know? They were so angry, and some of their eyes were red and black, and they were just trying to kill us, and the guards pushed us away, shot at us, they even. They even had flamethrowers and they would turn them on the crowd. I saw kids set on fire. I saw them jump on other people. It was."
He waits, but she doesn't continue. He finally snaps, "did any suspicious people come with your group?"
"Nn-no. Anyone acting up was killed. They did it to at least two on the way here. Crossing the bridge out of Haven. We killed anyone we thought might be sick."
"Did - "
She sobs, shoving her hands in his face. They're blistered, with angry red marks across her palms. "I cut off someone's head. The blade was so blunt she. She screamed and tried to run away and people held her down until, until it was finished. She - she begged me, asked for her husband and her baby. She said. She said she was fine, could prove it, but we knew. They told me they knew different." Her voice is a screech, some dying bird, but she doesn't stop, just barrels on. "People begged us, they tugged at my clothes, held on and I kicked them off. I had to get somewhere safe. You know? I'd. I'd seen what was happening, and the City wasn't letting us in so our only choice was here, to come here. We wouldn't let anyone ruin our chance. We knew if anyone even looked like a possibility for the sickness we'd be turned away here, too. We weren't going to take that risk. None of us were. Not just me. All of us, okay? It wasn't just me."
"Okay," he says, and watches her face crumple, watches how her body shrinks in on itself like she's not even aware of how hard she's trying to disappear. She's seen monsters, and now that's she's free of them she shudders every time her hands brush over her own skin.
He thinks, we're too late.
**
They get news of a second breach on their south side. It rides the tide of scared, dirty faces battering at the barricades of their territory. West Street's gone, demons are riding the leaders...kill...altars...they got the main roads, now. Dean hears all of it - the fear, the threats. His people can't feed more hungry mouths, the medical supplies won't stretch to cover these newcomers. These aren't even the fighters. These are the left overs, professionals in another life and useless in this one.
Frank says, "Some are wounded, Dean. We can't, we can't tell from what. And there's no room in the infirmary." Dean knows the look on Frank's face, he's seen it on countless other people, scared people, ignorant people. Never on Frank, though. That's new.
It's hopeless, unsure. What do we do, just tell us what to do.
Dean turns away from it, something like disappointment lodged in his chest. It's been quiet across the New River; nothing from Porter, just dead silence, now, not even a dial tone. He doesn't know if anyone there is alive. He knows Haven's not standing any more. He has its remnants cluttering Drenn's streets. Porter might be dead, but Dean can hear his voice saying, no room for error.
They have to save people.
He should say, isolate the wounded. Or, kill them. Fuckin' line up a firing squad just to make sure that East Main is safe.
He says, "Let them in."
It turns out to be a mistake.
There are too many people, no way they can watch them all; no way they can assign even the majority of the refugees to a certain area. Not, and have it stick, have any of the newcomers really listen.
They do what they can. They push back the barricades on Skyline Drive, and when they go out on patrols they head straight for the roamers' campsites, for the one threat Dean knows they can handle, instead of waiting for the roamers to come to East Main or any of the other groups near East Main.
They go out, now, and they kill them. They don't start out with that in mind. Dean's just too fed up with the bad news, with the fact that Sam's not checking in, that he can't take the time to find out if his brother's safe or even alive, to really notice how violent the fights are. And then afterward he thinks, better them than us. Better them than more tears and more pain.
So they patrol, and Dean tries to raise the marked on the comm. Again and again and again.
On his worst days that's his excuse, the reason why he lets it slide, or doesn't see or whatever the fuck really happens. It doesn't help.
When he sees her body, limp and torn, and when he can see the way the blood congeals on the bathroom floor, sticky and too-red, he knows there's nothing he can say that will help.
**
It's Jo. Out of all the ones it could have been, it's her.
He can't even begin to process it, beyond thinking, thank god she passed out. It makes it easier to transport her to the infirmary; quieter, at least, with no screams and no begging.
One of the refugees must have been sick with the demon virus, or a walker got in through wards and all the other shit designed to keep them out. It's not clear right now; garbled comments thrown all over the place as soon as he got there, took in the blood and the frenzy. Something, walker or viral person got in and then tore into Jo. East Main's on alert, tight behind what doors they can shut. He's got Frank and Frank's budding crew securing what they can.
But Jo. She's bad, and even though her knife was covered in blood, he knows it's not enough. If she lives, she'll be infected, she'll have to be killed, and maybe he should have done it, pulled out his gun right there, shot her. But Ellen, face bone-white and eyes frantic, was already there, and Dean could tell she knew, better even than he did. He couldn't bring himself to have her dragged away so she wouldn't have to watch her daughter die. Couldn't even touch his gun, let alone pull the trigger.
"Maybe..." He can't look at Ellen, he can't see the lines on her face or the way her eyes bleed with grief. "Without surgery, she'll bleed out." He has to say it, has to take that responsibility, even when Ellen fuckin' keens at the words. "She'll be cremated, and she won't even show symptoms." We won't have to put a gun to her head or a knife through her heart. Won't have her blood on us.
"No," the word's long, drawn out, where Ellen's bent over her knees. Trying to keep the sobs back, trying to breathe, maybe. It's not working, and Dean doesn't flinch when she straightens, moves so that she's in front of him. "There has to be something!" Ellen's hands are pressed to his cheeks. They're cold, pale, and he smells the metallic afterbite of blood. Jo's. "A - a vaccine? A cure?" She's waiting, so Dean shakes his head and feels her nails dig a bit into his face. "It can't end like this!"
"I'm sorry. God, Ellen, I don't want this, either." He pushes her hands away, pushes her away. "Fuck. I would if I could; I'd give anything to be able to make this okay. But we'd just waste time and be left with useless shit. We don't have the skills, we don't have the materials, and we couldn't find anything in enough time to save Jo, anyway." He wants to say yes, wants to say we can try, but he knows he can't. Not to her. "You have to let her go."
She slumps against the wall, back pressed to it, and Dean thinks for one heartbreaking minute how close she is, how on the other side of that wall her daughter's on a gurney, bleeding out blood and antibodies. Demon borne virus.
**
He kills a demon, one of the walkers, two days after Jo's death. Walking along the cracked sidewalk of Main Street, ignoring the charred remains of buildings and the sly stench of too many people, and focusing on the sun, on the clear day that's rare enough that there are more people out than he's used to seeing.
It's a little too normal, after months of fighting for every little thing. Things are quiet, still, because they can't waste the gas outside of patrols and emergency vehicles. He passes by group after group, nods at the comms and the guns and actually has to dodge kids who are trying to start a kickball game in the street.
He clears the worst of the crowd, finds himself starting down toward Skyline Drive, when he sees her. He sees just a shadow, at first, a small dark thing off in the distance, but his eyes catch hold of it against the horizon of trees, and he waits. Sometimes one or two saner people from the roamers will break off, seek shelter with a community, but that hasn't happened for awhile. Only people from other communities seek out East Main, now, and never singly. It might be nothing, just a random person, but Dean's already feeling for the familiar weight of his knife, cursing his lack of a gun.
The shape moves closer, path deadset on his, and he looks around. It's emptier here, on the outskirts, but he's seen a few faces in the windows. Maybe he doesn't like people living this far away, but with the drastic swell of people in East Main, they really don't have a choice but to settle farther out.
The smell of rot is clear, and when she walks up to him all four feet of her is sloughing, decomposing, gray-black and bloating. When she opens her mouth (slack-jawed maw and ragged, broken teeth), says "we've won," in a thick, moist lisp, the smell of overripe grapes almost makes him gag. The host is dead, been that way for a while, judging by the damage, the progression of decay. He wonders distantly how many buildings the demon jumped from, how many fights over territory it got into, before the little girl trapped inside died from it all. He draws his blade, sanctified by water and fire, and it doesn't take much, demon obviously weak enough that it couldn't preserve the body. The demon doesn't run, doesn't fight, when the blade comes forward, slides behind the eye.
There's an arc of blue-white electricity before the body falls and hits the cracked asphalt with a wet squelch. Viscous blood puddles around her matted blond braid, oozes down to stain her paisley dress.
He hears a single shriek, cut off mercilessly by the sound of a slamming door, before the rumble of an engine clears his ears. Patrol, a second too late.
He learns later that she had been missing for a month, back when the first wave of refugees had flooded East Main. She got lost in the shuffle, and must have wandered off. Greta, the caretaker says. Greta Martin.
The morticians clean her off, stitch up what they can, but there's nothing to do for the parts that aren't there, caught instead in the cracks of the sidewalk, waiting until the sweepers come, push it all into the drains. He watches as the workers wrap her in a shroud, and he rides with them when they transport her to the incinerator. When they have her settled, resting against the steel slab sticking out of the oven, Dean notifies her family.
They come, shivering and crying. A tired-looking woman moves forward, rests a hand on the little bundle's edge. A small woman lurking at the back wall steps forward, murmurs, "It may be best to keep her covered." The mother works to smother her sobs into a series of hiccups, and Dean is envious of how easily the mortuary worker melts back, divorces herself from the situation.
Dean steps forward, lets his arms hang loose, close enough that a centimeter would allow him to touch her. He says, "Mrs. Martin?"
He's expecting the pain when her open palm connects with his cheek, that fills the silence with the sharp crack of flesh against flesh. He's ready for the bite of blood against his lips, slipping into his mouth. He holds her against the screams that make her stumble, against the tears that blind her, and tries not to say anything, because he knows words won't help, can't change a thing.
**
He comes when he hears the medic channel buzz to life with a description of Greta's mother and directions to the pick up site. She's hanging blue and stiff in the doorway of an old department store. Her only company are the spare limbs off clothing dummies scattered between boxes and over turned displays. Dust sparkles in the air when the sun makes it through the broken windows, the unsealed door.
One week.
Frank says, "Shame," as he oversees the removal of the body. There are bags to collect personal effects (a bracelet, a ragged shoe that fell off); certificates to fill out before they have to trundle the body over to the morticians for a final examination and incineration. Everything is handled through the medics, while the remaining hospital archivist handles the paperwork. So people know, the bespectacled woman says whenever anyone asks. Dean wonders if anyone is going to be around to care who died and when and why. "How long now, and it still takes people by surprise."
He's tired, rubbing eyes that burn with the lack of sleep, with pictures of spoiled meat that wears little girl faces. He wants to say, still took you by surprise, but he only mutters, "just get it done, okay? I want this wrapped up quick."
He lets Frank take the news to her husband.
**
He kills six more walkers after that, almost one after another, each frighteningly close to Briar Pointe. The walkers always come singly, slow and methodical, straight up to someone. Like they don't care or like they're compelled to do it. Every time he smells a walker, sick sweet grape and garbage, he breaks out in goosebumps waiting for an attack that never really comes. They wait for him to strike, they wait for anyone to strike. Dean thinks, fear is effective and it sounds like Sam, like static and too much space.
Patrolling units, of course, make the kill count higher.
They go through supplies at break neck speed, and Dean thinks, this is it. This is it, with all the dead before the horde and after, and there's a part of Dean that expects to see moving chunks - maybe a hand or a foot, animated and intent.
Sometimes when he closes his eyes and sees nothing but bloated, dead faces, he thinks about seeing a hand scamper up Skyline Drive. Maybe he'd laugh, before blowing it to bits, before the scent of rotted meat and gunpowder crawled inside his nose and lodged there.
Almost worth it, he thinks. If this is the count down, and it sure fuckin' feels like one - although Dean's still not sure to what - it'd better be worth a laugh or two. At least a smile that doesn't have a threat behind it.
**
Sam starts picking up comm calls now. His voice is thin and reedy, these days, and Dean fights back all his come backs and all his it's okays.
Sam can't come back. East Main is rolling around in their own fear and paranoia. They'd finish the marked off within minutes, if the marked didn't get them first. So Dean lets the airwaves carry death, carry bitter, heavy regret. Sam hears, sends it back, magnified with distance. They don't protect each other these days; they can't, even though every hot, sweaty grip on him reminds Dean of Sam. All the guilt, all the tears and blood. Dean thinks, Sam.
It's not okay; nothing is. There's only another glassy eyed, dark clothed form spread out on the incinerator's slab. There's a sheet over the body, but it's in pieces anyway, under the fabric. He whispers to the Sam in his ear everything he can remember. The way it shrieked and twisted as the body died a second time. The smell of rot, the way the body just kind of collapsed into chunks once the demon was gone.
When the flames leap up, lick over the corpse, all Dean can think is nothing salvageable.
**
He fucks Frank, dirty and slow, pressed up against his apartment door. When he comes he has to bite back a need that has nothing to do with fucking and everything to do with the brother whose name is lodged behind his teeth.
They're nothing alike, anyway.
**
When his comm crackles to life, he knows it's bad. Has to be bad, because that's the way things are going, days of blood and death. And then they sleep and wake up to the same. Except now it's Sam's channel, bursting in on the general line.
"Dean," Sam's voice is staticy, and there's something underneath it that Dean can't define. It makes him uneasy, skin crawling in ways that even long-distance patrols don't bother him. "I'm sorry."
"Sammy, what - "
Then the static resolves itself into voices, angry and buzzing. "I'm so sorry, Dean." It's panic. That thing coating Sam's words, it's panic. "I tried, okay? But."
Dean's running, crashing into doors, shoving people out of the way, and fuck it all where did all this shit come from? "Wait, wait, goddammit, Sammy -" and he knows his brother, knows what hopelessness sounds like on the waves of his words. He knows just how far away the marked's territory is. He can't get there, it's too far, and he never should've -
- he hears something, and maybe Sam thought he disconnected, but Dean hears, "run, Andy, take it and run!" And then the voices travel, and he hears a noise - the comm, the comm is falling.
**
The first thing he's aware of is a sticky, wet mess of pain in the back of his head. The second is Frank standing in front of him. The third is the bat knocked into the corner.
Son of a bitch.
And he knows. He knows that most of the people here have already lost someone, that they don't really care about anyone else's grief. Knows Frank has lost, and what that means for Dean.
"Fuckin' let me go! You don't - "
"We're waiting, Dean. We have to. The call was on the general channel; when it went dead, we couldn't raise him on it again." Then, softer, "he's already dead." And Dean thinks, how? How do you know that? He can fight, he's strong.
His wrists are already bloody from rubbing against the zipties, fuckin' zipties, around his wrists. "The marked - "
"We knew they were fuckin' dangerous." Frank's in his face now, lips tight and white. Dean can't punch him so he waits 'til Frank bends a little farther, scoots closer, and then kicks him in the crotch. Or at least, that's what he was aiming for - the angle's off and he only gets him high in his thigh. It's enough, though, Frank's breath whooshes out and he backs away.
"Sam's not," he snarls, spitting it out. "He's not, and. Andy's there, or something. The rest are going after him, too."
"We're waiting," Frank says, and Dean thinks, where's Bobby? Fuck, where's Bobby? "We gotta do this smart."
"Bobby," it comes out a scream, so loud that Frank jumps with it, the chair he's sitting on clattering with the movement. Dean screams it again. Over and over until his throat's aching, spit blood-red where drops land on his thigh. "Bobby!"
He yanks at the ties around his wrists, feels the hard plastic dig in, pressure breaking skin and giving the illusion of plasticity when fresh blood slicks the material. "Fuck! I'm going to fuckin' kill you." Frank just winces, stays away. "What are we waiting for? Huh? What?"
Frank finally looks at him, but it's only for a minute before he turns back to the doors. Waiting. "Someone's gotta decide what's safe." Those are the stupidest fuckin' words Dean's heard in his life. Gotta be, because this isn't safe, this is. This is not helping Sam.
Sam.
He snarls, jerks. Nothing. Of course, the one sturdy thing left in Briar Pointe and he has to be fuckin' tied to it. "Come on! Bobby!"
**
When Bobby finally does come, it's not what he's expecting. Ellen's back behind him, face empty and as expressionless as it's been since Jo died. Dean sees her and thinks, no, nonono. But Bobby's no better, eyes wet and red and mouth turned down.
"You can't go runnin' head long into this, Dean." Maybe if it was anyone but Bobby saying that Dean would kill them. Maybe Bobby wouldn't be the exception, if Dean wasn't ziptied to a fuckin' pipe in the wall. "I know you want to, Dean, but that don't make it smart."
"Bobby, I - "
"No. You listen, you hear me? I loved Sam, damn fool that he was, and I raised you boys, but if what you're saying is true, then he's gone." There's a pause, but Dean can't fill it in, Bobby's demand leeching everything out of him. "And we can't go in there expectin' to find him. We're going because we gotta know what the marked are doin', okay?
"If they're. If they've done something, Dean, invited something in. Hell, even if their powers attracted some nasty, it'll be bad. You know that. So expect the worst."
Dean stares at him. He can't, he can't, but Bobby's not budging, and Dean knows Bobby'll leave him here. Take a group and go without Dean, so he nods, eyes dry and stinging. Bobby hesitates for a minute, unsure, but he digs his pocket knife out, and breaks the zipties.
"Alright, son. Let's go."
**
Of course, it's not that easy, and Dean cusses at all the time wasted gathering supplies. The need to move is an itch under his skin; he can't say it's grief, not really, just anger. He thinks, Sam's dead.
Sam. Dead.
When everyone else is scurrying, getting their shit together, he's standing still, imagining finding his brother's body. Seeing it, like he's seen Victoria's and Jo's. Greta's. They'll burn it, let flames eat away any chance of him turning into a walker or something besides a still, broken corpse.
He's going to find Andy, and then he's going to kill the rest of them. The marked. They're going to die, and he's seen Frank load up on knives, curved blades and throwing daggers, everything he's held onto since the horde first hit Downtown. He's since added in Jo's collection, the ones Ellen had given him with a shrug and a bittersweet smile.
Dean has guns. And ammo, lots of it. He wants the marked in pieces, sticky chunks that even the horde would be jealous of.
"Dean." Frank, holding wet gauze. "I'm sorry."
Dean takes it, snatches it so forcefully that Frank almost staggers. Dean presses the bandage to the back of his head, feels the sting of alcohol against heated skin. "Fuck you," and he thinks, Victoria. Flashes to her room, the knife and the blood. Her tearless sobs.
Frank smiles, and it's almost twisted, almost vicious.
**
They don't know where to look at first. The district is quiet, and at first it shocks Dean. He expected riots and fire and blood, but then he remembers the marked are only a handful of people occupying a large area. No one, even after more groups popped up, wanted the finance district.
Dean leads the group to the marked's main building, the old minting firm. They go in careful, but it's empty.
Their flashlights make arcs over the dark, barren ground floor. Frank snakes his towards Dean, but keeps it out of his eyes. "Where else?"
Dean thinks about green sky and restlessness, says, "come on."
It's a long walk, and everyone's silent, alert. It's pitch black out here, devoid of even the few lights that East Main can boast. The thickness that Dean remembers is still here, though, static prickling the skin, making him want to spin around, see what's behind him.
He leads them to where Sam had taken him. The building's so destroyed that he's never known what it was supposed to be. The steps creak, one or two wobble and he keeps his light right in front of him, not knowing what damage is new since he'd been here.
Sam's turned on his stomach, and in the beam of his light, Dean can see a dark red stain in the small of Sam's back. He's still, stiff looking, and everyone crowds behind Dean for a moment, just staring.
Sam's dead.
When Dean can finally move, he eases his way to his brother's side. There are signs of a fight, fallen beams broken under thrown weight, busted skin on Sam's face and hands, blood matted in his hair.
"Sammy." It comes out low, broken, and Bobby shuffles forward, kneels with him. "God no. No, Sam, please." Dean shakes at him, blinded by tears, by hot streaks on his face, burning his skin, and Bobby grabs him, tries to pull him away. "No! Fuck, goddammit. No!"
But Bobby keeps pulling, says, "we ain't done, Dean. I'm sorry, but we ain't done."
Long minutes pass. Dean braces Sam up, heavy weight in his arms, and Bobby does the same for Dean, arm strong and tight around his shoulders, until Dean finally stops, lets Sam fall back to the floor.
"Dean," it's Ellen and he looks up, light throwing odd shadows across her face. "Do you have any idea...?"
Because there's still Andy, somewhere. They hadn't seen any sign of his body, so maybe he got away. But Dean doesn't know where any of them would go. As far as he knows, this was it, outside of patrols, and that's too much of an area to try to cover tonight.
Except his head's bent, braced on the palm of one hand, and when he turns, looks through the sea of legs, he can spot the stash of personal shit that he'd seen last time he was here. The marks of someone spending too much time in one spot.
He scrambles to his feet, pushes Ellen and Frank to the side, falls to his knees and digs. There are a few bandages, an empty can of food pried open with a knife. And then he sees books, random things until he comes to one, seemingly purposefully hidden behind the small stack. There's a vibrant red placeholder tucked into the pages halfway through. When he flips it open he sees where Sam had circled a heading in pen.
"Higgins Crossroad," Dean reads. He hears Bobby curse behind him. "You know where that is." He's aware, too aware, of his brother's body splayed and broken and dead behind him. It's like a lead weight drawing him backwards. He doesn't want to go.
"I know what that means," Bobby growls. "We can." Ellen surges forward with the gas can, quick and jerky like she's been waiting for those words. "I know it's not what you want, but if we're gonna."
Burn him. Bobby wants to burn him now. Here. Dean almost says no, almost fuckin' punches Bobby right there, because he doesn't want to burn and run, doesn't think he can. But there's Andy, and maybe Sam told him something, maybe he's important enough that Dean has to.
So he sprinkles Sam's body with the salt, wishes now for the same incense they'd used before, but it's only the gas soaking Sam and the floor, wetting his clothes like blood. They can't even stay, after, everyone hurrying down half-rotted stairs, out of the building. Running until they're panting, leaving fire and smoke and Dean's brother behind.
The moon's high when they get back to where they left the car. "We've gotta leave Downtown." Dean knows that means time. Backtracking out of these districts and heading over Haven way.
"Wait."
It's a new voice, small and scared, and right before Dean's about to shoot. Smoke is billowing up, fire red orange against darkness, and it's all Dean can smell, staying in his nose until he can imagine the faint too-sweet tang of burning flesh. "Andy?"
"Yeah, I. I heard you guys pull up. I waited."
Dean steps closer, and he doesn't know what's on his face, but Andy stumbles away. "Why?"
"I had to make sure." Andy whispers, and it's like pleading, like he's begging. "Sam gave me this. He was trying to get back to you."
Dean's breath hitches and he leans against the car. It's cold, been sitting out here for awhile, and his skin throbs where it touches the metal. He looks at the gun Andy's holding. It's an old relic of a thing, engraved etchings all along it. He doesn't try to take it, though, he can see how tightly Andy's holding on to it.
"He realized what we were. He was afraid, and he knew what. He knew what to do, and he was going back to Drenn to tell you everything, to take you this."
"Andy."
But Andy either doesn't hear the warning or doesn't care. "It's a demon. We called him Yellow Eyes when we started dreaming about him. But he. He must have liked Sam a lot, because he told Sam things we didn't know. And then. Then Sam told me that he knew how his mom was killed and he knew what to do. He went to his hideout and came back with the gun and a name." Andy breathes, still staring up at Dean, stilling begging him for something. "Azazel."
"Boy," Bobby breaks in, coming around to Dean's side. "Did you just say 'Azazel'?"
When Andy nods, Dean looks away, catches the grimace flashing over Bobby's face. "You know who that is."
"Yeah," Bobby says. "Or who he was, at least." Bobby pauses and Dean waits. Then, "He used to work for your daddy. And if I'm not mistaken," Bobby adds, dipping his head in the direction of the gun, "That's the Colt. The only gun I've heard about that can open the gate to hell. And Sam just happened upon that?"
Andy blanches, but doesn't say anything to that. Dean supposes they can take that for whatever answer they want: yes, no, maybe.
Damn you, Sam.
Dean snarls and stares at Andy's hands, what's being half-shielded in them. The moonlight bleaches most things out, but the gun's barrel glints. "Fuck," he murmurs and Andy's arms reel back in, gun clutched to his chest. "How could." But he can't finish that, doesn't want to say, how did he know this shit; how could he not tell me; what did he do; what does this mean?
He's jerked back to the conversation when he hears Andy's, "I know where Azazel's going to be. It's where the rest of the marked went tonight."
Bobby huffs, edging back around the car to the driver's side. "The Crossroads." Bobby looks at Dean. "We've gotta do this tonight." Like Dean was going to refuse or say differently.
Dean's tugging blindly at the handle, fuckin' sticky lock, only stopping when Andy crowds in close, whispers, "he wanted to get back to you," like that makes everything okay, like the fact that his brother's corpse is burning away in a deserted fuckin' district is suddenly bearable, because of what Sam wanted.
He lied and he hid, Dean thinks, and his face must show what he's thinking because Andy pales in the flickering beam of the flashlights. He doesn't step away, though, and he doesn't stop. "He tried to - fight - something that was bigger than him, Dean, because it was right. He saved me, because..." Andy trails off, unsure or unwilling to say the next bit.
"And that matters?" He hisses it, and by now he's getting looks, people waiting and watching, but he doesn't care. Andy knows something about Sam, something Dean maybe didn't know, and it's important. Dean wants to know.
"Yeah, it does. I was there. I saw what he did, what he gave up." Andy pushes Dean's hand out of the way, lifts the handle himself and pulls. The door opens. "It wasn't his fault, Dean, they - they killed him because he didn't trust Azazel, and he was just trying to get us to listen."
"He should have gotten out of there." Dean's voice is low, dead sounding even to his ears. It's almost startling.
Andy lets out a shaky breath, says, "he wanted to save us." And when that apparently doesn't get the reaction Andy's hoping for, he adds, "don't blame him, Dean."
And all Dean can think to say is, that's it? That's all you've got? Or, he didn't want me to know, so he doesn't say anything at all.
**
They drive deeper into the area surrounding Downtown, and it's just as eerie as the first time Dean ever had, back when he first got a license and one of Bobby's junkers. The road's worse, too, almost too rough to be considered a road, but Bobby keeps on, grunting and cussing, hands rough on the wheel when it jerks and bounces with the ruts.
"Who's Azazel?" It's quiet, and his question breaks the stillness. He can almost feel Bobby's inhale, rough and broken.
"Now? I'm guessin' a powerful demon or lowlevel god. He was your daddy's advisor, after Daniel Elkins died. Some Desert born transplant. Already had the name of somethin' supernatural, so maybe it tickled John's sense of humor. Who knows. All I know, is that man had power, had access to everything your daddy did. Anything lookin' to." Bobby stops, like it hurts. Like everything is so fuckin' obvious now that it hurts to even think about. "Anything lookin' to stir up trouble would want to target him. But it'd have to be powerful. Couldn't be just anything that could sneak up on all the protections John laid down. Not even if Azazel the man agreed to it."
It's Frank that asks, "what would something like that want?"
Bobby thows up his hands, lets them fall back to the steering wheel with a thump. "I don't know, whatever it wanted, whatever it could take." Then, "Everything. The whole damned world."
Or a city, Dean thinks. The City. Kill whatever power stands in your way, and terrorize everyone else. They'll turn on each other. Dean's chest hurts, heart beating hard and erratic.
We'll turn on each other, pick each other off. Make it easy, and offer up - "the marked." It's hoarse, the words clawing up from his throat. "Were they. They were his."
"Not Sam," Bobby says like it makes a difference or makes anything better. Andy turns to him, and Dean can make out a glint of an eye.
Doesn't matter, Dean thinks, and settles back. They were right all along. The marked.
**
Dean's gotten used to not talking on the road - it's easier to be silent, to get to where ever he's going as fast as he can. So when Andy blurts out, "I can come back with you guys, right?" Dean jumps, and he can even hear Ellen's startled gasp. Everyone's quiet, and Dean doesn't look over at Andy, just stares out the center of the windshield at the broken road dimly revealed by the car's headlights.
Frank's the one that shifts sideways, sneaking an arm around Dean to pat at Andy's shoulder. "Yeah," Dean hears, and the word is soft. The hand slowly disappears out of Dean's eyesight, and he can almost feel Andy's sigh of relief.
**
Even Dean knows when they hit the Crossroads. It's just dead, dim road, and then suddenly it's not. It's big camping lights and a group of people gathered in a semicircle, backs to the car careening up on them. Dean almost tells Bobby to keep going, run them down, but Bobby's slamming on the breaks, fishtailing to avoid them. When the car stops - and that's eerie in itself: shadows of faces turned to them, standing still - Bobby turns, twisting until he can see over the seat into the back. He stares at Dean, and Dean sees grief in there, but mostly exhaustion, mostly failure.
Andy says, "maybe...maybe we should have prepared ourselves? I mean, we can't just - just rush out there. That's stupid, right?"
Bobby looks over at him, shakes his head. "If that's the Colt, it's all we need. Best weapon we got. Come on, let's get this over with."
Dean hears, "If?" but they get out, and Dean tries keeping Andy and what he's holding - grip tight and stubborn - behind him. The marked rush them, and Dean can see Jake at the head, and he knows all about Jake's super strength.
"Oh, no no no." The man Dean takes to be Azazel has a slow, rough voice. He's weathered and dried out. Rough looking, but there's a near constant sneer twisting his face. "No need for that. They're just little Andy's...entourage," and he sweeps his hand. Dean, Frank, Ellen and Bobby go flying. Dean slams into a tree, air whooshing out of him, sending pain racing into his legs. He can hear Frank's choked off scream, and then pressure's squeezing at him, sending blood rushing into his ears, heart beating loud and unsteady.
When it dims, he can see Andy standing just on the inside of the ring of light. He looks scared out of his mind, and Dean wants to groan. If they're stuck relying on Andy to get them out of this...
Just that easy, Dean thinks. For a second he can almost feel phantom wounds bleeding him dry. The invisible bands tighten around him the more he struggles, and Dean wonders if he could inadvertently choke himself to death just by shifting. He can hear mutters, whimpers, coming from around him. Ellen's voice is clogged and thick, and Frank. Frank's groaning like he's close to dying.
Andy's throat works, Dean can hear the sound of him swallowing. "You're Azazel."
"Ah," the thing drawls, "did poor little Sammy give you my name? Boy was smart." He tsks, glances over to where Dean's pinned against a tree. "My condolences for your loss. Really. I rather liked Sam, myself, was rooting for him." Azazel steps closer, the rest of the marked following behind him. "But this was a competition, and your brother? Too much of a hero, and that doesn't pay as great as it used to."
Andy looks from Azazel to Dean then back. "What is this?"
"Boredom." Azazel laughs, eyes glinting piss yellow in the lights around him. "Or the result of, I should say. Riddles and rhymes and mission quests. Illusions." He stops, cocks his head at Andy. "What? You thought all the midnight rendezvous were necessary?" He laughs again, cracked and a little crazy, even Dean can tell. "That was for fun. And you all," and Dean knows Azazel's addressing Dean and the rest, now, "supplied it - running around like angry chickens pecking each other to death. Scared little rabbits slaughtering each other for me. 'Don't let them in; they're evil. Ahh.'" Azazel's hands flap as he shrieks, a twisted parody of every scream Dean's heard. Dean sees Andy jerk, the gun bobbing around in his loose grip.
Azazel settles, then waves a hand behind him, dismissing the marked or the world. "But you," he's crowding Andy now, voice a low purr. "You have the Colt, and you know - I don't mind saying that that gun is the one thing I do actually need. So anything you want, just name it."
Dean's back is screaming. The weight pressing down on him, holding him in place, feels like knives jabbed through his skin. He can't get away, can't even turn to see if anyone else is okay.
"Anything?" Dean wants to cuss with how stupid Andy sounds, but Azazel nods. "Kill them," and Andy's pointing at the marked, all the ones lined up behind Azazel's back.
"All of them?" It's Andy's turn to nod, and Azazel laughs. "You're a bloodthirsty man, aren't you?" But the marked start screaming, writhing, slamming into each other as black veins grow and pulse under their skin. In the light it looks like black tar running over their faces, over their arms. When they crash to the ground, they're still alive, moaning and clawing at the ground and each other. When they're finally still, Azazel asks, "happy?"
"Not really." Andy says, and even the demon he's dealing with looks surprised. "Let them go."
"Ah, I thought you'd say that next." He takes a step closer, and Andy raises the gun, gets it level with Azazel's face. "Really? Well, then. Think about this. If you let them go, they're only going to hunt you down."
"Maybe I'm not going to help you." It's a stall, but even Dean can see it's a bad one. Azazel's face shifts, something ancient and furious crawling over his expression. "I mean - "
"That's not nice," and the sing song tone is fuckin' creepy as hell, makes Dean's skin twitch when he hears it. "After all, I just killed off all of my...potentials for you. For our deal. Are you going to tell me that a demon's the honest one of the pair?"
"Fuckin' shut up," Dean manages when Andy's actually looking shamefaced. His voice is rough, stuttering against the invisible hand gripping his throat. He's glaring hard at Andy. "And do somethin'."
Andy looks back at him, Colt held loose in his hand. There's hate there, if Dean had to guess, and he doesn't really blame the guy - can't - but he doesn't care, either. Andy turns back to Azazel, and even Dean can see the smirk Azazel gives Andy. "Good idea," the demon says, stepping forward, closer to Andy and away from the mess of the marked behind him, twisted corpses piled on one another.
"Yeah," Andy says, and his voice breaks high, like a kid's. "I thought so, too," and then he pulls the trigger.
The shot is weak, muffled, but it gets Azazel square in the forehead. He jerks with it, body bending backward, parallel to the ground, before he's jerked upright again, shocks of blue electricity dancing over his skin. There's a second heavier blast, followed by the scent of burning, before the camp lights explode, glass and plastic rattling toward the ground.
Dean falls, then, pressure suddenly gone. He can hear the sound as the others are freed, too. Frank groans and Dean thinks his ribs, at least, are broken.
So simple, he thinks. All it took was one second, one bullet, and the thing was dead. Gone. Dean wants to scream, yell, get his own hands on Azazel and kill him all over again, but all that escapes is a laugh, convulsive and grating, before he can swallow the sound. The air's lighter, the only smell it carries is crushed grass and dirt. The horde's gone for good or gone farther away. Either way, it's the cleanest Dean's felt in a long time.
Andy's staring at Azazel's corpse, shaking slightly, and if Dean's generous he can pretend he cares. He doesn't touch Andy when he finally manages to lever himself off the ground and make his way to Andy's side. He doesn't say it's okay. Doesn't ask if he's alright.
Everything looks dead in the moonlight. Tired, bone white corpses and twisted trees bracketing the dirt of the crossroads, but Dean can see the top of Jake's head, the curve of Ava's hip, Lily's damn gloves.
Azazel's corpse is pressed into the road like it's home, like it belongs there. Dean shudders, starts to turn away, but stops. Andy's still frozen to his spot, but when Dean clears his throat, Andy turns, eyes black and huge in the semi-darkness. "Thank you," Dean says. He looks over his shoulder, sees Ellen, face pale and broken. Sees Bobby and Frank for all they don't look much better.
For a moment he wants to say, let's run. They don't have to go back to East Main, to failing electricity and people crowding into small spaces. He doesn't want it, never did, and he can taste the chance to escape. It's sweet, at the back of his throat, and he opens his mouth.
"Dean." It's Frank, limping toward him until Dean falls back, shakes his head. "It's...over. I guess." It's a question; Dean can hear it. Everything's over too quickly to even comprehend it. Too many dead. "Maybe everything..." Frank's searching for words. Dean knows - maybe they're gone now - the walkers, the virus. Maybe it died as soon as Azazel was shot.
"Maybe," he replies, "we'll have to see." But he's knows it's not over. Even if all the supernatural shit is gone, there's still East Main, struggling and unsure. A dozen other groups. They still have to figure out how to live. "Come on," he says, and starts walking to where the car's waiting. Something pulls at him, says, here here here. He knows where it'd take him: all the way to a burning building, all the way to ashes and stray bone. He closes his eyes for a minute, breathes against the need.
The road beyond the car is dark. Empty. Stretching endlessly ahead of him, and he feels his heart jack-rabbit in his chest, feels the click of his dry throat when he says, "we've got work to do."