Hold On Until Dawn Chapter 18a/19
Dean rolled to a stop and stared down the dirt drive. A battered green aluminum mailbox sat to the right of the aproned entrance with faded white letters painted on the side: SMITH. Through the dense trees he could just make the silvery shine of Piedmont Lake, the sun reflecting off the placid surface like spilled paint. Easing to the side of the road, he levered the Impala into park and looked over at his father.
John had been unusually quiet the whole time, barely speaking more than a handful word since declaring he was coming with Dean. Castiel had sent them to Schneider’s house where the Impala sat ready and waiting for its master’s return, and while Dean loaded up duffels with supplies, John stood at the foot of the steps leading up to the house, eyes dancing over the red clapboard. Dean kept flicking worried glances at the eldest Winchester, disturbed by the broken look on a face so normally stoic.
“We can’t park any closer or we’ll tip him off. You gonna be able to handle this?” Dean jerked his chin toward the driveway.
John unconsciously rubbed his legs, peering through the forest trying to get a glimpse at the cabin hidden within, “You really think anything could stop me?”
Dean nodded, shouldering his door open and rounding the back of the car to unlock the trunk. He slung a bag over his shoulder and picked up Sam’s favorite pump action. Slamming the lid shut, he carried the supplies to the hood where John had his journal spread over the sun warmed metal.
“We’ll try this exorcism first,” John pointed to a page filled with Latin, “it works on most general demons. If that doesn’t work then we’ll move on to this one,” he flipped the page, “Bobby sent it to me hoping it would work on Yellow Eyes. It packs a more powerful punch and is better for higher level demons.”
“Dad,” Dean hedged, “you know exorcism might not work, and if it does, the man you knew is probably gone. Eight years is a long time to be possessed and the hosts don’t normally fare that well.”
“I’m aware, Dean,” John sighed, closing his journal and tucking it in the inner pocket of his jacket. Holding his hand out for the shotgun, he raised his eyebrows when Dean shook his head and dug the sawed off that he usually favored from the depths of the duffel bag. They loaded the first salt rounds into their weapons, knowing that the ammunition would do little but buy them some time.
Dean inserted the shells, one after another disappearing into the metallic mouth of the barrel. With a harsh jerk, he chambered the first round and turned to his father. “You ready?”
John stared in the direction of the house, the wearied lines around his eyes deepening with his scowl and giving him a harder look that aged his face. His fingers moved on muscle memory, sliding the twin cartridges into the waiting holes, and slamming the barrel down against the stock with a resounding metallic chunk.
“Dad?” Dean knew this would be hard on the older man, but his need for justice, to exact a pound of flesh for Sammy’s pain, made him impatient.
John straightened to his full height, his broad shoulders squaring, and leaned his cane against the fender of the Impala. Nodding tightly, he started down the darkened driveway confident that Dean was following closely behind.
The trek to the cabin was made slowly but surely, John’s breathing deep and controlled as he used force of will to master the pain each step jolted through his body. They remained on high alert, eyes constantly roving the tree-lined path for signs of ambush or attack, but encountered nothing in the darkness but the occasional hoot of an owl or brush disrupted by a small animal. Nearing the clearing where the cabin stood, they halted and surveyed the scene. Only the front window of the small log structure was lit, a shadow passed rhythmically behind closed curtains, a person pacing. Schneider’s truck was parked close to the side of the house, partway between their current hiding place and their destination. John motioned quickly, hands deftly telling his plan, and Dean nodded. Three breaths later, they scurried to the truck, using the hulking piece of steel as a shield. Dean shifted forward to peer around the front fender and see if they’d caught the attention of the man inside, but stopped at the dark smear he saw on the shiny chrome. Shaking fingers reached out and rubbed at the stain, pads coming away tinted. Licking it, he shuddered as the taste of old pennies flooded his mouth and spat on the ground.
Blood. Sammy’s blood.
Thought took a back seat as red descended over Dean’s vision. He lurched forward, charging the cabin without the security of cover. He kicked the door open to reveal a surprised Nathan Schneider paused mid-step in the living room. Acting on years of training, Dean raised Sam’s gun and fired a round of salt directly into the man’s chest, the force of the blast knocking the ex-Marine back onto the couch. Dean was on him in a flash, punches landing fast and heavy with meaty thuds and crepitating cracks across the older man’s face. As blood coated Nathan’s skin, Dean’s blows lost some of their potency, knuckles glancing over slick skin, but what Dean lost in quality he made up for in quantity. Between one hit and the next, Nathan’s eyes rolled back in his skull, head vacillating on his neck with each continued punch. Dean barely registered the uneven clomps of approaching footsteps, his father’s hobbled gait, and reared back when a strong hand clasped his shoulder.
“Dean!” John stumbled back when his oldest turned to face him, eyes wildly feral before recognition flitted across the verdant depths. He’d seen Dean mad and he’d seen him pissed, but this was a whole other creature…this was hate, pure, raw hatred, and the intensity of it scared the older Winchester.
Dean blinked, panting out his bloodlust in sharp, staccato breaths. He looked back at the swollen, bloody face of the unconscious man beneath him, his fingers throbbing in time with the rage coursing through his veins. He fisted a handful of Schneider’s school polo, lifting the unresponsive man from the couch to toss him on a hard-backed chair that John pulled over from the dining room table. He coiled rope, pulling it taut and cinching each knot tight until the surrounding skin puckered and reddened. Stepping into the kitchen he returned with a plastic super-gulp cup from a jiffy store and filled it with holy water from the bottle in his duffel. He tossed it on Schneider’s red-streaked face and watched as pale pink rivulets ran down cheeks and over jawbones as concussion-glazed eyes blinked open.
No smoke, no hissing, no curses to tear them apart.
Shooting a curious look at his father and receiving a similar one in return, they both turned back to the bound man now sputtering before them. Schneider’s eyes - one swollen half-shut and the white of the other blood red - blinked in confusion. Shaking his head, eliciting a groan, Nathan focused his gaze on the two men. “John? Dean?”
“Nathan? You with us?” John limped forward, hand coming down on Nathan’s shoulder.
“John, what the hell is going on?! Dean shot me with,” Nathan looked down at his barely bleeding chest. “What the fuck did you shoot me with?”
“Rock salt,” Dean answered, moving around to Schneider’s back to check the knots there. “Won’t kill you, but hurts like a sonuvabitch. Just needed to slow you down for a minute, fucker.”
“Rock salt? Why in hell are you shooting me with salt? Sarge,” he turned to John, “what’s happening here?”
John squeezed Nathan’s shoulder in consolation. “We’re going to help you, Nate. We know you’re not in control here and we don’t hate you, just the demon you’re occupying space with. I promise we’re gonna get it out of you.”
“D-demon?” Nathan’s eyes widened and he looked back and forth between the two men. “What are you talking about, demon? Last I heard you didn’t believe God existed. Oh God, you drank the Kool-Aid. Turned into some religious zealot. Please tell me you aren’t going to pull a snake out of that bag next.“
“Just trust us, Nathan,” Dean patted him on the back once then stepped away from the chair.
“Trust you? You shot me! You tied me up!”
“Christo,” John muttered.
“Chris…what?” Schneider darted his wide eyes from John to Dean then back.
Dean flicked a glance at John. Holy water hadn’t worked, neither had invoking the name of God. Not even a wince. What the hell kind of demon…Dean swallowed hard remembering how Azazel had been unaffected by these same tests when he possessed John. His mind whispered with another possibility but he refused to give it a voice.
John flipped open his journal, Latin flowing over his tongue like water, the words reverberating in the air. In the chair, Schneider’s face scrunched then he let loose a laugh.
“You reading me a story, Johnny boy? I knew that crash left you crippled. I didn’t know it left you crazy. Dean, come on, man. Your old man is losing it. You have to know that, right? He’s talking nonsense and going on about demons.”
John continued without hesitation or falter, ending the exorcism with a flourish. He looked up from his book at the smug face of old friend and flipped the page, starting in on plan B. Dean observed Nathan carefully, that whisper growing louder and demanding attention. When John finished, he stared at the man regarding them.
“I don’t understand. That should have…”
“It would have,” Dean stepped forward, his voice dropping in menace, “if he was possessed.” He leaned forward, hands resting on Nathan’s knees and face level, “But you’re not, are you?”
“What the fuck are you talking about? Possessed? You’re both bat-shit crazy!” Nathan struggled at his bonds, knees jerking trying to dislodge Dean.
“Dean,” John’s face paled, “you’re not suggesting that…”
“Not suggesting,” Dean interrupted, “telling. He’s just human. Aren’t you?” He directed the question back to the seated man with a calm sneer. Nathan’s body spasmed as he fought the cower Dean inspired. Dean slowly slid his silver knife from the holster at his ankle and made a shallow cut along the coach’s forearm. Even knowing that there wouldn’t be a reaction, Dean’s heart sank at the confirmation.
“No, Dean,” John argued, shaking his head to emphasize his disbelief, “that’s not possible. Nathan wouldn’t…He couldn’t.” John faced his friend, “He-he saved me, fought beside me. He would never hurt Sammy. We went through hell and back together, I would know if he…”
“What is it that I, excuse me, this demon supposedly did?” Nathan asked, trying to make sense of the conversation, having a feeling that Dean already knew exactly what he’d done.
“You know damn well what you did!” Dean hissed through gritted teeth. Looking at John, Dean knew that his father was having a hard time believing that his friend, his buddy, had done those things of his own volition. He licked his bottom lip and thought for a moment of how to proceed.
“Dad, some people change,” Dean pushed off Nathan’s legs, “and others were just better at hiding their true self from the beginning. You’ve seen the tapes, you saw who did it. Holy water, salt, silver,” he tipped the knife up, “nothing’s worked. You got something I haven’t tried, I’ll be happy to do it, but I think we both know it won’t matter.”
Dean set the knife down on the coffee table then stripped off his leather jacket, folding it and laying it over the back of the couch. He went to the duffel he’d dropped by the door and carried it over to the squat table, pulling items from its depths and laying them out on the wooden surface alongside his dagger.
John stood by, trying to process everything as Dean’s words fell on his mind like truth. “You,” John breathed incredulously. “You!” He gritted out harder, hand flying to land hard across the other man’s already battered face. “You fucking bastard! You hurt my boy! I trusted you and you hurt my son.”
“Hurt…your…son?” Nathan stammered, voice slow with incomprehension. “John, what are you talking about? I would never hurt your boys. All I’ve ever tried to do is protect them.”
“You can drop the innocent act,” Dean said coolly, fingers curling around the knife he’d picked up from Schneider’s table and sliding it from its sheath. “I’ve seen the tapes. All the tapes. I know what you did to Peter Blackman,” Dean ignored the surprised look on John’s face. He’d never gotten around to telling John about the other tapes he’d found and now wasn’t the time to discuss it, “and Deputy Dan and,” he smoothed the flat of the blade against his flannel covered forearm and lifted his eyes, pinning the captive with hard eyes, “my Sammy.”
Nathan tried to hold on to the doe-eyed guiltless look, but it crumbled under the hollow knowledge in Dean’s eyes. The charade gone, he relaxed back, a conceited look replacing the false one of before. “Did you enjoy it, Dean-o? Did you like watching me put them in their places? It make you hard listening to your precious Sammy beg and plead?”
Before Dean had a chance to move, John rushed forward, fist flying and landing hard against Nathan’s jaw. “Shut the fuck up!” Shaking his hand, a numbing tingle radiating through his fingers from the impact, John cursed when the muscle of his right leg seized. Limping, he went to the kitchen and retrieved another chair, bringing it to the living room and sitting down heavily.
Schneider spat blood tinged saliva on the floor and grinned, his teeth painted red. “That’s right, Johnny boy. You sit down and rest while I tell you a story. See, once upon a time there was this pretty boy who was ignored by the ones he loved most. He was so young and sweet you could practically smell the innocence on him.”
“I think he told you to shut up, asshat,” Dean snarled, hand twirling the knife over and over.
“You’ve had a taste of that sweet meat too, haven’t you Dean? I’ve seen the way you two talk to each other, the way you touch, the way you look. You’re a bad boy, Dean,” he tutted, shaking his head slowly back and forth. “Couldn’t resist taking baby bro for a ride, could you? Guess you owe me a thank you for breaking him in for you.”
“Dean, what - “ John’s eyes searched his son’s face.
“You bastard!” Dean snarled, cutting off his father’s question. “Shut your fucking mouth or I’ll shut it for you.”
Schneider ran his tongue over the split in his upper lip, the tip coming away with a drop of crimson. “"What are you going to do? Huh, Dean? You going to kill me in cold blood? It's one thing to shoot a man in the line of duty; it's another to gut him with his own knife. I don't think you have it in you. So why don't we put the knife down before you hurt yourself with it?"
Dean huffed a humorless laugh, one side of his mouth quirking up in a hard smirk, as, off to the side, John snorted his own mirthless chuckle. "You have no idea what I'm capable of.”
“I know you aren’t capable of keeping your little brother safe,” Nathan baited, changing tactics in the hopes of goading Dean into making a mistake he could use to his advantage, “You both made it so easy. I spoon fed you lie after lie and you just gobbled it up. It was like taking virginity from a baby.” His mouth twitched into a macabre smile, his eyes challenging Dean to make the first move.
“You son of a bitch,” Dean swiped the knife across Schneider’s chest, fabric and skin giving way to the finely honed blade, connecting the dots where the salt rounds had penetrated the skin in a gruesome version of the children’s game.
Nathan hissed in pain as Dean paced back and forth in front of him. “Do it!” he snarled, “Kill me, if you think you can.”
“You know,” John said conversationally, voice detached but Nathan could see the twitch of muscle in his jaw, “the biggest mistake you can make is thinking that death is the worst my boy can do to you. There are a thousand ways of making you suffer before he kills you, hundreds and hundreds of ways to hurt you. You’ll beg for God and for mercy before he’s done and I can promise you that God’s not listening and you don’t deserve mercy.”
Part B
John had been unusually quiet the whole time, barely speaking more than a handful word since declaring he was coming with Dean. Castiel had sent them to Schneider’s house where the Impala sat ready and waiting for its master’s return, and while Dean loaded up duffels with supplies, John stood at the foot of the steps leading up to the house, eyes dancing over the red clapboard. Dean kept flicking worried glances at the eldest Winchester, disturbed by the broken look on a face so normally stoic.
“We can’t park any closer or we’ll tip him off. You gonna be able to handle this?” Dean jerked his chin toward the driveway.
John unconsciously rubbed his legs, peering through the forest trying to get a glimpse at the cabin hidden within, “You really think anything could stop me?”
Dean nodded, shouldering his door open and rounding the back of the car to unlock the trunk. He slung a bag over his shoulder and picked up Sam’s favorite pump action. Slamming the lid shut, he carried the supplies to the hood where John had his journal spread over the sun warmed metal.
“We’ll try this exorcism first,” John pointed to a page filled with Latin, “it works on most general demons. If that doesn’t work then we’ll move on to this one,” he flipped the page, “Bobby sent it to me hoping it would work on Yellow Eyes. It packs a more powerful punch and is better for higher level demons.”
“Dad,” Dean hedged, “you know exorcism might not work, and if it does, the man you knew is probably gone. Eight years is a long time to be possessed and the hosts don’t normally fare that well.”
“I’m aware, Dean,” John sighed, closing his journal and tucking it in the inner pocket of his jacket. Holding his hand out for the shotgun, he raised his eyebrows when Dean shook his head and dug the sawed off that he usually favored from the depths of the duffel bag. They loaded the first salt rounds into their weapons, knowing that the ammunition would do little but buy them some time.
Dean inserted the shells, one after another disappearing into the metallic mouth of the barrel. With a harsh jerk, he chambered the first round and turned to his father. “You ready?”
John stared in the direction of the house, the wearied lines around his eyes deepening with his scowl and giving him a harder look that aged his face. His fingers moved on muscle memory, sliding the twin cartridges into the waiting holes, and slamming the barrel down against the stock with a resounding metallic chunk.
“Dad?” Dean knew this would be hard on the older man, but his need for justice, to exact a pound of flesh for Sammy’s pain, made him impatient.
John straightened to his full height, his broad shoulders squaring, and leaned his cane against the fender of the Impala. Nodding tightly, he started down the darkened driveway confident that Dean was following closely behind.
The trek to the cabin was made slowly but surely, John’s breathing deep and controlled as he used force of will to master the pain each step jolted through his body. They remained on high alert, eyes constantly roving the tree-lined path for signs of ambush or attack, but encountered nothing in the darkness but the occasional hoot of an owl or brush disrupted by a small animal. Nearing the clearing where the cabin stood, they halted and surveyed the scene. Only the front window of the small log structure was lit, a shadow passed rhythmically behind closed curtains, a person pacing. Schneider’s truck was parked close to the side of the house, partway between their current hiding place and their destination. John motioned quickly, hands deftly telling his plan, and Dean nodded. Three breaths later, they scurried to the truck, using the hulking piece of steel as a shield. Dean shifted forward to peer around the front fender and see if they’d caught the attention of the man inside, but stopped at the dark smear he saw on the shiny chrome. Shaking fingers reached out and rubbed at the stain, pads coming away tinted. Licking it, he shuddered as the taste of old pennies flooded his mouth and spat on the ground.
Blood. Sammy’s blood.
Thought took a back seat as red descended over Dean’s vision. He lurched forward, charging the cabin without the security of cover. He kicked the door open to reveal a surprised Nathan Schneider paused mid-step in the living room. Acting on years of training, Dean raised Sam’s gun and fired a round of salt directly into the man’s chest, the force of the blast knocking the ex-Marine back onto the couch. Dean was on him in a flash, punches landing fast and heavy with meaty thuds and crepitating cracks across the older man’s face. As blood coated Nathan’s skin, Dean’s blows lost some of their potency, knuckles glancing over slick skin, but what Dean lost in quality he made up for in quantity. Between one hit and the next, Nathan’s eyes rolled back in his skull, head vacillating on his neck with each continued punch. Dean barely registered the uneven clomps of approaching footsteps, his father’s hobbled gait, and reared back when a strong hand clasped his shoulder.
“Dean!” John stumbled back when his oldest turned to face him, eyes wildly feral before recognition flitted across the verdant depths. He’d seen Dean mad and he’d seen him pissed, but this was a whole other creature…this was hate, pure, raw hatred, and the intensity of it scared the older Winchester.
Dean blinked, panting out his bloodlust in sharp, staccato breaths. He looked back at the swollen, bloody face of the unconscious man beneath him, his fingers throbbing in time with the rage coursing through his veins. He fisted a handful of Schneider’s school polo, lifting the unresponsive man from the couch to toss him on a hard-backed chair that John pulled over from the dining room table. He coiled rope, pulling it taut and cinching each knot tight until the surrounding skin puckered and reddened. Stepping into the kitchen he returned with a plastic super-gulp cup from a jiffy store and filled it with holy water from the bottle in his duffel. He tossed it on Schneider’s red-streaked face and watched as pale pink rivulets ran down cheeks and over jawbones as concussion-glazed eyes blinked open.
No smoke, no hissing, no curses to tear them apart.
Shooting a curious look at his father and receiving a similar one in return, they both turned back to the bound man now sputtering before them. Schneider’s eyes - one swollen half-shut and the white of the other blood red - blinked in confusion. Shaking his head, eliciting a groan, Nathan focused his gaze on the two men. “John? Dean?”
“Nathan? You with us?” John limped forward, hand coming down on Nathan’s shoulder.
“John, what the hell is going on?! Dean shot me with,” Nathan looked down at his barely bleeding chest. “What the fuck did you shoot me with?”
“Rock salt,” Dean answered, moving around to Schneider’s back to check the knots there. “Won’t kill you, but hurts like a sonuvabitch. Just needed to slow you down for a minute, fucker.”
“Rock salt? Why in hell are you shooting me with salt? Sarge,” he turned to John, “what’s happening here?”
John squeezed Nathan’s shoulder in consolation. “We’re going to help you, Nate. We know you’re not in control here and we don’t hate you, just the demon you’re occupying space with. I promise we’re gonna get it out of you.”
“D-demon?” Nathan’s eyes widened and he looked back and forth between the two men. “What are you talking about, demon? Last I heard you didn’t believe God existed. Oh God, you drank the Kool-Aid. Turned into some religious zealot. Please tell me you aren’t going to pull a snake out of that bag next.“
“Just trust us, Nathan,” Dean patted him on the back once then stepped away from the chair.
“Trust you? You shot me! You tied me up!”
“Christo,” John muttered.
“Chris…what?” Schneider darted his wide eyes from John to Dean then back.
Dean flicked a glance at John. Holy water hadn’t worked, neither had invoking the name of God. Not even a wince. What the hell kind of demon…Dean swallowed hard remembering how Azazel had been unaffected by these same tests when he possessed John. His mind whispered with another possibility but he refused to give it a voice.
John flipped open his journal, Latin flowing over his tongue like water, the words reverberating in the air. In the chair, Schneider’s face scrunched then he let loose a laugh.
“You reading me a story, Johnny boy? I knew that crash left you crippled. I didn’t know it left you crazy. Dean, come on, man. Your old man is losing it. You have to know that, right? He’s talking nonsense and going on about demons.”
John continued without hesitation or falter, ending the exorcism with a flourish. He looked up from his book at the smug face of old friend and flipped the page, starting in on plan B. Dean observed Nathan carefully, that whisper growing louder and demanding attention. When John finished, he stared at the man regarding them.
“I don’t understand. That should have…”
“It would have,” Dean stepped forward, his voice dropping in menace, “if he was possessed.” He leaned forward, hands resting on Nathan’s knees and face level, “But you’re not, are you?”
“What the fuck are you talking about? Possessed? You’re both bat-shit crazy!” Nathan struggled at his bonds, knees jerking trying to dislodge Dean.
“Dean,” John’s face paled, “you’re not suggesting that…”
“Not suggesting,” Dean interrupted, “telling. He’s just human. Aren’t you?” He directed the question back to the seated man with a calm sneer. Nathan’s body spasmed as he fought the cower Dean inspired. Dean slowly slid his silver knife from the holster at his ankle and made a shallow cut along the coach’s forearm. Even knowing that there wouldn’t be a reaction, Dean’s heart sank at the confirmation.
“No, Dean,” John argued, shaking his head to emphasize his disbelief, “that’s not possible. Nathan wouldn’t…He couldn’t.” John faced his friend, “He-he saved me, fought beside me. He would never hurt Sammy. We went through hell and back together, I would know if he…”
“What is it that I, excuse me, this demon supposedly did?” Nathan asked, trying to make sense of the conversation, having a feeling that Dean already knew exactly what he’d done.
“You know damn well what you did!” Dean hissed through gritted teeth. Looking at John, Dean knew that his father was having a hard time believing that his friend, his buddy, had done those things of his own volition. He licked his bottom lip and thought for a moment of how to proceed.
“Dad, some people change,” Dean pushed off Nathan’s legs, “and others were just better at hiding their true self from the beginning. You’ve seen the tapes, you saw who did it. Holy water, salt, silver,” he tipped the knife up, “nothing’s worked. You got something I haven’t tried, I’ll be happy to do it, but I think we both know it won’t matter.”
Dean set the knife down on the coffee table then stripped off his leather jacket, folding it and laying it over the back of the couch. He went to the duffel he’d dropped by the door and carried it over to the squat table, pulling items from its depths and laying them out on the wooden surface alongside his dagger.
John stood by, trying to process everything as Dean’s words fell on his mind like truth. “You,” John breathed incredulously. “You!” He gritted out harder, hand flying to land hard across the other man’s already battered face. “You fucking bastard! You hurt my boy! I trusted you and you hurt my son.”
“Hurt…your…son?” Nathan stammered, voice slow with incomprehension. “John, what are you talking about? I would never hurt your boys. All I’ve ever tried to do is protect them.”
“You can drop the innocent act,” Dean said coolly, fingers curling around the knife he’d picked up from Schneider’s table and sliding it from its sheath. “I’ve seen the tapes. All the tapes. I know what you did to Peter Blackman,” Dean ignored the surprised look on John’s face. He’d never gotten around to telling John about the other tapes he’d found and now wasn’t the time to discuss it, “and Deputy Dan and,” he smoothed the flat of the blade against his flannel covered forearm and lifted his eyes, pinning the captive with hard eyes, “my Sammy.”
Nathan tried to hold on to the doe-eyed guiltless look, but it crumbled under the hollow knowledge in Dean’s eyes. The charade gone, he relaxed back, a conceited look replacing the false one of before. “Did you enjoy it, Dean-o? Did you like watching me put them in their places? It make you hard listening to your precious Sammy beg and plead?”
Before Dean had a chance to move, John rushed forward, fist flying and landing hard against Nathan’s jaw. “Shut the fuck up!” Shaking his hand, a numbing tingle radiating through his fingers from the impact, John cursed when the muscle of his right leg seized. Limping, he went to the kitchen and retrieved another chair, bringing it to the living room and sitting down heavily.
Schneider spat blood tinged saliva on the floor and grinned, his teeth painted red. “That’s right, Johnny boy. You sit down and rest while I tell you a story. See, once upon a time there was this pretty boy who was ignored by the ones he loved most. He was so young and sweet you could practically smell the innocence on him.”
“I think he told you to shut up, asshat,” Dean snarled, hand twirling the knife over and over.
“You’ve had a taste of that sweet meat too, haven’t you Dean? I’ve seen the way you two talk to each other, the way you touch, the way you look. You’re a bad boy, Dean,” he tutted, shaking his head slowly back and forth. “Couldn’t resist taking baby bro for a ride, could you? Guess you owe me a thank you for breaking him in for you.”
“Dean, what - “ John’s eyes searched his son’s face.
“You bastard!” Dean snarled, cutting off his father’s question. “Shut your fucking mouth or I’ll shut it for you.”
Schneider ran his tongue over the split in his upper lip, the tip coming away with a drop of crimson. “"What are you going to do? Huh, Dean? You going to kill me in cold blood? It's one thing to shoot a man in the line of duty; it's another to gut him with his own knife. I don't think you have it in you. So why don't we put the knife down before you hurt yourself with it?"
Dean huffed a humorless laugh, one side of his mouth quirking up in a hard smirk, as, off to the side, John snorted his own mirthless chuckle. "You have no idea what I'm capable of.”
“I know you aren’t capable of keeping your little brother safe,” Nathan baited, changing tactics in the hopes of goading Dean into making a mistake he could use to his advantage, “You both made it so easy. I spoon fed you lie after lie and you just gobbled it up. It was like taking virginity from a baby.” His mouth twitched into a macabre smile, his eyes challenging Dean to make the first move.
“You son of a bitch,” Dean swiped the knife across Schneider’s chest, fabric and skin giving way to the finely honed blade, connecting the dots where the salt rounds had penetrated the skin in a gruesome version of the children’s game.
Nathan hissed in pain as Dean paced back and forth in front of him. “Do it!” he snarled, “Kill me, if you think you can.”
“You know,” John said conversationally, voice detached but Nathan could see the twitch of muscle in his jaw, “the biggest mistake you can make is thinking that death is the worst my boy can do to you. There are a thousand ways of making you suffer before he kills you, hundreds and hundreds of ways to hurt you. You’ll beg for God and for mercy before he’s done and I can promise you that God’s not listening and you don’t deserve mercy.”
Part B