Fic: SPN/BDS Every Time I Look in the Mirror 1/1
Title: Every Time I Look in the Mirror
Rating: R
Pairing/Characters: Dean, Sam, Connor/Murphy implied?
Notes: Crossover!Crack Sequel to my BDS/Constantine fic "Blood of the Saints." If you don't want to read that, just know that really, they're Fucken Saints, and you should be fine.
http://ladyjanelly.livejournal.com/tag/constantine
Warnings: Language, violence, minorly AU after Devil’s Trap
Word Count: Just over 5,000
Disclaimer: I own no Winchesters or Irish twins.
Betaed by the so-perfect unperfectwolf
Special thanks to jamiekswriter for her early reading of the first half and her encouragement.
Summary: There are better ways to meet a person.
They drive a 1972 Ford Torino. It's not the Impala, but the V-8 rumble is reassuringly similar. Sam took care of their new car while Dean was still in the hospital. The thing's reinforced with a NASCAR-grade roll-cage and the strongest side-impact protection the body-shop could rig up. Between the primer and the black paint, Sam went in and drew every ward, every trap, every protective sigil he knew on her. It shows when the light hits it right, a shiver in the gloss-coat that Dean would never have put up with two years ago, protections or not. Now though, he's not complaining.
The car's a tank in as many ways as Sam could make it. The back seat pops off, and they can get anything out of the trunk without leaving the safety of steel and magic. There's water in the back, and MREs, pre-packaged food for the apocalypse. It wouldn't be pretty, but they could live in it for a week if they had to.
The thing that killed mom, killed Jess, killed dad, it has backed off, and they're not sure why. Sometimes, they talk about it at night. Even if they’d still had the Colt, it should have come for them already, kept possessing person after person until one succeeded in offing them. They think it's playing with them, maybe. Or off to take care of something that's more important to it than they are.
They keep doing what they do--the family business, saving lives, hunting evil. They really don't know how to stop, how to not notice things in the paper. Sam dreams, and how the hell do you see something like that and not do anything? So when Sam wakes up in their hotel in Tempe, sweating and screaming, and says "Texas," Dean bitches about states you can't drive across in a day and leaving in the middle of the night when check-out isn't until eleven, but he gets the car packed up and Sam on his feet and doesn't ask where or why until the Vicodin's kicked in.
"Remember Frank Deal?"
Dean hates that screamed-hoarse sound in Sam's voice, but it isn't something he can mention. "'The Real Deal' Frank? Yeah." The guy's another hunter, someone they ran into a few times when they were working with their dad. Obnoxiously egotistical, even by Dean's standards, but he gets the job done. Beyond that, he hadn't formed much of an opinion about Frank either way.
Sam stares out the window at the big fat desert nothing that flows by. "He'll be in Texas the day after tomorrow, heading out of Dallas. Something's following him, something pissed."
Dean drives while Sam sleeps, the Torino's heater keeping back the late-winter chill. When dawn breaks he calls around and finds someone who has a number for Frank. He leaves a message on the static-filled home answering machine and finds an exit just east of Benson that has both gas and food, before he wakes his brother up.
They talk a little more about it over breakfast. "It's like I was looking through its eyes, the thing that's hunting Frank," Sam explains. "Whatever it is, it's angry. It wants him, or--something he's got, something he's taken from it. There's no way it'll stop before it catches him."
Dean nods and chews down a bite of his Moons Over My-Hammy. "Any idea what this energizer-bunny of doom is?"
Sam shakes his head. "I just get impressions of powerful and pissed-off." They discuss ways to kill mystery-monsters until the check comes, then it's back in the car and the hum of the road again.
They're a few miles out of El Paso; Dean's standing behind the car, huddled down into the collar of his jacket, gassing up the car. The thought wasn't there a powder blue VW Rabbit just like that one in the parking lot the last time we stopped for gas? is going through his head when Sam comes out of the convenience store. And there's something just a little off. Sam's walking slow and his hands are empty, out of his pockets and held just a bit too far from his body to look natural. There's a man behind him, closer into Sam's personal space than he allows anyone that's not Dean.
If Sam wasn't so damn tall or didn't wear so many damn layers of shirts, Dean might be able to tell what he's up against. As it is, he can tell the attacker looks human--white male, not quite as tall as Dean, spiky hair, fierce eyes, dark pea-coat, dark duffle-bag over his right shoulder.
Dean caps the tank and puts the nozzle back on the pump. If they're playing this cool, he can play cool too.
Sam looks tense, giving Dean the "do something, you idiot" stare as he's nudged up to the side of the car.
"You, get in. You're driving." And that sounds human too. Dean hesitates, trying to read Sam's opinion on this, whether they should put up a fight now, or wait to dust this whatever-it-is away from the normal people.
The guy isn't a big fan of stalling; his lip curls into a snarl of annoyance but his voice stays dangerous and low. "Get in th' fucken car or I'll blow his fucken guts out over the fucken side of it, I swear to Christ."
Dean is not going to be the cause of Sam getting shot, not if he can help it. He gets in, hoping for a second to get the stake out from under the dash or the gun from between the seat and the door, but passenger-side door opens at the same time as his. Sam's shoved in and towards the middle of the bench seat and the guy follows in after him, not even flinching as he passes the invisible line of the wards. Human, probably, which makes everything so much more complicated.
Dean tries out a "Hey, let's be reasonable here," but the guy is too smooth about this, too professional for him to think he'll get the chance to make a play this early on. He's aware of Dean, he just looks like he doesn’t give a fuck what Dean has to say.
"Put this around your throat." He says, and hands Sam something that looks like a sci-fi dog collar--plastic-coated cable and wires with a prong on one end that looks like it'll fit into a little box with buttons on the other.
Dean shakes his head. This is bad. This is so bad. "Sammy, don't do it," promising with his eyes that he'll find some solution, some fix to this.
Sam hesitates, face tight like he's in pain, and Dean feels the man's focus switch to him.
"There's a nine millimeter hollow-point bullet pointed at his spine," the man explains, with just enough of an Irish accent to be noticeable. "If this doesn't go on in five seconds, I'll pull the trigger. If he doesn't bleed out b'fore ya get him to a hospital, he'll spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. Do ya hate him that much, now?"
Something must have shown in Dean's eyes, some inkling of how much that thought scared the shit out of him, because god-damn it, Sam slips the thing around his neck and clicks it shut.
"Drive," the guy orders, like this has taken too much of his precious time already. Dean's not gonna push it; they can take care of this once they've had a little more time to get it figured out. Don't die, don't let Sam die--everything else is fixable.
They head south on I-10 along the Mexican border. The man, Connor he calls himself, explains to them exactly how fucked they are, and what it'll take to make it go away.
The collar carries five grams of C4, a timer set to go off in forty eight hours if a code isn't entered and a glamour of confusion to make it impossible for a bomb squad to take it off, and ain't that just peachy. All he wants is for them to help him find Frank, and the return of what Frank's taken.
Sam's in the middle of telling him they don't know anybody named Frank, and what the heck makes him think they should, when of course the damn phone rings. Connor insists on speaker-mode, and Frank's dumb-ass voice crows out, not letting Dean get a word in edgewise, bragging about how he's hit pay-dirt, found the most important weapon for fighting the Dark since rock-salt and "Can't talk long, the other side wants it too."
"Wait," Dean interrupts before Frank can hang up the pay-phone he's at, "Where are you headed? We'll meet up with you and ride point." Connor nods his approval. Sam looks annoyed.
"Annie's place," Frank says, "Should be there by eight or nine."
"We're on our way," Dean growls, and hangs up before he does something he'll regret.
Connor slips his gun into what must be a shoulder-holster under his jacket and leans against the door. He looks tired, and he doesn't ask where Annie's place is. "Pull off at th' next motel," he says.
Sammy shoots Dean a glance in the secret language of Winchesters, and Dean's got to agree: he'd almost rather it was a monster. Monsters made sense. People, you never knew what sort of fucked-up thing they were gonna do.
Connor sends Dean in with a pocket full of small bills to get them the hotel room, suggests that further away from people would be better. And that works just fine for what Dean's got in mind, so he doesn't raise any objections. He'd worry more about leaving his brother with this psycho--that Connor would take off with him somehow, if the guy didn't look more likely to fall asleep against the window.
So he goes in and pays, then pulls the car around to room 18.
"Bring yer gear," Connor says and climbs out, dragging that big duffle bag up onto his shoulder.
Dean grabs some stuff out of the trunk, then goes to get the door. Connor follows him, Sam bringing up the rear.
It's perfect--keys, door opening, stepping inside.
Dean is all relaxed, no threat to anyone. And then he isn't.
He stops suddenly enough that Connor walks into his back. He spins as the other man stumbles, and catches him with an elbow across the side of his face. Connor crumples into Sam, who snags the pistol out of his jacket before sweeping his legs out from under him and slamming him to the floor.
Sam tosses the gun to Dean so he can get the gear in the door and the door closed. There's no need to risk any normal people seeing what comes next. Dean jams the muzzle under Connor's chin, presses in until he flinches. Blood's flowing freely from his nose, staining his teeth red, but he doesn't try to fight back.
"What's the code?" Dean demands as he reaches into his boot for the knife there.
"I won't tell you," Connor says. There's a pained sound to his breathing, but Dean's strangely comfortable with that right now.
He gets his knife out with his free hand and presses the tip into the skin under Connor's eye.
"Dean," Sam says, low and warning. This isn't something Dean wants Sam to see, but it's got to be done.
"I won't tell you," Connor says again. "What Frank took is more important t' me than my life or my skin or my soul. You're my last chance of finding him b'fore it's too late, an' if you fuck me out of what I want, I'll be damned if I'll let ya have what you want."
He's staring into Dean's eyes like he can force understanding into him. And Dean can see it there in the blue, has seen it before in other desperate men. It's the glow of single-minded fanaticism. It's a look that borders on madness.
"You put a bomb on my God-damn brother, you son of a bitch!" And Dean smacks him in the face with the gun then steps back, but it's more from hopeless pain than anything, and not the most impressive hit he's ever got in.
Connor rolls over and stands up, moving like a much older man than he looks like.
I'll fucking kill you when this is over, Dean thinks, but he's not stupid enough to say it.
"'tis not a thing I've done lightly," Connor groans out, stumbling against the window-sill before straightening. He glances over at Sam, and Dean can see the regret there--a man pushed down a path he wouldn't have chosen in other circumstances. He has to wonder, just for a moment, what this thing means to him, what it would take to make Dean willing to do the same. He can't think of much.
"I'll be outside havin' a smoke." Connor looks between the brothers. "I'll need to know if you're in or out." He leans on the doorframe, digging in his jacket pockets for cigarettes and lighter. He pulls the collar of his coat up over the religious icon tattooed onto his neck then steps out into the chill Texas air.
Dean looks over at Sam in the sudden quiet and God, it's almost more than he can bear, to see his baby brother with that thing around his throat.
He should fix this but he doesn't know how.
"Tell me what to do, Sam. It's your neck on the line. How are we gonna play this?"
They talk. Sam wants to see where it goes. Dean doesn’t want to do anything to get Sam killed. It comes down to whether or not Connor wants Frank dead when it's over.
“I’ll let him know he can come in now,” Sam says, and steps towards the door just as Connor comes stumbling backwards into the room.
Is he drunk to go with his crazy? Dean wonders, but then he sees that the parking lot lights are all out, and a pair of creatures are rushing towards the gap, towards the light, towards Sam.
Half of Dean’s brain is trying to figure out what the hell they are, with their twisted, skinny bodies, legs that don’t seem to bend the right way and, oh yeah, the top half of their heads missing.
The other half is telling his hand to grab a gun and his feet to move, and he’s stepping between Sam and the monster-things. Or he would be, but Connor’s already there, in his damn way, and they’re bumping shoulders, getting tangled up as Dean’s trying to bring the gun up and Connor’s pushing it back down, saying something about “Wrong bullets.”
The first fugly critter hits the open doorway like it’s a sheet of superheated bulletproof glass, bouncing back and screeching and clawing at itself. And Dean doesn’t get it, because they hadn’t even had a chance to ward the room yet. The monsters prowl at the entrance to the room, snarling and waiting for a chance, but not trying to get in again. The immediate fight-or-flight instinct fades a little and Dean moves into guard-mode until he knows what the heck’s going on.
Connor steps over to his bag, digs through for a second then tosses Sam a slender cylinder. “Do th’ honors.” And Sam screws the silencer on and shoots the nearest creature three times in its bony chest. It whistles like water on a white-hot stove and turns itself almost inside-out trying to dig the bullets out with its claws. The edges of the wounds gape open and glow like burning newspaper and then it’s gone.
“What the hell are you shootin’?” Dean has to ask. The other critter seems too stupid to learn from its companion’s mistakes (Dude, it’s only got half a skull, where’s it gonna put its brain?) and Sam shoots it too.
“Faith,” Connor smirks and he looks at them with something like he’s pleasantly surprised by something. Faith, what the hell does that mean?
Sam’s eyes are calculating; Dean can see him weighing the value of this new ammo, whatever it is.
“Are you going to kill Frank after you get your property back?” The younger Winchester asks. The lights in the parking lot flicker back on and they all breathe a little easier.
Conner takes a second to think over the question and Dean thinks that means his answer’s more likely to be an honest one.
“If he’s sold it or--” Connor swallows hard, “-or destroyed it, I will see the man dead if it’s the last fuckin’ thing I do.” Then he shrugs and his tone becomes less grim. “If I get what’s mine, none of the three of you will see me again, swear to Christ.”
Sam glances to Dean and Dean shrugs. It’s enough of a compromise to work with.
“Fine,” Sam says. “We’re in.”
“I’ll not abuse your trust,” Connor says and Dean doesn’t point out that they don’t trust him at all so it’s not an issue.
There follows a discussion on ammo and an exchange of firearms. “They’ll still kill people,” Connor explains. “Fucks demons up, th’ weaker ones more than th’ stronger. Ghosts, spirits, evil shit that’s not aligned with the hierarchy of hell, not so much.” Intense blue eyes glance between the Winchesters. “How’s yer Latin?”
“Iucunda macula est ex inimici sanguine,” says Sam, and Dean gets just enough to catch the burn. He adds his own Yeah, he told you smirk.
Connor replies with “Vivere commune est, sed non commune merei,” and Sam flushes red up his jaw and across his cheeks with embarrassment and anger. Dean’s smile dies on his lips.
“How about we just get this over with, huh?”
The three of them head back out to the car. Dean glances at the doorframe as they leave, curious as to what protection the guy put on while he was standing outside. There’s only one mark, more of a plus-sign than a cross, but apparently it’s enough when it’s in blood. He thinks how much work it would take him and Sam to put a protection that strong on a door and wonders if there’s something to this faith thing after all.
Connor takes over the back seat and Dean gets behind the wheel. He expects the tattooed Irishman to crash for a while but every time he glances in the mirror he’s sitting up, eyes closed but concentrating. The man’s lips move in silent prayer. Rosary beads slip through his fingers one by one.
They get to Annie's place after midnight and she greets them with the business end of a shotgun before she sees it’s them.
“Frank still here?” Dean asks and she shakes her head.
“He’s heading south.” They’ve never seen her so grim. “You have to go after him; he’s lost his mind, Dean.”
Connor grabs her arms. “Is he still alive?” He demands and she nods.
“Go. Hurry.” Her voice is urgent and they go.
The major southbound road from there is I-45 and Dean risks the boredom of state troopers, pushing the Torino to almost 80.
Dallas’ lights fade in the rear-view. City dissolves into country with a suddenness that Dean’s only seen in Texas. One minute it’s all sky-scrapers and bright lights and then there’s nothing but low rolling hills and ranch land. They drive for an hour before Connor jerks up to alertness in the back seat.
“There.” He says, pointing at a decommissioned U-Haul that’s pulling onto an exit ramp up ahead. Dean takes the turn-off, tension growing between his shoulders.
Dark shapes move through the sky around the van, images that twist as Dean tries to categorize them, tries to figure out what the hell he’s looking at. A sudden wind flaps through the interior of the car as Connor’s window goes down. Dean spares him a glance and the man’s got one foot hooked under Sam’s seat and the majority of his body hanging out the window. There’s a gun in each of his hands, splitting the night with muzzle-flash in a pose straight off the cover of a pulp fiction action novel.
“Kill you fuckin’ all!” He screams as he fires; the shapes start to fall but fade before they hit the earth.
“Go!” Connor yells as Dean’s foot slacks up on the gas. “Go! Go!”
Sam braces himself against the doorframe and the dash and Dean floors it because the sooner this is over, the sooner Sam will be safe.
Connor shoots out one of the four rear tires - the truck fishtails but doesn’t flip. Both vehicles roll to a stop and then Connor hits the ground running, the Winchesters just a step behind him. Frank comes around the side of the truck, stupid redneck fuck that he is, his god-damn revolver out like he’s at a shootout at the OK corral.
Sam shouts something about “Put it down, it’s over!”
Connor’s hands come up and he shoots the man twice without hesitating, once in his gun-hand, once in the opposite knee.
Sam runs to the wounded hunter and starts first aid. Dean follows Connor instead, up to the back of the truck. Connor shoots the lock off, from the side so there’s no chance of the bullet ricocheting around and hitting the thing that’s so important to him.
“Hey!” Dean calls as the latch clacks open. There are symbols on the worn paint of the door, dull and muddy looking. “We gave you Frank, you give us the code, you asshole.”
Connor climbs up on the truck’s bumper and pushes the door up. The Torino’s headlights aren’t at the right angle to illuminate the inside. “Just cut it off,”
Connor growls. “Twas never a bomb at all. I’d never have risked dying and taking an innocent man with me.”
For a second Dean is too shocked by the words to put it all together, but when he does there’s nothing but fury left. “You son of a bitch!” Dean snaps, and he just wants to smash Connor’s smug damn face in. He grabs the ledge of the truck and starts to pull himself up. “I can’t believe you dragged us into this sh--”
Connor’s gun is inches from his face; the barrel is a black void that seems to stretch forever. Behind the cold metal, Connor’s face is anything but. Tears streak down his cheeks and he doesn’t move to wipe them away. “Th’ collar’s a fake; the gun isn’t. Don’t force me into shootin’ you, Dean.” A soft moan comes from the dark recesses of the truck, followed by a weak cough.
The Irishman's blue eyes narrow further. “Take yer brother and get the fuck away from here or I swear I’ll fucken shoot ya both.” He drew a knife from under his coat somewhere and walked backward into the shadows, never taking his aim off of Dean.
And never let it be said that John Winchester raised two boys with more stubborn than was good for them. He trots back to where his brother is finishing up what he can do for Frank. “Time to go,” he says. Sam looks up at Dean and then past him. Dean turns at the shocked expression on his sibling’s face.
Connor’s climbing out of the back of the truck. He’s carrying another man in his arms, wrapped in his coat. As the Winchesters look in, he lowers both of them to the ground, holding the stranger to his chest.
“Murph,” Connor sobs, his voice breaking. “Don’t ya fucken do this to me.” And then Sam’s stepping back that way before Dean can stop him.
Connor’s gun is out again, so fast it looks like a magic trick. Stumbling words in Latin are on his lips and it takes Dean a second to realize it’s not an exorcism but last rites.
“Hey,” Sam says in that soothing way that makes Dean wonder why he wanted to get into law when he could do so well as a negotiator or something. “Hey, you don’t need that. Let us help, okay?” The tip of the gun trembles and turns off in a random direction as he focuses his attention away from the brothers and back on the bloodied man unconscious in his arms. Dean takes the weapon from his hands and Connor seems almost relieved to not keep track of it anymore.
“Hospital?” Dean asks, but Connor shakes his head.
“There’s no future in that but prison an’ death an’ him goin’ without me.” He tries to start the rite again but his throat closes up and the words don’t come.
“--unctionem et suam piissimam misericordiam--” Sam picks up smoothly where Connor falters. The Winchesters look at each other for a fraction of a second and then work together to get both men up off the ground and into the car. Dean calls an ambulance for Frank and they leave him by the side of the road. Sam keeps up an unbroken stream of Latin over the back of the front seat.
They drive past the Navarro County Hospital and pull off at a rundown and neglected looking motel, even by their standards.
Dean’s the least bloody so he goes and wakes up the front desk clerk and rents the room. Sam throws a sheet of plastic over the bed and Connor carries Murphy in. From the looks of things he’d been in the back of that truck for days. With steady hands and a sharp blade, Dean cuts blood and piss-soaked clothing away while Connor holds his head. Beneath, the pale man is bruised and battered but nothing looks broken.
Dozens, maybe a hundred of razor-clean cuts cover the fair skin. Some are fresh; others are old and untreated and starting to fester. Dean sorta wants to drive back out and shoot Frank a couple times himself, right about then. Sam scrubs the wounds clean with antiseptic and Dean’s on bandage and tape duty.
“His pulse is strong,” Sam tells Connor. It’s the most info they’ve got to offer with the lack of equipment at hand. “I think he’ll be alright.”
They move Murphy to the clean bed and roll the tarp and bloody rags up into a bundle that fits in a garbage bag. “Hey, give me a hand with this,” Sam says and Dean walks out with him, leaving Connor stretched out on the bed just within arm’s reach of Murphy.
“Connor and Murphy,” Sam snorts like there’s some joke there. “MacManus.”
Dean glances back at the motel room. “Are you kidding me? The Saints of Boston?” Sam adjusts where the collar is rubbing his neck and Dean goes in the trunk after the bolt-cutters.
“Are we still in?” Dean doesn’t think he’s ever heard Sam sound star-struck before and he’s surprised it took two vigilante Robin Hood types to put that tone in his brother’s voice. He can see in Sam’s eyes that he doesn’t want out yet.
“Yeah, we’re still in,” Dean allows. Besides, he might not want to kill Connor anymore, but he still owed the man for scaring the shit out of him.
When they get back inside, Connor’s sleeping like the dead, not touching his brother but close enough to hear him breathe. And Dean? Dean totally gets that.
Murphy wakes up the next morning for long enough for Connor to help him to the bathroom and light him a cigarette. Sam scores a pad of blank prescriptions from the local optometrist and writes one for the strongest antibiotic that sort of doctor would want.
By the third day the Irishmen are all big grins, careful wrestling and playful snark. Murphy badgers the story of Connor kidnapping them into helping him. The man’s grin is so open and infectious that it makes everything less grim. Dean finds himself forgiving Connor a little bit more, despite there never being an apology. He’s a Winchester though, and knows how to hear things that aren’t said with words.
On the fourth day the MacManus' send the brothers to Wal-Mart for more beer and cigarettes and when they get back the “Do Not Disturb” sign is on the doorknob.
Sam reaches for it but Dean stops him. “Haven’t you ever heard of privacy? Dude, Where’s your manners?”
Sam stares at Dean for a second then shakes his head to clear it. Dean leans against the wall by the door, watching as red creeps up Sam’s cheeks.
“Dude,” says Sam, “They’re brothers.”
Dean grins and shrugs. “Any port in a storm, Sammy-boy.” Sometimes Sam is just too easy to get to. “You never know. Maybe when you and I have been on the run as long as these guys you’ll get all hot for my bod.”
Sam laughs. “Bitch. Keep wishing.” And all is right with the world again.
They stay in the backwoods Texas town while Sam and Dean research their latest hunt and Murphy heals up. Dean wakes up one Sunday morning and the motel room is too still-the MacManus brothers are gone. They left presents though, about forty rounds of that special ammo on the table, neat rows of bullets, each with a clean cross-mark cut into the tip, stained with what looks like rust but isn’t.
They roll out a few hours before noon, headed for the haunting up in Paris. Somewhere near McKinney Sam decides he needs something out of their bag and leans over the back seat to get it.
“Holy crap. Dean,”
Sam sounds so freaked that Dean pulls off the side of the road to see what the big deal is.
“Dude!” He breathes as Sam tosses a goddamn brick of fifty dollar bills in his lap.
“There’s got to be like forty thousand dollars here.” Dean doesn’t know if his brother sounds awed or dismayed.
“It’s the least they could do after the mess they made,” Dean counters, hoping Sam doesn’t make a big deal about dirty money or something, because cash like this will make things easier for a good long time.
“Wow,” says Sam, still stunned. “We are so staying in a good hotel tonight.”
Iucunda macula est ex inimici sanguine.
What a pleasant stain comes from an enemy’s blood.
Vivere commune est, sed non commune merei.
Everybody lives; not everybody deserves to.
.
Rating: R
Pairing/Characters: Dean, Sam, Connor/Murphy implied?
Notes: Crossover!Crack Sequel to my BDS/Constantine fic "Blood of the Saints." If you don't want to read that, just know that really, they're Fucken Saints, and you should be fine.
http://ladyjanelly.livejournal.com/tag/constantine
Warnings: Language, violence, minorly AU after Devil’s Trap
Word Count: Just over 5,000
Disclaimer: I own no Winchesters or Irish twins.
Betaed by the so-perfect unperfectwolf
Special thanks to jamiekswriter for her early reading of the first half and her encouragement.
Summary: There are better ways to meet a person.
They drive a 1972 Ford Torino. It's not the Impala, but the V-8 rumble is reassuringly similar. Sam took care of their new car while Dean was still in the hospital. The thing's reinforced with a NASCAR-grade roll-cage and the strongest side-impact protection the body-shop could rig up. Between the primer and the black paint, Sam went in and drew every ward, every trap, every protective sigil he knew on her. It shows when the light hits it right, a shiver in the gloss-coat that Dean would never have put up with two years ago, protections or not. Now though, he's not complaining.
The car's a tank in as many ways as Sam could make it. The back seat pops off, and they can get anything out of the trunk without leaving the safety of steel and magic. There's water in the back, and MREs, pre-packaged food for the apocalypse. It wouldn't be pretty, but they could live in it for a week if they had to.
The thing that killed mom, killed Jess, killed dad, it has backed off, and they're not sure why. Sometimes, they talk about it at night. Even if they’d still had the Colt, it should have come for them already, kept possessing person after person until one succeeded in offing them. They think it's playing with them, maybe. Or off to take care of something that's more important to it than they are.
They keep doing what they do--the family business, saving lives, hunting evil. They really don't know how to stop, how to not notice things in the paper. Sam dreams, and how the hell do you see something like that and not do anything? So when Sam wakes up in their hotel in Tempe, sweating and screaming, and says "Texas," Dean bitches about states you can't drive across in a day and leaving in the middle of the night when check-out isn't until eleven, but he gets the car packed up and Sam on his feet and doesn't ask where or why until the Vicodin's kicked in.
"Remember Frank Deal?"
Dean hates that screamed-hoarse sound in Sam's voice, but it isn't something he can mention. "'The Real Deal' Frank? Yeah." The guy's another hunter, someone they ran into a few times when they were working with their dad. Obnoxiously egotistical, even by Dean's standards, but he gets the job done. Beyond that, he hadn't formed much of an opinion about Frank either way.
Sam stares out the window at the big fat desert nothing that flows by. "He'll be in Texas the day after tomorrow, heading out of Dallas. Something's following him, something pissed."
Dean drives while Sam sleeps, the Torino's heater keeping back the late-winter chill. When dawn breaks he calls around and finds someone who has a number for Frank. He leaves a message on the static-filled home answering machine and finds an exit just east of Benson that has both gas and food, before he wakes his brother up.
They talk a little more about it over breakfast. "It's like I was looking through its eyes, the thing that's hunting Frank," Sam explains. "Whatever it is, it's angry. It wants him, or--something he's got, something he's taken from it. There's no way it'll stop before it catches him."
Dean nods and chews down a bite of his Moons Over My-Hammy. "Any idea what this energizer-bunny of doom is?"
Sam shakes his head. "I just get impressions of powerful and pissed-off." They discuss ways to kill mystery-monsters until the check comes, then it's back in the car and the hum of the road again.
They're a few miles out of El Paso; Dean's standing behind the car, huddled down into the collar of his jacket, gassing up the car. The thought wasn't there a powder blue VW Rabbit just like that one in the parking lot the last time we stopped for gas? is going through his head when Sam comes out of the convenience store. And there's something just a little off. Sam's walking slow and his hands are empty, out of his pockets and held just a bit too far from his body to look natural. There's a man behind him, closer into Sam's personal space than he allows anyone that's not Dean.
If Sam wasn't so damn tall or didn't wear so many damn layers of shirts, Dean might be able to tell what he's up against. As it is, he can tell the attacker looks human--white male, not quite as tall as Dean, spiky hair, fierce eyes, dark pea-coat, dark duffle-bag over his right shoulder.
Dean caps the tank and puts the nozzle back on the pump. If they're playing this cool, he can play cool too.
Sam looks tense, giving Dean the "do something, you idiot" stare as he's nudged up to the side of the car.
"You, get in. You're driving." And that sounds human too. Dean hesitates, trying to read Sam's opinion on this, whether they should put up a fight now, or wait to dust this whatever-it-is away from the normal people.
The guy isn't a big fan of stalling; his lip curls into a snarl of annoyance but his voice stays dangerous and low. "Get in th' fucken car or I'll blow his fucken guts out over the fucken side of it, I swear to Christ."
Dean is not going to be the cause of Sam getting shot, not if he can help it. He gets in, hoping for a second to get the stake out from under the dash or the gun from between the seat and the door, but passenger-side door opens at the same time as his. Sam's shoved in and towards the middle of the bench seat and the guy follows in after him, not even flinching as he passes the invisible line of the wards. Human, probably, which makes everything so much more complicated.
Dean tries out a "Hey, let's be reasonable here," but the guy is too smooth about this, too professional for him to think he'll get the chance to make a play this early on. He's aware of Dean, he just looks like he doesn’t give a fuck what Dean has to say.
"Put this around your throat." He says, and hands Sam something that looks like a sci-fi dog collar--plastic-coated cable and wires with a prong on one end that looks like it'll fit into a little box with buttons on the other.
Dean shakes his head. This is bad. This is so bad. "Sammy, don't do it," promising with his eyes that he'll find some solution, some fix to this.
Sam hesitates, face tight like he's in pain, and Dean feels the man's focus switch to him.
"There's a nine millimeter hollow-point bullet pointed at his spine," the man explains, with just enough of an Irish accent to be noticeable. "If this doesn't go on in five seconds, I'll pull the trigger. If he doesn't bleed out b'fore ya get him to a hospital, he'll spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. Do ya hate him that much, now?"
Something must have shown in Dean's eyes, some inkling of how much that thought scared the shit out of him, because god-damn it, Sam slips the thing around his neck and clicks it shut.
"Drive," the guy orders, like this has taken too much of his precious time already. Dean's not gonna push it; they can take care of this once they've had a little more time to get it figured out. Don't die, don't let Sam die--everything else is fixable.
They head south on I-10 along the Mexican border. The man, Connor he calls himself, explains to them exactly how fucked they are, and what it'll take to make it go away.
The collar carries five grams of C4, a timer set to go off in forty eight hours if a code isn't entered and a glamour of confusion to make it impossible for a bomb squad to take it off, and ain't that just peachy. All he wants is for them to help him find Frank, and the return of what Frank's taken.
Sam's in the middle of telling him they don't know anybody named Frank, and what the heck makes him think they should, when of course the damn phone rings. Connor insists on speaker-mode, and Frank's dumb-ass voice crows out, not letting Dean get a word in edgewise, bragging about how he's hit pay-dirt, found the most important weapon for fighting the Dark since rock-salt and "Can't talk long, the other side wants it too."
"Wait," Dean interrupts before Frank can hang up the pay-phone he's at, "Where are you headed? We'll meet up with you and ride point." Connor nods his approval. Sam looks annoyed.
"Annie's place," Frank says, "Should be there by eight or nine."
"We're on our way," Dean growls, and hangs up before he does something he'll regret.
Connor slips his gun into what must be a shoulder-holster under his jacket and leans against the door. He looks tired, and he doesn't ask where Annie's place is. "Pull off at th' next motel," he says.
Sammy shoots Dean a glance in the secret language of Winchesters, and Dean's got to agree: he'd almost rather it was a monster. Monsters made sense. People, you never knew what sort of fucked-up thing they were gonna do.
Connor sends Dean in with a pocket full of small bills to get them the hotel room, suggests that further away from people would be better. And that works just fine for what Dean's got in mind, so he doesn't raise any objections. He'd worry more about leaving his brother with this psycho--that Connor would take off with him somehow, if the guy didn't look more likely to fall asleep against the window.
So he goes in and pays, then pulls the car around to room 18.
"Bring yer gear," Connor says and climbs out, dragging that big duffle bag up onto his shoulder.
Dean grabs some stuff out of the trunk, then goes to get the door. Connor follows him, Sam bringing up the rear.
It's perfect--keys, door opening, stepping inside.
Dean is all relaxed, no threat to anyone. And then he isn't.
He stops suddenly enough that Connor walks into his back. He spins as the other man stumbles, and catches him with an elbow across the side of his face. Connor crumples into Sam, who snags the pistol out of his jacket before sweeping his legs out from under him and slamming him to the floor.
Sam tosses the gun to Dean so he can get the gear in the door and the door closed. There's no need to risk any normal people seeing what comes next. Dean jams the muzzle under Connor's chin, presses in until he flinches. Blood's flowing freely from his nose, staining his teeth red, but he doesn't try to fight back.
"What's the code?" Dean demands as he reaches into his boot for the knife there.
"I won't tell you," Connor says. There's a pained sound to his breathing, but Dean's strangely comfortable with that right now.
He gets his knife out with his free hand and presses the tip into the skin under Connor's eye.
"Dean," Sam says, low and warning. This isn't something Dean wants Sam to see, but it's got to be done.
"I won't tell you," Connor says again. "What Frank took is more important t' me than my life or my skin or my soul. You're my last chance of finding him b'fore it's too late, an' if you fuck me out of what I want, I'll be damned if I'll let ya have what you want."
He's staring into Dean's eyes like he can force understanding into him. And Dean can see it there in the blue, has seen it before in other desperate men. It's the glow of single-minded fanaticism. It's a look that borders on madness.
"You put a bomb on my God-damn brother, you son of a bitch!" And Dean smacks him in the face with the gun then steps back, but it's more from hopeless pain than anything, and not the most impressive hit he's ever got in.
Connor rolls over and stands up, moving like a much older man than he looks like.
I'll fucking kill you when this is over, Dean thinks, but he's not stupid enough to say it.
"'tis not a thing I've done lightly," Connor groans out, stumbling against the window-sill before straightening. He glances over at Sam, and Dean can see the regret there--a man pushed down a path he wouldn't have chosen in other circumstances. He has to wonder, just for a moment, what this thing means to him, what it would take to make Dean willing to do the same. He can't think of much.
"I'll be outside havin' a smoke." Connor looks between the brothers. "I'll need to know if you're in or out." He leans on the doorframe, digging in his jacket pockets for cigarettes and lighter. He pulls the collar of his coat up over the religious icon tattooed onto his neck then steps out into the chill Texas air.
Dean looks over at Sam in the sudden quiet and God, it's almost more than he can bear, to see his baby brother with that thing around his throat.
He should fix this but he doesn't know how.
"Tell me what to do, Sam. It's your neck on the line. How are we gonna play this?"
They talk. Sam wants to see where it goes. Dean doesn’t want to do anything to get Sam killed. It comes down to whether or not Connor wants Frank dead when it's over.
“I’ll let him know he can come in now,” Sam says, and steps towards the door just as Connor comes stumbling backwards into the room.
Is he drunk to go with his crazy? Dean wonders, but then he sees that the parking lot lights are all out, and a pair of creatures are rushing towards the gap, towards the light, towards Sam.
Half of Dean’s brain is trying to figure out what the hell they are, with their twisted, skinny bodies, legs that don’t seem to bend the right way and, oh yeah, the top half of their heads missing.
The other half is telling his hand to grab a gun and his feet to move, and he’s stepping between Sam and the monster-things. Or he would be, but Connor’s already there, in his damn way, and they’re bumping shoulders, getting tangled up as Dean’s trying to bring the gun up and Connor’s pushing it back down, saying something about “Wrong bullets.”
The first fugly critter hits the open doorway like it’s a sheet of superheated bulletproof glass, bouncing back and screeching and clawing at itself. And Dean doesn’t get it, because they hadn’t even had a chance to ward the room yet. The monsters prowl at the entrance to the room, snarling and waiting for a chance, but not trying to get in again. The immediate fight-or-flight instinct fades a little and Dean moves into guard-mode until he knows what the heck’s going on.
Connor steps over to his bag, digs through for a second then tosses Sam a slender cylinder. “Do th’ honors.” And Sam screws the silencer on and shoots the nearest creature three times in its bony chest. It whistles like water on a white-hot stove and turns itself almost inside-out trying to dig the bullets out with its claws. The edges of the wounds gape open and glow like burning newspaper and then it’s gone.
“What the hell are you shootin’?” Dean has to ask. The other critter seems too stupid to learn from its companion’s mistakes (Dude, it’s only got half a skull, where’s it gonna put its brain?) and Sam shoots it too.
“Faith,” Connor smirks and he looks at them with something like he’s pleasantly surprised by something. Faith, what the hell does that mean?
Sam’s eyes are calculating; Dean can see him weighing the value of this new ammo, whatever it is.
“Are you going to kill Frank after you get your property back?” The younger Winchester asks. The lights in the parking lot flicker back on and they all breathe a little easier.
Conner takes a second to think over the question and Dean thinks that means his answer’s more likely to be an honest one.
“If he’s sold it or--” Connor swallows hard, “-or destroyed it, I will see the man dead if it’s the last fuckin’ thing I do.” Then he shrugs and his tone becomes less grim. “If I get what’s mine, none of the three of you will see me again, swear to Christ.”
Sam glances to Dean and Dean shrugs. It’s enough of a compromise to work with.
“Fine,” Sam says. “We’re in.”
“I’ll not abuse your trust,” Connor says and Dean doesn’t point out that they don’t trust him at all so it’s not an issue.
There follows a discussion on ammo and an exchange of firearms. “They’ll still kill people,” Connor explains. “Fucks demons up, th’ weaker ones more than th’ stronger. Ghosts, spirits, evil shit that’s not aligned with the hierarchy of hell, not so much.” Intense blue eyes glance between the Winchesters. “How’s yer Latin?”
“Iucunda macula est ex inimici sanguine,” says Sam, and Dean gets just enough to catch the burn. He adds his own Yeah, he told you smirk.
Connor replies with “Vivere commune est, sed non commune merei,” and Sam flushes red up his jaw and across his cheeks with embarrassment and anger. Dean’s smile dies on his lips.
“How about we just get this over with, huh?”
The three of them head back out to the car. Dean glances at the doorframe as they leave, curious as to what protection the guy put on while he was standing outside. There’s only one mark, more of a plus-sign than a cross, but apparently it’s enough when it’s in blood. He thinks how much work it would take him and Sam to put a protection that strong on a door and wonders if there’s something to this faith thing after all.
Connor takes over the back seat and Dean gets behind the wheel. He expects the tattooed Irishman to crash for a while but every time he glances in the mirror he’s sitting up, eyes closed but concentrating. The man’s lips move in silent prayer. Rosary beads slip through his fingers one by one.
They get to Annie's place after midnight and she greets them with the business end of a shotgun before she sees it’s them.
“Frank still here?” Dean asks and she shakes her head.
“He’s heading south.” They’ve never seen her so grim. “You have to go after him; he’s lost his mind, Dean.”
Connor grabs her arms. “Is he still alive?” He demands and she nods.
“Go. Hurry.” Her voice is urgent and they go.
The major southbound road from there is I-45 and Dean risks the boredom of state troopers, pushing the Torino to almost 80.
Dallas’ lights fade in the rear-view. City dissolves into country with a suddenness that Dean’s only seen in Texas. One minute it’s all sky-scrapers and bright lights and then there’s nothing but low rolling hills and ranch land. They drive for an hour before Connor jerks up to alertness in the back seat.
“There.” He says, pointing at a decommissioned U-Haul that’s pulling onto an exit ramp up ahead. Dean takes the turn-off, tension growing between his shoulders.
Dark shapes move through the sky around the van, images that twist as Dean tries to categorize them, tries to figure out what the hell he’s looking at. A sudden wind flaps through the interior of the car as Connor’s window goes down. Dean spares him a glance and the man’s got one foot hooked under Sam’s seat and the majority of his body hanging out the window. There’s a gun in each of his hands, splitting the night with muzzle-flash in a pose straight off the cover of a pulp fiction action novel.
“Kill you fuckin’ all!” He screams as he fires; the shapes start to fall but fade before they hit the earth.
“Go!” Connor yells as Dean’s foot slacks up on the gas. “Go! Go!”
Sam braces himself against the doorframe and the dash and Dean floors it because the sooner this is over, the sooner Sam will be safe.
Connor shoots out one of the four rear tires - the truck fishtails but doesn’t flip. Both vehicles roll to a stop and then Connor hits the ground running, the Winchesters just a step behind him. Frank comes around the side of the truck, stupid redneck fuck that he is, his god-damn revolver out like he’s at a shootout at the OK corral.
Sam shouts something about “Put it down, it’s over!”
Connor’s hands come up and he shoots the man twice without hesitating, once in his gun-hand, once in the opposite knee.
Sam runs to the wounded hunter and starts first aid. Dean follows Connor instead, up to the back of the truck. Connor shoots the lock off, from the side so there’s no chance of the bullet ricocheting around and hitting the thing that’s so important to him.
“Hey!” Dean calls as the latch clacks open. There are symbols on the worn paint of the door, dull and muddy looking. “We gave you Frank, you give us the code, you asshole.”
Connor climbs up on the truck’s bumper and pushes the door up. The Torino’s headlights aren’t at the right angle to illuminate the inside. “Just cut it off,”
Connor growls. “Twas never a bomb at all. I’d never have risked dying and taking an innocent man with me.”
For a second Dean is too shocked by the words to put it all together, but when he does there’s nothing but fury left. “You son of a bitch!” Dean snaps, and he just wants to smash Connor’s smug damn face in. He grabs the ledge of the truck and starts to pull himself up. “I can’t believe you dragged us into this sh--”
Connor’s gun is inches from his face; the barrel is a black void that seems to stretch forever. Behind the cold metal, Connor’s face is anything but. Tears streak down his cheeks and he doesn’t move to wipe them away. “Th’ collar’s a fake; the gun isn’t. Don’t force me into shootin’ you, Dean.” A soft moan comes from the dark recesses of the truck, followed by a weak cough.
The Irishman's blue eyes narrow further. “Take yer brother and get the fuck away from here or I swear I’ll fucken shoot ya both.” He drew a knife from under his coat somewhere and walked backward into the shadows, never taking his aim off of Dean.
And never let it be said that John Winchester raised two boys with more stubborn than was good for them. He trots back to where his brother is finishing up what he can do for Frank. “Time to go,” he says. Sam looks up at Dean and then past him. Dean turns at the shocked expression on his sibling’s face.
Connor’s climbing out of the back of the truck. He’s carrying another man in his arms, wrapped in his coat. As the Winchesters look in, he lowers both of them to the ground, holding the stranger to his chest.
“Murph,” Connor sobs, his voice breaking. “Don’t ya fucken do this to me.” And then Sam’s stepping back that way before Dean can stop him.
Connor’s gun is out again, so fast it looks like a magic trick. Stumbling words in Latin are on his lips and it takes Dean a second to realize it’s not an exorcism but last rites.
“Hey,” Sam says in that soothing way that makes Dean wonder why he wanted to get into law when he could do so well as a negotiator or something. “Hey, you don’t need that. Let us help, okay?” The tip of the gun trembles and turns off in a random direction as he focuses his attention away from the brothers and back on the bloodied man unconscious in his arms. Dean takes the weapon from his hands and Connor seems almost relieved to not keep track of it anymore.
“Hospital?” Dean asks, but Connor shakes his head.
“There’s no future in that but prison an’ death an’ him goin’ without me.” He tries to start the rite again but his throat closes up and the words don’t come.
“--unctionem et suam piissimam misericordiam--” Sam picks up smoothly where Connor falters. The Winchesters look at each other for a fraction of a second and then work together to get both men up off the ground and into the car. Dean calls an ambulance for Frank and they leave him by the side of the road. Sam keeps up an unbroken stream of Latin over the back of the front seat.
They drive past the Navarro County Hospital and pull off at a rundown and neglected looking motel, even by their standards.
Dean’s the least bloody so he goes and wakes up the front desk clerk and rents the room. Sam throws a sheet of plastic over the bed and Connor carries Murphy in. From the looks of things he’d been in the back of that truck for days. With steady hands and a sharp blade, Dean cuts blood and piss-soaked clothing away while Connor holds his head. Beneath, the pale man is bruised and battered but nothing looks broken.
Dozens, maybe a hundred of razor-clean cuts cover the fair skin. Some are fresh; others are old and untreated and starting to fester. Dean sorta wants to drive back out and shoot Frank a couple times himself, right about then. Sam scrubs the wounds clean with antiseptic and Dean’s on bandage and tape duty.
“His pulse is strong,” Sam tells Connor. It’s the most info they’ve got to offer with the lack of equipment at hand. “I think he’ll be alright.”
They move Murphy to the clean bed and roll the tarp and bloody rags up into a bundle that fits in a garbage bag. “Hey, give me a hand with this,” Sam says and Dean walks out with him, leaving Connor stretched out on the bed just within arm’s reach of Murphy.
“Connor and Murphy,” Sam snorts like there’s some joke there. “MacManus.”
Dean glances back at the motel room. “Are you kidding me? The Saints of Boston?” Sam adjusts where the collar is rubbing his neck and Dean goes in the trunk after the bolt-cutters.
“Are we still in?” Dean doesn’t think he’s ever heard Sam sound star-struck before and he’s surprised it took two vigilante Robin Hood types to put that tone in his brother’s voice. He can see in Sam’s eyes that he doesn’t want out yet.
“Yeah, we’re still in,” Dean allows. Besides, he might not want to kill Connor anymore, but he still owed the man for scaring the shit out of him.
When they get back inside, Connor’s sleeping like the dead, not touching his brother but close enough to hear him breathe. And Dean? Dean totally gets that.
Murphy wakes up the next morning for long enough for Connor to help him to the bathroom and light him a cigarette. Sam scores a pad of blank prescriptions from the local optometrist and writes one for the strongest antibiotic that sort of doctor would want.
By the third day the Irishmen are all big grins, careful wrestling and playful snark. Murphy badgers the story of Connor kidnapping them into helping him. The man’s grin is so open and infectious that it makes everything less grim. Dean finds himself forgiving Connor a little bit more, despite there never being an apology. He’s a Winchester though, and knows how to hear things that aren’t said with words.
On the fourth day the MacManus' send the brothers to Wal-Mart for more beer and cigarettes and when they get back the “Do Not Disturb” sign is on the doorknob.
Sam reaches for it but Dean stops him. “Haven’t you ever heard of privacy? Dude, Where’s your manners?”
Sam stares at Dean for a second then shakes his head to clear it. Dean leans against the wall by the door, watching as red creeps up Sam’s cheeks.
“Dude,” says Sam, “They’re brothers.”
Dean grins and shrugs. “Any port in a storm, Sammy-boy.” Sometimes Sam is just too easy to get to. “You never know. Maybe when you and I have been on the run as long as these guys you’ll get all hot for my bod.”
Sam laughs. “Bitch. Keep wishing.” And all is right with the world again.
They stay in the backwoods Texas town while Sam and Dean research their latest hunt and Murphy heals up. Dean wakes up one Sunday morning and the motel room is too still-the MacManus brothers are gone. They left presents though, about forty rounds of that special ammo on the table, neat rows of bullets, each with a clean cross-mark cut into the tip, stained with what looks like rust but isn’t.
They roll out a few hours before noon, headed for the haunting up in Paris. Somewhere near McKinney Sam decides he needs something out of their bag and leans over the back seat to get it.
“Holy crap. Dean,”
Sam sounds so freaked that Dean pulls off the side of the road to see what the big deal is.
“Dude!” He breathes as Sam tosses a goddamn brick of fifty dollar bills in his lap.
“There’s got to be like forty thousand dollars here.” Dean doesn’t know if his brother sounds awed or dismayed.
“It’s the least they could do after the mess they made,” Dean counters, hoping Sam doesn’t make a big deal about dirty money or something, because cash like this will make things easier for a good long time.
“Wow,” says Sam, still stunned. “We are so staying in a good hotel tonight.”
Iucunda macula est ex inimici sanguine.
What a pleasant stain comes from an enemy’s blood.
Vivere commune est, sed non commune merei.
Everybody lives; not everybody deserves to.
.