Over the Hills & Far Away (Chapter 5b)
Title: Over the Hills & Far Away - CHAPTER 5B (last chapter)
Author(s): operationhades
Artist: evian_fork
Warning: few curse words, once or twice.
Summary: Sam was a fourteen year old mutant when he walked in on an injured Dean staring up at the barrel of a gun held by John Winchester. And after that, with Sam at the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning and Dean throwing John, every other hunter in the country, and a pissed Yellow Eyed Demon of their trail, thing's only get progressively worse.
5B
CHAPTER FIVE (5B)
Dean never woke up after that.
With multiple internal bleeding, wounds scattered across his body from what must've been a previous hunt, Dean had been in critical condition and refused to wake up. They'd all been forced to take him to a hospital, with the professor footing the bill before John could even think to, and had only been able to move him to the Mansion's clinic a week ago. The doctor's spoke with too much technicalities and kept their faces carefully blank. It was Beast - Doctor Hank - that bluntly told them Dean was in a coma and had very little chance of coming out.
“But we will try everything in our nature to help, Mr. Winchester.” Sam tuned in to hear Dr. Hank tell a blank faced John. “The professor has an idea that may possibly work.”
Sam blinked slowly, the words taking a moment to register before making sense. Both he and John turned to face the professor, watching him wheel himself into the clinic where John and Sam had refused to leave Dean since they'd brought him here. Jean stood by the professor's side, both of them with the same grimace on their faces as they came closer towards the three Winchesters, Dean lying unconscious on the bed with only life support keeping him alive, and stopped in front of them.
“Mr. Winchester,” the professor smoothly began, aiming his words at John. “As I've already introduced myself, allow me to tell you what my mutation is. I am telepathic - a mind reader, if you will - and of all the people I've come across, your son - Dean - seems to have something that can block me. However, we think that there might be a chance Samuel may be able to slip through it.”
John's fingers clenched around the blanket covering Dean from the waist down, playing with a loose thread. “How is it Dean can block you?”
The professor grimaced, long fingers steeping together as he answered. “I do not know, but I believe Dean may also be a mutant. The x-gene is genetics, Mr. Winchester, and will most likely either have come from you or their mother. A simple blood test will show us if you have the gene, Mr. Winchester. Would that be permissible?” John's head dropped at the mention of the mother, piquing the professor's interest, but came up a moment later with a solid nod. As Hank went to retrieve a needle and started the process of drawing the father's blood, Charles wheeled himself closer towards Sam on the opposite side of where John sat, smiling reassuringly at the young teen. “I do not want to do anything against your wishes, Samuel.” He said quietly. “Are you up to it?”
Hank finished with the extraction as Sam nodded with a frown. “Of course I want to help.” The seventeen year old answered, eyes darting to his father as John got up and left the clinic before coming to rest on the professor. “What do I do?”
Charles waved Jean closer until she stood beside them, and the two of them held out a hand for Sam to hold. The teen looked at the proffered hands curiously, but dutifully locked hands with them. “Now Samuel,” the professor began, casting a look at the lying figure of the older Winchester brother. “Jean and I will lead you towards Dean, and provide you the route. Once you feel you're in, try to reach Dean. If you feel threatened at any point, merely squeeze our hands and we'll attempt to bring you back.”
Sam nodded tightly as Jean smiled kindly at him, nervously squeezing his eyes shut. At first, he couldn't feel or hear anything besides the smooth hands of both the professor and Jean and the steady beeps of Dean's life support, but he kept at it and held his patience. Slowly, in small intermittent pauses, the feel of palms underneath his own disappeared, the beeps continued steadily, distracting him from losing contact with his guides, until he felt like he was floating in a sea of darkness with nothing but Dean's life support to keep him company. Worry had his pulse rising, heart thudding in his chest, but he kept quiet and still, trying to trust in his guide's abilities to lead him to where they were certain he should be, and only strained his senses so he wouldn't miss it.
That's when he felt it, the soft force of something grabbing him and pulling, pinging his senses and forcing an exhalation of breath from him. It only picked up in strength and speed, steadily pulling him further and further into the abyss of the dark, until it all but felt like he was hurtling towards a collision that was bound to be painful, one that wasn't meant to be. Panic gripped him then, hard and fast around his throat, heart fighting to come out via his mouth, and his fingers grappled at whatever they could, trying to squeeze, lips parting to try and say something, when all of a sudden he sort of crashed into something that felt like water, the shock of ice cold liquid freezing his senses for a moment before the sound of something shattering all around him burst into his frozen brain. 'This must be the block their talking about,' he thought dazedly, his body slowly waking up from the rough treatment bit by bit. The first sense to come back was touch, and he could feel himself sitting on a chair - the same comfortable chair he'd been sitting on in the clinic. Was he back there? At the clinic? Was he able to squeeze the professor or Jean's hand and have them bring him back? Worried, Sam blinked his eyes open, blinking a few times to get his sight to start working again. He recognised his surroundings as indeed being the clinic he'd been in before, his hearing suddenly popping and bringing with it the steady beeps from the machine Dean was hooked up to - but the clinic was empty.
Sam looked around slowly, taking in the empty seat his dad had been in, the place where Hank had been fiddling with some equipment, the space in front of him where the professor and Jean had been. The room was lit up, just like it'd been right before he'd closed his eyes, but besides the steady beeps, everything was silent in a way that irked him, had shivers crawling up his spine. Gulping loudly, Sam turned his attention to the bed, first seeing with no small amount of relief that Dean's life support was still working, that Dean was still there, that Dean was still under the blankets--
--that Dean's green eyes were peering back at him.
. . .
There was a very good reason Logan wasn't in the clinic. Every time he so much as saw John Winchester, he felt the raging need to punch the stupid bastard in the face and be done with it. Then he'd see the damn kid look on the verge of tears, his big brother holding on to life by a thin thread, and he found himself wanting to do more than just punch John Winchester in the face.
So he stayed far away from the clinic, and took his anger out on stimulations in the danger room.
He was heading to the garage now, thinking maybe it was time he did a tune up on his motorcycle while he still had the chance, when a sudden smell caused him to frown. Nose scrunching up, he sniffed the air carefully, scrunching his nose up in disgust at the smell of distant blood and rotten eggs, and followed it until he realized it was coming from the garage - the garage where his motorcycle was stored. Hurrying faster, Logan weaved through the hallways until he reached the door leading to the garage and the outside world, and rushed through it with a threat ready on his tongue - a threat that would never quite find the light of day.
The garage - his garage, and fine, maybe Summers too - had been vandalised, no word better for it, with drawings that looked to suspiciously be painted in blood spread across the walls. The floor was adorned with a huge circle one, no sign of his motorcycle or Summers' car anywhere, and John Winchester stood in the middle of the mess with a bowl of who knew what, a bunch of strange smelling herbs, and a man in an expensive looking dark suit.
Fighting back the urge for physical violence, Logan stalked into the room and clasped a fist round Winchester's shirt. “What the hell are you doing?” He growled, waving his free hand at the mess to clarify his question. “And who the hell is this?” His free hand jabbed in the direction of the man in the suit.
John didn't even look at him, keeping his focus on the man standing in the middle of the circle. Logan noticed John and himself were on the outside of the intricate looking design on the floor the man stood on, and even more so the bowl in John's hand was full of the stuff he'd been smelling, including the blood. There was a long cut across John's palm, blood still oozing rhythmically, a testament as to where the blood came from, but John didn't seem bothered by it all. “Saving my son.” He replied, voice bland and factual.
Logan took one look around the place, one look at the still bleeding palm, another at the bowl, and figured whatever the Winchester was planning, it wasn't something good. But if the guy had an idea on saving his son, then Logan wanted to hear it. “And how ya plan on doing that?”
The man in the suit chuckled, swaying on the balls of his feet, his hands stuffed into his jacket's pocket. “John here wants to make a deal. His son, for him. Heart warming, isn't it?”
Logan stared at the man, then at John, and back at the man. “And how's that gonna work? What are you?”
“Oh how rude of me,” the man replied, voice laden with a heavy British accent. “Name's Crowley. Deals are kind of my thing.”
“Let go of me, Wolverine.” John spoke up, voice thick with tension. “This is the only way.”
The only way for what? Logan didn't have a clue what this Crowley was, but he smelled wrong, he smelled like that woman with the black eyes did, a demon, and from what the kid (that being Sam, damn there was too many kids in his life) had told him, demons were never a good idea. John wanted to give himself to a demon to get his son back? Make a deal? How stupid was that? “You've got to be kidding me. No.”
The demon Crowley groaned in good nature as John finally glared at Logan. “You don't get a say in this. That's my son in there, all but dead, because of me.”
“And when you go running off with a demon - the very thing that put your son up there - ya think he's gonna be happy?” Logan shot back irritably. “Bad enough you've already messed that kid up with hunting him down.” John flinched, a sure sign Logan had hit a nerve, and the Canadian carried on. “Yer running away. Short and simple. You want to be gone with a good reason by the time he wakes up so you don't have to go through the explanations, or the chance he might hate you. You're a goddamn coward.”
“Shut up.” John hissed, glaring at him fiercely. “It's none of your business, so just leave.”
“Fuck no.” Logan swore, gripping John by the collar tighter, blades erupting from his free hand. He felt a sliver of vindictive satisfaction as Winchester's eyes glanced at the knives and widened in surprise, before blanking into a professionally neutral face. But Logan could still smell the spike in adrenaline coming off the man, as well as feel John's body tense further under his fist. “Yer going to go up to that clinic and care for your son, and not goddamn die, because it's the least you can do for him. You think dying will make up for all yer horrible decisions? Hell no. And you,” he pointed the blades at the demon. “Get the hell out of my garage. No deal.”
The demon cocked an eyebrow, smarmy as hell, and looked to John. Logan was sure the Winchester was going to just flip him off and continue on with the deal, he seemed pigheaded enough and had the same stubborn streak he remembered seeing in Sam's face that very first time, and wondered for a moment whether Dean had taken after his mother. But then something broke in John's expression, his body just went loose, like a puppet's strings snipped, and the dark haired man sighed warily before turning his back to the demon - a clear dismissal.
“Shame.” The British demon (and could you even get British demons? Logan thought this was insane.) sighed theatrically. “Now how about rubbing off a bit of this damn trap so I can leave, eh?” John turned towards him, inching closer to the circle and blurring the lines with the toe of his boot. “Wonderful,” the demon purred, “Now let's just hope Dean-o's strong enough to withstand the light.” A pause, then a glance at the garage door leading to the mansion, and the demon - Crowley - snorted in amusement. “Actually, let's hope your boy's strong enough to withstand a Reaper.”
And with that, the demon was suddenly gone. Just like that, one minute there and a blink later gone.
Logan rubbed at his eyes, sniffed at the air experimentally, but besides the smell of herbs and blood, nothing change except the increase smell of rotten eggs - Sulphur, he realised - signalling the demon's exit, and turned to face John. “Fuckin' creepy.” He muttered under his breath, then stopped as he saw all the colour drain from John's face. “Winchester?” He asked carefully. “You're not gonna faint, are ya?”
But John didn't wait for him, or seem to hear him, instead turning round and dashing towards the garage door like a bat out of hell, heading towards the clinic.
. . .
“You know you're not fooling me, right?”
Startled, Sam tumbled out of his chair, falling to the floor in a messy sprawl. He immediately scrambled back up to his feet, joy gripping him hard at seeing his brother awake and alive and conscious, but came to a complete stop on seeing Dean's expression. The older brother looked suspicious, wary, and perfectly fine on the hospital bed, sitting with his legs crossed and his hands resting in the space between them. The steady beep beep beep continued anyway, despite none of the equipment being hooked up to Dean, and Sam blinked and drank in the sight of his brother. Dean still looked pale, especially with the white clothing they'd changed him into at the hospital, freckles scattered across his cheekbones more apparent with the skin tone than they'd normally be.
“What're you talking about?” Sam questioned, picking up the chair he'd thrown over and sitting back in it.
Dean scowled at him, and Sam only then noticed how his brother was tense, wound up tight and ready to spring, eyeing him like one eyes a rabid animal. “You're not Sammy. You can't pretend you're him and talk me into leaving.”
Leaving? Leaving? Sam scooted forward until he was right next to his brother, panic gripping him at his brother's words. “Leaving? Dean where does it want you to go? What is it? Who do you think I am?”
A snort. “Oh, rich. You're seriously gonna play that card with me?”
Sam swallowed the thick lump in his throat. “Dean.”
And Dean's eyes widened in recognition. “Sam?”
Relief chased away the panic, and finally Sam grabbed at his brother's arms and held on tight. “It's me, Dean. It's me. What the hell is going on? Who's after you? Why won't you wake up?”
“Wake up?” Dean immediately responded, confused. “What're you talking about Sammy?”
“Dean,” Sam sighed. “You've been in a coma for three weeks. You won't wake up.”
His brother's pale face suddenly went paler, just a shade lighter than a vengeful ghost's. “Shit,” Dean swore, fingers curling into a fist. “I don't know how long I've been here, but it hasn't been that long. It couldn't have? Are you OK? Is Dad...? Is Dad OK? Wait, if I'm in a coma, then what're you doing here?”
Sam patted his brother's arm consolingly, and went about answering his brother's questions, never forgetting his own. “We're all OK, Dean. Got the demon too, but you were badly hurt. Professor Xavier and Jean have been trying to get a reading on you - remember them? The telepathic guys - but they said you had some kind of block on you and couldn't get through. So they got me to try, and here I am.”
His brother's reply to this was to scowl harder, jerkily getting off the bed and standing up to his feet. “You shouldn't have come here, Sam. It's dangerous!”
“Dean.” Sam said slowly, carefully. “What's after you? Why are you stuck here?”
Something floated in his periphery vision, but when Sam turned to look he saw nothing. Dean must've seen it too, for he went a shade paler still and scrambled across the bed to Sam, clutching his little brother by the shoulders and pulling him in a random direction. “We have to go.”
Sam allowed himself to be manhandled, despite already being an inch or so taller than Dean, but didn't let up in his questioning. “Dean, what is it?”
“A Reaper, OK?!” Dean answered back harshly, spitting the words out from between his teeth. “It wants me to go into the freakin' light and won't take no for an answer.”
Sam's feet stopped moving, inertia yanking Dean back from stalking ahead. “A Reaper?” Sam hissed, all pretence of calmness flying out of the window. “What the hell, why?”
“Well, apparently, when a person dies, they get their own Reaper - how the hell should I know?” Dean forcibly yanked him again, moving Sam until they left the clinic and entered out into the hallway. Again, Sam noticed the lack of people, the deserted, still, mansion, and figured it made sense if this was Dean's mental landscape and a Reaper was after him. At least, he thought it should make sense. Dean came to a stop at a door, opening it up and shoving Sam inside before following through, and Sam found himself in what he knew to be Hank's office but with a helluva lot more decorations. Devil's Traps, protection sigils, hiding sigils, everything and anything Sam had seen and read in books was everywhere, some in blood and others in sharpie or whatever Dean must have found lying around in the office. Dean must've seen him admiring the view, because after shoving him into a chair and sitting in one across from it, Dean spoke up again. “None of it works, geekboy, so don't look so happy.”
Focusing on the situation at hand, Sam scooted closer, unconsciously giving in to his need to be close to his big brother. “Dean, even if it is a Reaper, it's fine. We'll find a way to get you out of here, man. Alright?”
Green eyes studied him before closing as Dean sighed and ran a hand across his face and into his hair. “Look Sammy, I might not be able to leave, but I sure as hell ain't dragging you to the afterlife with me. You have to go.”
“No, Dean.” Sam instantly replied, not even bothering to say I can't. He didn't know for sure, but he doubted he'd be able to squeeze the professor or Jean's hands even if he'd closed his eyes and willed it. “I'm not leaving you. I'm stronger now, Dean, a hell of a lot stronger than when you'd left me at the mansion as a fourteen year old. I can help.”
Dean laughed incredulously at him, shaking his head. “This is a Reaper, Sammy, not a ghost or a werewolf. You can't fight death.”
The door to the office rattled, grabbing both their attention. Sam turned to look and saw the dark shape of a figure behind the opaque glass, and couldn't help but wonder how a Reaper would look. That's when the door opened, the door knob turning as if Dean hadn't locked it and jammed a doorstop underneath it, and a dark haired woman walked through. The first thing Sam really noticed about her was her clothes - white, bland, just like Dean's - and how unassuming she looked. There was no black cloak, no hood, no scythe or any other weapon to be seen. Hell, she was even cute, the type of girl Sam knew his brother would go for in any other situation. He didn't let it fool him though, Dean had gotten out of his chair and stood a step in front of Sam, tense and protective in a way Sam had missed.
“Tessa.” Dean greeted her curtly, failing to cover up Sam behind him since his little brother was now taller.
Sam couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the name, watching as the newly named Tessa returned the nod sadly. “Dean.” She hadn't seemed to yet notice Sam, which was a miracle in and of itself - or maybe Reapers could only see the souls they'd been chosen to go after? Sam didn't know, but he was definitely going to read up on them as soon as they, him and Dean, were out. “Dean, it's time. I can't keep letting you hang on like this. You have to choose. Stay and become the things you hunt? Or go?”
“You know I can't go, Tessa.” Dean replied surly, ignoring Sam's fingers gripping into the material of his shirt at the small of his back. “I have to get back, I can't just go.”
“You won't.” Sam spoke up, realizing this was something the two had already argued over and not wanting to waste their time. Dean hadn't known he'd been in a coma, Dean hadn't known he'd been in a coma for three weeks, meaning the passage of time here was different than it was on the outside. If Sam didn't hurry this up and get Dean out of here to safety, back to the waking world, who knew whether or not the professor and Jean would just forcibly bring him back? “He's not going to die. He's coming back with me, alive.”
Tessa's dark eyes landed on him over Dean's shoulder, startled at his presence before those eyes narrowed into recognition. The air around her right hand shimmered, and- there, there was the scythe Sam had been expecting, shorter than the ones shown in lore but looking just as sharp and deadly, and the young woman didn't appear as unseemly as she'd first looked. “It's his time.” She argued, fingers gripping round the scythe warningly as she took a step towards them. “I don't know how you got here, but it's my duty to take him and I won't let you stop me.”
Incensed, Sam shoved Dean aside, using his slightly taller frame and gravity to get Dean to budge and stood in front, keeping his brother behind him. Just as he'd done in the cabin, with far more confidence than since then, Sam raised his arm and held his palm out towards the Reaper in preparation. Tessa's grip on the scythe tightened, and she took one step towards him, another, then a third, before lunging towards them with the scythe arching above her and down again straight at them. Sam didn't so much as falter, gathering every ounce of whatever it was and thrusting his hand at her, batting her away with his telekinesis just like he'd been taught, and the force of it crashed into the Reaper, taking her by surprise, and her pretty face twisted into recognition and disgust.
“Azazel!” She shouted, thrown backwards by the telekinetic push, and crashed through the door she'd arrived through. Sam ran after her, not willing to let her go, dimly wondering why she'd called him that and what the name could mean, but Dean grabbed him by the arms and held him tight, wrapping his arms around him as Tessa suddenly dissipated into wisps of gray smoke, disappearing like grains of sand.
And the next thing Sam knew, he was staring into John Winchester's frantic face.
. . .
Dean gasped, coughing and spluttering as Hank and John set about getting rid of the incubator. Sam was beside him in a blink with a glass of water, a pale face, and a straw, and Dean, knowing from knowledge not to drink too fast, carefully sipped at the cool liquid to sooth his aching throat. When all the water was finished and he still didn't feel satisfied, Dean groaned pitifully and lay back down on the bed, trying to even his breathing and slow his racing heart.
“How'd you get the Colt, anyway?” He croaked out after some thought, remembering the cabin, remembering the Yellow Eyed Demon, remembering Sam holding the legendary weapon and threatening to use it.
“What,” Sam replied indignantly. “You really thought I'd just sit in this mansion doing nothing?”
And Dean snorted. “Should've known,” he groaned theatrically with a knowing tilt, peering at Sam through half mast eyes. “You got a damn vision 'bout it, didn't you?” He accused, then tried hard not to laugh and irritate his wounds as Sam flushed at being found out and tried to cover it up with an epic bitchface.
“Hey, where's my car, anyway?”
THE END
MASTERPOST
Author(s): operationhades
Artist: evian_fork
Warning: few curse words, once or twice.
Summary: Sam was a fourteen year old mutant when he walked in on an injured Dean staring up at the barrel of a gun held by John Winchester. And after that, with Sam at the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning and Dean throwing John, every other hunter in the country, and a pissed Yellow Eyed Demon of their trail, thing's only get progressively worse.
5B
CHAPTER FIVE (5B)
Dean never woke up after that.
With multiple internal bleeding, wounds scattered across his body from what must've been a previous hunt, Dean had been in critical condition and refused to wake up. They'd all been forced to take him to a hospital, with the professor footing the bill before John could even think to, and had only been able to move him to the Mansion's clinic a week ago. The doctor's spoke with too much technicalities and kept their faces carefully blank. It was Beast - Doctor Hank - that bluntly told them Dean was in a coma and had very little chance of coming out.
“But we will try everything in our nature to help, Mr. Winchester.” Sam tuned in to hear Dr. Hank tell a blank faced John. “The professor has an idea that may possibly work.”
Sam blinked slowly, the words taking a moment to register before making sense. Both he and John turned to face the professor, watching him wheel himself into the clinic where John and Sam had refused to leave Dean since they'd brought him here. Jean stood by the professor's side, both of them with the same grimace on their faces as they came closer towards the three Winchesters, Dean lying unconscious on the bed with only life support keeping him alive, and stopped in front of them.
“Mr. Winchester,” the professor smoothly began, aiming his words at John. “As I've already introduced myself, allow me to tell you what my mutation is. I am telepathic - a mind reader, if you will - and of all the people I've come across, your son - Dean - seems to have something that can block me. However, we think that there might be a chance Samuel may be able to slip through it.”
John's fingers clenched around the blanket covering Dean from the waist down, playing with a loose thread. “How is it Dean can block you?”
The professor grimaced, long fingers steeping together as he answered. “I do not know, but I believe Dean may also be a mutant. The x-gene is genetics, Mr. Winchester, and will most likely either have come from you or their mother. A simple blood test will show us if you have the gene, Mr. Winchester. Would that be permissible?” John's head dropped at the mention of the mother, piquing the professor's interest, but came up a moment later with a solid nod. As Hank went to retrieve a needle and started the process of drawing the father's blood, Charles wheeled himself closer towards Sam on the opposite side of where John sat, smiling reassuringly at the young teen. “I do not want to do anything against your wishes, Samuel.” He said quietly. “Are you up to it?”
Hank finished with the extraction as Sam nodded with a frown. “Of course I want to help.” The seventeen year old answered, eyes darting to his father as John got up and left the clinic before coming to rest on the professor. “What do I do?”
Charles waved Jean closer until she stood beside them, and the two of them held out a hand for Sam to hold. The teen looked at the proffered hands curiously, but dutifully locked hands with them. “Now Samuel,” the professor began, casting a look at the lying figure of the older Winchester brother. “Jean and I will lead you towards Dean, and provide you the route. Once you feel you're in, try to reach Dean. If you feel threatened at any point, merely squeeze our hands and we'll attempt to bring you back.”
Sam nodded tightly as Jean smiled kindly at him, nervously squeezing his eyes shut. At first, he couldn't feel or hear anything besides the smooth hands of both the professor and Jean and the steady beeps of Dean's life support, but he kept at it and held his patience. Slowly, in small intermittent pauses, the feel of palms underneath his own disappeared, the beeps continued steadily, distracting him from losing contact with his guides, until he felt like he was floating in a sea of darkness with nothing but Dean's life support to keep him company. Worry had his pulse rising, heart thudding in his chest, but he kept quiet and still, trying to trust in his guide's abilities to lead him to where they were certain he should be, and only strained his senses so he wouldn't miss it.
That's when he felt it, the soft force of something grabbing him and pulling, pinging his senses and forcing an exhalation of breath from him. It only picked up in strength and speed, steadily pulling him further and further into the abyss of the dark, until it all but felt like he was hurtling towards a collision that was bound to be painful, one that wasn't meant to be. Panic gripped him then, hard and fast around his throat, heart fighting to come out via his mouth, and his fingers grappled at whatever they could, trying to squeeze, lips parting to try and say something, when all of a sudden he sort of crashed into something that felt like water, the shock of ice cold liquid freezing his senses for a moment before the sound of something shattering all around him burst into his frozen brain. 'This must be the block their talking about,' he thought dazedly, his body slowly waking up from the rough treatment bit by bit. The first sense to come back was touch, and he could feel himself sitting on a chair - the same comfortable chair he'd been sitting on in the clinic. Was he back there? At the clinic? Was he able to squeeze the professor or Jean's hand and have them bring him back? Worried, Sam blinked his eyes open, blinking a few times to get his sight to start working again. He recognised his surroundings as indeed being the clinic he'd been in before, his hearing suddenly popping and bringing with it the steady beeps from the machine Dean was hooked up to - but the clinic was empty.
Sam looked around slowly, taking in the empty seat his dad had been in, the place where Hank had been fiddling with some equipment, the space in front of him where the professor and Jean had been. The room was lit up, just like it'd been right before he'd closed his eyes, but besides the steady beeps, everything was silent in a way that irked him, had shivers crawling up his spine. Gulping loudly, Sam turned his attention to the bed, first seeing with no small amount of relief that Dean's life support was still working, that Dean was still there, that Dean was still under the blankets--
--that Dean's green eyes were peering back at him.
. . .
There was a very good reason Logan wasn't in the clinic. Every time he so much as saw John Winchester, he felt the raging need to punch the stupid bastard in the face and be done with it. Then he'd see the damn kid look on the verge of tears, his big brother holding on to life by a thin thread, and he found himself wanting to do more than just punch John Winchester in the face.
So he stayed far away from the clinic, and took his anger out on stimulations in the danger room.
He was heading to the garage now, thinking maybe it was time he did a tune up on his motorcycle while he still had the chance, when a sudden smell caused him to frown. Nose scrunching up, he sniffed the air carefully, scrunching his nose up in disgust at the smell of distant blood and rotten eggs, and followed it until he realized it was coming from the garage - the garage where his motorcycle was stored. Hurrying faster, Logan weaved through the hallways until he reached the door leading to the garage and the outside world, and rushed through it with a threat ready on his tongue - a threat that would never quite find the light of day.
The garage - his garage, and fine, maybe Summers too - had been vandalised, no word better for it, with drawings that looked to suspiciously be painted in blood spread across the walls. The floor was adorned with a huge circle one, no sign of his motorcycle or Summers' car anywhere, and John Winchester stood in the middle of the mess with a bowl of who knew what, a bunch of strange smelling herbs, and a man in an expensive looking dark suit.
Fighting back the urge for physical violence, Logan stalked into the room and clasped a fist round Winchester's shirt. “What the hell are you doing?” He growled, waving his free hand at the mess to clarify his question. “And who the hell is this?” His free hand jabbed in the direction of the man in the suit.
John didn't even look at him, keeping his focus on the man standing in the middle of the circle. Logan noticed John and himself were on the outside of the intricate looking design on the floor the man stood on, and even more so the bowl in John's hand was full of the stuff he'd been smelling, including the blood. There was a long cut across John's palm, blood still oozing rhythmically, a testament as to where the blood came from, but John didn't seem bothered by it all. “Saving my son.” He replied, voice bland and factual.
Logan took one look around the place, one look at the still bleeding palm, another at the bowl, and figured whatever the Winchester was planning, it wasn't something good. But if the guy had an idea on saving his son, then Logan wanted to hear it. “And how ya plan on doing that?”
The man in the suit chuckled, swaying on the balls of his feet, his hands stuffed into his jacket's pocket. “John here wants to make a deal. His son, for him. Heart warming, isn't it?”
Logan stared at the man, then at John, and back at the man. “And how's that gonna work? What are you?”
“Oh how rude of me,” the man replied, voice laden with a heavy British accent. “Name's Crowley. Deals are kind of my thing.”
“Let go of me, Wolverine.” John spoke up, voice thick with tension. “This is the only way.”
The only way for what? Logan didn't have a clue what this Crowley was, but he smelled wrong, he smelled like that woman with the black eyes did, a demon, and from what the kid (that being Sam, damn there was too many kids in his life) had told him, demons were never a good idea. John wanted to give himself to a demon to get his son back? Make a deal? How stupid was that? “You've got to be kidding me. No.”
The demon Crowley groaned in good nature as John finally glared at Logan. “You don't get a say in this. That's my son in there, all but dead, because of me.”
“And when you go running off with a demon - the very thing that put your son up there - ya think he's gonna be happy?” Logan shot back irritably. “Bad enough you've already messed that kid up with hunting him down.” John flinched, a sure sign Logan had hit a nerve, and the Canadian carried on. “Yer running away. Short and simple. You want to be gone with a good reason by the time he wakes up so you don't have to go through the explanations, or the chance he might hate you. You're a goddamn coward.”
“Shut up.” John hissed, glaring at him fiercely. “It's none of your business, so just leave.”
“Fuck no.” Logan swore, gripping John by the collar tighter, blades erupting from his free hand. He felt a sliver of vindictive satisfaction as Winchester's eyes glanced at the knives and widened in surprise, before blanking into a professionally neutral face. But Logan could still smell the spike in adrenaline coming off the man, as well as feel John's body tense further under his fist. “Yer going to go up to that clinic and care for your son, and not goddamn die, because it's the least you can do for him. You think dying will make up for all yer horrible decisions? Hell no. And you,” he pointed the blades at the demon. “Get the hell out of my garage. No deal.”
The demon cocked an eyebrow, smarmy as hell, and looked to John. Logan was sure the Winchester was going to just flip him off and continue on with the deal, he seemed pigheaded enough and had the same stubborn streak he remembered seeing in Sam's face that very first time, and wondered for a moment whether Dean had taken after his mother. But then something broke in John's expression, his body just went loose, like a puppet's strings snipped, and the dark haired man sighed warily before turning his back to the demon - a clear dismissal.
“Shame.” The British demon (and could you even get British demons? Logan thought this was insane.) sighed theatrically. “Now how about rubbing off a bit of this damn trap so I can leave, eh?” John turned towards him, inching closer to the circle and blurring the lines with the toe of his boot. “Wonderful,” the demon purred, “Now let's just hope Dean-o's strong enough to withstand the light.” A pause, then a glance at the garage door leading to the mansion, and the demon - Crowley - snorted in amusement. “Actually, let's hope your boy's strong enough to withstand a Reaper.”
And with that, the demon was suddenly gone. Just like that, one minute there and a blink later gone.
Logan rubbed at his eyes, sniffed at the air experimentally, but besides the smell of herbs and blood, nothing change except the increase smell of rotten eggs - Sulphur, he realised - signalling the demon's exit, and turned to face John. “Fuckin' creepy.” He muttered under his breath, then stopped as he saw all the colour drain from John's face. “Winchester?” He asked carefully. “You're not gonna faint, are ya?”
But John didn't wait for him, or seem to hear him, instead turning round and dashing towards the garage door like a bat out of hell, heading towards the clinic.
. . .
“You know you're not fooling me, right?”
Startled, Sam tumbled out of his chair, falling to the floor in a messy sprawl. He immediately scrambled back up to his feet, joy gripping him hard at seeing his brother awake and alive and conscious, but came to a complete stop on seeing Dean's expression. The older brother looked suspicious, wary, and perfectly fine on the hospital bed, sitting with his legs crossed and his hands resting in the space between them. The steady beep beep beep continued anyway, despite none of the equipment being hooked up to Dean, and Sam blinked and drank in the sight of his brother. Dean still looked pale, especially with the white clothing they'd changed him into at the hospital, freckles scattered across his cheekbones more apparent with the skin tone than they'd normally be.
“What're you talking about?” Sam questioned, picking up the chair he'd thrown over and sitting back in it.
Dean scowled at him, and Sam only then noticed how his brother was tense, wound up tight and ready to spring, eyeing him like one eyes a rabid animal. “You're not Sammy. You can't pretend you're him and talk me into leaving.”
Leaving? Leaving? Sam scooted forward until he was right next to his brother, panic gripping him at his brother's words. “Leaving? Dean where does it want you to go? What is it? Who do you think I am?”
A snort. “Oh, rich. You're seriously gonna play that card with me?”
Sam swallowed the thick lump in his throat. “Dean.”
And Dean's eyes widened in recognition. “Sam?”
Relief chased away the panic, and finally Sam grabbed at his brother's arms and held on tight. “It's me, Dean. It's me. What the hell is going on? Who's after you? Why won't you wake up?”
“Wake up?” Dean immediately responded, confused. “What're you talking about Sammy?”
“Dean,” Sam sighed. “You've been in a coma for three weeks. You won't wake up.”
His brother's pale face suddenly went paler, just a shade lighter than a vengeful ghost's. “Shit,” Dean swore, fingers curling into a fist. “I don't know how long I've been here, but it hasn't been that long. It couldn't have? Are you OK? Is Dad...? Is Dad OK? Wait, if I'm in a coma, then what're you doing here?”
Sam patted his brother's arm consolingly, and went about answering his brother's questions, never forgetting his own. “We're all OK, Dean. Got the demon too, but you were badly hurt. Professor Xavier and Jean have been trying to get a reading on you - remember them? The telepathic guys - but they said you had some kind of block on you and couldn't get through. So they got me to try, and here I am.”
His brother's reply to this was to scowl harder, jerkily getting off the bed and standing up to his feet. “You shouldn't have come here, Sam. It's dangerous!”
“Dean.” Sam said slowly, carefully. “What's after you? Why are you stuck here?”
Something floated in his periphery vision, but when Sam turned to look he saw nothing. Dean must've seen it too, for he went a shade paler still and scrambled across the bed to Sam, clutching his little brother by the shoulders and pulling him in a random direction. “We have to go.”
Sam allowed himself to be manhandled, despite already being an inch or so taller than Dean, but didn't let up in his questioning. “Dean, what is it?”
“A Reaper, OK?!” Dean answered back harshly, spitting the words out from between his teeth. “It wants me to go into the freakin' light and won't take no for an answer.”
Sam's feet stopped moving, inertia yanking Dean back from stalking ahead. “A Reaper?” Sam hissed, all pretence of calmness flying out of the window. “What the hell, why?”
“Well, apparently, when a person dies, they get their own Reaper - how the hell should I know?” Dean forcibly yanked him again, moving Sam until they left the clinic and entered out into the hallway. Again, Sam noticed the lack of people, the deserted, still, mansion, and figured it made sense if this was Dean's mental landscape and a Reaper was after him. At least, he thought it should make sense. Dean came to a stop at a door, opening it up and shoving Sam inside before following through, and Sam found himself in what he knew to be Hank's office but with a helluva lot more decorations. Devil's Traps, protection sigils, hiding sigils, everything and anything Sam had seen and read in books was everywhere, some in blood and others in sharpie or whatever Dean must have found lying around in the office. Dean must've seen him admiring the view, because after shoving him into a chair and sitting in one across from it, Dean spoke up again. “None of it works, geekboy, so don't look so happy.”
Focusing on the situation at hand, Sam scooted closer, unconsciously giving in to his need to be close to his big brother. “Dean, even if it is a Reaper, it's fine. We'll find a way to get you out of here, man. Alright?”
Green eyes studied him before closing as Dean sighed and ran a hand across his face and into his hair. “Look Sammy, I might not be able to leave, but I sure as hell ain't dragging you to the afterlife with me. You have to go.”
“No, Dean.” Sam instantly replied, not even bothering to say I can't. He didn't know for sure, but he doubted he'd be able to squeeze the professor or Jean's hands even if he'd closed his eyes and willed it. “I'm not leaving you. I'm stronger now, Dean, a hell of a lot stronger than when you'd left me at the mansion as a fourteen year old. I can help.”
Dean laughed incredulously at him, shaking his head. “This is a Reaper, Sammy, not a ghost or a werewolf. You can't fight death.”
The door to the office rattled, grabbing both their attention. Sam turned to look and saw the dark shape of a figure behind the opaque glass, and couldn't help but wonder how a Reaper would look. That's when the door opened, the door knob turning as if Dean hadn't locked it and jammed a doorstop underneath it, and a dark haired woman walked through. The first thing Sam really noticed about her was her clothes - white, bland, just like Dean's - and how unassuming she looked. There was no black cloak, no hood, no scythe or any other weapon to be seen. Hell, she was even cute, the type of girl Sam knew his brother would go for in any other situation. He didn't let it fool him though, Dean had gotten out of his chair and stood a step in front of Sam, tense and protective in a way Sam had missed.
“Tessa.” Dean greeted her curtly, failing to cover up Sam behind him since his little brother was now taller.
Sam couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the name, watching as the newly named Tessa returned the nod sadly. “Dean.” She hadn't seemed to yet notice Sam, which was a miracle in and of itself - or maybe Reapers could only see the souls they'd been chosen to go after? Sam didn't know, but he was definitely going to read up on them as soon as they, him and Dean, were out. “Dean, it's time. I can't keep letting you hang on like this. You have to choose. Stay and become the things you hunt? Or go?”
“You know I can't go, Tessa.” Dean replied surly, ignoring Sam's fingers gripping into the material of his shirt at the small of his back. “I have to get back, I can't just go.”
“You won't.” Sam spoke up, realizing this was something the two had already argued over and not wanting to waste their time. Dean hadn't known he'd been in a coma, Dean hadn't known he'd been in a coma for three weeks, meaning the passage of time here was different than it was on the outside. If Sam didn't hurry this up and get Dean out of here to safety, back to the waking world, who knew whether or not the professor and Jean would just forcibly bring him back? “He's not going to die. He's coming back with me, alive.”
Tessa's dark eyes landed on him over Dean's shoulder, startled at his presence before those eyes narrowed into recognition. The air around her right hand shimmered, and- there, there was the scythe Sam had been expecting, shorter than the ones shown in lore but looking just as sharp and deadly, and the young woman didn't appear as unseemly as she'd first looked. “It's his time.” She argued, fingers gripping round the scythe warningly as she took a step towards them. “I don't know how you got here, but it's my duty to take him and I won't let you stop me.”
Incensed, Sam shoved Dean aside, using his slightly taller frame and gravity to get Dean to budge and stood in front, keeping his brother behind him. Just as he'd done in the cabin, with far more confidence than since then, Sam raised his arm and held his palm out towards the Reaper in preparation. Tessa's grip on the scythe tightened, and she took one step towards him, another, then a third, before lunging towards them with the scythe arching above her and down again straight at them. Sam didn't so much as falter, gathering every ounce of whatever it was and thrusting his hand at her, batting her away with his telekinesis just like he'd been taught, and the force of it crashed into the Reaper, taking her by surprise, and her pretty face twisted into recognition and disgust.
“Azazel!” She shouted, thrown backwards by the telekinetic push, and crashed through the door she'd arrived through. Sam ran after her, not willing to let her go, dimly wondering why she'd called him that and what the name could mean, but Dean grabbed him by the arms and held him tight, wrapping his arms around him as Tessa suddenly dissipated into wisps of gray smoke, disappearing like grains of sand.
And the next thing Sam knew, he was staring into John Winchester's frantic face.
. . .
Dean gasped, coughing and spluttering as Hank and John set about getting rid of the incubator. Sam was beside him in a blink with a glass of water, a pale face, and a straw, and Dean, knowing from knowledge not to drink too fast, carefully sipped at the cool liquid to sooth his aching throat. When all the water was finished and he still didn't feel satisfied, Dean groaned pitifully and lay back down on the bed, trying to even his breathing and slow his racing heart.
“How'd you get the Colt, anyway?” He croaked out after some thought, remembering the cabin, remembering the Yellow Eyed Demon, remembering Sam holding the legendary weapon and threatening to use it.
“What,” Sam replied indignantly. “You really thought I'd just sit in this mansion doing nothing?”
And Dean snorted. “Should've known,” he groaned theatrically with a knowing tilt, peering at Sam through half mast eyes. “You got a damn vision 'bout it, didn't you?” He accused, then tried hard not to laugh and irritate his wounds as Sam flushed at being found out and tried to cover it up with an epic bitchface.
“Hey, where's my car, anyway?”
THE END
MASTERPOST